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.
Showing posts with label Blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blog. Show all posts
Sunday, July 20, 2008
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
"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
Saturday, July 12, 2008
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!!
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!!
Friday, July 11, 2008
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 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'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.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, July 7, 2008
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.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
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?
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.
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?
Saturday, July 5, 2008
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
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.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, June 23, 2008
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.
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.
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.
"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.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
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!!
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...
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.
"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?
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?
Sunday, June 15, 2008
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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