juushika

This is just a quick entry to say that Alfie died a few hours ago. The pigs have been back in Corvallis while I've been staying here, so I wasn't there with him, but Devon and Devon's family—his father in particular—were, so he wasn't alone. Whatever killed him was pretty quick onset—he was fine earlier today, but in the afternoon/evening started showing some signs of lethargy, disinterest in food, and a drop in body temperature. They got in touch with me to figure out what should be done, and at midnight Devon was planning to take Alfie in to the vet when they opened tomorrow; a few minutes later I got a call saying that he had died. This could be possible heart failure; he had no other URI symptoms, but really, it could have been anything. These things can happen so fast.

Devon is coming up tomorrow with Kuzco, who is thus far 100% fine, chipper and stuffing his face full of carrot and otherwise healthy. (Prior to this they were eating the same food and sharing a divided enclosure.) He'll live in the travel/quarantine cage with me for a bit while we figure out where I'll be and he'll be, &c. Right now I just really need to see my pig. Devon will probably also bring Alfie's body, because I think that seeing it may be the only thing which makes this real for me. I imagine he'll be buried in Corvallis with Dink, though.

This isn't to say that I haven't been a sobbing shaking mess. I have. I also have Dee here with me (staying up until 2a to watch a comfort movie, and otherwise being so beautiful and sympathetic and full of hugs) and I'll see Devon tomorrow. I've just exhausted myself for the evening, that's all. My plan now is to sleep for as long as humanly possible and fill the rest of the time with movies, and to throughly take advantage of whatever degree of disassociation this is. As I've said before I have a poor concept of death, but I think I understand this one better in lieu of Dink's not-too-distant passing. It's all unreal and heartbreaking and, unless I indicate otherwise, I don't really want to talk about it online right now. (Condolences are welcome; questions less so.) But I feel like it needs to be recorded and so, here: it is.

I've been having a rough couple of days. Here are three reasons why:

1. Congrats, everyone that thought it was weird that I'd be willing to spend significant time away from my significant other: yes, that's hard. Of course it's fucking hard. I've done plenty of multiple day trips; that's easy. A few days more, though, and I do find myself—not homesick, really, not lonely either. I just miss him. That's obvious and predictable but for me it is remarkable, because missing people is one of the big things my brain does not do. As a result it's something I don't know how to cope with, either. I miss him.

2. Portland and I have unfinished business. I have deep love for this city, but.... A lot of bad shit went down here, right? Some of it because being apart from Devon is fucking hard. Most of it because I was sick. I was just really fucking sick back then. Some of it is tied up in the exact same things that make me love this city—all the opportunities I didn't, couldn't, take advantage of before, and how much of a failure I felt as a result. But sometimes it's just simple familiarity, it's poking around damnportlanders and seeing the same icons of the same members who were active those years ago and then remembering what it was like last time, for the better maybe but also for the worse, so much worse. I still won't use, can't use, alarms because they bring me back to when I was in Portland, in school, still trying and failing to get to class; I may be a lot better now but I haven't quite healed from how it was then and the reminders of it fucking terrify me.

3. I have rough days. All of these things are interconnected—Devon would probably be able to talk me through some of these bad memories, and so it stings even more that he's not here; I have those bad memories because at my heart I just am, always have been, the sort to have bad days, whether that means some moodiness or a full-on major depressive cycle. But there's something to be said for the simple fact that that is who I am: I can be in the best place, I can get what I want, and I can still feel like shit on a biscuit. I just hate being reminded of it, you know? I hate the fact that nothing will ever make that go away, all of it go forever away. Being depressed is depressing in its own right.

And all that I am full of these thoughts, I'm really not that bad. I'm just blah and feel ugly and don't want to wash my hair and do want to lie in bed and watch TV all day and probably not say a whole lot. In large part I just need some recharge time and adjustment time, because antisocial Juu does not understand this "spend time in someone's company" thing. Then I may need some distraction, so I should eat goddamn chocolate cake if I want chocolate cake (and there is chocolate cake! I just don't want to be the person who eats ALL THE CAKE om nom) and I should figure out how I'm going to manage Starbucks trips without being chaffered everywhere and I'm absolutely looking forward to Valente's reading on Friday because I imagine that will do wonders for my mood. I also need to accept that there is nothing wrong with just having a few bad days—the people that care for me don't begrudge them half as much as I do; if I didn't try so hard to deny them then maybe they wouldn't last so long. I need to accept that they will happen, and are especially like to happen after a few good and high-energy days, because that's how I work even if I hate that that's how I work. I need to stop feeling so fucking guilty about it—like I'm betraying my promises and everyone's expectations of Portland! city of magic and light! It's a wonderful city but it is no miracle cure. I need to be honest, here: this shit happens; this is who I am.

For now: cake and cooking shows, maybe.

Hello, internet. Did you know that there are some places without internet? I spent last weekend in Portland with Dee (century_eyes) and we stayed at a downtown Marriott that wanted to charge $13 a day for internet connections in the rooms, to which we said: fuck you, and also no. There was wifi in the lobby, and this is hardly the end of the world (I tend to travel internet-free anyhow); what's horrible is the principle of the thing, the every-last-cent principle. My Starbucks have free wifi. Hell, Shari's has free wifi. They wanted $13.

So we used the downstairs internet connection and then snubbed their in-house restaurants, too. On principle.

This is not the important thing about the trip. The trip was a last-minute decision: Dee had a pair of Decemberists's tickets and then her mum decided not to go to the show so I had the chance to attend instead, and so we were in town from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon. Friday was rain, endtimes rain and heavy traffic; we hurried under cover and an umbrella to Restaurant Murata for incredible miso—and some other Japanese food, too.

Saturday we spent exploring downtown Portland, walking in half-intentional circles from the central public library branch to explore the places where I used to hang out, to the Waterfront Park for some people watching, and then back again to make sure we could find the concert hall and get some well-earned food at Pastini. The weather was surprisingly, delightfully, fantastic. Fantastic for winter edging up on spring, I mean: cool and clear, weather for layers and sunny walks and warm food. That evening was the show. Mountain Man opened, and they were new to both of us and wonderful—their sparsely-instrumented, folky, offbeat female voices perfect fit the music profile I've been listening to lately. The Decemberists were almost entirely new to me, but that didn't make the live show any less enjoyable. A diverse group showed up to see them, but we all ended up on our feet and chanting along; they seemed to love playing for a hometown crowd, and the energy was contagious. I'm still going to have to give them a listen on a recorded, non-deafening level, and I don't know if the lead's voice will always work for me, but I had a fantastic time.

Sunday we went to visit the neighborhood where Dee is looking to move. The weather was cooler, more overcast, a few sprinkles, perfect for a quiet day. We drove by her prospective house, and then to the neighborhood's main strip for all of the essentials: Starbucks, a bookstore, and an organic and veg*n grocery/café. It's a quiet, diverse, growing neighborhood—you can tell it was a bit rundown before but it's going places now, it has an welcoming and offbeat* atmosphere, and I can certainly imagine being at home there. (Just ask Dee about the way I was searching for outlets at Starbucks and eying the prime window seat at the restaurant.) Then we drove down to Corvallis, listening to the Decemberists and Florence + the Machine (of course!) along the way, and then she made the drive back home.

I was telling Express—who is making tentative plans for a Portland visit—about this future potential home, that Dee will have, that I can share. About how strange it is to think that such a place exists, could exist, will exist—the house hovers in the subjunctive right now, the neighborhood is an eventual certainty, the specifics are unnecessary: it is a form of home. About how strange it is to know a place is open to me, to know that it may be a central hub for this growing, scattered, social spiderweb that stretches over the Northwest and further still. About how strange it is that that exists: a social circle, a social web, so fragile yet so strong; about how strange it is to have friends at all.

It is advice I give to other people, people like me, people who also think that they don't deserve these things and that the people who give them their love are mistaken and should be corrected: We are all able of making our own decisions. We own our love. We owe it to each other to respect what we give—even if we're the recipients, even when we can't understand why.

I tell that to others because it's true.

Now I'm starting to live that myself. I don't think that I deserve winter-sun days in downtown Portland, surrounded by beautiful variety and places I fondly remember; I don't think that I deserve subjunctive houses or good friends. But I am thankful, so thankful, for it all—and I won't question why I have it, or try to push it away.

So that was what I did with my weekend.

* One day I will find a better word than offbeat—something that more precisely means "unusual in the good, quirky, maybe a bit raw at the edges, my-people sort of way." For now, I'll keep reusing what I've got.