Lullaby Set List

Sometimes Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," comes on the radio,
or cycles through in my playlist,
and when it does,
I always smile.
I see myself sitting in the dark,
with one twin snuggled onto my lap in the rocking chair,
and the other waiting his turn in the nearby crib.
I would sing a few of the usual nursery rhymes, as well,
but the three songs that were always a part of my bedtime routine were
"Wish You Were Here,"
"Puff the Magic Dragon,"
and Suzanne Vega's "The Queen and the Soldier."
I remember looking up the lyrics for "Puff the Magic Dragon,"
so that I would know all the verses;
same for Suzanne Vega.
I remember how good it felt to sink into that chair
at the end of a long day chasing those two around.
I remember how soft their little cheeks were,
and how solid their warm little bodies were,
as we slipped into dreamland.
Now they drive themselves to work and school
and tower over me.
They are hilarious and generous and kind
and my heart is full,
but I stare longingly at their baby pictures and
wish they were here...

Tragedies

I used to think they only happened to other people,
and then I found out they happen to anyone,
anytime.
I think I kind of thought I would live forever,
or at least,
I didn't really believe that death could be so
wrenching
sudden
world-skewing.
I'm not sure how I failed to comprehend,
since I'd lost a cousin, a brother, a friend's toddler brother, a cousin's husband...
all so close to my sphere,
so young,
so unexpected.
But, I guess...just not quite close enough to my daily life,
for me to feel the impact,
for me to see the absence in every room,
in the driveway,
in my husband's eyes.
When the one lost was violently snatched from within your grasp,
from under your roof,
moments after you heard his footsteps enter and exit...
When you are the one to answer the door to the 4 men in uniforms,
and then you stand alone in that big,
emptier-than-ever house,
and try to figure out who to call first,
how to call,
how to say the words,
where to start...
He was so young, so full of potential.
But this tragedy was much less complicated for me to process than the next.
The next is far too sad,
far too filled with
all that I could have
SHOULD HAVE
done differently.
It is filled with a bond that never seemed like it was all it should be,
from the very start of my life,
and certainly wasn't, at the end of his.
I will break apart inside if I have to think about that night again.
I tried to process it all in the aftermath,
but sometimes
everyone keeps telling you there was nothing you could have done,
and they say it over and over until you want to scream at them with ragged rage,
and reject their ridiculous absolution -
they don't know that you held anger in your heart,
they don't know that you didn't know he needed help,
but that you bloody well should have.
They don't know that their forgiveness isn't what you need,
or how it feels to know you should have taken a deep breath
and forgiven him,
and been able to see how broken he was...
They are wrong.
It was definitely my fault.
This is the one I will someday
maybe
figure out how to live with.

Word Count

Today is the first day of NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month.
The goal of this endeavor is to write 50,000 words during the month of November.
If I average 1,667 words per day, I will meet this goal.

Today's Word Count: 1551

11/7 Updated Word Count: 4334

I'm still behind my goal, but at least I'm writing! Woot!

11/9 Updated Word Count: 6053
11/12 Updated Word Count: 8750
11/14 Updated Word Count: 10,852

Exposure

Oh, I could tell you all the awful things,
I could tell you in a terse inventory,
titles on a playlist of pain.
But that would be searing and wounding,
rending.
I would rather use all the brushes and paints in my toolkit
to fill in the vast tableaux that make these horrors
(understandable?)
(forgivable?)
bearable.
I'm not sure I deserve the grace provided by a backstory,
but I know I can't bear to confess
without explaining how
my soul can bear the weight of all that has passed.

Grace(less)land

Tonight I got home, hungry but happy,
to find two of my three men asleep
and the other openly apathetic about dinner.
At first I was mildly annoyed, but then...
I smiled, and sank into my favorite chair,
pulling my laptop onto the top of my lap
(because...what is the bottom of one's lap??)
so that I could spend some time here.

Saturday we wound our way across a part of this state I haven't seen much of;
we went to an orchard in...Morgantown?
and then on to Bethlehem.
Not to give birth in a barn, fortunately,
but to satisfy a primal urge for pastrami.
Hot pastrami on rye, in fact--
(and this immediately brings to mind
that time, when I was 4 years old,
riding in the "way back" of my Mom's yellow Datsun station wagon,
as we rounded the north end of Rockland's Main St.
and headed back south on opposite one-way street toward home in Owl's Head;
I was looking out the back window, free-range in the glorious wild west before seat-belt-laws,
and soon I was hiding under a blanket with a song,
"Hot pastrami on rye-eye," was the refrain,
repeated over and over until I soothed myself to sleep).
So, we headed west and/or north from the apple orchards
(and their decadent donuts)
through Reading
(I love this name, because it looks like my favorite hobby)
and onward to the
gross
smoke-filled
casino
which houses the only remaining Carnegie Deli on the East Coast.
The casino was...gross, did I mention that?
Intentionally polluted air choking us as we wended our way
through the maze that couldn't outsmart us
(after all, this isn't Vegas)
and slid into a booth in a happy little slice of New York.
The sandwiches were not all that we had dreamed of,
but the pickles were,
and the sweet old lady who saw my husband taking a picture of his sandwich,
stopped by and showed him the picture she had taken of a far superior pastrami
at the 4th St. Deli in Philadlphia,
which filled us with longing....
and so...
the quest continues.

We drove home through the dark evening on the winding roads
that connect Bethlehem to wherever it is we live,
(a route I know well,
from that winter I spent driving away my worries for O.
as I drove the hour-long tortuous route once a week until he said, "Enough!"
even though it wasn't).
The Mr. and I glided over those tiny, twisting roads,
bathed in the notes of Graceland,
(with diamonds on the soles of Chevy Chase's feet, calling me Al)
and I was lost in my own thoughts and daydreams,
and everything felt golden and right.

(Don't) Take Me to Church

When I first heard this song,
I was struck by the image of raw passion,

visions of desperate, grasping desire

spinning across the stage of my mind - 

and then I saw the video;

different from what my neurons fired at each other 

within my skull,

but not so far removed, really.

This song's title, at least,

goes well with the little snippet I pulled from my memo pad on my phone.

8/14/2016
My church is this beautiful planet - 

the rocky coastline of Maine, 

where I grew up,

its rugged terrain, its harsh winters;

berries growing in cool forests,

sea life teaming in dark grey-green water--

Maine, with its only straight lines to be found 

in the pine trees that crowd its shores; 

the red sands and arches of Utah's deserts, 

capped by rich blue skies; 

soft snow cascading down ski-able peaks, 

rivers to kayak in,

and all the animals one might be lucky enough to see. 

I've lived in 4 states so far, 

and even found serenity in the comparatively bland beauty of Iowa--

rolling green hills, crowned with rich red barns;

I'm in Pennsylania now,

and William was not exaggerating:

this is a sylvan wonderland,

rich, green forests bend low over winding roads,

like Mother Nature herself hugging the world.
This is heaven,
this is church.
And I don't believe in hell. 

For many years after leaving the church of my youth, 

of my family, 

I uneasily, defiantly,
joked about the certainty of my place in hell... 

Now, I smile, filled with peace and joy, 

because the only hell is the one we make for ourselves--

by choosing to believe that we deserve pain or punishment for simply being human.
Church is to build and test self-discipline. That is all.
Love yourself, forgive yourself. 

Be kind, be honest. The end. 

Once Upon a Time...

That's how all the good stories begin, isn't it?
All the tales of fairies and such.
Sometimes the dark stories start out with hope, too.
Sometimes the fairies grow fangs and claws and loom larger than the sun...
And sometimes the witches are just misunderstood loners.

But I know one thing -
every possible iteration of each of those scenarios will be written by someone,
somewhere in the world,
during the month of November.
November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.
I'll never forget my first time
(participating in this unique challenge, but also,
obviously that other event that just popped into your mind, unbidden...).
I was a sweet little housewife,
with 2-year-old twins and a work-aholic, golf-loving husband
(the state of my marriage could have still been described as "I wasn't yet willing to admit what a mistake I'd made," but that's another story for another day).
I had recently reunited with a friend from high school, via email,
and this friend played in a (fantastic heavy metal) band,
and performed stand-up comedy,
and inadvertently introduced me to Raymi the Minx -
maybe she was a fan of his music, or his comedy...?
I can't quite place the connection,
but I was riveted.
She was wild and beautiful and her writing was compelling.
I clicked on the other blogs she linked to,
and was soon following a small web of interseting folks...
one of whom was participating in NaNoWriMo,
and so,
when I first learned of this awe-inspiring challenge on November 5, 2002,
I signed on and began writing like mad.
My parents came to visit for a few days around Thanksgiving,
so all in all, I had probably 20 days of writing.
I passed the 50,000-word goal, though.
I wrote and wrote and wrote...it was an obsession,
filling every waking moment,
and many should-be-sleeping moments.
When the frenzy of it had passed,
I found myself needing to continue,
so I started that blog...
with the sassy title and url which has continued to draw people in,
for what they think it must hold.
Which it didn't at first,
but I don't think it took long before
my daydreams were making their way onto the page.
I sort of can't believe how entirely I dumped my soul onto that blog...
My wildest dreams and my many neuroses,
on full display.
I felt like I was living life on the edge of a cliff,
pirouetting in the wind, fully in control,
but
so visible...so precarious.
It was my world, but also
my diary in many ways.
I remember how proud my (then) husband was
of how sexy/edgy/cool that blog was...
which I would belatedly find out had led him to share it
with many of his friends/brothers and work associates.
I remember how it felt to walk up to the door of that huge house in the foothills,
expecting to meet the Venture Capitalist he knew through work somehow,
the man with an old man's name,
the man I'd heard of a dozen times,
and every time I heard his name,
I pictured a short, paunchy, balding, upper-middle-aged grey fellow.
I walked up to that door,
on a sunny autumn day as we took a break from house-hunting
for house #2.
I walked up to the door,
with that stodgy picture in my mind of who I was about to meet,
and the heavy oak door opened wide,
but not as wide as the smile on that
heart-stoppingly handsome man's face
or as wide as my eyes
when the first words out of his mouth were,
"I love your blog!"
I kind of wanted to die or kill or
melt into the masonry beneath my feet...
Exposed.
All of my inner thoughts and desires
already in this man's mind,
without my permission,
without my knowledge...
I was almost dizzy as I smiled back and
definitely
blushed 18 shades,
and took the hand he offered
and maybe shook it, but probably just mumbled
pre-programmed pleasantries.
My blog existed in my mind,
my mind existed on my blog...
it felt like such a betrayal for my husband to have shared that with this man,
and not warned me.
But then,
Bob was such a gregarious, gracious host
(much closer to my 30 years than I'd been picturing, too)...
And his wife's name was also Lisa,
and I loved her immediately,
and so...
I didn't die or kill or melt,
(and we had lovely dinners and languid drinks and marvelous conversations
with them over the next year or two, until our worlds shifted apart again...
I wonder where they are now?)
but, I can still remember the way I felt,
as that rug was pulled out from under me,
and how angry I was at my husband
for not understanding.

Focus

Maybe

I like the way it feels to be
driven

   propelled

      dragged
forward

by my own tunnel vision.

Maybe

I need 

to imagine

(you).

There is a fire lit beneath me

once again,

and you are the fuel

giving life to that fire

and to me.

You filter through every daydream,

and I chase the thrill of every smile.

You are my drug,

my high.

Old friends, getting older

Happy birthday to two marvelous souls, today.
Technically one birthday is on the 11th, but today is the 11th,
if you live in Auckland.
Which he does.
She is so remarkable she's practically fictional,
and he lives in the future,
like some kind of guitar-playing ninja.
She has a laugh as big as the Montana sky she lives beneath,
and he has a heart as big as the ocean that separates us.
She was my twin-of-choice for the entirety of my childhood,
and has remained the template for who I want to be when I grow up.
He was my lifeline during the chaotic and ugly end of my marriage,
and coincidentally was the template for who I wanted to marry when I grew up,
and I did.
Thanks for helping shape my life,
you two crazy kids.

Julie

D-man

"With a handshake, your loving Vincent"

Loving Vincent

We had such a lovely time in Philadelphia yesterday. We really need to spend more time there, but when New York is only an hour futher, it is hard to resist the pull of its vibrancy, and grit...god damn, I love that city. But I digress...Philly is pretty cool, too. We went to a groovy little theater and watched this gorgeous, melancholy film about the death and life of Vincent van Gogh. I'm not here to review it, but I am so glad I saw it, and so grateful it was made.

Tom Petty and the Hearts Breaking across America

When I got in my car after work today,
Wildflowers was playing.
I smiled, turned it up,
and let it borrow a few minutes from my daily phone call to my Mom.
I let it float me down memory lane -
That song, that whole album, always reminds me of my best friend,
Jasmine, and that one summer in Utah...
can't remember which one,
but I picture us at Cecret Lake, above Alta,
first selfie ever, film camera...gorgeous hike.

I didn't know Tom Petty.
But he knows me,
or so it always seems.

This was a tough one for me.
Losing the gods of my recklessly crafted religion
is perhaps reminding me that even they aren't immortal.

I am so grateful that he followed the path he did,
and created the music that wrecks me, baby...

Thank you for being, Tom...

Snarling Heart

Every word you sent was wrong
each one hit me at an angle,
a dull but heavy pain
no way to argue
no way to tell you why
and so
I let the pain stay,
pressed into me,
growing flatter, smoother,
but not losing its flavor -
sharpening over time
turning into glistening white teeth
that will tear you to shreds
devouring your kind heart
and your gentle soul
spitting them out in a dissatisfied fury -
the bloody pulp of them landing on the sidewalk at my feet
before I turn on my heel
and sashay away

Words on Skin

I had an idea,
and I've been savoring the process of finalizing it:

to choose a poem
to be inked 

onto my skin. 

Sherman Alexie's "Hymn" sparked the idea,
but my impulse was to have every word of it cover my body--

and it would have, because it's pages long, 

and parts of it are too timely for permanence. 

I'll have to sit with it for a while;

maybe I need his words calligraphied in gilt 

and framed, 

or stitched onto a blanket I can don like a cape
because...they tear through my core
and leave me gasping.

I have been pulled toward several Rumi pieces,
little passages shared with me by a dear friend, 

their ancient wisdom is so tattooable...

but recently I've been flipping through a book
and I don't think Rumi is
who I thought he was, 

and I don't even know
how I could have missed
the heavily religious parts, 

but it leaves me feeling less trust
for these centuries-old words...
Words that used to feel like
prayers to my own
personal
jesus...
These words now?
Sound like
all the prayers
I'll never speak again.

Emily Dickinson is on my list... 

I'm appalled, ashamed, utterly surprised 

that I don't have a favorite
burning so deeply through my chest
that it has already appeared on my skin
from the inside out.
But I don't...maybe I've never liked that her poems aren't titled?
I love so many of them--
but not like Bukowski...god damn, that ugly bastard was beautiful!

And I can easily imagine a sketch of Penobscot Bay,

with these words tracing the lines of the mountains and sea
sketched onto my shoulders:

All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
    --Edna St. Vincent Millay

But then there is Mary Oliver.

I discovered her through a trio of women
whose creativity and humanity are deeply entwined with my own:
my chosen twin sister, and her mother and (real) sister.
I grew up in their home as much as my own;
the smell of fresh garlic takes me back to their kitchen,
bedecked with tiles on the counter tops and the floor,
hand-crafted by her father, the potter.
His work filled every space -
mugs and plates and floors,
shower walls and vases;
outside, his work made their yard a magical wonderland of botany -
an arbor he built led to the small pond he'd built,
a sloping hill led to the larger pond
that we kayaked on in summer and skated on in winter.
And yet, he was always out of sight,
in his studio, spinning pots.
It was the great, whooping laughter
of the feminine side of the household
that made up the soundtrack of those days,
interspersed with Sgt. Pepper on the record player,
or Monty Python on the tiny TV hidden away
in the narrow hallway between the girls' rooms,
purposely not the center of their family life,
except for the moments when Little House
or the Monkees or Gidget
sparkled out from its screen. 

The first few lines of this poem by Mary Oliver
are among the top contenders to become a physical part of me,
or maybe all of it, because damn. 

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting 

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

published by Atlantic Monthly Press

© Mary Oliver

Sleeping in the Forest

Raging Against Machines and such

🎶I won't do what they tell me! 🎶

Although I'm probably a part of the establishment (and pretty much always have been),

that line is still my anthem, my mantra.

I can't believe it has been 19 years!! This remains one of my most memorable concert experiences.

I worked at JB's restaurant in Spanish Fork at the time, and was a student at BYU. I was excited for an opportunity to go crash around in mosh pits with some great music by one of my new favorite bands. It was only in the week leading up to the show that one of my regulars at the restaurant showed me a newspaper article predicting mayhem and violence at the Rodeo grounds, and asked what I thought of the whole thing. I can't remember how he described it, but I remember there was some assumption that they were violent and obscene in a more...derogatory or misogynistic way--like they were being related to some other bands of the day that are slipping my mind at the moment. I laughed, cute little 20-year-old BYU Me, and said, "No, no, no, they're not like that AT ALL. They're political activists." I was able to reassure several concerned customers throughout that week, but still had no idea what was in store for us when we arrived at the venue on show night! There was triple the usual security, with separate lines for male and female so that we could be extensively searched (I know, in post-9/11 days, this is not so striking, but in those days, for a small-venue concert, this was waaaaay over-the-top). My best friend was deprived of her sentimental carabineer (from her first climb) because they insisted it was a weapon, and we both moved forward into the arena feeling utterly violated after the groping hands of middle-aged cops had made a thorough inventory of all our nooks and crannies. That remained the worst thing that happened that evening. The music was fierece, the crowd was jovial in our angst - we were laughing at the authorities who thought we were such a threat. What I find interesting is that their fear created the very environment they were seeking to squelch: subversion. That moment was one of many that, for me, began to open the door to the outside world, to open my eyes to the fact that a life of fear and suppression is no way to live.

Click here to read a great take on the facts of the case:

The City Weekly article.

Autumn's sweet

(We call it fall…)

Remember that time,

When the world was upside down and inside out?

It always was, in those days.

There were no good ways 

to tell if true north even existed,

Let alone in which direction one might find it.

My north star was in the southern hemisphere,

And my home was not where my heart was.

I was addicted to the buzz of new friends, new possibilities.

10 years today, since the sun set on that life;

Its flame extinguished.
I wouldn't trade this security and fulfillment for all of that dazzle
but
I wouldn't mind recapturing a firm hold on the badass I once was,
or imagined myself to be...

****

I was listening to Bob Dylan today,
and it reminded me of that time,
you know the one.
That night, in the deepest reaches of Utah's winter,
(during the strange, hollow intermission between marriages)
when Blaine showed up on my darkened porch
(how late was it?)
with a guitar and a fidgeting need to be calmed by Dylan.
I never did turn on the lights,
but he played "Tangled up in Blue" in my living room,
and I almost sobbed at the way
my life was so tangled up,
even though freedom really was as sweet as I'd dreamed...
it just all felt so strange still,
to not live in fear, to not feel trapped;
but he was there,
my not-quite-boyfriend,
being so very...Blaine...
so very mystical and impish,
almost dangerous, but just out of reach;
he stopped singing abruptly and laughed.
Did I ever tell you about the time
Bobby McGee stole my shirt?
I felt trapped in my own daydream,
silently surrounded by visions of Janis
and all the stories that song had inspired in me...
and here was this imaginary man, made real, singing and laughing,
and I fell into the bubble of his memories;
he told me about one time when he was still living in Santa Cruz,
and he was crashing at some musican's house,
and the man who'd inspired the song took a shirt from his closet;
and we stumbled up the stairs and into the bed that

the bed that...it jars me to think of now,
to try to contextualize the journey of that piece of furniture--
It was a bridge from one chapter of my life to the next,
and it is with me still (the guest bed now, but, here).
And it just seems so strange...

Blaine spent that winter sailing across the slopes on the back side of Mt. Timpanogos,
the gorgeous peaks shrugging up from the perfect little valley of Robert Redford's empire.
As winter wound down, and I was ready to move on,
he was hungry to commit.
Sorry, dude, you never really belonged in my world anyway.

Guilty Pleasure

Tonight when twin B got home from work,
he was hungry.
Dinner was put away, and didn't interest him,
and his brother was just heading to bed,
so,
with the thrill of the forbidden
I whispered,
Want a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?
Our eyes lit up as we started fishing out the components,
digging deep for the jar of Skippy we'd mostly devoured while twin A was in Maine for a week last month.
I had the grape jelly spread in slippery chunks across three slices of bread,
(one for me, two for my non-allergic kiddo)
when a door slammed open and feet pounded down the stairs.
I heard impatient rummaging in a backpack,
mutters of frustration under the breath of a boy
who just remembered he hadn't finished his homework.
I froze.
Twin A skidded into the kitchen
and flopped down at the island
to jot a few vocabulary words in a notebook.
I felt like a traitor.
How could I enjoy this delicacy under his watchful,
currently-anaphylaxis-free eye?
He noticed what he'd interupted and his annoyance showed.
I thought you were in bed, I offered
(a weak apology from a weak woman).
I wish you would just eat it, what's the big deal? he countered
(a strong statement from a strong boy).
He finished his quick assignment
as I spread gobs of pureed death on soft-as-cake white bread,
2 feet away.
Goodnight, love you, he said,
as he faded back upstairs.
His brother and I sat in silence,
savoring every bite,
and maybe...feeling a little less guilty about it than we'd expected.

Holding my breath

I just outed myself as an atheist to one of my mormon nephews...
Like, just-got-back-from-a-mission,
attending-BYU kind of nephew.
He also happens to be one of the sweetest, happiest, dearest boys I've ever known.
But still...I kind of can't believe I did it!!
How many years have I spent avoiding the topic of religion with my extended family,
even my Mom??
(I accidentally told her I was an atheist once,
and for the first time in almost 20 years,
she started trying to press religion back into me,
like it was something that could ever fit again...)

I think the email will be perceived well,
but I am hoping my nephew doesn't want to try to reconvert me.
That ship has sailed, buddy.
He asked what my religious beliefs are,
in a very sweet and kind way,
allowing me the opportunity to opt out,
but I poured it all out.
I think I also did a kind and gentle job of illustrating my viewpoint, but we'll see...

I think I need to start blogging again, because I have way too much to say.
But I guess it's a dead medium.
I dunno. Maybe I can bring it back - has it been long enough to be considered "retro"??

Life

"Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, 'Wow! What a ride!'"

-- Hunter S. Thompson

Stones that roll

I seriously wonder how many times
I would have to listen to Gimme Shelter
before the intro stops giving me chills.
I need it louder,
I need it to fill not just my ears,
but every corner of my cells -
it swirls in the air around me, but
it fills me up, too...
Songs like this are a drug for me,
songs that make me feel this...thing...this...
need 
to be turned inside out
and infused with their essence,
not the notes on a page,
not the distinct syllables of the poetry within them,
but to become one with the soul of the song.
I heard Jane Says on the way to work,
windows down
volume up
and I felt like I could fly.
Perry Farrell, you demon of goodness!
I half-smile, as a memory flits through me of another Perry I loved.
The smile quickly fades as I remember more;
what a wild time in my life that was...
it sometimes feels like an era that lasted so long it should require carbon dating.
I lived a lot of adventures in those short few years
between a perfectly sheltered mormon upbringing
and my first marriage.
Hiking to the hot springs with the ornithologist's son,
or with my guru,
or the time with the rattlesnake in the path,
but every
single
time
there were naked middle aged men lounging about
in the steaming water
in the deep night of Diamond Fork Canyon.

They were mostly benign,
except for that one time,
that one guy was so insistent on giving us foot massages,
even though we didn't want our feet
anywhere near his
lap.
Or the long-haired hippie boys laughing with each other and
swapping accusations of playing the skin flute,
(the first time I'd heard the term,
which conjured images of a tribal musical instrument)
and stopping them in their tracks
by softly stating my proficiency at that pursuit.
Or the time we slipped and hopped and balanced our way across the rushing water
to brave the frigid waterfall and see what was behind it.
Cold-wet-dark-rocky
ness
was behind it,
and I regretted leaving the warm embrace of the water,
and the fading sobriety of the ornithologist's son.
He slipped away,
back into the teeming valley of prim and proper students and professors
from which we'd escaped to seek out
life
and growling intensity
and wild abandonment of
everything we'd ever known.

The girl I was then:
 (showing off the wicked sunburn I got the first day in Hawaii, 1996)

(Looks like I'm repeating myself, haha!)

Tolstoy’s Nephew

He sat across from me at the small table, his arm in a wide arc around his coffee cup as he spoke the words, “Marat shot a man last summer.”

We all looked at him for a moment, with mild disbelief. He pressed sparse details of the story into our palms, like a crisp bill to a valet. The body in the lake, a stone tied to the head.  The smile on his face should have been a tip off that it was all just some exaggeration of life behind the Iron Curtain, but instead it made what he said more real, more solid—as though he were sharing a great secret with us.    

Morning bled into afternoon, and someone suggested a drive through the desert.  Casinos have a way of flashing their neon invitations straight out across the Salt Flats, beckoning to the good people of Utah from all those miles of shared border, so we all tumbled into a car and headed into the sun.  Somewhere along the way there was a gas station with crunchy-gooey nachos and cold beer to soften the edges of the long ride on such a straight road.
I think that was the day he traced the length of my arm with his fingertips in long, slow strokes while we murmured under the spark and pop of conversation coming from the front seat.  He told me about home, as we sprawled across the seat, wedging a knee against a door, a foot against a console.  The tickle of his accent against my eardrums still resonates, but I can’t remember his words.  Most of them are lost in the dry air of the lumbering salt flats.  A few of them clung to the smooth surface of me long enough to work their way inside, where they slid neatly into the pile of thoughts he has planted in me. Thinking was one thing we did well together. Fucking was another, which is what started this whole crazy dream. No, I guess it’s not accurate to call it a dream…even if it feels like it was one.
He wasn’t actually Tolstoy’s nephew; he wasn’t even Russian anymore. 

--Salt Lake City, November, 2006