News for April 2010

pavel, fading.

today i logged into face­book to find an unex­pect­ed reminder of my col­lege friend pavel’s death from a hero­in over­dose 5 years ago today. it is crazy how often i still think of pav but i also know that i have con­di­tioned myself to remem­ber him when­ev­er i hear lou reed. since i used to wake up to ‘pale blue eyes’ every day, it was­n’t a huge leap to keep him in my con­scious­ness.

this is prob­a­bly the first april 19th in 5 years that i haven’t thought about him on my own. it is scary when mem­o­ries begin to fade, scari­er still when you think of how the mem­o­ries that haven’t fad­ed are the ones you have rehearsed. bowl­ing. nap­ster. go board. bowtie. red shirt. bor­rowed chair. radio show. messy room. hunter s. thomp­son.

i real­ly wish i still had the mem­o­ries that fill the holes between those words.

Posted: April 19th, 2010
Categories: words to rest in
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Daringly Stupid Spring Compost Kickstart Method #7

Note: tight fit­ting lid with car­bon fil­ters rec­om­mend­ed for steps 1–3

  1. At the height of cit­rus sea­son in mid-Jan­u­ary, grow lazy and “for­get” to take out com­post pail for three weeks (“it’s cold!”).
  2. Dis­cov­er fright­en­ing black wiry mold grow­ing over grape­fruit remains, and quick­ly close lid of pail. Call off com­post­ing of veg­gie scraps until spring.
  3. Leave pail on counter until late March.
  4. Decide that you should not leave the pail on the counter while you go on a spring break trip to sun­ny Flori­da, just in case the con­tents of the pail decide to make a break for it while you are gone.
  5. Set the pail on the back porch for the last few snowy weeks of the year until mid-April and the start of gar­den­ing sea­son.
  6. Grow dis­il­lu­sioned with try­ing to pull up the Lambs Ear that you plant­ed two sum­mers ago, despite the warn­ings from Grand­ma Alice (“it’s like a weed! it spreads!”).
  7. Mean­der over to the com­post pail and lift the lid.
  8. Become intrigued by the foamy, mush­room­ing sub­stance inside the pail.
  9. Decide to pour the con­tents of the pail into your black com­post bin, which is full to the top of brown, dry gar­den waste from last fall.
  10. Mar­vel at the way you can still iden­ti­fy a few car­rot tops and an onion skin at the bot­tom of a pile of sludge.
  11. Cringe at the smell waft­ing up from the anaer­o­bic pile of tox­ic slime.
  12. Decide to use the com­post aer­a­tor to “mix in” the slime and encour­age break­down of exist­ing brown mat­ter.
  13. Remem­ber that your com­post bin is pre­car­i­ous­ly bound togeth­er with zip ties, and poke the mass of dis­gust­ing­ness gen­tly.
  14. Pull out the hose and apply water to both the bin and the pail, the lat­ter of which clear­ly needs to be left out in the sun to “air out”.
  15. Stir a bit more vig­or­ous­ly, until you real­ize that flecks of vom­i­tous wretched goo have land­ed on your left arm.
  16. Run away quick­ly as an angry wasp tries to find out why you have poi­soned his home with putrid cit­rus mat­ter.
  17. Return bro­ken lid to bin, and secure in place with heavy rock.
  18. Debate with John about whether to call the envi­ron­men­tal pro­tec­tion agency.
  19. Show­er (extra soap required).
  20. Wait for your com­post to turn into a love­ly, rich pile of organ­ic good­ness!
Posted: April 18th, 2010
Categories: Daily
Tags: , ,
Comments: 1 Comment.

Everyone calls someplace home.

Every­one is from some­place. Every­one lives some­place. Every­one calls some­place home.

The oth­er day I was talk­ing to some­one who had moved to Den­ver from Min­neso­ta 2 years ago (I took note because I am also from Min­neso­ta. If you could hear me say that word you could tell). He was explain­ing that he knew he want­ed to move some­place less cold, with lib­er­al pol­i­tics and good schools for his chil­dren. He took an online sur­vey that was sup­posed to let you know where you should live and his match­es were Den­ver, Austin, Nashville, Min­neapo­lis, and Cincin­nati.

Cincin­nati??” I said. “Who wants to live in Cincin­nati?”

Do you know any­thing about Cincin­nati?” he respond­ed, point­ed­ly.

Tonight at din­ner, my grand­pa men­tioned how much he likes Col­orado and that is a very nice place to be. He moved here two years ago, when my grand­ma passed away.

You like where ever you live,” my mom respond­ed.

I think my grand­pa is wise.

I went to col­lege in Flori­da, which is about as far as you can get from Col­orado in terms of cul­ture and weath­er. For the first 2 years, I felt like I was dri­ving around with blind­ers on because I had no periph­er­al vision due to the flat­ness and trees. I also found out that I am aller­gic to fire­ants. I spent 4 years lament­ing about how Col­orado was so great and about how much I missed it and about how peo­ple from the east coast _just did­n’t understand_ what it was like to live in the West. I think back now and know that this must have been so tir­ing to the peo­ple around me.

Last week, J and I went to Flori­da to see our super­greata­maz­ing friends. We spent a mag­i­cal week doing chill chill chill. We also saw amaz­ing birds, ani­mals, and plants, ate beer-bat­tered hot­dogs on the key, sun­burnt our­selves at the beach, had boat drinks in the tourist quar­ter, breathed at yoga, and watched good local music. Spend­ing time with them makes me love Flori­da. Spend­ing time with them makes Flori­da feel like a sec­ond home.

Every­one calls some­place home. Whether it changes 20 times or whether you stay root­ed for your life, every­one has their rea­sons for where they land, where they leave their hearts, and where they want to be. Den­ver. Sara­so­ta. Tai­wan. San­ta Bar­bara. Brook­lyn. Maui. Mani­la. Chica­go. Alas­ka.

Even Cincin­nati.

Posted: April 4th, 2010
Categories: Daily
Tags: ,
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