The Lights Abound

I do love this time of year, when everything is particularly luminous and aflutter.

Finally, winter weather has arrived in dear Austin and I have to say that it does help jumpstart the holiday season. Call me crazy, but 75 degree evenings does not make me want to drape the house in garland. If I wanted weather like that, I would brave the superficial nonsensical nature that is L.A. (sorry in advance to those of you that live there and are quite truly good people).

It has been a hectic time at work. You would think that three days off for Thanksgiving would rejuvenate us, similar to a cucumber face mask at the end of a long day, but if anything my co-workers look more overworked and irksome than ever, as though the break was more of a sharp gardening tour being dragged over their face. It's hard, with students that spend their evenings playing video games and eating orange #5 colored snacks all day long. I think all those chemicals make them sassy. It certainly has made me want to race home and pop a bottle of something to stop the constant thoughts of how my students will pass their classes. It seems that before the end of the grading period, all my ELL boys unfailingly are piled into my room with fifty missing assignments that feel impossible to tackle in twenty two minutes. All those little moments of 'kid free time' are suddenly filled with sticky fingers, Spanish, and the sound of a chips bag crumpling.

Lately it has been especially hard to get my kids off my mind, even when the lights are off. My nightmares, while always regularly occurring, have become especially prevalent in my dreaming state. They always start with kids being in my actual bedroom (now now....don't take this in a sick direction, or a creepy one where they're covered in blood or something) and I realize that the lights are off! How in the world can they READ? So I try to get up, feeling guilty that I could possibly have slept during a lesson, when I realize, oh shit, I can't let them see me in my pajamas! I am horrified, and confused and sure I will be sacked when suddenly, I cross over into consciousness and realize I am dreaming. These dreams have been every night for the last two weeks, so now I can not escape being a teacher even in sleep! I'm sure if I were being filmed, like for my reality TV show, there would be some very scary sequences of me sitting straight up in bed and telling non-existent kids to get their feet off my bed, or to use more correct grammar when addressing a teacher.....

I have also found some lovely co-workers at my school. There have been many 'choir practices' (codes for happy hour) that have made the culture at school a lot more unified (even if we are unified by a habit to drink beer in large mugs after a hard day). It's really hard not to want to drink beer, especially in the winter. H told me the other day that she simply wanted to move to Ireland so she wouldn't be alone in her passion of sitting in a pub. I completely understand this urge, and in fact, have been so moved by the fantasy that I have been to Ireland and Scotland twice now, and surely I will go five or six times more just to hear those truly juicy accents. It truly is as romantical as we think it is, for the first three days, then one does get a bit bored and bloated.

But let's get back to lights. Yes, the lights. What is it that makes them so pleasing to the eye? I put up a strand of white lights in my room and viola, it is transformed into a den of incandescent beauty. Suddenly, I want to listen to different music and journal. The same with candlelight. Is it really that romantic or have we just seen countless movies that tell us true romance is only seeing 5% of the person you're making out with? And, what is it about the lights of downtown, that once there make you feel almost invincible? And why does the little street, 37th Street to be exact, look so much more darling when little luminous bulbs are hung from the roof? I don't know. All I know is that it is lovely, and we can not help but be inspired and drawn to it. Just our modest Christmas tree, not even weighted down by ornaments, makes me want to be in my living room now than ever before. It's why, in Prague, I would stand in Old Town, awestruck, by such beauty of the clock, lit up. I remember one night in particular, with the snow coming heavily down in the square, and it was late, perhaps 1am, when I should have never been alone, but I was. The Square was empty and yet, it was shivering with light. The towers boomed above and around me, shimmering, as I walked on the snow compacting beneath my feet. It was as though that whole night was posing for me, just so, and I have to admit I was quite unable to control my arms from flying up and my body moving in circular movements until it was one, fuzzy dreamland of light.

In the winter, especially the holidays, there is almost a community from light. People are brought together around it, celebrate how many days it lasted, and drape it in and out of our homes to show that we are part of a common rejoicing. It is funny how, over the years, my family has developed new traditions (an oxymoron, I know) that as kids we didn't do, but now they are among my favorite ways to celebrate. Perhaps the one most dear to my nostalgic heart is the lights tour my family goes on in Chico. We pile into one car and, with a local paper in hand, my father guides us around town in search of the most well displayed houses in the area. I also get to hear my dad give off that splendid laugh that he only let's us bare witness to when he is truly happy. We have a very unique, completely neurotic ranking system which mostly consists of mocking and berating houses (I mean really, don't you know all-red lights look demonic?) with the occasional moments of silence for at truly spectacular performance. We wait all year to watch as these ordinary houses transform into glowing masterpieces. I guarantee I have spent more time judging and clucking at lit houses than I have over priceless European art (this may also indicate that I am more pedestrian and provincial than I wish to believe, but no bother). The point is, that it is the light that makes things come alive. And it is this time of year more than ever that we must pause, look around, and enjoy that way the light absorbs you, owns you, delights you.

I could certainly go even further and talk about the 'inner light' which is, no doubt, a compelling topic, but I think we all know that could go on for a disturbing length of time.

So, I will instead, leave you with this dazzling line of letters and literary divinity:

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light." -Plato

Pretty Little Numbers

Yesterday was 11/11/11. It was also Veteran's Day. Put these things together and surely something will arise. H told me that a baby was born, at 11:11, on 11/11/11 and that both the baby's parents were in the Air Force. I have to say that this strange little fact made me smile this morning. I know that somewhere, a family started yesterday, and that for them, fate had her arm wrapped around the whole divine experience. Even if a cynic tells you that statically, it isn't that incredible, you know that the mother of that baby boy believes that her child was meant to come out just when it did, to enter their lives at that very moment.

My 11/11/11 was a bit different. It started with a Veteran's Day ceremony at school, where I corralled children into an over-packed gym that smelled too much like dirty laundry. I realized pretty quickly that I was a real ass for not wearing any red or white (I did have an unintentional white tank under my tan sweater, but I doubt that one me any patriot points). So, I scribbled out a flag on one of my forgotten name-tag adhesives, before scooting my 7th graders to the assembly. The ceremony itself was nice, with the music and actual good behavior of all those teenagers crammed in together in a tiny space. They had a great speaker, who had been in four wars and had that sternness about him that was secure but doesn't make you uneasy. He spoke smoothly and confidently and I was nearly ready to encourage my kids to fight under his tutelage. The part that shook me though, were the letters from war that the theater students read. One, in particular, mentioned being so close to Dakau, the concentration camp in Germany, that they could smell bone. I remember going there myself, during my 13-country-whirlwind through Europe that somehow was completed in 33 days. When I went, it was summer, and there were yellow flowers scattered along the green grass, and it was too warm to appreciate the hell of winter, with no clothes, no hair, and nearly no body fat.
This got me thinking, of numbers, of the years, that decide what your life will entail. That my students were too young to remember the sheer panic of 9/11, and no matter how passionate of a lesson I gave on it, they couldn't get goosebumps the way I did, every time our principal comes over the loudspeaker, because it reminds me of my high school principal, telling us in his deep voice that the towers had fallen. I wonder what their memories will be, how they will stick, and if I will even dent them at all.
I did have a nice surprise at work, other than the assembly, and that was the return of one of my students from last year. He returned to Mexico last March and I hadn't heard from him since. I remember being so worried about him for weeks afterward, and then, as time passed, I worried and remembered less. I pretty much begged for him to be in my Reading class, and was pleased to see him on my roster Friday morning. He looks a little intimidating perhaps, with his baggy clothes and solid stature(and an almost perpetual hood), but when he smiled upon seeing me, I couldn't help but hug him back and beam. I will hopefully get the chance to bring him up to grade-level in reading, and, possibly equally as important, monitor him and help to make him feel welcome and safe at school.
As the day progressed, and my 4th period class filled with 7th grade boys sucked all the energy from me, I found myself gearing up for a rowdy 'Choir Practice' with some co-workers after school ended. I drank two beers and ate about a pound of queso, all while enjoying the bitching and banter that is unique to teachers. We have our own vernacular, as many professions do, and middle school teachers love to discuss the chaos of our daily working lives. It is a funny bond that teachers have, I think, mostly because when you're at school it feels like nothing else in the world exists. When I'm at work and in my room, which has no windows, there could be any number of natural disasters sweeping through Pflugerville and I wouldn't bat an eyelash. Beautiful, 70-degree days are simply wasted on me, because I am in a room that smells of sneakers and boys all day long. Let's not even go into the cleanliness of the pillows I have in my room for students to use while reading.......
But let's fast forward to last night. So, it is H, C and myself heading over to my friend D's house for an 11/11/11 party. We are meant to bring 11 shaped food items, such as long thin pretzels, or perhaps we could bring Yasmine Bleathe and let people snack on her fingers or something, but instead I brought those french Piroutte cookie things. Anyway, right off the bat I see that most the people there are the church folk I met the previous weekend on the retreat, so I was feeling mildly popular, which has not been a common feeling in Austin, let me tell you. There were so many sweet, charming twenty-somethings that I about died of joy. H immediately saw one of her own idols, a famous Austin blogger that she follows, well, I would say religiously but H and I aren't great at going to church....so let's just say H follows her methodically, the way a mathematician has to count those tiny squares on ceilings. The woman's boots were akin to the torso of a Collie, and she had a glow about her that assured confidence with a hearty dab of warmth. Now, it isn't often that H and I have an 'on' night in front of the cool people in our presence, but I do believe last night was one of them. People seemed to at least think we were as resoundingly funny as we thought they were. It seemed everyone we met was either in film, writing, or the business of saving African countries from emotional distress and famine (perhaps in that order). A few times I looked around to see if we might get our picture snapped for the local paper or something. It is strange to crave that kind of juicy discussion, where you can talk politics, poetry and philanthropy and then just as quickly crack a joke about how your pastor got the word "package" during Taboo and turned beet red. (Too bad the buzzer sounded before he could attempt to give us clues on that one.)
I find that most of the time, being in my mid-twenties is not so glamorous. It is mostly me flopping out of bed at 6 a.m. and messing with the coffee maker in a baggy t-shirt and blurry vision. Or, me looking dozing off to bed around 9 p.m., with a copy of some literary gem I've picked out to feel more well-read but have hopelessly discarded after ten minutes of skimming. But, occasionally, I meet friends for wine at Vino Vino and look around at the dim lighting, at the incredible people surrounding me, and I really let it sink in that these are probably the damned days of our lives or something. At work, things are a little too crazy to really sit around thinking, "Wow, we're changing lives here....." it's more like me looking around and saying, "Please, so and so, take off your hood," or "Seriously, is that your foot on my chair?"
A saying I have like recently, which naturally stemmed from my shouts at H's dog, Sophie, is "In what world?" I find that I want to say this all the time to my students, except I know they won't understand it. Though, in the hallway, when a kid was banging on the walls and disrupting other classes, I couldn't help but let slip, "In what world is that OK?" and give him my most ferocious scowl. He looked too confused to really give me any satisfaction (this seems to be a trend when teaching tweens).
So where was I going with this post? Well, I haven't the slightest, so I will attempt to connect that numbers are strange and confusing and yet, in a weird way, they are the equalizer of language. My kids straight from Mexico can't greet you but hey, they can knock out a division problem. I could end with something cheesy, like a smile is also universal, but let me just leave you with my guilty admission instead.........speaking of numbers........I watched two seasons of The City (yes, the spin-off of The Hills) in the last week, and though they are just 12 minutes long each, it still is gross and I probably should have tar poured on me and then rolled into a pile of feathers or something.

Little Sun Little Banjo

Wow. What a great weekend it's been. Yesterday, I woke up fairly early and drank my coffee while secretly thanking the heavens for the beautiful weather and cool morning air. I slowly got ready, and with some help from the darling Sophie dog, who sits on my balcony like a bitchy Juliet, I put on my cowboy boots and a white summer dress to go pick up C for the music festival. C and I drove to Driftwood, Texas, about a half hour outside of Austin, enjoying the sun and unmistakable fall breeze whipping our smiling cheeks.

When we arrived in Driftwood (after I passed our destination first, naturally) we were greeted with big grins from festival volunteers in worn jeans and t-shirts with banjos on them. I knew instantly it would be a good day. Since the music hadn't officially started, C and I decided to get lunch across the street at a famous BBQ joint called the Salt Lick. Now, I know what you're thinking, what in the world would Kristen even eat there? But they actually have a 'veggie' plate that includes a thick potato salad that sticks to your gums, coleslaw, and a nice helping of baked beans with, you guessed it, bits of bacon. And, to top it all off, a piece of big fluffy German bread to coat your already bulging stomach with. C got some actual meat, which at least helped make us not look like such hippies, and then we sat at over-sized picnic tables positioned under the most lovely Pecan trees you've ever seen. Their knobby, dark wood twisted and turned above our heads as we kicked back beers and talked about school, men and everything in between (which isn't much, because those two things are pretty potent elements to good convo).

I can't say I think about weddings too much, even though it is a hot topic in my house, but I have to say that the Salt Lick in Driftwood would be perfect. There are dangling white lights, an old wooden stage, and I can just picture myself in a beautiful white dress and my cowboy boots, looking around at everyone I love in this world holding up mason jars filled with beer to toast with. So, after we ate more than was sufficient, we made it back to the music festival in time to catch a jam session. Now, picture a lot of banjos, guitars, fiddles and mandolins all playing together in a euphoric harmony, while the shade lingers around you and the sun only peaks in to bring all of the music to a very magical glow. And the people, some in overalls, but mostly over 40 with such happiness spread over them that you know they look forward to this event all year. People are hugging old friends, reminiscing about last year's festival, and holding their instruments as though they are beloved toddlers straddling their hips.

And, the music, I simply can't describe. I think that the juiciest things in life are not properly portrayed in any form of communication, and music is one of them. I don't know what it is about the banjo, and folk/bluegrass in general, but hearing those porch-tapping beats brings my mind to its most simplistic, beautiful state. All I want to think of are the wildness of flowers, the luminescence of a sunrise, and the joy that comes with friends and American dreaming. I would say that if my happiness were some kind of recipe, I would need more than a pinch of folk music in order to get the flavor just right. It affects me in a way I am scared to think about, because the happiness comes at me so quickly, so sharply, that it's almost scary. I wonder sometimes if I heard a lot of it as a kid, or perhaps I acquired the taste, like I did with beer, but whatever the reason it is indeed my most true and dearest genre, and it inevitably makes me think of open spaces and all my dearest ones back home.

The creativity and rhythms of all the bands were sensational, that I will say, and while sitting in a foldable chair and sipping a beer, somehow hours slipped by and C and I grew so relaxed we both were at risk of drifting into a lullaby.

My favorite band yesterday was the Lost Pines. They were just awkward enough to be funny when they talked, and just passionate enough to blend into one true force of music while they played. They were truly magical in their playing, and even my lazy foot was coerced into a constant movement to try and be a part of it. It was also special to see my banjo teacher, though, strumming and picking away on his instrument in a band I didn't even know he was part of.

And now, what do I get to do tonight? I get to experience the magic of the Avett Brothers, at the most popular music venue in Austin, with two of my dear friends, D and H. So, has this weekend rocked? Yes, indeed it has.

I think if I met October on the street, I would hug her, because so far she has been the reason my spirits are high and my life is glimmering :-)

Just sitting, just living

From the aftermath of my last post, perhaps I might seem to be in a gloomy state. But, as the weather shifts, so does my mood. Now, I have the most beautiful day laid out in front of me, with a cool breeze and that blissful excitement of having a tall iced coffee in front of me, dripping delicate drops of perspiration. I have just added a new gruesome detail to my book and am anxious to get started. But before I do that.......

It has been a strange, busy week. We started last Sunday with a trip to the emergency room for Z, after he heckled our dear Sophie and she came out the obvious victor. There was blood everywhere. I held his lip with a paper towel that cruelly stuck to the injury like dried glue. We spent most of the day Sunday recovering from the escapade and lamenting that Z had to spend his 27th birthday unable to eat or drink anything. But, from there, the week trudged on, as it does. Monday is always my longest working day, where I am thrilled if I get out of there before 7. Then, Tuesday was fairly relaxing, as we knew Wednesday would hold a double round of kickball. It was fun, though, getting out and being social, though the grass felt like knives on my kneecaps and the air was thicker than peanut butter. We won our first game and man, I haven't felt that competitive and jubilant over a sporting activity in a long time. We were also all getting better, which is sort of hilarious, since we are honing the absolute most vestigial sporting skill of being good at playing KICKBALL! And naturally, it isn't just any kickball, it's kickball with a big ass ball.

So.......skip to Thursday and my roommates leave and I have the house all to myself. All I can think of all day is how lovely it will be to read and take a bath without anyone at all. N kept asking me all last week, "What will you do, being alone for four whole days?" It was as though she positively could not imagine that I may enjoy myself, which is putting it lightly! I am absolutely soaking in the pleasure that is solitude. Other than the obvious locking of my bedroom door, then putting the hamper against the door, and perhaps racing through the hallway so as not to be stabbed routine, I find myself cozying up to being alone quite nicely.

Doesn't N know the joy I felt as I traveled through Ireland alone, staring out streaked freezing windows on long bus rides throughout that incandescent green country? That I walked into pubs and ate alone, slightly fearful, but knowing that getting to know myself was the only thing in the world that I had to let matter? And how when I returned to Prague after that trip, I had a glow about me, that my other roommates, that had clumped together through Venice like a vine of heavy grapes, were perhaps even jealous of?

Perhaps this should worry me. Maybe I should be more like N, thinking it sad to be without constant human contact and friends. I should ponder and then disapprove that I woke up this morning with a grin ear to ear, squeezing my pillow affectionately and nearly pranced down the stairs. Perhaps. Perhaps I won't ever meet someone because I usually can get pretty damned weepy and fulfilled by devouring a good book alone. I don't really know. All I know is that it is 10:41 on Saturday and everything feels as though it is poised and radiant just for my pleasure. Sure, I will go out with friends tonight and leave my state of solitude briefly, but then I will race back home and curl up in my bed without the smallest concern for the empty house surrounding me.

But I do like humans, don't get me wrong. In fact, last night, I chaperoned the school dance, 7th and 8th grade. It was a long day, not leaving school until after 9pm, but I can't deny that the interaction with my fellow-teachers was lovely. Seeing even my businesslike AP question, even for a second, if he actually would line dance, and my friend D trying to the Cupid Shuffle were memories I refuse to let age or apathy extract from me. And oh, those awkward, awkward kids that looked around helplessly to find someone they recognized, and how they all jumped in when I taught them my favorite line dance. I can honestly remember that desperation. In middle school, I was in a constant state of panic that I would be found somewhere alone, and that I would have to eat my french loaf of french bread and ranch in a bathroom stall or something. But that was a long time ago, more than ten years, and I find myself wondering what the kids I teach now will turn into when they grow up. I hope that they will get an opportunity to knock on the sky and hear an answer.

I think that what the dance did for me, being that perfect mix of ridiculous and awesomeness that it was, is it let me know I can never truly be a recluse, because, if nothing else, I like seeing bad dancing too much.

To wrap this diatribe up, I will say, with unequivocal confidence, that I have no clue what will happen in my life. But. that doesn't mean that things aren't exactly as they are meant to be, right now, in this very corner of my most divine living.

Petrin Hill Blossoms on My Mind

What to say? I am sitting indoors, away from the thick clumps of air outside, and wondering about how time can go by so fast, and yet, sometimes lay out in front of you like the endless highway across the abandoned state of Nevada. Lately I have not felt as though life is moving quite as I want it to. This isn't to say it's moving slowly, because frankly, with the way work pummels me I can barely take a breath. No.....it is something more. I wonder how long I can stay in Austin and still love it the way I am certain it deserves. The weather, surely, is enough to break even the most cushioned of spirits right now, but it's more than that. There is no escape here, from the city that is. Everywhere I go there is concrete, or if I do escape it, I know that I am in a patch of trees that only tease me momentarily before yet another stretch of gray is revealed.

I feel as though all the people here are the same, and I grow antsy. I want something very very different. I want to get some epic tropical disease again and wonder, will I need a blood transfusion on a dirty Thai hospital bed? OK, maybe I don't want that exactly, but I do feel as though things are mundane. During the week, I work 12 hour days and come home and feel very similar to one of those large manatees who lives in one of the most beautiful oceans but can barely move fast enough to catch a floating piece of seaweed. Then, Wednesdays come and I am more exhausted than ever and I force myself to get into the car and make my way to kickball and GASP, socialize with people other than those in education! Finally, Friday sneaks up with a spurt of euphoric confetti and I am zonked by midnight from the joy of it all. It isn't really until Sunday that I have chiseled away the plaque from the rest of the week and start remembering that I even have a creative side that exists beyond lesson planning and putting up red and white polka dot border. I'm not even married and this is my life. I am single and still I find it hard to have time with myself. How is that even possible?

A year has gone by, and then some. This time last year, H and I were biking downtown to try and catch a few notes from the ACL music festival. I was still not hired and egregiously broke, and she was exhausted from life. Now, I have a great job that I love and we have 'game night' at our house and make chili and cookies. Naturally, if this weren't happening I would be complaining about that, too.....but I really do wonder how long will my life in Austin last? Will I meet someone who doesn't want to tie me down or 'figure me out' or think I'm interesting without really wanting to make me less interesting over time? Will someone every just rejoice in every bit of who I am the way I see it done in theaters? Will I ever stop loving Jane Austen and all the period pieces from a time where women were equally besotted and oppressed by gentlemen? And I digress yet again with Victorian sentiments.......

I just don't understand how to think about time. Am I meant to not think about next year? How can I not, when I may have to sign a legal document committing myself to set frame of days by April? Is Austin really somewhere I can be for much longer, or will I start to hate it, little by little, for not having seasons, not having an ocean, mountains, open space for me to run in? I just want to move to Italy, really, or return to my dear Praha, where the city is old and vibrant and the apartments are small only because dreams are bigger than property. But, you can escape to the hillside, the most wondrous hillside where pear trees explode in March, and you can weep at the lines of rock that have erected a magnificent place of worship. Why do I miss these things so much? Why does everyone else love Austin so ferociously when I feel mostly apathy? I wonder if I am deeply, deeply ungrateful, or if I am just being an insubordinate resident, a petulant child that doesn't want to like something that everyone else likes. How do you know when you are meant to be somewhere?

I often wonder if I have just been gone from home for too damned long. If I need to just get back there, get back home before I tear down every city in America with my longing for Chico. There is no beauty like that of my dearest orchards, my Bidwell Park, and the way the Pacific sighs int he evenings. How can I live anywhere that doesn't allow me to spend a Saturday gazing upon John Muir's most trusted friend, the giant Redwood?

But of course, so many questions, too many really, for a lazy, humid Sunday in a city that is jammed pack full of hipsters and celebs. So I will get back to my 'real' writing now, and stop telling you all the ways life astounds me, for I fear you would have to sit with me for some time before my mouth stopped moving.

Breeze for the Parched

I think this may be it; we have made it through the most painful summer in 50 years. It has felt like it, too, though I was lucky enough to escape the bulk of it. Just six weeks of relentless blaze has made me feel lethargic and irritated by the crippled landscape around me. There is a bleakness with drought that is hard to understand. It does not wipe out towns in a matter of minutes, nor does it break in half skyscrapers, instead it slowly extracts the life out of all the things around you. It reminds me of Scotland, in January, when the sun started setting at four and you pleaded with it to give you just a little more of its light.

But now, now I wake up and it is the second day of relief. There is a fall breeze that almost mimics a sacred howling and for a moment I can pretend that 90 degrees is as heavenly as 76 (the sick part being that I think it truly does feel like 76).

As humans, we love that things begin and end. Babies are born in unison with elders dying, flowers bloom then return to the earth, and we wait excitedly for them to resurrect again. We lament change, but really, it is what our life is driven by. How can we continually love the heat and childlike feel of summer when it has been that way for five months? We can not. We need change to start us up again, to regain our attention and our passion into something revitalizing. I need to let go of pools and BBQ and steaming cement in order to be part of something new. Never have I wanted pumpkin spice candles or hot soup and bread more. And when it ends, when my dear fall ends, I will miss it dearly, and when it returns it will be all the better because change makes me miss more ardently. Change makes me lament all the things I am scared I wouldn't love enough if they were mine always. Even my students show the benefit of change. In my classroom, students work harder and with more vigor when they know the activity will change in twenty minutes. They desire to be moved, to change their thinking, and I wonder if that way of thinking ever truly leaves us.

I suppose that is a normal thing to fear, not loving the steady things in your life (or perhaps I just like to pretend it is). What if I had everything I wanted, in my hands, every day, would I still love it so? Perhaps I would, or perhaps my affections would wander and get lost down the street, besotted with something just out of reach.

I already am remembering people and things fondly, as though when I had them they were utterly amazing. That guy, the one I know was not for me, is remembered now for the lovely words he rarely spoke, the way his arms wrapped around me when he chose to come to me at all. I am so good at these tailored lies it begins to store in my mind as truth. This, of course, is not how things were, and I must remind myself that change moves us forward because we need to move, and we must not turn our neck too far to what was. I believe something or someone is meant to stay with you, it would have.

The best part about change is that you never really know when it will sweep you away. One day you feel as though fall will never come, and then you are awoken by heavy, sultry winds and you step outside to the most delightful smell of crumbled leaves and cooler whisps of air. You are always given what you need, always provided with that vibrancy of change when you thought nothing could ever thrill again.

So I sit outside now, at my favorite coffee shop, letting myself get lost in the flashbacks of this new season, as I start to let go of everything summer placed upon me. I peel back the memories of summer until I am naked and new, awaiting all the sensational things that will find me this season.

Boyz to Men

Come on, admit it, you LOVE this band.....I mean, everyone does, right? It is a totally intriguing name when it comes to R & B jams and a bunch of men in matching clothes from the 90's, but in life, there is a bit more to it than that.

So, when do boys turn IN to men?

I have been wondering this for some time. When is that wonderful age when they stop shotgunning beer and farting the alphabet? It turns out that there is really no one time, it is instead different for each kind of guy. My roomate, H, sums it up as more of a phase-thing. For example, a guy (I use this non-descript word for a male specimen with undocumented boy or man status) can either be in his 'single college' phase or he could have transitioned into the 'serious relationship' phase. You have to be on the look out for this, almost as much as someone in Texas looks out for rain on the forecast as they approach a record-breaking streak of drought. You can pick up on these phases with the following signs:

A guy is in the single-college phase if:
-He wears a backward hat
-Lives with 4 or more people
-Uses words like 'bro' or 'stellar'
-Nods his head at people, as though to acknowledge them without words
-Wants to get tattoos that involve some kind of snake/dragon (this is always a red flag)
-He plays video games three or more times a week
-Pizza is a food group
-He slaps your back when you hug him
-He drools and tries to lodge his tongue down your throat as though it is a medical examination
-He continues working non-stop part-time gigs and loses his wallet on numerous dating excursions
-He refers to your job as being 'real' and you are really 'grown-up'
-He calls you seven times between 2:32 a.m. and 4:29 a.m.
-He grabs your ass when cuddling (if cuddling happens at all) and/or doesn't look you in the eye while hooking up
-He calls you 'sexy lips' or 'my lady'
-His friends have lime on their breath from doing body shots of of sorority girls the night before
-He owns a dog and lets it drink from the beer bong

A guy is in the serious-relationship phase if:
-He buys his own home
-He has decorations in his living space/bedroom
-Owns a button-down shirt and wears it regularly
-Prefers a beer over 'shot shot, shot shot shot' (please think of the song when reading sequential shot writings)
-Enjoys things like salmon or any other kind of fish
-He enjoys watching sunsets
-Owns a pair of genuinely nice leather shoes
-He holds you tight when you hug him
-He gently kisses your neck, eyes, cheeks.......sigh
-He has a career-oriented job that makes him fulfilled enough not to want to fly to San Fran to jump off the Golden Gate with animated hand gestures
-He calls you at 9:00 p.m. to tell you, once again, what a wonderful time he had at dinner with you
-He plays with your hair and moves his arm up in anticipation of you wanting to 'lie in the nook'
-He calls you 'baby' and 'honey' (we hope nothing sicker starts, like 'shnookums')
-His friends like to play pool and have a beer on the weekends
-He owns a dog and takes it to the dog park

These are just some general tips to look out for that I have found. It is amazing how guys, when they allow themselves to transition into the serious phase, change their actions. Suddenly, women are less disposable plastic objects and become these lifelike whimsical creatures that they want to hold onto.

My other roomate, N, has been having some problems in the guy world, just like me. I mean, let's face it, it's tough out there. Between online dating, meeting guys downtown at bars and the occasional set-up, it feels as though there aren't any good men left on the planet (and of course all the ones you fall in love with instantly are married). I went on a lot weird, awkward dates last year, and the only one that sort of worked out only lasted three months. I often wonder, are these three-month relationships really good or did they just destroy me a little bit more? I don't know....I guess as long as I don't start hissing at all men then I'm not too bitter, right? I think we all just want to be JILTED by a great love. Is that so much to ask for? I mean, why does Mandy Moore always get the happy ending?

I think both of us, N and I, thought that as we got older guys would finally mature and enter into the next phase. It seems that this isn't always the case. Sometimes they are 25 when they transition (like H's boyfriend), but other times they are 32 and they only transition after all their friends get married and they realize they have the maximum subscription to Netflix. It just takes time and faith to meet the right guy. I think it is also important to not have a set-in-stone list of the guy you want to be with. For example, the last guy I dated hit almost all of my wishlist, such as: drove a truck, had his own place, was a country boy, owned dogs, was incredibly smart, was quiet/tortured, was a great snuggler.......and so forth (weep, sniffle) with some added bonuses of: opened my door, was a great kisser, loved driving me around everywhere, was happy to hang out in groups with my friends. But, he was SO not right for me, and I think I should STOP pretending I know what's perfect for me. After all, it has taken me 25 years just to find out what clothes are the right fit on me, so why should I be so presumptuous as to think I know what man will contour to me?

So keep up the good fight ladies (and you guys, too), because I think the relationship gods have a cruel sense of humor but are saps at heart. There IS someone for all of us out there, just don't be upset if he isn't over 6 feet like you'd envisioned......

Bleach It

OK, so don't judge me, but I have gone and bleached/dyed my hair blond. Well, alright, it already WAS a little blond, but I did highlights and now I am like Barbie blond. As though I needed any more fuel for the 'locavore' Austin fire, being from Cali and all, but now I look like the kind of person that may have surf wax in her purse or something. But, then again, Texans do love the crazy blond, big-haired thing. It's OK though, I think it adds that bit of zest to things in my life (not that I am too short on that right now). I have started school and it feels amazing to be actually doing something with my time. I mean, hey, I am all for long afternoons where I nuzzle up with the spine of a book, but I do need more than that, too.

Work is strangely exhilarating. I mean, who knew that setting up my class and attending department and team meetings could get me so thrilled? It's kind of sick really. I even know that I am that irritating 'young-en' that is always smiling and has the energy of a Cocker Spaniel. I'm sure it will pass by the end of next week, but right now I'm having way too much fun wearing pencil skirts and using academic acronyms. Bleh, I am a sad, sad case aren't I?

I guess there is a reason for my new highlights. I said goodbye to someone that for some reason I was hanging onto. Sort of like those scabs that you keep on because, hey, you kind of like that people think you're a badass. But really, you need to just pluck it off and throw it in the bin. So, I did that, but it looked more like me tip-toeing up to his porch and dropping his fabulously baggy gray sweatpants on the doorstep along with a note that made me seem more mature than I'm really feeling. So...the next night, I scheduled a hair appointment and BAM! I am back in action. I am a sassy gal and I have sassy hair so whatcha gotta say about it?

It has been miserably hot. I mean, I may-peel-off-my-shirt-in-front-of-a-stranger-just-to-get-a breeze-from-their-open-aghast-mouth kind of hot. The A/C at my school is on 'low', as in, low on cost not low in temperature. So, not only do I get to see my fabulous colleagues, but I get to smell them as well (and I am not excluding myself from the stench by any means).

It is amazing to go back to a place and realize, hey, I know people here and I don't think they hate me too much. In fact, this morning, when I walked into the ELA District Meeting, a new women from my school raised her hand up immediately and rushed me over with a grin as though I had coffee beans grinding in my chest. She was alone, granted, and may have asked Charles Manson to join the group, but she noticed me and I was equally glad to be welcomed by her. Then, the other people from our school came in. I got to see them, one by one, make eye contact with me and start in my direction, as though I were somehow part of their directional purpose. It was kind of cool.

Anyways, I am actually exhausted now that I am at home, in my room, and in the cool-ish air that somehow flows in magic whisps around my room in icy chunks. I picked up a book that my dear friend Roger gave me and now it sits, on my bed, awaiting my arrival and my sweet grasp on its cover. (Has anyone noticed my talk of books is becoming sexual? No? OK good.)

That is all for now. No real theme to this post, but they don't make sticky notes big enough for my ranting brain OK?

The Colors Abound

Well, I'm here, back in the 'big city' and all of that. It's nice, too, being in Austin with friends that were fast becoming mere images from old films than actual flesh beings from my year living in Texas. "This is where I live," I whisper to myself, "this is my home now."

After being welcomed at the airport by H, J, Z and N I felt like nothing could touch this chapter in my life. That's what it feels like, too, a new phase. Sure, some of the same characters reappear in my life (some have been imprinted in my own flesh for decades) but there is still that smell of spring, that smell of wandering blossoms and wild lavender in the air that makes me think something's up. What will it be? I don't know, and oh! how I rejoice in the unknowing!

I had a very anchoring conversation, while on my summer hiatus, at a lovely coffee shop, sitting outdoors sipping an iced coffee with my spiritual equivalent of the Dalai Lama. She can be tough, downright brutal, really, but it is her ferocity for truth that reminds me that it isn't just that I seek answers with her, but that I seek them in myself. I think I can say, unabashedly, that this is one of my greatest qualities. Even when I smother truth with pillows filled with naivety, I still keep it alive, even if it's barely breathing beneath my weight. This can also be an obnoxious quality to have, one that is unrelenting and forces you to see far uglier things than you wish. But, in the end, I do believe it is truth that will set you free (and so I use cliches when they are epically appropriate).

When I think of truth I like to picture a photograph in black and white. It looks lovely enough, demure and classy, but if you look closer you see there is one part of it that shines with color. There is that one bright hue that lashes out, drawing you into it, and you know that is where the beauty is, in the realness of what you are. It is a blue door in a dull landscape, telling you that this is where the juicy opening of your life stems.

I am hoping that this next year will be lined in truth. Like the inside of a plant cell, I will guard my walls with impenetrable honesty about who I am and what I want. I will not let people make me less than that. I will teach as best I can, while quietly unraveling all the ways I can improve (while hopefully gently avoiding any emotional masochism). That I can love with everything inside of me, knowing I will get hurt badly, scraped across highways of human relationships, because that is the absolute only way to find the sum of what I am capable of.

Austin can be a very tricky place to find truth. At times it feels as though you are plucking petals from a flower, asking truth if it loves you or loves you not. Everywhere you look there are those that are lying about who they are and what they want. Their clothes alone remind you how desperately people hope you can not see through them. Perhaps a vest, from 1976, can make them look unique and worthy of film class, or that a tattoo weaving up an ivory back can be a shield against people claiming you're uninteresting. But we know better. And I can feel that flurry of city bringing me in already; the drinking, the partying, the men........It is a very vibrant call and I will remind myself what the truth is inside of me, for that is the gravest stance of all, not knowing one's self well enough to have conviction. If you can not fight for yourself, how can you expect victory?

I will read my own words, in months to come, (or this very same afternoon) so that I can at least try and make them true. For, as I write, I know that it is I that am most worried about being those dishonest things than anyone else.

So here's to a fresh start. A big white glob of paint stuck on my life, reminding me I must actively search for the colors that make my heart delight.

Never Let It Go

There is a movie I watched recently, starring Kiera Knightley and the lovely Carey Mulligan. Both of these actresses have a propensity for being in period flicks that leave me feeling distant from modernity and yearning for simpler times. This movie was different, though, being more sci-fi than romantical. The plot is that cloning is an acceptable action, and that with cloning life expectancies have jumped to 120 and there are no longer people suffering from disease. This sounds lovely, in theory, but as always there is something tilted when science becomes too strong. In the sad case of the three main characters, they grew up as clones, born and breed to be the harvesting vestiges for other 'real' humans. Something Heather kept saying, throughout the movie, stuck with me. The three characters grow up together in a boarding school, not knowing they are clones until later. They are still taught schoolwork, but they know nothing of any other world existing outside the brick and ivy walls of their isolation.

Heather kept saying, "But why don't they fight for more?"

Before I even took a breath, my reaction was, "Because they know nothing else."

Why didn't they fight the people that put them on a cold, silver table and took their organs out one by one? Why didn't they build a boat and try to cross over to America, even if they died somewhere over the Atlantic? And why, dear God why, did they for a moment think that they were inferior to their originals?

But I didn't think those things; not at first. I saw the movie as a classic example of not yearning for the ocean when you have never seen any body of water larger than a pond. How can you want that vastness? How can you dream in neon when everything around you is an abused hue? The truth is, I don't know. I come from a time and place where dreaming is so prevalent that often reality is disappointing. Where, seeing the Eiffel Tower is more like the mind confirming the glossy pictures in the magazine than accepting the building as something profound. That is why I loved the movie. That is why I can't stop thinking about it. I want to know why those three didn't fight, why they didn't try to run away or selfishly take their own lives to at least be in control of their bodies. But the things they did find, the things that could not be halted or harnessed, were love and disappointment of things that could never be.

While walking through the redwoods on a recent trip to the California coast, I thought about this movie a lot. Sure, the scenery is beautiful, as England always is, and the acting is raw and worthy of award, but there was more to it. In fact, all I could think about, looking out at the great rippled trunks of red trees before me, was how amazingly steadfast the human spirit is. That there are those out there that sacrifice everything for love, for family, for pride. That in Yemen, child marriages are quietly acceptable, even when they result in death for a twelve-year-old girl from internal bleeding. That there could be women whose husbands are twenty years older than them, and they must live their lives within their beautiful internal palace of spirit with all the doors and windows locked around them. But they do it. They watch their fathers give them to violent old men and they stop crying, eventually, at that betrayal.

It makes one wonder if the human spirit is made to want certain things, programmed to crave freedom, to cherish family, and to spill into other humans with affection and love. Do these things come in each of us, like a complex micro-chip? Or, do we merely seek what is within reach, what our environment has exposed us to? I don't know. All I know is that in Thailand, they wanted white skin so bad they bleached their arms, legs and faces just to look a certain way. I also know that I will never want to stop learning about people, geography and the environment. That, though I have never been a mother, I want to one day hold my child in my arms and know that love of a mother and her darling baby. Could the movies and media have implanted all these desires in me? Perhaps.....but I think there is something more, something so deep within my spirit that no matter how much the outside world hammered upon my skull I would still want the things I do. Even if I had been born in 1476, I would have yearned for the Pacific Ocean, and I would want a room of my own for my writing (as blasphemous as that would have been). So what comes first, the desire or the delusion?

It seems that the overwhelming spirit of humans demands that they can never let their truest desires go. They can never let it go, and I'm afraid nor can I, which is why, just like the characters in the movie, I will always be lost in the magnificence of love and the darkness of wanting things I can't express and know should not have been born in me.

Country of Mine Country of Thine

I teased before, of someone getting left behind, and there was such a person. It started with the arrival of my mother into Seattle. We swept her from the airport and then her and I went to an incredible dinner with my friends from Austin, Andrew and Christina. Andrew's house (parent's house) in Seattle is located high above a lake, so that when you look out all you see is forested perfection and the moving water below. We had the most delicious, and vegetarian-friendly, meal that ended with coconut-cream pie and left me wondering how mothers manage to bake homemade pies on top of everything else they do.

The morning after this spectacular dinner, we were on our way to Vancouver to cross the border and, just to pass the time, I opened my mom's passport. I was mostly trying to snoop at her international stamps, but unfortunately I stumbled upon an expiration date. It appeared that her ability to leave the US and return had rotted. So we left her in Washington, cruel as it sounds, in a larger effort to go pick up my grandparents in Vancouver.

Vancouver is a unique place. There is water and hills surrounding it in almost a San Francisco-esque manner. The buildings are tall and new and covered with so many windows they almost looks like sparking scales on a standing beast. I was, at first, upset that our hotel was so far away from the town center, where I was set to meet a dear friend, but found that taking the Sky Train into downtown brought back all the delicious freedom and unknowns of international travel. It was almost exactly the same as the Sky Train in Bangkok, except that when I got off, the air was not thick and sticky, smelling of various potent gases and banana peels. No, Vancouver is extremely clean and the people are outside biking, walking and laughing over over-priced pints near the water. As I walked down to the boat docks where the little water planes parked, I realized that I hadn't really been alone like that in a long time. Sure, in Austin I do things alone all the time; I go to coffee shops religiously, I run errands, go for runs, etc., but there is something different about the solitude of walking with no agenda and no knowledge of where you are or what will come. I find myself missing that spontaneity, that dependence on myself, where I want to hold my own hand and skip, but for the realization that I may look rather like a demented Shirley Temple than the independent goddess we all wish to be. I had lots of those freeing moments when I traveled, particularly in Ireland and Prague. In Prague I was famous for being the 'recluse' in our program and wandering to the castle and apple orchards at random intervals of time. Ireland found me in its countryside, wide-eyed and dragging a suitcase up monstrous hills where the sheep looked at me as though I were a complete arse. I even sat alone in a pub, beer touching my lips just to keep my busy, and I found I could do almost anything.

I think we all worry about dependence. That, we will meet someone and lose a bit of ourselves. Or, perhaps we have been with someone a while and worry that it has already happened. We may ask ourselves, when did I start liking college football? Why do I get excited about a hot dog stuffed with cheese when I am a vegetarian? I fear the answer is far too brutal to admit to ourselves. We fall into patterns, we like the feel of the crook of a neck while we sleep, and instead of holding our own hand we let our little palms fall into the stronger hand of a man. I wish I could decide if this loss of independence is normal, good even, or if it is the end of the brightest parts of yourself. Perhaps it is a little of both. I suppose it is natural to 'share' things with another and, to be honest, who would prefer to travel alone? As much as I adore walking across the Charles Bridge at sunset, I still wondered, what are these magnificent colors in the sky without someone there to reflect with you upon them? To smile and casually comment, "Look how the castle glows." I wish this weren't the case, but hey, Paris is kind of a bitchy city when you go there single. I don't need a chocolate croissant and white-lit streets romancing me when my hair is greasy and I just ate an entire Tolberone by myself in my hotel room.

Back to Vancouver......

So I met-up with Natalie. Natalie. My dearest Natalie! This will be our THIRD country to meet, starting with our initial introduction in Peru, a reunion for a festival in Edinburgh, Scotland, and then our Greek feast and clinking pints in Vancouver. I guess clinking pints has been a theme for us. We have drunk our way through many bars, houses and streets around this world and never thought twice about it because we had a greater backdrop of each other. She is never one I waste unworthy anecdotes or trivialities on. After our hugs and squeals when we meet, I must hear only the juiciest, most painful and real parts of her, as she does with me. We can talk for whole days at a time and never bat an eye. The only thing we dare pause for is food. And my, did we feast! We ordered all the food that you wish you could eat, and we dipped and dolloped and scarfed unabashedly. As we ate and talked outside as though only days had passed since we'd seen each other, not years, we watched a horse-sized dog lament and whimper for its owner, who happened to be about ten feet away and eating outside, too. The dog could see the owner but was nowhere near satisfied. It cried, the gut-wrenching tears of need, and was even as desperate as to stick its scone-sized paws on the railing to just get that much closer. Eventually they moved it so it was at their feet, and then it cried for joy, as though it were still devastated because the love was just too much to handle. Natalie and I both had our hands on our cheeks, watching every move, understanding perfectly how the dog felt, and wondering why it is acceptable only for canines to be so damned pathetic. When women, or men for that matter, behave as such, it is practically a convicted crime, worthy of a heart tar-and-feathering amongst your peers.

Moving on to the last parts of the visit. We went to a pub and I tried to compose myself when I saw the beer prices, $8 for a pint? Natalie informed me that that was normal, and that Vancouver was even more expensive than Dublin (which is really saying something). We eventually met a darling couple from Belfast, whose accents I knew immediately as being the same as many people I care dearly about. They were wonderful. Fresh to Vancouver, they had a newlywed kind of hope about them that almost floats off the corners of their smiles. We talked lots about travel, life, politics and, naturally, ended up on the topic of the United States. To be honest, I miss hearing peoples' views on my country. I also love to hear what comes out of my own mouth when I am put in a position to represent 310 million people. You often don't know the volume of your voice until you have the passion of speech. I won't go into details about my political or social beliefs, but there is nothing better than really discussing the things that matter, especially with a beer :-)

And so, the next morning, I awoke in Natalie's apartment, fresh from snore-free sleep (my father has some vocal nasal blockage) and we wandered back to the Sky Train to get me back to my dad and grandparents. We still had to go back over the border and meet my stranded mother. As we walked, she showed me all the boarded up windows from the riots in Vancouver, after Boston won the Stanley Cup. The city was in the news for its violence, something it truly has no business being linked with, and was shamed for the destruction of their downtown. Well, the people of Canada were appalled and, being the rather radiant country they are, the boarded up walls where glass once stood were written over in colorful pens with pictures and words of hope and apologies. The best part, the most uplifting part, was that there was a pancake breakfast happening right in the middle of the city. They were blasting oldies music and dancing while flipping pancakes and serving them to the homeless and anyone who wanted a fluffy morning snack. They were making something right, the way humans can, after something awful has occurred. They were the very example of why, in so much war and evil that you find yourself still believing in people, because at our very core we delight in goodness and community.I find I have to believe that, seeing what I've seen. I wanted to weep, I truly did, when I saw the swaying of arms to "Jump, for your love" and the way everyone sort of blended together, in all their colors and skins, so that they were just one place of peace, one entity of rebirth and rebuilding, and I was unwaveringly grateful to be a part. I knew I was going to be late, so I eventually had to hug Nat goodbye and walk away from music (a tragedy, always), but I loved that Vancouver showed me something extraordinary, and I won't forget it for that. I urge you to see what the city does for you, if you every find yourself hopelessly north and looking to be surprised.

More next time about the final days of my trip in the rugged Olympic Peninsula (though I sit now, in Chico, enjoying the hot weather, cold water and iced coffee that sweats in my hands).

Feast of Beauty: Part One

Well, I have now survived almost a week straight of family, more specifically my father, and I am still feeling good about things. It is amazing how you learn to know your parents, as you get older, and they stop being these blurred whisps that guide your life but instead become focused and still. I enjoy this, though the child in me wants to leave them more squished and ethereal, but it is a blessing indeed to get to an age when you really see the people who raised you.

I will spare you all the details of certain grumpy evenings or blistered feet, but I will tell you briefly about my time on my trip thus far. My father and I started with a seven hour drive (originally thought to be a brief five by our navigator, whose blood relation I won't go into) and both marveled at the way Shasta jets out from sea-level and rises like a white-hooded spirit toward the sky. Surrounded by the almost overflowing blueness of Lake Shasta, the drive through the Cascades almost veered us off the road several times.

*Note:While frightening, swerving can sometimes be a strange applause for beauty.

After a few hours we made our way through the high-altitude desert and I noted that sometimes, a lack of trees can open up the sky, and though I prefer trees to surround, nurture and be with me at all times, I must admit there is an awe in wondrous lengths of unabashed earth. We stopped at a diner in an unmemorable town about 40 miles from Bend, thinking it would be charming and at the very least filling. The strange part was that it was owned and run entirely by a Chinese family who, after serving us fish 'n chips and fried chicken, proceeded to serve their own daughter (the hostess and fill-in waitress, naturally) a bowl of Chinese noodles. Perhaps that diner was the epitome of the American experience, or perhaps it is the breakdown of cultural autonomy, I haven't decided which.

The next morning we awoke in Bend, which, in case you were curious, is named because it is located where the river bends (how I do enjoy intentional names). The air was crisp and the sky was cloudless so naturally my dad and I gorged on eggs and toast and were on the search for a bike shop. We ended up renting mountain bikes and blazed through town and around for almost two hours. Bend is one of those towns that you wonder, why doesn't everyone in the world live here? The river is perfect and wild when you want it to be and then serene and glass-like by the park, where the bushes and flowers are so bright you wonder if someone secretly spilled oil paints around the city in the middle of the night. There are adorable local shops all around and everyone seems to be laughing and smiling as though they have hooks in their cheeks. But truly, the biking was great, and I even got the mountain-bike-thrill of going over rocks and zipping around semi-dangerous corners. It is a strange kind of liveliness that makes your blood sort of salsa through your body.

Naturally, I needed a beer afterward, so my dad and I went to a downtown brewery and feasted, or decimated, several plates of food including a very nervous colony of sweet potato fries who had no idea their lives were in such danger when we arrived. After lunch, we drove up and over another set of mountains and very questionable mountain roads where we watched with wide-eyes as the temperature dropped further and further down until it wavered around 58. Thankfully, by the time we reached Hood River it was a little warmer and we checked into to our hotel with a great view of the massive Colombia River Gorge and stood on the balcony, silent, just wondering how all that water can stay in one place when it is capable of such greatness.

Hood River is an adorable town, too. I guess my dad knows that I like these kinds of kitschy places where you want to squeeze their cheeks and eat caramel apples and such. The big thing there is to kite-surf and windsurf in the baltic waters of a river that secretly thinks it's the Atlantic Ocean. I suppose when you grow up around that kind of strength you want to be a part of it or something. I am happy to report that I also had some Oregon berry pie while in Hood River and loved every morsel, the way people should, where the granules of sugar hover on your tongue. Enough about the food....why must I always focus on that? Anyways, the 'big hike' that has been one of the benchmarks of our trip was scheduled for the next morning. Per usual, we tanked up at breakfast and then waited for the rain to pass.....it didn't. We went anyway, though, on one of the most incredible hikes of my life. It was about 12.5 miles and had some of the most incredible waterfalls I've ever experienced, ending of course with Tunnel Falls, which is nothing short of sensational.

My favorite part of hiking with my dad is that he tells me colorful stories. He talks about what it was like when he enlisted and stood in great lines waiting to be punctured by a nurse and watching grown men fall like dominoes from whatever poison they injected in their arms. He tells me about his backpacking trips from years ago, when a skunk let loose on a tent, or when he played wiffle ball with his buddies and drank vodka and gatorade. My father, the accountant, did all of these amazing, crazy things! These are the kinds of anecdotal gems he won't divulge in real-time living. I don't know what it is, but he is like a punctured milk carton on hikes, he just spills all the good stuff right on out. But there is a a quiet that exists between us that is also important. He doesn't bother me (too much, except for the odd geography/history/horticultural comment) when we are trudging through the awesome greenery. I get to have peace. I need that smallness that comes with hiking and nature, being so inconsequential in a thriving ecosystem while at the same time never feeling so connected in your life. I am grateful that I can feel this, next to my father, and know he's experiencing the exact same thing.

A highlight of hilariousness on this hike was seeing my dad try and put on his absolutely abused poncho. I swear a that thing spent the night with a Bobcat or something. Hearing him curse while putting his pale arms through the hole where his head should go is an image I will gleefully carry with me for some time. Also, bless his heart, his limping from the car to the hotel in Portland just an hour after our trek was certainly worth a few blisters and battered toenails that I was experiencing.

I will end by saying this: I have been utterly spoiled to see these pockets of pure beauty that exist in this country, and even luckier to share it with a great man like my father. I am forever amazed by just how vast our land is, how diverse and how awe-struck I continue to be by the landscape.

I suppose that is all for now....stay tuned for Vancouver and Olympic National Park.....and TEASER ALERT: we have to leave someone in my family behind in the border crossing.

I think that's your plane?

Today is Monday. There are boxes and hot pink discount bins all over my room. I have gathered about a pound of blond hair from various corners of the room and realized once again that I have a book hoarding problem. I am packing, or clearing out, of my bedroom in Austin. Thursday I will get on a plane to Colorado, then Friday I will get back on a plane with sister, toddler, and bun (-in oven) to make our way to the West Coast. I will be gone two months. Eight weeks. Sixty days. I think about the days, as though each were dangling above me on a clothespin, and wonder which to pluck off first. I think many things, on my duvet-cover now stained with pizza sauce; it's just been one of those weekends.

Where to begin? Just thinking about this time last year, when I arrived sweating and enthralled by the downtown city lights of Austin and was just a little disappointed not to hear accents, I find myself getting that strange feeling of time lost. Has it been a year? Have I really taught as a middle school teacher and created a family with a bunch of smelly but darling twelve-year-old adolescents? The answer is, but of course, a resounding yes (especially the smelly part, as I learned this year the Spanish word for fart is 'pedo' and I have learned to move away quickly upon hearing it). I took so many pictures of my babies during our UT field trip that I almost scratched the lens with my clucking.

Now, a new TTF person is coming to live in my room for the summer. She keeps asking me all of these adorably naive questions and I don't have the heart to tell her just how ruthless it is out there to be a teacher. I want her to keep her faith, to think that she is different, because everyone deserves that. I just can't help but think of how much has changed since I did summer institute last year. I hadn't met Heather, my dearest Austin love, who has turned so many of my tears into bouncy bowls of laughter that I don't know what I would have done without her. She is like a fellow potato, that happened to grow up on a distant island, but we have the same tough kind of roots. We have gushed and bitched about all the parts of work or life that are possible with verbal communication, and beyond that, we've done a ridiculous number of hand gestures.
I also met a lovely man, who I had a movie-sized goodbye with on my porch when it was still sticky at 3am. I watched him, half ready to cry and half ready to be alone, get in his truck and drive away. He will be in China all summer while I gallivant the U.S. with no real agenda except letting myself be surprised over and over again.

I also have a new house. There is the cutest dwelling waiting for me August 1st, and I am giddy with anticipation to scoop and shlep all of my shit into it and nest like the feathery and particular bird that I am. The trees make this canopy above the roof and....sigh.....see how I lose focus so quickly? OK, so, I have made great friends and have a job that fulfills me in all those scary little pockets of soul that you were afraid may grow over with cobwebs but now, instead, the light pours into it and you think it may be a nice spot to paint after all. I like to think back to last May, about how nervous I was, how my hands shook when I threw those dice in California, betting that a life in Texas would maybe, just maybe, be that thing that my newly mid-twenty self was secretly trying to grab hold of. And, I think I may be bruised, but I still hold it, in my balmy hands.

This summer will not be a break, not in the truest sense. Though I can and will devour books like female teachers with free cupcakes, I vow that I will finish MY book. I mean, here I have been given over two months of undisturbed, child-free existence and if I were to throw it away on wheat beer and floating devices what kind of human would I be? Well, a chubby and well-tanned one, certainly, but I want to be more. Besides, didn't that seven months in Thailand remind me it is actually impossible for me to get any real kind of color? So, I will go to coffee shops and spend time in the bedroom I grew up in so as to restore that hidden well-water within me that sometimes, my arms don't have the strength to draw from. I want to go back to them, drink from them, baptize myself in each drop and remember that the whole point of my book is to make people feel like there is more to this world, more to themselves, than what they have ever dreamed.

Simple, right?? Well, we will see. I will still be blogging about all the mini-trips I go on and attempting to document the tornado of emotions that I usually smack into when returning to Chico. Hopefully people have developed some kind shelter for my arrivals, as I tend to not know I destroy as much as I do.

But it is a good thing to leave a place. It is a good thing to miss and be missed. It is good to look upon a time and know it is gone but still pointing your little feet toward the road because, at least you know you're going somewhere. So, here's to the brave souls who have picked my hitchhiking butt up throughout my life, loaded in me in their cars and helped me get somewhere amazing. I know there will be more to meet, and I love to stick my legs up on the dash and hear the world sing.

The City

You said the structures
were built around you
that the streets came from
slender parts of arm
you wrapped around downtown
all those times
'round me
That the freeways
were all the twirled truths
the mind played with you
taking you up and over
then spitting you out into I-35
This place was once home
your joyful bones
that you've compacted with scaled hands
peeling, you rose like ivy
a silent smothered skyscraper
that once pointed to Michigan
it now brings me here
the smell of soaked pavement
and a weak river
you were wise to build upon

This is Seventh Street
where I watch the city cry

And I
I hold the gavel
I grasp the heart
neatly zipped in my heart
of your waning metropolis

In the Eyes

I read somewhere that eyes never grow from birth to death. That, when you gaze upon that pinkness of newborn perfection, you see the same eyes that will decades later cry over a failed marriage, or mist at the sight of the Great Wall of China. It is true that when you see a baby, their eyes are the dominant force on their pudgy little faces, even my sky blues, that were once held up by the wall of chub that were my soft cheeks.

It makes one wonder, about the greatness of change we experience in ourselves. That we can be given these little round circles, placed neatly in sockets and protected by a skin-curtain, and while the rest of our body sprouts and stretches our way of seeing the world does not. Is this an argument for nature? Perhaps. Perhaps there is some meaning in the fact that the objects that flip the world upside down and view it remain unchanging no matter our years or experiences.

Sometimes, I look at pictures of myself. When I was young, and my smile nearly reached my temples and my ringlets were loose. My eyelashes were never caked with mascara and my lips were just as pleased with an otter pop as they are now with passion. I try to connect myself to the little girl, the one my parents say was so sweet and would lose entire afternoons playing Dollhouse. I find that the only real thing that brings me to her, are those eyes, for I know them, recognize them as though they are an ancestor from long ago that has returned to a dusty village, and I gravitate toward them. For in those eyes, those unabashed eyes, I can find who I once was. Some days this makes me weep. I must admit that I am much changed, and though I still ache over people's pain and try desperately to shine with any kind of incandescence, I fear I am no longer selfless.

But this is how it goes, is it not? The change is as constant as the ebb and flow of hope and darkness. But I do love looking at my nephew, my darling Carter, and thinking that one day he will stare back at me as a man. He probably will be taller than me, and I will have one of those short mom haircuts and a homemade macaroni necklace that my twins made me (gasp!), but I will forever recognize his angelic eyes.

Perhaps this is why parents can never let go of those precious early years. You will always be puffed with childhood delight to your parents. Like a lovely pastry, you will always be sweet and protected on a china dish. We should rejoice in it. There are so few people that will ever remember you so well.

As I leave for work, I gaze once more in the mirror, and my battle continues. Perhaps I will never connect Krissy, (my childhood name), and the woman I am now, but I may have many afternoons trying. I think the point is, all these little parts are me, and that is something I have to believe in.

That Was How the Rain Fell

We are in a drought. We are in a severe drought. That means that if Texas was a face, it's nose would be crackled and pointed fiercely downward. The eyes would glimpse this nose, from above, just slightly, and know that it's vanity was destroyed.

I remember I was sixteen. My family decided to go somewhere for Christmas, somewhere warm and strange, I suppose. And we did. We ended up in Arizona, a state not so far from California, but when we arrived I had to trace the sky with my pinky, to remember the lines of blue.

The ground was red. I remember thinking it strange, that the soil would not be dark, stained brown beneath my feet. When I touched it I recoiled, my hands could not dig beneath it's wrinkled edge. I would never delve within it and plant a snapdragon. Even at sixteen, this was a devastation of sorts.

As we drove by houses I noticed that trees were plucked from the landscape, gone altogether. Instead there were cacti. No one ever kissed beneath a cactus, I thought, and I was right. It was as though we were in a refugee camp; there were people everywhere but their most precious limbs were missing, the ones that stretched up and out and made them graceful. I could hardly rejoice in that loss.

"Spectacular," my father mumbled, as we made it to Sedona. There, the rocks were abundant and it looked much like what Mars had been woven into in my cinematic past. The winds slapped us as we walked on.

"But where are all the trees?" I asked.

"It's the desert," he replied, stretching his arm to show me the expanse, "there isn't water for all that."

No water.

It was impossible to think of. My town, in Northern California, was famous for floods that let people row down cul de sacs in canoes. At school, we would name the pockets of flooded area after great lakes, and lines would form to inch your way across the slim passageways between puddles.

But, after all that rain, spring erupted. It was almost violent, all that green. So much so that when I went to Ireland, I felt as though it were home. Our town relied on the rain. When we lacked it, the farmers went hungry and the people grew restless. We, too, had to be fed by the falling water, and when it didn't come people grew agitated. And then, on a cloudy afternoon, as the rain fell, you could see people sigh ever so slightly, as though an old friend had come back safely from a trip you never got a postcard from. We would complain a little, about the greyness of it, but secretly we twirled and spun to that grandiose cacophony. As a child I even fell to my knees, trying desperately to hear the grass drink.

I think that was one of my graces in Thailand. Even in the illness, the madness and unyielding heat, the rain always came. We would stand in the ocean, warm salt water up to our hips, and watch as the the water came down, as though coming home. It was one of the most enchanting things in the world, that return from sky to earth, and I knew that to be cradled in the ocean was something we both shared.

So, sitting here in Austin, during an extreme drought, is trying. There is moisture in the air, and trees to be sure, but there is a void. I must feel the rain, taste it upon my tongue and feel it drip into every follicle of hair before I am satisfied. I even make the rain, to my plants, from a big red watering can. But it not the same.

I see now that where I grew up, we didn't want the rain, we needed it. We could not survive without storms and brutality of water. We beckoned it, danced for it, sang endlessly to the strips of bark that lined our rivers until they flowed again, the mighty veins carrying our spirits and blood from one side of town to the next.

This is what I miss most: those days and days of unforgiving rain, when the earth opens its mighty jaw to drink from the pouring heavens.

Watch That Bird Go

Well, now that I have written (in the previous post) one of the most potentially depressing poems thus seen, I will try and be a little more upbeat. Also, I don't want my dear mother thinking that I need my darkness of spirit numbed by Zoloft, and after my last poem, I may be two-stanzas-involving-cutlery away from her flying out here and popping the pills into my mouth herself. The truth is that, at present, life is going bewitchingly well.

So, naturally, I am greatly concerned.

To begin, it seems that on my drive to work there have sprouted the most delightful tufts of purple and yellow flowers that make even my brooding heart liven. It is like one of those Little House on the Prairie scenes (minus the toll road) that make you want to frolic in a pettycoat or something. Also, the weather is warming at an alarming rate. I have brought out sandals and my Thai elephant dresses in order to avoid sweating like an ape while basking in the unreasonable Texas sun.

On Saturday, there was even that perfect smell of sunscreen that shivers into your nostrils and takes you back to the summer of 1992.....but I will not go there now. I will, however, relay that I have been 'verbally' offered a position for next year at the middle school I work at. Now, for those of you who either don't watch the news, talk to humans, or read my blog (teacher-bitch post was a few weeks ago) then, shame on you, it's bad out there for teachers and you should be buying us cookies or something! For the rest of you, thank you for your awkward smiles and sighs at how America's great educators continue to get snubbed. Boo. But, it seems that my school is just crazy enough to let me back and with a full-time position, so I won't have to continue to by WIC food products or be asked by students as to why I show up at school so late every day. It makes me feel perpetually like I am not a 'real' teacher, which sometimes is correct, like when they ask me about after-school specifics and I am left clicking wildly at my school inbox trying desperately to remember when soccer tryouts are. Awesome. But, now I will be there in full and surely will finally be forced to administer standardized testing!

There is also the addition of certain new people into my life. Some of these are friends that have surfaced in peculiar but perfect ways and that I now adore so much that I wonder at how I survived without their little adorable ways. They are the kind of people that stand, in a room-full of lying complacents, and you can't help feel their greatness of character. One in particular will be joining Heather and me contractually for next year. Of course, by this, I mean we will share a magical house with a garden worthy of any well-polished gnomes' attention (for the un-polished ones are quite ill-trained on such matters). With these new friends, I must boast that we have been gallivanting to trivia, restaurants, pools and other jolly activities that are enough to make me even more broke and slightly euphoric from all that beer. There may even be other new additions to my life but, I will stop here, and you will just have to wait for the footage from my reality TV show (please disregard this joke if you have not signed the waiver to appear on my show).

So, in case the addition is too jarring, we are now tallying a new job, perfect weather, wildflowers and being surrounded by new, enchanting people. Now, my parents being accountants and all, I can add things up pretty soundly and I say, "Kristen, just breathe, for this is a time in your life where things soar and you must keep your arms spread wide if you wish to take that wind for all it's got."

So here I am, in Texas (how did that happen?), somehow living a city life, and you know what? I think I just might be soaring.

The Sound of Silence

She had them
perfect little ears
that she cradled gently
through Iowa winters
with him
and she spent nights
tucked in feathers
feeling his breath on her
until one night
he ended her
them
with two little words
sounds she must smother
with the violence of a knife
so she carved carved away
all the things once loved
on her pretty little head
and all around her
blood
reminded her she was
more than what was said

And she wept she wept
but no sound came
and she was pleased in this
for her perfect little ears
were gone
and she had not the strength to miss