Just who do you think you are?

(this is how I cop 'tude. Baditude.)

Yowza. Yowza. Yow. Za. I'll tell you what, Slog. Right now, I don't even recognize myself. Who am I? For the past five days, I've done nothing but surprise myself. I mean, you hit twenty-seven, and you think you've finally got the beginning of a semblance of what makes you tick, and Blammo! You're not who you thought you were. To wit:

I've been in Utah for the past five days. I don't go to Utah. I've never been there in my life. And I went for a blogging conference. What? I don't even blog?!?! I slog once in awhile, but you could hardly count that as qualification for attending a conference. While in Utah, I did all sorts of things that I DO NOT DO.

1. I ate drive thru. And liked it. Oh, I liked it. Hamburgers, french fries, chicken wraps, you name it. If you can order it through a hilariously outdated speaker in a lit up menu-board from the comfort of your car, I will eat it! I had no idea.

2. I counted stake centers. In Utah, you'd be wasting your time playing "Slug Bug" (everyone drives SUVs), but turns out, I've got quite an eye for spotting stake centers (brick meeting places for the LDS church--if you didn't know). (LDS is Mormon for Mormon--if you didn't know). (I know--I know lots of things.)

3. I wore a laminated name tag. It had the name of this slog on it. (The name of the slog is too long, btw. Nobody could read it, and if they read it, they probably didn't remember it. And if they read it and remembered it, then they came up and asked, "Oh, what sort of stuff do you do?" and I had to say, "No, no. The title is ironical. I don't do anything.")

4. I attended panels about niche blogging (my niche is: I've got no niche), turning your blog into publishable writing (fat chance), and blogging about faith (I've got faith in television, and fast food, it turns out--and I'm too scared to contemplate anything further). I took notes that said things like "nepotism is your friend," "write to your ideal reader" (that's you!) and "you must be as a duck." I don't totally get that last one, but I love how it sounds.

5. I karaoked, sober, with a new group of friends who do not, on principle, partake of the fire water. It took about three hours for me to screw up the courage (my new friends were brave enough right out of the gate), and I waited until the bar was virtually empty, but the two people that were left were profoundly moved by our interpretation of Ace of Base. (Because all that she wants is another baby...)

6. I (courageously!) hit on a sizable, ukelele-wielding musician after he finished his set at the Blogger Orientation Party. His set, so we're clear, was played in a half-lit conference room full of about sixty or so women, all of us hopped up on sugar, many of them pregnant, almost all of them married. As a token single woman, I was encouraged (read: hazed) to approach this tall drink of water. I tried to be especially suave, but our exchange went like this:

Him (genuine): Nice to meet you. You should friend me on Facebook. Send me a message.

Me (so, so witty): Nah, I'll just stalk you instead.

--Pause.--

Me (back pedal): I mean, like on the internet. You know, through social media.

Him (cool as cucumber): Well, if you decide to really stalk me, I'd prefer you come with an axe or a machete. No chain saws.

Me (lost): Well, maybe a double-bladed axe. Or a calicula.

Him (lost): Caligula?

Me (panicking): Calicula.

[That's a weird axe that they used in Fiji in ancient times, I read it in a book once. FYI.]

Me (again): I just wanted to say you did a good job, and now this got all creepy and violent.

Him: It did. But nice to meet you anyway.

(FAST EXIT.)

New Blogging Friends: So?!? Did he fall in love with you or what?

Me: Yes. Sparks flew.

And throughout each of these strange new undertakings, there was a voice in my head asking me, "Who are you, Kendall? What on earth are you doing here?" And I said to the voice, "Voice, I've got no flipping idea, but it feels good." Because I was taking a vacation not just from Idaho, but also from myself. And here is the weird turn-about that I took away from all this blogger-blather:

It is unexpected, but sometimes I feel the most like myself, when I am doing things that I've never done, or wouldn't normally do, or have no business doing at all, and I just roll with it. Being open to whatever unlikely opportunity presents itself is something fundamentally authentic (a big word at this ole' conference) about me.

So, if anyone finds themselves with a free ticket to, oh, anything, ask me. I'll probably want to go.

Open-mindedly,

Kendall

L.I.F.E.

Today, I woke up and had a familiar thought: "Do I really have to get dressed, again? I just got dressed yesterday! And the day before that!" Does this happen to anyone else? Do you think, as I do, that finding clothes to wear every day is kind of monotonous and awful?

(FYI: I am grateful to be able to have a variety of clothes to choose from. That's lucky, and I know it. But this isn't a gratitude blog, it's a slog.)

(We miss you Brittany Murphy)

Remember Cher from Clueless, and how much fun she had putting together matching ensembles? Well, that is not real life! In real life, if you're me (and last time I checked, I am) you're so bored with the task of clothing yourself that you just keep a pile on the floor, and pick from it willy-nilly, looking for what's not too wrinkled, or too visibly stained. In real life, we also don't have our closets computerized, nor do we think thigh-highs are acceptable to wear to high school. At all. Right?

The trouble is, when you start out a day feeling overwhelmed by the mundane task of putting on clothes, the rest of your day is probably not going to go well, either, because you've got a bad attitude. And by you, I mean me. I had a bad attitude.

To wit: I put on clothes; I called someone who wants to rent my apartment; I called my landlord to tell him about aforementioned person; I told the landlord about the TERRIBLE things happening in my shower (whenever I run my sink, black gunk spews out of the shower drain. I probably won't mention that to the potential new tenant); I made an appointment at H&R Block to see Captain Kelly (more on that later); I closed my index finger in a bathroom stall at the gym--which is forcing me to type without using it, and it is taking at least twice as long as usual.

Now, Captain Kelly is a tugboat captain, as well as a renowned Moscow Taxman. I saw him last year, and during the course of our two hours (at least), he asked me some very personal questions (why am I still single? do I want to have kids? if I do, I best not wait until it's too late, he knows too many women who regretted waiting, etc.). He told me a bit about tugboats, and about how he got really into grunge music while living in Seattle. He was in a book, even, talking about the best jukeboxes in Seattle.

So, when I brought my bruised index finger into H&R, I was sure that at least I'd get some good stories out of Captain Kelly. But...I think he was having an off day, too. I got only one story (he once dated a woman who said "bunchels of [insert noun]" instead of "bunches." That was a long time ago, but she was a really neat lady), and even worse--I could tell he was frustrated at me for forgetting one of my W2s. I know he was frustrated because he kept saying, "I'm going to take care of you like you were my own daughter, just like you were my own daughter." But, he wasn't saying it to assure me, he was saying it to steady himself. Like, "if you were some stranger, I'd really let you have it and kick you out of here, but I'm not. I'm going to keep dealing with you, like I would have to if you were my own daughter."

So, I left Captain Kelly to finish my taxes (we ran out of time, on account of me leaving to track down a W2), and my awesome day continued with laundry, recycling, running the sink so that the plumber will see the putrid stuff that comes up the shower drain, and then I got in my car. This is the part I've been trying to get to all along (you say: then, by god, get to it ALREADY):

A Justin Townes Earle song was playing, here it is if you fancy a listen:

Isn't it something how a day, and a life, can contain such mundane junk: plumbing problems, missing W2s, loads of recycling and laundry, busted fingers, as well as containing art? Art just kind of popped up right in the middle of all of it, and I relaxed, and my bad mood lifted, because people are out there, making things that are meaningful and beautiful and meant to be appreciated by sloggers like me. And then I thought to myself, Hey, I might just get dressed again tomorrow.

Nine-fingered but powering through,

Kendall

Better words from better voices.

(Carson McCullers made uneven bangs cool, which I appreciate especially after my most recent haircut.)

One of the many, many (many) brain-breaking facts about trying to be a writer is that you must always and forever live in the awareness that there are writers out there who offer better words from better voices. It is a fact of life. Sometimes, it makes me want to weep with joy because there are such good brains out there making sense of my life for me. Other times, it makes me want to chew off my own fingers if only to keep myself from ever trying to compete. Surely I'm not the only person who feels this way. As a slogger, I've found that every so often, I want to shut up and give my slog over to a brilliant voice.

On my trip to Bellingham, I started reading Carson McCullers. She is best known for The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (which I haven't read), but in one of the many used bookstores, I found the slimmest, trimmest paperback copy of her book The Ballad of the Sad Cafe and Other Stories. Now, I think "The Ballad of the Sad Cafe" may be one of the best short story titles I've ever heard. And in it, McCullers says this:

"First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons--but the fact that it is a joint experience between two persons does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only the stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is the knowledge that makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself: he must create for himself a whole new inward world--a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring--this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

"Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only the strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else--but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

"It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being loved is intolerable to many. The beloved hates and fears the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain."

Now. What do you think of this? Emily Dickinson said, "If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry." I guess when I read this passage, I felt physically as if the top of my head were taken off. Not because it says something that I didn't already know on some deep, inarticulate, emotional level, but because McCullers was so able to order and articulate it. I think that's what a good writer does--shows the nature of our lives and impulses to us--like a big, eloquent mirror. Reading McCullers is like staring into a big, highly verbal mirror.

As the poison lilies in the swamp,

Kendall

Morning.

Lately, I've been setting my alarm to get up early (by my standards), even though I don't absolutely have to. Then, I start accomplishing things. As it turns out, my apartment gets really lovely sunlight in the morning, and it feels good to tell myself I'm taking care of business while the rest of the world sleeps (mostly, I blog, and buzz around the house on espresso). But, in that spirit, I offer a Morning poem. I suggest reading it...in the morning.

Morning, by Billy Collins.

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night, with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.

"With all their scintillating beauty..."

Well, I don't have to go to work today. Thank God. Instead of two days of work this week, I've only got the one. I mean, after that month-long Christmas holiday, too, I'm just really in need of some time off.

(Except I'm not. At all. I should be at work. I need something to keep me honest. I need a job! Oh--I know! I'll blog.)

So, the reason for my time off: Martin Luther King, Jr.

When I was in high school, I was obsessed with the Civil Rights Movement. I wrote several essays about school desegregation and Brown v. Board of Education. I watched grainy footage of the protests outside of southern schools, and I cried. I dreamed of naming a child of mine Thurgood, after the first black Supreme Court Justice. In 1999, I interviewed a really smart, honest Professor of Black Studies about race and segregation in Portland, Oregon. It went like this:

KS (excitable, nervous, smiley): Professor M, how has Portland changed since school desegregation?
PM (dashing, professional, less-smiley): Actually, I think Portland is as segregated a city as it was in the 1950s.
KS (fidgets. Significance dawns slowly): ......................
PM (waits. watches) : ......................
KS: Okay. I'll just need to change some of my questions around.

See? A learning experience.

So, in honor of Martin Luther King Jr., and dear Thurgood Marshall, and the gutsy students in the case of Brown vs. Board of Education, and to the men and women in the US who, in 2010, do not feel full and direct access to the civil rights owed to them by their states, I am reproducing two pieces from King's "Letter from Birmingham Jail." Like me, King had a lot of time on his hands when he wrote this letter in 1963--he was stuck in jail for "parading without a permit" during his march in Birmingham. Unlike me, King used his time to pen a beautiful open letter in favor of "peace and brotherhood," while I am choosing to blog, and to watch Young Frankenstein.

He's really, a really good writer.

"Moreover, I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial, "outside agitator" idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds..."

"...Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear-drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood [and sisterhood] will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.

Yours for the cause of
Peace and Brotherhood,

Martin Luther King Jr."
(and Kendall)