Art of Seeking

It’s been a little more exciting. I can finally see the clouds break and sense that the doldrums of winter might soon be over. Signs of a new season are everywhere- little flower buds, a few blooming bulbs, rain more often than snow…

zits… lots of zits. My skin never knows what the hell to do when the weather starts changing, so it gives up and breaks out. Ick.

And it seems I have some opportunities. First, Matt and I are taking our annual not- exactly- valentines trip over spring break. Then, of course, there’s my belly dance concert the week after next. I’ll be attending the Paleopathology Association Annual meeting next month, which just happens to be in the town where my parents, sister, nieces, nephew, and some aunts and uncles and cousins live.

This summer, if the Peace and Justice Studies (one of my minors) folks get funding, I might go to Haiti.

Next year, if I’m very good and keep my grades up, it looks like I’ll get to do some excavating at an archeological site in Peru.

Yes, it sounds like fun and interesting and exciting, etc. I just hope I can handle all this.

I’d better get ready to go- we’re drilling our dance routine like crazy tonight. I’m a little under the weather so I hope all the spins and such don’t make me too dizzy, and I’ll try not to breathe on the other girls…

“It’s illegal? Are you serious?! …Is it good with honey?” -girl in my class on a person (whom I will not name) drinking Coca tea smuggled from South America- which, by the way, is not psychoactive and is not cocaine but yes, it is still illegal thanks to people using it to MAKE cocaine).

Drunk guy at the bar trying to hit on me: “You’ve got hair like Crystal Gayle! Why, I’ve always liked Crystal Gayle!”

His friend: “I thought you liked crystal Meth.”

(Scary thing is, he didn’t deny it.)

“Whoa- this is SO much better than whatever the hell Raphael had on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!” -Melissa, upon examining my six- edged knife- and yes, I know how to use it, though I’d prefer not to have to.

(annoyed groan) “You need to know your Alice before you see whatever weird crap Tim Burton has done with it!” -Dr. M. Jefferys, trying to get the class to think critically about literature

“That’s what everyone says- after they laugh.” Jeff, responding to M. Minch’s comment that he looked “handsome all the same” after his haircut

“If you want to turn this into a drinking game: every time we change meter, drink.” -Sax player for First Press, a great instrumental band out of Salt Lake. And if I’d been able to play their drinking game that night, I would have been wasted.

The news: I will be performing at the Covey Center for the Arts in Provo on March 24th with dozens of other belly dancers. My class of 6 girls will be on stage for 3.5 minutes, and I’ll be in the front facing the audience for at least half of it. Am I scared? YES!!!

What can I do.

I’m lost in my own shadow

Staring up at a dream I never recognized as mine

A monument of time.

Arms wrapped around my knees

floating in an eggshell

that cracks against the walls of the universe…

and deposits me here.

Blank.

A world I don’t recognize.

All faces are one, and mine.

Shadowless and vague,

stark and lonely…

Blank as the colorless empty page

of the sky.

I’ve lost who I am

in a world where there is no hiding place

I’ve still managed to run from myself

and now…

I cannot find me.

“I think you can tell a lot about people from the hors d’oeuvres, she said. I nodded & hid my Vienna sausage in a big plant in the hall & avoided her for the rest of the evening.” -my wonderful, witty friend Dana

“So.. are you going for a UVU or Euro- centric Jesus look?” -some guy in my Peace and Justice Studies class, on Jeff’s famous Jesus look. Really. He looks like Jesus- only happy. Except that he just chopped off his Jesus hair so he would appear less intimidating to conservatives he’s working with.

“You have done well, my minion.” -Ana, to Arielle, who’d just brought her a drink

“So you’re saying, the term “Eat Shit and Die” came from the ancient Peruvians in Nasca?” -my friend Ryan in my Bioarchaeology class, on the war- related practice of shrinking the heads of enemies and the discovery of fossilized ancient poo in the mouth of one of the shrunken heads

“I DO like it! It just felt weird at first!” -Bobbi, in my belly dance class, commenting on a choreography sequence- prompting my very first “That’s what she said.”

“Sorry for driving too close to your front bumper…” -homemade sign on the back of a truck at the post office

“Why do I get coffee? It only makes me jittery and AWESOME. But only awesome for about ten minutes, and then I’m back to being jittery. Does it help me write papers and articles? Not really. Does it help me update my status? Obviously. You guys are angels. Angels among men and other angels. You are also all beautiful. I can’t blink.” -my wonderfully creative friend Meg

“I can’t believe how strong she is.” I hope I’m not being too solicitous. It’s been at least a year since we’ve had an opportunity to sit down and have a real conversation, and I’ve been a little worried.

The smoky blue eyes are distant as she takes a long breath and says softly, “She blows me away.”

Her tiny daughter has endured the umpteenth surgery with the usual aplomb and gentle strength not betrayed by her fragile body. I don’t mention how difficult it must be- it’s obvious enough that it would be condescending to say.

She doesn’t talk for long about the trials and tragedies. She focuses more on the her daughter’s personality and intelligence and little eccentricities. Her smile has a lonely beauty, but the distance in her eyes remains.

I worry about the coffee cake I ordered for us even though she said it was fine. I’m not sure how the sugar effects her particular form of diabetes. We’ve been talking over coffee, usually among friends, for almost a decade and I still haven’t asked her about it.

At least there’s some relief. She and her family are going to Disneyland- though the financial windfall that created the opportunity soon collapsed into ruin, with a vulturous collection agency swooping down on all her assets and freezing them. “I’m getting a wheelchair this time,” she tells me. “Last time was a nightmare.” The ruined cartilage in her hips makes it impossible to walk for long. “She’ll be sitting in my lap. You get weird looks from people, though, when you get pushed to the front of the line, and you’re young and in a wheelchair.

“I need a sign that says, ‘yes, we really are disabled, we’re not faking it for special privileges.’”

We talk about more menial things- our friends, our husbands, day- to- day issues and amusing little stories, her recent performance with a band when she was able to sing onstage for the first time in a long while. Her voice is amazing. She’s used to the compliment, so I don’t reiterate.

Then the recent financial nightmare, fueled by astronomical medical bills. Apparently not being able to pay to be disabled is horrifyingly sinful enough that one can face homelessness or jail.

And another looming crisis.

Her ophthalmologist has just informed her that, without the expensive (only in America) insulin her body requires, she will soon go blind.

“At least they were kind enough to leave me alone with a box of tissues and let me bawl my eyes out for a while.”

One can’t expect the creditors to sympathize, but one can wonder what circle of hell they’re running the front desk for when they’re told, “That money was supposed to keep me from going blind” and they reply,
“That’s none of my concern. You owe this money.” Mostly lawyer’s fees for the credit agency.

I don’t pretend to be able to fathom what she is facing when she asks, desperation in her face, if I can.

It’s crushing me just to imagine her deep, smoky blue eyes as sightless.

(on the right is my bro- in- law, Dan. I tried to shrink the picture three times…)

Last night, I nearly missed a great concert. I don’t always check my facebook invites because I get so many to events in California, New York, Salt Lake, etc. that I just can’t travel to. But at the last minute- when Matt had already made plans with his friends, I caught an invite for my brother- in- law’s band, Two and a Half White Guys (search for them on Facebook…).

I went alone, which meant I had to get there early, take two shots, and drink water until last call so I could drive home sober. I met Dan and the band in the parking lot and they got me on the guest list.

I really was a fan of these guys a long time before I met Matt, whose eldest sister (and one of the coolest) is married to Dan. Unfortunately she was stuck at home with a monster headache, but I got to meet a few of her friends, who were very sweet and fun to dance with.

Of course, the music is great to dance to. They’re like reggae/ ska- I love reggae, not a lot of ska, I’ll listen to these guys any time. Honestly, I have no bloody clue why they don’t have a contract. They are a LOT better than most mainstream so- called music out there right now.

It’s cheerful, fun music, too, so it actually helped my depression quite a bit. I feel much better today.

I spent most of the time sober, with the exception of the half hour after I slammed two shots of Bourbon (five minutes after I got there). I ran into Bo’s (my neighbor) sister and a friend from school, was introduced to several new people, and had a great time.

And I had a mini- brainstorm… well, more like a mini- brain- fast- moving low- pressure system… and so I give you:

The Pros and Cons of being Sober in the Bar on Saturday Night

Pros:

It’s a lot easier to avoid drunk guys on the dance floor. Even the jerky one with the elbows and the John Denver haircut.

You don’t run into as many people even if they’re trying to run into you.

The bathroom is easier to find.

You can focus well enough to take pictures like this:

Conversations are easier to follow. Indeed, you end up leading most of them.

And, you remember the conversations.

If the band is good- and tonight, of course, it was- you can appreciate the complexity of the music more.

If you’re not at Burt’s Tiki Lounge, the worst bar ever, the bartenders appreciate you being sober enough to drive and give you whatever non- alcoholic beverage you want for free. Usually. At the Deerhunter Pub last night, the bartenders were all really cool. Some of the best in the valley, IMHO. Great guys.

You don’t feel as dumb when you’re talking to people.

No problems getting home, even though the street is clogged with bright flashing cop car lights (and all four cop cars are behind the one guy who happens to be one of the three of ethnic minority who were at the crowded bar and you’re not sure he drank).

Cons:

You really feel the pain in your legs when you’ve been standing/ dancing for four hours straight because all the chairs are taken.

It’s not as easy to get into dancing with strangers, even if they’re girls.

You wonder if the drunk chick who invited you to her BBQ would remember you if you showed up.

You notice the guys who stare.

If the band sucks, the suckiness is much more palpable. (The first guys up- I don’t remember the name of the band, but… well, I can’t exactly call it “suck” because they weren’t horrible, but they also didn’t change keys for 45 minutes…)

All the drinks look really good. Except the cheap beer.

The jokes aren’t as funny. But watching some guy cram his wasted girlfriend headfirst into the back seat still is…

You notice drama. Crying girls and arguments and such.

Worst of all, you’re sober.

All told, it was a great night and I had lots of fun, and I hope they’re down here again soon, with Havi and me with Matt.

In other news, i’ve created a facebook group: the Agrarian Foodie Committee. I thought it would be helpful for gardeners and canners- and there are quite a few around here- to have a resource through which to exchange produce and canned goods and such. Apparently there are a lot of folks who agree. I’m a little nervous- I’ve never organized anything like this before. Especially ten minutes after I dreamed it up. But, there it is… wish me luck.

Coffee with a friend helped.

Virtual coffee with a friend and mentor half a world away helped.

A snuggle with my husband helped.

Keeping myself occupied with the possible psychological effects of iconography on an ancient society helped.

My new wearable Ecuadoran alpacha blanket is definitely helping.

The weather still isn’t helping. I have little energy and even less motivation to do simple things like make dinner or clean off my desk.

the cold isn’t helping. I should really do laundry, but the basement is freezing. Maybe I’ll recruit the girls… no, they always lose my clothes.

A bath might help, with some Epsom salts and essential oils and sweet almond oil. I think my toenails are overdue for a paint job- the green is losing its luster.

I’m trying to surround myself with brightness and color, as it seems to help. But the lighting in my house sucks, and everything outside, after the morning snow melts, is a dull grayish brown with hints of withered ocher.

I want to paint again. I’m trying to figure out where to set up my easel and what to clip my lights to. And I’m messy, so I’ll need a drop cloth.

I tried to start making jewelry again but I keep forgetting how to tie the knots.

Maybe I just need glue…

I’m worried about my desperate clinging to snippets of fantasies floating through my mind. It’s the only color that seems to stay, and I don’t want to get too lost in them.

I’d better usurp the bathing facilities before someone else does. Inevitably, the second I start thinking of bathing, three other people announce their intentions toward usurping the bathroom as well.

Hopefully the world will seem slightly brighter when I’m scrubbed and polished.

I’d hoped never to feel like this again, but given my nature, I guess it can’t really be helped.

I just don’t fit in, anywhere. I never have. I wish I would stop getting my hopes up that I’ll somehow develop a circle of friends, a support network of some kind.

I have a LOT of friends, all of whom have their own circles of friends, circles that I’m just not comfortable in. I love hanging out sometimes, but mostly it just gives me that alone- in- a- crowd feeling.

It happens when you have things like social anxieties and PTSD- people as a general rule scare me. Especially cliques. ESPECIALLY female cliques. I get along best with laid- back guys and chicks who don’t like most chicks, who end up hanging out with the guys. But even there I end up being the odd one out.

The odd one. Out.

Generally I like my solitude. It helps me think. But when I’m clearly not wanted, I just wish I could disappear. Not to be a drama queen, not to inspire pity, hell, I hate people feeling sorry for me. I just don’t want to be anywhere anymore.

Don’t worry, I don’t have the luxury of disappearing. It would only make the wrong people worry about me, others roll their eyes and exchange sarcastic knowing glances or talk even more shit than the usual. The people I wish gave a flying shit wouldn’t even notice.When it comes to the ones who would worry, I do care about people, even if I doubt they get me at all.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to talk to who wouldn’t turn around and stab me in the back, wouldn’t pretentiously console me and forget I exist five minutes later, didn’t live a thousand miles away, wouldn’t feel really awkward and look like they’d rather be anywhere else, wasn’t too busy socializing with people who actually do matter, wouldn’t just blink at me in a pointless display of complete incomprehension.

I know what you’re thinking. Emo. Whatever, I’m used to being judged in the contexts of stereotypes that don’t come close to describing me.

And don’t take it personally. I know you can’t help that I’m odd/ weird/ nuts/ not one of you. I don’t hold it against you. I’m venting. Besides, I’m the one who’s odd.

Being odd is romanticized a lot, but trust me- it really sucks. I wouldn’t recommend it.

I want the sun, the sand, the mountains, the rocks, the big shady trees- the creeks, the waterfalls, the oceans. I’ve always felt like they understand me in a way people can’t.

And sleep. Sleep would really be nice.

The gray sky and monochrome environment have really been getting to me. I’ve been anxious and listless and desperate all at the same time.

Usually when it gets this dull, I get homesick for the desert where I grew up. At this point I could hug a palm tree- even one of those short, spiky ones with the fan- shaped leaves, though I’d prefer to hug one of those gorgeous 200- foot graceful palms that line Palm Canyon Drive in Palm Springs.

It’s the perfect temperature there right now: mid- 70’s during the day. If only my hometown hadn’t been overrun by gangs to the point that the neighborhood grocery store is dangerous to traverse alone. The last time I went there to visit- as my parents were permanently moving out- we were almost carjacked.

Palm Springs- at least parts of it- are still relatively safe. I’d like to visit again one day and hike  Taquitz and the other canyons again, maybe even go up Mt San Jacinto on the tram. At least I know to stay out of Gateway (Northern Palm Springs, but not North Palm Springs, which is another town entirely and kinda scary. One of my friends was shot to death there when I was 17) and the Dream Homes (East Palm Springs, where a developer in the 60’s or 70’s started building a housing plot and ran out of cash, so it crashed and is now one of the area’s most affordable and most dangerous neighborhoods). Gateway and the Dream Homes were the area’s most notorious rival gangs when I left. While visiting Palm Springs, CA, stay as far south as possible, and don’t carry all your cash or any credit cards in your wallet. Anything north of Vista Chino is not safe, at least the last time I was there.

The area of Indian and Palm Canyon Dr. (parallel streets in the downtown area) around where Peabody’s Cafe and See’s Candies are is still pretty and peaceful and safe and fun. It’s where I got addicted to coffee and chocolate and blues guitar.

So here I am in the drudgery of the last great expressive BLAH of winter, but at least it’s a peaceful drudgery. Nobody is playing guitar for me currently, but when Cody is done burning his old ones in our backyard fire… er… fire box, maybe I can get him to play me some blues while I break open a whiskey bottle.

I can’t wait for our tax return to get here. We’re already planning on putting some flag stones down and cutting some Kokopelli shapes into the fire box, but I really want our yard to look pretty. My dear husband, for the life of him, can’t figure out what I see wrong with this picture:

-sigh-

Hopefully I’ll have some “after” pictures up for you soon in a blog titled “landscaping on a food stamp budget” or something. Until then, I’m going to make some s’mores with the family. Gooey chocolately marshmallow stuff generally cheers me up as long as I don’t think about where the chocolate probably came from.

I’ve hit the point when it becomes evident that I can either take a break, or allow my brain to gracelessly implode.

I remember when I was just a little space cadet. I loved scenic paintings. I would find places in them- a rolling green hillside, a pine- strewn mountaintop, a sandy tropical shore- and imagine myself there.

I could smell the fresh dew in the air, the ocean spray- I could feel the sand under my bare feet, I could hear the wind in the grass, listen to the birds in the trees.

I could waste a whole afternoon like that.

Whenever I would get a chance, I would wander off in the desert for hours. I could lose myself collecting rocks and cactus skeletons, finding the highest point from which to admire the sunset, listen to the wind, feel it on my face.

I went to the beach with a church group once. I wandered off for so long, they called a search party on me.

I wandered back just as sunset became dusk, with handfuls of stones and shells and bits of driftwood tucked into my towel. People were irate, but I barely noticed. I was still soaking in the beauty of the ocean and sky, and I wasn’t coming down for a while.

These days I do my best to get myself to the woods, to the grassy hills, to anything even slightly resembling a beach in the tropics even if it’s muddier and the meditative effects of the vast expanse of the water are marred by the sounds of four- wheelers and vacationers reveling in destroying the silence.

But the winter… it gets old. It’s beautiful at first, but I miss the greenness. I miss the woods, the bugs, the leaves… not having to stack six layers of clothing on to go outside…

Basically I’m pining for Spring.

Imbolc was last week. I’ve noticed the tiny buds on the trees and the slow thawing of the ground, but everything is still pale and gray.

I have to get back to my writing. But I had to take a mini mental vacation and look at the pretty pictures I took last Spring and remember that it’s just around the corner.

And I’ll be wandering around in the woods again, with my camera and my pack, maybe my husband and some friends that I might wander from…

But usually, it’s just me, anyway. Just the way I like it.