Durian foie gras please.

It’s a beautiful day in Portland, Oregon and I am sitting in the bar that makes me comfortable when it is raining. I have hiked four miles and sat down for a beer in the dreary confines of an old-school bar with smoke edged lines. There are people talking about Cagney films, there is slop out the window around the tallest building in the city. The winter is coming and I am here, listening to the sad talk of old-timers while deliberate fog makes its way over the hills from the ocean, teasing us lowlanders that we might have rain soon.

There is what I grew up with, not from my parents, but from my family. Here is never here. There is talking about the lump on so and so’s neck. There is the five deaths in the past year of people you have never even known. She is doing better. She does look great since that niece of hers finally stopped by. Not to say it was her fault, of course. Who could be blamed?

Here is a slow amble to a market, purchased tomatoes eaten out of hand. Here is a sun that fucks up my understanding of fall: no soccer, no basketballs. Here I am writing on a day off. I could be spinning any struggle to beat any opponent. Instead, my biggest obstacle to a successful day is snot riding high in my sinuses.

I walked by an eviscerated Durian fruit sitting in the gutter today. Durian smells like its reputation. I will now assure you.

School is starting up and I have to ask myself often whether this is right for me. This being my life. This being students at newly acclaimed institutions buying coffee from their predecessor. This being stress fractures in my ribs when I think about the people that have helped me. This being hard to put in words unless you can put it in words. Then, why am I here? I am here because I made decisions. I stand behind them, I stand in front of them when the bullet comes.

World: Here I am, rock me like a hurricane. Or sunny September day.

Duck, Duck, Girl.

More than a year.

This little hoo-hah has been going on for more than a year now, and I honestly did not imagine I would be where I am now those few twelve months ago. I would have sooner believed I would be batting eigth for the Sox after a September call-up than finding out the gender of my child on Thursday, but so be it. I couldn't be happier unless both were true.

These days I play with a clover, rather than a pressure washer, and am surrounded by Geisha varietal coffee rather than Merlot varietal "grape." I walk three blocks to work, rather than drive 950 miles for temporary employment. My dog sleeps on a couch rather than the back seat of my car. Hell, some guy named Magik (yes with a K) bought my car months ago. I am no longer employed in the wine business and I don't really miss it yet.

I have learned remedial skills on a wood fired oven, organized a coffee dinner, told a co-worker he was a prissy little bitch on my way out the door, mastered sudoku and re-started attending farmers' markets. My neck is sore, I can walk ten miles with little effort, and my stool is relatively healthy. I am in love with an amazing woman. All is well, and now we are up to date.

This was originally a way to touch base with Portland and dump writing that I didn't want to hold onto for later use. My project lately has been "Notes to the Bryo," a diary for the un-born-yet thing (hopefully with a tail) that will enter my life sometime in early February. All of it has been pretty personal so I have held onto it, making me a bit of an ass for not posting here.

For those of you new to the site, do me the favor of starting at the start. Maybe by the time you get to tomorrow I will have gotten my ass in gear.