Only in acting school.

Only in acting school does this scenario take place:

A girl is lying in the hallway on the ground, writhing and moaning. People look at her, nod to themselves, and walk on. One guy stops by her to read a bulletin board. He thinks to himself, "Wow, she's into her work! Like, really really into it!" and so he says to her, "Thumbs up if you're acting."
No thumbs up. She moans for pain killers.
Even when he's getting her pain killers, he's not sure if she is really in pain or not.
More people pass her in the hallway.

Then she vomits.

Pink vomit. Thick, foamy.

That's when it clicks that she is NOT acting, and people help her. But some are still confused--she could just be really really into what she was doing. Did she actually vomit, or did she fake it?

I hope I'm never that ill at school. But it must be understood that it's common for people to be screaming in the halls, to pound on the door, to cry, to look ill, to say really off-the-wall things. It's a building of people playing pretend, and while most times it's beautiful, it really would be the worst place to have a heart attack.

I can't prove I'm in NYC

I can't prove I'm in NYC but I'm on 26th and Broadway (sans camera) and I've seen Times Square and Parsons and this iconic building I know you'd recognize and the Empire State building and the Chrysler building and that guy from Project Runway I like and lots of taxis and Brooklyn and Central Park all sans camera. So I can't prove I'm in NYC that I was involved in a housing scam and I go to school and ride the subway and frequent the same coffee shop and have a watering hole and I wear a lot of black and I give directions and I ask for directions and I see shows for free and almost bought an umbrella but I am here. And perhaps soon I'll remember to pack my damn camera.

Tomorrow will be the start

Tomorrow will be the start of a change. I'll go to work, my last day, and directly after I'll get in the car with my brother; we'll drive north in the dark. Thursday I'll join the guys and we'll pack all our stuff into some vehicle and by sunset we'll be off south. Friday morning we'll be in the great hot Nevadan desert with fellow Burners already missing a real shower. And I'll be there until I leave with the hordes of burned people but I'll leave them in Reno. My aunt, the one who works with bits of broken china (mosaics), she lives in town with a hose ready And I'll wash at least twice and perhaps again the next day before I get on a plane, the one that will put me in Phoenix then New York. Then class. Then finding a home, a job. Yes. Tomorrow will be quite a start.

My hair is red.

My hair is, indeed, red. Not naturally, no...unless henna is natural. Yesterday I had a splurge day where I had my hair dyed and went shopping. Vegan shopping. Mhmm! This can be difficult. When I go to a normal shopping mall I have to read every label on everything. I can't decide to just like something and try it on--well, sometimes I do--but before I buy, I read. Sigh. It's similar to going to a restaurant and eating vegetarian/vegan/gluten-free: three choices. But Portland has vegan stores. And restaurants. And I made yesterday a very vegan day! First: henna.

Silk and Stone on Belmont is a beautiful place. I had my eyebrows threaded there (which I recommend, much better than tweezing or waxing) and saw that they do loads of henna. Traditional henna designs and also henna hair-dye. Now a few months ago I had my hair dyed red at a salon and loved it, but I wanted to try something more natural. Once I bought henna dye and tried to do it myself and it just smelled bad and didn't do much. As the above picture shows, the people had slathered my hair with it. All they did at the shop was mix and apply the henna (the hardest parts) and then wrap it in plastic. Three hours later I was free to shower it out, which took a while. It smelled a bit, honestly. But now my hair is RED. Naturally.

I don't often smile when I take pictures of myself. But, see? Red! Red red red! Once my head was all wrapped in plastic and then a headscarf, I went to the Sweetpea bakery on Stark. It's a vegan bakery. They serve Stumptown coffee and their scones are delicious. Mmmm. And next door to them is Herbivore, a vegan clothing store. When one is used to making a decision from, say, three items, having a whole store of options can be overwhelming. Luckily Herbivore doesn't have many things that are my style. However, this time I finally found a vegan bag that I love. And unisex shoes that made my day. See, I like the look of leather. I like how soft it is and how supple. But I don't like that it is dead creature. But many vegan bags are fugly. And about the shoes? Lately I've been drawn to androgynous items. And I've wanted moccasin-esque shoes for a while. But they're leather. But these! They were on sale! They had both men's and women's sizes on the box! YEAH!

There they are. And although I always feel some guilt buying clothing/accessories new, I feel alright about these. I have been searching thrift stores for a while trying to find a bag, with no luck, and shoes are one of those fence items that seem somewhat unhygienic to buy second-hand. Justified!

Home, or something like it.

I'll be moving to NYC soon, very soon. Actually, I need to buy a new plane ticket; school starts on an earlier date than I thought! Last Thursday I drove up to Walla Walla to see some of my friends there for potentially the last time in a long time. I stayed on a couch, I worked in a garden, I danced, I cooked, I laughed,I made new friends, I had wonderful conversations... ...and now I'm "home," back in my current living space, and I feel sad. Sure, perhaps I should find some grandiose words to describe the hole I have, right in the center of my chest, that radiates out in THAT way. My emotions have a habit of creating physical manifestations of themselves and I FEEL sad. There's also that guilt creeping in for not associating "home" with "family." I'll blame that partially on living away from home most of the year since my junior year of high-school. This FEELING of sadness, however, makes NYC bittersweet. I didn't want to leave Walla Walla. I want to go back, drive the four hours tonight, or hitch-hike, anything! But I also want NYC and all its opportunities. And I'd love for it to feel like home, for me to be able to take my heart there, but there's something about Walla Walla that holds my heart in a life-lock.

Smials

On my 22nd birthday I threw myself a Hobbit-style bash: lots of food, friends, and smials. "Smials?" you ask, "What are those?" Well, my dear friend, you should read The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. Smials are gifts that are given, usually on one's birthday, to those who come to the party. They are usually an item of not much value or purpose and were often re-gifted. I wrapped up 30 small items that I owned and gave them to my guests. Sheets, books, cups, knick-knacks, they all were given away. In general, I do not enjoy my birthday. There's so much birthday hype. "You deserve this! You should ask for this! Go here! Get this! Get free that!" I don't care. This is, in some ways, why I don't enjoy Christmas as much as I'd like. I hate expecting gifts. I am, without fail, disappointed; and that disappointment leads to guilt because I should be appreciative of the gifts I get. And I am! Please don't think I'm not. But for me, the sentiment behind the gift is much more important than the item itself. Because people feel obligated to give me gifts on my birthday, the sentiment is often...lacking. Forced gifts are often bad gifts, and then I feel obligated to convince the giver that I AM thankful, that I AM grateful, and that, of course, I lOVE it. Just get me together with my friends, throw in some good food, delightful beverage, and the opportunity for me to show my love to those around me. And I like showing my love with smials. So...there it is. Hopefully next year I'll be able to throw another Hobbit-style bash.

Obsidian with grey-lines

My Great-Aunt Liz's Gifts: My graduation gift, a gift to my mother, and today's gift of obsidian.

I had one of my oldest clients today. She was in her eighties (late eighties) and needed help on the table, only able to lay side-lying. Her modesty was nonexistent; she stripped down, and I saw her aged skin head to toe. It reminded me of my great-grandmother's (she was 94 when she passed) except not as translucent. Touching this client's skin was bizarre. Shifting across muscles that are more toned than expected, dry patches that scratch and flake, the muscle's handling a surprising amount of pressure. There's something so strange about working on something some foreign, this tiny figure surrounded by too much skin, curled up like a six-month fetus.

After work I went to visit my great Auntie Liz and my great Uncle Bill. I have to leave the dash out of "great [relative]" because although they are my dad's aunt and uncle, they are also great. Truly. They've lived epic lives--they lived in Tanzania for quite a while as missionaries, and also traveled other places. Honestly I'm not sure where they have all been. But every time I have ever visited they made me so, so welcome. Uncle Bill introduced me to Mr. Bean, Aunt Liz introduced me to creamed honey. And every time we had to leave, Aunt Liz would let me choose a rock from her collection.

See, she collects rocks. She knows more about them than anyone I know. She polishes them, has special cabinets with felt-lined drawers. When I was younger, she would pick a stone out of her small polished stone basket. Those were the rocks for kids. Now, however, she lets me choose out of her case. I chose the obsidian obelisk, which she sad is grey-lined. Obsidian is hard to cut, I guess, and obsidian cutters rarely share their secrets.

She's lost her appetite and has lost fifty pounds. I know that's a bad sign, that she'll not live too much longer. I think she's giving away her collection as a way of prepping for passing. I can see how the skin on her arms looks, the skin on her feet. "This isn't where we want to be," she said, "but it's where we need to be."