Biking with Barry

I’ve begun biking to and from work. It is only four miles one way and I am a bit ashamed as I realize that this eco-friendly action of mine is prompted by my inability or mostly unwillingness to pay current gas prices as opposed to a way to endow a foreseeable future for generations to come. As I ride, I listen to music. I always enjoyed having a soundtrack for my walks to and from campus back when I lived in Moscow, Idaho and I enjoy the same “cool beats” that inspire me to peddle a little faster. One song I play quite frequently is Barry Whites “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love”. It was during this song that I began to notice that as a female cyclist, I am a bit of a spectacle. I have been stared at by men before and I say this not to address my looks but just to let you know that this is not a new experience. I’m just a bit confused however. Objectification by bike? Doesn’t this seem a little odd? Last time I checked, bike helmets are about the least sexy adornment a girl can wear on her head. Sometimes, as I place my helmet on, buckling the clasp and usually pinching my finger in the process, I can’t help but feel as if I am placing a cheese head on my large German head. I learned I had a large head the first time I bought a baseball cap. The salesperson at Lids handed me a small and with each swap for a larger size, I felt a little bit more uncomfortable. Anyway, as with most physical movement, I sweat while I ride. Maybe this is the draw. I can’t imagine the dudes sitting behind their supped-up Civics are taking in the helmet or the streaks of grease on my calves. There is enough to watch out for when I precariously bike through fast moving traffic and oblivious drivers but now I have to be exposed like a woman walking past a construction site? Give me a break or at least give me the right away before you honk your horn as I fly past.

Dance like no one is watching

This past weekend I joined my mother and father on an adventure. We headed to the Pearl District, the new “it” area in Portland. What was once the site of Portland’s low-income housing district has now become a flashy display of glamour and wealth. I would be lying, however, if I said I didn’t wish I owned one of the chic lofts that look down on Jamison Park. It was this park that hosted Bastille Day. The people I met completely eradicated the notion that the French are snooty. Perhaps it is the language that makes people (the average simple minded American) to assume the French are an uppity group. Even the two vendors behind the crepe stand sounded as if they were wooing one another even though (according to Mother) they were simply tallying up the total of our order aloud. After browsing the shops and devouring delicious pastries we stopped upon the edge of the fountain’s waters border. Dancing to the French band, completely unaware of the lyrics that spoke of the many strange people the lead singer met while playing in a pub in Paris, hundreds of children grooved beneath the nearly oppressive sun. Bastille Day fell on a balmy 95 degree afternoon. I took off my sandals and waded into the water. Although it may have been frowned upon, I wished that I had my suit on. But mostly I wished that I could be a little kid again. As I watched two little girls in particular, just off to the right of the stage, I envied their freedom of expression. Even as a self-proclaimed free spirit, I find myself criticizing others who are a bit “different”. “Dance like no one is watching”. I think I saw that on some plaque in a friend’s apartment. We always dance like people are watching, unless of course no one is really watching (for example, in the solitude of one’s bedroom, the blinds drawn, the door locked). I’m tired of the critical eye the plagues everyone. I’m tried of my critical eye.

Books and Boys

Beginning a new novel is like beginning a new relationship. You know that at some point it is going to end. Because let’s face it, this isn’t the last book you are ever going to open; this isn’t the book with which you will spend the remainder of your life curled up in an easy chair beside the fire or on the porch swing making the most of a summer’s day’s last teasing strands of light. For both, the ending sometimes comes as a great shock, suddenly, drastically, and tragically ending without so much as a goodbye or a proper denouement. The beginning is quite different. One might be hesitant or quite the opposite, one might jump in head first and find themselves wasting away the hours of the days of the weeks of their life absorbed in the story, be it the story unfolding between two people or that of an author and the reader. But books do not leave scars. And neither do relationships…that is if we aren’t willing to let them. From both books and relationships, one garners understanding and with this understanding comes a clandestine strength. The details of the stories held with in the confines of paperback bindings and time begin to fade, although subtly, but certain lessons, if you will, never cease to exist in the depths of our subconscious. There was a period in history where people feared books, burned them in fact. More recently, libraries and schools banned books. These insular minds feared what might happen if people gained a deeper insight that might be at times hard to swallow. We do not give the heart or the mind enough credit. I trust, however, that the closure of one book means the beginning of another. I trust that one day I’ll find a book so absolutely all-consuming that when I do lose myself in its story, I won’t even be aware that the lines between reality and the life I live inside my head have becoming completely skewed. I trust that I won’t even care. But here is the real clincher…I’ll be the author of this novel. And there is that.

Inspired by Quincy

Always the one to give advice, I sometimes overlook the moments in my life where others are giving me advice (and good advice too)! My youngest brother, Q, said to me on multiple occasions “Paige, do what you love!” I believe he even became angry when I blew off his suggestion time and time again. So in summary, here I am, “blogging”, because Quincy told me to do what I love. I recall high school English teachers telling us to “remember our audience”. I now ask…who is my audience? I write for me. This is the only way I can keep this stuff real. Writing is an extension of one’s soul. Our ability to communicate using words, so many many words, sets us apart from other animals. Why should we tuck this blessing away in a virtual folder on my password protected laptop? So if you happen to come across this, enjoy and respond. Let’s continue the dialog. Thanks.

Peace, Love and Paige