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.

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.

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.

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

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.

"I KNOW you have a heart."

Yesterday I got my heart scanned. One of my friends, Walter, is studying to be a... cardio-something. Basically he'll be looking at hearts for a living and his skills labs include scanning hearts. Being a sucker for simple and new experiences I volunteered to be one of his "patients." That's how I wound up in a hospital-like bed and gown.

The first part called for a top view of my heart. I craned my neck back towards the screen. Fascinating. It showed my right atrium, aorta, and one of my valves fluttering with the blood flow. Sometimes Walter pushed a button and I could hear blood woosh-ing through.

Wow. There it was, my little fist-sized heart that could.

Unfortunately a lower view didn't work out. Walter moved the transducer but couldn't get an image. "I KNOW you have heart," he said. "I JUST scanned the top of it." He eventually gave up in to avoid being intrusive. I know he's not a creep but I understood.

It was still a win-win: he got some heart-scanning practice and I got to see my heart at work. "Amazing" doesn't do the latter justice.

And Then There Was One

Saturday afternoon I went over to Missy and Becky's. The usual suspects were there: Joe, Missy, Becky, Derek, Brandon, Amanda. Except it wasn't usual anymore; all my closest buds are now couples.* Yep, it became "official" on Friday.

My visit would've been completely enjoyable if it wasn't for a gnawing thought. Was I the "single friend", the odd one out? You can tell me I can be what I want to be, but you can't tell me it's not a legitimate worry. I've had a close friendship altered by dating. I daresay that's why some of us singles appear cynical and bitter about couple-hood: we tend to get forgotten. Not all couples are like this yet the convenience of having that one person tends to make some people disappear.

(On a side note, I do have some pretty rockin' couple friends. Props to you guys.)

Later that evening I heard "One is the Loneliest Number" by Three Dog Night. I pointed it out to Amanda and Brandon and promptly told the intercom to shut up.

"It's not like you're 'the single friend' and you can't hang out with us anymore."

Those words were pretty reassuring. "I know, but I still have to readjust."

For me this means being confident they'll still be there for me. I also need to let go of my near-panic. I am comfortable being alone, I just don't like feeling lonely. I don't want/need a significant other (not now, anyway), but I do want/need friends.

Today I feel more secure about the social future. The camaraderie seemed the same as we hung out that Saturday afternoon. We bummed around in the living room, talking about nothing and everything, laughing, playing games, napping. As long as I have that, them, I'll be fine.

*One friend, unmentioned here, is trying to go that direction.

Passive Aggressive Haiku

A few weeks ago I applied for a graphic designer position at the Portland Japanese Garden. I just received an email from them, thanking me for my interest but apologizing I would not be moving on to the interview process. Here is my response:

I would have been good

Pox on your lov'ly garden

Hope your bambo dies

Ex Nihilio

Yesterday I felt like nothing: not good enough, unwanted, untalented, and un-anything else from a professional standpoint. My hormones also conspired against me, resulting in a depressing day. One of the few good spots was talking to my dad for about an hour.

Today I went to counseling. The first thing I did was ask for chocolate; Buffy knew it was bad when I grabbed the Kleenex box next.

How are you? I feel like nobody wants me (employment-wise). And, due to certain triggers, I feel... poor, like I have nothing.

The latter is a big deal. Being and immigrant I know what it's like to start from scratch and be "poor." However being low on the economical bracket never defined or bothered me. Besides, we always had a roof over our heads, food and clothes. Only reason I was self-conscious was because kids would tease me. Children can be cruel.

Now my current job hunt points to my low-income reality. But there is something spiritual about having nothing. I'm not convicted but I know. When you are metaphorically stripped down you shiver from cold and shame. Then you start to see who you actually are and what you really do have; in a strange way you are free. Assuming we include God, He takes that and works wonders.

I feel insecure right now but I know I am far from nothing and have a lot to offer; I love and am loved and I have what I need, including autonomy. Yet I know there's more; I just don't know what right now.

In the beginning there was emptiness. Nada. Then God spoke and created amazingness and beauty ex nihilio, out of nothing. I am hoping one day that will be me.

"Claudia, DO SOMETHING!"

Within the last three weeks I applied and/or sent my resumé to four different prospective employers. (I'm doing a fifth, though it's not a track record to be engraved on a plaque.) I had a pre-interview with one but have heard nothing from the others. In the meantime, I find out a friend has an interview and another starts a new job next week.

My feelings are mixed - happiness with a touch of envy and pressure. At a young age I craved approval. Now as a "grown-up" I continue to want it at some level, this time with a job. I want a "professional" to tell me my skills are good enough. Thing is, I KNOW they are; my FRIENDS tell me they are; my CLIENTS are happy. These people, including me, matter. So, what the hell is my problem?

My friend, Michael, said, "Employment is just as much a sign of talent as grades are." True. I just don't want to be that friend. You know, the deadbeat who didn't do anything with his/her life. The one who somehow frustrates you because he/she didn't reach potential. Yeah, that friend.

While writing I've perked up. I don't necessarily need or want what others have; my long-life happiness isn't contingent on employment. (That's another blog for another day.) Right now though, I feel like comedian Margaret Cho when Wisconsin's Laotian community contacted her for help: "People are calling me and e-mailing me from there... going, 'Margaret, DO SOMETHING!'"

Singled Out

Last Saturday I went to potluck... for young married couples. I happened to be with Kelly and Santi when our friend Garrett invited us and received no indication that it was for a certain demographic.

Stan and Angie, the hosts, were a bit surprised to see me but quite welcoming. (If you don't know them, they are a sweet, older couple who do premarital counseling at my alma mater.) I do confess that I felt slightly out of place. Which one is not like the others? *Raises hand* The only other single was Danny, Zak and Jovannah's two-year-old.

We had the food blessing and after filling my plate I looked for a seat. Two empty chairs were next to Kelly and I took one. A few seconds passed before Stan came over and asked if I could scoot over so I wouldn't "break up" a couple and pulled up another chair. He joked that they would've given me a couple hours to find somebody had they known I was coming.

Cue awkward/courtesy chuckle.

Luckily I knew most of the couples at our table and we had a pretty lively conversation about general subjects. Apparently the other table had a marriage-focused table talk.

Before leaving Stan turned to me and said he hoped this inspired me. Inspired me to do what, Stan? He left that to interpretation. This is what I got: I am happy being single but I am thankful for the coupled friends who aren't exclusive.

"Bump" Went the Night

I'm probably one of the silliest "adults" ever. I'm in my mid-twenties and still slightly afraid of the dark. That's why I shun horror movies or anything dealing with the supernatural. Growing up in a superstitious culture has its toll.

Tonight I remember descending into deep, deep sleep. Everything was slowly fading but a noise made me come back. There's the cause, but why? I know these sounds: creak, thunk, rattle; they're floor, the breathing house, and window, respectively; they don't usually bother me.

I turned on my bed lamp and looked around. There was my stuff, right where I left it. I "bravely" got up and looked around my apartment. I even looked under my bed. (Ridiculous, I know.) Nothing. The closet was clear too, though that particular place has been a constant source of worry since childhood. Somehow that baggage stayed with me. I couldn't sleep for three days after watching Coraline because I faced my closet. That was two years ago.

I tried to go back to sleep but my overactive imagination and the night's ability to magnify sound were against me. These times make me wish for someone to protectively snuggle against or a roommate. It's the whole "strength in numbers" mentality.

Right now I really want to close my eyes and get some rest, but I'm scared of something I don't know about. Maybe I'll wait 'til morning to do that. Or maybe I'll leave the light on, something I also used to do as a kid.