Day 30: stream of consciousness

One time I heard Dorianne Laux speak, back when I was still in school, and I remember her reading something that was in the first person, and when she was done, she said something like…”Now how much of that is true?” and gave us the little smile. That’s why I love fiction. What is true, what is fiction, what is from real experience, is it all real, is it all false? Today, I will write fiction. “Fiction.”

We took a trip to the gold country in northern california. I stood out in the river, my little bare feet slipping on the rocks, panning for gold. Just like they used to. But I couldn’t get any. I’d scoop and shake, scoop and shake, but all I got was sand. I furrowed my brow. Mom said that all of the gold miners must have taken it up way back when, that it wasn’t because I was a bad gold miner or anything like that. Mom could tell I was kind of bummed so she bought me a little jar with flakes of gold in it from the hotel’s gift shop. I loved it. I held it tight for the rest of the trip, the rest of the car ride home. It was warm from my hand when I put it on my dresser.

I looked at it all the time when I was younger. I would lay in bed and stare at it. Sometimes I’d shake it up and watch the gold slowly settle. The moment that it was all at a rest, I would shake it again. Shake, watch, shake, watch.

I took the jar in to show and tell, and quietly told my class about my trip up to gold country. I was one of those real shy kids. “And I had a peanut butter sandwich for lunch with a carton of milk. And in my lunch bag my Mama had put this little jar of gold. Because it’s hard to get gold now a days.” My classmates looked on, starry-eyed. I let them all pass it around, some of them shook it up and watched as the flakes floated down to the bottom, just like I did.

I met him when I was older. He came to visit me over the holidays, flew into San Francisco. The jar was still on my dresser, but moved towards the back, dusty. I still looked at it. I still liked it. But I was older.

He sees the jar and picks it up. He shakes it, like I used to. I tell him the story of where I got it, like I did in show and tell.

“That’s nothin’ but fools gold,” he says, and laughs twice. Ha. Ha.

I am silent. I take it from him, examine the gold like I’d be able to tell if it was real or not. I place the jar back on my dresser.

He laughs again. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I ask him what he’s laughing at. “Nothin’,” he says.

And I believe him.

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Day 29: stream

I remember when the mangoes were in season. I slice open their flesh, into their meat. Golden and glistening. The knife runs close to the core, graces it, and I angle the blade away. Slide it down until it comes out the other side of the protecting fruit, an ovary, the quartered piece falls on to the wooden cutting board. The fragrant nectar pools. Flecked with yellow pulp. My knife catches the sun and blinds my eyes for the shortest moment.

He cuts tomatoes, cilantro.

I chunk the mango, throw out the skins. I take the small squares of fruit, slide them off of the cutting board into a large glass bowl using the knife to scrape the reluctant ones. Golden juice sits on the cutting board. I bring the corner of the board to my mouth, and tilt it up so the juice waterfalls on to my tongue. The sweetest, packed with what I crave.

Now I cut potatoes, pears, tough apples, squash of yellow and green. The cutting board is dry and stained. Things are more hearty, dense, fibrous. Slower flow. Tough and starchy. Wrinkled from lack of water, crunching and crispy.

It’s just the season.

Day 28:

I really don’t feel like writing today.

So I’m not going to. 🙂

Day 27:

Back in Georgia. So many memories here, so many sweet sweet memories of this funny little college town.

My friends built a woody in their backyard, these overhanging pieces of plywood with plastic holds all over it that kicks my ass every time. Just reminds me how severely horrible I am at climbing anything overhanging, definitely a face climbing kind of girl.

I also have barely been bouldering, so my power has dwindled. It’s bouldering season though–time to get off ropes and be burly. Bishop is calling.

I’m competing in a bouldering competition at Horse Pens 40 in Alabama next weekend, and the ass kicking will continue. Slopey friction climbing on nonexistent holds. Squeeeeze. Tension. Hold your breath.

I’m going to start training really hard this week, lots of core work and lots of climbing and yoga. I love training. I love being inspired and trying hard. And being around my southern climbing friends just makes it so much more fun.

I’m happy today.

Beer time. ❤

Missed day 25, and here is day 26

I know I missed posting yesterday, and the day before, but I actually did write something over those days and here it is:

On the plane to Savannah right now. Heading down there for a week or so to see my friends and go climbing. I heard the first really thick southern accent I had heard in a long time from a sweet older woman who was on the phone with her daughter talking about chicken noodle soup. It was perfect.

I am tired today, from lack of sleep, a few too many Budweisers last night, and traveling. And, the past few days have been a little emotional. Alright, they’ve been a lot emotional. That always happens when I’m about to go visit the guy I’ve been in love with for the past three years, and I haven’t seen him since August. I’m sure you understand.

I am tired but I’m not that kind of tired that feels sad or hopeless, I’m the tired that feels enjoyable, like a reward, the ability to be calm. Somber. The kind of tired that makes you want to listen to easy songs and drink chai with a good friend. The kind of friend you like sharing blankets with. The kind of friend you don’t have to constantly fill the silence with words, or even talk to at all, you can just sit on the couch and be together without the TV on.

Lucky. That’s how I feel today. I have great friends. All over the country. Yesterday I watched the Giants game and went out to a bar with my childhood friends and a few new friends too, and I think we were in a group hug for the better portion of last night.

And now I’m flying to Georgia to see my college friends, my climbing friends, the friends who you live with for four plus years and spend every moment with, so they so effortlessly become family. And my climbing friends, who have quite literally saved my ass and made me laugh more than anyone, the friends that you can sit in a smelly old tent with all day when it’s raining and it feels like heaven.

I have been thinking a lot lately about those people who don’t have any grace period from the time you meet them to the time they actually consider you a friend. I so admire those people. They are the sweetest. I saw it happen last night, I introduced a new friend to an old friend and there weren’t any questions, any doubts, any I don’t know you that well so I’m still going to be guarded around you, maybe after like the forth time I see you we can hug. No. None of that. Hello, hey, nice to meet you. Instant friends. I love that and it makes me smile big, cheshire cat smile.

I feel loved. And if you, yes you, reader, has ever in any way made me feel loved, and the chances are pretty good that you have–thank you. Thank you so much, it never goes unnoticed. And I will never forget it.

Day 24:

I’ve sat in front of my computer screen for about ten minutes now, what to write, what to say….

What I really want to say is that I’m tired. I’m exhausted actually.

I hold my phone, write out a text, delete some of it, what to write, what to say…bite my nail, exhale. Fix this, George. Say something to make it all better. You’re a writer, you should be able to express yourself, you should be able to show it. A text message. A damn text message. Is this really what it’s coming down to? A text message that holds so much power, how I long for close proximity. Text-fighting. Text-goodnights. Texts that ruin my day. Really? A damn text message. This is all I have. All we have. What to write, what to say. And I wonder why the road has been rough. It’s probably because of the texting.

I remember back when I first got a phone, when I was a freshman in high school. It was one of those fat Nokia phones. I liked it. I didn’t really use it, ever, but I liked having something to carry. Something that was mine, something to put in the purse I got for my birthday. I probably sent about one text a week, to my friend across the classroom, I’d write it out under my desk–SO BORED. HAHA. 🙂

And now–text-relationships, text-make ups, text-break ups, text-get asked out on a date, text it all. Text to save relationships, to hold them together. Is it worth it, is it a good thing we are so easily connected in that way, is it really easier, is it a positive?

Is it even real?

Day 23: stream of consciousness

In a dream last night, I was back in Savannah, Georgia, in my old room. I loved that room. It had a big window, lots of sun, a place to practice yoga, a little wooden desk, an old book case. Lots of patterns. I loved that house. It had a record player, two lazy lions (kittens) scampering around, weird art, weird books, dinner parties, exposed pipes (on purpose), no TV, a shared garden in the back with lots of basil, and two smart roommates who were some of the greatest gals ever. It had such good energy–and I don’t say that because I’m a yoga teacher, even normal people would say that–a super feminine, kick-ass kind of energy.

In my dream I was standing in my room, but some other girl had moved in, except all of my stuff was still there. The new girl had added some more books, some shoes–but everything else was mine.

I woke up this morning, rolled over to side of my bed on my belly, my head almost hanging off, and I see a large suitcase full of clothes and books and stuff, that is sitting on top of a large pile of clothes and books and stuff. Mind you, this is the side of my bed that you can’t see from the doorway and doesn’t keep me from walking around my room too much, but…yes. I have something to admit. And it’s kind of embarrassing. I stared at the pile of my stuff and thought,

I haven’t fully unpacked from when I moved back from Savannah. 

Even worse–I moved back over a year ago. And even worse worse–I tell myself almost every free hour or afternoon that I have, yes, this will be the day that I unpack.

Let me explain. Wait, no. I don’t need to. The fact of the matter is that I waited over a year to unpack because it meant 1. I am officially living at my Mom’s, which I’m forever grateful for, but moving out and then back in is never fun and 2. coming home from Savannah was the hardest time of my life, for lots of reasons, and it meant letting go of/revisiting/facing/accepting/forgiving/all the other hard stuff ya gotta do to get on with your life. And maybe I just wasn’t ready.

But today, for whatever reason, it happened. I started by tiding up my room–picking up clothes, doing laundry, making the bed. But when I was done, or as done as I usually am, something felt wrong. The big pile of Savannah peeked out from the corner of my bed. It felt bigger than usual, like it took up more space. I went downstairs and tried to forget about it.

But I eventually came back up, and found myself standing over the pile, looking down at it. On the top was a t-shirt I haven’t worn since probably 2008. I picked it up, folded it, put it on my bed. I did that with the next most superficial item–a pair of yoga pants with a hole in the butt (I don’t know) and fraying pant legs. I put them in the trash can. And then a book, The Anatomy of Spirit, I put that on my bookshelf. Next, a folder full of yoga teacher training notes–I put those in my yoga binder. A 2010 day planner, dresses, a jewelry box, candles, a pack of bobby pins. I either put my belongings into the trash, their correct place in my room, or stack them up to give to charity.

Eventually, little by little, after a few hours and Pandora stations later–I unpacked.

Okay–so not entirely, I still have a few things to sort through, but I feel…good, yes, but also tired. It was time, and I was ready to unpack, but…that kind of stuff is draining. So many memories. So many smells. So many little various pockets of energy getting unearthed, experienced, and then put away, thrown away, or given away. That’s a lot. Reliving past emotions, roles, moments…what a close to your bones experience. I’m glad I did it.

I’ve never really felt grounded here in the Bay Area. It always seems like when I’m here I’m transitioning, either moving in or moving out, coming home from a climbing trip or leaving. I get these little odd jobs, in fear of getting too grounded here, and I don’t know where that fear comes from. I don’t like the city, not at all, and when I say city I don’t mean San Francisco, I mean anywhere within a ten minute drive to a McDonalds. But in reality, this place is good, close to climbing, fun yoga, smart people, and I know I could make things happen here, but for some reason I don’t want to be a part of it.

Ah. Is that a little clarity I see?

Clean, clear out, remove, strip down, cleanse, detox. Unpack.

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