Swinging a Hammer

I came home for a month to help my dad re-roof the female barrack for the Forest Service Hot Shots in Sawyers Bar on the Salmon River. If you think I live in real Northern California, just talk to the folks down the Salmon River.

Helping my dad, being home for a month, and good pay (along with flexible employers in LA) motivated me to come to work. But, there were a few things that worried me: the pitch of the roof is rather steep, I've never roofed before, and, to be honest, I'm not too good at swinging a hammer. I'm actually probably better at pulling nails than I am at driving them.

This is kind of a shameful thing to admit, being a carpenter's daughter and all. I know that my brother received a little hammer on his third birthday, and while I don't know if I did or not (I lean towards the first), I have received hammers since as gifts from my father.

In my defense, I've probably been asked to use electric or battery operated tools more often than hand tools, but I can't really say I'm a pro at those either.

I'm trying not to be too hard on myself though. No sense in beating yourself up if you only lift a hammer on a frequent basis every few years when your father needs some help. Plus, it's not easy to fulfill your parent's legacy right?

At any rate, my dad tried to make me feel a little better as I told him about my doubts as a hammer swinger: "That's why they made nail guns."

La Virgin de Fowey

I still haven't gotten my period for this month. I don't know if it's stress, travel or some freak hormone change, but it hasn't come yet. I'm not worried though--I'm banking on immaculate conception. I figure you and I had to be put on this earth for some reason and with all that love floating around, our DNA just decided to mix itself up and make a little love baby to show the world what's up. Hey, if it happened to Mary and Joseph, why not Erica and Alex?

Sanctity & Coin-Op Laundry

I've always loved laundry mats. I loved the idea of laundry mats, loved them without really knowing, but rather through learned, filter images, college experience and the fresh smell of scented fabric softeners. The white walls of my imagination, the spinning side-loaders, the ritual of cleaning and purifying.

It's harder to feel that way now. When I carry my laundry bag or basket down the street and into the brightly colored, yet still somehow a little dingy laundry mat, it's not the romantic notion of waiting for your laundry to dry. There are certain individuals who come in to drop off or pick up their "fluff and fold" order; there are others who wait with me. Usually, my skin is desperately lighter and out of place. I try my best not to be noticed while my clothes spin round and round; it usually doesn't work.


Waiting on the yellow bench by the door and the change machine, I sat embroidering the Taj Mahal onto a pillow case for my love. Stitching in purples a pattern from Sublime Stitching, I caught the attention of a few of the mothers doing their laundry as well.

As one mother and her little girl of 3 or so gathered their laundry and began to walk past me out the door, the mother pointed to what I was doing.

"See what she's doing," she said to her little girl. "Church."

The little girl looked at the embroidery hoop, at me.

"Iglesia," said the mother, smiling at her little girl, and they walked past me out the door. I didn't correct her, but watched them leave.

I don't know if she thought the pattern was a church or if she knew it was the famous monument to love half way across the world; I don't know if she just glanced at it or had never seen it before. I don't know that knowing that answering would make me like laundry mats any more or any less than I already do.

Still, to make the Taj Mahal a church requires the idea that it is sacred. But what makes something sacred? Could love alone provide the sanctity of a place? Is love what makes some place sacred?

An Airstream Trailer

I live in an Airstream trailer now. The metal is brushed and makes me feel like home. The paneling is not too light, not too dark. The broken handles in need of adjustments have been fixed. I've put place mats down in the cupboard to set my wine glasses, drinking glasses and mugs upon. The delineation of space overlaps: bedroom, closet, porch, doorway, powder room, breakfast nook, library and storage.

There is much to be said. There is much to be discovered.

Tokyo 77

To get to Tokyo 77 you cross Venice Blvd from Bagley to Main St. Walk past the hair salon, the furniture shop, the hardware store and the first alley. At the second alley, turn right and walk along the mural of the farmer's market. When the alley opens up, you'll see a sign that says "We're open." Go inside the "coffee shop" (read: diner) and pick any table you like.

I got the Breakfast Special C -- 2 pancakes and bacon, $2.35 -- tea, $.90, and read Juno & Juliet in the sunlight-through-the-window-with-a-slight-breeze as I ate.

Things confirmed:

• I want to be a Dodgers fan, and listen to their games on the radio.
• One of my first memories of San Francisco is influenced by the opening shot of Full House, and now I can give you Ashely Olsen's address in New York--both strange.
• I appreciate getting what you pay for, and having that value be decent and humanly.

Salsa Lessons

I'm a good dancer. Humble, sometimes. Good, always. I've been the party enabler, the one to let loose, the desirable, the only white girl in a room ("And she can dance!"), the leader and the follower. So when Enrique, my co-worker, asks if I want to go salsa dancing on Friday night after work and I'm even wearing the perfect dress already for it, I figure I know "enough," have decent rhythm and can follow, to say yes.

A Cuban restaurant somewhere near Hollywood and I'm nervous on the dance floor. My feet actually feel like they've gained awkward clumsiness and I'm out of place. And it's not the new environment, the new dance partner, or the music. I don't even think it was the confidence Enrique lacked that he was a good leader. It was something in me. I wasn't tapping into the place where I dance from, that core that I feel so secure in, that moving from the hips. I couldn't find it, couldn't remember what it felt like, and don't know what happened to it.

Last night, I was dancing some place else, to different music, with different people, and I was dancing like I always do. But I still don't know what happened that night, and I don't think it was just a fluke. I think maybe there is something else I'm needing to learn on the dance floor this time.

Life on Mariposa

I have lived in LA now for 36 days.

For 36 days, I made my home in an apartment on Mariposa Street.

Last night my father said "mariposa, butterfly" before he got off the phone.

Tonight I make a new home.

Mariposa. Butterfly.