I awoke as usual, with the animals, restless with hunger, signaling the approaching dawn. I poked my face out and took in a breath of air. It was cold, and clear, and I braced myself for full emergence into it. I pushed back my pack and stepped out onto the smooth stone below. I stretched my body, one quadrant at a time, and was ready for the day. I rolled up my pack and stashed it in the rocks. The animals would hopefully earn their keep by not letting anyone – or anything – take my pack in my absence.

I climbed down the side of the hill to the communication hut. The antennae were already abuzz, exchanging messages with the other huts scattered about the moonscape. I checked the log for any urgent communiques from the overnight. There were the usual data requests and status relays. But today they’d have to wait to get my full attention. Today I had a more important task.

Transport duty is an honor of sorts. Being outside of the electrified perimeter of the communication hut is dangerous, for many reasons. Inside the hut is the only equipment available for contact beyond the perimeters. Outside, exposed to the elements, and the native fauna, without any way to call for help, imminent death is a foregone conclusion. That is, unless you’re in a transport vehicle. Most sectors only have one or two available, so only dignitaries or missionaries are allowed their use. But nearly everyone in every sector craves the day they are asked to operate a vehicle. That means leaving the sector, if only for a brief time, in the hopes that things are different somewhere else. After so many days of sameness, any shift in the scenery is valued.

After reviewing transport vehicle protocol, I’m given the ignition rod and a map. I’ve been tasked with carrying one of our missionaries to a rendezvous point in Sector 46b2. A group of missionaries is taking another hop to the dark side for data mining and negotiations with the native clans. Important work, I’m sure, but I don’t really care. If I can get our missionary to the rendezvous point sooner rather than later, I can make a diversion without anyone really knowing.

For months we’ve been hearing chatter about food in Sector 46b2. We’re all supposed to be surviving on rations, but somehow, someone over there has been making actual food. Not merely fuel for these, our biological machines, but things with flavor and texture and aroma. I’m determined to find out for myself if the rumors are true, and I’d gladly die trying.

I was expeditious in my deliverance of the missionary at the rendezvous point, but not so hurried as to raise any alarm. Once my task was complete, I throttled the engines on the transport vehicle and made my way slowly through the ramshackle buildings gathered beneath the launch pad. Nothing stood out, which was to be expected. Any hint of nonconformity, even in the chaos of this veritable shanty town, would call for a severe clampdown by the authorities. Not necessarily for any kind of meanness, really, but no one wants to risk a convergence of the beasts in their sector. All the more reason I needed to try this food. If it was worth the risk of the beasts, it must be heaven on the moon.

I lowered the lateral visor and leaned my head outside. I was rewarded for my patience then. Barely noticeable, there danced amidst the dust particles and soot, molecules of such an alien, and yet, pleasurable odor, I didn’t quite believe it at first. I brought the vehicle to a stop outside a lean-to of corrugated steel draped with hemp netting. I removed the ignition rod and sat still for a long moment, gathering every piece of data available from my vantage point. The odor became stronger, or more concentrated, really, and a slight murmur emanated from behind the steel. I stepped out of the vehicle and cautiously made my way around what I hoped was an incognito kitchen.  As the murmurs grew louder, I considered for a moment that there might be a password or some kind of signal I would need to know to gain entrance. Considering the clandestine nature of such an establishment, the proprietors must be on their guard.

As I stood there contemplating my next move, something shifted in my peripheral view. Through a slit in the corrugation, a glittery eye looked upon me, unmoving. Two long, shaky breaths later and the slit widened to show a toothy grin residing on a round, dirty face. The man wordlessly beckoned for me to come inside, and I did. Once inside, the steel sheeting closed behind me with a rush of air, and immediately I felt transported to another world. I could feel the aromas crawling across my skin, wrapping me with an almost visible envelope of flavor. I followed the round-faced man across the dark room, and even though there was barely any light, I could see the air shifting about us, each wave bringing a new scent to me.

I was overwhelmed, but the cook didn’t seem to mind. I’m sure I wasn’t the first speechless stranger to wander into his shack. A firm but gentle hand pressed upon my shoulder, and I found myself sitting on a bench in front of a smooth and seemingly wooden table. My eyes were finally adjusting to the absence of light when another sensation greeted me. Hot, scented tendrils of steam crawled through the darkness, touching my chin and entering my gaping mouth. My jaw pulsed and saliva filled the cavity. On the table before me was a stack of what I can only describe as food. What else could I call something I had never seen but only heard about from others who also had never seen it?

The round-faced man stood before me and gestured for me to pick up the stack and put it to my mouth. I did just that, unsure of what I might do at any second. But instinct kicked in and my jaw stretched and my quivering lips surrounded the mound of hot substances. As I bit into it, the outer most layers gave way to my teeth easily. These outer layers were dry, yet soft, and did well to hold the inner layers from falling apart in my hands. My teeth continued to penetrate and I felt a resistance to my lower jaw. I reached my tongue to investigate and found what I can only compare to grass in feeling, but in taste. . .

There was a sweetness to the tiny bits of liquid that burst from the grassy stalks. And then my lip burned as the grass gave way to meaty leaves and seeds and even more bursting of liquid. Meanwhile, my upper teeth continued their downward trajectory. They met with resistance as well, but this was harder, not unlike the dried tobacco bits in our ration boxes in texture, but far from them in flavor. My teeth came together in the middle of a thick layer of spongy whiteness. I took the full bite of all layers together in my mouth and mashed them with my teeth. I let the liquids swirl around my tongue and my teeth, the fire that was on my lip, now inside my mouth, was tempered by the white mass surrounded by the crunchy flakes. Each layer was a separate sensation worthy of contemplation, but together they were a study in ecstasy.

My biology took over and I began swallowing the mashed up mass of substances. To fill the void, I took another bite, and another. The fire inside my mouth increased, but I welcomed the pain as it was feeling, true feeling I had never felt in all my days on this moon. I recognized more aspects to the flavors. There was bitterness that was not poison, there was saltiness that was not sweat. My eyes began to water and I paused to take a few gasping breaths. I didn’t want to let go of this pile of food for fear it would be taken from me, but I needed a break from it. The sensations were too much after so many years with none. I set the pile down on the table and wrapped my arms loosely but protectively around it and stared into the darkness. The round-faced cook pressed something cold to the back of my hand. I looked down to see an aluminum tankard filled with a creamy liquid. He motioned for me to drink it. The cool thickness soothed the delicious fire in my mouth. My craving strengthened and I lifted the stack for another round of devouring. I traded off on the cold, creamy liquid and my pile of food until they were both gone. Then I sat, perspiring and exhausted, my belly protruding like a missionary’s. I sighed audibly and the cook stretched his gnarled smile wider.

I was happy and sated and drowsy and unaware of the passage of time or of my surroundings. I soon felt tugging and prodding and was forced to standing, and then pushed out between the slit in the corrugation.  Outside, the light was blinding compared to the dimness inside the shack. I stood dumb and confused, trying to commit the memory of my meal into the safest part of my brain for later retrieval. My eyes readjusted, and the euphoria wore off, bringing me back to reality. I looked around for the transport vehicle but forgot where I had left it. I thought it was right outside the little building. I reached down for the ignition rod, and it was gone. No passwords or secret handshakes required, but my little pile of nirvana had a price.

Marriage is, at its core, a social contract. Two adults pledge to be responsible for each other. If they want to add a spiritual or religious element to it, they have the freedom to do so.

If marriage were purely a faith-based institution, the federal and state governments would have no legal basis for enacting any laws relating to marriage. Adults would only be able to file taxes as individuals - at most their spouses would be dependents (a whole other can of worms). Spouses would be obliged to testify against each other (maybe that’s just a TV thing). There would be no divorce - good luck getting your records after the split.

On June 6, will it be legal for all consenting adults to marry each other, regardless of gender, or will there be enough religious fanatics in Washington to force the issue to a popular vote? We’ll just have to wait and see.

I’ve been thinking lately about water bottles (who isn’t?) and it led me to thinking about shampoo bottles. The average American surely goes through much fewer in a year than the evil store-bought water bottle, but we still must go through quite a few. So I got an idea. There could be a little return receptacle at the grocery store/pharmacy where consumers can place their empties while picking up their new bottle. When the distributor comes to refill the shelf, they take the empties back to the distribution center, and then they make their way back in bulk to the manufacturer. There they get washed and stuff, and then refilled. If the bottles now are not in a reusable state, they may need a redesign, or maybe they just need to be melted and reformed, I don’t know.

I’d like to start a pilot program with a smaller company - I was thinking Giovanni since I use their product - and see how it goes. It may be an idea that fails miserably, but it may be the start of something much bigger.

It seems that I may have been given an opportunity to redeem myself for not helping out a stranger the other day. This is what I’m thinking this morning, after I hand over the wad of cash to my neighbor. Wednesday morning, my elderly next door neighbor knocks on my front door to ask me for a couple postage stamps. I usually have a stash, but had recently run out, so I could not help her. But I stood at the door and listened to her for a few moments, as she was clearly distressed. She is frail and sad and on her own since her husband died last year. She tells me that she is not in good health and she just wants to die. I’m in my bathrobe with a towel on my wet head, otherwise I might have stepped outside to give her a hug. Instead, I take her hand in mine while she whimpers a bit more (I hope I don’t sound sarcastic, because I don’t mean to be) and I go inside to get dressed and go to work. This morning, at a little after 7am, she comes to my door again, and this time she’s even more distressed. She hands me a hundred dollar bill and asks me for change so she can take a cab to the hospital. I don’t have the change, but I tell her I’ll go to QFC and get some. I throw on yesterday’s clothes and my shoes, forget my glasses, and rush over to the supermarket, preparing my speech to convince the cashier to give me change without making a purchase. When I get there, no explanation is necessary and I head back home with a bunch of bills folded inside my fist. I decide then that supermarkets are banks for people without bank accounts, and I’m happy they exist. I hand over the cash and continue with my day. I didn’t hear her leave, but I’m pretty sure she must have.

This is when I think that this was my opportunity to make up for a couple weeks ago, and I’m comforted by that thought. And then I think, on a different tack, maybe it’s been her anxiety I’ve been feeling for the last few months. I’m not a stranger to mild anxiety, but for several weeks it’s been quite agonizing for me. I’ve often felt I have some sort of psychic connection with others at various times, and I think I vacillate on whether I’m a sender or a receiver. Today I think maybe I’m both, but I’m a one-way transmitter. In other words, if I’m in a mode of receiving, such as maybe I’ve been for my neighbor recently, I can’t also send anything out to anyone. And maybe it’s to do with biorhythms, if those actually exist. It’s all just crazy talk, I’m sure, brought on by being startled awake by a scared woman nearing the end of her life.

You have to also understand that I’m not really good with people. I generally don’t like touching people, even people I like, and I have a horrible bedside manner. But I felt for this woman I’ve lived beside for the last five years, and thought I really need to do something to comfort her. Standing at the door with my neighbor, I thought to myself, “how would Meg handle this situation?” I could never emote the way she can, but I tried to channel Meg as best I could to allow some intimacy. I held her hand, I stroked her arm, I offered some, hopefully, encouraging words. I suppose I did OK. When I gave her the money I had changed at QFC, she told me, “I will never forget you. You are all I have.” Which is, of course, not true - she has family nearby who come by fairly often. But it made an impact, and hopefully I did on her.

Recently I met someone who made an impression on me. Something about him struck me, and I listened to his story, strange that it was. I wondered if what he was telling me was true, and at the same time also knew there were things he was keeping hidden. Eventually it came out that he needed a place to stay for the night, and I considered granting it. In the end, I guess you could say I chickened out (my mother is probably thankful for that) and sent him out into the night without anything to make his way any easier. What could I have given him? He didn’t even ask for anything. And I’m left wondering if I did the right thing, if he really just wanted a place to lay his head for the night, or if he may have had sinister intentions. Who knows, because when he left, he was gone. It brings to mind Jesus’ story about treating strangers nicely (”when I was hungry, you fed me, etc”). Maybe this guy, this fellow human being, was down on his luck but otherwise a decent person. Then again, maybe he was a thief and a liar. I feel like I should be able to connect with my fellow globules of atoms in a way that would help me know this. What have we become if we turn our backs on everyone solely on the basis that one of those people might be evil? I sincerely hope this man found a nice patch of grass to rest upon and that he made his way home after sunrise. And if there is any kind of karma, I hope it doesn’t bite me for turning away a stranger with an authentic need for shelter.

Pearl Vodka Caramel: decently sweet aperitif.

Pearl Vodka original: gross.

Sorry, Canada, but that stuff tastes nasty. Best to keep your grains for whiskey. I’ll stick with my Monopolowa.

Last night I had the opportunity to see Tabloid, which is currently in limited release in the US. Primarily an interview of Joyce McKinney after the fact, the film shows what can be accomplished if one completely disregards the thoughts and opinions of others and acts accordingly. Ms. McKinney almost literally goes by the beat of her own drummer and got into a bit of trouble because of that, back in the 1970s. She followed her one true love to England where she ultimately was to stand trial for kidnapping said true love. Much happened - or didn’t happen, depending on who’s telling - before and after the alleged kidnapping, which is revealed bit by bit as the film goes on. Delusional or completely truthful, McKinney is a unique individual who managed to give a small group of people quite a wild ride. A bit odd at times, there were moments which caused me to laugh out loud. The story is ridiculous in the best sense of the word.

A few weeks ago, I took a class called Writing Effective Paragraphs. It may seem obvious, but there are some things that you just don’t think about when writing, but when someone says it out loud it brings them to the forefront of your mind. It can be quite helpful, even if you think you know how to write, for someone to tell you how. I wrote the below paragraph for the class. I don’t make a claim to its effectiveness, but I felt compelled to share it. Though our instructor made suggestions for improvement, the paragraph is virtually unaltered from what was presented in class.

There is always something interesting happening on the block of Third Avenue between Pine and Pike Streets. As a bus stop for many of the routes passing through downtown, and as a sort of geographical center of the Ride Free Area, this block brings many different people to it, and at all hours of the day. Recently, I witnessed a game of Catch between two young men in the middle of the street. It was a Sunday night so there was very little vehicular traffic. On a previous occasion, I was waiting for a bus when a fight broke out, prompting a bus driver to call in a report which brought three sheriff cars and a police car to the block. A week ago, I read a newspaper article about a disgruntled man who went home to get a gun to settle an argument, and he brought it back to where? That’s right, he returned to the Third and Pine bus stop. Many of the less fortunate among us gather on this block whether waiting for a bus or not. If you use this stop, you will start to see the same people again and again. It brings to me a sense of belonging and community which suburbanites may not appreciate. This block could be considered an institution in Seattle, on a similar level of the Starbucks building or the Fremont Troll. At the very least, it is a part of the rich tapestry which is the Emerald City.

For all of my life, I’ve never really been a fan of roller coasters or other thrill rides. Especially if it has a loop in it, I can totally live without the experience, but there’s usually enough other attractions at amusement parks that I can still have a satisfying time. At some point in my childhood, I found myself at Six Flags Over Texas with my sister, stepmom, aunt, and older cousins. We were in line for the Spinnaker, a spinny thing on an arm which lifts to a vertical position, giving the riders a few moments of being upside down. I had no desire to ride it, so I said that I wouldn’t. This decision did not sit well with my stepmom, and so began a battle of wills. I eventually lost, influenced in part by my cousin Brian’s offer to let me ride with him in his pod (this same cousin Brian introduced me to peanut butter on pancakes, so I knew he could be trusted).  It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but I still didn’t like it, and never rode it again. I just didn’t see how taking a turn on an amusement park ride would bring the slightest amount of betterment to my life as a whole. It did, however, provide me with a lasting memory.

Which is why, sitting at the bar of Oddfellows last night with Maryam, I felt compelled to drink a cocktail named Spinnaker. From what I can tell, it is a house creation, and its ingredients are bourbon, Bonal, Cointreau, and bitters, served with zest of orange. It was not nearly as scary to me as the amusement park ride, so it was not difficult to convince myself to get it. I had no previous knowledge of Bonal, but it is apparently harmless (as much as a 16% alcohol beverage can be), and actually quite tasty in the Spinnaker. I may have to check out this aperitif next time I’m at the ol’ liquor store. I can be quite adventurous in aspects of life that don’t involve mechanical arms and such throwing one’s body into the air.

My final day at SIFF was one of annoyance and melancholy.
After a morning of Vampire Diaries on DVD, I headed over to SIFF Cinema (conveniently located!) for Holy Rollers: The True Story of Card Counting Christians. I watched this film mainly because a friend of mine would be referenced in it. As it turns out, Benjamin had quite a bit more screen time than I had anticipated, and I was surprised and delighted to see his wife, also my friend, Megan on-screen as well. (It really should not be a surprise to see Megan on the silver screen, and if you have spent ten minutes with her, you’d know why.) It is really difficult for me to write objectively about this film for the very fact that it’s about self-proclaimed Christians. The film follows a team of blackjack players made up of primarily pastors and other “devout” Christians. I use the capital C to emphasize that the appellate is more name than description. The only player that seemed a true christian to me was Mark, the pastor who quit because he could no longer correlate his spiritual life with his casino life. The filmmaker of Holy Rollers was on hand for a Q&A but I felt my mind would burst if I had to listen to more of the claptrap. So I left during the credits and headed to Pacific Place for my final film.
The evening ended with a sorrowful Belgium film called Illégal. A single mother of one has made her way in Belgium as a cleaner for nearly ten years when she is randomly spotted by police and detained for lack of papers. Not wanting to be deported back to Russia, she hides her identity from authorities while waiting out her time at a detention center. She suffers while also bonding with fellow detainees. A guard at the center empathizes with the foreigners although she needs the job to support her own family. Events reach a cresendo at the center, bringing the guard to a turning point and bringing a sincere tear to my eye. Illégal is available on DVD and will be on Netflix Instant Watching in July.