october 30

20 minutes

Monday morning I trekked through the cold and damp to the bank to deposit money from clients. People always whine that Portland is "so gray" in the winter. Actually, the sky is white, a dirty, bright white. As I crossed the street and squinted up at the blanket of clouds I wondered what the RGB equivalent of this color would be. That means I've been working too much.

I don't know what they're thinking, but this bank, which targets small businesses and is located in the heart of downtown, doesn't open until 10 AM. I always forget this and it drives me nuts. Why? Why? If you want to reach your customers and help them run their businesses, the least you can do is keep normal business hours. Sheesh.

Anyhoo, so I got up there at 9:40. Twenty minutes to kill.

I decided I needed something hot to drink so I went to Starbucks and got myself a mocha. My favorite endorphin booster. I was wearing the funky, brown, fake leather jacket my neighbor, Erin, left for me last week. She's my only crazy single girlfriend and she's moved away and I'm upset about it so I wear this thin-as-nothing jacket because it reminds me of the fabulous craziness she brought to my life. I had a half-smoked American Spirit in my pocket so, even though I don't like to smoke so early in the morning, I decided this was a good time to finish it off. I only smoke in times of transition or high stress, like moving or finals when I was in school. I've been smoking regularly, like one or two a day, since September 14th.

Next door to this Starbucks is a gallery with large glass windows. I spotted a new piece, six photographs arranged in a frame designed to look like a window pane, one photo in each light. The first five photos were generic images of "happy, American life," like stock photos. The last was an image that must have been taken from news stock. It was the second WTC exploding after the plane hit it. I was a little surprised that this subject had already hit the local art scene, and disappointed that this execution was so miserably trite.

This made me think of a column I'd read the week of the attack, one by a local theater critic. It was hastily written, a little garbled with anxiety and adrenaline. He pleaded with the theater community to address this attack, immediately, even if the work was rough and improvisational. That it was their responsibility to tell this story apart from the news reports.

As I was thinking about this I walked past the old J.K. Gill building, which is still vacant. The storefront windows are apparently being leased by local groups because Portland Center Stage had a display promoting the season. I wondered why the hell I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to a play. I mean, theater was the center of my life from the time I was 7 until I was in high school. I always feel like I can't afford it. Stupid. I've probably spent $100 on beer and cocktails this month. Stupid stupid. I miss theater. I wondered if I could still get myself on a stage and actually perform something and have it mean anything. Where do you go to check out auditions anymore?

At 9:50 I walked into Aveda. Ahh, the smell of Aveda. I instantly felt like a dirty-girl with my cigarette breath and bare face. I was on day six of a nasty infection in my right eyelid and I feel blah and plain without my gold eye shadow. I was out of my foundation, and since there's nothing like the Aveda pressed cream base, I bit the bullet and bought a refill. I played with eye shadow and found a super-fresh stick with both copper and an iridescent cranberry color that would be fabulous. And a lip pencil called Fig. Lovely.

A very pretty freckled red-head named Rainbow, though she looked more like an Alice or a Helen, wrote down the names of the colors for me so I could buy them later. I could live without eyeshadow and more lip pencil. I paid for the foundation, spritzed myself with some musky perfume, and walked out. Later that night, A* went crazy over the lingering musk on my neck. I must remember to get me some of that, too.

- october 30