Outside Lands 2014, Day 1: Sexy, Sweet, Solo

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It’s a beautiful day.

Avocados, yogurt, Cypress Grove Lamb Chopper I’d found, at all places, at Grocery Outlet. Half a tomato. A box of organic dried plums, also from the GO.  I’d had this grand plan to pack enough food to last all weekend, even roasted some eggplant slices, but one thing and then another and I was already leaving too late to catch Phosphorescent

I first attended the Golden Gate Park fest in 2009 with my two younger children, 13 and 15 at the time, and came away full of vicarious thrill. Watching Silversun Pickups and Atmosphere through their eyes reminded me how music shapes your life at that age. At the end of one day, Nick wanted to see Pearl Jam up close, but Kaylee had wearied of the crowds. I ended up sending him into the throng of thousands alone while K and I watched from the press tent.

Would he get squished? I worried. What if his blood sugar dropped and he passed out? Would anyone notice? Would help come in time? Legitimate concerns, but what happened is, he used his skinniness and youth to squeeze to the front, where he ended up being crowd-surfed and caught Mike McCready’s guitar pick at the end of the show. Pretty sure he still has it in some small box of treasures.

The next year, the kids preferred to hang out with friends, so Bobby and I meandered between bands, debating the benefits of being smushed up close to the stage where you can actually see the people you’re there to see (me) vs. being comfortably in back, where the sound is better and the view more comprehensive (him).

The kids continued going every year after that, courtesy of press passes through the Journal (blogging through the ages), but Bobby and I skipped out, opting to watch Giants’ games at Underdog over cocktails and Nick’s Crispy instead. Also, the DeYoung.

But this year, my heart skipped at the line-up. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers?! I’ve loved Tom Petty since I was an adolescent singing along to “Refugee” in my poster-slathered bedroom. At the time, Petty was considered new wave and played alongside Blondie and Joy Division on KROQ and 91X, the stations that shaped my youth.

Also, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers headlined the first Outside Lands in 2008, which I had a ticket to, but ended up unable to attend. I sent my little brother instead. He had a grand time, wrote about it for the Arcata Eye and that was that. But now, history could be rectified. Only trouble was, Nick had already scored one of the two press passes through the Journal, so while I could go with the other, I’d be going alone.

So here I was, random foods in the mini-Igloo, reasonable clothes in my travel bag, some sunscreen for my face, a toothbrush, not much else. I meant to bring my wetsuit in case I could squeeze in a surf. I also intended to bring a hoodie – San Francisco weather requires layers – the lack of which would prove more of a problem.

The ongoing wildfires sidetracked me, first because the sight of helicopters circling from pond to over the hills captivated, then because the base camps sprawled alongside the highway impressed. I stopped to take photos and video.

Once that thrill subsided, the realization that I still had hours to go had me regretting my stops, especially when traffic in Willits slowed to a crawl due to roadwork. I let my breath out when I rounded the curve and the Golden Gate Bridge came into view. Minutes later I was double-parked in front of my friends’ home in the Inner Richmond, dropping off my stuff in advance so I could begin the parking nightmare – except parking opened up right across the street.

I paused to consider the thrill that one experiences when landing upon perfect parking in San Francisco. As if everything in the universe unexpectedly and suddenly has aligned in your favor. Buoyed, I hoofed it to the park.

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I was an “other” wristband, not a VIP, but special.

After navigating the maze of entry, I picked up my press pass – a magical wristband allowing me to bypass the unwashed masses and also access VIP areas – proceeded into the festival. As I trod west, rhythm pulsed through the air: Chromeo. I walked faster.

And there they were. Legged keyboard in all its glory. Beats bumping, people screaming – because the band demanded, “Let me hear you scream!” – and ecstasy winning the hour.

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Chromeo from the press tent. Shoulder-rider on the big screen.

Minor annoyance: David Macklovitch praised all the ladies riding high on men’s shoulders. As an averagely-heighted person who prefers to see the band over staring at the back of someone’s head for an hour, any increased impediment to line of vision is an affront. If I were to design a concert space, I’d reserve a front zone for those under, oh, maybe five-foot-four? And anyone over six-foot-two would have to be in the back. We could have a special side area for mixed groups.  (Yes, I know some tall people are considerate. You should talk to your brethren who are ruining it for all of you.)

Checked out the press tent, decided the “free” part of the free beer was reason enough to set aside my general preference for almost any other type of booze-related beverage, and then set about exploring – after using one of the VIP restrooms, which are glorified porta-potties, multi-units in trailers with running water. Sort of like if you had a bunch of airplane restrooms packed together on wheels. Definitely a step up from the nastiness of a regular porta-potty, but ladies, if you still pee on the seat, you’re making it gross for all of us. Why is it so impossible to figure out that, if we all sit down, the seat stays pee-free?

Being able to see the band, being able to relieve yourself comfortably. It’s amazing what people will pay to attend a festival with neither of these issues guaranteed. (Suckers.)

I wanna.

I wanna.

My magic wristband and I strolled through the grounds. Esquire’s “Sip and Shave” booth made me wish I were a man, or at least able to temporarily grow a beard so that I could sit down and be pampered for a minute, but alas. I noticed Oakland clothing line fiftyseven-thirtythree once again in attendance and bought a long-sleeved, hooded T-shirt with a gorilla and giraffe on the front because I was a.) worried about getting cold (see “things I forgot” paragraph earlier), b.) pleased to see that fiftyseven-thirtythree was thriving. They do cool hand-screened art designs on non-sweatshop clothing right across the bay in Oakland. I’d bought Kaylee a T-shirt when we’d attended in 2009, so nostalgia propelled my purpose as well.

Land of dreams. Of chocolate.

Land of dreams. Of chocolate.

I wandered into Choco Lands. Oh, the choices. The smell of pot emanates through the fest at all times and here I was in stoner nirvana. A Guittard “liquid” chocolate bar? A chocolate French macaron? Chocolate ice cream? I opted for an Epic chocolate crackle cookie and it was. Oh, it was.

Tegan and Sara fans.

Tegan and Sara fans.

“I just want back in your head” echoed across the park. Tegan and Sara! A few minutes later, I was brushing the last of the powdered sugar from my lips and standing in front of the Twin Peaks stage among the most adorable fans I’ve ever been standing among. Twenty-somethings everywhere, boys and girls, singing, kissing, swooning every time Tegan or Sara joked between songs. Best of all, this crowd was a polite one, which enabled me to squeeze through to a decent vantage point for the next act, Arctic Monkeys.

Whose fans were not as polite. The moment Tegan and Sara wrapped up, a swarm of people united in their passion for sexy Brit-rock pressed forward. Hard. I held on to my bag and my position and soon we were as packed in as packed in could be. We would be like this for the forty minutes between sets.

In 2009, Nick, Kaylee and I had managed to get all the way up front for TV on the Radio, Atmosphere and the Dead Weather, all in a row. (Nick left to see Modest Mouse at some point.) I revere that experience as one of my all-time favorites. Being in such close proximity to greatness with my children, sharing it together – we parents live for that. For a few hours, all the family squabbling and failed attempts at perfect mothering fall away. I sighed and looked around. This wait was lonely.

Waiting for the Arctic Monkeys.

Waiting for the Arctic Monkeys.

Next to me, a twenty-something pulled sunscreen out of her backpack and handed it to her boyfriend. I admired their sense of safety, but was a bit confused as we were only a half hour from sunset. Then he unscrewed the lid and squeezed wine into her waiting cup. Oh. Nicely played.

The Arctic Monkeys!

The Arctic Monkeys!

At last, the stage lights dimmed, the opening chords of “Do I Wanna Know?” launched and Alex Turner emerged forth in all his greased-hair, leather-jacketed, tight-jeaned glory. Tipper Gore was right. Rock’n’roll sure does equal sex. (To each their own, of course. The case could be made that some of us fall for a bad boy persona that’s been cliché since Elvis first gyrated and that Turner’s get-up is as much Bowser as it is Brando, but whatever. It worked in this context just fine.)

My infatuation lasted half the set before giving in to fatigue. I needed to get out, get to my home for the night, a place where I could take off my shoes, brush my teeth and stretch out on a couch. Horizontal, that would be a good way to be.

Traversing through the mob required channeling Newton’s first law of motion: stay in it. I murmured, “Sorry,” a few times, but mostly I just shouldered through, eyes downward searching for places to land my feet and then my body would follow. Plastic cups crunched beneath every step – the litter generated amazes me. Who just throws stuff on the ground? Righteous indignation propelled me harder – and I should point out that the Outside Lands organizers provide well-marked containers every few yards to enable proper trash, recyclables and compostables disposal. They reward people for turning in such items to a special tent full of treats. They try. Perhaps if every attendee had their own personal trash valet?

Free at last, I ducked through the festival exit, winced at the blisters blooming across my toes, then grinned as “I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor” rolled through the trees.

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The door must have opened first, but it was the closing that woke me, followed by the motion lights coming on. I stumbled out of bed to check the driveway. No one. The side gate squeaked open, shut. A car’s headlights shone through the hedge. My son and his friends had decided to get a middle-of-the-night snack, apparently. I returned to bed, listening for them to return. To fill the time, I started worrying. About teenage drivers. About the potential for drunk or texting drivers. About the kids in general. About the event I have tonight. About recent rough patches in a couple friendships. About making it through a long day of work, a busy night and leaving the next morning on so little sleep.

I should’ve gone downstairs and found my headphones, plugged in and listened to one of my relaxation apps. But I didn’t want to get up. Finally I got up and decided to write.

Sometimes I miss writing about surfing, repetitive as it was. Last time I went out was Sunday. The sky hovered mostly gray, sunshine promised, but not yet forthcoming. Waves broke on my face in the channel. My bootie has a hole and my wetsuit’s leaking, but the water temp’s been steady mid-50s, not too bad. My knees ache every day lately, but I caught a couple waves and did all right. Nick caught some and, as always, watching him fly along from the back triggered happiness. Most everyone in the water was a friend. The waves were head-high, slightly over, and mushy. I had to wait until they were almost breaking to get into them – good practice, mentally, taking off later than I’m typically comfortable.

A set came, larger than the others, maybe a foot overhead, maybe more. Usually I either get caught inside or somehow miss the set waves, instead observing everyone else tear them up while I linger pathetically alone on the outside. This time, I caught one. Dropped down the face, bottom-turned, back up to the lip, slid down – just an average ride on an average wave that filled me with exceptional happiness because that is what surfing does.

Rode to the beach, where Nick was waiting. We had places to be, so I ended on that successful note and off we went as the sun finally emerged and the day turned brilliant.

I wish those moments came to me in the midst of tossing, turning, adjusting pillows, sheets. Instead, the anxieties I keep at bay during the sunlit hours assault me. I remember when I would get up and check Nick’s blood sugar in the dark. For years, I’d set the alarm, sneak into his room, poke his finger, watch the drop of blood spread into the strip. Wait for the number. Either I’d be able to go back to sleep, satisfied that he was, for the moment, okay – or start the correction process, which might take hours. He’s been handling that himself, at his insistence, for a couple years. I don’t miss the interrupted sleep, but I do miss being fully informed, having oversight. I wish we discussed his diabetes beyond him reassuring me that he’s fine. I believe he’s paying attention. I know he’s not paying attention the way I want him to.

But since when do the kids do what I want them to? They’ve been teenagers, near-adults, adults for a while. So much letting go. It’s freeing in many ways, this relinquishment of control. What doesn’t go away is the worry. I remain shackled to that.

So here I am, coming up on 7:30 a.m., wondering if I attempt more sleep or caffeinate my way through the day.

I have a big deal Ocean Night tonight (see Lost Coast Outpost at some point today for a comprehensive post), then off to Outside Lands tomorrow. Life is sweet, yes? Even without the sleep.

 

 

writing exercise #49: What I talked about when I was 13

I was 13 and I didn’t know much. I knew all the songs from that series of dragon-rider books I was into. That didn’t do me much good in junior high. Some places, those years are middle school. I don’t know if it makes much difference, but middle school sounds more appropriate to me – I was in a middling place. On one side, the height of excitement arrived in the form of a Christmas sled perfect for racing down the hill our house sat two-thirds of the way atop. On the other, the realization that genetic inheritance had granted me the ability to be popular. In middle school, boys would creep up behind me, snap the strap of the bra I’d embarrassingly acquired. In high school, they’d kiss me first.

But back to 8th grade. I had this science teacher, Mr. West. Which was hilarious, because he was also a cowboy. With a ranch and everything. Twice a year, at the end of each semester, he’d have barbeques for his students and their families, plus a group of faculty members that encompassed, but did not exceed, those we all thought were “cool.” Mostly younger female teachers, the sort the boys all had crushes on and the girls all wanted to be.

Mr. West would have inevitably caught a rattlesnake early on, skinned it, tossed it on the grill. The smell would make us sick, but the boys and girls like me would insist we wanted a taste. Later, he’d bring out his guitar by the campfire, start sing-alongs, then wander into an old Johnny Cash tune, which he’d wrap up on a fade-out, as if he’d forgotten the words or maybe remembered what he’d wanted to be.

Only 8th graders were invited, which made it a sort of rite of passage. In 7th grade, my friends and I, and everyone else, would note those days a certain subset of 8th graders weren’t at school. They were at Mr. West’s BBQ, excused from classes for the day. “What do you think happens there?” we’d ask each other. Janine’s brother, a junior at the high school, told us that girls got naked and jumped in the river. Holly’s cousin, a senior, said that after all the kids were supposed to be asleep, Mr. West put out lines of cocaine on his guitar for all the female teachers to enjoy.

That seemed ridiculous to me even at 12. At 13, at the ranch, I could imagine neither nudity nor drugs. The fact that I would use “neither” and “nor” tells you what kind of child I was, but, well, that is the sort of child I was.

What I did not expect was the scandal to come from within my own ranks. My best friend, Lanie, whose parents were these kind of weird leftover hippie types – her mom taught step classes at the gym and her dad had some corporate job he hated – were closet pot smokers. I had no idea. I just thought they were really into air freshener.

“What’s going on?” I said, walking into the room behind the kitchen at the ranch. I don’t know the right name for it, the place where you’d come in to take off your boots and jackets all muddy from, what do they call it, breaking the horses? I guess.

“Nothing,” Janie said. She looked at me, but didn’t look at my face, not in my eyes, you know? I read somewhere once, well, in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy or maybe Restaurant at the End of the Universe if you must know, that the trick to outwitting your opponents is to focus on the space between their eyebrows. It will seem as though you are looking them in the eyes, except not, but they won’t be able to quite explain it. I told Janie that after I’d read the books. We were 10 then, but she was doing it to me now.

“What’s that?” I said, noting Mark Garner passing something to Brent Clunich. Both of them were football players and bra-snappers, the sort of guys Janie and I hated.
Mark laughed and his laughing turned into coughing as smoked sputtered out from his face, which was bent towards his somewhat advanced six-pack of a belly. Brent, on the other hand, stayed cool, reached out what looked like a sloppy cigarette.

“It’s a joint,” he said. “Want a hit?”

Everyone looked at me. I could feel every bit of skin on my face. “Uh,” I said.

Janie put her head in her hands. “She doesn’t want any, Brent.”

He laughed and passed the joint to the girl next to him. Lori Schiminski. Long blonde hair held back with a clip, red lipstick that left an imprint on the paper that she passed to Janelle, the black girl that went to our school.

I looked at Janie. She looked at me. Shrugged.

I left the room. Outside, Mr. West had brought out the marshmallows and chocolate bars. Miss DeWitt stood by with graham crackers. I took a seat on a bench made from logs Mr. West had, undoubtedly, chopped down and carved with his own hands. Douglas Wilcox, class geek, the guy that everyone remembered from when he was in second grade an picked his boogers and ate them, leaned over to me.

“What are they doing in there?” he asked.

I leaned back, making sure that anyone watching would understand I was revolted by him.

“Nothing,” I hissed. “Nothing at all.”

Miss DeWitt flounced up to us. “Graham crackers,” she trilled.

Mr. West passed us sticks and marshmallows. “You want to catch it on fire, then put it out right away,” he said. “You slide off the burnt skin and the inside is perfect.”

“Here,” he said, handing us squares of chocolate.

I tried, but I was looking at the house instead of the fire.

“Oh, dear!” Miss DeWitt cried.

Mr. West came over and smacked my arm. Apparently my sleeve had caught fire. I dropped my stick and the marshmallow fell into the flames.

“Shit!” I said.

Douglas gasped and pointed.

Mr. West and Miss DeWitt glanced at each other. “That’s not appropriate language,” Miss DeWitt said.

“But under the circumstances,” Mr. West followed.

I hung my head.

Douglas reached over and patted my hand. “Here,” he said, offering me a perfectly sandwiched s’more.

I jumped up. “I’m fine!” I yelled. I marched off to the house, ignoring Miss DeWitt’s commands to come back.

Through the kitchen, into the back room, everyone giggling.

Janie looked up, met my eyes for real this time.

“Wanna hit?” she asked, holding the smoldering, sweet-smelling piece of paper.

I took it, held it between my fingers like she’d done. “Help me,” I pleaded, silently, the way best friends can say things without words.

“Like this,” she said, reaching to hold my hand, press it to my lips. “Inhale. Okay, stop. Hold it.” We looked at each other. “Exhale.”

I did.

When the joint came around, I did again, no help necessary.

The next day, I told Janie what kissing Brent was like. Tasted like smoke, I said. But soft. Better than that rattlesnake.

We laughed.

That was when I was 13.

writing exercise #48: She realized that the person in front of her in line was the defeated candidate.

She realized that the person in front of her in line was the defeated candidate. In his jammies. He looked unshaven by at least a few days. His jammies, camo green, had elephants on the pants and the button up shirt matched the color, turquoise, of the pachyderm print. This made her feel especially bad that she’d been out of town during the election and hadn’t bothered to send in her absentee ballot. Shit. He’d only lost by a few hundred votes. And he was so cute.
Their eyes met.
“Hi,” she said.
“Oh, hi,” he mumbled.
Asking how it was going seemed insensitive, so she opted for, “Sure is sunny out today!”
He agreed. Added something about the drought.
“Right,” she said. “The drought. It’s terrible.” She tried to remember how she was supposed to feel. What she was supposed to do. Probably not take such long showers.
He accepted his gluten-fee double chocolate muffin and shuffled to a table. She ordered her soy latte, 16 ounces, and joined him.
“So,” she said.
Their eyes met again. Like something out of a romance novel, she thought.
What the hell, she thought. She sat down next to him.
“I thought you were a great candidate,” she said.
“Oh, thanks,” he responded. He looked down at his attire as if noticing it for the first time.
“It’s my face,” he said. “It’s not a good face.”
“Soy latte? Grande?” the barista called. She stood, picked it up, returned.
She examined his forehead, eyes, nose, mouth, chin, cheekbones. “I think your face is fine,” she said. “Pleasing, actually.”
He chuckled, glanced at the ground. Then, without moving his head, tilted his eyes at her. “Want to come over?”
What was she to do? Poor guy, had been crushed by the opposition, except not crushed, exactly, but overwhelmed. And so they shared a moment of skin on skin, kisses, the reaching of hands across bodies.
Immediately after, she felt that familiar need to race to the door. Why was it such a challenge to find someone who felt the way she felt, emotionally, politically, physically? Was she asking too much?
I hate this, she thought. It’s all so corny, cliché. Who cared? The voters, she thought. They were the ones who got robbed. Their apathy, their busy lives, wait, she thought, I am one of those with the busy life. Just a couple hundred votes and he could’ve been a winner, earning an upper middle class wage and leading constituents into the future. Instead, here he was, with her, awkwardly preparing for a moment that wouldn’t matter immediately after and there ya go.
Afterwards, he turned to her. “Do you think I have a chance?” he asked.
She paused. “Maybe 2016,” she cooed. “That might be your year.”

(Failure to) Disconnect

It was too grand a plan, this idea of mine. I was embarking on my annual trek to visit my brother in New York and thought, How grand would it be to not only take a vacation from work, but heighten the sense of escape by staying offline? I would be unreachable (except in case of emergency). I would chronicle my daily experiences in Word instead of WordPress, upload one or two quality blog posts at the end, old-fashioned-like. I would be free.

Even before I arrived, I imagined how proud I’d be for committing to be more present when visiting. I would let moments exist in their own space, savor them, and then move on. Not everything needs to be documented – “Hey, look at me!” – all the time, I remembered. Nor do I need to always see what everyone else is up to. I would reciprocate the excellent company of my brother and my sister-in-law by giving them my full attention.

The morning I left, I deleted the Facebook, Messenger, Twitter, Hangout and Instagram apps from my phone. I spared Paper and Tumblr since I use those mostly just for reading. (I kept WhatsApp because Kaylee’s in Europe and that’s how we’re communicating, so, of course.)

I would use my laptop only to work on my novel, freelance assignments or otherwise write offline.

I confess, I also had a bit of ego in the game. I wanted people to miss me.

Here’s how it went:

“On vacation!” I posted to Facebook in the form of an out-of-office auto response. Before I could log off, a friend noticed that I’d typed “back Thursday, June 10,” which put my return several years in the future instead of one week away on Thursday, July 10. People riffed. It was pretty funny.

My attempt to disconnect from work failed. Despite pronouncing myself “unavailable,” I ended up checking my email because I needed some key piece of information, a flight time or receipt confirmation or such. And then I would notice meetings being scheduled. Flyers being made. Questions about events arising. A mistake I needed to fix.

To be clear, no one forced me to respond to all these emails – emails were going happen regardless of what I was doing away from the computer and disregarding my vacation assertions by answering them was wholly my fault. But once I’d entered into dialogue, I had to see the conversation through. I ended up on email daily.

I needed to get online to plan my days. What would the weather be like? (Hot and muggy was a given, and really, I could’ve just gone with that, but no – let’s look at the exact temperature and percentages.) What would the surf be like? (This proved to be critical, as I was able to catch an early bit of Hurricane Arthur out in Long Beach.) Did we want to try to get tickets to a show? (Yes, but Hedwig and the Angry Inch was sold out.) How much money did I have left in the bank? (Yikes. Also, oops.)

Where I succeeded, the first couple days, was in not using my phone as the sole source of comfort and distraction. I people-watched. I eavesdropped. I took photos as something to remember the trip by instead of using them to holler, “I am here! Right now!” at my online friends. I was not that person only half paying attention to the world around her and that felt great. As one should do in New York. Or life.

The world contracted to be whatever Tag, his wife Jen, and I were doing, saying, making happen. This included visiting the Transit Museum, driving out to Long Beach for the aforementioned surf experience, fireworks over the East River, bicycling out to Rockaway for a day at the beach, East Coast-style.

It was during the Fourth of July party that I first slipped. Inspired by all the America-themed face paint adorning the people around me, I made a little Vine. They loved it.

And because I was trying to coordinate with a few friends via Facebook messaging (using Paper, which is Facebook, but almost totally not), I couldn’t help but notice messages from other people on various topics. Upcoming shows. Questions about references. Etc. You know how Facebook tells the sender when you’ve read their message? I hate that because once that’s noted, I feel like I have to respond. So I responded. (Note: Not everyone suffers the same sense of obligation.) In the course of these interactions, I’d see something someone posted that I liked. So I would “Like” it.

Then my daughter texted me, “Why aren’t you liking my Instagrams?” Good question. I missed keeping up with her journey and the comfort seeing her photos brought. So I reinstalled Instagram. And then I uploaded a photo. And then another.

My music column was due. I went back online. Finished with a minimum of fuss and far too many puns. Took a breath. Rented a bike. Rode alongside my brother through Brooklyn, Queens, out to Rockaway.

Despite all this, my internet use, especially that of social media, was notably less than usual. Yes, I’d posted to Vine and Instagram, but neither of those accounts provoke conversation, just the occasional quiet cheer. Staying off Facebook was huge – no newsfeed to get sucked into, no back-and-forth about the photo or topic du jour. I appreciate the ways in which Facebook allows me to keep in touch with people far away, to promote events, but not using it reminded me how much time using it takes up.

Then the holiday weekend ended and everyone but me went back to work. Staying off social media when alone proved much harder, especially when waiting for things as one does in New York. Facebook and Twitter are my go-to time killers. Instead I opened Notes and typed out things I wanted to remember when I wrote about my trip.

Until the moment when I found myself cycling over the Brooklyn Bridge. I caved. I was excited about what I was doing and wanted to share it with someone, so I did: I selfied and posted.

I also decided I wanted to write about biking in New York City versus biking in Humboldt, which rekindled my internet interactions. I could’ve waited to write the post, but I knew that the inspiration would probably flag if I didn’t take advantage of it.

As could have been predicted by now, I did not look away in time and found myself immersed in comments instead of turning wholly to the other writing assignments I’d given myself. This was my last day in the city and I’d planned to spend it combining two rare opportunities, one being in New York and the other having uncommitted hours to string words together.

Sitting in a Manhattan park, using the free wifi, listening to the two guys beside me workshop their poetry/rap/beats illustrated a good fortune I should’ve better utilized.

Little by little, my disconnection never quite happened. But I did shift from habit to thoughtfulness. If I’d been staring into my phone, I would not have caught the sunset between buildings as the train whisked by. If I’d been checking in to Facebook during brunch at The Sea Witch or dinner at The Pickle Factory, the conversational flow would’ve been more sporadic. Instead the constant flow led to the kind of dialogue more likely to happen face-to-face than over chat. Eye contact is awesome.

That’s what I hope to hold onto – the streamlining. I did not reinstall Facebook or Messenger on my phone and I’m thrilled at the lack of notifications. Again, I realize some people can leave things unread, but I suffer from a sense of responsibility to those trying to contact me. As it is, I decide when I want to access Facebook (via Paper), which allows me the power over it. And because Paper encourages reading outside of one’s newsfeed, I find myself intrigued by headlines announcing creative endeavors, social justice rulings, etc.

I plan to hold on to that power.

The benefits of shutting up

“It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.” ­ – Mark Twain

Sometimes, when you make a mistake, what you need to do is to shut up and not make it worse.

Hard lesson to learn.

It’s counterintuitive, after all, because we often believe if we keep talking, keep explaining, that we’ll make ourselves understood.

People say to share your feelings, don’t keep them bottled up.

But people would rather chance losing everything than appearing a fool. In a civilized country, looking stupid is one of the worst things that a person can do. And yet, we find ourselves splayed out, slathered in emotion, exposing ourselves and regretting it even before the consequences unfold.

So my advice, like all other good advice, is to put a sock in it. Walk around the block instead of broadcasting your heartfelt feelings on the matter. Do some pushups. Write in your journal instead. Reinforce that wall around your heart until someone worthwhile breaches it with love, kindness, understanding. Never assume they are worthwhile. Let time pass. Remember you are not who are you in your lowest moments. Remember you deserve more.

You will make it.

Stop. Back away. Sit down,

Forgive yourself.

Breathe some more.

I thought I needed religion, but the only church I considered following lacked confession. And then I remembered, all I need is writing.

insomnia #23 aka I Continue to Worry

Woke up thirsty, can’t get back to sleep, feeling weirdly alone and less weirdly, fraught with worry. I’m at my friends’ house, spent the afternoon and evening hanging with them and their 20-month-old. She’s precious. Before this, I spent two days with my friends who have a three-year-old. Before this trip, I took dinner to another friend who has a two-week old and before cradling her new baby, I visited my dear neighbor who had just had hers.
All these babies and little children, so far from my own grown ones. They’ve moved through the teenage years, I breathe a little easier, but a certain helplessness takes hold. You try to tell them, “Learn from me!,” but they make mistakes anyway. It’s like watching someone continually drive down a one-way street and you want to explain that she needs to go a different way, but she refuses to stop for directions no matter how frantically you wave. Sometimes scrolling through Facebook feels like reading chapter after chapter of bad decisions, evidence that loving was not enough, that I clearly wasn’t the mother I meant to be or she wouldn’t struggle so.
I had a nightmare last night that my daughter traveling through Europe was kidnapped! I woke gasping, unable to shake the worry until she responded to my text – cleverly nonchalant, “Hi! How’s it going?” She’s fine. More than fine. Thrilled to be in Ireland, her childhood dream come true.
I think my son’s doing okay. He’s working, doing landscaping, going to CR and learning to take care of getting his prescriptions, deal with the healthcare system and making his own doctor’s appointments. Leaving it all in his hands is another worry, but he must know how to do these things. “You must know how to do these things!” I told him. “What if I die tomorrow and you don’t know how to refill your insulin?” (Random morbidity, a hallmark of my parenting style.)
What I don’t know is how well he’s controlling his blood sugar. How much he thinks about his health beyond the here and now. Does he consider the long-term impacts of his lifestyle in regards to his diabetes? What about his A1C? Thoughtful, balanced food intake and physical exercise? I ask and inform him. He tells me he’s on it. These exchanges take all of four seconds and do not reassure me.
I was holding my friend’s baby and trying to remember my own children being that small. My heart lurched, I swear it literally jolted out of place, to look back at that time and know how troubled the road ahead. I’m weary. I strive to shake the sense of failure and yet it creeps up on me at times like this, at 4 a.m., in a bed I am grateful for and should be happy in.

writing exercise #47: “I only remember the dogs’ names”

I only remember the dogs’ names. The children’s, those escape me.

No wonder, when I think about how often Sophia called the dogs. “Buddy,” she’d wail. “Trigger,” she’d cry. “Lucky,” she’d holler out in such a way the name took on three syllables. “Luh-uck-eee.”

Goddamn dogs. Yes, no wonder I could remember their names.

Buddy wasn’t anybody’s. He bit my youngest daughter when she was two. Lunged at her when she toddled past his food bowl. Didn’t break the skin, thank God, but Lula screamed whenever she saw a dog until she was 10 or so.

And Trigger? The only thing more disgusting than how fat he was – seriously, what was my sister feeding him? – was how determined he was to, a.) stick his nose into your crotch; b.) hump your leg. I’ve had gynecologists less invasive and boyfriends less single-minded.

Lucky was the worst. Part golden retriever, part God-knows-what, the creature could never relax. “Stickstickstickstick!!!” he would convey through the power of wagging tail and focused stare. He shed like every hair on his constantly trembling body needed to be off and off now.

I remember one day, early spring, the day had broken with the promise of summer and her oldest daughter, who was still no taller than my waist at the time, had set up the Slip’n’Slide, no one to help her, no need. Johnny, my sister’s husband, of course he was named Johnny, coming after Dwayne and Mickey as if they’d lined up in order of cliché, was barbequing, hollering at the kids the whole time, “Hot! It’s hot over here!” Meanwhile, their daughter continued to organize the children. I saw them through rippled air.

And then the slipping and the sliding drew the attention of Lucky. Whatever instinct kicked in caused him to go after each child in turn. The kids, being kids, didn’t realize what was happening, didn’t make the connection between his lunging and their sliding until he’d chewed through their pants and two of the younger children had run screaming to their mothers.

My sister’s child, the one who had commanded everyone to play this game, charged Lucky with a stick, an erstwhile mother to her lost siblings. Lucky lunged for the stick, locked onto it, knocked her to the ground and let go the stick long enough to clamp his teeth around her scrawny eight-year-old arm, shaking it like this was a game and by the time we pried him off, my own husband forcing his jaws by blows to the head, her flesh had been gnawed to the bone.

“My baby!” my sister shrieked. She meant the dog. Lucky was, indeed.

My niece, not so much. She still trembles when we visit.

writing exercise #46: It’s good to be cold sometimes

She slid out of bed, turned off the alarm before it could wake her husband, slipped downstairs with only the slightest click of the bedroom door giving her away. Dawn had broken, turning the kitchen pink. She watched the teakettle. Boil, already. Achieving verticalness was always the hard part of getting up early, but once on her feet, Maddie owned the morning. Waiting around as the sun rose higher and the wind threatened to kick up sent her searching for ways to keep busy.

She folded the laundry, sliding her hands along her son’s jeans to ensure the crease would be in the proper place.

She slid on a hoodie, sneakers, fetched the mail, tiptoeing out the door to the street and back.

She pulled off the hoodie, kicked off the sneakers, emptied the dishwasher, setting each glass and pan down so gently only the slightly clinks and clanks made it through the kitchen.

The teakettle threatened to whistle. She shut off the flame and poured the near-boiling water over two tea bags of Irish breakfast. Checked her phone. They were supposed to meet in 30 minutes.

Maddie texted. “Still on for this morning?”

Five minutes passed. She killed the time with lunges, plies, leg swings, random yoga moves she’d read about in some magazine while getting her hair cut. O, maybe.

“Yeah!” he texted back. “On my way!”

She was glad he used exclamation points.

She pulled the tea bag squeezer thing from the drawer, pressed the tea bags flat, discarded them into the compost bucket. Added a splash, pause, splash of milk. Sipped. Smiled.

Maddie went back outside, shivered, tugged her beanie on with her free hand. The wind threatened through the trees, rustling the eucalyptus until the cat-piss smelling pods dropped. She checked the tire pressure. Seemed full. Her tea was half gone. She would need her red windbreaker, helmet. Gloves.

She stepped into her house. The warmth of last night’s fire lingered. She padded upstairs, grabbed her gloves, brushed powder onto her face, mascared her curled eyelashes, kissed her husband, mumbled something about being back soon and left as he mumbled something back. “Love you, too,” it sounded like. The light had changed to gold, slanting in through the skylight.

As she pedaled away from her home, tea forgotten, helmet donned, red windbreaker announcing her existence to passing cars, the gold faded to the usual blue, a pretty enough color, Maddie thought, but totally predictable. It was only in the beginnings and endings of the day that the surprises happened.

The morning chill hit as she rode over the bridge, the breeze racing across the water, up her sleeves, across her ears, into her throat. She could be home in bed, pressed against her snoring husband, their shared comforter agreeably heavy across her legs. He’d painted the walls sky blue last year, her favorite color, because it was her favorite color. Blue, blue, blue, she thought, looking at the expanse above her. Another stupidly beautiful day.

She dodged a Honda, a Ford, a Toyota, what was wrong with people? She was on a bicycle, not invisible, not with her red windbreaker advertising I Am Here, I Am Here. Her fingertips tingled as she twisted the combination on her bike lock, smeared gloss across her lips. Someone had told her once that the temperature usually dropped right after dawn before warming up again. Maddie hadn’t validated the information, but right now she was sure her former coworker had been correct.

Marcel sat with his back toward the door. He was not watching for her, not waiting to welcome her. She moved into the line. Ordered a bagel, a coffee. Marcel still hadn’t noticed, too busy with his phone. Who was he talking to, she started to wonder, then caught herself. It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself. “Oh, hey,” he said as she slid into the chair across from him.

“Hey,” she said back.

He finished typing something on his phone, looked up.

“Hey,” he said again.

“Hi,” she said.

He gestured to his laptop. “Want to see a video?”

“Right now?” she said.

“Yeah!” he said, clicked play. She watched two South African musicians rage hip-hop style in various stages of undress. “It’s brilliant, right?” he said.

“I guess,” she responded. She held his gaze, talk to me, she thought. His hand rested large and smooth on the table. She longed to stroke it, settled for a quick pet while nervously glancing around the café.

He glanced at his phone, pulled his hand away to type something, set the phone, then his hand, back down. “Maddie b-baddie,” he sangsong, tapping on the table.

“Maddie?” the barista announced, sliding a bagel laden with too much cream cheese and a cappuccino weak with foam across the counter. Maddie retrieved them, sat back down, shoved the bagel into her mouth, each bite consisting of too much bread and spread to do more than nod at Marcel as he kept tapping and typing.

“Well,” he said as she finished her last bite, used yet another napkin to wipe away crumbs real or imaginary from her mouth. “I guess we have to get to work.” He raised his hand for a high-five.

A high-five? Maddie thought. She raised her own hand, slapped his. They walked out together. He waved bye as he climbed into his car, sped off. She unlocked her bike, pedaled over the bridge, the wind once again reminding her what being cold felt like.

Back home, she peeled off her shoes, socks, bike pants, sports bra, T-shirt, windbreaker. Shivering, she slid back into bed, pressed against the warmth of her husband. “How was your bike ride?” he asked, eyes closed.

“Fine,” she said. “Cold.”

“Poor thing,” he responded, reaching out for her. Feeling her nakedness, he opened his eyes. “Mmmm,” he said. “Your butt is freezing,” he said.

“I know.” She wrapped her leg around him. “It’s good to be cold sometimes,” she said. “It reminds me how nice it is to be warm.”

 

Small triumphs: An exercise in gratitude

It’s good to practice gratitude. Especially on a day like today, when I started off sleepy from last night’s sirens blaring past my motel. Some yelling, too. Pillow not quite firm enough for sleeping on my side, not quite soft enough to tuck under my head when I rolled to my back. Such is the struggle of a middle-class white lady in a cheap Santa Cruz motel. Tonight I anted up an extra $32 for a room at the Quality Inn in Capitola. So far, worth every penny. Quiet with better pillows and a fancy showerhead.

While I am grateful for the small comforts a bit of money can buy – and suffer guilt for even the most modest financial advantages – today’s acknowledging of The Good stems from deeper roots.

1. I have not used Google maps once on this trip. I shouldn’t need to. I’ve been to San Francisco a hundred times and Santa Cruz at least several. But technology has dimmed my once bright sense of direction. On this journey, however, I remembered how Water branches off from Soquel and both cross Ocean, and I can take Capitola Road to get from the Eastside to the Westside and back again.

2. I solved a bouldering problem. Oh, sure, it was the most beginner of the beginner paths, but for someone who has never tied on climbing shoes before today and suffers from sneaky bouts of vertigo, to plant my toes on outcroppings smaller than two of my fingers and launch upward required a perseverance I wasn’t sure I had. First of all, this Santa Cruz climbing gym spilled over with: a.) what I inappropriately refer to as “man candy”: conventionally attractive and ripped young men who apparently lack the fear gene that keeps the rest of us from wandering up cliff faces; b.) women just as fearless, rocking strong glutes, rounded calves and imbibed with a devil-may-care lacksadaisy that gives them an elegance I can only envy.

My daughter and her friends advised me. They encouraged me. They explained key elements of climbing. Keep your arms extended. Carry the weight in your hips. Stay close to the wall. They showed me, repeatedly, how to scale the thing. The first time, every move was awkward and tiring. Step where? Reach what? My ineptitude embarrassed me. I wanted to quit. I considered telling them I’d go run errands and come back. But I didn’t want to be that mom, the one who can’t handle learning in public. I was that kid. I’ve come a long way, learning to surf, taking akido, standing on a stage talking to a crowd as if it’s no big thing. I was not going to give up.

With each successive attempt, the path grew easier. By the seventh time, the initial steps were habit. Sure, I did fall on my ass once. Embarrassing, but K and her friend just laughed and went with it.

In between all this, K scaled hither and yon, all guts and grace, as fearless now as she was poised in the batter’s box at 10 or 14-years-old, waiting for her pitch. I kept trying. The first couple steps, then the first several, became habit. My focus shifted from how far the ground was below me to how close the goal was above. Twice I almost made it. “We should get going,” K finally said. “Let me try one more time,” I announced. I grabbed on to the handholds, stepped up on the starter protrusions. One, two, three, reach, balance, pull, switch feet, reach higher, shift my weight and suddenly I was there, no big deal at all, my right hand planted firmly above the orange finish line, proving I was a person who succeeds. I did not clamber down smoothly – I pushed off, letting myself fall and landing in a crouch, my butt inches from the row of guys perched on the periphery. Elation rippled through me. I’d done it! One microscopic step for mankind, one giant leap for me. I’ve been angry at my body lately, aching knees and sore shoulder, but it came through. Thank you, body. Thank you, mind. Thank you, daughter and friends. The giddiness of physical achievement buoyed me into the evening.

3. I made dinner for K and her friends. The years have provided experience in cooking and enough of a salary to fill a basket at Trader Joe’s. Granted, one can put most any food in front of starving college students and they will be gratified, but my happiness in feeding them is only more so from their appreciation. Besides, I am quiet while I cook, which allows me to listen, which assures me, they are good kids, thoughtful in their opinions, witty in their humor, wry in their perspectives. What a thing to be privy to.

My shoulder aches. My knees hurt. It’s late and I should be sleeping. What a grand day to be blessed with.

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