I am more comfortable in the cold and wind. The bitter cold that sparks with stillness. I have this strange connection to people born and raised in the north. Margaret Atwood is my favorite author because she is unafraid of the harsh the dark. The barren has a carved beauty and a sad longing smell. People often have an ecosystem of the soul. Mine is dry, desolate, grey, but infinitely open. I don’t have small garden gnomes in my spirit. Neighbors don’t stop by for coffee after church. No one appears on the horizon like the small ants that crawl through my kitchen window. It echoes with a mandolin and violin and often tastes of salty blood drawn through cracked lips.
I love the green and peach tones that warm people carry. A southern disposition or a tropical flair. Sun has warmed them. They are unafraid or unaware of a world where the sun rising doesn’t mean heat. They embrace their passions where northern people give in to them wrenchingly. Tearing aside layers of wool to touch skin on skin. No loud macaw articulations – primal, desperate rumblings. No love spilt or lost. You simply know by the action not the plumage. Uncomfortable with emotion – we try no words for we know that words cannot describe the vast, intensity inside and around us.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Hitch
Life can shift in one day. The weatherman squawks about showers and there is blazing sunlight. Not the precipitation you expected. The last Dodge you took a ride in broke down and then exploded next to a desert highway. You kept waiting for Steven Spielberg to yell, “Cut” and a swarm of extras to congratulate you, touch up your makeup, and the lighting to dim. But you crawled out and what everyone sees in you is true. Strength isn’t always easy. So you put your thumb out and hummed a Cross Canadian song for good luck. You were not expecting to get picked up so quickly. How do you tell someone you are new - unknown, even to yourself? The open road doesn’t frighten you. Walking next to the highway feeling gravel rolling under your boots crackling with change, you are happy. You aren’t a little girl anymore and the space you fill seems an easy middle ground. You look in the visor mirror and hardly recognize the woman covered in ash. But you kind of like it. The grease monkey look suits you. These are situations that don’t come around often but you are so used to dysfunctional truckers who try and feed you pork rinds laced with bullshit.
You are thankful for the ride. Hell, you’ve had your eye on a model like this for a long time. Didn’t know it came with all the perks. But someone will have to do a little work to keep you in the cab. Door handles fit easily into your palm. So far, the music is smooth, steady and the pace slow. No destination in mind – only seconds rolling off your spine. Just the way the stranger in you likes it.
You are thankful for the ride. Hell, you’ve had your eye on a model like this for a long time. Didn’t know it came with all the perks. But someone will have to do a little work to keep you in the cab. Door handles fit easily into your palm. So far, the music is smooth, steady and the pace slow. No destination in mind – only seconds rolling off your spine. Just the way the stranger in you likes it.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Thighs
“There are days where I hate my thighs, this little town and the whole world too.” Not a direct quote but if Montgomery Gentry was a female group this would be their song. Some mornings I get up and turn sideways in my mirror. I like my thighs then. They seem to keep my butt perky. Straight on isn’t their best angle but we have a tumultuous relationship. Female. There is no denying that. Certain days we get along fine. I enjoy their robust physicality. Small muscles tense and they are powerful. When it rains outside and I am raining inside – I want to take a knife to them. One small incision, then a few quick tugs , and out would slide the extra stuffing. After months of anatomy and physiology, I am not turned off by the idea of flesh and blood.
I have Romantic Grecian goddess thighs. They are hording all the surplus. If a famine strikes my body they will turn into the Egyptians and enslave my limbs. I stare at other women. Amazed when there is no flaring at the top of their legs. Even at a buck ten in high school, they were there. I should be happy for that. These thighs have taken me places. I have gripped the saddle on the back of a horse riding in the Tustamena Bench. They have propelled me lap after lap in the Homer pool. Enduring skin colored spandex; they have helped to push me through long forgotten dance routines. They have climbed Wolverine Peak in one afternoon and they love a good challenge. Nothing keeps these thighs down. Not diets, not dissolution, and not bad body image. When I can’t stand myself – my thighs stand up for me. Imperfect, steady and graceful. I love them for that.
I have Romantic Grecian goddess thighs. They are hording all the surplus. If a famine strikes my body they will turn into the Egyptians and enslave my limbs. I stare at other women. Amazed when there is no flaring at the top of their legs. Even at a buck ten in high school, they were there. I should be happy for that. These thighs have taken me places. I have gripped the saddle on the back of a horse riding in the Tustamena Bench. They have propelled me lap after lap in the Homer pool. Enduring skin colored spandex; they have helped to push me through long forgotten dance routines. They have climbed Wolverine Peak in one afternoon and they love a good challenge. Nothing keeps these thighs down. Not diets, not dissolution, and not bad body image. When I can’t stand myself – my thighs stand up for me. Imperfect, steady and graceful. I love them for that.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Anybody out there?
Anybody. Tell me you love it or hate it. How you want me to shut up or keep speaking. I am looking for a little interaction. I am not picky. Or wait – I am picky but I still want to hear from you. Who cares what others think? Or what I think? Tell me all about it. Tell me you are at least reading this. Maybe I am just talking to the wind. I do find myself talking to the moon on my front steps way to often.
Reckless
I love Pandora. I just discovered two new bands – Reckless Kelly and the Randy Roger’s Band. I want to import about five albums onto my playlist. I already foresee large sums of money spent on new cds. Ahh, well. I have a slight music addiction and I want to hang new memories on fresh pressed songs. Too many albums have old moments tucked in the lyrics sleeves. “Snowfall,” by Reckless Kelly feels like it was written for me. Snow – there is little else that makes me crave changing my life drastically. I want to move to Butte, chop my hair, work odd jobs, drink Pabst, take up smoking Marlboro lights, and ski every day. If there are a few points in my life that I would tweak – one of those would be when I lived in Whitefish. I loved it there and I was way too cautious. I should have stayed but I was afraid of losing my past. So I hit the road back to AK - a decision that I rarely regret but in this one instance I wonder. Hiking in Glacier National Park would have been amazing.
Sharing music - I miss it. Having that person you call up when you find a song that feels like you have been singing it all along. My lab partner and I just started trading band names and it always feels like the beginning of a relationship. “Will she like Cross Canadian Ragweed?” “Will she discover that I am an utter dork and complete failure as a human being simply by listening to the lyrics of 'Jenny'?” “Will I like Wilco or hate them?” “Will this mean we are completely incompatible as friends?” I hate to say it but I often judge a person by their music. I won’t dismiss you but I will assess you.
You are always looking for that person who might show up at your front door one day and dare you to leave just as you are. With one exception: bring three of your favorite albums. That is the fantasy of my hidden romantic streak. I want a man with drive but not too structured. Who owns an unusual reliablable car/truck and who will look at life like a road trip. Who knows where we will end up? We might travel forever but we are going to have fun with every pit stop. We will sing at the top of our lungs the whole way.
Sharing music - I miss it. Having that person you call up when you find a song that feels like you have been singing it all along. My lab partner and I just started trading band names and it always feels like the beginning of a relationship. “Will she like Cross Canadian Ragweed?” “Will she discover that I am an utter dork and complete failure as a human being simply by listening to the lyrics of 'Jenny'?” “Will I like Wilco or hate them?” “Will this mean we are completely incompatible as friends?” I hate to say it but I often judge a person by their music. I won’t dismiss you but I will assess you.
You are always looking for that person who might show up at your front door one day and dare you to leave just as you are. With one exception: bring three of your favorite albums. That is the fantasy of my hidden romantic streak. I want a man with drive but not too structured. Who owns an unusual reliablable car/truck and who will look at life like a road trip. Who knows where we will end up? We might travel forever but we are going to have fun with every pit stop. We will sing at the top of our lungs the whole way.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Love Letters
I want a letter. Not just any letter will do. No electric bill, charitable society, or credit card application. It should be creamed colored and smooth. Soft, purposeful script with my address in black ink. The lining a burst of color - crimson, cobalt or jade – much like the sender. Peaceful cover – passionate underneath. The kind of letter that will find me rereading it on the front steps two years from now with a glass of Cycles Gladiator. It has been a long time since I have had a letter of any kind.
I have a few in a cardboard box sitting in a closet at my parents house. Most written on graphing paper with a carpenter pencil. Sawdust should have fallen out when I opened them. They were well phrased and at points longingly cryptic. Mostly they gave nothing but snapshots and self-absorption. It wasn’t all his fault. I let him go on and he was only twenty. I am sure he is different at twenty-seven.
I just want truth now with a little soft-lighting. Not too much forethought and little inhibition. No fear that what you are telling me will hurt or that it might give me power. This never ending obsession with protection is a little old. I don’t want to damage – I want to hear how the grocery store in a coast town made you think of me. A constant chess game called to a halt.
I would like sand to fall from my letter. Some beach I have never been to. Maybe a leaf or a seed. Something I can try and grow. At least the words will sprout or unlike the plants in my life – not die.
I have a few in a cardboard box sitting in a closet at my parents house. Most written on graphing paper with a carpenter pencil. Sawdust should have fallen out when I opened them. They were well phrased and at points longingly cryptic. Mostly they gave nothing but snapshots and self-absorption. It wasn’t all his fault. I let him go on and he was only twenty. I am sure he is different at twenty-seven.
I just want truth now with a little soft-lighting. Not too much forethought and little inhibition. No fear that what you are telling me will hurt or that it might give me power. This never ending obsession with protection is a little old. I don’t want to damage – I want to hear how the grocery store in a coast town made you think of me. A constant chess game called to a halt.
I would like sand to fall from my letter. Some beach I have never been to. Maybe a leaf or a seed. Something I can try and grow. At least the words will sprout or unlike the plants in my life – not die.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Little Sister
I lived with a girl who walked in her sleep. She was seventeen and I had never seen someone with no fear. That isn’t quite right. She had fear but I had never seen life spilling like mercury out of someone’s laugh. I walked into the Moseley Sports Center in August of 2001. I was going sea kayaking in Prince William Sound. This is a theme that would reoccur in my life. But all I could think about was getting back to Kenai and seeing the boy I had been playing tonsil hockey with all summer. He was mysterious and completely wrong for me which meant that he might as well have been rolled in chocolate. I couldn’t get enough of him.
It took ten minutes for me to realize the girl sitting next to me with the black-tipped hair was my new roommate. She was still in high school but taking college classes. Her home in Palmer was far enough away that the demigods of campus life let her take up residence in the cinder block walls of Suite 301 in South Hall. Soon to be dubbed the “hot suite” thanks in part to the impetuous nature of my roommates.
I had nor have never been as wet as the first week I spent with her. It rained everyday of our trip and when we set up our tent the first night, we had to sponge standing water out of the bottom. She sat there uncertain and slightly beaten down. I was quick to stand in and try to take charge. But keeping up with her was like herding cats. You just can’t bottle a hummingbird. I had my first taste of a little sister. We were marooned together after a storm sank one of the kayaks fifteen feet off our beach. That was the theme of our year -marooned together in this magical, dysfunctional world of Alaska Pacific University.
“Casey – no! Wait! I can’t believe you are doing this.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t go around shooting people with tampons or your dart gun.”
“I did not shoot Kyle in the nut sack.”
“You shoot him in the nut sack!?”
“No, the dart just stuck in his jeans. He is such a whiner.”
“Oh my God, Casey. You kill me”
She would answer the door in her underwear. I think Buck and Carl would knock just to see what color boy shorts she was wearing that day. My door would open at 2 am and she would tumble next to me – crowding us both into a twin bed. Her nose crinkled when she laughed. She wanted answers about love and I was too young to know that I was woefully under informed and in no position to give any opinion. But she stayed. Probably because she knew that I would have backed her up in a bar fight – if we were allowed in bars at that age.
You couldn’t help hoping that nothing would ever change her. That every risk she took, she would pull off. Flirting with the edge of disaster and laughing at herself the whole time. She would never be self-conscious or jaded. I see her almost slipping in the cafeteria line, grasping the edge of the stainless steel counter and flopping half her torso onto it. Hoisting herself back to vertical and yelling, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.” I had never seen someone make constantly stumbling look so graceful and euphoric.
She drove down to California with me a month ago. She got sunburned waiting for me and didn’t complain. She talked with me about God and I hope that these conversations go on till I am an old women. God loves her desperately and she is dancing toward him. She still laughs like the world is her own private joke but that the object of her mirth is completely worthy of the laugh. We got our rental car up to 120 miles an hour to see when the governor would kick in. It never did. But that is Casey. The governor never seems to kick in when I am with her. All my fears thin out into a fine sheen of wisdom. There are a few battle scars that make her a little less compulsive and harder. But she will always be my little sis and now that we are allowed into bars I am sure there is a fight in our future. Casey will keep twinkling and I will feel a little more alive just seeing it.
It took ten minutes for me to realize the girl sitting next to me with the black-tipped hair was my new roommate. She was still in high school but taking college classes. Her home in Palmer was far enough away that the demigods of campus life let her take up residence in the cinder block walls of Suite 301 in South Hall. Soon to be dubbed the “hot suite” thanks in part to the impetuous nature of my roommates.
I had nor have never been as wet as the first week I spent with her. It rained everyday of our trip and when we set up our tent the first night, we had to sponge standing water out of the bottom. She sat there uncertain and slightly beaten down. I was quick to stand in and try to take charge. But keeping up with her was like herding cats. You just can’t bottle a hummingbird. I had my first taste of a little sister. We were marooned together after a storm sank one of the kayaks fifteen feet off our beach. That was the theme of our year -marooned together in this magical, dysfunctional world of Alaska Pacific University.
“Casey – no! Wait! I can’t believe you are doing this.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t go around shooting people with tampons or your dart gun.”
“I did not shoot Kyle in the nut sack.”
“You shoot him in the nut sack!?”
“No, the dart just stuck in his jeans. He is such a whiner.”
“Oh my God, Casey. You kill me”
She would answer the door in her underwear. I think Buck and Carl would knock just to see what color boy shorts she was wearing that day. My door would open at 2 am and she would tumble next to me – crowding us both into a twin bed. Her nose crinkled when she laughed. She wanted answers about love and I was too young to know that I was woefully under informed and in no position to give any opinion. But she stayed. Probably because she knew that I would have backed her up in a bar fight – if we were allowed in bars at that age.
You couldn’t help hoping that nothing would ever change her. That every risk she took, she would pull off. Flirting with the edge of disaster and laughing at herself the whole time. She would never be self-conscious or jaded. I see her almost slipping in the cafeteria line, grasping the edge of the stainless steel counter and flopping half her torso onto it. Hoisting herself back to vertical and yelling, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.” I had never seen someone make constantly stumbling look so graceful and euphoric.
She drove down to California with me a month ago. She got sunburned waiting for me and didn’t complain. She talked with me about God and I hope that these conversations go on till I am an old women. God loves her desperately and she is dancing toward him. She still laughs like the world is her own private joke but that the object of her mirth is completely worthy of the laugh. We got our rental car up to 120 miles an hour to see when the governor would kick in. It never did. But that is Casey. The governor never seems to kick in when I am with her. All my fears thin out into a fine sheen of wisdom. There are a few battle scars that make her a little less compulsive and harder. But she will always be my little sis and now that we are allowed into bars I am sure there is a fight in our future. Casey will keep twinkling and I will feel a little more alive just seeing it.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Conclusions
My cell met with a tragic accident. It fell from my nightstand. This should not be a problem. However - I think they quit making my phone model five years ago. So this tumble from the night table was the equivalent of a 95 year old man falling down five flights of stairs. Hip replacement surgery is not an option. Immediate disposal was all that was left. This gave me a lot of quiet time to think and I have reached some conclusions:
1. I should not be allowed to sit around and think. It is hazardous to every relationship I have ever had.
2. There is a bush outside my window with magenta flowers and it bothers me. I know the names and some of the medical properties of many of the flora in Alaska. Here - I am a complete dunce.
3. I have a very pretty voice. When no one is listening.
4. Miranda Lambert is my soul mate. (Which is problematic).
5. I am twenty-six. Four years away from my sexual peak. So the irony is - I need to get busy. In every sense of the word. But I am too old to think that having someone shove their tongue down my throat will do anything but leave me one shovel full deeper – with no way out.
6. In one month (to the day) I will be a bridesmaid for the sixth time. This is five times too many.
7. I have decided to buy a cruiser the day after I graduate from Op school. I have this vision of me, a bike, the Pacific, and eventually the Atlantic.
8. People often have ulterior motives and I can spend days trying to figure them out.
9. Life should have a pregnancy test. Will I get this job? If I spend one more hour studying, will I get a B+ instead of a B minus? Will the blonde in front of me over react if I tell her that she laughs like a wounded hyena? Is he lying to me by proxy? (Otherwise known as lying to himself and therefore lying to me by default.) Or does he truly love me? Damitt! Is that a pink or blue stripe?
10. I have never been so comfortable in my own skin yet some days I feel like my arteries and veins are threatening to go on strike and take my lower intestine with them.
11. I have finally been told that I am the coolest person that my friend knows. Success! Or complete failure.
12. She did add that I have always seemed like myself. That I don’t hide. Obviously she hasn’t gone to a slasher flick with me. I tend to crawl behind the back of the person to my right of left.
13. Trouble should be spelled C-A-M-E-R-O-N. And you boys thought you were the only ones with terrible lines.
14. Romance is dead. But thank God that alcohol is still around.
15. We all have secrets. Mine involve - jogging, a deserted piece of road and tea.
16. Did Matt really have a small pet sensor put under my skin so he could find me anywhere? The jury is still out on that one.
17. I will be asked to dance in the woods one day.
18. No one will ever be able to top the line, “I just forgot how you were.”
19. How do old men think that it is appropriate to call me “kinky” after learning that I have put duct tape on bare skin? So “f”ing what! I could be your daughter!
20. It is always about you. “Maybe then at least I will look ok when you write about me.”
21. Suffering may be the catalyst for great art. My art just needs no other form of communication to get rolling.
22. I don’t know why I blog. No one reads it. Or at least they don’t comment. Maybe it is my own form of bulimia. Therapeutic typed vomiting.
23. Third Eye Blind is my favorite band.
24. I will give you an eye exam one day and make horribly inappropriate comments about what you are wearing.
25. I don’t like mushrooms. Deal with it.
26. I am a sucker for flowers. I would let a serial killer into my apartment if he brought me the right bouquet.
27. My cousin, Jess, and I have the same sick sense of humor. Hopefully it is genetic.
28. Scott might be one of the bravest men I know.
29. I love my parents.
30. I miss you. Everyday.
1. I should not be allowed to sit around and think. It is hazardous to every relationship I have ever had.
2. There is a bush outside my window with magenta flowers and it bothers me. I know the names and some of the medical properties of many of the flora in Alaska. Here - I am a complete dunce.
3. I have a very pretty voice. When no one is listening.
4. Miranda Lambert is my soul mate. (Which is problematic).
5. I am twenty-six. Four years away from my sexual peak. So the irony is - I need to get busy. In every sense of the word. But I am too old to think that having someone shove their tongue down my throat will do anything but leave me one shovel full deeper – with no way out.
6. In one month (to the day) I will be a bridesmaid for the sixth time. This is five times too many.
7. I have decided to buy a cruiser the day after I graduate from Op school. I have this vision of me, a bike, the Pacific, and eventually the Atlantic.
8. People often have ulterior motives and I can spend days trying to figure them out.
9. Life should have a pregnancy test. Will I get this job? If I spend one more hour studying, will I get a B+ instead of a B minus? Will the blonde in front of me over react if I tell her that she laughs like a wounded hyena? Is he lying to me by proxy? (Otherwise known as lying to himself and therefore lying to me by default.) Or does he truly love me? Damitt! Is that a pink or blue stripe?
10. I have never been so comfortable in my own skin yet some days I feel like my arteries and veins are threatening to go on strike and take my lower intestine with them.
11. I have finally been told that I am the coolest person that my friend knows. Success! Or complete failure.
12. She did add that I have always seemed like myself. That I don’t hide. Obviously she hasn’t gone to a slasher flick with me. I tend to crawl behind the back of the person to my right of left.
13. Trouble should be spelled C-A-M-E-R-O-N. And you boys thought you were the only ones with terrible lines.
14. Romance is dead. But thank God that alcohol is still around.
15. We all have secrets. Mine involve - jogging, a deserted piece of road and tea.
16. Did Matt really have a small pet sensor put under my skin so he could find me anywhere? The jury is still out on that one.
17. I will be asked to dance in the woods one day.
18. No one will ever be able to top the line, “I just forgot how you were.”
19. How do old men think that it is appropriate to call me “kinky” after learning that I have put duct tape on bare skin? So “f”ing what! I could be your daughter!
20. It is always about you. “Maybe then at least I will look ok when you write about me.”
21. Suffering may be the catalyst for great art. My art just needs no other form of communication to get rolling.
22. I don’t know why I blog. No one reads it. Or at least they don’t comment. Maybe it is my own form of bulimia. Therapeutic typed vomiting.
23. Third Eye Blind is my favorite band.
24. I will give you an eye exam one day and make horribly inappropriate comments about what you are wearing.
25. I don’t like mushrooms. Deal with it.
26. I am a sucker for flowers. I would let a serial killer into my apartment if he brought me the right bouquet.
27. My cousin, Jess, and I have the same sick sense of humor. Hopefully it is genetic.
28. Scott might be one of the bravest men I know.
29. I love my parents.
30. I miss you. Everyday.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Rhiannon
Everything feels like a Stevie Nicks/ Fleetwood Mac concert lately. I walk around campus with my ipod dangling from my hip and I could swear I see people dancing along with “Dreams.” The old, slouched man next to me on the bus playing his hand held solitaire game that probably hasn’t been sold in years. He doesn’t know it but he is desperate to sing “Silver Springs” at Karaoke. “Rhiannon” has traveled with me to Calculus I and to General Chemistry lab. Perhaps its soothing sounds are what kept me from snatching a boy’s cell phone from the table, throwing it to the floor, and driving the spike of my high heel straight through it. It was vibrating every five seconds. I felt like I was trying to write on a motel bed that took quarters.
The world seems to be stretching around me. Yawning and reaching for its toothbrush - shaking winter off its back like an Orca flinging a harbor seal. Two days of warm weather was a little tease. I am looking forward to seeing spring turn into summer here. I don’t think I have ever been in Oregon later then the 1st week of May. I saw a Bald Eagle outside my apartment window yesterday. Nothing else makes me so homesick. “Like an eagle in the sky she caught my eye.” I am an Alaska summer girl and I even miss the winters. But I am in a state that has tulip trees and with such a fantastic sounding tree how could you not be excited?
“Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night
And wouldn’t you love to love her
Takes to the sky like a bird in flight
And who will be her lover?
All your life you’ve never seen a woman
Taken by the wind.
Would you stay if she promised you heaven ?
Will you ever win?
She is like a cat in the dark
And then she is the darkness
She rules her life like a fine skylark
And when the sky is starless”
It doesn’t feel starless – even on these overcast Portland nights. I know there is a small star blinking – “green and grey.” I like its small twinkles. Like my grandfather used to say (much to my six year old annoyance), “Twinkle, twinkle little star how I wonder what you is.” I do wonder what it is but not too much. The star might go out or burst. Either way – it isn’t my decision. It is way more fun to be the “cat in the dark.” Or the darkness, with one small star – pulsing so I don’t forget.
"Will you ever win?"
The world seems to be stretching around me. Yawning and reaching for its toothbrush - shaking winter off its back like an Orca flinging a harbor seal. Two days of warm weather was a little tease. I am looking forward to seeing spring turn into summer here. I don’t think I have ever been in Oregon later then the 1st week of May. I saw a Bald Eagle outside my apartment window yesterday. Nothing else makes me so homesick. “Like an eagle in the sky she caught my eye.” I am an Alaska summer girl and I even miss the winters. But I am in a state that has tulip trees and with such a fantastic sounding tree how could you not be excited?
“Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night
And wouldn’t you love to love her
Takes to the sky like a bird in flight
And who will be her lover?
All your life you’ve never seen a woman
Taken by the wind.
Would you stay if she promised you heaven ?
Will you ever win?
She is like a cat in the dark
And then she is the darkness
She rules her life like a fine skylark
And when the sky is starless”
It doesn’t feel starless – even on these overcast Portland nights. I know there is a small star blinking – “green and grey.” I like its small twinkles. Like my grandfather used to say (much to my six year old annoyance), “Twinkle, twinkle little star how I wonder what you is.” I do wonder what it is but not too much. The star might go out or burst. Either way – it isn’t my decision. It is way more fun to be the “cat in the dark.” Or the darkness, with one small star – pulsing so I don’t forget.
"Will you ever win?"
The Bounty
A friend of mine spends an inordinate amount of time in the woods. He was quick to remind me that this was his plan all along. “Cameron, out of all the APU guys, I knew what I wanted and I got it.” He is a park rangers and sports an acorn printed belt that he proudly displays after a few Jameson’s. His shirt pulled around his pink ears – he will not rest until you have told him, “I see it,” at least three times.
He came to visit me on Saint Patrick’s Day. I had not seen him in two years. He was a little weathered by summers spent in the Brook’s Range but his eyes were still little boy blue.
“Cameron did we make out in the parking lot of that bar in Fairbanks?”
“No, Christian.”
“But we did make out one time.”
“Yes.”
“It was on a roof, right? Freddy’s roof?”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Of course I remember that.”
He is the only guy that has called my father’s practice looking for my phone number. He has done this twice. I always wonder how the conversation goes with my dad. They are both ex-alter boys. Perhaps there is some secret code – no doubt in Latin.
He loves the Seventies. I once tried to argue with him about Tom Petty trivia and my boyfriend said, “I wouldn’t mess with him. If there is anything Christian knows it is Petty.” Turns out he was right – Kim Bassinger is the dead girl in the “Last Dance with Mary Jane” music video.
After Irish car bombs, we went back to my apartment in Portland. Talking till 2 am – he desperate to seem grown up and me as equally desperate to seem relaxed/secure compared to my nineteen year old counterpart. He told me how he belonged in Alaska, 1976. How he listens to Neil Young driving patrols in his truck and how it feels right.
I turned on Pandora radio yesterday. He left an America radio station for me to listen to. Fleetwood Mac, “Landslide,” slipped next to me. I was in his truck looking out on Yellowstone’s vast, frozen woods. He is one of the landslides in my life. He shows up with a roar of good intention, youthful enthusiasm, danger, and an energy that won’t be denied. When I miss being a freshman in Anchorage all I need is Tom Petty and I am riding shotgun with Christian – relaxed and hopeful.
He came to visit me on Saint Patrick’s Day. I had not seen him in two years. He was a little weathered by summers spent in the Brook’s Range but his eyes were still little boy blue.
“Cameron did we make out in the parking lot of that bar in Fairbanks?”
“No, Christian.”
“But we did make out one time.”
“Yes.”
“It was on a roof, right? Freddy’s roof?”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Of course I remember that.”
He is the only guy that has called my father’s practice looking for my phone number. He has done this twice. I always wonder how the conversation goes with my dad. They are both ex-alter boys. Perhaps there is some secret code – no doubt in Latin.
He loves the Seventies. I once tried to argue with him about Tom Petty trivia and my boyfriend said, “I wouldn’t mess with him. If there is anything Christian knows it is Petty.” Turns out he was right – Kim Bassinger is the dead girl in the “Last Dance with Mary Jane” music video.
After Irish car bombs, we went back to my apartment in Portland. Talking till 2 am – he desperate to seem grown up and me as equally desperate to seem relaxed/secure compared to my nineteen year old counterpart. He told me how he belonged in Alaska, 1976. How he listens to Neil Young driving patrols in his truck and how it feels right.
I turned on Pandora radio yesterday. He left an America radio station for me to listen to. Fleetwood Mac, “Landslide,” slipped next to me. I was in his truck looking out on Yellowstone’s vast, frozen woods. He is one of the landslides in my life. He shows up with a roar of good intention, youthful enthusiasm, danger, and an energy that won’t be denied. When I miss being a freshman in Anchorage all I need is Tom Petty and I am riding shotgun with Christian – relaxed and hopeful.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Choice
I have a crush on my chemistry TA. Not too surprising, people tend to find the whole teacher/student thing a little erotic. Her name is Gene. Ok – now I have your attention. I have struggled with writing about this particular development. I am not coming out of the closet. I happen to find men very, shall we say, provocative. I have a rule. Breasts on any gender are a deal breaker but this girl is as flat as a 15 adolescent boy. Supremely confident and funny. She could be a male model without the fake bravado and weight obsession. A slightly spicy cologne blends with the way she fills her allotted space. What to do? Nothing. This is a unique circumstance and now like any self-respecting introvert and slightly socially awkward English major I will take this opportunity to figure out what this means and what I can give to others at the end of the road.
1. I live in Portland. The land of men in skinny jeans – whose fashion heroes could possibly be Wheezer or the Cure. Doesn’t inspire lust in this girl or even fascination. I am all for nerds. But as I age I want confidence not grande, half caff., skinny latte sipping conversations that will throw me back to the days of watching George Fox students having DTR’s ( for the laymen – that is determine the relationship). I would rather have the DT’s than ever have a DTR. A good relationship can be determined half way through your second shot of Jameson and it usually involves two words and simple reflection on exactly what the other person has said and done. Because as my daddy says, “talk is cheap.”
2. A man I know once told me that we dated each other because, “We like ourselves and we are so much alike.” Am I this fucking narcissistic? I could be. Gene is hard core – a marathon runner and has her B.A. in English as well. She owns a collection of belt buckles and the best short shaggy hair I have ever seen on a girl. She rocks cowboy boots and black carpenter pants. It could be her freedom from convention? At points I wish the little voice in my head would shut up. My best Navy buddy once told me, “Cameron everyone but you did the dumb stuff when they were young.” Sometime I wonder if it is ever going to be my turn and other days I am thankful that I have never been thrown off that merry –go – round.
3. What about my faith? There are so many arguments for everything. No matter what you want you can find justification. But as a Literature Professor told me, “I go by percentages. If I am 56 percent positive that something is true, I will stick with it. I will hold it until I can no longer.” There are only five things in my life that I know. The first is that a man I can not feel or see will love me till my last day ends and I can see him.
I just know I am not traveling down that road. I am gathering bits and pieces lately. Just because you have an impulse does not mean that impulse defines you. We are as they say a sum of our choices.
1. I live in Portland. The land of men in skinny jeans – whose fashion heroes could possibly be Wheezer or the Cure. Doesn’t inspire lust in this girl or even fascination. I am all for nerds. But as I age I want confidence not grande, half caff., skinny latte sipping conversations that will throw me back to the days of watching George Fox students having DTR’s ( for the laymen – that is determine the relationship). I would rather have the DT’s than ever have a DTR. A good relationship can be determined half way through your second shot of Jameson and it usually involves two words and simple reflection on exactly what the other person has said and done. Because as my daddy says, “talk is cheap.”
2. A man I know once told me that we dated each other because, “We like ourselves and we are so much alike.” Am I this fucking narcissistic? I could be. Gene is hard core – a marathon runner and has her B.A. in English as well. She owns a collection of belt buckles and the best short shaggy hair I have ever seen on a girl. She rocks cowboy boots and black carpenter pants. It could be her freedom from convention? At points I wish the little voice in my head would shut up. My best Navy buddy once told me, “Cameron everyone but you did the dumb stuff when they were young.” Sometime I wonder if it is ever going to be my turn and other days I am thankful that I have never been thrown off that merry –go – round.
3. What about my faith? There are so many arguments for everything. No matter what you want you can find justification. But as a Literature Professor told me, “I go by percentages. If I am 56 percent positive that something is true, I will stick with it. I will hold it until I can no longer.” There are only five things in my life that I know. The first is that a man I can not feel or see will love me till my last day ends and I can see him.
I just know I am not traveling down that road. I am gathering bits and pieces lately. Just because you have an impulse does not mean that impulse defines you. We are as they say a sum of our choices.
Motorcycles
Motorcycles fascinate me. I hear my mom whispering about head injuries and a waitress/nursing student from Big Fork, Montana saying “donor cycles.” I have this memory that involves moving too fast for my six year old eyes. My mom emerging from a chartreuse Cadillac – shouting at my grandfather, “I told you I didn’t want her on this thing.” We made it one block from their house. I can’t blame her. Her early memories involve leaping from one red rock pillar to another in Bryce Canyon. My grandmother yelling in her sweet North Carolina tones. My mother’s curly hair blown by hot dry air. The hair that she later ironed into a helmet to protect her in Astoria high school. (Not very effective in a town that saw eighty inches of rain per year). My grandfather has been straddling the edge of death for awhile and having labored for over twenty- four hours, I doubt she wanted me damaged.
Next Thursday I go for my first Morgan class. Brady (a friend from George Fox) is excited to teach me. My mom asked me why I wanted to be licensed and I told her that you can’t be an international spy without knowing how to ride a motorcycle. You are in serious trouble if someone is shooting and you can’t drive, what might be, the only mode of escape. My life could depend on it and frankly, I could be that much cooler. The eternal struggle to be a bad-ass but, I admit it – I want the title. I felt a little more than pleased when Christian looked at me the other day and in his Massachusetts frat boy manner said, “Cameron you are a little bit of a bad-ass. I can’t believe you drink whiskey….” Some days I can’t believe I do either. I drive a stick, I am unafraid of manual labor, live like a bohemian in the summers, shoot ptarmigan, banter when it suits me, ski like a demon, and have peed (while driving) in a cup. All in all a masculine and impressive resume “for a girl.” It wasn’t until yesterday at a Starbucks that I had a revelation about this drive. ( I know a difficult task amid cups that sport insipid inspirational quotes.) A boy once told me to be easy on myself. I had accomplished enough and anyone would be proud of me. It never seems to be enough. But old Alanis Morrisette came through for me one more time. (I don’t care what you say. I love that woman’s lyrics no matter how cryptic they get. The Ezra Pound of pop.)
"Incomplete"
One day I'll find relief
I'll be arrived
And I'll be friend to my friends who know how to be friends
One day I'll be at peace
I'll be enlightened and I'll be married with children and maybe adopt
One day I will be healed
I will gather my wounds forget the end of tragic comedy
I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete
One day my mind will retreat
And I'll know God
And I'll be constantly one with her night dusk and day
One day I'll be secure
Like the women I see on their thirtieth anniversaries
I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete
Ever unfolding
Ever expanding
Ever adventurous
And torturous
And never done
One day I will speak freely
I'll be less afraid
And measured outside of my poems and lyrics and art
One day I will be faith-filled
I'll be trusting and spacious authentic and grounded and home
I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete.
That is it. Running on and on. A Biology professor told me, “To be a Christian is to live with eternal mystery.” I guess being a bad-ass requires the stamina to keep going with no end in sight. So, here is to getting a license I might never need, creating a dance I may never perform in public, and to shooting at a target that I may never hit.
Next Thursday I go for my first Morgan class. Brady (a friend from George Fox) is excited to teach me. My mom asked me why I wanted to be licensed and I told her that you can’t be an international spy without knowing how to ride a motorcycle. You are in serious trouble if someone is shooting and you can’t drive, what might be, the only mode of escape. My life could depend on it and frankly, I could be that much cooler. The eternal struggle to be a bad-ass but, I admit it – I want the title. I felt a little more than pleased when Christian looked at me the other day and in his Massachusetts frat boy manner said, “Cameron you are a little bit of a bad-ass. I can’t believe you drink whiskey….” Some days I can’t believe I do either. I drive a stick, I am unafraid of manual labor, live like a bohemian in the summers, shoot ptarmigan, banter when it suits me, ski like a demon, and have peed (while driving) in a cup. All in all a masculine and impressive resume “for a girl.” It wasn’t until yesterday at a Starbucks that I had a revelation about this drive. ( I know a difficult task amid cups that sport insipid inspirational quotes.) A boy once told me to be easy on myself. I had accomplished enough and anyone would be proud of me. It never seems to be enough. But old Alanis Morrisette came through for me one more time. (I don’t care what you say. I love that woman’s lyrics no matter how cryptic they get. The Ezra Pound of pop.)
"Incomplete"
One day I'll find relief
I'll be arrived
And I'll be friend to my friends who know how to be friends
One day I'll be at peace
I'll be enlightened and I'll be married with children and maybe adopt
One day I will be healed
I will gather my wounds forget the end of tragic comedy
I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete
One day my mind will retreat
And I'll know God
And I'll be constantly one with her night dusk and day
One day I'll be secure
Like the women I see on their thirtieth anniversaries
I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete
Ever unfolding
Ever expanding
Ever adventurous
And torturous
And never done
One day I will speak freely
I'll be less afraid
And measured outside of my poems and lyrics and art
One day I will be faith-filled
I'll be trusting and spacious authentic and grounded and home
I have been running so sweaty my whole life
Urgent for a finish line
And I have been missing the rapture this whole time of being forever incomplete.
That is it. Running on and on. A Biology professor told me, “To be a Christian is to live with eternal mystery.” I guess being a bad-ass requires the stamina to keep going with no end in sight. So, here is to getting a license I might never need, creating a dance I may never perform in public, and to shooting at a target that I may never hit.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Movement
I hate staying in the same place. Movement. It seems to be the only thing that makes me happy. Many reasons for this:
1. I am still an infant at heart – don’t put me down, hold me close, keeping moving forward.
2. I believe Tom Petty – “you never slow down, you never grow old.”
3. I want so many things. They lie with me at night. The vibrations of a Harley; the burn of thin, cold air; Irish brogues; the Easter Islands. I tangle sweaty in my sheets unlike any other lover.
4. Happiness is just out of reach. I can feel its outline with every rotation of a plane turbine, spin of a tire, slap of sole on pavement.
5. Truth – Can’t you see it? Peaking out behind that last curve? It hides in the crook of a neck, the knee high black leather boot, or the smooth shift into 4th gear.
6. I’m Irish. If we can’t physically leave – we will get out with an impossibly embellished story or an elixir that is combination of peat bog and rainwater (a.k.a. whiskey).
7. Fear/stagnation/Fear.
Fear has a smell. I have lived with it for years. How much have I given into fear? How much have you? I fear suburbia, complacency, and the inability to even dream of something else. This occurred to me last night. I am afraid to stay in Portland. To give in. To spend five more years in this city. I feel claustrophobic. Coffee shops, pseudohippie pretention, subdued, measured hole in the walls, men with Carharts and gelled hair, women bottled into love and skinny jeans. All of these make me wake wanting to sell it all. Have nothing but a backpack. Write and travel. Use my wiles, steal tomorrow, have life beat me down. Slightly masochistic – I know.
I have never given into anything. Not that I have not acquiesced. But I have held back. I am afraid of the “fit.” What is nothing does? What if it is mediocre? What if it doesn’t gaze back at me? What if it does?
But I have to let go of “childish things.” I want more than to be that infant who sees a smattering of shiny objects. I want to fling myself – not slip. There is only so much a person can craft -that they can hold in their palms - and inhale the metallic, slick smell of being molded. I am tired. Fear takes energy and no place stays new forever. I might be missing something with this constant speed. Whittling back layers – I can see myself. Naked, pale (I will always be that), and happy. I will no longer have simply paths but rutted roads. Tattooed with age and unbridled experiences. A woman of my word, a woman who can not only slip past you in the night but who can work beside you during the day.
1. I am still an infant at heart – don’t put me down, hold me close, keeping moving forward.
2. I believe Tom Petty – “you never slow down, you never grow old.”
3. I want so many things. They lie with me at night. The vibrations of a Harley; the burn of thin, cold air; Irish brogues; the Easter Islands. I tangle sweaty in my sheets unlike any other lover.
4. Happiness is just out of reach. I can feel its outline with every rotation of a plane turbine, spin of a tire, slap of sole on pavement.
5. Truth – Can’t you see it? Peaking out behind that last curve? It hides in the crook of a neck, the knee high black leather boot, or the smooth shift into 4th gear.
6. I’m Irish. If we can’t physically leave – we will get out with an impossibly embellished story or an elixir that is combination of peat bog and rainwater (a.k.a. whiskey).
7. Fear/stagnation/Fear.
Fear has a smell. I have lived with it for years. How much have I given into fear? How much have you? I fear suburbia, complacency, and the inability to even dream of something else. This occurred to me last night. I am afraid to stay in Portland. To give in. To spend five more years in this city. I feel claustrophobic. Coffee shops, pseudohippie pretention, subdued, measured hole in the walls, men with Carharts and gelled hair, women bottled into love and skinny jeans. All of these make me wake wanting to sell it all. Have nothing but a backpack. Write and travel. Use my wiles, steal tomorrow, have life beat me down. Slightly masochistic – I know.
I have never given into anything. Not that I have not acquiesced. But I have held back. I am afraid of the “fit.” What is nothing does? What if it is mediocre? What if it doesn’t gaze back at me? What if it does?
But I have to let go of “childish things.” I want more than to be that infant who sees a smattering of shiny objects. I want to fling myself – not slip. There is only so much a person can craft -that they can hold in their palms - and inhale the metallic, slick smell of being molded. I am tired. Fear takes energy and no place stays new forever. I might be missing something with this constant speed. Whittling back layers – I can see myself. Naked, pale (I will always be that), and happy. I will no longer have simply paths but rutted roads. Tattooed with age and unbridled experiences. A woman of my word, a woman who can not only slip past you in the night but who can work beside you during the day.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
My summers are spent in an 8 by 6 ft shack sitting atop a conex. I miss it. I would fling open my plywood door, step out of my levis, stumble for my slumberjack sleeping bag, and let one whimpered pray loose - that the whale watching tour would be quiet on its way out of the Homer harbor. You have little other desires after cleaning dishes untill midnight. I smelled of bleach, alba body butter, sweat, and steamed king crab. I am rarely happier. It is only a gravel lot on the back end of the tourist trapped Homer spit that I call part-time home. This small slender slash of land unfurling like a black bears tounge into perfect hypothermic water. Things seem raw. Emerging, submerging - depending on the tide. I have been knee deep in the spit fishing hole in September straining to collect sea urchins for a friend's wedding - green, black that gives way to orchid, and white. My feet shod in hybiscus patterned flipflops. A pale, heedless child balanced on muck covered rocks -knowing any second could be her last dry one.
That is how it is. The spit should dissapear - driven into a winter storm. Sucked to the bottom at the next earthquake. You stand in the middle of the two lane asphalt covered road at one am. on solstice and you can see ocean rolling around you. I have emergency plans for the next time a jolt or tremor doesn't stop. They involve a boat, a rouge Irish captain, him saving me, and then me saving him. The rest is censored.
But we stay - on this fragile platform in the sea. We all stand on the edge of a quaint but inadequate show and Grewingk glacier screams from the other side of the bay. We stand on the edge. The glass may be dark but the bits of light we can see - who can turn away? I have never stood anywhere else where I felt I could walk over the waters and into Zion.
That is how it is. The spit should dissapear - driven into a winter storm. Sucked to the bottom at the next earthquake. You stand in the middle of the two lane asphalt covered road at one am. on solstice and you can see ocean rolling around you. I have emergency plans for the next time a jolt or tremor doesn't stop. They involve a boat, a rouge Irish captain, him saving me, and then me saving him. The rest is censored.
But we stay - on this fragile platform in the sea. We all stand on the edge of a quaint but inadequate show and Grewingk glacier screams from the other side of the bay. We stand on the edge. The glass may be dark but the bits of light we can see - who can turn away? I have never stood anywhere else where I felt I could walk over the waters and into Zion.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
It is funny how the peace sneaks up on you like an ermine on a vole. Often fast, bloody, small, and struggling. (For future readers - I believe in the liberal use of incomplete sentences. Our thoughts are very often incomplete.) We are outraged. This can't be what our concord looks like. No. It is the lip of Hell Roaring Canyon accented by K2 Phat Loves, the bubbles above our head in the Willson River, an abandoned watch tower roof at dusk in North Cal., the mottling of crimson and mandarin in an Alaskan alpine valley. Maybe it is the spray from a humpback breach hitting you in the face, the perfect dinner with the cheap bottle of wine, or the feel of two day old stubble under fingertips.
I've seen my weasel. He wandered into my bedroom two weeks ago and bit me. I'm waking up free - happy in SW Portland. God is stretching the confines of my life. Helping me let go. Something I've never been good at. It took being bitten to make me unlock my jaw and speak. Now my weasel, Christ and I are making plans amidst the strewn, mauled bits of stubborn pride laying about in chunks on the floor.
I've seen my weasel. He wandered into my bedroom two weeks ago and bit me. I'm waking up free - happy in SW Portland. God is stretching the confines of my life. Helping me let go. Something I've never been good at. It took being bitten to make me unlock my jaw and speak. Now my weasel, Christ and I are making plans amidst the strewn, mauled bits of stubborn pride laying about in chunks on the floor.
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