Pretty simple, isn't it.
Soul Pancakes for Breakfast
 |
| image credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pixor/2155424505/ |
Today I have a Life's Big Question: SoulPancake / SP Content / Those People With Balconies
....And a daily challenge: SoulPancake / SP Content / Anything But Routine
Enjoy!
Estrangement
A lot of people ask me where the migraines come from. The answer, unfortunately, is that they come from everywhere. These are some things that effect migraine onset: atmospheric changes, sugar intake, stress, dehydration, lack of exercise, muscle strain, apple juice, alcohol, waking up too late, lack of sleep, 3-d movies, computers, car rides, reading in bad light, reading in any light, hitting your head, diet sodas, whiplash, strobe lights, bright light, dim light, loud noises, repetitive noises, constant noises, poor diet, low blood sugar, running, turning your head too quickly, pain or injury in any other part of your body, excitement, depression, estrogen, hormones, full moons, eclipses, certain medications, uncertainty, coffee, caffeine, lack of caffeine, change in routine, common household chemicals, indoor air, and sinuses.
Lately, I've made a few mistakes. I applied for a job as the lead copywriter for a popular outdoor apparel company and, despite my best efforts, I got really excited over it. Especially when I advanced to a phone interview. I'm going to get it, I'm going to get it, I thought. I'll be able to afford an apartment, and I'll bring my dog home to me. This job is perfect for me. It's all working out. In the long days and weeks between interviewing and hearing from the company, my excitement hardened into agitation inside my head.
There were knots in my shoulders from the weekend at Smith that I let tighten and stiffen. The car trip was long and I got home feeling nauseous, a feeling I tried to cure by eating. Never a good decision. The nail in the coffin was drinking a little bit of fruit juice sweetened seltzer. With my migraine threshold already low, I may as well have eaten a bag of Skittles. I took one sip and felt a flash of lightening clap over my brain. I said, "uh oh." I went to my bed.
It lasted a week.
I've written a lot about what the pain of migraine is like, using a multitude of imagery and metaphor. I don't want to write about it again, for your sake as well as mine, because even writing about migraine brings back shadows of the pain, which can melt and turn real with one wrong move. But something I failed to emphasize in the past is the way your brain twists and perverts all sensation into pain. Not just the obvious ones like light and sound, but also the more subtle things, like smell and taste. Smells of any kind become waves after wave of nausea hitting you in the stomach. Taste is converted into something much more tangible- a pain you can almost touch. Even the lightest of flavors releases an aching shimmer that spreads down your jawbone, then turns inwards and pounds down your eardrums. My migraine got so bad this time that even swallowing water would create this sensation.
I tried everything I knew. I drew the shades, then opened them again, then closed, climbing in and out of my bed. Migraine is a picky master that constantly changes its mind. I lay in a bath of hot water and then suddenly needed it to be cold water. I tried to kill it with strong medicine, taking three pills, but it just refused to die. It retreated for a bit, I'd go to work, it would come back. The effects of the medicine is almost as bad as the malady itself. For days after you take it, you feel wrecked, sore and lethargic and depressed. The day I found out I didn't make the second round of interviews for the job, I was in the thick of the Sumatriptin fog. I cried hard for five hours.
On Thursday, I drove to my friend Tyler's house. He rubbed my back for over an hour and we watched the season finale of America's Next Top Model. I watched out of one eye. Whenever his hands were on my neck, the pain ebbed away, but the second he lifted them, even just to adjust the volume on the remote, it came screaming back. I chanted 'Don't stop please don't stop' under my breath until his hands were too tired to do any more. Then I went home, rubbing my palm in circles against my face as I drove. The next morning I got a professional massage. It hurt so bad I had to bite my hand, but I could tell he was working things out that would help later.
It lifted on Saturday, the morning of Steph's baby shower. We stood outside in the rain cool air, a circle of women, and I realized all of a sudden that I could straighten my neck. I could lift my head without being pain-hobbled. It felt like the world suddenly snapped from a blurry confusion into a clear focus. Steph's sister, a Natureopathic doctor, administered a shot of B-12 which she promised would help. It did. The migraine continued to recede all afternoon, leaving me standing alone on my street, blinking into the sunlight and feeling nothing. I breathed cautiously. I didn't want to do anything to provoke it, bring it back. I walked into my house slowly, as if I had sea-legs.
For a week I was worthless. I'd missed a lot of things, beautiful sunny days and birthdays and grand openings, writing and work and phone calls. Friends are compassionate, and they try to be understanding, but they find it hard to believe that a migraine can last so long. A week is long time to be checked out, of course, but it's really nothing in comparison to the horror stories that hang over every migraine suffers head: throbbing agony that lasts for a month, for six months, pain so powerful even morphine is useless.
But mine is gone, finally, for now. I can return to my life. But it's not as easy as it should be, returning. In her book of essays, The Merry Recluse, Caroline Knapp says: "I thought about this a lot as I was running: how quickly solitude can turn to isolation, how quickly that soothing sense of self-sufficiency can be replaced by the sense of estrangement, and how difficult it is to get back into the world once you’ve stepped away from it, as though you can’t quite propel yourself back into the normal human one." Unfortunately, I've found this to be very true.
Photo Shoot & The Seattle Shell
Two hours into it, I was this close to turning to her and shouting GIRL IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP I'M GOING TO BREAK YOUR SEATTLE SHELL INTO A MILLION FUCKING PIECES.*
*****
*Fine Print: I stole this phrase from my sister. It was her reaction when I told her the story of the annoying phone girl. She says I can use this quote as long as I give her credit, bring her things from the kitchen when she's in the living room, and give her a free photo shoot.
Rock and Temptation
So I've been told.
I'm pretty proud of my hands right now. Even after a shower they're still rope-darkened and covered in chalk with patches of blood on the knuckles. I'm feeling all casual and strong and straight up hot, you know? Because if you're ever going to feel good about yourself it's after a long day of cragging, when you're finally in clean clothes and you're sitting around relaxing, it's just a positive place to be.
The best part is I still have my Vermont plates on the car so everyone assumes that John and Diana and I just rolled in all the way from the East Coast. And we let them think that because it gives us some street cred. "Oh, yeah, we got in at about 3am," we say, which is true, but only because we were slow to leave Seattle and we lost the directions and no one was in a big hurry to leave the grocery store where we had dinner.
We're still eye locked, me and the boy. And that moment comes where one of us should look away, but neither of us do. This is a good sign. I'm well versed in the meaning behind the meter of these staring contests. If someone glances at you for a hot second in a crag parking lot, or the river put-in, or whatever, it means you've been noticed. If someone looks at you for two beats, it means they're interested. And if that obvious but intangible moment comes when they should look away but they don't and suddenly they're looking at you for three beats? That means - USUALLY- they're interested and they're available. Pretty much it means let the cows out, there's gonna be a barn dance.
"Who was that!" Says Diana as the boy waltzes into the bathroom. "He was cute!" Diana is one of those gorgeous girls who crushes hearts just by walking through the grocery store, but she's together with John so she can't do the three-beat eye contact thing. And she wouldn't anyway because those two are most maddeningly in love.
I tell Diana how the boy was looking at me like he meant business and I was looking back cause I'm open for business or something to that effect and she says "Yeah girl get after it!" But then we all load up in the car and start to drive away because we are not actually staying at this fun, four dollar camp site, with the showers and all the people. John has found us free, isolated camping twenty miles away that we're sharing with a homeless man and his Minn Pinn, Fang.
Evidently the man had been kicked out of his house and was now living permanently at the site that John thought only we knew about. He had rigged up a whole kingdom for himself out of tarps and lawn chairs and woke us up that morning by blasting us a welcome to the neighborhood good-morning gangster rap. The only comprehensible lyrics of this song were: Show me your cock! Show me your cock! Show me your COCK!!!! Either that or Show Me Your God, Show me your God, but at 7am, pumped through the base- saturated speakers of a Toyota Camry, it's hard to tell.
A little bit later, the Minn Pinn came running through our site and grabbed a breakfast sausage from the pan and ran off with it, and the man lowered the speakers just enough to scream FANG! FANG! FANG! FANG! GIT BACK HERE! FANG! FANG! FANG!
And that's where we are going to spend the night.
As I back the car out of the parking lot I see the boy emerge from the bathroom and he looks at me through the car window like, wait what are you doing? I thought we had an agreement? And I come so close to stopping the car and throwing Diana and the keys and asking them to just leave me here for the night. I could fend for myself. In fact, I fend best when I'm by my bad self. Once, Lisa and I flew to Austin, TX with no place to stay upon landing and suckered a whole team of ultimate players from Western Washington University into giving us a hotel room. I'm a hella fender for myselfer.
But I don't stop, I just keep driving away, because I have my little tent set up and I'm going to sleep it in and enjoy it and enjoy all the things I brought for myself. That and, I'll let you in on a big secret: sometimes, not all the boys play by the rules. Sometimes they smile and wink at you and make you feel like the bell of the ball and then you see them waltz across the parking lot and return to their lovely wife, who is fixing up dinner in the back of their pick up.
It's a tough world. Sometimes, it's best to drive away with your friends towards the package of mint oreos in your tent which will not let you down. Besides which, we're meeting a few friends at our camp site, and one of the boys is celebrating his birthday and probably I should be there.
Well, this is how it turns out. John and Diana cook lamb burgers and they see me gnawing miserably on apple rings for dinner so they fix one for me. This is the only up. Beyond that, the friends at the camps site don't talk all that much, and the birthday boy is stoned out of his mind and no one will tell any camp fire stories. I slink off to bed unceremoniously and then it starts to rain. And then I hear a pop and my tent breaks and collapses on my head. So I remind myself as I wince into a damp sleep to STAY where the boys are ALWAYS STAY WHERE THE BOYS ARE.
Meanwhile, back at the Smith Rock Camping area, there's a big bonfire and everyone is playing music and dancing and removing pieces of clothing as the flames grow higher. And the Dusty boy who stared at me has found some other girl to bat his eyes at and the game commences.
In the morning, I crawl out of my heap of a tent and John's made some coffee. Rainy, rainy coffee.
Rainy breakfast.
By the time we get to the cliff, the rain's mostly parted and the sun is spotty but the dusty boy is never seen again.
And I'm not too worried. The season's just beginning. And it's going to be straight baller.
The Cinnamon Slab
My life on these trips is perfectly tailored. My sleeping bag zips up tightly around me, the solitary beam of my headlamp illuminates the pages of the books I've brought to read. My little stove, which packs to the size of a carton of cigarettes, boils exactly enough water for one french press of coffee, which I drink all by myself. When I get married I'll have to buy everything new, or slice myself in half.
I lie there cozily in the rain after a long day of climbing, admiring myself. It's supposed to really storm tonight but right now the rain is just pattering down, soothing. I hope it storms. I hope it rages. This tent will stand the test, just like it's done before. My body, sore from two days on the cliffs, feels like its being pulled down by magnets to the floor. I really love this life. I love my tent, my individual pod where I'm dry and safe. Should I ever go homeless, I think as I gaze up into the skylight, I'll just move into this tent. I could do it.
As I'm thinking this, literally as the thoughts are chugging through my mind, there is a loud POP as the front pole snaps in half and the whole shelter collapses on top of me. I'm at the bottom of a heap of mesh and nylon. The whole thing is kaput. I can think of gentler ways that the world could have reminded me not to get too high on myself, but that's not the way life works now, is it.
I'm too tired to get up and now it is pouring rain. There's nothing to do about it anyhow. The pole was already broken in one place, so the one pole fixing cylinder that came with the tent was already in use.
I should have stayed at the Mecca camp tonight, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ward off the growing clausterphobia. I should have asked John and Diana to leave me behind at Mecca with that boy I saw at the bathrooms.
Mecca is the word I use to refer to Smith Rocks. Now, I've always found the over used, worn out sports equals religion metaphor to be totally lame, but there is something unarguably holy about Smith. It is the original- the birth place of sport climbing. And, with its endless rows of jagged peaks and winding, meticulous staircases, it looks like a Gaudi-designed cathedral, like the Sagrada Familia.
 |
| Photo by Diana Lee Meeks |
If the park is a cathedral, then the people who drive long distances through the night are pilgrims. We drove out of Seattle at 7:30pm, left the highway for a state route at Salem, and by 1:30am were climbing cautiously over the Cascades. The wilderness that engulfed us in those mountain was thick and cold and dangerous looking. Diana kept me awake by telling stories from her remote fire fighting days, true horror stories of mad men and yetis. I thought I might have to jump into their tent and sleep between them that night if we didn't motor far away from that black forest. The few towns we passed through were curious- half abandoned, yet they gave off the image of being antonymous, shut off from the outside.
We arrived at our camp site at 3:00am. I ate a mint Oreo for comfort and slept tightly sealed in the back of my car.
Our first morning at Smith was glorious.
We climbed all day on a wall called The Cinnamon Slab. The holds were tiny and crimpy, and required massive finger strength and strong legs. For once, my head was completely quiet as I led, rising above each bolt with pure concentration. Face climbs are my favorite, because a fall on lead would generally be pretty clean- no walls to smash into. My legs shook hard with the strain, but I felt powerful and precise on the tiny chips of rock.
Then I sat back and watched John lead some ridiculously bouldery 5.11d I named The Tough One. If you're not down with the lingo, then good. Stay that way. Climbing lingo is really obnoxious, a fusion (there it is again) of computer techie with total stoner: 'Dude, that micro-crimp was surprisingly positive! Sweet!' But, for your edification at this time, 5.11 is about when routes start to really heat up. 5.5-5.10 is gateway drug material. 5.11 is the beginning of the really hard shit.
Now, you may be tempted to look at the pictures below and think again of that terrifically cliched bit about climbing and religion. We may or may not look like members of the devout, draped in our traditional Moonstone and Prana garments, performing the sacred rituals of the righteous.
But alas, something had to bring us back for round two....
This climbing life is addicting. We were as happy as can be.
Smith Rock, Oregon
Nothing like a little Rock and Rain to rise above.
Report to come.
 |
| John Lebens on Something Rough (11.B) |
More adventures of the paper heart
When someone tells you that they are not in love with you and they are going to leave you, you should be appreciative. You don't have to say thank you, you really should not say thank you, but you should know that this is the best thing.
And you should be grateful that they told you this now, as opposed to later, and that they told you this before they went off and found somebody else, as opposed to after they'd already found somebody else. Assuming that this is correct.
Someone said this to me on Monday night. "I'm not in love with you, and while I think you're (positive adjective, positive adjective), I can't settle for being with someone I'm not in love with." It hurt like a blunt object to the forehead, but I knew enough to appreciate the honesty, the brevity.
Which is not to say I didn't act psycho because oh yes I did. For one hour, exactly. I turned over in bed and refused to speak. Then I cried because he was leaving me. Then I cried because I had left other people and I'm just now realizing how much I must have hurt them and I hate hurting people. Then I swore and got angry and told him not to touch me. Then I said, "why aren't you touching me?" And then I stormed out of the room to get a glass of water and then I slunk back in and curled up with him and fell asleep. I had just sailed through Elizabeth Keubler-Ross's five stages of grief in one go, and in the morning I felt just fine.
It wasn't that I was in love with him. I wasn't. I like him very, very, very, very much and I enjoyed every minute spent together. I was not left heartbroken when he left but I was left facing that awful question: if he couldn't fall in love with me, well, why not?
And then you go on sort of a limping scavenger hunt into your psyche and you collect all of your flaws and you weigh them and sort them and you try and piece together an answer.
It's not an ideal way to spend an afternoon.
What's funny is that I've been dating someone for a while but didn't write about it on this blog, because I was afraid we'd break up before we really became official, and then we did break up before we really became official, and now I'm writing about it.
We almost became dizzy
And the next day, something incredible happens. It begins like this: we decide to go out for breakfast.
It is mother's day. There aren't many restaurants on the island. There are, it appears, an excess of mothers. The place is buzzing and it's half an hour before we're seated. We order coffee and breakfast, and then we settle in and wait.
A gaggle of pearl-strung republicans are led to the table next to us. "Environmentalism," says the one man to the other man, "is the socialism of the 20th century. Socialism is responsible for the death of 120,000 people. And environmentalism is quickly following suit."
"I do not want to be made to open my eyes at church" says the large, hen-shaped lady in a full body floral dress sitting next to her husband. She rips open a pack of Splenda between fuchsia fingernails. "That is not how I worship."
"Now there's a difference of opinion," says the bony woman in a bright peach sweater set. "I can worship any old way!"
The republican brunchers give their orders. There is a slight debacle as to which ingredients can live on the side of the plate and which must live within the entree. The waitress is furiously taking notes on her pad of paper.
"Lucinda," chirps the hen as the frazzled woman hurries away, "we ought to take this place over. We'd have it running in tip-top shape."
We hover over our tepid coffee and eavesdrop like two min boggled anthropologists. Time crawls along. The republicans are served their meticulous orders. Our straight forward food does not arrive. People around us are enjoying their late lunches as we wait for our breakfast. A long time later, the hostess glides to our table and tells us in a sympathetic tone that our order was never actually placed. She makes a pitying face and offers free mimosas. They are delicious. Sparkly, light. Effective, on such empty stomachs.
But this is not the incredible thing.
What's incredible is that because our breakfast becomes an ultra-marathon, we are about two hours later than we'd planned as we climb to the top of Mount Constitution.
It's past four o'clock and we had planned on being at the room in the rustic lodge we'd reserved for the night. We'd found a killer deal on Living Social and had talked for weeks leading up to it of lying on clean sheets, drinking complimentary wine and working on our projects between jaunts to the hot tub and the fireplace.
Instead, we're still roaming about the little town. The streets are vacant now, the church goers and celebrated mothers have all gone home. The only people walking down main street, which runs parallel to the beach, are Lisa and I and Dave Matthews.
I've seen him a few time since around the city. But never like this, marooned on an island, in a town so small and empty that passing him and not saying hello would have been rude.
This was not a complete surprise; we did have a little warning. As we were walking to the pie shop, I noticed three men talking on the corner across the street from us. That guy looks just like Dave Matthews, I thought to myself. He looked so much like Dave Matthews that I did a double take, and then another. The man was walking in my direction, watching me turn my head again and again to look at him. He was smiling a little bit. We made eye contact and I looked away. I knew of course that Dave and his family live in Seattle, but the chances that we'd be on the same tiny island at the same time seemed impossible.
After pie, Lisa and I stopped at the ice cream shop to try their mango ice and as the girl passed over the taster spoon she said, "I just had a celebrity encounter. Dave Matthews was just in here!"
The spoon dropped to the floor as my hand began to shake. Lisa bent over to clean it up and I practically kicked her out of the door. "I saw him!" I said, frantic. "I knew I saw him!" And Lisa said, "You what?! when?!"
In a playful gesture from the universe, Dave was standing right outside the shop and as I dragged Lisa by her hand onto the sidewalk, we walked right into him and the little boy he was carrying, and here we are.
"Look at you!" I say to the little boy, as if he's just anybody's little boy. "What a beautiful smile you have!" Dave looks over his shoulder at us. He's got a dark 5 o'clock shadow and those heavy, unmistakable eyebrows. "Take your paci out," he says, "give them the real deal."
The boy unplugs his mouth and grins at us. "How are you two today?" Dave asks. He has a lovely speaking voice.
And we hover for a little bit, talking about the island and the camp there that his girls attend. "We're just vising from Seattle," I tell him and when he says, "Us too," I say, "Oh?" as if I didn't know. There is no discussion that he is Dave Matthews and we are Two Girls Who Recognize Him.
We're walking back to our cars which are parked right next to each other. "Bye," says Dave and I unlock my door. "It was good to see you again." I look at him and laugh. He must have remembered how I stared at him as he crossed the street an hour ago. "You too," I say. "Happy mothers day."
I say "Happy mothers day" because it was easier than saying "Dave! It's me! The girl from the Whole Foods dairy isle in 2003! My sister is a singer you'd love her music here is a CD! I am a writer you'd like my blog here's the url! Oh Dave, let's be friends!"
Everyone who comes in contact with Dave mentions what a normal dude he is. And he is normal- normal and kind. But not dorky normal, like totally regular normal. He's cool normal. He's jazzy. As I walk down to the beach, Dave tells me to enjoy myself. He's clicking the boy into his car seat and I hear him say, "We've got to hang out on the beach more buddy, you and me." And his boy asks, "why?" And Dave says, "why not? That's what I'm asking."
In case you're shaking your head right now, the excitement on my part goes deeper than your run of the mill I saw a celebrity in real life excitement. I've been listening to his music since fourth grade and Under the Table and Dreaming exploded over the radio. I could go into depth about my whole history as a DMB fan but it would sound very similar to everyone else's history as a DMB fan: the X-L Elephant T-shirt I wore in 7th grade that went almost to my knees, Dancer Girl decals on the back bumper, ninth grade sleepovers with Crush playing on repeat, the guy in high school who had his hands on a copy of The Lilly White Sessions and would burn you a copy only if found you worthy.
I remember bouncing on a bed in a motel room with Kelley Ferro: we were in Saratoga Springs, New York after a Dave concert and we could not believe that we were sleeping in the same town as him! Of course, now that I know a little more about touring buses, we probably weren't.
Simply put, I love his music. I love his lyrics, his message, his voice, his lifestyle, his politics, the causes he stands for. I'm happy I had him to listen to in high school, when I needed something every day to level the extraordinaire hormones and roaring excitement and plunging moods I felt. Today, I take a good dose of Celexa. Back then, I had Before These Crowded Streets.
Lis and I decide that running into Dave is a fantastic omen. We run to the lodge and splay out on the bed like teenagers, listening to the Best of What's Around and Warehouse and One Sweet World. Like a fourteen year old, I let myself get completely carried away in the minor keys. All the questions and worries we had brought with us to the island smashed like Nintendo bricks. What's the use of hurrying, huh? What's the use of worrying? We lie there in shameless exuberance, drinking the free wine, feeling for once like the world is easy.
The next morning, we ride the ferry back to the mainland, still buoyant, drinking weak coffee on the sun deck. Feeling much better.
When I get home, there's a letter waiting for me from the company I had recently applied to. The real job that I actually wanted, beyond wanting an income and a purpose. The job that could catapult me into the sphere of security acceptance and validity. t had been two weeks since I'd applied and my heart had begun to drop like an anchor into the ocean. The letter read:
We're very impressed by your skills and experience. You're a very strong candidate for this position. Are you interested in talking further by phone?
A gaggle of pearl-strung republicans are led to the table next to us. "Environmentalism," says the one man to the other man, "is the socialism of the 20th century. Socialism is responsible for the death of 120,000 people. And environmentalism is quickly following suit."
"I do not want to be made to open my eyes at church" says the large, hen-shaped lady in a full body floral dress sitting next to her husband. She rips open a pack of Splenda between fuchsia fingernails. "That is not how I worship."
"Now there's a difference of opinion," says the bony woman in a bright peach sweater set. "I can worship any old way!"
The republican brunchers give their orders. There is a slight debacle as to which ingredients can live on the side of the plate and which must live within the entree. The waitress is furiously taking notes on her pad of paper.
"Lucinda," chirps the hen as the frazzled woman hurries away, "we ought to take this place over. We'd have it running in tip-top shape."
We hover over our tepid coffee and eavesdrop like two min boggled anthropologists. Time crawls along. The republicans are served their meticulous orders. Our straight forward food does not arrive. People around us are enjoying their late lunches as we wait for our breakfast. A long time later, the hostess glides to our table and tells us in a sympathetic tone that our order was never actually placed. She makes a pitying face and offers free mimosas. They are delicious. Sparkly, light. Effective, on such empty stomachs.
But this is not the incredible thing.
What's incredible is that because our breakfast becomes an ultra-marathon, we are about two hours later than we'd planned as we climb to the top of Mount Constitution.
And we are about two hours later than we expected when we drive back to town to get sour cherry pie.
Instead, we're still roaming about the little town. The streets are vacant now, the church goers and celebrated mothers have all gone home. The only people walking down main street, which runs parallel to the beach, are Lisa and I and Dave Matthews.
The one time I thought I saw a tornado in close proximity, as Ammen and I were driving across Oklahoma at 1:30am, I started hyperventilating and pulling my hair out. The first time I ran into Dave Matthews in the grocery store, I had a similar reaction. I launched the avocado that was in my hand into a row of wheat thins and ran away.
I do not remain calm in moments of intense excitement.
Thinking you're the only ones in town and running into Dave Mathews is most certainly in exercise in intense excitement.
The second time I saw Dave at the grocery store, I didn't throw any food. I gave him a huge smile and I breathed normally. I don't mean to brag, but I did a pretty decent impersonation of a regular human. And it gets better- Dave and I had started shopping at the same time, so we kept running into each other. By the time we made it to the dairy aisle and I asked the cheese guy which cheese he recommended, Dave actually stuck around and listened to the answer. That night, Dave's children enjoyed a more sophisticated goat cheese because of my inquisition.
I've seen him a few time since around the city. But never like this, marooned on an island, in a town so small and empty that passing him and not saying hello would have been rude.
This was not a complete surprise; we did have a little warning. As we were walking to the pie shop, I noticed three men talking on the corner across the street from us. That guy looks just like Dave Matthews, I thought to myself. He looked so much like Dave Matthews that I did a double take, and then another. The man was walking in my direction, watching me turn my head again and again to look at him. He was smiling a little bit. We made eye contact and I looked away. I knew of course that Dave and his family live in Seattle, but the chances that we'd be on the same tiny island at the same time seemed impossible.
After pie, Lisa and I stopped at the ice cream shop to try their mango ice and as the girl passed over the taster spoon she said, "I just had a celebrity encounter. Dave Matthews was just in here!"
The spoon dropped to the floor as my hand began to shake. Lisa bent over to clean it up and I practically kicked her out of the door. "I saw him!" I said, frantic. "I knew I saw him!" And Lisa said, "You what?! when?!"
In a playful gesture from the universe, Dave was standing right outside the shop and as I dragged Lisa by her hand onto the sidewalk, we walked right into him and the little boy he was carrying, and here we are.
 |
| Don't bug out, I didn't take this one, although this is exactly what whole scene looked like. Creative Commons gets the credit for this. |
"Look at you!" I say to the little boy, as if he's just anybody's little boy. "What a beautiful smile you have!" Dave looks over his shoulder at us. He's got a dark 5 o'clock shadow and those heavy, unmistakable eyebrows. "Take your paci out," he says, "give them the real deal."
And we hover for a little bit, talking about the island and the camp there that his girls attend. "We're just vising from Seattle," I tell him and when he says, "Us too," I say, "Oh?" as if I didn't know. There is no discussion that he is Dave Matthews and we are Two Girls Who Recognize Him.
We're walking back to our cars which are parked right next to each other. "Bye," says Dave and I unlock my door. "It was good to see you again." I look at him and laugh. He must have remembered how I stared at him as he crossed the street an hour ago. "You too," I say. "Happy mothers day."
I say "Happy mothers day" because it was easier than saying "Dave! It's me! The girl from the Whole Foods dairy isle in 2003! My sister is a singer you'd love her music here is a CD! I am a writer you'd like my blog here's the url! Oh Dave, let's be friends!"
Everyone who comes in contact with Dave mentions what a normal dude he is. And he is normal- normal and kind. But not dorky normal, like totally regular normal. He's cool normal. He's jazzy. As I walk down to the beach, Dave tells me to enjoy myself. He's clicking the boy into his car seat and I hear him say, "We've got to hang out on the beach more buddy, you and me." And his boy asks, "why?" And Dave says, "why not? That's what I'm asking."
In case you're shaking your head right now, the excitement on my part goes deeper than your run of the mill I saw a celebrity in real life excitement. I've been listening to his music since fourth grade and Under the Table and Dreaming exploded over the radio. I could go into depth about my whole history as a DMB fan but it would sound very similar to everyone else's history as a DMB fan: the X-L Elephant T-shirt I wore in 7th grade that went almost to my knees, Dancer Girl decals on the back bumper, ninth grade sleepovers with Crush playing on repeat, the guy in high school who had his hands on a copy of The Lilly White Sessions and would burn you a copy only if found you worthy.
I remember bouncing on a bed in a motel room with Kelley Ferro: we were in Saratoga Springs, New York after a Dave concert and we could not believe that we were sleeping in the same town as him! Of course, now that I know a little more about touring buses, we probably weren't.
Simply put, I love his music. I love his lyrics, his message, his voice, his lifestyle, his politics, the causes he stands for. I'm happy I had him to listen to in high school, when I needed something every day to level the extraordinaire hormones and roaring excitement and plunging moods I felt. Today, I take a good dose of Celexa. Back then, I had Before These Crowded Streets.
Lis and I decide that running into Dave is a fantastic omen. We run to the lodge and splay out on the bed like teenagers, listening to the Best of What's Around and Warehouse and One Sweet World. Like a fourteen year old, I let myself get completely carried away in the minor keys. All the questions and worries we had brought with us to the island smashed like Nintendo bricks. What's the use of hurrying, huh? What's the use of worrying? We lie there in shameless exuberance, drinking the free wine, feeling for once like the world is easy.
The next morning, we ride the ferry back to the mainland, still buoyant, drinking weak coffee on the sun deck. Feeling much better.
We're very impressed by your skills and experience. You're a very strong candidate for this position. Are you interested in talking further by phone?
I love you, but-
It starts, as all Northwesterly adventures should, with iron sky and glassy water.
"I would have said- are you kidding me? In this his huge city? In all of the people I'm going to meet in school and through climbing and ultimate and swing dancing and everything I'm planning on doing? You're telling me I won't have someone- in nine year I won't have found anyone- who will read aloud to me on the ferry? That boy with the curls and the carhart vest and a green knit hat who adores me and escapes the city with me each weekend- I haven't found him? You're nuts."
We're looking out at the dark cabins built on the edge of the water, at the end of long wooden docks, small boats bobbing slowly beside them. I wonder about the people who live there. If they have children. If it's their second home or their third home or maybe their only home.
"I would have told you you were totally nuts." I say again.
That's why we are taking this trip together. To figure out, well, what is the point? Not in a bitter way, despite how this may sound. Not in a caustic way or a self pitying way. We have open minds and many questions.
Life has changed a lot from the life we were told we were going to have. When I was younger, how could I have understood the intricate relationship between job markets and house markets and the economy in Iceland and banks and loans? How could I have known how dazzlingly complicated things could be between men and women- even for those with the purest hearts?
When we arrive on Orcas island- a little crescent of land in the San Juan islands- the town is shut tight. We are the only ones walking the quiet streets. The restaurants are closed. Dinner is peanut butter cream Oreos on the cold beach.
We both wanted some place to be by ourselves. To sort a few things out. And I think we found it.
The Saturday afternoon ferry is mostly empty. There are a few tired families sitting in booths looking out the window, children stretched across their parents' laps. A few older men with long white ponytails sit opposite one another, playing cards on the table between them. They both look like ship captains, one eye on the game, one eye on the water.
As Lisa and I walk through the cabin, I see a young man and his girlfriend in the very last row of seats. She is half reclined, resting her cheek against his chest. He is reading out loud to her, absentmindedly rubbing a section of her hair between his fingers. His own curls fall long across his forehead, she has her eyes wide open, listening. I pull on the hem of Lisa's jacket and make a small motion in their direction.
"If you had told me," I say as she opens the door and we step onto the windy deck, "nine year ago, when I moved out here to Seattle- I was 17, right out of boarding school, so excited and so optimistic - if you had told me that after almost a decade in this state, I still wouldn't have that for myself?" I lean my weight against the railing, feeling the cold metal press into my stomach. "There's no way I would have believed you.
We're looking out at the dark cabins built on the edge of the water, at the end of long wooden docks, small boats bobbing slowly beside them. I wonder about the people who live there. If they have children. If it's their second home or their third home or maybe their only home.
"I would have told you you were totally nuts." I say again.
"What about this-" said Lisa. "What if someone told us when we were kids: listen, you're going to do everything right. You're going to work hard all through school, you're going to make good grades, join all the right groups, play sports, volunteer, debate, model citizens, you'll take the SATs and never get in trouble and be nice to people, and drive carefully and recycle and brush your teeth. And then you'll get into college, a good college, and you'll study hard and make the dean's list, win awards, work a part time job, and you'll be smart and witty and well read and good. You'll never dream of taking drugs and never break the law and then-"
As she speaks, my heart becomes an angry butterfly.
"And then you'll graduate. And then? The economy will tank. And there will be no money, and very little jobs, and no opportunities. Somebody in some bank made some bad decision that will have halted everything and there will be too many people and there will be nothing waiting for you."
Something about the leaden sky, the mid-May weather feeling like November, is making us think harder than we should.
So I think about it. All the job applications scattered around the city- half of them garbage, things on Craigslist that turn out to be scams- half of them real positions that I am so, so perfectly suited for. I think about the empty inbox and phones not blinking with any messages from employers. I think about the health insurance still out there with no answer, about men who say "I love you, but-"
And this is what I tell Lisa: "If someone had told me that when I was a kid? I would have just asked, 'then what's the point?'"
Life has changed a lot from the life we were told we were going to have. When I was younger, how could I have understood the intricate relationship between job markets and house markets and the economy in Iceland and banks and loans? How could I have known how dazzlingly complicated things could be between men and women- even for those with the purest hearts?
When we arrive on Orcas island- a little crescent of land in the San Juan islands- the town is shut tight. We are the only ones walking the quiet streets. The restaurants are closed. Dinner is peanut butter cream Oreos on the cold beach.
And the evening's entertainment is studying driftwood. And walking around.
What if, when I first landed as a teenager onto the tarmac at SeaTac someone had given me a glimpse of my life as it is now. There will be endless exploration, and adventures of all sorts, over a thousand different landscapes. There will be much freedom and incredible happiness. But those things you thought you'd have by now, the things that you think make you a real person- a career, an income, a house, someone who is crazy about you. You don't have those things yet.
Would I say it was enough? Would I stand up and shoulder my backpack and hail a cab into the city and say- I love you! I love the exploration and the adventures and the wild coasts and mountains and friends and photographs. This is all that I want or need for the next ten years.
Or would I creep backwards towards the airport. I think I need something more, I might have said. I don't think we're heading in similar directions. It's not you- you're amazing- it's me. Would I say: I do love you, but-
Eat Spring
Do you remember reading my post about Ordinary Things? Of course you do. You loved it so much you told everybody you know to read it, too.
In that post, I mentioned that I filled out the 22 page Washington State Health Questionnaire. Health insurance has been an ongoing battle in my adult life, ever since I left the safety of my parent's Cobra and went venturing into the dark waters of individual plans. Fear it! I've been rejected before, which, considering what a terrifically healthy gal I am, is quite terrifying. What would happen if I actually got sick? It. Happens.
Because of all the stress surrounding insurance, actually dealing with it is my very least favorite thing to do. I'd rather do something truly retched, like get a pap smear. Which is ironic, since I can't even do that until I get insurance.
So anyway, I felt like a million bucks the other day, the day I completed the 22 page Health Questionnaire and placed it smartly into the hands of the Postal Worker. The job application was in. The health insurance applied for. I'M A WIZARD AT LIFE AND I'M GOING TO WRITE A BOOK ABOUT HOW GOOD I AM AT DOING ALL THE THINGS!!
(I almost congratulated myself on my grown-up ways by trying a new cake-pop flavor at the Starbucks next door- thank GOD I knew better.)
This past Wednesday was our weekly yoga and dinner meet up at the Garden House.
When I got home, stretched and rejuvenated and superior, I found a thick envelope lying on my bed. From the insurance people! An envelope! And thick! Yay! I'm a writer, so I know what a rejection letter looks like. Rejection slips always arrive in sad, flimsy, onion-skin thin envelopes. They ought to just send a postcard that says NO on the back.
But this- this was weighty! It was a Steak of a letter! I sank onto my bed, feeling a little thrilled at how neatly my life was falling together. Next up, I'd score an interview for The Job. Then I could get a place to live, bring my little dog back to the city. Lose five pounds, complete a Triathlon, get a book deal, get married, pop out acouplakids. It all starts here!
I tore open the paper and pulled out the letter inside.
Dear applicant. Thank you for applying. We are unable to review your application....(eyes scrolling down)....the 22 page health questionnaire you filled out is invalid.....we realize you downloaded this 22 page questionnaire off our website....the place where it said 'download here to apply'.....but we are still not going to look at it....we've included a new 22 page questionnaire. Please go ahead and reapply.
The envelope also included my original 22 page Health Questionnaire with a big red X through all 300 of my neatly filled in scantron bubbles.
They really should have just sent a post card: Sucker! Fuck your time! Ha ha ha!
The pages dropped out of my hands and floated to the floor. I turned the light off. I curled up in bed in a little ball of frustration. I made up this song: Oh life, Oh life Oh! Why you gots to be so Hard....so HARRD....
At the very least, it's spring. It's still cold. It's still raining. But we know it's spring because there is evidence everywhere. Things are growing.
And Blooming.
And food is coming out of the ground. At dinner on Wednesday, we were flipping through cook books wondering what to make for dessert. Someone suggested a rhubarb crisp, so Ammen wandered right out into the garden and pulled some out.
This is how we know winter is over: swamped, quenched, resilient vegetables emerging from the soil. Otherwise, we might be fooled into thinking it's late November- dreary, draining, wilting, dark.
I wait to get health insurance, and for the person who decides such things to call me and offer me an interview. I wait for some financial security, the ability to take a deep breath in, and for the sun to comes out. None of this is a metaphor. I want some money. I want some flippin' sunshine. I'm 26. I'm experienced. I'm sharp. I'm educated. I'm nice. It's May. It's spring. COME ON ALREADY.
And while we wait, we eat. We eat spring.
And if spring doesn't show up and we go right into summer, then we'll eat summer, too.
And if summer never shows up? Like last year? Well in that case, we're moving. All together. To a place where there are four true seasons. Where health insurance is guaranteed for everyone. Someplace like Vermont.
Cloud Lift
Monday was Sarah's birthday. I wrote about it on her last birthday here and then, because there was still more to say, here. Sarah has been gone now for over three years.
Last spring, I lived in North Carolina. I woke up that morning knowing it was Sarah's birthday- it was important to me that I remembered not just the day she died, but the better anniversary as well. It was a sunny, beautiful, neon green Southern spring day. My girl friends and I went to Merlefest and watched the Avett Brothers sing Head Full of Doubt. It was about 90 degrees, we burnt through our sundresses and our snowcones melted into electric colored puddles on the grass. It should have been the perfect way to honor and remember Sarah, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't make that connection between she's dead and I need to celebrate being alive. I felt very sad. I felt like there was a horrendous hole inside of me.
Now that I'm back in Seattle, things are different. This is the city where I knew Sarah, where she was born, where she never left. I still see our mutual friends every day. I keep thinking I see her on the street, especially when I'm in Ballard, and I then I have to remind myself that it's not her and it never will be. But it doesn't feel so much like burning anymore. This is the way it is. She died of a terrible disease and the rest of us carry on. And each one of us lives with that much more appreciation for and fascination with being alive. There's something connecting all of us, and it's her.
Sarah's birthday came this year with terrible weather. It was pouring rain in the city. I was standing in the living room at Greg's house, looking out across Lake Washington. He was washing his car in the garage. We had plans to take the dogs to the dog park, but the rain was coming down too hard. It was late in the afternoon and I had nearly resigned myself to a day of
Driving from South Seattle to the foothills, Eastbound on 1-90 towards the looming, snow-spitting Cascade mountain range takes surprisingly little time. At least it does at 2:30 in the afternoon. Before long, the city and suburbs had eased away and the highway was surrounded on each side with darkly forested hills. The curtain of rain gave way to a gray swirls of mist as we cut through downtown North Bend.
Seattle to Rattlesnake Ledge by way of Dairy Freeze:
The mountain was green and wet and lit up with new moss. Greg's two dogs, Dante and Lucia, free from the leash and the car, were the happiest hounds in the world. We didn't see another soul as we switch-backed our way up the trail through the living watercolor. The world inside the forest was gem-colored, dripping, lush- each hue so exquisitely deep you could sink right down into it.
At the top, we were out of breath and above the clouds. It looked as if you would walk right off the planet.
I think Sarah would have really loved the new song The Dog Days are Over. She would love Taco Tuesday and probably have put down 20 tacos long before we invented the 20 Taco Challenge. Remember, this is a girl who shaved her head for a pitcher of free beer. She would have loved that I sent a letter to a stranger at the climbing gym and failed miserably in that pursuit. She would have liked that I gave the shitty boyfriend I had back then the heave-ho. She would like that I'm writing this blog.
******
We thought we were running out light on the way back down, but it turned out to be just the trees and their filtering branches. When we burst out of the trail and onto the shores of the lake, we were met with the smooth, pearly light of evening and little patches of blue in the far corners of the sky. Blue sky is worth its weight in gold to a Seattle-dweller after a long winter. I think I've said it before: blue is gold. In no hurry, we let the wild things play in the water until they'd exhausted themselves.
There was one more stop on the way home. Fireplace, warmth, beers, dinner. Then a quiet drive home in the small, safe orb of the car.
Sarah, I vow to honor you in my life by constantly doing cool shit with people that I love that way I love you.
It's called over thinking, and I do it quite nicely, thank you
And on other days, life is so pretty and banal and ordinary. I wake up a little too late. I decide I like a song on the radio and then I never find out who sings it. I root around in the kitchen for something to eat. I complain about traffic. I wait in line at the post office, the bank, the grocery store, the DMV. I and everybody else.
And I'm petrified to write about it. What if my run of the mill existence is found out? Two days ago I spent an entire afternoon trying to write a story about a disappointing experience involving a Starbucks cake -pop. I tried writing that saga from every possible angle and I still came up short. Somehow, I just wasn't able to evoke the truly raw emotions that I felt at the time. So, I'll just boil it down to the moral of the story: Don't ever bite into one of those things. I don't care how pretty and pink they are. Just don't.
When I'm spending an exciting evening comparing toothpaste prices at Bartells after completing a fulfilling day vacuuming my car and eating ham sandwiches, I can't help but wonder: what if this is it? What if I've used up my lifetime allotment of adventure and exploration and comical humiliations at the grocery store? Then what do I write about?
In the last week, I filled out the standard Washington health questionnaire so I can later on be denied insurance because of childhood acne. I applied for a job I really really really want. I left a pan in the sink and had an argument about it over text with my brother in law. And I had a devastating experience at Starbucks involving a birthday-cake-cake-pop.
The weekend came and I sat in front of my computer, wishing I had at least thrown up or something, so I'd have an event to write about.
And then, as I was sitting in the green bath tub at my house, something dawned on me. I'm a writer goldang it. I read a lot of books and endured a lot of workshops and payed a lot of money to learn how to take every day ideas and make them, somehow, unusual.
The essence of writing is transformation. Every word and phrase has been used before; every idea has been done so many times that the television industry gave up and went Reality. Therefore, writing is less about big, brand new ideas, and more about taking the ordinary and finding a way to make it fresh again- clever, creative, concise, ugly, morose, whatever. Unless you're Murakami, Kafka, or whoever wrote Geek Love, your job as a writer is to make your been-done-before ideas interesting enough to warrant the time and attention of strangers who could be watching television instead of reading your novel blog.
That’s why literacy devices were invented. To make prose out of the prosaic. (Which, in case you didn't go to school five years to learn big words- means boring.)
That’s why literacy devices were invented. To make prose out of the prosaic. (Which, in case you didn't go to school five years to learn big words- means boring.)
So when it comes to sprucing up the daily routine, writers have a leg up. I may not have money, insurance, job security or a fancy juicer or a shot in life, but I can identify traces of the macabre and the divine in my normal waking hours and express them in a witty manner. Yes, that feeling you're feeling right now? It's called envy.
Take, for example, the green bath tub. This tub was created in the 70s when the interior decorators of the world were either colorblind or carried a vendetta against all-who-dwell-indoors. This is where I sit in the evenings, soaking, and wait patiently for Hollywood to call me for the movie rights to my life. It is the most coveted spot in the messy house I share with my sister and brother in law. We've nearly come to fisticuffs over who gets to take the 7pm post-work-day bath.
Take, for example, the green bath tub. This tub was created in the 70s when the interior decorators of the world were either colorblind or carried a vendetta against all-who-dwell-indoors. This is where I sit in the evenings, soaking, and wait patiently for Hollywood to call me for the movie rights to my life. It is the most coveted spot in the messy house I share with my sister and brother in law. We've nearly come to fisticuffs over who gets to take the 7pm post-work-day bath.
I thought by now I'd be living in a funky older house near the park with big windows and a whole room to write in with wall-sized white boards for my overflowing, effervescing multitudes of ideas. Or maybe a nice little up-town apartment. Somewhere with chrome appliances and a nice, normal, white tub. With jets. At the very least, I'd have a shower curtain that wasn't filthy with mold.
I can't afford any of that right now. But I do have a sharp, well-trained brain that is practically a ninja when it comes to literary devices. Tell us! Don't make us wait any longer! What does the tub represent? Why, I'm so glad you asked. The tub is representative of the cluttered bathroom, is representative of the messy house, is representative of the shabby neighborhood. It's all representative of the Amazon job that fell through. The boy who didn't return my affections last fall. The big bright city that refuses to give employment to a smart girl like myself.
In effect, the tub creates a stunning contrast between the house of my dreams and the house of my reality. (House qua life.) Add to that the indisputable fact that I am lucky to live there and have no earthly clue of what I'll do when Anna and Brooks move away in September and I'll be homeless, and it all swirls into one big metaphor for what a worthless pile of shit I feel like sometimes.
And yet, in an ironic twist, I'd still rather be in that bath tub right now reading US magazine than writing this.
I've started running. It's my desperate (I hate running) attempt to gain some control and find some predictability in my life. Some people develop eating disorders, I arrange my Patagonia underwear collection by color (prints, stripes, solid colors, in rainbow pattern) and run in circles. Three miles around the lake, listening to Bad Romance sung by the full Glee choir on constant repeat because I want to and I can. See?
At the very least, it makes the dog happy.
A good way to gloss up the ordinary things is to have good company while you do them. Whenever possible. I've started meeting my friend Day from the climbing gym at a coffee shop during the week. We work for hours on our own separate stuff, taking a break every half hour or so to talk about climbing and clothing and the impossibly wide chasm between men and women. It makes working so much better.
What else? Since we're on the subject of word play my friends and I have become even more excited about climbing, now that we're actually getting outside, and we've added a new holy day to our week. Welcome BBBF: beer, bouldering, burgers Friday.
Lately, these ordinary days have at least been very productive. We've got a few trips in the works: Orcas Island and Smith Rock, birth place of sport climbing. I wrote and sent out all my thank you letters for people who have donated to the blog. I've made a few new friends. This boy took me mountain biking and I'm sure he would have taken me again but he crashed and broke his hand. But I think he might like me.
Yeah, I've got your attention now, haven't I?
The feeling of leaving, the feeling of staying put
I wrote this one year ago. Back then I lived in the High country of North Carolina with a boy I thought I'd one day marry. It's funny, since then, the things that have changed, and the things that haven't changed- not in the slightest, not at all.
I drive to the grocery store in the evening, needing only a few things. The store where I go is called the Food Lion, and it is not a very nice place, but it's close to home. As I step onto the parking lot I hear something, something I haven't heard for so long I have nearly forgotten it and the strange effect it always has on me. I freeze in place, body turned towards the sprawling, concrete building, and feel a familiar ache settle into my chest and curl inside the four chambers of my heart.
It is the sound of frogs, which means that winter is gone, and it also means I'm going to have a very small personal crisis. I always do when I hear frogs.
Some time in the past few days, the spring frogs emerged in wet places across the south, including the marsh between the Food Lion parking lot and highway 421 in Boone, North Carolina. Starting when the sun sets, they stand with their skinny legs anchored into the muck and cry their frog hearts out: that tranquil, sad, aquatic meeep meeep sound.
Ever since I was a kid, that warbly song has made me want to do funny things. It made me want to rise out of bed, pack a few of my possessions and start walking. This is before I could drive. After that, I wanted to pack up my car and drive and drive and drive. Maybe this is the effect that the full moon has on the rest of the population. Not me. The full moon causes insomnia and spontaneous photo shoots that never turn out as well as I hope. But not this.....this inexplicable blend of emotion, something like falling in love mixed with homesickness mixed with the desire to RUN and discover something completely brand new.
It feels like part of me is moored to the harbor and part of me is struggling towards open water. And it hurts.
The same strange thing would happen years later when, driving across the city at odd hours, I would catch a glimpse of apartments glowing with a strange bluish light. A television screen, or a dimly-watted light bulb, dismal hues that never found their way into my own house. The same ache of the childhood frogs would tug at my heart cavity. I would explain the feeling like this: there was something waiting for me- something I had to get, somewhere I had to be, and I had to go forward and find it, NOW. I remember once turning to my friend Miranda, we were driving on Aurora late in the evening, and doing my best to articulate it. "Do you ever feel that way," I concluded, "like maybe you're supposed to be somewhere else?" And she sighed, her hands on the wheel, and said, "maybe."
When I was little, I just felt it and fell asleep and trusted that in the morning, things would be right again. They always were, my mom would draw back the curtains, things would be cheerful and bright, and all those unnamed feelings scurried under the bed or blinked away in the sunshine.
These days, when it catches me- either by strange lights in strange houses or by peepers in marshes near grocery stores- I try like to hold onto that feeling, see it I can't squint my eyes and make out the details. What is it that I'm wanting so badly? What could I possibly feel homesick for before I've even found it?
From what I've gathered so far, it's some place, some life, where I completely belong, where the money I put into the bank doesn't mysteriously disappear. There are friends around a dinner table, something on the radio, and everyone says the things I think they should be saying. And I think I own the house. Yes, I definitely own the house. The word that sums everything up is permanence.
It doesn't make any sense. My childhood was the picture of permanence, everything in it's place, and still I felt it, like a shred of adulthood had fallen through the cracks and found me: a glimpse of things to be, where elements of life melt away when you're not looking, and answers don't exist to questions you haven't asked yet.
I stand there in the food lion parking lot, listening. On the highway, cars rush towards me as diamonds and fly away as rubies. I'm 25, I think. Is this where I thought I'd be.
I move through the halogen glow of the parking lot, and think, I'm going to buy lots and lots of food. I'm going to throw it in the car and take off. The dog and I will drive and drive and drive. That's where you'll find me if you're looking for me. In Pennsylvania. Or Maryland. On the side of the interstate, asleep with the keys in the ignition. Just some number of hours and some number of miles away from that thing I'm looking for.
*****
I drive to the grocery store in the evening, needing only a few things. The store where I go is called the Food Lion, and it is not a very nice place, but it's close to home. As I step onto the parking lot I hear something, something I haven't heard for so long I have nearly forgotten it and the strange effect it always has on me. I freeze in place, body turned towards the sprawling, concrete building, and feel a familiar ache settle into my chest and curl inside the four chambers of my heart.It is the sound of frogs, which means that winter is gone, and it also means I'm going to have a very small personal crisis. I always do when I hear frogs.
Some time in the past few days, the spring frogs emerged in wet places across the south, including the marsh between the Food Lion parking lot and highway 421 in Boone, North Carolina. Starting when the sun sets, they stand with their skinny legs anchored into the muck and cry their frog hearts out: that tranquil, sad, aquatic meeep meeep sound.
Ever since I was a kid, that warbly song has made me want to do funny things. It made me want to rise out of bed, pack a few of my possessions and start walking. This is before I could drive. After that, I wanted to pack up my car and drive and drive and drive. Maybe this is the effect that the full moon has on the rest of the population. Not me. The full moon causes insomnia and spontaneous photo shoots that never turn out as well as I hope. But not this.....this inexplicable blend of emotion, something like falling in love mixed with homesickness mixed with the desire to RUN and discover something completely brand new.
It feels like part of me is moored to the harbor and part of me is struggling towards open water. And it hurts.
The same strange thing would happen years later when, driving across the city at odd hours, I would catch a glimpse of apartments glowing with a strange bluish light. A television screen, or a dimly-watted light bulb, dismal hues that never found their way into my own house. The same ache of the childhood frogs would tug at my heart cavity. I would explain the feeling like this: there was something waiting for me- something I had to get, somewhere I had to be, and I had to go forward and find it, NOW. I remember once turning to my friend Miranda, we were driving on Aurora late in the evening, and doing my best to articulate it. "Do you ever feel that way," I concluded, "like maybe you're supposed to be somewhere else?" And she sighed, her hands on the wheel, and said, "maybe."
When I was little, I just felt it and fell asleep and trusted that in the morning, things would be right again. They always were, my mom would draw back the curtains, things would be cheerful and bright, and all those unnamed feelings scurried under the bed or blinked away in the sunshine.
These days, when it catches me- either by strange lights in strange houses or by peepers in marshes near grocery stores- I try like to hold onto that feeling, see it I can't squint my eyes and make out the details. What is it that I'm wanting so badly? What could I possibly feel homesick for before I've even found it?
From what I've gathered so far, it's some place, some life, where I completely belong, where the money I put into the bank doesn't mysteriously disappear. There are friends around a dinner table, something on the radio, and everyone says the things I think they should be saying. And I think I own the house. Yes, I definitely own the house. The word that sums everything up is permanence.
It doesn't make any sense. My childhood was the picture of permanence, everything in it's place, and still I felt it, like a shred of adulthood had fallen through the cracks and found me: a glimpse of things to be, where elements of life melt away when you're not looking, and answers don't exist to questions you haven't asked yet.
I stand there in the food lion parking lot, listening. On the highway, cars rush towards me as diamonds and fly away as rubies. I'm 25, I think. Is this where I thought I'd be.
I move through the halogen glow of the parking lot, and think, I'm going to buy lots and lots of food. I'm going to throw it in the car and take off. The dog and I will drive and drive and drive. That's where you'll find me if you're looking for me. In Pennsylvania. Or Maryland. On the side of the interstate, asleep with the keys in the ignition. Just some number of hours and some number of miles away from that thing I'm looking for.
Vantage: Halo
I love the music of climbing, its satisfying symphony of sounds: clicks and snaps and bings, iridescent silver and hot gold and cherry colored quick draws glinting in the sun as you clip them onto your harness. Metal against metal, metal against rock, the hiss of a rope flaked out, the stretch of fingers bending against stiff white medical tape. And then you turn and face the rock, and put your hands on it, feel its pleasant warmth or biting cold, you step off the ground and into the vertical world, and all the other sounds of the world fade away. Birds, crickets, sirens, chatter, car stereos, boys whistling (if you've ever climbed in South America you know what I mean)- all gone. Wind, heart beat, the tinny rattle of cams and draws, and your breath is all that's left. And nothing- really, nothing- sounds as good as the first click of rope snapping into place on the first bolt.
Now falling- falling has its own set of sounds- the frantic scrape of rubber soles against rock, loose gravel giving way beneath your fingers, and as you pop off the wall all those worldly sounds come roaring back, gaining in volume until you land with a bounce and a thud of knee cap or ankle against hard granite or limestone or quartz. Once- only once- I heard the hard, painful, revolting, nauseating, unsettling, disorienting PING of an entire bolt yanked out of the wall, and the subsequent scream of the climber as he went swinging off into the sky. But that was years ago, and it was the result of user error.
 |
| Nick holding the bold that ripped out of the wall while he was leading an overhang. Leavenworth, Washingon |
Bully for them. But things are a little different inside this blond, slightly over sized head. The sounds from earth do melt away, sure. I can't hear anything that's going on down there. I can't hear anything at all. Because? Because of a fear-coping mechanism I invented-on accident- when I was 17 and I started leading harder stuff.
 |
| Can you find me? On The Virgin Wall at Portreto Chico, Mexico, 2002 |
I used to climb with a head full of little chattering gremlins, reminding me how precariously far up I was, how soon the next fall would be, how run-out the climb was. I began playing music in my head to silence those little voices, and it worked. But it also drove me nuts. I forget what the first song was, but I know it lasted for months.
The best thing is- that clever brain of mine!- I only hear songs that hold some sort of punny relevance to climbing. Father and Son By Cat Stevens was popular for a spell in 2004. “Take your time, think a lot, think of everything you got.” This line, over and over and over. To my credit, it was an overall positive message to have ringing between my ears when I was a few feet above the bolt and seemingly out of things to grab. Certainly it was more soothing than my previously popular chorus of “You’re going to fall and it’s going to really hurt! You’re going to fall and it’s going to really hurt! Here! You! Go!"
So on this particular day, this warm, sunny day in Vantage on a harmless, simple wall, I was treated to a stereo rendition of Halo, by Beyonce. Just the chorus. How special. It went like this: I can see you halo! Halo! Halo! I can see your halo! Halo! Halo! And then, and anyone who is familiar with this song knows this, things really heat up: HALO! HALO! HALO! I can see your HALO! HALO HALOOOO!
God, it really sucked.
But hey- it could have been worse, right?
I didn't understand how this tune held any connection with the sport until I slunk off into the sage to be alone, finish the damn song in my head and get it out of my brain. Strangers who passed would have seen a short, sunburnt girl, balanced on a steep hill overlooking the valley, head resting on her knees, humming Beyonce like a disturbed mosquito. But check this out- the last verse: I swear I'd never fall again- but this don't even feel like falling- gravity can't begin- to pull me back to the ground again..." Crazy relevant, right?
All neurosis and mind game aside (man, I wish I could approach relationships like that, le sigh,) we were out there, and it was glorious. We were climbing our routes, eating our sandwiches, chatting it up with the tattooed climbing boys on the ropes next to us. Drinking some beers, some waters, watching John cruise up the bouldery start that we couldn't begin to figure out, taking deep breaths of dry air.
That's another thing I love about climbing: the abundance of oxygen. There's just so much to be had. You climb from thick, rich air on the ground into the pure blue sky. Even if things go terribly wrong, you can still (generally) breathe. Which is different than certain other sports I can think of.
A few years of water up the nose, water down the throat, water in the ear drums, hydraulics, holes, disorienting depth and underwater caves taught me to really appreciate this one small thing. Breathing.
Deep breath. It was the first day of the outside season and we felt like little baby birds leaving the rainy winter gym, craning our necks and losing our feathers. We had decided on the drive out that this inaugural trip would be "kinky"- as in, full of kinks. And we were right. We didn't have nearly enough quick draws and had to creatively relay back and forth between bolts on each climb. We didn't bring a rope bag, or nearly enough cook wear, or salt, or anything to scrub dishes with. We fought about pots and pans and who would clean the routes. I didn't have enough lockers and had to do a mighty innovative job on the anchors, but I still deemed them quite safe.
We made a list of all the things we'd need to bring next time, as well as a self-congratulatory list of all the good things we did bring: pure Vermont maple syrup. The good beer. Daisy chains, webbing, black rubber climbing shoes, chalk, Patagonia Down Sweater Jackets With hood in Aqua, and the miraculous lululemon tank tops that really are Gods Gift to (straight) man.
The arching sky and warm desert air felt as big and dreamy as birthday balloons. Lower Sunshine Wall was as crowded as the South East expressway, and we kept seeing friends from the gym walking by, and dogs, and the dogs barked hello. Ahh, the casual camaraderie of climbing. Just like the sloppy, hyper camaraderie of drunk girls in the lady's room at a bar off Broadway, but without the barfing. I sat back, basking like a turtle, and watched Lisa tie into the sharp end. Lisa, a few months into climbing and already leading outside. These next few months, hell- the next few years, at least- were feeling full of promise.
Remember those walls we built? Well baby, they are crumbling down. They didn't even put a fight! They didn't even make a sound.
Vantage Photobook: American Pie
It was not a long, long time ago, but thinking of that windy day does make me smile. As always, we had one chance to make that weekend count, and we knew if we could do it right we'd end up dancing in the desert, and certainly we'd be happy for a while.
February and its shivers were gone, thank you very much, and any bad news we left behind in the city on the doorstep with the paper. I'm not going to say that anybody cried when we woke up that morning, underneath the cliffs, but something touched us all that day, the day we ran around like rock n' roll in the canyon and we knew- we could feel it - that winter had died for another three seasons.
So bye bye to the tremendous gales of Vantage and our plans of climbing. Trying to evade the hurricane, we drove the Subarus down the highway and through a winding canyon road, but the windstorm followed closely behind. We drank whiskey and coffee and sang: this might be the day that we die, this might actually be the day we all get blown away.
Now, for three hours, we made breakfast. Jesters, all of us, trying to mix bisquick and fry plantains in that weather. And once, while I was looking down, John's coffee was blown all over me. I'm not sure, in retrospect, why we powered through, and why we cooked so many different things. The cereal lept out of the box. The beans flew out of the pan. It was an animated meal for sure. But we pressed on, and ate a four course breakfast, and nobody was singing any blues as we watched winter get blown away.
Did you read the book of love? How about the weather report? Do you have faith in rock and river, can sunshine give your rained-out soul a break? We all kicked off our shoes and John taught us how to walk real slow through the wilderness. We were lonely teenage broncin' bucks, desert sage and not exactly out of luck. And if we'd had a pick up truck, why, we'd have been even better off.
We ran down into the canyon, helter skelter in a spring air, birds flying up around us, eight miles in and running fast. We played tracking games and learned to hunt one another through the silvery trees. We blindfolded ourselves and tried to grab things from under our noses, and I was on the sideline, mostly, with my camera.
We went river-crossing; nothing says spring more than the first sting of ice water rushing past knees and ankles. Whatever the city weather says, spring is out here somewhere. Bye bye February, and January, this is the time of year when you die.
When night came, there we were, all in one place, a generation just kicking it, with time enough for every thing. John started a fire for us- nimbly, quickly- using only two pieces of wood and twine. Fire is the devil's only friend but we sure enjoyed it that night.
And then, early in the morning after singing The Gambler and telling our rambling stories, the four people I admire most found their way into their own sleeping bags and caught the last train into sleep. Goodnight, good old boys and good old girls, goodnight.
Vantage: Wind and Ecstasy
How much does it cost to get out of here? Gas, obviously. Gas is expensive. But there are three of us in the car to split the tank: myself, Lisa, and Nick. Everything else we bring from home. The Subaru is crammed to the gills with all the tools of the weekend warrior: tents and down sleeping bags for the still-frosted night, coiled ropes and racks of gear, a coffee press, a stove, fuel, spices, pale ales, one amber tinted bottle of whiskey, camera gear, layers of jewel toned polypropylene.
It's downpouring as we merge from 1-5 onto I-90 East; the heavy, wet rain makes it seem as if the city is whimpering. Even at 9:30 at night, the traffic is chaotic. My psyche has completely unraveled. I did the neurotic packing thing, the gleeful excitement thing, the last minute what-if-we-go-hungry-seizure in the grocery store thing, the hysterical, uncontrollable laughter while driving thing, and completely depleted my personal reserve of energy before leaving the city limits. I generally become a bit unhinged when granted a weekend pass to the wilderness, but this particular occasion was made considerably more manic because I just- no less than 24 hours ago- returned home from Vermont, via a long and uncomfortable plane ride against headwinds. I think the changes in time and climate were throwing me.
We stop in Rainier Valley to pick up Lisa's forgotten sleeping bag. I traipse inside to say hello to her roommates, enjoy a little tumbler of bourbon, one ice cube, and fork over my keys to Nick. He takes them and tucks me nicely in the back seat where I fold up, seat belt fastened, between two gear bags and a fuel canister. Jetlagged and booze warm, I begin to gently melt away.
I know enough about night driving to know this: it's one of the few times that physics is evaded. Time and space lose their stronghold on reality as you press forward in the dark at 70mph. This is even more true when you're a passenger, and I'm not often a passenger, least of all in my own car. I'm like a tourist back there. I don't really know where I am and I only sort of know where I'm going. The last time I went to Vantage was eight and a half years ago, when I was a freshman in college, and I seemed to arrive there by magic. I asked fewer questions when I was 17, and packed lighter. I just remember falling asleep in the back of someone's car and waking up in the desert.
As we leave the city behind, darkness deepens but the rain keeps slashing down. Rough road conditions make the car rumble, and it's very warm inside, and dry, like this little protected bubble rolling down the pass. And then Nick, he may as well have fed me a tranquilizer: he puts Rusted Root on the CD player. African drum trip, Ecstasy, Send me on my way. This was the first Cassette Tape I ever owned. I wore the film strip down to threads, playing it over and over on my Walkman as I ran, alone, through the overgrown logging roads on my property, miles from anyone, flat chested, twelve years old, a happy kid but an isolated one, and impatient. I was decidedly blessed with a wild and free childhood but I knew- knew- that my grown up self would run even wilder and I could not wait to get there.
The interior of the car is ecstasy. The only thing keeping me awake- barely awake- are the statistics of traffic mortality. Inclement weather and tricky roads and the facade of immunity that can overcome a driver- dad studies these things for a living and has made me acutely aware of this- the ubiquitous terror of automobiles. Furthermore, it feels like 3am in my mixed up brain, and I'm convinced that it really is 3am, so every twenty minutes I'll startle myself awake, horrified that Nick has fallen asleep at the wheel and we're all dead.
He's not asleep, of course. It's only midnight, Lisa and Nick are talking in the front seat. I can only make out the sharp S sounds from their conversation. Lisa says, "Lina, calm down, we're awake." She takes my hand in hers and its warmth pushes me over the precipice and into sleep. Real sleep.
I wake up in the desert. The crowded camping area below the Feathers are quiet, curled in their tents and trucks, gearing up for one of the first days of the outdoor season. John and Diana have waited up for us; we find them nearly passed out in camp chairs around the glowing red fire pit. I fumble for the door handle and fall out of the car onto the dust. As usual, I become instantly awake and chirpy when I get a breath of fresh air. "So sorry to keep you waiting." I stand up, brush off my legs. "We left the city a bit later than planned."
The others set up their tent and I arrange myself in the back of the car with the seats laid flat. I with my head on the pillow, I can just press my toes against the back windshield. It's 1 in the morning in the desert, early April, and I sleep like a champion. In fact, I'm the only one out of the five of us who can sleep. As I'm dreaming (warm rocks, silver bolts, espresso shots and Hometeam) a wind storms bellows into the gorge like a silver Amtrak Passenger train. It whips out of nowhere and wrecks havoc on John and Diana's tent, pressing the fabric walls against their faces. They give up quickly and bed down in their Impreza. (Picture trying to find a suitable sleeping position inside a large snail. I speak from experience.)
Nick's tent, impossibly well-rigged (NOLS training, don'cha know) stays afloat but rattles like canvas sails on a doomed ship. Meanwhile, safe inside metal and fogged glass, I am rocked lightly back and forth. I sort of remember clambering out to pee in the early morning and nearly getting launched off of the earth and spit into orbit, but that could be merely a fantasy.
Lisa wakes me up in the morning when she jumps onto my head, fighting against the wind to pull the car door shut. "OH My GOD." She rakes the tangled hair out of her eyes. "This is ridiculous! Can we even climb in this?" "Oh sure." I say, veteran that I am. "If it's not raining, we can climb in anything."
Then I look out the back windshield and see John in his puff-ball coat, tumbling away as he tries to reach the safety of my car.
"Well, never mind." I tell her. "Not in this."
We are five people cramped into the back of a car, too stubborn to return to the city, watching tumbleweeds zoom around like angry, truncated snowmen. The simplest things become excruciatingly difficult. Example; Lisa getting dressed:
Regardless, we're here for two days, we want to climb, we really do, and we're starting to get hungry. What would you do?
Sunshine in the Capitol
Spring sun returns to Montpelier, Vermont.
The Report on Vantage
 |
| http://www.nickneiman.com/ |
And the loser is
 |
I can identify the actinic keratosis because this is not my first. Happily, they're easy (if not pleasant) to get rid of. They burn off with a little liquid nitrogen, it takes ten seconds. I could do it myself with dry ice, if I had the balls.
But, thanks to the way of the health insurance world, I have to fly back to Vermont for the 'procedure'.
It's alright. I love it there.
I wake up at 7am Eastern time, which is 4am Seattle time, which is The Wrong Time To Be Alive in Melina time. An hour later I'm at the health center in Woodstock, coughing into my sleeve in the waiting room, trying to make myself unrecognizable so I don't have to acknowledge the presence of my high school history teacher who is sitting four chairs away. I have two appointments set up.
First thing in the morning and they're running forty minutes behind. It's alright. When they call my name I sit by the window in a red-upholstered chair, resting my face in my hands. My doctor ticks away at the list on the computer screen, writes the scripts for another round of migraine medicine, a second kind of migraine medicine, migraine preventatives, anxiety pills, sleeping pills. Warheads, licorice bits, anise drops, root beer barrels, peppermints.
To pass the time between appointments, I take a walk into the village of Woodstock. My beautiful, idyllic town is wintered in- dark and sparse and ice-brittle. The coffee shop I loved so much, the one owned by Mary Urban, my high school classmate, is gone. The Manhattan landlord jacked up the rent and sent the little business toppling, and now the space sits vacant. Now nobody is getting anything out of the space. Allechante, the one other coffee shop in the town, left after Christmas, nobody is quite sure why. A new place has taken over, and from the instant I walk in I know it's not going to last through the summer. Not in this town. It's got clunky furniture and mismatched decor, but it falls short of the country charm it's aiming for. I order coffee but my stomach turns rudely at the sight of it. I go outside, hold onto a granite hitching post and cough my brains out. I tell myself it's just the dry air.
"I'm sorry I'm late," says the dermatologist as he opens the door to the room where I've been sitting, heals banging against the metal table, for forty five minutes.
"It's alright," I tell him.
"No," he says, looking me in the eye. "It's not." He can't be more than 29 years old and he sighs like an old man. Cutting the small talk, he pulls out a metal spray gun. "Liquid nitrogen. -197 degrees Fahrenheit." He says this like I should be impressed. Which I am, sort of. The gun is aimed a half inch below my eye. "This will sting." He pulls the trigger.
He's blasted me twice when a voice comes over the intercom. "Would the owner of a blue Subaru outback please come to the front desk."
That's my car. Of course it's my car. The dermatologist man tells me we're not done, but he'll wait. He's quite nice, actually.
My right eye is starting to swell as I walk to the front of the clinic, where I find an older woman talking to the receptionist, visibly agitated, ringing her hands like a stage actress.
"Is that your car?" She asks, gesturing towards the parking lot. "I just hit it. I just backed right up into your car."
"Oh," I say, peering outside. "It's alright. It's probably just this weather. Slippery."
"Nope," says the lady. "I really wasn't looking."
She takes me outside, shows me the damage. It's barely anything. The frozen air gnaws at the burned spot on my skin.
"It's alright." I say again.
"What can I give you?"
"Nothing."
"I want to give you a hug."
"That's alright."
Back at the room, the dermatologist is staring out the window, still holding the blast gun. "If you don't mind," he says as I walk in, "I'd like to blast you one last time."
Bronchitis is unfurling like a fiddle-head in my lungs as I walk from the clinic back into town. For the past few weeks it has lived deep in my lungs, curled up asleep but still present. Now it's coming awake again, stretching and rattling around the ribcage. I bend at the waist and cough. At the pharmacy, I buy bottles of ruby cough syrup and ask for my prescriptions. The lady hands me one orange bottle of pills and begins to ring me up.
"I'm sorry but- I should have a few more than this."
"Hmm...let's see..." This woman has worked at the pharmacy since before time. She knows everything I've ever been on. "I see your Imitrex, Celexa, your...Sorry but, your insurance won't let you fill these for another thirty days.
"But-" I stutter, "I haven't refilled those for months-" I stop. It's a losing battle.
"Would you like to speak to the pharmacist?" She asks politely. Through the cut out window, I can see Jim, white haired and mustached, frowning as he counts out rows of pills.
"It's alright." I say. Jim is my neighbor out in Pomfret, as close as neighbors come in Vermont. We like to discuss gardening when I come by in the summer. He's such a nice man. But son, his only child, recently died of a drug overdose, and now I don't know what to say to him.
"It's alright." I pull out my wallet. "I'll just take these."
When I get home, the three dogs are barking and levitating, hoping for a walk. I fall back into bed. Hometeam crawls under the covers with me, collapses her little body against mine. For nine out of the ten days I'm in Vermont, I'm sick. I lie in bed; when I'm not asleep, I study the ceiling. I take the dogs for two walks a day around our property, through deep snow and over hard packed snow mobile tracks. I feel okay during those walks. Relieved, calm, cleaned out by the pure air. The other hours of the day and night, I feel terrible. My mom, home from work for my visit, is visibly heartbroken. But then she gets a migraine. For days. Her migraines make my migraines look like bug bites.
Spring is a long way off. We lie in our beds.
