My visit home coincides with an unusually early winter storm. Six to twelve inches, starting now.
Trap me here
My visit home coincides with an unusually early winter storm. Six to twelve inches, starting now.
My visit home coincides with an unusually early winter storm. Six to twelve inches, starting now.
A rare example
"Forgive this dilatoriness- but I do not like writing letters while traveling."
-Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
Today I was driving to the hardware store and the car in front of me stopped in the middle of the street so I honked the horn. Then I saw there was a pedestrian crossing in front of the car, and I really felt like a bag of shit for honking. I looked into the rear view mirror and studied my chin instead of making eye contact with the guy on the street. I bet both he and the car in front of me were both just thinking Wow, Go to Hell! I know they were thinking that. Because whenever I'm walking across the street and someone stops for me, then someone behind them honks or tries to swerve around them I always think, Go to Hell! And I shake my head and look at them angry.
Then I started thinking about my life in Seattle, how weeks and weeks pass by and I just feel terrible. Every day. Either miserable for no reason, or my stomach is all clutched up like a fist, or my back is stiff and I stretch at the corner of each block like an old person. It's probably my diet, which is stellar every Sunday and Monday and then plows downhill, fast, for the rest of the week, or the depleting amount amount of exercise I make myself do, or my abysmal sleep patterns, or this new strain of strong and pervasive boredom I've come down with, or whatever.
Anyway, I was realizing in the car that my days in Seattle currently fall into one of two categories. I am either the shit bag in the car honking at the pedestrian, or the pedestrian telling the shit bag driver to go to hell. This is a rare of example of something that can be taken both literally and in terms of an analogy.
What is up with that? When did that happen? Either way, I don't wake up every morning and think "Yay!" like I used to when I was a kid. I usually get up and drink Pepto-Bismol (a knock off kind) from the bottle, just a few swallows, because of the stomach ache I always have. Pepto Bismol has traces of Lithium in it, the element I was assigned to study when I was in 4th grade, and it's pretty effective.
So I'm thinking maybe I should move to New York City where everybody feels terrible all the time because life is such a grind. This according to the Paul Simon songs. (Kathy, pass me a Cigarette! I'm empty and I'm aching!)
As for pedestrianism, from what I gathered on my trip last week, you cross the street in giant herds and you're never alone with your condemning thoughts. You can lay on your horn, for no reason, at any time, just to announce that you're alive. I wouldn't be driving, anyway. I'd give up my car. Probably my dog, too, because I'd be working too much and my apartment would be too small. Then again, I don't have a job in New York. I don't have too many friends there. I don't have a reason to be there at all, which would give me a good, solid reason to feel terrible all the time, which I already do.
I'll snap out of it, the way I've done before, the way you did yesterday or three years ago. And I apologize if anyone turned away halfway through the second paragraph, thinking to themselves they'd heard enough whining already today. (Moot, however, since they won't have made it this far.) But I promised myself that I'd write everything. That's the point of this website, to Write Everything. It wouldn't be fair if I thoroughly strained every word and presented only the very very good things that happened, would it?
I didn't think so. Because lots and lot of very very good things happen to me.
Inside the Revival Machine
South Central Vermont, late October 2011. I call this album The Revival Machine. Click here to view the whole album on The Wilder Coast Facebook Page. (And while you're there, give that page a "like". I'm writing a book, and that would help me with my visible platform. Thank you!)
Since I last was here
Big Tally Of Things
Subways taken: F, R, 1
Number of stars I'd rate my friends' apartments across Brooklyn, out of 5: 5, based on hospitality
Number of times I saw my 2nd grade science teacher interviewed on TV while in a taxi: 1
Number of living dogs named after coffee drinks: 2
Number of small pastries consumed at conference: Tray
Number of friends currently in New York City: Everybody!
Job interviews: 1?
Total number of dogs named after coffee drinks, living and dead: 4
Grandparents Left: 0
Quail Eggs eaten off of tiny toothpick: 3
Sparks flown: Rather not answer
Amnesiac Tranquilizers taken on airplane: Don't Remember
Number of tears cried alone in bath: Shame
Episodes of Park and recreation watched in parent's living room: Equivalent of two NYC marathons, at least
Best of Wilder Coast: The Year of Magical Thinking
This post was recognized as BlogHer Voice of the Week in March of 2010. Check out the review here.
On my first full day of magical thinking, I ate my power animal.
To paraphrase Ira Glass, each year in my life I choose a theme, and bring you a variety of stories related to that theme. At twenty two I vowed to make better decisions and become prettier. Twenty three was the year of chance & whitewater. Twenty four was the year of positive thinking. Yesterday, my birthday, I decided that twenty five is going to be my year of magical thinking.
This is the year to blur the lines between what is fiction and nonfiction, what is possible and impossible. Magical thinking is like positive thinking in HD, Native American spirituality blended with American pop psychology. I am going to see the power, the potential, and the meaning in all things. Life will be luminous, studded with the unexpected, rich in omens, visions, unexpected wisdom. Dreams are going to carry a lot more weight in my everyday decisions. Sounds radical? You bet.
And though I haven't exactly hammered out the details, I know that accidentally eating my Power Animal is not a promising start.
My friend Teo had an extra ticket to a bajillion course dinner at Twin Farms, an exclusive five star hotel hidden in the woods of Barnard. Hidden. I've been roaming this area my entire life and I have never found it. People like Oprah Winfrey and Bill Gates and Nicole Kidman stay there so no one can find them. I told Teo he could not have chosen a better dining companion for the occasion: I am devastatingly talented at small talk, and I adore fine foods. Little towers of beef with sprigs of parsley. Entire entrees stuffed inside a single endive. All vegetables proceeded with the word 'baby'. Baby lettuce. Baby bok choy.
And so, on my first day as a magical thinker, I was led down a walkway of tiny white lights and seated in front of a small herd of wineglasses and an extended family of forks. I was all tights and lipsticks and good posture, playing it cool, friendly but aloof. That is, until I read that the evening would commence with something called 'Lemony Squid Bubbles', and my head almost blew off my body in delight. I was doing it- I was living out my year of magical thinking! Yesterday, I lived in a world where lemony squid bubbles did not exist. Today, they were being served to me over the pink body of a crab, in a dining room whose walls had once been darkened by the shadow of Oprah Winfrey.
That's the difference between plain old 'positive thinking' and 'magical thinking'.
In case you are wondering, the lemony squid bubbles looked and tasted like citrus shaving cream, with a little hint of the ocean. And they were only the beginning. As the evening swept by, the terrifying and mystical little plates kept coming and coming, and I CHARGED. No matter that I don't eat veal and I have never tasted sea food: tonight, whatever was put before me, was put into my mouth. I used the correct fork, I sipped the correctly paired wine, I enjoyed amiable conversation with the elegant people at my table. In the whirlwind, I stopped consulting the menu before each plate. I ate with blind courage.
Somewhere between the salmon parfait and the quail eggs, two little red, round cutlets of meat were served. And this is when the evening took a turn for the macabre.
My power animal was established at the age of three, when I established a profound relationship with ducks. Ducks are my friends, my (former) pets, my connection to the animal world. Ducks are sacred. I share many, many a fine quality with that particular waterfowl. From certain angles, I even look like a duck. And never, ever, under any circumstance, would I eat a duck.
As a little girl, I could never have imagined that, some twenty years later, one would be served to me medium rare, disguised under a little beret of Creme Fresh. Never could I have imagined that I would chew and nod and say 'good steak' and someone would say 'that's not steak.' That I would pause, fork to mouth, and say, 'well, what is it?'
OH GOD. My first day of dabbling with spirituality, and I eat my power animal.
All night long, I had been swapping stories of positive thinking with the beautiful woman next to me. As the evening dwindled down and the coffee was poured, I confided to her my big mistake. She understood the gravity of the situation, as I knew she would.
'You ATE your POWER ANIMAL?' She asked, drawing back. 'Even I requested that they serve me that plate without the duck! Just the greens.'
I held my head in my hands. 'I didn't know,' was all I could say. 'I didn't know.'
My spirits were lifted when the final of three desserts was served, and the dining room was filled with strange little explosive sounds, like a bevy of keyboards being tapped at the same time. My mouth tickled. "What the-" said Teo, leaning his ear towards his plate. "Are these pop rocks?" Our thin slices of bitter chocolate, dabbed with jam and dusted with peanut butter powder, had been served with a side of chocolate pop rocks.
Somehow, this brought me back down to earth. Yes, I may have digested and enjoyed the duck. But there I was, sitting in one of the most exclusive hotels in the the US, being served lemony squid bubbles and chocolate pop rocks. It was certainly nothing I could have predicted for my first day of my 25th year, and if nothing else, my year was looking to be a very intriguing one.
My final thoughts on this night is that I may need to find a new power animal. Although I doubt any species in the animal kingdom will offer itself up, given my record.
On my first full day of magical thinking, I ate my power animal.To paraphrase Ira Glass, each year in my life I choose a theme, and bring you a variety of stories related to that theme. At twenty two I vowed to make better decisions and become prettier. Twenty three was the year of chance & whitewater. Twenty four was the year of positive thinking. Yesterday, my birthday, I decided that twenty five is going to be my year of magical thinking.
This is the year to blur the lines between what is fiction and nonfiction, what is possible and impossible. Magical thinking is like positive thinking in HD, Native American spirituality blended with American pop psychology. I am going to see the power, the potential, and the meaning in all things. Life will be luminous, studded with the unexpected, rich in omens, visions, unexpected wisdom. Dreams are going to carry a lot more weight in my everyday decisions. Sounds radical? You bet.
And though I haven't exactly hammered out the details, I know that accidentally eating my Power Animal is not a promising start.
My friend Teo had an extra ticket to a bajillion course dinner at Twin Farms, an exclusive five star hotel hidden in the woods of Barnard. Hidden. I've been roaming this area my entire life and I have never found it. People like Oprah Winfrey and Bill Gates and Nicole Kidman stay there so no one can find them. I told Teo he could not have chosen a better dining companion for the occasion: I am devastatingly talented at small talk, and I adore fine foods. Little towers of beef with sprigs of parsley. Entire entrees stuffed inside a single endive. All vegetables proceeded with the word 'baby'. Baby lettuce. Baby bok choy.And so, on my first day as a magical thinker, I was led down a walkway of tiny white lights and seated in front of a small herd of wineglasses and an extended family of forks. I was all tights and lipsticks and good posture, playing it cool, friendly but aloof. That is, until I read that the evening would commence with something called 'Lemony Squid Bubbles', and my head almost blew off my body in delight. I was doing it- I was living out my year of magical thinking! Yesterday, I lived in a world where lemony squid bubbles did not exist. Today, they were being served to me over the pink body of a crab, in a dining room whose walls had once been darkened by the shadow of Oprah Winfrey.
That's the difference between plain old 'positive thinking' and 'magical thinking'.
In case you are wondering, the lemony squid bubbles looked and tasted like citrus shaving cream, with a little hint of the ocean. And they were only the beginning. As the evening swept by, the terrifying and mystical little plates kept coming and coming, and I CHARGED. No matter that I don't eat veal and I have never tasted sea food: tonight, whatever was put before me, was put into my mouth. I used the correct fork, I sipped the correctly paired wine, I enjoyed amiable conversation with the elegant people at my table. In the whirlwind, I stopped consulting the menu before each plate. I ate with blind courage.
Somewhere between the salmon parfait and the quail eggs, two little red, round cutlets of meat were served. And this is when the evening took a turn for the macabre.
My power animal was established at the age of three, when I established a profound relationship with ducks. Ducks are my friends, my (former) pets, my connection to the animal world. Ducks are sacred. I share many, many a fine quality with that particular waterfowl. From certain angles, I even look like a duck. And never, ever, under any circumstance, would I eat a duck.
As a little girl, I could never have imagined that, some twenty years later, one would be served to me medium rare, disguised under a little beret of Creme Fresh. Never could I have imagined that I would chew and nod and say 'good steak' and someone would say 'that's not steak.' That I would pause, fork to mouth, and say, 'well, what is it?'
OH GOD. My first day of dabbling with spirituality, and I eat my power animal.
All night long, I had been swapping stories of positive thinking with the beautiful woman next to me. As the evening dwindled down and the coffee was poured, I confided to her my big mistake. She understood the gravity of the situation, as I knew she would.
'You ATE your POWER ANIMAL?' She asked, drawing back. 'Even I requested that they serve me that plate without the duck! Just the greens.'
I held my head in my hands. 'I didn't know,' was all I could say. 'I didn't know.'
My spirits were lifted when the final of three desserts was served, and the dining room was filled with strange little explosive sounds, like a bevy of keyboards being tapped at the same time. My mouth tickled. "What the-" said Teo, leaning his ear towards his plate. "Are these pop rocks?" Our thin slices of bitter chocolate, dabbed with jam and dusted with peanut butter powder, had been served with a side of chocolate pop rocks.Somehow, this brought me back down to earth. Yes, I may have digested and enjoyed the duck. But there I was, sitting in one of the most exclusive hotels in the the US, being served lemony squid bubbles and chocolate pop rocks. It was certainly nothing I could have predicted for my first day of my 25th year, and if nothing else, my year was looking to be a very intriguing one.
My final thoughts on this night is that I may need to find a new power animal. Although I doubt any species in the animal kingdom will offer itself up, given my record.
I have to go now
An hour ago I was standing in the parking lot of Vertical World climbing gym in beautiful Magnolia Washington. Gorgeous night. I pulled my car up in front of the alley and pulled out a crate of my dog's possessions. Lisa, who kindly agreed to look after the dog in my absence, was holding the dog. So at the moment in question I had both arms wrapped around the crate and Lisa had both arms wrapped around Hometeam and there was an obvious exchange occurring.
Enter into the scene two men fresh out of the climbing gym. They were heading to their car, which was in no way shape or form effected by the presence or placement of my car. I was telling Lisa something very important about Hometeam's sleeping schedule when I saw that one of the men was giving me The Look.
You know what look I'm talking about. The "I want to say something- but I'm not going to say something- so I'll stare at you with a weird tight smile until you make eye contact and then I'm gonna say something" look.
Seattle, you've got to stop making your faces do that.
Politely, I told Lisa to hold on and then I squared up to the man. "May I help you?"
"No....."
"No?" (Oh why do we bother with this back and forth nonsense?)
Right on cue, he caved. "You're parking in the alley?"
I love the way he said this. As a question. With all the uncertain, mildly amused but losing patience inflection one might use towards a child. "You putting peanut butter in your hair?" "You're tying your shoe laces together?"
It's the nothing less than toxic inflection that says "I don't have the right to stop you, but I like the sound of my own voice and I'm morally superior to you thus it would be in poor taste to remain quiet, plus you annoy me."
When I was 10 years old I was a little league pitcher and I took a baseball straight off the bat and right into my forehead. Didn't even sway. I suffered a concussion in the fifth grade potato sack race- slammed my face into the gymnasium wall, won first place- didn't even cry. First grade, both front teeth knocked out simultaneously by someone's thumb, didn't bat an eye. I could go on. Point being, I can take a hit.
But I do not care for being talked to like a little kid.
I do not care for it at all.
Poor Lisa. Lisa is smart and quick, but she's also calm and even tempered. Had it been her car, she probably would have shot the man a 24 kilowat smile and diffused the growing unrest with a, "Oh so it would seem, but I'm just dropping off a few things. You know."
Not me. I grew up in the middle of Boston where people honked their horns and double parked and swore out loud and everyone survived. One of my earliest memories of my mom was being in the back seat and watching her swerve around a timid car putzing through the central artery and shouting, "Oh come on JACK! " I love you, Ma, and I swear my voice rose an octave even before I started yelling at dude in the parking lot.
"Yes I'm parked in the alley. I'm parked in the alley for five minutes so I can unload some things are you okay with that?"
Dude pulled himself close to the car. He looked honestly surprised. He kept quiet but he still had a trace of The Look left on his face. And I had to make it go away.
"I said ARE YOU OKAY WITH THAT?"
"Well...." His friend nervously ducked his head into the driver's seat. "Noooo. But okay."
I was in no way satisfied but now Lisa was gently pulling my elbow away, so I capped the incident with my favorite tagline. "Jesus Christ, I hate people."
"Goodness" she said slowly, "It could not have been more obvious that we were loading things. I think you get a parking pass for that."
"That's it!" I told her. "I'm going to New York!"
That's it. I'm going to New York.
Tomorrow.
(I'm flying to New York tomorrow!!)
This story dedicated to my cousin Katherine. May the big, beautiful East Coast bitch stay alive and well in all of us.
The water was running
Something strange happened last night. Here is what happened.
Every night before bed I clean up my room.
(I have to stop myself right there. I get in bed between 2 and 2:30 each night. So it's not night at all, it's early early morning. I have to stop pretending it's night and I have to stop pretending it's a normal time to go to sleep.)
Every early morning before bed I clean up my room.
I have a beautiful room. It's an absolutely gorgeous room. Every time we've had a party at our house it's ended up in my room.
(We have had exactly one party in our house. It ended up in my room.)
Putting things away is a ritual of mine. The room is glowing and clean when I finally climb into bed. It calms me down. I've also stopped losing so many important things and documents since I began this habit.
So I climbed into bed with the dog next to me, and together we watched an episode of Saturday Night Live, as per usual. There was total silence when I turned off the computer, that golden perk of living inside of a pea patch instead of on a normal street. Everything was still and quiet and, amazingly, I fell into a light, warm sleep almost immediately.
What's amazing about that is this. I usually take many long hours to sleep.
(If you've been doing the math, you've figured out that I fall asleep around 5am. Which explains why I wake up at the average hour of 1:30 in the afternoon, and why I only work the late shift. It's no way to live but I absolutely cannot get over my love for the night when nobody is bothering me and I can write and watch television and write.)
As I mentioned it was a light sleep, not even a total sleep. I still had the slightest pull over my thoughts. By and by I became aware that I had to go to the bathroom. I did what we all do and tried to ignore it, but that never works.
(When I was being treated at Bastyr Naturopathic Clinic the summer after my life went to shit, I learned that the number one reason people attend Bastyr was for night time urination. I still find this hard to believe.)
The term for night time urination is Nocturia.
Finally I forced my eyes to open fully, and with the shuffle of resignation made my way to the bathroom. As soon as I walked in I heard a loud noise. For a split second I thought it was raining heavily. Then I saw that the water was running in the bath.
I reflexively reached to turn it off and felt the water was cold. It was the hot water spigot that had been turned on so it must have been running for a long time. Had the drain not been pulled, the whole bathroom would have been flooding.
I relieved myself very uneasily. Then I went back to bed and tried to understand how I could have made such an error.
That didn't make sense either. There's no reason why anyone would have come into my room after 2am, turned on the water, disturbed nothing else, and left.
I lay back down and tried to get the dog to come lie next to me, but she was fast asleep at the foot of the bed. I couldn't sleep. If it had been after 4am I would have just gotten up and started the day, and it certainly could have been after 4am. But I made the decision not to look at the clock. I have my reasons for that.
I fell asleep eventually.
(This is a miracle.)
Except that I've never, ever sleep walked before. And I had barely been asleep at all that night. Just a light sleep. I've told you this multiple times before.
I'm not sure what this all means but I have some absolutely terrible ideas.
This post brought to you by Giro Snow Helmets.
Damn it, Melina! (Episode 1)
And now a new section I like to call Damn it, Melina!
A few days ago I met Lisa at Vertical World, the climbing gym where she works. I was greeted by a handsome man at the desk who gave me some papers to fill out. It was late- Lisa and I like to climb after hours when we have the whole place to ourselves- so the gym was nearly empty.
The man was named Andy. He was friendly and funny and ruggedly bearded, the type that sparks my interest. And let's just say that my interest hasn't been sparked in a long time. About three times a week I enjoy a lovely dream wherein I perform household chores for Bill Hader, and so far that's been more than sustaining me on the romantic front.
As Lisa and I were putting on our shoes she told me a little about Andy, who she climbs with regularly. "He's got a background in theater." She said. "And in Opera. He was in a men's chorus." Now I'm sure you don't feel the same but I absolutely love a show man. Absolutely love. I felt a warmth creep up my spine.
Lisa got up to choose a climb and low and behold, Andy came over and sat down in her place. So I flashed him the 'Yeah, you're feeling it, aren't you, am I feeling it too? You'll just have to find out' Smile. You know the one.
"Are you on OKcupid?" He asked.
A left turn, sure, but I kept my composure. "Why yes."
He slapped his knee. "That's how I recognize you! I think I sent you a few messages. But you never replied."
Well this could go the awkward route or the fantastic route! After all, he's into me, and I never wrote back, which makes me elusive. It makes me the stunningly wild animal and he the determined hunter.
Of course with the reply that I inexplicably chose, the situation went the Awkward route.
"Well, I- I just stopped answering all messages. I haven't messaged someone back since, well, since this one guy really thought I was a midget." (Damn it, Melina.)
He laughed. "Sure, sure."
"I mean, it's tough out there!" I don't remember his reply except that he agreed, but in a very mediocre way that caused me to get slightly defensive. "I mean, did you have any success?
"I sure did!" he said, hoisting himself up. "I've been dating someone happily now for about four months that I met on OKcupid." And then he flashed me this 'Isn't life full of wonderful surprises?' smile that made my soul curl up a little bit.
Damn it, Melina.
Soulpancake is on Oprah!
I am so supremely excited to announce that Soulpancake has gone Oprah! We have a spot on the OWN Network's super Soul Sunday ever Sunday morning.
I think announcing that one of my projects is on the Oprah network needs no further intro. Check out the first episode here, it's only minutes long. Also, check out Soulpancake's new look, or get a glimpse of one of my most recent prompts.
I think announcing that one of my projects is on the Oprah network needs no further intro. Check out the first episode here, it's only minutes long. Also, check out Soulpancake's new look, or get a glimpse of one of my most recent prompts.
Classic Adventure Story
Are you craving a classic outdoor adventure, the likes of which you used to enjoy weekly on The Wilder Coast? Well look no further than this post. We just wrapped up an old fashioned epic in sunny Index, Washington. This weekend had everything- missing teeth, boys, kimchi, the bible, yurts- just some friends from my WFR class getting together for some trad climbing and general raising hell.
I wonder what people who actually raise hell think about people like me using that phrase. You know, people who go out and drink and fight and then end the evening by burning down a courthouse. And then I'm like Oh yeah, we got into someone's hot tub! Whose hot tub was it? WHO KNOWS! Raise the roof! But now I'm just giving away the story.
To start at the beginning, we spent a wonderful afternoon climbing very long, tall routes. We had to tie two 60m ropes together to make it work, which is safer than it sounds. Index is all trad climbing, and for those of you who don't understand what that means, I will break it down for you. Trad climbing, as opposed to sport climbing, is scarier and more expensive and the people involved are a bit more gaunt. But, it does enable you to climb some incredible cracks. The cracks in Index are all classics, world class stuff. I loved it! Now I'm addicted to crack! ha ha no really, everybody who climbs, it's time we stop using that joke. That joke has been done a lot. We're all getting tired of pretending to laugh at it.
Chris was the only one amongst us who climbs trad so he did all the leading. Chris is a climbing ranger on Rainier, a friend from WFR, and the unsung hero of my piece The Over-Brewed Bro, which he said he found 'Funny' and 'Just a little insulting' and 'Did you have to use that picture' and then after a few days, 'Nah, it's fine.' We love you, Chris!
As a sport climber, I'm used to big faces with a bunch of tedious crimpers. Your fingers and toes do all the work and all the flesh between them is just dead weight. Face climbing makes me feel like a fatty. Crack, on the other hand, is a full body adventure. First you dip yourself as deep as possible into your chalk bag, then you jam all your limbs into the crack and wrestle your way up and I'm not kidding, that's how it's done. Crack climbing celebrates The Whole Woman.
We climbed until sunset and then coiled our ropes and returned to our little camp next to the beautiful Skykomish river- the river where I learned to paddle. Incidentally I call all rivers I've ever run "The river where I learned to paddle" because one never stops learning, am I right? The one exception of course being the Rio Claro, which is the river that made me go bat shit insane, temporarily.
Lisa and I went down to the Sky to unwind and play with the dog. There we found a boy sitting alone on the bank drinking a PBR, smoking pot and leafing through his bible. All our splashing and being-girls-ness caught his attention and he introduced himself. His name was Nathan, he spoke with a strong Chatanooga drawl and he had that frightening friendliness of the deep South that makes the brains of Northerners short-circuit.
"Interesting combination of things you got going there, Nathan," I said, gesturing towards the paraphernalia in his lap. Maybe it was rude but I couldn't help but point out his recreational drug use, combined with beer and marijuana. Nathan raised his PBR can towards the heavens. "You know, Jesus, he's my friend, and I talk to him like my friend. And I hang out with my friends I like to drink beer and smoke pot."
Nathan had a few bros kicking around and we invited them over to our corner for dinner. Chris and his friends cooked up a great meal out of Chris's dumpster diving finds. Something with Kimchi and noodles and oil in excess, it was really good. As we ate, someone said "Well if you're going to get your meals out of a dumpster you might as well eat the fermented stuff," and we all nodded appreciatively. Paul, who has children, quietly ate a block of cheese and nothing else. Then Jeff made us all Gin and Tonics with slices of lime out of the back of his truck and Lisa and I made a roaring fire.
Lucky for us it was a legitimate, working hot tub, steaming away in the back yard of somebody's lovely home. All of the boys pulled off their clothes and hopped in the tub- everyone except Nathan, who stripped down to his boxer briefs and climbed in cautiously saying, "Y'all, I'm cool with y'all bein' naked but I'm gonna leave my unders on. I think it's a cultural thing."
Since you're wondering, Lisa and I stayed put in our Patagonia bikinis. You just don't pay that much money for a bikini only to whip it off in front of company. As we soaked, the expression on the boys' faces said if they'd known we were going to stay clothed, they would have probably kept their trunks on because now it felt weird. I can recognize that look from a mile away.
We stayed in that hot tub for about an hour and told another round of stories. To relieve ourselves from the steam we'd jump into a cold outdoor shower. Then we'd see the boys naked in total silhouette, and forgive me if I'm wrong but what boy wouldn't want to be seen naked at night in an extremely cold shower? A win win for all.
There were about eight of us in the hot tub and Lisa and I were the only gals. Lisa kept having to move around and sit in different places because someone was playing footsy with her under the bubbles.
After a while we all exited the hot tub and wrapped ourselves in towels. By now it was early in the morning, and we lounged around in whoever's house it was. I put on my Carharts and my black Regulatory 1 full zip jacket and found a nice corner of the couch. Let me tell you something about those Carharts- you don't fuck around in them. They're big and shapeless and they zip up at my waist- my actual waist, not my hips where pants should live. I look like a lady who owns an all women's painting company, if you know what I'm getting out. There is no flirting or flitting around, no head-tipped back laughing while putting my hand on the guy's chest because you're so funny- not when the Carharts come on. I where them when I want to say, "Sorry bros, you're out of luck." And if ever there was a time to stress that message, it's when you're fresh out of the hot tub in a stranger's house with five boys who are still getting over the disappointment that you and your best friend didn't take your swim tops off.
Lisa on the other hand was just shimmying all over the place. She and Abe made some gyozas from out of the freezer and apparently the process of frying them, and the subsequent adding of the hot sauce, was just too hilarious.
Around 2am Abe announced that he knew of this Yurt across town which might be cool to check out. The town of Index is about 3 city blocks so it doesn't take much to go across town. I wondered how someone who lives out of a van had so many houses at his disposal, but I didn't say anything because I wanted to check out the yurt.
The yurt was worth any pain that subsequently occurred inside the yurt. It was built on top of a long hill full of slippery, winding stairs, and all the trees were draped in colored Christmas lights that were turned on, as if someone was expecting us. Abe promised there would be sheets and blankets and pillows at the Yurt, but I know never to trust a man when he promises you bedclothes. I've been burned before. So I grabbed my sleeping bag and my pillow from the car and when we get up there guess what- no bedclothes. Not even a plush throw or a knit Afghan. So when we finally call it a night, I'm sharing my sleeping bag and pillow with Chris on the top of a rickety bunk with a terrifying ladder.
At least our close quarters yielded a really nice talk. We were very warm and talked quietly to each other. Our talk went something like this:
Chris: Will you turn your headphones down?
Me: Sorry.
------
Chris: Listen you gotta turn it down even more
Me: I'm listening to The Lonely Island- so funny- ever heard of them?
Chris: I'm going to go sleep in your car.
Me: You can't. You can't put the seat back, there's an entertainment set in the back
Chris: What?
Me: An entertainment set. A piece of furniture a TV is meant to go on.
Chris: Then could you just turn your music off? It's 3am, I want to go to sleep.
Me: I can't get to sleep without it. I'm a terrible sleeper.
And so on. I loved it. I live for cozy late night talks with friends under one sleeping bag in somebody else's yurt after a night of raising hell.
That's just what I love about climbing, is all the randos. And the crack. Wonk wonk wonk.
Thank you to everyone who entered the Patagonia giveaway. It was nice to read about all the nice places out there that seem really nice. Nice work. Stay tuned for the next giveaway coming up soon. Congratulations to our winner, chosen by random number generator:
Photohyrdaulicturbine Although I live in Seattle, fall is one of the best seasons to head for the east side of the Cascades as the storms don't quite have the umph to fully saturate your weekend plans. I love land of larches, the rocky alpine regions, such as the Enchantment lakes. This past weekend while running through this beautiful string of lakes surrounded by precipitous granite and small alpine glaciers, I found myself fascinated by the small larches precariously perched on Dragontail's cliffs, imagining the small bird that carried seed many years ago that somehow managed to survive in this beautiful, but harsh landscape. Now these few dispersed trees are bright yellow--their final hurrah before winter's ferocity returns.
I hope you wear this hat on your next adventure to the Enchantments. Take a picture and we'll post it here.
Email me your info at Melina (dot) Coogan (@) gmail (dot) com. Spambots need not respond.
Visitor
Hey, happy Monday everyone. I hope you're taking a coffee break at work with your feet up at your desk and you plan to read this blog top to bottom. Today's post is going to be short and sweet- I'm writing a fun piece right now that I'm excited to debut on The Wilder Coast...when it's ready. For now, enjoy this little guy and check out the sweet Patagonia giveaway at the end.
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Last year around this time I was sitting over at Top Pot donuts in Wedgewood filling out applications for exciting jobs that didn't exist. (Thanks for nothing, Craigslist.) I looked out the window and there was Colleen, this girl I grew up with in Vermont, just standing there outside the donut shop in this small neighborhood in North Seattle.
Colleen has been a good friend since middle school, when we affectionately called her The Muffin because of her adorable hair cut. To be fair, I wore stirruped stretch pants back then. Things have changed though, Colleen doesn't resemble a muffin anymore and my stretch pants don't have stirrups. (My skinny jeans do though!)
I was surprised to see her because she lives in Portland Maine, I had no idea she was visiting, and Wedgewood is most definitely not a destination neighborhood. Nobody says, "Seattle? You've just GOT to visit Wedgewood above 75th, they've got everything up there. " Colleen was equally surprised when I suddenly appeared outside the donut place, hobbling towards her in the parking lot in these ridiculous high healed boots my mom made me buy that I've never worn since. Colleen thought I still lived in Chile.
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| I had my camera with me that day. |
It's pretty great to have a visitor. She's thinking very seriously about moving here, so I'm taking her around and showing her all the best parts. It's like those first few weeks of dating when you can tell all your good stories for the first time, and wear all your cute outfits for the first time, and he doesn't have to find out right away that you can't sleep without your dog and a fun Friday night means reading alone in the bath. Colleen will find out about the dreary weather and the passive aggression soon enough, but right now, we're in the honeymoon phase. Seattle is all public markets, alternative book stores, huge parks, bungalows and trees.
Here are Colleen's super hip hipstamatic shots from her phone. Does it bug me that people can take cooler photos on their phone than I can with my expensive camera and photo editing software? Shit yeah it does. But here they are anyway. As you can see, my city knows how to deliver.
Here are Colleen's photos with a few of Lisa's in there as well:
The truth is, even nine years into this relationship (with a two year trial separation), I'm still in love with this place.
Speaking of being in love, Colleen joined the club. She got the state outline of Vermont tattooed on her foot while I waited in the front of the tattoo place and took hipstamatic shots of my painted fingernails. She added Shasta daisies, her favorite flower, as a personal touch. Our friend So has the VT state as well, with a giant cheese knife across it.
With that said, here's the giveaway. And if you just scrolled down and jumped right to this part, you'll never win because there are secrets sprinkled into the story above.
Here it is: I want to know where you live, and what you love about it right now. It's fall, my favorite season, and if my weird, rainy town is delivering I bet yours is too. A randomly selected commenter will get a brand new Patagonia Lined Beanie, worth 35$. I love Patagonia, it's a great and ethical company and their clothes last forever. I thought this hat was seasonally appropriate, with a cute design you could wear with a fitted coat (lady) or a burly fleece vest (man of my dreams.) It's lined so it will keep you really warm.
You readers have been incredibly supportive lately, so thank you. Thanks for all the comments, all the link sharing, and all the cheering at the Film Festival. I've got a line up of cool things to give away in the next few weeks.
Live from the Egyptian Theater
I just spoke with the Seattle organizer of the Reel Rock Film Festival, Natalie, who tells me that tonight's event is OVERSOLD. That means I'll be presenting to over 600 people. And some of them won't have chairs and they will be angry.
We at The Wilder Coast (aka Me at The Wilder Coast) are very excited about this. It would behoove one to arrive early, should one want a seat.
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| looks whose eyes are back to the living again! |
The Artist
Steve Jobs passed away yesterday. I was working at Seattle Boulder Project when a man who had been climbing with his kids wandered up to me and said, "My brother in law just wrote me that Steve Jobs died." His tone was flat, slightly shell shocked in the something big just happened I need to go tell the nearest person so I'm not alone in this kind of way. Today I read a gorgeous quote by Steve Jobs that I found on Mindy Kaling's site, and I knew immediately that I wanted to repost it.
One of my role models is Bob Dylan. As I grew up, I learned the lyrics to all his songs and watched him never stand still. If you look at the artists, if they get really good, it always occurs to them at some point that they can do this one thing for the rest of their lives, and they can be really successful to the outside world but not really be successful to themselves. That’s the moment that an artist really decides who he or she is. If they keep on risking failure, they’re still artists. Dylan and Picasso were always risking failure. This Apple thing is that way for me. I don’t want to fail, of course. But even though I didn’t know how bad things really were, I still had a lot to think about before I said yes. I had to consider the implications for Pixar, for my family, for my reputation. I decided that I didn’t really care, because this is what I want to do. If I try my best and fail, well, I’ve tried my best.Thank you Steve Jobs, and rest in peace.
—CNNMoney/Fortune, November 9, 1998
Squirrel Shirt
Local news anchors barely feign enthusiasm for Squirrel T-shirt incentive gift during pledge drive.
Rest of day follows suit.
Those are my headlines for this Tuesday. At 7:30am I woke up and could not fall back asleep. I decided to make a go out of it, so I went to my desk, opened my computer and drank some black tea. It would have been coffee, but we're reigning in the budget. After about an hour of sitting there tapping my fingers against my knees, I realized there was no reason to be awake. No reason at all that I could think of. So I returned to my bed, pulled the blue sheets around me and looked up at the ceiling fan.
After a while, it appeared there was no reason to be there, either.
So I thought of the thing I wanted to do least in the whole world. Sometimes when inspiration is lacking, the best bet is to prove yourself right. Get up, get out there, and do the tedious stuff like arguing with health insurance or trying to convince a doctor that you really do need a refill of sleeping pills. Or anything involving the post office. That way, if you're feeling shitty about your self and the world, at least you'll feel validated. And, when you feel better the next day or maybe next week, you won't have to ruin a perfectly nice day.
So I went to the tire store and got my front tire patched. I waited there for two hours and ate an inappropriate amount of free popcorn. I caught up on Kate Gosselin and Casey Anthony and then I really felt depressed. On the way home it started raining. Then I turned on the radio and heard the two newscasters trying to entice listeners to donate by describing the free Squirrel T-shirt gift. But their hearts were not into it. One of them said, "Give over 100 dollars and you'll get this free squirrel T-shirt." The other said, "Not everyone knows what a squirrel T-shirt is." And the first one replied, "It's a T-shirt with a squirrel logo. I'm not sure why that's our logo but it is."
"Dang," I thought as I took a left at the restaurant that served me E.Coli and pulled onto my street, "Nobody can get it up for this day."
Now, back at my desk, I keep looking towards the bathroom, waiting for the inevitable to occur. In a few minutes, mark my words, I'm going to get up and run a bath. Then I will sit in the bath and dissolve into a human gel, and maybe tomorrow I'll reconstitute and feel a little better. Maybe I'll sell a story to a magazine, get a hundred bucks up front and donate it to 94.9 KUOW and get a rodent shirt. I mean who knows, maybe it's nice.
*****************************
ADDENDUM! This note is being added AFTER I hit publish. I never do this BUT just as I was drawing the bathwater I opened a letter from my insurance telling me they were discontinuing my health insurance. Not just my insurance but anybody with Premera Heritage Preferred Plus 30. The letter ends with this mocking little lie: We appreciate the opportunity to serve your healthcare needs.
I'm sorry Premera but WORDS HAVE MEANING. You don't just write whatever sounds good. You just took away my insurance, why not just end it with a, "Blow off, loser!"
I'm sorry but DID I NOT CALL THAT. I refer to lines 10-11 in the above post. This day sucks. I'm going to go into the bath and dissolve now.
Taking it up a level
I wrote this for Trailsedge and then quickly decided it was the best thing I've ever written. It's not. But- it was so much fun to write I had to share it here on my blog. Technically it's "The Ten Levels of Rock Climbing", but I like to think it's much broader than that. I call it "The Ten Levels of Whatever You are Involved in at the Moment." So next time you hear someone talking about themselves all obnoxious, saying they're "taking it up a notch" or "going to the next level", put a copy of this on their desk. Consider it a road map. You are so helpful and thoughtful.
I work in a climbing gym, and every day I overhear some dude telling his buddies that he’s taking his climbing “to the next level.” It’s lead me to wonder- just how many levels are there?
Level One
At the first level, you harbor a terrible secret. Ninety two percent of the time you’re climbing you’d rather be at a water park, but you can’t afford it! So pack some butter horns and a full bottle of Jergins Skin Lotion- you’re going cragging. Take one last look at the kitty poster in your dining room- Hang in there! You’re gonna need to remember that when you’re twenty feet high on top rope. But don’t get too scared, your back-up belayer is back up belayed.
Level Two
When faced with a committed move, channel your totem spirit: the otter. Sleek, cute, paw-holding, Internet sensation otter. Due to an extreme cotton allergy, you never wear a T-shirt and you drive a compact, hybrid, American-made bicycle. (Your “other” car is a Toyoda Highlander.) You celebrate another flashed 5.9 by shouting at the top of your lungs “Ladies and Gentlemen….TAYLOR SWIFT!”
Level Three
You’re still mourning the death of pop King Michael Jackson and you don’t have a job, which means any day is a good day to climb. Bring along some matchsticks and gasoline as a snack and get psyched up with a good head to toe screaming fit. Your frequent and uncomfortable references about ‘deflowering’ the rock is decreasing your popularity by the day. Pay close attention to the lunar cycle because at a full moon you grow talons and wings.
Level Four
You’ve replaced your hands with custom-made iron and leather appendages. Every time you take a whipper, you loudly declare the moon landing to be a farce. You love bikinis, star charts and pie.
Level Five
At the fifth level, every rumor ever said about you instantly becomes true. Your closest friends are ghosts. You frequently appear in public wearing a parrot on your shoulder- not be confused with your totem spirit, which is an over-sized, long extinct mammal. You sleep comfortably each night in the back of your truck on a bed of smashed glass and floor wax. Bruce Springsteen really is your boss. Like, actually your boss.
Level Six Your typical expedition is a fifteen year orbit around the sun. Your friends just can’t keep track of you! Your sweat is 85% kombucha, you wear a headband, and you love to rap about famous Spaniards. To celebrate a tough day of crushing, you make wide loops around base camp and tell all the lady climbers that you “like to mate after battle.”
Level Seven You’re a serious climber, but you still have an appetite for fun. On summer days, you enjoy taking an afternoon voodoo break and chugging some margarita mix. Your favorite climbing partners are the parents of the balloon boy, and you’ve been struck by lightning thirteen times.
Level Eight
You make smarmy references that people battling depression “should just spend more time outside.” Also, you enjoy yoga.
Warlock. You don’t climb, you mangle. You collect hospital ID bracelets, which is a lot weirder than it sounds seeing as you yourself have never been to the hospital. Although you speak sixteen languages, you haven’t spoken to another human since you moved to Moab four years ago. You’re a purist free-soloer and Chris Sharma once valet parked your car just for the thrill of it. Your totem spirit is an owl-robot hybrid that will evolve in the year 2976.
The Ten Levels of Whatever You are Involved in at the Moment
I work in a climbing gym, and every day I overhear some dude telling his buddies that he’s taking his climbing “to the next level.” It’s lead me to wonder- just how many levels are there?Level One
At the first level, you harbor a terrible secret. Ninety two percent of the time you’re climbing you’d rather be at a water park, but you can’t afford it! So pack some butter horns and a full bottle of Jergins Skin Lotion- you’re going cragging. Take one last look at the kitty poster in your dining room- Hang in there! You’re gonna need to remember that when you’re twenty feet high on top rope. But don’t get too scared, your back-up belayer is back up belayed.Level Two
When faced with a committed move, channel your totem spirit: the otter. Sleek, cute, paw-holding, Internet sensation otter. Due to an extreme cotton allergy, you never wear a T-shirt and you drive a compact, hybrid, American-made bicycle. (Your “other” car is a Toyoda Highlander.) You celebrate another flashed 5.9 by shouting at the top of your lungs “Ladies and Gentlemen….TAYLOR SWIFT!”Level Three
You’re still mourning the death of pop King Michael Jackson and you don’t have a job, which means any day is a good day to climb. Bring along some matchsticks and gasoline as a snack and get psyched up with a good head to toe screaming fit. Your frequent and uncomfortable references about ‘deflowering’ the rock is decreasing your popularity by the day. Pay close attention to the lunar cycle because at a full moon you grow talons and wings. Level Four
You’ve replaced your hands with custom-made iron and leather appendages. Every time you take a whipper, you loudly declare the moon landing to be a farce. You love bikinis, star charts and pie.
Level Five
At the fifth level, every rumor ever said about you instantly becomes true. Your closest friends are ghosts. You frequently appear in public wearing a parrot on your shoulder- not be confused with your totem spirit, which is an over-sized, long extinct mammal. You sleep comfortably each night in the back of your truck on a bed of smashed glass and floor wax. Bruce Springsteen really is your boss. Like, actually your boss.
Level Six Your typical expedition is a fifteen year orbit around the sun. Your friends just can’t keep track of you! Your sweat is 85% kombucha, you wear a headband, and you love to rap about famous Spaniards. To celebrate a tough day of crushing, you make wide loops around base camp and tell all the lady climbers that you “like to mate after battle.” Level Seven You’re a serious climber, but you still have an appetite for fun. On summer days, you enjoy taking an afternoon voodoo break and chugging some margarita mix. Your favorite climbing partners are the parents of the balloon boy, and you’ve been struck by lightning thirteen times.
Level Eight
You make smarmy references that people battling depression “should just spend more time outside.” Also, you enjoy yoga.
Level Nine
Warlock. You don’t climb, you mangle. You collect hospital ID bracelets, which is a lot weirder than it sounds seeing as you yourself have never been to the hospital. Although you speak sixteen languages, you haven’t spoken to another human since you moved to Moab four years ago. You’re a purist free-soloer and Chris Sharma once valet parked your car just for the thrill of it. Your totem spirit is an owl-robot hybrid that will evolve in the year 2976. Level Ten
From a “strictly medical” standpoint, you’re dead.
(Bonus Level: The level in which one owns these Ariat Rodeobaby boots. So kicky and fun. That would be the best level EVER.)
(Bonus Level: The level in which one owns these Ariat Rodeobaby boots. So kicky and fun. That would be the best level EVER.)
And another thing
Three weeks ago, I posted this video clip from NBC news. It shows my hometown of Woodstock, Vermont pulling together after the hurricane.
I pointed out that the community leader at the very beginning of the clip was my high school English teacher, Dr. Halle.
Hasse Halle was an absolute pillar of our town. After retiring from the high school where she chaired the English department, she opened a community oriented bookstore in the village that sold local authors and books about New England history and heritage. Whenever I went home I'd go into the shop and usually find her behind the counter, talking with another one of my English teachers, Joyce Roof. Together they'd faun over me, and ask me about my writing, and ask about my sister's music career. They both seemed so proud every time my friends and I came back home.
For my best friend So, formerly Sophia, who has wrestled her whole life with gender and identity issues, issues that so many small towns do not have the tolerance to deal with, Dr.Halle provided encouragement and understanding. Our town was different. We didn't even know how lucky we were, growing up in a place defined by the supportive, open-minded adults around us.
At the end of the news clip, Dr. Halle says these words to the whole community gathered on the green: "The worst is behind us, and the best is in front of us, because we have each other."
Dr. Halle loved our town. Our town which is so special, our town that we all need so much.
On Saturday, she was hit and killed by a truck while walking on the Rt. 4 bridge.
I think things change too quickly. You just can't hold on tight enough.
I pointed out that the community leader at the very beginning of the clip was my high school English teacher, Dr. Halle.
Hasse Halle was an absolute pillar of our town. After retiring from the high school where she chaired the English department, she opened a community oriented bookstore in the village that sold local authors and books about New England history and heritage. Whenever I went home I'd go into the shop and usually find her behind the counter, talking with another one of my English teachers, Joyce Roof. Together they'd faun over me, and ask me about my writing, and ask about my sister's music career. They both seemed so proud every time my friends and I came back home.
For my best friend So, formerly Sophia, who has wrestled her whole life with gender and identity issues, issues that so many small towns do not have the tolerance to deal with, Dr.Halle provided encouragement and understanding. Our town was different. We didn't even know how lucky we were, growing up in a place defined by the supportive, open-minded adults around us.
At the end of the news clip, Dr. Halle says these words to the whole community gathered on the green: "The worst is behind us, and the best is in front of us, because we have each other."
Dr. Halle loved our town. Our town which is so special, our town that we all need so much.
On Saturday, she was hit and killed by a truck while walking on the Rt. 4 bridge.
I think things change too quickly. You just can't hold on tight enough.
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Reel Rock Film Festival
This Thursday, the Egyptian Theater in Seattle's Capitol Hill at 7pm: The Reel Rock Film Festival.
Get your tickets at 2nd Ascent in Ballard, Feathered Friends downtown or The North Face. (Vertical world is sold out.)
This will sell out! So buy your tickets now. I saw the movies- they are...well...part insanity, and part genius.
It's going to be a fantastic night. For more information click here.
Photo Book: Early Afternoons
There's no fancy way to say this. I've tried. For about two days I've sat at my desk trying to figure out how to word it in a way that won't make me hate myself.
I give up.
So here it is.
Everything is good.
So good.
Take, for example, certain early afternoons in Ballard. I take Hometeam to Discovery Park. She runs through tall grass and swims in the Sound while I collect sea glass and listen to The Lonely Island on my Ipod.
.
On other days, we'll climb at the World Wall instead.
And I know I'm killing my friends in Rhode Island when I say that the climbing is so good right here....and it's only 40 minutes away.
As you can see, it's very nice out in the West Coast. Beautiful fall day after beautiful fall day.
I'm very happy. It's horrifying.
My Live Journal
Kelle wrote a book. She wrote a book! It's going to hit the shelves April 3, 2012, and judging from the enormous (think TV appearances and millions of hits) popularity of her blog Enjoying the Small Things, I predict this book will make the national best seller list fairly quickly.
Kelle is a professional photographer raising two girls in Naples, Florida. Her Blog has all the rich, soothing qualities of a perfectly made cappuccino. The writing is energizing, it's fun, and it's capped by these deep, velvety images of a very colorful, very pretty everyday life. Just like coffee, it's best to enjoy it first thing in the morning, then for a few hours afterward you walk around with this feeling like, Okay, another day, this could be alright, let's give it a go.
Which is way better than those days when you wake up around 11am and go What? It's no longer night time? No. No I don't want to.
Anyway, I cannot wait to stand in the aisle of Barnes and Noble, hold the book over my head and announce to all the other mid-day shoppers, "This is my Friend. This is my friend Kelle and I know her. No big deal but she wrote this book." It will be the literary equivalent of me watching kayak films while bouncing up and down on a friend's couch saying "I know that guy! I know that guy! I know that guy too!" Which is something I never do.
Something spectacular about Kelle: she responds to emails. That sounds like a little thing but it's not. I write her these pestering messages that are like How do you do this? How do you do that? Even as I write them I can picture the words reaching out of the screen and tugging at her pant leg. But she always writes back. For someone raising two kids, writing a blog full time and also writing a book, this is an extremely generous gesture. The image thumbnails on the left bar of this blog are thanks to Kelle, who walked me through them step by step. When I found out she'd written a book I sent her a particularly pesky email with a lot of questions. She responded with a very thorough run-down of the whole process, from writing the thing to finding an agent (in her case, choosing an agent) to the publishers auction.
And here's the most important thing she wrote:
"YOUR BLOG IS SO IMPORTANT. You never know who's reading it, and tomorrow you could have a book deal. Yes, it's your space and you treat it like that, and you do what you love and have to not think about what people think or who's reading it. But, at the same time, you have this dream and you know what you want, so your blog is your place to display what you do."
Your Blog is So Important. I want to make a poster of that and hang it right over my desk. Because sometimes I get really down on the whole thing.
Blogging is weird. I hate the word blog. I really do. Louis CK does a whole stand up bit about terrible words and I really think blog should have been included. It is the low man on the already low-standing totem pole of freelance writing. Blogging has evolved since its humble livejournal routes, it's so evolved, but that doesn't seem to matter. It's still associated with nineteen year old college students writing enormous essays with no paragraph breaks discussing their opinions on breakfast, Moammar Gadhafi, and surfing.
I've tried to reclaim the word the way Eve Ensler tried to reclaim the word Cunt but, like Eve, I just haven't been successful. When someone asks me what I write, I still rock back and forth on my feet, look down at the ground and say, "Well I write a um...a blog?"
Yeah, I do that. I say it like a question. A blog? Will you please validate me? And bear in mind, I'm the same girl who makes this face during sports:
I used to teach high school English at a boarding school, and whenever my girls spoke with that upwards inflection I'd smack them across the face and say "WOMAN UP! WHY YOU SPEAK IN QUESTIONS!"
Probably why I'm no longer a high school teacher.
Granted, these issues are mostly self generated. I'm lucky to live within a very supportive, well insulated little world. I have two parents who are proud of me. I have friends who text me just to say that they laughed out loud while reading a post. Just yesterday I ran into two guys at a cafe, and they both congratulated me very sincerely on the recent success of The Wilder Coast.
What exactly they were referring to, I don't know. I haven't won any awards or had any major breaks recently. But they both said it, totally independently of one another. Both of those dudes work about 80 hours a week and still read my blog. (How exactly do they do that? I work considerably less than 80 hours a week and I still can't get my laundry from the washer into the dryer in less than 48 hours.)
However, even inside this supportive world there will always be the people who, to put it bluntly, suck at being nice. The ones who look me right in the eye and say, "Well that sounds like a total waste of time." And I'm so stupidly agreeable I find myself nodding along with them. "Yeah...you know....it....really is....." Coming from me! The girl capable of making this face while doing a fun activity:
Then there is the other group of people, probably well meaning individuals, who go right for the kisser. "A blog? Cool. Do you make money on it?" Blamo! First question! Cue the feet rocking. Eyes to the ground. "Yeah..?" I say/ask, "...A little?" "Enough to pay the bills?" "Well...No?" "Well what do you do for money then?"
So let me get this straight. You'd rather hear about the janitorial duties and billing policies at a local bouldering gym than three years worth of stories and effort on my weblog? I totally get not giving a shit about what I do or what I write. You're in the vast majority, and that's fine. But you're standing here asking me questions, you are giving me your time, and you're more interested in what I have to do to afford Internet at my house than what I love to do, and plan to do with my entire life?
I could go on about the tremendous importance of building a portfolio, visible platforms, and how online publishing is like the printing press in the way it's revolutionizing the craft. But somehow I feel like that would be lost on these people.
Enough about them. This week I'm honoring the start of my 4th year as a blogger by recognizing the supportive people in my life. People like Kelle Hampton. Kelle, thank you for being an example of what a tangible and important thing a blog can be. I appreciate your guidance, I'm grateful for your generosity, and I applaud your success. I'll see you in the headlines, sister.
(And speaking of Visible Platforms, check out The Wilder Coast Facebook Page and give it a like. Sometimes I tell tiny, two sentence stories that are really magnificent and sadly true.)
Kelle is a professional photographer raising two girls in Naples, Florida. Her Blog has all the rich, soothing qualities of a perfectly made cappuccino. The writing is energizing, it's fun, and it's capped by these deep, velvety images of a very colorful, very pretty everyday life. Just like coffee, it's best to enjoy it first thing in the morning, then for a few hours afterward you walk around with this feeling like, Okay, another day, this could be alright, let's give it a go.
Which is way better than those days when you wake up around 11am and go What? It's no longer night time? No. No I don't want to.
Anyway, I cannot wait to stand in the aisle of Barnes and Noble, hold the book over my head and announce to all the other mid-day shoppers, "This is my Friend. This is my friend Kelle and I know her. No big deal but she wrote this book." It will be the literary equivalent of me watching kayak films while bouncing up and down on a friend's couch saying "I know that guy! I know that guy! I know that guy too!" Which is something I never do.
Something spectacular about Kelle: she responds to emails. That sounds like a little thing but it's not. I write her these pestering messages that are like How do you do this? How do you do that? Even as I write them I can picture the words reaching out of the screen and tugging at her pant leg. But she always writes back. For someone raising two kids, writing a blog full time and also writing a book, this is an extremely generous gesture. The image thumbnails on the left bar of this blog are thanks to Kelle, who walked me through them step by step. When I found out she'd written a book I sent her a particularly pesky email with a lot of questions. She responded with a very thorough run-down of the whole process, from writing the thing to finding an agent (in her case, choosing an agent) to the publishers auction.
And here's the most important thing she wrote:
"YOUR BLOG IS SO IMPORTANT. You never know who's reading it, and tomorrow you could have a book deal. Yes, it's your space and you treat it like that, and you do what you love and have to not think about what people think or who's reading it. But, at the same time, you have this dream and you know what you want, so your blog is your place to display what you do."
Your Blog is So Important. I want to make a poster of that and hang it right over my desk. Because sometimes I get really down on the whole thing.
Blogging is weird. I hate the word blog. I really do. Louis CK does a whole stand up bit about terrible words and I really think blog should have been included. It is the low man on the already low-standing totem pole of freelance writing. Blogging has evolved since its humble livejournal routes, it's so evolved, but that doesn't seem to matter. It's still associated with nineteen year old college students writing enormous essays with no paragraph breaks discussing their opinions on breakfast, Moammar Gadhafi, and surfing.
I've tried to reclaim the word the way Eve Ensler tried to reclaim the word Cunt but, like Eve, I just haven't been successful. When someone asks me what I write, I still rock back and forth on my feet, look down at the ground and say, "Well I write a um...a blog?"
Yeah, I do that. I say it like a question. A blog? Will you please validate me? And bear in mind, I'm the same girl who makes this face during sports:
Probably why I'm no longer a high school teacher.
Granted, these issues are mostly self generated. I'm lucky to live within a very supportive, well insulated little world. I have two parents who are proud of me. I have friends who text me just to say that they laughed out loud while reading a post. Just yesterday I ran into two guys at a cafe, and they both congratulated me very sincerely on the recent success of The Wilder Coast.
What exactly they were referring to, I don't know. I haven't won any awards or had any major breaks recently. But they both said it, totally independently of one another. Both of those dudes work about 80 hours a week and still read my blog. (How exactly do they do that? I work considerably less than 80 hours a week and I still can't get my laundry from the washer into the dryer in less than 48 hours.)
However, even inside this supportive world there will always be the people who, to put it bluntly, suck at being nice. The ones who look me right in the eye and say, "Well that sounds like a total waste of time." And I'm so stupidly agreeable I find myself nodding along with them. "Yeah...you know....it....really is....." Coming from me! The girl capable of making this face while doing a fun activity:
So let me get this straight. You'd rather hear about the janitorial duties and billing policies at a local bouldering gym than three years worth of stories and effort on my weblog? I totally get not giving a shit about what I do or what I write. You're in the vast majority, and that's fine. But you're standing here asking me questions, you are giving me your time, and you're more interested in what I have to do to afford Internet at my house than what I love to do, and plan to do with my entire life?
I could go on about the tremendous importance of building a portfolio, visible platforms, and how online publishing is like the printing press in the way it's revolutionizing the craft. But somehow I feel like that would be lost on these people.
Enough about them. This week I'm honoring the start of my 4th year as a blogger by recognizing the supportive people in my life. People like Kelle Hampton. Kelle, thank you for being an example of what a tangible and important thing a blog can be. I appreciate your guidance, I'm grateful for your generosity, and I applaud your success. I'll see you in the headlines, sister.
(And speaking of Visible Platforms, check out The Wilder Coast Facebook Page and give it a like. Sometimes I tell tiny, two sentence stories that are really magnificent and sadly true.)
The Wilder Coast Turns Three
The Wilder Coast is three years old today! I'm leaving now to celebrate by scrubbing walls at a climbing gym- sort of like the Emmys or the Oscars but with a bigger emphasis on hard labor. Check back tomorrow when we begin a whole week of special programming. Happy third birthday to you for reading!*
* I wonder how many of my friends will email me thinking that last sentence is a typo. It's not.