Random tchotchka

It is a good thing "tchotchka" is in the title of this blog, otherwise, I would forget how to spell it every time I wanted to post a random smattering of updates.

1. I don't believe in apologizing for not posting to the blog, or making excuses either. It's kind of like when you were 14 and didn't write in your diary for a long time, and then the next time you sat down to write you started out, "Dear Diary, I am so so so so sorry for not writing in you for so long." I mean, who cares?

But I have been thinking again about the blog, and what I'm doing it for. Then, a few weeks ago, my daily horoscope (which you know is a valid source of information on which very important decisions can be based) said this:

December 20, 2007
Aquarius (1/20-2/18)
If you find yourself bored today, it is a sign that you need to make a few changes in your life. These could be simple changes in your routine, but it is probably more effective to make some complex changes in one of your closest relationships. Some strange cross-communication has been going on, and it might be time for you and this person to figure out what exactly you are doing in each other's lives. Do you two really have enough in common to continue? All relationships don't last forever.

And I thought, "Yes, I am bored." But not with the people in my life, with my writing, and with this blog. Our relationship is strained, I have to admit. It was going so swimmingly too. Maybe it's just that we needed a break, or maybe it's that we need to make some real changes. Or maybe I just need to do what I always tell other writers, and just force myself to sit down with a notebook and a pen in my hand and just write. I don't know. But I need to get my writing mojo or juju or whatever it is back.

2. My dog smells. He's 16 years old, and suffering from a panoply of old-age illnesses including senility, arthritis, hair loss, incontinence, general crotchetiness and advanced dental decay. His mouth has always been a cesspool, given that he has a thing for eating excrement, but now it has bloomed into a full-blown sewer. You know in cartoons, how they draw someone with bad breath? There's this slow-moving brownish stream of nasty eggshells, bubbly goo and fish bones floating in the air over the person's head? That's exactly what it's like. I can smell him from across the room. I'll just be sitting there and suddenly get a waft of it, and I'll think "Oh no, he's close." And yep...he's just entered the room. And so, I hate to admit it, but he's been getting the treatment that so many elderly people get: I'm ignoring him as much as possible.

3. I've been asked to write an article for a new e-zine that celebrates urban living. The topic? Organic personal lubricants. The weird thing is that one of the first people T. and I met when we moved here is the owner of a personal lubricant company. I don't think his stuff is organic, but it's made with natural ingredients, so I'm hoping he might be up for an interview. He used to tell all sorts of stories about the weird things people would call in to the customer service line about, like "My [body part] turned green, what should I do?" And he's like, "Umm, that's not the lube dude, sorry." That could be kind of fascinating. And then I'm recruiting a few friends to do "reviews." I keep feeling like I should feel weirder about writing about lube, but I don't. I do, however, feel weird that Benazir Bhutto was assassinated this past week. I guess that just means I'm grown up.

The word for Portland

In Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love, she writes that every city has a word that perfectly describes it. For Rome, she says, it's "sex." Here's my thoughts on what Portland's word might be.

The word for Portland is ... something that glows emerald green and is moist, like an amphibian. Cool to the touch. An enveloping mist of clear water and plant breath.

The sound of the tires on the pavement in the rain sound like the exhaling and inhaling of the city. The roar of respiration. An expanding pink lung.

Portland is calm and practical. Not easily ruffled. A place where people sing along to the radio to pass the time in a traffic jam rather than lay on the horns, raise the blood pressure. They catch up on OPB. April Behr purrs the weather forecast. She says, "Blue Mountains," "Cascades," "the Valley."

She calls this "the Valley!" Like the original California one, but so unlike it because this Valley winks and nods half-asleep while its southern cousin takes Vivarin to stay up all night. This Valley layers in blankets of forest and fern, while the other throws off the cover to lay naked under the stars.

Is the word "dreamy"? Or is the word "sleepwalk"? Are we really here? Or are we somewhere else wishing we were here? Are we sitting next to a fat man yammering into his Bluetooth headset, dreaming we are walking in the rain instead? Dreaming we are tossing off our wet clothes before a roaring fire? Dreaming we are sipping hot coffee with cream? We'll never know. Our dreams are constantly invaded, but we persist in dreaming on.

Maybe the word is "soft." Like the petals of the ubiquitous rose bush that erupts from the most wretched earth to twine around telephone poles. Or soft like the sun's summer rays--never overbearing--just a pale yellow glow of buttery heat. Or soft like a dog's coat--for all those canines who wait patiently outside cafes and pubs. They rise, stretch and settle in again, tucking their tender paws under to protect them from the chill.

Of maybe it is "dark," like the rain clouds that hover over the city. Like the strong earthy smell of coffee. Like the magical bitterness of beer. We rise in the dark and return to sleep in the dark--our skins Golem-like, pale mushroom epidermis.

I wouldn't dare say "cool" is the word. For all the temperature-associated meanings feel right, but all the style and social connotations are wrong. This city is not cool. This city understands the irony in proclaiming itself cool, it automatically becomes uncool.

And with the word "irony," maybe we get closer. Or "Unexpected." Or "hidden." A little treasure buried deep, locked with a magical password. Only the gifted and true can see what's inside. Though many think they know, what they see is merely a mirage.