But no goodbyes you'll always be Miss America: the neverending of an era

Sunrise/set

Did you notice? I pushed writing anything with a hint of finality on here to the bottom of a crumpled sticky note. I don't do goodbyes. Because I don't want to believe anything ever fully ends. What has been taken, given, shaped and splintered, softened, memorialized, forgotten, cherished &etc clings, cloud to mountain, when the rain comes down. I am only in response to what I have been.
 [I feel the he necessity to parenthesize a little homage to the empty, once twice thrice refilled, tumbler sitting next to me . Alcohol has always let me out of me]

So why was I compelled back here? Now? On new years eve? Rerouted to the Norfolk countryside 4848.924 miles away from Portland?
 [yes. from this rug to Mount Hood. I'm that lamelamelame]

Every year, before I begin to shape how I hope the new year might turn out, I list all of the amazing and terrible things that happened to me in the year about to shift. And, for the first time since I began doing this when I was 11, I hang so much light on the digits 2,0,1.4. As cautious and indecisive as I am, I have no hesitation in feeling the weight of moving further forward, of the roots of nostalgia digging toes into clock. I feel nothing but sure in cliche-ing this year as 'the best'. Wait. No. Let's be a lit kid for a sec and find some better descriptors. This year I felt the heat of time, the moving upwards, the slowing and waiting, thespeedandrush, the pull of heartstomachehead, more moments of clarity, of unmolested joy. This year is more than mind can possibly hold. Especially coming out of the absolute obliteration that was the year before.

whatadifferenceayearmakes.

And as unsure as the galaxy, I turn,
my life filled itself with nothing I could've ever hoped for. Wild horses couldn't have dragged this year from my mind, my books, my conception, my pastpresent and have it handed it to me, as something orbiting mynamemyself.  This really was your year. I have no hesitation in glutting nostalgia. To say, yeah man, 2014, the year I began to feel what good living could feel like. To launch a comet in its name. Trailblaze.

To carry this year as me is a privilege I hope to never feel entitled to. To relive this year in a bullet pointed list intimidates 2,0,1,5. And that's after having boxed it into something that can't ever comprehend the whole. But it excites the possibilities regardless. The on. The on because of before, the on in spite of it.

I don't do new year's resolutions. Not like how new year's resolutions are generally conceptualized anywho. If for no other reason than I can't bear to fail so I never set myself anything too meaningful and direct. I like vague ambiguous resolutions. Actually that is definitely a lie. 2013 - my Grandma taught me to change a fuse. 2014 - I learnt how to build a fire. I had my first kiss on a new year's eve. Yet, even as I began to note down the abstract and the concrete as usual, three burn beacon-like in my empty poundland notepad meant for next semester study.

Make shit happen - stop waiting.
Travel the fuck out of you and the world.
Stop trying to find yourself, lost is where you will know yourself. Revel in the not knowing. Be

[why is James Blunt playing? ]
Flying like a kite and doused in liquor, I exhausted the meaning of the word 'happy' (I apologize Reed friends) and 'I love you' this year. And not even barely enough.

I am fucking ready for you 2015. For graduating and continuing to get lost, to be lost. For being fucking terrified and confused and excited and all the freedom/shit that comes with being a twentysomething, to not knowing and knowing everything, to thinking, to thinking of knowing everything, and being a fuck up from eyes up to eyes down, to being fucking fantastic from rise to fall to rise, to being a homage to my past self and a hopeless newborn to my current.

Here's to saying yes, to letting go, to picking up, to fighting, to falling, to carry on anyway. To being passionately in love with, anything everything,
 YOU.
To letting you in. To keeping me out of my way.

To all of those unbelievable humans that have touched my life this year - I am because of you.
You matter. to me. always.

To 2014. To beautiful 2014. Thank you.

Melissa Schlachtmeyer

Peppered through blog posts from last semester are little inferences to my amazing history of clothing class with the wonderful Melissa Schlachtmeyer. It seemed only fitting then, to dedicate this blog post to her, as a thank you for all her patience and aid she gave me with my terrible stick men drawing skills and overambitious Alexander McQueen research project plans, after receiving the shocking news of her death last week. From jokes about my gender neutral utopian society where kids run amok with flowered hair, to her taking the time to show me through Reed's costume department's stash of patterns to photocopy, to the supplies of starbucks coffee and pastries she shared in our last conference after having us drape fabric over each other in our first, Melissa was always an enthusiastic source of knowledge and kindness that absolutely fed my passion for studying the anthropolgy/psychology/sociology/economics/everything of fashion. I regret the half assed draft now useless dust in my email box, of tales of the Fashion Museum in Bath, knowing that I wouldn't have been pointing out watteau backs and explaining to mum how dress panniers had to concertina to let women sit in the French court had it not been for her. My thoughts especially fly to the desktop image so frequently accidentally projected in class, of her little daughter, and the dark veil that will wreathe her now. To be 'sorry for her daughter's loss' seems insubstantial, so instead I am thankful for Melissa's being. And for the privilege to be part of her last class. So thank you Melissa. And as cruelly too soon as it is, rest in peace.

http://www.broadwayworld.com/portland/article/Costume-Designer-Melissa-Schlachtmeyer-Passes-Away-at-41-20140811#.U-uU2IBdVeZ

http://www.reed.edu/reed_magazine/sallyportal/posts/2014/death-of-melissa-schlachtmeyer.html

In my wallet there's English change nestling with Krona, Canadian dollars, US dimes, and apparently they're all mine somehow. I'm spent.

There's nothing English about roses (9 hours in Iceland)

Blue Lagoon, Grindavík, Iceland

And with skin lightly licked by North American rays I feel less. atypical. but still. I don't quite rub beige as maybe I did. once.
People with bad teeth smile less here.
And talk less under starched mustache.
But a jovial man with crooked mouth bumbles me through 'security'.
The words 'pip pip' hang unsaid from the corner of his English breath.

Keflavík, Iceland

I've been back three days.

Slipped like soap through a land of absolute barren beauty.
There's just something. about Iceland.
the tumble of solitary bird song through branchless woven wind
there were no trees in this ash soil
but heath like Cathy's
a blanket
moss - the warp
lilac nootka - the weft
how did you know my favourite flowers were lupins?
braided wild to roadside
you planted volcano crags, a devonshire moor fished from overseas
for me
and so
silica and sulpha laced I clothe my hard feet
lava flown spring water pools between toe and nail
lapping soft the cracking rhino weathered balls, the elephant skin heels
sucking solid ankle edge to supple curve
slip
    tuck
                     nudge
                             lift
car
    ess

the rain lost in my waterfallen hair
dancing through already lagoon lacquered eyelashes
my body slick with volcanic saliva
bones soothed.

Alone
at 8am
this is the only way to lay
over
and take
stock
before edging out with the tide

Blue Lagoon, Grindavík, Iceland

my 9 hours in Iceland were not nearly enough.
but bleached me ready
There's nothing roses about English

(There will be breath left for The Mission, The Capitol Building, The Desert, The City, The Final Call, The Falls. I promise. If anyone is still herear)

I'll always remember you the same

So much. So little time. It's too much to hold with tiny human fingers. Flying through coast line boundaries, Seattle, Portland, Redwood barks, California arks, San Franciscan hills, deserts, canyons, Arizonan phoenix cries, crayola creeks, Austin heat, New York City subway stops, and I don't. Stop. Utah Conneticut Beating first east, upwards, north, Canada you called? Toronto. Niagra. Iceland soon and lagoon lapping at electric toes. Exchanging faces at each airport, the new ones already beautifully aged, already distant friends reunited. Grace. Naima. The old ones grown. Tash. with higher heads held proudly. Olivia. And the everyday ones who have never been everyday but seem so always there, it's impossible to unpaint them from everyday frame. Rich. Anais. Where are we now? What have we done? Who did we become? Where did you come from? Where did you go? The tales my soles could dance for you. My boots encrusted with America, those little magpies sucking at each new wild terrain. I made wild these quivering feet. Scared girls don't bend the way the wind blows. It is my mouth that slicks go in whispers to onced rusted ankles now. Shivering heels stilled. And set. In motion

They're playing Ben Howard. So of course I'm introspective.
It's an unfortunate side effect of feeling.

Pacific coast ghost

OreGone - Western Meadowlarking

Staying in different motels with varying success of 'free WiFi' has reeked havoc on my determination to blog less erratically this summer! Car and parents abandoned in SF after an eye feast of Pacific coast, this really is the first chance I've had to catch my breath. With Vietnamese iced coffee and pumpkin cream cheese muffin in hand, I appear to have found the Portland of San Francisco in a little cafe on Dolores in the Mission - just with less macs. And beards. And bikes. And rain. Yes. You can take the girl out of pdx but you can never take the pdx out of the girl (plus after an hour and a half walking girl needs a caffeine fix fo'sure!). I've been debating for the last ten minutes how creepy it would be to take a casual snap of this SF does pdx place!

Anyway, I digress! Our road trip turned into a beach/brewery tour of the coast and, as someone new to the wondrous world of microbreweries, Dad can take point on saying we sampled some seriously blinding beer. My liver will defs need a detox at some point. (Insert yolo here if, y'know, you buy into that kind of great shit).

I have to apologise for the lack of photos from now on. A) I'm trying to leave my camera in the bottom of my rucksuck and shutter with my mind instead and B) I gave the parentals my laptop and full photo uploading paraphernalia.

Crossing the Golden Gate bridge, we left our gold dusted tires and tried to relocate limbs that had become too used to being folded into themselves, (I'm sure they were legs once), to face the joys of a toilet Vesuvius and running around underwearless like hysterical kids in the Holiday Inn at 10pm. And of course, San Francisco take II. Swathed in this glorious Californian blue. And the touch of whisked sea foam that fogs golden gate grey.

I can't believe Renn Fayre was nearly a month and 672 miles (if we trust Google maps...) away. Not that I've not had a lush time along the 101, and am insanely excited to brunch it up with Tash across the bay tomorrow or get my Stetson on in Austin with Rich and Anais on Tuesday, it's just that Reed has already become hazed with dream shake. Did it happen? Was it real? The 4.0 GPA my transcript is telling me happened would definitely suggest otherwise!! (cheeky brag. I know I know I know). And trying to remember it all at once is like slicking water on hot tarmac. So I haven't been able to help, tucked under polyester folded sheets, the sound of Dad's snoring (chiming in occasionally with crashing wavesd, but more frequently garbage trucks) thinking about where the people I spent pretty much every day grabbing breakfast in commons or having a cheeky midweek beer with, surliving this surreal year with, are now - Naima  back home in Toronto, Anais LA, Rich NYC, Neil Boise, PL back in France, Sam Santa Fe.  I hope their adventures are magic.

Again, I digress. Butterfly fingers.
My $12 boots from redlight on Hawthorne are now caked with Seattle troll dust, sand shorn from trillium lake shores, Washington Park mud, flecked with sea lion cave crumbles, cannon beach caverns, bandon's sunset licked beach crumbs, redwood bark chipped from forest hue, sunglasses sloshed with more things that empty beautiful of it's inadequate meaning. These feet have wandered far. These eyes have shuttered much. Glutting on this Western gold soil. I'm banked for good. And I've only just begun.

(707)

(OreGone)

Redwood National Park, CA

(541)

(We at the Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn)

Grants Pass, OR

(541)

Bandon, OR

(For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night)

(503)

Cannon Beach, OR

(503)

Trillium Lake, OR

(503)

Japanese Gardens, Portland, OR

(503)

Downtown PDX, OR

(206)

Fremont Troll, Seattle, WA

(206)

The Harbor at Bainbridge Island, WA 

(206)

Pike Place Market, Seattle, WA

Reed Relieves

Can you tell? I've displaced talking about talking about leaving Reed with a stubborn silence. A reticent tongue tapped still. I'm not ready to slip away. Not yet. There will be time for talk later. But for now rushing feet unwind their way down the Oregon coastal highway. Seattle to SF. Keep racing mind tracked to other horse stampedes. We'll harness the fallout later. We'll open the letter spilling aches to my stomach and figure it out in internet spun syllabary. Later. I took to pen to keep the ink sweat in check for now. We'll translate it once the magic begins to creep in and paint D.R.E.A.M over dust.

[Renn Fayre&] Steady as the morning and just go

Crack out some MGMT - it's time for a metaphorical photo montage.

If I could still the last three days and spin it on a loop forever I would never be sad again.

'true story' ('ashtag Anais)

Honestly? There just aren't words. If there were, I would net them so tightly and never let them breathe. Because. Magic is real.

It's in Reed's lips, Naima's camera shutter mind, Anais's joyous laugh, Rich's banging synchronized dance moves, Sam's music breath, there-will-always-be-something-about Pierre-Louis' accent, Charlie's perpetual tiredness, Neil's brummy fringe ponytail.

Did you know we were strangers once?

[img]

Sunshine sparks from our spokes

as we return to the beginning of the circle. O week on repeat as we come to the close. Seeing the same people then now with altered eyes. Theirs and mine I expect. It's hard to track sight on laptop screens, to concentrate on anything other than the freckles beginning to blossom on my back, soft grass between toes, iced Snapple, drums beating out there somewhere, counting seconds with the people who tick the same clock clicks, and the promise of Renn Fayre. RennFayreRennFayreRenFayreRennFayre. This place has licked my little soul clean. I mean it. And I am determined to make the most of my last two weeks, yes, there are McQueen essays to write and short stories to plumb, but to stretch my smile wide, let my newly plumbed heart bloom in the spice that sweetens summer is more important. Maybe the sun has made me delirious. Probably. But there is something gorgeous in seeping up as much lightness before I leave. I mean, not that it could ever leave me. But two weeks until it kisses my hand and waves my body away down the West Coast, Yosemite, Texas, Arizona, New York, Toronto, Reykjavik, on... on... on...
I'm procrastinating...

Somebody call out to your brother, he's calling out your name

This is what happens when you let double the amount of Brocks gallivant around pdx:

Christopher has the full Portland experience:

______Stumptown coffee_______________________Rain________________________Micro-breweries


Hey, girl gotta enjoy Spring Break Take II too!

Taking in the classics:

And ofcourse:


Leaving student squalor for swish hotel luxury I moved onto the roll-away bed in Christopher's hotel room for the week. Holy moley was it a change for little ol' Macnaughton! We brunched, we wandered, we shopped, we ate, we drank, we were merry (some of us a little more than others). I can't believe how quickly it all came and went! One minute it was Tuesday morning and we were sitting down for bagels in First Cup before inhaing the Dairy Milk supplies Christopher brought over as we wandered through Reed's canyon, the next, we were leaving the Blazers game (105 - 98 win for us waheyy) and heading back to camp to pack up and head on our merry ways! It was such a strange sensation, leaving the bro to be scanned through airport security and taking a solo seat on the MAX and heading back to base alone. But such a sweet little bit of home :)

Vancouver Sleep Club - Spring breaking

'On the Road again. The blue tinted morning lacquered leather seats which rose with the dawn. Highways. Alpine. Mountains. Music. The city of clouds calls...'

4am. Clackety suitcase bumbles through campus to find a fellow sleep deprived traveller under the arch in ODB. With this beautiful Canadian by my side, we begin our Spring break adventure. Another dawn chasing start. To another city. An 8 hour bolt to another country. Through the beautiful Seattle and North, North, North. We rascals shook the bus with our childish giggling until Vancouver laid maple leaves at our feet.

My words won't do justice. From champagne laughter shaking camera hands when taking non-ironic selfies suspended on a little rickety bridge 100 feet from canyon death, discovering 24 hour bakeries (hey London, take note) or hiding out from the rain and drinking copious amounts of tea and talking about art, talking about poetry, talking about life, in lush little cafes. Hopping on ferry boats and sailing into mountain shadows (again), we skipped through the city like little kids with clouds strapped to our toes. 

Granville Island Tea co. took too much of our money, as did the little thrift stores in Gas Town. Finches cafe borrowed our time. We snuck into Simon Fraser University to steal their views whilst a bobbing dock merrily whisked away more hours. Naima discovered the joy of Lebanese food, and in turn she showed me how a vegetarian could love sushi. Stanley Park tested our endurance whilst Christ Church Cathedral rekindled our faith in creativity. Visiting the The Vancouver MOMA (entry by donation wahey) with an Art major - would highly recommend. 

As much as the city was another reason the Pacific North West is fast becoming more like home than Bromley ever was, it was being there with a kindred spirit that moved me most. We could have been at the cherry blossom festivals in Gion or a gas station in Utah and it wouldn't have made a difference. I will miss Naima the most.

'I didn't realize Sheba was a real place. I though it was more, you know, a state of mind'

Just give me a second darling, to clear my head - A Preface

Whirlwind barely begins to describe March. But I can't start talking in hour glasses or my cup will start to seem half empty, when I've possibly never felt more awash with an airiness, a lightness that has not skipped through a pithed puddle heart for a very long time. I, being so smart, rolled eyes at the linguistic lexicon coated around this year - ' life altering', 'best year of your life', 'such a 'learning experience' were for fools and the adventurers. I've rolled oceans since then. And between dates with strange scriptwriters met on the bus, and Canyon crossing (the literal kind too) with a kind of sister I thought could not be found, to finding a kinship in sport and in dive bars on 'thurstdays' with the team, the scared little girl falling apart in red lounges is a ghost long lost along the shores of the Willamette.                    

Enough of this. I'm whimsical because after three weeks filled with mid-terms and spring breaking and breaking brother's into Portland, I'm just beginning to catch my breath. With Vancouver memories crackling closely in shuttered snapshots, nestling Naima into a pocket box whose lock will never shift, before scanning my brother through airport screens this morning, I must run words twice as far with half  the breath to hold them steady. Forgive me, I will do my best to honor both.

But just before, I wanted to try and tell of changes that could fill no words full enough to explain.
I am better. I am brighter. I am well.
Spring is in the air. I think it's catching.

"ANAIS IS THAT MICHAEL JORDAN!?"

A misspent adolescent misspent watching One Tree Hill does not qualify you to make claims to all knowledge on American Basketball. And knowing who the Lakers are purely because you once spent a day helping a friend comb through every vintage shop in The Lanes down in Brighton for one of their famous yellow and purple jerseys (she thought they were 'cool', I thought she'd been smoking crack. But that was Viv for you) doesn't make you a desirable 'fan' of the game. But after fabulously overpriced and underwhelming beer, watching a kid win a happy meal a week for a year (I kid you not), floating car blimps, a craptonne of cheerleaders, laughing at Anais's ridiculously great enthusiasm for the Trailblazer's French player (woo Europe!) and more Americana spirit than I thought Portland of all places could ever bellow out, those 4 quarters boiled down to a single point lead for the Trailblazers (Let's go Blazers Let's go!) in the last 7 seconds and had me reassuring Anais in the seat next to me 'our guys totally have this shit, don't worry don't worry, have the faith'. I don't know if it was the spirit, the beer or my weird attraction to all-American experiences, but those last 7 seconds had me totally 180-ing on sport - edged almost off of my little plastic seat and yelling like I knew what I was yelling about. We lost. Obviously after all of that. Breaking the Trailblazers 5-game winning streak. Apparently we were bad luck charms. oops. But holy crap such a good night. Bucket list? Check.

 This sadly has turned into my shocked, I'm doing sport? face 

 

No really, this DID just happen

Oh Reed Library WHAT IS THIS MADNESS!

 

 

 It's not just Sochi apparently...

This is me working...

So here I am, cosied up in the old (beautiful) section of the library on a Saturday morning (boo), with books like 'Trance and Transformation of the actor in Japanese and Noh and Balanese masked dance-drama' spread across a huge this-should-be-enough-space-for-more-than-just-you-Emily table, empty cup of bombai chai tea and the remnants of the vegan raspberry scone scattered across my laptop keys, a billion tabs open with half watched youtube videos of Wyang Wong dances (I woke up this morning with no idea either, I am now full of complicated Indonesian terms that I have no idea how to pronounce) when the procrastination beast begins to rear its ugly head and soon my laptop decides it wants to cycle through screensaver photos. So I watch as my year in the US begins to flick, little memories slipped out of their nicely ordered envelopes. It's going by so fast. I can't believe I only have just over two months until classes finish (and no finals for me waheey) and what has tricked me into thinking is life here, will end. I can't believe I'm huddled over my laptop getting nostalgic already when I SHOULD be continuing my quest to find THE best brunch spot in Portland (I blame 'meat-space' required research. You can't hump a craptonne of oversized hIstry of clothing books on the 19 and set up shop in Stumptown on a Saturday of all days - no sir-ee). I got to thinking about my neglected little blog this semester and thought damn, I want to be able to remember all the little things too!  I mean, I haven't posted about anything at all in a while (whoops) I think because I was waiting for really exciting profound stories to share (I do have a pretty good story about about being saved by both my British accent and a wonderful homeless guy named Stan , when stupidly I was out in China Town alone at night (so sketch) after a lantern viewing at the chinese gardens - but that's a whole other kettle of fish). So I'm going to throw out a really weird little menagerie of photos from this semester and the end of last semester that I meant to attach their stories to and share with you but have just been left lying around :)

 Portland does religion

Portland also does life lessons in the form of strange front yard art

 This this the norm. No joke.

 So is this

 All of my superbowl photos suck. This is the least sucky. Go Hawks.

 Me. Doing sport.

 The Godsend that was Naima's room when the heating broke in Mac. The day it first snowed. Useful

ooh look, is that... GARY SNYDER!? I think so.

'Fucking yam chips'

 Yes, the couple in the distance are on skis...

 Alberta 

 Guy Fawkes

 Tash loves Portland. Can't you tell?

Performance Studies class <3

I MISS THIS BEAUTIFUL GIRL. INDIA IS LUCKY TO HAVE YOU <3