Monday I walked to Powell's and felt - this is funny to write, now, but true anyhow - fiercely proud of Portland. As if the whole city were MINE. I haven't called any friends or family for this trip. It was a short notice trip, which is what I will tell them if they ask. Really, though, the reason is that I am still overjoyed that I get to come here. It is a dream come true, and I want a bit more time to revel in it.
Tuesday I felt ... well, sort of nauseous.
It is because I ate an octopus.
I love octopuses, with what I imagine must be the warm and ignorant love that only someone from a landlocked state could have. I surf pictures of cephalopods the way other people surf pictures of cats.
Octopuses need no captions. They can taste you with their tentacles! I have dreamed about one eating me face first.
So, the whole time I was eating an octopus Tuesday, I was thinking, this little bite-sized cylinder of flesh, it would have used this to catch me and taste me and pull me to its mouth.
Yes. I am feeling guilty about eating the octopus. And this, this is not a feeling I have previously experienced upon putting, well, ANYTHING in my mouth, not even a squid.
Not much other news. I am reading the Atrocity Archives by Charles Stross.
I like this book. It would be appropriate to make more intelligent comments here. However, the fact is that I can barely read this book. It is way the geek out of my league. I have to look words up on every page; Stross throws out obscure post-WWII political and technological references like popcorn. Slow going, so far, but good anyhow.