There are the ones I’ve firmly decided to give up, but don’t yet know the lucky recipient. Then there are ones that I’m of two minds about – perhaps I should keep them, but if I do, where shall I put them. Then there are the ones that I’m passing on as soon as I’ve read them – no need to find shelf space for them because they’re not staying. Which means some have been sitting in the floor for a number of months now. Waiting for me to either have time or be in the mood to read that particular style of book. Or sometimes that weight of book – if I need one to carry around I’m not taking one that’s several inches thick and weighs a lot. On the other hand I’m not a big fan of publicly reading things with lurid covers – I like to keep those things at home. I know that comes from growing up in a small community where too many people felt entitled to notice and comment on anything one might be doing. It saved trouble all round if I didn’t carry out books that would cause a fuss. Rather like keeping “The Lord of the Flies” hidden behind my history book while reading it in class.  So anyway, those are waiting.

And then there’s another whole batch of things that I couldn’t come to any  preliminary decision on, so they’re in a box together. That’s where the entertaining juxtapositions come in. I usually keep my books arranged by some definite system, even if it is one known only to me. I’m a former librarian and some of those tendencies just don’t go away. But I’ve made little to no effort to categorize the stacks of waiting materials or this box of assortments. That leaves them open to happy or hilarious serendipity.

For instance, I found a copy of a pamphlet called “Seductive Sesame Oil” wedged in next to a copy of Anais Nin’s “Little Birds.” I’m really sure they were never shelved together so those two have found each other. Maybe there’s some force like gravity that draws them together. And then there’s the “Primer on Freudian Psychology “ – which I have from my psychology-major days. But right next to it is Erskine Caldwell’s “Tobacco Road.” Maybe there’s a theme here, one volume is a comment on some aspect of the other volume. That would be a system of sorts, although one hard to explain to casual browsers.

This used to work fairly well with my inbox at work. People would send me documents or journal articles or other forms of paper that stacked up in my inbox.  I could find them easily enough if need be, but mostly there was no reason to — they sat there for a while and then I eventually cleared them out.  Except for the ones that I felt compelled to file away somewhere — but that’s a completely different form of madness.

I work well against a deadline — for instance I get more cleaning and housework done in the week leading up to a trip than I do on any normal basis.  I don’t like to come back to a place that looks bombed out so it’s important to me to straighten up before I go away.  (Why this logic doesn’t apply on a daily basis I don’t know, but it doesn’t)  Anyway, I rush around busily before a trip getting things straightened away.  The only drawback is that if I’m not going on any trips, my household clutter just seems to keep increasing. 

But every so often I can trick myself into an artificial deadline — I have to be at “x” in 30 minutes so I’ll just do what I can do in that limited amount of time.  Not enough time to write an essay but likely enough to do a couple of Twitter entries.  And not enough time to do laundry but enough to put away the dried dishes.  I’m unfailingly surprised at how much I can actually accomplish in those small segments of time.  Of course I’m still not getting to the “bigger” things that are on my list — but this kind of active procrastination at least gets a few things done and leaves me feeling like I’ve accomplished something.

Most of my work now is virtual — and, until I get a webcam, that means I can wear anything I want.  The flip side of that is that no one cares. So, I could dress up but I don’t need to in order to work. I do know some people who work from home offices who dress more formally, because they say it helps put them in a work frame of mind, but I don’t need to do that.  I do draw the line at working in pajamas as some of my compatriots do — that would be distracting to me. 

So I definitely have daytime work clothes, but they’re not like “going out and working with other people” clothes.  I was searching through my closets for something last week and looked at all the things I no longer wear.  According to all the free advice handed out by organizers, if you haven’t worn something in six months you should get rid of it.  I tend to think that’s a ridiculous standard.  Some of these things I haven’t worn since the last time I had a meeting in a warm climate — but that doesn’t mean I may not have one next month.  Certainly I don’t wear them every day, but that’ s no excuse to eliminate them.  Anyway, I found myself thinking wistfully of the summer office clothes I used to wear. Except for the part about wearing heels, I enjoyed those summers.  It was hot and sticky in D.C., much more so than anything we imagine in Portland, but we coped with it.  And most of the office buildings were kept cold enough that I could wear my linen blazers inside.  D.C. was always a pretty conservative town as far as fashion went, so we did all those things like wear the floppy silk bow ties.  They were fun in their way — I still have a couple of my favorite ones somewhere, although I did let the rest of them go several years ago. 

On the plus side, it’s a lot cheaper to wear jeans and turtlenecks, or shorts and t-shirts.  I have enough of both to last easily for 10 years and never spend another nickel on wardrobe.  But they’re not that much fun. 

People who have boats get to express themselves through the names they paint on the stern — a public declaration of whatever strikes their fancy.  Some of us have personalized license plates as well — figuring out what those mean is a road trip pastime.  And the technology world has given us more ways to express ourselves — a few years ago I had a job that gave me a couple of opportunities to name servers, back before the corporate mentality took over and set boring names as the standard.  We had a whole series of Greek gods and heroes for a while. 

And there’s still one way to declare yourself in a name that’s moderately public — if you set up a network in your home, one of the first items you set is the name.  And if what you’re setting up is wireless, as most of them are these days, it broadcasts that name to the world.

When my wireless connector checks for available networks, I’m amazed at the variety of names it finds just in my neighborhood.  Some are perfectly ordinary and straightforward — they seem to be business names.  Others are clearly some kind of default –”linksys” is the name of the hardware and “2wire” followed by a series of numbers doesn’t strike me as something someone deliberately created.  Nor does “my home” — that looks like a generic suggestion.  But some of the others are kind of interesting.

“Portland Condo” is straightforward enough — if you travel back and forth between locations, this kind of naming means you don’t have to think about where you are.  The one with the apartment building name and number is equally clear, but not very advisable.  It’s clearly a residence, not a business, and advertising the exact address doesn’t seem like a good thing for security.  “Empty Nest” is interesting — is it empty as in lonely or empty as in the chicks are finally gone and I can celebrate?  “Pacific Ocean” is interesting to me because it really has little to do with Portland, but someone moving here from the east coast might think this was a good name for their new location. 

Then there’s the whole set that seem to be someone’s first name.  “Joe,” “Wally,” “Candy” (ok, maybe that one’s not a name) is identification enough for them.  I really like the more imaginative ones — does “GreenAcres” refer to the old TV show or to maybe a retirement plan?  And I just want to send congratulations to the folks who have named theirs “First Home.” 

I’m pleased to see that almost everyone has a secured network so it’s not just open for anyone to poke into.  Some of the ones that are not secured have names that make me suspect they’re deliberately open.  And some seem to be open but if you connect to them you run into an authentication system almost immediately.  These are ones designed for specific company or organization members. You can access them if you have the proper logins.

I like the names and I’m glad they’re not all relegated to some series of numbers.  Numbers are undoubtedly more accurate but they don’t help make a story.  Names help us create a story — whether it’s only for ourselves or for our neighbors and friends.

Not that I object to security measures – I think we have to have them – but really, inspecting my luggage is for the protection of other people, isn’t it?  If I’m a relatively rational person I won’t have things in my luggage that would serve as weapons (nitpicking aside about the list of things they consider to be weapons).  If I’m not a rational person, then none of the argument applies so I’m just skipping over them.  The little notice of luggage being searched goes on to say that they may be looking for “prohibited” items.  That, I suspect, is really what they find most of the time.  Somebody trying to sneak something through that’s on the “you may not transport” list.   I don’t do that – the stuff in my luggage is innocuous; the only thing even close to making their list is 8 ounces of hair mousse.  It can’t go carryon so it has to be checked, but it’s not very exciting.

One of my email providers (yes, I do have several) has recently started giving me a little blurb that pictures have been blocked “to protect your privacy.”  I don’t mind that they block the graphics, because I told them to do that – I much prefer ordinary text email without all the cutesy things that can be added.  I’m not sure, and haven’t really bothered to try to find out, whether they’re blocking different things now, or just giving me that annoying little notice.  I don’t agree that pictures would affect my privacy anyway – unless someone has come up with two-way video that’s activated by sending someone else a picture.  That could be an interesting scenario. 

So far I still have the option to view any graphics that come in my email, and I have the option to use some other method of transportation or take no luggage if I don’t want somebody looking through it, but I am a little concerned about the further spread of things that are done in the name of “our own protection.”

At first I thought, “he, who?” — what are they talking about.  Then I realized they were looking at the statue of Theodore Roosevelt, in one of the Rough Rider poses.  It stands in the middle of this block and is surrounded by flower beds — most of them roses. 

The roses aren’t quite in bloom yet, but the buds are there and will be opening any day.  We’re serious about roses here in the Rose City.  Our city vehicles may have the legend that says “The City that Works” but that’s not nearly as good as the Rose City. 

We’re so serious that we have signs warning you about touching them.  Admire all you want but keep your hands (and horses) off them.  And Teddy is there to make sure you do. 

This afternoon, on my walk through downtown, I was reminded of a different kind of convergence.  The coming together of two disparate things that by some quirk are connected in one’s mind.  Long ago, but not exactly in a galaxy far away since I grew up in North Carolina, a state noted for low prices on cigarettes because tobacco was a major crop.  Prices aren’t that low now, but they were when I was a teenager. 

As I walked by one of the downtown shops, I saw a sign in the window for a pack of cigarettes — of the same kind my parents used to smoke — and the ones they sent me to the stores to get.  One pack is now over $5, which is just astounding to me.  They were something around $.30 a pack back then.  The other thing that was around $.30 — although I can’t remember it exactly — was a gallon of gasoline. 

So if the winds of convergence are blowing, it may be that our $4.00 a gallon gas will go on up to meet the already established price of a pack of cigarettes….

A few of them turn out to be keepers — and my sampling program moves on.  This particular drink not only seems to meet the physical requirements, it also has attitude.  For instance, the can says “The inside is natural.  The outside is aluminum.”   This is not only funny but unexpected.  I was expecting the normal list of all the various nutrients and/or chemicals that were part of the drink.  So I took a little closer look at the rest of the fine print and found it equally imbued with attitude. 

There’s a warning about caffeine content, which goes as follows:  “Not suitable for children,  pregnant women, or people who are sensitive to caffeine.  Recommended for people who have children, those trying to get pregnant, or people in search of natural energy.”   I haven’t gone yet to see which mega-company is behind this energy drink, but I will.  I’m curious to see if this dose of attitude is part of their general worldview or a departure for this one product. 

And I’ll probably buy more of their product — which is of course the goal of the marketing campaign.

Portland is still in the midst of a building boom and there are construction cranes in all directions. You might almost think our city bird was the yellow construction crane rather than the  Great Blue Heron.  I believe I could see five from my window in February.  Now they’re almost all invisible, hidden by the green of the trees.  They’re really still there, I know because I can hear the construction a lot of the time.  Makes me wonder what it will sound like if they ever finish and go away.  Not that that’s likely to happen any time in the near future.

But one of the cranes has grown since last summer as well — even since the winter.  I didn’t expect to be able to see it, but it’s up above the tops of the trees, rising higher on its framework as the apartment building rises higher on the Park Blocks.  I’m sure I’m not imagining this because it’s higher (from my vantage point) than the tall office building I can also see.  And it was definitely not that high last winter.  I can’t remember exactly how high that new building is projected to be so it will be interesting to follow the crane’s growth. 

The crows across the way still seem to be dealing with a nest they built.  I can hear them, and see them swoop into the top of the tree, but can no loner see the fork where they were building the nest.  It’s disappeared behind a cloud of green.  The hummingbirds hardly need a cloud of green to disappear, one largish leaf will do to make them invisible.  I know they’re still hanging out there in their favorite spots, though, because they cruise over to my feeder for a snack every so often.  Before the leaves come, I can spot them in the trees, but not now.

Yesterday the elm seeds decided to take wing in all directions.  The dancing disks carrying the seeds floated up, down, sideways, on the breeze, resembling a cloud of butterflies swirling through the park.  Or, if you ignored the evidence of 90 degree temperatures, like a snowstorm.  They’re prolific — piles of them are lying on steps and balconies and sidewalks.  The germination rate must not be very high or we’d be overrun with elms.  Even the ones that land in my plant pots don’t seem to necessarily sprout.  Not like the acorns that the jays bring to plant for me.  And not like the cranes that sprout all by themselves it seems.

It is hot — probably much too hot to do any kind of actual work outside but I’m not obligated to do anything more strenuous than fetch cold drinks to the balcony — and water the plants.  The sheer pleasure of a warm evening isn’t one I get very often here and I’m not wasting any of it if I can help it.  There’s a breeze through the trees out in the Park Blocks and I can hear the leaves whispering over the bustle of traffic.  I could be going to an air conditioned movie, and I know several of my friends are, but I don’t want to go be cold somewhere.

I didn’t make it to the Friday morning birdwalk, because I had an appointment downtown about a new project, but I envy the folks who did go.  I went last week and needed my gloves…this week would have been perfect.  But I did spend most of Friday afternoon just puttering with the plants on my balcony — and most of this afternoon doing absolutely nothing besides lazing in the heat and occasionally reading a non-heavy-lifting book.  What we would call beach reading if I were at the beach instead of in town. 

I know it won’t last — which is what gets me out in it.  And sometimes even makes me delirious — why else would I go out in the sun without my extra sunscreen or the hat with the big brim.  I’ve been sunburned more times in the decade I’ve lived in Oregon that I ever was living in the South.  Living there, I knew there would be sun and heat.  You expected it, prepared for it, and you got it.  Here, I feel slightly obsessive about the sun.  When it’s out I want to go sit in it — not necessarily do anything, just sit there.  And I resent meetings or other obligations that want me to be indoors. 

So after all this time, I’ve become like the girls in my college classes who abandoned class at the first hint of a warm, sunny day and spread their towels around the quad, soaking up sun, getting a tan.  I never did that — never even contemplated wanting to do that.  And I’m not actually sunbathing now, I’m just hanging out in the sun.  I think there’s a difference — but I really should remember the sunscreen.