nowordsnecessary

Before I moved, I remember talking to Jill about how I was a bit nervous about leaving certain things behind. Those things were my paints. I hadn't had time for them much beyond class, so I wasn't sure if they would be, well, practical in my new life, especially with the intentions of graduate school...for business.

Alas, I decided that they didn't take up much space and that they needed to come with me. Thank goodness. A good decision.

As I settled in to my new apartment, I realized early that I had plenty of table-space. An extra dresser sits behind my door with nothing in it but shoes and unused clothes hangers, and the top lay completely vacant. It didn't take long to imagine what it would become, and I immediately sat my paint bag on it. After staring at it for a few days, I got up the nerve to just do it--my last step for settling in: making a mess. (Okay, let's not get too crazy; it's an organized mess.)

After hanging up the drawing that my little cousin colored (and signed!) for me at our pit-stop in Montana on the drive out, I arrayed my paintbrushes in the woven basket from Kim "to put your art stuff in!", and I opened the toolbox of doom! (I say "doom" for two reasons: 1) it's so full of so many random things--knitting needles, charcoal, thread, pastels, sculpture tools, etc.--that it doesn't quite close and 2) several of those many random things are quite sharp; it's not a box to just stick your hand in blindly--X-acto blades and screwdrivers will snag you every time. Regardless, I opened the toolbox, lined up my acrylics and watercolors on the shelf, arranged my paper and easel, and I was open for business.

I looked at my paintbrushes. They stared right back like puppies at the pound, Pick me! Pick me!, they all seemed to cry. I squirted some paint on my palette paper and got to work. After sketching and trying not to erase and erasing and putting the first paint on the canvas, ahhh, it was like baking a pie. It takes a little while to roll the crust out right, but once you get into the groove and find your rhythm: art. 

I've been stuck on this black-and-white portrait phase for a while now. I've also been really itching to paint this wonderful photograph of Salvador Dalí, my favorite Spanish painter (sorry, Picasso). He's so quirky, and I love it. So I had to get this painting out of my system; it's been brewing for so long.

The set-up of the image allowed it to be done in three simple sessions without worrying about paint being soft enough to blend if I left it too long. I started at the top, painting his hair, down to his left eye, and the shapes of the magnifying glasses. The next session, I did the insides of the glasses, his chin, and his coat. Finally, today I finished the background, the table, and a few touch-ups and details. 

Sometimes I haven't felt it the way that people say artists should. Sometimes I have been more frustrated by the process than anything. Today, I was fully there. I wish that I could describe it without becoming sentimental, but it overwhelmed me: the blending of two simple pigments to slip across the page in loose strokes.

I was standing. I was listening to Modest Mouse. My room was dim in the yellowed dark of the basement, and I had a desk lamp over the easel. A paintbrush in each hand, sometimes in my mouth as if dancing a tango, sometimes at the edges of my teeth, like a nervous test-taker, I stared him down. He stared back. I swayed and pivoted and leaned, and he just stared back. 

And I think, oddly, this was what I've been needing. Someone to just stare at me, under close examination, and inspect who or what I am: take a long look and then be silent. No words necessary. 

Oktober in September

Things that you learn on a Saturday night at Oktoberfest:

• There are a million different kinds of beer.
• They all taste different in some way.
• People know a lot about these different kinds of beer; it is important to them.
• You can have conversations with random strangers.
• You can get drunk from a miniature "commemorative mug".

I spent most of Friday feeling pretty on-the-fence about the weekend's upcoming festivities. Do I really want to pay to go to this shindig? Do I really want to drink beer all night, after I've been doing so well at eating healthy lately? Do I really want to hassle to figure out transportation?

Yes. Yes, I do. 

I spent all of Saturday being antsy and excited to hang out with my friend, Jay, at Oktoberfest. We walked down to Fremont together and followed the booming sound of the main stage to a two-street festival lined with tents of kegs hosting many many brands of beer. 

After passing the ID station--how long after you turn twenty-one do people stop saying "Happy birthday"? it's been almost a month now, and while it's very kind of them, sometimes, I just want to get a drink and not be reminded that a year has passed--we bought our tokens for sampling. Our options were five or ten, and I thought, Ten?! I can't drink ten beers! I got five and went through to accept my "commemorative mug" for tasting. I'm not even certain that it would measure a full cup in baking. I laughed and then looked around at everyone holding their tiny handles and sipping lightly from their tiny mugs. We looked like giants. 

I followed Jay around like a shadow. "We need to try this one; I hear it's great" or "Oh! This is the best! You need to taste this!" she'd say as I followed her to the next line. Rushing to keep up and learning quickly how to enjoy the small samples, I easily ran out of tokens. "Here you go," Jay would stick another token in my hand each time we refilled. She had gotten ten tokens, but she was really sly about talking to the pourers to distract them, so managed a lot of free samples. "Try to get this next one for free," she would tell me, but I just couldn't do it; I'm a chicken.

Let's see, so first we met Tim--Tom--Ted, as Jay called him. We stood and talked to him and two of his friends, then we left to get a sample and ended up losing him somewhere in the mix, not before, exchanging sunglasses and taking a silly picture. Ah, the joy of technology. The point of this though, is that while Jay was chatting away, I spent a lot of time just listening, how can she have such a full conversation with someone she knows nothing about?! 

As we waited in our next line, the men behind us got the conversation started. I went with it. The small-talk about the lines led to "My name is David, by the way" and uh huh, "So you're from Utah?" and oh, "You work in retail" and yeah, "Seattle really is a nice place" and so on and so forth into a full conversation. When we walked away, cups empty again, I stopped Jay and said, "I did it!! I just talked to that guy all by myself for like twenty minutes!" Not quite understanding the significance of this, she laughed and kept walking. 

We continued this pattern for the rest of the night before grabbing some burgers and fries (veggie burger for me, of course!) and one last sample of Crispin's Hard Cider, my new favorite, and walking to the exit with the grumbling crowd as the festivities closed down. Midnight. 

We caught a cab back to Jay's apartment, which, thank God for her because otherwise I would have been trekking up Third Avenue West because I haven't flagged down a cab since I was in NYC two years ago, and I was definitely not ready to do that now. We walked to the end of the street, and within just a few minutes, I was in a cab, then at her apartment, and finally, in bed with her miniature poodle. 

The poodle ran around the bed most of the night, sometimes coming up and licking my face right when I thought I was sleeping. I didn't mind, though, because he's such a funny little dog, all covered in hair (not fur) that's so poofy that you can't really tell any of him apart--his face, feet, and short shaking tail all blend together in an energetic little ball of softness. 

Come morning, the dog was still excitedly running around the apartment, and Jay and I were still feeling the after-effects of a night out. We looked at our mini mugs and laughed at how we felt so superior to them at the beginning of the night. 

And now, after tasting upwards of eight or so beers, I can say the exact same that I said before the festival: I have very limited knowledge of beer. 

Blackbird

Because my dad likes when I play this song...

Song: Blackbird (cover, unedited)

Original Artist: The Beatles

On Writing

I never realized how much we write who we are, what we have experienced. I remember writing all through elementary school and high school; it came naturally to me. I would just write. Whatever came to mind was fine.

I now find myself wondering how to freewrite again because everything that I try to say comes out in two syllables--Derek.

I remember my freshman year of college. Composition class had this magnetic force that pulled me into Buhl hall. Don't worry about your Anatomy homework; just write, it told me. I listened. My prof, Joonna, had us freewrite often. At first, I was a bit baffled. Freewriting had previously been a do-in-your-free-time; don't-expect-a-grade-for-this; you-were-what?-writing? kind of ordeal. But she gave us 10-20 minutes to just write whatever. Some days, I felt insightful, and words fell out of me, relieving the pressure of a week's worth of oh-my-gosh-this-is-college. Other days, I felt I had nothing to say; I would write about the squirrels (and there were plenty in Waynesburg), or I would just let odd arrays of consonants and vowels make their way to the page, as if I had thrown up alphabet soup. But I was writing.

I'm a firm believer that you must read much to write well. While my ratio of reading to writing has certainly been weighing heavy on the reading side, I began to wonder...what did I write about before this past year? I think back to essays from my first two years of college--nature, childhood, travel. I think about this past year, even through today--Derek, Derek, Derek.

I'm torn. Part of me thinks that by writing about Derek, I can make things better. I can make it as if he were never even gone. Another part of me just wishes that I could stop writing about Derek so that I can remember what it's like to freewrite on a page with room for other facets of my life. But that part also thinks that in doing so would be to: a) deny that Derek is no longer here b) put him too much in the past tense and/or c) put too much distance between him and me. I will never stop wishing that he were still here.

Last fall, I took a course entitled Intermediate Poetry. While it was one of the most fulfilling courses in my poetic studies, I do not feel that I got as much out of it as I should have--by that, I mean that I did not take from that class what I would have expected to, rather, it shaped a period of poems battling loss and God--topics that feel way too big for my britches, but I can't put off facing them. And yet, I am still caught in that period; I try to move past it, but then I feel like I am letting go--letting go of the atmosphere that guided my life those first few months, letting go of the community that pulled me through each day, letting go of the depression that tried to keep me bound to August 27th, letting go of Derek.

While I can wish that I want that the past year had never happened, I can't change the fact that it has. I can't erase the experiences. I can't forget all that has shaped me--and it has. I am a different person and a different writer today than I was one year, twenty-five days, thirteen hours, and thirteen minutes ago. Maybe I don't need to tell you that, but sometimes I need to remind myself--I have been shaped by my experiences.

The hard part is just accepting that it's okay.

Seattle Haze

I step outside, and the sky feels lower than the open expanse of blue that usually greets me. The clouds seem to be just above my head as they stretch into a field of fog and mist. The morning chills my skin--perfect for a jog.

Three-and-a-half miles in, I meet the bend around Dexter that reveals the iconic Space Needle to my right. It is not there today. The hazy sky has gulped the orange saucer into a light gray silhouette. Seeing that odd structure on my runs reminds me that this new city is home now. Its absence today gives me the reverberating feeling that I have no clue where I am or what I am doing.

On day one in Seattle, my mom and aunt and I drove aimlessly around Queen Anne in search of any "For Rent" signs to avoid moving into what has now become my ex-apartment. While turning down whichever street felt good, we stumbled upon Kerry Park--home of the infamous Seattle skyline where the Space Needle stands at the front. I had no clue where I was, but the view was nice, so I didn't mind that I was slightly lost.

I moved to my new apartment this past weekend. I am now at the top of the hill and about a mile closer to downtown. While navigating these oddly arrayed residential streets to get to the grocery store, I once again stumbled upon Kerry Park. That similar haze of "Oh yeah, I live in Seattle; how did I get here?"and the certainty of "This is my home" blended within, and I remembered how clueless I was here on day one. I guess that's not really saying much because I'm still pretty clueless now but in different ways.

 On my walk home from dinner with some people from MA-SSM (Lovely conversation with the waitress: "So you all go to SPU for grad school?" Yeah...), I decided to take a detour and revisit Kerry Park. When I arrived, the sun was low, and a strong orange glow warmed each building. It suddenly dawned on me that I live only a few blocks from such a fantastic scene, one that is reminiscent of Mt. Washington in Pittsburgh, a favorite spot to watch the city glow.

Then I remembered my roots--I'm a country girl. I love my fields and forest and running barefoot in the cool summer grass. I like doing cartwheels for no reasons and laughing at the sight of a summer's dusk. This love for the city scene is nice, but it can't fill me. On a clear day, the view might. Mount Rainier sneaks behind the city, often peering shyly from behind cloud curtains. It shocks me every time. Riding the bus down Queen Anne, driving 99 South, overlooking the city from Kerry Park--Mount Rainier holds this presence over Seattle, reminding us all that these blocks of towers are nothing compared to the snow-capped wonder that was here before us.

I continued to walk along Highland Street, where I met my other half--mountains. Back East, we don't have the big pointy ones, really. We have really big rocks and tree-coated hills, but now, the Olympics encompass my backdrop. They awed me the other day as I walked to the end of my road, and BAM! mountains. I feel like I am in another world. Power lines and parked cars aside, the mountains maintain the stronger presence.

So a few blocks down from Kerry Park, the city camouflaged behind houses and trees, and there was just me and the mountains. I then decided that Queen Anne is the place to be--I get the best of both worlds: city & mountain, civilization & solitude. Home.

I'm told that the haze stays over the winter months, insulating the city against winter's cold, but blocking out the comforting sun. At the corner of Mercer & Dexter, I meet my turnaround point, tag the construction sign that marks the beginning of my jog back, and I stare a few blocks away at where I could have sworn I last saw the Space Needle. 

I jog back up Dexter and down to Nickerson, up Florentia, up Third Avenue West, and I meander through the back streets to get to my still-feels-new apartment. The concept of distance evades me on city streets--that I can walk to see this fantastic view, but the Space Needle looks so small, yet I can run nearly to its base in just a few miles--a big adjustment from the hills of Southwestern Pennsylvania, where I ran along long stretches of trees, and five miles felt far away.

Maybe it's just the West. I'm not really sure, but I like it.

Backwards in Time

I've been thinking a lot lately about happiness--what is it? where does it come from? how do we know when it is real? I don't really have an answer. All that I know is that it's a momentary feeling, for me, it's quite easily affected by the weather. (Thank God for Seattle's summer sun...)

I wonder a lot about the "If someone had told me that in ___ years I would be _____ doing ____" conundrum. Lately, when I wake up in the morning, I wonder how I am even in Seattle because last November, as I was planning a drive West, I thought, I wonder if I could hit Seattle somehow. Less than a year later, I find myself living here. What?

In high school, I never imagined that there could possibly be a life beyond school, mostly just beyond high school, but for all-intensive purposes, let's generalize to school. I thought that the people around me who were older had always been that way. The history that we read about in books? Fiction. The same stories that my dad would tell over and over again at the dinner table... "When I was your age..."? Fables. At fifteen, I couldn't grasp the idea that the world existed in years before my memory, before my existence. I couldn't grasp the fact that the forty-year-old man that I passed at the gas station lived the past forty years. Forty years. Years that I will never know because I'm on track for my own set of numbered years.

Thinking about it all makes me wish that I could go backwards in time. I'm not sure that I would do anything different; I would just want to tell myself one thing: it keeps going.

As much as I claim to detest Facebook, it is good for some things. I have photo albums on there from 2009 to present, and while that's only three years, so much has happened. It's pretty amazing to look back and reflect on it all. I'm still in shock that these many adventures have occurred over such a short period of time. However, as I looked back, one photo really stuck out to me that if I were to go back in time, I would go to that moment. It was from my high school graduation party, and it's just a photo of Derek and me. But we were happy. We were healthy. We were so content with going wherever the future would lead us because there were so many possibilities.

There still are, but they're certainly not the same as then. I feel like I've been plopped right into the center of the Pacific. I'm swimming East because I know that's where I need to go. I can't tell what big waves may be brewing ahead; I can't tell how far until shore. I can't go back because it won't get me any closer, but I can look and try to gauge how far I've come. And just as each day that I do not write passes unrecorded, the waves behind me dissipate and blend with the rest of the water. If Derek were here, he would go into his Ellen Degeneres voice and say, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming. What do we do? We swim! SWIM!" I just wish that he were still swimming with me.

With each second-hand tick, in that brief pause where the hand slips back before going forward again-- that's where I live.

June 11, 2009

Whidbey Island

Solo Venture

This weekend, I decided to take a spur-of-the-moment trip to California. I woke up Saturday morning and sent a text message to my friend Jake who lives in Grass Valley. Within the hour, I was on my way.

The drive to Grass Valley from Seattle estimates thirteen hours on a good day. Being labor day weekend, I hit some traffic just outside of Portland. I spent the next several hours making up for the traffic time, briskly managing the trucks and cars with cargo carriers and towed boats that spotted the highway.

After driving to Seattle from Pittsburgh, a thirteen-hour drive didn't sound so bad. Even on the road, the time seemed to go quickly. Hour. Hour. Up mountain. Down mountain. Hour. Up mountain. Hour. Down mountain. Hour Hour. The rhythm of the road echoed the elevation of the hills and wheels on pavement.

I had a lot of time for reflection--a lot of time to think about where my life is going, a lot of time to not think at all. I left all of my school and job worries at home and actually meant it. I said "weeeeeee!" around sharp bends. I said "mooooo!" to pastures of cows. I cheered at every passing hour. Sometimes the most freeing experience is solitude in a moving car.

When I got to California, I got the full Northern California experience. On Sunday, we went swimming in the Yuba River. Well, I did a lot of swimming while Jake and his brother panned for gold. I watched them swishing their pans in search of the tiny specks that meant a good day's work. When they decided to stop, we all put goggles on and swam to the deeper ends of the clear mountain water, following fish around the curved rocks. Floating downstream, Jake and I decided to tackle a small batch of rapids.

Jake went first. He slowly maneuvered around each rock. Seems simple enough, I figured. I followed, feeling the first pulls of the current as I slid along on my belly like a salamander. Then the slope began, and the rush came all at once, and the pull was too strong. My body tumbled as if I had no bones, bouncing from each rock. I rolled and twisted, trying to keep my head above water. I had no time to look out for upcoming rocks. I was laughing. I was choking, and I was laughing, and I was completely overwhelmed by the pull, the weight, the water--I felt as I were experiencing the entire past year all at once.

Lodged between two rocks and still coughing, I turned to Jake and said, "I think I've had enough." We carefully fought the water until we got to stones that stood high enough to walk on without slipping. I turned and looked at the water--the sound was so calming but in the middle of it, so intense. When we walked away, I was still laughing and had attained no more damage than a few bruises.

On Monday, Jake gave me a grand tour of the area before sending me on my way. I had hoped to leave by 2pm but didn't get on the road until 3:30pm. From his parents' house in the high hills, the drive was over 14 hours back to Seattle. I drove straight through the night and arrived in Seattle at 5:20am, just in time to shower, pack, and leave for six days at Whidbey Island.