Be careful what you wish for.

On Monday, Ivan and I were having a bad day.  We've faced some pretty serious financial setbacks lately, and the stress of them added to having a new baby is really...hard.

I have been considering whether I should leave San Francisco and return to the east coast.  The toughest thing about it is that Sophia and I would be returning alone.  Ivan would not be joining us.  But other than him, there really is very little left for me here.  Most of my friends are gone.  I have been feeling terribly alone and lonely and isolated for quite some time.  And the cost of living that I managed to keep up with before is killing me.

When I look at how my life has changed in the last 3 1/2 years for the worse, it all leads back to Sept. 18, 2008 for me.  I still can't believe how one man could take so much from me in one night:  my power, my self-confidence and self-worth.  I just can't find them again.  And finding them again while struggling for basic survival at the moment is proving nearly impossible.

I read a Postsecret postcard awhile back that made me weep in sharp recognition:

Anyway, back to the bad day on Monday.  I was anxious and distraught and afraid.  I sat outside on the front steps while Ivan was inside with his sister and Sophia napped in the bedroom.  I closed my eyes and wished for something to happen to provide me with clarity.  I was trying to figure out how I could leave the person I love--and my baby's father--in order to try to make a new life somewhere else.  And to make it even worse, I would not be leaving from a place of strength.  I would be leaving because I am fucking broken.

In my irrationality, I imagined that a natural disaster like an earthquake would absolutely fucking shake things up--help me put them in perspective.  Despite feeling a little superstitious, I wished for it to happen.  I closed my eyes and wished it intensely.  I felt desperate for anything that might help me make this gut-wrenching decision.

Ten minutes later I was inside changing the baby and arguing with Ivan again when the oven caught on fire in the kitchen.  Ivan and Natasha tried to put it out, but it only got worse.  I heard Natasha say from the kitchen, "Get out.  Get out now!" and I grabbed my baby and we were the first ones out the door.  The smoke filled up the house so fast that we couldn't even get a baby blanket.  Natasha was on the phone with 911 while smoke billowed out of our windows.  Approaching sirens screamed while I curled myself around Sophia to keep her warm and covered her ears from the noise.

I felt guilty for the wish I'd made.

I sat on a nearby stoop while a crowd of neighbors and other passersby gathered and stared.  Three fire trucks blocked the intersection and the firemen rushed in.  I felt miserable and afraid as I held onto Sophia and crooned softly to her.  In my mind I was asking myself:  "Is this it? Is it time to go?"  I saw Ivan looking at me and knew that he knew what I was thinking.

We are now safe and back in our house.  There was minimal damage, but the damage we did have has only added to our financial burden.  I'm not sure that the fire provided the clarity I wished for, but it did sink me a little further.

I feel weak.  And terrified.  And terribly alone.  Where is the girl who arrived here in 2005 with such courage and hope and a 'fuck-it-I'll-make-it-work-somehow' attitude?  I need her now.

I can smell October on the east coast

October is my favorite month.

I suddenly had weird deja vu of reading T.S. Eliot. I digress. I have no particularly strong feelings about April.

Anyway, there is just nothing like fall from, say, the mid-Atlantic states up through New England. ("They are so a state! They have a football team!") October days--no matter where I am--make me think of leaves and wood smoke and homecoming parades and Monument Ave. and driving through the mountains. They make me think of still new school years and crisp sheets of notebook paper and fresh starts and good intentions.

While San Francisco has some pretty spectacular days in October, it will always belong to the east coast in my heart.

I can remember one October, in particular. 2003? 2004? I was so filled with joy and hope that I pledged to my friend Kelli that I would do something new and strange every day. Paint my nails blue! Shout sweeping proclamations off my balcony! Howl at the moon! Now that I think about it, my pledges involved mostly me being loud. But I wanted to share my ecstasy!

Actually, I am feeling that way now. But it is far too soon to spill any beans. I'm workin' on some changes. Comin' up with a plan. And I get more excited with each passing hour.

P.S. My friend Mary is far away and going through a rough time right now, and I want her to know I love her. 

My house. Where difficult silverware goes to die.

When I was growing up, one of my main household duties was the nightly task of washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. God, I hated it.

My mother's silverware drawer was a constant annoyance to me. On one side, our spoons, forks, and knives sat neatly in their little trays. The rest of the drawer was a chaotic mess of other, less frequently used cooking- and eating-related utensils: vegetable peelers, spatulas, corn on the cob holders, and so on. I quickly termed this the "difficult silverware" because these items were hard to organize, often oversized, and seemed to require endless rooting through the drawer to find.

In my adulthood, I have tried to alleviate this problem by having a large ceramic container sitting on the counter that holds and provides easy access to all the larger items. I, too, have a mass of garlic presses, measuring spoons, fondue forks, and shish kebab sticks messily taking up space in the other half of my silverware drawer. But at least I have made some progress on the organization front. My mama didn't raise no dummy.

I have noticed that Ivan has very little interest in my personal system of silverware organization. (The same could be said for his position regarding my systems for washing dishes, arranging the medicine cabinet, cleaning the bathroom sink, and putting away groceries, but I suppose at the moment that is neither here nor there.) We share the task of washing dishes, but in recent weeks and months when I have not felt well he has cheerfully born the brunt of it (unless we played cards and placed bets on who had to wash the dishes and I lost--also neither here nor there).

Ivan's kryptonite is putting the clean dishes away. He hates it. He is brought to his knees. He will beg and plead and cajole me that he will wash the dishes if only I will put the clean dishes away. Some days this sounds like a reasonable request. Other days it does not. If left to his own devices, he will put away simple items like plates and bowls and cups. The rest he stacks randomly around the kitchen or else takes a wild guess as to where it might belong and stashes it there. On some level I find this amusing, but when I am in the middle of cooking and politely looking for an item ("Where in the hell is the mixing bowl?") it makes me crazy.

This is how the ladle and the whisk have disappeared.

Really, it could be so easy! They could be proudly sitting in the container on the counter, ready to be called to duty again. Instead, I root through drawers and cabinets complaining, "How far could the goddamned whisk have gotten?"

To which he replies, "Which one is the whisk again?"

They have both been missing for weeks, and to his annoyance I never miss an educational opportunity to remind him of their usefulness and to bemoan their unknown whereabouts whenever I can.

I think about them sometimes even when I am not cooking. I like to imagine they are now free from servitude and pursuing other, non-functional interests and talents they might have. I suppose they will turn up eventually. Maybe when I move out of this apartment. Or, sure as shit, as soon as I decide to replace them and buy new ones.




I call this one "Sans Ladle and Whisk."

In this place that we call home...

...the match of the century: absence versus thin air.

This mess we're in

I think we might be destined to live in a federally-proclaimed disaster area.

I was just looking at pictures of other couples' apartments and--even the ones that bemoan how cluttered and messy they are--they're SPOTLESS compared to ours. Our laundry is in a giant, unfolded pile, our dinner dishes from last night are still in the sink, there is an extra computer in the middle of the living room, the bathroom needs scrubbed...I could go on but it's starting to stress me out. Like watching an episode of "Hoarders."

It's just that we have so many more interesting things to do when we get home in the evening than CLEAN. Like last night. I think I laughed for an hour just because we sat and TALKED and drank beer after dinner. Seriously: my abs are sore today.

I can remember lots of lonely nights in a clean apartment in the past and I wouldn't trade this for the world.

Well, baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you...

Musings

This blog has generated a bit of a stir.

A couple things before I go on:

1. This is my journal. You don't have to read it.
2. When I said I was thinking about moving I meant what I said. Thinking about it.
3. If you work with me and we are not friends and you read this I think it's really inappropriate. Especially if you are management. Ahem.

Anyway.

I'm trying to remember how it felt when I knew it was time to leave Richmond and come to San Francisco. I had been there for 6 years and I was itching for change. It felt like I had learned the things that I needed to learn there and I wanted to move on. I was restless and pent up and pacing. It's weird, because that's not really what I'm feeling right now.

I feel defeated and tired. Really fucking tired.

People have asked me where I would go. I'd probably start with North Carolina, but I think realistically I would end up in Richmond again. I know. That sounds weird after I described being ready to leave, huh? It's just that the times I have returned to Richmond since I have been here, I have felt absolute joy. When I feel homesick, it is for Richmond. When I hear a weather report or a news story about Richmond, I feel a pang. When a friend mentions traveling to or being in Richmond, I am incredibly jealous. I miss it. I miss Judith and Amber and Dave and the folks I used to work with. I think it's the closest thing to "home" I ever felt.

I don't know.

The last time I made this decision it was a natural transition period in my life. Plus, I had someone to go with. This time I have neither going for me. Can I do it again? I don't know. I am considering it seriously enough that I told my friends here. I promised Nannette that before I made the decision I would work on getting to a mentally healthier place.

I am working on that.

I got my first real six-string.

Today and throughout the month of November I am participating in National Novel Writing Month ("NaNoWriMo"). In order to get 50,000 words in 30 days, I figure I need to average around 1650 words per day.

I'm using NaNoWriMo to generate memoir material on as of yet unexplored topics. On occasion I may post bits and pieces here.

It is difficult already, because part of the challenge is not to self-edit--something at which I excel. I'm trying really hard just to let the words flow and not come out like a completed product as I normally would strive for. I am tempted to sit here and explain in detail that parts of my writing that I want to work on, but to be honest, I'm emotionally exhausted. Even just THINKING ABOUT the material on which I'm writing today makes me cry like a baby, and it has worn me out.

Here is a little bit of free-writing that I did as part of my first NaNoWriMo writing. It's unplanned and unstructured. It's more of a collection of memories and impressions than an actual story. But here it is.

* * * * *

Occasionally people will ask questions like, “Where would you go if you could go anywhere?” My head always jumps to the years of approximately 1982-1985. All of my grandparents were there, there were still a lot of bad things I hadn't yet seen, I still believed in Santa Claus, and I still thought I was meant for great things.

On second thought…let’s stick to 1982. Kindergarten in Miss Wilking’s class was a good time for me.

I didn’t know it at the time, because I didn’t know any different, but there was something special about going to my paternal grandparents’ house and being surrounded by my entire family: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Everybody ate and talked and argued and smoked and laughed all at once. They were a noisy, rowdy, and occasionally raunchy bunch. My grandpa and uncles told dirty jokes that I didn’t understand and didn’t find funny. My grandmother encouraged us kids to eat more tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers and less chips and cookies. And my cousins and I ran through the house, up the back steps, and across the steep backyard and back again, constantly on the move in case we were missing something. There was a feel of excitement in the air.

Negotiations of who would get to spend the night with whom began early, and we planned and coordinated our strategy like seasoned army generals. Crouching on the front porch, away from the earshot of adults, we organized our attack and planned for the fun that would follow our sleepover victory.

“Let me ask pappy and grandmother first. They’ll say yes. Once they say yes, your dad won’t be able to say no.”

“When we play school, I get to be the teacher.”

“You always get to be the teacher!”

“That’s because I’m the oldest and I know how to write in cursive like a teacher.”

“No you don’t! You don’t write real letters—you just pretend to cross t’s and dot i’s!”

I can remember the smell and the feel of the lush blackberry bushes up on the hill in the back yard like it was just yesterday. I can feel the bars of the swingset on the backs of my knees like I am still hanging upside down from them. I can see the rust patches on the swingset, and feel it jump when I swing too high. I can remember the chalky residue the paint left on my sweaty hands. I can hear my cousins’ shouts, and I can see my family down the hill grilling burgers and drinking beer.

The air is hot and sticky—the humid remnants of a summer day in the mountains of West Virginia—and the fireflies begin to come out at dusk. I can still feel their ticklish legs walking around inside my cupped hands, trying to strike the balance between keeping them securely cloistered away and being careful not to crush them. (Once my stepdad thought he would be clever and he squished the butt of a firefly to get the glow-in-the-dark light out. He put in on my finger like a diamond ring as I stared in horror at what he had done and started to cry.) I can hear the rise of the cricket chirps in the grass as the air begins to cool and the night approaches. I am once again filled with the desire to fill a jar with fireflies and take care of them—my own personal night-light forever and always.

Anniversary

Alternative title to this blog: To you

Seventeen years ago today I fell in love with you. Doesn't that seem unbelievable? And how did I know so fast? Was I really that intuitive? Or was I just young and naive and hopeful?

I remember every inch of you: the smell of your hair, the particular shade of brown of your eyes, your long eyelashes, the feel of your hands, the shape of your feet, your impatience in traffic.

I dream of you when I am anxious and afraid. Cricket no longer calls your name, but I imagine that sometimes I still must in my sleep.

I still think of things that I want to tell you and show you, and then I remember that I can't. And even if I could, you probably wouldn't want to hear or see them.

You told me once that you didn't know what to say to me that didn't involve writing a book. And then you never told me any of them.

I can remember an evening in Richmond so clearly. We had come back from dinner, and were walking up the stairs to my apartment. You were 2-3 steps in front of me. At that moment I loved you so much I wanted to bury my face in your neck and steal your warmth and bite you to make sure you were real and living and breathing.

I don't know where you are or what you are doing or how to get in touch with you, and I never dreamed that I would say those words. I don't know how to wrap my head around the fact that I will probably never lay eyes on you again.

I want you to know that if you needed something I would do whatever I could to give it to you. And I want you to know that I take you with me everywhere I go, and that some part of each and every day is still trying to figure out how to be without you.

An incomplete recount

I dreamed of you again.

You were finally alone, which you never are when I've seen you. It makes me wonder what you'd do if you were.

I digress.

You had been away a long, long time, and I ran into you at home. Your mom and brother were so happy to see you. I had been up for three days without sleep, and was preparing to return to San Francisco. A pair of someone else's pants was mixed in with mine and, not thinking, I put them on.

When you and I spoke you were very quiet. You didn't say much but your brown eyes fixed on me intently. I saw your eyes flick to the pants I was wearing. "Oh, my God," I said, "Are these yours?"

"No, they're my wife's pants," you said, sitting down. Is it just me or did you emphasize the word wife a little too much? I thought. My next thought was, I must've lost weight. She's skinnier than me! And the thought after that was one that recalled the suspicion I always had that you wanted a skinny art chick who rode bikes and enjoyed things like finding meaning in repetitive wallpaper. (Remember our little joking arguments about that kind of stuff? I hate to point out that I was right, but if the chamois fits...)

When I woke up I was so irritated that I'd focused on my fucking weight in that dream. Then I felt moody and morose.

Must. Bake. Cookies.

For my papa

Last night I dreamed of my Papaw and Grandmother's house on Chestnut St. in Clarksburg. They lived in a big old two-story red house across from the graveyard until I was about 12 years old, and I have so many memories of being in this house.

In fact, if I could go back in time and do anything, one of the two things I would do would be to spend a weekend with them at this house circa summer 1984.

In my dream they were still gone, but the house was frozen in time--down to an icy glass of Papaw's bourbon and Sprite sitting on the end table next to his place on the couch. I wandered through the house and took everything in.

I examined the threadbare flower-print couch. The clock on the horse and carriage still sat on top of the giant television, along with pictures of papaw and grandmother as children. There was the small set of shelves with my aunt and uncles' and father's senior pictures on it next to the living room doorway. The sheers hanging on the windows still smelled like papaw's cigarette smoke.

In the hallway was the old desk with years of doodling on it and the old yellow telephone with the dial. The china cabinets in the hall and dining room still sat silently, holding their fancy dishes. The organ waited to be played. As I walked to the back of the house, it started to grow dark outside and I felt my old childhood fears of what was waiting for me around the corner re-emerge.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and still contained my cousins' and I's Strawberry Shortcake mugs, the yellow tupperware sugar bowl, and the little ceramic figurine of a little girl that held the toothpicks. My eyes shifted to the dark doorway that was the entrance to the basement, and I knew I was too afraid to go down there. Instead, I decided to go upstairs.

I climbed the 17 stairs covered in old green shag carpeting, and along the way I touched the pieces of wood in the banister that I knew were loose. My memories of this staircase were particularly strong, because my cousins and I regularly slid down the steps on our butts, counting each step as we thumped our way down; my uncles Jim and Joe regularly put us on their backs and shoulders and ran down the staircase. We screamed with delight and terror as they yelled, "Who's your favorite uncle!?"

I came to the top of the staircase to the clothes hamper and the bathroom doorway, and recalled that my grandmother reported seeing her mother-in-law's ghost at this very spot. A shiver of fear ran down me. I gulped it down, wanting my dreamy reverie to last longer.

The bathroom still contained my favorite things: the child's backscrubber shaped like a giraffe (which I now own); my grandmother's robin's egg blue Estee Lauder power box with the giant silky powder puff inside; Close-Up toothpaste; a bar of Zest soap in the shower, and the bottle of Chloroseptic which I loved to spray into my mouth to make my throat numb. I smiled when I eyed the toilet paper, remembering the day Michelle and I had unraveled two whole rolls to wad up and stuff under our shirts to make us look pregnant. We got in trouble for being so wasteful, and the family used a plastic bag of wadded up toilet paper for the next couple of days.

That's as far as I got in my dream. I never made it into any of the bedrooms. But I was grateful to re-experience the sights and smells and memories of this house again.

Squirrelly-Man

We used to keep a taxidermied squirrel in our living room when I was a kid.

“Squirrelly,” or the slightly more original “Squirrelly-Man” as he was sometimes known, had been shot by my stepfather and then mounted on a thick cross-section of tree trunk that formerly had a Budweiser beer logo shellacked onto it. Squirrelly sat up on his haunches in an alert, curious position with his fluffy tail neatly shaped into a question mark behind him. His eyes were bright and glossy, his nails were sharp, and his coat was soft.

At first I was excited when we brought Squirrelly home. Now I had the opportunity to be close to a creature that formerly eluded me with its speed and agility. Even better was that Squirrelly helped fulfill a portion of my own personal Disney-fueled dream. I loved movies like “Cinderella” and “Sleeping Beauty” not for their predictable being-rescued-by-the-handsome-prince plotline, but because all the little forest creatures wanted to be around those ladies. All one of them had to do was begin to sing, and flocks of bunnies, squirrels, and fat little chirping bluebirds would alight on and around them and gaze in adoration at the poor, persecuted girl with the sweet and melodious sounds emanating from her mouth.

I couldn’t sing to save my soul, but I had tried standing in the yard on many occasions—singing earnestly until I was hoarse—waiting for creatures to gather eagerly around me. There were rarely bunnies in sight; the squirrels rushed up the trunks of the tallest trees; the fat little bluebirds (as well as the cardinals, robins, finches, bluejays, starlings, and crows) remained high in the branches or—the worst insult of all—flew away.

Squirrelly’s arrival brought new hope to this endeavor. I would place him in front of me in the yard and sing loudly to him with my arms outstretched in hopeful anticipation of an avian audience. “See?” I would croon imploringly, to all the animals in the vicinity: “This squirrel loves my song. Come and listen with him!” I eventually grew bored with my lack of success and moved on to utilize Squirrelly in other ways.

My family was rather poor, and at times the only meat we had was whatever my stepfather had hunted: deer, rabbits, squirrels, and grouse were the most common animals in our crockpot and at our dinner table. I felt incredibly guilty about this, and worried about the psychological effects it might have on Squirrelly. Soon it became a personal mission for me to give him a good life in order to make up for the one that got cut short as a result of my family’s need for food. I would stroke him tenderly, carry him around with me as I played so that he wouldn’t feel lonely, and whisper encouraging things in his ear. I wanted to reassure him that getting shot hadn’t been his fault. I couldn’t tolerate the thought that he might be under the impression that he’d gotten caught because he was a slow squirrel or a stupid squirrel.

Squirrelly particularly liked to play Barbies with me. He was skilled and willing to fill in for boyfriends, husbands, brothers, large dogs, and horses given my dearth of Ken dolls and Barbie pets. Within moments he could go from holding the most beautiful Barbie in his arms and kissing her passionately to serving as the valiant steed who would carry her far, far away to a different kingdom where a new king and queen would take them both in and adopt them.

Squirrelly and I dreamed of real escape, too. Sometimes we would stand out in my front yard, putting ourselves on display for car and pedestrian passersby. I was convinced if I just nailed the facial expression that conveyed the perfectly balanced combination of hopefulness, innocence, and pathos, someone would have mercy on my stuffed squirrel and I. They would jump out of their car and urge me to hurry, hurry! Get in the car!

I wouldn’t have to explain about my stepfather and his cruelty. I wouldn’t have to assure them that I was actually a nice and helpful girl and they would not regret adopting me. I wouldn’t have to ask if I could bring Squirrelly. All this would be understood the first time my new parents and I looked at each other, and Squirrelly and I would jump in the car, never to set foot on Lawman Ave. again.

"I was quick to learn but slow to understand."

Alternative title to this blog: Confidential message to C.

I didn't realize you'd moved away. I hope your new home is making you happy. It's good for you to be able to make memories in a place I never was.

P.S. I hope you remembered to check the top kitchen cabinets and got my fondue pot and bread machine. I didn't remember they were up there until it was too late, and I've always been sad about it.

In between

I imagine there are only a few moments in your life, at best, when you have the opportunity to tell another human being--really tell them--the impact they've had on you. The funny thing about these moments is that it seems like each second should be momentous and dripping with meaning, and that usually isn't the case. It often seems that they could easily be mistaken as a moment of lesser import because they are sandwiched in between more mundane and trivial affairs: Did I remember to turn off the coffee pot? My foot itches How long would a piece of hail last if I were to save it in my freezer?

Yesterday morning I had the opportunity to say these things to my grandpa--my favorite person in the world, living or dead. I was exhausted and feeling rushed My hair was dripping from taking a bath and I was having trouble getting my suitcase closed. I needed to stop and get gas before getting on the interstate to go back to the Pittsburgh airport.

I felt self-conscious about asking my mom and my step-grandma to leave me alone with him for a few moments. I worried that I would lose my nerve to face up to this conversation. I wondered how to sum up a lifetime of love for and memories of and gratitude toward someone.

He looked small and frail in pajamas that have grown too big for him. I pulled a kitchen chair into the living room and sat next to him in his recliner. I took his hand into mine and looked him in the eyes. I told him everything I wanted to say. I wept. I thanked him for loving me and helping to raise me. I told him how important he was to me and I loved him very much.

He squeezed my hand and listened to me with tears in his eyes. He told me in a weak voice that I'd brought so much happiness into his life. He told me not to feel guilty about not coming home for his funeral because he didn't want one. He told me he would watch over me. He told me he'd had a good life. I stroked his arm and asked him if he was scared. "No," he said quietly.

I hugged and kissed him, called everyone back in the room, and said my goodbyes. Then I slipped back into business mode--loading my suitcase in the car, checking my watch, and returning to the life I've created for myself on the west coast.

The tenth month

October has been my favorite month for a long time. It makes me crave the east coast though, and the colors of the trees, the smell of wood smoke, and the crackling of leaves underfoot. When I was leaving work on Wednesday, I heard a drum-line practicing in the distance and I was filled with intense nostalgia for fall the way I grew up with it.

October is still my favorite month, but as an adult it has become inextricably associated with people I’ve loved (a very short list). This weekend, in particular, makes me think of how filled with anticipation and excitement I was a year ago on this day. What a wonderful feeling. And in a couple of more weekends, my mind will drift to other memories.

For the first time in quite some time, I have no plans this weekend. It is just fine with me.

It is supposed to rain, and I hope that it does.

I am making a stew, and the scent of it is filling the house.

I am writing on my bedroom wall because I was running out of places to put my words. I want to see stories and poems and quotes and lyrics—words, just words--all around me. This endeavor is infinitely more satisfying than the covert wall scribblings with magic marker from my youth.

Today I learned to give myself injections, and it was easy. All my worries and fears and hesitations…gone.

Tonight I’ll drink a glass of wine and sit outside.

Thanks to Bob, soon my feet will be documented in the Berkeley Folklore Archives.

That is about all.

"Sleepless long nights (that is what my youth was for)"

I was talking to someone recently who encouraged me to put my wishes out into the universe. A sort of "ask and you shall receive" without the religious overtones. In response, I said:

My wishes to the universe are these:

1. to find "home"
2. to stop putting the cart before the horse.
3. to find something for me. Just me.


We talked about these more, and I felt the need to expand on a couple of them a bit. I have written about the theme of finding home elsewhere (e.g., All the lives I'm not living), because searching for "home" has been a long-running theme in my life. For as long as I can remember, I've never quite felt like I was where I belonged. This was true in WV as far back as at least age 13. It was true the years I lived and went to school in Richmond, VA even though I consider that to be the place I sort of mentally grew up and came into myself. It is true here in San Francisco even though I have better friends than I've ever had in my life and, by all external benchmarks, am relatively "settled."

In the sense that I mean it, "home" is much more of an internal psychological state than a geographic location. I still don't know where to find it, though.

I was on a plane back from Poland a little over a year ago, and I was scrolling down through my in-flight movie choices. I elected to watch "Finding Nemo." There's part in the movie where the dad clownfish (I can't remember his name) gets frustrated with Dorie and her memory problems, and decides he wants to continue looking for Nemo on his own. Dorie gets really upset, and stammers something along the lines of, "But you can't leave! You're my friend. I remember things better with you, and when I look at you it feels like home."

I felt like someone had just sucked the wind right out of me, and I burst into tears and put my face in my hands. My friend Alexis was sitting beside me, and the stranger on the other side of her said, "Um, is your friend okay?" Alexis nodded and said, "She just gets very emotional sometimes." I felt ridiculous bawling during this movie about little cartoon fish, but I couldn't help it. I wanted to feel at home, too.

As for putting the cart way the fuck ahead of the horse, my friend said, "Put your cart wherever you want! Fuck it. It's a horse. It'll get there eventually." I enjoyed and appreciated this comment, but it's not always so easy.

Sometimes the horse takes so long to get there that you forget where you were supposed to be going in the first place. And sometimes the horse gets lost or confused and goes in the wrong direction and you have to drag the goddamn cart yourself screaming, "I'm here! I'm over here! Come find me--please, for the love of God, come find me!" And still other times the horse changes its mind and decides, "Fuck the cart. I don't want to be weighed down by that," and you're left with a cart in the middle of some field wondering, "What can I make of this?" Then you make something. There was no horse and you had no other choice.

"Home...is where I want to be. Pick me up and turn me 'round..."

She lifted up her wings
I guess that this must be the place...

In the last couple of days I've been feeling so homesick I can hardly think straight. And by "home" I'm being very broad. Part of me is longing for Richmond, VA, specifically, and most of me is just longing for the east coast, in general. Mostly I'm longing for seasons. I am craving fall.

I'm trying to put my finger on the source of these feelings. I suppose a lot of it has to do with finishing up what I originally came out here for, and for awhile I assumed I would return east immediately. As I've applied for four jobs in San Francisco in the last two days, it's becoming clear (by default if nothing else) that I am making some kind of commitment to staying here at least a little longer. I'm having a little bit of a hard time with that at this particular moment.

It's not like I have anywhere to be. It's not like I'm tied to anyone or anything and my decision would have no impact on anyone but myself.

Yeah. It's not like that at all. [sigh]

One of the organizations I applied to work for has locations in both San Francisco and Boston. I confess to thinking, Oh! A way out... Will I always be this way?

Never-ending math equation

There's lots going on today. In my head (where shit's always going down) and otherwise. A couple things are just things I've been thinking about.

To begin with, I'm getting ready for class tomorrow. Since we only met a few few minutes last Tuesday and canceled class on Thursday, we're hitting it full force tomorrow. It's been awhile since I've had a four hour class and a stack of papers to grade.

I had a student email me today freaking out because she didn't know how to get TWO FULL PAGES out for the paper they have due tomorrow. She said she'd done everything I asked, but just didn't have anything else to say and would I please look at it for her? So I took a look, and told her she'd missed half of the assignment all together. She said, "Oh! Well, I wrote the paper before I read the instructions you gave on the syllabus..."

Sweet Jesus.

As for my thoughts, I've started to get a serious glimmer in the back of my mind about moving.

If you've read even a tiny bit of my writing before, you already know a lot about me in this respect: I've never really felt like I was where I belonged and I'm always restless. I've always been this way.

I'm the same as I was when I was six years old...

When I was planning to move to Spain I was excited for so many reasons--not the least of which was fulfilling a life-long dream--but also because I felt like I'd come back with a whole new perspective on "home." Since then I've felt pretty stuck, partly because I haven't been able to think of anything that captivated me as much. But I've always wanted to live in New England, and I think I'd really like living in Boston. I'm not saying I'm leaving right now or anything. I'm just starting to think a little more seriously about it.

Maybe I'm crazy. I know that I'm crazy. Maybe I'm shooting myself in the foot by moving before I have the chance to feel really rooted to a place. But I'm looking, looking. I hope I know when I find it.

Where do you move when what you're moving from is yourself?

Also, I think I'm scrapping the whole dating thing. I don't think I have what it takes, and I don't think I can bear to be so disappointed again. After my most recent experiences--when I felt so incredibly good about the whole thing and so surprisingly optimistic--well, I just don't trust my instincts in this area. It makes me sad to say that, because I feel like I have much to give from this part of myself, but...well, anyway.

...Well, I know what I have and want but I don't know what I need...

[blah blah blah]

I am multi-tasking at this moment. Laundry, dishes, open suitcase only 10% filled, phone calls and emails in the process of being returned...

But I needed to write for a few minutes. About big things and little things, but mostly about nothing at all.

On being ready to go:

I find it so funny that I'm never sure whether I want to leave a place or not until I've decided to go. I've been this way about Shepherdstown, WV, Richmond, VA, and now am in the process of it with San Francisco. I can think and ponder and wonder and weigh my options but, suddenly, when I've decided, I've DECIDED. I'm ready to move (literally and figuratively). I guess I'm this way with lots of things in my life--things that I have to think about or work on (papers for school, work, or more creative tasks), and decisions about whether to say something to a particular person or whether to take a particular action.

The annoying part is that once I've made my decision I can't stand to wait around or be delayed. It's agony. How do I get through this?

On my increasing annoyance with my cell phone:

I talk to friends and family a lot, but I'm coming to hate my phone more and more. Perhaps I should clarify: what I'm coming to hate, in particular, is voicemail. I love to call people and call them from all over the place: from under the covers in my bed, while sitting on the beach trying to talk over the wind, while wandering aimlessly around my neighborhood during a period of angst, from the bathtub, from parking lots, while riding on the bus, while sitting in the dark in my backyard, and while sitting at a bar. I often leave babbling and incoherent messages (e.g., Thanksgiving Day). But I hate checking my voicemail! It's like this snowball that keeps rolling down a hill and getting bigger and bigger.

It usually starts like this: I've missed three calls from my mom. I don't bother to listen to her messages because, 1) she says the same damn thing every single time with varying levels of annoyance in her voice depending on how many calls I've missed ("Amie, this is your mother. [insert my eye-rolling here, because there is no doubt about whose voice this is] I was just calling to chat with you but I guess you're not home. I'm at the Legion right now. Call me back if you get a chance, ok?", and 2) not only does she leave the same message every time she calls but she leaves an actual message every time she calls. I don't think she's ever hung up on a voicemail or answering machine in her life; I keep hoping she'll magically start. So I see that she's called three times, skip the messages, and go straight to calling her back.

Later I miss a call from a friend. I know he or she has left a message, but I know that I have to skip through my mom's three messages before listening to it, so--again--I bypass the messages altogether and call the friend back. Said friend always finds it rather offensive and/or surprising that I didn't bother to listen to the message. I'm not sure why given that this has been going on for years.

Anyway, this progresses and progresses until I get a message from someone that I actually NEED to listen to. Then I have to go through the other 25 new messages before getting to that one. Any pleasure I might have gotten from the silly messages from my friends is greatly diluted. And just when I feel relieved that I've finally gotten through them all, it starts all over again.

I won't even describe my irritation with the student that has called me at least twice a week every week since the second week of class. He was abusing this so much that I completely stopped returning his phone calls or acknowledging receipt of his messages. If he asks me in class, "Did you get my message?" I say, "I didn't listen to it. Send me an email next time."

This may be the most boring blog ever written.

We writhe and we burn, and not a head turns. Does anyone see this but me?

On the day that I left Richmond for good to head to San Francisco, I was exhausted.

The previous two weeks had been a non-stop series of good-bye parties and activities with friends and co-workers. There was a lot of, "Let's do this one more time..." I was still teaching a class up until a couple days before I left. I knew that I was severely neglecting my packing, but spending time with those that I was leaving behind was more important to me. It meant that I pretty much packed up, donated, and/or threw away everything in my entire apartment in three days, but it was worth it.

After slamming the door of the moving truck for the last time, I climbed in the driver's seat of the car, resigned to begin what would be a multi-day journey. Chris was feeling emotional, and he looked at me incredulously and said, "I can't believe you're not more upset about this." (Usually I had enough emotion for several people bubbling out of me constantly.)

He was wrong, though. On that late afternoon in the summertime in front of 3333 W. Grace Street, the emotions were so intense they were about to boil over. My grief at leaving the best friends I had known to that point, the city that had come to be my home, and the place I came into myself; my intense fear of what was to come and whether I'd make it; my desire to go, move, and change--the only way I could keep my shit together to be able to drive down the street was to put a heavy lid on it for the time being.

I told him, "Please. I can't. I just can't or I'll never be able to leave."

Then I turned the car on, checked on the birds one last time before starting out, clicked the cd player on, and drove down the street and out of town. I didn't look back once. I couldn't, or I would never have gotten anywhere.

All the lives I'm not living

Alternative title: Stay/go, yes/no (I don't know)

Sometimes I am so tired of thinking about all the lives I'm NOT living, all the things I'm not doing. I want to feel like absolutely anything is a possibility.

I used to price apartments in other cities--Paris, Vienna, Barcelona--and try to imagine myself there. (How would I feel waking up with a view of the Eiffel Tower? Would it change the way I buy groceries? Would showering feel any different?) Once someone said to me, "Why do you do that? You're never going to live in those places." It crushed me. Maybe I really won't live in those places. It's not like I speak the language or have any job prospects there. But I want to feel like it's a possibility.

This contrasts with my strong urges to have roots and security--to have people who depend on me and whose day is not complete unless I am in it. There are no people like that and it's a very lonely realization.

My family would be happy if I moved back to WV and married a man who goes deer hunting and drives a big truck and has dirty fingernails and who can talk about things like carburetors and horsepower. We could have children who wear grubby, stained t-shirts and a house that needs a new roof if we could only stop living paycheck to paycheck. My husband would change the oil in our old minivan himself.

Oh my God.

To liberally borrow from a Tom Waits' song I heard for the first time recently, I packed up all my expectations and moved out to California. It turned out that I was better at starting over than I thought I would be. I've never known what I would be doing after June 30, 2008 when my fellowship ends. At first I was so homesick I was sure I would go back to the east coast afterward, but now I'm not so sure. I like San Francisco. But will I ever have anything here? I don't know. Would Portland or Seattle or Philadelphia be any different? I don't know that either.

I guess I've just always wanted to feel like I was somewhere I belonged. I had it for a brief time in Richmond, and I'm not sure how to find it again. ("I know I'm at my house, but I wish that I were at home...")

I do know that I need to get out of the mindset of waiting for my life to begin. It's here. It's now. It's underway.