lucky baldwin

Today was my friend Jason's birthday. I deliberated with myself for most of the day whether or not to go to a shindig his wife Brettney was planning last minute. At 7:00, I got in my car, figuring on doing a few errands, when a voice in my head was loudly telling me to go to Jason's party.

It was the best thing I could have done.

As I was there, talking to friends and people I didn't know, an incredible feeling came over me -- I felt like I could exhale and relax for the first time in months. It felt like hope, it felt like healing, in fact it felt a lot like love. Amazing.

So much so, I was on the verge of tears walking back to my car. Nights like tonight make facing the uphill battle of living in this city much easier. The tasty Belgian beer helps, too.

Ground Control to Major Tom

I feel strung out. Strung out is how I feel. It's embarrassing to admit that the thing I missed most about being gone is my high speed internet connection.

That's a joke...No, seriously.

A return to Los Angeles has brought about strange feelings of xenophobia and paranoia -- what's this? Life living around nine million other people? And why are they all so angry all of a sudden, and where are they all going so fast? Don't they know their strivings are in vain, anyway? Why do I feel an underlying sense of aggression every time I step out the door? People don't act this way in Portland, in San Francisco, even. Huh? People have been reduced to their cars -- unthinking, unfeeling metal beasts have replaced vulnerability. They've turned a fear of the unknown into hostility and aggression.

Happy Thanksgiving, can I go back to Oregon now?

That's a joke, too. Really.

I feel like an alien. Like an alien is how I feel. Uncomfortable in my own skin, uncomfortable with my own words. Not in a self conscious way, but in the way that feels like it's coming out of someone else's body. What are these things? Who are these people? I don't remember them this way? Have I changed, or they? No, both but not together, and the new edges are ragged and they scrape and nudge the wrong way. Ouch!

I've been plopped down in this concrete megalopolis, nearly a vagabond. I am overwhelmed.

Some non-literate musings

Sandra's blog will be back in service soon. She's being kept in isolation as she reaclimates to society -- not unlike a NASA astronaut. In the meantime, here are some of her favorite photos taken during her sabatical.


The roof covering at PDX taken early in the morning.


Maple leaves on Barlow Highway near Mt. Hood.


A dilapidated farm house outside The Dalles.


Looking into the window of an independent record store in Portland.


An old Ford in our neighbor's backyard.


A dead bird I found on our front porch. I think it might have flown into the window and stunned itself.


Clouds floating through the Klickitat Mountains in Washington.


Trees in the backyard.


See more here.

Self, version 2.0

One thing I've learned after dad's death is that it's real easy to get bogged down in failures and regrets and sorrow. Truly, it's a rising tide against which the head must always be kept above, if at all possible.

I've been thinking/reading/musing quite a bit lately about loss and letting go and moving on with things, and I'm currently captivated by the idea of change. Personal change. I have a feeling this idea is floating in the ether at the moment, like we mortals are collectively weary of who we have become, and are on the precipice of change. For instance, Mike's friend Daphne blogged about getting "stuck in a moment," the idea of allowing one era or moment of your life (good or bad) to define you, when all you're doing is not allowing yourself to become whoever the next version of yourself should be. Getting stuck there doesn't allow you to grow. Another example -- I read Donald Miller's authors note to his latest book Through Painted Deserts at Powell's the other day. In it, he very astutely points out that if life were a novel, man is not made to read the same page over and over -- it has chapters and hopefully, the protagonist is a much different person at the end than he is at the beginning -- or else the story is one long, boring look in a mirror -- and that kind of star gazing gets real old, real fast.

So what shall it be, moth or butterfly, in this mighty metamorphosis? I believe this differentiation is where hope comes in. I hold hope of a groundwork. Looking back on much of my early adult life, say college onward -- whew, it's not much more than ephemera, admittedly. There are seedlings that are taking root, but those take time to cultivate. I'm glad I'm only 25. I'm glad things get better from here, that life becomes richer, that I will become more comfortable with myself, that I will learn to love others more, and that I will learn to love God more. Regret for the past is no way to live life. Neither is a fear of the future, though, so whatever comes next, I'm ready.

Sadness

I just found out that my friends Dan and Nina are leaving Los Angeles in January to live in Chicago for three years. It had been mentioned that this was a possibility, but like most things of this nature, I didn't think it'd move into a reality. It is best for them, though, and so it will ultimately stand, since I can't force them to stay, even as much as I'd want to. They're a couple that have been extremely generous and everyone who will know them in Chicago will be richly blessed, just as their friends have been in L.A.

This is another in what feels like a year-long lesson in saying goodbye and letting go of things. Is this just a season, or is everything in life of such a transient nature?

I have a car -- someone gifted me with their car yesterday. When I sold my car in June, I never would have thought that I'd end up being provided for in the manner as I've been. I pictured at least a few months slogging it on L.A. Metro buses (public transit's no good in the City of Angels), then hopefully save up enough money to eventually get some sort of junker.

It's nearly difficult to except this kind of a gift, it is so lavish. The generosity that people have poured out to me and my family at this time as been mind-boggling. It makes me want to give as much in return, and in one instance, this place in time will serve as a reminder to indeed serve others when and however I am in a position to do so.

Alcohol and long swords shouldn't go together

Here's dad, circa 1964.
Borscht, this one's for you.

Perspective

There are two sets of train tracks that flank the Columbia River -- one on the Oregon side, and one on the Washington side. Driving back home from Portland today, I watched one of the mighty freight trains race the cars alongside the highway, blowing its whistle at canted intervals. I started to think about the men who make the trains go -- the engineers. How does one go about becoming a train engineer, anyway? Is there special "train school" where they're taught to throw coal into furnaces and blow whistles?

All kidding aside, I starting to think about what an amazing perspective they must have of the United States, as they spend long hours, stretching their thundering machines through the remotest and most beautiful parts of the country. Imagine the nights in December as they ride along the moonlit snowfields of North Dakota -- how the rolling hills look blue and bright, icy white, contrasted against the black of the sky. Or the mountain ranges of Colorado and the Sierra Nevadas in California, burning pink and red in a shimmering sun rise. Driving through canyons of grand fir trees and swelled, churning rivers through sun and rain. They must see things of such unspeakable beauty.

Do these engineers share these stories? Do these men curl up next to their wives, holding onto them so tightly, just thankful for a warm body and relief from the silent solitude -- warmth of a different kind. Do they go home and sit on the edge of their childrens' beds, leaning in close and whispering how they egged on a herd of buffalo as they ran alongside the train in Wyoming? Do their children lay in wide-eyed silence as they hear how their hero father worked quickly, slamming on the screeching brakes to avoid a car on the tracks and the death of a family, just like theirs?

Amazing, these men. What a unique experience, a fascinating way to live life.

Entertaining Angels

Erik and I were making our way from the Bread and Ink Cafe to the car after breakfast on Friday morning. I asked a homeless man if he wanted my leftover french toast. As a token of reciprocation, he played us a song on his mouth harp. He introduced himself as Michael. Erik handed him a few dollars, and Michael reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out his harmonica and played a few bars, the warm notes filling the chilly, damp air behind the Ben and Jerry's on Hawthorne Blvd. Really, the angel was entertaining us at this point -- this genuine being, transparent and honest. His blue eyes winked and sparkled and I could have sat and listened to his stories all day.


Dad's memorial service was yesterday. My college-era best friend Laura flew in special from Dallas after a year-long absence. See, Laura and I have been through...a lot...together in the five years we've known each other. I've loved having her here to act the fool with for a few days, to blow off some steam. To thumb wrestle and tickle torture and take the piss out of. Her halo might be a little dented and rusty, but her presence at this time has been invaluable.


The only member of my father's family to the memorial was his nephew Toivo. I hadn't remembered the last time I had met Toivo -- I was probably too young to remember anything at that age. It was striking to see and hear the similarities between the two men, as if Riho has walked back into the room momentarily. He especially shared dad's penchant for storytelling. At the wake, after the memorial service, I watched him as he held an audience of a half-dozen -- all of them leaning forward in rapt attention as Toivo recounted times when he and his uncle launched rockets in the backyard and flew model airplanes in the living room of his grandmother's house. His presence was reassuring to me, yet he made me nervous at the same time. It's as if he were dad -- gone through different experiences -- an entirely different person, yet so obviously related.