Jessk Is It

I'm a Catch! Right?

2012-01-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

Being single has done wonders for my self esteem.

I never would have guessed this. I guess it reflects how different I am from the high school and college versions of me. God, if I could go back in time and slap high school me, my life would be infinitely better today. I was such an idiot. Even in college I assumed that I was the sort of girl people would settle with, rather than actively pursue. Odd, thinking back, because I was the one settling with a bad situation through most of college. How did I not see this? Now it feels like the world gave a collective, "aww... We should try to cheer her up!" when I became single, which I'm not going to argue against, but feels a bit out of sorts. I keep waiting for the goodwill to run out. Like I've been given more than my fair share of encouragement.

I'm toying with figuring out exactly what it is I want out of a significant other. This is a new concept for me. I've spent all of my dating life playing a purely defensive game. There aren't really many people who actually are what I want. Not in the "big picture rest of my life" sort of way. In a short-term, "what are you doing Friday?" sort of way, sure. Of course, it's easy to think about these things when you aren't actually looking for your... let's call it "forever home" and pretend I'm the rough equivalent of a stray. (Ignore the clearly problematic aspects of this metaphor, please.)

It's nice though, realizing that most everyone I've seen has been interested in date #2. It's nerve-wracking, meeting someone new. You race through scenarios. What if they take one look at you and leave? What if they don't show up at all? What if they stop suddenly and blurt out something along the lines of "this would never work, bye." It hasn't happened. I worry, because I feel that I am less earnest than my erstwhile companions. I don't know what it is they're looking for - we haven't discussed it. I worry that I might actually hurt someone along the way. I've never been that person before. I don't know how to be that person. I don't know how to put things down, step away. I need to learn.

I'm in a mode where I feel like I could get almost anyone I want who isn't already taken. As long as I don't test this theory, I can pretend it is true. It's a fun way to look at life, and harmless so long as nothing real actually goes down. I was a surprisingly hot commodity at Bootie this weekend... which was great for my ego. I don't need to go back anytime soon though. There's an air of frenetic desperation that hangs around the place. If you want to find a drunk something to rub up against/make out with... you can. If your standards are higher than that... well, there are probably better venues for you. I spent most of my time battling other people's backs, trying to maintain my small piece of floorspace (which was a fun game, actually). It was an overload for me on the physical touch level. I've been mostly starved for that sort of attention recently. I don't think I would have survived more than one song's-worth of actual intimacy.

I feel like a spoiled brat, with statements like "I haven't been laid in a whole month! Whatever will I do with myself?" It's interesting though, how needs dissolve when not met. Or, they become latent. They're still there, but they have the common sense to hide away for the most part. It's like I had to go through actual withdrawal symptoms, and now I'm past the worst of the cravings. If I could only find someone who is actually a talented kisser... I could be mostly satisfied for the time being. Yeah, yeah, shut up Jess, no one wants to hear any of this. Gross. I'll stop.

P.S. My nemesis and I seem to be on speaking terms again! I think it'll all work out.

2012-01-03T10:18:00.000-08:00

On December 30th I let a man put his arm around my waist. It was unexpected and inappropriate and it felt so fucking good. I didn't even know how badly I missed the sensation, being held. I would not have guessed that it would feel so natural. He was somewhat attractive, so that helped, I suppose. He started pawing at my right hip, literally trying to find a way into my pants, and that ruined it. I told him to stop, but let his arm remain, so long as it didn't get too exploratory. That is, until my ex-boyfriend tapped me on the shoulder and gave me an almost fatherly speech about how he didn't approve and this wasn't going to happen under his roof. I spent the rest of the night avoiding hands and trying my best to sober up quickly.

I'm trying to decide what this means for me. I wanted that arm around me, but I didn't want anything more. December 30th would have been my 4 year anniversary, and I was feeling fragile. I drank too much and let someone touch me who I had no interest in. That's not great. That isn't who I am, is it?

If my plans go well, I will be in graduate school and far away by next fall. It isn't a time to look for romance. The likelihood that I will meet someone on that same path is slim to none. The likelihood that I will meet someone who would be willing to adjust their path to fit mine is almost as small (and generally unrealistic at the beginning of a relationship). I worry about meeting someone who would cause me to rethink my goals. What makes the most sense is to sit tight, focus on myself for the next few months. It seems like such a long time to turn off what is an essential part of myself.

So having a boyfriend seems unrealistic. One night stands are not my style either. I guess the best I can do is sit back, see what unfolds, and ward off unwanted attention when it crops up. Maybe I'll eventually find attention I do want. Maybe.

Accidental Nemesis

2011-12-24T23:13:00.000-08:00

Well, boys and girls, I have a cautionary tale for you all. Please, gather 'round and listen.

I would begin at the beginning, but I'm not sure where this began. I will start with the night I first became aware of the problem.

Imagine if you will, me. It is early/mid October, and I've recently become single. It's a friend's birthday, and a bunch of us have been invited to a local brew pub/pizza joint in celebration. This is the first time I will see my ex socially since the break-up. We are a large group, starting at one table and growing to take over an entire side room. There are probably 20 of us, all friends.

I am doing my best to stay as far from my ex-boyfriend as possible meanwhile maintaining at least the illusion that I am a normal, happy human being. I'm pretty proud of myself, because I think I'm pulling it off rather well. I go home happy, glad that I was able to exist in the same room as him without anything terrible happening. I've chalked the night up as a win. I had fun, I ate good food and drank good beer, and I caught up with my friends. The ex and I nodded to one another and did our own things.

As a side note, I'm pretty worried at this point about the friend situation, because my ex and I are quite close to many of the same people. I have been in situations before where I've lost friends when a relationship ended, and I don't want there to be allegiances or battles or any of that bullshit. I wanted to keep everything cool and calm and friendly. In fact I want that with him as well.

So I am taken 100% by surprise when I get the following facebook message from one of our mutual friends, one who I will name Carla (not a real name).

Dear [our home town] girls; Never have I had to work so hard at being 'friends' with people. Never have I had to tell someone else I need to get out of my house, and.never have I needed to say I am not ok. Never have I needed to say please hang out with me. If you forgot to invite me but invited my boyfriend somewhere, I get it, you made a mistake and it wouldn't happen again. Yet you didn't. If I say hi and you say nothing, or didn't acknowledge my wave I get it; you didn't see it. If I say hey how are you doing when we are the only two people in the bathroom and you blatantly ignore me and walk out ; I quit. You win.

Carla has removed me as a friend on facebook, and has also removed two other female friends. She sent this message to all of us at once.

I think very hard about the night before. I realize that I had been in the bathroom at one point in time, reminding myself to keep my shit together before I stepped back into the bar. Carla did step into the restroom while I was in the process of psyching myself up to going back out there. My memory tells me I smiled sheepishly at her as I walked back into the fray, but, no, I didn't say anything. This much I understand. The rest of the message I don't understand. I send her back a private message, which I have saved for posterity below:

Looking back at last night, I could see exactly how you got the impression you did, and I'm sorry. I'm not 100% myself, and that was the first event I've been to since the breakup where I got to interact with all the guys again. I guess I focused too much on them, and on trying to appear normal, and on ignoring my ex. I'm really sorry you felt ignored, and I did not mean that to happen. In the bathroom I was struggling with my own shit, and did not mean to ignore you.

Apparently there was other stuff going on too with the other girls. When I dropped [redacted] off last night she was sobbing. I don't really know what's going on, and can't presume to speak on their behalf, but personally, I see what I did last night and I wanted you to know that it was accidental. I was trying really hard to keep everything together, and I guess I did a pretty poor job of it.

I'm not good at reaching out to people, but I wanted to let you know that I would like to be there for you, if you'll let me. I am free this Friday if you want to catch dinner, go drinking, see a movie, whatever. If not, and you don't want to be friends, then I can respect that too. My relationship ended, and now all my friendships are changing too, and I don't know what to do about any of this.

So, that's that. She never responds to me, and we remain disconnected to one another on facebook. I felt attacked at my most vulnerable, but I tried my best not to take the situation personally. In fact, I was pretty proud of my ability to step away, if a bit sad that she didn't take me up on my offer to make amends. I was feeling pretty lonely at the time and could have used another friend.

Over the next two months, things get a bit weirder. Whenever we're in the same place, Carla makes a show of disappearing. It quickly reaches a point where the second I step anywhere near her she bolts, leaving me absolutely no opportunity to even attempt to break the ice. I'm bummed, because I've lost a friend. Not a close friend, but a friend all the same. Her boyfriend, who I have known for at least 7 years now, shrugs his shoulders and makes vague excuses. I don't make plans to see the two of them, but I don't make plans to avoid them either. It's awkward, but not a big deal. I don't think much of this new weirdness.

Last night, I was at an event that Carla was also attending. It was a charity toy drive, where people who donated were given wristbands to purchase $1 beers. I brought a stuffed animal, joined my friends, and drank a beer. Carla pulls her disappearing act, but I didn't think anything of it. I am happy to give toys to kids. I am happy to drink beer. I am happy to talk to friends.

After one beer I decide to move on to another bar, as the toy drive is going well and the room is packed. Some of my friends go with me, most wander off in their own respective directions. Two establishments later I receive a text. It's from Carla. I have provided a transcript below:

Stop inviting my boyfriend to things and not me, you have been doing it sincr[sic] february and its really getting old. I would prefer that you leave me alone. Especially in social settings

I made an extremely surprised sound when I read this, and my roommate (one of the unfriended three in October) took a look at my phone. She started a text conversation with Carla, which I can honestly say I wasn't involved with. I am not sure what transpired there. I immediately respected Carla's wishes and removed her number from my phone. I made the decision not to respond. As a side note: I had invited Carlos (this is what we'll call Carla's boyfriend) to my New Year's Eve party; I invited all of my local friends. Carla, no longer being a friend of mine on facebook, was uninvitable. This is the only event I have invited Carlos to since the craziness first went down in October. I made the usual mistake of thinking nothing of it when I sent out the invites.

The next morning I sent Carlos a quick facebook message:

I'm not sure what's up, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm fine with you removing me as a facebook friend if Carla is that distressed by me. I don't understand, but that's okay.

It felt too involved to outright unfriend him, so I thought I'd give him the option to play Carla's hero and do it himself. It could, at this point, be a win-win for all of us. He hasn't done anything, which I'm fine with as well.

Once that was done my curiosity got the best of me, because I started to worry that I had actually been accidentally inviting her boyfriend to events without inviting her. My friends usually use facebook events to organize social gatherings. I have done my research, and I can tell you that I created 5 events in 2011, leading up to the point where I was unfriended. Both Carla and Carlos were invited to every single one of those events.

I did find one thing, however. I helped to organize a trip to AT&T Park for the Giants' Star Wars themed day. I like the Giants, and my friends like Star Wars, so it seemed like a fun outing. A friend of mine created a facebook event for this fieldtrip, and later made me co-host so I could edit the ticket and timing information.

We created the event months in advance, as Giants tickets sold like hotcakes last year. Once people had indicated if they were attending or not, I bought a block of baseball tickets. My friend, the one who created the event, seems to have invited Carlos and not Carla. I didn't notice this. Right before game day, Carlos mentioned that we should have invited Carla instead of him, as he doesn't keep up with events, and she does. They didn't seem super interested and the game had long ago sold out. I said something apologetic, and figured that was the end of that. Looking back, this appears to be what started the whole commotion, unbeknownst to me.

This is my understanding of how I accidentally acquired a nemesis. It's a pretty one-sided enmity, as I was mostly unaware of everything at every step of this terrible chain. The most I can really summon is a deep sense of annoyance. I've considered trying to try to make my case to her, but frankly it doesn't seem worth the effort. I don't know what she is currently dealing with, but I don't think it really has much to do with me. I was just unlucky to get repeatedly caught up in the cross-hairs of a drama I don't understand.

I'm the kind of person who likes to document things, so I've recorded my side of the story here. Hopefully I won't find a reason to make an amended report later.

How Becoming Single Makes You a Worse Person

2011-12-08T10:26:00.001-08:00

I thought I'd be equal opportunity on this. So let's do it!

When you're single, you find yourself justifying bad decisions. It a lot easier to have standards on things that are hypothetical. So you can make rules like "I'm never going to date a smoker," or "I could never be with someone who snores," and it's all well and good when you aren't on the market. Then you find yourself gravitating towards people despite certain "dealbreaking" qualities. There's the risk of doing things you didn't mean to do. You find yourself reconsidering in a moment of weakness or desperation. Of course, there's always a line between considering bad decisions and actually making them happen.

Life can feel really shallow. You don't have to actually be a good person, you only have to appear like one for short bursts of time. You don't have to admit to people who you really are. You can wear the super-padded push-up bra with no intention of anyone ever seeing enough of you to know that you're not actually a D-cup. Similarly, you don't really know other people too well either. You focus on the immediately obvious, because that is all you have to work with. It's the nature of new interactions.You can easily miss interesting people because of stupid reasons, like lack of immediate attraction.

You can lie about yourself and be selfish. You can refuse to meet people halfway and become an opportunistic monster. Then you can step away and start over however you want. So there's the other side of the equation. Maybe being single makes you a worse person.

What I mean to say is that people are people. So there's that.

How Becoming Single Makes You a Better Person.

2011-12-05T14:31:00.001-08:00

My life and outlook has changed a lot since I became single about two months ago. I've been struggling with how to express what exactly is different. Here's a rundown of how being single might just be helping me become a better person.

Relationships involve compromise. No matter what your intentions, you will find yourself making and submitting to decisions that you wouldn't normally consider. This is not an inherently bad thing. When in a relationship you must find activities that both suit you and your partner. Any one activity must satisfy two different sets of expectations. In a perfect world you would be able to balance your interests and theirs and your alone-time with your together-time, all the while growing as a human being as you discover what it is you want, need, and can't stand. However, in the real world this often plays out so that you simply pass things up, and end up sitting at home in front of your separate laptops while House Hunters plays on TV. Not that laptop TV time isn't a lovely way to spend an evening, but what I mean to say here is that it's easier to do nothing when there's potential conflict in plans. People in relationships tend to do less that is new and different as they settle into life with one another.

There are plenty of reasons why this is awesome too, don't get me wrong. The most obvious, glaring reason I can think of right now is: sex! Can't decide between seeing a new band play or the family picnic or a fancy dinner out? That's when you get to say: fuck it! Literally. Let's just go home and fuck, fall asleep, and essentially rinse and repeat. Okay, okay, being in a relationship isn't all lazy weekend sex. The above scenario can just as easily end in laptop TV time instead.It doesn't matter how it plays out, eventually you figure out your partner's comfort zone, and they figure out yours. You end up venturing out of those spaces less and less. To sum up: you don't do new things. Now that I'm single, I don't know what to do with myself. I'm trying all sorts of new things in an attempt to fill this weird gaping hole in my social life/heart. I've gotten so used to considering another person in my plans that I've forgotten what exactly it is I like to do on my own. It's an interesting path of discovery.

Point #2. I'm going to call it selfishness. This is a misnomer, but give me a chance to explain. Couples tend to be more self-involved in the entity that is coupledom. A friend needs help moving? Sure, you'd love to help. But you're in a nice comfy bed, the morning is still young, and there is a naked human being next to you. Alternatively, you'd love to help, but your partner's great-aunt is throwing a graduation party for a cousin-in-law and this excuse is just reasonable enough to get out of the chore. It is easy to be selfish under the guise of your partner's needs/wants. I played this trick all the time. I didn't mean to, but I would find myself saying, "he doesn't want to go clean out trashcans for the elderly on his day off. I'll just skip it and help out some other time." It's a luxury I don't have anymore. Now I have no excuse when my mom needs help feeding raw frozen meat to her dogs, or when I have a volunteer project I'd much rather avoid. I have to come out and admit what it is I want, and it's surprisingly difficult to admit I'm too selfish to help out without someone else to hide behind. In the process I've learned that a lot of tasks I considered chores are actually quite enjoyable (others, however, still suck).

When I was in a relationship, I didn't realize I was doing this next one. I have discovered though that I was constantly trying to come up with reasons why my significant other was better than the other people around me. This sounds pretty terrible, but it's true! Let me elaborate. When you make a decision to commit to one person, you create a worldview in which you have made the right choice. If you can't justify why you chose that person, life gets a lot harder to deal with. We do it without meaning to. We constantly compare our friends, acquaintances, and the population at large. We compare our jobs and our schools and our rented apartments; this isn't something that only happens with people. It is part of the decision-making process in general. I would, without even meaning to, compare my significant other to others and arrange it in a way that made him look like the more attractive option. No one I have ever dated has been perfect, which means that they were most likely not always the best option for me in every aspect of my life at all times. I know a lot of people who are awesome for a variety of different reasons. Now that I'm single, I'm more inclined to look for the best in everyone around me. Even though I don't plan on pursuing any of my friends romantically, I can sit back and think about their merits without any feeling of guilt or shame. People are people. Which is nice. It isn't about wanting to kiss, date, or fuck other people (although being able to admit to this is a bonus, I suppose. It's generally considered polite to not admit to such things when committed to someone.), it's just that I can look at them without trying to diminish who they are so that I can feel better about my own decisions. I mean, I guess there's the temptation to give exes this treatment, but for me that's only 3 people, versus the rest of the population at large that I was accidentally belittling.

Here's another thing that ties into the other factors. When you're in a relationship, you have much less impetus to impress others. You've caught a mate (for the time being), and as time passes your need to show that you're a good, fun, sexy person diminishes. When you're single you have something to prove, namely that you are pretty awesome and fuckable and generally worth being around. When you're newly single, you need to prove this to yourself more than anyone else out there. Maybe you join the gym, up your work performance, start trolling bars... whatever it is, you find yourself trying harder. You make new goals. If you're me you apply to graduate school, plan to leave the country, and set yourself up on a bunch of hilarious blind dates. People in relationships spend quite a bit of time and energy validating one another, if only out of politeness and the desire to get laid again in the future. Once you lose that crutch you have to actually work for compliments, attention, love, etc. It doesn't really matter if you're trying to impress a potential fuckbuddy, an institution, or just yourself. The important fact is that you are out there, trying to appear like a better person.

Which is another way of saying, you actually become a better person. Because what else are you going to do with yourself? You have no one there to justify your faults. You have no one else to base your decisions on, becoming accountable only to yourself. There is no one else to blame for your situation, which makes it a lot easier to change your life.

A Moment of Weakness

2011-11-20T20:48:00.001-08:00

This feels backwards. The more I interact with new people, the more I miss how things were. I don't know how to best explain this... here's a try:

Everyone comes with their own special brand of bullshit. We all have our hang-ups, character flaws, histories, baggage. You learn to live with the various inadequacies of the people closest to you, and they learn to deal with yours. It's a world of constant small struggles, negotiating people's best and worst bits and pieces. I want to be fair here, it's not all bullshit. Everyone has their own signature strengths as well. It's a balancing act.

You don't even realize most of the bullshit you deal with, because you get so accustomed to it.

But each new person, you don't really know what you are getting yourself into. There are so many ways that things can potentially go bad. So many unknowns crowding in, so many ways to get hurt.

This is why you find yourself hankering after the bullshit you're used to. Better the devil you know.

There are people out there with legitimate interest in me. At the moment it's freaking me out. I don't know them very well. I don't trust them. I don't seem to be able to process my own feelings correctly. I have to fight the rogue impulse to run and hide in Max's bed, a move I would undoubtedly regret immediately.

And I hate that I'm sitting here, waiting for everyone to show me their worst selves. But it's true, we're so fucking fake at the beginning. It isn't that we mean to be; this is just how it works. No one outright reveals their flaws, they show them over time. I don't know what I'm doing, filling up my spare time with interactions that are essentially interviews. The product is my own self worth and I am selling it in grad school applications, to Rotarians, and to dates. To a lesser degree I must sell the new me to friends, family, and coworkers. I am realizing that it will be quite some time before I'm able to be around people and not be in this frame of mind.

It's exhausting. I want to just curl up next to someone to whom I have nothing to prove.

Dating

2011-11-15T09:36:00.001-08:00

I'm trying something new, something entirely novel to me. I am experimenting with dating. Online dating, to be precise. I'm not all that impressed with online dating; I'll admit it's a quick and dirty fix. I thought I would try to explain my rationale, my goals for this experience. Hopefully I clarify what I expect in the process, as I'm not sure even I know what it is I am setting out to do.

1. Meeting new people. I love my friends. We have a lot of fun and we generally get along pretty well. There are a few reasons, though, that I want to find new blood.
a.) I can be whoever I want to be with new people. I don't have to worry about maintaining a relationship with a person I may never see again. I can try things out and step into new roles and just have fun and not worry.
b.) New people won't know my ex-boyfriend. He won't know them. They won't see one another and things won't get complicated. 'Nuff said.
c.) I won't mess anything up with my current friends.
d.) I can find people who are different than those I know, with new life experiences and paradigms. New hobbies and activities, new conversations, new ways of thinking, new interactions.

2. Narrowing the focus. Without experience, how can you know what it is you want/don't want? So, yes, I am taking some chances and meeting some people I sincerely doubt I have anything in common with. Maybe I'll discover something surprising about myself. Once again, the freedom from obligation is key. If I end up in a situation I don't like, I am free to say "fuck it" and walk away.

3. Redefining myself. I need to be my own person. I need to prove, to myself and others, that I'm not just waiting to be taken back or anything silly like that. Without some outside stimulus I run the risk of falling into that trap. I don't think this will be an issue, but dating is a proactive way to get away from any chance of that mentality. This refers to #2 as well, which is that through experience I can see better who I am and what I want and what I don't want.

4. Self esteem. It's fun to be pursued. It feels pretty damn good when you get dozens of messages in a week. It's amazing when someone tells you they had a lot of fun and want to see you again. It is downright intoxicating, being told you're interesting and awesome and beautiful. To a certain point it's empowering to make the decision to not pursue an option. I can be an unapologetic tease. I don't owe anyone anything. It's a blast. It's also amazingly easy to shrug off the dead ends when you aren't invested.

5. Intimacy. I'm putting this last because, frankly, it has very little to do with anything right now. It's an option though, and it is good to have options and outlets. If nothing else, I can figure out if anyone I am meeting remotely fills the requirements for physical or emotional attachment. I want to stress, however, that this isn't the point. I'm probably going to be living on the east coast within a year. I'm not looking for a soul mate. I'm looking for something to tide me over until I feel I am ready to start thinking about those big ideas again.

I don't think this is an amazing piece of writing here, but it does what it needs to do. In some ways I feel like this process, while somewhat entertaining, has amounted to a sort of loss of innocence on my part. I've never dated casually before. It always sounded interesting, adventurous, and somewhat scary. But I'd never dated anyone before who hadn't essentially already committed to me. This dating process has nothing to do with love, or even real compatibility, and that hurts a little. As someone who was able to take that part of my life for granted, as something I had even resigned myself to in the past... It's strange. It is something I've heard people talking about and maybe it is a part of growing up... Just because I have lost it for now doesn't mean it can't be found again, right? I just have to accept that, for now, it's not in the cards for me.

So now it's all about me! I get to be single and selfish and a little bit reckless. Because what else is there to do, mope?

Or to Play Hard to Get.

2011-11-07T14:47:00.000-08:00

Maybe I am Narcissus. I fall for my own reflection, shining through the eyes of another. Don't we all? To a certain point, I think so. There is something so exciting with impressing someone, something mesmerizing about seeing yourself as more than you think you are. But what about that other person?

And it is crushing, no longer seeing that light. I've come to the conclusion that there is no returning that fire once it has vanished. Or, this is a distinction the other person must make. I cannot make someone fall in love with me again by sheer force of will, for instance.

I don't know what it takes to move a relationship beyond the act of falling in love. I've never successfully done it; I only have found slow atrophy. I imagine it settles into a comfortable familiarity, where one becomes more of a friend and confidant than any other role. It is a transition from romantic and sexual love into a familial sort of relationship, and in that sense it makes sense to use marriage as a tool to complete and condone that transition. But I haven't been there. I thought for a bit I was reaching that point, but found myself on the outside looking in. That was the end of that. It sounds nice, though. Not exciting, per se, but comfortable. People take vacations into the past; romance and sex don't disappear. It appears they do take a backseat though. Mostly they inhabit a different sphere.

Wish me luck. I don't know what I'm looking for right now. Not what I mentioned in this last paragraph, certainly. Not right now. I want to see myself, and not in a way that takes advantage of whoever might find themselves opposite me. Nor in a way that allows that person to take advantage of me.

We shall see.

From the Road

2011-10-31T22:50:00.000-07:00

She is no longer wanted, but she can be clever. She is no longer needed, but she can have fun. God, what a strange landscape, littered with confusion and so much detritus: ruins that now serve no purpose. Or do they hinder progress? What must be unmade to create a new, better model? Why does she want to be chased, when she has no real intention of committing to the hunt?

Still, she doesn't get what she wants. She has never had the strength to require it There are paths that lead straight to darkness, but they could shift focus. There isn't any real focus right now. She wants to be selfish. She wants to get only what she wants and not give a damn. But that never works. It'll just get turned around, and suddenly she'll be playing a part for someone else.

And next week she gets to play spurned lover. Used-up first wife. Vengeful harpy? What fun.

Time. Time is what she needs and time is what she wastes. It is hers. Or, her time is hers. Your time is yours. That is the beauty, in that one may share time without stealing from another. It is not a zero sum game. Or it should not be. If it hurts to spend time with someone, then it shouldn't be done. Sometimes it hurts to spend time alone. But this pain is for the best. Growth and whatnot. Necessary because without distance there is no way to escape the gravity of a situation.

Fuck you. Give me what I want for once. For now there are muted words. Conversations with strangers. Shadows of interactions that dimmed years ago.

One day there will be love letters and occasional flowers and people who don't need careful navigation. Or she will learn not to outwit herself by creating needless circles around those she loves. Because love shouldn't feel fragile. Because most people find a solution to their loneliness for good portions of time. Their time.

Incubus

2011-10-24T10:53:00.000-07:00

Here is the lie I am telling myself. It is possible to step backwards in time, unravel the past into the future and neatly tie up loose ends. We can work our way back to people who hardly know each other. That emotional baggage can be unpacked and sorted and put away, each memory returned to its point of origin. That this can be done together. That we can sit down, compare notes, and rewind our relationship back through the beginning and be done with it. It's a neat little lie. There are elements of truth to it, but there is no going back. Life cannot be unlived. Nor do I really mean to erase the past. It just seems like the simplest way to step beyond it. I want to believe that, in the words of Craig Arnold, that ghost poet who now haunts Japan... I want to believe that I can put my foot down, clear to the bottom of desire, and find that it can stop, and go no deeper. (Incubus) The bottom of desire, I'm not sure it exists. I want to think so. But what is there to living but wanting more?

Written Last November

2011-10-13T08:45:00.000-07:00

It began with neither a bang nor a whimper, but as a morning like any other. Two snooze buttons into the morning, a skipped shower, and a scramble for clean clothes - this was not ideal, but neither was it unusual in the slightest. It would have to be a Monday morning, wouldn’t it?

She had awoken and extricated herself from between the two men in her life, a twenty-five-year-old and a feline. Being November, she gently warned her significant other to cover his eyes before she turned on a light to get ready. He obligingly hid under his pillow. This was an exercise she had practiced many times; he had spent the night many times. Somehow the six AM shuffle did not repel him from her bed.

Their schedules had never aligned, and this had always seemed to affect her more than it did him. He wandered into and out of her bedroom not unlike the cat; on his own terms. She lived by the standard work week, beginning at eight and ending at five. He worked two jobs, both with the bulk of their hours in afternoons and evenings. His employment varied with the vagaries of the school year and sporting events. Hers was more-or-less clockwork.

Now they lived together.

He was between apartments, waiting for a security deposit to find its way back into his pocket before looking for a place of his own. She had an empty garage that adequately held his belongings, a queen-sized bed, and an accommodating roommate. It was a temporary arrangement. Rent began at $100 and a third of utilities, and after two months rose at a rate of $50 per month, as cleverly stipulated by the roommate to facilitate the process of moving on. He estimated a maximum of three months at the house. She expected his stay to last a month, which evolved midway through the move-in process into a possible two-month plan. It was the first of the month and, other than one shelf, one drawer, and a few hangers with clothing, nothing appeared to have changed in her bedroom. She turned off the lights and attempted to muffle the clacking of her heels on her way to the front door, as she had many mornings in the past.

She now had an hour and a half to her own thoughts, the Monday morning commute that she dreaded each week.

Nothing about this relationship had held the weight she had anticipated. They had somehow progressed with little conviction or aplomb, from an uncertain pairing to a monogamous couple of three years. He had asked her roommate about the living situation before he had ever mentioned it to her, and they had not discussed the particulars of rooming together.

Yet there he was, sleeping in her bed as she drove to work. There he would be tonight. Would he fall asleep when she did, or would she precede him by a few hours to the bedroom, as she had on the eve of their cohabitation? Then again, Halloween night had had the misfortune of falling on a Sunday night this year. She would have stayed up as well, had not the cold, dark Monday morning beckoned so threateningly. Both of their birthdays had fallen on Sunday nights as well, she mused. The connection between the three dates would always exist, she realized. February could not, with its leap-year magic, interfere. The dates all fell later in the year, and this small fact had now cemented itself into her thoughts despite herself. She had a propensity for time and dates, a fact that kept her boyfriend on the defensive when she managed to remember that the 30th of each month amounted to a monthly anniversary, or the exact date of the one-year anniversary of that time when their relationship fell apart for ten days. She often guessed the time within ten minutes, despite not having glanced at a clock for hours. It was a gift she did not mean to wield, and she often felt the mechanism was one that acted independently of her intentions. He, on the other hand, could not keep track of birthdays or anniversaries or meeting dates whatsoever. He had asked her once how old her was.

It must be the dreary Monday morning that led her thoughts this way, she decided. A thick fog had slowed traffic to a crawl, and the radio detailed at least two accidents along her route. The inevitability of a late arrival at work considerably worsened her immediate outlook on life. She popped open a prepackaged latte and continued to stew. The first sip was bitter, the residue of toothpaste still on her tongue. Coffee unsettled her stomach, but the price seemed worthwhile as she travelled along the dark road, encased in her small pocket of visibility. The world for now had shrunk to the few cars in front of and behind her, and she began to feel peace in the closeness of the road and the vagueness of her surroundings. There was nothing to be done now about her arrival time, so she might as well relax. She felt a companionship with her fellow commuters, locked into the same confines, with the same neighbors and the same lack of agency, as their respective destinations inched closer along the paths of light they followed in the gloom. It was as if they were the ones standing stationary, waiting for their fates to reach them in the form of artificially lit office cubicles.

She shook this reverie from her head and carefully rationed out another sip of coffee in an attempt to stay alert on the road. If she timed her consumption just right she could maintain her focus for the entire ride. This is how she combated a chronic lack of sleep, a bane especially potent on Monday mornings. It had surprised her immensely when he, drunk and sleepy in her queen bed, mentioned moving in. He had talked to her roommate, he said. The roomate had said it would be alright if he stayed until the deposit came in, which should happen by the 21st of November. That was halfway through October. They had never seriously discussed moving in together before.They had never seriously discussed much of anything about the future. The future was a place foreign to both of them, full of vague promise and opportunity and strange wonders that they couldn’t possibly wrap their heads around fully. It was best to limit talk of the future to vague euphemistic tones. If one looked too hard at the future, who knows what one might see? This applied not only to relationships, but also to educations, careers, and belongings. Everything would turn out well, so long as expectations were never fully defined.

This was perfect, though. He would stay for a month and then he would leave. They had bought no property, signed no lease. They could play the happy couple without commitment. This was in character with all of their interactions. It was safe. It was an adventure.

There were two possible outcomes. Either it would end poorly or well. If it ended well, then both of them would know that they had nothing to fear. They could rest easy knowing that the uncertain future might work out. They could begin thinking of truly living together. If, after a month of sharing a bed, they could still stand each other, then maybe they could do so permanently. If it ended poorly, they were not stuck with the messy task of dividing up possessions and responsibilities.

She wondered if he saw this in the same light. It was a step forward despite itself. There was no way that their relationship could go back to where it had been before the month. Either they would be happy or they would be unhappy, right?

Each week she fell in love with him anew. This was the more romantic phrasing. It was also true that each week she fell out of love. Almost like clockwork she could, midweek, feel the heavy hand of doubt weigh upon her consciousness. The sensation might last a day or maybe only an hour, but the presence could not be shaken. That is, she could not shake it until he was back, in her arms and in her bed. It always seemed worst on Thursday, when the past weekend felt long gone, and the next weekend a day too far. It was on a Thursday that he had broken up with her once. Thursdays seemed the most dangerous still. Each weekend, without fail, he was hers. Not for the entire weekend, but just long enough. Almost as assuredly, she knew that he was not hers during the week. She borrowed him each weekend, and on Sunday night she was sometimes even relieved to deposit him back into his own world.

They had a very predictable pattern. They saw each other often, that could not be debated. It was far more likely in a given day that they would cross paths than not. It was strange, in fact, that they were together so regularly, considering that their interactions were never allowed to be premeditated. Everything felt last-minute and incidental, and she had settled into this routine with an uncomfortable complacency. She wondered if her dissatisfaction at work led to her weekday weakness. When she was with him she was often happy. It was when she was away that things seemed impossible. It was when she was alone that they seemed an unlikely and doomed couple. It was hard to pinpoint what in her life led to this weekly cycle, the uneasiness with which her daily existence inched along. She felt trapped, stuck, as if she had lost her way and was wandering in circles.

Now things would change. Or she expected them to. The only contingency she was not prepared for was for nothing to change. Only time would tell.

Stroke.

2011-10-07T09:43:00.000-07:00

My great-great aunt had a stroke. She’s in the hospital here in town, in a coma and deteriorating. My impression is that it is very unlikely she will last more than a day or two. My father has sent the entire family an email detailing her state of health. I'll go ahead and share some of it here:

I assume all of you know that Olga had a stroke 2 days ago. She is conscious but cannot speak.
Last night and this morning I thought she was about the same. She cannot speak, and does not really move her right side at all as far as I could tell. This morning and last night she opened her eyes and certainly seemed to look me in the eyes when I spoke to her. I thought she seemed to shrug at times in response to questions. She seemed somewhat scared to me but hard to say. She shook her head once or twice. I was not completely convinced but at times she seemed to squeeze my hand at my request. Her breathing was normal appearing.
Unfortunately, I thought tonight she seemed a little worse. She might just have been tired but… The speech and right side weakness seemed no different but she was less interactive. I was not sure that she was really aware that I was there or who I was. She did not follow any requests and had her eyes closed more. More disturbing to me was the fact that she was breathing deeply and a little rapidly. That can be a bad sign. But, as you will hear from me repeatedly, only time will tell.
This is a stroke that is similar to what Grandma Owen had. 85% of strokes are clots but Olga and Grandma both had hemorrhages. This is not a good thing. I saw the scan and the bleed is on the big side, 6.5 cm across. On the initial scan there is already some pressure effect. We talk about the pressure pushing the line down the middle of your brain off to the other side. This is called midline shift. There was quite a bit even on the first scan. That is a sign that there is a high risk of “Herniation” in which the pressure pushes the brain downward putting pressure on the brainstem. This causes a progression of bad things to happen. If it is severe enough all sorts of basic functions will fail, Blood pressure, heart rate, and very commonly breathing. That is why her breathing pattern tonight worries me. If things continue to progress, her breathing may go faster then become more uneven, slow and eventually fail.
Fortunately in the process she will go deeper and deeper into a coma and will not suffer once things get to the point of failure.Unfortunately the maximum pressure from swelling happens about 3-5 days after a brain injury. So I expect that there may be still more pressure over the next few days. There is little if anything to do about this. In a very young person one might consider sending her to SF and putting a drain into her brain. But, even with this invasive and uncomfortable “heroic measure” it is unlikely to help that much and still it is very unlikely she would regain her speech or right side movement. Mostly I consider this a step that just would prolong the process. I believe that, unfortunately, she is unlikely to survive more than a few days.
At this time Olga is on comfort care. She is getting a little IV fluid. She failed a swallow attempt today. She cannot tolerate oral fluids, therefore is getting nothing orally.They are doing a little to keep her blood pressure down but that is not likely to be helpful and not something that you want to push too far. She needs the higher pressure to get blood to her brain since the pressure in her head is high. I spoke with her MD and they will work hard to keep her mouth moist, as is seems very dry.
There is discussion about whether she will be staying at the hospital or going home. I think that once a solid home program is in place it would be reasonable to send her home on Hospice, knowing that she cannot eat, will get no fluids at home and will simply fade away. So yes that means true hospice with little intervention with the goal of keeping her comfortable as she dies. There would be no reason she would return to the hospital. If you recall how things went with Grandma Owen, some of this process may be hard to watch. However, she will not likely be aware of much of this so will not suffer. All of that sounds a little harsh when I write it but that is probably one of the best options. Doing anything to prolong her survival is likely just a sentence to a difficult, more unpleasant, but still brief existence.

She is very old. She has not been in the best health for some time. I don’t think we have ever talked beyond the most basic of pleasantries. She was, as I was growing up, a regular fixture at family gatherings. But I honestly can’t say I gave her much thought. I never knew what she and her sister did, beyond wait for my other relatives to take them to doctor’s appointments, grocery shopping, and the bank.

I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard. I guess I am in a somewhat emotionally fragile state. My first thought was that, a week ago, Max would’ve been beside me in bed, and I would have just curled up next to him and explained the situation and he would have held me. And now I feel like a terrible person, because Olga deserves more consideration from me. I hardly know anything about her. I know she has, as long as I’ve been alive, been basically attached at the hip with her sister, living a monk-like existence in a modest home. They embodied gruff frugality, and have already outlived the rest of their generation. Spanish was, most likely, their first tongue. We had nothing in common, and nothing to say to one another.

And now I’m back to me, thinking about how I really didn’t imagine I’d be at yet another funeral this year. What bothers me is not that we will lose her, but that she is trapped in that half-way state, which always seemed to me the most unbearable of realities. I don’t know what I imagine it is like to be disconnected with the world and yet still there. Or to be alive only because you fear death. That is a question that came about with my great-grandfather earlier in the year. So many people live because it beats the alternative. I'm trying very hard to believe that there is more out there than this. That I will find it, or at least scratch the surface.

The post that explains it all.

2011-10-05T08:48:00.000-07:00

Last Friday I left my boyfriend a note. I'd like to begin this by explaining that I communicate better in written than spoken words. Which isn't to say I am always a bumbling idiot when I open my mouth, but rather that I prefer to put my thoughts out there, edit them, peruse them, and then share. I will never be an improv darling, and I accept that fact.

Because I am who I am, I can share with you exactly what it was I wrote to him.

How to start... It’s been a weird summer. I don’t even know how to put into words just how topsy-turvy things have felt.
So here’s an easy out. Get out of this relationship free. No hard feelings. We’ve been in autopilot and I don’t know if we should be. So I’d like to give you this chance to say “hey, this isn’t really working” and we can muddle through whatever comes next.
Maybe I’ve been reading into things wrong. If you do not want to take advantage of this, let me know. Give me a compelling reason that we aren’t just staying together because things are too complicated to easily live apart.
Think about this. Don’t give an answer now, but it’d be good to have one by Sunday. If you can’t come up with an answer by Sunday, then I think that’s a pretty clear answer in and of itself.
You might be upset by this, and that is your due. I feel like we haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye recently. If this came out of left field, I apologize. But I wanted to do this, just in case you do feel this way and couldn’t find a way to express it.

So there it is. It starts out pretty strong and ends with some weird, patronizing babble. But let me tell you, it got the job done.

I spent the weekend in Philadelphia, preparing for my non-biological sister's wedding, and returned on Sunday. During that time, I found a comforting way to think about what I had just done. I made my letter the hypothetical poison/bomb/device of the Schrodinger's Cat thought experiment. Max was then the cat, and my home the box. As long as I did not look into the situation, I could live in a world where I simultaneously did and did not have a boyfriend. It worked quite well.

I arrived home around 1 AM and steeled myself for what I knew was coming. He said yes, that was how he felt, and yes, he'd like to take me up on my offer. I promptly fell to pieces and cried the entire night, then "woke up" at 6 AM to go to work.

It has taken me a few days to figure out what was wrong with this situation. What continues to unnerve me. I knew what was going to happen. I set this in motion. I even realized, while I was gone, that I hadn't even worked out a scenario in case of him saying no, he needed me, and we'd work through this. What I didn't count on was that he would not express any sort of pain or emotion to the process. It hurts so much to be patronized in such a matter. He is so concerned with not being the bad guy, but he checked out long ago. Which is enough to make one feel incredibly unloved, retroactively. It's enough to make me want to lash out, prove that I am able to make him feel sadness, anger, anything. I will do my best to keep my petty knee-jerk reactions in check. Other than this one fact, everything went as well as it could.

So, for the record, the decision was mutual. It needed to happen. And it sucks really, really hard. I am not good at letting go of things. I had been so terrified of upsetting the balance of my life that I became afraid of saying anything real to him. I began to bore myself. It was time to let the cat die. And that's it for this disturbing metaphor.

Because of everything that happened this summer, I'm in the uncomfortable position of feeling incredibly close to his family. We went through hell together, and while it only made the fracture between Max and myself gape wider, I really came to love everyone I met throughout the process. The family, family friends, neighbors... and that's all gone now.

I am surrounded by amazing people who are hellbent on helping me through this. Even Max is doing his best (which kills me a little bit more, I must admit). Now I have to readjust my sense of self. It was a 3.75 year relationship. We were living together. We were not happy. I'm not happy now either, but I will be.

Things I always wanted, but never got from you

2011-10-04T09:56:00.000-07:00

Flowers.
A daily "I love you."
A mix tape (CD) for my commute.
Love letters.

The Giant 5K - A Very Fine Day

2011-08-29T11:25:00.000-07:00

This Saturday I participated in a 5K. The Giant Race starts and ends at AT&T Park in San Francisco, benefiting Project Open Hand. If I were more in shape, I could have chosen to run the 10K, or even a half marathon, instead. Let's face it though, I'm not in shape. I don't run. I have never been a runner. After Saturday, though, it does not seem such an insurmountable goal.

This event was the first 5 kilometer run of my adult life. I’m happy to announce that I did it in 39:43 with an average pace of 12:47 minutes per mile.

I know it isn’t a competitive time. People routinely walk at a pace that is comparable to my jog time. However, the fact that I went out and ran at all was something unexpected. It has renewed my desire to be in better shape, and given me a good starting point for ways in which I can push myself further. I don't see myself being a regular jogger, but I'd like to do better at this same event next year, and get back to the gym more in the meantime.

I'll do a short walkthrough of my day.

First of all, I'd like to point out that I was lured into this run by my roommate and the promise of a Giants game. Runners can purchase tickets for the night before (the nosebleed-iest of seats in the upper left field area). It was a great game! We watched the fog roll aggressively into the park from above; the entire field lay below us. It was a better vantage point than I had expected. The Giants even beat the Astros 2-1, which was a welcome relief from their recent slump.

Here I am modeling the latest baseball blanket fashions.

We got a hotel room near the park, and were ready to go early the next morning. My roommate and I found a lovely little coffee shop (The Creamery), where we ate a hearty crepe breakfast before the race. I'm not sure my fruit-nutella crepe was the wisest choice before running, but it was definitely the tastiest.

It was quite picturesque too!

We put our sensor stickers on our shoes, pinned our bibs on, met up with some of Danielle's coworkers, stored our stuff in some donated Fedex trucks, and made our way to the "slow" corral for the race. By 9:30 we were off!

Matt Cain greeted the crowd at the starting line, cheering for us this time! (I would cheer for him on Sunday, sadly to no avail.) The crowd was huge! I think it was estimated at around 10,000 people.

We did not run the entire time, but took a few walking breaks. Overall, though, we spent more time jogging than walking. Shortly after passing the park, we were met by a gospel choir, who sang encouragement. At the turnaround point (The Ferry Building), we found ourselves amongst cheerleaders! In between these points were photographers, snapping away at all of us. This definitely made me run a bit harder. You can't not run through the throng of screaming cheerleaders. You don't want pictures of you in a slow plod. And when that Gospel choir starts chanting "run!" you do it.

At the end my small crowd broke into a full run, and I found it took the very last bit of my energy in that moment to follow suit. My shoes are still caked with a fine layer of red baseball-field dirt.

Once we finished the run, there was a positive maze of swag to collect (it was the only way out, in fact). First a bottle of water (thank God!), followed by greek yogurt, a shiny medal, a "Giant Race" drawstring bag, fruit, a Safeway tote, bagels, a t-shirt, a Lincecum bobblehead, coconut water, Clif bar samples, Luna bar samples, Joint Juice, chocolate milk, coupons galore, chap stick... and I wasn't even doing an exhaustive search. Sadly I did not stick around long enough to take advantage of the free massage offers.

We did, however, make it to a place I have been dying to go to for well over a year. Little Skillet. Located at 360 Ritch, it is a literal hole in the wall place that serves fried chicken and waffles, as well as a small assortment of other similar food (but how could you pass up the chicken and waffles?). They provide foam pads for sitting outside on the sidewalk. Maybe it was the completed run speaking, but the chicken was amazing! It was a great day in food for me.

Next we headed to City Beer, where I purchased a Hibiscus, Mate, and Bay ale, which I am curious and a little hesitant about trying. After that it was time to head home to shower and nap.

I went next to a Find our Fathers fundraiser in Santa Rosa, which I meant to volunteer for, but ended up just attending. I feel a bit guilty, because I walked away with a bottle of wine and a wine tasting package after putting only $6 into a raffle. I have never before in my life hung out with a motorcycle crew. I found the Rip City Riders to be good hosts, though.

The day ended at a friend's house, playing board games and cobbling together dinner. Blue cheese garlic bread and Settlers of Catan was the highlight for me!

Got home by 1 AM and slept soundly. It was a good day.

Survival

2011-08-22T15:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had the honor of listening to the Erik survivors describe their experiences and to meet them, their families, and the families of the missing. I wasn't sure what exactly to expect.

Strangely, I felt a little star-struck. I have gotten to know a few of the attendees over the past month or so, but many others I had only read about or seen on TV. To interact directly... it felt a bit like being in the presence of celebrities. I felt I knew so many of them, maybe because I had read their stories, watched their interviews, and contemplated their lives. And yet they had no idea who I was. Of course. Why would they? It was a little like suddenly finding yourself in a room with one of your favorite actors or writers or public figures. And yet the only thread connecting us was tragedy.

For some reason I attached great importance to meeting Gary Wong. I first talked to Gary on July 3rd. That first night, frantic for answers, I had called up the hotel where the men were staying. The front desk, after a short pause, gave Gary the phone. He confirmed that Russ was not at the hotel. We were all hopeful that he was in the second group of men (rather than 10, that group proved to be only 3 remaining survivors). I didn't know it at the time, but Gary's brother, Brian, would stay with Russ among ranks of the missing, even now.

I next spoke to Gary on August 21st. I didn't know what to say. "You probably don't remember me, but we spoke on that first night." And then there wasn't much else to say. I thanked him for taking the time to answer my questions. I told him he had been very helpful. He was gracious and friendly. He had talked to many people that night. Everyone else at the hotel was sleeping or out. It sticks with me though. This connection, no matter how tenuous. I don't know quite why it seems so important, but Gary, his voice and his face, will continue to stay with me. I know this.

And I wonder what it must feel like to them, thrust into this spotlight. How must they feel to come face to face with families of their lost companions? Gary fits into both categories, having survived to lose a brother.

It was easier to listen to the story than I had expected. I knew the basic shape of the event, although I definitely learned things I hadn't previously known. I didn't realize it until now; but I've always combed through the stories looking for clues about Russ. I hadn't taken the time to see the miracle of survival, because I had been too focused on those who did not. Yesterday was not about Russ; it wasn't about the dead or the missing, but about life. That was good to hear. Even when some facts continue to be distressing.

There are some things I'd love to talk about, but I can't put them here on a public blog. I will continue to mull them over in my head for the time being.

Balls in the Air

2011-08-11T17:35:00.000-07:00

It may seem, based on my recent frenzy of writing, that things are going poorly for me.

I'd like to dispel any such impression.

I recently listened to a podcast centered on the lonely post of goalie. The difference between scoring a goal and defending a goal is this: if you miss 10 kicks but make the 11th, you're a hero. If you make 10 saves but miss the 11th, you're the villain. Which is to say, if you are on offense it is up to you to win the game. If you are acting defense then it is your job to not lose the game.

Maybe it is a problem with perception. One can see life either as an offensive or defensive game. Gross oversimplification.

So here is another way to see it. Balls in the air.

Juggling tasks, feelings, priorities... wherever this new metaphor fits... is it a proactive or reactive game? Or neither?

This is how I imagine it.

I am not at the base of this equation. I am not the center. Rather it is as if I am a spot in an orbit. To be more precise, I stand at a tangent point in many orbits. I have a choice: I can wait to see what crosses my path, or I can take a part of myself - an intention I have - and fling it out, hoping it will return to me. Each item in my life has a different path; some are short and others may take years to return. Some will never revisit me.

Some items return almost immediately. I put forth a choice, for example: "I'd like Chinese for dinner." With that choice sent into the ether, I hop in my car and, voila, appear at the restaurant to eat my dinner. Sometimes, though, I send out intentions of Chinese, and I get back Mexican. Let's say I get a call while on my way, and all of my friends are headed to the restaurant next door; so I alter my course. Or I alter the course of Chinese to return another day, and get back my short orbit Mexican/friendship tonight. I suppose with this way of thinking, I can either be stationary or I can be the object that is hurtling by my own possibilities, adjusting my path as I go. And my orbit is littered with Chinese food and movie options and career paths.

For some reason I prefer the first, imperfect lens to view this metaphor. In reality I am both objects, but let's have a central "me" and a small, not sentient extension (or many such peripheral parts). I throw out an application to study abroad, and then I must wait to hear back. If I get to the next step, an interview, then I have another chance to fling my intentions out, and wait to see if an acceptance letter comes next. Perhaps the best way to imagine this is if both myself and my choices have their own interacting physics. I may want Chinese, but the restaurant burns to the ground before I arrive. That was not my decision. Other people's decisions affect my consequences. In fact, this works for Mexican and Chinese in my first dinner example. Mexican swooped in and pushed Chinese off course. I send out my travel application, but so do countless others, and they all interact with one another once they get far enough out into space. Only some of our intentions will return as we would like them. Others will get lost, get mishandled, get broken.

Which is an interesting way to see life, in that it contains both agency and fate, in a way. I don't know what the center of my world, the metaphorical planet that I seem to see myself in geosynchronous orbit around, would be. Maybe it is life itself. It could be an interesting view of God, I suppose. I don't know why I shy away from making myself the center of gravity in my own life. The basics would still work, wouldn't they? It is an interesting fact that I didn't go to this option from the beginning. That we all sit at our own centers and interact with one another, with no basic stable point to keep us tethered. But this is a whole new question, one that feels a bit too heavy-handed to explore right now.

Either way, it goes back to offensive and defensive strategies, I suppose. One needs both views of life. Sometimes I feel I too often inhabit defense. Right now I feel as if I have thrown a whole bunch of balls into the air, and I am waiting to see them return.

They have different trajectories, differently sized orbits. They can't all possibly come back roses. Sometimes things that we didn't even send out ourselves come by to wallop us with their impact. Sometimes we are handed what we want. We interact with one another in myriad complex ways.

But I do feel stable. Which is where I originally planned on heading before my divergence into soccer and heavenly bodies sent me down this strange, tortuous path. I do not feel as if I myself am off-kilter. I may write as if I do. And you can ascribe that as the 11th soccer-ball, the one that gets past me every once in a while. Most of the time I maintain my stability, but I tend to write when I feel as if I might start spinning off course. It could be the act of writing which sets me right again.

And now I am playing with words without saying much of anything. I have stayed an extra half hour at work just to write this out. So I will stop; I can revisit the idea another time, maybe.

2011-08-10T16:11:00.000-07:00

"Take care of him." The farewell gesture, faire la bise, was accompanied by these words. "Take care of all of them."

There was only one answer to give; "I will."

You would never guess, meeting Max's grandmother, that she is nearly 90-years-old. Born in France, she brought her entire family to the United States after surviving World War II. She once slapped a German officer who tried to take liberties.

I could say a lot about this charming French woman. For today though, I will leave it at, "take care of all of them."

I had never seen her cry before. I had never seen her look so spent.

I am realizing now why grief feels like the movies. So strange that an emotion can feel so distinct, so singular... and yet it is a universal. We all have, or we all will feel it. Which isn't to say we all think and react in the same ways, but it does put things into perspective. Of course Hollywood could capitalize on it.

Here I am, making good on my promise as best I can.

And I wonder if I am doomed to be their chronicler. An unsolicited biographer. Who am I to use this story as my own? Am I witness, bystander, or participant?

The truth is I don't have much of a choice; I can't step away now. There was no answer other than the one I gave. Even when it doesn't feel right. Even when I worry about the future. But then there are those moments, those bleak times when I realize it doesn't matter much whether I belong or not. We all die alone, don't we? There are so many wounded people about, I couldn't cause any more harm, not purposefully.

I am, therefore, along for the ride. Hopefully a healing - rather than harming - presence.

Life and Chickens

2011-08-08T16:32:00.000-07:00

A lot went missing in the last month. Things I meant to say, to do.

For instance, I wanted to do a chicken update. I wanted to discuss my great-grandfather's funeral. I wanted to exercise more and watch my nutrition. I wanted to keep up with my monthly book quota. The book I was reading (The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis) proved too gloomy for the occasion, but my current attempt (State of Wonder) is so far matching my mood quite well. I lost a good month and a half of reading time in the process.

Anyway, let's start with chickens.

Dott got pretty big.

Chickens are doing well. I say this with the fear that, even as I type these words, some lucky raccoon has found its way in and is joyfully ransacking the hen-house. There are still seven chickens, and they keep growing! They come out to greet me when I check in after work, usually because they've destroyed their food and/or water in the day and are hungry/thirsty, and know I will replenish their supplies. Just this last weekend we created a 3-gallon water bucket, which should be fully operational soon. I also need to hang up the feeder to maintain cleanliness of food (and discourage rodents). I am tempted to get a larger feeder, as they go through their feed alarmingly quickly (maybe because we have some food-stealing pests...).

Bertha the Buff, with Speckle and the two Silver Wyandottes.

The chickens don't like direct sunlight, but wander freely through the shaded regions of the yard. They spend most of their time alongside the garage, often under their coop. I throw my over-ripened vegetables their way, and they chase down peas and zucchinis with an awkward birdish gait. So far, chickens are my favorite pet bird, and they aren't even contributing members of society yet! It will still be a few months before any eggs appear, and the correct laying time-frame coincides with winter, which may delay egg production further. The pullets continue to let me pet them and bother them, and will eat anything I hold out for them (including dirt...). So far noise has not been a problem, although I've heard that laying chickens can be pretty vocal, and there is always a chance that a rooster has snuck into the mix. So far there is no clear evidence.

Sleeping chickens... or they were until I took a flash photograph.

I have been bothering everyone with relentless pictures and talk of chickens. I'm amazed anyone will still listen to me. Apparently chicken ownership is something of a current fad here in Northern California. I am continually warned that chickens make great snacks for a variety of wildlife. Strangely, chickens turn out to be a good conversation starter with a variety of people. The fact that I can rattle off breed names and statistics helps. We compare casualty lists and coop designs and chicken names. There is even a possibility that our chicken run will soon host a few donated Chukar as well, although I'm not sure they make good housemates for chickens.

The coop, in its current location. Pre-chickens.

The chicken coop is a whole new topic of conversation. It began with this plan, which I put together one night, disappointed with my local pre-made coop options.

Clearly, quite a few things changed once we set out to make the final product. Max and I drew up better plans, and we went supply shopping based on our final draft.

Having assembled the basic boards, plywood, roofing material, etc. we set to work, using his parents' house as our base of operations.

Max's father was instrumental to the beginning of this project. He manned the scary-large saws, sorted through supplies, and helped us figure out how to piece the basic frame together. The window was particularly tricky.

And then he was gone.

During those first few days, when we were at the house with nothing but time, the chicken coop came to our rescue. We continued work.

The entire family got involved. Visiting friends offered their help and advice.

Max designed the final touches, and I painted and repainted the areas that did not need detailed work.

The coop is not yet finished, but it is pretty close. We still need to instal the feeder, create a door, and combat some warping on the left-hand door. overall, though, it's a great piece of work, and I am very proud of it.

2011-07-28T09:24:00.000-07:00

No one tells you how to act when your boyfriend's father goes missing off the Mexican coastline. There isn't a clear protocol for a situation like that, no accepted etiquette. Right now signs point towards, "pretend, as much as possible, that everything is normal and alright."

This still doesn't feel real. There is a part of my mind that is waiting to see him next time I visit the house, laughing about the big joke. Or I imagine him sitting on the beach, pina colada in hand. I'd rather pretend he ran off with a Mexican beauty than to face what actually happened. So many scenarios, anything so that he never stepped onto that boat. But he did. I know he did.

My mind knows this. I know this. But my heart still hasn't really caught up. I'm not quite sure what my heart should be feeling. So far it is still waiting for proof; it remains oddly detached for the most part. It's as if my heart and mind have switched roles and it is the logical part of me which is urging my emotional center to feel.

I never really thought I would know what a search and rescue operation felt like.

I can think of one reason why there is a distinct lack of closure here. There's the obvious lack of a body, lack of proof. But that is not all.

When I first learned of the accident, I was also told that all were accounted for. The news arrived via text message to my boyfriend's phone. Boat capsized. All accounted for.

This wasn't true.

It wasn't until hours later that it became clear that Russ was not accounted for. Even then, there was an overwhelming amount of hope mixed into the panic.

A group of men had been saved, and had been brought to their motel. These were the men who had taken turns calling home, reassuring loved ones. Russ was not among them, but they promised that there was another group. Surely he was among their number.

That first night, we went from certainty that he was found, albeit maybe not in the best of health, to the impression that he was in another group of survivors, unable to make it to a phone.

The next day, the second group joined the first, and Russ wasn't there. But hope was not lost. The search operation was in full force, and we were inundated with talk of water temperature and survival odds. This type of conversation would persist for the 10 days or so the search continued.

By the time the search and rescue operation came to a close, priorities had changed. With seven people still missing, the call to action became "send a dive team." The best we hoped for was a body - seven bodies.

Even this has not happened.

Because of this, the blow has been cushioned in an appalling way. Instead of facing the sudden irrevocable fact, the kind that I have come to expect accompanying a death, there has simply been diminishing hope.

I hope he calls soon became: I hope he is in the other group became: I hope he is just hurt beyond being able to communicate became: I hope he is floating out there somewhere became: I hope he is in the boat. At the bottom of the ocean. Because if he isn't, we may never know where he is.

And I don't know how to deal with this.

2011-07-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

And here is what is so hard. That first night I was important. I was helpful. I was finding information that no one else had found, and helping the family piece together this tragedy.

The next day I brought food. My research didn't turn up anything hopeful. Everything that fell into place painted a bleaker and bleaker picture.

I fell asleep in an armchair, convinced he would be found. He would be okay. He'd need some hospitalization probably, but would be returning home. I was awoken for the 5 o'clock news, which brought me to immediate despair.

It was as if my mind couldn't deal with the idea of probability. It was all or nothing, and each new piece of news reframed the logic of survival entirely. I think we all felt that, although I can't be certain. At one moment we'd be animated and hopeful, the next enervated and red-eyed. It was exhausting.

I no longer had clear purpose. I could not save the day. Regarding Russell there was no news. There was plenty of news about every other aspect of the accident. Plenty of contradictory and confusing news.

I took the next two days off work, and tried my best to be helpful. Mostly I wandered throughout the house. I studied a bit of math for the GRE, I worked on the chicken coop, a project Max, Russ, and I had started together. Now they had too much food.

I got the impression I should leave. Give the family some time. I sat through two days of work, accomplishing very little and finding myself forgetful and distracted. And time passed so slowly.

At the house, there was a lot of hope. Searching the internet for clues from work was more sobering. At the house there were friends and family filtering in and out to talk to and get to know. At work there was no one.

The survivors drove up from Mexico on Thursday. I was at the house when Jim and Dennis arrived, driving Russ's truck to retrieve their own, which had been sitting in the driveway all this time. They sat down and recounted their experiences, but were clearly itching to get home.

Here is a quick summary, based on my impressions:

Some of the men were unable to sleep. It was hot and muggy and stormy. Rather than lie in sweltering bunks, they were above, keeping one another company. As the storm intensified, it became obvious that the hatches were not closed and water was getting into the fish hold and the small fishing boats and everywhere. The boat tilted precariously. Jim decided to wake up his friends; the boat looked like it would go under.

When he ran into the room, his friends thought he was kidding. Dennis went out and verified that things were really bad, and everyone grabbed life vests if they could find them and ran out of the room. Jim saw Russ get out of the room, life vest hooked over one shoulder. That's the last he saw of him.

The accounts of what happened next are all over the news and better worded than I would offer right now, so I'll let you look up Jim Miller and Dennis DeLuca if you want to hear more about what they survived.

When they left, there were many tears.

The search was extended. Nothing was found. Max started working again. I kept my scheduled appointments.

Peppered throughout were moments when Max's mom lost her composure. I mean, of course. But these moments have stayed with me.

Jim, one of the men on the boat, mentioned in the Press Democrat that he feared some of the men got caught in the canopy of the boat as it sunk. This clearly struck Joelle. She imagined aloud a scenario in which Russ made it off the boat, but was caught between the upward pressure of his life jacket and the downward force of the boat's canopy as it sunk. Russ couldn't swim well, so he would be unable to simply cut away the lifejacket. Even a strong swimmer would have difficultly breaking away from a quickly sinking boat... He was stuck. Only time and a dive team could confirm this, and that hasn't happened yet.

Sunday night, Max and I went out to Bodega Bay, ostensibly to check on his father's boat, which is moored there. We searched for an EPIRB, and found nothing. We pumped some water out of the boat, locked everything up, and stared into the ocean for a bit.

I don't know what that night was about. I hope it was about closure, a little bit. I think we had both given up hope, to a large degree, by then.

And now the search has ended. I haven't seen the family since Monday morning. I want desperately to help them. But I don't know how. I feel like I am drifting away and I shouldn't make this about me. It's not about me. But I am central to me and I can't get out of my skin to see this any other way.

I feel quite alone. To bitch about it would be rude and uncalled for. But it is how I feel right now. When someone asks me how I am, I say I'm okay. And I am okay.

I'm okay. But things could be much better.

Another snippet, and a breakdown of format.

2011-07-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

"You don't understand," a woman, in her mid fifties and of French descent (but no accent), is framed from behind, standing at a corded phone in the kitchen. We do not see her face, but we hear panic, her voice breaking as she protests loudly. "My husband can't swim." The camera pans back to include a breakfast table, where two figures are gathered at a laptop. The 25-year old, formerly the Fit-driver, speaks.

"I have a partial email list with some names. I searched your email for 'Mexico.' Are there any other search terms that might work?"

Max's mother responds with two words, "San Felipe."

Max, still quite drunk, is dithering a bit nearby. He has a large glass of water in one hand. Joelle continues her phone conversation with the Consulate. They are trying to get the names of those who were on the Erik, a tourist fishing vessel that capsized and sunk at around 2 AM that day. It is now around 11 PM.

The initial impression is that everyone has been rescued. The men on board have been calling home one at a time, sharing one land line in Mexico to do so. They have been delivered to their hotel in San Felipe, called El Capitan. One of the men's wives called Joelle after speaking to her husband. Joelle's husband has not called. The phrase that has been used repeatedly tonight, 'all accounted for,' has both reassuring and unnerving qualities. Stories are flying of men in the ocean for hours, as many as 19.

It is clear that the consul does not have a complete picture. Sarah is asking Joelle for names to verify that all aboard are indeed accounted for.

Jessica emails the list to the Consul.

The computer already has many web browser windows open. Weather reports, emails, news, and the website of the sportfishing company that chartered the boat.

She searches online. First for hospitals in the San Felipe area. If he has not called, maybe it is because Russ simply can't. Russ has a transplanted liver and is not a strong swimmer. There is no real news beyond what has already been said.

First, a number for medical emergencies, which turns out to be the local Mexican Red Cross. They give her the number for the local Fire Department. She is confused that a fire department would handle an ocean emergency, and uses her first Spanish word. Barco.

The fire department does not say all accounted for. They say 16 were found. They say 21 were found. Numbers keep changing and the situation is very unclear. There is a little bit of a language barrier. The department gives her a new number, for a man named Roberto. This number turns out to be a mobile number, and takes several tries to go through.

Roberto gives a new number. According to him, 24 of the 44 people have been recovered. 16 are American tourists, and the rest are Mexican crew. Russell Bautista is not on the list. Roberto takes their number and promises to call with updated information.

Next is a call to the El Capitan. Jessica gets the lobby and asks if any of the men from the boat accident are present. The reception desk goes to check.

A man is found. Gary Wong. They start talking. He mentions that there are two groups of survivors, one at the hotel, and one at Bahia de Los Angeles. The second group will be reunited with the first in the morning. Gary thinks that Russ might be in that group. He also mentions Don Lee. (Neither, in fact, would be in that second group.) Everyone else at the hotel is sleeping; it's been a long, harrowing day.

Joelle gets on the phone and continues talking to Gary. He describes his experience to her.

There is no other real news that night. Everyone is calling everyone else, and the agencies that are called are clearly dependent on the families for information, rather than the other way around. After refreshing the news, refreshing twitter, and staring at the computer screen, it becomes clear that there is nothing else to be done but wait.

Another scene.

2011-07-13T10:24:00.000-07:00

A purple Honda Fit rolls up to a winery gate; the area is remote, the road is dirt. The lone occupant, a 25-year-old woman, glances down at her cell phone, which has no signal. She looks up as a Jeep exits through the gate, and stops alongside.

"We're heading out. Max is drunker than I've ever seen." The Jeep-driver, a 26-year old redhead, looks apologetic. She leaves. The next car is a black Celica. Max is in the passenger-seat, drunk and loud. The Celica-driver ushers him out of the car.

"I'm really sorry," he says with a smile. "He's your problem now. You missed the party!"

Max has a Corona in one hand, and rushes back to the Celica to retrieve an entire six pack. He stashes these unopened beers behind the passenger seat of the Fit, and gets into the car. He is loud, drunk, and happy. He gushes about the party, focusing on a friend's little sister and her exploits. He wants to go home. They begin the long, slow trek back into town.

Max is highlighting the cuteness of the driver's shoulders when his phone beeps. It is a text message. He fumbles for the phone, and reads the message. Then, he reads it out loud. Slowly.

"Dad's boat capsized. A guy's wife said all are accounted for. Mom wants you to come home."

Everything goes quiet. He repeats the message aloud one more time. He sobers considerably. The driver and passenger look briefly at one another.

"Should I drive there?" She asks. He stares at his phone. Slowly, he moves to call home.

Cut to camera behind the car, panning out as the car drives into downtown.

Car interior: The two are talking. Conversation goes something like:

"All accounted for, that's good though, right?"

"I don't see why she would say all accounted for if that wasn't the case."

"Accounted for is different than alive, isn't it..."

"You're right."

"God, this is going to make the news."

They are now driving up a country hill. The driver flips on her brights. The road goes from paved to gravel. The headlights dim. They drive over a cow gate and up to a large white house. It is somewhere between 10:30 and 11 PM.

Stepping backwards from last night. An imagined screenplay scene.

2011-07-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

The scene opens at Bodega Bay point. It is sunset. Two figures, one male and one female, stand at a cliff face, staring out to sea. The waves crash below violently; sea spray and sand fleck the couple's faces, and their hair whips about in disarray. We see, in various shots: the waves below, the sunset, and the couple in profile.

The male speaks.

"A girl in my sister's class died here." He gestures vaguely to the cliff they currently stand on. Camera has circled to frame the couple from behind, angled down to include the waves crashing below. "She had always been afraid of heights. She was standing four feet from the edge. The whole piece fell."

There is silence. The girl looks up, slides into the boy's jacket, wrapping her arm around his waist. The camera now rests on her face, nestled against him. A tear slides down her cheek, the only indication that she is crying beneath her sunglasses. The camera pans up, and the boy's eyes are wet as well. Camera pans out slowly. They stand together, his eyes on the horizon and hers aimed at the ground. The only sound is the wind and the waves.

The screen goes dark, and the loud buzz of a helicopter accompanies an aerial view of sunny Baja California, seen from above. Loud, jarring music, celebratory and latin, hits.

Camera pans across a dock. We see the Erik, but don't pause on it. A series of parked trucks, laden with coolers, bags, and other supplies, are also visible. The camera makes its way to a hotel, the El Capitan. A group of 27 men are gathered by the trucks, in front of the hotel. The men, mostly in their 50s and 60s, are in high spirits. A few coolers have been opened, and beers have been passed around. Several conversations are going at once.

Meet the Chicks

2011-06-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

I've made a strange life choice recently. I bought chickens.

There are eight of them, and they vary in ages from one week to three weeks in age. They currently live in the laundry room of my parents' house, but will move to my house once they are old enough to live outside, in my backyard! We're currently building a chicken coop for them. Would you like to meet them?

Rosie

Rosie is an Ameraucana. She came from an assorted set, so we're not 100% sure what she will look like as an adult. She is the largest and most developed of the chicks, and is quite adventurous. Ameraucanas lay blue-green tinted eggs, and you can see that Rosie has blue-ish legs as well. As she matures, she should weigh over five pounds, and will have puffy feathers near her ear holes, called muffs. Rosie has been something of an ugly duckling, with her mix of baby fluff and real feathers. She likes to stare me down whenever I am near, paying me more mind than any other chick. She is about three weeks old. Her name derives from Rosie the Riveter, an American icon from WWII propaganda posters. Ameraucanas lay about 200 eggs per year, once mature.

Diana

Diana's full name is Diana Ross. My mother named her. She is also an Ameraucana, and currently has a nice barred pattern on her feathers. She seems like a good candidate for the Brown Red color; she came from the same assorted set as Rosie. Diana enjoys pecking at my shirt sleeves, and is the first to hop on my hand when I offer food. She is most cuddly, as she will sidle up and sit on any arm, hand, or lap offered to her. She is also three weeks old. Diana and Rosie were the first chicks to arrive at my parents' home.

Dott

Dott, or Dottie, is a Gold-Laced Wyandotte. She arrived one day after Rosie and Diana, and is just about the same size as Diana. Gold lacing describes the pattern on individual feathers, with reddish gold interiors lined with black. Dott is a little more vocal than the Ameraucanas, and a little more skitterish as well. If you don't make sudden movements though, she'll hop around and eat from your hand with very little trepidation. She ought to get a little larger than the Ameraucanas, weighing in at six pounds. Wyandottes lay about 200 light brown eggs per year.

Buffy

Buffy is a Buff Orpington, and is a week younger than the first three chickens. She arrived with her sister, Bertha (see below). Orpingtons are fluffier and larger than any of the other breeds I own, weighing in at seven to ten pounds! Buff refers to the light brown/blonde coloration. The Orpington is supposed to be one of the friendliest of chicken breeds. It was the Buffs who taught the older chicks how to eat out of my hand. It wasn't until they started pecking away that the other chicks realized that my hand was an object to be anticipated, rather than feared. I give the little guys full credit! Buffy has a bit more variation in color on her feathers, ranging from almost white to a dirty blonde color.

Bertha

Bertha is larger than Buffy, and has a more defined comb. Both Orpingtons run when I try to pick them up, but settle down almost immediately once in the hand. Buffy or Bertha will go to my boyfriend's mother. I couldn't buy only one chick, but don't want eight chickens in my yard. I plan to give away two or three of these chicks, to go live with a preexisting flock. Orpingtons make great mothers, but I don't plan on doing any breeding of chickens.

Silvia

Silvia is a Silver-Laced Wyandotte, and is a week younger than the Orpingtons. She is the larger of the two Silver Wyandottes. They ought to be very similar to Dott, except in color. The Silver-Laced Wyandotte was the chicken I first picked as a good fit for my backyard. Not only are they beautiful, they're good with confinement and good layers as well. I had originally placed these youngest chicks on their own, moving the larger chicks into a new box. Silvia, however, picked on the two littlest chicks, and was exiled to live with the big girls. She has since been somewhat humbled, and gets along alright with the entire crew (boxes have since been consolidated and all eight live together). She has a bit more black than the other Silver-Laced Wyandotte (Winnie, below), and therefore easily differentiated. Silvia relates to Silver, thus the name decision.

Winnie

Winnie has quickly gained a nickname, "Wobbles." When she first arrived she was not eating or drinking, and was very unsteady on her feet. It didn't help that her sister, Silvia, kept picking on her. She also screamed, for hours. I think this relates to how threatened she felt. Eventually I did get her to eat out of my hand, and I also got her to drink drops of water from my finger. Once Silvia was removed from her home she did fine, and has even quieted down, most of the time. She still wobbles a bit, but she's only a week old. All of the chicks currently live together, and Wobbles is doing A-OK. She is a Silver-Laced Wyandotte as well. One of the Silvers will go to my boyfriend's mother.

Speckle

Speckle is a Speckled Sussex. She arrived with the Silvers. So far, she's proven the most photogenic of the chicks. The smallest chicks are less used to human contact than their larger companions, but they've all eaten out of my hand (which can be difficult for the little guys, with the larger ones diving in). Sussexes weigh in around seven pounds, and lay about 250 eggs per year. Speckle has a little bit of frizz to some of her feathers, but this doesn't seem usual for the breed and will probably go away.

Those are the girls! I will create a blog post for the chicken coop, which is currently half-finished, and ought to be fully-functional this weekend. The chicks will need to stay indoors until they are all about four weeks old.