Hi Friends

I've decided to switch to wordpress for my blogging. I like the layout and what not. Though, I will miss this theme and as I am not technologically savvy I cannot make my own.  Maybe I'll duel post on both, I haven't decided. It would be a lot if ya'll would check it out.

Find me there.

http://www.eachdayinhandfuls.wordpress.com

I love you.
-Me

Allons-y!

Time to work harder.

On Sunday night I stayed up late. I couldn't sleep. In my apartment, at midnight, I grabbed my keys and went for a drive. Portland is full of secret corners and I have yet to discover one that seems fitting for me. A place to call my own. But I know about this field, a pocket of greenery and weeds and a picnic table. If I had to pick a spot, maybe this would be it. The field is at a steep slope and you can see the radio towers from the top, blinking red along the west hills. I sat on the picnic table for a long time.
I thought about all of my wrong doing, and all of the wrong doing that has been done to me. I thought about things that happened years ago and how they feel like another lifetime. I thought about how this moment will feel like another lifetime to 25-year-old Mary.

And I realized.

I am wasting all of my fucking time.

All of these things I want to be doing. Writing. Reading. Photography. Painting. Learning to play the guitar. Picking my violin back up after so many years of letting it collect dust. After I finished and published Originally From Here (buy it), I just sort of stopped. I hit a wall, if you will. None of my work since has felt good enough to continue on with. I thought, well, I'm not a writer. I am not creative. I am not any of the things I have claimed to be my entire life. And if I am not those things, I am nothing. Nothing.
 So I fiddle faddled my time away. TV, movies, tumblr, facebook. I stopped buying books. I stopped reading books. If I write, it's here and there and incoherent ramblings about unimportant happenings. I couldn't bring myself to write about the things in my life. I felt almost as if writing about those things would cause them to slip away.... Or maybe it's because I am, for the most part, happy. Do I need to be eternally miserable to put pen to paper and write something worth reading?

Anyhow. All of these thoughts brought me to a conclusion. Seperate myself from Facebook, and from Tumblr. And from any other distractions. If I cannot control the distractions, I will eliminate them. This morning I deleted my Facebook. Later today, I will delete my Tumblr. And how sad it is, the thought that went into deleting my account from a website. But you know? I want to be remembered for something I create, not something I once posted on my wall about. And honetly guys, who wants to know you're eating rice for dinner?

Really, what I am getting at with all of this isn't that I am egotistical and will tell you all about me. What I am wanting to tell you is to examine yourself, your life. Look closely at where you put the time you're given. I know you hear this often, but your time is precious and you cannot get it back. Do something that matters with it. I am not saying social sites are a bad thing, they are only bad if you cannot handle them.

Let's get back to how I said I was nothing. I'll leave you with this.

Enjoy every minute.

Love always,
Mary



Oliver, Mrs. Fox and Co.

Plaid and Stripes could be a band name.

There was a strange energy in the café. The air smelled of beer and wine and coffee and I was under 21 but I thought about the tequila in my trunk and if I could spike my tea. I watched a man play his guitar and he was drunk. I could tell because I’d seen him drink more beers than anyone else here and he was sitting beside Ms. Red Wine and she had just filled her glass again.

The boy wearing plaid in front of me was dating the girl in gray. I could tell because he was holding her hand beneath the table. And they matched, because he was wearing plaid and she was just in plain gray.  Beside him was the girl wearing stripes. She kept looking his way. She kept leaning in to whisper. And they would never match, because you don’t put stripes and plaid together. My heart went out to her, because I know what it’s like to be Stripes, wishing you were Gray.

Then the man on stage stopped singing and stopped playing and we all clapped. Next up was Plaid and Stripes. He picked up the guitar and she got behind the mic. He played a sad melody and she sang a lot of “oh’s” and she sounded sad, too. My heart began to hurt for Gray, because maybe she didn’t know that when two people make music together it is nothing short of making love. And maybe she did know, which made me even more sad, possibly. And then Stripe’s heart was hurting, and Gray’s heart was aching and I just kept thinking about the tequila in my trunk.

Keep Portland Weird

February is usually a time when Portlanders know nothing of the sun, nor the warmth it brings. I’ve lived my whole life in Portland and I can hardly remember a February that was optimistic, that the sun was strong enough to break through the cloud cover and remind us we hadn’t been forgotten. I believe this is something Northwesterners worry about. What if the sun never came back? We wait and we wait and the sun decides the Caribbean is better and takes an extended vacation.  Don’t laugh, Florida. This is a legit fear.

See, as a sun worshipper, I bitch. I bitch a lot. Then what am I doing here? Well, where else do I belong? This is Portland. I bitch and say I need sun, I need San Diego, I need Santa Cruz, I need New Orleans. But this is Portland and Portland is meant to be inhabited by a very select type. I happen to fit the description. So here I stay, and here I bitch, and here I worship the sun. 

On Friday the sun surprised us. Like pasty gremlins we emerged from the depths of our caves, hands shielding our faces, our dark, sunken in eyes adjusting, blinking, squinting. Holy shit, batman, is that what I think it is?  The strangest part? It didn’t leave. Through the weekend, and into today, the sun rejoiced with us. Girls wearing flip-flips and tank-tops and boys in shorts and though maybe still a tad chilly for these things, we didn’t care. I drove around in my MX-5 with the top down, I played Jason Mraz like it was 2009 (that was a good year, though any year is a good year with Jason) and I held my hands up going down 205. This is the life, I thought. 

Sunday afternoon, while the sun hung low in the sky, I sat on the riverbank with my dad and said, “it’ll go away.” My dad said, “definitely. But it always comes back.” And I know we were both talking about something other than the sun, but I nodded and sipped my chai, and he his latte, and we watched as the sun dipped lower and lower behind the West Linn tree line and the Willamette river went dark without the bright reflections.

Today I drove home with the top up and tiny rain drops spattered across my window. I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t even disappointed, because this is how it is and how we knew it would be. Tomorrow we’ll look up and the sky wont be blue, but grey and that’s O.K. because this is Portland, and our funky mood swings and wet streets, and terribly inaccurate weather men are what make this our city. 

Keep Portland Weird. 

Enjoy every minute,
Mary

A Different Type of Adventure.

Hi friends,

I never did finish that last journey, huh? I do regret it, it's nice to look back and so fondly and clearly remember that first week of the trip. I worry what I've already lost in the months that have passed. Conversations, random encounters, sights. Some things, no matter how much you try to hold on, slip through the cracks. There's nothing I can do about that now, only document new adventures.

If you haven't heard, I'm starting a new adventure. Tomorrow, I move out on my own. I guess it's not tomorrow, more like today. In eight hours. Should I mention I'm not done packing? I should also probably mention I should be packing right now. This blog is called This is a Map. It's not a map for the road, for the trip, it's a map to my life. And what is so exciting and terrifying as moving out on your own for the first time? I'm sure I'll have something to write about -  and I plan to. I'm going to keep the blog going. Maybe because I'm a bit narcissistic (who isn't?), maybe because I like the idea of having this documented, maybe because I just took a creative non-fiction class and the thought of testing this out is kind of exciting. Which ever, this will be my on-going conversation with you.

I'm tired. The kind of tired you feel in your bones. There are still things that need to be packed, cleaned, sorted through, so I'll leave you with this;

"Here's to freedom, cheers to art. Here's to having an excellent adventure, and may the stopping never start." -Jason Mraz

Enjoy every minute,
Mary

With my new apartment key in my new apartment.

Room mates! Brandon and Kyle.

Make it a tripple!

September  4^th

Bugger, we’re just a titch behind, huh? Here it goes.

We woke in a haze. The previous day had been long. We slept in later than normal and took our time getting ready. There was a lengthy drive before us and we were in no rush. We used the wifi to do whatever internet-y things we wished (I even had time to browse my tumblr, which is saying something). Finally, we hit the road.  The drive was long. This is something I only know because Brandon told me. I fell asleep almost right after leaving and woke up shortly before arriving. It was glorious.

We stopped at a Costco outside of Toronto. Jesus, that was a crazy venture. Sure, the Clackamas Costco can get a bit crowded but it was nothing like this hell. If there was space, there was a person. I haven’t seen that dense of a crowd outside of a concert mosh pit. So many people, so few fucks given. So, with me and my crowd anxiety, this was not a good mix. I felt on the verge of a panic attack the entire time inside. So we bought slices of pizza and ate them out by the car. Pizza calms me down…. That’s pathetic.

We drove on and shortly reached Toronto. We could see the CN tower from the freeway (its 3X taller than the Seattle Space Needle, exactly. To the inch.) and we stopped by our motel (so much less dodgy than Chicago, and no stench like the Border) before going to explore the city. Exploring the city wasn’t exciting and mostly consisted of the search for alcohol. We walked around for a while. I was wearing my “fancy going-out” outfit, which includes “fancy going-out” heals. Turns out such heals are not ideal for walking around. My poor aching feet were ugly and blistered by the time we finally made it back to the car. We looked everywhere for a liquor store, or a LCBO. We found one, and it had closed at six and alas! The following day would be Labor Day and they would be closed. We drove back to the motel defeated but unwilling to pay $9 for one drink at a bar.

“No, no. It’s legal. Let’s just go to the bar, have a drink because we can,” I said.

“If there is one within walking distance of our motel,” Brandon said.

And there was! Sort of. Kelly’s Pub was a good walk away, but we trekked it in the rain and brutal wind. I was thrilled, but walking in my hopes were dashed quickly. There was a handful of 50-somethings and it felt like we were intruding because it was such a small place.  Kelly came up “Can I take your order?”

“Can I have a Margarita?” I asked.

“Can’t do that.”

“How about a Pina Colada?” Brandon asked.

“Can’t do that either, sorry.”

“Can I have Baileys and coffee?” Brandon asked.

“I can do that. How about yourself?” Kelly looked at me.

“Uh, what can you do besides that?”

“We have beer.” Kelly said.

“All right then. I’ll have a beer.”

“What kind?”

“What’s your IPA?” I asked.

“IP what?” Kelly seemed confused, which confused me.

“Uhm. Indian Pale Ale. Like, uh, what’s the hoppiest one?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Kelly shrugged.

“O.K. What do you have?”

“Bud Light, Bud Weiser, Coors, Heineken, Canadian.” She listed a few others, too.

“What do you drink?”

“Bud.”

“Canadian for me,” I said.

Over priced and dissatisfied we were once again thwarted in our attempts to legally drink in a bar. Sure there would be another just a bit up the way, we continued walking. “If we don’t find one on this block, let’s give up,” Brandon said.

“O.K.” I said.  Three blocks later, we came across The Kingston Bar and Grille (despite no grilling taking place) Alas! We had found salvation, from the rain, from the wind, and from our sober state. Though it was desolate, with only a few lonely men drinking alone at the bar, we were thrilled. I sat and waited for the bar tender to tend. All I wanted was a margarita. One (maybe two) beautiful, delicious margarita.

“I.D.’s?” The man we would later come to know as Roy asked.

“Yep.” 

We pulled out our I.D.’s and handed them over. He looked at them, confusion obvious.

“Oregon? Where is Oregon?” His accent was thick, but I couldn’t place its origin.

“The States,” I said.

“Where in the States?”

“On the west coast.”

Roy only stared and then took our I.D.’s under a light to find something wrong with them. He returned.

“All right. What’s your birthday?”

We told him, he shrugged and handed them back. “What will it be?”

“A margarita,” I said, smiling.

“Can’t make a margarita.”

I looked at Brandon and mouthed, “the fuck?”

“How about a white Russian?” Roy said.

Enter Collin.

“Roy! Roy, give me a shot of whiskey and a beer.” He was an older man. I’d say late sixties, maybe early seventies. He was rough and tired, evident by the wrinkles carving through his face.

“Collin, you still owe me from last night,” Roy said.

“C’mon Roy, don’t be like that.”

Roy was adamant, palm presented, ready for cash.

Collin blew a long breath from his chapped lips. “Fine, how much?”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty!” Collin seemed outraged, then calmed. “Well, that aint so bad. Here you go,” he said as he dug through his pockets.

Then Collin turned his attention to us. “Why hello there.”

“They’re from Oregon,” Roy said.

“Oregon! That’s a ways. Let me buy you a drink .”

“You really don’t have to,” I said.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t.”

“O.K., if you’re sure.”

“Roy, get this girl and her friend a drink on me.”

Roy looked at us. ”White Russian?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Roy brought us our drinks and Collin then introduced himself. “You look just like my daughter. Well, when she was young. She’s grown now.” The way he said it worried me she might have died, or they had long since stopped speaking.

“Do you see her often?” I asked.

“Oh yes, every week.”

“Glad to hear that, Collin.”

“Anyways, looking at you makes me nostalgic. I’m also drunk, which doesn’t help.” He said, and then gasped. “My God girl! You drank that so fast!” I hadn’t really noticed I’d already drank it all, though there wasn’t much to begin with. “Roy! Get them each another. And make it a double!”

“Collin, it’s O.K.” I said.

“It’s not, no.” He forked over more money to Roy and Roy brought us more.  “Anyways. I have a lot of money, and I want to spend it all before I die,” Collin said.”

“You don’t want to leave any?” I asked.

“No. It wont be spent how I want it to be spent. I like spending my money like this, buying things for people and making them happy, at least for a moment.”

“You made my day, Collin,” I said.

He smiled. “Thank you, Mary.”

This whole time Brandon seemed to be talking more to Roy so I can’t really bear witness to what was happening beside me.

“It’s not like I have unlimited money,” Collin said, “I’m not a multi-millionaire. I just have a couple million.” Oh, that’s all? “You are a fast drinker.” Collin pointed to my empty glass. “Another, Roy! Make it a triple!”

Dear Lord.

“I ought to be going. Good night Mary, Brandon.” He nodded.

“Good night Collin! Thank you so much.” We both thanked him profusely as he waved.

Exit Collin.

“He really is a millionaire,” Roy said. “Don’t feel too bad. Worked for the railroad or something. High up there. He’s very sick now, his son is taking him to a hospital a couple hours away tomorrow for treatment.”

Before leaving, Collin had told me that he had wanted to live to be 101 his whole life. I felt immense sadness knowing he probably wouldn’t make it.

Brandon excused himself for the restroom.

“Would you like a Malibu with orange juice?” Roy asked.”

“Sure.” He put one in front of me. It tasted so good, I drank it far too quickly. Without asking, he brought me another. “I shouldn’t,” I said. I was definitely feeling the alcohol. And by feeling it, I mean I was drunk. Very drunk.

“C’mon, Mary. I already poured it.”

“If you insist.”

Brandon returned. “Roy, that’s quite the test, putting the bathrooms at the bottom of the steepest steps… ever.” Roy laughed. “Oh my God, Mary. Another drink?” Brandon was shocked.

I smiled, which probably was the sloppiest smile. “This is my second. I drank the other very fast.”

“I’m not going to have to carry you back, am I?”

“No, I can walk. Wanna see?” I asked, about to get up.

“Maybe you should sit for a second.”

“O.K.” I finished my drink and looked around. I gave Roy $15 for both my drinks and Brandon put my backpack on my back for me. I looked and saw a man I hadn’t noticed before sitting in Collins old spot. “Hi there,” I said.

He looked startled. “Hi.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Steven.”

“Well good night, Steven. I hope you have a great day tomorrow.”

What can I say? I like to make friends.

Only a block away I had to relieve my stomach of it’s immense amount of alcohol. I can say it’s the first time I’ve had to do that in public. I am not proud and I pity the owner of the car dealership that had to discover that in the morning. Afterwards, I felt fine and we continued walking what ended up being over two kilometers back to the motel. Halfway Brandon said, “Yeah, I have to pee and I can’t make it to the motel.” He walked into a nook of a different car dealership. I don’t feel too bad, as most car dealers are asshats.

As it were, we did the math and Collin spent about $80 on alcohol. I spent $20, including Kellys Canadian beer and Brandon spent $10. We slept very well that night, and surprisingly felt fine the next morning.

Thank you Collin, wherever you are. Thank you Roy, and thank you Cananda.

 Enjoy every minute, 

Mary.

                  Costco.

 Outside the Rogers stadium.

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