anti:freeze

May 1990. According to the medical chart, I enjoyed an outing in the park. Along with the other ward residents, I helped plant a maple tree, and after climbing on the playground equipment with D. (who was my boyfriend at the time, and headed for prison after his release from the hospital), I told a nurse the sunshine felt good, that it was amazing to feel the wind on my face after living in the sealed ward for so long.

I don't remember any of this. What I do remember are the locked cupboards in the group kitchen, so the staff could control every calorie; the locked toilet in my bedroom, so my bulimic roommate couldn't purge her dinner without being caught; the basket full of tennis shoes behind the nurse's station - removed from our feet, so we couldn't run away; morning exercises in the hallway (rolling our ankles, stretching our shoulders, touching our toes); the education room supervised by a teacher who couldn't understand the math homework forwarded from my high school; the maroon couches we were never allowed to share with members of the opposite sex - under any circumstances; and more that I won't write here. Or anywhere.

You would think the tree would stand out against all this - a bright day interrupting the dull flourescence of the hospital. But it made no impression at all. Half a lifetime later, I don't even mind that I forgot. What gets to me is that I don't think I ever remembered it, not even that night, as I curled up on my hospital bed, the electrodes of my portable EEG* poking sharp into my scalp. You see, there have been many times when I had to be careful about what made an impression. When it was better to forget.

But then, that's what charts are for. Paper and ink have a longer half-life than memories. It's why we write things down at all.

*a portable EEG is used to try and record brain waves during, before, and after a seizure, especially in cases where a patient shows up as "normal" on a regular EEG (which is common - fifty percent of cases, approximately)

The geographer slices sage leaves with a Swiss Army knife, tossing them into the back seat of his SUV. My eyes and nose burn with the strong herbal scent. It's potent enough to taste, a bitter salad.

"Air freshener," he says. "One of my favorite things about the desert."

He lights a cigarette, slams the driver side door, and inhales a few deep drags before digging in his pocket for the keys. His jeans are so tight he has to scoot forward on the seat, lifting his pelvis a little to make room for his fingers.

This is when I ask about the gun.

He's staring hard at the windshield, the kind of stare that makes your whole body stiff with effort. "Ever seen an angry bear?" He says, reaching forward and gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white, forearm muscles flexed so tight his arms look stronger than they are. The filter on his cigarette is squeezed almost flat between his fingers. "And you know, if anyone ever came after me, I wouldn't take any shit."

I unbuckle my seat belt and place my hand on the door handle. The geographer is an anarchist. He has told me again and again how no man should ever have power over another. But here, in the desert, no one around for miles, he has chosen to bring a loaded weapon. "But a gun is like instant hierarchy," I say.

Red splotches bloom on his cheeks and forehead, and he reaches up to rub the black stubble on his chin. His cigarette is burned down to the butt, and he tosses it out the window. He doesn't say anything. Instead, he leans forward and pulls the gun from beneath his seat, emptying the bullets into his hand. He leans toward me and drops the bullets on my lap, one by one. "Now we're even."

Living behind the train station downtown, I sometimes miss the scent of changing seasons. Brown leaves, cool air, slightly metallic at the back of the tongue, stinging inside the nose. It's there, layered beneath tops notes of diesel fumes and soot.

But yesterday, I took a walk near NW 23rd, slowing my pace so I could listen to the crackle and crunch of dried leaves beneath my leather-soled mary janes. One lawn smelled exactly like Halloween, and my mouth longed for the taste of taffy and peanut-butter crunch candies, butterscotch and caramel. The air had texture, like the sleeve of a scratchy wool sweater, on the first day you wear it. The kind of fabric you might chew on in math class, the rough yarn soothing to soft tongue tip and chapped bottom lip.

As a kid, I loved autumn best. It was the only temperate season in Iowa, the only time my body felt comfortable - not too hot, not too cold, my skin not revealed in skimpy summer shorts, or freezing beneath soggy layers of cotton and wool in wintertime.

Here in Portland, I'm getting ready for the quiet, the dreary mornings spent staring out cafe windows, the wet that penetrates every cell, every scar, every hair shaft. I am grateful for the deciduous trees, overjoyed that not everything here - in the land of Douglas Firs - will stay green. But I am sad, too, to think of the fog rolling in over the west hills, the mold, the sinus infections, the way everyone turns inward, hiding their faces beneath black umbrellas. Once, last winter, I was carrying groceries, and the shopping bag dissolved in the rain, so slowly I didn't notice until the bottom fell out. My apples and oranges rolled away, and the soy milk thudded hard against the concrete.

Complete dissolution. I never quite recovered from last winter, and now, in early September, I am already falling to pieces.

My knuckles. On your door. Thin wrist, like it might snap. I want my bones to feel this brittle - hips bruised against a cold hardwood floor, spine against doorknob, elbow slammed into plaster, arm twisted back, wrist gripped tight in your fist - thin, like it might snap. I am a ghost, retracing old steps.

Doorbell broken, button ripped from the plastic case. One thin wire exposed.

But there are fingerprints. Fingerprints and shed skin.

You suck the hem of old blankets, the silky part, soggy as a salted matzo cracker between your lips. Too big for your mouth. No different than licking sauce from a steak knife, or stealing the sugar bowl and dipping the wet tip of your finger into the crystals, the granules shifting like sand, your fingerprint shattered, as if on broken glass.

Note: This entry originally appeared on my other site, evidentiary: alchemy. When I changed the purpose and theme of that site, I moved this entry here and assigned it the same date as it had for the original post.

bike rack in front of Powell's Books, Burnside Store

I love these "art racks" installed throughout Portland - functional bicycle racks with an aesthetic sensibility (and often, a sense of humor). One is molded to look like a pair of eyeglasses, one is shaped like a bridge, and another like the handlebars and front tire of a bicycle. They are some of the most successful public art pieces anywhere, inviting art into every day life, begging us to touch them, and most importantly, reminding us that utility does not exclude beauty.

Beyond all of this, the bicycles themselves are transformed. For a brief moment in time, they are joined to a sculpture. They are art. And in this way, the racks are like little oases for community, places for people to come together and literally sculpt an aesthetic for the neighborhood. An aesthetic that includes metal bars and oily chains, but also, shared space, earth-friendly transportation, and collaborative art. (Too bad it also has to include locks).

A parking lot could never accomplish this.

Today is one of those rare days when I wish it were raining. The gloom would be appropriate.

Johnny Cash is dead.

I was sitting on a bench at the Max station - the one between Lloyd Center and the Convention Center - when a group of three boys ran toward me. They were chubby and red-faced, their thin hair stringy with sweat and stuck to their foreheads. One of them was wearing cargo shorts, and unlike most kids, he actually stuffed the pockets full - they were fat with what appeared to be a cell phone and PDA, a pencil, and maybe a watch. It made his hips look wider than they were, and gave him an awkward, stiff gait. I could tell he was worried about his pockets coming open, all that plastic shattering on the sidewalk. He was also the tallest, and the only one with acne. All three stood quiet, catching their breath, before one of them asked me the time. I told him it was two o'clock. They tightened their circle and talked quietly, as if planning their next move in a game. After awhile, they started getting rough, hitting each other with their backpacks and textbooks.

"Fuck that," one of them yelled, reaching over and grabbing his friend's forearm. "You ain't pimped half as many bitches as me."

"Wanna bet?" The acne-faced one said. "I have a ho in every house on my block. How do you think I got this?" He pulled the PDA from his cargo pocket and held it up, screen facing out.

"Your momma bought you that piece of shit."

They continued like this until the train arrived, and I pretended not to listen, stunned at their vocabulary, horrified by their imaginary pimping. They were only thirteen or fourteen, dressed in Abercrombie cargos, with PDAs and cell phones, not to mention Tri-Met passes that would take them all the way out into the suburbs. Middle class. Nice house somewhere in a safe, clean neighborhood. Probably.

I wondered about them all day. If their mothers ever heard them brag about bitches. If they listened to misogynist music. Or if they just wanted to freak me out. I used to do that as a teenager - make sure I was in earshot of some bland-looking adult and go off about drugs, witchcraft, revolution, anything. I was convincing with my purple lipstick and combat boots, my blue-black hair and skull rings. Then I realized: in this scenario, I am the boring one, the grown-up that kids target for pranks.

Later that day, I bought some dark purple liptsick, which I have yet to try on.

There were three magazines on the sidewalk, laid out in a neat row. The first was a back issue of Time, flipped opened to a typically overcrowded page, filled with headines and news briefs, the kinds of stories you can read standing in front of the refrigerator, or in between bus transfers on your way to work. The last was an issue of Watchtower, the one Jehova's Witnesses carry in thick stacks to streetcorners all over downtown, where they offer free issues to passing pedestrians, hoping they'll take that first small step into God's good graces. In between the McNews and religious propaganda, was an issue of Exotic, complete with a scantily-clad blonde and a headline that read, "Back to School!" (Probably not a feature on backpacks and Trapper Keepers). I wondered how the magazines got there in the first place. Was this some kind of joke? A message? A sign? I imagined them floating down from the sky and landing in front of my apartment building.

At that moment, a business man walked by, his striped silk tie blown back around his neck, his hair still wet from a shower. He glanced at the magazines, and without hesitation, reached down and grabbed Exotic. As he walked away, he flipped through the pages and smiled.

I was stunned. How often do we see someone act without any hint of shame?

And then I thought, yuck. God knows where that magazine has been, and what the previous owner did while reading it.

A shiny green bead had fallen from the drawstring on my skirt. I was panicked. It had belonged to my grandmother, and it was the last known physical trace of her life. I was crawling on the living room carpet, pressing my palms into the fibers and rubbing. My tooth fillings contracted and ached, the way they always do when calloused skin scrapes against fabric, or when cold winter wind chills the metal. Or when metal chair legs are dragged across a tile floor. It's a strange kind of synethesia, and not the only kind I experience.

Then, suddenly, I was awake, with my right hand gripping the handle of a vacuum cleaner. Sleepwalking again. On the floor in front of me, a tiny bead reflected light from the VCR. But it was too late. The vacuum sucked it up.

Strange, I thought. My grandmother never gave me a bead.

note to Wendy, since we're exploring the idea of notebooks: this was a simultaneous post to my other blog, alchemy. Usually, I don't do this, but for some reason, it felt right for both.

*update: alchemy has since been changed to reflect a forensics theme, so this post no longer appears there.

Union Bank of California, downtown Portland

I love this accidental image. The navy sky. A tower growing up from the ruins of another building. It's archaeological, just like any aware experience of the city.

It was the last shot on my roll, and two buildings fight for the frame. Or for human attention, however you wish to interpret it. I like to think the buildings look back at us, looking at them . . .

Hung Far Low Chinese Restaurant, China Town, Portland, Oregon

I took this picture last July, but I never developed the film until now. This sign speaks for itself, wouldn't you say? Even its form is perfect. I've been admiring it since I moved here three years ago.

sleeping dog in a salon, shot with the Lomo, of course

I woke up on the floor, my cheek pressed hard into a dirty rug. It was textured, rough like sisal, with bare patches and snags that made my skin itch. I breathed deep. The smell was overwhelming. Old dust, unwashed hair, dirty copper. The copper smell was my own blood - from biting my tongue during the seizure. I had fallen asleep afterwards, and my boyfriend left me where I was, unsure if it was safe to carry me upstairs to his room. (I learned all this later.)

Across the room, his dog slept soundly on the couch, covered up to his neck with a quilt. His front paws were crossed and hanging down off the cushion, his chin resting in between. I had never seen a dog sleep so deeply.

"You both had a seizure at the same time," my boyfriend said. "I didn't know which one of you I should help."

He straightened the dog's blanket. "So I helped him."

shop in the Pearl District, NW Portland

At first it just seems clever, saying shut instead of closed, but there is something deeper going on here - an entirely different conception of commercial space. How we transact with it, how it functions, what kind of access we have. When a shop sign says closed, windows transform into walls. The space inside, the rows of candy jars, the clothes racks and sales tables, become off-limits, even to the eyes. Have you ever walked past a locked store and wanted to lean into the glass, cup your hands around your eyes, and take a peek? Did you feel a little nervous touching it? A little uneasy about the darkness? After all, there are window displays for that purpose - sanctioned, pre-packaged peeking. If you want a closer look, better to come back when the interior space is open.

But when the door simply says shut, a surprisingly different mood is evoked. The employees have gone home, the lights are dim, but the space is still inviting you in, even if just for a peek. There's an acknowledgement of the physical boundary - the door - but no restrictions on your gaze.

I have yet to see a clever twist on open. But then, open is often defined by its opposite.