I was never that wild and crazy. "Wild" meant wilderness and woods. "Crazy" meant trying something I hadn't done before with people who were just as excited as I was. Drum circles under moonlight, climbing a tree taller than the tallest building on North Campus. Gallivanting off to heaven-knows-where to find things that were possibly unfindable, seeking new friends and new sensations and sights and sounds and seemings. Exploring the depths of the imagination.Creating characters to pursue thought and dream and concept. Calling out to the wild air and listening for the answers.Finding beauty in the growing moss and feeling the cool embrace of the old growth redwood.
But parties? No. Those were for the uninitiated, the unenlightened, those who sought illumination through the bottom of an opaque red Solo cup, those whose idea of entertainment was a drunken brawl, gyrating to deafening sounds less cohesive than the backfiring of a car engine with the hopes of attracting the "right" kind of attention. Blurring reality with inebriation to dull the knowledge that they are incomplete in some way, convincing themselves that this is all there is, this youth shall last forever, no consequence is regrettable. "You're so dull," they told me, "spending all your time in the woods. You should come to the party. It'll be a blast." I spend the entire night hovering over an underaged girl who was drunk by the time I got there, keeping her hair back as she passes out puking, lying her on her side so she doesn't asphyxiate, shoving off a drunk man five years her senior who wants to take advantage of her.
A blast.
That life. That was worlds away from me.
Now I sit alone in my room, sewing a bit of cloth back together, knowing the value of each pull of thread as I seek to repair the old to save myself the cost of something new. Lists are made and tasks scribbled down, each needing its time, each needing to be done. Counting down the hours before school begins and a new chapter unfolds. It's not yet 10PM and I'm in my pajamas, soft melodies of an excited nature tripping without words from the digital lips of my computer, counting out paces of measurement that have no name... ticking down until the next task must be done. Each one measured. Each given weight. Forward I press. Each thing is done because it must be done, preparing, maintaining, progressing. Each thing to ease my path forward to my goals. And such goals as to believe that I could caress a tiger, they sit nebulous yet within my brain and still are so bright and vivid that I can see their faces as though in dreaming.
What would they say to me? That I'm dull? Boring? Why, then, do I have better prospects, a brighter future, and more accomplishments than they? The piece of paper declaring my graduation bearing the signature of celebrity-turned-celebrity smiles back at me. It pushes me on. "You can do this," it whispers in a voice as raspy as dry pulp. "'Perseverance furthers'."
What care have I whether they thought I was dull? In a short time, dedication will pay off. It already is. Truly loved, truly matched, with health that my seventeen-year-old-self could struggle to match. I struggle, but damn it, I am afloat. I drift on the sea, alive, breathing by my own power and volition. They struggle against the tide. I shall set sail. The bright flash of the glittering lights and thunderous music, the blur of the rum and gin and beer, the sticky touches of strangers groping for something they can't identify... these will not weather the hurricane. No, I was not their brand of "wild and crazy".
I am crazy as the wild is crazy, I am wild as the crazed is wild.
Place your back paws where your front paws tread.
August 15, 2014
June 09, 2014
The Long Nap
I want to state for the record that I wish for my body to be buried in as natural a fashion as possible.
I've taken a lot from this earth to sustain this form, and I'd like to give it back when I'm done with it. So if I get hit by a rogue satellite that plunges from the atmosphere tomorrow, I'd much appreciate it is if folks didn't drop multiple tens of thousands of dollars on sticking me in the ground. Wrap me in something nice - a pretty blanket or a warm quilt will do - dig the hole good and deep, and let me sleep there. No need for my insides to be flushed out or filled up with weird ass fluids, thanks. Don't need my cavities filled with cotton. Just let me be, as is, say a few nice things, and have one *hell* of a party when I'm set. If fewer than half of my funeral attendees aren't rip-roaring drunk by the time the party's over, you didn't party hard enough.
Oh, and s'mores. You'd better have freaking s'mores at my funeral. Crapton of s'mores. And a bonfire to roast them on. And buttered popcorn. With enough butter in it to make it swim.
Just sayin'.
You see, the funeral industry earns scads of money every year, charging you buttloads of money for a nice fancy box to put yourself into with all the little pillowy extras for your eternal sleep. The thing is, if you're six feet under, a painting of the last supper isn't going to do you a whole lot of good. Even assuming you could use your eyes somehow when you're dead, it's also going to be pitch black. Also take into account the fact that when you do begin to decay - because you will, embalming be damned - if you're in a sealed, water-tight box, your gasses and liquefying bits will build up enough pressure to burst the box. The white satin liner you're resting on will become saturated with Soup d'You. So what's the point of spending so much on it all?
I had someone argue with me that the better preserved you kept your body, the better, since when you rise on Judgement Day you don't want to be a horrific decaying mess. I countered that if God could raise dudes from the dead, I think that a wee bit of restoration would certainly be well within the plans. She huffed at me. I couldn't understand why she was so invested in being right about it, seeing's how she stood to save her rather poor family quite a bit of cash if she opted out of the whole ensemble. But nonetheless, people seem to be very attached to their bodies post-mortem. A thought made more hilarious by the fact that most folks don't seem to give a damn about their bodies when they're living in it.
Anyway. I suppose this seems a bit random, but I wanted it out there. Wrap me up nice and soft, put me in the ground, and put a nice little marker there. The marker I don't mind being fancy. People can see that bit. They can appreciate it. I won't give a damn, but that way people can come by and see where I lay and have a moment of reflection and remembrance. but the rest? Meh. Leave it. Have a grand wake and a lot of booze on my behalf, eat lots of food and have a merry time. Play lots of 80's music. But don't worry about me being in the ground. She was here long before me, and it was always understood that I'd be back.
I've taken a lot from this earth to sustain this form, and I'd like to give it back when I'm done with it. So if I get hit by a rogue satellite that plunges from the atmosphere tomorrow, I'd much appreciate it is if folks didn't drop multiple tens of thousands of dollars on sticking me in the ground. Wrap me in something nice - a pretty blanket or a warm quilt will do - dig the hole good and deep, and let me sleep there. No need for my insides to be flushed out or filled up with weird ass fluids, thanks. Don't need my cavities filled with cotton. Just let me be, as is, say a few nice things, and have one *hell* of a party when I'm set. If fewer than half of my funeral attendees aren't rip-roaring drunk by the time the party's over, you didn't party hard enough.
Oh, and s'mores. You'd better have freaking s'mores at my funeral. Crapton of s'mores. And a bonfire to roast them on. And buttered popcorn. With enough butter in it to make it swim.
Just sayin'.
You see, the funeral industry earns scads of money every year, charging you buttloads of money for a nice fancy box to put yourself into with all the little pillowy extras for your eternal sleep. The thing is, if you're six feet under, a painting of the last supper isn't going to do you a whole lot of good. Even assuming you could use your eyes somehow when you're dead, it's also going to be pitch black. Also take into account the fact that when you do begin to decay - because you will, embalming be damned - if you're in a sealed, water-tight box, your gasses and liquefying bits will build up enough pressure to burst the box. The white satin liner you're resting on will become saturated with Soup d'You. So what's the point of spending so much on it all?
I had someone argue with me that the better preserved you kept your body, the better, since when you rise on Judgement Day you don't want to be a horrific decaying mess. I countered that if God could raise dudes from the dead, I think that a wee bit of restoration would certainly be well within the plans. She huffed at me. I couldn't understand why she was so invested in being right about it, seeing's how she stood to save her rather poor family quite a bit of cash if she opted out of the whole ensemble. But nonetheless, people seem to be very attached to their bodies post-mortem. A thought made more hilarious by the fact that most folks don't seem to give a damn about their bodies when they're living in it.
Anyway. I suppose this seems a bit random, but I wanted it out there. Wrap me up nice and soft, put me in the ground, and put a nice little marker there. The marker I don't mind being fancy. People can see that bit. They can appreciate it. I won't give a damn, but that way people can come by and see where I lay and have a moment of reflection and remembrance. but the rest? Meh. Leave it. Have a grand wake and a lot of booze on my behalf, eat lots of food and have a merry time. Play lots of 80's music. But don't worry about me being in the ground. She was here long before me, and it was always understood that I'd be back.
May 31, 2014
Time Marches On
I found wrinkles today.
My reaction surprised me, since it wasn't alarm, as I anticipated I would feel upon greeting my first wrinkles. Rather, I felt a sense of relief, as though I no longer had to anticipate them at all and could just move on from there. It was like greeting a blind date and discovering they had actually showered and had something resembling manners.
They're right around my eyes, on the underside by the outsides, right where my mom's are. And that made me laugh. Which made them crinkle even more. You see, I love my mom's wrinkles. (She may be indignant for me saying that, but it's true.) They seem to accent her eyes every time she smiles or laughs or makes a funny face. They're obviously worn in from laughs, and every time she so much as giggles they crinkle up her eyes until she looks like her eyes are shut from pent up snickers and half-a-dozen held-in guffaws.
So the fact that I have them in the same spot makes me smile even more - probably setting them even deeper - because I always tell people that if I age half as good as my mom does, I'll be in really good shape.
Hello, Wrinkles. Please pull up a chair and make yourselves comfortable. You can join the Grey Hairs over there enjoying their tea.
I've had those since I was 17.
It occurs to me as I write this that I'm paradoxical in the aging sense. I've had some people tell me I don't age at all. And looking at old photos, I can see where they get that idea. I look basically the same now as I did when I was fresh out of high school. Not bad for being nearly twice the age. But the paradox comes from the fact that - despite being a relatively young 32 - I seem to have aged significantly more than many of my same-age friends.
I wake up every day in pain, now. Often it's my back, or my feet, or my neck. Often it's my shoulder. Sometimes it's my knees, which have bugged me for years. My shoulder has worsened, and I consign myself now to knowing that it will never fully recover; there will always be that twinge of pain from where the impingement syndrome sent my rotator cuff into an outright riot, even if they don't slip out of socket as much as they were. Oh, and yes - my shoulders now periodically slip out of socket, with or without my say so. They were always capable of it, even in my youth, and I thought it was a funny thing to do, but now my ligaments don't hold them as tight as they used to. Payment for the abuses of childhood antics, when I thought contorting my body in improper ways was hilarious.
My wrist aches in cold weather, and I never did get 100% range of motion back after the surgery. I have a crown now; unfortunately, probably the first of many to come. And while I've gained a fair bit of strength lately, I've lost nearly all of my flexibility and gained wrinkles. My butt is no longer as firm as it once was, but that bothers me far less than the continual decline of my vision and what I fear are the first signs of significant hearing loss.
So while I may appear to be young and vibrant, the truth is I feel far older than I look, and older than I think I ought to feel at this point in my life.
But what choices do I have in dealing with it? Complain? If I learned nothing else as a child, it was that complaining solves nothing. So even if I hurt when I get up, and hurt when I go to bed (even hurting when I sleep), I shrug my good shoulder, roll my eyes, and say - with great conviction - "...meh." I'll medicate myself if it gets bad enough to warrant it, and if I think something's actually amiss I'll see a physician, but what precisely could a doctor do for "pain associated with the body protesting from incorrect use over long periods"? My knees have always been a mess. I work retail. There's no way in hell I'm not going to have pain somewhere at any given time. That's just how it is now.
I write this as an idle observation, really. It just sort of struck me, as I examined my wrinkles, that I am in fact hitting that point in my life where I have to do as my dad always told me to, and make a friend of pain. "Oh hi, Pain," he'd drawl, not-quite sarcastically, "there you are again." No anger, no bitterness. Just... acknowledgement. Acceptance. I hurt. Then we move on.
And I think I'm actually beginning to understand what he meant.
I guess I just hadn't thought it would happen so soon.
My reaction surprised me, since it wasn't alarm, as I anticipated I would feel upon greeting my first wrinkles. Rather, I felt a sense of relief, as though I no longer had to anticipate them at all and could just move on from there. It was like greeting a blind date and discovering they had actually showered and had something resembling manners.
They're right around my eyes, on the underside by the outsides, right where my mom's are. And that made me laugh. Which made them crinkle even more. You see, I love my mom's wrinkles. (She may be indignant for me saying that, but it's true.) They seem to accent her eyes every time she smiles or laughs or makes a funny face. They're obviously worn in from laughs, and every time she so much as giggles they crinkle up her eyes until she looks like her eyes are shut from pent up snickers and half-a-dozen held-in guffaws.
So the fact that I have them in the same spot makes me smile even more - probably setting them even deeper - because I always tell people that if I age half as good as my mom does, I'll be in really good shape.
Hello, Wrinkles. Please pull up a chair and make yourselves comfortable. You can join the Grey Hairs over there enjoying their tea.
I've had those since I was 17.
It occurs to me as I write this that I'm paradoxical in the aging sense. I've had some people tell me I don't age at all. And looking at old photos, I can see where they get that idea. I look basically the same now as I did when I was fresh out of high school. Not bad for being nearly twice the age. But the paradox comes from the fact that - despite being a relatively young 32 - I seem to have aged significantly more than many of my same-age friends.
I wake up every day in pain, now. Often it's my back, or my feet, or my neck. Often it's my shoulder. Sometimes it's my knees, which have bugged me for years. My shoulder has worsened, and I consign myself now to knowing that it will never fully recover; there will always be that twinge of pain from where the impingement syndrome sent my rotator cuff into an outright riot, even if they don't slip out of socket as much as they were. Oh, and yes - my shoulders now periodically slip out of socket, with or without my say so. They were always capable of it, even in my youth, and I thought it was a funny thing to do, but now my ligaments don't hold them as tight as they used to. Payment for the abuses of childhood antics, when I thought contorting my body in improper ways was hilarious.
My wrist aches in cold weather, and I never did get 100% range of motion back after the surgery. I have a crown now; unfortunately, probably the first of many to come. And while I've gained a fair bit of strength lately, I've lost nearly all of my flexibility and gained wrinkles. My butt is no longer as firm as it once was, but that bothers me far less than the continual decline of my vision and what I fear are the first signs of significant hearing loss.
So while I may appear to be young and vibrant, the truth is I feel far older than I look, and older than I think I ought to feel at this point in my life.
But what choices do I have in dealing with it? Complain? If I learned nothing else as a child, it was that complaining solves nothing. So even if I hurt when I get up, and hurt when I go to bed (even hurting when I sleep), I shrug my good shoulder, roll my eyes, and say - with great conviction - "...meh." I'll medicate myself if it gets bad enough to warrant it, and if I think something's actually amiss I'll see a physician, but what precisely could a doctor do for "pain associated with the body protesting from incorrect use over long periods"? My knees have always been a mess. I work retail. There's no way in hell I'm not going to have pain somewhere at any given time. That's just how it is now.
I write this as an idle observation, really. It just sort of struck me, as I examined my wrinkles, that I am in fact hitting that point in my life where I have to do as my dad always told me to, and make a friend of pain. "Oh hi, Pain," he'd drawl, not-quite sarcastically, "there you are again." No anger, no bitterness. Just... acknowledgement. Acceptance. I hurt. Then we move on.
And I think I'm actually beginning to understand what he meant.
I guess I just hadn't thought it would happen so soon.
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