Dreams vs. Realities

Last night I dreamt that I was running. I was intensely focused and all I could hear was my own breathing and my feet hitting the pavement as scenery moved by, neither interesting or important but merely a backdrop. It was so real I could almost taste the air and the sweat beading on my upper lip, and I could feel myself pushing forward, always toward making each step count, always toward improvement. I was in the zone of a good hard run when nothing matters but putting one foot in front of the other and not losing focus, always pushing. I haven't experienced it in real life for some time now, since I have been plagued with one injury after another since July, and the pain in my toe is especially persistent. The dream was so real I woke up smiling and almost felt the content and accomplishment I would have felt if it had been. Which only makes me more sad that I'm not running these days. That was when I used to do all of my good thinking. I would ponder the world and my future between intense periods of highly tuned focus. Now I hardly have time to think between all the working and basketball games that are occupying all my extra time. I think I felt that I needed something else to obsess over, something to take my mind off of the lack of running. I feel it every day though, that desire to get out there and push my body to its limit. The desire to really do something, make things a little harder so everything can feel that much more deserved. The desire to be by myself with my thoughts and the wind at my heels.

Lately most of my thinking hasn't even been while I'm alone. It's been with a friend. He started off as my running buddy, a customer who came into my job, sat at the end of the bar and started talking to me while I rolled silverware. There are many such people, but he and I bonded almost instantly over our love of running, and made plans to start running together a few weeks later. He made good conversation on our runs, always asking a lot of questions and somehow getting me to feel comfortable enough to answer. He was always digging deeper, asking me to better explain myself or why I thought that or felt a certain way. Even though I haven't run for about a month now we still hang out, and it's very much the same. He asks a lot of questions and always gets me to go into further detail, forcing me to think about why I say the things I say and getting to the root of my beliefs and shedding light on the underlaying thoughts that I take for granted now and very rarely notice anymore.

Tonight we talked a lot about money, and what we would do if we were rich. He wanted a race car and a boat and to be able to see things he can't see now and do things he can't do. I told him I didn't want to be rich. Ever. I wanted the things I need and a few of the things I love and nothing more. He asked me to explain myself. He seemed surprised. I told him I think money adds value to too many things that shouldn't matter at all, and I'd rather have less because it makes me feel more free. I'm able to focus more on the things that matter to me. And then he asked a very big question, one that I realized I should really do more thinking on because it was extremely hard for me to answer. What is most important to me?

A lot of things came to mind right away; love, happiness, family, connections, finding the meaning of life, but they all seemed like sort of generic answers that didn't really express me and what I really personally value, what drives me, what will always draw me in. Learning, knowledge, creativity and self expression were things that I could actually pinpoint, along with making an impact on the world, both on the people I know and love and on the rest of the world, be it balancing out all the bad with a little good and trying to make a small difference or really creating something big that can influence people I don't even come into contact with, which is pretty much the driving force behind the dream of becoming a real author someday. I know I will always dream of making something that will change the world, something that will be valued and loved and respected and make people think and open up to new possibilities and change their way of thinking and inspire passion within them, and because it's such a lasting and powerful dream of mine I might even say it is the most important thing to me. I don't think anything would ever make me happier than that. Learning, knowledge, creativity and self expression are all things that I value, but I think because they are tools that I can use, setting aside and preparing, building on them bit by bit, more knowledge, more creativity, gradually pulling together all I will need to make a masterpiece. I want them because they will help me get what I really really want. How can I write an awe-inspiring novel without the knowledge to inspire? I value all the struggles that I go through because I see them as beneficial experiences that will help me when it's time. 

But if it all boils down to that why am I waiting? Why aren't I writing feverishly day in and day out and constantly working toward the end goal? Fear? Of failure maybe? Probably. Now I'm just going to think of all the times I conquer my fear as steps that get me closer. Next step: Conquer fear of writing and of failure and just do it. Let go.

Show me show me show me how you do that trick

Dogs are barkin'.

Friday: Rush back into town and make it to work 15 minutes late then have to jump right in because it gets busy right away. Weird stomach pain is NOT ovarian cysts or my appendix rupturing, but a stomachache that finally fades once I get home and lie down on the couch. 4 hours work. 3 hours watching basketball. 5 hours sleep.

Saturday: Alarm goes off at 7 and I groggily remember that I desperately need a shower. Snooze. Alarm. Shower? Snooze. Alarm. SHOWER! Coffee shop is basically slow all day so they send me home a little early. 6 1/2 hours work. 1 hour watching basketball. Walk downtown. 4 hours seating tables, an hour to eat and walk home, 2 more hours watching basketball, then fall into bed. 10 1/2 hours work total. 6 hours sleep.

Sunday: Alarm, snooze, rush off to work at 9, coffee shop is busier but that's not saying much, clean things all day then get off at 4:15 (7 1/4 hours work), walk home for some quick basketball action then off to work again at 5:15, waiting tables this time and the second I walk in the door I'm informed all hell is about to break loose. 30 people (a college basketball team!) are coming in soon and I'm serving them and that's not all I'll also have regular tables (!!!!). The stress of having 30 extremely tall and hungry college boys to babysit is eased a little when one of them sports a "Brandon Roy haircut" and then again when I find they are actually very nice and I don't have to clean up spitballs at the end of it all. Clean up for a few hours and close the restaurant and bike home after 6 1/2 hours. 13 3/4 hours work total. Sleep?

Forgive me, I've been making Christmas miracles

And working a lot. (A LOT)

Coming up in the near future...

Friends who feed our souls

The year in review (ch-ch-ch-changes)

Resolutions?

More basketball mania

Jane Goodall

Saying I love you in the most extravagant ways

and more...

I leave you with this (the other reason I'm too busy to write)...

12/18/08

Stereo-typing

I'm a book lovin' gal. Not at all surprising, right? Oh, that Gwen and her nerdy sweaters, just by looking at her I can tell she's a bookworm. Maybe it's because of my social awkwardness. Who knows. But something about me, my appearance or mannerisms, says to the outside world in loud screaming caps BOOK LOVER. Along with that people are not surprised to hear that I like plants and hiking and coffee and bands like Cat Power and Portishead and Mirah and Neko Case, because somehow they can group those things into a similar category. Still nerdy. They are sometimes a little more surprised to hear that I run, maybe because that involves physical activity, which is not something that many readers and writers are known for. I think people assume we sit around all day in well-lit but cozy corners with our cats and our coffee and maybe a quilt over our legs and never get out anywhere. Except to wander around nature at a relaxed and easy pace, pondering the meaning of life and our existence. Running is almost a sport, which to many is the opposite of literary. Jock vs. Nerd. Junior high 101. So imagine the looks on people's faces when they see the quivering excitement when I talk about basketball. Books? Basketball? Huh? I talk about the two things equally enthusiastically, and you might even catch me wiggling or clenching my hands or jumping around a little because I can't contain the excitement. It's not like I just like a team and wish they would win. I follow them obsessively. I go out of my way to make sure that I see every game. I know statistics. I know where the players went to college. I know that when he got his big paycheck Travis Outlaw, #25, bought his dad a new Tractor and kept the old one for himself.

It all started when I moved to Oregon. I think a sports nut was always lurking in my brain somewhere. I played lots of sports when I was younger, but then as I went through high school I pushed that part of me back. I suppressed sports. I was on the newspaper and all my friends were in art club and math club. Jock vs. Nerd. I would be too much of an anomaly if I was both. So I told everyone sports were boring and jocks were dumb and explained that I was in Cross Country because it wasn't really a sport. It was just jogging. Then I graduated and dated a movie nerd and kept similar habits, partially because he made being a nerd look so good. Then I went to an art school where they didn't even have sports. Everyone there was glad. I was depressed and craved the outdoors.

Then all of my plans fell apart and I moved to Oregon and had to start all over again. I decided part of starting over was trying to figure out who I really was and what I really liked. I went running and read books and felt great. I started dating a guy who was really into basketball. I just wanted to make him happy. I agreed to go to a game with him and let him teach me a little bit about it. I was skeptical, but I decided to give it a chance. That was all it took. One game. One game and I fell in love. With basketball.

The Portland Trailblazers played the New Orleans Hornets and it was a close game. It was the season home opener and all the fans were excited. The year before, their golden boy, Brandon Roy, had been awarded Rookie of the Year (the best player in his first year in the NBA). Their record had improved by 11 games (they won 11 more games than the year before for all you non sports-nuts), and they had lucked out and snagged the number one draft pick (draft day is when they look at all the young guys who have been playing in college or around the world and pick new members for their team, the number one pick means they got first choice!), a promising Center by the name of Greg Oden. Their hearts were all broken when over the summer they found out he was going to have surgery on his knee wouldn't be playing for an entire year. There was disappointment, but still a lot of excitement hung in the air. They had gotten rid of a lot of former trouble-makers from years before and were starting over with new guys. They had the youngest team in the NBA (their combined ages added up to a lower number than any other team) and they were the smallest team as well (ditto for their combined heights). As I learned all this it added up to one thing for me. Underdogs. Unlikely heroes. The kind I like to cheer for. I always loved the unlikely heroes in the books, the ones who battled all odds and showed their inner strength and came out on top. And there was one more important thing. This team had class. They weren't cocky or showy. They weren't the kind of athletes who complain about their salaries and go out to play half-hearted because they only care about the money. They had heart. Unlikely heroes with hearts of gold. And the game was a close one. Against a team that was assumed to be better. And the fans really got into it. We jumped up and yelled and booed and threw popcorn and got really involved and invested ourselves emotionally and I could feel the adrenaline pumping and the stress mounting as the game stayed close and the minutes started winding down and then just like that, my team won! The elation! My team! I had a team! I felt excited and so proud of them.

I started following them, and following them from day today becomes like following a story. Sometimes they have good days, sometimes bad days. I started to notice patterns, certain guys that play a certain way. I got to know their game. I started to care. A lot. Because as I watched they showed their strength again and again. Even when they lost I was proud of them, because of how they reacted to losing. They came back stronger. They stayed classy. Then came a streak in December when they won 13 games in a row. I was through the roof. They were doing it! They were showing the world that even though they were the youngest and the smallest and certainly far from flashy, they still had what it took. They became the good guys and the other teams became the bad guys in an epic battle that lasted for months. Which is always the stuff of good stories. I was blissed out.

And then me and the basketball boyfriend broke up and I was really in a bad place for a long time. It was winter and everything was grey and the whole world seemed down and out. But I was determined to keep doing the things I loved doing. I started really running a lot, training for a marathon. I started writing more. I was really paying attention to what would make me happy since I didn't have him there to help make me happy. And I started watching basketball with a friend from work and it became a social activity. I got to debate and tell people what I knew and they were impressed. I had payed attention to everything my ex had taught me and it was enough to go out and sound intelligent next to any Blazers fan. It gave me confidence. Not only did I love the story of my team but I loved how watching them made me feel and what it did to me. I think I was finally accepting a part of me that had been hidden for a long time. And I was completely hooked once I realized that I didn't just love basketball because I was trying to make someone else happy. I was doing it for me and I loved it. I went to as many games as I could, watched as many as I could at home, bought T-shirts and a sweatshirt that showed how much I loved my team and relished how well they were doing. By the end of the season they had improved their record to an even 500 (they won 50% of their games, with a record of 41-41) another improvement over the season before. When the season ended, I missed them. I watched a few other sports, and while I sort of liked them nothing could really compare. I scanned the news for word about new players and trades with other teams, and I probably knew as soon as anyone when they got a new Spanish guard who would go on to play in the Olympics over the summer. I knew about the draft picks from this year. The excitement mounted. I moved to a new town with a new roommate who wanted to get cable TV, a first for me in my own home, and somehow managed to talk the cable guy into free DVR for a year (kind of like TiVo, this amazing invention allows me to record things and watch them later). I was never going to have to miss a game! I anxiously awaited the day that I could get tickets to the first home game, and also got tickets with a friend to go to the next home game after that, against the Houston Rockets, a team we both respect that has a few players we really like to watch. The tallest man in the NBA is on the Houston Rockets team and, by the way, he's Chinese. He breaks the stereotype of short Asian men and does it well. With tickets in hand all I could do was wait. The first home game was on Halloween, and we won, against the San Antonio Spurs, a team that went all the way to the 3rd round in the playoffs the year before. I was so happy. 

And then came the Houston game. Houston is a very good team and I expected it to be hard to beat them. The game was so close! It came down to the very end. The score was tied at the end of regulation (the usual amount of time they give to play a game, 48 minutes, or 4 12-minute quarters), so they went into overtime. The first game I have ever gone to that went into overtime. My voice hurt from cheering and my jaw and back hurt from being so tense and there was more! An epic battle. The overtime started and the two teams pretty much traded baskets back and forth. Time was winding down again. It was looking like we were going to have another overtime because it was going to be tied again. The Rockets missed a shot with 8 seconds left and it was Blazer possession. They ran across the court. Then Brandon Roy (his nickname is The Natural) drove into the lane with defenders all around him, turned, and jumped back to make a 2 pointer to bring us ahead, 98-96 with 1.9 seconds to go. I jumped up and down screaming excitedly and celebrating, because I was sure we would win now, Houston had under 2 seconds to set something up. They called timeout. We all cheered and laughed and hugged. Houston came back out on the court. The clock doesn't start until they throw the ball in, so they were all running around and we were tensely waiting to see what they would do. In came the pass, Houston's Yao Ming (the fantastic tall Chinese man) threw it up and made a basket for two points. The game was tied. We were going to have another overtime. But wait... in all the commotion we hadn't heard the referee blow his whistle. Brandon Roy had fouled him when she shot the ball! (You aren't allowed to touch another player's hand when they are shooting because if you could they would all run around and grab each other and no one's shots would ever go in and it would become more of a wrestling match than a basketball game. They have to be allowed to shoot.) The foul meant he would get a free throw. We all held our breath. There were eight tenths of a second left on the clock. 0.8 seconds. If Yao Ming made the free throw he would get a point and they would be one ahead. And we wouldn't have any time to do anything. We screamed as he shot the ball, hoping to distract him so he wouldn't make it, but even though the entire crowd was against him he made that shot. 99-98. We lost. The Blazers called timeout. We sort of sat there and pouted. After all that tension we had lost. The Blazers only had time to throw the ball in and then throw it up, and they probably didn't even have time to aim. It was hopeless. I sagged. Everyone around me sagged. The Blazers came back out. Yao Ming (super tall) guarded the person who was throwing the ball in for the Blazers, Steve Blake (who is also the shortest). Time stood still. He waited to throw it in. Everyone on the court ran around couldn't get open and Brandon Roy ran far away from the basket so the ball could get thrown in and he caught it and turned and threw it up over Yao Ming and it arced high in the air and we all held our breath and time ran out (the players have to shoot the ball before time expires, and as long as the ball leaves their hand before it does the basket will still be good) and the ball was still in the air and it seemed like slow motion as it came back down and swooshed through the basket!!! The crowd exploded. We screamed louder than we ever had before. We were on our feet already, but we started jumping around and hugging and giving high fives and it was possibly the most elated I have ever felt. The roof blew off. They say we could be heard a mile away. People driving by looked, surprised, at the screaming they heard coming from inside. I don't know what the likelihood of that shot going in was, but I can tell you it was not good. It was from so far away, with such a small amount of time to catch and shoot. It was amazing.

After being a part of something like that, something that will go down in the history books as one of the closest games the Blazers have ever played, how can I help but be proud of my underdogs? If anything I talk about basketball even more now, and continue to puzzle people with my devotion. I'm known at one of my jobs as the girl who loves the Blazers. They all know I don't like to watch the games while I'm at work and I don't want to know what's going on because I want to watch them later (they all get recorded on my DVR) and if I know what happens it's less fun (how much fun is it to watch a movie, even a really good one, when you know the ending?). I'm the basketball fanatic who is still somehow more of a nerd than anything. And it puzzles them. They ask me how on earth I got into basketball and what it is that I like about it. It's always really hard to explain in a few words and they rarely get it. They usually shake their heads in disbelief and confusion and walk away.

I stand there smiling and know that by being part jock part nerd I am bringing two halves together, two opposites canceling each other out and making a whole.

I wear my hat indoors.

Hazy shade of winter

Alarm. Dark. 5 am. Stare into the mirror. Ponder. Hmmmm.... there's an eyelash stuck to my cheek. Stare into the mirror. That curl is looking a little unruly. I wonder if this sweater is warm enough. Eyes are looking a little puffy. I wonder if this sweater is warm enough. Ponder. Dark. Everything sort of goes out of focus. I wonder if this sweater is warm enough. Snow! More like ice. Deserted streets. Crunch, crunch, crunch, slip, crunch, crunch crunch, slip. Brrrrr.... That piece of ice looks a little like Walt Disney. I never got to go to Disney World as a kid but always wanted to. I wonder if it's all that great. I bet it's warm. Unlike this sweater. I wonder if the heat is fixed at the coffee shop. Nope. Turn on lights. Grind the coffee. Sweep the snow away from the sidewalk. Take down the chairs. You do the baking, I'll make the drinks. Want to share some coffee? Mmmmm... coffee. Warm. I wonder if I'm doing this right? Never done it before, but I guess I'll figure it out. Nuts, chocolate, applesauce, stir. Grease the pan. Nothing is where it's supposed to be. Wash the measuring cup. Open the oven. Mmmmm... warm. Now for some more coffee. The espresso machine whistles. The windows fog over. Here comes the sun. Smells like gooey blueberries. Tom Waits in the background. Steam. Hiss. Clink. Somebody's walking by. Crunch, crunch, crunch, slip, crunch, crunch, crunch, slip. They don't want coffee. Brrrr. I can almost see my own breath. Stand close to the oven. Clutch the coffee mug. Sniffle. Steam. Hiss. Clink. Whistle. Tom Waits. Muffins! Oh good I caught them just in time. Greet the people. Take the money. Close the register. Grind more coffee. Repeat. Toast a bagel. Wash some dishes. Greet the people. Take the money. Grind more coffee. Repeat. Grumble grumble. Starting to get hungry. More coffee. Change the CD. Put out more cream. Toast a bagel. Wash some dishes. Greet the people. Take the money. Make change. Make that to go. Grind more coffee. Repeat. More coffee. Brrr... cold coffee. Steam, fog, hiss, whistle, clink, sniffle. Brrr... Repeat. Noon. Only two more hours. Make something to eat. Mmmmm waffle. Mmmmm hot coffee. Steam, fog, hiss, whistle, clink, sniffle. Brrr... Put on a coat. There's the sun. Slush. Ice. Glare. Waddle, waddle, waddle, slip, waddle, waddle, waddle, slip, crack. Ow. Fiddle with the keys. Pull layers off. Mmmm... warm. Mmmm... nap. Don't forget to set an alarm! Different job tonight and then tomorrow morning start all over and do it again. Brrr... alarm dark mirror ponder crunch slip brrr... coffee steam fog hiss whistle clink sniffle Tom Waits muffins dishes money change cream sugar coffee bagel brrr... sniffle nap alarm different job night dark crunch slip brrr... bed. Repeat.

Winter wonderland

I don't know how to start the first blog post. It's sort of daunting, one of those things I always mean to do and then when I finally have to start I choke a little. One of many. Note to self: Stop letting fear get in the way. Look how easy this is! Why would I be afraid at all? Oh, only because I'm finally committing to something that means a lot to me (writing, letting other people read the writing) and the thought scares me shitless. What if I fail? What if I'm not good enough? What if nobody thinks I'm funny/entertaining/thoughtful/insightful/worth reading? I'm quite good at over-dramatizing and freaking out when there is no need, and because of that one of my former co-workers took to calling me Chicken Little (the sky is falling, the sky is falling!) and it stuck right away and now maybe you can see why. I am currently making a mountain out of a mole-hill. In reality this is as easy as writing an email and far less dramatic because this might not even be read at all while I'm fairly certain most people read the emails I send them. It's just that it represents something to me. The beginning. Of writing to be read. My dream since I was a little girl. Here goes. Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Freaking out.)

So, the sky is sort of falling right now. I mean, it's snowing, which for me is the most anticipated sign of winter and the holiday season. I was beginning to think fall was going to last forever and we were going to turn over a new year without Christmas ever coming. It's not almost Christmas unless it's snowed. I completely forgot to get ready. Time for the flurried sewing and pasting and constructing of last-minute gifts that happens every year for me, although usually a little earlier. Shit. I'm really late this time. Good thing I've got a day off coming up. The other sign that it's almost Christmas? I'm getting a cold. My first one of the season, and I'm almost happy about it. It means Christmas is coming! I'm sort of the spirit of Christmas in my family. I'm always getting all nostalgic and making sure certain traditions happen and getting so excited I can't contain it anymore. When I was a child this meant throwing up immediately following Christmas dinner and in the middle of presents. I couldn't contain myself. Although I express it in a different way the enthusiasm is still very much there and I like to think contagious. While some like to gag at the idea, I like to try and create perfect moments. Snow, hot chocolate, cookies, carols, decorations, lights, prettily-wrapped gifts, The Night Before Christmas, candy canes, turkey coma, soft sweaters, family members, and Lord Of The Rings, all at once. I like it when things couldn't be any more perfect. Any more packed with holiday cheer. I'm that girl. I own holiday sweaters. I used to like to sleep under the Christmas tree so I could be under the lights and sparkle. I get wrapped up in the season more than anyone I know. And I don't even believe in God. For me it's all about re-creating the magic I felt as a child, about being near my family and giving them the best presents I can afford. Unfortunately this year I'm really in trouble financially, and, although I say it every year, I can't afford anything! I've been waiting for some sort of Christmas miracle (of course I believe in Christmas miracles!) and I've been scrimping and saving and drooling outside shop windows like the little match girl, and I think what I need has finally come. Snow. It's given me inspiration for the perfect low-budget gifts. It's revved up my engine and gotten everything fired up and suddenly I know what to do. All it takes is a little snow. A little snow and a little love and Christmas is finally coming to town. Buckle up. It might make you vomit.