Spookylean

And you will sleep the best sleep of your life. I hadn't slept properly in five days. Last night I slept properly. In an Art Deco hotel on Sukhumvit, surrounded by construction sites, patches of jungle, skinny stray cats, and monsoonal rain. Hooray for Thailand.

Can you imagine if the internet had taken off in the fifties? We'd all be powering up our Dynamo-net-o-matics to check our Electro-mail. How much cooler would that be?

Tonight Leslie and I depart for Thailand. We'd sort of booked into a Bangkok hotel which still retains its 1930s Art Deco deco. By 'sort of' I mean we called them up and they agreed to hold a room for us for a couple of hours and if we didn't show up in time they'd give it to someone else. I sense things are done differently in Thailand.

Hanging Rock is a weird volcanic rock formation near Mt. Macedon in Australia. Australians, if they know about the place at all, know about it because of the events that took place there on Valentine's Day, 1900.

On that day, five schoolgirls and a teacher decided to climb the rock. Let me just add that the rock is supurbly climbable and very weirdly shaped. At the summit - which is quite high up - it's a maze of boulders and formations, much of it seemingly designed to human scale - kind of a natural playground. It's not really signposted, and easy to get lost. In fact, Leslie and I did get lost, for a little bit, following narrow canyons to the edge of abrupt precipices and slipping down water courses. It's quiet and ghostly.

Anyway, back in 1900, only one of the schoolgirls returned, and she was completely unable to explain what had happened to the others and their teacher. A search was organised. A few days later another of the girls was found, and she too had no memory of the event. And that is about it. Mystery unsolved.

The girl's school, shaken by the scandal, more or less fell apart. Another girl fell to her death from the school clock tower. Eventually the headmistress suicided by jumping from Hanging Rock itself.

Australians know about this because of the wildly successful 1967 book Picnic at Hanging Rock by Joan Lindsay. The book was made into a film by Peter Weir (The Truman Show, Dead Poet's Society, etc...). 1980 saw The Murders at Hanging Rock, a book of hypothetical solutions to the mystery (by Yvonne Rosseau). Still no one has any idea what happened to the girls and the teacher. Were they abducted by white slavers? Munched on by Dreamtime creatures? Fallen into invisible potholes? It's made Hanging Rock a famous place to visit, and many claim they feel the spirits of the girls as they make the climb. The visitor's center has an extremely eerie display about the disappearances, showing a human arm and foot protruding from a crack much to small to admit a body, as though the mountain has swallowed someone up. It's a part of Australian folklore.

So I was a little disappointed to discover yesterday that the whole thing was a fiction invented by Joan Lindsay. There were no disappearances. There was no scandal. There wasn't even a girl's school.

I think someone ought to tell the folks at the visitor's center.

I am in an internet cafe in Hobart, Tasmania. I can't stand paying for minutes of internet, so this will be a brief note to say that yesterday I saw, dimly and through binoculars, the southernmost tip of the Australian continent, a bird-shit covered island called Pedra Branca ("white rock," because of all the bird shit). It was pretty cool to see it. Last year I crossed the Arctic circle. Next year I'm going to go searching for the East Pole.

After a day or two of location-dysphoria, where I couldn't tell a) where I was b) where home was c) where I wanted to be, and d) what year it was, I have happily settled into being here now, which is my usual state of being.

At this point, however, being in Australia is still a little too overwhelming to post interesting anecdotes about my adventures. It's been six action-packed days but to describe them would require bullet points, which I refuse to do. So let me just say this:

We went to an animal sanctuary so that Leslie could jump up and down and clap at the sight of kangaroos and kookaburras, but what she really wanted to see was a ring-tailed possum. I'd explained that Australian possums are nothing like the hideous, vicious, snaggle-toothed American variety. She knew that they lived wild in the suburbs where my parents live, and so she suggested we go out looking for them. "Nonsense!" I cried. "Nothing of the sort! They are extremely shy and reclusive! You could search for years on end and never see one!" So out we went, and had barely traveled a block when we saw a cute little ring-tail sitting in a eucalptus eating leaves. It didn't mind us standing right below it; it didn't even mind being caught in the spot of our flashlight - it just kept on happily plucking and munching leaves. I don't think I've ever seen one so close before. I took several photos.

And I would show you those photos later, but they all got accidentally deleted when we found out what the 'format memory card' button does on my new camera.

Very soon Leslie and I will be traveling to Australia, Thailand, and Laos. Maybe then I will have something to post.

I'm feeling very blessed for no specific reason. I suppose this is the counterbalance to the times I've felt bummed out for no specific reason either. I like being in this mood. I feel little thrills when I look out the window and see the sun setting through the heavy mist (or light drizzle, depending on your perspective), illuminating the west side like a sepia photograph; when I think about the zucchini I'm going to cook for dinner; when a total stranger smiles at me on the street.

I work with a fellow who is convinced, literally convinced, that with the escalating prices of petroleum and food the world as we know it will have ended in five years. He's a very depressed person. He may well be right, but why be depressed when I can still eat zucchini?

Much is changing. Autumn into summer. America into Australia. I have three weeks left at my job. My workshop is closing down - permanently. Leslie finishes the first year of her Masters tonight. I'm about to be completely lifted out of my context and all my comforting habits stripped away. And I'm in a great mood.

What's up with people? I was leaving the Grocery Outlet, perfectly content and okay with life, when I was confronted with a new red corvette parked at a rakish angle in the disabled parking space.

"You know, owning a $90,000 gas guzzler doesn't make me feel like enough of an asshole. I think I'll go and fuck over a disabled person. Ooh... maybe they'll even be... paraplegic!"

I seriously considered, just for a second, opening the tin of varnish I had in my car and tipping it in the open window. I didn't: apart from the fear of being beaten to death, there was the tiniest chance that the car was being borrowed by a disabled person from an asshole friend.

Let's see. So, we finally went to see Iron Man. And it was, in fact, the shiniest movie ever. Definitely shinier than any other shiny movie I've ever seen. And Robert Downey Jr. is one of the most entertaining of entertainers. Just watching him Nick-and-Nora his way through a line like "I'm starving - give me a scotch," will always be worth admission.

However, call me a fuddy-duddy, call me a sentimentalist, but I sort of miss plots, you know? The stranger turns out to be a long-lost brother. All the suspects are in one room when the phone rings. The answer is revealed by train timetables. That kind of thing.

And what's up with superheros, anyway? They're so nineteen-forties. What's their motivation? Superman isn't even a human being, he's an alien from Krypton - why fight crime? Why not zoom off and explore the universe and leave the Earthlings to sort out their own social problems? It just doesn't quite seem convincing.

Superheros are a manifestation of our Freudian lust for absolute power. We sublimate this lust through the invention of perfectly altruistic heroes (or very, very slightly flawed ones, like Batman, who is kind of a depressive, or Iron Man, who is an alcoholic (eek!)), and then, because humanity pales in comparison, we invent super-villains for them to fight. But in real life, there are no superheros, and no super-villains. Just ordinary folks and the banality of evil. I'm wracking my brain (gently wracking it, that is - it was kind of a late one as Leslie and I devised an entirely new way to gamble on Trivial Pursuit) but I'm unable to come up with any way this particular allegory helps us understand ourselves as human beings.

Maybe it's The Hero With A Thousand Faces all over again. Luke Skywalker was, after all, on the cover of the later editions.

I'm sick again. The same, extremely distinctive sickness that swallowed the month of April. My symptoms: a nose that drips constantly (even while I sleep, sorry for the unpleasant visual) and congestion that feels as though two obese naked mole-rats are mummified in my sinuses. I speak without consonants and every time I swallow (say, to eat or drink) I accompany the action with a little moan of distress as my eardrums jump half an inch closer to the center of my brain. I have to say the congestion is even worse than last time, because my face has swelled to resemble Sylvester Stallone at the end of Rocky (any movie).

Or rather...

I was sick again!

Tonight, I am feeling better. Tonight, all of life is wonderful and bluebirds are singing outside my window. I can breathe through one nostril, and, intermittently, through both!

It doesn't get much better than that.

My first beverage at work was a memorable one, or a memorable two, I should say. I had been on the floor less than thirty seconds when I was asked to make two ristretto espresso shots for the gentlemen at the bar. The gentlemen were dressed like construction workers but it was explained discretely to me that they were the directors de comercializacion of Espresso Central in Mexico, on a tour to sample all the coffee roasters of the Northwest.

Keep in mind this was my first drink of the day. I hadn't had a chance to adjust my grind or taste how the shots were pulling. I could use some coffee myself. The gentlemen leaned over the counter and closely watched my hands as I ground and tamped.

They chatted pleasantly about their tour as they tasted my shots. Naturally I couldn't ask them what they thought because they'd lie to me, but they said it was interesting, and asked what the blend was. I said it was our signature blend, Dancing Goats, and I wasn't at liberty to reveal the components. They tasted their espresso again and agreed that it was mostly a South American coffee, with some Indonesia, and finally a touch of African. They were of course correct, right down to the proportions. They they gave me a card and told me to look them up in Mexico. One more reason to learn Spanish.

Did you ever wake up and your head was just overflowing with angelic music, and you got the sense that you'd been singing songs in your dreams all night long, but they've all faded with awakening so that the only one you can remember with any clarity, and which, incidentally, will haunt you through the day until you return to bed, is "Pico and Sepulveda" by Felix Figueroa and his Orchestra?

I thought so. You had that look about you.

About three months ago I was glancing through an issue of 'Running' magazine and found an interview with George W. Bush, wherein it was explained that his time for the three mile race is 20:40. Utterly humiliated that Bush is faster than me, I trained hard, and today, three months later, I finally beat the jerk - 20:28!

Now all I have to do is provide universal health care, return the USA to a manufacturing based economy, and withdraw the troops from Iraq.

One of the things I always hate about starting a new job is that you're still a complete rookie on the day that all the experienced people are sick or on holiday and you're left in charge of things. It's exciting and nerve racking and leaves you feeling put upon. It annoys me that the manager always says "you can call me if you have any trouble," knowing full well that won't do a damn thing when there's a queue of customers ten deep at the bar. This happened to me almost exactly a year ago, see here.

Today I was covering the first part of the day for another floor lead, and when I left, they had no one in charge. I went to the most senior of the baristas (the only one qualified to make espresso drinks, in fact), gave him the lowdown, told him I'd filled the registers with change so he shouldn't need the safe. I told him it would be him solo on the espresso bar for the next three hours, and then, with a winning smile, I said, "you can call me if you have any trouble." And I left.

Every now and then, in an attempt to be more mindful, I turn a great deal of attention to the evening meal. I must be feeling a great need for mindfulness, for this is what we have eaten this week:

MONDAY: Indoor picnic! French bread with Danish blue cheese and prosciutto, French bread with roasted garlic pate, Moroccan carrot salad, radishes with salt, and root beer floats.

TUESDAY: We had shrimp in the freezer, so it was fettucini alla shrimp scampi. I've never made a shrimp scampi but it's basically shrimp fried in butter and red chili, lemon zest, lemon juice, and thinly sliced lemons. Too much lemon? Not a bit. On the side, bruscetta made from the last stale French bread toasted and rubbed with garlic.

WEDNESDAY: Finding in the fridge the smoked salmon I bought for Monday's picnic and forgot about, I made a smoked salmon salad with potatoes, tomatoes, snow peas, olives, onions, and butter lettuce. To soak up the juices, more French bread with an extremely pungent tapanade made in the blender out of olive oil, anchovies, olives and garlic cloves. Delicious and filling.

THURSDAY: Celebrating the last cold days of the year, curried chicken with eggplant and lime. I roasted the eggplants and thickened the curry with grated potato. I used chicken thighs so it would cook with the bone in, which adds depth to a dish. Served with rice and sprinkled with cilantro.

TONIGHT: Baked beans. Made all day on lowest heat. With bacon, hot sausage, molasses and bourbon. A wilted spinach salad on the side, and the last loaf of bread in the bakery down the street bought minutes before they closed. We've made chocolate mousse for desert (also with bourbon - it goes with everything). We need the calories to replace the ones burned off beating the egg whites and cream to requisite stiffness.

TOMORROW? I bought a fennel bulb and want to recreate a fennel brodo recipe my mother clipped for me many years ago. Unfortunately I no longer have the recipe and nowhere on the internet can I find any references to fennel brodo. Ah well. Time to improvise.

SUNDAY: Take out pizza?

I had a very funny and detailed dream last night. I dreamt I was a citizen of the Galactic Empire at the end of Star Wars, listening to the climactic battle with half an ear much the same way as we pay attention to the war in Iraq.

"With the Imperial deathtoll reaching 1200 this morning, and an unknown amount of insurgent deaths, we'll be interviewing Admiral Piett on the progress of the Endor conflict. The spiritual advisor of the Coruscant presidential hopeful has been harshly criticised for his comment that, quote, 'the Empire maybe had it coming.' We'll also be talking with an R5 droid on the environmental ramifications if Emperor Palpatine proceeds with his plan to use the reconstructed Death Star on the forest moon. The Emperor maintains that such an act is necessary to 'smoke the terrorists out of their holes.' And tonight - a discussion with the minister for finance on the possible economic effects on the cortosis trade should the Jedi cult once again become a significant political force..."

I have a feeling this is because Chris gave me a Perry Bible Fellowship book yesterday and I read it just before falling asleep.

...they always come to an end. But so does everything. Such is the way of all flesh.

I played basketball last night. I was at the roastery attached to Batdorf and Bronson. It's a warehouse out by the docks and the lumberyards where giant claw-equipped trucks move the stacks of denuded Douglas fir trunks all day. Inside the roastery the smell is, overwhelmingly and unsurprisingly, of roasting coffee. There's one giant coffee roaster, a kind of Tim-Burtonesque contraption that dominates the space. And there's several hundred hessian bags of green coffee beans arranged by place of origin. And there's a basketball hoop.

Leslie and I have never played basketball before, even though she played through high school and I once made it a mission to learn and engaged my old friend Matthew K. to teach me, which he did well. Consequently, although we've often talked about getting a ball and playing some one-on-one, last night was our first experience. Leslie won, but I think I acquitted myself well for someone who has never played an actual match. But I have to say, basketball is most fun when played in a deserted warehouse at night. An actual court might be a letdown.

So I just ate my first Olympia oyster. I don't often experience a sympathetic nervous reaction on the scale of this one. I enjoyed opening the oyster, sprinkling it with lemon juice and hot sauce, eating it raw, and I had just enough time to comment to Leslie about how much more delicate and sweeter the flavour was than introduced Pacific oyster - and then I start convulsively vomiting.

So much for my oyster reunion. On with the clambake.

Three weeks and three days and I finally feel like normal health has returned (except for the occasional nosebleed). I made it to the gym today, and it felt great to be back. Then I went and bought seafood at the little store on Percival Landing. I bought steamer clams, Olympia oysters, and calimari tubes. The clams are for risotto aux fruits de mer, a la Elizabeth David. I'll pepper-coat the squid and deep fry it.

The Olympia oysters (Ostreola conchaphila) are a different story. When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest I was overjoyed to discover how cheap oysters are here. I glutted myself on the gigantic and introduced Pacific oyster Crassostrea gigas until I was so sick of oysters their very smell still turns my stomach. I regret this happened before I learned about the small and native Olympia oyster, now very rare and hard to come by. Seeing them for sale today, I had to buy some, and I've resolved to get over my queasiness. They are reputed as one of the finest of all oyster species, and they're so damn cute.

Leslie is a delegate for Obama and is at the caucus today. It snowed heavily this morning. More snow!