Day 12: a side note

Alright, so this is my 12th entry? in about twice as many days. 

Are you familiar with the Dr. Suess quote, "A person is a person, no matter how small."? Lately the thing that comes to mind is, "Progress is progress, no matter how small."

The side note:

On Sunday I got engaged. I really wanted to be engaged. We've been together for 7.5 years. We've seen a lot of each other. I wanted it badly. And in true, cringe-worthy fashion: He didn't. I dropped out of Cal Poly in 2011. I was denied residency, and it was going to cost me another 53K to finish a master's that MIGHT get me 40k/year. About 8 months later I realized I wanted to get married. I realized I wasn't going any where. I didn't want to be with anyone else. I realized that what we had was special; he was always up for an adventure. We traveled so well together. But he didn't want it. The topic usually sent him into a nervous frenzy that more than once ended up in a knock down drag out argument. I did the harsh thing of setting a deadline. We would pass the timeline. I would resent him for missing a deadline he knew nothing about. I could blame him for a lot, but often times my frustration came from things he had no idea were happening. 

I set the last deadline by accident. We were fighting and I threw it at him. I said, "Are you planning to propose to me in the next 6 weeks?!" And he said maybe. Maybe is a toxic word because it gives more hope to the hopeful, and more doubt to the doubting. I decided that this was it. So I marked the date. This time I told him about it. Did he make the deadline? No. But this time, he knew the clock was ticking.

 This was my basic premise:"If you want to marry me, let's do it. If you don't, let me find someone who will give me what I want, because I deserve that happiness, and to have a family."

The weekend before the deadline, he found out that some loved ones, very close to him, were divorcing. At that point, I rescinded the deadline. He was hurting. I didn't do it in some pathetic way. I didn't shame it. I simply said, "This is bigger. Let's deal with this upset, but keep our own priorities in line." That was really hard. It was hard because his faith in marriage was in those two people. Was it immature and irrational? yes, but when its the only thing you've ever seen as a successful relationship, it's difficult to separate the two ideas. 

So, a few weeks later I told him that it was still important to me. He said he knew, and that he was working on it. He seemed serious so I decided to drop it. I didn't really think about it.The quarter started, classes got hectic, and I let it go. 

Our friends, previous companions of the infamous Vidal, invited us camping near Yosemite. I spent the entire weekend trying to convince them to go to Yosemite, just for a drive through view. I finally "convinced" them (they were totally in in it the whole time), and we went to the park. To our surprise there was a fire in the Valley, so we went up to Olmsted point. We'd been there the first summer we dated, then the second, third, and fifth year we dated. I'll never forget the first time I saw it. I actually gasped. Every time I see it I feel like I'm losing my breath. I got out of the car and walked over to the ledge, looking out over the granite landscape. He came up behind me. He was shaking! I told him it wasn't cold, and to stop shaking. He said, "We've been on so many adventures together.Will you promise to go on adventures with me for the rest of our lives?" At this point I was confused. I kind of nodded like, "sure..." But then he got on one knee with a ring. I believe I asked he was serious, and then I said yes before he finished the question. 

So, I have no idea what the plan is. Brian has requested a minimum of 7 days of engagement bliss. But,  I know that this is pretty much perfect. I'm very excited to start navigating the spiritual aspect of marriage, and want to prepare to be the best Wife I can be. If you know of any texts that could be helpful, let me know!

Thanks for divulging me. I'll keep it to creative writing for a while. :)

Day 11: What do you keep in your wallet/purse

The vessel has changed many times over the years, but the materials remain the same. 

My purse is yellow. It is leather, and has one large flap. The button to close it is a twisty button. In the outer pouch is 2 types of lip...stuff? I don't think Burt's bees constitutes the title of "lipstick" but, its tinted. Then I have a set of Brian's keys, and a pair of nail clippers-- you can do a lot with nail clippers. 

Finally, and my secret (I know you might anticipate a flask of vodka or a single hitter pipe), I have a tiny vial of advil. 

In the big flap I have 3 bart cards, a red wallet with mostly cards that I don't need; like 4 year old insurance cards, and movie membership cards that don't have any theaters within 200 miles. I have a fireman's badge sticker, a Hamsa Chai necklace made by a halocaust survivor, 1.5 pairs of earrings, random benefit cards like cvs cards, that I never use, my phone, and tiny crumbs/pebbles that the kids I nanny believe to be the most precious gem in the world. 

Day 10: What are your thoughts on cooking?

Incase you haven't noticed, one of my weaknesses is character development. I kind of delve right in. Or, even worse I just tell you the events. Part of me thinks that its just my reaction to a prompt I may not be in LURVE with, but the other part of me thinks that if the goal is to develop in creative writing, I shouldn't be lazy.

So, for this prompt I get to give my opinion; something I am incredibly, offensively, good at doing. 

When I was a kid, cooking was this elite privilege. My mom or Nana would go into the kitchen, work quietly and deliberately for hours, and then out came a beautiful masterpiece that the average Joe could never hope to create. 

When my mom left we almost exclusively ate at Nana's house. She was neurotic (about many things) about her kitchen. For example, these were some of her instructions:

"1. Go in the kitchen

2. Wash your hands

3. Get a bowl

4. find the flour

5. Find the eggs

6. Find some oil

7. Find a measuring cup"

The point is that she prefaced the actual recipe with about 12 steps that she wanted done exactly as she stated. If she came in the kitchen and the oil was out but not the eggs, it was a wash. It was weird. I guess she was attempting to instill in me a sense of reverence for what I was doing, or maybe she was trying to make me as neurotic as she was about it... but in anycase, I realized early on that it was Nana's house, and Nana's kitchen. 

My dad on the other hand was probably too lax. I remember being 10-11 years old and attempting to make chicken. I totally almost caught the house on fire. There's also the issue that I was alone in the house at that age. That being said, I remember the chicken being edible. I learned a few things through high school, I mastered most breakfast food (except bacon) and was ok with most starches (pasta, baked potatoes, etc). 

I moved to California when I was 22, from living in a dorm for 4 years. I was chomping at the bit to get culinarily creative. Coincidentally we moved in with a chef. I just know that we ate roasted root vegetables at least 4 times a week until we moved, about 6 months later. One perk is that he taught us you can grill pizzas. That's still one of my favorites. 

About a year later we moved into our own place (my own kitchen!?!) and I started working for a pretty affluent, health-conscious family. They were willing to put absolutely disgusting things into their bodies for health's sake. My goal at that point was to create food they would deem healthy, but also make it palatable. My first development was this mexican chicken 'noodle' soup. It was good, but my boyfriend doesn't consider soup food... so then I learned about "Gluuu-ten" (the kids that I currently nanny call it that and it is insanely adorable). I learned how to pretty much make anything without bread/pasta/potatoes. My favorite out of those things is zucchini lasagna. I can also make some bomb ass gluten free cupcakes using coconut flour. Cooking for me has become a comfort. I'm in school where I'm pretty much constantly feeling insufficient. It's hard. I wont even fake it! 

Cooking is like art to me. It is more than sustenance, it is an experience. That is something my mom and my grandmother definitely instilled in me; eating good food is an experience. You shouldn't feel like a pig at the trough. You should prepare food delicious enough to savor, to make you pause for a moment and be reminded that we more than our ancestors scavaging for food. We are eating art. We are creating art. I would encourage you to put yourself out there and try something crazy. Try something new! 

In 5 years I've thrown away 2 dishes. And one of them was the most expensive thing I've ever made. Keep it simple, and just keep trying. 

Day 9: You`re in a room full of people and you`re the only blind person there. Describe the room and the people in your mind.

Who's got 2 thumbs but no internet at home!? This girl!

Sorry for falling off the wagon.

That being said, the new house is amazing. 

Anywho:

The couch has ribbed fabric. It's really soft. I like the way it feels on my legs. I have one arm resting on the arm rest and my fingers are fiddling with the texture. I'm trying to not look nervous, but I'm at the mercy of Andrew, my friend, who kind of settled me on the couch and went to the bathroom. My folded cane is in my right fist. I let my head fall onto the back of the couch. The cushioning is aged, but overall I'd buy it. Right now I might prefer to be deaf. The music is really slow, but the base is turned up and it feels like I'm a rock on the coast being smashed by waves of bad sounds, or bad feelings. My friend is back and sits next to me on the couch. He keeps telling me how high he is. I hate dub step, but this house is the only place around to get good weed. Maybe that's why the couch feels so good. I pop the cane into its straightened position and stand up. I've been here 6 or 7 times, and I'm pretty sure I can make it to the downstairs half bath.

I didn't take into account the people. There's only 8 people here, but people don't pay much attention to where I am until I'm poking them with my cane. And then they are incredbibly apologetic.... though if they would speak to me, I wouldn't have to poke them. Having a dog is way more effective. People want to pet the dog. People want to talk about how smart the dog is. The dog is a conversation catalyst. I didn't bring him because the first time there was a strobe light and it freaked him out. 

Lee is here. She is fantastic. She plays volleyball and smells like dirt. Maybe dirt wasn't what I meant, but she smells earthy; not made up, not fake. I ran into her (poked her) on the way to the bathroom. We are both pre-med so we have pretty much the same schedule. I like her because she is such a deviation from the norm. She likes Jump Little Children and always sings in open mic nights; changing top 40's hits into jazzy moaning. I'm pretty sure she likes me. 

Trevor is my dealer, and the guy who lives here. I hear him say my name. He's in the kitchen when I walk back through to the living room and I hear wet bristly sounds. I walk over to the sink and he tells me to come with him. We go outside on the porch and he tells me he's painting the sunset. We got to his house after 9 pm, so I don't know what he's using as a reference, but he asks me what I think. He's also high, so I don't know if I should remind him I can't see, or if I should play along, or if I should laugh like he's made a joke. I wait for a moment, and he pats my shoulder and says, "yeah, me too buddy."

The best thing about hanging out with people that smoke pot is that you never hear retching. I hate frat parties or typical house parties where people drink too much and end up lying in their own vomit for hours. The sound of vomit hitting the concrete from one story up is haunting. The stories you hear of mistakes made while blackout drunk aren't much better. Our 'parties' are just playing video games, painting, and talking. New people are always passing through. It feels more intellectual. I imagine that in 15 years or so we'll be doing the same thing but drinking wine. My parents like wine. I don't. I don't like alcohol. 

I walk back inside to the couch, and sit on the other end. Someone is sitting next to me that I don't know, and on the furthest end, where was sitting earlier, is Lee. She sighs loudly and asks the person between us if she's met me. The girl moves around in her seat and then I hear a raspy voice introduce herself. I stick my hand out to shake her hand. After a few seconds she puts her hand in mine and gives me a little jerk. She definitely isn't high. She starts asking me questions a mile a minute. After what feels like an eternity, a guy asks her if she wants to play scrabble. She accepts, and then dismisses herself. 

Andrew comes up and asks if I'm ready to leave. I stand up and pop out my cane, and walk towards the door. I poked 3 people along the way. 

Day 8: Write for 10 minutes beginning with "I used to think..."

I used to think that beards were gross

but now I just know better

Before I wouldn't get too close

and my beliefs were a fetter

I like burly beastly bearded men

but this is something new

Oh, imagine what could have been!

if I'd staged a face hair coup.

I like them below an old baseball hat

or above flannel plaid

a 5 0'clock shadow or a nice one big and fat

no facial hair is bad.

I rescind.

 

Day 7: reader prompt: write about a mood that elicits an emotional response from your reader

I'm not good with emotions in the real world... so I don't imagine this will go much smoother. 

He fumbles a little

eyes darting between me and the blankets

The smile on his lips 

the crease in his eyebrows 

don't add up

stands up

sits down

turns to the side

reaches out

pulls back

He laughs.

I pull the blankets back

two black gems shine 

in the moonlight

new skin with eyebrows dancing

he reaches out

I rest the blankets in his arms.

upright

not too far back

yaaaaawwwnnnn

His face breaks to a smile

one hand finds a foot

a tiny hand reaches out

to his finger

afraid,

but he laughs

ok. So I tried poetry format. Now I will try the same experience in block form. I think I get too confined in what a 'poem' should look like.

I looked down at two black eyes, barely exposed in the late evening's cold. Top 40's music plays just a hair too loud, and I bounce my knee to the beat. I make the occasional nod to a parent to say, "Hey! He's still breathing over here! I think this counts as a success!" People come by to pat a leg, or 'fix' him the only way that they know how. He rubs his hands together in a menacingly way, and randomly gives a half-smile that I assume is an indication pooping, thinking about pooping, or a primer to crying. I play with his fingers, and fiddle with the blanket to make sure his legs are covered. 

I look over at my boyfriend. We'd just said yesterday that he'd never held a newborn before. He is looking at the baby, and then asks if he can try. I repeat to him what was said to me when he ended up in my arms, "He likes to sit up. Don't lay him back." Brian's demeanor changes. He never loses his smile, but he immediately seems unsure. He stands up, sits down, changes positions, holds out his hands, pulls them back, and then just laughs. I don't know why, but I expected that sometime in the 6 seconds all of that took that he would change his mind. But finally, I come back to reality, and lean over to deliver the baby to him. He holds out his arms, instinctively correct. The baby settles right in and does what most babies do when they see the beard, and just stare at it in wonder. The baby's gestures go from hand rubbing to bar fight. His arms are reaching as if to say, "Let me up! Let me at 'em!" Brian rearranges, again, without a glitch, and puts his finger out for the baby to grab. 

I don't hold babies often. I work with older kids. I've felt the emotions and flood of bonding brain chemicals while feeding a bottle to a baby, but in one moment Brian was holding a baby, and in the next he was interacting with the baby. They locked finger in hand for a long while. The smile was glued on Brian's face.

This wasn't a moment of realizing he would be a good father. I've known this for awhile. It was amazing to watch someone unaccustomed to infants, become instantly comfortable.  

Day 6: Write a letter to 10 year old you

Dear Sam,

     Um, hi. I barely remember you. I don't remember much. I remember it was around this age that you learned what manipulation was. I'm sorry it happened to you, but I think you should consider fighting evil with good, instead of more evil. Eventually you'll come to this decision without my telling you this, but it would save you a lot of heartache and time to just treat people kindly. Also, that girl who told your class you bathed with your brother is in prison... like... for real. So, even if you do have to be an evil bitch, just remember that the mean people really have it rough at home. I know you don't have many friends now. I also know why you don't have many friends. I want you to know that you will overcome those things. You were only afraid because you thought you were different. You aren't. Once you open your heart to people around you, you will see that they all have the same problems, but they aren't parading around as the product of two people who hate each other... so in that sense they have a leg up. I'm so proud that you never victimized yourself, but I'm sorry that you were made to feel defective. For the record, you may be a little emotionally dry later, but I'd say you turn out ok. 

When she tries to make you cry; when she tries to make you change your mind, don't listen. You are where you belong. You are so, so loved. And maybe she wont always be terrible, but for right now she isn't what you need. Frankly, don't expect that to change for another 10-20 years... if ever. 

Also, your dad is going to marry an absolute psychopath. Don't talk to her about menstruation, or books, or pain. She is toxic. She terrified me for so long on those topics that I was afraid of them. She was wrong. Matter of fact, don't eat anything she cooks, and avoid contact. Try to live with Nana. 

Nana is only going to get more annoying. She's going to let her fears of what you could become envelope her in paranoia. Be patient. She is coming from a good place. She will protect you from things you can't even imagine. She will be your greatest defense. Try not to yell. Try to write her letters more. People will always tell you that you get your enjoyment of writing from Larry... but it was her. I promise. 

Reading is a lot more fun than they make it out to be. And in a few years you are going to make your first 'C'. Don't cry. Daddy doesn't care as much as you think he does. Actually, by now you have a baby sister. You will come to find that Daddy is way more laid back than you thought. As complicated and awkward as he can be with you sometimes, it will be 10x's worse for her. She's just a baby now but she'll be able to handle him better than you; but you'll always have Nana figured out.

If I could ask you to do one thing, I would ask you to stop caring so much. Don't look at clothes sizes before you look at what looks nice. Don't assume that family comes first. Don't worry yourself with what your peers think of you. If you like hiking, hike more. If you want to ride a bike, ride more. Be more social. Join more groups. Do more. See more. You can, and you should. 

One day you're gonna wake up, and you're going to have the most pressing drive you've ever felt. I imagine it's what birds feel when they realize it's time to migrate. You will want to escape. It's the greatest decision you'll ever make. Don't be afraid to go sooner. Don't be afraid to be gone longer. The people that matter understand. The people that don't matter... don't matter. 

Please be gentle with yourself. Like they are so eager to tell you anyway: you're damaged goods. But you're scarring over nicely. Keep up the good work. Kiss more boys. Try to break the rules every once and a while, and for the love of all things holy stop letting Nana dress you. 

-Love

you. 

Day 5: What it looks like when excellence poops in your front yard.

Today's post is not going to be a random prompt. I think life is pretty random sometimes, but ultimately I know that the universe is organized beyond my comprehension.

It's not a common occurance to meet an animal with a career history. Furthermore, its not common to meet an animal with a longer work history than you.

http://youtu.be/Jqp9nWrjDMI

I'm not really familiar with the requirements of a service animal, but the video I posted seems like a fairly adorable representation.

Anywho, I'd like to tell you today about a dog I know. Vidal was a guide dog for my friend Ken. Ken is blind. Ken has always been blind, but he has not always had a guide dog. Vidal was a yellow lab. I met him later in life. He was 10 when we met for the first time. By this point in his life he'd moved all over the country, worked for 8 years, and then retired into the lap of luxury... and by luxury I mean he had to teach the new guide dog the ropes... 

This is all well and good. But sadly, today Vidal passed away. All you need to know now is that Vidal was the dog version of Michael Caine. If you need a reminder:

From here I'd like to tell you a little secret about the past year of Vidal's life. 

Vidal was just settling into retirement in May of last year. He was still a little confused about why this new kid got his job, but he liked the praise he got for absolutely no reason, and not having to wear that vest anymore. 

He adjusted well to spending his days watching Zodi eat trash, reprimanding him and laughing when a few days later he pooped glitter, or assorted less glamorous items. Sometimes he missed being with Ken, but he knew that with his knee injury, he just didn't have another 4 years of work in him. One night he was abandoning his pathetic, "let-me-join-you-on-the-bed" face, and found a comfy corner to coop up in for the night. It felt like as soon as his eyes closed he was jerked awake by a blinking light and the faintest beep. He heard the soft snoring of his human and dog companions. There was a light under the bed. Being the curious protector, he soldier-crawled over to check it out. Once he made it to the flashing light a little hologram popped up out of a scrap piece of paper. A Great Dane looked at him and said, "Mr. Vidal, youre service to your human has been exemplary. At this point in time, your service of a new variety is required. Tomorrow a letter will arrive for you in the mail. I trust you will retrieve the letter before your humans see and compromise their safety. This message will self destruct in 10 seconds." Vidal sat for a moment, and then afraid of what "self destruct" meant covered it with his paws and chin. A "pffffffft" escaped and his head hit the slats of the bed. Ken sleepily said, "Vidal! don't fart under the bed! Get out from under there!" Feeling like this might be a solid opportunity for guilt face, he crawled out and gently rested his head on Ken's hand until he rolled over in an act of defeat and let the dog on the bed.

The next day, apart from the USPS, a letter was dropped through the door. The letter said that the PIA (puppy intelligence agency) required his assistance in a security breach. 

I can't say too much, but I do know that he accepted the position, and because of his duty to this country and Ken, the world is a safer place. And, I wont brag too much, but the guy had razor sharp vision til the day he died. 

Dogs like Vidal don't come along very often, but I can honestly say that he touched my heart in a way that hasn't happened before. Yesterday I laid on the floor with him, rubbed his ears and told him he was a good dog. He raised his eyebrows at me in contest, then very quietly whispered his secrets of time in the PIA. 

My thoughts are with his family, as they mourn and adapt to a life after such a wonderful animal. I hope his soul is at peace: in a place with no cats, and all the bacon he can eat. 

Day 4: How would a broken plate feel?

Many lives begin with a cry, or a doctor peering down at them through a plastic visor. My life began as a heavily perfumed woman tapped her deep purple fingernail against my glass case. She also wore a visor, but hers was not transparent, and probably wasn't to prevent disease transmission. Her gray-purple hair stuck out mushroom shaped above the band with tufts of curls sticking behind and infront of her ears. With a thick accent I barely understood, she said to the shop keeper, "Wahn mayans tray-ash is anotha wahn's trea-ja." The shop keeper took a defensive stance and assured the old woman that nothing in his store was anyone's trash.

At first I was offended by the woman's remark, and then I realized that I was thinking in the first place. Its been a few decades since then, but I've come to realize that sentience is a rare thing amongst dinerware. 

The woman peered into the glass again, but this time she was obviously looking at herself. She stared fish-eyed and wiped at the corners of her mouth with her fingers. The gold rings on her fingers were crowded. She tapped the glass again, in my direction and asked if I was part of a set. The shop keeper said yes, and pulled out a box of my peers. 

The woman hoo'd and hawed at the price of our collection. She haggled and said the shop keeper was all sorts of nasty slang terms. The shop keeper kept one hand wrapped around the wrist of the other hand, shaking his head back and forth every time the woman accused him of taking advantage of little old tourists. Finally he agreed to a 10% discount and he threw in a notepad with a vintage woman's face with words about how wine was better than sex.

Off we went. We were in the trunk of a Lincoln Continental for a few days. Then the old lady pulled us out and put us in what she called a "Chai-nah caaaab net." We became dusty and hidden by other plates and cups from other travels. During this time I tried desperately to begin conversations with my peers, but it never worked. 

The old lady died. She fell asleep on the couch with a cigarette lit. Her neighbor called the fire department. Three quarters of the house burned, but we made it out ok. The woman's nieces came to the house and packed us up. 

Sentience is a funny thing when it just falls into your lap. I guess you appreciate it, but I lived my life in fear of when the other shoe would drop. Sometimes I willed to happen... or tried to. And sometimes the thought of no longer existing tore at my soul. We lived in an attic for a few years, and then the niece's daughter got married and she gave us to the newlyweds. These days people get married without two dimes to rub together. So the nincompoops actually ate frozen pizzas on us for the first year of their marriage. We were 90 year old "off the boat" chinese china! Our porcelain was paper thin. We are a prized collection and they ate the nutritional comparative of cardboard. Time went on, and the nincompoops seemed to get it together; at least enough together to have a wee one. Or three. 

One day the oldest kid was arguing about eating broccoli (gasp) and he flung me. I don't think he meant to fling me off of the table. I think he intended to slide me against the worn dining room table for dramatic effect. But, nonetheless I careened off of the table on to the floor and into a million pieces. I held a metaphorical breath. I squeezed my metaphorical eyes and waited for the bright light. I waited and waited and waited. I counted 4 major pieces and aroun 15 shards. I was a house divided. The lady nincompoop cried. It was like this was the first time she thought that maybe using the fine china that was given to her from her dead great aunt daily wasn't appropriate. The boy was instantly ashamed. He began to pick up the pieces, but the lady nincompoop insisted that she would get it. 

So, I was still here. I didn't know why. I didn't know what I was here for, but I was here. The man nincompoop told the lady nincompoop that he'd had an idea for a long time and had been waiting for an opportunity like this. I went into a plastic bag for safe keeping. Over the course of half a decade, and 3 children growing up and being children, I was joined by 4 more comrades. One day the man nincompoop opened the drawer and pulled us out. He took a hammer to some of the larger pieces, and placed us in some wet concrete. He used our pieces and some colored pieces. I didn't get it at first. I didn't get it for a few days. Then, when lady nincompoop came out one day he unveiled whatever monster he'd made of us and she cried. He'd used pieces of us, and pieces of other glass or porcelain to make a mosaic of a sunrise. 

It's nice to know that there's beauty past what form I was. It's nice to see the sky every day from the back yard. And it's nice to know that I'll be passed on again: to another loved one: to another nincompoop.  

Day 3:Write about attending a wedding as the bouquet the bride carries down the aisle.

My anthers are dropping pollen like the mother-of-the-bride's tears. I've been on the back of toilet tank lids, cars, and in a creepy "this-isn't-as-artsy-as-you-think" photo I was on top of an old tombstone. If you are going to take photos of a wedding bouquet on a tombstone, maybe make it a relative? At any rate, we are in the home stretch, soon enough I'll be dryer than a raisin and with any luck pressed between the pages of some old text book that wont be opened for another decade or two until their kid needs to look at something; assuming text books are even a thing in 20 years. I'm made up of a few lilacs, a disgusting amount of baby's breath, and some hydrangeas. 

I'm probably not as uncomfortable as the bride, but I'm close. She's corseted, and painted, and bound, and my God those shoes are a torture device on a whole new level. I got up close and personal with them for another photo opportunity. I'm corseted up in this fashioned ribbon handle with pins holding everything in place. I guess if my garments were to fail, the worst that could happen would be a few stems exposing. I'm wrapped up tight. I'm not going anywhere. The bride on the other hand is simply wound up. I stopped counting how many times she's cried. She does look beautiful. It's rare to see a bride that isn't beautiful, and usually her ugliness has nothing to do with appearances. Half the time I'm afraid she is going to drop me and other times I think her grip is going to collapse my stems. The bridesmaids are taking good care of her. They only switched to mimosas about 30 minutes ago. I always hate to hear about a drunk bride. Be drunk after you've promised to love and honor someone else for all of time. Be present in that vow. 

The lulling music that gently allows people to gracefully find a seat has been playing for almost an hour. I'm sitting on a glass topped table with more flowers like me on it. The burlap. My god the burlap. After this jaunt down the aisle I have one more act of being thrown at marriage hungry women, and then I will pass on to that great parched memory. I'll exist in photos, and in that text book. I will be. I will simply be different. I notice the music change. I see the bridesmaids line up and take the arm of a groomsmen. Two by two they begin the walk. My fellow flower arrangements are holding up to snuff. They look stunning. In my world this show is about me. I must be more perfect than perfect. 

I may look perfect, but I'm starting to really sweat it... where is the bride? I'm kiiiiinda supposed to be with her. She's supposed to shakingly have me in one hand while she tries everything but face planting in those obsurd shoes and balancing on her daddy's arm. Hell, where's Daddy? This is an instance where not having legs is a real downer. I listen: nothing. She can't walk down the aisle empty handed! I worked hard to maintain these colors for her!! I hear the music change. Oh no! No! Not without me!! I've waited my whole life for this moment! Was this all for nothing?! I see the coat tails of a single male flash past me. I'm jerked off the table and whirled around. If this is that bratty ring bearer I am going to lose my petals. Things slow down and the bride, crying again of course, kisses her father on the cheek and says, "Always there for me Daddy." and he, while tears pool into his Tom Selleck moustache, responds, "That's my job." I sigh. I sigh so heavily I am worried she may have felt the flowers relax. I realize that the church is full: Full of people with eyes anticipating our grand entrance. Oooh! I love it! I love the whispers. I hear them! Older women in big hats are whispering their adoration and blessings to the bride! I'm doing it! I'm holding it together!

The father-of-the-bride walks slowly. She doesn't faulter or totter. She has her eye on the prize. Which reminds me. I haven't seen the groom today. He saw me in passing yesterday in the florist's cooler and smiled in that terribly overwhelmed please-can-we-just-be-married way. I hear that's what approval looks like from a groom. We approach the alter and suddenly I realize the true weight of what I'm participating in. A moment of panic hits me. Is this the right thing for her? What is she thinking? He has a lousy haircut. He doesn't scream, "Hey! I'm a great provider and father-type!!" I start to pray that he doesn't smell like liquor. And then I look at him; the dopey boy with the ugly haircut. He is wearing glasses. Come on dude. Contacts for one day wouldn't kill you; especially when you think about all that she's got on! Oh, but then I looked at the eyes behind those glasses. And that boy was terrified. He looked at her with the reverance that most people look at miraculous things like new babies and waterfalls. His eyes said, "AHH! This is real!" but his lips said, "smile, don't cry. smile." His chin quivered. The bride was handed to him and the father-of-the-bride took his seat. The ceremony was pretty stereotypical. The age old vows were said. And right when you expect the minister to announce the Union of souls a tiny voice croaked out. The bride said, " I gotta read you something. It maybe isn't about today, or tomorrow, or yesterday. But I want to start our marriage off here." The groom, having gathered all his courage and loudness to recite the vows smiled at her. She said, "My love. We’ve got this all wrong. We didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That is where we came from and where we’ll return. We came here to learn personal love. Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love. Infused with divinity. Lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty of… messing up. Often. We didn’t come here to be perfect. We already are. We came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous. And then to rise again into remembering. But unconditional love? Let's stop it there. Love, in truth, doesn’t need ANY other adjectives. It doesn’t require modifiers. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that we show up. And do our best. That we stay present and feel fully. That we shine and fly and laugh and cry and hurt and heal and fall and get back up and play and work and live and die as US. It’s enough. It’s Plenty.** You can call us man and wife now. I wanted to start there. I wanted that to be home plate for us."

**this is a modified quote from Courtney A. Walsh's poem. 

Day 2: retell the story of Snow White from the perspective of one ofthe seven dwarves

Before she came along I was just Tom. Tom isn't the most unique name in the world, but its also not an adjective. Names that double as adjectives are shit. I guess Wendy is ok.

Do you know what irony is? Irony is when you spend 15 years of your life surrounded by men, questioning your existence, your place, and most commonly your sexuality, only to meet your soul mate and find that you turn into a snotty mess in her presence.

I'll never forget the first time I saw her face. I was working in the gold mine like this:

http://youtu.be/EAzAucMOE0s

Let's just say, that my qualifications for this job didn't really extend beyond my stature allowing me to standing in narrower tunnels. I didn't really want the job, but my mom said if I spent one more night on the couch she'd change the locks. My friend told me that his old roommate Ferdinand* died an untimely death on the job, and while it wasn't glamorous, there was a window of time that the mining company would pay a little more to find another... little guy. I am a potter. My father was a potter. My grandfather was a potter. And my great grand father was a good for nothing shoe maker. But pretty much there on back, we were potters. A great point to make here, that you may already be wondering, is that being little is not in my family line: my father would be happy to remind me, but he's been dead 3 years now.

So the job was shit. The pay was a little above shit, but the company was top notch. The guys and I got along well; so well in fact that after about 2 weeks they asked me if I wanted ol' Ferdinand's bed. I gladly accepted. By the next morning mama'd packed everything and damned near kicked me out the door. And that's how it went for nearly 10 years. There'd be a girl every once and a while. One lucky guy would sit around the dinner table and rattle off everything that men want to know, and then she'd fade out or worse: on to the next roommate. Despite a few back yard fisticuffs, we got along alright. The house was bursting at the seams with people. Sometimes we'd host an out of towner, and that helped with money and kept the conversations lively. This is what gave Dopey the idea (yea, we should have known better) to hang a sign out front of the house that said, "The Inn." 

And that's where all the trouble started.

It started out light; a man and his mistress took up the spare room. They stayed about 6 nights a month. No body asked questions. They didn't take meals with us. It was great! It was like living with a ghost: a ghost that we could overcharge for more beer money. Slowly we got more travelers. The house was definitely set back from the road, and frankly wasn't all that welcoming. To put it politely, the house drew a certain type of crowd. Grumpy was doing dishes one night and went into one of his bitch fits. He didn't like all the coming and goings of our guests. He broke a few plates and decided that if we didn't build a guest house that he'd be leaving. We'd been price gouging plenty, and had quite the reserve saved up, so we decided to build a guest house. The house had 6 rooms. And from the day they opened they were constantly full. I didn't expect it, but I liked having the riff raff out of the house. I didn't have to hide my stowing money anymore. 

We'd been carrying on like this for about 2 years, Bashful and Doc had retired from the mine and began studying for their bachelor's degrees. Bashful studied women's studies and Doc... well, he started working on his name sake, so he was in a pre-med program. We decided that the goal was for all of us to go, but we could only go a few at a time. 

One night in mid May, there was a terrible storm. The mica windows shook until sheeted hunks of muscovite fell to the ground. I thought our little house was going to split in two. None of us slept, so we all sat around the den staring awkwardly at each other by fire light til' the storm broke about an hour before sunrise. They yard and road were wrecked. We couldn't get the tools to the mine, so we started working on cleaning up as much as we could. The guest house was in a meadow, and was fairly untouched. We broke off into groups. I worked with Dopey to clear the debris from the house. It didn't seem like the house acquired any major damage. Happy and Sleepy yelled out for help, and we all ran as fast as we could. I remember the first thing I saw was the palest white hand sticking out from a pile of branches. It looked like the poor thing had covered himself with scrap wood to keep safe. No person that pale could still be counted among the living. My heart and stomach traded places. We worked to get the branches off of the person, and little by little soggy leaves were pulled away to reveal a woman. A young woman. A pale, dead, woman. Happy declared in a jubilant way that only he can, that she was breathing. We grabbed some of the larger branches and laid her across them stretcher style. We dropped her a few times by accident, but hell, we were 7 little men trying to move a full sized woman out of a landscaper's nightmare.

By the time we got to the house the day's heat was settling into its pressure cooker norm for that time of year. Doc said she needed rest. We didn't accomplish much for the rest of the day. Each of us took turns sitting on a dinner stool in front of the closed door to her room wringing our hands. I was on my second shift after dinner when I heard the faintest of yawns. I jumped up and ran to the door knob. I hesitated. I listened. I heard the bed creak under her. I heard the soft pad of her feet taking their first steps. Then I kind of opened the door and knocked at the same time. 

If you need some relationship advice: when trying to make a dashing first impression 1. Do not open the door on a lady. 2. Do not scare the shit out of said lady. 3. MOST IMPORTANT: Do not GAWK at said lady. But, me in all my casual-cool ways, did all three in the span of about 8 seconds. 

Even though the sun was setting her pale skin was illuminated. The contrast of her black hair to white skin made her look ethereal. I watched in half time as her delicate hand, so perfect and tiny, wrapped casually around the base of the lamp beside her bed. Her eyes were black and wide. In what was probably only a few seconds, I didn't hear a single step as she walked towards me. She floated; honest she did. As she neared, I took in her beautiful lips. They were full and red, and in a seemingly constant state of dissatisfaction.  Looking back... it is surprising that my reaction to her angelic appearance was able to completely disarm me for the following events. I like to blame my guffawing on the fact I hadn't seen a truly beautiful woman in years. At any rate, she hit me as hard as she could with that oil lamp. 

It was worth it. 

I came to about 20 minutes later. I'd missed the panic as my fellow housemates made heads and tails of what happened. The girl calmed down, and profusely apologized for the mauve walnut that now took residence above my right  ear. She took my head in her hands and again the world slowed down. She smiled at me. I knew from the faces of my friends that this girl was gonna be around for awhile. I focused back on her face. For the first time I really listened to her voice. I'd love to reiterate what the movies have told you, but that girl had a voice of a crow's caw drug through gravel. It was disappointing, but nothing insurmountable. To keep from cringing at the audible torture I was being subjected to, I focused back on her soft hands on my ruddy cheeks. She huskily laughed and told me my beard was soft. Grumpy... well Grumpy grumped in the background. I melted into the couch and wondered if I could just glue her hands to my face like this. 

And then... I felt the itch. It started in my nose and worked down into my throat. In an instant my lungs felt like they were performing a mass evacuation. I tried to hold it in to preserve this precious moment. I wriggled my nose in hopes that it would simply. effing. subside. But it didn't. I sneezed. I sneezed RIGHT in Snow White's face. I sneezed spit and snot all over my beautiful angel's face. 

And this is how just Tom, became Sneezy.

*Ferdinand is the name of one of the Seven Dwarves from the 1912 Snow White film.

Day 1: Take the nearest book, write down the last sentence, and make it your first sentence

“You know, you could live t’see that day come- th’ day that th’ Lord comes. You could live t’see it.” The Foxfire Series

This was more of a threat than a reward in my childhood. It was more of a “You better be good because Jesus is coming back, and he wont like it if you’re naughty” type thing really. I imagined terrible scenes of storm clouds and trumpets descending, transcending, back to earth and the havoc that would come from Jesus’s wrath. I imagined Walking Dead like scenarios (though obviously before the Walking Dead came about), and was absolutely scared stupid of such events. As I grew up this image began to bleed into other ideas I had about Christianity. How could the Jesus of the Gospel be the Jesus of Revelations? Would I be spending eternity with an angry and just God? I concluded that if eternity of heaven was like what the same church that presented the resurrection to me as, I didn’t want any part of it. And I did what we all do with philosophies that we half-like. I ignored it. I blatantly avoided the concept of death.

This worked out fine. When I decided to not care I didn’t do that awful thing of waking up in the middle of the night terrified of swallowing my own tongue (age 11), or being convinced I was dead already and no one noticed (Thank you Sixth Sense, age 9). For almost 10 years things went swimmingly; every so often someone would die and I would think, “Hm, that’s odd. I wonder where they went.” or “I wonder why they decided to leave.” But ultimately I didn’t have to try too hard to rationalize some sort of conscious exit; as if to say, death is a choice, like what color shoes to wear.

You would think that in 26 years I would have had more evidence based faith… but no. I still believe in God. On most days I believe Jesus is the son of God, but even then I can’t believe that’s the ‘only way’. If God loves us, he loves us more than rules. I learned about animism in college, and its nice to have a word to put with the feeling I’ve had all along. I truly believe that my years spent in the dark corner (google it) have basically turned me into a river, or a rock, or any object that is worn on by time. We all take new shape, because time is the ruler of all things. I think all things have lives. My greatest spiritual downfall is “The Soul”. Its a fickle thing… and I’m not sure everyone has one. But if all humans have them, then every living thing has them; we are animals after all.

So, lucky 26. 26 was a bad year. I made bad decisions; not like robbing a bank bad, but bad nonetheless.

Do you have one person that is simply/ larger than life? Steve was it. My dad went a little… introverted for awhile, my grandmother was very strict, and my mother wasn’t around. Steve was the only adult that would tell me like it is. He was so full of soul that to attempt to recreate him now is a fallacy. One day I will write a book about him, and he will be the ornery cyclops. He was a one eyed smoke stack. And in many ways he was like a father to me; a creepy father… but a father. My best friend called and said he was sick and that I should call him. The man was a walking chemistry experiment. Steve couldn’t die. I was SO convinced of it that I didn’t call. I thought of him and wished him well, but I didn’t call. I felt like if I did he would take it as resignation to his mortality; far be it for me to doubt it. So, 3 weeks later when I was standing out on a cliff watching the sun retreat behind some outcrop with the name “Devil” in it, I was cut short when I attempted to photograph the image when a text came through that he’d died. Cut short is the best way to put it. Have you ever been sitting somewhere for a long time, completely engrossed in something and realize that you’ve been breathing uncomfortably shallow? That’s what it felt like. I remember taking a deep breath for what felt like the first time in years; and I didn’t cry… I fell apart. I fell apart in that ugly way where tears wont even come, when you just look like you’re about to throw up.

My parents separated when I was 6. My mother had fallen in love with another man. Frankly, it could have been any man. I don’t think he was particularly wonderful. Actually, he was most certainly less than wonderful. He was incarcerated. I know far too many details about this, but I am the revenge my father wanted. It’s sad, but there’s not much undoing to be done at this point. My mother was/is in and out of the picture. My father was out of his element. Within 2 months of her being gone, my hair was cut short and I’d switched schools. I spent afternoons at my Great grandmother’s house while she slipped further and further into dementia, until she refused to shower or eat and was put into a home. My grandmother picked up where my mother’d left off. There’s really not much more to say than that. I always felt as if she was the outspoken southern woman who took me in when no one else wanted me. She was always sick. She was always taking drugs; not the fun kind that give you good feels. The last time I saw her was 2013. She made me angry because she preemptively went into the hospital to get iron infusions so she could make it though the holidays without having to go in the hospital. Sadly, her plan was foiled when she was sicker than even SHE thought and spent over half my trip in the hospital. I knew at this point that I was going to Chiropractic school. She didn’t get it at all, but as with every thing I wanted to do, she encouraged me. I asked her the last day I was there if she wanted to have surgery. If you aren’t familiar, open heart surgery used to require the ribcage to be cracked open. Because this would be her 3rd open heart surgery they had to open her rib cage. That alone would wreck anyone, much less a 76 year old woman. I wanted her to have dignity. I wanted to support her in any way she wanted. She said that she had no other options. And for life, she was right. It was slowly die, or slowly-er die. She chose slowly-er. She survived the surgery, but couldn’t come off the oxygen. A product of being tubed with oxygen is that she was unable to verbally communicate. On my birthday, 2 months after her surgery she sent a photo of her holding up a sign that read, “Happy Birthday Samantha.” It was amazing! And even more amazingly, that evening she CALLED and I got to hear her voice. I had already resigned to the idea that I would never hear her speak again. That was probably the best gift I’ve ever been given. She died 4 months later… in a less than dignified way… but I guess in the end it doesn’t matter how you die, just that you’ve done it.

So…. 6000 characters later, what the hell does this have to do with the quote??!! Here it is: We all live. We all die. We all sweat. We all cry. Hot damn. That rhymed. We shouldn’t live in fear of ourselves, others, our God, our failures, or our to-do list. You may see something amazing, and then you may not. The miracle of life is that you exist, and persist as best you can. The miracle is that you see and feel and taste and hear and smell this life and times keeps happening. So you may see the return of Jesus Christ. Or you may see the perfect sunrise. Or you may see your child fall in love. Or you may see absolute beauty in the most obscure things, but the miracle is that you, oh tiny wonder that you are, were there to see it; and that is all that has ever mattered.