Stories of my intentions to burn you

I know I'm usually the one who keeps it obvious, saying who, what, where, why and what time it was, complete sentences, whole paragraphs, never publish anything under three drafts. But you don't mind today if I keep it kind of vague, since nobody's watching and I'm not getting paid. Give me just a moment to be sincere and I'll be caustic and irreverent for the rest of the year. I'm just playing so don't mind it, if it doesn't suit you rewind it, walk away but be kind to it. Forget what really happened, I'm no encyclopedia, I'm much more inclined to go by way of social media. I prefer my life to have a little friction anyway, take truth with a side of fiction any day.

What I thought was this: waking life was truth, at least something around that, but things keep landing on me that make me doubt that. There are some ideas the laws of physics can't allow- if you walk past the edge, you should be on your way down. Something happened not long ago that shattered my nerves, I got treated with less than any person deserves. I could go on, but I won't bother to explain it, if you've never been there then there's no way you'd understand it. I didn't know better than to walk away, so I stayed put and it didn't go away. But after it was over, I changed, I took a vow- and I've been punishing him for two years now- until it got too easy, till it wasn't any fun, till I saw it'd twisted the person I'd become. Just a little bit, not a lot, not entirely- but where there was water once, there's fire. See?



I don't talk about it often, I don't like to complain, but everything inside me deserves to be named. Understand that? Ever feel the same? Inside you go wild but day to day you keep it tame. Listen to me now, respect or make fun of it, just get it all out and find a way to be done with it. If you've got it, than share it, it's worth it I swear it- alone you will buckle but together we'll bare it. When you feel worthless, impossibly down, the way to make it hurt less is to give it a sound. And it's good to remember, as you're going over, nothing is as good or bad as it seems in the moment.

I miss my life sitting down by the water, ten kids and the boys, every day another offer. They tell me it was transient, it would have to end someday, but that's one more year of staying clear of the mundane. I wouldn't mind one more spin around with those people, don't know what it was that said you'd better leave or something would go wrong, you'll be held under water for a bit too long, or worse, one them, there have been some close calls, you can only hold on so long before you fall.

Why is that? Don't ask me, it's just a formula involving strength and gravity.

The effects wore on, the anger was belated, it's not relevant now but it's all related. The moment may be past, but this summer might have cured me. As I was running North I heard a voice reassure me. I stayed in a house that was built like a ship, with rigging and masts and extremely well lit. Thoughts became effortless but regret is gigantic, so just for one weekend I chose to go manic. I became so impatient, a professional go-getter, and the hole I had known was a wave- even better. I didn't mind the beat downs, I like them, felt powerful, what was it about this gave me so much doubt before?

The offer just wasn't in time for me, I wanted my life to have more variety. And I'd never want to turn friendship into enemies but sometimes these things happen, just inevitably. My jacket's in the closet and my lessons were taught, it was time to stop moving- at least, that's what I thought. I guess what I hoped was, it's time to shoot straight, leave it behind and make a clean break. Now I'm not really sure that I have what it takes. But don't sweat it too much, it could still be your turn- have you ever made a list of all the things you could burn?

I give you....absolutely nothing

I really wish I could be giving you more today.

But my head and my day are completely filled with this kind of stuff:

hence, the clause introduced by who does serve to tell which people are meant; in these sentences the clauses introduced by which and when are nonrestrictive, and in this dependent clause an introductory phrase requires to be set off by a comma.....

Editing. It's like algebra, in letters.

Less than imaginative


Did you find it a struggle, did you find it impossible, to find what you've got and then turn it profitable? It's been so long, I can barely recall- does someone like you even get lonely at all?

wait- no

Did I really just put up a post that used the term 'all my life's dreams' and made a dramatic solo climbing reference? I just threw up on myself, and now I'm asleep. Awesome.

Work and luck and work

I want a highway that leads me forward, to all the places where I am going to be eventually, I want to be there now, just for a little bit, just so that I know what to pack. I want to see myself sitting at a round table- no I don't want to see myself, I want to be myself- surrounded by coffee cups and bowls of caramels, I want a crushing deadline, a windowless room, the clock reading three four five in the morning and a group of people, sacrilegious and clever, fading in and out between the sharpness of brilliance and the fog of sleep. I want to throw out ideas like handfuls of birdseed at a wedding and I want to work so hard that my plants die and I forget how to cook.

I want a highway that leads me away from the place where I was born. I want to be there for a few weeks, long enough so that when I'm back I'll have things over which to reminisce. I want to live alone in an apartment in New York, a white painted house in LA where people sit cross legged on the floors and we never bother to move in the chairs because no one is ever really home. Please let me live in the place where the credits roll. Please let me forget to exercise and be so submerged in the script and the season that any amount of sunlight makes me blink.Listen, if you just take me there- just for a few days even- then it will be easier, so much easier for me to be here, now, waving away the ticket to South American, sitting alone on a Friday night trying to pull jokes out of the air, watching friendships grow dust, like I'm on an unhinged bit of continent that is breaking away, working completely on faith, that weird not-really-there-at-all-except-in-weak-moments kind of faith that atheists work hard to deny ever having. Life is built from work and luck and only one of those you have control over. Work and luck and attitude, maybe.

I'm just saying. Typing out a full episode length comedy script when you're all alone with no comedy background-and pinning so much of your life dreams on its success- is like free soloing Yosemite with an infant on your back.

photography for adoption


My photo show is hung in Woodstock Coffee & Tea in Woodstock, Vermont, for the month of August. It's a veritable zoo of images I've captured and forced into frame- come and see them before they claw their way out! Take one home and love it like your own! I'm sure there is a perfect space on your wall just waiting to be occupied by one of these gorgeous, beastly prints.

$25 gets you a matted, framed print with colors so deep you might just sink into it, images so sharp they might bite you! It's extreme wall art, taking interior decorating to the edge!

Thanks to Mary, Tom and Calvin at Woodstock Coffee and Tea for supporting local artists and encouraging a thriving community.

Sort me by color

Hey! It's been a few days and I wanted to let y'all know that I'm just waiting on blogger to stop tweaking. It's been having a difficult time uploading photos as of late, and we all know how worthless any post is without photographic evidence to back it up. To tide us over, here are a few current thoughts from my day.

1. Would the mouth breathers at the Hanover Public Library PLEASE vacate the building.

2. On my way to work today I happened to listen to a Christian radio station reporting on the overturning on proposition 8, which made my head explode and my mind spatter all over the windshield. I've never heard statistics or studies bent and twisted so hideously away from original context before. There are so many Good Fights to fight out there, so many bad things that need fixing and people that need snacks or a new pair of pants or a life saving surgery or escape from an abusive, oppressive regime- why would anyone waste their time over the deluded, personal rights violating, hate and ignorance-fueled battle of the 'homosexual agenda?' I have a few gay friends, I've seen their agendas, and corrupting YOUR marriage is like....so far down on the list I'd be surprised if they got to it.

3. If I had five bucks for every time I've been targeted by overenthusiastic, shade grown coffee drunk mac owners..."Hey, complete stranger. I see you're working on a PC. You should really purchase a mac. They're way better in all ways!" ....then I'd almost have enough to buy an ibook power chord. Come one, world, it's like cheerfully advising me to be six inches taller, I'll have more luck dating. So obviously true. So obviously out of my reach for this lifetime.

4. There was an especially intriguing question put up the other day by someone at Soul Pancake:"How do you Sabotage yourself?" That's been in the back of my brain ever since it was posted. A few examples in my daily life:

-I drink double espresso drinks after 4pm and then wonder why I'm having a hard time falling asleep.
-I stay up so late working even when I know I'm doing nothing productive that I wake up halfway through the next day. It's a vicious, sleepy, wired cycle.
-I read people's heroic stories of adventure and survival, and feel so utterly depressed afterward because of my own inadequacy that I refuse to write anything. The only remedy? Counter it by reading something poorly written and lametastic, aka chicken soup for the (anything) soul.
-I throw my clothes on the floor knowing that in two days I'll wash and sort them by color as a procrastination method, knowing that in twenty four hours they'll be all over the floor again, needing to be sorted before I start my next project.

I guess compared to heroin addicts and adventure junkies who leave behind love and family to hit hills, my self sabotaging is pretty low key. Lame again, lame again....

I'd love to know some of the things running through your head today, or some of the ways you make your life unnecessarily difficult. Leave me a comment! And keep stopping by. A real post and photos are imminent.

LET'S GO FISH!

You need to check this out! This is my friend Andrew Fleming making an unbelievable catch at the World Ultimate Club Championships in Prague last month. Andrew plays for Sockeye, the elite men's team in Seattle. I used to play for Riot, Seattle's elite women's team. Andrew and I and about 7 of our teammates used to live in side by side houses right on Ravenna park. When we weren't practicing, running track or traveling to tournaments, we'd play 'goaltimate' or 'mini' (ultimate) in the park, or sit around and talk about ultimate. Occasionally we'd throw parties, get drunk and REALLY talk about ultimate. Those were good times. I'm serious I'd go back in a heartbeat. And show off my six pack more. (If that would even be possible! Hey oh!)

Well now Andrew's gone and got himself famous. Current accolades (Stolen from Sockeye online because I can't keep track of them):
- Debuted on ESPN 7/27/10 as a highlight from Worlds
- Discussed on ESPN SportsNation as potential ESPY Award Winner
- On SportsNation Poll, 70% of viewers were impressed, and both hosts were wondering how 30% could not be impressed.
- On ESPN’s Top Ten Plays (7/28/10) as #1
- Featured on ABC’s “Winner’s Bracket” as the #1 seed, which pits top plays against one another in a tourney-style bracket format, and comes out the winner, beating clips from around the world!
- ESPN’s Top Play of the Week! (8/2/10)
- Featured on ESPN.com’s front page, AOL Video, Sports Illustrated online, Deadspin, Seattle Weekly online, Seattle PI online, and hundreds of blogs (including this one)

In the past few years, a lot of people have asked me what ultimate looks like in the highest level. Behold:



My favorite part is how Moses takes his picture afterward.
Andrew, I'm so proud of you!

fall in love with my mystery (dot com)

Writing late at night is always a hazard, because the world and everything on it seems more way possible and probable than it really is. And in the morning I'll wake up on the floor and think, oh, shit, to what extent did I actually follow through on that bizarre idea? How could I possibly have thought that would work and yet....it seemed like such a good idea at the time....

Early this morning I came dangerously close to completely reorganizing this blog. The new title: Things that Happen to me that Certainly aren't my fault. The url: Things that happen to me that certainly aren't my fault.com

The easy links to posts on the sidebar would include the following subjects:

- things that I've bought that have brought me genuine happiness
- love connections & hookups I still brag about
- suicidal tendencies in the arena of love
- vanities & accomplishments
- failures, rejections & insecurities
- friends
- former friends
- famous friends
- friends I hope to make
- my favorite words
- misrepresentations, falsifications, exaggerations and outright lies
- adventures, epics, and feats of heroism
- things I like to eat

Interactive features would include:
-Application form for potential suitors
-Online community/chat forum for you to discuss all things relating to me
-Praise and Props: a point based system for registered users designed to encourage you to leave praise-based comments on blog posts.

The whole thing would be splashed with pictures of myself, looking emo and dark and so candid that you'd have no idea..... that they're all self portraits! But you'll never be able to tell you'll just think I'm poetic, mysterious.


So what do you say! The internet is such a cold, endless sea- let's make this little war ship just a little more cray-zay!!

Bambino


Happy birthday, Tino! If I were up on the Ottawa right now with you, I'd bake you an entire carrot cake and then we'd sing some James Taylor. Perhaps wear some sponsored clothing and take a stroll through a death camp or a surf town, then run a waterfall. At night we'd hit up a Chilean carnival, get on a death inducing spin ride and hold on for dear life. Oh bro, it'd be so sick! Happy birthday to the sickest bro I know.





The time my yoga teacher forgot to wear panties


This time last year, a brutal heat wave was mowing down the city of Seattle. Unaccustomed to anything besides temperate and neutral temperatures, (much like their personalities,) the town's inhabitants ran for cover. Every major and minor department store was sold out of fans and air conditioning units for all of July and August, all espresso served was strictly iced, and commerce more or less ground to a halt. (And I couldn't wear my Ariat Rodoebaby boots, it was too darn hot!)

Not a stranger to heat but not particularly comfortable with it, I did an admittedly strange thing. I opted to seal myself into a rubber floored room, where the temperature, set at a beastly 104, was only a few degrees warmer (and on a few scorching days, a few degrees cooler) than the streets outside. I had come across the kind of unbelievable coupon that you simply cannot turn down: ten hot yoga classes for a mere twenty dollars. Total! The studio, I Love Hot Yoga in the Greenlake neighborhood, was hosting a grand opening promotional, after which classes would be set at twenty five dollars a piece.

If you live in the United States, than you've heard of Hot Yoga. It's the obnoxious exercise craze in the same vein as yogalates, pilates, and plain old for-the-wimp-normal-temperature-yoga. Hot yoga makes you sweat so much that it has the power to radically reshape your body and knock out the deep seated toxins that chew on your kidneys. It's a panacea for those with chronic illnesses and a speedy (but not easy) highway to getting in shape. I was neither sick nor particularly out of shape, but I did have my face to consider.

I have a round face, something that strangers of all ages feel compelled to point out to me. "You look like my camp counselor," a little girl said to me the other day at the ice cream shop. "I am a camp counselor," I responded indulgently, leaning over to be at the level of the little girl, adorably dressed in polka dot stirrup pants and a rainbow patterned t-shirt. '"Yes," she said, flashing a sweet smile. "You have a circle face, just like her." I straightened up. Little girl just brought up my biggest insecurity about myself. And by the way little girl, polka dots and rainbows look stupid together. Choose one or the other.

The truth is, I'll never achieve that high cheekbone, doe eyed, mysterious look that I feel I should look like -being a writer and all. At least not until I lose a few pounds off these cheeks. Which was exactly what I planned to do at Hot Yoga. The fact that all of Seattle was slow-roasting just made it easier to sign up. Since I'd be suffering either way, I may as well get some good out of it.

What surprised me about my first session was how much I truly enjoyed it. I am chronically inflexible, but stretching is much easier when all your joints are piping hot. The yoga teacher was an attractive young man with an Australia accent, and the sheer volume of sweat that poured out of me was incredible. It ran in continuous rivers from my hands and forehead, saturating my brand new Whole Foods yoga mat. Because of the heat wave, I think he was a little concerned for our overall safety, and he treated us with extra compassion. We were allowed to drink water whenever and leave the room for a breath of fresh air as many times as we'd like. Each time the door swung open and shut, a heavenly gust of cool air swept through the room.

After the ninety minute class was up, I weighed myself on the scale in the studio's bathroom. My jaw dropped. I was two pounds lighter than I had been before the class. This was remarkable. In just nine more sessions, I could sweat my face off entirely! Ecstatic with achievement, I burst into the hot afternoon, feeling cool and elegant and toxin free.

Spurred by success, I enlisted my friend Kendra to sign up, and together we made a nice ritual out of it. An hour and a half of steam cleaning our insides, followed by cucumber sodas and a swim in Green Lake. We were both losing weight and, I must say, feeling really good.

And then, of course, things went south.

I was seven or eight visits into my ten pass visa when it happened. Kendra had to work so I went alone, and thank god, because if Kendra was present for what happened next, we would most certainly have lost our minds. Or at the very least, we would have made a huge scene in a very crowded yoga class, and public scenes are never as much fun in Seattle as they ought to be, owing to the bland nature of the natives.

I sat in the front row in my tiny little top, legs crossed, arms resting lightly on my knees, completely centered and ready to begin. Once the room was packed to capacity and all was quiet, the teacher walked in the door.

Because of the drop-in schedule, you never know which teacher you are going to wind up with. Which sadly meant I had never again seen the Aussie. The woman who walked in was one I'd never seen before, and she immediately brought a new, totalitarian feel to our normally mellow and democratic yoga class. "I will not be performing the positions, only explaining them." She said by way of introduction. "Therefore, it's no use to look at me, unless you find a pregnant lady enlightening."

Dang it. She's pregnant and she's smug about it. Steeeerike one. "You are not allowed to leave the room." She continued, sliding seamlessly into strike two. "Regrettably, the studio would not allow me to actually lock you in, but do be informed that if you choose to leave, you are not welcome back in. Your movement lets out the heat, but more importantly, it distracts the other patrons." She took a moment to let that settle in before hitting us with another. "We will take regular breaks for drinking, but other than that you are strongly discouraged from drinking during poses. This, too, provides a distraction."

And so we began. The teacher strolled the room in classic pregnant lady pose- hand rubbing her stomach in small circles. Her tight tank top and short Prana skirt were dark with huge patches of sweat. She told us to bend over, twist, reach, stretch, faster. Faster and faster. It felt more like an aerobics class in Hell than anything else. When at one point someone made a move for the door, she stopped the whole program. "If you wouldn't mind waiting till the end of class to leave..." she droned, "It's just that you'll really distract everyone by leaving."

As if the exercise and 104 degree temperature wasn't bad enough, now it was really uncomfortable in the rubber room.

Towards the end of class, she worked her way towards the front of the room and sat down, right in front of me, indicating that the cool down has begun. "The emphasis will now be on holding long poses to cool your inner kayarararmambamba," -something to that effect- "your core spirit." She leaned back against the mirror and spread out her her legs, as about to stretch her quads. "Now," she said, "Sit up with your legs crossed and face forward." I did what she told me.

And what do you know, for all her enlightenment, she had forgotten her panties.


No underpants. Sans panties. Without undergarment. Nothing. Just her little yoga skirt wide open, hands on her thighs, instructing us to "Look up now, and find a focal point." Oh god. Oh God! Where do I look? I understand that pregnant woman get all in touch with their bodies but this is absurd. She must know. I mean, there had to be a draft or something. Yet she appeared calmly oblivious as told the class, "You must look inward as you're doing this cooling exercise."

I don't seem to have a choice but to look inward.

"Deeply inward."

This is when my brain snapped into what the girls at camp Onaway would refer to as 'full on waterfront emergency mode.' Look up, look down, look at the mirror, look at the walls, just do not look forward," instructed my survival instinct. "No- wait- don't look at the mirror, you might inadvertently make eye contact with someone. You must Get Out. Escape. Escape Immediately."

But what about my yoga mat? I can't roll it up...?

"Leave it. Take only yourself. Escape."

So I rose, as inauspiciously as possible, and made a beeline for the door, making an effort not to slip on the sweat-coated floor. The door swung open, letting in a cool draft and the sound of a siren from outside. Miraculously, I managed to get out of the building and onto the curb before the hilarity in its purest form burst forth from within. It took a full ten minutes until I could catch my breath again.

When the class finally ended, I ducked back inside, peeled off my mat from the floor and went dashing down the street towards the lake, never to return.

Yes, it was the last time I attended a hot yoga class. Hot yoga, where certain spirits flow just a little too freely for my taste. I'm willing to bet I wasn't the only one who didn't use up all ten passes. I mean, they tell you right there on the forms that it's not "for the faint of heart."

No kidding.

10 & 10

The day our wilderness trip came to an end was the day I learned what a 10 & 10 is. I found it at once grotesque and fascinating- the same fascination we give to a car wreck, say, or a pregnant 15 year old in a Wall-mart who is already hauling around a toddler. It's repulsive, its tragic, but you can't look away. There is no chance you're going to look away. You want to know more.

I'll never be able to revert back to the person I was, when I was oblivious to the 10&10. Back when I strolled the earth innocent of the horrors we as consumers- as humans- are capable of. It happened. I saw it. I know.
NEW YORK - JULY 10: People in Iced Coffee costumes to help kick off Dunkin
The morning began in the woods, as had the last month of mornings; the girls cooked chocolate chip pancakes over the whisper light stove, I pressed a cup of Bar Harbor coffee in my wicked expensive worth every penny french press mug, and Liz and I shared it as we studied road maps of New Hampshire. It was our last morning that we'd spend like this, alone in some camp site in New England. We'd reached the last day of our trip, and today we would be driving back home.

I loved every day of the adventure, I did, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to be returning to civilization. Our clothes were rancid. The sweat, humidity and sunscreen had accumulated on my skin to created a filmy coating, and I'm fairly certain there was something living between my toes. My idea of heaven at that moment was to take a hot shower, then sit in a laundry mat drinking a latte while my shirts and pants and underwear were given new life in the washing machine. There would be detergenty steam in the air and a new US magazine to read. Just give me two hours in that place and I swear, I'll never ask for anything again.

On the girly-pop infused van ride back to Camp Onaway, we stopped at a Dunkin Donuts to let the girls buy iced coffees and sponge bathe in the bathroom sink. That place was full on, crowded to capacity with car travelers lining up and pushing inward to get their hands on a Coolata. The image of cattle herding into the barn to feed sprung to mind. And may I just state, for the record, that I don't know what a Coolata is, but it involves crushed ice and caramel syrup and it comes in hazelnut, almond, vanilla, and blueberry. To a true coffee lover like myself, this is deeply disturbing.

But not as disturbing as what happened next.

At some point while we were patiently waiting in line, a young woman barged through the doors brandishing a big gulp sized plastic coffee cup. She was a whale of a woman, no more than twenty years old, wearing a tight red tank top and short shorts. Her stomach poured over her a nonexistent waist line and flesh oozed from around her shoulder straps. She walked directly to the front of the line and wedged her huge self between us and the counter. Nothing gets my blood boiling like good old fashioned line cutting, but the discourse between her and the man with the official white visor was so exceptionally awful that I immediately forgot my annoyance.

"They didn't melt the sugar in my drink."
"Who didn't melt the sugar in your drink?" asked the man, his voice dripping with interest and concern so deep it had to be mockery, but I wasn't sure.
"Drive through."
"Drive through?" Visor turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, "HEY! DRIVE THROUGH! YA DIDN'T MELT THE SUGA' IN THE LADY'S DRINK!"
"YEAH, WE DID!" Yelled someone from the back. (I love New England, where the customer is most certainly not always right.)
"No, they didn't." The woman insisted. She stood with her arms crossed, elbows dimpled, tapping a toe, the universal stance of the irritated and impatient. "I was crunching on the sugar. It wasn't melted."
"I'll tell you what, I'm gonna make it again for you right here right now and I'm gonna make it for you right." Visor snapped the lid off the offending drink and threw it down the sink. It hit the drain with an enormous slop. "What's your drink?"
"Extra large vanilla ten and ten."
"Extra large vanilla ten and ten Coming right up!"

I leaned over and barely whispered into Liz's ear, "What do you suppose a ten and ten is?"

"I think...." she hissed back, not taking her eyes off the spectacle, "I'm not sure but I think it's....." she stopped talking. The man was remaking the drink right there at the counter. He poured a few inches of hot coffee in the base of the huge plastic cup. And then, as if he did it all the time, he ripped open ten sugar packets and poured them in. One after the other.

After the other after the other after the other after the other after the other after the other after the other.

They swirled and thickened in the hot vanilla brew. We watched, riveted. Then he added a scoop of ice cubes and a gallon or so of cold coffee. And then he ripped open and poured in ten cream packets.
Ten.
One after the other.
After the other. After the other after the other after the other after the other after the other after the other after the other.

Until the drink was dangerously light in color. He topped it off with whipped cream, secured a new top, added a straw and handed it over to the whale with a flourish. She rolled her eyes and said, "thanks." Then she took off, but not before shooting me- and all of us in line- with the most defiant, comment if you dare, you gotta problem with this, eyebrows raised, smug little death look. I averted my eyes. Hey- live large, woman. You can't have many years left.

And that's the story of how I came to learn what exactly is a 10&10. God bless Amurrica.

MIAMI - FEBRUARY 26:  Jennifer Iglesis hands a customer a 99 cent Dunkin

My lost Opus

A year and a half ago, I wrote an article for Paddler Magazine that was to be featured as The Opus- a two page personal essay spread. I was particularly excited because the word count was something like triple what I had previously been allotted for articles in that magazine. But then...the magazine went under? It didn't print? Maybe it did? Somehow, no one is really sure. Apparently it printed in the online version of Paddler, which is great, except it meant nobody read it and I can't re-submit it to any magazines. It's a little out of date now, however, because it has to do with Tyler Bradt's record breaking run of 107 Foot Alexandra falls! (Tyler has by now shattered his own record and set a new one, that I hope is never broken, by dropping off 186 foot Palouse falls. Go Tyler! Now stop doing that stuff.)

Anyway, I finally found my Opus online here. This was written before I went to Huge, so I was a really new kayaker.

While I don't really expect anyone to read it, I'm just glad I found it. I'd love to put this in my portfolio but I have no idea how to take it from web form to paper form- or a screen shot? Does anyone know how to do screen shots? Any advice? Help?

Here's Tyler. Photo by Lane Jacobs.

Love on water

You never should have spent that winter by the ocean
alone in the windstorms beside the slowed surf
where you went walking each morning
over frozen sand
the sun bled over a pale sky, the stars tired holes
you told you would arrange driftwood, down
on your knees on the armory of ice
the patterns you made would stay for days, and days.

-January

I wrote this poem when I was in college and yeah, I know that 'armory of ice' doesn't make sense. That's why we pay money to go to creative writing school, so we can be especially proud of a line and then be told by a room full of blank faced sophomores that our brilliant imagery is flawed. Same thing happened to me with a poem about kids growing up in the country 'at ease with their solidarity.' Solidarity, I learned, does not mean solitude. Sort of the opposite, actually.

The University of Washington sits more or less on the shores of the stormy Puget Sound, but that poem is actually written about the Atlantic- the slate colored, frigid waters of my memory. For a kid growing up on Boston Harbor, there is nothing as vast or terrifying as the ocean. My mother would take my sister and I to peer over the wall at Fisherman's wharf and look at the alien jellyfish floating below, and I would have nightmares for weeks. Even the bright red lobster lollipops from the fish warehouse were concerning.

As a junior in intermediate short story workshop held by a completely hairless sports writer, I wrote a story about a light house keeper on an island. He spent too much time alone listening to the waves pound at the shore and grew convinced that the ocean was a monster that was coming after him.

Such is my preoccupation with the waters of the Atlantic, fueled by the dark music I grew up listening to. I'm not sure whether or not I've mentioned it here before, but one of my idiosyncrasies is my nearly fetishistic love of maritime folk music of Maine and Nova Scotia. It still tops my playlist after 25 years. Songs of fishermen lost and tall ships wrecked in the winds and schooners decaying like skeletons beneath the sea. The Atlantic that eats ships and sails and men, winds that pick up the elements of life be them good or bad, crushes them to sand and spins them out to sea.


In my current state of existentialism and love-lost, I was eager to be heading towards Maine for a four day sea kayak trip off the coast of Acadia. It was the ideal time for me to navigate through rough waters, sit on the history soaked island, soak in salt spray and tap into my misery in a place that would understand it like none other.

But the Atlantic was nothing like what I had thought her to be. I found her to be resoundingly cheerful. My experience was something akin to my first drink:

When I was newly 21, something went wrong with a rent check or a boyfriend. Probably both because I didn't balance my check book and I was dating a big giant error in judgment. Either way, I went to the bar to have a drink. It was 2pm in the afternoon. I had never gone to a bar alone and never before 9pm. I was determined to sit there and be dark and morose. I hunched over the menu and ordered the first thing that looked decent and remained hunched until the drink arrived.

Which it did, promptly, served in a coconut, with a parasol and four plastic monkeys hung on the rim by their curling tails. The most fun, the most cheerful of all drinks ever to be served. My fault, surely, for going to Seattle's only Hawaiian inspired bar, but still a disappointment.

Now watch as I bring it back to my trip to Maine. I came to the islands ready to feel the darkness of the place. To feel the ache of fishermen losing their livelihoods and the widows and lost ships and the indifferent violence of the ocean that cares not for petty emotions. But the waters were calm and sunny and full of rowdy lobster men and seagulls. And the waves kept spewing heart shaped crap all over the shore, and I kept finding it.

There was more than this shell, of course, but it's the only thing I took pictures of. I tried to ignore them, the heart shaped rocks and rose colored sea and if those weren't obvious enough there was this. The girls were sleeping on the decks of their boat, there was nobody else on the island, no ships on the horizon, it was just me alone, taking a harmless walk along the shore, and I practically tripped over it:

Some previous visitor to the island had spent a long time on their hands and knees, carefully spelling it out above the intertidal zone where nothing could disrupt it, just in case some lone walker needed a mental pick-me-up.

That's it. All the cheerful omens of the universe are targeting me. Nowhere can I find my solitary respite to stew over the errors of my life and the love that blew away. I keep running across this stuff. Standing in front of the LOVE pile and feeling disgustingly inspired- I can't help it!- I had a grisly thought. It's only a matter of time before love shaped rocks turn into angel shaped kitsch. I'll begin finding inspiration in cherub trinkets and Precious Moments shit and soon it will be all over my house. I just know it. I'm destined to become a cheerfully oblivious older woman who wears lilac and shows pictures of grandchildren to uninterested strangers on airplanes. It's too much, it's all too much.

The last night, I retreated to my tent to escape the sea and all the pretty little tokens of love and hope it was spitting out. I turned on my contraband Ipod (I'm the only one who brought one, shallow to the core perhaps but no one is going to strip me of my right to listen to my sea shanties while in the Atlantic), stretched out on my sleeping bag and am pulled down by the most miserable song ever written. A song of women left behind by men who head out to sea.

What is a woman that you'd forsake her, and the hearth fire, and the home acre, to go with the old grey widow maker?

As someone who recently forsaken because the call of the river was just too tempting for someone- this really hits the spot.

She has no house to lay her guest in, but one chill bed for all to rest in, that the pale suns and the stray birds nest in. She has no strong white arms to fold you, but the fen times fingering weed to hold you, down in the dark, where the tide has rolled you.


The sea breeze was blowing over me and the sun was sinking. I felt my mood begin to plummet. I felt forsaken and insignificant. Finally! I was really starting to go through something when I felt a toe nudging me in the rib cage. I opened one eye. One of the girls was standing above me. She was holding a granola bar and hollering at me so I could hear over the music. "WE JUST WROTE A SONG ABOUT SEALS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME MAKE UP A RAP FOR IT?"

Gah. That sounded like fun. Cheerful little creeps.

And we're back!

Hey everyone, I'm back. Our excursion went off with unprecedented competence. Believe it or not, even after being in my charge for many weeks, all girls are accounted for.

I just got back and will take a now take a few moments to get my bearings and eat my body weight in soup.

I haven't unpacked, but I do plan on doing that. Soon. And then I'll write and post photos. Just one more margarita and I'm all over it.

In my absence

Hey readers! By now you may have figured it out: I'm not here. I've been leading a wilderness trip since the 24th of July and I've given my blog over in the meantime to a few things around the house.

I'm writing this before I leave, but by now I should have already finished the whitewater canoeing portion of the trip, and the rock climbing and maybe the sea kayaking off the coast of Acadia in Maine. I'm probably back packing right now, either in the White Mountains or somewhere in Maine.

I'm sure I'm loving life right now. I've prepped myself for this trip all my life by listening to archaic sea shanties since birth. I love sea shanties and any maritime folk music, and most it comes from Maine and Novia Scotia. The truth is, if I really like Maine, I might just stay there. Because after this trip, it's completely up to me where I land next.

Anyway, I'm happy as a clam to be leading this trip. I'm co-leading it with another girl, meaning In can't just hang back and wait for Dave and the boys to do all the work. Also, it's in New England, not Chile or the Southland. My turf! And, it's all girls. What I'm saying is, all should be good in the hood.

By the way, this is how I write when I'm being informal and convivial. It's so much easier!

How about some photos? I'd like that! Here are some things I'm missing right now. Forgive me. It's just, I may come across a public computer and want to have a look at these myself:

Coffee! I think Austin Huck took this one:

This little:
Them too, I guess:
This place:


And this place (and this person):

Real Food:


And Coco:


aaaannnd two more, for the cheap seats in the back:

Be back soon. Thank you for reading in my absence!

Salad Speaks (Vol. 4)

For anyone who is out there that can read this. Please help. I don't have much time left.

Signed,

The back of mixed greens in the fridge, right hand crisper, in the very back, behind the chardy looking thing.

PS. You can't miss it it's the only fridge in the house.

Salad Speaks (Vol. 2)

I'm fine. I'm totally fine. Listen- I'm not worried. I mean it's not ideal, but- okay, this is what I tell the others, I say look: we're in the crisper, we're in the best possible place for this situation. Although, don't tell them, but I'm definitely better off than they are. I'm in a bag- they're totally nude.

I'm sealed and I'm in the crisper. The double armor.

So yeah, I'm not too concerned for myself yet. But would you mind- I mean if you see her, could you just remind her that I'm here? Could you do that? Fantastic.

Signed,
The bag of mixed greens in the refrigerator