A Change of Scenery

Greetings, loyal readers!

(Well, I mean, you'd have to pretty damn loyal at this point, wouldn't you? Especially considering that I haven't posted a dribble to this site in almost two years -- although the spambots certainly seem to have been busy. Anyway...)

This is a courtesy message designed to direct traffic towards my latest endeavor on the internet, another blog, which promises to track my fluctuating fortunes as I try to break into the world of comics using only a crowbar, a brush pen, and my own desperate desire for creative expression. In its warm and welcome embrace you may enjoy weekly sketches, updates on my self-published series, Baggywrinkles, and tales from my adventures in the Portland comics scene.

So hie yourselves over to...
THE REINVIGORATED ARTISTIC ADVENTURES OF LUCY BELLWOOD

It'll be worth it -- I promise!

Ever yours,
L

A Brief Re/Nightcap

So.

The Election of 2008, which we have all participated in, which embodies our future, which has, at last, given us hope at the end of a long, dark tea-time of the soul period in the history of America, is over. It was momentous, unbelievable, touching, and inspiring. If I could pick any part of history to truly be a part of, this would have to be it.

Lucky for me, then, that I got to stand, packed shoulder to shoulder with my fellow students, watching the results come in, until the final tumultuous cry of joy went up and the champagne corks blew and the arms flew round the shoulders.

Yet it wasn't until the crowd celebrating Obama's victory, both in Chicago and Vollum Lecture Hall on Reed College Campus in Portland, Oregon, began the now-infamous chant of "Yes We Can" that I felt tears in my eyes. I broke down. I wept like a baby -- crying, laughing, not being able to tell which was which.

There, at last, after so many years of cynicism and outrage and the inability to be proud of my country and my heritage, I felt as if I belonged. No more the dismissive wave of the hand and the closing remark: "I don't talk about politics. They disgust me." Or the need to leave the room -- or worse, the country -- when the President came on television to discuss the state of the nation. Here was the America I had wished I could come home to from my travels. The America I dreamed would be welcomed and respected by the world. The America I carry in my back pocket as a passport -- the one I no longer want to shred in favor of my other, more Continentally-flavoured option.

This was the America I had almost stopped believing existed, since the moment I became old enough to glean even vaguely what was happening in the governing of our country, it was already too late. In these last eight years I've grown a great deal emotionally, mentally, and physically (though my current goal of 5'7" remains 1/4" distant -- and the gap doesn't seem to be closing), but through all those years I've felt a disconnect between my indentity and my ideals. The world does need change. The world needs inspiration. The world needs action. Action driven by honesty and a desire for solutions. We are no longer in an age of desperate measures. We are capable of working together to create an America which ceases to flail madly and lash out with violence and turmoil when trouble rears its ugly head. We are in good hands. Our own.

With all this in mind, we jubilantly embraced and laughed together in Vollum, before seeking out further revelry. Being a college of a rather liberal and Democratic persuasion, Reed believes that any event of import, certainly this most astonishing and miraculous of elections, may only truly, justly be celebrated by two means: dancing and nudity.

It is therefore hardly surprising that following President-Elect Obama's acceptance speech, we flooded boisterously to the Student Union, with its enormous couch see-saw and glorious vaulted ceiling, shed our garments, and danced as if the stars had floated down to say hello. As if we would never have another opportunity like this. Another night so glorious. And maybe that's true. There were lights and fog and preposterously amazing music and, most importantly of all, a community of people who were absolutely over the moon. Such joy is infectious -- and even now, exhausted, hoarse, blistered, bruised, and rather unprepared for a day of classes tomorrow, I am bursting with great pleasure and hope.

I hope you've all celebrated in your own ways -- quiet or loud -- and I want to say "thank you," because you have all brought this country the leader it needs. And though he embodies the policies we believe in, it is also important to remember that we, the people, elected him. The responsibility of change is in our hands too. Remember kindness. Remember patience. Change doesn't have to build continents from scratch. Most days, it's more than enough to offer a smile and a hug, or a story, or a helping hand. Start small. I promise you the day will come when we move mountains.

Rest well, America of my dreams. Tomorrow is a new, beautiful day.

My Fellow Americans...

You already know what I'm going to say -- so just get out there and do it already. Those of us who have placed our votes in "early" hands will be living vicariously through you tomorrow.

On a vaguely connected note, if you ever have the chance to see The Capitol Steps perform live, please, please go. They're hilarious.

For the international readership of this publication: We're trying, ladies and gentlemen. Really. Wish us luck.

We may now commence with the holding of the breath.

The Relay

Roundabout the start of term, there were a great many Orientation Week t-shirts on display bearing the slogan "Reed College: It's not a sprint, it's a marathon."

Now, I'm sure the designers of this shirt had the best intentions, but it came off a little daunting. Yes to the journey, not the destination. Yes to the process, not the result. But a marathon? Are people going to be dumping bottles of water over my head as I emerge from my finals? Is my diet going to consist entirely of salt packets and goop-in-a-tube? Will I be forced to wear poncy neon shorts? I certainly hope not.

However, if we were to run with this metaphor a little longer, replacing marathon with "relay race," we could say that I've just reached my first hand-off point. Trouble being, I've failed to hand anything over. I have, instead, inadvertently set my shorts alight with the torch, then thrown it into the nearby Olympic swimming pool and started to dance the macarena.

Those of you who have taken AP English will doubtless be able to analyze this most righteous of metaphors and discover that I am, in fact, talking about Fall Break. Reed students are given a week at the end of October to cavort and gambol after midterms. This is a wise choice, and it feels like it couldn't have come at a better time. Although I'm settled and happy here, I miss my cats. I miss Ojai. I miss my family and my books and my preposterous mess of a room. And oranges. Oregon has a lot of stuff going for it, but jeez-oh-man they cannot fucking grow oranges. Yeesh.

Anyway. My one and only midterm has come and gone, and now I shoulder my trusty backpack once more and set off in search of the airport. They tell me it's big. I should be able to spot it without too much trouble.

Those of you around at home, stand by. Those of you elsewhere, keep doing whatever it is you're doing that makes you all so lovely/awesome/witty/literary/tall/short/artistic/multilingual/nude. Anyone else: DANCE!

That is all.

Life and Times of a Statiophiliac

As many of you may already be aware, I have a problem. It's the sort of condition that generally plagues me in public, alarming those in my immediate vicinity, and has, to my knowledge, no known cure. If I'm lucky, it manifests itself in the form of lurking -- perhaps with a bit of cooing, mumbling, and caressing thrown in. If unlucky, it leaves me slavering shamelessly in front of shop windows, begging passers-by for change and screaming about binding glue and ink tone.

I am, in short, a Statiophiliac.

Perhaps you've known these people in your time. An aunt who keeps postage stamps in her hair, an old classmate who spends just a little too much time in the library on Friday nights. These people have needs. These needs have a language. But whatever you call it -- stamping, Decoupage, literary ephemering, print-making, fountain penning, ink dunking, book sniffing -- the cause is the same. All these people are consumed with a burning obsession. A burning, papery obsession. They can do nothing to break away.

It is by this lighthearted discussion that I mean to introduce the topic for today -- namely, my completely willingness to do absolutely anything for journals, pens, stamps, envelopes, paper, and sealing wax. So naturally, when I found out that one of blogs I read, which caters specifically to this kind of audience (Or that subset thereof consisting of people dedicating their lives to the search for a cheaper Moleskine alternative), was staging a competition for which the prize was THREE FREE PICCADILLY NOTEBOOKS, I knew my carefully-constructed defenses were all in vain.

Here, then, is my entry for said contest, which really only needs to consist of a link to the blog in question. However, I thought I might take the opportunity to simultaneously educate you all a little about how the other half lives. Because your ignorance leaves us waking up beside some strange college-ruled, spiral-bound abomination on Monday morning who may not even fall under the prestigious heading of "stationary" -- despite its claims to the contrary after all that Mod Podge sealant the night before.

The site in question, which deals with the endless search for the perfect "Black Notebook" can be found here. And while I'm about it, Notebookism publishes some great reviews along the same lines. For notebooks in the field, check out Write In My Journal and the 1000 Journals Project. And finally, for those who need inspiration of a more postal nature, the Letter Writer's Alliance provides you with convenient links and reviews to the most titilating new postage-based joys the web can provide. Oh! While you're at it, the site's founders run the indomitable 16 Sparrows stationary press. And what's more...

I'm sure you all get the point. Now get out of here. I've got books to fondle.

All Your Tuna Are Belong To Us

We found a cat. The cat likes us. We like the cat.

If all goes according to plan, she will never go away ever again.

Molly, our fearless leader, found her hanging around the amphitheater and managed to coax her back to the dorm, where we rewarded her with a full pouch of tuna. Short work was made of this offering, and soon she stopped being quite so skittish and decided that she liked us enough to hang around and be petted for a while.

However, since Jasper the Rabbit lives in the common room where this delicious bundle of felinity was sleeping, we needed to remove her, so she's here. In bed. In my bed. There is a cat in my bed. Purring with the force of a two stroke diesel engine. It's pure and utter bliss.

I've left my window open in case she feels the need to leave me, but with the strategic acquisition of more tuna, I may just be able to keep her. Here's hoping.

Things Your Mother Would Probably Approve Of (Tentative Part Three in a Potentially Ongoing and Evolving Series)

Words which, when pluralized, end in -oxes. Foxes, boxes, equinoxes, etc.

Which brings us nicely to the weather in Portland at the moment, which has shifted sharply from warm and muggy to torrentially deluged. I personally find this a very acceptable way to usher in the delicious months of Autumn (starting tomorrow at 3:40 pm), and have celebrated by brewing a really magnificent cup of tea and settling down in bed to read countless pages of Greek lyric poetry.

My muscles are sufficiently annoyed with me for playing a vicious game of Ultimate Frisbee yesterday, not to mention learning to dance some basic Argentine Tango last night, so I've attained my required standard of exertion (and then some) for the weekend. Now is the time for curling up and studying.

Bless you Reed for successfully matching meteorology with academics.

Wonderbust? Winterrust? Wrongfulgust?

I really, truly, honestly need to change the title of this blog, or simply close it down and begin anew with a vaguely more coherent set of goals regarding the documentation of my life and academic adventures.

Suggestions, ladies and gentlemen?

Bears: Trounced, Paradise: Attained

If gorgeous wilderness wasn't enough to get the academic year moving on a high note, Reed itself has pulled out all the stops to insure that we, as new students, are made to feel, not only welcome, but completely infatuated with our new home.

In the space of an afternoon I have been...

...ambushed and spontaneously taught by 40 jugglers, left to spend as much time as I see fit in a cavernous, couch-filled goldmine containing every graphic novel I've wanted to read for the last six years, shoved into the no-man's-land space created between three simultaneous dance parties (all with separate pounding stereos playing different music, mind you) and told to dance, involved in a physics-based discussion about pie warfare with more that ten people at the same time, and passed by a swooping group of what can only be described as Viking marauders -- on bicycles -- wielding LARP-based foam weaponry.

However, the more I hear from returning students, the more I am astonished and thrilled to hear that this is nothing out of the ordinary.

To clarify: this happens all year long.

In short: I am here, and very, very happy about it.

The Lowdown

I feel as if I haven't had time to draw breath since the moment I hit the Hard running back in July, so here's a brief list (You know I love 'em) of what's been going on in my life of late.

1. Knitting a space invader.
2. Painting a 7'x10' jungle mural for some adorable children.
3. Reading The Iliad (again).
4. Attending a pilates class for the first time in my life, just to see what all the fuss was about.
5. Drawing again after a lengthy creative dry spell.
6. Coming 3rd in a Scrabble Tournament.
7. Packing my life into a series of boxes and, coming soon...

...Moving to Portland.

To avoid this turning into the obligatory "moving away to college, life so full of change and impermanence, woe and calamity, blood and gore, et cetera and et cetera" post, I'll focus on the bright side. Indeed, I haven't even had time to explore the disagreeable portions of it myself, owing to the aforementioned not having time to draw breath situation.

First off, my new address, for those of you in the know -- or you absolute strangers who stumble upon me with a burning desire to send mail to other absolute strangers (and unto you I bestow this link: http://sendsomething.net) -- will be as follows up in the land of the Port:

Lucy Bellwood
Reed College MS#76
3203 SE Woodstock Blvd.
Portland OR 97202-8199

Try as I might to see everyone before leaving the sunny lands of California, I will most certainly fail, so I suggest you start penning postcards now. I'll be incommunicado for my first 4 days up there, owing to Reed's long-standing tradition of sending all incoming students out into the wilderness to do battle with bears prior to the start of term. Those who survive will be granted a place in the class of 2012. I foresee only glowing victory in this arena.

Bottom line: I'm excited, though nothing's really sinking/sunk in yet, and so I remain blissfully delusional and a little unhinged, muddling through unfamiliar territory towards intellectual paradise. I will do my best to keep you all informed.

Two Six!

Over The Wine-Dark Sea

July 9th, 2008

I am home. My toenails are painted blue like the sea. I feel as if I've never left, and yet know it can't be possible. Were that the case, how did I incur this plethora of new and exciting injuries? Rainbows of bruises, swollen knuckles from dislocated fingers, gentle scrapes, peeling sunburn -- most importantly, the deep ebb and flood of yearning for my home on the water and the salty, wildmad lovers I left therein.

Suddenly I speak a foreign language in a native tongue. People stare at me, perplexed, as I run through complex explanations to supplement jokes about bilge pumps and bulkheads. My idiom is fast becoming obsolete and so I furiously tread water, writing letters and burning promised mix CD's for shipmates. Trying to recall the smell of salt on my skin and wind in my hair.


Normal service to resume shortly.

Land of the Free...

In Canada. Have failed entirely (apparent, I'm sure) to update in the promised fashion. Am a worm. Please forgive. News to follow? I make no promises these days.

On the other hand: SHIPS! LOTS! MANY! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!

Lost and Found

EXCITING NEWS OF INJURIES SUSTAINED SOON TO FOLLOW.

STAND BY HANDSOMELY.

Deceptive Truths

I just listened to a passing mother tell her child "Look sweetie! See how high that mast is? That's how deep the rudder sits in the water."

I'm relieved to report that the child displayed a healthy amount of skepticism at this statement. Firstly, because you should never believe everything you're told -- but more importantly because it's fucking nonsense.

Delight

I am full of it.

Waxing Lyrical

There is, shockingly, working wireless on the brig today and therefore, as I have, also shockingly, been given a whole day off, you're all being treated to an update.

The only difficulty at this point is that everything of relevance to my life now relates to tall ship sailing and tall ship sailors -- who, as it has already been pointed out by someone famous and witty (Twain, perhaps?), are the loveliest of persons, but atrociously prone to jargon*. This makes everything I now want to talk about just about unintelligible to practically everyone. So I'll try to do it right and not leave you all thinking me either a) mad or b) one baggy short of a wrinkle.

Sailing aplenty has occurred, as have multitudinous Ed Programs, docksides, and midnight adventures. After joining the vessel in Crescent City, I resettled myself aboard for the long haul (Although I am, for the moment, living in the main hold -- normally reserved for the more transient crew members) and got back into the rhythm of life on the drink. It is, in a word, fulfilling.

Apart from being more fun than a barrel of monkey's fists, it's deeply satisfying in ways I can barely explain. Working tirelessly, keeping the vessel I love in shape for the sake of astounding all the small minds who cross her decks, collapsing into bed after stand-down with my muscles ready to drop from my bones with weariness, feeling the sun I've absorbed into my skin making my pillow glow, eating heartily and singing loudly -- being filled with so much gratitude that it makes me swell with happiness every minute of every day.

These are the ingredients of a perfect life.

After a three day diversion to Eureka to pick up on any school groups we missed due to the aforementioned snafu, we're back in Crescent City -- reunited with the Hawaiian Chieftain (our companion vessel) and taking the extra day before the weekend madness to tackle various maintenance projects. Monday sees us on our way to Coos Bay, OR and beyond up the Columbia river, but in the meantime, we're doing a substantial amount of Battle Sails through Saturday and Sunday. This means exhaustion aplenty, so expect very little from me until next week at least. I figured I should just let you all know that I'm still alive, covered in pine tar, and loving every minute of it.

Fair winds and following seas...

*Although apparently, there is help.

Lies, Damned Lies, and Statistics

For the past two days, I've spent a great of time working public tours aboard the Lady Washington. Following six months on land, I'd forgotten just how many absurd questions we get asked on a daily basis.

Today's doozy came from a young man of about 14. Facing the steps to the ramp by which he had boarded the vessel not 10 minutes prior to the exchange, he gazed at me with eyes full of a infinite, unspeakable woe and asked "But how do I get off?"

Conversely, there are also a fair amount of delightful quotes from the children who come aboard for our educational sails. Some are heartwarming, others simply hilarious -- like this one from last week's group of 3rd grade students. A crew member teaching about the life of an Officer in the 1700's received the following answers when asking "Okay, guys, think about it this way. Who enforces the law today?"

"Uhh..."
"The President!"
"My mom!"
"Our teacher!"
"You guys!"

And, finally:

"The Mafia!"

I'm sure you can figure out which one was correct.

Farewell and Adieu To You, Spanish Ladies

Well, not precisely.

I mean, I'm fairly sure there are at least two Spanish ladies reading this, but I'm not just saying farewell and adieu to them, obviously. It's more to do with the fact that I'm actually going sailing -- at long bloody last -- and so I thought it would be appropriate to quote something nautical, which makes this a reference to the popular sailor's tune and not, in fact, a literal valediction.

Good. Glad we got that little misunderstanding cleared up. Now for the explaining which is actually necessary and not just a load of blather.

I set forth at an ungodly hour last Thursday morning for Eureka, CA -- fully expecting to meet my beloved Lady Washington at the dock upon my arrival. However, due to some unerring 6th sense, I thought it might be wise to get in touch with a CouchSurfing host prior to leaving -- just in case. This proved wiser than I could possibly imagine, as I was informed via press releases later that afternoon that Lady had been delayed 24 hours due to bad weather. No worries, as I was going to stay with my hosts, Joyce and Darrell, for a night anyway.

Unfortunately, the next day, in spite of assurances from the Office that we'd be seeing t'gallants by 4pm, another press release emerged saying there'd been further bad weather off the South end of the Humboldt Bay bar. Seeing no other option but to sit tight and wait it out, I gratefully accepted the offer of another night in Eureka.

By Saturday morning, Lady had made another attempt at crossing the bar, only to be turned back yet again. In order to stay on schedule, the Office decided to cancel all events and ed programs in Eureka and head straight for Crescent City when the weather cleared. There was no suggested ETA. Fortunately, about this time, I recalled the fact that an old friend was attending university in the area and rang her up. She was more than delighted to whisk me away for the weekend, and so we spent a few days cavorting in Arcata.

Although the time was pleasantly passed, it did offer a terrifying glimpse into collegiate living for the moderately impoverished. And while the impoverishment wasn't really a problem, the cause of it was. All funds acquired in the area seem to be spent directly on either drugs or alcohol, which, I'm sure you can imagine, leads to a gaping hole in place of anything resembling a) intelligent conversation or b) anything else decent or worthwhile. I began to grow restless, resenting the time I could've spent at home in the warmth of Ojai and yearning for the rough and tumble of the sea in equal measure.

Monday afternoon I received an update saying that the brig was finally underway with an estimated ETA of four days. Joyce and Darrell had gone above and beyond the call of duty as hosts, offering me a place to stay for the rest of the week -- as well as a ride up to Crescent City (An hour and half north, for reference) as soon as Lady was docked.

Yesterday, I arrived home and found an update waiting for me with the glorious news that Lady was in a day early, crew exhausted from an epic transit, but all in one piece and waiting for me to join her. After crashing out at 7 last night, I've awoken rested and ready to go. All that remains is to repack my bags and make the drive, and then I can finally start regrowing my callouses and strengthening my limbs and singing my heart out. So I'd best get on with that.

For the next two months, internet acquisition depends entirely upon which port we happen to be in and how many unsuspecting homeowners in the area have left their wireless unprotected. I will, however, do my best to keep this updated.

In the meantime: Enjoy yourselves, you crazy diamonds.

Things Your Mother Will Advise Against With Certainty

Missing one's boat.

Gale force winds can kiss my ass.

NO TIME! (AUCUNE HEURE!)

AM ABOUT TO GO SAILING! (JE SUIS UNE NAVIGATRICE!) HAVE LEFT NO TIME FOR BLOGGING! (C'EST UNE CATASTROPHE!) MUST GET OUT OF BED AGAIN AT 4 AM! (NE VOULEZ PAS!) WILL RETURN TO OJAI IN JULY! (JE SUIS PLEIN DE LA FOLIE!)

ALSO! (AUSSI BIEN!) CAPS = URGENCY AND HUMOUR! (ADROIT!) I HAVE HURLED MY ROCK! (MISSILE DE PROJECTILE!) DEAD BIRDS NUMBER TWO! (SQUAUX!) THE DAY, SHE IS MINE! (VIVE PIRATERIE!)

CHUTE EN SOMMEIL MAINTENANT!