Journal of a Something or Other

They’d only just ordered drinks and already Birch was swearing she’d never go on a blind date again.  Dammit, she really should have known better. Aster was always trying to set her up with minor heroes so the dryad would leave her six brothers alone.  Birch sighed, thinking about the youngest, the one who still had that swan’s wing.  How great would that be in bed, those soft feathers trailing up—

“Tough choices, huh?”  The melodic voice broke into Birch’s daydream.  Right.  She still had to get through this date.  Tucking her short silver-green hair behind her ears she cast a glance at the menu, searching for something polite and empty to say.

“Oh, y’know, choosing something at a new restaurant is always difficult.  It’s so easy to be disappointed.”

“That is so true.”

Birch looked up at the face across from her.  Gods, he was so earnest.  With his golden hair pulled back, the late summer sun glowed shell-pink through his pointed ears.  She could imagine him at Midsummer, wreathed in flowers and winning all the archery contests.  He was too pretty, she decided.  That was always the problem with the Sidhe.

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A friend of mine is doing a project called “Secret Chicago”, which now has a wider-ranging LJ group.  They’re ultra-short vignettes that open little mind-doors of (often dark) magical realism into whatever place the writer is from or holds dear.  Some places have strong existences, once you’ve lived there a while and you go past that shop that has been closed for years or take public transit daily it can start your memory reeling into possibilities of whys and what ifs.  Secret Cities is a fascinating project, expanding pocket worlds from chance impressions.

I’ve played with the idea of writing a couple myself, but I think what magical realism I’ve found in the Portland metro area is already being tapped in a couple of ways.  The area in and around where I live I photograph.  Yes, rural suburbia is weird, but in a way I mostly enjoy by living in it.  The city I work in I have a love-hate relationship with and I’ve already got the place drawn up in a different genre of writing experiment.

Besides, the magical realism aspects of the city are, for me, incredibly tied up in someone else’s work.

If I’m waiting for a bus and start a cigarette, I think of Jo in Anvil (#6).  Ghost bikes have a new dimension.  More or less, when I’m looking at the city I’m either wondering what it would look like if the plants went un-battled or if that’s the Safeway in book eight.

It’s a kind of nepotism, I guess.  I am of course fond of my own ideas and I know the writer of City of Roses, who is damned charming—except maybe for how his saga totally overwhelms my impression of the city and keeps me waiting for the next instalment like my own personal narcotic.

Which is still rather charming.

    When I’m at home alone I’m rather careless about where I kick off my shoes. I figure, if I trip over them, it’s my own damn fault. So when the front door eased open a few inches before hitting my little Miami Vice slip-ons, my first thought was, “Oh shit, Chase is trying to come in and I’m an ass.” But instead of barrelling though and pushing them aside, the door suddenly jerked closed and I heard a lady stranger’s voice.
    “Oh.”
    Our building is the result of a particularly unique house reconstruction. In another era our apartment and that of our closest neighbour would be the servant’s quarters, accessible by side stairs and situated above the garage and the expansive two-bedroom flat below. It makes pizza delivery difficult, trying to explain how to find the side door that opens into a narrow, knotty pine panelled stairwell. So I figured this lady, whoever she was, had to be lost.
    Trotting over to the door, I kicked aside my shoes and opened it just enough to poke my head out and lean a shoulder against the jam. It’s not so much that I’m paranoid, I just really hate people.
    At the sound of the door opening, the woman in our entryway-mudroom spun around, in an off-putting mix of surprise and mild terror.
    “Oh!”
    Her easy-to-care-for short hair was plastered down from the rain, matching her coat, which was so saturated it might as well have been black. She had a little damp scarf peeking from the collar, one of those frizzy, foofy things seen around the necks of middle-aged coffee shop knitters. Quiet clicking nails brought my attention down to a small dog at her feet. The two of them had been out in the rain for a while.
    “Can I help you?” I tried out my nice voice. I figured, the lady got turned around or something, no reason to pull out the solicitor sternness, even if she’d attempted to open my door.
    I did not expect what she said.
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