Apricot Jalapeno baked Brie

I am still in food coma from the delicious dinner party recently attended, like, an hour ago, at my friend Mary's place, in honor of my departure to California. See, we hogged out on cheese and crackers, fruits and wine, and the best part of all was the tasty announcement that I am staying in the city and thus available for more dinner parties. Woohoo!!
Last time I hung out with Miss Mair we concluded our bar evening with a cheese spread, crackers, fruit and water. The idea of having a dinner party consisting entirely of "schmeary" stuff was born.
My contribution to tonight's event was an Apricot and Jalapeno baked brie, served with apples and animal crackers.
Originally, I wanted to do a Chokecherry Ancho chili cheese spread with crackers or tortillas, but it didn't come together for me the way I wanted to this afternoon. Necessity is the mother of invention, and since I had the jalapenos, I whipped up this ooeygooey dish instead.
Here's what you need:

1/4 c. jalapenos, cored seeded and diced
1/2 c. stewed apricots
1/4 c. pecans, coarsely chopped

Mix up wet ingredients in a food processor, and you've got your spread.
At first, I thought this might stand alone quite well, paired with the animal crackers, as a dessert "schmear." It tasted good, but then I decided that since cheese makes everything better, I'd add brie.

Get one 8 oz. round of brie, and one can of crescent rolls (or use puff pastry), and spread this dough out on a piece of oiled tinfoil, making a shape as close to a circle as you can get. I used generic crescent roll dough, so it was a little thin, but held up in the oven just fine.

Cut your brie in half, then, rind side down, put it on the tinfoil. Poke holes in it and spread a layer of the jalapeno mixture over this, letting it sink in. Add more goo if necessary. Once you've added enough, spread a layer of pecans on the goo. Put the other piece of brie on it, rind side up, then poke holes in that too. Spread jalapeno goo one more time, add a few more pecans, cover the cheese up with the dough, crimping any edges to prevent jalapeno spread from oozing out. If you used too much jalapeno spread, it will "melt" out the sides of the dough, but shouldn't be too much of a problem.

To seal the dough, whisk one egg until frothy, then baste dough. Sprinkle remaining pecans on top, and pop the thing into an oven set at 450'. Ten minutes gives you a nice golden crust.

Core and cut a large Granny Smith apple (or two), dig out the animal crackers, and dig in.

I had a room mate who once did something like this with brown sugar and butter instead of the apricot and jalapeno, but I must say, the spicy kick and the fruity sweetness are such a great combination.

Universal (health) care

Without a second thought, I decide to stay in Chicago. Over the invisible buzz of cellular connections, Jay's instability and true nature become deafeningly clear, and I know in that one nanosecond that going to California would be the biggest mistake of my present life.
When I make this decision, it feels better and more right immediately than any of the considerations I had given to Cali over the past couple of weeks. Back and forth, back and forth I've gone over this dumb decision, knowing and yet not wanting to know, that Chicago is where I belong. I need to trust myself, my intuition, my own sense of crazy self-knowledge and just listen when the universe tells me something.
And last Saturday, it told me in a big way that I needed to stay in Chicago and work on the spirit/soul part of my life, the heat's desire that I guess has been present in some latent stage for a while.
So I'm staying. I feel crazy sometimes, like my logical and impulsive selves are raging inside me and consistently threatening to tear me apart and split my very consciousness in half.
Which is why there are a stack of yoga studio brochures on my desk and a clear spot for meditation on my floor.
Since I left for Thailand I've known that I really need to get in touch with whatever is out there that is keeping me (barely) sane and protecting me from the injurious shit I put myself through. And since I got back from Thailand, the few times I've made it into Mountain pose or Warrior Pose or even just Child's pose I've felt so much better about myself and what my "purpose" is. So why would I not just focus on that instead of these external distractions like Cali or anything else?
Yep, I feel crazy sometimes, and I feel like each blog is just a public display of that insanity, but somehow, in writing it here, for all the world (whomever may find it, that is) to see, I'm absolving myself of it instead of keeping it close to my, tucked away in a private journal somewhere. Is that crazy too? *sigh* Oh, probably.

The hoboes

The kids talk to me before I talk to them.
"Her name is Jazz," says the one in a faded purple shirt, right after the white puppy trots after me. She's got a bandana around her neck and a brown spot over her left eye, and when she hears her name, her forehead wrinkles into a story of puppy love and recognition of the boy's voice.
He is slouched against an old building in Uptown, the one right around the corner from the Lawrence stop, and without shoes, his feet are cut and dirty, blackened like tar on the bottom. I saw them as I came around the corner onto Broadway, noticing the sign before the sprawl of legs and cardboard cushions.
"Hungry, Hungry Hobos," drawls the back of a notebook, black sharpie on creased yellow paper.
I pause, look at it, but without cash or snacks, I walk on. What can I do?
"She just loves people," the boy adds as I walk away, and that's all it takes.
Matt tells me his story as I sit, folding my legs underneath me. He's a carpenter, he and his woman split a while back, and he misses his tools, god how he misses coming home from work and working the rough grain of knotty wood into the curved lines of chairs and other art.
At 25, Matt is the oldest of the group, but he has the boyish good looks of Huck Finn, a real-life story in front of me. Hair curled and messy from a week on the road, he is cute, but looks so young, especially when pairing the curls with the rolled up jean bottoms and bare feet.
I talk with Matt about his travels, warming the sidewalk opposite the Green Mill, and for a couple of hours, I watch the world pass by with these dirty children of the road.
They are going to California, going to work in the "fields," take part in the grand harvest that approaches.
"We're going to make 20 bucks an hour, make some money, man," says the other boy around a mouthful of bottle.
At 22, Chris has already been out to Cali for the harvest once before, and this adventure isn't the first one taking him cross-country on the free ticket found in the back of a freight train.
"I don't have any work lined up, not yet," he tells me, pulling thoughtfully on the cigarette his girlfriend rolled moments before. "But I've been out there in the past, and I hope to get some carpentry work too, get in with the locals, you know."
Jillian nods her head at this idea, nubby brown pigtails bouncing in agreement. She has been silent, plucking absently at a small guitar, but once she joins the conversation, her quick chirp clips along with youthful enthusiasm.
"Have you been out there before?" she asks me, eager to hear my take on it. "I hear it's supposed to be really great."
I tell her that I haven't, but yes, have heard good things. At 20, Jill is the youngest member on this adventure, and I can see why she's drawn to Chris.
He wears his scruff in a way that becomes him: a shadow of the road spreading across his face whether he intends it to or not. He's tall and lanky, and as she leans into him, his arms wrap around her, white and bare against the gray fabric of her sweater. I know exactly how it is that she feels, a short little girl taken care of by her tall hippie boy, but I can't say that I really miss that feeling. Not tonight, not anymore.
But it's more than this outward physical thing that draws her to him. This too, I know. It's his life.
Chris has lived. He's hopped trains before, he's harvested crops and stories with others in Cali, and because he is all the things that a career in dental hygiene is not, she is enamored and brought to life by this.
I can see it in her face as she calls a friend on her phone and squeals out the story of the day in Chicago. She is young and in love, and I remember what that's like at 20, how my own tall lanky boy made me feel back then, and earlier. I like Jill because her sense of adventure runs deep, and I imagine that's what Chris likes about her too. He's teaching her about the world, his world, and she's eager to hear it all. When I tell her about my recent trip to Thailand, her eyes open as wide as her mouth, perfect circles of awe and excitement, and I hope that she is as eager to embrace calamity as she sounds, should it befall her on this trip. She has considered this possibility, and is afraid of what will happen if the cops take Chris away. They almost did that at Union Station today, but when I ask her if they've discussed a strategy for that, I see disbelief and fear color her face more than the streetlight illumination from above.
"God, what would I do? We haven't even talked about it, no."
She stares down at Jazz for a minute, and then snuggles into Chris' side, feeling the emptiness of a life on the road without her man. What would she do? I would like to think she'd figure it out, maybe late, but better then than never. That's what I did.
Up until Monday, I had planned on going to California, too. Not so much to take part in the harvest, exactly, but to be part of that culture of people who pass the seasons waiting for it like my family waits for the first spring-time sprout of life to color the fields.
A mess since my return to the states from Thailand, I was unhappy in Chicago, ill-at-ease among the skyscrapers and dull sheen of life in the US. Thailand had been too much, too much fun, too much happiness, too much… everything, and life in Chicago had been boring and flat, a watercolor wash of grey day after grey day.
So when I started fucking a friend in California and he suggested I move out there, first I thought "no, what a terrible idea." And then as the weeks passed each other with the slow monotony of spring in the Midwest, it sounded better and better, almost perfect. Not because I anticipated any sort of real life out there, but because it wasn't Chicago, which wasn't Thailand.
I looked at apartments here, evaded the real world and sought refuge from it in my books and my writing, and the night before I signed a lease on the most boho apartment I could find, my friend said that yes, if I went to California, everything would work out. For a few days I even believed it, and then, after posting my few possessions on craigslist and ending my lease, the reality of the situation came to pass, taking with it the charm and illusion of sandy shores and a life of stoned simplicity in the sun.
What is it about going West that reaches for the American spirit like stalks to the sky? How was this story started, and who perpetuates it to this day? These kids grew up together, friends in Baltimore, east coast elites gone organic, escaping the hum of existence by hopping trains and sleeping on sidewalks. I wanted to do that once, around the same time I thought living like a broke writer would be so bohemian and 1950s.
"How very 'beat' I'd be" I cleverly thought to myself, imagining all of the scenes from a Ginsberg or Kerouac epic in my own bedroom. "How very perfect for the storyteller in me, all of those bodies and lives and sorrows crashing against the stable shoreline of my being. It would be the life to end all lives, the adventure and chaos of a life lived to its fullest that I've always sought.
And then as quickly and randomly as the idea of attempting a life in California was proposed, the allure of it rubbed off like some dollar-store trinket gone brassy in the western sun. The dream, or the illusion of the dream imagined by someone else, someone I'm not, fell from the sky. And like a candle holder chipped and shattered against the cold tile of my floor, I swept it up and threw it away.
By 1 am Jill was needing sleep, and I could see a fight in her shoulders, if they didn't get to going where ever it was that they could sleep tonight soon.
"If my doorman isn't around, you can stay at my place," I offered, sparking a flame in her eyes and a glance upward from Matt, who was buried in his journal, Sharpie in hand. Chris smiled, busy chatting with the homeless and probably schizophrenic man laughing crazily at our feet.
"But with Jazz, the lobby has to be empty or else it won't work," I continued, hoping the man would go away before we headed to my place. The idea of showers and food had garnered their attention, and I felt bad for bringing it up, knowing that the doorman was probably around.
"I'll go home and check, then call you if it'll work."
My block came up quickly, lit up and alive, even at 1 am. The neighborhood has gentrified, and instead of my own neighborhood schizophrenic, it is my maintenance man and his wife, out with their baby, I run into at this late hour. We wave, cross paths, and I enter the lobby. How different our lives are, all of them.
This small family of three, neat and tidy at 1 am; me, sweaty and dirty in running gear and puppy tracks offering my home to another family of sorts. Am I crazier than the man laughing outside?
I think of the kids I've just met as I pack crackers and fruit and granola bars into a plastic bag. I can't get them in, not tonight, but if I make it back there before they seek shelter, maybe I can feed them. Maybe I can take care of them in the only way in have at this hour.
My train rattles along up the track, past Argyle, past Berwyn, back into Bryn Mawr. I get off slowly, letting the drunks stagger warm, boozy circles around me. The night has cooled down, and I wonder where the hobos will sleep tonight, how far their train will take them tomorrow; if Chris will get caught and separated from his mamma," and what Jill will do if he does.
"I didn't get much sleep last night," Jill said as we parted ways. "So I've got to get some tonight. Sleeping on the train is hard, and with Jazz, if I have to hold her… my arms…oh, it's just hard."
I nod my head in agreement, imagining that it is indeed, a challenge. But what do I know of hopping trains and holding sleeping puppies and chasing someone across the country because "that's what you do?" That's not what I do.
What do I know of trains and harvests and feet as black as the midnight tar on the street outside?
What I know is Chicago, and my own sense of adventure, my own heart and the things that I love: words and stories, not people. I know the way the right ones seem to find me, the stories that make whole my life in a way that the living of it never does.
What I know is that in another lifetime, I might have hopped a train and rattled off to Cali to chase some dream and some adventure. But not now. Not tonight. Not anymore. Instead, I will return to my apartment, sit on my couch, legs once again folded and firm beneath me, and capture the essence of this life lived in a night in my own words. And for me, for now, in this lifetime, that is good enough

spechless

Ijust found the most incredible blogger over at wordpress. Please, please do youself a favor and check her out.
Her knowledge of what it is to be in this world and of another is obvious, and the way she captures the ethereal in her writing has made me a new fan.
Capricorn lady, an ode to herself, is incredible. And ode to herself. I love it, of course: another woman with as much moxie and voice as I'd like to think I have.Go. NOW!!

I'm with Stupid

People are so funny.
I was at the Rehabilitation Institute this afternoon for a Peer Volunteer in-service meeting, and after we got done viewing the videos and worksheets Carrie, our volunteer coordinator, put together for us, she opened up the meeting to see what we'd been up to over the past months, in terms of how our visits were going, what was bugging us, etc.

I was going to bring up a new experience with hidden disabilities, and then, a fellow volunteer, "Mr. G," I'll call him, said that he thought there should be handicapped parking spots only for people in wheelchairs, because he "never sees anyone with a disability at Target."

Gasp. This from my own "community!"

Now maybe the meaning behind his statement is legitimate. Maybe he feels as if he can't find a spot and doesn't see many other people using wheelchairs to get around. I can understand that. But that does NOT mean that every "upright" citizen is a non-disabled individual. Just because some of us in the disabled community don't look it doesn't mean there aren't issues there.

I was so pissed. I don't ever park in those spots, realizing that someone else with a far greater disability than my vision problems or seizure-tasticness might need the spot, but the fact of the matter is that he was being just as discriminatory and ignorant as any of the people who prevented the ADA from becoming a reality decades ago. In that moment, he was one of the people who he had just berated moments ago.

I'm putting together a presentation to orient people to the idea of hidden disabilities and educate them on avoiding situations exactly like this one, so this whole discussion totally surprised me. We had been talking about the 18th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act being signed into law on July 26, 1990, and how shocking it is that only for 18 years have the disabled been "given" their right to equality. And then there he sat, generalizing, in saying that my ability to get around without obvious distress meant I couldn't park in that spot, should I need to. I would never assume what a day in his chair is like, so how could he even make that sort of statement, about what a day inside another's eyes or ears or mental cognition could be?

I'm having a hard time putting this presentation together, mostly because I don't know where to begin in terms of disability education, I don't want to be redundant, and I also don't know who to target as an audience.

I was thinking it would be those people who are completely ignorant to the idea of any disability, but now I see that I'm going to have to include those who already know what discrimination is like. Having spent some time mulling it over this afternoon, now instead of still being entirely fired up over it (although a little peevey still, yes), I've come to the conclusion that no matter how far anyone struggling for equal rights has come, there are always more people to reach. Even within the front lines, as it turns out.

You sayin' my pussy's not sexy?

love Jezebel. It's sex and celebrity and stupid shit like that, but with a purpose. Sometimes.
The article catching my eye today, however, is entitled "Get a Sexier Vagina" and I'll just let you take a peek by looking here.
At the site, not me, silly.

You'll see that this is about a "vaginal rejuvenation" clinic in, where else, L.A. Vaj rejuv is plastic surgery for, well duh, your vagina.

Now, upon my first examination of this site, I was incredulous.

The fact that something like this exists is ridiculous. I don't even like spending money on my toenails, making them look pretty (so I don't) with a pedi, let alone droppin' 18 Gs on some slicing and dicing. But what does this say about our culture? No wonder people in other countries look at use like we're materialistic, shallow zombies. I know that those who get the vagiplasty are in the minority, but this is the sort of crack pot stuff that gets disseminated and then speaks poorly about all of us.

I've never been one to think the vj looks too pretty, but I certainly wouldn't go as far as having mine sliced up and reworked. I don't hae to look at it, so what do I care?!

Well, upon further examination (of the site), I clicked on the photo gallery, my purient interestes winning. And let me tell you, I have bitten my tongue. There is a reason something like this exists.

I'm still a little horrified that our culture is so insistent upon bodily "perfection" that we have these alternatives now, but if I can honestly say I'd consider a breast lift (not an increase in size, just a lift), then perhaps I'm being a bit hippocritical here.

To learn more, go to the site here.

Gift from the Lake

And suddenly, she felt old, aged like the day as it burns through the sky toward nightfall. Gone were the vibrant, showy hues of intense red and molten orange one feels as the sun reaches for the horizon; here, instead, were the soft pinks, a wash of watery violet, a hint of solid cerulean where the sky becomes earth.
It wasn’t this gradual though, this feeling of… finality. It wasn’t as if she had seen it coming out her window, as she had seen the sun dip down below the concrete skyline and color the night. No, this feeling was sudden, and once upon her, complete. There was no time to panic and rush about, ripping off the drapes to catch the last hint of golden color glinting off distant glass. Once the consciousness of this was upon her, it was complete, a blanket of acceptance as deep and calm as the night’s approach.
She paused, feeling the sand around her and the boom of jets above, and settled into the feeling. It was neither surprising nor disappointing, as she had imagined it might be. The acceptance of this place in her life, was just that, acceptance. Like acceptance of the sunset, and sunrise, and the promise of a new day, she had, after all, that known all along it would happen eventually. That it would feel like this.
Perhaps that’s why she had put off the actions and relationships that had brought it on all these years. Some part of her psyche, the part that in youth, lies dormant and still, that part had always known this day was coming, had remained silent, allowing her to spend sunrise after sunrise in the company of others, or herself, so that she could better understand the certainty of it when it came.
There is no way to prevent the setting of the sun, nor the rising of it, though the foolish, or the daring—and it is possible to be both at the same time—m may try. It wasn’t that she learned this only for the first time in the twilight of her walk along the beach, just that she knew the time had come to remember it for herself.
And now, that that time had arrived, spread itself quietly and softly across the expanse of her being, this too, she settled into, waiting. She hadn’t changed, no more in that minute than any other before, and yet with the combination of all past minutes and moments, she had changed dramatically. She was a progression of life experiences; truths and mistakes and ideas comprised her being. This too, she recognized and accepted, with what she believed was the wisdom of someone who has lived enough life to reflect upon.
And more than anything, more than “age” or finality, it was wisdom that she felt, indescribably so.
Wisdom, because she felt that she had learned how to pair that daring with this new life, and she felt like she had been blessed with a summation of parts, her parts, and a unique understanding of their relation to the parts of others. Her sense of daring, that which she imagined would fade, or be taken entirely from her, with the choice now made, was replaced now by a sense of stepping into the unknown, in an entirely new and different way.
For her years of presence and solitude, she had received the ability to see herself for what she was, on her own, which held the excitement and chase of life she craved. In its place now, was a foreign and welcome change of pace, a new opportunity to trust the person she had become with an adventure not entirely her own.
And finally, when the sun set and she ended her day, quietly, alone, waiting, she accepted that this too, was what she wanted, all along. The solitude of self occasionally interrupted to make room for and a life with another equally composed and daring being.


I've been reading "Gift from the Sea," by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, and I think it's easy to see here the influence her writing had on me as I wandered by Lake Michigan and then as I sat down to write. In her collection of essays and thoughts on what it is to be a "modern" woman, Lindbergh uses her experience as a woman, wife, mother and artist to craft a collection of well-written lines based on the gifts of time and clarity and sea life she received during her beach-front vacationing.
The writing spans 1955-75, and yet her book is as timeless as the beach itself, a well thought-out analysis of self and literary construction. I've always admired her stance, even if the idea of putting kids and a husband before myself has been pretty much non-existent in my life (It's uncanny how close this parallels the life of Charles Lindbergh, famed pilot and yes, husband to Anne Morrow).
But this evening, while easing my achy joints (go strep throat) into action, I was suddenly hit with the realization that I am going off to live with a man not as a room mate but as, well... a partner? This paradigm shift hasn't left me frazzled or anything, but I think it may be some combination of antibiotics and sleepiness that are numbing me to it.
And then again, with all seriousness, I know that not only do I want a sun to awake to new light each day, I'm ready for someone to be there with me as it happens.

Reverse psychology

"So what do you want?" is a question I found myself asking a friend the other night when she told me she couldn't find the right job, partner, etc., etc.

I have no judgement, because it's a question I'm often asking myself these days too, one that I seem to come closer and closer to answering with each interrogation of self. But the thing is, I've been brutally honest with myself in trying to answer it, brutally picky about it, and way too interested in all of the wrong things in making my choice.

Tonight, when I asked Jay what he thought about me staying here, and I told him about the house I was going to be in, a complete bohemian crashpad, he reminded me to focus on the book. He reminded me that I don't like living with other people, let alone three or more. And he reminded me why it is that I considered moving out to California to be with him almost immediately after he asked me the first time.

This hasn't come without hassle, however, and I've actually been really in tune to what my body has been telling me with each guy I meet and hang out with lately. God, I'm going to say it... For all of the stuff that worries me about Jay or makes me think twice, these other guys can't even compete with everything that is right about him.

In this choice, as in other important ones, only by making mistakes and taking chances have I found what it is I don't want, and I believe that it is this knowledge that is perhaps easier to understand and hold onto when making choices and understanding what I do want and what is important.

Having determined that traveling and writing and writing about traveling, or "triting" as a friend mistakenly called it, is what I am going to do with myself, I no longer feel like I have to find "the" career right now. If that means I have to teach to do it, so be it. Eventually I will.

January, the MFA, that's all fallen into place. It was just this one last piece I was trying to fit in somehow. And I was worried about it not fitting to my specifications, but when I brought up the whole thing with Jay tonight, he sorted it out and pressed the last part in place with the assurance I needed.

All of this decision making feels good, and if has come at the price of a lot of uncertainty and bored friends and mindless repetition of the same worrisome problem, well, at least it is finally over. And even if I've gone about it the wrong way, I have also finally decided on where I'll be living in a month.

I'm going home to Nebraska for two weeks. Fishing, catching up with friends, maybe even some canning if the garden delights are ready for it. Jay will be out there too, and he's down to hang out with my dad... holy shit. I can't wait. Honestly. And after that, after the two weeks of down time at home, I'm... gulp... off to California.

Making a decision feels almost as good as the certainty that comes with knowing it's the right one.

Chocolate Peanut butter Yellow Cake

I might have been getting my Q on in Cali as far back as April, but BBQ season is finally underway here in the Chi, and for the first Q of the season, I whipped up this scrumptious two-layer peanut butter cake and frosted it with, you guessed it, chocolate peanut butter frosting. It was the perfect nightcap to the apps, Q'd pork tenderloin and halibut. But a bit much to combine with the beer. You should pick one and then wait a while to dive into the other. Be prepared to overindulge if you're one of those people who likes cake and peanut butter and chocolate. Because all three are combined in epic proportions here. Yummers.

Mix 1/2 C. peanut butter into the batter for one yellow cake. I cheated here and used a store-bought mix, and the pb made it real moist, so I had no complaints with that.

Pour this into your cake pan; I used two 9" round pans. Bake for about 3o min. at 350, or until cake is done. Your oven temps may vary, so just be mindful of that.

Once your cakes are done, let cool, then frost with the pb frosting below.

Make a regular cream cheese frosting:

Mix 6 oz. of cream cheese

8 oz. of sweet chocolate

2 Tbsp. milk

2 C. powdered sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

then add

1 C. pb

1/2 C. semi-sweet chocolate chips, melted

Dish'er up and bust out the milk!

Chaos theory

Being organized, for myself, is not one of my strong suits. I get easily distracted and off topic and sort of meander my way back to my task at my own pace. If organization is required for another person, I'm able to stick to it and get stuff done with relevance, because I have to. But for me, ha. That's mostly not possible.

So being in the middle of a massive chapter switch and revision is taxing me. Last week's project was outlining the chapters with enough certitude of their final place that i could complete the chapter outline part for the book proposal.
As I sat down with index cards and a green highlighter, I began to feel like there wasn't enough flow between some of the chapters, so I just redid the whole thing, the whole outline. I even threw out some chapters, finding once again, that they didn't belong in this book. Another one, at another time.
After a week of reading and researching, it was nice to take a day off, and in that day, I promised myself that I would work in three hour chunks, to avoid further burnout. This whole plan working. I'm now 60 pages into the new layout, loving the flow, feeling like things are moving forward. It's amazing how much a simple bit of reorganization is all that it took.

This got me thinking. "Organization," to me, has always been a bit of regulated, uptight planning. I'm finding that it is really a re-ordering of my life, or if not life, at least right now, the chapters of my book. I can't seem to get organized anywhere else, try as I might. What does that mean for me? What is organization, by definition?

"The act or process of organizing." Thank you dictionary.com. I need more though. What's organizing?

"To form as or into a whole consisting of interdependent or coordinated parts, esp. for united action" OK, that makes sense. Key here is the "coordinated parts."
My favorite description here, deals, of course, with the brain: "Informal. to put (oneself) in a state of mental competence to perform a task." And no wonder it's my fave! It's the "informal" definition. But that's the best, isn't it? That's how it all comes full circle.

Informal. That's how I usually think of my planning. I'm such a take-it-as-it-comes person, and with the book, my refusal to do any formal outline at first is what has bitten me in the ass over the last few weeks. Well, no more biting. I'm still going to be the mess of thoughts I always am, but this whole plan of action thing has proven itself to me. Now where else can it be applied?

Fourth of July

Day began at 9, hopping a train to the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, where I volunteer. Spent the morning with various patients/ families talking about stroke, brain trauma and seizures. Made some new friends, shared some advice, hopefully left people feeling as positive as I felt about my day when I left.
Headed back to the hood for some Q, gotta love shrimps off the barbie and finger lickin' chicken!
Back downtown to hang our in Grant Park, where some random dude slapped my ass and made out with me. Oy. Not so hot, although had he been hot, the spontaneity might have made it fun. Sat on a blanket with friends and listened to Gomez; got mashed in the crowd and ended the night with pizza, more good conversation and a chat with an old friend.
I constantly think about how lucky I am to be here, as in, this physical plane, this level of awareness on this earth, but never about how happy I am to be HERE, experiencing that in Chicago, in the UNITED STATES.
As much as I sometimes hate our policies and practices and politicians, our country is amazing and all of the liberties we do have, those which have costs lives and the liberty of others to achieve, those are pretty damn amazing.
This was my most low-key Fourth in a while, but one of the most meaningful.
Happy Independence day indeed!

Dosed, or Which self is it that Shows Up?

We were laying on sheets red like the rising sun
burning up like it too
in each other's arms spread like the sky.
you held me close and said
i don't let people in i'm afraid
i guess
of getting hurt.
we talked about music
the floyd and the peppers but just briefly
heads full not of ideas but
nothing
mouths full not of words but
each other.
i left you that morning at six
awkward and with an audience
parting words and lips
for a kiss quick
on the mouth.
does anyone ever really know
anyone
i asked
without knowing
the answer
to even that

Is it still brain science if it's fun?

The mid-sized hardcover slipped easily under my fingertips, but stood out despite this quick passage. So when I picked up Defending the Cavewoman a week ago, running my fingers along the rippled edge of books found in Chicago’s Harold Washington Library, little did I know that the simple, mindless act of feeling out certain stories by touch would be explained in laymen’s terms, much less creatively so.
But in Defending the Cavewoman and Other Tales of Evolutionary Neurology, Dr. Harold Klawans, M.D. does just that.
Broken down into thirteen anecdotal stories of science, exploration and hypothesis, Klawans takes a serious look at what makes us tick upstairs, but does it in a way that a cavewoman herself could understand. That’s a fair statement too, according to Klawans; she was smarter than you think. It is she we can thank for the relatively few Neanderthal-like men alive today (I said relatively few), she and her selectivity in mating.
Beginning in the preface, Klawans defines several terms used throughout the book with experiential stories, giving the reader the opportunity to associate a vague mouthful of obscure language with something concrete, like the acquisition of Braille reading or why it is chickens run with their heads cut off.
My ten-digit discovery of the book, based on touch, has to do with a sensory understanding of the world, of course, but Klawans gets into the how and why and where of our brains' ability to process such things.
Neuropathy, as he explains much easier than the Wikipedia page you’ll find if you click here, is the loss of our body’s basic senses. Regarding touch, this includes the ability to distinguish between one needle prick and another, millimeters apart on the tip of one’s finger. Klawans, who began his medical career in Minnesota and worked and lived in Chicago until his death in 1999, writes engagingly about the neurology of human development, how it is that we are the way we are today, and what has happened over the years, biologically, physiologically, mentally, that has allowed things to be just so. But he does more than that.
In “I never Read a Movie I liked,” his chapter on reading and the brain, where all this neuropathy stuff becomes applicable, he takes the basic premise of a scripted movie—you know, a silent film with text, or a foreign film, subtitled in English, and using his own personal distaste of the genre, gets into the nuts- and-bolts of why, both biologically, physically, no one should like such films.
Because reading is an evolutionary accident, one associated with “socioeconomic success, which correlates with a decreased birthrate,” we humans have evolved to help ourselves, yet are meanwhile incredibly limited in what our other senses are able to still do. “Reading then, is a biological disadvantage,” he writes. Basically, if we couldn't read, we’d be fucking like crazy, and having babies out of control (like nature intended), not evolving so much so that we destroy the environment. (which nature didn't intend). I won’t go into it here (buy the book!), but the point he makes is that anyone should be able to “feel” their way through a story because the ancient Sumerians used a more pictoral, etched written language; the fact that our brains have evolved to understand words is a neurological miracle. And that’s why we can’t read and watch at the same time.
Or, more specifically, this is why.
You’ll recall that our brains are split in two, left hemisphere, right hemisphere. Because our vision is such that what we see is also split in two, goes into each eye, then crosses over to the opposite side of the brain and then rearranges itself somewhere in the visual cortex in the occipital lobe, the part of our brain that understands vision is busy trying to do that, while the part of our brain that understands language, which is located in the speech cortex, in the left hemisphere, is trying to do that. It’s a lot like WonkaVision, with better results. Or maybe not even that "easy," depending on how much you like to read and watch these sorts of films.
Interspersing his own clinical data and evidence with anecdotal stories of miracle patients, such as Terrence Henessey, of this chapter, and other remarkable characters, Klawans builds a rich file of cases and clients, complete with the humor and flow of a seasoned storyteller. And it’s no wonder; with more than ten titles to his name (over half of those non-fiction) the man has had some serious experience with writing. This too, slightly off- topic, plays a part in his storytelling as he includes tangential stories of other authors (Oliver Wendell Holmes, for instance) who might also be interested in the ways in which the brain works.
For me, of course, the highlight of the book is his way with words and the storytelling capabilities he has woven into the educational lessons shared. If anything, I can only say I wish there were more stories in this volume, but he is a doctor, after all, and the book is dedicated to the craft of healing, not writing. And that, perhaps, is another one of his subtle jokes, perhaps found in chapter 10, “Anticipation,” but certainly peppered throughout. The man knows how to conduct a page-turner.

Joke's on you

look boys
oh yes
take a good look
wont you
you who sit across from me and laugh
like i don’t know
at what
at
the blush of life that hangs heavy
heaving
at my chest
take it in imagine
it
bare
bared tan against the white of your youth
look and taste it
life
i don’t care because
to you
it blooms full and hard at my neckline
but inside
i’m dead already
And you’re just fucking with a corpse

Mortality calling

You could set your clock to my seizures. If you needed a clock that went off with a buzz and a bang of misfiring electricity once or twice every six months, that is. I don't know what kind of clock that would be, or what use one would have for such an instrument, but with that sort of accuracy, you could, at least, be reminded of your own mortality. In the form of your half-birthday, I mean.

A fond farewell

"The new boat is ready."

He tells me this on Monday, after he tells me that he and mom went back to Pierre last weekend and brought home nine more salmon. I'm happy that they had such a good bite, I can tell he's thrilled to be soaking more fillets in brine, but there's something about his voice, some hitch in it that triggers my red flag.

"Are you sick dad? You sound like you have a cold."

"No, I'm fine. The new boat is in so we'll have to go up and get it this week."

Of course. The new boat.

When I went home a couple of weeks ago, it was to send out old '88 Lund Tyee off to the dump, a final farewell to the boat that followed us the summer we drove to Alaska and lived there, the boat that went to Washington, and Oregon and all over the Midwest with us. I wanted to sleep in that boat one last time, plant my face in the smelly blue carpet under the dash and breath in the essence of lake mud and fish scales and familiarity that I have breathed in for the past two

decades.

I learned to water ski behind that boat when I was little, and after my stroke, when I decided to give it a try again, testing my balance and my strength, that old blue boat pulled me right up. We were supposed to bring home the new boat the same day we dropped off the old one, but it hadn't been delivered to the dealer yet.

It seems sort of silly to recognize an inanimate object as something so special and unifying to a family, but if there's any one thing that sort of brought my parents and I together, it was that boat. I'm sure the new one will do the same thing, but as I was coming home from my run last night, I was thinking about the ways in which this boat will be different. It's got a laminate floor, not a carpet one, so now, when I want to be rocked to sleep in the sunny stillness of the lake, I'll probably stick to the floor, not wake up with the fibrous lines of fuzz I'm used to.

I'm glad I didn't see the boat's end, because it would have been a sad one for me. I don't know what this new boat will be like, exactly, but I know that if it does work in the same way as the old one-- and I don't mean vroom, skidding out across the water-- I already know it's going to have a different relationship with me.

I didn't sleep on that gritty floor again, that one last time like I'd imagined. I wasn't tired, wasn't as bored as I usually am (thank god for the ipod) and I guess I have sort of grown up over the past twenty years (thank god for that too) and maybe don't need to do that anymore while fishing. Maybe I'm able to be present in that moment, regardless of the vehicle, and be in it for what it is. Time spent with my family.

I'm not thinking about it with the necessary depth to apply a good metaphor to the whole thing, but someday, in proper homage to the boat and my dad and the relationship we have out on the water, someday, I think I will. And rest assured, it'll probably happen while on the lake.

Luke Kennard

"Is there a secret to writing?" she asks, poised on the edge of a bar stool. I imagine Veronica bangs, a smart, black dress (they all wear black in London, right?) and chic, thick framed glasses of some sort.

He leans back ever so slightly, tumbler resting just under his cupped palm, left arm resting on his leg, inviting. He pauses to think, but knows the answer immediately without the pause.
"Write every day. Be patient. If possible don't have an Internet connection in the house."

Luke Kennard is a gorgeous twenty-six year old author and poet. This much I know about him. This much I learn from the Q&A with Sarah Kenison running in today's Guardian. But the rest, the rest I make up, suiting my own writer's need to think and imagine. I know next to nothing about this stunning young man (think Johnny Depp and Robert Downey, Jr., but I see that he's a writer, he's a hottie, and best of all, he gives the kind of advice I like to hear. Later, when asked if writing gets easier after time, his answer, "It always feels like starting again - like I have to relearn everything I thought I'd got the hang of," is something that I can completely relate to. After a day spent reading the Columbia Journalism Review, the Believer and assorted other literary magazines and losing myself on the 7th floor of the Harold Washington Library (7 is Lit and Journalism), and thinking about my grad school decision, I'm walking home from the gym, clearing my head and prepping to come how and write some more.

What is it that I seek, as a writer? How do I live this life, as a writer? Everyone affirms my decision and proclamation that that is, indeed who I am, but what does that, exactly, make me? Hearing Kennard's thoughts on the subject are confirmation that at least, if nothing else, in my flounderings and shortcomings, I am, after all, at least writing. Trying. And if like him, I "Sometimes I just sit there screaming into my hands," well, at least I know I'm on the right track.

Just like the old times

"WRITING A BOOK?!? That is so wickedly awesome!!! It doesn't surprise me... you always knew what you wanted in life, never afraid to take a leap or chance...just an amazing girl!! I had known writing was your thing and wondered where you would go with it."

Her words come flying off the screen at me, a rush of excitement and smiles. With them come the memories, oh, the memories. Of cross country runs in the sunrise and notes passed in the hallways and cookies after church. Of McDonald's at midnight and parties with the hottest college boys, some of whom used to confuse us for sisters. There are memories of showing up someplace before her, the wrestler's trailer or the bar's dance floor, only to spend the half hour before her arrival explaining that no, "I'm not Iz, I'm Mars. No, we're not sisters, just friends..."
There are memories of late nights and bar crawls and dreams and hopes and fears. There are memories of fun times and tough phone calls, the ones in which I assured her I wasn't sleeping with her boyfriend, and would tell her, if I was.

And then there is the memory of the conversation where I kept my promise, the one hardest to keep, the one where I had to tell her that I had slept with him. Years later, that one still hurts, when I think about it now. It hurts because he was my best friend. And she was my best friend. And even though the two of them had split up, it hurt us all. And when I lost her, first, and then him, I just chalked it up to the experiences of youth and stupidity. None of us talk anymore-- he's married, she's... maybe bored, and I'm busy again with my own life, doing what feels right in the moment (you'd think I'd learn).

But a couple of weeks ago, when I saw that Iowa was under water, in a big way, I put the past behind me and hoped to hear back from her.

"Iz, this is Mars. Wanna make sure eyou're ok. Txt me back if you can."
Just one line of text, one small message sent out to an old friend that I once loved and wanted all the best for. Hearing that she was ok was as good as getting her email address, as good as getting the reply in my mailbox today. I read through her email, hear her old laughter, sense of sarcasm, feel her personality in each word chosen. But with all of that I read a sense of purpose in those lines, a sense of self that has developed in the years we've been separated. Like me, I'm sure she's still the same short, dark beauty she once was, the crazy girl up for anything and wlling to prove it. And like me, I can tell she's grown up, too, left that place of jealousy and gossip and boredom that we both dreamed of escaping those years ago, running along the cornfields and cracked pavement of our childhoods.

Three Days in Chicago

You know how the New York Times does its "Three Days In" section, in travel? I've been in Chicago long enough now that I think I can do justice to one of those. But it's not going to be the hoitey-toitey sort of stuff found within the pages of that paper. No $70-a-meal places, no day spa retreats among the sucked and tucked and manicured elite.

Nope, I'm doing to write, and I'm going to drink. And then I'll write about it. Sort of like I do now. But with purpose.

Monday

Fat, blue pen in hand, I spent the day crossing out lines and words on the printed pages of my book thus far completed.

"That sounds tedious," said my friend Wes, nose-deep in inspection of the rack of ribs he'd been marinating for the past 6 hours. I was explaining that sometimes stroke survivors have a hard time with organization, and for me, as a frazzled and all-over-the-place writer, that situation has only been worsened. Blogging allows for a free-flowing rant of being, and the past nine months of book writing have also just been a gushing of words and ideas. Now that I've got some of the chapters put together in a working sort of layout, it's edit time. The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between a hot reception and a subtle, cool nod of acknowledgement in the publishing world. As a first-time book author, I want to make sure I'm not just embraced, but ravished.

Is this seat taken?

He has a trucker's hat on--plastic mesh-- which is just a few shades darker than the collared shirt he wears--blue. I know he's in one of the unions because of the White button on the hat, but I'm not sure which one. I've lived here for two years and still know very little about unionization. Or not as much as I'd like to, at any rate.

"Damn kid, she fell in love an' now she's back from Australia and her car's broke, so I'm goin' over to fix it up. I never ride this far north. These trains make me sleepy, you know? Jesus, this one time I was at the Addison stop, right after a Cubs game you know. Anyways, there was people all over the place, there was. And then..."
He starts talking before I've even really settled into my seat, but by the time I have,I can see the 30-ear story of a steel worker's life written in his face and hands. He tells me more about himself, not in so many words (although there's a lot of them), but in the way he says the ones he does.

One of the things I love about Chicago, that I hated about DC, is the public transportation system. I've never spent part of my night in a station because of closed lines here, even though the wait times sometimes make me feel as if I am. My commute here has always been about the same, 30 minutes to an hour, yet the people I meet on the trains here are almost always enjoyable, always willing to talk and keep me entertained. Even if I don't ask for it. Like many of my travel companions, this man is blue-collared, not only in dress and vocation, but in attitude, expression. He's Joe Everyman, and I love hearing whatever it is he has to say.

I don'tknow if I have "seekingyourlifestory" written all over my face instead of the fine script of stress others wear, but I've always been able to get stories out of people without even trying. As a journalist, this provided me with the great quotes editors love. As a friend, this provides me with plenty of examples to reassure and cheer up any friend. And as someone who loves listening to people, it's provided me with many an entertaining moment and new friend.

When I first moved here and would share my CTA experiences and new friends with my old room mate, Emily, she often expressed surprise at them.
"you meet so many new people," she'd say to me, sort of awed, sort of creeped out. "How?"

I just like to talk, listen. Share in life. If that means some long-winded and oftentimes boring 45 minute rides downtown (and it does) well, meeting my new union buddy more than makes up for it.

"Jesus, these kids these days, you know. She went to Australia and fell in love and now she's back and I keeps sayin', I keeps sayin', 'when you gonna give me some grandbabies' but I think me an' her mom, I think we scared the bejesus outta her with our fighting at each other all the time. But you know, all that matters is that she's happy. And that her car works. So I'm gonna go look at it now and make sure it does. You live up here? Boy, it's sure nice up here now. You have a good day ma'am."

And just like that, he's gone, off at Fullerton, off to the Brown Line and the acquisition of some other story. The contrast of his rough exterior, his thick fast-talking Chicago accent and the subject matter are what draw me into this man's story, and long after I get off, I think of the ride and what it means to have experiences like this on the train; I think of what it means to be human.

Stupid blogger

Blogspot is being a dick. I keep losing my writing when a post drifts off to who knows where without saving. Grr... Makes me crabby. And after the wheat beer last night and the beer at the bbq today, I'm feeling seizure-tastic, which has me short tempered. Amazing how I can track this stuff these days.

Fun, fearless female... or just female?

You know that feeling you get when eja vu hits, like your brain goes squishing into the back of your skull along with all sense of time while you stand sort of rooted in the moment and maybe kind of jittery? I just had that feeling, except not with deja vu. With having just REALLY learned something about myself.
I am a total comitaphobe.

One of my best friends agreed a bit too seriously with me on this, the other day when I offhandedly suggested that I was afraid of commitment. I was talking about my desire for a real relationship and how to me, that conflicts with the idea of freedom. So I turned to my other trusted friend... thank you wikipdedia.com for the following. This whole loss of freedom thing, which I though summed up the whole problem I have, is part of it, but I guess it's even more than that.

"The key to understanding commitment phobia is recognizing that such behavior is rooted in fear -- fear of lost options or fear of making poor decisions. The commitment-phobic mind sees decisions as permanent, opening the possibility of being caged or trapped forever with no means of escape."

Yowza.

I know I hate being left with no options, no out. In any part of my life. While other people my age are out dating around, I'm the one going "nope, not good enough, not even gonna try. Nope, too dull, too dumb, too.. whatever." It sounds like I'm supposed to be doing all this sleeping around right now and experimenting with all these random people instead of worrying about whether or not the guy I'm with is good enough to buy a new cookbook with. But I'm not in that place anymore. *ha* yeah, I know, I'm only 25. But I feel like I've already lived lifetimes. I grew up around old people and have always been old for my age. I've already slept around and dated enough guys to know what I like and what I don't like. I've been to all the honeymoon spots and in all of the best friend's weddings and have the godson and nieces and nephews and aged parents. I don't want to be settled down right now because I'm not done with the exotic vacations and I don't want the responsibility of all this other stuff, but I mostly don't want it because I'm afraid of establishing some kind of life and then getting bored with it and needing to uproot it all and go and break someone's heart.

And because the kinds of guys I date are the same way, I guess I'm more afraid of them doing that to me. Hell, that said, I'm a kookier nut that I even knew before.

"To assuage their anxieties, many commitmentphobics become fantasy-driven, using their active imaginations to fill in for the lack of emotional security and closeness in their lives. Of course, these fantasies pose additional problems because no potential partner, car, or job can ever live up to the fantasy. Commitmentphobics are also prone to self-destructive behavior, such as walking out on partners or jobs without notice, leaving themselves and the people in their lives in untenable situations."
What? Me? Never...

But see, there's a reason I act this way. Knowing I'm crazy means I have to keep jumping ship because I'll never know what's real and good and true. So I gotta stay one step ahead of myself. Now I sound like I belong in "Fight Club."

"In fact, commitmentphobic behavior includes 'settling' for inappropriate partners..."
I know that I run the risk of this, so I just gotta keep moving on. Right? Oh, what a fine kettle of fish this is. Hey, wait, isn't there some reference to all the other fish in the sea? Who hoo!!

On Travel

As I wove through the congestion of humanity waiting for fries and shakes at the McDonald' near terminal 2's eighth gate, it dawned on me that I had only been in Chicago for 33 days this year. And the year had just crept into June.

I've made it up to a whopping 37 now, and it's almost July. Or close at least. Time to make one last rent payment on an apartment sitting mostly dormant. I could have applied all that money to more adventures....

But not lamenting this time spent away from the city- it's sort of like being in a coma- the world swirls on around you, you return, changed, different, and yet the same. And you hardly know what you've missed. Which can be hard. Believe me. This also applies to the world to which you return, yet I think it hardly notices an absense in your presence (while traveling, at any rate. Life threatening things like comas are another matter). I don't miss the time I've missed, but I am thinking that with all that time on the road I could have written a lot of travel articles, a lot of blog posts about the voyages. And I haven't done much of that, save the posts I made about Thailand back when that was still so new and fresh and present.

My goal is to do some more writing about that time in my life during the next few days in this time of my life. Wait for it, wait for it...

One Day at a Time

Yesterday I tell a friend that I can't move to California, that "Mars doesn't moves for boys." Or in with them
"Yeah, tell him to move for you," she quips. "Yeah, right, something like that" I say back, knowing that this boy is certainly not moving anywhere for me, much less back to Chicago.

We talk today for the first time in a couple of weeks, the first lengthy time anyway, and I listen to myself tell him, "Oh no, don't move back. Didn't you just get done saying how you have to stay in Cali because of the greenery and laws?"
"Yeah, but I'd be closer to you," he says back.

Aw shit. What's that supposed to mean? Why can't I figure this whole dating thing out?
Yes, yes, I know what that means, exactly what it sounds like. But what I can't figure out is what I want. Sometimes I'm totally hot for this relationship and want it to work, and other times I'm like "Nonononono, I can't be in a relationship! Am I? Are we dating? Really? Are you sure, because I'm not. Despite the distance? Aaaak. Really? Prove it."

Times like this I wish I were married and didn't have to deal with this all. And then I think about that and how my friends and I are quickly drawing lines in the sand between ourselves based on this and then I doubt that I'll ever find the right guy and that I'll have to settle and that it's all a lesson in futility and why even bother and how come no one can hold my interests and how come no one's everything I want and am I going to end up sad and alone and bitter and am I already and isn't it better to be alone, to travel by myself and do all that I want, when I want, how I want?

you see what I mean? Jesus. It's like I'm a female Woody Allen. Only hotter and with more weight to toss around. I posted a blog on my MySpace account a while ago worrying about silence at mealtimes with the future "partner" and Jay told me that I need to relax, that I worry too much.
The thing is, I don't worry about these things, not really, but I DO think about them too much. I should just let it all go.
And that's where the worry should come in. Not on my behalf. But his. He should worry. Right? Because if I'm thinking these things now then maybe that means he's not going to have to sit around in silence with me ever...
Ugh. Drunken blog posts do no one any good. Writing is supposed to help me untangle the thoughts in my head, but I feel even more knotted up now, with no purpose in mind and no point on the page.

Beer and Whine

I went to the Hopleaf tonight and read the New Yorker, one of my favorite things to do on a weekend night. I sometimes feel like going out for a few drinks but doing so by myself, and it's not often that I treat myself to the atmosphere of the small, dim main room of the bar's first floor. It's not often that I can find space at the bar to sit with the current issue of the magazine.
But the lame poet/writer boy was in town this weekend, and he left me a few wistful voice mails, to which I finally responded saying "yes, let's grab a drink. But I'm bust all weekend. You have Saturday night."
So I got home from the gym, talked to Jay (see next post), got through the shower and told him I was going to the Hopleaf and he should call when he made it back up north.

I had a marvelous time with my magazine and my beers (Allagash White, thanks), and by the time he finally called, I was dreading the hangout. Well, had been, but it seemed close and real at that point.

No worries, he ended up wimping out, so I escaped unscathed, albeit drunk.

As I shuffled home, plugged into the mpod, it dawned on me that I have no idea what I want. With life or with anything.

And this makes me ... not sad, but...bored. God, am I depressed?

*sigh*

Or just drunk? Both?

Grad School

I'm getting closer and closer to making some real decisions about my life. Whoa.
Last week, I made the commitment to beginning the grad school process in earnest. I've been looking, been thinking about it, but other than attending and info session and requesting a couple of info packets, I hadn't committed to anything. Not even the idea.

Last week I told myself that I would start grad school in January, if not sooner. I forget that as a student, I may not be able to handle 18 credit hours, a newspaper job, a retail job, an editor position and a fabulous social life, as I once did. Could I handle the demands of an MS OT in training, or the weight of writer's block and 60+ page weekly assignments? Which course of study was I even meant to begin?
Well, between OT and the English MA, OT won the battle, a sweet, momentary victory. Crafty, that OT. It got me psyched up enough to commit to grad school, then pulled the rug out from under me, by the numbers. After tears and real talks with my dad, I've bucked up... life throws me those curve balls (how is it that I did fine in college physics but couldn't pass high school algebra?), and after my time in Thailand, I've learned to just let go of desires and outcomes. If I can't do the OT program, then I'll pursue the M.A. If that's what's meant to be, then my mind has been made up for me. And really, I HAD asked the universe to help me out with that.

Amazing, the way life feels once a path is parted and deemed accessible. I don't know what will happen, for sure, with either of these programs, but I do know now that I'm more excited about grad school than I have been about anything else recently. And that says a lot.

The dust settles?

"I have attached to me the dust of countless ages."

Pigpen has been my favorite Peanuts character since I was little. Don't know why, he just seems to have a lot of fun and not care about what others think. And as quoted above, he's got a good perspective on things too. My assumption for this is based on the fact that every time I've been as dirty as he always is, I've had fun getting that way. The dust around him never seems to settle... how exciting.

Now that I'm older and maybe a little less messy (MAYBE), I sort of feel like I haven't cooled my heels long enough for it to settle around me yet either.

But I think that time is coming. Soon.
I still want to get dirty and have fun and play in the mud, but I'm beginning to feel like there's less of a price tag and set of responsibilities on my life to govern the ways and times in which that happens. Maybe I've found that clarity I'm looking for, messy mind and life and all.

Father's Day

My sister called while we were out in the boat this morning-- leave it to my mom to bring her cell phone out on the water.
"I hate those damn things," dad said, shaking his head and hanging up after his brief chat. He's got one, but never has it on, and certainly would never have it out with him in his most holy of holies: the lake. Mom would never have her phone on in church (well, not intentionally), but she's got it along today, cracking the silence with it's "brringingbringging" shrillness.
I feel bad for Merna, knowing that she wanted to spend today with dad, or tomorrow, his birthday, but didn't have the option. She probably would have taken work off even, a rare thing for her, but dad wasn't having it. He wanted to spend the day on the lake, not eating dinner in some restaurant or sitting around at home. And why shouldn't he? Father's Day, his birthday.. it's like me and Christmas, my birthday. I'm gonna do what I damn well please. Gee, I wonder who set that example...

Father's day is something I look forward to each year, and each year I tell myself I'll have something special to write about dad, something that can be published in Walleye Insider or some other angler magazine he reads. I envision it being some sort of warm fuzzy article about my first fishing pole, or my first fishing memory, something like that. But it never happens, mostly because the words never seem right. I don't know how to honor my dad for all of the things he's done for me, or the way he's led by example, and words seem to fall short.
So I just come home. From where ever I might be. I come home, and we fish. There's no need for words or explanations or warm, fuzzy feelings out on the water. We just... are. Together. And that's all that there needs to be.
This year, this fishing trip we're on now though, it's our last one with the boat we've had for almost 20 years, and with any luck, there'll be a story in it for next year. There's a story in everything we do, I guess, I just want it to be the right one, a fitting tribute to him and my respect for our relationship. If I don't write it, he won't read it, but he won't read this either, and I'm writing it anyway. I'm not sure where the disconnect between my goals in writing the other thing and actually producing it exists, but somehow, it does.
For now though, as the sun sets and we pack our stuff for our 5 am boat launch, all that matters is the conversation we've shared, the laughter, the warmth of the sun a glowing afterthought to a day well-spent.Thanks dad, for everything. Here's to another sunrise, another trip... another year.

It's all in the name

I think that my biggest remaining quarterlife crisis is sticking to a look and a name for this blog.
I wanted to get away from MySpace when I first created this blog, but the hardest part about that is getting my friends to visit this site instead of MySpace. I'd like to think I want to write for me, and not them, but without an audience, it's harder to stick with this on a daily or at least weekly basis (see, even if blogging is self-serving, I'm still looking out for the reader!). I was taught to think about my audience and what tone my writing should take to engage them, and that lesson stuck, evidently.
I wanted to call my blog the "Quarterlife Crisis" at first, because I figured all of the stuff I posted would be unique to my place as a twenty-five year old. But I didn't quite feel like I was in the midst of a "crisis," because the age and expectations I had for myself at 25 felt like more of a chaotic upheaval with all sorts of wonder and possibility. So I went with "Commentary" and not "Crisis."

"The View from Mars" was the name of my column in college, so I thought,
"oh, it worked great back then." But I'm certainly not standing in the same place, or viewing the world with the same eyes as I did from 18-21. So "The View from Mars" doesn't quite feel right either.
I thought about just writing "Oh, Whatever" in the blog name category, but that doesn't seem fair to my blog. I had ambitions that this space would be more serious, more lyrical, more literary, than my MySpace place, and I guess it is. It's more serious, at any rate, if no better in terms of quality than MySpace. I thought 25 would be about growing up a little, and I think I've figured out how to balance that with my own reality instead of societal expectations, but I'd like to stick to a title for this damn thing.

1-800-ANGST

I flip through the rolodex, looking at old business cards with mostly fond memories. The honey farmer, the tattoo artist, the writer for ESPN, these were good interviews and fun stories to write. But the individuals I'm looking for now- the speech therapists, the OT specialist, the neurologist- the thought of talking to these people makes my stomach hurt, and my left shoulder is weird and shaky as I type interview notes into my June calendar. I'm going home Wednesday, back to the "scene of the crime," as they say, to spend time at the lake where my vision first fuzzed out as my brain started bleeding. I want to describe the scenes in my story in as much detail as possible, so as part of my research, I'm going back to all the places I've introduced in the book.
I'll be in Alliance, talking to the nurses I told to " fuck off" while in so much pain. I'll be talking to the speech therapist I worked with once released. I'm going to Wyoming some time in the next two weeks as well, to interview the medical staff there, the people who told me I might never live on my own again or balance a check book, or work, or drive a car. I'm going back in time, and looking up these individuals has left my stomach in knots already. I have no idea what the future will bring, but if I've learned anything from these people, it's that all we have is the moment we're in, and getting through that is all that counts.So with a voice as shaky as my shoulder, I talk to Missy, my old Occupational Therapist, update her on my life, find out about hers. It's good to talk with her first; young and hopeful for me, we got along great, and she's willing to track down my uber busy neurologist to get an interview with him set up. I'm nervous about this process, more nervous than I was to start rehab. Then, I was operating on a slow, foggy breain and unsure of what was to come. I'm still unsure of what's coming, but I am aware of the amount of hard work that lays ahead.

Surreality calls

When Jay and I met, it was Christmas and it happened because he was home from California for Christmas, and my then-boyfriend Sean wanted to see his old high school buddy.
Sean called this morning while Jay and I were laying on the couch, and listening to Sean ask about me what um, sort of surreal.
"How long was Mars out there?" he asked.
"Oh, she's still here," Jay said. "We're finishing brunch, laying on the couch."
Silence. Then, "so did you see the new posting on urbandictionary.com?"
I talked to Sean the day before I left, and when he asked me how long I'd be out here, I said, "oh, 'bout a week." I didn't want to tell him how long I'd be out there, why was it any business of his? More than it not being his business, it's just me feeling sort of strange about being somewhere in between these two now, even if they both act like I'm not, really. The whole thing felt weird to me then, when I talked to Sean, but laying on Jay's lap and listening to them talk about me was a moment of surreality unlike any other.

Bernie

I am falling in love with this dog.
He's got this great, bigger-than-life personality, which, for a dog, means that he says things to me just by shooting me a look.
Like last night.
I was trying to get him to scoot over on the couch, and I told him to move his ass, because "that's my spot, buddy." He looked at me, the pink of his eyelid standing out soft and bright against the dark brown smudge shadowing his right eye.
"Your spot? Buddy? This is my house. My couch," he seemed to say back, squinting at me in a vicious stare-down.

With Jay at work all day, Bern and I have had some good bonding moments too, and I'm pretty sure we're going to get in a run at the dog park today, green squeaky ball and snacks in tow. I'm also pretty amazed at myself, how much I don't mind this routine, this new sense of responsibility. God, is this what happy parents feel like?
Sure, letting him out at midnight because Jay's fast asleep sort of sucks, and I didn't like seeing him hunker down on someone's lawn this morning, after I conveniently forgot a bag at home, but there's some sort of silent thing between a dog and a dog-lover that makes it real easy for me to adapt to him, even if he's not my dog. It's the way he lays down sort of behind me, sort of on me, when I'm watching TV, curling his neck around my ass so he can look up at me over it. Or the way he has to sleep on top of me, now, at night.
And perhaps scariest of all, the way he hovers around me in the kitchen, snaking between my legs while I'm mixing up a marinade for ribs or sitting on my feet while I'm shredding cheese. Yeah, yeah, I know, he just wants the food. Of course.
But this is the most endearing thing to me, I think, because it reminds me of being little and hanging out with my mom in the kitchen. I'm sure that my constant afootness was irritating, as it is with Bernie and I, but it's also so damn cute and erm...heartwarming.
Fuck. Did I really just say that?

This is my job

I am incredibly lucky.
For the past eight months, I've worked in my pjs, on my couch, in bed; coffee shops have been my office outside my home and business meetings have been conducted on the phone, never in person with anyone.
I am incredibly lucky, and it took a soft beam of early California sunlight for me to see this.
I'm in Cali on a whim, f'chrissake. Working. At my leisure. I have taken advantage of this situation as fully as possible, yes, but I have Taken Advantage of it.
When I started this project, this book, this healing, I meant to work on it for at least 5 hours a day.
"Even if I delete everything I write today in six months, I told myself, "I've got to treat this as a job. Write something for this book every day."
And for a while, when it was new and glamorous and exciting, I did. I even put in a few eight-hour days at the beginning.
But then I got comfortable and six months of time between me and my goal felt like such a long time. So I dicked around with my goal, barely meeting it. And maybe not meeting it at all, if you count the fact that I still have interviews and such to do. But whatever.
The point is, I realized this morning that my next goal is quickly approaching, even if September feels like a long ways off.
I've promised myself that by September I will have the interviews transcribed, stored, analyzed and integrated into the content of my story. I have no idea how that will come together or the formatting for it, but I have the commitment to it.
I think.
And that's why, dressed (no, not in my pjs!) and still focused on the sunny day outside, I'm devoting this day to really knocking out some usable, revised content. If this is my job, and I've only got until September to do it, I better get after it, because who knows what kind of work I'll have to do then.

Early thoughts

The warm breeze blows the soft fragrance of the flowers against us as we walk in the night’s calm, and I imagine the scent as a shimmering, silk scarf, wrapped around us as abstractly as moonbeams.
The small, white flowers dot dark bushes along the sidewalk, and if I can smell them this strongly, I know Bernie is positively swimming in scent.
Not that he minds.
After a rainy day, he loves burying his nose in the warm, damp grass, pulling out myriad smells and tastes from it. You can feel his curiosity and memory working to digest those flavors, feel it as he inhales and expands his rib cage and lets out his recognition or confusion in great, shuddering sighs. He’s a pretty amazing dog, and I’m sort of surprised that I even care this much.
That sense of care is the whole reason its 2 am and I’m smelling these flowers and feeling the midnight breezes of Long Beach in the first place- his incessant whining began about the time my head had comfortably fallen into the sleepy spot on the pillow, and I knew that Jay wasn’t going to wake up and take his dog outside.
So Bernie and I are walking together in the quiet, his toenails clicking along rhythmically with my padded soles. We’re in step with each other.
As I was laying in bed wondering why he wouldn’t just shut up already, I kept telling myself this was the exact reason I can’t have kids. They cry out in the night, whine, complain, want to crawl into bed with you, and unless you have the strength to tell them now and let them cry, you end up with a bed full of squirmy child. Or in this case, dog.
But now, after a half hour of this nonsense, now that we’re up and outside and his bladders is all empty, I’m happy to be out here. It’s so calm, such a good atmosphere for mulling over my thoughts. And I’ve been having some pretty serious ones.
Jay and I went to the Farmer’s Market this weekend, picked out a bunch of stuff and spent the next couple of days cooking it up together. I made potato soup when we got home that night, we had the beets yesterday; blackberry crepes sound heavenly for tomorrow. I love doing this sort of thing.
While he was at work yesterday I went to the store and got ribs and greens and stuff for cornbread and dirty rice; I hope I can time it with his return from work tonight. I love doing this sort of thing too. what concerns me about these feelings is that they’re just not quite at the right place, or with the right person. If they are stirred up in me, fine, I can deal with that.
Sure, I could see myself settling down into a life like this- cook, run with the dog in the am., write for the afternoon, greet the honey after work, have dinner before a walk with Bern. It sounds so nice, so… comfortable.
But it’s so unexpected. I haven’t been seeking this sort of comfort, have I? I know that I want it, eventually, like a cushy teaching job at a university, but not right now. So what’s it mean, that I’m going through it right now?
I wouldn’t be staring at the moon and wondering that, right now, if it felt like the real deal and not just a shell of it, right?

This means something

When I was little, life's beauty was in the small surprises. An afternoon tangerine split open and shared with my mom became something special when we found a baby tangerine growing inside the juicy, golden flesh of the fruit. An egg cracked for a birthday cake became a conundrum when two yolks slid like bright golden suns into the yellow bowl we always used for cake batter. Had we just doubled the egg content somehow, with nature's twist, or would it matter that there were two yolks?

Mom and I have never been close, at least not in my memory, although I'm sure she could tell you of a time as an infant when I enjoyed her company. As a psychologist, she's given me enough unwanted advice over the years for me to edit the DSM-IV, and I always feel like she just wants to be my friend, until I tell her the graphic details of my life that I'd share with a friend. Then she's my counselor again.

Funny, I can take that from my friends, who try to help me figure shit out, but not her. Another one of nature's great mysteries.

Anyway, today as I was dicing an onion and a red pepper for some pineapple salsa, I came across something that totally reminded me of her. And it wasn't onion tears.

My red pepper, when split in two, had a little baby green pepper nestled up inside the humped crest of its top, right near the stem. It's not unususal to find this sort of "mutant" fruit in nature, and like I said, it always makes me smile and think of my mom in a good way when I do. Mutants= mom thoughts maybe not the nicest of ideas, but that's not quite the correlation.

So I finish seeding the pepper, separate the stem, and pull off the little nubby of green pepper poking out from under the crisp red flesh. Lo and behold... there's a YELLOW pepper growing around the little green bit of pepper. This thing just keeps getting better and better. And the best thing of all... the symmetry of it. Each side of the red pepper had this sort of genetic extra growing on it.

When I was little, a dumb six-year-old, you know, mom would tell me that there was some special meaning in this additional fruit or egg yolk or whatever, and I'd believe her.

Now, I'm hardly a dumb child anymore, but when I find this sort of thing on my own as an adult, I think of those special rare moments with my mom, and today, finding this trio of peppers in part of my dinner made me smile. I took pictures (obviously) of the thing, and then yes, I ate the little guys.

Those cakes never differed with an extra yolk, and the tangerines were never sweeter, but as we ate the cake later on, it was like we had a little shared secret tucked inside only for us to know. Today's yellow pepper was sweet ( yellow peppers are my favorite anyway) and the red was yummy too, but the green one, smallest of the three, was a touch bitter.Still though, that didn't matter, because as I crunched on them, I could feel the bright colors of the peppers and the bond with my mom secretly tucked away in me somewhere.