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.