When your fight has purpose--to free you from something, to interfere on the behalf of an innocent--it has a hope of finality. When the fight is about unraveling--when it is about your name, the places to which your blood is anchored, the attachment of your name to some landmark or event--there is nothing but hate, and the long, slow progression of people who feed on it and are fed it, meticulously, by the ones who come before them. Then the fight is endless, and comes in waves and waves, but always retains its capacity to surprise those who hope against it.--from The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
On War
Inheritance
My grandfather sat beside me, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every so often, he would wake up with a start, and then take his right hand off his belly and pet the dog, who couldn't sleep, and was peering anxiously through the window. My grandfather would pet the dog, and, in a voice that made him sound like some kind of children's program puppet, he would say: "You're a dog! You're a dog! Where are you? You're a dog!" and the dog's tongue would drop out of its mouth and it would start keening.--from The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht
After a few hours of this, I said, "Jesus, Grandpa, I get it, he's a dog," not knowing that, just a few years later, I would be reminding every dog I met on the street that it was a dog, and asking it where it was.
We're here. We're big.
The only thing to do on my first Christmas alone was hike. I first wanted to go far, to the Smokies, to another state, somewhere I had never been. I wanted to get myself as far removed from home and aloneness as possible, to place myself on an unknown mountain and make myself climb it, to discover something new in the world and, perhaps, in myself.
But I was tired and didn't want to drive for hours, and I didn't know how much stamina I (or Scooter) had for a lengthy hike. I also wasn't excited for the hike like I would have been a year ago. Oh, how those first six months in Spartanburg were defined by hikes and exploration. That's all I wanted to do on a Saturday, my one day off. I'd get up at 6am and set out for the Blue Ridge, usually alone, for a challenge. I'd look forward to it all week. I'd say, "I'm rugged. I want to get scrapes and bleed because that will be proof I'm rugged." I'd call Jedsen from the summit. I'd brag about my strength and moxie like I was surprised to find them every time--and I was, and I wanted him to be surprised (and awed) too.
As I was preparing my backpack for the hike Sunday morning, I realized I'd forgotten to get anything to take for a lunch, and all I had was a KIND bar. I packed a bag of treats for Scooter, several pairs of gloves, an extra hat, and the usual emergency provisions of stun gun, pocket knife, folded foil blanket, and matches in a waterproof pouch. We set out just before eight, and the sun was a peek of bright through streaks of clouds. We headed toward Table Rock State Park in the far western corner of South Carolina. I tried to sing a journeying song to Scooter, but it came out in weak hums. About five miles down the highway I realized I'd forgotten my trail shoes, electing to wear my favorite blue Nikes for the drive. So I had to turn back.
I ran in and got the shoes and backed out to start again. Then I stopped and ran in to get one of Scooter's blankets to put in the backseat with him. And then we finally left, headed west. I don't remember what we listened to on the hour drive, though part of it was NPR. I don't remember thinking on the drive, just feeling saddened, reluctant but determined to go on this hike. I was relieved when the Table Rock State Park gates were open, and I was glad to remember the way. But when we pulled around to the large parking lot at the trailheads, the one that had been nearly full on my previous hike in the park in March, was completely empty at 9:15 on Christmas morning. Not a soul was around. And I was instantly afraid.
Yes, the main motivation for hiking on this day was to get away from society, from people, even from friends I couldn't talk to about what I was feeling on this first Christmas without Jedsen, so close to what would have been our seventh anniversary. But I'd told myself all those times before Scooter in those first six months, "I'm going by myself, but I won't be alone." I always chose trails that were popular, where I was sure others would be even if I wasn't with any of them. There would always be someone to run into, to say hello to, to come along if there was trouble. And there always had been. Not this time. This time as we crossed the first deck and bridges to the divergence of trails, as I filled out the card that said my name, age, trail, starting time, and emergency contact, I was actually alone. Scooter can bark, but he's small. Scooter can smell, but does he know the scent of bears? Bears. They were my fear.
Bears were all I wanted to see when I first started hiking. I dreamed about coming around a bend in a trail and looking over to see a black bear serenely loping up the mountainside. Nature, I thought, that's when I'll know I'm really in nature. Because it was difficult to believe that I could actually see a waterfall by driving to it or hiking a few miles. Growing up in Kansas, waterfalls, mountains, and bears were fantasies, things I longed for. They were mythical, subjects of fairy tales and epics. Suddenly living in close proximity to them made them, in a way, more mythical--or made me reside in some happy dream land whenever I was near. But it was that hike in March, on the last day of winter, on the Pinnacle Trail, Table Rock's neighbor, that I found fear. I wasn't alone--I knew there were others ahead of and behind me because the parking lot was full and it was a gorgeous day--but there were times when I could see no one yet heard large rustling of leaves. All I could think about was that the bears were waking up; it's bear season, and they're probably everywhere, and they probably have cubs. And I'm alone. I kept going, though, because I knew the bears would sense there more a number of people out and stay away from the trail. I reached the summit of Pinnacle Mountain that day, the most challenging hike to date, and I practically ran down the 4.5 miles out of relief.
When do bears sleep? Where do they sleep? Do they know to always stay away from the trails?
The creek was rushing, and the trail was muddy. I had Scooter on the 16-foot retractable leash so he could feel like he was walking off leash and so I could feel less immediate responsibility for him. I looked up into the bare trees, down to the creek, across to distant slopes of leaves, looking for the black bulge of a bear. I blew my bear whistle in short bursts every minute or so, hoping the sound was non-organic enough to keep a bear away while at the same time worrying that it would wake a bear up if it was sleeping. I at once wanted to make sure every creature on the mountain knew we were there and wanted to slip by unnoticed.
I made myself sing, at first holidays songs like "Deck the Halls" and Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas," but they'd quickly fade because I didn't want to be singing, and I didn't want to be talking. I didn't want to hear my voice. I wanted to be silent in my sadness, to keep it within as I always do. I wanted to only hear the wind and the leaves. I wanted to see. I'd be silent for a while and then have to just start talking aloud to ensure I was making noise. I started writing this as I walked, as I came upon what looked to be prime bear caves and nearly began crying in fear. I began composing my journey into an essay as it happened because I realized this was a journey about multiple fears. Bears, yes, and being alone, yes, and being exposed, and trying to get back to something that was once fulfilling. Hiking, nature, the climb, height, the achievement of reaching a pinnacle. The fulfillment of completion.
Over the last few months, I've learned that Scooter only cares about toys and treats that he can finish. As in, a food-filled Kong that he can empty, a stuffed squeaking mouse that he can chew through to the stuffing and squeaker, a bone that he can gnaw all edible matter from. He doesn't care about balls or fake bones that are only meant for chewing. Where's the reward in that?
I can't remember now how I completed all of my homework in school, but I certainly don't remember having much fun. Each assignment, each class, each A, was another step up the mountain of success, at least when it came to school. I understood school, the steady movements toward an end, a degree, and a new start. What that new start would be I was never sure until it was upon me, but it was the completion that was satisfying, and the completion with all A's. I kept going until there was no longer anywhere to go.
I blew my whistle every few feet as we climbed higher. I yelled, "We're here. We're big."
I saw movement up ahead but couldn't focus on it. Then I saw round creatures running up: wild turkeys. Thank god. Then Scooter saw them and switched into hunter mode. He barked and yelped and pulled me a head toward them, and I just kept saying, "You cannot eat the wild turkeys. You cannot eat the wild turkeys." It took him several minutes for him to listen, for them to disappear over a ridge.
He's so good on rocks, even with his small frame. He never tires. He runs uphill. "Wait," I'd yell, and he'd stop for a moment, until the leash was no longer taught, and then go again. "Stop," I'd yell louder, "I need you. I need you to stay with me."
Whenever he would stop on his own and turn his nose to smell the air, I thought bear. I thought, he's smelling something knew, something large and wild, and he's trying to understand it. I thought, let's turn back.
I thought let's turn back the whole way. I thought it when we hit the first mile marker, thought that a two mile hike was at least something. I thought it when we hit the shelter past 1.5 miles, thought it wouldn't be a shameful stopping point because we had been climbing up, up, up all the way. I thought it when we passed the turkeys, thought that since I'd seen wildlife I could go home. I thought it passing boulder with dark overhangs that made shelters for dark things, thought it when I nearly slipped on a wet rock, thought it when Scooter's leash got tangled in trees from where he'd gone off the trail.
I knew we were in the last mile or so once we hit the marker for the Ridge Trail, though I didn't have a map. Perhaps foolishly, I'd taught myself to trust in the trail markers and my own instinct for direction. Up ahead was a sloping wet rock that I knew we'd have to go up and, just behind, a large dark cave. As Scooter went off and down to eat some poop--what kind, I don't know--I convinced myself that there was a bear in that cave. That as we came up the rock I'd see big eyes glaring at me in the dark. How could there not be a bear in that cave? It looked large and sheltered from the wind. It even had a view of the valley.
Scooter ate the poop for a long time and then got himself tangled in limbs by looking for more. I was nearly crying at this point, anxiety fully setting in. I felt fear and failure. I blew the whistle for a long time. I screamed. I tried to get Scooter to bark. "We're big!" I wailed.
When I got Scooter untangled I was about to tell him to go down, but he started climbing again and got halfway to the rock when the leash reached its max. He wasn't worried, wasn't sniffing the air. He just looked back annoyed that I had stopped him. And so I followed, my eyes on the cave the whole time. My hands shaking. My little voice whispering wait.
My impression of bears was formed by Winnie the Pooh and zoos and Teddy, the stuffed bear I've had since I was a baby. Cuddly, right. Tricks. Honey. Then, claws. Hunger. Territory. Did I want to experience nature or not? Was I proud to be hiking alone (a woman, silly and dangerous, everyone said) or had I been convinced I was foolish? Was I determined to always finish a hike, to summit, or could I be satisfied with the mileage, the beauty, the journey? Who was I going to tell about this hike that would be remembered for its solitude and panic?
All along, an absence of bears in view and empty caves. Just beyond, the trees opened up to a slope of rock and the mountains to the west. I knew it wasn't the end of the trail, but it was an opening, a window back out to the world. Over there, Pinnacle Mountain, my peak. And North Carolina beyond. The rock rolled over and off the mountain, and a braver me than today would have gone closer to the edge, to better feel the height and weightlessness of a climb. But I sat back, gave Scooter some treats, tried to breathe, and decided that this would be the end. I was too exhausted from worrying to keep going to the last half-mile or so. It wasn't a failure, I told myself, but an experience. Nearly 2,000 vertical feet of experience.
About half-way down we encountered more people, a family, and farther down, there were couples with small dogs, and in the parking lot there were about 15 cars. It had just taken them until noon to get out there.
I spent three hours alone on a mountain. I wish I could say, like my three hours alone in London, that it was liberating, that I came away stronger, that I gave myself the perfect gift on Christmas. But instead I deflated, thought of calling my mom just to tell her I was done with the hike but decided I didn't want to talk about it. When she called a few minutes later and the call dropped after about a minute, I didn't want to call back. When Jedsen texted "Merry Christmas, Kari" as I was nearing home, I couldn't be strong and write back my own reserved wishes. No, I broke down and began a conversation in common misery, a conversation of texts that would last the rest of the day, that would make me ache for him yet smile that I was somewhat near him, that would make me break a hole in the wall I'd built between us because I had to, that would leave me more alone than when the day began because there was nothing to be done and these texts of reminiscence and hurt would lead nowhere, to no different end. He, alone in the cold of Chicago, and I, alone by choice in the gray of the South, would have to stop here, most likely for good.
But I was tired and didn't want to drive for hours, and I didn't know how much stamina I (or Scooter) had for a lengthy hike. I also wasn't excited for the hike like I would have been a year ago. Oh, how those first six months in Spartanburg were defined by hikes and exploration. That's all I wanted to do on a Saturday, my one day off. I'd get up at 6am and set out for the Blue Ridge, usually alone, for a challenge. I'd look forward to it all week. I'd say, "I'm rugged. I want to get scrapes and bleed because that will be proof I'm rugged." I'd call Jedsen from the summit. I'd brag about my strength and moxie like I was surprised to find them every time--and I was, and I wanted him to be surprised (and awed) too.
As I was preparing my backpack for the hike Sunday morning, I realized I'd forgotten to get anything to take for a lunch, and all I had was a KIND bar. I packed a bag of treats for Scooter, several pairs of gloves, an extra hat, and the usual emergency provisions of stun gun, pocket knife, folded foil blanket, and matches in a waterproof pouch. We set out just before eight, and the sun was a peek of bright through streaks of clouds. We headed toward Table Rock State Park in the far western corner of South Carolina. I tried to sing a journeying song to Scooter, but it came out in weak hums. About five miles down the highway I realized I'd forgotten my trail shoes, electing to wear my favorite blue Nikes for the drive. So I had to turn back.
I ran in and got the shoes and backed out to start again. Then I stopped and ran in to get one of Scooter's blankets to put in the backseat with him. And then we finally left, headed west. I don't remember what we listened to on the hour drive, though part of it was NPR. I don't remember thinking on the drive, just feeling saddened, reluctant but determined to go on this hike. I was relieved when the Table Rock State Park gates were open, and I was glad to remember the way. But when we pulled around to the large parking lot at the trailheads, the one that had been nearly full on my previous hike in the park in March, was completely empty at 9:15 on Christmas morning. Not a soul was around. And I was instantly afraid.
Yes, the main motivation for hiking on this day was to get away from society, from people, even from friends I couldn't talk to about what I was feeling on this first Christmas without Jedsen, so close to what would have been our seventh anniversary. But I'd told myself all those times before Scooter in those first six months, "I'm going by myself, but I won't be alone." I always chose trails that were popular, where I was sure others would be even if I wasn't with any of them. There would always be someone to run into, to say hello to, to come along if there was trouble. And there always had been. Not this time. This time as we crossed the first deck and bridges to the divergence of trails, as I filled out the card that said my name, age, trail, starting time, and emergency contact, I was actually alone. Scooter can bark, but he's small. Scooter can smell, but does he know the scent of bears? Bears. They were my fear.
Bears were all I wanted to see when I first started hiking. I dreamed about coming around a bend in a trail and looking over to see a black bear serenely loping up the mountainside. Nature, I thought, that's when I'll know I'm really in nature. Because it was difficult to believe that I could actually see a waterfall by driving to it or hiking a few miles. Growing up in Kansas, waterfalls, mountains, and bears were fantasies, things I longed for. They were mythical, subjects of fairy tales and epics. Suddenly living in close proximity to them made them, in a way, more mythical--or made me reside in some happy dream land whenever I was near. But it was that hike in March, on the last day of winter, on the Pinnacle Trail, Table Rock's neighbor, that I found fear. I wasn't alone--I knew there were others ahead of and behind me because the parking lot was full and it was a gorgeous day--but there were times when I could see no one yet heard large rustling of leaves. All I could think about was that the bears were waking up; it's bear season, and they're probably everywhere, and they probably have cubs. And I'm alone. I kept going, though, because I knew the bears would sense there more a number of people out and stay away from the trail. I reached the summit of Pinnacle Mountain that day, the most challenging hike to date, and I practically ran down the 4.5 miles out of relief.
When do bears sleep? Where do they sleep? Do they know to always stay away from the trails?
The creek was rushing, and the trail was muddy. I had Scooter on the 16-foot retractable leash so he could feel like he was walking off leash and so I could feel less immediate responsibility for him. I looked up into the bare trees, down to the creek, across to distant slopes of leaves, looking for the black bulge of a bear. I blew my bear whistle in short bursts every minute or so, hoping the sound was non-organic enough to keep a bear away while at the same time worrying that it would wake a bear up if it was sleeping. I at once wanted to make sure every creature on the mountain knew we were there and wanted to slip by unnoticed.
I made myself sing, at first holidays songs like "Deck the Halls" and Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas," but they'd quickly fade because I didn't want to be singing, and I didn't want to be talking. I didn't want to hear my voice. I wanted to be silent in my sadness, to keep it within as I always do. I wanted to only hear the wind and the leaves. I wanted to see. I'd be silent for a while and then have to just start talking aloud to ensure I was making noise. I started writing this as I walked, as I came upon what looked to be prime bear caves and nearly began crying in fear. I began composing my journey into an essay as it happened because I realized this was a journey about multiple fears. Bears, yes, and being alone, yes, and being exposed, and trying to get back to something that was once fulfilling. Hiking, nature, the climb, height, the achievement of reaching a pinnacle. The fulfillment of completion.
Over the last few months, I've learned that Scooter only cares about toys and treats that he can finish. As in, a food-filled Kong that he can empty, a stuffed squeaking mouse that he can chew through to the stuffing and squeaker, a bone that he can gnaw all edible matter from. He doesn't care about balls or fake bones that are only meant for chewing. Where's the reward in that?
I can't remember now how I completed all of my homework in school, but I certainly don't remember having much fun. Each assignment, each class, each A, was another step up the mountain of success, at least when it came to school. I understood school, the steady movements toward an end, a degree, and a new start. What that new start would be I was never sure until it was upon me, but it was the completion that was satisfying, and the completion with all A's. I kept going until there was no longer anywhere to go.
I blew my whistle every few feet as we climbed higher. I yelled, "We're here. We're big."
I saw movement up ahead but couldn't focus on it. Then I saw round creatures running up: wild turkeys. Thank god. Then Scooter saw them and switched into hunter mode. He barked and yelped and pulled me a head toward them, and I just kept saying, "You cannot eat the wild turkeys. You cannot eat the wild turkeys." It took him several minutes for him to listen, for them to disappear over a ridge.
He's so good on rocks, even with his small frame. He never tires. He runs uphill. "Wait," I'd yell, and he'd stop for a moment, until the leash was no longer taught, and then go again. "Stop," I'd yell louder, "I need you. I need you to stay with me."
Whenever he would stop on his own and turn his nose to smell the air, I thought bear. I thought, he's smelling something knew, something large and wild, and he's trying to understand it. I thought, let's turn back.
I thought let's turn back the whole way. I thought it when we hit the first mile marker, thought that a two mile hike was at least something. I thought it when we hit the shelter past 1.5 miles, thought it wouldn't be a shameful stopping point because we had been climbing up, up, up all the way. I thought it when we passed the turkeys, thought that since I'd seen wildlife I could go home. I thought it passing boulder with dark overhangs that made shelters for dark things, thought it when I nearly slipped on a wet rock, thought it when Scooter's leash got tangled in trees from where he'd gone off the trail.
I knew we were in the last mile or so once we hit the marker for the Ridge Trail, though I didn't have a map. Perhaps foolishly, I'd taught myself to trust in the trail markers and my own instinct for direction. Up ahead was a sloping wet rock that I knew we'd have to go up and, just behind, a large dark cave. As Scooter went off and down to eat some poop--what kind, I don't know--I convinced myself that there was a bear in that cave. That as we came up the rock I'd see big eyes glaring at me in the dark. How could there not be a bear in that cave? It looked large and sheltered from the wind. It even had a view of the valley.
Scooter ate the poop for a long time and then got himself tangled in limbs by looking for more. I was nearly crying at this point, anxiety fully setting in. I felt fear and failure. I blew the whistle for a long time. I screamed. I tried to get Scooter to bark. "We're big!" I wailed.
When I got Scooter untangled I was about to tell him to go down, but he started climbing again and got halfway to the rock when the leash reached its max. He wasn't worried, wasn't sniffing the air. He just looked back annoyed that I had stopped him. And so I followed, my eyes on the cave the whole time. My hands shaking. My little voice whispering wait.
My impression of bears was formed by Winnie the Pooh and zoos and Teddy, the stuffed bear I've had since I was a baby. Cuddly, right. Tricks. Honey. Then, claws. Hunger. Territory. Did I want to experience nature or not? Was I proud to be hiking alone (a woman, silly and dangerous, everyone said) or had I been convinced I was foolish? Was I determined to always finish a hike, to summit, or could I be satisfied with the mileage, the beauty, the journey? Who was I going to tell about this hike that would be remembered for its solitude and panic?
All along, an absence of bears in view and empty caves. Just beyond, the trees opened up to a slope of rock and the mountains to the west. I knew it wasn't the end of the trail, but it was an opening, a window back out to the world. Over there, Pinnacle Mountain, my peak. And North Carolina beyond. The rock rolled over and off the mountain, and a braver me than today would have gone closer to the edge, to better feel the height and weightlessness of a climb. But I sat back, gave Scooter some treats, tried to breathe, and decided that this would be the end. I was too exhausted from worrying to keep going to the last half-mile or so. It wasn't a failure, I told myself, but an experience. Nearly 2,000 vertical feet of experience.
About half-way down we encountered more people, a family, and farther down, there were couples with small dogs, and in the parking lot there were about 15 cars. It had just taken them until noon to get out there.
I spent three hours alone on a mountain. I wish I could say, like my three hours alone in London, that it was liberating, that I came away stronger, that I gave myself the perfect gift on Christmas. But instead I deflated, thought of calling my mom just to tell her I was done with the hike but decided I didn't want to talk about it. When she called a few minutes later and the call dropped after about a minute, I didn't want to call back. When Jedsen texted "Merry Christmas, Kari" as I was nearing home, I couldn't be strong and write back my own reserved wishes. No, I broke down and began a conversation in common misery, a conversation of texts that would last the rest of the day, that would make me ache for him yet smile that I was somewhat near him, that would make me break a hole in the wall I'd built between us because I had to, that would leave me more alone than when the day began because there was nothing to be done and these texts of reminiscence and hurt would lead nowhere, to no different end. He, alone in the cold of Chicago, and I, alone by choice in the gray of the South, would have to stop here, most likely for good.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Roost
Mark Rice's game from his line Spray the Hooray + Eric Kocher's poem "Roost" in my voice + Mark and Eric's music + Steve Snell's recorder talent + The Showroom = what HUB-BUB is all about.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Every vine I see
Since moving to the South, I believe every vine I see is kudzu. Green leaves climbing, overtaking, must be the same plant everyone is trying to kill.
I live on a corner in a wooded neighborhood, part of a park, and most of my backyard is kudzu, now a brown tangle of hibernation. It faded quickly, and I remember last spring that it lagged in revival, that it surprisingly wasn't the first to rise in green from the dead of winter.
What is my fascination with kudzu? Allow me to be cheesy for a moment. Kudzu is persistent. It believes in itself. It overcomes obstacles. And it can kill what it claims, blocking out the sun. If we take this all in a positive bent, I want to be kudzu. I want to keep reaching for goals and meeting them; that's a problem I've had in all areas that only pertain to me. If someone came in and told me I had to reach the top of a tree, by god I'd do it and I'd do it well. But if I tell myself, Hey, I'm going to reach the top of that tree, and I wrote it down, and I put it on my mirror so I could see it every day, and if I repeated it to myself, I'm going to stand on the top of that tree, damn it, it wouldn't matter. I never keep promises to myself. I don't know how to motivate myself.
So, perhaps, mission number 1: Respect myself and my authority. Respect my thoughts, my goals, my desires for my life.
Sugar is an easy option. It's cheap, delicious, everywhere. And so that's what I've been living on for the last 3 months. I cringe to begin to calculate the pounds of sugar I've eaten, and I cringe to think what it's doing to my mind and my body. But I also haven't been eating very much at all, skipping meals. I also haven't been drinking much at all, ignoring my intense thirst. I don't drink when I'm thirsty. I don't eat when I'm hungry.
I no longer believe in New Years Resolutions. I believe in life choices. I want to be a runner, an athlete. I've wanted that all my life, actually, but I've never believed that I could be. But, hey, I could be. And I'm going to be.
Life choices: Live on plants. Run. Satiate. Be a writer and write.
I live on a corner in a wooded neighborhood, part of a park, and most of my backyard is kudzu, now a brown tangle of hibernation. It faded quickly, and I remember last spring that it lagged in revival, that it surprisingly wasn't the first to rise in green from the dead of winter.
What is my fascination with kudzu? Allow me to be cheesy for a moment. Kudzu is persistent. It believes in itself. It overcomes obstacles. And it can kill what it claims, blocking out the sun. If we take this all in a positive bent, I want to be kudzu. I want to keep reaching for goals and meeting them; that's a problem I've had in all areas that only pertain to me. If someone came in and told me I had to reach the top of a tree, by god I'd do it and I'd do it well. But if I tell myself, Hey, I'm going to reach the top of that tree, and I wrote it down, and I put it on my mirror so I could see it every day, and if I repeated it to myself, I'm going to stand on the top of that tree, damn it, it wouldn't matter. I never keep promises to myself. I don't know how to motivate myself.
So, perhaps, mission number 1: Respect myself and my authority. Respect my thoughts, my goals, my desires for my life.
Sugar is an easy option. It's cheap, delicious, everywhere. And so that's what I've been living on for the last 3 months. I cringe to begin to calculate the pounds of sugar I've eaten, and I cringe to think what it's doing to my mind and my body. But I also haven't been eating very much at all, skipping meals. I also haven't been drinking much at all, ignoring my intense thirst. I don't drink when I'm thirsty. I don't eat when I'm hungry.
I no longer believe in New Years Resolutions. I believe in life choices. I want to be a runner, an athlete. I've wanted that all my life, actually, but I've never believed that I could be. But, hey, I could be. And I'm going to be.
Life choices: Live on plants. Run. Satiate. Be a writer and write.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
A word
Perhaps it's time to write about my life again. Perhaps it's time for a word or two. A word, like good bye.
You are not a tragedy, you are a personal essay. You must rise above and you must do it in the last paragraph with basic grammar and easily recognized words. --Christy Vannoy, "A Personal Essay by a Personal Essay"
Good bye black boots that I had really just fell in love with, accepted as an aspect of my style, and realized how warm and comfortable they were. Good bye at the force of Scooter's teeth.
Good bye City View apartment next week. Good bye to the lights, the sirens, the length. Good bye to the 32 stairs, the 3 flights, the double-beep of the door. Good bye to the bay window, its starring role in this apartment, and good bye to the broken blinds on the north. Good bye to short showers when it's cold, to the arches, to the green and beige, to the first wood floors that have ever been mine. Good bye walking to work. Good bye height.
Good bye silent ground. Good bye earthquake virginity; I have known two in two months.
Good bye thighs. Good bye mind. Good bye vegetables, protein, vitamins; sugar is in my veins.
Good bye sleep, and rest, and time.
Good bye Kansas, again, its straight lines and silhouettes of silos against an open sunset. Good bye friends in Kansas, some I saw and some I missed. All I miss. Good bye Lawrence, again. Good bye Hutchinson, cats, brother, shag. Good bye 1-70 and wind.
Good bye single friends; you're all getting married, you're all going forward in love, you're all doing it, seemingly, at once.
Good bye dark brown hair; you just can't stick around, can you?
Good bye chain stores and restaurants; I'm quitting you soon. Good bye debt; I don't need you around. Good bye empty refrigerator; you're going to feed me from now on.
Good bye Jedsen. Good bye love. Good bye Chicago. Good bye phone calls. Good bye best friend. Good bye places we loved. Good bye everything we loved. Good bye language. Good bye nicknames. Good bye second family. Good bye self as I know me. Good bye dreams. Good bye hands. Good bye brown eyes. Good bye curls. Good bye life as I knew it. Good bye songs we loved. Good bye Jim Croce. Good bye understanding. Good bye communication. Good bye brown chair. Good bye Anita. Good bye Chip. Good bye map. Good bye boots. Good bye "I love you." Good bye "I miss you." Everything remains but disappears. Everything hurts. Good bye Jedsen. Good bye love. Good bye.
That's the thing about life; everything feels so permanent, but you can disappear in an instant. --Jonathan Tropper, This is Where I Leave You
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Metaphor
It was the phone that said the final goodbye. In pink, with chimes, into black. It ended what we couldn't. The device that had kept us together punctuated our sentence. An end. The end.
I will dye my hair. When I begin to recover I will clear my face. I will run in my blue shoes. I will run in my blue shoes with the dog. I will move. I will move to woods, water. I will run alone, singly alone. To where I don't know.
I will dye my hair. When I begin to recover I will clear my face. I will run in my blue shoes. I will run in my blue shoes with the dog. I will move. I will move to woods, water. I will run alone, singly alone. To where I don't know.
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Exploration
Lately I have been all movement and no rest. A month, actually, today, that I've been moving daily, to somewhere, with someone: Scooter. I adopted Scooter a month ago today, this 35-pound adorable retriever/sharpei mix that stole my heart on a Sunday morning walk session with the dogs at the Humane Society. I had him by Wednesday. It was all very sudden. And this month has been a blur. 6:30 walks around downtown, insisting "no, no, no" to everything Scooter tries (and usually succeeds) to eat from the sidewalk. (I never knew there were so many stray bones laying around out there--but I guess dead animals end up somewhere for someone to eat?) Evening walks. Countless trips up and down the 3 flights of stairs (though it only took 2 days for Scooter to succeed at house training). A month of busy weekends and busy weeknights. I lost track of reading, of talking to anyone but myself. How do you manage your time with a dog? How do you give him plenty of time but still maintain a sane self-life and friend-life? Haven't figured that out yet.
Today is a comp day. A bonus day off. A free Friday. I'm at Panera, reading. I ate a real breakfast and drank hot chocolate. I am thinking about what I want to do. Because I should want to do something, right? The original plan was to take Scooter to the beach for a day or two, but Snickers has an infection and needs medication every day. I couldn't decide where to go anyway.
Restlessness. How many times have I mentioned that here? I want/need to be going somewhere all of the time. I want to explore. Yet I want to relax. I want to read. I want to write. I want to be still. How do you be still while still exploring? I have about 7 hours until my one commitment for the day. What do I do with it beyond these 2 hours at Panera? Greenville? No, I don't need anything there. Charlotte? I would only want to go to IKEA, and I don't need anything there. Asheville? Would be lovely, and I've been wanting to go to that fish lunch place again downtown, but otherwise it would just be shopping. A hike? I feel like it's too late in the day to start. That might be the agenda for tomorrow. That or a day trip to the beach if it's not too cool. And that's my exploration list.
I think back to a year ago when I was somewhere else every Saturday. A different mountain. A different town. Just me. That was my happy, my release. I haven't found a release yet this year. I haven't found the thing to look forward to. I want to go everywhere and nowhere. I want to do everything and nothing. I want to sleep and move. I want to be alone and connect. But the thing is last year I was keeping track. This year, not so much. The blur is a blur. What are my benchmarks? What are my highlights? What are my loves?
I think I'm moving in a month, hopefully to a duplex. A quiet, larger duplex a block from a lake just a few miles south of where I am now. From a box to a near-standalone in a wooded neighborhood. With a dog and a cat. Without Jedsen, still. Without him, until who knows when.
But life is good, if not stressful, if not confusing, if not quick. Life is good. It is Friday.
Today is a comp day. A bonus day off. A free Friday. I'm at Panera, reading. I ate a real breakfast and drank hot chocolate. I am thinking about what I want to do. Because I should want to do something, right? The original plan was to take Scooter to the beach for a day or two, but Snickers has an infection and needs medication every day. I couldn't decide where to go anyway.
Restlessness. How many times have I mentioned that here? I want/need to be going somewhere all of the time. I want to explore. Yet I want to relax. I want to read. I want to write. I want to be still. How do you be still while still exploring? I have about 7 hours until my one commitment for the day. What do I do with it beyond these 2 hours at Panera? Greenville? No, I don't need anything there. Charlotte? I would only want to go to IKEA, and I don't need anything there. Asheville? Would be lovely, and I've been wanting to go to that fish lunch place again downtown, but otherwise it would just be shopping. A hike? I feel like it's too late in the day to start. That might be the agenda for tomorrow. That or a day trip to the beach if it's not too cool. And that's my exploration list.
I think back to a year ago when I was somewhere else every Saturday. A different mountain. A different town. Just me. That was my happy, my release. I haven't found a release yet this year. I haven't found the thing to look forward to. I want to go everywhere and nowhere. I want to do everything and nothing. I want to sleep and move. I want to be alone and connect. But the thing is last year I was keeping track. This year, not so much. The blur is a blur. What are my benchmarks? What are my highlights? What are my loves?
I think I'm moving in a month, hopefully to a duplex. A quiet, larger duplex a block from a lake just a few miles south of where I am now. From a box to a near-standalone in a wooded neighborhood. With a dog and a cat. Without Jedsen, still. Without him, until who knows when.
But life is good, if not stressful, if not confusing, if not quick. Life is good. It is Friday.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Lost and Found
I'm everywhere and nowhere these days. Can't keep up with everything. But there have been changes and adventures that I hope i'll return to tell you all about soon.
Love from Kari, Snickers, and Scooter
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Transfer
How often I think about the weather. How often I long for the storm.
I haven't cried this much in months and months. I haven't been on the edge of crying so much in a year. Outside, a hot haze. Pavement. Dry. Perhaps I'm compensating for the lack of moisture and emotion out there. If only a storm would come. If only I could hear thunder, transfer the turmoil to the sky.
Right now, the clouds are getting darker while I'm inside trying to get light.
I haven't cried this much in months and months. I haven't been on the edge of crying so much in a year. Outside, a hot haze. Pavement. Dry. Perhaps I'm compensating for the lack of moisture and emotion out there. If only a storm would come. If only I could hear thunder, transfer the turmoil to the sky.
Right now, the clouds are getting darker while I'm inside trying to get light.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in that House
When I think back on the places I've lived, I now wonder this: I wonder if the real measure of "home" is the degree to which you can leave it alone. Maybe appreciating a house means knowing when to stop decorating. Maybe you've never really lived there until you've thrown its broken pieces in the garbage. Maybe learning how to be out in the big world isn't the epic journey everyone thinks it is. Maybe that's actually the easy part. The hard part is what's right in front of you. The hard part is learning how to hold the title to your very existence, to own not only property, but also your life. The hard part is learning not just how to be but mastering the nearly impossible art of how to be at home.--Megham Daum, from Life Would be Perfect if I Lived in that House
Monday, June 06, 2011
Okay
I let my couch go, just so you know. It drove off to Indianapolis to the be first couch of another Kerri, a couch for the new place she got with her boyfriend Adam. It was time to let it go. And I'm okay with it. And I'm staying in this apartment because I do love it, after all, and because there isn't one part of me that wants to move again this year. Snickers and I are happy here, with our view of the sky. My heart only aches for Jedsen, for our week together, for the way he feels like home.
Welcome to Chicago
Among the first things we saw when started carrying boxes up the three flights of stairs to Jedsen's new Chicago apartment on Tuesday was a full-grown mouse walking leisurely toward the parking lot. It was brown and cute. I called out to Jedsen, who was ahead of me with a load of boxes in his arms, "Look! A mouse! It's so cute!" He looked back, smiled, and grunted acknowledgement of his cute neighbor before heading up the rusted metal stairs. I thought of the other cute mice I've seen in public places, such as the mice in the London Underground. I remember calling them cute, too.
At that point in the evening, I had driven a U-Haul for the first time across the Midwest over 9 hours. It was the first time driving a U-Haul and the first time driving more than 4 hours in a day. I had led us up Chicago's Lake Shore Drive at rush hour, Jedsen close behind me in his car, and savored the city and the lake after miles and miles of farm land. I had turned off on the right street, Montrose, but had missed the street sign for his street, Beacon, because the sun was blinding. We had dropped Jedsen's car at a small corner parking lot with a Subway and Dunkin Donuts so that we only had to find parking for the U-Haul close to the apartment and not two vehicles. We had driven back into the neighborhood and found Beacon but no parking spot and had then been guided to an alley by Jedsen's sister, who was waiting for us. In the process of trying to find the alley and prepare to turn into it, I had hit the mirror of a truck with the mirror of the U-Haul and said "Oh shit!" and kept going to find the other entrance to the alley because I hoped I hadn't done any actual damage. I had driven down the alley and pulled into a fenced parking lot behind the apartment building, where Jedsen's sister's boyfriend took over and backed the U-Haul into the space closest to the stairs. We had all walked back to get Jedsen's car after his sister said, "Oh, no. You can't park it there. You'll get towed." We had gotten the car and parked it in that back parking lot next to the U-Haul because his sister said that the apartment manager said it was okay for just that one night and otherwise he'd have to pay for the spot. We had all said hello and found his apartment and started unloading the truck as airplanes passed over on their way to O'Hare.
Two more guys came to help us, friends of his sister's boyfriend, and we got everything into his little one-bedroom. Jedsen offered to take them to dinner to thank them, and so having only spent about 5 minutes in his new apartment after a 9.5 hour trip and unloading, we got into his sister's boyfriend's car and he drove us into the city to get pizza, which his sister said was "cheap."
$104 dollars later, Jedsen writes his name on the wall of Gino's East: "Jeddy Bear." He makes his mark on Chicago on his first night.
It's 10:30 when they drop us off at his apartment, but we need to get milk and cereal before we go to bed, and so we walk to the Walgreen's that I saw just two blocks away. On the walk back from Walgreen's we pass a hulking black man going the opposite direction, and Jedsen comments that he thinks this guy could take Rocky in a fight. I bet so too.
We come around the front of the apartment building and see blinking and beeping truck lights in the back parking lot.
"Is my car being towed?" Jedsen chuckles.
I go through the gate to the lot and see that his car is still there but there's a tow truck backing up to it.
"Yes," I say without looking at him. I stare at the truck backing up to hook his car.
"That's our car," I yell. "We're here! Don't take it."
Jedsen calmly walks up to the tow truck and says, "That's my car, man. The guy Chris told me I could park it here for the night."
The tow truck guy gets out and says, "Man, this guy called."
Out of the darkness, the man who could beat Rocky emerges. "You're in my spot," he shouts, emphasizing each word with his hands. "I've been honking my horn out here for two-three hours. You can't be here."
"I'm sorry, man, but we've been out. We went to get milk. I just moved in today. That guy Chris told me I could park here for the night." Jedsen touches the back of his head.
"Nah, I've lived here for three years. I've had this spot for three years. Nobody can park in this spot but me."
"We'll move the car! We have the keys!" I yell past Jedsen and the man who could beat Rocky to the tow truck guys.
Jedsen walks over to the tow truck and asks them if he can get what he needs out of the car and where he can pick it up at. The bigger tow truck guy motions east and says it'll be $200.
"But we're here!" I say, more in a whisper of disbelief.
Jedsen gets a few things out of the car and then goes to the window of the tow truck. The tow truck guys are restless, rolling their heads and saying, "But we're already here. We have your tires."
Jedsen comes over to me and says "Do you have any cash? These guys want something for their trouble."
I give him a 20 and he goes back to the tow truck window. A few seconds later the truck moves forward and releases the car tires.
"I think they wanted more," Jedsen says as he stands by me and we watch them maneuver out of the parking lot. The guy who could beat Rocky had disappeared and gone to wait in his car with the lights on to come to his spot. We know we have to leave in the car immediately.
After spending 30 minutes trying to find a parking spot for the car, we finally park it in a spot that we think is legal about 6 blocks away. After parking the car, we walk back to get the U-Haul to return it because there is nowhere to park it. I drop Jedsen at his car so he can follow me to the U-Haul drop-off.
It's midnight by the time we leave the truck, and we drive the five miles back to his neighborhood to once again find a parking spot for the car. This time even more people have come home, even more people have parked, and all of the spots we see are not spots but empty spaces in front of fire hydrants or spaces for cars with permits or phantom spaces that we dream to be spaces because we've been driving around in circles for nearly an hour trying to park a car that Jedsen's going to sell as soon as possible because, as we've proven, Chicago is no place for a car. But he was already planning to sell it because I had already known that Chicago was no place to need a car, but I hadn't known it to this extent. And after 1am, when we finally decided we take the chance on a parking ticket just to finally be parked and go back to the apartment we'd spent all of 5 minutes in since we arrived in Chicago, we parked on the north side of the famous Graceland Cemetery. And as we walked away from the car, a large raccoon bounded down the sidewalk and sat to stare at us. And that was after I had seen a large opossum cross the street to the cemetery. And that was after we finally decided to laugh at the whole ordeal because, come on, it's Chicago and we're together and we're happy, if not utterly exhausted and sick of cars.
At that point in the evening, I had driven a U-Haul for the first time across the Midwest over 9 hours. It was the first time driving a U-Haul and the first time driving more than 4 hours in a day. I had led us up Chicago's Lake Shore Drive at rush hour, Jedsen close behind me in his car, and savored the city and the lake after miles and miles of farm land. I had turned off on the right street, Montrose, but had missed the street sign for his street, Beacon, because the sun was blinding. We had dropped Jedsen's car at a small corner parking lot with a Subway and Dunkin Donuts so that we only had to find parking for the U-Haul close to the apartment and not two vehicles. We had driven back into the neighborhood and found Beacon but no parking spot and had then been guided to an alley by Jedsen's sister, who was waiting for us. In the process of trying to find the alley and prepare to turn into it, I had hit the mirror of a truck with the mirror of the U-Haul and said "Oh shit!" and kept going to find the other entrance to the alley because I hoped I hadn't done any actual damage. I had driven down the alley and pulled into a fenced parking lot behind the apartment building, where Jedsen's sister's boyfriend took over and backed the U-Haul into the space closest to the stairs. We had all walked back to get Jedsen's car after his sister said, "Oh, no. You can't park it there. You'll get towed." We had gotten the car and parked it in that back parking lot next to the U-Haul because his sister said that the apartment manager said it was okay for just that one night and otherwise he'd have to pay for the spot. We had all said hello and found his apartment and started unloading the truck as airplanes passed over on their way to O'Hare.
Two more guys came to help us, friends of his sister's boyfriend, and we got everything into his little one-bedroom. Jedsen offered to take them to dinner to thank them, and so having only spent about 5 minutes in his new apartment after a 9.5 hour trip and unloading, we got into his sister's boyfriend's car and he drove us into the city to get pizza, which his sister said was "cheap."
$104 dollars later, Jedsen writes his name on the wall of Gino's East: "Jeddy Bear." He makes his mark on Chicago on his first night.
It's 10:30 when they drop us off at his apartment, but we need to get milk and cereal before we go to bed, and so we walk to the Walgreen's that I saw just two blocks away. On the walk back from Walgreen's we pass a hulking black man going the opposite direction, and Jedsen comments that he thinks this guy could take Rocky in a fight. I bet so too.
We come around the front of the apartment building and see blinking and beeping truck lights in the back parking lot.
"Is my car being towed?" Jedsen chuckles.
I go through the gate to the lot and see that his car is still there but there's a tow truck backing up to it.
"Yes," I say without looking at him. I stare at the truck backing up to hook his car.
"That's our car," I yell. "We're here! Don't take it."
Jedsen calmly walks up to the tow truck and says, "That's my car, man. The guy Chris told me I could park it here for the night."
The tow truck guy gets out and says, "Man, this guy called."
Out of the darkness, the man who could beat Rocky emerges. "You're in my spot," he shouts, emphasizing each word with his hands. "I've been honking my horn out here for two-three hours. You can't be here."
"I'm sorry, man, but we've been out. We went to get milk. I just moved in today. That guy Chris told me I could park here for the night." Jedsen touches the back of his head.
"Nah, I've lived here for three years. I've had this spot for three years. Nobody can park in this spot but me."
"We'll move the car! We have the keys!" I yell past Jedsen and the man who could beat Rocky to the tow truck guys.
Jedsen walks over to the tow truck and asks them if he can get what he needs out of the car and where he can pick it up at. The bigger tow truck guy motions east and says it'll be $200.
"But we're here!" I say, more in a whisper of disbelief.
Jedsen gets a few things out of the car and then goes to the window of the tow truck. The tow truck guys are restless, rolling their heads and saying, "But we're already here. We have your tires."
Jedsen comes over to me and says "Do you have any cash? These guys want something for their trouble."
I give him a 20 and he goes back to the tow truck window. A few seconds later the truck moves forward and releases the car tires.
"I think they wanted more," Jedsen says as he stands by me and we watch them maneuver out of the parking lot. The guy who could beat Rocky had disappeared and gone to wait in his car with the lights on to come to his spot. We know we have to leave in the car immediately.
After spending 30 minutes trying to find a parking spot for the car, we finally park it in a spot that we think is legal about 6 blocks away. After parking the car, we walk back to get the U-Haul to return it because there is nowhere to park it. I drop Jedsen at his car so he can follow me to the U-Haul drop-off.
It's midnight by the time we leave the truck, and we drive the five miles back to his neighborhood to once again find a parking spot for the car. This time even more people have come home, even more people have parked, and all of the spots we see are not spots but empty spaces in front of fire hydrants or spaces for cars with permits or phantom spaces that we dream to be spaces because we've been driving around in circles for nearly an hour trying to park a car that Jedsen's going to sell as soon as possible because, as we've proven, Chicago is no place for a car. But he was already planning to sell it because I had already known that Chicago was no place to need a car, but I hadn't known it to this extent. And after 1am, when we finally decided we take the chance on a parking ticket just to finally be parked and go back to the apartment we'd spent all of 5 minutes in since we arrived in Chicago, we parked on the north side of the famous Graceland Cemetery. And as we walked away from the car, a large raccoon bounded down the sidewalk and sat to stare at us. And that was after I had seen a large opossum cross the street to the cemetery. And that was after we finally decided to laugh at the whole ordeal because, come on, it's Chicago and we're together and we're happy, if not utterly exhausted and sick of cars.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Open
I've been sleeping with the blinds open again. The window on the far side, the side with the most city light. The side with the parking lot light that blares orange even when the blinds are closed. Last night I woke and the light was brighter than I could handle, than I remembered. It's brighter than ever, I thought, and I squinted across the bed to let down the blinds a few more inches.
I've been sleeping with the blinds open again. Not on purpose, but not accidentally. I used to do it all the time, but that was when the lights seemed comforting, necessary, and less bright. Since, I've read how even a little bit of light at night can disrupt your sleep. I haven't been feeling well in the middle of the day, and I'm always tired, but I don't bother to put down all of the blinds. Just like I don't bother to wash my face at night half the time because it's easier not to. Just like I ignore my birth control pill at the hour I'm supposed to take it every night and lazily take it some time the next morning before work, so that I'm always one behind.
I always feel one day behind.
I went shopping yesterday afternoon for shorts, which took me to the mall in Spartanburg, a mall I haven't been to in months. The mall left me listless and grumpy--there were no shorts long enough for a 26 year old but short enough to make me feel tall and potentially cute. I went to Target and ultimately found one pair of shorts but no tank tops, which had been a late addition to my search. Today after work, with my one success of yesterday, I went straight to the mall, convinced I would see with fresh eyes and a fresh waist line. But it was all the same and even looked worse on hangers than the previous day. Target again, after, to buy the same successful pair of shorts in a different color. But my size was all gone except in the dark khaki, which created white rings on my things where the shorts ended, clearly a different kind of 5 than the ones I'd already bought. I debated sandals, then, because I needed something new. I debated sandals in colors I didn't want but felt good. I carried three pairs around, then only one, and then none when I realized I couldn't think of a time when I would wear them over my other sandals.
As I drove away from Target, I was immediately anxious about the two hours I had wasted searching the same places for the same thing I had already searched for and, partially, found the day before. Two hours evaporate like they were never there. And all I have to show for them is a bottle of Ibuprofen and a sympathy card in a plastic bag. Once home, I need to cook dinner. I need to cook dinner because I know there is fresh chicken in the fridge that has a sell-date of May 10, thirteen days ago. I need to use this chicken that I spent $5.13 on over two weeks ago, and I need to use the green pepper and onion I bought on the same day to make fajitas, my favorite dish that I don't think I've made once in the near year I've lived here. The green pepper feels slightly wrinkly. The onion is soft and puffed with mold.
This reminds me again that I should never go on a true grocery shopping trip and buy fresh food. I won't eat it. And when I want to it will be too late and it will be because I have to because I know it will soon be too late. I am always a day behind.
On Saturday I will fly to Kansas City to see Jedsen for the first time since the afternoon we shared in mid-February. We will move him to Chicago next week. He sleeps in the dark. In a dark so deep I wake drunk and hungover and sad because I don't know what time it is and when I find out I will be mad because I will have slept all morning. Jedsen thinks it's good that I sleep all morning, but it makes me feel behind, lost, like I have to recover who I am and what I mean. Waking to a forced dark closes me in. Tells me I should forget my love of the sun. Means I am alone even though I am less alone than I ever am.
The lights mean I'm here. The lights mean, are real. The only real time is at home or in nature. In nature, I tend to forget time.
I've been sleeping with the blinds open again. Not on purpose, but not accidentally. I used to do it all the time, but that was when the lights seemed comforting, necessary, and less bright. Since, I've read how even a little bit of light at night can disrupt your sleep. I haven't been feeling well in the middle of the day, and I'm always tired, but I don't bother to put down all of the blinds. Just like I don't bother to wash my face at night half the time because it's easier not to. Just like I ignore my birth control pill at the hour I'm supposed to take it every night and lazily take it some time the next morning before work, so that I'm always one behind.
I always feel one day behind.
I went shopping yesterday afternoon for shorts, which took me to the mall in Spartanburg, a mall I haven't been to in months. The mall left me listless and grumpy--there were no shorts long enough for a 26 year old but short enough to make me feel tall and potentially cute. I went to Target and ultimately found one pair of shorts but no tank tops, which had been a late addition to my search. Today after work, with my one success of yesterday, I went straight to the mall, convinced I would see with fresh eyes and a fresh waist line. But it was all the same and even looked worse on hangers than the previous day. Target again, after, to buy the same successful pair of shorts in a different color. But my size was all gone except in the dark khaki, which created white rings on my things where the shorts ended, clearly a different kind of 5 than the ones I'd already bought. I debated sandals, then, because I needed something new. I debated sandals in colors I didn't want but felt good. I carried three pairs around, then only one, and then none when I realized I couldn't think of a time when I would wear them over my other sandals.
As I drove away from Target, I was immediately anxious about the two hours I had wasted searching the same places for the same thing I had already searched for and, partially, found the day before. Two hours evaporate like they were never there. And all I have to show for them is a bottle of Ibuprofen and a sympathy card in a plastic bag. Once home, I need to cook dinner. I need to cook dinner because I know there is fresh chicken in the fridge that has a sell-date of May 10, thirteen days ago. I need to use this chicken that I spent $5.13 on over two weeks ago, and I need to use the green pepper and onion I bought on the same day to make fajitas, my favorite dish that I don't think I've made once in the near year I've lived here. The green pepper feels slightly wrinkly. The onion is soft and puffed with mold.
This reminds me again that I should never go on a true grocery shopping trip and buy fresh food. I won't eat it. And when I want to it will be too late and it will be because I have to because I know it will soon be too late. I am always a day behind.
On Saturday I will fly to Kansas City to see Jedsen for the first time since the afternoon we shared in mid-February. We will move him to Chicago next week. He sleeps in the dark. In a dark so deep I wake drunk and hungover and sad because I don't know what time it is and when I find out I will be mad because I will have slept all morning. Jedsen thinks it's good that I sleep all morning, but it makes me feel behind, lost, like I have to recover who I am and what I mean. Waking to a forced dark closes me in. Tells me I should forget my love of the sun. Means I am alone even though I am less alone than I ever am.
The lights mean I'm here. The lights mean, are real. The only real time is at home or in nature. In nature, I tend to forget time.
Monday, April 18, 2011
When you don't know
My problem has been that I want too much and can't decide what I want more when I realize that I can't have it all. I want a house. A house that my couch can fit into. A dog. New bookcases. New dresser. A yard. A kayak. A big savings account.
A few months ago I decided that renting a house and adopting a dog would be my plan for the summer. $550 was my rent-cap, and that's $100 more than I'm paying now for my adorable third-floor downtown apartment. I thought, I'll find a house with all appliances (even w/d) and a yard for under $550 in either Hampton Heights or Converse Heights and then I'll adopt a dog and then life will be perfect. Only recently did I realize that I would not want to live in any of the houses that I could rent for under $550.
So I've been trying to think of what I want more and for what motivations. I want a house because I could use my awesome couch again and garden and have a "stand alone" and get a dog and feel complete, like an adult. But, just now, I'm starting to feel like a social human being, something I should have experienced in college. Just now, I'm making friends that I feel comfortable around and will do things with on a whim because I live so close and because it feels good. Living in a house that wasn't in the middle of Hampton Heights next to everyone I know (because I can't afford that) would likely make me revert being alone all of the time, as it would make me put more effort into going out. As is, I can walk over to HUB-BUB or the Bookshop whenever I want. Plus, if I moved into a house I wouldn't be able to get a dog because I wouldn't be able to afford a dog and a house. So, if I can't have the dog with the house, is there still the motivation to move to a house. Not as much, I guess. I mean, sure, that's what I want, but do I need it? No.
So here I am always wanting wanting wanting when I have a pretty awesome apartment and a sweet, adorable cat and the freedom to leave for a weekend or a week and not worry too much. I should enjoy what I have and make the most of what I have, which is a lot. A lot of really good stuff. So I can allow myself now to spend a little on new bookcases and maybe a dresser because that's what I need here, and if I'm not spending a ton of money on moving, I can afford it. I can also think more seriously about fostering dogs and, still, adopting, though I have to make sure everything is ready and I am committed to a change in lifestyle.
You really didn't need to know all of this, but I've needed to write it out, and it only hit me today when I read that quote on a friend's Facebook page and then talked to Jedsen about my wants and practicalities that what I really want is to not want. I'm restless--not in my job--but in my living environment and situation, which I've always been. I want to constantly update and change the conditions under which I live, and I can still do that from here--only in smaller ways than moving.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Golden
Before yesterday's hike on Looking Glass Mountain with Kerri and Cheryl, I looked up what to do if we encountered a bear. Turns out you're supposed to back away slowly while making yourself big and making noise. Be orally intimidating.
We didn't see a bear, but it was good to know that Cheryl has a lot of experience with bears (in her backyard, on a trail, in trees) from when she lived in Western Massachusetts (which was until 2 weeks ago). We also had her large retriever Atticus with us. He looks like he could be a black bear.
Now I know, and I feel more empowered. Though not stupid, of course.
What I still haven't figured out yet is how to handle this intense desire to adopt a dog when I still haven't figured out if this is the right time financially, emotionally, and environmentally. Today it hit me harder than ever before. I made a lap around the kennels at the Humane Society before deciding who to work with first. When I saw Gaige, a one-year-old golden retriever mix near the end of the front row, it was connection at first site. I knew she would be the one I walked first--she had to be.
I spent a few minutes with Smokey the retriever puppy before going back to Gaige. She was quiet, calm, and didn't jump when I entered the kennel. We got the leash on and walked outside together. As soon as the door closed behind us, Gaige turned around, stood up, and put her arms on my chest. I've come to know this as a dog hug, a need for the dog to feel close to me. She didn't push, just rested against my chest and stayed there for nearly a minute, content to stand. I motioned her down and told her we should go walk.
Every few steps she would look up at me or turn her body, excited, to see I was still there. She walked steady at my side. I was the only volunteer there at this time, so there were no other dogs to play with outside. We spent a long time in the dog run chasing after balls together, and then we just sat on the bench. She just wanted to sit beside me and sometimes lay down partially on my lap. She was happy, and our connection grew more and more. She seemed like the perfect dog for me: size, activity, affection. I started trying to plan getting her into my week. I started trying to schedule her into my life. I started feeling completely torn between wanting her so bad and still measuring the "right timing." After a walk, I reluctantly took her back, only to continue wondering if this could be the dog, if this could be the time.
I went down the line of dogs on her side and walked several other precious pups, but I made sure to say hello to her when I passed. A few dogs later, I saw a young couple kneeling in front of her kennel. The guy was on the phone. The girl was smiling. I instantly knew they were thinking of adopting her. I instantly started tearing up.
When I came back around twenty minutes later, Gaige's informational paper was gone, which meant she was being considered for adoption. When I came back twenty minutes after that, the paper was still gone. When I went out into the lobby to turn in a medical form for another dog, I saw the couple at the counter with a brand new leash, and the man had a credit card in his hand.
As I was leaving, I had to ask. They said yes, they were adopting Gaige. We talked about her for a few minutes, about what I had noticed and loved about her earlier, and they were so excited about taking her home. It felt good knowing they were the ones taking her.
But I've never experienced this connection with a dog before...followed by immediate rejection. The dogs I have fallen for in the past have disappeared in the middle of the week, and I've had to believe that they've been adopted into a good home. But this, it all happened so hard and so fast. The serious consideration and then the heartbreak.
But perhaps it was a sign that it's still not time for me.
I'm almost positive I want to move to a (rental) house this summer. Jedsen got a job in Chicago and is moving there at the beginning of June. I'm having trouble keeping everything balanced, knowing what is a priority and what is a need due to restlessness.
Restlessness. That is my plight here, as I'm not really lonely. I want to do everything and all at once. Restlessness: a need for more stuff and less stuff, to move and not to move, to read and to hike, to write and to watch documentaries, to explore and to rest.
We didn't see a bear, but it was good to know that Cheryl has a lot of experience with bears (in her backyard, on a trail, in trees) from when she lived in Western Massachusetts (which was until 2 weeks ago). We also had her large retriever Atticus with us. He looks like he could be a black bear.
Now I know, and I feel more empowered. Though not stupid, of course.
What I still haven't figured out yet is how to handle this intense desire to adopt a dog when I still haven't figured out if this is the right time financially, emotionally, and environmentally. Today it hit me harder than ever before. I made a lap around the kennels at the Humane Society before deciding who to work with first. When I saw Gaige, a one-year-old golden retriever mix near the end of the front row, it was connection at first site. I knew she would be the one I walked first--she had to be.
I spent a few minutes with Smokey the retriever puppy before going back to Gaige. She was quiet, calm, and didn't jump when I entered the kennel. We got the leash on and walked outside together. As soon as the door closed behind us, Gaige turned around, stood up, and put her arms on my chest. I've come to know this as a dog hug, a need for the dog to feel close to me. She didn't push, just rested against my chest and stayed there for nearly a minute, content to stand. I motioned her down and told her we should go walk.
Every few steps she would look up at me or turn her body, excited, to see I was still there. She walked steady at my side. I was the only volunteer there at this time, so there were no other dogs to play with outside. We spent a long time in the dog run chasing after balls together, and then we just sat on the bench. She just wanted to sit beside me and sometimes lay down partially on my lap. She was happy, and our connection grew more and more. She seemed like the perfect dog for me: size, activity, affection. I started trying to plan getting her into my week. I started trying to schedule her into my life. I started feeling completely torn between wanting her so bad and still measuring the "right timing." After a walk, I reluctantly took her back, only to continue wondering if this could be the dog, if this could be the time.
I went down the line of dogs on her side and walked several other precious pups, but I made sure to say hello to her when I passed. A few dogs later, I saw a young couple kneeling in front of her kennel. The guy was on the phone. The girl was smiling. I instantly knew they were thinking of adopting her. I instantly started tearing up.
When I came back around twenty minutes later, Gaige's informational paper was gone, which meant she was being considered for adoption. When I came back twenty minutes after that, the paper was still gone. When I went out into the lobby to turn in a medical form for another dog, I saw the couple at the counter with a brand new leash, and the man had a credit card in his hand.
As I was leaving, I had to ask. They said yes, they were adopting Gaige. We talked about her for a few minutes, about what I had noticed and loved about her earlier, and they were so excited about taking her home. It felt good knowing they were the ones taking her.
But I've never experienced this connection with a dog before...followed by immediate rejection. The dogs I have fallen for in the past have disappeared in the middle of the week, and I've had to believe that they've been adopted into a good home. But this, it all happened so hard and so fast. The serious consideration and then the heartbreak.
But perhaps it was a sign that it's still not time for me.
I'm almost positive I want to move to a (rental) house this summer. Jedsen got a job in Chicago and is moving there at the beginning of June. I'm having trouble keeping everything balanced, knowing what is a priority and what is a need due to restlessness.
Restlessness. That is my plight here, as I'm not really lonely. I want to do everything and all at once. Restlessness: a need for more stuff and less stuff, to move and not to move, to read and to hike, to write and to watch documentaries, to explore and to rest.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Traces
I often toy with starting over, with shucking this blog to my past and beginning again with an aim, a focus, a reason for writing. In fact, I have started over once but abandoned it after an afternoon, forgot about it because I didn't want to erase or deny the history that I'd already built here.
The truth is I need this blog in this space to know where I've been. I know that's not very convincing, seeing as I write, on average, less than once a month these days, but I'm aware of it nonetheless. There are stories and quotes and people in these archives that I want attached to my present writing. Perhaps I will start a new blog someday, but it would be in addition to this one.
As of right now, though, my attention needs to be on my own writing and not a new solo online venture.
It is nearly April. I've barely been home lately, and when I've been home I've spent all of my time in the living room. The office has been neglected, and I think it's been over a month since I sat down at my desk; my laptop and papers have cluttered the coffee table. So I was startled yesterday when I decided to pick up some papers off the floor, papers that had blown off the desk from the wild wind through the open window. I was startled because my desk, ledge, and other items in front of the window were covered in a green layer of pollen. Like powder with a flower scent, only a beautiful green and where I didn't expect it. There was water, too, because the rain was blowing in and pooling. I wiped it up, amazed by my collection of spring.
Last weekend I went on a hike, the first real hike of the season. I went alone to Pinnacle Mountain in Table Rock State Park, in the farthest NW corner of the state. I started at 9:30 and kept a good pace the first two miles, impressed at how I was passing people even though I hadn't exercised in a month. The last two miles were brutal. The last 600 feet were nearly impossible. I couldn't walk straight or even for the next three days.
But that was just the story of ascension. The story of descent was pretty memorable, too. The miles were going pretty quickly, though my feet were burning with heat, dirt, and the pressure of pointing down. I was longing for the creek that I knew I would follow for the last mile back to the trail head. Just after I hit the last mile, the dark clouds that had formed on my way down got active. I heard thunder. I was excited--my first mountain thunderstorm! I spoke aloud that I wouldn't mind some sprinkles, that I could use some coolness and refreshing.
What I got was a downpour for the last half-mile. I smiled the whole way, as I got soaked and watched the rain's effect on the rushing creek. I smiled as I wiped my eyes so I could see the rocks I crossed. I didn't run because, though, yes, dangerous, I was relishing my first true weather experience in the mountains. And you know how I feel about both mountains and weather. Together? Too great.
As I say in the video after the painful summit, it was the most challenging hike I've done to date. Even more so than Grandfather Mountain, but for a different reason. Grandfather was difficult in its ladders and cables and ledges and climbing up rock faces--and it was the most rewarding hike, for sure--but it was maybe 2 miles. Pinnacle was difficult because it was demanding for a sustained distance: 4.2 miles up (plus a 1 mile detour to Mill Creek Falls) and 4.2 miles down.
Pinnacle was also challenging in another way because it gave me the first instance of fear for wildlife. The bears are waking up. This I thought of before I went, but really this whole time I've been hoping to see a bear, a mythical creature that might appear in the distance and then disappear, an apparition. But around mile 2 on the ascent, with no other hikers in the immediate vicinity, I heard rustling up the slope. I stopped and listened, and it was then that it hit me: I don't know what to do if I see a bear. Do I stand still? Run? Make loud noises? I didn't know, and so I walked on in the hopes that it indeed wasn't a bear and that there would be others around a few more bends.
That's right, it hit me on the trail that I should probably know what to do when I encounter more than a squirrel on the side of a mountain. It's on my to-do list before the next hike. Which, unless next weekend brings an adventure, will be on the other side of Grandfather Mountain on my birthday. Turn 26 on a mountain with friends? Perfect. Only wish Jedsen would be there, too.
The truth is I need this blog in this space to know where I've been. I know that's not very convincing, seeing as I write, on average, less than once a month these days, but I'm aware of it nonetheless. There are stories and quotes and people in these archives that I want attached to my present writing. Perhaps I will start a new blog someday, but it would be in addition to this one.
As of right now, though, my attention needs to be on my own writing and not a new solo online venture.
It is nearly April. I've barely been home lately, and when I've been home I've spent all of my time in the living room. The office has been neglected, and I think it's been over a month since I sat down at my desk; my laptop and papers have cluttered the coffee table. So I was startled yesterday when I decided to pick up some papers off the floor, papers that had blown off the desk from the wild wind through the open window. I was startled because my desk, ledge, and other items in front of the window were covered in a green layer of pollen. Like powder with a flower scent, only a beautiful green and where I didn't expect it. There was water, too, because the rain was blowing in and pooling. I wiped it up, amazed by my collection of spring.
Last weekend I went on a hike, the first real hike of the season. I went alone to Pinnacle Mountain in Table Rock State Park, in the farthest NW corner of the state. I started at 9:30 and kept a good pace the first two miles, impressed at how I was passing people even though I hadn't exercised in a month. The last two miles were brutal. The last 600 feet were nearly impossible. I couldn't walk straight or even for the next three days.
But that was just the story of ascension. The story of descent was pretty memorable, too. The miles were going pretty quickly, though my feet were burning with heat, dirt, and the pressure of pointing down. I was longing for the creek that I knew I would follow for the last mile back to the trail head. Just after I hit the last mile, the dark clouds that had formed on my way down got active. I heard thunder. I was excited--my first mountain thunderstorm! I spoke aloud that I wouldn't mind some sprinkles, that I could use some coolness and refreshing.
What I got was a downpour for the last half-mile. I smiled the whole way, as I got soaked and watched the rain's effect on the rushing creek. I smiled as I wiped my eyes so I could see the rocks I crossed. I didn't run because, though, yes, dangerous, I was relishing my first true weather experience in the mountains. And you know how I feel about both mountains and weather. Together? Too great.
As I say in the video after the painful summit, it was the most challenging hike I've done to date. Even more so than Grandfather Mountain, but for a different reason. Grandfather was difficult in its ladders and cables and ledges and climbing up rock faces--and it was the most rewarding hike, for sure--but it was maybe 2 miles. Pinnacle was difficult because it was demanding for a sustained distance: 4.2 miles up (plus a 1 mile detour to Mill Creek Falls) and 4.2 miles down.
Pinnacle was also challenging in another way because it gave me the first instance of fear for wildlife. The bears are waking up. This I thought of before I went, but really this whole time I've been hoping to see a bear, a mythical creature that might appear in the distance and then disappear, an apparition. But around mile 2 on the ascent, with no other hikers in the immediate vicinity, I heard rustling up the slope. I stopped and listened, and it was then that it hit me: I don't know what to do if I see a bear. Do I stand still? Run? Make loud noises? I didn't know, and so I walked on in the hopes that it indeed wasn't a bear and that there would be others around a few more bends.
That's right, it hit me on the trail that I should probably know what to do when I encounter more than a squirrel on the side of a mountain. It's on my to-do list before the next hike. Which, unless next weekend brings an adventure, will be on the other side of Grandfather Mountain on my birthday. Turn 26 on a mountain with friends? Perfect. Only wish Jedsen would be there, too.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
This week has left me without
...a car that often and reliably shifts out of park.
...clear skin.
...a working computer.
...my wallet.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
The world exists
I've never had any doubt the world exists. Whether it could be counted on to stay, that's another story. We are never entirely settled. Time conspires against such certainty. If we're smart we count instead on the persistence of both perception and memory. --John Lane, Circling HomeI've been dreaming about houses, about a house. About a yard, a "stand-alone," a world all my own. With a dog and Snickers. With my lonely, cold, green couch that I saw today for the first time in 8 months. With bookcases and windows, a long dresser and room for recycling.
I love my apartment in Spartanburg, my city view. I love its light and wood and color and length. I don't want to move again--it feels like I'm always moving, always trying to find that happier spot. And then when I find it I move for a different reason and cross the country. This time, my reasons are more root-oriented. Though I don't feel settled and can't foresee feeling settled here when half of my heart is elsewhere, I want to live fully while I'm wherever I am. Spartanburg is home. It is sweet, lively, and close to more living. I have friends here. I have the coolest most wonderful job here. I want to inhabit it. But I can't really do that when I'm three floors up without any ground to churn, without a defined square-footage. My connection to the ground has come elsewhere, outside of Spartanburg on beaches and, mostly, mountainsides.
There are ways I'm working myself into this place. First, there's the fact that I work for a nonprofit that serves the community; that is the first rung of connection, of reason. Then, there's the connection to the humane society, my place there on Sunday mornings with the other people who walk dogs and the dogs themselves. From there, I'm spreading out. I want to connect with an environmental organization.
And then there are the goals. The goals of learning to kayak, of backpacking, of publishing in the journals I respect, of writing farther and wider, of writing closer and deeper.
My mantra--don't laugh--has become "CHOOSE THE LIVING." However much I love my quiet evenings at home alone, I can't do that every night. Seclusion breeds seclusion, I've learned. I have to get out. I have to meet people. I have to experience. I have to be more spontaneous, alive, open. Not reckless or irrational or out-of-character but a part of the world. I want to meet the world in the face, not through a tv screen or computer screen. By getting out of my home, I work to create a home because home involves more than a living space. It involves community, environment, action.
In less than two weeks I will return to my childhood home, to Hutchinson, Kansas, and its straight, flat streets and sad, struggling buildings. But I remember the life that was there, all of those twenty years of a hometown and family. What will it feel like to touch that old, torn couch after 9 months and 8 states away? How will it feel to hug my grandmothers again? Will they still feel like mine? How will my presence shift the relationship of parents to brother to cats in the house when this girl who has done things they never tried returns?
I want to recover the sense of place of Hutchinson, how it really is. Not the town I couldn't wait to leave. I want to go back to those places that are so familiar yet fuzzy in memory: Arkansas River, HCC, my block. The hill north of town that felt like a mountain--highest thing I knew--when I approached on my bike. I always made it and anticipated the cruise down, the rush of wind, and my father sailing ahead of me. I miss those bike rides with my father, our time in the country with only the wind as our friends. That was our one connection to each other. It was the thing I could do with him and he could do with me. We rode together, and then I stopped, and then he kept going farther and farther and longer until his body was too worn out from his job to go on.
He would love to ride out here in the Piedmont, but I don't know if his body could handle all the hills. Yet hills are what I crave--not on my bike but on my own feet. I crave the climb, the burn of my legs, and the rush from reaching a summit or view, of achieving a feat with my body alone. My body and its relationship with nature here is the real test of place. Leaving no trace yet leaving part of my self and coming away with a new part of my self. That is what hiking is: a journey to something new, to a new relationship with my self and the ground, the sky, the water, breath.
"I've never had any doubt the world exists," but I have to exist in it, too.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Since when
Since when did I start saying "baby girl"?
Since when did I get nervous to walk around my block?
Since when did I begin thinking slaw goes on everything?
Since when did I love the fiddle?
Since when did keeping the thermostat at 55 in the winter become exciting?
Since when did I get nervous to walk around my block?
Since when did I begin thinking slaw goes on everything?
Since when did I love the fiddle?
Since when did keeping the thermostat at 55 in the winter become exciting?
Dogs I walked/loved this week
 | |
| Ricochet. He lives up to his name, running around like crazy. And he pees when he's excited. Like, straight out when you're getting him out of his cage. Straight out at you. But, really, he just wants to sit on your lap, even when you're outside, which isn't crazy at all. |
 | |
| This is Norris. I'm completely in love with this brindle terrier and have been since I first walked him three weeks ago. He's two years old but the sweetest ever, and he likes to stand up and hug you. He knows how to sit, and he walks so good on the leash. I wish I could bring him home. This face, it makes me melt. We're pals already, but I want so bad to make him my hiking and loving and everyday buddy. |
 |
| Kyra is a young one, just barely over 6 months. But she's the sweetest blue heeler baby girl that I've ever been with. She's still round like a puppy but good on the leash and loving. And the softest you could ever imagine. Sweet, sweet girl that got surrendered by her owners because they couldn't afford her. I'll afford you, baby girl! |
 |
| Oh, Mojo. I technically walked him last week, but he was just so good and sweet. He just wanted to be my companion--didn't so much care for balls or running with the other dogs outside. Just wanted to look up and you with love. |
Play, play, play. Skip, skip, skip.
After my workout tonight, I determined to update my workout playlist. It was suspiciously lacking in certain raise-the-roof songs. And so I started from the top, from the A's, and went through my library.
I had forgotten how much music I love and long for until I realized, as I clicked through and sampled old loves, that I suddenly wanted to listen to everything I loved all at once. I couldn't decide what to stick with, what to play all the way through, because I wanted to play so much all the way through. Albums, whole albums that I wanted to swoon to like I have before. But all at once. I don't have time to listen to 20 hours of continuous music tonight.
It was also startling to see that it's been over a year since I last listened to some of these songs. They still feel so present to me, so dear, so familiar, that a year feels like a week or two.
After the run-through, I pressed shuffle, as I often do when I want to hear what I love but can't decide what to focus on, start with, commit to. And then, as is iTunes' want, shuffle only wanted to play the songs that it always wants to play--songs that I like but don't love. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip.
Sometimes I just want to be 16 again in my room, sitting on the floor in front of my stereo with albums on repeat. Matchbox 20. Backstreet Boys. The Wallflowers. Or 19, when my tastes began to expand. Keane. John Mayer. Howie Day. Or 20, when I discovered Limewire and downloaded song upon song of new music or rare songs of my favorites. Or all of these days in between, days of music in the car and through the apartment. Tired Pony in the car in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Snow Patrol on my last drive across Kansas. James Taylor on I-26 to Beaufort. The Beatles all over Manhattan, all over Topeka.
And now I want to read everything I love. All at once. How can I choose?
I had forgotten how much music I love and long for until I realized, as I clicked through and sampled old loves, that I suddenly wanted to listen to everything I loved all at once. I couldn't decide what to stick with, what to play all the way through, because I wanted to play so much all the way through. Albums, whole albums that I wanted to swoon to like I have before. But all at once. I don't have time to listen to 20 hours of continuous music tonight.
It was also startling to see that it's been over a year since I last listened to some of these songs. They still feel so present to me, so dear, so familiar, that a year feels like a week or two.
After the run-through, I pressed shuffle, as I often do when I want to hear what I love but can't decide what to focus on, start with, commit to. And then, as is iTunes' want, shuffle only wanted to play the songs that it always wants to play--songs that I like but don't love. Skip, skip, skip, skip, skip.
Sometimes I just want to be 16 again in my room, sitting on the floor in front of my stereo with albums on repeat. Matchbox 20. Backstreet Boys. The Wallflowers. Or 19, when my tastes began to expand. Keane. John Mayer. Howie Day. Or 20, when I discovered Limewire and downloaded song upon song of new music or rare songs of my favorites. Or all of these days in between, days of music in the car and through the apartment. Tired Pony in the car in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Snow Patrol on my last drive across Kansas. James Taylor on I-26 to Beaufort. The Beatles all over Manhattan, all over Topeka.
And now I want to read everything I love. All at once. How can I choose?
Monday, January 24, 2011
White night
Lately, I have been falling asleep at inconvenient times. Like, while watching a documentary on stress at the dining room table. Or during the 4th quarter of a division championship game. Or, just now, while reading one of my own essays, one that I was reading to remind myself what I think I'm capable of writing.
Not a good sign, me thinks.
But, perhaps it has nothing at all to do with the stimulant that is clearly not sustaining my alertness. My head feels heavy constantly, like the substance between my ears is folding in. Yet then I wake at 4am, 5am, or somewhere in the nether regions of night that purposefully doesn't get named, I wake to a cat staring at me from the pillow. She stares, and her weight changes the pillow's weight, and my head shifts, and I stare at her white chest only as long as it takes me to realize it and then shove her off the bed. Not on the pillow, Snickers. Not now. Go.
I listen for the thud and the meows, her standing on the ground waiting for her next move. And a few moments later when again her face is looking at mine, the questioning grunts in the night.
After I shower, I come out to find her asleep on the foot of the bed for her morning nap. I poke her but she only purrs.
Not a good sign, me thinks.
But, perhaps it has nothing at all to do with the stimulant that is clearly not sustaining my alertness. My head feels heavy constantly, like the substance between my ears is folding in. Yet then I wake at 4am, 5am, or somewhere in the nether regions of night that purposefully doesn't get named, I wake to a cat staring at me from the pillow. She stares, and her weight changes the pillow's weight, and my head shifts, and I stare at her white chest only as long as it takes me to realize it and then shove her off the bed. Not on the pillow, Snickers. Not now. Go.
I listen for the thud and the meows, her standing on the ground waiting for her next move. And a few moments later when again her face is looking at mine, the questioning grunts in the night.
After I shower, I come out to find her asleep on the foot of the bed for her morning nap. I poke her but she only purrs.
Friday, January 07, 2011
Holiday Letter 2010
Hello, friend.
Just beyond the trees of the Piedmont, a rugged silhouette of gray stretches east to west, land that rises, rises, rounds. Mountains. Blue Ridge. When I reach the peak of a hill as I drive north on Church St. in Spartanburg, there they are. “Hello,” I say. “Good morning.”
I drive north on Sunday mornings to walk dogs at the Humane Society. Hello, walk, love, home. I fall in love every week, and I keep their names with me when I get home and greet Snickers. I practice saying a dog’s name next to hers, and it feels right. Soon, I will bring one home and keep him. Then we’ll be three here in this apartment of light in downtown Spartanburg, where my walls of windows overlook the city.
Just out of view, Morgan Square is two blocks away, with its clock tower, fountain, and, on the west end, the Masonic Temple where I work. I moved here six months ago to work for the Hub City Writers Project, a literary nonprofit organization that runs an independent press and bookstore. Our offices and Hub City Bookshop are on the ground floor of the Masonic Temple, shared with a coffee bar and bakery, and pigeons that click atop the awning with hurried feet. All this time I’ve been working part-time, mornings, and another part-time job at Starbucks, afternoons/evenings, in the hope of going full-time. And January 3 I will. Starting then, I will be Assistant Director of the Hub City Writers Project and will leave Starbucks and its endless nights gladly behind. Once again, as I did in Lawrence and Manhattan, I will spend my days among books—manuscript submissions, advanced reader copies, books new and used, books published by our press, and books fresh from the world beyond—and writers, friends.
I am far from Kansas, from the Flint Hills, from campus, from the mad world of school. Finished with my MFA degree in Creative Writing, I am free to write here—when there’s time. On my one free day a week, Saturday, I write, I read, and I explore. I cross the Carolinas in width and height, from a suspension bridge above Raven Cliff Falls in the tip of Upstate South Carolina to the edge of the continent at Hunting Island State Park, where I saw and touched the ocean for the first time. I crave hikes, crave height, crave challenges over rocks and ledges. I crave views; I will climb for them, drive for them, alone. I find trails and sometimes take friends but, when safe, I prefer to go with only my self.
"I have a hunger for nonhuman spaces, not out of any distaste for humanity, but out of a need to experience my humanness the more vividly by confronting stretches of the earth that my kind has had no part in making." - Scott Russell Sanders
When Jedsen visits next week, after four months apart, I will show him those peaks in the distance I have come to love. For him, my boyfriend of six years, I will cook my first Christmas dinner and brew cups of coffee. What was once distance is now long distance, and long-term distance. We rely on the other’s voice at the end of a day, a voice so familiar and comforting it might as well come from the next room—not eight states away.
The streets are curved here, angled, askew. They change names mid-way; they become highways, lose their words and gain numbers. My world is new here: three stories high, and flanked by crape myrtles and Southern drawl. I speak the same but am changed by clouds that drift from the mountains and a morning sun that lights every corner. You should see the way Snickers sniffs at the sky, like the air is purer up here, all full with the living.
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