True story.

They pulled up to the foot of our driveway, and he spilled out of the passenger seat, gripping our mailbox to gain some traction; but still losing his footing on the slushy ice at the base. He picked himself up, brushed pointlessly at his soaked pant leg, and made his way to our front porch. It was about 10:00 a.m. and he was totally shitfaced. I greeted him at the door, and he grabbed me in a rough side hug, squeezing hard while getting a good feel of my flesh beneath my shirt. He spun me toward my husband, pointed at my breasts and said, “Can you believe the rack on this woman?!”

::silence::

They left on their winter camping trip, and, aside from the stories thrown around after they returned, we didn’t hear of him for several years.

He rose again after getting sober and proposing to the woman who did her best to stand by him through most of those tumultuous years.

Not long after their wedding, he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. It started in his lungs, through the obvious cause, and spread undetected until there was no possibility of reversal. Treatment prolonged his original prognosis of twelve months, though it robbed him of his rockstar blond locks that brushed at the small of his back, and turned him grayish and puffy and stark-eyed.

We visited him in hospice several weeks ago. Somehow he seemed to have more life than we had seen in him in some time, and we questioned quietly among ourselves if this was really it. He talked about a project he wanted to collaborate with us on when he got out, and again, we eyed one another, silently asking, “Does he know where he is?” He did or he didn’t.    

Epilogue:
Is this the best story I could have told about our friend? No. But it is the most memorable for me. This was the moment of his plummet; but somehow he made it back to the surface. Only to be taken down again. Not sure what I mean to say by this. Except that he was at times a total wreck, and other times just a mischievous rebel. He was a good guy and he will be missed.

Oh well.

I gave up being an artist;

but found it was something I missed.

I picked it back up;

it turns out I suck.

I might cross this one off of my list!

 

The year of living obligatorily.

At the start of 2012, long before I knew I was going to <need to> be taking on this writing challenge, I made a decision to shake up my life a little. It was in the middle of winter, and I was coming home every night from work with very little going on and even less to occupy or engage my mind. Rather than basking in all this potential for productivity, I became paralyzed by the fact that almost nothing truly needed my attention. Besides the couch, the bathtub, and the view outside my living room window.     

So, I signed up for an online non-fiction writing course that lasted six weeks, and, as that tapered off, I started a 12-week effective communications class. As this was happening, I upped the frequency of my evening & weekend boot camp and belly dancing classes, while adding a hoop dance fusion workshop and a couple of extra of hooping sessions into the weekly mix. I had to postpone the remainder of those because I forgot I’d enrolled in an oil painting class at the local art & design college that was on the same night at the same time. In the midst of all this, I rediscovered my trumpet that I played in high school with the future vision that I would take lessons, instantly regain my teenage talent, and put an ad on Craigslist to invite musicians to join my gypsy band. 

As if that doesn’t sound maniacal enough, I will be starting an Arabic language class in a few weeks in preparation for my trip to Dubai in November. Those who have heard me mention/complain casually that I think I might be a little over-committed are probably casually thinking about punching me in the face right now.

In the back of my mind, I hoped that any or all of these might lead to some interesting writing topics. Too bad I have so much to do... 

This could get uncomfortable.

A few days ago, I made a commitment to write a post for this blog every day for a year—a desperate attempt to force my desire to write out of the incredibly good hiding space it had found in my subconscious. I thought about it for several days before I decided to announce it; then I gave myself a one-day stay of execution so I could absorb the weight of this mighty big obligation. 

Though it was certainly my intention, I wasn't really expecting it when all of those ideas that had evaded me for months began to show themselves. One, a continuation of yesterday’s post in which I explore what it means to live with gratitude while still striving for self actualization—without forgetting that all of my problems (and aspirations) are first world, as they say. Another, about the moment in 1989 when I found my people and started on a path that eventually gave me the freedom to be me; a path that continues to surprise and affect me to this day. And there are more.

But I realize that all of these are deep thoughts that merit consideration and not the disservice of a rush job because of what I promised myself. I also know that I will not always (or even often) have some earth shattering observation to share. Nor do I necessarily want to. I will not achieve perfection every time or possibly any time. I will have to get in touch with the foreign concept of brevity. And it's inevitable that someday I will write something stupid and have to hit publish because it's 11:59. And this will all be fine because I will be writing something.

I'm definitely curious to see where this goes; where I go. But, right now, I'm going to stick a fork in this one and call it done. It seems I've been saved by a more pressing concern, which is that I have three cats and one of them is a total jerk:

Don't be surprised if someday I tell you about it. 

Let it be.

I negotiated myself out of bed really early yesterday morning with the goal of beating the Saturday rush at the farmers’ market. That painful struggle from feet under the covers to feet on the floor was well worth it when I got to pull away from the market parking lot just in time to watch it start to crowd up through my rearview mirror. 

Going early not only avoids the madness of baskets and bicycles and baby strollers (and human strollers who seem to have no mission except to block those of us who do); but it also ensures the freshest picks. Like these: 

I brought them into the house and started to prep a vase when I noticed a tiny honeybee scavenging in one of the blooms. I rushed out to the patio, gave the bee a little puff for incentive, and just as it flew away, a massive bumble bee so bulbous it seemed to barely be able to combobulate itself rushed at my bouquet with surprising determination. It startled the hell out of me; but I managed to safely swat it away and hurry back to the calm of my kitchen.

I’m not really one to ignore when a living metaphor comes at me like that, so seemingly set on sending me a message. I pondered its meaning and concluded this: don’t be quick to make drastic changes when faced with only a minor problem; you could trade it for a much bigger one. 

Isn’t it Erotic?

On Valentine’s Day in 1991, I was hopelessly single and alone in the house I shared with two roommates. I was upstairs in my bedroom, probably commiserating with the lonely, empty pages of my journal when the phone rang. I picked it up, and the voice on the other end said, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” It was a friendly voice; maybe even a little inviting. But definitely not one I’d ever heard before. 

I asked who it was; but he wouldn’t tell. He convinced me to stay on the line and talk, and having no good reason not to, I did. For a bit anyway, before I started to feel…weird. I didn’t know if I knew him from school or if he had dialed me at random and was lucky enough not to reach a grandma, or a pizza delivery service, or an answering machine. Maybe, considering my solitary state, I was being a bit too discretionary. Nonetheless, I let him down kindly and hung up.  

Hmmm…just a random memory from years ago that pops into my mind, not surprisingly, at this time of year.

These days, at this time of year, I would have just returned from The Dirty Show in Detroit, an annual erotic art exhibition that you may remember me writing about in Shoe Stalking. Except last year I left the show disappointingly un-bewitched, un-bothered, and un-bewildered. You might think it impossible to be bored when that much bare human anatomy is inches away from your face; but I was.

So, this year, I let it come and go without even the raise of an eyebrow.

Well, maybe a slight arch. I still have urges. But the temptation to go, I remind myself, is because I am thinking of it in the way that I want it to be; not in the way that it is. I want it to be truly erotic, and if I were to take an easy out, I’d argue the difference by simply saying, “I know it when I see it.”

But I don’t like easy. I want to think about what is it that makes me know it. And this is what I know...

Erotic is suggestive. It is blades of grass still stuck to a naked body that has just rolled over after being…photographed. I wonder about this body. I fantasize about what might have happened on that lawn. My mind wanders.

Erotic is also imperfect. It is not particularly groomed. Or sculpted. Or symmetrical. And definitely not filtered. It says, “I am vulnerable because I am real.” And this vulnerability is what draws me in.

And, erotic is subtle. It is a whisper that shakes the ground I'm standing on. A peek. A flash. A tease. It lets my imagination complete the picture.

That’s what I like.

Conrad Roset does erotic so well. And I LOVE him for it!

 

Walk this Way

Living at the top of a hill with kitchen windows that open to the east, I am met some winter mornings with a spectacular sunrise breaking over the horizon. My reaction is always the same: I drop what I’m doing (usually pouring a cup of coffee) and try to run for my camera. Depending on my stage of dress, I weigh the possibility of missing it altogether while I gather what I need to venture out into the cold to digitally preserve it. I usually give it a try anyway, though; but it seems no matter how quickly I can respond—even if the sky is still bursting in full splendor when I return—the photo never comes close to matching what I’ve seen through my own two lenses.

Last Friday was one of those days. And I almost did what I always do, until I thought about all those disappointing, unworthy, lifeless shots. Like these:

Remarkably unremarkable-looking West Michigan sunrise.

Jet trails offsetting a full moon. Much better in person.

Actually taken while driving in Pennsylvania. So much wrong with this picture.

So, I sat down, opened the curtains, and settled in. I actually sipped my coffee, rather than throwing it at my face before I rushed out the door. And I soaked up each streak of pink, red, and orange until they fattened and stretched and finally scattered into nothing.

After that, I started giving second thoughts to all the times that I’ve spent focusing on the camera settings, taking shot after shot to get the perfect documentation of my experience. And then not experiencing it at all. 

Sure, we all know that we’re supposed to live in the moment. Even as I write this, I cringe at the prosaic simplicity of what I’m saying. But, the truth is, we don’t live by this truth. So, this was a real lesson that came to me on my terms, though many years late.

You can capture a butterfly in a jar; but you take away from it what makes it beautiful: its movement. And you can capture static moments in time; but you steal from yourself the opportunity to savor every bit they have to show you.