Katrina Joy Plam Archive at KJPcreations

Author Archive for Katrina Joy Plam

Life In Simple Terms

Published

on August 21, 2008

. 2 Comments

photo credit: JadedJu lia
It’s birthday month and I turn 34 on the 29th. I do wish it was the other way around. I’m still working at the same job, nearly a year later and not quite any more famous than before but making slow strides everyday with one blog and a few tweets at a time.

Curious as to where this will all lead and by the ‘this’ I do mean the big picture schema of mon vie. (When you age, you’re allowed to insert French words with abandon.) I still love carbs despite the media’s incessant message to beware and abstain. No carbs after 3pm? I dare say that is no way to live; no way to manage a life. Long live the baguette & the lovely little crouton, the crusty loaf’s distant cousin from the warm south. My acid reflux comes and goes as does my desire for a relationship; both with an equal measure of discomfort. A pill for both, you suggest? If only. There is no cure, only time and patience. My hair is short, asymmetrically coiffed, and I am wearing it dark again after a long season of red. The dark presumes to know me better so I let it stick around and keep me company. And much to my delight, new neighbors are moving in downstairs, two sweet young women still wet with the dew of optimism. Surely, some of their youthful mist will tickle my face.

Not much else to detail besides my desire for perfect bedroom furniture, a recipe for fondue, and a multitude of unexpected cash. However, I do take checks.

For Peyton & Taylor

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on August 17, 2008

in Amusings

. 1 Comment

There is something forgiving by the touch of love as it seduces your senses and tickles you into believing in immortality. We all need to be touched and feel the loving gaze of something outside of ourselves; the early bloom of spring or the smiling gaze of the stranger we brush past at the grocery store. A tear recalls this touch in both fondness and regret. We never know when it’s our last touch. It works kind of funny that way.

Today, a little someone wanted to hold my hand. Tiny precious fingers clutching mine to remind me that I mean, that I am alive, that I am adored. Her smile forgives all my ugly, and I understand briefly the miracle a child brings into our lives. They love purely. A child rests upon my hips and I feel their purpose for the first time, these hips of mine. They long for the connection between function and child. If my hips could smile, they smiled today. Today, my hips meant something more than sex or shame. Today, my body was artful and vibrant.

My eyes rest upon reflection rarely these days. Age is here. I mean the word actually affects my life: slow down, be responsible, moisturize, drink more water, save, and take fish oil supplements. Whatever. I fear I am forgetting everything. Remember that night you met one of the Nelson brothers – the cute one – and then you called him drunk later on that night? Or the time you took ecstasy with some upcoming, young commercial director and bled all over his sheets. You started your period in your sleep and stained his mattress. He never called again after that night. Remember the coke binge night with the sax player? You made love outside, in several places, and you both fell asleep watching “The Wiz.” You awoke, lost in the maze of a mansion in the Hollywood hills, and found your clothes scattered all over the driveway. You came home with a rash, later to be defined (by your dermatologist) as the “hot tub rash.” You couldn’t hook up for weeks after, well, at least until the rash went away. And then there was the twenty-one year old from Dre’s camp. He liked for you to pick him up from the music studio and bring him back to your place for red wine and frolic. Funny, he stills calls you now, years later, but he is forever twenty-one in your mind. And you never return his calls.

Touch is funny in that it can be apologetic and hopeful. It defines us, really. The people in our lives give us definition. If the definition is too painful, then we erase it. If the definition is pleasing, we embrace it.

I’m not so sure how to sort it all out. My birthday is in a few weeks, and with it comes an age I am not so sure how to sort out. I wish for peace of mind and for kindness. My mistakes have been heavy and I wish too have paid enough by now. I think so. I think my debt has been spoken for. For now, I hold your hand and love transcends. For now, I lift you up and your body rests upon my hip and remembers my strength, my love. Thank you for the smiles. In this now, you don’t know me so well. I am just beginning to know myself. It works kind of funny that way.

Mystic Brew, Biodynamic’s arcane practices make for a good glassful

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on August 4, 2008

in Wine

. 2 Comments

By Katrina Joy Plam / Originally published in OUT Magazine, May 2008

The religious dogma behind biodynamic farming may be simultaneously over the top and a thing of beauty. Skeptics scoff at a wine whose production details include a cow horn filled with manure and buried in the ground to bathe in autumn and winter only to be dug out in spring and sprayed on the vines. But is there any voodoo to the doodoo?

Biodynamic farming was developed in 1924 by Austrian philosopher Rudolf Steiner. He believed a farm should be a self-contained living organism with a vibrant ecology in harmony with the seasons, the moon cycles, and the local environment. Today, the 400-plus winemakers working in biodynamic practices, which focuses on composting and manures eschewing artificial chemicals, believe that the biodiversity they foster engenders resilient and sustainable vines; true believers insist that wines produced in harmony with their environment exhibit a better expression of a wine’s true nature. With sustainable agriculture leading to heartier land, the wine’s character is responding; the taste of theses unique terroirs practically blossoms from the glass.

But the true test lies in the mouth of the beholder. With the emergence of several standout biodynamic wines, we now have the opportunity to kiss them all and decide for ourselves if this affair will be fleeting or steal our hearts.

2005 Francois Chidaine Les Tuffeaux Montlouis: A demi-sec Chenin Blanc, this penetrating wine unfolds with layers of baked fruits, candied apple, and creamy notes of peach, raw honey, and cobbler. Lush and voluminous, an ideal bottle for a carpet picnic or an after-dinner terrace tête-à-tête. $20

2002 Radikon Oslavje Bianco: A radical wine reflective of its maverick winemaker, Stanislao Radikon, this project embodies the unexpected with golden rich fruits and complex aromas possessing a remarkably long finish. $45

2006 Brickhouse “Select” Pinot Noir: Seductive, lush, and complex, this uniquely cloudy beauty delivers vanilla and dark fruits in the mouth with a long lingering finish showing notes of black cherry, cocoa, anise, and cinnamon. $30

2005 Ehlers St. Helena Cabernet Sauvignon: Smooth and velvety with a balanced mid-body, this butterscotch candied brute is sure to strip you of your clothes. A big Cab, typical of Napa, this wine engenders conversation, pleasingly pairs with a steak and possesses a classic structure good for the cellar or open on a table near you. $45

2003 Clos Rougeard Saumur Champigny : A focused project with a dense, luscious structure carrying flavors of plum, black cherry and dried fruit; this expressive wine is desirable with plenty of refinement. A lingering finish leaves impressions of blueberry, mocha, and anise. It’s the kind of wine fantasies are made with. 100% Cab Franc. $39

The Lion Tamer

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on July 31, 2008

in Amusings

. 0 Comments

I’ve been a bit withdrawn from the world for what feels simultaneously like months and minutes. In full disclosure, I’ve been an acute mode of ‘getting through this.’ The ‘this’ changes alternately between big and small things; I’m getting through the work day or I’m getting through a painful past or I’m getting through rush hour traffic. If my life was a circus act, I think we’d be at the part where the lion tamer sticks his head in the mouth of the lion. The days are anticipatory and fraught with a controlled sense of danger. A good lion tamer never gets hurt but entertains us all the same with the threat of injury. I’m not entirely convinced the threat of my well being is entertained by anyone but me; it’s the kind of circus where I am both the audience and the player on stage. Look away. There is nothing of interest here.

Things like poor reaction to medication, reoccurring panic attacks and uncontrollable trembling in public are simply boring. These things are so early 90’s like baggy sweaters and raves. Is the darkness that occurs in all of our lives more fascinating after it’s all went down or as it’s going down. Is recovery or breakdown more scintillating? I ate a grilled chicken salad for lunch today and could barely eat a week ago. Is either detail of interest? My thumb on my right hand feels like it’s broken but only half of the time and I drink tons of water these days. In fact, I am part camel so put me in the desert and call me, Cheats.

This weekend, I am anticipating the Portland Saturday Market. My desire is to acquire some berries and some succulents. These are my intentions but sleep may win as sleep is like kryptonite to my heroic attempts at adventuring out into the world. The weekend could be the promise of a berry cobbler and a new cactus in the kitchen or the unraveling of non sequitur dreams and tangled sheets. My therapist tells me I am thawing out or coming back to life like when you leg falls asleep and feels all tingly and uncomfortable as it awakens. So there I lay, on the kitchen counter, wrapped in cellophane thawing and waiting, waiting and thawing. These things feel simultaneously like always and never. Only time will tell.

Things you did not know about me…

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on July 10, 2008

in Amusings

. 2 Comments

photo credit: raistlinsghost

Lately, I’ve been totally addicted to reading Raybear’s blog. Some days, he’s writing about his cleaning supplies and other days, he shares some tasty jams he’s been grooving on; often, he writes witty rants and quips on various topics or ponders about what to do with all the vegetables in his kitchen. It’s very chatty and I appreciate the tiny glimpses into his life since he lives in the windy city of Chicago and I domicile here in the rainy city of Portland. And it’s the little details that inspire me the most, like knowing he uses with hazel and lavender essential oils for pet odors or that he mounted his own bike rack recently because let’s face it, life is all about the little details.

With that, I am inspired to share a few small details about myself that you may or may not know. I love the feel of receipts printed out at the gas pump; they make me feel all silky. Whenever I go somewhere new, I need to know where the bathroom is. I have an annoying habit of leaving drawers open, forget I did it, and quickly become convinced I am living with a poltergeist. I hide all my athletic socks in the back of my sock drawer because they aren’t as cute as the others. I need the arrangement of food in my refrigerator to look artful. I prefer to leave silly, song-filled messages rather than talk on the phone. I hate the sound of cutlery scraping on plates; the sound gives me the squibbly-geebies. Sometimes, I don’t recycle on purpose and I will throw away a shirt that I no longer wear. I chew food exclusively on the left side of my mouth and I have overly active sweat glands in my right armpit; I wonder if they are related? Thursday is my favorite day of the week and I love to eat in bed. I detest wearing panties. I have a high cervix and suffer from bouts of sciatica; these things are not related. I prefer to eat peanut butter and pickles straight out of the jar. My parent’s wedding cake was in the shape of Jesus; they are divorced now but I don’t blame the big J, shit happens. Sometimes, while I’m driving around, I obsess about why you can still see Wonder Woman when she flies around in her invisible jet. Wouldn’t she be made invisible like some invisible cloak? It makes my brain itch. Why Wonder Woman, why?! I have lots of dreams about losing my contact lenses only to find them in weird places but they are too big and too thick to fit anymore. Rabbit was my first word.

Summer Days

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on July 8, 2008

in Amusings

. 2 Comments

photo credit: tyshortsleeve

Portland wears the summer well; it gets dressed up in strappy flips and slips on a favorite retro dress and holds the hand of a boy in a smart bowler cap wearing a vintage tee with knee length shorts held at the waist by a braided hemp belt. Tattoos appear on skin now bare and windows are thrown open and fans are propped up and the evening breeze is welcomed like an unexpected kiss. The city sips iced blended coffees and frothy micro brews in pints shared with friends along outdoor patios. The commutes on bikes and trains and busses and cars all feel a bit more optimistic than the rain soaked trips taken just a few weeks past. Time sweeps inside dreamy days filled with outdoor activities like gardening, tickling toes in a kiddy-pool, languid strolls and porch sittin

It’s nearly half-passed the year 2008 and half-closer to the year 2009 and time, she has a way of asking too many question. I sleep the days away and catch glimpses of the summer days happening outside my window and I think to myself, I don’t miss the sun; I had sun for years in LA. I am not so much lonely as I am alone but even that feels false because there’s always someone reaching towards you or that you are reaching towards and everything is timing and everything has been said and more than likely, it’s all been asked before. Was I loved? Did I love well enough?

On a perfect day, I feel light and hopeful like a summer dress and I join those sitting outside sipping on yummy somethings and the panic of what might happen and the shame of what did happen doesn’t manifest as trembling hands or keep me inside, asleep and hiding. I am motivated to do the simple things like cook, wash dishes and bathe instead of finishing off the bottle of wine and taking another nap. On this perfect day, my windows are thrown open to the world and the breeze rushes past my cheek like an unexpected kiss and hope, like the sickeningly sweet hope of a teenager, is gifted in smiles at those passing by. I would know this day was true and real because I would be able to answer the questions simply and sincerely with yes; I was indeed loved and I loved well enough. My perfect day would be forgiveness and my night would be empathy and at some point, I would have reached to the person who needed it the most all this time, to me; and I would tip my hat and say, “It’s such a lovely summer day. Care for a stroll?”

Mind the Gap

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on June 27, 2008

in Amusings

. 0 Comments

photo credit: echoforsbergJimmy 74

It’s an acoustic-folk kind of time as poetic verses carry the melody of my life. The chorus changes as fragmented thoughts are reflected from my faithful mirrors – my far-away friends, my close-by family – and my world is buoyed by a wish to heal, a healing of the big variety. I wear my pain like the lining of my favorite red jacket; coveted, I hold it close to my heart and I call out to a now blue sky and sing to myself. It’s all on the other side of the world, my dream and my hope, weighted down by a long habit of doubt now long in tooth and rooting me deep inside a tormented tangle. I reach outside for anything close to a salvation: acupuncture, take multi-vitamins, bake a catfish, learn origami, drink more water, swallow happy pills, quit carbs, eat more carbs, read a book about extra-terrestrial lifeforms, visit therapist, let go of fear, embrace fear, build a collection of something, perfect a popcorn-ball recipe, be with people, enjoy “it”now, moisturize, believe patience is not synonymous with failure, kindly refrain from walking around the cabin until your captain has turned off the seat-belt lights.

In another world, I would stroll down a soft street and count the loose change in my pocket reconciling the pittance with the rich dreams I bought years ago. I would come up even and the less-than bits of paper would be filed away under finished with and the power of a perfect now would find a noble perch, proudly sitting without consent for questioning. The soft street would give away to a broad sky and I would fly high and deep into a starlit expanse and find footing in a deeply treed canyon. I would bury bones in the supple night dirt and whisper incantations for forgiveness, ever-lasting blueberries and the gift of music.

In this world, I negotiate the gap between what I dream to be and what is; and maybe there is some reconciliation that needs to occur in order to live and let go. For now, I follow the direction of my feet and count my steps towards a new world….

Indie-Folk Round-Up Mixtape (made on Fuzz.com)

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on June 10, 2008

in Amusings

. 1 Comment

You Had Time

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on June 8, 2008

in Amusings

. 0 Comments

photo credit: kygp

I keep cutting my nails down super short because I think they will grow back the way I want them to: long, strong and beautiful. The truth is: the same nail always breaks in the same place from the weight I dropped on it when I was fourteen. I am self-conscious of my nails, my hands, and how they shake. I might be shaking because I am nervous or because I am pre-disposed to trembling or because I drank too much the night before and my blood sugar is low; either way, I am scared of my past.

The numbers with significance in my cell phone have all been erased so I don’t do something foolish like call and apologize; these days, I feel like I am always apologizing but it’s mostly in my head. I know I have messed up to be this alone, like crazy alone but at the same time, I must have done something incredible because I am close to my family again and they seem to accept me despite all the years I spent away.

I gave up on online dating because it sucked real hard and that sneaker kicked me in my face when I wasn’t looking. My weekly confession: I sort of gave up on everything like the running, the writing, and the motivation. It’s Sunday afternoon and I keep reluctantly thinking about a year ago where luxury was a given and magic-mushrooms with a famous cult winemaker every night was a reality and we both took Viagra to make our orgasms last longer and I swallowed pills to sleep at night and I was having panic attacks at the grocery store during the day and the words, “you ruined everything; I can’t trust you anymore,” will not leave my mind. I screamed at him and cut my forearm and tossed an ice bucket in his face and I was shoved back into the sanctuary room where I had been living on wine from his cellar and pills from his drawer for several days. He told me, I was hard to love and asked me to leave.

My nails are super short and my hair is super short and I keep thinking I can start over and be: long, strong and beautiful one day only I am scared of the damage I have caused others and the pain I have caused myself. There’s that bit of sun coming through my window and there’s tomorrow I have to show up for and these things are enough to forgive my weakness. I made a list of things to do: grocery store, clean top drawer, query letter, laundry, organize papers, and for now these things seem to be enough of a beginning.

Tears in Outer Space

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on May 23, 2008

in Amusings and Music

. 4 Comments

Mason Jar by mbwphoto

Do you ever wish you could drive over your own head with a large truck to make it stop thinking? I do; but then I couldn’t listen to music anymore and that would suck hard. I’d settle for an old fashioned coma, stuck in a luminous cloud of slumber, but I would worry about who would tweeze my eyebrows whilst inside my sweet siesta and I would totally miss trail running.

Recently, I discovered the perfect musical companion to the tree canopied trails of Forest Park: Van Morrison’s new album, Keep It Simple. If the massive, Douglas fir trees could perform for the woodland creatures, a myriad of bird and mammal varietals, they would chronicle a life of roots music based in blues, folk, country with a splash of gospel and filter in rays of light, evangelizing “etrainment.” Their lyrics would turn round reflections of a life filled with longing - for place, for rescue, for spiritual transcendence. “Only a fool could think that things would ever be simple again,” Morrison sings on the title track. It’s that kind of foolishness that feels like the wisdom of the old growth.

Towards all things foolish, I have joined the online dating service _________. (Fill in the blank.) It feels rather like I have put on my favorite party dress, glossed-up and perfumed, and chosen to surround myself with my most favorite candy treats and put the entire scene inside a glass mason jar - not unlike a snow-globe - and then placed myself in a dryer with a natty pair of sneakers and asked someone to shut the door and press the start button and now I am tossing about inside the dryer with a pair of sneakers and I am hoping I don’t get kicked so hard that it all breaks apart and my sweet treats melt and my party dress gets ruined and it all goes to hell in the lint screen. Is it just me?

To that end, Spring has decided to weep all over this season. It’s been a gush of big, fat gator tears in an ever-ambivalent manner and I have tried to catch a ride on the backs of a few of those drops to no avail. You can’t ride tears into outer space; they are not meant for such fortitude.

The best I can hope for now is a puncture hole on the lid of my mason jar or a fortuitous choice to be recycled. I am still good for another function all together. Mason jars are good for legumes or lemonade or a small plant. In Portland, mason jars are all the rage.

Spring

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on May 14, 2008

in Amusings

. 0 Comments

Sparkling Drops Of Spring, by Steve Wall

The spring is undecided. A balmy heat threatens the upcoming weekend; however, clouds prevail when they forecast blue skies and sun shines when they call for rain. It’s up to the season to choose its conditions and I wait. The days are passing. My drive to work is the same as it is last week and the week before with little variation. Some days I stop for a coffee, an Americano with cold soy, and occasionally sprinkle it with nutmeg. On other mornings, if I have the time, I make a strong cup of tea at home and top it off with steamed soy.

M used to make me tea in the morning for my drive to the vineyard. It was in a big plastic cup wrapped with paper towels to protect my hands from the heat. He didn’t make the tea when he was upset with me and eventually the brewing stopped all together. I think of him when I drink my morning tea and I wish the association would disappear. One day, enough time will have passed and a cup of tea will simply be a cup of tea but for now, I wait.

I measure my windows to fit them for a fan in case the heat turns my apartment into an unbearable inferno. While looking around my place, I decide it’s time to let go of three paintings, each portraying agonizing male figures painted on wood. Years ago, I promised the artist of the two large pieces never to abandon them to a closet, so I choose to leave the paintings on the street. I live in the Alberta Arts district; surely they will find a new home. The other piece, a small wooden block purchased from an artist on the streets of San Francisco, I decide to burn.

There was a time when the artwork insinuated love and lost love, adornment of beauty, hope, connection to a moment and place and person that once made my soul melt in the Rilke kind of way, the mystical yummy kind of passion that I could taste all day long. But now, it’s just sad men on blocks of wood and it is time to let them go.

I relate to an undecided spring, at times unpredictable but choosing my own climate. There is a lonely that chokes me from the inside out balanced only by the expansive inhalation of possibility. I choke, I breath deep, I wait and the days are passing and it doesn’t seem to matter the memories or the dreams or the mundane or the morning beverage choice because life is brazen enough to lead to death. In the interim, there is weather to witness and morning drives to work with caffeine for company.

Argyle Knee-Highs

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on May 1, 2008

in Writing

. 1 Comment

Argyle Socket, by Mandy Crandell

I sacrificed an old pair of argyle knee-high socks in the name of the creative process: an attempt to cleanse my way towards genius or dispense with the clutter of distraction that demurely draws me away from the muse. Clutter is not demure in it of itself (confused or disordered state) but rather, it’s the collection of memories attached to a particular object that I find alluring, contemplative and heavy like the weekend I spent with you in Charlotte, NC high on adderall and alcohol and love. That weekend I wore the argyle knee-highs with a smart pair of brown pumps and my favorite green mini. We hung out naked and watched movies in your bedroom where you lived with a cat named, Miss Kitty. I think she was given away to an ex-girlfriend of yours before you moved to LA to pursue the album deal with New West Records. But that was long after our blissful weekend together. You adored that cat. I loved you hard that weekend.

Some kind of love outlasts a pair of socks and others don’t. There’s weekend love, lifelong love, passing in the street kind of love; there’s fleeting love and enduring, missed, lost, replaced and patched up kind of love. I could have darned the hole in the left sock; they would have lasted a bit longer. I could have left Los Angeles and moved to Charlotte years ago but then you would have eventually moved to LA for music and that would have been silly.

You called last week and told me you loved me. I sobbed on the phone. Now you are a father, live in Charlotte, have a tour planned in June with Rilo Kiley. Now I am single, live in Portland, have ponderous moments about socks.

Composting Thoughts

Published

Katrina Joy Plam

on April 25, 2008

in Amusings

. 4 Comments