Ok...picture this, a dozen older ladies(less then a handful under the age of 60), in formal gowns (i.e. prom dresses), prancing around to organ music...yes kids, my grandmother was installed once more last night as the Worthy Matron of her Eastern Star chapter. Now, I realize I should be polite, and probably not be writing about this, but it's soooo hard not to. At least I'm not posting pictures(I was there to take photos for my grandmother). To add to the weirdness of the situation, I'm Pagan. The Eastern Star(the female half of the Masons) is a Christian organization. While I can normally tolerate Christian events without much snickering, this was mind-blowing. It was the opposite of my world. They also use a pentacle as a symbol, but where ours points up, theirs point down. We do things in circles, they do things in squares(seriously, when they walk around the room, they stop and then pivot to make a right angle then keep going). They use the same colors and some of the same symbols, but their direction/symbol/color correlations are all different. And then there is the use of the word 'secret' stated multiple times during the ceremony, and promising to keep the secrets. Nothing makes me more curious than hearing that word. So that naturally leads to my desire to infiltrate the organization to find out what they do. But then I feel horrible for feeling so devious and figure there's no way I could spend that much time with these *cough cough* urm....women.

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter 'F'.


frus‧tra‧tion [fruh-strey-shuhn]

a feeling of dissatisfaction, often accompanied by anxiety or depression, resulting from unfulfilled needs or unresolved problems.

Steve went to an interview at Schwans today, only to find out that they filled the position last week. Since it was a part time job, he probably wouldn't have taken it anyway, but we didn't know that prior to now. So it's all very, very, frustrating. It's even harder when my cousin was fired two weeks ago and already has had 3 interviews with two call backs for second interviews, and I have to listen to her worry and stress about a new job. I wonder if she's even connected the dots on how insensitive that is. I realize she works in a different field, and she's not doing it to rub it in, but we've been at this for 6 months, and it doesn't help. I know he could get a lower paying crappy job in some other field, but I would rather him be happy and doing something he knows, and making decent money, even if it means only seeing him on weekends. ARGH!

Portland Art Museum

Dozens of children

(Wrong day to come?)

A short climb up marble stairs

A nominal fee($10)

Students of all ages

Local modern art

I round a corner and breath is lost

Art of the orient

Buddha

Shiva

Silk, wood, metal, and stone

Fingers itch, wanting to touch

Ancient art frozen behind glass, safe in it's controlled climate.

Up a filght of stairs, wishing for a pen, for paper, to write, to create among the created.

Paintings. Oils. Impressionist.

Through a door, silver...shiny...fingers itching once again.

I grasp the cuffs of my sweatshirt to keep from reaching out.

My sigh echos across the empty room.

Around a corner, Greece.

Through a door, the Pacific Northwest.

Dodging small children engrossed in the lessons of culture.

'Paintings tell a story. What story do you see?'

Mount Hood.

The Madonna.

A flight of stairs.

Native American art.

Wood.

Wool.

Beads.

Shoes squeaking noticably in the occasional silence.

Fingers twitch.

Wish for pen.

More stairs.

Chairs.

An installation piece.

Odd.

Shoes still squeak.

Down four floors.

The same artist on every landing.

Lower level.

Modern art.

I raise an eyebrow, shake my head.

Back to the main level.

Membership desk.

Tour is over.

Feeling complete.

Ready to go.

Gift shop....Dozens of pens.

A wry smile.

Departure.