Drive By Lifein'

In a travel station in Missouri, they sell barbecue pork and old men sit in the far back corner smoking cigarettes and talking about the weather. Their chat halts momentarily when the two yanks come in to use the bathroom and buy a few sticks of sugarfree chewing gum. The Missouri bathroom smells like the perfume I used to use when I was 13 and trying too hard to be normal. If I knew then that I, eleven years later, would smell that same scent in a dirty Missouri travel station, would I have bothered sneaking it from my Mom's dresser in the first place? If I knew when I was thirteen, by the age of 24, that I would have lived in Watford City, North Dakota; Packwood, Washington; Marble Falls, Texas; and on a seismic research vessel in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, would I have believed it? All of those years of dreaming and flipping through National Geographic magazines wondering if I would ever see the outskirts of Greenville, MI, I finally reached beyond the pages. My brother, Christian, is reading a book called Factory Girls about Chinese factory girls. He says the Chinese believe that a family's history begins when the first person leaves. Until then, you are living someone else's life. That seems pretty accurate to me.

In the past few months, I have neglected my blog, primarily because I was living at a summer camp in Texas. TOS was not devoid of drama in the least bit. If we called ourselves a family, we were quite the incestuous family. Of course I did not partake in incestuous behavior as my options were quite limited and even in my drunkest states, I was not going there. I had a lot of fun, blobbing, water sliding, rock climbing, surfing, and exploring a state I once vowed never to visit. I'm glad I broke my vow, because life, at least my life, is not about picking and choosing where to go. It's about adventure being thrust upon me and grasping it and going wherever the wind takes me. I refuse to let chances pass me by out of fear. I've made a lot of odd choices, like living with Biggy C in a trailer park or attempting to befriend a crazy homeless man in Ann Arbor, but out of the odd spewed rich stories. I've also had a lot of failures, like my Austin basketball group or that Ironman I met with or that Mississippi embarrassment, but in the end, who the fuck really cares. My failures all have one great likeness - they all began with a taken risk. If I don't continue to take risks and stuff money down homosexual men's pants, who will I become? Will I become part of my family? - someone living an ancient man's story? Thus, in three days I will pack my life into a thirty pound bag, board an airplane flying from Grand Rapids, MI to Houston, TX, then board a helicopter that will fly me onto a seismic research vessel in the Gulf of Mexico. Life is a daring adventure, or nothing at all.

Reptiles Hatch in Human Form

So says a fifth grader when I pose the question: "What did you learn from reptiles class." I start to hand her a black reptile bead without really processing her answer, but the information swarms my hippocampus just before the bead drops. Reptiles do not hatch in human form, but in adult reptilian form or so says my lesson plan. However, I did not write the lesson. Who did? I suppose it was Deb, the mastermind behind the incredibly organized, intricately thought-out, Outdoor School. Who am I to pull back the black reptile bead from the girl with such a philosophical answer? Maybe we do become reptiles with age. Our skin begins to wrinkle and flake, our bones deteriorate, sense of taste becomes bland, and our body temperature become more and more difficult to regulate without exterior reinforcement. Perhaps we are morphing and not dying as Gertrude and I so often glorify. Immediately after someone dies, they turn shades of green and yellow like fall colors, becoming chameleons with the Earth.

I've been thinking about it, again. Maybe we all are. Aunt Barb called me for some reason a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps she sensed my thoughts of abandonment return. I miss my Grandma like hell.

Back and Forth tweedle de dum

I go back and forth in this life - from Greenville to Ann Arbor to Seattle to Portland to Austin, these are the scuff marks on my sneakers. I don't know where I'll end up. I can see myself shuffling the Earth for awhile longer and finally settling down right where I started. I am not saying Barry St, but perhaps the farm in Amsden. After all, that is my favorite place on Earth. Sure I've seen a lot of shit happen there - piss buckets and bricks to the side of the head, but in some sadistic, morbid, comforting way, I feel safe. It feels like home and warm pancakes fried in lard and tiny pizzas and potato soup with caraway seeds and a pot of tea on the stove. And so I will open my eyes to the rest of the world, but focus on the place I've always known as home.

A Spoonful of Cactus Jam

I bought some Prickly pear cactus jam from a nice country lady at the Oatmeal Festival in Oatmeal, TX. How did I end up in Oatmeal, TX? In my visions of life, I never once imagined a quick stop in Oatmeal, TX for a festival whose name is much more intriguing than the festivities. The best part of the Oatmeal Festival in Oatmeal, TX was the festival's mascot - a personified canister of 3 Minute Brand oats that looks exactly like the Twinkie Mascot. I bought a canister of 3 Minute Brand oats at the Marble Falls H.E.B store, but upon bringing it home I discovered that not only did it take just 2 minutes to cook, but 3 Minute Brand oatmeal is not even made in Oatmeal, TX. An entire festival celebrates this brand (although the festival had very little focus on oatmeal aside for merchandise purposes) and it is made in St. Louis, MO. I feel like I've been cheated. I did, however, make the best of my disappointing journey and bought a baggie of cookies from some old people and that jar of prickly pear jam previously mentioned.

It has been awhile since I have blogged. I have moved away from Washington and down to Marble Falls, TX. My life has been an endless stream of packing and unpacking for several years now and I am starting to enjoy it. When I left Washington, I left most of my possessions behind in search of a fresh start. Biggy C had my minivan and pretty much everything else that I owned. Christian gave me his Ford Focus station wagon and I packed it with one large camping back pack full of stuff, a bike, a sleeping bag, bedding, and my fishing pole. What more do you need in life? It's all good so far. I am enjoying my job and my co-workers, but the children arrive tomorrow. Training is over and the real test begins.

Dancing to Don't Worry Be Happy with Biggy C

Do you ever wonder if the idea of blogging was stolen from Doogie Howser? Do you ever wonder how much more fantastic that show could have been if it were about me? I am not a genius, child doctor formally inflicted with leukemia, but I do have Biggy C and we dance.

The other day I was doing my laundry at Biggy C's house. The night was peaking in and I was late for my plans to swallow pills and beer with Kate, but I didn't care. Biggy C's sister-in-law was over crying about her mother and telling me about her plans to steal her son's beer, get drunk, and growl at the her own reflection in the mirror. "Tequila," she said. "It's the tequila that will make me growl, but I'm all alone tonight, so I won't hurt anyone but myself." I smiled and looked down at my vibrating phone. Another text message comes through and my own life has become a fuzzy mess of vibrations that mean little and crying confusions that mean lots...but only to me. I will brave an ulcer, lung cancer, and overage charges, but it will never matter and so I hang with Biggy C. She might be insane, live in a tweeker riddled trailer park, and have fleas, but she is my friend. And so the night traveled on and my laundry tossed heavy in the dryer until it stopped...but not us. Biggy C's niece had the look of early depression and Biggy C started singing Bob Marley's "Don't Worry Be Happy." She handed me the baby and proceeded to download the song illegally from Lime wire. Pressed Play...and before I knew it, I was dancing around the filthy trailer, holding a baby tight to my face, and singing "Don't Worry Be Happy" duet style with Biggy C. When Bob Marley says, "If you're feeling sad, just call me up. I'll make you happy." Biggy C looks at me and says "that's what we'll do for each other, Julia, cuz this is our song."

When did I get here and why did I go there and who am I becoming? I cannot tell if I like it or hate it or am going to die this way. All I know is that it is almost over and I wonder how much of this life is going to carry over into my next. Will I lose touch and chalk it all up to "I'm a fucking mess?" or will I confess? I guess I won't worry too much.

I Blog to Blah Blah

My coffee mug has been lost in my room for a good week, now. I am certain that I last saw it in here, but it is nowhere to be found. That is how messy my room is. I was doing well, sleeping 8 hours a day, running at least 4 miles a day, and eating no toxins, but something happened. I fell off of the healthy nut wagon and deep into a world of gas station pancakes on sticks, beef jerky, skittles, ice cream, diet coke, french fries, and pizza, pizza, pizza. I have lost it. I stay up late and sleep in. I text message like mad and surf the internet for nothing in particular. Something has happened and I do not know how to stop it. Perhaps a move to Texas will return me to center.

Saying Goodbye Why is it Hard?

I have written about T Casey in numerous blogs, but he seems the great example of people who come into my life and cause me to wonder why. T Casey was a homeless man that I met at a soup kitchen my freshman year of college on one of the few occasions that I managed to get out of bed and face the world. The man was crazy, but interesting. He showed me the comic books he had written and told me he was famous. He did have a webpage on the internet, so I suppose that's more famous than me. At the time, I was really lonely and really contemplative. I wondered why I met T Casey and whether or not our lives would cross paths again. I saw him around Ann Arbor a few times after that, but no strange encounters. I guess T Casey's influence on my life was merely to be used as an example in future blogs...and I have never forgotten him.

And so I guess this is what this year has been for me, a lesson in letting go. My Grandma died in March and I will never forget that pain. There can be nothing harder than watching your very best friend die and knowing that you can neither go with her or do anything to save her. Life is just tough that way. So maybe that's why I am feeling that way, again - the way I felt when my Grandma was dying - that feeling of never seeing someone again. Maybe that's ok. It's just the way the world works - people come and go and you are a part of it. Sometimes it is just time to pack your bags and move to Texas, go back home for a bit, or just drive until your car breaks down. Krystal is leaving in a few days to visit her mom and I'm not sure I will ever see her again and frankly it breaks my heart. I seem to grow attached to very few people, but those that I do, I have trouble letting go of. So here I am, 23 years old, but I'll be 24 in a few weeks. I am happy to say goodbye to 23. It was the hardest and most fucked-up year of my life. Goodbye Gertrude. Goodbye Stimpy. Goodbye Krystal. Goodbye Grandma. Hello to whoever the next stupid fuck is whom I grow attached to. You're in for a real treat. Goodbye Blog Readers and Goodnight for now.

In Front of the Thrift and Gift Last Night

What is beauty? Is it a diamond ring? Is it a rainstorm in summertime, sunshine, topped off with a double rainbow over freshly cut grass? My Grandma said that everything was beautiful, even me. I am more inclined to focus on the semantics of this conundrum. In other words, I do not think that beauty is the correct word choice for the world. Odd, Unpredictable, Chaotic. Nope. That's still not right. A Fucking Freakshow? Bingo! The world is a fucking freakshow and we are but merely actors. The Bearded Lady. The midgets. The Wolfman. Michael Jackson who just got fired.

When I was but a little blond boy, I liked to skate on ice. The city would flood Pearl Street park's basketball court and all of the poor kids, who had seen the north side of town, would play pick-up games of ice hockey. One night, after playing a rough game with my brothers and their friends, I stayed a little longer to skate in the moonlight. My mother and father were watching as fat snowflakes fell gracefully to the ice below. I danced - skate danced and I am sure it was quite a sight to see. My mother said it was beautiful...a fucking freakshow, I am certain, but that image stuck with her. From time to time she still brings it up as one of the more magical images in her muddied recollection of life. I never quite understood the magic of that moment, until last night in front of the Thrift and Gift. While driving away from Open Gym, I looked to my right and saw, standing in front of that wonderful second-hand store, Krystal, just twirling in her new dress that she pulled out of the free box. It may have been a Freakshow, but Lord, it was a beautiful Freakshow.

Who We Are or Are We Just Pretending

I've been acting strangely lately, even for me. Normally, I am quite the odd ball mother fucker, the girl who hides in the corner and doesn't say shit even if she's the only one who notices that the barn is burning down. I must remain quiet, but I've been talking lately. I've been saying things that I've never wanted to say. I've been doing things that I never wanted to do. Maybe I'm just bored with my life, so I've decided to stir things up, create controversy, live, learn, fight for something in the face of others' disapproval and possible pain. I shan't be so conceded, though.

When you were six years old, who did you think you would be in the advent of your twenties, thirties, fifties? I am just a crap shoot and a holler from my 24th birthday and this is not how I saw my life unfolding many moons ago. I can't actually remember what I thought would become of my life, but I am quite certain that it had nothing to do with what is now my reality. I recall wearing a puffy, yellow, metallic dress in my perceived future, but I have no idea where that came from. I think that's what my Rebbecca Donaldson doll wore. When I was about 13, I figured I would probably end up marrying Peter Reno and spend my days getting the shit kicked out of me by that crazy asshole. After high school, I assumed I was smart enough that after completing college, I would obtain a well-paying job. I assumed it wouldn't be too difficult. I assumed a lot of shit and you know what they say about assumptions. So what am I doing? I live in Packwood, WA. I am happy with my job, but it is going to end shortly and then where will I be. "Candy," the wiccan, said that I can move into her trailer with her husband, baby, two cats, and a dog. Their current extra housemate is moving out into a trailer on their front lawn, so they have a free room. I don't think that is such a good idea, but I still said "thank you" and "I just might do that." I've been using Candy a bit and she is my friend and that is wrong. You see - I've been doing things that I shouldn't do, saying things that I can't believe I'm saying. Why? Is this who I really am or am I just pretending?

Fleet Foxes Ragged Wood

Fleet Foxes Ragged Wood just came on my Pandora. It's a song that I have never heard before, but it's repetition woke me from my almost slumber. "Come back home. Come back home." I miss my friends. I miss my old life, even the misery. I am so tired, today that I can hardly type the keys. I feel like death, again. A familiar feeling like that familiar song that wakes us from our slumber and kicks us right in the head. It's never going to be the same, again.

3 Inches Tall, tan, with some Glitter Stars

She is no longer in a wheelchair, in a farmhouse, in Fenwick, MI. She is no longer digging through her junk, watching the morning news, or hoarding money for me. Now. she is on my window sill, next to a one of her favorite pictures - the one with the man and woman, praying in a field before a basket of bread. She is no longer in physical form, unless you technically consider her powdered body. I miss her. I miss her like all hell. When I woke up this morning and saw her portable urn on my window sill in Washington, I thought I heard her singing and I wished I could go back to her. It is days like today that I want to walk up to her, cover her eyes with my hands, and whisper "guess who?" I want her grab my hand and pull it close to her warm oily cheek and tell me that I am wonderful and "Oh Julia, all the places you will see and all the things you do. I love ya." There is that indescribable sense of security that I am lacking and I wonder if I will ever find, again. Sure, I have more old ladies who tell me that I am wonderful - lots, but none of them are her.

Martha Plimpton in Disney Land

If Martha Plimpton went to Disney Land, what ride do you think she would go on first? One might hypothesize the teacups, but I would be confident in saying she would go for something more obscure. Who are we kidding? Martha Plimpton would never be caught dead in Disney Land. Who are we kidding, this blog entry is not really about Martha Plimpton, but I wish it could be. I wish all life was as easy and confuse-less as my love for Martha Plimpton.

My Mom and Aunt Marianne are visiting from Michigan. Tonight I made soup, salad, and bread for those two and my two housemates. We sat around wearing wigs and talking about my other aunt, the prostitute. Sometimes I wonder how I got here and if this time it really is going to be awesome.

Did you Hear what the teens are doing these days?

10 year-old, Konnie, nonchalantly asks me this as we ride in the serial killer van to Tacoma. "No" I say, "What are those crazy teens doing these days?" Quickly, Konnie retorts, "they are sticking beer bottles up their butts to get high." I laugh hysterically and we drive on. I probably shouldn't have laughed so hard, but I am probably not very good at my job. "I'm thinking of something. It's not a solid, liquid, or a gas." Kevyn tries to get us to guess what he is thinking of, but we are all thrown off by the, "it's not a solid, liquid, or gas." It turns out, he is thinking of his butt and we all laugh hysterically. Maybe we are all really good at our jobs.

This goes on all night long. Someone says "butt or Hooters" and I can't help, but giggle. Why are so many of us caught up in business suit obsession and appropriate nonsense? Why are so many of us so afraid to take the risk and shout "BIG BUTTS" out the window in the big, bad city? I am certainly guilty of fear. I'm afraid of everything and I can blame it on the endless Catholic School lectures on reverence, if I want. I often do, but in the end I know it comes down to my own inner consciousness. The world is not going to come to us, kiss our feet, and take it all away. I am aware of this, but it doesn't stop me from sitting on my bed and waiting for that knock on my door. I'm going to try to leave it a little ajar, maybe even open it for a couple of minutes each day, and one more thing...BIG BUTTS and HOOTERS!! FUCK YEAH!

Ordering McDonald's out the sunroof

This happened today. Raedeen stuck her head out of my sunroof to order my van full of transients some McFlurries at 11pm just south of Seattle. The ice cream tasted good and cold, but it didn't curve the bitter bite of my self realization. Maybe it's time to go back home, again for a bit. I don't know who these people are that I've been hanging around with and I don't know why I found myself in Seattle on a Tuesday night. What am I doing and why am I still hanging around when nothing is going to change? Why do I always beat the dead to death? Why do I always pretend my life is different? While driving home with my three passengers, I let them play DJ with my ipod. RaeDeen played my top 25 most played list and it utterly depressed me. Maybe that's my defunctness or perhaps I'm just tired. It is 2:30am, but I haven't really been sleeping, again anyways.

Change-Not just for Countertop Charity Anymore

While sitting on a dying lawn in Portland, listening to some feminist lesbian poet spew witty remarks concerning the question, "do you know that is the Women's restroom?" I can only imagine what my brother would say. Andrea Gibson says something like, "No, but I need to find a safe place to shove this tampon up my penis." The homogeneous audience laughs, but not me. I am slowly drifting backwards. I am slowly drifting away, trying to figure out how I moved from Sunday church naps, Saturday night cruising for boys in the Meijer parking lot, and Greenville to Pride festival in Portland. I don't think I belong in either place, so when my housemate's best friend asks me if I am happy, I am quick to say "no. I don't think I have ever been happy," but I am not sure that is exactly true. We left the festival and drove up the Oregon coast. In the morning, I run sixty minutes on the ocean sand, my bare feet kissing the Pacific Ocean. When I was a kid, I used to check out every Jacques Cousteau book in the library and marvel at the pictures. I dreamed of beautiful oceans, seagulls, and sunsets, but I never believed that I would see them. Perhaps when you're a kid, you dream about your future life, but for me, I never thought I would live this long. I sort of wish I hadn't.

Sarah Palin Hates Witches

It was 6pm and I was lying on a blanket next to a middle-aged team member on the lawn in her trailer park. While the carpenter ants landed on our shoulders and legs, Candy sifted through the essential books of Wicca. I've changed her name, so she will not get burned for practicing her religion. Candy explained to me that in Brazil, people believed to be witches continue to be tortured and burned as they were in Salem many moons ago. Candy said Sarah Palin, if elected, wanted to go after witches like they do in Brazil. To me, it sounded like she read that on piece of political junk mail that circulates e-world and has little truth...but it is Sarah Palin, so there is probably truth to that. Sarah Palin hates witches. You betcha!

Candy continued to explain Wicca and to be honest, much of it made a lot of sense with the exception of the spells they cast and their propensity for revenge. Somewhere within the hour, her husband, baby, and sister-in-law showed up. Much like in my own family, her husband is afraid to drive and had to wait for his sister to drive him to Morton, so he could renew his anti-anxiety medication. Her husband also does not work, rarely leaves the house or cleans, and never wants to move away from Randle. He is a nice guy, though. Candy has been married twice before, and had two other children from different men. One of her daughters' Dad, stole the child and told Candy that she could come get her, but he would blow her fucking head off as soon as she walked through the door. Candy has been chased by bears and cougars, broken every bone in her body, and been stabbed in the leg. She can tell a story better than Mr. Rogers, all the while blowing cigarette smoke in your face. Candy is a character and one of my favorite team members. I am 23 and most of the other ten Cispus Americorps members are closer to my age, but I find myself making excuses as to why I cannot hang out with them. The members of my generation are not devoid of crisis, but they all grew-up in upper middle-class households with a fair amount of stability. We have never had a lot of money, but I would also say that I had a fair amount of stability surrounded by chaotic craziness. I don't know what it is, but I find myself hanging out with The Mayhem and Candy, two women around 40 who tell insane stories, much more than the recent college grads who sit around bon fires drinking cheap beer, making phallic jokes, and fucking each other. I would much rather sit on a blanket in a trailer park listening to magical tales of witches with the familiar sound of white trash in the lush hills surrounding. You can leave Greenville, but you can never leave home.

Clothes Do Line Dances a Lovely Sunday Morn'

When I was but a child, I will always remember that smell. Always. It was the smell of wet, detergent soaked clothes ready to be hung out to dry on the clothes line that stretched across my Grandparents' front lawn. My Grandpa in his bibs, green button-down shirt, years before nudity took hold. His white hair would blow in the breeze as he hung several baskets of washed clothes on the line. Sometimes I would help, but usually I would roll around on the grass with the cats. Those were perfect days, at least in my recollection, but I was young and did not really know or care about the underbelly of life that we all inherently possess. So why can't we go back to those days of careless nostalgia? The past is but a point on Hawkin's linear model of time that really does not exist.

With this in mind, I set out three plastic tubs on a slab of concrete in my driveway. One was filled with clothes, hot shower water, and all-natural, biodegradable laundry detergent. One was filled with cold hose water and the other was empty. For about an hour and a half I kneaded and wrung my clothes from one bucket to the next. Then I strung a newly purchased clothes line between some trees by the greenhouse and hung my clothes with some newly purchased clothes pins. The experience wasn't quite the same as it used to be, but lovely just as well. As I was pinning up my clothes, George, my neighbor in the adjacent log cabin walked over to ask me "what the heck" I was doing. I told him the obvious and he suggested that I put my clothes right back in my tub, put it on his porch, and he would throw them in his "beautiful" dryer and have them back to me in 30 minutes. I thanked him, but said I would like to give this a try. He persisted, saying that he's done laundry for his wife many times and he's seen underwear - "lots of underwear." I just laughed, restated my desires, and he finally returned to his cabin. George is one of many very nice and slightly dirty old men that I have met in Packwood.

It is Mother's Day and I am now sipping coffee at the Butter Butte Cafe waiting to tutor a girl in History. The sun is shining bright this day and the birds are phenomenal singers. It's a fine day to hang your clothes on the line and that long line of perfect memories as well.

The Gnomes that Can't Escape Me

These days I do not sleep well. I toss and turn, because every time I close my eyes, I see her lying on the hospital bed unconscious. I see that dry tongue and shallow breath. These days, I cannot sleep and so I toss and turn and then eventually give in to the intense clump in my throat and start crying. Somewhere in the middle of the night, at a time that I cannot begin to tell you, I fall asleep. I haven't been going to my exercise class for middle-aged women lately. I shut off my alarm before it goes off and lie awake thinking about how I should be getting out of bed. I should be heading off to old school gym to shimmy and shake with other people, but I cannot seem to get out of bed. I continue to tell myself that I just want to be alone today, so I will go for a run. I stick to my promise and head out on the old tree lined, lonely road. Today I did not run for very long. After about 22 minutes and 32 seconds, I turned my trot to a walk and heading down a trail. I never run on trails, because I heard such a motion attracts cougars. I hiked down the trail for a bit before I spotted a fallen tree extending into the river. I walked out onto it and sat down upon the tree. The river rushed around me, shaking the log. I laid down looking up through the newly born alder leaves that accent the perfectly blue sky. I am alone here on my log in the river. I look at the rapids before me, the rushing water over boulders. I imagine falling into those rapids and letting them take me away to whatever destination they wish. In my periphery, I see gnomes and a couple of fairy scuttle by in the brambles. They giggle and so do I. I tell them that they do not have to hide from me. I will not tel their secrets. The giants are smoking tobacco in the hills. I do not see them, but I see their smoke billowing at the peaks. I see a fox scurry in front of me. The gnomes are going on vacation. It becomes clear to me that I need one too.

Creating a New Life

When I was in college, my Sophomore year, my friend Diane wanted to check out the New Life Church. Always keen on researching religion, I agreed to accompany her. This was a mistake that I could not make it for long. As soon as the music turned on, the audiences' hands reached up, and everyone started singing for Jesus, I knew that I could not stay. I told Diane that I had to go and we both left. I never went back to the New Life Church, but Diane did...many times. Diane found her place in the church, but for me my searching was far from over. It's still not finished, but I think I'm getting closer.

I was sitting at a table at the Packwood Quilt Show, sewing a little quilt gear bag with some extra scraps, when my assistant supervisor walked by. "Looks like you've created a whole new life for yourself here." I laughed a little, but he remained serious saying, "No, you really have." It made me think a bit. I guess I've been so consumed by the death of my Grandma and wanting so desperately to hate it all, that I never stopped to realize that maybe I like here. Maybe this is close to my stopping point. I love walking and running and biking up and down the mysterious and ominously beautiful forest roads. I love quilting and dancing and hanging out with the local middle aged women. I love waking up early and going to sleep early. The roads are few, the materialism far away, and perhaps my troubles are too. This world is certainly not devoid of its problems, but I don't really mind my life here. I have my coffee shop. I have my greenhouse. I have my life.

A Slug and Mountain Music

I saw a giant slug, today - my first giant slug siting in my seven months of Pacific Northwest living. I remember the moment clear as day, driving down highway 2 in Michigan's beautiful upper peninsula with my dad by my side, I stopped for gas at an old fashioned station. As I was paying for my pollutant, the attendant asked me where I was heading. I suppose the upper peninsula is much like my current residency, most folks are just passing through on route to some other, more populated destination. I was passing through, yes, but I doubt my destination was any more populated than whatever U.P. town I had stumbled across. The gas station attendant asked me where I was going and I told him Washington. Without missing a beat, he said, "beware of the slugs." I laughed a little, thinking it was a clever joke, but his face remained straight and he stared at me deadpan. He repeated, "No, seriously - Beware of the giant slugs." Today, I finally witnessed his warning and it was awesome. There she was, slithering down the side of the road, about the size of a medium breed dog turd. She was a tan-brown color, too, but more translucent than excrement. I was grateful to have spotted her.

The other day, I was walking down the side of the road and I spotted a caddis fly larva in her cocoon walking down the side of the road. I had to stop and really enjoy this spectacle, because I knew how truly rare it was. Caddis fly larva live in bodies of water, traditionally rivers, and here one was just strolling down my road next to me. I suppose it is wet enough here.

So this is how I am trying to live my life right now, in acute observation. I don't want to walk passed a slug or a caddis fly larva, because I am too caught up in my job or my self-loathing or whatever else is truly pointless. This weekend is the Packwood Mountain Festival, so all of the old Packwoodians have come out of their grandfather's cabins to tell their stories. One older man, who I would later hear play beautiful mountain music, was telling a group of second grade school children why they should appreciate Mt. Rainer. He said you could travel to Switzerland if you wanted, but we have the same beauty right in our backyards. I think he is right, but that is not just true for Packwood. Perhaps the great snow capped peak illuminates the beauty and makes it quite obvious, but there is beauty everywhere, even in Greenville, MI. My Grandma saw it everyday. Why can't we all? All we have to do is stop for a second, put aside our Hollywood misconceptions, and look...just look.

Eat Right and Don't Die

As I drive down highway 12, my eyes stare straight ahead on the long, flat, road lined by shacks and mountains. The visions are still there. I cannot control the visions. I see myself, a bullet through the back of my skull, blood and brains splattered across the window pane. I see myself, taking a small step off of the sidewalk into the path of a hasty city bus. I see myself, dead and rotting by the side of the road, maggots and beetles returning my body to the soil. The visions. I cannot control them, but I can control the reality and I know that I will not purposely cause any of my visions to come true. I would never do that and so I eat as healthy as I can and have started a new exercise plan. As I run down the same roads that create my visions, I tell myself that I must train my body and my mind to be in the best shape possible.

It has become clear to me that life is not infinite. I am not sure if I ever believed that it was, but time seems more precious now than ever before. The idea of death has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. One moment you are hear, among the living, laughing, back-stabbing, and the next moment you are dead. What does that mean - I do not know. I've never been dead before or at least I cannot recollect my previous death. Maybe I have been dead, before. Maybe I'm dead right now.

Well, on a sunnier note, Kevyn broke Krystal's scooter, yesterday. I was able to intercede her before she hit Kevyn. I told her to shove a rock in the hole from the missing bolt. The rock did the trick and she seemed satisfied and scootered away. Later on, Krystal tried to hug me with hands completely covered in sidewalk chalk. She came at me with fury until I finally gave in and offered her the bag of coconut covered marshmallows she had previously tried to steal. That's my life right now, I suppose...so what is the big deal about life and death, anyhow?

Rule of 3

They say that three people that you know usually die at a time. In my little experience, this seems to be pretty accurate. So what if you are on an isolated plateau and all you have and know and love are three other people on this isolated plateau? What if one of the other people dies? There are three of you left, but according to the rule of three, two more of you are soon to die. Statistically speaking, you have a better chance of being one of the two who dies rather than the one who lives, but you never know. Who would you rather be? Would you rather be dead or live alone on an isolated plateau? That was pleasant. Good day.

Easter Then and Now

Every Good Friday, when I was growing up, my cousins, brothers, and I would trek over to my Grandma and Grandpa's house to color eggs. This is the only time of the year when my Grandparents' bought white eggs from the store instead of using the brown, green, and pink eggs from their own chickens. We would use several egg coloring tablets and every coffee mug in the cupboard. My mom or Aunt Marianne would measure the correct amounts of white vinegar and water and my cousins and I would take turns plopping the colored tablets in the liquid and watch as it fizzled to life. The tablets looked like candy and I was always tempted to taste one, but I never did. I still remember the smell of vinegar and boiled eggs - the wax crayon with which we wrote on the eggs that magically revealed our secret messages upon coloring, the way my Grandma always marveled at the colors, and how my Grandpa got to eat most of our artistic delicacies.

On Easter, my brothers and I would wake-up and immediately begin the search for our Easter baskets. I would check the downstairs shower first, then the closet under the stairs, and thirdly on top of the refrigerator. At least one of these spots housed a basket every year. In the afternoon, my family would reunite at my Grandma and Grandpa's house for some food and the always exciting egg hunt. "Back the barn" is where most of the eggs filled with candy, money, and lotto tickets could be found. I don't remember too much ever being uttered about Jesus and how Easter is technically the celebration of his shining moment - the day he rose from the dead to save us sinners, but we sure had a good time.

Things are different now as I suppose all things eventually become. Grandma and Grandpa are both gone, which to be blunt - totally sucks. I don't even live in the same state, so I didn't celebrate Easter at all. I called my Mom, texted a friend, and went to Portland, OR with some team members to see a band called Horse Feathers play at the public library. All-in-all it wasn't a bad Easter, in fact it was pretty cool. I've never gone to Portland on Easter before, but still I would trade it all in. I would trade in all of my hikes through the moss-covered trees in the mysterious, magical mountains of Washington. I would trade in the trips to Portland, San Fransisco, Seattle, North Dakota, my medals, my money, my mini-van for one more chance to hear my Grandpa fart from an overdose of hard-boiled eggs and my Grandma marvel at the strange orange of a poorly mixed egg.
Happy Easter

It Stopped

It stopped - no more beeping, no more breathing - it all stopped over a week ago and I don't know what to do, now. I'll keep beeping and breathing, but I don't know what to do, now.

All My Children

I am sitting on a chair in the hospital. My Mom is lying to my right asleep and my grandma is lying to my left asleep. All My Children is on the tv, my grandma's favorite show. She has been watching it everyday for almost 40 years. It has been several years since I have watched All My Children, so most of the the characters who were children six years ago are now shriveled up and old. In this episode, a character named Reese has been blinded in some sort of accident. She has gauze over her eyes. She also seems to be going through a sexual identity crisis and her parents keep telling her to do what Simon says and Simon says she is straight. Another character is in the hospital after apparently being poisoned. It appears Pine Valley has seen a lot of changes since I last tuned in, but it's the same old drama.

The machine behind my head is making a lot of noise. I don't know what it is, I guess it keeps track of my grandma's pulse and something else. I timed it and it makes a honky noise every 15 seconds. In-between the mechanical honky noises, are the snores of my mom and grandma. Breathing, the signs of life are music to my ears.

Random Thoughts at SeaTac Airport Wednesday

Why is it that we only rush home when something bad has happened? Why don’t we rush home when something fantastic has happened? Just a phone call will suffice and we’ll recollect that joyous phone call the day we are summoned home, because something bad has happened.
I saw a button on the floor of the airport bathroom. I thought about picking it up, but it was resting slightly on the other side of my stall and I didn’t think my neighbor would appreciate my reach. Still, something about that button, perhaps the way it peeped on me through its four eyes, made me want to snatch it. My grandma loves buttons. After a fresh dirt pile was swept, my cousins and I were instructed to sort out the nickels and lost buttons. Buttons. Why buttons? Are we, as citizens of the United States, in short supply of buttons? No; I doubt that this is the case. Perhaps it is because every button is different, I think. Have you ever seen two lost buttons that are the same? I suppose this is completely possible. Buttons are not quite like snowflakes and in this mass produce society, some buttons are the same, but not the ones found in button jars.
I don’t like dinner rolls and ham. They remind of the refreshments after the funeral service. The ham is always fatty and cold and the dinner role has always been brushed with too much flour, so it sticks to the roof of your mouth. If you skip the ham in favor of butter, the flour rubs off onto your fingers and eventually ends up on the tip of your nose. If you choose to scrape butter on the top on the roll, it feels and similar to nails on a chalkboard.

Talking To Thyself

I talk to myself all day long - I walk and talk, walk and talk. Some people call this insanity, loneliness, even schizophrenia. I don't really care what you call it. I call it my life, so deal with it. Today I've been giving myself a talk on time and space and what is this? My good friend and I were chatting on gmail chat. She said that today, for the second time is a short time, she has gotten a splinter in her finger after scratching her head. I hypothesized that her head may be turning to wood and consequently her body into a tree. Xylem is taking substances up and Phloem is taking substances down. My friend replied with glee stating that she hopes she is becoming a large decaying, moss covered stump like the one she recently laid on. However, my friend wrote, it would take centuries for this morph to happen. How does she know this? I informed her that time does not really exist and time and morphology are understood only as humans have created them. Time, like heaven and hell, was created by man in an effort to simplistically understand the universe. Thus, it is possible for one to turn into a decaying stump. Why not? This is just as possible as it is that one who believes in Jesus Christ, a fictional character from an ancient fictional book, is upon death going to float to some magical kingdom in the sky. Thus, everything is possible and equally impossible. The world is completely fabricated in our minds.

When Two Worlds Converge

I wrote most of this while resting by a tree in 9 feet of snow - snowshoeing

I smell a little bit like tobacco - that cigarette I shouldn't have smoked last night. I put it out on the palm of my hand half finished and stowed it away in my pocket, but the scent remains - stale smoke and bottled beer - remnants of last night's party that I was at, but not present, quietly drifting into subtle contemplation. Who is hooping beside me? - a man with a drunken grin, grinding his hips and making obnoxious comments to his supposed wife. Who is hooping in front of me? - a young woman sloppily sobbing, because she is unable to hoop. I stand up and try to help her, explaining the simple trick to hoop dreams. I am quickly admonished by the drunken men on the truck bed, "Hey dude - who do you think you are? - Trying to show us up and take our women?" I tell them my name upon request and they apologize for the gender mix-up. I sit down, tired and anxious for sleep. I didn't want to be here, but the chance to trek through virgin snow, alone on my snowshoes the next day was far too temping to pass. In the end it was a good decision. I had to sleep in a vanagon with a woman peeing into a yogurt container and her eight year-old son who eventually spilled the contents of the yogurt container all over the van's floor, but the twisting trails of mountain solitude swept away all traces urine and in the end it all returned to the waters.

Don't happen around the world. Let the world happen around you.
C. McCan'tless

Across the Pass

This is how it goes - one minute you're on top and the next minute you're tumbling down, your butt a bruise, your head smashing ground. Unfortunately, there is no beginning or end to this story. It just keeps going, never knowing when to stop and grasp a limb for life.

I just had a thought about old people. For me, the idea of old people arrives early every morning and does not leave until the wee hours of night. Maybe this is a problem, though. It is not a Harold and Maude like problem, but more of a thought-consumption problem. With my mind so worried about the important old people in my life perishing, I leave little room to worry about the important young people in my life diminishing.

I hit my head hard last night on a frozen mountain and my first thought was - I could die. I'm 23 and I could die so damn easily. Perhaps at the same time, my friend and my mom's best friend's daughter was smashing her head against a steering wheel on an icy road in Michigan - an accident that has has left her unconscious and on a ventilator. Perhaps at that same time last night, my older brother was drinking himself to death, again. As I tried to go to sleep last night to the sound of drunken teammates stumbling back-and-forth across the living room, I could only think of the old people. They are those who have made it through the relentless pulse of this punishing life. I myself am tired. I am tired. I honestly believe that I do everything that I can in this life. Sometimes I mess-up, but I am human. I moved 3000 miles away and I still cannot sleep, because of drunken stumbling. I still awake to the stale smell of beer and phone calls from my mother. In the youthful chambers in my mind, I wish I could be upstairs, drinking and laughing and just being a "normal person." I suppose this is the life I have been given, so all I can do is continue to push forward until I can no longer stand. I might go to Belize or Nicaragua, but it's never going to stop and I guess that's okay for now.

Recession Depression

It's all over my iGoogle headlines - Detroit is facing a recovery deadline after seeing the worst sales for January in 26 years. My home state is crumbling and I am in a coffee shop 3,000miles away in a town that is also crumbling. Perhaps it is true that the entire country is in a recession, but I seem to enjoy living in the eyes of the storms. Everyday I hear the children quite bluntly blurt, "We ain't got no money my Dad's in jail and my Mom's on crack ."

This is the world we are living in. A world in which we can only call ourselves bad asses for so long, before we just fall apart and starve or get the shit kicked out of us for uncontrollable circumstances. Sometimes it seems to me that everyone is against everyone. Sure it is a dog eats dog world, but what happens when there is only one dog left and all of the other pups are bleeding and howling in the streets. Am I exaggerating the current state? Sure I am...and that's all I have to say on that topic.

Biking down Skate Creek

After packing up my belonging shortly post graduation from university, I moved to the rustic, dangerous, and rural mountain community of Packwood. In the spirit of Alexander Supertramp, I thought of myself, just five short months ago, as a bit of a super tramp, myself. Now, as I sit comfortably in my bed, my space heater on high and a head of cabbage to my right, I feel as though I may have exaggerated things in my head. Perhaps this is not roughing it as I previously thought...or is it?

Biking down Skate Creek Road is always quite a cathartic experience and sometimes an educational somersault. On my return to town, I noticed the case of a compact disc left absent and lonely on the roadside. Breaks. Turn around. Pick it up. That was my mistake - picking it up. Someone once told me that upon picking up a piece of litter, it becomes your property and thus your responsibility. I looked at the CD case and wanted so desperately to drop it. A Tribute to Toby Keith. Who would tribute the Boot in Your Ass guy? Probably the evil doers themselves as a thank you to Toby for making Americans look like even bigger douche bags. I opened up the case and found it empty, meaning the CD is still out there, probably in a large truck with a Confederate flag sticker and window decal that says something like, "Get a Lift. Fat Chicks Can't Jump." The dude who drives a rig as described is just the type of classy fellow who would buy a Toby Keith tribute album and those men are a dime a dozen in these parts. I peddled to the post office and threw the case in the trash can. Maybe I am not a super tramp, but I am a super person.

-C McCan'tless