Life is fine.

hmmm... huuummmmm.....

Pistachios are a great thing to have in a large bowl.
When you want music you can't go rummaging in more than one place... unless you separate them by genre into different rooms... hmmmm....
Make soups. Everything fits into soup, there are no exclusions. Just add spices.
If you keep giving gifts to the neighborhood squirrels, they will give you gifts back. Peanuts beget moss & twigs.
Heart shaped rocks are meant to be found and kept.
Large bowls are essential to a house. Make them or find them, just have them. Something unexpected will make its way into them.

It's early in the morning and both my cats just starting preening and cleaning themselves (one because of the other I'm sure) because 2 minutes ago they were sound asleep, and now the silence has been thickened by a slurping slapping sound of dry hairballs being made... and now four minutes later they are both back to sleeping... it's like a Las Vegas show, of the circus-sideshow-variety.

I'm giving up trying to update people in writing the way I used to update my journals for myself, backlogging my brain with events till they clogged up my synapses and I had to sit down for hours or days and write them all down. In the end I felt "caught up", or forgiven, yet more relieved, like the great trip to the bathroom after the 12 hour Greyhound bus ride. Chasing that feeling only brings more relief, but it doesn't really get the point across - that all which has transpired my 33 years can't be written in a sitting today or tomorrow or the next day. Neither can these last months or few years or even from the great perspective-point of Y2K. So I pass on the update.

Right now, Santa Claus has escaped torture in the Middle East on the TV and is driving the South Park kids in his sleigh, dropping Napalm-loads of Christmas tidings to the Muslims below. The Christmas tree is glowing with ornaments and lights, a few presents bubbling their possibilities beneath. A GRE study guide sits atop some German tax return forms, and the house still smelling from the cooking festival we had today... ratatouille, salmon with vinaigrette and endive, and a corn, bean tabouli salad for later. Guitar in the corner, decorations and Christmas settling in all over the place... how did we get here? It's a long story, it's a story in the making for 11 months this Saturday, December 22, the winter solstice. It's a damn good story for the holidays.

Life is fine.

All My Children

Yes, I still love the 5 felines from my previous post Cats Under the Stars. But I have room in my heart for more, including the 5-string banjo, and here's the story of two of them. What follows is something perhaps only cat lovers have patience for.

When we first picked them up from their old home on the night we returned from camping at the Northwest String Summit in Oregon, they were as feral as ever. They set up their own camp in a tent-like furry little cat cave for two resting between their stylish poop box and their food dishes in our newly finished office. And they never left, for two days, while we unpacked and made the rest of the apartment our own home. Ruby (tortoise-shell bespeckled face with tabby legs and dappled underbelly) was the first to venture out, the independence in her surging so much that she actually turned the corner of the hallway and moved into the kitchen, slowly. But as soon as we made a move, even a foot coming down off the couch, she would dart her black body in reverse and tuck back into the office and the cave next to her bro. Meanwhile, Leo (flame-point Siamese tabby with baby blue eyes) seemingly never moved. Then around day 4, Ruby made her nightly venture out of the office, and Leo actually followed his sister, taking the (literally) guided tour of what she had discovered from her previous ventures. He had this stealthy cheetah gait about him while his head bounced up and down like a pigeon, following Ruby's path while she turned periodically to see if he was still there. All it took for him to retreat to the cave was a wave from us, while Ruby had graduated to a little more trust and only retreated when we actually rose from the couch or walked an inch.

So, it was an odd first few days as we moved into an apartment together and thought we had cats but never really saw them except as streaks of color moving quickly through space while we scuttled our stuff around and new furniture arrived. We loved on 'em in their cave and they loved on us back from inside the cave. The office was ground zero and their radar gradually expanded concentrically to find more cave-like hiding places in our settling house, places which now have been sealed off - behind the stove (Leo), behind the desk drawer (Leo), behind the toilet (Ruby). Then came the cat tree.

It came free off Craigslist, a five foot blue thing with bad carpeting, two levels of platforms beneath a plush box with a pair of holes in it teetering on top. A must have. A peace offering. Ruby had by now been more open to walking around the living room and only looking like a deer in headlights when we made moves, generally saving her retreats for when we walked up to her. Leo still had no desire to leave the cave. But when Kelli lifted him out of his tent and showed him the lofty plush heights of the Blue Treehouse in our living room, he reached for its carpet like it was candy and crawled in and didn't leave, for days. And after that he knew that having both his food and his cat tree oasis meant a trek across the tremulous savanna between office and living room. He's been a grateful, purring, mobile and social boy ever since. Ruby perfected her high jump skills into the hole first, while Leo used the arm of the couch for a higher degree of difficulty. Both hit the hole every time, except when they find the other sibling in the hole waiting for them. Then we get out the digital camera and the popcorn and watch the ensuing clawless fighting. And from that perch they are safe and we can float around the house and sing and speak foreign languages and cook and move more stuff and play our instruments really loud and they can just tuck their heads into their paws, squint their eyes and wish they were in Kansas. They tolerate us in their home.

The cat tree made all the difference, because now we can consistently see Leo's face up-close and notice his crossed eye which twitters ever so slightly. We think it helps him see things that others don't see, It also makes his head tilt inquisitively to the side when he stands and looks at you. Ruby's underbelly is exposed more and more to reveal a panoply of symmetric color patterns to go with her Jackson Pollack nose. We thought we had inherited two shy but selectively lovely kitties, but every day in September marks another move toward Toby/Griffin sweetness or Gretl/Max craziness, and only this week has the lap or the leg become a possible landing pad, ala Squeak.

Leo likes to keep his head and face on your hand when you pet him, so don't move or he'll paw your hand back to his chin, lick it, and rub some more on it. He sleeps with a smile on his face, and his head usually nuzzles against something, anything, including his own paw. He likes it that way. Ruby's sleek blackness can be found on the window sill and she must come over and step onto my desk to do a drive-by every time I sit down. Her dainty demeanor belies a deft ability to attack rubber bands and fake mice with somersaults that usually end in her crashing gracefully into the wall or floor heater with a thud. Then she shakes it off, walks away, and looks behind her like she meant to do that. She also has some magic in her feet that make her tap along the floor with every step, but she has yet to throw some kitty litter on the ground and practice her soft shoe shuffle. Our sliding glass door remains a mystery to them, and we don't think they'll really love the leash idea, so until they prove their skills in working the BBQ or cleaning the deck they remain indoors, but they never fail to sit nattily at the closed door and watch us until the door opens and they quickly dash in different directions. And while Ruby might love heading out for a night on the town, Leo most likely would miss his Treehouse too much and just leave the real trees to the squirrels.

The best thing about Leo and Ruby is no matter how much they run from us, they are learning to come back. When we call them to dinner they run to the feast in the office, but if we spend too much time there they look at us like What are you still doing here? and run away, but they do return. And if we enter the bedroom and they are on the window perch they'll jump down and run out cuz really What the heck are we doing in our own room anyway? but a few minutes later they'll lope and tap their way back in to hang out. We move too fast = they run quickly away. No matter how many treats of tuna we give them, how many nights we spend with them finally purring on our laps, how often we love on them and they beg for more, they always retain that sense of protectiveness, wildness and flight. And that's cool as long as they come back, and they always do. I hope they never just let us jump around next to them or throw them between us or let us run into a room without them going Holy crap who are they? Let them always remain feral to the bone, because it reminds us of our own human tendencies to be individual and somewhat protective but at the same time to learn to trust in love and being loved. To me that's a huge part of making a new home.

All in all, we have two cats born wild, tamed by others, now going through a wild rebirth with their bear owners in a small apartment in Seattle. Fish are next, and oh what fun that'll be. :)

My Life as a Donkey

"Hi there! How are ya? Nice, that's awesome...oh man, I'm excellent, really. Well, my name's Matt and I work on behalf of the Democratic National Committee, and we're out in your neighborhood tonight to build support to win back that White House and EXPAND our congressional majorities, cuz I don't have to tell you - after six years of Bush's failed leadership we need a totally new direction in 2008.
So, here's how we'll do it: In February of 2006 the DNC launched a groundbreaking Fifty State Strategy, which placed campaign staff and organizers on the ground in every single state. We know how much this helped us to win the Senate and the House in Oh Six, but it also helped us to win key races around the country in places we didn't even know we had support in before. So now, with 15 months before the 2008 election, we're out here early to build that infrastructure and just imagine what we can do in that time.
The stakes are just huge for who we elect as our next president, and that's really why we are out in your neighborhood tonight. Here's our statement of support... the best way YOU can help us is with a contribution of $350 to the DNC. We know that this kind of grassroots energy is absolutely essential to a successful national campaign and it's YOUR support that gives US the resources it takes to win. And the best way you can do that is with a credit card or a check made payable to the Democratic National Committee."

That was me. For two months in Seattle, the summer of 2007. I'd knock on 100 doors a night in my blue t-shirt sporting DNC in American flagging letters. 50 people would open the door. 30 of them would cut me off at some point, leaving only 20 people who hear the whole rap, and of those 20, maybe 5 would turn around and give me cash, their credit card information, or hand me a check. Some gave $200. Some gave $5. One gave me $3, "For beer," he said, "not for the Democrats."

It's more complicated than just giving "the spiel." I had an answer for every reason someone would say NO to me, taking the conversation back to them, eventually improvising my words with their ideas and concerns into a conversation, and funneling everything back into the idea that this was the time and place to give a lot or a little to keep the GOP at bay. There are countless ways to get anyone to at least listen to you longer then they are willing, and each way opens another avenue of trust and interest or rage and passion which all eventually leads to a rather unique experience at someone's front door, and the longer you extend the interest in that experience the more likely the avenue will lead back to the point where they might actually consider giving you money, even when they were convinced that they weren't going to give any. Why? Because politics matters and it enters everyone's lives at some level and we all need to be involved if we care. Period. Also, I used to sell raffle tickets on Union Street in San Francisco and would sing for you if you bought 12 for $20.

In the entire two months, one couple offered me wine and dinner. Three offered me water, a pair of sisters offered me a beer, and one guy gave me licorice, ice water and a $200 credit card donation. Many Republicans offered me advice on how to grow up/stop being a communist and a socialist/what to tell my bosses, but more of them were genuinely sorry to be of absolutely no interest to me as they closed the door. A few snarled as steam rose from their ears and venom swelled in their mouth, but only a few. Children hid from me behind open doors, smiling. Small dogs of the high-pitched variety snarled and jumped and chased me out of long open front yards. Large dogs just licked my sweaty face. Countless cats let me walk over them among the lavender bushes. A few people per day invited me into their homes to give me money or to just sit and talk, including a total of three teachers who offered sagacious advice on my upcoming career choices. One guy offered me comic books he had published about WW2 from the Japanese perspective. Another man said he didn't have time because his wife was in labor, and I kept myself from asking, Why are you answering the doorbell, buddy?

The Good: I walked at least 7 miles a day up down and around all of Seattle and the Puget Sound area, along waterfront property and hilltop mansions, back alleys and concrete jungle side streets. I lost another 25 pounds in the process to drop me below The Mendoza Line for the first time since my first Oktoberfest in 2001. I met a fun, intelligent, driven, eclectic and transient clan of co-workers who became my newest group of friends. I helped people register to vote. I had some sweet conversations with sweet views of the mountains and the water at sunset on porches with fountains and buddhas and massive spider webs. I learned Seattle's streets at a speed only taxi drivers could beat. In moving to a new city I decided that the best way to shake my early inhibitions was to knock on random people's doors to talk about politics and ask them for money. And they actually gave me money. I raised some serious funds for the Demos, and still I got this sweet T-shirt which I'll no doubt be called upon to return someday.

The Bad: Working for a daily and weekly quota is fine until the magic wears off. Then, you realize that medical insurance is important.

It's not because of the money, it can't be. It's because I do not want Republicans to run the White House nor wrest control of government from the party I believe is made of and for the majority of the American people. I didn't like the door slamming into my face, but I loved people waving at me or telling me, even when they said no to my cash request, that they appreciated me doing this thing that they could never do for something they believed in. I didn't like the people who didn't care. I didn't like one-sided lectures from people, but I loved being that guy who maybe was a highlight of their evening or made them watch the news longer than usual that night. I loved the blackberries growing on the side of so many streets, the trees everywhere and the flowers in front yards, and the sweet wooden angles of the homes where people spent their days and nights. I really didn't like being rejected over and over and over again at the front doors of average Democratic Seattle-ites who didn't understand that as little as $5-10 from every one of them was significantly responsible for what I relied on for income.

My last night on the job came on a dark late-summer street below a half moon over Puget Sound in a neighborhood named after a stove company. It rained from dusk till dark and my clipboard was damp. My last donation came from an Ohio family renting someone else's house. My last opened door showed me an apathetic guy whose house smelled like a warm cookie factory. My last door was a home filled with people in the large front window sitting or standing and talking, ignoring the ringing doorbell, the hard knocking on the solid wood door, and the guy who needed them to answer it.

A Month of Hot Oregon Weekends

What you do apparently when you get to Washington is go to Oregon, a lot. Or is it that all of your friends who have run north from California or south from Washington all of a sudden really really need you to come see them, all at once, in one month? Like Oregon will close if you don't see it before the first fall leaf lands.

I could write a list of all that's happened this monumental Summer 2007, but it wouldn't be complete without a catch-up of what happened since December 2006 all the way to May, which of course needs buttressing from what happened in the Fall of 2006, which wouldn't be complete without a description of the Summer 2006!

You see, I am a writer. I just moved from Munich to California to Montana to California and now to Washington. I have no clue where to start because each day something new pops up that I wish my scribe would write down for me. I imagine my scribe to be monk-like, with a quill and an ink pot and a great ability to listen without speaking and the fastest shorthand calligraphy on the planet. But alas, he only exists in my brain.

Once more into Oregon this weekend, to dance on a farm with my brother, and then maybe I'll look into hiring that monk. :)