juushika

I went down to Corvallis for my mother's 65th birthday almost-surprise party—not a surprise that there would be a party, but a surprise that out-of-towners, including her sisters, would be there; they also gave me my ride down from Portland. I am very bad at social events, even casual ones; I went and I didn't fail miserably (just moderately), so that's something, I suppose.

( And I talked with people, uh oh. )

Then I spent ~10 days closed in Devon's bedroom, speaking to no one except a very good dog and occasional cat (and also Devon), lying in bed and reading, and playing the occasional video game; and it was approximately enough recovery.

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I came back to PDX because I wanted to see my cat, and we made the mistake of driving up on a weekday afternoon because it fit every schedule except traffic and the first heat wave of the season. The car began to overheat once we hit the Portland traffic, so we ended up pulling off to the dead end of a residential street—a vacant lot and a half, tucked under an overpass and against a power station, nothing there but the shade of trees with their sudden vibrant green and the quiet backs to apartment complexes. We hung out for an hour, to let the car cool and traffic pass; I read 1984 for the millionth time. Then we drove home through back ways we know from when I lived in SE. It was, bizarrely—the unexpected 4-hour car trip, unseasonably hot, broken radio, rush hour traffic, and yet—a lovely, long goodbye, relaxing despite the stressful circumstances.

I hate summer, don't get me wrong. But summer is such an intense experience, so physically present, that the first signs of it conjure something akin to nostalgia: memories of spending all day in bed with all the electronics off, reading, reading, coaxing a crossbreeze out of my opened windows, and the anticipation of sunset and the full-body relief of tired eyes and tired skin. I saw that in the haven we found in that dead end.

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These things are over a week old, now, but I've been been so tired lately; I've been having back issues for the last three or four weeks, the "wake up already in pain" variety, which is part of it. All I want to do is lay down and read, but the more time I spend reading, the longer the omnipresent backlog of book reviews becomes, fie. (It is so long.) But there've so many great books lately! Almost everything hovers at that 4-, 4.5-stars level, not quite flawless, but that can't really be a complaint.

There have been a number of interim posts since my last post that have not been written outside my head, because I am a perpetual bundle of busy and tired, consistently overstretching my limited capabilities to do politics and be scared about the state of the world.

One post: I did skip Thanksgiving, and my parents didn't come up after because inertia is a thing. But Dee went up to Washington for the holiday and Devon did drive up to see me for the day, just for a few hours. We made in-no-ways-traditional vegetarian hot dogs and mac & cheese (with hot dogs in it); it wasn't enough, but it was significantly better than nothing and I'm grateful.

Another post: practicing by doing the easy political phone calls on answering machines does (barely) make it easier to call real alive people. Somehow, that doesn't make it any less terrifying to forget about time zones and call places which are still open and unexpectedly staffed by alive people.

Another post: I have managed to leave the house, once or thrice. Snow helped (as sidenote: cats staring at snowland), because I missed the end of autumn and refuse to miss winter, too. We had snow + freezing rain, but then snow that stuck around, approximately pristine, for a few days. The latter was lovely.

* * *

Today my parents came through Portland and had lunch with me; they're headed northbound to spend the holidays traveling, including a trip to see my sister in Seattle. It was exhausting but in productive ways, almost entirely my fault—because over coffee I nonchalantly asked why I had which aspects of Jewish upbringing and how my extended family/various cultural aspects affected it, as one does.

I have, for obvious reasons, but especially as Hanukkah approaches, been thinking a lot about what it means to be Jewish and particularly to be Jewish in the face of forced assimilation and, you know, facism (how are these are sentences I'm writing and why is this the real world and can it stop), and also of the narrative of "Hanukkah isn't our most important holiday, and its cultural importance is actually a symptom of forced assimilation, but this year it certainly has extra thematic relevance"—because I was raised with Hanukkah and Passover and not much else, although my parents say there was an occasional Rosh Hashanah, which I think I remember; for me, there was no "more important holiday." It seems like some of that was because of how things lined up with Christmas/Easter and thus with school schedules, but it's also because that's what my father grew up with; his experience was inconsistent (Sabbat sometimes, but not always; Hebrew school and a bar mitzvah for him but not his brother; Hanukkah/Passover/Rosh Hashanah was all he celebrated, too) which has passed through the generations (Allie and I never had any formal religious education; our cousin did).

I grew up on the opposite side of the country from my Jewish grandparents, who always wished they could see us more often, who tried to cram a lot of Jewish Things into the whatever contact they had; they sent me Jewish novels and celebrated holidays with us less, I think, because those specific things were important—they weren't religious, their own practice was inconsistent—but because the identity was important.

White-passing half-Jewish cultural Jew is approximately as distant from the thing as one can be, and I understand the factors, the time, the literal distance, the way that assimilation works and why I have the background that I do. But I also have that identity, and its ... cultural expectation, I suppose, of persecution and persistence. My ancestors came from Russia, and immigrated before the Holocaust; that was not their personal story but it was their cultural story, and they taught me that, too.

I suppose I wanted an easy answer, an, "ah yes, your grandparents always wanted to practice these aspects of the faith with you, and you can now cling to them at least for their cultural significance even if you don't believe." But I didn't get that, I didn't get a "more important holiday" that can enable to me a real Jew. And I don't know where that leaves me, except that this diaspora experience is as real for me as it has been for my father and for his parents, and they are real Jews, so, maybe, I am too.

We also talked about how, for me, politics et al. isn't something to be countered by optimism or hope; that I live within communities where everyone will not (and has not) survived difficult times, and that but for the grace of Devon and August and my parent's financial support that could include me; and I think it's the first time I've ever mentioned suicidal ideation to my parents. My sister's cancer changed things for my family; we've learned to proactively accept and value of each other as we are, and the way that's effected how my parents view me—that they take me at my word when I talk about my experiences and health—as been huge. These are not things I would have felt comfortable sharing, years ago. I'm glad I can now, and the conversation wasn't all politics and Judaism and fascism, I also told them about Dare's antics and Dad showed me this video of him falling off his bike on the way to work. It was a worthwhile afternoon. But I am now very tired, and nothing really feels better.

I'm headed down to Corvallis soon, but we put it off a day and Devon is coming to get me, at some crazy early/late hour when we can skip holiday traffic, so that I can still see him and get my gifts without trying to navigate Amtrak/exhaustion/crazy.

Vet visit for Dare yesterday. She had a worm a few months ago, probably the result of a flea tracked in by Odi (although there were no other signs of fleas in the house). She was dewormed and everyone was flea treated. But the hair loss on her spine persisted, and then she developed bald patches on the back of her legs. Because the hair loss is the result of barbering, she's overgrooming in easy to reach places and the skin itself is healthy (all signs that the trigger isn't physiological), and she's a high-strung, high energy cat, the vet suspects what we suspected: she began over-grooming when she had the worm, but now it's just a habit and preoccupation.

We're putting her on Zylkene, a bovine-sourced hydrolyzed milk protein which treats anxiety, isn't prescription, and doesn't interact with any food or medication. Prescription mood medication is always a possibility, but the vet wanted to start with the safest, easiest option, especially since she doesn't have any signs of stress. She's just a tightly-wound cat keeping herself occupied in her downtime. The vet was appropriately skeptical of magic milk protein, but gave us some studies as well as anecdotal evidence to back it up.

Bad habits aside, Dare is in perfect health and behaved great in a "blind cat, vaguely terrified" way. Because she has a possibly-congenital defect, it's particularly comforting to know she's in good health and this issue is probably unrelated.

This being vet visit approx. 23482942 for our menagerie, we continue to have superb experiences with North Portland Veterinary Hospital. I love them so much.

Vet visits with a blind cat are can be hit-and-miss on an interpersonal level, as some vets are prone to inspiration porn; this one, refreshingly, wasn't. She took us at our word when we talked about Dare's abilities and limitations, and never ever used the word inspiring. (Dare has developed a lot of skills to help her work around her disability! There's some surprising things she can do, and some things she does better than other cats, because she has to. It's really neat to see. There's also some things she can't do. And she's not a human being, and her disability and coping mechanisms aren't equivalent to human experience. Those things are obvious to me, but we still get vets who tell us about how animals are so much more adaptable than people and are such inspirations etc. and it's gross.)

This vet was also lovely in an ego-patting way—so relieved to learn that not just the blind cat but all the cats are indoor-only, complimenting us for intentionally taking in "lemon"/defective cats, pleasantly surprised when I asked for a spare soft e-collar (to use if Dare's over-grooming becomes skin-damaging) because no one had ever asked for one in advance before, impressed by preventative measures we take re: her open eye socket, generally telling us that this particular special-needs cat had the perfect care and home. We put effort into being good pet owners, and it's just about my only productive contribution to the universe, so an authority confirming that we're doing good is flattering and rewarding. There were just good feels all around; now we wait and see how the magic cow powder works.

When we came home, everyone sniffed the carrier a lot and August sat in it for a while because of course.

What is it about the holidays that inspires an intense heartsickness? Hanukkah is arguably more important to me than Christmas—it feels more intimate and profound—and yet I take some issue with how my family's come to handle it, growing lazier, we don't even make our own latka anymore; and whenever I go home, I realize how distant from my family I've become. My sister's been living there since her diagnosis, and she's always been more comfortable in that social setting. They're noisy and casual and gossip about people I don't know or care to; I go home to feel like an outsider, and to half-ass something important to me.

It makes me want to reclaim the holiday, to learn to make my own latka, to replace what's gone missing—but the very nature of the holiday season means I'm spoon-bereft. I put the average introvert to shame: I rarely socialize, but I rarely feel like I lack anything for it. Except now. This is the only time when I feel like I am actually missing something, that I'm denied something by my sheer inability to ~people~.

On Thanksgiving, Dee's immediate family came into town; they made stuffing and gravy the day before, then left on Thanksgiving itself to visit relatives. I was alone overnight, watching two dogs and four cats; I pulled out the couch and made a big nest of animals, and we watched TV and I ate stuffing and gravy. (Pics or it didn't happen.) It was perfect—enough socialization on either side, but the day itself was stress-devoid and I could actually enjoy my comfort foods.

And between the two, the quiet frustration of Hanukkah and the perfect day that was Thanksgiving, I'm tempted to spend Christmas at the house alone, watching the cats in quiet while Dee goes up to Seattle; but I worry that that tends to far towards not celebrating the holiday at all, and because I can't reclaim it and engaging with it as-is seems unpleasant I'll just ... let it pass me by, which is almost worse.

There are other, personal frustrations which are piggybacking on to this sense of heartsickness, homesickness, longing. I don't have a resolution for any of it.

I was lying down and petting Gillian, curled up by the window at the foot of my bed, and there was this lovely, spicy scent. Then I realized that we were right by my bookself, which is where I put the last BPAL scent I wore, a month or two ago: Inez (golden amber, vanilla musk, myrrh, cedar, carnation, and red sandalwood). Needless to say, I now have a spicy, honeyed scent. I haven't worn many scents lately; I go through phases with it, as all things. But the time away makes me more receptive when I return; I'm not tuning out the tendrils of scent, but rather keep catching them, that sweetness, that resinous base and dryness. I usually wear Morocco when it's warm and Inez when it's cold, as both are resinous carnations but Morocco is a lighter, thinner scent and Inez has a marshmallow thickness, more bodied and palpable, which can be cloying. But today, unseasonably warm but still spring, it suits.

I hate summer, I hate sun and heat, but I also try to live in each season as it comes—I like to be cold in the winter rather than blasting the heat, I consume media during the seasons in which they're set; as a result, the seasons develop atmospheres, associations, identities. I've gotten good at summer: fostering crossbreezes, turning off my computer tower, savoring the brief dark respite of night; summer and I have grown intimate. I don't look forward to it coming, but I'm so keenly aware of what it is that these warm days have a strange since of nostalgia. I can't convince my brain that knowing and not-quite-having something isn't necessarily the same as missing it!

Dee and I have a tradition when a pet dies—we go to the humane society. We do it because we have the bodies cremated there, and/or because we have their materials to donate, which helps clear out bad memories and supports a good cause, but we stay to look at the animals.

I don't want to hear other people's pet stories when I've just lost my own, but I want to know that there are pets out there, cared for, loved, and soon to find the perfect home. Oregon Humane Society's save rate is 98% (and both Odi and Loki came from OHS), so it has a sense of willful goodness.

This time, we met Bartholomeow Winchester, a big old mancat—literally: 10 pounds, 13 years, a longhaired tuxedo with the yellow chin and no-fucks-given attitude of old age who was aggressively affectionate. Someone adopted him that day.

We saw Ash, who was already on hold: an 8 month medium-hair blue of this most distinctive color: not a velvety frosted blue, but a silky coat like August's in a remarkable shade of deep, saturated gray. I've made it my life's goal to only have black cats, but I think I've decided that certain varieties of black and white count—like Gilly's white flecks, like handsome tuxedo mancats, and like breathtaking deep blues. I discovered that Ash looks precisely like (although is probably not) a Nebelung—a cat breed "best defined as semi-long haired Russian Blue." I want one keenly.

The last weeks have been devastating. Mama was a remarkable cat, and Dee and I very much shared her—all we've ever wanted for her was the absolute best that we could give, and coming to terms with what that meant has been heartbreaking. But there's no regret. No regret in knowing her, or caring for her; browsing futurepets is a reminder of that: that all they really are is wonderful.

My grandfather's funeral was a few weeks ago. Everyone in my nuclear family went but me; I went to Corvallis to watch my parent's house and the family dog while they were away. My impression is that this is the best decision I could've made; it sounds like the funeral was a minor nightmare, too much alcohol and grief and drama in one place; I would have found it extremely stressful, and that's not how I want to remember my grandfather. Jamie and I meanwhile had a fine few days of watching bad TV and walking in autumn weather.

Hanukkah began the night before Thanksgiving this year—very early! I was down in Corvallis Wednesday/Thursday/Friday last week, and then came back up so that I could watch the house and approximately one thousand cats (kittens, man, they're like a dozen cats in one small cat body) while Dee went up to visit her family over the weekend and Devon did Thanksgiving with his extended family on Saturday. My family and I had latka for the first night of Hanukkah, traditional French Toast on Thanksgiving morning, and a very relaxed Thanksgiving dinner that night. The weather has been starkly cold, dry and bright and on the edge of freezing, just what I needed to clear my mind in between too much socialization. The menorah has been burning each night both at my parent's house and at Dee's house here in Portland.

Hanukkah's early date has made me extremely sensitive to how easily it (the holiday, Judaism, take your pick) is overlooked—that sense that with Thanksgiving passed we're all now preparing for the "holiday season," but half of mine is nearly over, and so "holiday" obviously reads as "somewhat secular Christmas." I celebrate secular Christmas, too! with enthusiasm. But the erasure is needling me, this time around.

I think it's reasonably safe to say I've been in another depressive episode these last few months. Given the accommodations in the rest of my life, these episodes are mild now—pedestrian, even: something between ennui and anxiety, a suffused discontent and sadness with the catharsis of a breakdown. The best recourse is just to try to stay out of my own head, thus the constant reading and TV watching and gaming. I got worse and better—see: the catharsis of a breakdown—while in Corvallis, which was expected because even family stuff stresses me out. Been listening to Kelli Schaefer's Black Dog when I'm hopeful; Nick Drake's Black Eyed Dog the rest of the time.

Busy weekend!

The 31st was Devon's and my 10th anniversary, which, yes, is impressive. Unfortunately a coworker quit a few days before, and it's the middle of a lot going on at work, so he only came up for two and a half days during which a lot else went on. We hope to have a longer time together next week or around Valentine's Day, and maybe actually do something to celebrate ten years. (I say this glibly, but the truth is I'm upset about the uncelebrated anniversary. I hadn't seen Devon since Christmas and would appreciate doing something a bit more concrete for these celebrations, especially such a big one—I just don't have the spoons to orchestrate anything myself.)

More to the point, Devon came up and three of Dee's Washington friends came down for the weekend because we all went to see Emilie Autumn on Sunday. The concert will be in a subsequent post, because I have Thoughts. But it was a good visit.

In part because of anniversary-related anxiety/depression, in part because my back has been pretty awful lately, I was chronically low on spoons over the weekend. I would honestly be surprised if this were ever not the case. It still managed to be the time with this group that I was most myself (quiet girl with sudden complex opinions! instead of just quiet girl), which helps; it helped also to load up on pain meds pre-concert. I now have plenty of quiet time to recharge, although the fact that Devon is also gone sours that.

It was a bit hard on Mamakitty: the first time she got shut in a bathroom with Devon alone she panicked, scrambled up to the windowsill leaving clawmarks on the wall behind her, and tried to escape out the bathroom window. When I went in there to calm her down she meowed emphatically in a way that can directly be translated to "PLEASE OPEN THIS WINDOW THAT I MAY ESCAPE." Dee and I forget, because we got to know her when she was outside and unconstrained, but she is still fairly skittish. We ended up putting her in Dee's room (with Spike, who was near-insensible to her presence) for a chunk of time so everyone could use the shower, etc., without traumatizing the cat. She was a little on edge on Monday, but she's back in the bathroom now and asking for cuddles.

Odi was surprisingly good, despite disrupted schedules and many visitors. Gillian slept with the guests downstairs. I let August sleep on my special Juu-only no-cats-allowed blanket because I am a pushover and always need to apologize for inviting guests into her home.

Washington folks got in Saturday early afternoon; that evening we took public transport into downtown and went to Powell's and dinner. It was my first time taking the MAX, and minus the drunken post-Blazers crowd I loved it and would be happy to use it again—it may run less frequently, but it's such a lovely quick shot across town, especially compared to the roundabout route of the bus. I found two books at Powell's, both new to me and neither of which are in the local library system. (These days I prefer to buy books in three categories: authors I know and love and want to own everything by forever; books I've read before and love enough to reread a dozen times; books I suspect I will like enough to own, which are not in the Portland or Corvallis library systems. Inter-library loan exists but lacks the convenience of local lending, so buying some not-at-library books without reading them is a justifiable risk. These books were category 1 and 3, and totaled $7.) As usual after Powell's, we went to Deschutes Brewery for dinner—busy on a Saturday night, but as good as always. The only real hangup of the evening was the learning curve for the MAX, which mostly went waiting twenty-five minutes for our ride home to show up.

The concert was Sunday. All the women save me wore fantastic corseted outfits; I wore one of my best dresses, a long black sleeveless thing with a square neckline and corset lacing in the back, and for once actually felt ... content with my self-presentation. The only major problem with the concert was transportation: We intended to take a cab for convenience sake. Doors opened at 7:30; when we called to schedule they said the cab may be up to half an hour late, so we scheduled a 6:00 pickup. At 6:30 they weren't there; at 6:40 we called, and they said it could be another half hour; at 7:10 we called and they said they still hadn't even located a driver. We took two cars out there ourselves with minimal fuss and no problems finding parking, and got there well before the show started, so nothing was lost, but here is your announcement: WARNING WARNING boycott Broadway Cab at all costs, they are so unwilling to lose your business that they will not even tell you they are an hour and a half late locating a cab, good grief.

Devon came up a few days before Christmas. Dee and Odi were out of town, with her family up in Washington (honestly an awesome mini-gift to an incredible introvert like me); Devon brought with him a van full of things: 1) A TV to replace the living room TV; it's bigger and has a better screen, and Halo 4 thanks me. Devon just replaced his TV with one that's better suited to function as a monitor, so his castoff is my gain. 2) A new harddrive for the PS3, which had a near-unusable 40 gig drive; it's now 120, so there's breathing room for games. This one is explicitly a gift for Dee, because the PS3 is her primary console; now every install won't require an equal and opposite uninstall. 3) One of the big black bookshelves which was in his room, so the books that were in the corner of my room piled to near my height (the last of my books in storage in Devon's parents's garage) are now instead crowding a bookshelf. I also sorted more of my boxes-that-needed-sorting while he was here, and my room—while not perfect—now feels remarkably less crowded and much more me, bless.

Awaiting Devon when he got here was 4) My new computer case, a SilverStone Fortress in titanium. I've had my old case for about a decade, and while the guts are up to date the case was old and dented and ugly and had small and exceedingly noisy fans; this one is tall and clean and quiet. Also 5) A new keyboard to (finally) replace the one that August broke.

August used to love to sit on my old computer tower; the new one has vertical ventilation, so the entire top is a vent and can't have a cat butt upon it. Because she is my cat, August has shown zero interest in sitting on the new tower; I have, instead, found her on the new bookcase at two in the morning, walking on top of a row of mass-market paperbacks and occasionally, intentionally, knocking one of them to the ground.

These were a lot of big things, not surprises (I need some of my gifts to be surprises in order for me to get into a holiday spirit, but my Hanukkah gift was so that was sorted), but sorely needed. Everything they replace met a bare minimum of functionality, but the bare minimum was not horribly satisfying.

Also awaiting Devon was his Christmas gift, Beats Pro in black. Not a surprise (his gifts rarely are, as it's his money that buys them p.s. wouldn't you love to have me as a partner), but he likes them. They sound awesome.

Dee came back early on the 26th; my family came up for an early dinner and more gifts that evening; Devon left that night. My sister gave me a beautiful burnt orange knit throw which I am pleased to claim as For Personal Use Only (No Cats Allowed), which is nice because August has coopted every other soft thing in the entire house); my parents gave me a number of indulgent consumables and some baking supplies and significant monies. My mother's parents sent me The Dark Wife and Moonwise, both of which I'm happy to have but never expected to get—normally people read the blurbs of my wishlist books and go nope, too weird, not buying; one of these is a lesbian Greek myth retelling so guesses are Grandpa didn't read any blurbs at all but you know, I will take it. And from Dee, alongside the fingerless gloves for Hannukah: my favorite socks in three new colors yaaaay, a copy of The Night Circus which I shall immediately lend to her, and a number of new cat toys, immediately coopted by Gillian.

A good holiday all in all—busier than I like, but a quiet New Year's will balance it out. I know all of this is about material goods, but that's partially for my records and also because I am deeply material in the sense that I love stuff, I love stuff I want and love, which makes my living space usable and comfortable; I rarely if ever buy stuff, so gifts are why I have socks I want to wear and a computer I want to use. Devon likes to give gifts, not receive them, and that's a totally valid approach; I had a fantastic run of gifts-given this year, but at my heart I am a recipient, and gifts to me mean love and holidays and family. And this year, I had all of that.

Last Sunday Devon made a daytrip up to Portland so we could all carve pumpkins, as we did last year. We went to the local Kruger farm stand about five blocks away and picked out locally-grown pumpkins, then ordered food from the Che Cafe food cart; we waited for our food in a covered dining area while rain fell and the blue breeze blew in woodfire smoke from the firepit. It was a distinctly Portland weekend before Halloween, wet but mild, rich with the scent of rain and smoke and leaves.

We ate our food at home—mac 'n cheese and sandwich and fries and a thick quasadilla—and carved pumpkins while I blasted The Nightmare Before Christmas from another room (I don't listen to the soundtrack, I just put the film on and ignore the visuals).

From left to right: Devon's, mine, Dee's.



( Daylight closeup. )

Mine this year was inspired by the scarecrow in Sleepy Hollow—I made the face too small, but when lit up it really didn't matter.

Today I pulled on a long black skirt in satin and velvet and a purple half-sweater with flowy sleeves, and was something witchy or at least dressed up. I played Animal Crossing and answered the door to a dozen or so trick or treaters while Dee baked pumpkin cookies. Odi barked at every single visitor, but did just fine. I will love you and shower candy upon you if you are wearing a costume—I don't care if it's super fancy, I don't care if you're "too old," if you embrace the spirit of the holiday then my candy is yours. If you are seventeen and wearing the clothes you wore to school that day, I judge you. If you fourteen and smoking a cigar while trick or fucking treating I will not give a shit about candy but I will feel deeply unclean. (The polite adorably-costumed group of six that came near the end of the night erased lingering ick, but really? I mean really?)

Quiet little day. I never do as much with Halloween as I wish, yet did enjoy this one—and in a way, this day only begins the haunting season, for me. November all is death and decay—it's the beginning of the year, but the year begins with death, quietude, the rotting and waiting that lasts through winter. This is only the start.