My modest home in Austin has undergone a few changes, great and small, in the past month. The red and mustard paint was stripped from the living rooms walls, replaced by classy lookin' light blue. We've repainted the hallway and kitchen, though the handles haven't made it back on the drawers yet.
Last weekend we said goodbye to our roommate and house mama Emily, who set sail for Memphis in a budget van with her cat, her fiance, and a bouquet of purple flowers.
We waved her off with a few tears, the dogs looking bewildered with their noses pressed against the screen door, tails wagging.
Emily was one of the first people who Guthrie loved- he held court at her feet during the evening hours when I was at work, and every morning would rush to her side the minute she walked into the dining room for her morning cup of coffee.
This is of particular value to me seeing that he is slow to warm to most everyone- he has a small inner circle of humans that he trusts, the rest falling under the category of "unfamiliar and scary." There is much more I would like to say regarding the challenges my dog and I are facing, but I'll save that for another morning. Suffice to say, I am of the belief that there are times when the universe gives us what we can handle, though we may see it first as misfortune, rather then a chance to grow.
In the weeks leading up to Emily's departure I found myself itching to rearrange my furniture, rid myself of old clothes, and pull those weeds growing wild in the front yard.
We have a lovely garden complete with tomatoes, okra, a fig tree, and 8 foot high sunflowers. There are wooden beds with basil and other herbs, and bermuda grass attempting to reclaim the front yard. It's a bit of mess right now. A beautiful mess, but still one in need of some good old fashioned work.
My thumb isn't green, by the way, so I may be making some trips to the bookstore to buy a few gardening books, and logging numerous long distance calls to my Mom, brilliant gardener that she is. :)
I like the idea that pulling weeds, in a more metaphorical sense, serves many purposes. We need time to cleanse ourselves of scraps and bits of things we no longer need. It's like emptying out our emotional junk drawers. Also, weeding is a necessary part of growing a garden. I don't know what the next big step will be, and instead of forcing it, I can allow the uncertainty to exist, and do my best to be patient while I sit with all these little seeds that aren't quite ready to germinate. We want to skip right to the perfect yard full of gorgeous flowers, but we need the yard full of rocks and weeds, the dry beds, need to go through all the little steps before we are ready to grow a garden.
About a month ago my boyfriend and I went on a road trip to West Texas, to visit Big Bend National Park, and his twin brother who was living in the small town of Alpine. It was a 7 hour drive, on a long flat stretch of highway that seemed to go on forever. We saw wind farms, and decrepit towns, fields of bluebonnets, and plenty of old churches. We stopped for dinner in Junction, Texas, at Lums BBQ, for some rather tasty pulled pork sandwiches. The billboard outside the restaurant read (complete with spelling error), "We're glad your here. You go- we both lose!"
West Texas is sprawling- the area around Alpine is still in a severe drought, and we passed miles of scorched Earth and thirsty cows. The sky was enormous, and once we drove into Big Bend we were rewarded with craggy mountaintops and a gigantic thunderstorm that kept us napping in the truck instead of hiking Santa Elena canyon.
We stopped in the desert town of Terlingua, where we saw photos of a town goat that used to drink people's beer by tilting the bottle down his throat, and old stone houses on steep dirt roads. Some woman tried to give us a puppy, and we saw a handful of locals drinking beer at the corner store, ATV's parked outside, looking like they just stepped out of a Mad Max movie.
We also headed to Balmorhea, a gorgeous natural spring that had been closed that day (we didn't know til we got there) due to an overprotective parent calling the Austin office to complain that his sons had gotten a bad case of the "itchies" from being in the water. We drove through the town itself, which was rather run down, and saw only one resident in his yard, shooting a gun. Go figure.
The highlight of that day of driving was the Rattlesnake Museum, owned by a local character who has been collecting poisonous snakes and reptiles for over thirty years. It cost 3 bucks to get into the museum, and yes, the snakes were all alive, inside their aquariums. Steven thought it was awesome, and I spent the better part of the visit talking to the owner about how all the Yankees are moving into Austin.
Our last stop was Marfa, home of the fabulous Marfa Public radio station, if you get a chance to listen. Marfa has become a haven for Brooklynites, artists, and hipsters galore. Strange to go into a pizza place run by New Yorker's in the middle of nowhere. It was a strange dichotomy, poor and mostly Mexican, with some fixed gear bike riders and installation art galleries dotting the landscape.
All in all, a memorable and much needed respite from life in the big city. The weather is starting to heat up, though we have had some unusually cool nights that are just stunning out here in the Hill Country. There are no visitors on the horizon, no big trips planned for the next month, just lots of time to do some reflecting and keep up with various projects. In short, time to put on those gardening gloves, and get to work.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
"Riding a horse by itself is hard enough."
30 years ago, my sweet red haired Mama and my dark haired Pa brought their first of three daughters into the world. They pulled my hair up into a pink bow on top of my head in my very first photo. I used to fit perfectly on my Papa's arm, head cradled in his hand, feet resting by his elbow.
I was the first grandchild on both sides of my family- after my greek Grandma passed I found a letter she had written me when I graduated college- she said that she had always loved babies, and that she remembered carrying me around when I was born, and how special I was to her.
Funny to imagine myself as a little peanut, sleeping away the days in the house in Seattle where my parents still live today. The backyard was the most magical place, full of tall grass and a large cottonwood tree, a garden to play in and two sisters to keep me company. I remember disliking Kindergarten, (which I only went to for half a day.) I was much more interested in eating slices of apple and cubes of cheese and lining up my stuffed animals on the bed so I could talk to them (mostly dogs and bears.)
My parents had chickens when I was an infant, in a coop behind the house. Apparently my father was tasked with picking out the brood- and when he returned with a box full of chicks he exclaimed proudly, "don't worry Karen, I kept all the big ones." He was a well meaning man from Brooklyn, but they ended up with a flock of roosters. Mom says it was a little crazy, their first baby and all those damn roosters running around, and a cat that could literally jump off the walls (which they named Kareem after Kareem Abdul Jabbar.) Needles to say, the roosters met with their bloody fate, and they had a big chicken dinner one night.
I could bore you for hours with tales of my upbringing- summer trips to Virginia, fishing on the pond and the old house on Oxford Road, sweltering nights at the apartment in Carnarise, where Bubby made turkey dinner and noodle pudding. I'll save the lengthier version for the book I'll write someday.
In essence, three decades passed, rife with the trials and tribulations of schooling and the arts, the formation of enduring friendships, naive and tender attempts at love, and the travels in-between.
I was looking through some pictures today, of the California coastline on summer road trips, portraits of friends that I've known since we were teenagers, photos of meals that I loved, old houses that I lived in during my twenties in Seattle.
I talked on the phone with my friend Carolina, who just kept repeating, "We're thirty. Lindsey, we're THIRTY!" Once, for a laugh, she climbed inside her duvet cover when we lived in the dorms, then ran around the room.
The other day I spoke with my Uncle Bill, who sent me the fabulous book of essays. "Pulphead," by John Jeremiah Sullivan, and had this to say about growing up.
"Basically in life you come, and you go, and the rest is what we have in between. We don't remember the coming, and none of us knows we we will go. The best thing to do is enjoy your life in the present."
This is echoed by Henry Miller, who wrote this at the beginning of his essay "On Turning Eighty," in the book Sextet.
"If at eighty you're not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and should get down on your hands and knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin' and keepin' power.
If you are young in years but already weary in spirit, already on your way to becoming an automaton, it may do you good to say to your boss- under your breath, of course- 'fuck you, Jack! You don't own me.' If you can whistle up your ass, if you can be turned on by a fetching bottom or a lovely pair of teats, if you can fall in love again and again, if you can forgive your parents for the crime of bringing you into this world, if you are content to get nowhere, just take each day as it comes, if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical, man you've got it half licked."
The other wonderful quote that I came across this week was in the book Long Quiet Highway, written by Natalie Goldberg, about her journey with writing, and Buddhism.
"Suzuki Roshi once said about questioning our life, our purpose, 'It's like putting a horse on top of a horse and then climbing on it and trying to ride. Riding a horse by itself is hard enough. Why add another horse? Then it's impossible!' We add that extra horse when we constantly question ourselves rather then just live out our lives, and be who we are at every moment."
I find some humor in the fact that while most of my close friends are becoming more educated, I seem to be becoming more under-employed. I am tickled that almost unknowingly, I stumbled into a life I always wanted. I live in sunny house, with a new coat of paint in the living room that left my roommate and I drinking wine and running around the house at 2 am in excitement. I have a dog and a boyfriend, parents and sisters I adore, and dear friends in many corners of the country.
On my birthday last monday, my sisters and I made a stack of sandwiches and headed out to Hamilton Pool with my boyfriend Steven, all crammed in his beloved purple truck. We drank club soda and munched on chips, and spent the afternoon swimming in a gorgeous natural swimming hole about 30 minutes outside of Austin, a dome-like pool with a collapsed ceiling, where you can lie under streams of water that fall from the cliff above. We ate BBQ and pecan pie with ice cream and some Shiner beer for dinner, then finished off the night at my house, with homemade carrot cake and a backyard bonfire, and company of roommates and a few friends.
It was, in fact, a pretty perfect way to start a new decade.
Both of my younger sisters were here to visit, Shelley via airplane, and Melissa in her car, en route to a new job at a farm in Culpeper, Virginia, about 45 minutes from my Grandpa in Charlottesville. There was something very comforting about waking up with them in the house, Guthrie trying to spoon with Shelley on my bed, Melissa asleep on the couch.
I felt an equal degree of sadness and excitement as Shelley and I watched Melissa drive away a few days after my birthday. Seems like a long time ago that my parents first held me in their arms, a long time since we were just little girls. I felt nostalgic for old memories we share, and grateful that we have all (my parents too) grown so much in the past few years. It seems that finally, blessedly, we are ready for what comes next, ready to grow up.
I think my goal for this week is to not stack horses on top of each other. Less questioning of the self, and the path, and more riding for the sake of the wind through the trees, and the sight of a fetching bottom to enjoy.
With that, I wish you all a happy birthday, and promise to write again soon.
I was the first grandchild on both sides of my family- after my greek Grandma passed I found a letter she had written me when I graduated college- she said that she had always loved babies, and that she remembered carrying me around when I was born, and how special I was to her.
Funny to imagine myself as a little peanut, sleeping away the days in the house in Seattle where my parents still live today. The backyard was the most magical place, full of tall grass and a large cottonwood tree, a garden to play in and two sisters to keep me company. I remember disliking Kindergarten, (which I only went to for half a day.) I was much more interested in eating slices of apple and cubes of cheese and lining up my stuffed animals on the bed so I could talk to them (mostly dogs and bears.)
My parents had chickens when I was an infant, in a coop behind the house. Apparently my father was tasked with picking out the brood- and when he returned with a box full of chicks he exclaimed proudly, "don't worry Karen, I kept all the big ones." He was a well meaning man from Brooklyn, but they ended up with a flock of roosters. Mom says it was a little crazy, their first baby and all those damn roosters running around, and a cat that could literally jump off the walls (which they named Kareem after Kareem Abdul Jabbar.) Needles to say, the roosters met with their bloody fate, and they had a big chicken dinner one night.
I could bore you for hours with tales of my upbringing- summer trips to Virginia, fishing on the pond and the old house on Oxford Road, sweltering nights at the apartment in Carnarise, where Bubby made turkey dinner and noodle pudding. I'll save the lengthier version for the book I'll write someday.
In essence, three decades passed, rife with the trials and tribulations of schooling and the arts, the formation of enduring friendships, naive and tender attempts at love, and the travels in-between.
I was looking through some pictures today, of the California coastline on summer road trips, portraits of friends that I've known since we were teenagers, photos of meals that I loved, old houses that I lived in during my twenties in Seattle.
I talked on the phone with my friend Carolina, who just kept repeating, "We're thirty. Lindsey, we're THIRTY!" Once, for a laugh, she climbed inside her duvet cover when we lived in the dorms, then ran around the room.
The other day I spoke with my Uncle Bill, who sent me the fabulous book of essays. "Pulphead," by John Jeremiah Sullivan, and had this to say about growing up.
"Basically in life you come, and you go, and the rest is what we have in between. We don't remember the coming, and none of us knows we we will go. The best thing to do is enjoy your life in the present."
This is echoed by Henry Miller, who wrote this at the beginning of his essay "On Turning Eighty," in the book Sextet.
"If at eighty you're not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and should get down on your hands and knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin' and keepin' power.
If you are young in years but already weary in spirit, already on your way to becoming an automaton, it may do you good to say to your boss- under your breath, of course- 'fuck you, Jack! You don't own me.' If you can whistle up your ass, if you can be turned on by a fetching bottom or a lovely pair of teats, if you can fall in love again and again, if you can forgive your parents for the crime of bringing you into this world, if you are content to get nowhere, just take each day as it comes, if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical, man you've got it half licked."
The other wonderful quote that I came across this week was in the book Long Quiet Highway, written by Natalie Goldberg, about her journey with writing, and Buddhism.
"Suzuki Roshi once said about questioning our life, our purpose, 'It's like putting a horse on top of a horse and then climbing on it and trying to ride. Riding a horse by itself is hard enough. Why add another horse? Then it's impossible!' We add that extra horse when we constantly question ourselves rather then just live out our lives, and be who we are at every moment."
I find some humor in the fact that while most of my close friends are becoming more educated, I seem to be becoming more under-employed. I am tickled that almost unknowingly, I stumbled into a life I always wanted. I live in sunny house, with a new coat of paint in the living room that left my roommate and I drinking wine and running around the house at 2 am in excitement. I have a dog and a boyfriend, parents and sisters I adore, and dear friends in many corners of the country.
On my birthday last monday, my sisters and I made a stack of sandwiches and headed out to Hamilton Pool with my boyfriend Steven, all crammed in his beloved purple truck. We drank club soda and munched on chips, and spent the afternoon swimming in a gorgeous natural swimming hole about 30 minutes outside of Austin, a dome-like pool with a collapsed ceiling, where you can lie under streams of water that fall from the cliff above. We ate BBQ and pecan pie with ice cream and some Shiner beer for dinner, then finished off the night at my house, with homemade carrot cake and a backyard bonfire, and company of roommates and a few friends.
It was, in fact, a pretty perfect way to start a new decade.
Both of my younger sisters were here to visit, Shelley via airplane, and Melissa in her car, en route to a new job at a farm in Culpeper, Virginia, about 45 minutes from my Grandpa in Charlottesville. There was something very comforting about waking up with them in the house, Guthrie trying to spoon with Shelley on my bed, Melissa asleep on the couch.
I felt an equal degree of sadness and excitement as Shelley and I watched Melissa drive away a few days after my birthday. Seems like a long time ago that my parents first held me in their arms, a long time since we were just little girls. I felt nostalgic for old memories we share, and grateful that we have all (my parents too) grown so much in the past few years. It seems that finally, blessedly, we are ready for what comes next, ready to grow up.
I think my goal for this week is to not stack horses on top of each other. Less questioning of the self, and the path, and more riding for the sake of the wind through the trees, and the sight of a fetching bottom to enjoy.
With that, I wish you all a happy birthday, and promise to write again soon.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Three Things
I am eating Turkish figs on the one year anniversary of my move to Austin, TX.
I am drinking Washington wine while my 60 lb southern hound dog snores on my bed.
He just turned a year old. Funny to me that a few days before I boarded a plane with 2 bags and a guitar (so wonderfully cliche, I know!) a dog mama somewhere was panting and squeezing out a litter of pups, including the shy little guy who would one day end up in my life.
As it turns out, my dog and I were well matched. We both eat quickly, sleepy easily, and are nervous around men we don't know.
I made pancakes this morning, put on a pair of jorts and a t-shirt, and went for a long walk with the pup.
I let myself bask in the glow of January sunshine, felt that cool breeze a blowin' and did a bit of thinking on the past year.
Texas has given me the big space I needed, and I feel like I am in the middle of a wide prairie, not yet able to see the horizon, or what might come next.
There is momentum to my inner life, and also lots of uncertainty, which is difficult for me to sit with.
Over the holidays I was lamenting to one of my friends my feelings about grief, and loss, and my tendency to attempt to prepare for these cannonballs, or stave off what I see as inevitable sadness. She gently reminded me that this is what life is- sadness and joy exist together, and in truth all these things WILL come to pass. In other words, the cold prickly's and the warm fuzzy's live in one big house together, and they are just fine with the arrangement. She asked if there was some kind of motto I could say to myself that might remind me of this.
I imagined myself walking around the pond by my house, all of a sudden yelling, "This is all going to end! Yep! Everything is going to end!"
Might as well get myself an evangelical sign and park myself outside a grocery store.
But the more I thought about my motto, the more it rang true.
I started thinking about Mary Oliver, how I read her poems in the White Mountains of California almost ten years ago, waking to the sunrise over the Sierras, and feeling like I was home.
I thought about Billy Collins, how I think of his poem "Dharma" when I look at Guthrie, how I buzz around the house on espresso early in the mornings, during that sacred time when I eat yogurt and sing along to Gillian Welch or Neko Case, and let my hair stay uncombed.
I remembered Annie Dilliard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," how I read it on the subway in Manhattan, and it felt more like a morning prayer then anything else.
I thought about these poets of mine, that so many of us love, who help us to hit that high note of sorrow or makes some sense of the big mystery before us.
I thought about how it's all going to end, and how maybe that isn't such a bad thing. It's just a thing. It doesn't mean it is easy, or simple.
I went and read Mary Oliver's poem "In Blackwater Woods," and found these lines, which I have known by heart for several years.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
I'm gonna keep working on the third thing.
And in the meantime, I promise to tell you more stories of alligator fish and drunken italian waiters, Polish boyfriends and vegan donuts, and everything else that Texas has to offer as we stride along into year number two.
I am drinking Washington wine while my 60 lb southern hound dog snores on my bed.
He just turned a year old. Funny to me that a few days before I boarded a plane with 2 bags and a guitar (so wonderfully cliche, I know!) a dog mama somewhere was panting and squeezing out a litter of pups, including the shy little guy who would one day end up in my life.
As it turns out, my dog and I were well matched. We both eat quickly, sleepy easily, and are nervous around men we don't know.
I made pancakes this morning, put on a pair of jorts and a t-shirt, and went for a long walk with the pup.
I let myself bask in the glow of January sunshine, felt that cool breeze a blowin' and did a bit of thinking on the past year.
Texas has given me the big space I needed, and I feel like I am in the middle of a wide prairie, not yet able to see the horizon, or what might come next.
There is momentum to my inner life, and also lots of uncertainty, which is difficult for me to sit with.
Over the holidays I was lamenting to one of my friends my feelings about grief, and loss, and my tendency to attempt to prepare for these cannonballs, or stave off what I see as inevitable sadness. She gently reminded me that this is what life is- sadness and joy exist together, and in truth all these things WILL come to pass. In other words, the cold prickly's and the warm fuzzy's live in one big house together, and they are just fine with the arrangement. She asked if there was some kind of motto I could say to myself that might remind me of this.
I imagined myself walking around the pond by my house, all of a sudden yelling, "This is all going to end! Yep! Everything is going to end!"
Might as well get myself an evangelical sign and park myself outside a grocery store.
But the more I thought about my motto, the more it rang true.
I started thinking about Mary Oliver, how I read her poems in the White Mountains of California almost ten years ago, waking to the sunrise over the Sierras, and feeling like I was home.
I thought about Billy Collins, how I think of his poem "Dharma" when I look at Guthrie, how I buzz around the house on espresso early in the mornings, during that sacred time when I eat yogurt and sing along to Gillian Welch or Neko Case, and let my hair stay uncombed.
I remembered Annie Dilliard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," how I read it on the subway in Manhattan, and it felt more like a morning prayer then anything else.
I thought about these poets of mine, that so many of us love, who help us to hit that high note of sorrow or makes some sense of the big mystery before us.
I thought about how it's all going to end, and how maybe that isn't such a bad thing. It's just a thing. It doesn't mean it is easy, or simple.
I went and read Mary Oliver's poem "In Blackwater Woods," and found these lines, which I have known by heart for several years.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
I'm gonna keep working on the third thing.
And in the meantime, I promise to tell you more stories of alligator fish and drunken italian waiters, Polish boyfriends and vegan donuts, and everything else that Texas has to offer as we stride along into year number two.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Pleasanton: Birthplace of the Cowboy
Driving South on US Highway 281, just south of San Antonio, one may stumble upon the small town of Pleasanton, Texas. Their motto is, "filled with live oaks and friendly folks," and their town appeared to be filled with grocery stores, tex mex restaurants, old trees and big skies. Along the road, which skirted ranches and old farms, trailer parks and picnic areas, a signed loomed large on the horizon, declaring that this town of approx. 8,000 was the BIRTHPLACE OF THE COWBOY.
Texas is overwhelmingly filled with small towns such as Pleasanton, many of them ending in "ville", and none of them seeming like places a northern city gal like me would be likely to call home.
It had been rainy the morning I left, in the purple pick-up truck with Guthrie and Steven Markowski, who is a new and much adored character in this Texas novel I have been a writin' as of late. We stopped for coffee and a hamburger, and Guthrie watched us through the window of the truck, anxious to lay his head back on Steven's shoulder as we drove onward to historic Pleasanton, on an errand to procure a special christmas gift for his twin brother.
The past couple months have been rife with such adventures, exploring beautiful swimming holes, Mt. Bonnell in the wee hours of the morning, the little town of Rockdale where we posted up at the family land for a night, where we ate polish sausage and watched bad movies on television. Guthrie thought he had died and gone to heaven at the little Ranch House in Rockdale- while Steven and I were busy cutting down tiny christmas trees and letting me drive the farm truck through the woods, the dog ran so fast that he tripped on his paws and almost ate shit. He then proceeded to ACTUALLY eat shit, and promptly threw up.
We got a flat tire on the truck and Steven showed me how to fix it. Soon I will learn to drive stick, I swear!
I remember now my Uncle Glen, on his motorcycle visit through Austin with my Uncle Eric at the end of June, telling me gently that I never knew what good things might be just around the corner. Glen, I believe you were right.
I had the chance to visit my family in Charlottesville, Virginia (a "ville" I love dearly!) at the end of September. My Mom flew from Seattle, and I from Austin, and we spent a long weekend at my Grandfather's house, drinking weak coffee and going out to eat Southern meals with the rest of the family. I had a giant hamburger steak with greens beans and pinto beans, and then a slice of peanut butter pie. My dashing 21 year old cousin asked the young waitress if she had seen a particular television show, and she replied with a drawl- "honey, we don't get cable down in the holler."
We drove the Blue Ridge Parkway at sunset, and while the temperature dropped quickly we arranged ourselves for photos and watched the colors change over the Blue Ridge Mountains, those round peaks lookin' like a pretty picture in their fall dresses.
One night we sat around a campfire with my Grandpa, my Aunt Ellen and Uncle Glen, and two of their kids, shelling peanuts and telling stories with the country stars hanging low and bright above us. My Grandfather, despite the loss of Miss Alice, is still full of wit and charm, keeping himself busy with continental travels, pottery collecting, poetry writin' and tri-weekly trips to the gym. He parks his truck a mile and a half from the swimming pool at the University of Virginia and bikes the rest of the way. He is extremely fit, but his reasoning is more about saving money on parking then anything else. I appreciate the man's style. :)
More recently, I saw more of my extended family, these members being the chosen variety, plucked from the hilly streets of Seattle during the epic days of the Wallingford house. That's right folks, my christmas present this year was a visit from none other then Samm Mason, Kyle Hunter, and Maria Lewis! Samm arrived on a rainy 40 degree christmas eve that reminded me of home, and we exchanged panda presents around my little Rockdale tree, she nursing a cold, and both of us nursing a hot toddy. I ventured out on Christmas night to bring home take out thai food, and we sat curled on the couch with Guthrie, who was intent on being in the middle of whatever it was we were doing.
A few days later Kyle and Maria arrived, and blessedly, the sunshine came with them! The trip flowed together like one big trip down memory lane- every morning there was hours of sitting in the sun on the front porch, filling up the french press and making bloody mary's and big breakfasts of bacon and eggs. I walked the dog and we did the dishes, then hopped on bikes to explore the Greenbelt and tool around the city. We found ourselves with a thermos full of margaritas on the pedestrian bridge one night, looking out at Town Lake and the city skyline. I think I felt complete once more, with these friends in my home, draped over chairs and couches, reminiscing and gearing up for what will surely a big next few years. It's nice to feel grounded by close relationships, and it's important to remember who you are, around people who love you so freely and with such ease.
Our trip ended around New Year's, sitting in the big room above Royal Blue Grocery, wood floors and big windows looking out onto downtown.
The start of the New Year has been marred here in Austin by the death of a woman named Esme, who was killed by an unknown man during the wee hours of New Year's Eve. He attacked 2 other young women that night, and has not yet been found. She was a pillar of the community here- 29 years old, beautiful and good hearted, with a life full of music and friends and connecting with others. I did not know her, but feel shaken by her death. I do not know how to wrap my head around this kind of loss. It it frightening that this kind of sickness exists in the world, that there are people who have such darkness and horrible intent inside them. I am trying to put energy into keeping myself safe, and hoping that her family and friends will find a way to honor her, and grieve her loss, and heal.
And so, yet again, I am humbled by all that I do not understand. I hope for this new year some simple things for myself. Learn how to cook Polish food. Practice the banjo. Learn how to drive stick. Write more.
I was re-reading some books by Gail Caldwell, my favorite author as of late (and native Texan) and found this quote by George Eliot at the beginning of her memoir "Lets take the Long Way Home."
"The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone."
Let us hope we all find our Pleasanton in this life- some little place where we can sit under shady trees and feel content. In the meantime, be well, and be safe.
Texas is overwhelmingly filled with small towns such as Pleasanton, many of them ending in "ville", and none of them seeming like places a northern city gal like me would be likely to call home.
It had been rainy the morning I left, in the purple pick-up truck with Guthrie and Steven Markowski, who is a new and much adored character in this Texas novel I have been a writin' as of late. We stopped for coffee and a hamburger, and Guthrie watched us through the window of the truck, anxious to lay his head back on Steven's shoulder as we drove onward to historic Pleasanton, on an errand to procure a special christmas gift for his twin brother.
The past couple months have been rife with such adventures, exploring beautiful swimming holes, Mt. Bonnell in the wee hours of the morning, the little town of Rockdale where we posted up at the family land for a night, where we ate polish sausage and watched bad movies on television. Guthrie thought he had died and gone to heaven at the little Ranch House in Rockdale- while Steven and I were busy cutting down tiny christmas trees and letting me drive the farm truck through the woods, the dog ran so fast that he tripped on his paws and almost ate shit. He then proceeded to ACTUALLY eat shit, and promptly threw up.
We got a flat tire on the truck and Steven showed me how to fix it. Soon I will learn to drive stick, I swear!
I remember now my Uncle Glen, on his motorcycle visit through Austin with my Uncle Eric at the end of June, telling me gently that I never knew what good things might be just around the corner. Glen, I believe you were right.
I had the chance to visit my family in Charlottesville, Virginia (a "ville" I love dearly!) at the end of September. My Mom flew from Seattle, and I from Austin, and we spent a long weekend at my Grandfather's house, drinking weak coffee and going out to eat Southern meals with the rest of the family. I had a giant hamburger steak with greens beans and pinto beans, and then a slice of peanut butter pie. My dashing 21 year old cousin asked the young waitress if she had seen a particular television show, and she replied with a drawl- "honey, we don't get cable down in the holler."
We drove the Blue Ridge Parkway at sunset, and while the temperature dropped quickly we arranged ourselves for photos and watched the colors change over the Blue Ridge Mountains, those round peaks lookin' like a pretty picture in their fall dresses.
One night we sat around a campfire with my Grandpa, my Aunt Ellen and Uncle Glen, and two of their kids, shelling peanuts and telling stories with the country stars hanging low and bright above us. My Grandfather, despite the loss of Miss Alice, is still full of wit and charm, keeping himself busy with continental travels, pottery collecting, poetry writin' and tri-weekly trips to the gym. He parks his truck a mile and a half from the swimming pool at the University of Virginia and bikes the rest of the way. He is extremely fit, but his reasoning is more about saving money on parking then anything else. I appreciate the man's style. :)
More recently, I saw more of my extended family, these members being the chosen variety, plucked from the hilly streets of Seattle during the epic days of the Wallingford house. That's right folks, my christmas present this year was a visit from none other then Samm Mason, Kyle Hunter, and Maria Lewis! Samm arrived on a rainy 40 degree christmas eve that reminded me of home, and we exchanged panda presents around my little Rockdale tree, she nursing a cold, and both of us nursing a hot toddy. I ventured out on Christmas night to bring home take out thai food, and we sat curled on the couch with Guthrie, who was intent on being in the middle of whatever it was we were doing.
A few days later Kyle and Maria arrived, and blessedly, the sunshine came with them! The trip flowed together like one big trip down memory lane- every morning there was hours of sitting in the sun on the front porch, filling up the french press and making bloody mary's and big breakfasts of bacon and eggs. I walked the dog and we did the dishes, then hopped on bikes to explore the Greenbelt and tool around the city. We found ourselves with a thermos full of margaritas on the pedestrian bridge one night, looking out at Town Lake and the city skyline. I think I felt complete once more, with these friends in my home, draped over chairs and couches, reminiscing and gearing up for what will surely a big next few years. It's nice to feel grounded by close relationships, and it's important to remember who you are, around people who love you so freely and with such ease.
Our trip ended around New Year's, sitting in the big room above Royal Blue Grocery, wood floors and big windows looking out onto downtown.
The start of the New Year has been marred here in Austin by the death of a woman named Esme, who was killed by an unknown man during the wee hours of New Year's Eve. He attacked 2 other young women that night, and has not yet been found. She was a pillar of the community here- 29 years old, beautiful and good hearted, with a life full of music and friends and connecting with others. I did not know her, but feel shaken by her death. I do not know how to wrap my head around this kind of loss. It it frightening that this kind of sickness exists in the world, that there are people who have such darkness and horrible intent inside them. I am trying to put energy into keeping myself safe, and hoping that her family and friends will find a way to honor her, and grieve her loss, and heal.
And so, yet again, I am humbled by all that I do not understand. I hope for this new year some simple things for myself. Learn how to cook Polish food. Practice the banjo. Learn how to drive stick. Write more.
I was re-reading some books by Gail Caldwell, my favorite author as of late (and native Texan) and found this quote by George Eliot at the beginning of her memoir "Lets take the Long Way Home."
"The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone."
Let us hope we all find our Pleasanton in this life- some little place where we can sit under shady trees and feel content. In the meantime, be well, and be safe.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Grist for the Mill
A little over a year ago I was floating down the frigid Snoqualmie river with my friend Brook, cold ass in the river and cold beer in the hand, clear sky and banks loaded with Evergreen trees. We ignored the frat boys and barking dogs, reminisced about our previous summer's floats with skinny boys and limber acrobats, and soaked up the precious late summer sun. I slept at her house on Beacon Hill that night, tired and warm from a day out in the wide world, and we listened to The Head and the Heart, a local Seattle band which was rapidly rising in popularity.
I put in on my i-pod and let these young Northwestern artists croon to me while I rode European trains and Texas buses, and bikes rides everywhere in between.
A few weeks ago, at midnight, I walked into a club called Antone's to hear them play an Austin City Limits after-show, and my eyes welled up with tears as they pushed their harmonies out over the crowd and filled the room.
It's a satisfying sense of serendipity, a testament to the level of raw talent being grown in the Northwest, and a reminder that life will bring you full circle when it's time.
I spoke with my parents recently in a moment of contemplation, wondering how long I might remain in this wide open state, and my Pops replied simply, "I think you have a lot of living to do in Austin still."
It got me to thinking about some of the folks I have met in the past few months, and how being open to a new place and new way of being is much like harvesting grain, knowing that you need all that raw material if you're gonna make bread out of the whole thing.
I feel a particular fondness for native Texans, for their sense of humor, connection to land and family, and generally sense of openness and charm.
I had the pleasure of spending a few glorious night on South Padre Island with my roommates Emily and Dana, and friend Erin, and we spent countless hours curling our toes in soft sand and floating in clear blue water. South Padre is about 5 hours from Austin, and considered to be THE vacation spot in Texas. The drive down was painfully, noticeably boring, and made me thankful not have endured a small town Texas upbringing. There were lots of Billboards for churches, along with full color photos of high school football teams.
We stayed in a sweet, slightly funky beach condo owned by Emily's aunt and uncle, and stopped in to visit them on their ranch. Her uncle Carl has lived on that piece of land since he was born, and it is home to his sons, their families, and hundreds of Brahmin cattle. The ranch house was old and sprawling, covered in family photos, cupboards full of dishes, and food cooking on the stove. He told us stories about fishing, while Aunt Peg offered us bowls of chicken and lentils. The youngest grandchild, a little redhead, is still called "Baby" by her older siblings. The land, although now hemmed in by a golf course, is a wild place. If cows die they are left for nature to take her due course, and it is not safe to wander through the pastures where they are kept. There are snakes, and motorcycles, and rusted out hulls of ships, and a sense of history and belonging that is rare to find in our glass cities.
I loved meeting them, and relished the few days where time stopped and we floated from one conversation to the next, letting our words slip away as we soaked in sunlight, and saltwater, and the sweet abandon that comes from escaping our cluttered lives for a few days.
I had left Guthrie the gigantic puppy with a neighbor lady, and she bears mentioning as well. Now retired, she lives in a cute white house with a bright green lawn, and watches dogs for extra cash. I adored her the moment I met her, as she stood up from her lawn chair in her house dress, short hair and big smile, reminding me a lot of my own grandma. "OOOH look at him!" she crooned, "He's so big! And he's so quiet! Guthrie, are you on drugs?!" She told me she has lived in that house since she was 2 years old, and when I asked if she had ever left she said with a snort, "Well I moved out when I was married, but THAT didn't last long!" She said she was in this residential neighborhood when it was still forest and fields, and she used to find baby skunks and bring them home to her Mama. I love her. Guthrie loves her too, and starts jumping around like a big bean whenever we walk down her street.
There are so many more quick stories that come to mind, like my co-worker Dan and I being gifted 5 pounds of barbeque meat at work one night, or the dive bar up north where a friend said he played pool with a woman with down syndrome, and all the decorations still have a christmas theme because the bartender's husband died during the holiday season, many years ago.
So in trying to put a timeline on my life here, I must remember that this is all grist for the mill. While we were on South Padre we took turns reading our horoscopes while we watched the sun disappear behind the masts of sailboats on the bay, and waited for the Friday night fireworks to light up the coastal sky. Some of the other's girls horoscopes said things like, "you will struggle mightily for years in your work!" Mine basically said, "Get out of your own way, and you will have an absolutely wonderful life." I like to think that is true for us all.
I put in on my i-pod and let these young Northwestern artists croon to me while I rode European trains and Texas buses, and bikes rides everywhere in between.
A few weeks ago, at midnight, I walked into a club called Antone's to hear them play an Austin City Limits after-show, and my eyes welled up with tears as they pushed their harmonies out over the crowd and filled the room.
It's a satisfying sense of serendipity, a testament to the level of raw talent being grown in the Northwest, and a reminder that life will bring you full circle when it's time.
I spoke with my parents recently in a moment of contemplation, wondering how long I might remain in this wide open state, and my Pops replied simply, "I think you have a lot of living to do in Austin still."
It got me to thinking about some of the folks I have met in the past few months, and how being open to a new place and new way of being is much like harvesting grain, knowing that you need all that raw material if you're gonna make bread out of the whole thing.
I feel a particular fondness for native Texans, for their sense of humor, connection to land and family, and generally sense of openness and charm.
I had the pleasure of spending a few glorious night on South Padre Island with my roommates Emily and Dana, and friend Erin, and we spent countless hours curling our toes in soft sand and floating in clear blue water. South Padre is about 5 hours from Austin, and considered to be THE vacation spot in Texas. The drive down was painfully, noticeably boring, and made me thankful not have endured a small town Texas upbringing. There were lots of Billboards for churches, along with full color photos of high school football teams.
We stayed in a sweet, slightly funky beach condo owned by Emily's aunt and uncle, and stopped in to visit them on their ranch. Her uncle Carl has lived on that piece of land since he was born, and it is home to his sons, their families, and hundreds of Brahmin cattle. The ranch house was old and sprawling, covered in family photos, cupboards full of dishes, and food cooking on the stove. He told us stories about fishing, while Aunt Peg offered us bowls of chicken and lentils. The youngest grandchild, a little redhead, is still called "Baby" by her older siblings. The land, although now hemmed in by a golf course, is a wild place. If cows die they are left for nature to take her due course, and it is not safe to wander through the pastures where they are kept. There are snakes, and motorcycles, and rusted out hulls of ships, and a sense of history and belonging that is rare to find in our glass cities.
I loved meeting them, and relished the few days where time stopped and we floated from one conversation to the next, letting our words slip away as we soaked in sunlight, and saltwater, and the sweet abandon that comes from escaping our cluttered lives for a few days.
I had left Guthrie the gigantic puppy with a neighbor lady, and she bears mentioning as well. Now retired, she lives in a cute white house with a bright green lawn, and watches dogs for extra cash. I adored her the moment I met her, as she stood up from her lawn chair in her house dress, short hair and big smile, reminding me a lot of my own grandma. "OOOH look at him!" she crooned, "He's so big! And he's so quiet! Guthrie, are you on drugs?!" She told me she has lived in that house since she was 2 years old, and when I asked if she had ever left she said with a snort, "Well I moved out when I was married, but THAT didn't last long!" She said she was in this residential neighborhood when it was still forest and fields, and she used to find baby skunks and bring them home to her Mama. I love her. Guthrie loves her too, and starts jumping around like a big bean whenever we walk down her street.
There are so many more quick stories that come to mind, like my co-worker Dan and I being gifted 5 pounds of barbeque meat at work one night, or the dive bar up north where a friend said he played pool with a woman with down syndrome, and all the decorations still have a christmas theme because the bartender's husband died during the holiday season, many years ago.
So in trying to put a timeline on my life here, I must remember that this is all grist for the mill. While we were on South Padre we took turns reading our horoscopes while we watched the sun disappear behind the masts of sailboats on the bay, and waited for the Friday night fireworks to light up the coastal sky. Some of the other's girls horoscopes said things like, "you will struggle mightily for years in your work!" Mine basically said, "Get out of your own way, and you will have an absolutely wonderful life." I like to think that is true for us all.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
"I just got knocked up at my engagement party while buying a house and getting into Grad School!"
In fairness, none of the life events mentioned have happened this past year, but I write this title in homage to a Facebook post I have had been tempted to create, but sadly not had the gumption to follow up on.
Folks say that the 28th year of one's life is a time when Saturn Returns, which is a alternative way of saying "the shit hits the fan, and despite the mess and smell, you really start to grow into your skin not only as an adult, but as a person with more clarity around what she wants and who she is destined to be."
Before she passed, my grandmother, indomitable spirit and Greek goddess that she was, told me in a secretive tone, "Lindsey, you should open up your heart and put a note in it that says- 'get married when I'm 28.'" She was on a great deal of medication to ease her cancer treatment, and she also said things to my Grandpa and me like, "You're both bums. God Bless America!" The following was also said to my Aunt in response to her joking around Nanny when she wanted to be left alone- "Ellen, if you don't cut it out, I will open you up and SHIT in your ass."
Nanny passed away two years ago this September. She died as she lived- quickly, with fire, good humor, and a heart the size of Texas.
She left me $500 dollars, which I used to buy myself a ticket to Europe. My friends had chipped in for my birthday as well, and Gabi had hidden plastic easter eggs around my house which were full of farm animals, as well as wads of cash from my generous, beautiful friends. In no uncertain terms, it was time for me to leave home and see a bit more of the world.
I write this because a year ago, to the day, I departed on a 3 month soul journey to Eastern Europe and Turkey. In retrospect, it would have been so EASY to keep the status quo- to remain in my safe little haven of Kyle, with our backyard chickens and pizza nights, and my job at The Evergreen School, with the kids I adored, and the job that had become too easy.
A family friend said to me, "once you start to choose what you really want, you get the sensation that all the doors are opening."
Stepping off that plane into Frankfurt sunshine, I was catapulted to places I never could have dreamed of. I traveled to see the circus in Germany. I spent lonely nights drinking wine and reading paperbacks in Berlin. I met Eva and Peter on a farm in the beautiful Visla river valley in Poland. Taught Peter to play "Paradise" by John Prine, a song I had heard growing up, and taught myself to play as 19 year old in Bellingham, Washington. I fed goats and cried over my family ghosts, lay in fields and breathed in cool autumn air. Sat on trains for days as I watched the quiet, haunted countryside roll by. Met young americans whose grandparents had also survived the war. Flew to Istanbul, was kept safe by my old fried Ian, ate delicious food and watched the Bosphorous at night. Met Hope, in her off the grid, magical home in Bodrum. Was nourished by her love, her wisdom and her light. Ate tangerines by the fistful and dreamt of a better life for myself.
I bought a one way ticket to Austin, TX, and arrived in late January with two bags and a guitar. I built a life for myself, adopted a dog, and fell for a sweet man.
I did not marry in my 28th year, but by God I listened to my grandmother and opened up my rusty little heart.
While I was busy living my life instead of planning it out, I started to write. And YOU started to listen.
I thank you for that, for witnessing and supporting me. I hope to do the same for you.
I notice lately how Facebook has become a vehicle for those of us in our 20's to share achievements, both personal and otherwise. I regard this with a certain amount of suspicion, because I sense that many of us operate our lives on the basis of what we feel SHOULD be doing.
The truth is that we are all a little fucked and a little blessed, in the same breath. Jobs run scarce, pressures are many. There are so many "SHOULDS" that nip at our heels, barking at us that by 30 we should be married, secure, in careers, full of babies, etc.
The path is different for us all. Part of me felt like I SHOULD stay in Seattle, keep my secure job, and choose what in fact would have been a road of less challenge. I am thankful that I pushed myself to risk more. For others, the real challenge is return home and face your Elephants, your past, or just reclaim the place that is home.
I am awed by the people in my life who are truly coming into their own in the past few years. There are those of us who are choosing to be healers instead of office workers, those of us who have ventured far into the Alaskan wilderness to seek our path, and those who have decided to stay in a community that needs us.
So, I write on this evening out of respect for the past year- for the equal parts joy and sadness that it brought, for the REALNESS of it. I give a shout out to my grandmothers, my teachers, my comrades in arms who went with me on this soul journey. I give thanks, and recognize that this is not the end, but a continuation of something much mightier within both myself, and the universe at large.
In the words of the wise intergalactic leader:
So Say We All.
Folks say that the 28th year of one's life is a time when Saturn Returns, which is a alternative way of saying "the shit hits the fan, and despite the mess and smell, you really start to grow into your skin not only as an adult, but as a person with more clarity around what she wants and who she is destined to be."
Before she passed, my grandmother, indomitable spirit and Greek goddess that she was, told me in a secretive tone, "Lindsey, you should open up your heart and put a note in it that says- 'get married when I'm 28.'" She was on a great deal of medication to ease her cancer treatment, and she also said things to my Grandpa and me like, "You're both bums. God Bless America!" The following was also said to my Aunt in response to her joking around Nanny when she wanted to be left alone- "Ellen, if you don't cut it out, I will open you up and SHIT in your ass."
Nanny passed away two years ago this September. She died as she lived- quickly, with fire, good humor, and a heart the size of Texas.
She left me $500 dollars, which I used to buy myself a ticket to Europe. My friends had chipped in for my birthday as well, and Gabi had hidden plastic easter eggs around my house which were full of farm animals, as well as wads of cash from my generous, beautiful friends. In no uncertain terms, it was time for me to leave home and see a bit more of the world.
I write this because a year ago, to the day, I departed on a 3 month soul journey to Eastern Europe and Turkey. In retrospect, it would have been so EASY to keep the status quo- to remain in my safe little haven of Kyle, with our backyard chickens and pizza nights, and my job at The Evergreen School, with the kids I adored, and the job that had become too easy.
A family friend said to me, "once you start to choose what you really want, you get the sensation that all the doors are opening."
Stepping off that plane into Frankfurt sunshine, I was catapulted to places I never could have dreamed of. I traveled to see the circus in Germany. I spent lonely nights drinking wine and reading paperbacks in Berlin. I met Eva and Peter on a farm in the beautiful Visla river valley in Poland. Taught Peter to play "Paradise" by John Prine, a song I had heard growing up, and taught myself to play as 19 year old in Bellingham, Washington. I fed goats and cried over my family ghosts, lay in fields and breathed in cool autumn air. Sat on trains for days as I watched the quiet, haunted countryside roll by. Met young americans whose grandparents had also survived the war. Flew to Istanbul, was kept safe by my old fried Ian, ate delicious food and watched the Bosphorous at night. Met Hope, in her off the grid, magical home in Bodrum. Was nourished by her love, her wisdom and her light. Ate tangerines by the fistful and dreamt of a better life for myself.
I bought a one way ticket to Austin, TX, and arrived in late January with two bags and a guitar. I built a life for myself, adopted a dog, and fell for a sweet man.
I did not marry in my 28th year, but by God I listened to my grandmother and opened up my rusty little heart.
While I was busy living my life instead of planning it out, I started to write. And YOU started to listen.
I thank you for that, for witnessing and supporting me. I hope to do the same for you.
I notice lately how Facebook has become a vehicle for those of us in our 20's to share achievements, both personal and otherwise. I regard this with a certain amount of suspicion, because I sense that many of us operate our lives on the basis of what we feel SHOULD be doing.
The truth is that we are all a little fucked and a little blessed, in the same breath. Jobs run scarce, pressures are many. There are so many "SHOULDS" that nip at our heels, barking at us that by 30 we should be married, secure, in careers, full of babies, etc.
The path is different for us all. Part of me felt like I SHOULD stay in Seattle, keep my secure job, and choose what in fact would have been a road of less challenge. I am thankful that I pushed myself to risk more. For others, the real challenge is return home and face your Elephants, your past, or just reclaim the place that is home.
I am awed by the people in my life who are truly coming into their own in the past few years. There are those of us who are choosing to be healers instead of office workers, those of us who have ventured far into the Alaskan wilderness to seek our path, and those who have decided to stay in a community that needs us.
So, I write on this evening out of respect for the past year- for the equal parts joy and sadness that it brought, for the REALNESS of it. I give a shout out to my grandmothers, my teachers, my comrades in arms who went with me on this soul journey. I give thanks, and recognize that this is not the end, but a continuation of something much mightier within both myself, and the universe at large.
In the words of the wise intergalactic leader:
So Say We All.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Inferno
In the three months since I last wrote, I have survived my first Texas summer. It makes you want to constantly dry heave, and shower in arctic water, and subsist solely on coconut juice and popsicles. This summer was a bear trying to eat us all at the campground. It was a garbage truck that followed you day and night. It was a desert solitude that forced you indoors, reading books and napping through the daylight hours as if you were snuggled up for a winter on a remote island off the coast of Maine. Only when you walked outside, you felt as if you were a muffin in an oven.
It was over 100 degrees for 9 weeks straight. Every day. Relentless. Branches have fallen off trees, brittle and dead. The dirt in my front yard has cracked. Tomatoes refused to fruit due to temperature that would not fall at night. Deer have tried to break into people's garages to find water. (This is true, I heard a woman in the airport talking about it.) Creek beds are barren. I rode my bike to work in 108 degree weather and though I might ralph. But in a weird way, I sort of enjoyed myself. I ate avocados. Swam in pools, floated down rivers. Jumped into Barton Springs once darkness fell. Woke early to walk the dog. Relished my naps, my literary pursuits, my air conditioned work place.
Then, the state caught fire.
In Seattle, an article reported that Western Washington had experienced 80 minutes of weather over 80 degrees THE ENTIRE YEAR, prior to the much prayed-for August heat wave.
Rick Perry says global warming isn't real. My Dad says that God has abandoned Rick Perry. I usually listen to my father. He knows all the correct rules to Bocce Ball, and croquet. He drinks his vodka on the rocks, in small mason jars, and plays guitar with his eyes closed and his heart open.
And I have survived the summer.
In ceasing to write, I attempted to spare you the internal monologue that has marked the past few months. The anxiousness of having a new dog, of imminent change and all too familiar loss. You know the old adage of the elephant in the room? Well, I feel as if all my elephants have converged upon my ranch style rental house, and taken up shop in my bedroom. I come home and they are all eating quesadillas, sitting on my bed. My elephants have been amassing a list of my deepest, most tragically held core beliefs, and turned them into a mountain they insist that I climb before I get older and it becomes too late.
This is all just a fancy, metaphorical way of saying that I got my heart broken. Despite my amateur map making skills, the path to love is unclear, and fraught with sadness. As I was having a good cry on the floor of Target, talking to my sister, I asked her what the point of all this is- why do we even try? And she replied, simply, "because our lives would be boring as shit if we never took any chances." Thank you, Shelley Newman.
In better news, Guthrie the dog is doing splendidly. The puppy who was once 4 months old is now 8 months old, 55 pounds and a big ball of love. I finally stopped calling my mom in a panic over having a large dog, once she exclaimed, "This is really neurotic! somehow you seem to think that the bigger he gets, the more responsibility it is. It doesn't matter if he's big!" As always, she was correct.
When people ask me what I am doing in Austin, sometimes I don't know how to reply.
In a more linear sense, I am working at a charming downtown grocery chain called Royal Blue, where I listen to Pandora radio, wear whatever I want, and sell sandwiches, beer, expensive wine and Kraft macaroni and cheese. I chat it up with waiters and travelers, homeless drunks and lovable co-workers, and try to avoid "the sleeping bag monster." (For real, she can be frightening.)
In the more personal sense, I am spending lots of time trying to scale that mountain in an attempt to make more sense of my past and my inner terrain.
As I deal with the mountains and the elephants, I allow myself to be charmed by Texans and content with my days. I ride my piece of shit bike, and write letters to old friends. As I type this I have a glass of whiskey on my bedside and a hound dog asleep at my feet, so I must be on the right track.
And I remember, despite the heat generated by both the apocalyptic weather and the imminent change within my own small life, the world at large goes on. Kyle proposed on the edge of the Grand Canyon. They called me from Vegas to tell me of the engagement and I ran screaming around the house. A little girl named Calliope was brought into the world by my dear friend and his lovely girlfriend. I sent her a big pink sock monkey and hung her picture on my wall.
It all moves on. I survived the summer, and I know that someday, hopefully soon, there will be rain.
It was over 100 degrees for 9 weeks straight. Every day. Relentless. Branches have fallen off trees, brittle and dead. The dirt in my front yard has cracked. Tomatoes refused to fruit due to temperature that would not fall at night. Deer have tried to break into people's garages to find water. (This is true, I heard a woman in the airport talking about it.) Creek beds are barren. I rode my bike to work in 108 degree weather and though I might ralph. But in a weird way, I sort of enjoyed myself. I ate avocados. Swam in pools, floated down rivers. Jumped into Barton Springs once darkness fell. Woke early to walk the dog. Relished my naps, my literary pursuits, my air conditioned work place.
Then, the state caught fire.
In Seattle, an article reported that Western Washington had experienced 80 minutes of weather over 80 degrees THE ENTIRE YEAR, prior to the much prayed-for August heat wave.
Rick Perry says global warming isn't real. My Dad says that God has abandoned Rick Perry. I usually listen to my father. He knows all the correct rules to Bocce Ball, and croquet. He drinks his vodka on the rocks, in small mason jars, and plays guitar with his eyes closed and his heart open.
And I have survived the summer.
In ceasing to write, I attempted to spare you the internal monologue that has marked the past few months. The anxiousness of having a new dog, of imminent change and all too familiar loss. You know the old adage of the elephant in the room? Well, I feel as if all my elephants have converged upon my ranch style rental house, and taken up shop in my bedroom. I come home and they are all eating quesadillas, sitting on my bed. My elephants have been amassing a list of my deepest, most tragically held core beliefs, and turned them into a mountain they insist that I climb before I get older and it becomes too late.
This is all just a fancy, metaphorical way of saying that I got my heart broken. Despite my amateur map making skills, the path to love is unclear, and fraught with sadness. As I was having a good cry on the floor of Target, talking to my sister, I asked her what the point of all this is- why do we even try? And she replied, simply, "because our lives would be boring as shit if we never took any chances." Thank you, Shelley Newman.
In better news, Guthrie the dog is doing splendidly. The puppy who was once 4 months old is now 8 months old, 55 pounds and a big ball of love. I finally stopped calling my mom in a panic over having a large dog, once she exclaimed, "This is really neurotic! somehow you seem to think that the bigger he gets, the more responsibility it is. It doesn't matter if he's big!" As always, she was correct.
When people ask me what I am doing in Austin, sometimes I don't know how to reply.
In a more linear sense, I am working at a charming downtown grocery chain called Royal Blue, where I listen to Pandora radio, wear whatever I want, and sell sandwiches, beer, expensive wine and Kraft macaroni and cheese. I chat it up with waiters and travelers, homeless drunks and lovable co-workers, and try to avoid "the sleeping bag monster." (For real, she can be frightening.)
In the more personal sense, I am spending lots of time trying to scale that mountain in an attempt to make more sense of my past and my inner terrain.
As I deal with the mountains and the elephants, I allow myself to be charmed by Texans and content with my days. I ride my piece of shit bike, and write letters to old friends. As I type this I have a glass of whiskey on my bedside and a hound dog asleep at my feet, so I must be on the right track.
And I remember, despite the heat generated by both the apocalyptic weather and the imminent change within my own small life, the world at large goes on. Kyle proposed on the edge of the Grand Canyon. They called me from Vegas to tell me of the engagement and I ran screaming around the house. A little girl named Calliope was brought into the world by my dear friend and his lovely girlfriend. I sent her a big pink sock monkey and hung her picture on my wall.
It all moves on. I survived the summer, and I know that someday, hopefully soon, there will be rain.
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