I'm sitting in my Southview apartment, in the middle of bags, boxes, open suitcases with clothes spilling out, lamps, a lineup of speakers and LCD Soundsystem blaring, a sink of dirty dishes and a few magazines that I have to catch up on from my time away. Just a little bit ago, Troy and I met Dordt faculty and staff upstairs in the mezzanine to welcome the freshmen class to their college experience. We sat as student representatives on the stage and sang with our professors and administrators as the freshmen filed in and took their seats. I'm glad we did it, even if they looked dazed, confused, tired and/or bored. That's all expected from their first day of orientation. One thing I wanted to say: College is nothing like orientation - shake it off. Their PC leaders and advisors and everyone else has, no doubt, welcomed them to our fine institution already, and even if some of them are looking forward to starting the semester, I'd put some money down that none of them feel as terribly excited as the professors, administrators and their parents. Dr. Kobes spoke for the faculty right before us. The house was brought down. The man tore it up. I firmly believe that the ceremony should have consisted of songs, prayers and Dr. Kobes affirming the hopes and promises of the incoming class. Troy and I stood at the opposite microphone and felt our knees shake. As my eyes adjusted to the lighting from the stage, I saw more and more familiar faces in the crowd - people I knew would be there and, unfortunately, others I forgot had graduated high school. One thing I wanted to say: It's astounding to realize that these friends will be walking the same halls, that we'll be there as they grow and affirm who they are and what they believe. Especially for those of us whose younger siblings will be starting this year, I can't take how excited we are. I've stepped over onto sentimental now, but you can believe how strange I felt before the sea of confused and anxious students. One thing I wanted to say: This is their school now. How they choose to lead (or not to lead) this year will be much more significant than anything the upperclassmen manage to pull off in the next couple months. Hats off to them. Here's to a good year.

The clock on my laptop reads 1 38 AM, which means it's 11 39 PM here in Mount Langley. Bear and I set up our dinner just a few minutes ago. Deep breath.

Olympia oysters pan-seared then topped with a dot of herb butter. After learning to shuck an oyster, and considering that these water-filtering gender-switching creatures are still alive through our sticking a knife into their most intimate spaces, sweeping through the muscles to reveal them in all their vulnerability, I still find myself silent and focused at the counter with a small knife. I've read that oysters are the only food we eat still fully alive. I guess I did have squid in Korea that was still moving, but I think those were "just" nerves reacting - the way a daddy longlegs' leg still spasms when you rip it apart. I know. I know. We're talking about food here. What I mean to say is that shucking an oyster is a dangerous and serious ability - like slaughtering a chicken to feed people you care about, to entice their senses and provide sustenance. And they taste so good. Even as they shrink to the size of dimes in the pan and take on the coloring and flavors of the butter, we taste the ocean.

Roast tomato. As simple as ripe, organic tomatoes, marinated for fifteen minutes in sea salt, black pepper, chopped shallots and olive oil then slow roasted at 225 degrees for... must have been almost two hours, slowly filling the kitchen with an escalating dance of comfort and sensuality. We topped with a few drops of balsamic vinegar right before serving. It was more subtle than sticking your face over a pot of tomato sauce with the music going, and friends laughing in the tail end of spring semester, but along the same lines. This bowl of tomatoes is so precious, we'll keep the juices that are left when the last piece is eaten. It might be the base to a sauce we make, or we might sop it up with a nice piece of...

Olive baguette. We purchased this at the Mount Vernon Food Coop, but we believe one Nate Smith could (and probably has) reproduce such a crusty, tasty canvas for a forkful of...

Roast vegetables - zucchini, red bell peppers, leeks and fava beans with olive oil, lemon juice, sea salt and pepper. This was probably the most visually vibrant plate we had, and a wonderful salad to behold. We could eat this all week, but we'll have polished it off in two days. (You don't understand how much we made of this. If we stuffed it in a bag and placed it under Beardface's shirt, people would ask if we were having twins.)

Salmonberry Wine, picked in May of this year from the back 17 acres of Child's Creek Farm, among the creek and muck, bottled the 4th of August... which is just last week. Beard has a winemaking store owner friend Bob who, with his dog, caught up with us on the way to the co-op for afternoon coffee. Beard gifted him four pounds of Salmonberry when he picked them so they could both make their own wine and share. Bob ranted and raved about how good Beard's was - he shared it with some winemaking aficionados (read: nice snobs) and they thoroughly enjoyed it. So we opened it tonight to see and record notes.

8/15 First Bottle (w/ Alvin) + oysters!

- tang, good berry bouquet and flavor

- very bright and refreshing

- reddish rose color

- lemon on back of tongue?

He's right and there's a very, very clean and appealing finish. It's almost a buzz on the roof of your mouth, but there's no fuzzy film left on your tongue which adds greatly to the drinkability. Right now, I'm not trying to sell this guy. It's a great wine and I'm not a huge fruit wine drinker. So, ladies, first year winemaker and single bearded guy. Must be great with kids and OK with asian life partners and goats.

I was going to take pictures, but most of the food is gone. Later, photos of wine.

---

D9 was... well, it's an interesting story of how it was made... apparently a Halo movie (the xbox game) was in the works, but it fell through... and that is somehow related to this... where Producer Peter Jackson approached Director Neill Blomkamp and basically said, "Do whatever you want and I'll support it. I'm Peter Jackson." Whatever Peter Jackson touches is studio insurance (even mediocre, three-hour King Kong with a world profit of well over $250 million). So previews were all over the place, a creative marketing strategy for the bigger cities was executed and a bunch of girls rolled their eyes. When a movie gets well over 90% on Rottentomatoes, it's kind of a big deal, but those usually aren't movies that might be described as "Not enough like Time Traveller's Wife," or "Too much like Transformers, not enough like... insert geeky sci-fi movie here," or even "Where are the boobies?" Let's talk about the flaws first.

The first half or so of the film took a documentary-style to relay the exposition of the plot - interviews and "stock" footage of anti-alien/non-human regulations. The second half is the Transformers/Harrison Ford/Bourne with shakier camera and quick cuts. There was one POV of the alien looking out the window, he is dejected and... claw-cuffed and hopelessly observing some physical abuse and the POV shot itself is swooping all over the place. That, and the gross content, with the cherry coke and theater popcorn, led to a pretty rough headache.

It dipped, for just a few scenes, into the sentimental. The rogue alien and cast-off human kneel before each other, wounded and bleeding with bullets tearing all around them. They look each other in the eye - one set is kind of gray and blue, the other is yellow and black. "We stick together! I'm not leaving you!"

That being said, it's pretty impressive that the film had the audience to resonate emotionally with the aliens. Glory had us caring about Denzel Washington, WallE had us crying for a robot that only said one word, and District 9 had us rooting for a prawny, skeletal creature from space. Nice.

The metaphorical significance somewhat dissolved itself as the specific resolution was being sought out. I think I'm OK with that because it gave way for character structure and decision, but I'm not too OK with as simplified a resolution as, "They have the thing we need, let's go Die Hard on their asses. Thug life." I should have said that I'm not a big sci-fi viewer, and maybe it all dwindles down to the geeky guy getting really mad and picking up a gun that makes people explode in order to make a movie.

I guess the previews led me to believe that the black muck the guy gets sprayed with is some sort of initial infection that would spread, of course, to other humans, which is why the aliens are there in the first place... like several other alien films or, even worse, some vampire flicks and, even better, a handful of zombie flicks. One guy gets infected and starts spewing his business on everyone else, the aliens successfully plague another planet. How many movies are coming to mind right now? Independence Day, Dawn of the Dead, Shaun of the Dead, 28 Days Later, The Faculty etc. That's not what happens here. What happens is, the guy goes back in time to see what his wife was like when she was, like, six years old. It's OK! It's not creepy because he tells this little girl, while they're standing alone in a field, that he's going to marry her someday. Not creepy. Romantic.

Right?

Happy Allison's birthday. Allison, all my friends like you better than they like me. Enjoy it.

Eerie.

...I feel like a part of my blog was put through Google translator, brought back to broken English and then posted on this clusterbone of a blog. Or maybe it's a rogue non-English speaker teaching him/herself by tediously translating word-for-word with an outdated dictionary. If the latter, keep at it Poytiki. Either way, at 1 30 AM, after crosswords, Entourage, wine and laughter, this is nothing short of terrifying.

But anyway.

Tonight marks the last of nights that I'll stay here in Langley because tomorrow, the minute that Stina and Jess return home from work, to the waiting arms and greetings of Paul and myself (two able, educated, competent and healthy American young men), we will journey past the border into Washington.

I hate to say this, and many will scoff, but I'm looking forward to being able to use my cell again. Simultaneously, I wonder that I may have been happier, more calm, with a stunted ability to make calls and texts. There are voices I miss, so I have calls to make - especially back in Mount Vernon, contacting Beardface as we run our circles around.

I miss watching movies. I had this big idea to walk through a

District 9 VS. The Time Traveler's Wife

, which would have been very fun (and would have put a few people in their places), but I would have been largely going by trailers. Still would be interesting, I think, but I guess I'd like to see more movies than I have been lately. Also, I'm tired and there are a few others out that look interesting.

I've started about five different paragraphs, with five starts on five different subjects, but they are boring and I'm not sure how/that I want to talk about them here.

A moment. Thursday, Paul driving the Passat down Hwy 1 back towards Langley. Having had picked up Christina from work, and abandoning the Buick from where it stood in the parking lot, after a tantrum and shutdown with the engine (and the brakes, then the ignition and...), we sped back to Ralph's, a semi-outdoor produce place, before they closed. We were hungry, Stina had a big day, and we wanted to get groceries so we could make Mexican food for dinner and relax together into the evening.

I sat in the back, staring straight ahead and occasionally sipping my carbonated lychee drink. They softly chatted and talked out their day, and current decisions - small as they were - to each other. Paul offered Christina a sip of his drink each time before he took one for himself. He wore jeans and a t shirt, both dirty from having had worked construction in the morning and staining the deck. She in greys and blacks with her hair partially up in elegant swoops. The sun was on its way down, and I looked at the empty seats next to me, the landscape flying by, and two good friends of mine, trying to imagine, and hang on to, what we must be right now, in a moment. One college grad, working an actual job. Two students - graphic design and writing - entering their senior year. A week ago, the border patrol asked us how it was we all went to the same school when we were from Langley, LA and Iowa. I guess I've been turning that question over in my head since we drove away, baffled at how we were supposed to answer.

"After this week, the next time I'll be riding in a car with you two up front... your kids will be here. Your firstborn will be named Quincy."

They did laugh, and went along with the premonition, which is great (because the premonition is great) and I wondered if it would be true and, if it will, how accurate it will be.

(Their next kid will be named Alvin.)

Because in a little more than a week, I'll be back in Iowa and the semester will start, and end, much sooner than we will be ready for it. Friends will go for their semester away, others will come back for their last, and we will all still be adjusting to having the '09 class gone. And who are all these little kids running around? Paul will follow a few days after. Christina will stay and work and continue to seek out jobs with better pay and more to offer in the motivation department.

Yikes. I just freaked myself out. Again.

The Man

Say what you want about Bill Clinton, rehash any old jokes and supercilious comments about any decisions made in the past. And then read this story and watch the video. I'd honestly like to hear any ideas about what a former American president would say to the dictator of the most secretive and arguably the most oppressed nation in the world. Do you shake hands and smile in the face of a childish monster?

I'm in Langley now. Up in British Columbia. Paul and Christina came out this morning to pick me up from Mount Vernon, to stop by in Bellingham and to cross the border.

Border Patrol: How is it that you three went to school together?

On the ride out here, she told me about a book... something about searching for rose (the wine)... and a couple traveling with a friend who is hilarious and a womanizer to... search for rose (the wine). I'd like to read it after she's done, because she recommended it. Guess who the hilarious womanizer is. How ya doing?

So we're back together... another sort of triple threat, if you will... with the addition of Stina's sister Jess, and spent a big exhausting day in Vancouver and came back to chat and enjoy libations with John and Lynn, to laugh at hiccups etc. etc.

At one point in the evening, Christina slammed her hand down on the dining table. "I don't care. We're going to have pillow talk tonight. It's going to happen." It's not very often that Paul and I exchange bewildered looks without erupting in laughter. We were confused, for slightly different reasons. She went to... contain her excitement, to get more wine, to get some pillows... I don't know, but when she was out of earshot, I whispered to Paul,

"... ...what does she want to pillowtalk about?"

In a regular situation, my answer might have been.

"Bitch, I don't know!"

"Hell if I care!"

"Whatever I want, ho!"

...and so forth. But we were tired.

So we stay up - Paul, Jess and I - quietly listening to soft music, writing letters, searching for lost computer files, sipping more beverage... winding down, one might say. After some time, Jess goes to change into sleep clothes, and Paul disappears shortly after.

Jess came back into the room with her hair tied up. Paul returns with the slightest, most reserved of grins on his face.

"Hey, where's Christina?"

"She's asleep."

It's strange to remember that I'm in Canada now. And with the Beimers at their house, and not at Sandy Hollow sitting outside of their camper as a sweet escape from campus life. The Pacific Northwest is agonizing in its beauty and I'm doing my best, also, to soak in familiar friends in their settings. It's exhausting, the thoughts that constantly stem out from being in the same vicinity with everyone here, everyone I'll hope to spend (more) time with for the duration.

Anyway.

I watched a family in Vancouver earlier tonight. They were young - mom, dad and son. I think they were Chinese, but we weren't close enough to hear what they were saying to each other. They sat upon newspapers that they brought along to wait for fireworks. Just like us, and the 500,000 others. Not a lot of people reading this will know really what I'm talking about, but the young Asian couple... dressed in bright colors, simple garments... very skinny, and looking as if they can live efficiently, as if they're sensible around a calculator etc. etc. Tiny people really, all three of them. Stina reported that the mom and son could comfortably sit on one newspaper square together. They laid back against the gently brushing waves, the sun and water matching each other in exploring the possible colors as the evening dripped away, and the boy rolled about his parents. At one point, the father put his forehead against the back of his son's as he sat quietly on his lap. The child was, no doubt, mesmerized by the dancing water and the father might have been exhausted, working tirelessly to give his family the best start that he could provide. They sat like that for what seemed to be ten minutes. The boy's hair was the same as his father's - cut short to reveal the same efficient, simple head with nothing to hide from each other.