Colly Strings

The night my grandfather died I was visiting some friends of my uncle's at their little house in south Memphis.  I don't remember their names, but they had a parrot that thought it was hilarious to bite me and some plastic horses that I generally ended up commandeering because I was five.  Everyone else got uproariously drunk when we visited, I played with plastic horses.  This described about 3/4 of my weekends for a while.

That evening we were all in the living room and one of the other guests said, "I want to play the guitar!  Go get yours."  So the lady of the house did, and the friend tried to recall how to play.  I remember her futzing around with it and eventually slicing the tip of her finger on the high e string.  She didn't notice at first, but blood ran everywhere - probably due at least in part to alcohol being a thinning agent.  It ran down the strings and her wrist and stained the cuff of her light blue shirt before she realized.  I felt woozy and confused because the adults were simply shrugging it off and saying things like "yeah, that happens if you don't play for a while."  


I thought: ADULTS ARE WEIRD.  I'M NEVER PLAYING THE GUITAR.  I MIGHT NOT EVER GROW UP.

And then the phone call came in and my dad was crying and I had never seen a man cry before and I was totally freaking out but no one would tell me what was going on and Guitar Friend was bleeding through the kleenex she'd wrapped around her finger while she was trying to clumsily comfort me (even though I had no idea what she was trying to comfort me about) and my mom was nowhere to be found.  It was a mess.  I don't remember being told about my grandfather's passing.  I don't remember much else, just the woman playing guitar with blood running down the palm of her hand and being utterly convinced that I was the only sane one in the room at all given points.

This is what I think about every time I pick up a guitar.  It's probably why I keep putting them down immediately afterward.

Not this time, though.  This time I am going to learn to play the damned thing, even if it does lead to blood and chaos.

(Let's be honest: it'd hardly be the first thing I've done in my life that led to blood and chaos.)

Chicago

Today I bought myself a birthday present!

Firstly, I bought myself some tickets to Chicago so that I can see my favoritest favorite and hopefully Jenn and Rae as well.  Oh, and the pizza.  I would like to see a lot of the pizza, please.

Secondly, I bought myself a ticket to Lollapalooza on that Friday.  What an amazing lineup!  Black Keys, Black Sabbath, Band of Skulls, Metric... it's basically my iPod live.  And I want to catch at least part of Die Antwoord's set, because I imagine that their stage show is interesting.

Also?  Something crossed off of my list.

I am endlessly amused that the girl who got on an airplane for the first time when she was 27 is now looking at her frequent flyer miles and planning her fourth trip in 8 months.  Of course, I'm endlessly amused about a lot of things these days.  The college and the bank account and the workout routine and the art studio in my bedroom and the parties and the friends...

Me five years ago would be completely baffled by me now, should we meet through some TARDIS-related accident.  She would totally want to buy me a drink, though.

Rootless

I love airports so much sometimes.  I mean, I could do without the TSA and the liquids in a bag and the shoes coming off and the surprise radiation and all, but other than that airports tend to be a giant amalgamation of things that I like: travel, adventure, and people watching.

Yesterday, as I waited for the illustrious Sooj to come get me from the Denver airport, I sat in the food court above the section where all the people anxiously wait to welcome their travelers.  As I ate my (extremely greasy and entirely ill-advised) pizza, I watched each wave of people coming up the escalators, greeting and being greeted by the people behind the barrier.  My unabashed observation was, in turn, being observed by a gentleman across the way.  I paid him no mind, lost in the narrative of other people's lives unfolding before me.  It was good balm for a soul wounded by rough goodbyes.

Families met and hugged their hellos, parents and college students mostly.  There were a few business-like handshakes between what I'm assuming were coworkers or maybe just non-demonstrative relatives.  Some people held signs with "Welcome home!" written on them, others brought flowers or stuffed animals.

There were the couples, of course, most of them all but running to meet each other at the end of the barrier, catching one another in a near tackle.  Some were more sedate than others, settling for a good hug and maybe a chaste kiss before walking off hand in hand.  Others dove face-first into each other, luggage dropped and all but forgotten for however long the embrace lasted.  Oh, I missed you.  

A pretty college girl couldn't contain her happy dance, bouncing from one foot to the other and wriggling like an excited puppy.  I almost laughed out loud, because I'm sure that's what I looked like all day Friday.  I would have guessed that she was meeting a lover, but instead she ran to hug a girl at the top of the escalator - despite the Do Not Enter sign - and they squealed the universal best-friend squeal of excitement as they jumped up and down mid-hug.  They walked away talking a mile a minute, gesturing wildly with their hands.

Five minutes later a little boy ran around the barrier, then kicked up on his heelies to roll the last few feet to embrace his slightly embarrassed older brother.  Little brother was followed by Mom, who did not care even a little that her gangly teenage son was hugely uncomfortable in her bear hug.  He was relieved to grab the majority of the bags as an excuse to escape any more affection.

Then an older woman strode quickly up to her husband, who had spent the past twenty minutes nervously patting at his gelled hair like he wasn't used to it and was hoping it looked ok.  They didn't hug or kiss like the other couples, but they held each other's hands tightly while saying their hellos.  They stood still, never taking their eyes off of one another for what seemed like an eternity, love and relief at being together again obvious from a several yards away and a story up.  Finally, she gave him a sly smile that clearly said, Take me home.  He grabbed her suitcase and ushered her toward the door, trance broken.

There was a man in a bright orange shirt and black vest clutching a little bunch of red flowers in paper. He was there when I got off of my plane, pacing along the rail, going to sit on the bench, going back to the rail to pace.  I assumed that he was meeting a love, someone he hadn't seen in a long time.  He was nervous, checking his watch every few minutes, pretending to study various artwork, pacing again.  I decided to wait it out, see how the man or woman in question was going to react to his flowers and obvious affection.  I hoped that he wouldn't get all stoic once he saw them, suddenly embarrassed by his emotions.

When the next wave of people came up the stairs I got distracted by the cutest little girl in a pink shirt and pigtails shrieking "Daddy!" so loudly that I heard it over my headphones.  I watched her bolt and run as fast as her tiny legs would take her (she couldn't have even been kindergarten aged yet) from her mother's side and around the rail.  She ran right up to... the man in the orange shirt, flinging her arms around his legs with her face upturned.  He knelt down so he was closer to her level and handed her the little bouquet of flowers.  Then he scooped her up and hugged her close to his chest, laughing at something she'd said.  Definitely no stoicism there.  His wife came up and put her arm around his waist, stealing a kiss even as the little girl continued whatever story she was telling with wide eyes and expansive hand motions, coming dangerously close to smacking them both in the face with the flowers she wielded in her fist.

I was pretty sure that I would die of it if things got any cuter or sweeter, so I discarded the rest of my pizza and soda in the trash before wandering off to find a nice, secluded spot just off of the baggage area to check my phone.  I didn't realize how much being stared at by the man in the food court had bothered me until I was out of his line of vision.  I chatted with Mike about clock spiders and cupcakes, and then I caught my ride back to the house.  Sooj had just kissed her boy goodbye for two weeks.  We did the fist-bump of sad solidarity on our way out of the airport garage.

The sun was out and the mountains were beautiful, still a little snowcapped and wrapped in a blue haze.  I saw them but they didn't resonate at all.  It was as though they were a picture in a book, very pretty but ultimately not a part of my reality.  My spirit is somewhere else, curled up and sleeping soundly, staunchly refusing to go along with my "be strong" agenda.  It will have none of my dry-eyed warrior princess act, none of my big girl pants, thank you very much.  It has taken to bed with the vapors.  I wonder if it will find its way home or if I'll have to go retrieve it.

Either way, I imagine that there will be happy squeals and bouncing when we are reunited.  Maybe I'll buy myself flowers.

Sin

I stopped at the salad shop in the middle of the business district because I was dying of starvation.  The boy behind the counter (with his dress-code baseball cap cocked just so) asked if I wanted any chicken in my salad.

"No thank you," I said.  "I'm a vegetarian."

He nodded and went to work on my food, while I stood in bafflement.  I'm a vegetarian?  The hell I am.  Why did I say that?  In my consternation I blushed and bit my lip.  He took it as a sign that I was flirting with him and paid me extra attention while I ate.  Fine karma for my sin, there.

Now, I am not above lying.  I do it every time I go downtown or to the clubs.  "No, I don't have a dollar." "I'm from out of town, can't help!" "My boyfriend would be so mad if I danced with you!"  "I'm a felon, voting rights revoked."  I tell people these things because I know if I'm honest they will follow me around and pester me, and I do not have the time for their nonsense.

The poor salad guy, though, he didn't deserve my sudden and inexplicable dishonesty.  Maybe it was acting out from being a responsible adult all day and telling people the truth:

See, I was married, but now I'm not, so this is why I'm suddenly broke.  See, I didn't actually have any W2's last year.  Yeah, so, I still live in the house, but it isn't in my name at all, and I pay rent but not as much as the mortgage because he still lives there, too.  Yeah, I took out those loans and I'm an art major.

I know what I look like to these people, and maybe that's exactly what I am.  I am well past the point of caring, however.  There are things I need to do, and I just need everyone to either help or get out of my way so I can continue doing them.  It is tiring to constantly have to explain myself, over and over, to a million different people.

While I ate (under the watchful eye of the salad maker, who swooped in to refill my soda and offer me vegetarian cookies for dessert), I decided that it wasn't entirely an untruth.  Today I feel like being vegetarian.  I will probably change my mind tomorrow.  Instead of looking at the whole of me and labeling myself that way, I chose to take who I was that second and use that label instead.

I let the Pisces in my life take credit for my amazing rationalization skills.

That made me think of the boy that I met at the bar last weekend when I went to see Kenny play.  He came over to flirt, but he was very high and I was very sober.  He complimented me on my hair, and told me he felt a kinship with me because we were both so fair that we were practically glowing in the gloom of the bar.  We compared "tans" by holding our arms together, his skin only half a shade darker than my own.

"I've worked construction for five years," he said.  "This is all the tan I managed to get!"

I doubted him immediately because he was not only very fair, but also very pretty and soft-looking.  His hands weren't calloused, he showed no evidence of a fading sunburn, his lips weren't chapped, his build was slight, his hair was gelled.  I know a few construction workers, and none of them look like him.

Later he said, "I work at this restaurant on Chatfield, if you take a jog around the lake you'll see us.  We serve a lot of healthy food."

Less than a minute later he was saying, "I work for an off-site growing facility.  I have been trained by a guy who understands the science of it, see, and I'm one of eight people in the entire world who know how to grow it the way he does.  I could show you if you want to come?"

I sent him a silent apology for labeling him a liar.  Maybe he was just representing himself as all of his various selves at once, one assumes because of over-consumption of his own wares.  Maybe he did some light residential construction work, maybe he picked up a few hours at a restaurant, maybe he works part time at the grow.  He could be all of those things.

Or he could be like Anais Nin's Sabina, all allegory and myth.  Who am I to judge?  Apparently I suddenly become vegetarian in the face of giant salads.

Maybe I was worried that it would become the Salad of Doom and disapprove if I admitted to just not wanting chicken today.

The List

I am terrible at planning, at deciding, and at setting goals.   Every concrete, definitive answer feels like a shackle, limiting my mobility.  What if I decide on this restaurant but everyone has a terrible experience?  What if I plan this trip but then I get sick?  What if I set this goal and then I don't meet it or change my mind about it?  It's just so much easier to allow other people to decide, to allow things to happen randomly, to just duck or grab each opportunity as it presents itself.

I'd say that this is very zen, except that it's not coming from a place of oneness with the Universe and acceptance of all possibilities, it's coming from a place of cowardice.  If I didn't make the call, if I didn't set out to do this, then I am not culpable when bad things happen!  Which is - not to sound uncouth - total bullshit.

In my quest to at least attempt to be more in control of my life, I sat down and wrote out my goals.  This didn't come easily to me at all.  In fact, I'd been trying to do it since February, when Mike and I had a conversation about how things are more easily achieved when one writes them down.  It did finally happen, though, and now I am fully prepared for the question, "What is your five-year plan?"

Ok, being honest here... that's not actually the sort of thing people ask me.  People ask me, "How did you get your hair that color?" or "Where have you been these past six months?" or "What the hell are you ON?"  Everyone assumes that my future plans are the same as my present plans: have hilarious adventures, roll with the punches, try to avoid arson charges.  I do rather like this state of being, it is true.  Hopefully having goals will not interfere with it too badly.  (And also, I do not have money for bail if I catch it with the arson charges.)

All of that was a giant lead-in to basically say that one of my immediate goals was make up a quasi-bucket list.  Yes, one of the things that I decided to put on my list of things to achieve was a list of things to achieve.  Meta, right?  But bucket lists are generally a set list of things you feel like you have to do before you die, so my bucket list is easy:

1. Everything ever.

I am not known for moderation!  So instead of trying to do everything all at once (which will lead to me doing nothing because where do you start with everything?) I decided to pick 10 random things that I really want to do, then work on crossing them off.  Once I scratch one thing off, I can replace it with something new.

I don't consider any of the following "goals," because they don't have a set date of completion.  These are just things that I would be really, really disappointed to shuffle off of this mortal coil before doing.  In no particular order I want to:

1. Visit Rome, specifically the Pantheon.
2. Learn some sort of partnered dancing.
3. Visit all 50 states.  (I hope to spend more time in Hawaii or California than, say, Idaho, though.)
4. Eat at one of these restaurants.  (Maybe not the one in Denmark... I don't care that it's #1, I've heard things about Danish food!)
5. Learn a martial art.  
6. Go out to sea.
7. Get my tarot cards read in Jackson Square.
8. Snowboard.
9. Attend a large music festival. (Lollapalooza, Bonnaroo, Cochella, etc.)
10. Hike a 14er.

It's a pretty good start, I think.  Once I manage to completely replace everything on this original list, then I will probably go on and say with some confidence that my life is 100% more awesome than it was when I made the list.  Which is an astronomical amount of awesome for one life.

I am tempted to go start working toward crossing things off, but it is 4am.  There should be more adventures to be had in the wee hours of the morning, really.

Go

It occurs to me that I only feel like myself when I'm in motion.

This realization hit me as I was waiting on the train this afternoon, relieved to finally be getting on it and heading north.  The idea of being on the train was comforting, calming - like being home after an extended trip.  I felt like I could spread out, be myself, take up the space that I know so well.  It was, all in all, a weird set of emotions for public transportation to trigger.

But I suppose that is how I've spent the last... however long.  I've been constantly moving.  My stride has eaten up miles and miles of sidewalk; black stompy boots beneath me strolling through the heat to the bus station, running through the snow to catch a train, walking in circles at midnight because I have nowhere else to be.  When my feet aren't enough, I take buses, trains, planes to where I'm headed - class, the club, the bar, the show, my lover's bed, my sister's aid - and then back again or further on.

Sometimes I rest, obviously.  I'll sink down and settle in for a couple of hours, a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks.  I'll cautiously start to relax, let myself become part of this space for the present.  I'll pull things out of my backpack or sprawl in the booth or fix myself a drink or possibly even do some laundry and hang my underthings up to dry.  But there's always something, some end, that sends me on my way.  The pistol-crack of the last call or the morning light or the return flight sends the stern message: Not yours.  Go.


And so I pack up, finding all my things and slipping them into my bag where they stay.  ("You really do live out of your bag, don't you?" my sister said in wonder as I pulled out deodorant, a toothbrush, a phone charger, and some assorted cosmetics one night during an unexpected slumber party.)  Then I go, out the door, up the street, on to the next adventure.

I spent the train ride back from class looking out the window and pondering what would happen to me in the future.  At some point my life will lend itself to stillness, right?  I won't always be zipping between a bunch of temporary landing spots like some sort of homeless hummingbird.  At some point I will have someplace that is "home base" instead just another stop in an endless litany of places that are not mine.

By that time, though, will I remember how to be still?