Collision Course

"Sometimes we're on a collision course, and we just don't know it. Whether it's by accident or design, there's not a thing we can do about it." - The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Sunday I slept in until 10 a.m. I would be traveling home to KC. I needed to pack, take care of some housekeeping and errands, and see my family and some friends before taking off.  I planned to leave at 5 p.m., 6 the latest.

Packing went surprisingly quickly. The errands didn't take long: went to Target for an overdue graduation card and browsed the clothes section for a few minutes, bought some supplies for mom at the ABC, later purchased crickets for my gecko. Cleaning wasn't too overwhelming. My visits took a little longer than planned but where enjoyable nonetheless. I was about to head to Highway 2 when I realized I forgot spray paint and frisket paper for my bicycle revamping project.

I left Lincoln at 8:09 p.m.

Sunset was beautiful and, having a camera at hand, decided to stop and capture it. My gas light came on close to Nebraska City. I stopped for gas at the cluster of stations right before I-29. I pressed "yes" for the receipt but the machine never spit it out.

Mile or mile and a half into I-29 South I decided to fiddle with the radio and looked down at the dial. A split second later I looked up to see a deer coming from my left, followed by a loud "thump" and the force of intersecting momentums. All in a few seconds.

I drove a quarter or half mile in a suspended-animation state of disbelief before stopping to inspect the damage. My door wouldn't open very much. I squeezed through and found the handle broken and door dented, along with the front left side. Force destroyed the headlight, but it still functioned. The impact screwed up my axle and suspension. A bit of blood was smeared on the hood and slobber still covered my eye-level portion of the windshield.

Still slightly dazed, I called mom. In a rather calm tone I told her what happened. As I spoke with her, I casually tugged at the bottom of my shirt and felt something sticky. What the...  Looking down, I found hair and pieces of Bambi's relative on my "Save Our Forests" shirt.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. "Mom, some of the deer on me."

"What?"

"Bits of the deer are on my shirt."

I hung up and tried to open my door to squeeze back in. That's when I saw where the blood had come from. Little bits of the deer- fur, blood, what I thought to be some flesh- where lightly smeared in the door frame. I rubbed it when I got out. I climbed through the passenger side instead.

Back on the road, half-hour later, a gas stop. I popped my trunk, grabbed my suitcase, found a shirt, marched in the ladies' room and changed out of my slightly bloodied shirt. That's when I found the blood came from a tick, whose home used to be on the deer.

Throughout this whole incident I was calm. It wasn't the "everything-is-peaceful" feeling, but rather a very subdued version of shock. I'm not sure what that is called. Maybe it was because I was OK and I could, would get home.

Before taking off again I called a friend while in the parking lot and related my unfortunately eventful trip. I don't know why I called him. He couldn't do anything for me. Thinking back on it I probably needed to process.

On my own, I wondered if I accidentally set-up my own collision course. If this would've happened had something been different. Had I...
Woken up earlier
Focused on what I needed at Target
Bought the graduation card and crickets before Sunday
Remembered to pack my frisket paper and spray paint
Left on time or even a few minutes before
Not stopped to take a picture of the sunset
Filled up before traveling
Not waited for the gas pump to print a receipt that never came...

I probably would have missed the deer and my car would be fine.

****

Next morning I photographed the evidence of last night's accident. As I clicked away, two guys walked past me and asked if someone had done that. I told them I hit a deer.

"Well, glad you're OK," one noted.

I am too. This affects part of my summer travel plans, but it's OK. My car made it in less than one piece. Ferdie and I are home in one. That's the most important part of this wreck.

In case of another emergency, I would not be able to get out.

I drove it home with one-ish headlight.

Yes. That's blood. And if you look closely, there is deer slobber on the windshield.

Bambi bits.

Ticks clung to my shirt for life.

The Opera Singer Below

The opera singer below

just ended his nightly show.

He's reliving his days,
Through an aria I can't
comprehend.
It's in Italian.
Perhaps in his mind
he's back in New York,
Where he maybe sang
in Carnegie Hall
With hundreds cheering him on.

But I'm just an audience of one.

Landlocked

Address Is Approximate from The Theory on Vimeo.


Sometimes I feel like the little figure in the video: landlocked with an itch to see the world. I could leave but it would be at a high price; I might also not come back for reasons I can't help.

Maybe one day I'll be able to roam the globe. When it comes, I'll send you a postcard.

Nothing Said "I Love You" Like a Mixed CD

Michael shared a post with me from Thought Catalog. Unbeknownst to him, something similar happened my sophomore year of college. I lost a gray 48-CD case during a basketball trip. It was a 14-hour roundtrip, so we would pack up as soon as possible and start the drive home. My CD case was probably left in the stands.

After reading the article, I wondered what became of my fledgling collection. Mom used to refer to it as "la caja del diablo," translated to "the devil's box." I'm trying to remember what was inside but years of repressing my musical tragedy blurred my memory. All I can think of is U2's Achtung Baby, which was just re-released for its 20th anniversary. Thought about getting it but it won't be the same: my copy came from the $1 clearance at Half-Price Books; mom was with me and I thought she might disapprove my secular music purchase. Oh! Fumbling Towards Ecstasy and Surfacing both by Sarah McLachlan were in there too. Damn it, those were good ones. The only other CD identifiers I remember weren't titles at all. Instead, I recall some of the colours, as most of my collection consisted of mixes. Bright yellow, a red, some blue, I think even a bright pink, but all of them gifts from Todd, a former close friend of mine.

Our musical relationship began in high school. Secular music was a no-no in my then conservative household, so when he gave me my first mix my junior year, it was equivalent to contraband... much-welcomed contraband. It included Everclear's "Wonderful", acoustic versions of Bush's "Glycerine" and Fuel's "Shimmer" (love the lyrics to the latter), and the clean version of Radiohead's "Creep" (back then I felt more uncomfortable with the the f-word). Bet you that CD was also in that case.

Music taste may be a personal preference but Todd had a knack for constructing an interesting if not wonderful mix or playlist. I was excited whenever he gave me a CD, as I never knew what was on it. He had one rule: I would have to listen to the whole thing before giving me the playlist. The anticipation of finding out who and what was on it was always frustrating, specially if I was far from a CD player.

Throughout the years the discs piled up and resulted in my now unfortunately lost collection. There was no playlist paper trail so reconstructing my collection was impossible. It wouldn't be the same anyways, as those mixes were creatively crafted for me. I want to know what became of it. Did it become orphaned in lost and found, only to be tossed when its parent didn't claim it? I really hope someone — student, janitor, somebody — picked it up and gave it a home. I wonder what they thought of it as they browsed through the pages and if, like the article author, decided to put on one of those mixes. Maybe they played the yellow CD; must've been a surprise to have Perry Como's "Papa Loves Mambo" and, I believe, Bruce Springsteen's "I'm on Fire" on the same disc.

Todd and I had a fallout our senior year in college. Later we managed to be civil but now we don't keep in touch. It's not until now that I wonder if that was his way of showing affection. I miss those mixed CDs, and maybe that's why.

Peace Has Got to Be in One of These Boxes...

I moved into a new apartment on the 30th of December. Somehow I made it through packing, cleaning and several round-trips up and down stairs thanks to a three-week break and friends and family. 'Twas worth fulfilling my poetic idea of having a new place for the new year.

Now I've hit that tiring stage of unpacking where I realize one very important thing: I have too much stuff. I haven't tallied up the rat-packing damage but confessing I have 52 pairs of shoes alarms me. Something seems so wrong about having so much. I feel like a hoarder and restless. While this realization may put a slight damper on my shiny new ideal from the first paragraph, it also means it's a perfect time to de-clutter. The year still has that brand-new smell, no? 

The more I process, the more a nagging feeling tells me this also applies to people. (Oh, over-thinking mind of mine, when will you rest?) Not in an angry "GO TO HELL, I DON'T NEED YOU!" way, but in a bittersweet awareness that we've simply fulfilled our roles for each other and it's time to move on. Maybe I'm the one in someone's storage or "Give Away" box.

I'll keep rummaging through and purging boxes to try to settle my place and soul. I create attachments easily so this will be challenging. Knowing myself some things will be stored for a possible second chance, others released into the wide world of donations. Perhaps that'll happen with some people too. Whichever I'm letting go of, or if I'm the one being let go, I will remind myself that it will all be OK.

Blogger, We Need to Talk

I miss blogging.

During the past few months I've had a few topics in mind but they never even made it onto a text box. They ranged from the whimsical to the serious to the crazy. Sounds as bipolar as I'm feeling.

Blogging is partially an exercise in confidence. Being vulnerable was once easier for me and this was a good way to practice. Coming back and typing whatever has been a bit difficult. It's getting cold and I don't feel like doing a proverbial thought strip.

Thing is, it would be freeing, even if no one is looking.

Why (I) Write

Writer's block hits and you think, "Oh, I'll write later." Later, later, always later. But later never comes before you realize a million thoughts have passed you by the same way fireflies come and fade into the night.

We write because it's good for our souls. Because, even if you don't like it at first the same way you disliked your mother's vegetable soup, it turned to something you craved in the coldest days. Because sometimes the pen is mightier than the sword and the only thing that will keep thoughts from escaping or devouring you is to take aim and a good swing. Because there are a little million word combinations to unlock our minds so others can take a glimpse at the mysteries we are.

Whatever, wherever, whyever, write. Simply because you are.

I Bumped Into Death at the Farmers Market

While at Farmers Market I walked past a baklava stand on my left and a cluster of people to my right: a man, a woman and a college-age girl. Precisely at that moment the girl, phone pressed to her ear, head slightly down to try to hear better, gasped, "Oh my gosh! My mom just died."

That is one overheard conversation that definitely stands out. I kept walking but turned and watched the next few frames: the girl covering her mouth in shock, her rapid walk/exit from the market and across the creek, the man and woman's concerned expressions, the baklava vendor calling after her (she probably knew them). All this in just slightly surreal seconds.

I reached a different stand near the market exit, bought tomatoes and crossed the creek back to my car. The girl sat on the opposite bank, sobbing, phone still pressed to her ear. The man and woman were there, holding and trying to comfort her.

I tried to not stare as I got closer. I wanted to say something even though I was a stranger with no obligations. But something about being human connects you even when you are not involved or lack the same experience. I also felt a bit like George, the main reaper in "Dead Like Me." I didn't bring death with a touch and Post-It Note but did indirectly "witness" a stranger's death. It's a little disconcerting to casually see death's ripple effect.

What feels even weirder is the privacy of the actual event. It's not like it was an accident at a public place, complete with some chaos, screams and headlines. No. This was a "where" and "what" no one but people directly affected knew about, hinted at only by a brisk walk, a gasp and quiet sobs. I simply was a bystander who randomly peeked into someone's world at an odd place and time.

Yellow Pill vs. Green Pill

So. I've got choices regarding jobs. Quite the turnaround from my last blog. It feels good to have choices but I dislike having to choose in situations like this. Happiness vs. money/benefits is no joke.

Here are my choices. Both of them are, at this time, almost a guarantee.

Job 1: Baker's assistant at UNL. The company caters to frats and sororities and works during the school year. Training starts August 8.

PROS

1) Holidays AND summer vacation

2) It's not minimum wage: $9/hr

3) Enough people interaction to keep me happy but not overwhelmed (hopefully)

4) It deals with food, something near and dear to me

5) Gain/perfect interesting and practical skills

6) It's in town

7) Schedule allows me to continue freelance design

CONS

1) No benefits

2) Not sure how much growing I can do within this job

3) Close but not quite full time

NOTE: I'll have what I need money-wise, despite little wiggle-room. I like taking care of people and this would allow me to do so indirectly. I'm already pretty excited about this; oh, I get three chef coats. :-P

Job 2: Not sure on title but it's for a nutritional supply store. I would take inventory, place and help ship orders, label things.

PROS

1) Definitely not minimum wage: $15/hr

2) Benefits after a few months

3) Full time

4) Easy, as it is a routine

CONS

1) Four employees total

2) I'm in a small warehouse most of the time

3) It's in Syracuse, so one hour roundtrip

4) Sounds monotone, despite having to multitask

5) No growing opportunity

NOTE: I'm not money-driven, but a nice cash flow might allow me to do things that make me happy, such as traveling and going out, maybe even supporting a good cause. But is daily monotony worth it?

This might be a no-brainer. So, why is it so hard?

His Eye is on the Gecko

I called mom earlier today and she gave me some rather unexpected news: Al, the gecko that went AWOL last year, reappeared. He was beneath the boiler in our basement, warm and well-fed on wild crickets. (If you missed this, you can read it here.)

Call it miracle or coincidence, but it's a breath on fresh air as I feel polluted by discouragement. Mom wanted to save the events for my next visit but she felt I need them now: Now that I'm wondering how I'll pay August rent; now that I have been almost two months unemployed; now that I haven't had much freelance going. I have savings (I am trying to not touch that money) but I'm seriously considering returning home.

I don't know where you are with God, or if you even believe in Him, but little things like the above make feel that I will somehow be fine and Someone will take care of me. Maybe not in my beloved Lincoln (I've got to get used to the idea) but fine and in one piece.

I'm still waiting for instructions. For now though, I'll do my best to sit still.

The Beatles Were Right

You can't buy love. Even with cupcakes. Silly me.

The Perfect Job

Some Sunday Morning, Summer 2007:

The sun shines through my large, east window. My hair is in a loose braid and I'm wearing plaid boxers and a college shirt, probably from Project Impact. I'm sitting in front of my oversized computer monitor, PB & J sandwich in my left hand, mouse on the other: Photoshop-ing ink drawings and testing layouts and colour schemes for the Peanut Gallery.

It's late morning and I should look more presentable. But I don't care. I'm in the zone. I'm creating. I'm designing. I'm happy.

That's what my perfect job looks like.

What Do I Want?

I think I've always been tentative to answer for fear of sounding selfish. I tend to put others' needs or wants ahead, admittedly not always self-lessly. The other half of my hesitance is self-consciousness.

Now I have downtime and the urgency to answer that question before taking my text life-step. So far I'm not sure of the answer but there's no wrong or right. I'm even afraid of what those wants are and changes they inevitably bring. (Change and I aren't friends but we've learned to be civil and even neighbourly.)

These are the hardest:

1) I want to not be afraid of wanting.

2) I want to be honest and good to myself.

3) I want to actually follow through with what it is I'm wanting.

Perhaps (and rightfully so) I should answer "Who am I?" first.

I said, "BURR!"

It's probably 40-some degrees right now. Nebraska refuses to hand over Spring. *sigh* I should know better by now. I'll continue to pretend I'm in the Northwest and someone took the pines and mountains.

Low temperatures have me saying two things I normally wouldn't: I'm cold (I don't get cold easily). I maybe, just maybe, need a man.

Schroeder, former history professor, once said, "Everrry gerrrl should have a boyfrrriend to keep herrr warrrm in winterrr." The man is wise beyond his lifetime.

I'll just settle for a cup of coffee for now.

NaPoWriMo Attempt

A friend told me about NaPoWriMo. I Googled it and found a daily prompt site. I'm not really participating but decided to try April 3's response poem suggestion.

Those of you unfamiliar with "The Walrus and the Carpenter" should check it out before reading mine, as well as "Life Was Supposed to Be." (Apologies to Mr. Lewis Carroll for stealing items from the walrus. Joe, thanks for the inspiration.)

"Life is more," The

Wordbender said.

I thought,

"Quite true indeed."

There was a time

I had new shoes,

And on a ship

sail boiling seas,

When our dreams came

from sealing-wax

instead of serving cabbage

to the king.

Forty-two seems far

away in a foggy space

that makes us look

and nothing see,

But the walrus hasn't

Eaten us yet, and

I somehow believe

pigs do have wings

Ciao, Bella

Months ago (around this time last year, actually) my counselor asked if I was thankful for what I had learned through a situation. Tonight, the question returns.

Someone who was close to me and I had a tete a tete. We hadn't connected in months. As our friendship deteriorated, things grew into a type of stalemate. I backed off because I have seen her ability to let go. Dare say it's impressive and slightly enviable. She stayed away because she had seen and feared the emotional roller coaster attached to fixing my relationships. Admittedly I don't blame her. Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn, but hell has never met me.

However, she said she was proud of me: at gatherings I seemed more confident and better at connecting. No longer did I place my self-worth on other people. Ironically, I'm proud of her too. She got into a relationship, an idea that terrified her; she made commitments to staying in one place, to a job, and her latest, to a fiance. She dove in, she didn't drown, and I'm proud.

Back to the question: am I thankful? In time I will be, I'm sure. Thing is, I really wish I was emotionally connected instead of detached. We each paid for what we learned. On my side of the coin, I think it was a lousy price to pay.

Today goes to show that...

1) Lincoln is bigger than you think

2) It's not always the doctor you want; sometimes it's the receptionist

3) Missing cell phones are to communication as trolls are to bridges

4) Sometimes you do need a GPS

5) The events you couldn't wait for are the ones you sometimes miss

6) People can change

7) Life is full of irony

I Wish for More Than Prayer

Earlier today I received a text from Mami. She said Abuelita called to tell her Abuelito fell, broke his femur, and will be having surgery soon, perhaps tomorrow. His accident happened about eight days ago; he's been in the hospital but hasn't been faring too well.

If in my shoes, some of you might call or visit. The latter would be my ideal, but I can't. You see, my extended family lives in Mexico and I haven't seen them in 19 years this coming June (due to circumstances I can't help).

It's like I'm tied to a parallel universe I remember but haven't experienced in years. I know there's a bond, and I "go back" when I get a chance to communicate with them; I just don't know how strong it still is despite time and space until something like my Abuelito's fall happens. That's when I realize I'm somewhere else and can't do much of anything no matter how secure my ties are. All I can really do is pray and hope for the better, but I wish for more.

"We Were Emergencies"

Poetry is something I need to have spoon-fed to me. So, while I won't take credit for finding this one, I definitely want to share.

"We Were Emergencies" by Buddy Wakefield

A poet
can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.
But tonight let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows
lookin' like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth's way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight, Poets, let's turn our wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can't get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts
and repeat after me with your heart:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I'm new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.

If my heart really broke every time I fell from love
I'd be able to offer you confetti by now
but hearts don't break, y'all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9-1-1.
Tell them I'm havin' a fantastic time.

Bob Dylan. The man is a legend. The music is unique. The hair is epic.

Betcha he could roll out of bed and still look like the rock star he is. What else could you want hair-style-wise?

I want hair like Bob Dylan's.