it's official

I don't think I will continue updating with poems from the artist exchange project... I was more interested in the process and the exchange, but trying to maintain a blog about it just wasn't as fulfilling. So, it's settled. The project is complete. I meet my artist for the first time tonight, then dash off to the Aladdin to see Willy Porter, who always delivers a fresh and amazing show. Now, I have a writing exercise to complete (does this qualify as procrastinating?) and some earth to turn, seeds to plant, and some rigging to make up in order to keep the birds and the neighbor's free-range bunny out of the garden. But first, more coffee...

today on the streetcar...

"Do you enjoy sodomizing yourself?" a booming male radio announcer-type voice asks.

WTF? What kind of annouce... wait.. who the...what is going on here? Well, for anyone who's ever thought to themselves, "who says that kind of thing?" I now have a face to go with the proverbial "crazy guy" on public transit. But, he was not smelly or even apparently crazy (unless, of course, you count saying totally whacked out things to strangers as crazy talk). By all appearances, he seemed perfectly normal, lazing against the window, occasionally looking around, but politely keeping to himself.

Then, a number of people step off the car and one woman gets on and takes a seat opposite him. She has dark hair and eyes, wears a tan coat with faux fur trim on the hood. She passively looks out the window. Did she look unusual? Not at all, Portland born and bred if I had to guess.

The man sits up, slowly leans over to her, and says, quite loudly, "Do you enjoy sodomizing yourself?"

How is a person supposed to respond to that? She immediately looks away from him and out the window, silent. I must have had a shocked, who-the-hell-are-you sort of expression on my face, because then sets his sights on me. He sort of half gestures and, for a moment, looks as though he's going to explain what he's just said, justify it somehow, but says nothing. Instead, he starts walking toward me.

"That's probably the kind of question you should keep to yourself," I say.

He takes his position at the exit door next to mine and continues to look at me. "Are you going to incur all that yourself?" he asks me.

It sounds like an important question. Only, I don't know what that even means. I step off the streetcar, thinking, Try not to get struck by lighting! and watch the little crazy man staring at me incredulously through the glass doors as the streetcar pulls away.

catching up with... everything.

I'm just reaching a point where I think I might be able to catch my breath. I've one more poem and painting to post, as well as a final poem. I have mixed feelings about the project, as my artist more or less abandoned the process the past few weeks. I can't take it personally, since we don't know each other, but I hope (no, I don't really hope this) that something awful happened and that is why they flaked out. I suppose my irritation will have waned by the time I get to meet them and we can talk about what did work and what was useful. More on that later.

Apart from that, I am gearing up for my last term as an undergrad. I'm being graduated summa cum laude in June and I've just received notice that I've been accepted into the MA - Poetry program. Additionally, I'm being given the Department's only graduate assistantship position for poetry, so my tuition is covered (plus a stipend), and that's cause for celebration. I've also begun an internship (unpaid, sigh) at a great little literary press called
Hawthorne Books, so I've been very, very busy. Still, spring is in full swing and I've planted flowers and vegetable and am looking forward to some quality porch-sitting time, as soon as the weather finally cooperates and gets warm. Next on the agenda (after graduation) is a trip back home to be a bridesmaid for my lovely cousin Candace. And probably looking for part time summer work. I don't know though. I feel more compelled to live out of my car for a few weeks and to drive down the coast, writing, and maybe making art. A good road trip would certainly provide some much needed inspiration and there's nothing like sleeping on the beach to help with that.

It's strange. I am accomplishing quite a lot, good things are happening, but I can't help but feel almost as though it's happening to someone else. Part of me just wants to drop out, live in the tropics, improve my Spanish skills, teach English, trade paintings, cook, love, live simply... Here there is school and loan debt and my future to think about. I am 32 but still respond to such things like an 18 year old. I don't want to work at a soul sucking job I care nothing about, and that, I'm afraid, is more likely than landing a gig doing what I damn well feel with language and paint and bits of sparkly things or rock and what not. There isn't a job opening for me to get paid to be me and what I do best isn't lucrative or dependable. If I fail as a poet, I can fall back on my art, and failing that, what? Sing jazz again? I'm tired of being poor and if I could actually sell out without that being a problem for me, I probably would. But I can't. It doesn't work that way for me. So instead I have to suck it up, get to like being poor, and do something interesting. If you see me on the street, pass me a smile. I'll always be grateful for one of those.

the fifth exchange

Another poem, another painting, another opportunity to wonder whether and how this artist and I frustrate and/or understand each other...

exchange number four

I have been so busy the past few weeks I haven't had time to post anything...so, here is exchange number four, sans the text as a separate entry. Click on the picture and it will be easier to read. I've two more since this one to post, but have been completely wrapped up in school and my new internship at Hawthorne Books. I'll post more soon.

I couldn't resist.

Sitting here, contemplating the shallow vapid core of modern society, while acknowledging that, yes, it is still a beautiful world, I came across this quote from Andrea Dworkin's book, The New Womans Broken Heart:

"I have no patience with the untorn, anyone who hasn't weathered rough weather, fallen apart, been ripped to pieces, put herself back together, big stitches, jagged cuts, nothing nice. Then something shines out. But these ones all shined up on the outside, the ass wigglers, I'll be honest, I don't like them. Not at all."

because some days are harder than others

Here is a photo I took in Cahuita, Costa Rica this past July. I needed the reminder.

exchange numero tres

This is exchange number three... I've saved my poem with the picture, as a jpeg, so that the formatting is visible; the use of space is actually integral to the poem. However, it may be difficult to read, so the text of the poem is included below (enjoy! though it lacks the impact of the original), but lacks the formatting:

Brutal, this
precariousness
of life always
dancing on edge.

There are two ways out
and they are not a door, but
a window.

Rent limbs feeding
young, and whether one hawk

or fifty
dark scavengers

war or dreaming
with flagrant violence
or, as some go, peacefully

wounded earth
will one day heal.

The ecology of death
still bears
the shape of ancients.

A murdered boy
will bury his mother
for the crime of speaking

and yet
slender blades
will burst from sand
green and fresh

time will run
backwards

no one suffers
the indignity
of worms and maggots
doing what they know

like this

flesh and bone
a bone feast, offering

alms for the birds.

seriously, I really want to know...

This is a plea to any and everyone who might read this; will someone please explain to me what the deal is with the prevalence of saggy jeans and butt cleavage? Seriously. Ask around. I want to know. The comment box is open.

We all know the look: over-sized pants belted way below the waist, several inches of boxer shorts hanging out (or, as I've noticed recently, both ass cheeks, albeit in boxers, hanging out), crotch located somewhere between the knees. And what about the recent trend in butt cleavage (not just a product of low-rise jeans) among young women? What gives?

I realize that fashion sense among youth is a beast unto itself, but these trends just don't make sense to me. The saggy jean look is not limited to inner-city youth, or youth of a particular ethnic group or income bracket. A cursory search on the web indicates many feel the look was adopted from prison, where men aren't allowed to wear belts, hence the sag. I'm not sure I buy this. Yeah, yeah, we live in a culture that glorifies violence, but whatever. It doesn't follow that kids across America would adopt a prison thug look because thugs are cool. (I get the "I'm tough" thing, but are thugs really cool? So cool that they don't look silly with their butts in the wind?)

Another popularly held theory (again, according to numerous sites & blogs) is that saggy jeans are the product of poor families who can't afford to buy new, well-fitting clothing for their kids. Instead over-sized garments are bought for kids to grow into, or older kids pass their hand-me-downs to younger siblings. Having been a welfare baby myself, I see more truth in this theory. I certainly wore more than my share of ill-fitting (not to mention ghastly, or worse, velour) garments. But does this explain why rich kids whose parents will purchase anything they like are intentionally opting to wear pants that let their butts hang out? (I just saw a rich kid in my Spanish class whose entire ass was sticking out above the belt that barely held his pants on.) Certainly, it's not for comfort. Oh, there may be breathing room for the family jewels, but what about having to walk quickly, or say, step onto and off a bus. It's entertaining to watch, sure, but it's not at all about comfort.

And what about these young girls in their low-slung jeans which hardly keep the goods from popping out when they sneeze. That's not about comfort. It's all fashion. And yes, we live in a culture that over-sexualizes girls at a very early age, and they are taught to proffer themselves and to value their physical characteristics above all else. (Yeah, yeah, things are changing... looked at any beer billboards lately? Or TV commercials? Or the average pop culture rag? They've even got new beauty campaigns targeting men, so that we can undermine their confidence in themselves and teach them to be insecure and inadequate too! Yep, things are changing, but I'm not sure I like where they are going.) But what I want to know is this: have none of these teenage girls ever heard the jokes about plumber's crack? When did butt cleavage become "sexy" instead of gross? If Al, your auto mechanic let's his ass crack hang out, there are snickers and eeeews, but teenage daughters everywhere think it's a fashion statement. Weird.

I am certain of one thing: the butt cleavage phenomenon is not a product of young girls unwittingly walking around with a little extra draft in back. No one, and I mean no one, tries on pants with more meticulousness and attention to fit than a teenage girl. (Bends over, looks at butt, turns, wiggles, sits, stands, struts, poses, ties shoe... how do these fit? Hey [insert best friend's name here], what do you think of these jeans?). So, I cannot accept that a teenage girl puts on a pair of low-rider jeans and then doesn't know that her butt is squeezing out the back when she sits down. It's statistically impossible. Teenage girls know what is going on with their clothing. It's a look that we've somehow accepted. Grown women do it too. And it's not because of the pop icons (think Spears, Aguillera, Shakira, Cameron Diaz, and whomever else) that are dressed in barely there or skin tight clothing, bellies and boobs on display, because their butts are NOT popping out all over. Either they've trained themselves to sit down properly in such jeans, or they just don't sit down in public, because I've yet to see butt cleavage snapped by the paparazzi.

Frankly, most women do not have the derrières most of us would even want to see sausaging its way out of their pants, jeweled thong or not. Same goes for the saggy bottom boys. I just don't have an explanation for that preference. Don't guys know that their butts look better in jeans that fit (not tight jeans, but one's that resemble at all their actual bodily dimensions)? For my part at least, I would prefer to go to lunch (or anywhere) without being visually assaulted by anal cleft, male or female, taut or flabby. I am baffled. Mystified even. So, what's the deal? Where has this come from and WHY, god, WHY is it considered fashionable? Seriously, I really want to know.

exchange number two

The sun is threatening
to burn away all that is
damp or heavy or tired.

It is dangerous to be
so naked and alone.
But we are never
alone. We act
in concert with spring
rising to melt
the cold sparrow

who records the to
and the from, all
our miscalculations—
crickets nearly crushed
underfoot, or a dream
washed neatly away,
but moving like water
trapped beneath ice.

And what is good?
The body needs the sun
and everything that burns.

Well, this is my second poem in this exchange and I'm tired of trying to suss out the source code required to align that last stanza with the rest. So, pretend it's in line with the other stanzas and therefore prettier. I give up.

bodies, memories, things lost & found

Yesterday, I was standing in the shower thinking (my god, I sound like that Jane's Addiction song) about bodies. More specifically, about the relationship we have with our own and with the bodies of others. Presumably, these thoughts were triggered by the figure in M.E.'s painting, or because I recently began exercising regularly, but I realized that most of us are grossly disconnected from our own physical selves. Of course, maybe I am thinking about this now, because I spent last night in front of G. Love with more crotch-in-the-face action than a prostitue on Broadway, but I digress. (And, no, that wasn't dirty. I'm relatively tall, he's relatively short, and on stage and the crotch to face alignment just happened. His pelvic thrusts were not my doing. That was about the MUSIC. geesh.)

Look at me, humorously avoiding my own topic. Speaking only for myself: I've spent much of my life trying to get away from the very body-ness of my own flesh, despite having to walk around in it every day. There are a multitude of reasons for this, including abuse, rape, accidental injury, and whatever head trip I was dealing with at a given time. I'm hardly alone in having these kinds of experiences to reflect on. A report was issued just last week by a university in Washington that estimated 8% of their female students experienced rape, or attempted rape during their college years. This number, while shocking, is actually quite low. According to national statistics, the number is actually 1 in 6 women, or 17% (1 in 33 for men). So, there is this gap between one's visceral, physical/sexual self and the emotional/intellectual self of the mind. And I wonder, once the fissure appears, can it ever fully be mended?

But, back to the shower. Anyone who has ever traveled to a Latin American country can tell you there is a physical freedom to be found there. These are cultures that don't regard the body from a distance. They dance, they mock death, they are unafraid to touch each other. Sure, there are a lot of other things that are different too, and perhaps that has something to do with it. But we are uptight here, in the states, and it shows in our rigid hips and sterile burial practices. Add to this any number of personal tragedies and it's no wonder we live in a country with so many screwed up people. So, again, speaking only from my perspective, it occurred to me that I've often spent time in my head, with my art or words or dreams, to avoid dealing with the physical me. I sing too, but always found that more difficult to perform publicly, because I was forced to be present in my body. There was no page to hide behind, nor website. And when you've actually got the ability to sing and you want to express anything of value, there's no point in doing it if you can't be present.

As a writer, I have been trying for some time now, to capture on the page, a moment in time. Writing is fairly linear (I know, I know, one can make choices to mix things up, but the process of using language at all is linear). One cannot present all perspectives of an experience at once. Written and spoken language is one step removed from the language of bodily experience. As writers, we try to break it down to essential components, try, with rhythm, tone, word choice, punctuation, to somehow replicate the feeling of being there, even if "there" is someplace we've invented. And I don't know how anyone else writes, but for me, it is quite helpful to have my own moments to refer to. So, here's something I wrote, to give you an example of what I'm talking about:

HOW I IMAGINED IT

It doesn’t matter where it happens.
In a crowded park or alone in a hallway
By the waterfront, the fish-tossers
Drinking in cheers and money.
The rest of the world will fall away.

He reaches out and pulls me to him.
I do not resist.
He buries his face in my neck
His hand on my hip, his arm around my waist.
We are still like this for a moment
I can feel the rhythm of his heart behind his chest.
The moments unfold in that slow motion
Speeded up manner of dreams and car crashes.

Breathe. I have to remind myself to breathe.
I tilt my head back just enough to look at his face.
I trace his cheeks and delight in his expression.
I kiss his eyelids, his forehead, his chin.
I am made electric by this closeness.

His hands move—one to the small of my back
Where it pushes me into him—the other
Runs along my spine, pausing between my shoulders
Before stroking the tender places behind my ear.
He cradles my head in his hand and pulls me to him again.
I can smell his skin; feel his breath on my face.
He holds me like this, suspended, looking into me.

I feel as though I should be afraid, but I am not.
He leans closer; I feel his mouth on mine,
Sweet and slow and welcome.
Our parted mouths speak another language.
He kisses me and I pour myself into him,
Kissing him back as if my life depended on it.

I am eager for his tongue, the taste of him.
I bite his lip. He is in my blood.
Slowly the world returns to us.
A crow complains in the distance,
A child finds a nickel on the sidewalk.
I dream of a language without words.

Now, the above never happened. There was no man sweeping off my feet by the waterfront. It's completely fabricated. It's certainly not one of my best poems, but whatever. I have no objectivity concerning my own work, but I do think I came close to stopping time, which is what I was after. Would I have been able to write this way if I had never met someone who made my pulse race, never fallen in love? If I had not, at least on occasion, been able to be present in my body? I'm not so sure.

Moving forward... with all the things I had swirling around in my head yesterday, I could not have imagined finding more to think about in such depth today, but apparently I was meant to write a second volume to accompany the original novel-sized post from the beginning of the month. I am afraid that this won't be the last of my blog-tomes. I am a wordy girl, and when I find I am stuck in my head, I process verbally. It's how I get back out. I wish my energies could be directed toward writing novels or poems that spoke universally, moving men througout history, but I don't know that I can. I only hope that I occasionally say something of value or interest to someone else and that all my efforts aren't soley for my own purposes. It's a struggle, but I'm trying to live as openly and honestly as I can, and right now that has taken on a kind of confessional quality. Sorry about that. It's a tool I am exploring to help me to become unafraid to bare all that I have inside of me. I apologize for any insipid, sappy, self-absorbed, or inconsistent moments that will occur along the way. I do have a story to tell, but it's hard. I'm working on it. In any case, I've since been in touch with the Dave I wrote about in the aforementioned post, hence the mind trip.

I've no idea where to even begin. It is lovely to know that someone I cared so much about still exists in the world and that we've found our way back into each other's lives. It's also strange. How is it that memories from sixteen years ago can still grip me as though they happened yesterday? And how do I integrate those feelings into my present? And what does that mean, anyway? So much has happened, so many people, experiences, and miles between us, and yet, I feel as close to him somehow as I did so long ago. I was reminded of a phrase he had once written to me, I thought, in the journals he gave me. But upon looking in the journals, I found I was mistaken. I had been so certain. Those three words had stuck with me for years (no, not THOSE three words, but rather: "with inexplicable love"). I knew I wasn't wrong to attribute these words to Dave, but then, where had he written it?

It took hours before I realized he'd written them on the card that accompanied the journals, which were a christmas present from December 23, 1988. I haven't torn up my apartment searching for the box that likely has the card in it, as I decided to trust my gut. But then I found myself wondering whether all memories are, perhaps, unreliable? Maybe. But when something is real, you know it in your bones (at least I do) and that sort of thing doesn't fade over time. When my gut tells me something, I listen. It has never been wrong. It's only when I don't listen, or I don't have a gut reaction that I find myself getting into trouble.

So, here it is, 2006. I am 32 and live with my boyfriend and two cats in the endless grey of Portland. Dave is 37 and married and building things in sunny southern California. Sixteen (or more!) years passed between us in silence, yet, we had not forgotten each other. And here we are, about to embark, I guess, on a new chapter in our friendship. That's so freakin cool I don't even have words for it.

the first exchange

Here the earth thrums
blood dark deafening
its own ears helpless
against the static noise

Hope lies prostrate
amid the sand and insects
beneath the body’s frail need
searching for a place to bury
doubt and resist even as hands
close on mudflat longing
salt and sweat and repose

Here in the cold
hollow of an empty day
a quiet unraveling
where my heart unfurls

As you know, I'm involved in an artist/writer exchange in which we each create work in direct response to the other's. I've decided to document the process. The above work is my response to this piece by artist M.E. I apologize for the slant of this photo, but I wanted to capture the texture of the paint. Both the visual and written work is intended to remain in an unfinished state, changing with each exchange (either building off the prior piece, or inspiring a new piece) until the project concludes. Again, we know nothing about each other, save for the work. I'll include updates as the project progresses, including information about the gallery showing, once that information finally materializes.

the transitory act of creation

Yesterday I received the first piece of art from which I am to write a poem, or other creative response, for class. The artist, known to me only by the initials M.E., chose to leave a wet oil painting for me to transport to and from the University. Presumably, I will be transporting paintings such as this, one to two times a week for the next seven or eight weeks. The artist in me has no objection to this. If I were to leave a wet painting for someone else to take home, I would not be uncomfortable with the high probability of said painting returning to me in a state differing from that in which it was left. It's wet paint. And art is, after all, somewhat transitory in nature.

However, I watched in horror as I stood in the studio while the art instructor (the closest I'll come to actually meeting my artist all term) casually tossed the painting into a plastic bag to which the paint immediately stuck. Part of the project is to be open to having our own work changed by our partner, but I did not envision that I would be made to physically effect change on their work. On the other hand, anyone leaving a wet oil painting to be handled by strangers should be well versed in the zen art of detachment. In that sense, I act as a reminder to not become overly attached to things, because, in the immortal words of Ruth Gordon, they're "incidental, not integral, if you know what I mean." Still, this experience got me thinking about the ephemeral quality of the very act of creation.

How rare is it that one accomplishes with exacting precision the very thing one set out to make, creatively speaking? Usually it is a process of discovery, a work metamorphosing each time one spends time with it and, in the end, turning into something quite different than first imagined. That is part of the beauty of the whole experience. So, I'm excited to be working with M.E. (though I can't help but feel like I'm having a strangely self-reflexive moment every time I write a sentence like this), and look forward to whatever it is we will ultimately create together. It is a unique opportunity to be seen and judged solely on the basis of one's work, and to have that work responded to with complete and total honesty, having no other information with which to muddy the process.

Who is this M.E.? Are they male or female? Does knowing a person's gender have a bearing on the interpretation of their work? Will we understand each other? And later, once we've met, will we find our assumptions to be terribly correct (or disarmingly inaccurate)? Will we be compatible (or incompatible) in ways unforeseen throughout the project? I'm curious to know. Does anything matter outside of the art itself, whatever the medium, and the pure expression of it? Even timeless works, by virtue of the piece having outlived its creative impulse and moment in history, are they not somehow ephemeral too? Can we actually hold onto anything more than the process itself, knowing that though components may change, the impulse is one of the most basic in all of humanity? Could I possibly find a way to include in this post yet another question?

butterflies and jesus jokes

I've just finished revising a short story I wrote entitled Mariposa, nearly doubling its length, for a class I am taking with fiction author Whitney Otto. Huzzah! It is now a satisfying 5,902 words total. As I write this, it occurs to me I have no idea at which point a short story ceases to be a short story and becomes a novella. Hmm... a question for my teacher I guess. I am hopeful (rare this time of year) about the productivity of the coming months and the creative projects (including painting!)I have ahead of me. And I'm especially excited about my other class with poet Michele Glazer, exploring the relationship between the written and visual arts and the processes employed by their makers. I don't have much more to say tonight. I put it all into my story.

Part of me wishes to share a bit of it here, and part of me feels strange putting my writing (my real writing) up on the web for anyone to see. I'm not (yet?) published and only recently have made this foray into fiction. Most of what I write is poetry, but I'm proud of both. And though I plan to continue writing until the day I die, though I intend to make a living in a way somehow connected to the craft, I'm uncertain of putting it out there to be judged by strangers. Funny, then, that I keep enrolling in courses which provide me with exactly that opportunity.

On a completely unrelated note, I keep meaning to say something about this post about this page and the related feedback in response to it. This is sheer madness. To begin with (and I'll state upfront I don't think any topic is beyond reproach and firmly hold that humor is one of the best ways to get people to talk about issues that are difficult, painful, and/or mired in a history of conflict), I'm sure that Jesus has a better sense of humor than he's being given credit for and that he's not in need of anyone rushing to his defense, if that's what you'd call this nonsense.

I also can't imagine Jesus, or any other prophet or holy person in any of the world's other religions, being at all pleased with the kind of hateful, ignorant, and spiteful comments that have been made. In fact, Jesus would be appalled by this kind of behavior. So, lighten up folks, and for [holy name omitted to protect myself from flamers]'s sake, practice the love and goodwill towards others that you profess to believe. If people spent more time worrying about their own lives and how they treat others and less time worrying about what everyone else was doing, this would all be a non-issue anyway. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

her grand adventure...

I may never know how Minou spent her time over the four days and four nights prior to the phone call I received this morning from a neighbor a half a block away, but she is home (thank you Jason and Martha). Despite having always appeared wary of the big street out front, it seems Minou ventured across it to see what the great world had to offer. She's a little lighter for the journey, but has eaten and is napping now, so I can go to class without worry for the first time this week. Our "Missing Cat!" posters worked, but if ever you need help I'd suggest calling petfindersalert.com. For a small fee they will map out a 10-40 block area and will call every neighbor to personally alert them to your missing pet and to give them a description. We had signed up, but Minou is home now, and we won't need them to call. Instead, that money will go towards microchipping both Minou and Buster, a concept I had found quite odd, until this week.

Minou is missing.

One of my beautiful cats disappeared Sunday morning and has not returned. I'm hardly moved by the start of classes. The collaborative class in which I'll be writing poetry and other goodness in response to a visual artist's work (and vice versa) doesn't seem so thrilling just now. Can't think. Can't properly write. Tear ducts are actually still functioning quite well. If I could bargain with the gods for her, I certainly would.

my early morning novel-sized post

When I was seventeen I felt at home everywhere. At thirty-two I'm not quite sure where I belong. That seems backwards, I know, so I'll elaborate further. Make no mistake about it, my teen years are nothing I wish to repeat. I was angry, sad, confused, damaged, and I didn't always treat people very well, which made me a rather typical teenager, I'm afraid. I was also very smart, creative, and (when I wasn't brooding) passionate about everything. I remember someone once told me that it seemed existence was hard for me. And they were right.

Without launching into the details of my troubled youth (I'm new to this public/personal disclosure thing, let's work up to that shall we?), I will just say that I was a screwed up girl that didn't know how to love or be loved, among other things. I was self-destructive for a long time and it seemed I had the uncanny ability to push good people away from me, while immersing myself in a lot of superficial relationships. This fueled the rumor mill (always more colorful than my actual life) and enabled me to be incredibly social while at the same time very, very alone. Again, typical teen stuff, right? I'm not trying to dish out some sob story and I'm not looking for comfort. It was what it was, and fortunately I've managed to learn and grow since that period of my life. I'm only giving this as background, because I've been feeling strangely nostalgic about those years.

Perhaps it was seeing my ten year reunion come and go (I never went), or the fact that my two teenage sisters were attending my old high school, but I started thinking about those years differently. Don't get me wrong, I hated high school and have a litany of reasons to back that up. What I've gained is the ability to appreciate those moments of kindness, people that showed me real friendship and humanity, in what was a very dark time for me. People who reached out, or listened, or stuck by me, even when I didn't deserve it, or recognize it, or return it. Most of those people will never know what they meant to me, because I lost touch with, or shielded myself from them so completely they never even knew I cared. But those small moments made it possible for me to survive.

And despite all those things (it seemed were) conspiring against me, I felt comfortable almost everywhere. While I couldn't deal with emotional intimacy, I found myself plopped down on the floors of bookstores, or wandering the California coastline as if I owned it. I routinely drove into Big Basin, pulled over, and walked into the forest until the magic of the day crept over me, and I would write, or draw, or think, in peace. I'd go to parties held by people I hardly knew and feel as though I fit in. Now, I feel I can hardly introduce myself to a member of the opposite sex without prefacing the conversation with, "And just so we're clear, I am not hitting on you." While the friends I have are certainly dear friends, I find too often that large parties with lots of strangers are exhausting, not thrilling.

I am more certain of who I am and what I want than I've ever been, but I no longer feel that youthful defiance, which afforded me the luxury of never owing anyone an explanation. Let me revise that a bit. I still don't feel I owe anyone an explanation, but as a woman in my thirties I am bombarded with questions of whether I plan to marry, or why haven't I already; do I intend to have children, and don't I feel the clock ticking (even my boyfriend's mother, whom I adore, makes the occassional wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-you-made-me-a-grandmother brand of comment to me, though not, notably, to her son).

Then there are the unspoken judgments: the look that says, "You're 32 and haven't finished your Bachelor's degree? Why don't you have a proper career? Why don't you have a husband? What have you been doing all this time?" I admit, it's possible I've got a heightened sensitivity to this sort of thing, since I think about this stuff too. And, for the record, I graduate with highest honors in June, and with any luck I'll return to the non-university world and actually receive a paycheck doing something at all related to what I am interested in doing. Whether that means teaching English and creative writing to poor kids in Central America, editing a literary magazine, or turning right around and applying for an MFA program remains to be seen.

So, why this backwards trek through memory? Last night I received an email through one of those websites that tries to put you back in touch with your old high school mates. I did mention I've been feeling nostalgic right? It was from a girl named Nancy that I had once been close to, but haven't talked to in well over a decade. She was a genuinely good person, who routinely surrounded herself with good people, which I think is ultimately why we drifted apart. I didn't know then how to deal with genuine people. I was accustomed to those with agendas of their own, those that took, and hurt, and lied. She was nothing like those people. Nancy spontaneously looked me up and sent me a message, in which she mentioned that she had been talking about me with another friend, Dave, some months back. This floored me.

Dave was a guy I met through Nancy when I was only 15 (if memory serves). We'd been driving to Santa Cruz and I was looking through a stack of Nancy's photos when I came across a picture of this quirky guy (Dave) with a giant cookie shoved into his mouth the way kids do with orange peels, so it covered his teeth. The short version is that Dave and I met, and got along really well. He was smart and funny and kind. He was good to me. He was good for me. And in the end, I treated him like crap. I think the logic I was operating by at the time was something to the effect of: If he loves you, push him away, you don't deserve it, wouldn't know how to deal with it anyway, and besides you'll probably hurt him and he's too good for that. Bullshit logic, I know. But Dave sent me into a panic. I felt good around him. I cared about him deeply. He was the first person to give me a set of journals, which I still have, to encourage me to write, purge, create.

Did he love me? Surely not. It didn't last long. I didn't give him that chance. Or rather, I didn't allow myself to take the chance with him. I think I secured that failure when he invited me on a real date (not just the two of us hanging out, but a dinner date with several of his friends) and I backed out on him at the last minute. As in, I was the jerk who stood up his prom date kind of lameness. The reason? I freaked out. The thought of sitting next to him, under the scrutiny of his friends, was too much for me. I thought they'd see me and know that I was not good enough for him. I was more willing to hurt him and ultimately lose him than I was to be publicly outed for the fraudulently decent person I felt I was. It was ridiculous. I know that now. I was afraid that he might actually help me to let go of much of the hurt and anger I had been hoarding. Frankly, at that time, I wouldn't have known how to live without it. It was my armor and had served me well. I wasn't ready to give it up. Of course, I didn't realize this until much later.

Dave and I kept in touch, briefly, afterwards. He went to school at UCLA and I remember, what I think may have been the last time I ever spoke to him, when he visited me at my parents' house in Cupertino. He looked at me affectionately and told me that when I was twenty I should look him up and that we could probably have a really great relationship. Needless to say, twenty came and went, and I never saw him again. Over the years, I have found myself idly googling his name (unproductively) or looking through those people finder search engines every so often. I wanted the opportunity to tell him I was sorry and to let him know that he was one of those people in my life that showed me real kindness when most of my life was full of darkness. I wanted to say thank you. He helped to restore my faith in people, good people (like Nancy) when I hardly believed that was possible. I was simply too young and too damaged (and stupid, I'll say that too) to recognize him for who he was and what he might have been to me. I thought for sure I'd never have the chance to say these things to him.

And then, last night, I get this email from Nancy and she and Dave have recently had a conversation about me, which, at least in some small way, led her to write me (I hope they said a few nice things). I wrote her back and look forward to catching up. And I perhaps the universe has decided to give me the chance to finally say to Dave all the things I've written here, but haven't been able to say for so long. Wish me luck.

and so it begins...

I'm not actually sure what has possessed me to start blogging. To be sure, it has nothing to do with any New Year's resolution as I have resolved to have none of those (and really, do they ever last past January 3rd anyhow?). Is it that I faithfully read Neil Gaiman's blog? Is it that I have friends who are blogging and I wanted to jump on the blog bandwagon? Perhaps it is as simple as needing a place that might force me to write more consistently, but I think I just want to know I am putting something new in the world; something with at least the possibility of reaching beyond my own personal sphere. And so it begins...