It's a dark and rainy Friday night over here. A couple of people wanted me to go out but I told them I was sick. Which is code for "I am in an emotionally fragile state and prefer to spend the evening watching episodes of 'The Middle' while eating stale pretzels."
Now that I think about it, I may choose to be in that very same emotionally fragile state tomorrow night too and have a quiet yet sophisticated New Year's Eve with myself and a plate of microwaved nachos. I've had several people approach me regarding my plans, but no one has actually invited me anywhere. In fact, people seem like they want me to organize their New Year's plans. And there is no party planned here at the art asylum, but people seem to think there should be one and that I should DJ it. I love being the go-to DJ girl and I'm glad that I have friends want to hang out with me on New Year's, but I just don't have the energy this year to spend hours DJing some drunken year-end bash or be the evening coordinator (and driver) for some over-priced, over-crowded night out.
Truth is, I've gotten myself so stressed out over my upcoming move that I've been socially shutting down over the past few days. My plan wasn't really coming together, so I went for my back-up option and told The Management I need to extend my notice until the beginning of February. They promptly sent me an email informing me that my room had already been rented out and I needed to vacate on the 11th originally planned.
Lesson learned: Don't light a fire under your butt unless you know for sure you can run fast enough.
So what's going to happen?
I'm not entirely sure.
Here's what I do know:
I'm moving my stuff back to my parents' house for right now. I've got a one-way plane ticket to Orlando, Florida. Plane leaves on the 11th. I have an aunt and uncle in Florida that I've seen approximately four times in my life but I remember them as being really nice and they've invited me to stay for awhile.
And after Florida? Location is still TBD.
Of course, I made the mistake of accidentally going public with this whole moving out thing before I was really ready to. I'm getting rid of a lot of stuff, so naturally I put a pile in the hall for people to dig through (keeping up with the tradition of Portland being a friendly free-pile city). I wanted the stuff to actually go away, so I went on Facebook and mentioned the pile on my status.
BAM! Just like that, the world put two-and-two together and began to ask me why, when, and where I am moving.
I realize these are all fair questions. But why is unnecessary, when is scary, and where is just plain unknown. Because I can say I'm going to Florida, but then people want to know what I'm going to do in Florida, if I'm going to move to Florida, am I coming back to Portland, where will I go after that, and do I have a place in mind, and what will become of my rock and roll career, and will I ever get a job or will I just spend my days bumming around the country on free flight vouchers I received after getting bumped from a flight that I didn't pay for to begin with because I was a radio contest winner?
But on top of feeling nervous and frantic, I am really quite excited about all of this. I mean, who knows where this trip is going to take me.
And Florida seems like a great place to start. Mostly because I've never been there, I know people there, and I've had palm trees on the brain ever since I watched Johnny Depp drunkenly stumble around in "The Rum Diary" (it was a mediocre film, but it inspired me to go somewhere warm).
So, bring on the new year. Unlike the Mayans, I have a good feeling about 2012.
Showing posts with label changes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label changes. Show all posts
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Sandwiches Are Beautiful, Sandwiches Are Fiiiiine, I Like Sandwiches, I Eat Them All The Tiiiime...
I used to love the community kitchen, but recently it's become a breeding ground for awkwardness and anxiety. It's also just a general health hazard these days (thank you, sloppy people that smell like hamsters). I've been back on my trusty sandwich diet, throwing in a microwave dinner here and there so I can experience a little variety without actually leaving my room and cooking things.
However, I recently had to perform an ethnic cleansing on the inhabitants of my refrigerator (which is an inappropriate way of saying that three out of four lame items in my fridge were out-dated/stinky so I decided that the fourth item was guilty by association and threw everything away). I fully intended to go to the store in attempts to rebuild the food community in the fridge, but I put it off because grocery shopping really isn't that fun. And when dinnertime rolled around, I decided to get over my recent anti-social tendencies and brave the kitchen with a box of noodles.
It was okay at first. The Poet was in there drinking coffee and it was just like the old days. But just when I made myself comfortable and put a pot of pasta on the stove, Creepy Niles Crane entered the scene.
I'm not sure if I've ever talked about Creepy Niles Crane before. The best way I know how to describe him is this: He looks exactly like Niles Crane from the show "Frasier" but acts like a character that belongs in a Kafka novel. He's weirdly intense and something about him always makes me nervous. Maybe it's the fact that he's so open about his interest in sadomasochism, or the way his eyes light up when he talks about watching lions tear their prey apart in animal documentaries. He's also the guy with the infamous bed bug problem. *shudder*
As a side note, I definitely heard him hit on a girl once by asking if she wanted to come over to his place and have a look at his bed bugs. This poor girl simply stared at him and said, "Do you really think that line is going to work on ANYONE?"
Anyway, Creepy Niles Crane comes in, throws his coat on a chair, and sits down with a heavy sigh. I stir my pasta, hoping that prodding the noodles with a spoon will make them cook faster.
"Do you know a reliable brand of throat antiseptic?" Creepy Niles Crane asks, a very matter-of-fact tone in his voice.
The Poet and I look at each other.
"A reliable brand of what?"
"Throat antiseptic," he says. "You know, to make your throat go numb. I want one that works really well."
There's an awkward pause.
"It's for a friend. A sick friend. Sore throat," he says quickly.
I continue to stir my pasta and tell him to just get some cough drops.
At this point, Silent Black Man walks in with a sack of potatoes.
I don't really know the full story on Silent Black Man. I know he doesn't actually live here. I think someone picked him up at Occupy Portland. I'm not really sure where he's sleeping, but I know he's staying here somewhere.
The best part? He doesn't speak English. So NO ONE really knows what's up with him.
And when he walked into the kitchen with a sack of potatoes and grabbed a giant knife, I nearly jumped out of my skin.*
Of course, he was just using this knife to chop the potatoes, but the way he held it was slightly unnerving.
Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane was busy reflecting on his lack of success with women.
The Poet: "Was it just me, or did I hear you ask a girl to come back to your place and look at your bed bugs?"
Creepy Niles Crane: "Yeah... It didn't work... I think I need to work on my approach. I think how I said that wasn't quite right..."
The Poet: "You think???"
Creepy Niles Crane went on to talk about his bed bug problem in detail and I immediately felt itchy all over. Silent Black Man continued to chop potatoes in a corner. I decided that my noodles were done and was dismayed to find that all of the plates were dirty.
I looked for a fork and decided to just eat out of the pan. Or maybe I would just put the entire thing in tupperware and take it back to my room... Except that The Chef had made a point out of throwing out any and all tupperware once upon a time. I casually searched for a take-home vehicle of some sort. Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane starting going all philosophical.
"Time," he said ominously. "Time moves so fast. Time."
Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. But he wasn't done being on a soapbox.
"Sometimes, I think I could spend my entire life thinking about getting out of this chair and then I would die in this chair."
No one in the room knew how to respond to that.
So I casually scooped up my pan full of noodles and made a less-than-graceful exit.
"Good luck getting out of the chair," I said.
This is a mad house, I thought to myself as I made my way back to my room. This is a retirement home for hipsters and lunatics. HOW DID I GET HERE? THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE. THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE.
I then realized that I too am guilty of living my life as though I'm sitting in a chair I don't know how to get out of. And I don't know what my story is going to be about, but I don't think it's supposed to be about a girl who spends her life eating sandwiches on 82nd Avenue while waiting for something more interesting to happen. It's definitely time to get a better grip on things and make stuff happen.
In the meantime, I can at least go to the grocery store and stock up on lunch meat.
*Please know that I would have been just as spooked if he was a Silent White Man or a Silent Asian Dude.
However, I recently had to perform an ethnic cleansing on the inhabitants of my refrigerator (which is an inappropriate way of saying that three out of four lame items in my fridge were out-dated/stinky so I decided that the fourth item was guilty by association and threw everything away). I fully intended to go to the store in attempts to rebuild the food community in the fridge, but I put it off because grocery shopping really isn't that fun. And when dinnertime rolled around, I decided to get over my recent anti-social tendencies and brave the kitchen with a box of noodles.
It was okay at first. The Poet was in there drinking coffee and it was just like the old days. But just when I made myself comfortable and put a pot of pasta on the stove, Creepy Niles Crane entered the scene.
I'm not sure if I've ever talked about Creepy Niles Crane before. The best way I know how to describe him is this: He looks exactly like Niles Crane from the show "Frasier" but acts like a character that belongs in a Kafka novel. He's weirdly intense and something about him always makes me nervous. Maybe it's the fact that he's so open about his interest in sadomasochism, or the way his eyes light up when he talks about watching lions tear their prey apart in animal documentaries. He's also the guy with the infamous bed bug problem. *shudder*
As a side note, I definitely heard him hit on a girl once by asking if she wanted to come over to his place and have a look at his bed bugs. This poor girl simply stared at him and said, "Do you really think that line is going to work on ANYONE?"
Anyway, Creepy Niles Crane comes in, throws his coat on a chair, and sits down with a heavy sigh. I stir my pasta, hoping that prodding the noodles with a spoon will make them cook faster.
"Do you know a reliable brand of throat antiseptic?" Creepy Niles Crane asks, a very matter-of-fact tone in his voice.
The Poet and I look at each other.
"A reliable brand of what?"
"Throat antiseptic," he says. "You know, to make your throat go numb. I want one that works really well."
There's an awkward pause.
"It's for a friend. A sick friend. Sore throat," he says quickly.
I continue to stir my pasta and tell him to just get some cough drops.
At this point, Silent Black Man walks in with a sack of potatoes.
I don't really know the full story on Silent Black Man. I know he doesn't actually live here. I think someone picked him up at Occupy Portland. I'm not really sure where he's sleeping, but I know he's staying here somewhere.
The best part? He doesn't speak English. So NO ONE really knows what's up with him.
And when he walked into the kitchen with a sack of potatoes and grabbed a giant knife, I nearly jumped out of my skin.*
Of course, he was just using this knife to chop the potatoes, but the way he held it was slightly unnerving.
Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane was busy reflecting on his lack of success with women.
The Poet: "Was it just me, or did I hear you ask a girl to come back to your place and look at your bed bugs?"
Creepy Niles Crane: "Yeah... It didn't work... I think I need to work on my approach. I think how I said that wasn't quite right..."
The Poet: "You think???"
Creepy Niles Crane went on to talk about his bed bug problem in detail and I immediately felt itchy all over. Silent Black Man continued to chop potatoes in a corner. I decided that my noodles were done and was dismayed to find that all of the plates were dirty.
I looked for a fork and decided to just eat out of the pan. Or maybe I would just put the entire thing in tupperware and take it back to my room... Except that The Chef had made a point out of throwing out any and all tupperware once upon a time. I casually searched for a take-home vehicle of some sort. Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane starting going all philosophical.
"Time," he said ominously. "Time moves so fast. Time."
Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. But he wasn't done being on a soapbox.
"Sometimes, I think I could spend my entire life thinking about getting out of this chair and then I would die in this chair."
No one in the room knew how to respond to that.
So I casually scooped up my pan full of noodles and made a less-than-graceful exit.
"Good luck getting out of the chair," I said.
This is a mad house, I thought to myself as I made my way back to my room. This is a retirement home for hipsters and lunatics. HOW DID I GET HERE? THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE. THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE.
I then realized that I too am guilty of living my life as though I'm sitting in a chair I don't know how to get out of. And I don't know what my story is going to be about, but I don't think it's supposed to be about a girl who spends her life eating sandwiches on 82nd Avenue while waiting for something more interesting to happen. It's definitely time to get a better grip on things and make stuff happen.
In the meantime, I can at least go to the grocery store and stock up on lunch meat.
*Please know that I would have been just as spooked if he was a Silent White Man or a Silent Asian Dude.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Heavy Stuff...
Today, I've been going back and forth between feeling completely optimistic about the future and feeling as though I'm going to throw up from anxiety. Right now, I'm leaning towards the latter of those two feelings. The level of nervousness I'm currently experiencing is probably totally unnecessary and logically I know this, but the future is a very unknown place and my move-out date will be here in a month. Somebody get me a barf bucket, please.
I'm also still heavily processing something scary that happened a couple of nights ago. I told myself I wasn't going to write about it because I don't want to dwell on it, but my mind keeps pressing the replay button on the mental video tapes. It's a lot heavier than the sort of stuff I normally blog about, but I think it's probably important to get it out of my head. So here it is...
I went to bed early on Saturday night and woke up to my phone ringing at two in the morning. By the time I was awake enough to look at my phone, I had a voicemail from The Fonz. I figured he was probably drunk dialing me or something, but when I listened to the message I was shocked by the urgency in his voice.
One of our friends was going to kill himself.
I heard voices in the hallway, so I threw on some sweatpants and poked my head out of my door to see what was up.
It was one of the two guys we lovingly refer to as "The Gnomes." We all knew he was having a rough time, but we just assumed he would get through it. But late that night, he posted a Facebook status that was obviously a suicide note and disappeared. He texted his roommate (The Other Gnome) to announce that he was not going to come back.
The Fonz had called because he needed to borrow my car. The Other Gnome had a wild hunch of where this guy might be and they were on a mission to go find him. They ended up borrowing someone else's car because I didn't answer the phone. But while they were out driving around, The Fonz called me again to tell me to look downstairs.
"Now we think he gave us a false lead and he's actually somewhere in the building," The Fonz said frantically into the phone. "Can you go check the weird bathroom in the basement and see if he's in there?"
I called The Poet and told him to check downstairs. I was not about to go creeping around the basement of this spooky building in search of my friend who might very possibly be dead. So The Poet went on a mission to check every hidden corner of the building and I had nothing to do but pace back and forth in my room.
I held my phone in my hand and waited for news. I checked my friend's Facebook page, read his suicide note, and swore silently to myself. It seemed hopeless. He had made up his mind and now he was dead somewhere. My friend was dead.
The minutes seemed to last forever as I waited for the phone to ring. I had to do something, so I made a sandwich. I wasn't even hungry, but I needed to do something with my hands. So I sliced up some cheese and prepared my brain for the inevitable bad news. My friend was dead. I ran a mental slideshow of memories through my brain...
The night in the kitchen when I met Gnome for the first time...
The time we sat cross-legged in the hallway together and ate pizza during and art opening...
The ironic Mary and Jesus shirt he wore all of the time just to be weird...
The night he drunkenly stole the fire hose sign from outside my door and yelled "We're all going to hell...in a hand basket, bitch..."
The way he always won at pool by hiding his opponent's balls in the pocket of his sweatshirt and tossing them in the holes when no one was looking...
The times he made me laugh so hard I nearly cried...
The constant piano playing...
The suit he wore specifically for my birthday party...
The time we had a jam session in the courtyard and it was a disaster because he can't really play guitar and I can't really play accordion...
The spiked iced tea he made for everyone, which turned out to just be straight vodka that was flavored to taste like iced tea...
The night he told me that I had the power of rock and roll...
I mechanically placed some deli meat on my sandwich and looked at my phone again. Nothing. I was frustrated that there wasn't anything I could do to help. And I was horrified at the fact that one of the most talented, funny, and brilliant people I know was miserable enough to kill himself.
I then realized that I never told him how talented, funny, and brilliant he was. This was equally horrifying.
There was a knock on the door. It was The Poet checking to see if I had heard anything new. He had found nothing in the basement. I reported that I didn't know anything and offered him half of my sandwich. So we sat on my floor and nervously ate sandwiches, waiting for news.
Suddenly, there were loud voices in the hallway. People running and yelling "HE'S HERE!" The Poet went out to catch the action but I stayed in my room. I didn't want to find my friend's dead body. I just don't know how to deal with that.
Fortunately, he was alive.
He was in the bathtub room, lying in a sleeping bag inside the bathtub. He had a backpack with him. Someone grabbed it and found three knives inside. They called the police.
The good news is that he made it to the hospital. And he's still alive. I am so thankful that he chose NOT to do it.
But I still found the whole thing unsettling. And the next night, when I found myself at a bowling alley with my gay best friend from high school and a bunch of people I didn't know, I discovered that being normal took a conscious effort. Like, "I'm just going to smile and not act like I was up all night thinking my friend/neighbor was dead."
No one likes to talk about death, especially suicide. But I'm here to say that people probably should talk about it...
Really I wish I could just write one song that would make people stop wanting to kill themselves.
I'm also still heavily processing something scary that happened a couple of nights ago. I told myself I wasn't going to write about it because I don't want to dwell on it, but my mind keeps pressing the replay button on the mental video tapes. It's a lot heavier than the sort of stuff I normally blog about, but I think it's probably important to get it out of my head. So here it is...
I went to bed early on Saturday night and woke up to my phone ringing at two in the morning. By the time I was awake enough to look at my phone, I had a voicemail from The Fonz. I figured he was probably drunk dialing me or something, but when I listened to the message I was shocked by the urgency in his voice.
One of our friends was going to kill himself.
I heard voices in the hallway, so I threw on some sweatpants and poked my head out of my door to see what was up.
It was one of the two guys we lovingly refer to as "The Gnomes." We all knew he was having a rough time, but we just assumed he would get through it. But late that night, he posted a Facebook status that was obviously a suicide note and disappeared. He texted his roommate (The Other Gnome) to announce that he was not going to come back.
The Fonz had called because he needed to borrow my car. The Other Gnome had a wild hunch of where this guy might be and they were on a mission to go find him. They ended up borrowing someone else's car because I didn't answer the phone. But while they were out driving around, The Fonz called me again to tell me to look downstairs.
"Now we think he gave us a false lead and he's actually somewhere in the building," The Fonz said frantically into the phone. "Can you go check the weird bathroom in the basement and see if he's in there?"
I called The Poet and told him to check downstairs. I was not about to go creeping around the basement of this spooky building in search of my friend who might very possibly be dead. So The Poet went on a mission to check every hidden corner of the building and I had nothing to do but pace back and forth in my room.
I held my phone in my hand and waited for news. I checked my friend's Facebook page, read his suicide note, and swore silently to myself. It seemed hopeless. He had made up his mind and now he was dead somewhere. My friend was dead.
The minutes seemed to last forever as I waited for the phone to ring. I had to do something, so I made a sandwich. I wasn't even hungry, but I needed to do something with my hands. So I sliced up some cheese and prepared my brain for the inevitable bad news. My friend was dead. I ran a mental slideshow of memories through my brain...
The night in the kitchen when I met Gnome for the first time...
The time we sat cross-legged in the hallway together and ate pizza during and art opening...
The ironic Mary and Jesus shirt he wore all of the time just to be weird...
The night he drunkenly stole the fire hose sign from outside my door and yelled "We're all going to hell...in a hand basket, bitch..."
The way he always won at pool by hiding his opponent's balls in the pocket of his sweatshirt and tossing them in the holes when no one was looking...
The times he made me laugh so hard I nearly cried...
The constant piano playing...
The suit he wore specifically for my birthday party...
The time we had a jam session in the courtyard and it was a disaster because he can't really play guitar and I can't really play accordion...
The spiked iced tea he made for everyone, which turned out to just be straight vodka that was flavored to taste like iced tea...
The night he told me that I had the power of rock and roll...
I mechanically placed some deli meat on my sandwich and looked at my phone again. Nothing. I was frustrated that there wasn't anything I could do to help. And I was horrified at the fact that one of the most talented, funny, and brilliant people I know was miserable enough to kill himself.
I then realized that I never told him how talented, funny, and brilliant he was. This was equally horrifying.
There was a knock on the door. It was The Poet checking to see if I had heard anything new. He had found nothing in the basement. I reported that I didn't know anything and offered him half of my sandwich. So we sat on my floor and nervously ate sandwiches, waiting for news.
Suddenly, there were loud voices in the hallway. People running and yelling "HE'S HERE!" The Poet went out to catch the action but I stayed in my room. I didn't want to find my friend's dead body. I just don't know how to deal with that.
Fortunately, he was alive.
He was in the bathtub room, lying in a sleeping bag inside the bathtub. He had a backpack with him. Someone grabbed it and found three knives inside. They called the police.
The good news is that he made it to the hospital. And he's still alive. I am so thankful that he chose NOT to do it.
But I still found the whole thing unsettling. And the next night, when I found myself at a bowling alley with my gay best friend from high school and a bunch of people I didn't know, I discovered that being normal took a conscious effort. Like, "I'm just going to smile and not act like I was up all night thinking my friend/neighbor was dead."
No one likes to talk about death, especially suicide. But I'm here to say that people probably should talk about it...
Really I wish I could just write one song that would make people stop wanting to kill themselves.
Fun New Facts
Last night was a rough night at the artist's community. I might write about it tomorrow or I might just move on and be thankful that no one is dead. I am exhausted right now, but I can report the following facts:
I gave my notice today. I am moving out on January 11th.
I don't know exactly where I'm going on January 11th. I just know that I can't stay here.
The fundraiser I mentioned in my last post was miraculously successful and we raised enough money as a community to save our two friends from being evicted. I am in awe of the final score...
Human Kindness: 2
Eviction: 0
I also learned tonight that sometimes, when things seem overwhelming and complicated, being a gay man's date to a Christmas party at a bowling alley is the best thing you can do for your mental health.
More coherent thoughts later. It's bed time for Lauren.
Peace and love.
I gave my notice today. I am moving out on January 11th.
I don't know exactly where I'm going on January 11th. I just know that I can't stay here.
The fundraiser I mentioned in my last post was miraculously successful and we raised enough money as a community to save our two friends from being evicted. I am in awe of the final score...
Human Kindness: 2
Eviction: 0
I also learned tonight that sometimes, when things seem overwhelming and complicated, being a gay man's date to a Christmas party at a bowling alley is the best thing you can do for your mental health.
More coherent thoughts later. It's bed time for Lauren.
Peace and love.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
You Know You've Lived In An Artist's Community Too Long When...
I know that at the beginning of this month I announced that I was going to post every single day and I have already messed that up by missing yesterday.
That's because yesterday was the sort of day that inspired me to look out for my own mental health take a brief hiatus at my parents' house in the country (which is where I am now). Nothing significantly terrible happened, it was just a combination of...
- the bed bug scare
- over-hearing the people that smell like dead hamsters loudly declare that they definitely don't have any corpses in their room
- locking myself in the basement while doing massive loads of laundry
- waiting for an eternity to get back into my apartment (the maintenance guy stayed up all night playing video games and I had to wait for him to wake up and take a shower)
- flooding my bathroom floor while taking a shower (my drain has problems).
There was definitely a point in there when I was near tears. It was the bathroom flood that did it.
So I did what any mature twenty-something would do: I cleaned up all the water on the floor, threw the rest of my dirty laundry in the car, and drove to Mom and Dad's house.
I'll go back tomorrow, armed with a supersonic cover for my mattress and a stomach full of home-cooked food. But sometimes, a mental health day or two away from the city is necessary.
I know I've talked about wanting to move out before, but this time I think I'm actually going to go through with it. This bed bug thing has made me wake up and realize that my beloved artist community is actually pretty gross.
I think I'll make a snarky list about it...
Ten Ways To Tell You've Lived In An Artist's Community For Too Long:
1. When you hear a dog barking in the hallway, you're not sure if it's an actual dog or just your eccentric neighbor.
2. Whenever ANYONE offers you baked goods of ANY kind, you ask them to recite the ingredients to make sure there won't any weird surprises an hour later.
3. All of your friends refer to you as "the heterosexual one."
4. The very thought of your next door neighbor's constant cloud of incense and marijuana makes you want to vomit all over her hemp door decorations.
5. You are the only person you know who doesn't have an event in their past that can be referred to as "the nervous breakdown."
6. "RENT" used to be your favorite movie but now you can barely sit through it.
7. You're tired of eating stinky vegan food at potlucks.
8. Your friends call you by your existential commune nickname, "Sweater."
8. The little old Asian man at the local mini-mart has a one-dollar lottery ticket ready for you when you walk in.
9. You put two 8's on this list because it is your creative right to do so. You are willing to argue with anyone and, if prompted to, will even deliver a 3 - 5 paragraph statement regarding the meaning of this artistic choice.
10. You are the only girl you know who shaves her armpits.
11. You keep a list in your journal entitled "People Who Are Likely To Go Postal."
12. One of your birthday presents was a gigantic can of PBR wrapped up in festive wrapping paper.
13. You've seen way too many naked people just by being in the wrong room at the wrong time.
14. When you're coming home and you see an ambulance nearby, your instinct is to worry that someone finally either over-dosed or committed suicide.
15. The friends you had in college now refer to you as "the hippy."
16. You know several ways to cook Ramen.
17. The very word "kombucha" makes you want to hurl.
18. Whenever you tell stories about your living situation to people who don't live there, they can't stop laughing and probably think you're making it up.
19. You can make fun of hipsters in approximately 999 different ways, despite the fact that some people mistake you for one at times.
20. Your diet consists primarily of coffee and sandwiches.
Ack. In case you couldn't tell, most of these apply directly to me. I'm exaggerating a little bit for the sake of comedy, but not much.
It's probably time for a change...
I'm not always good with change. Hmmfph.
That's because yesterday was the sort of day that inspired me to look out for my own mental health take a brief hiatus at my parents' house in the country (which is where I am now). Nothing significantly terrible happened, it was just a combination of...
- the bed bug scare
- over-hearing the people that smell like dead hamsters loudly declare that they definitely don't have any corpses in their room
- locking myself in the basement while doing massive loads of laundry
- waiting for an eternity to get back into my apartment (the maintenance guy stayed up all night playing video games and I had to wait for him to wake up and take a shower)
- flooding my bathroom floor while taking a shower (my drain has problems).
There was definitely a point in there when I was near tears. It was the bathroom flood that did it.
So I did what any mature twenty-something would do: I cleaned up all the water on the floor, threw the rest of my dirty laundry in the car, and drove to Mom and Dad's house.
I'll go back tomorrow, armed with a supersonic cover for my mattress and a stomach full of home-cooked food. But sometimes, a mental health day or two away from the city is necessary.
I know I've talked about wanting to move out before, but this time I think I'm actually going to go through with it. This bed bug thing has made me wake up and realize that my beloved artist community is actually pretty gross.
I think I'll make a snarky list about it...
Ten Ways To Tell You've Lived In An Artist's Community For Too Long:
1. When you hear a dog barking in the hallway, you're not sure if it's an actual dog or just your eccentric neighbor.
2. Whenever ANYONE offers you baked goods of ANY kind, you ask them to recite the ingredients to make sure there won't any weird surprises an hour later.
3. All of your friends refer to you as "the heterosexual one."
4. The very thought of your next door neighbor's constant cloud of incense and marijuana makes you want to vomit all over her hemp door decorations.
5. You are the only person you know who doesn't have an event in their past that can be referred to as "the nervous breakdown."
6. "RENT" used to be your favorite movie but now you can barely sit through it.
7. You're tired of eating stinky vegan food at potlucks.
8. Your friends call you by your existential commune nickname, "Sweater."
8. The little old Asian man at the local mini-mart has a one-dollar lottery ticket ready for you when you walk in.
9. You put two 8's on this list because it is your creative right to do so. You are willing to argue with anyone and, if prompted to, will even deliver a 3 - 5 paragraph statement regarding the meaning of this artistic choice.
10. You are the only girl you know who shaves her armpits.
11. You keep a list in your journal entitled "People Who Are Likely To Go Postal."
12. One of your birthday presents was a gigantic can of PBR wrapped up in festive wrapping paper.
13. You've seen way too many naked people just by being in the wrong room at the wrong time.
14. When you're coming home and you see an ambulance nearby, your instinct is to worry that someone finally either over-dosed or committed suicide.
15. The friends you had in college now refer to you as "the hippy."
16. You know several ways to cook Ramen.
17. The very word "kombucha" makes you want to hurl.
18. Whenever you tell stories about your living situation to people who don't live there, they can't stop laughing and probably think you're making it up.
19. You can make fun of hipsters in approximately 999 different ways, despite the fact that some people mistake you for one at times.
20. Your diet consists primarily of coffee and sandwiches.
Ack. In case you couldn't tell, most of these apply directly to me. I'm exaggerating a little bit for the sake of comedy, but not much.
It's probably time for a change...
I'm not always good with change. Hmmfph.
Friday, September 30, 2011
This Is Not A Dress Rehearsal
Ten. Ten people are moving from my floor. It feels as though the rapture came and left me behind.
The Poet is left behind too, along with The Fonz and The Dancer. Also, The Mad Scientist is still in his laboratory becoming the next Edgar Allen Poe. But the mass exodus of neighbors was dramatic and a bit depressing.
This week seems like a series of scenes from a film:
The Chef making dinner for us one last time and announcing that life is not a dress rehearsal.
A party/impromptu recital in the basement, where bottles of wine were passed around in circles and a boy played the piano while The Chef yelled "THIS IS NOT A DRESS REHEARSAL."
Sticking my head out the window and waving farewell to a hipster gnome who is moving to New York City. My next door neighbor stuck her head out the window too and I felt like we needed to start singing about how we weren't going to pay last year's rent.
Eating donuts with The Chef and The Poet outside on the picnic table late at night, listening as The Chef told us we needed to get out of town, make art that represented our personal truths, and live our lives as if we might die tomorrow.
Finding a six-page typed manifesto under my door (courtesy of one of my writer friends), recapping the year and encouraging everyone in their various artistic endeavors.
Going out to a bar with a big mess of people and laughing about all the things we've experienced together over the past year.
Waking up early to give The Chef a big hug before he bumbled off to Finland. This was the cherry on top of a very bittersweet week and the catalyst for the inevitable water works display that was destined to happen at some point. He even left a note addressed to the community, saying that he was leaving behind his beloved "sound sculpture" (yes, that would be the air mattress with train whistles and pan flutes shoved in it...) as a gift to the community.
Raiding the workshop after The Chef left and rescuing some of the paintings he left behind:
It's strange how The Chef hasn't even been gone for twelve hours and the place already seems strange and lifeless. His room is empty and all that's left behind is an obnoxious air mattress and some bad paintings of Elvis. A lot of cool people left this week, but I'm going to miss The Chef the most. He was a great encouragement to me from the very beginning, not to mention my daily comic relief for an entire year. I know he's the sort of person that can't stand to live in the same place/city/state/country for more than a year, but it's still sad seeing him disappear into the sunset like that.
"Peace and love," he said as he turned to walk down the hall for the last time. "Good luck, rock on, love you guys, peace out." I stood there next to The Poet and tried not to cry.
I felt like the season finale of this sitcom had come to an end and the credits were rolling somewhere on some cosmic screen. I guess all I can do is take all my memories and move on to next season's episodes.
This is not a dress rehearsal.
Monday, September 19, 2011
More Reflections And Stuff...
Oh man. I'm currently at Peets Coffee inhaling a pumpkin spice latte and it's the best coffee-related drink I've had in ages. It officially feels like Fall now. It's weird to think that just last week there was a major heat wave. The air has shifted since then and that distinctive Fall smell has returned. The infamous Portland rain has made a few cameos in the weather report and I've even felt the need to wear sweaters a couple of times.Personally, I'm glad it's fall again. I'm a true Oregonian in that I secretly hate sunshine and live for a good gloomy overcast day. And I would always rather be too cold than too hot (because really, you can always put on more clothes to warm up when it's cold but can you only take off so many clothes to cool down when it's hot), so breaking out my long sleeved shirts again was sort of exciting.
Also, Fall is by far my favorite of all the seasons. Winter is too depressing, Spring is too optimistic, and Summer is just too darn hot and frankly overrated. But Fall contains a sort of delicate beauty that makes me want to drink too many lattes and write bad poetry about leaves or something.
Fall does bring a certain element of nostalgia along. Maybe it's one of the things that is packaged in that crisp autumn air. It's undoubtedly a season of change, but it's also a season with a distinct set of memories.
This year seems especially nostalgic. A year ago, I was getting ready to move to the city and live with a bunch of wacky artists. I was meeting everyone for the first time. I was building friendships, making alliances, learning who to watch out for, and feeling completely accepted and supported as a creative individual.
A year later, I'm still here, existing in this big bohemian mad house made of brick. And it's been quite the year - I think I have enough material for one thousand sitcom episodes and a few feature films. But the times are changing. People are changing. People are leaving. I keep saying I want to leave too but I don't know where I want to go.
We had The First Of The Last Suppers last night in the courtyard. It started at dusk and we lit everything with candlelit. It was a good night but slightly strange. A handful of my favorite people are sticking around until they develop better plans, but many people are fleeing on October 1st.
The Chef is moving to Finland. He was my first friend here and is one of the most unique people I've ever met. I think I'm in denial over the fact that he's leaving. I'll still have The Fonz, The Poet, and The Mad Scientist (who's been coming out of his room more often and gracing us with his lovably odd personality), but none of them are going to stick train whistles in an air mattress or organize community Solstice celebrations.
And, of course, no one else is going to get drunk and sing "One Night In Bangkok" while spontaneously yanking on The Poet's nipples. Yes, that is a moment that happened last night and yes, i am still laughing about it.
But I digress. A bunch of other people on the third floor are moving too. It's a mass exodus, I guess. Feels like the end of summer camp, actually. You know, it's emotional and seems unfair and you don't want to move on from the fun you had in the woods, but you know deep down that you need to join the real world again and you look forward to bathrooms with running water.
I'll be honest and say that I don't always like change. But I guess that's just something that often comes with Fall.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
So Today Is My One Year Blogiversary...
A year ago today, I created this blog and wrote in it for the very first time.
I had a lot to say on that inaugural day. So much that I posted twice, actually. After my melodramatic introduction, I launched into a bunch of idealistic babble about why I needed to travel the country.
Looking back on that first set of posts is quite strange. It's hard to believe a year has already gone by since I was freaking out about graduating from college and planning the Jack Kerouac-style adventure that never happened. Wasn't that just last month or something?
At the same time, it seems like an entire lifetime ago. I lived in a different town back then. I was still in school. I had completely different friends. I had vague goals for after college, but none of them involved breaking up with my boyfriend, moving into a commune, and starting my solo music career.
I guess you can say I've changed a lot in the past year. It feels like I have, anyway. But then I look at some of the words I wrote last year at this time, and I realize I am exactly the same.
The following excerpt is from Tuesday, March 30, 2010...
I live in America, where all functional members of society are expected to go to school until they obtain a degree that will land them their job of choice. This job will then pay for all the expenses of life but drain the life out of a person in the process.
I'm not ready for that. I don't know if I'll ever be.
The truth is, I've spent my whole life just wanting to make music. That is what really makes me happy. But I've also spent my whole life hearing people laugh when I say that all I really want to be in life is a rock star. People think it's a joke. People think it's impractical. People don't understand why I can't just be "normal" and go after a job that will make good money and suck out my soul in the process.
I'm done listening to those people.
Anyway, I'm beginning to get all introspective. The Universe is probably going to show up and demand a cup of coffee if I don't knock it off.
I know I've said this before, but it never ceases to amaze me that people actually read and follow this funny little blog. A year ago, my audience consisted of my bandmate and my mother. Now I have nearly 80 followers. This blows my mind. I was even blogger of the month over at 20 something bloggers. The amount of encouragement you guys have given me is unreal and I am thankful for all of you guys. I didn't expect this to happen a year ago, but I definitely think of some of you as friends (The Transatlantic Support Group is totally proof that you can make friends over the Internet!).
So, thank you for making my first year of blogging a good experience. And thank you for putting up with rambling, self-reflective, link-loaded entries such as this one.
Here's to another year of "lauren vs. reality."
I'm off to acquire some more coffee. Over and out.
I had a lot to say on that inaugural day. So much that I posted twice, actually. After my melodramatic introduction, I launched into a bunch of idealistic babble about why I needed to travel the country.
Looking back on that first set of posts is quite strange. It's hard to believe a year has already gone by since I was freaking out about graduating from college and planning the Jack Kerouac-style adventure that never happened. Wasn't that just last month or something?
At the same time, it seems like an entire lifetime ago. I lived in a different town back then. I was still in school. I had completely different friends. I had vague goals for after college, but none of them involved breaking up with my boyfriend, moving into a commune, and starting my solo music career.
I guess you can say I've changed a lot in the past year. It feels like I have, anyway. But then I look at some of the words I wrote last year at this time, and I realize I am exactly the same.
The following excerpt is from Tuesday, March 30, 2010...
I live in America, where all functional members of society are expected to go to school until they obtain a degree that will land them their job of choice. This job will then pay for all the expenses of life but drain the life out of a person in the process.
I'm not ready for that. I don't know if I'll ever be.
The truth is, I've spent my whole life just wanting to make music. That is what really makes me happy. But I've also spent my whole life hearing people laugh when I say that all I really want to be in life is a rock star. People think it's a joke. People think it's impractical. People don't understand why I can't just be "normal" and go after a job that will make good money and suck out my soul in the process.
I'm done listening to those people.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A year later, I'm still sitting here thinking I want to make music for a living. But I'm also beginning to feel skeptical. My friends from my "old life" are quickly becoming balloons in the orbit of society and I'm wondering if I missed the memo. Even the guy that was going to travel the country with me in the name of trash rock now wears collared shirts and uses words like "investment."
But I'm too stubborn to give up on the crazy dreams I have. If I turn out to be the next best failure, at least my stories will be more interesting than most.
Anyway, I'm beginning to get all introspective. The Universe is probably going to show up and demand a cup of coffee if I don't knock it off.
I know I've said this before, but it never ceases to amaze me that people actually read and follow this funny little blog. A year ago, my audience consisted of my bandmate and my mother. Now I have nearly 80 followers. This blows my mind. I was even blogger of the month over at 20 something bloggers. The amount of encouragement you guys have given me is unreal and I am thankful for all of you guys. I didn't expect this to happen a year ago, but I definitely think of some of you as friends (The Transatlantic Support Group is totally proof that you can make friends over the Internet!).
So, thank you for making my first year of blogging a good experience. And thank you for putting up with rambling, self-reflective, link-loaded entries such as this one.
Here's to another year of "lauren vs. reality."
I'm off to acquire some more coffee. Over and out.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Blame Canada!
My little brother busted out a Bob Dylan song on his guitar this morning and we had an impromptu sing-along, mumbling half the lyrics and shouting "THE TIMES, THEY ARE A-CHANGIN" at the end of each chorus to make up for not knowing all the words.
And it's true. The time, they are a-changin. I don't know if I necessarily like it, but change doesn't require you to approve of it. Change only requires you to accept it and to adjust accordingly.
The Original Sound Trash album is not happening this month. Just take a look at my bandmate's latest blog entry and you'll see that he's running off to Canada for the month of July.
It's a long story but it's not that interesting. I don't need to go into it. All you need to know is that the story ends with half of the band impulsively trudging through Canada and the other half of the band singing Bob Dylan in attempts to cope with it.
I think it's time to reinvent myself. Get over this incredible songwriter's block I've been stuck in for a month and do some composing. Maybe do some shows on my own. Travel places alone. Visit friends I haven't seen in awhile. Focus less on what I want to do with my life and more on what I'm going to do today.
The times, they are a-changin.
And it's true. The time, they are a-changin. I don't know if I necessarily like it, but change doesn't require you to approve of it. Change only requires you to accept it and to adjust accordingly.
The Original Sound Trash album is not happening this month. Just take a look at my bandmate's latest blog entry and you'll see that he's running off to Canada for the month of July.
It's a long story but it's not that interesting. I don't need to go into it. All you need to know is that the story ends with half of the band impulsively trudging through Canada and the other half of the band singing Bob Dylan in attempts to cope with it.
I think it's time to reinvent myself. Get over this incredible songwriter's block I've been stuck in for a month and do some composing. Maybe do some shows on my own. Travel places alone. Visit friends I haven't seen in awhile. Focus less on what I want to do with my life and more on what I'm going to do today.
The times, they are a-changin.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
makeover in the works, yo
Gave this place a makeover today. What thinketh you? Does the new layout look alright or does it look like someone vomited Easter candy all over the font? I can't decide.
I even changed the title of this blog. I was thinking of going all Prince and dubbing it "The Blog Formerly Known as Operation Trash Rock Tour" but decided against it. Best to just let the whole thing evolve into a new creature, right?
The times, they are a changin.
I even changed the title of this blog. I was thinking of going all Prince and dubbing it "The Blog Formerly Known as Operation Trash Rock Tour" but decided against it. Best to just let the whole thing evolve into a new creature, right?
The times, they are a changin.
Monday, May 31, 2010
A Change In Direction
Lots of changes lately. Lots of long conversations, lots of thinking, lots of re-evaluating the practicality of everything.
Long story short, rock tour is not going to happen this summer.
We decided that since we don't have an album recorded yet, it would make the most sense to stay in town and spend some time in the studio. Several different factors played into this decision. I've never really been one to be practical, but I think it makes sense to stick around Portland for awhile. Hopefully we can play some shows around town and get a full album up for sale online by the end of the summer. Then, Original Sound Trash can be more than just a live music experience.
Of course, I'm not going to ditch this blog. I'll probably change the title of it and the focus will broaden up a bit, but the blog is here to stay!
That's all for now. I'm about to fall asleep over here.
Long story short, rock tour is not going to happen this summer.
We decided that since we don't have an album recorded yet, it would make the most sense to stay in town and spend some time in the studio. Several different factors played into this decision. I've never really been one to be practical, but I think it makes sense to stick around Portland for awhile. Hopefully we can play some shows around town and get a full album up for sale online by the end of the summer. Then, Original Sound Trash can be more than just a live music experience.
Of course, I'm not going to ditch this blog. I'll probably change the title of it and the focus will broaden up a bit, but the blog is here to stay!
That's all for now. I'm about to fall asleep over here.
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