Holocene.

You know those days when you wake up, start going, and suddenly realize that you should have stayed in bed?

I've had about a week of them.  A week of days that should not have been.  

So here I am, standing in the kitchen, cooking and sipping wine and thinking about everything that's gone wrong and right- over the past few days and over a much longer time.  I am thinking about the past, the present, the future.  I am considering good days, bad days, days that made me stronger and days that nearly killed me.  

And standing here, I'm listening to music that is guaranteed to make me cry- music that defined the bruised time, the time when I became a walking corpse, a non-thing.  This is the music that was the soundtrack to my pain.  This is the music I used to weep to, to fall asleep to every night- night after night after night.  

Why am I listening to it? Why am I thinking all of these things?

Because it's good to remember.  When forgetting is too easy, it's all the more important to remember.  It's important to remember the wrong, to relive it from time to time, to shock yourself with the pain of  badness.  

The bite of brutal memories makes the fight so much stronger.  

I'm not a perfect person.  I'm not even remotely close to it.  I have lost count of all of the stupid things I've done, the people I've let down, the people who have let me down.  I haven't forgotten any of them, though, even if I deliberately attempt to keep them out of my mind.  

So why am I thinking, listening, remembering?

Because the bad makes the good better.

Resolved.

I don't really do New Years Resolutions.

To be fair, I don't usually do New Years (Eve) unless you count sitting on the couch, surrounded by dogs, watching bad movies as "doing New Years (Eve)."  There's something annoying about it to me, something arbitrary.  Every day is, technically, the beginning of a new year.  So why is this one evening, into one midnight, into one day, so much more significant than any other?

I digress.

Similarly, however, I don't think you need one specific day out of the year to decide to change your life, your tune, your whatever.  I don't dig on resolutions.  Pick a day, pick a moment, pick a minute in time to commit to, and you can change.  You just have to stick to it.  I don't see the point in torturing yourself into a smaller pant size, a more courageous lifestyle, a more intensive work-out routine... just because everyone else has decided to something similar on the same day.

That's just silly.

But, before you all write me off as a curmudgeon and a Scrooge, let me tell you what I think of the new year so far.  I think it's going to be a really good year.  I do.  While that is uncharacteristically positive of me, I'm going to stand by it.  Sitting at home yesterday, indulging in a Game of Thrones marathon, snuggled in between the husband and the puppy, I thought about the year that had come and gone and the year that is coming up.  I thought about all the things I have been through, and will go through soon enough.  And for some incomprehensible reason, I could not help but be really excited about "the Future" (another arbitrary term).

I guess in my own way, that's resolution enough for me.

To make the year as good as I think it can be.  Nothing too specific there, no easy way to utterly fail at it, just pull my weight for a good year.

A Great Year.

And so, a couple of days late... Happy New Year, All.

And until next time, Be Good.

The Lucky One.

Well. 

So. 

It's been a while, I know. 

I've been on vacation for about a week and a half at this point.  From Stavanger, Norway to Heathrow, London to Newark, New Jersey to Charlotte, North Carolina.  And that was just the flight pattern to get back to the States.  Next up we traveled from Charlotte to Key West, Florida.  From Key West to Pine Island, Florida. 

So.  A loooong ride. 

And it's been an interesting ride.  I've had some bad things happen- I've been called a beached whale (oh you know who you are...); I've sat in a bar with my father and my husband, listening to songs about scrotums (thank you Sloppy Joe's house band); I've put on more holiday weight than I like to admit (thank you fried food, booze, holiday cakes and bacon).  Not to mention the fact my silly-ass little puppy is in a kennel in Norway, probably freezing his wee blond tail feathers off....  But then I've also had some not-so-bad, but still a little wonky moments.  I've had a fruitless crabbing expedition; a couple of arguments; maybe a silent treatment or two; I've had to navigate places and people with whom I'm not utterly familiar.  

And still for all that bad, wonky, what-have-you... I'm lucky.  Like, I'm so lucky.  I'm lucky because the bad has happened alongside this incredible adventure with my family.  The wonky has happened while trying to find crabs in the shallow waters of the Gulf Coast alongside the aforementioned husband, his Mom, my Mom, my Father.  I got to come home to the people I love, with the person I love, to spend time with all loved ones. 

I am the lucky one.  My Christmas is spent with my most loved ones.  

So. 

The adventure continues tomorrow.  But for now... 

Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Night. 

In Retrospect...

I was having drinks with friends this weekend when the conversation turned to marriage and relationships- the trends, the success stories, the epic failures.  This conversation then mutated a little but remained nonetheless a somewhat personal storytelling time.

And, relating to the relative marriage rate of early twenty-somethings in the American South, I told my cohort the following tale:

Here's the thing- I didn't have my first "real" boyfriend until I was a senior in college.  I dated here and there; made out a time or two, but never had a proper boyfriend until I was 21 years old.  It was doomed to fail- not because of him, he was (and remains) an intellectually interesting, funny, kind, charming and genuinely lovely man.  No, it was doomed to fail because I was (am?) a cowgirl.  I wore (wear?) my independence like a mantle.  It was doomed to fail because what I wanted as a 21 year old was not what he wanted as a 21 year old- it was not what a lot of 21 year olds wanted.

In fact I had that conversation with my college boyfriend pretty early on...

Him:  So what do you want out of life?  What are your dreams?

Me:  I dunno.  I mean...

Him:  Come on, Kate, everyone has something they want. 

Me:  I guess...(and here's where the cowgirl starts snickering)...  You know, I really only want three things in life.  

Him: ??

Me:  I want a dog, a Jeep, and a house on the sea. 

That's it.  That's what I wanted from my life when I was just a pup on the cusp of graduation and a heartbeat away from being "outside the bubble."  I wanted a dog, a Jeep, and a house on the sea.  And a year after starting college, I bought myself a green Jeep Cherokee: one out of three ain't bad for 21. But ultimately, that's what broke us up.  I didn't want the four-bedroom, four-bath McMansion.  I didn't want the white wedding or the "security" of an engagement out of college.  I wasn't afraid of being alone on my own.  I wanted to adopt a dog.  I wanted to travel around, dog in tow, in a gas-guzzling, break-down prone Jeep.  And I wanted to go home to a small house- a cabin even- that overlooked the sea.  I was comfortable with myself.  And I was brave enough to think I could do it all.

Fast forward a decade, to me at 31, telling all of this to my friends over Guinnesses and glasses of wine.  This time, I laughed a little and said "I still have a Jeep... I mean, it's tagless and in North Carolina, but it counts, right?  And I've got a dog- two out of three ain't bad, either."  I laughed a little harder until one of my companions said-

"Hang on, Kate.  You've got a house on the sea.  I mean, it's an apartment, but it's a home on the sea."

And I'll be damned.  I have a dog.  I have a Jeep (I'm serious, it still counts).  And I have a home on the sea.  I sat back, sort of flabbergasted.  I look across the table at my husband, who winked at me (this is the first time he'd heard this story), and thought... well Hell.  That's what a decade of wandering, wondering, has gotten me... Three out of three.

And that ain't bad at all.

And until next time...

The Dog. 

The Jeep (at it's finest).

Life in the House on the Sea.

Thanks.

So here's the thing about being thankful... it doesn't have to be for the big things.  It doesn't have to be for Peace on Earth (there's a strong likelihood that that will never happen anyway), or a sweeping amazing thankfulness for all the good that is all around you all the time.  You don't have to thank everyone for everything.  Hopefully all of the people I am lucky enough to know have some knowledge of my gratitude and feelings toward them.

The thing about being thankful is that being thankful can be about all the small things.

Except for a few minutes when the puppy had to go out and we had an impromptu run, I've gotten to spend the day with my husband.  For that I am thankful.  I got to listen to Journey... a little less thankful for that one... followed by Kelly Clarkson, on an utterly absurd playlist, while dancing around our living room.  I got a wreath, as a gift, from a Scrooge.  Thank. You.  Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

And that's just the tip of the small things iceberg.  This is Thanksgiving, you know?  It's the holiday that's about food and laughing and loving and categorically NOT about gifts and shiney things and commercialism- at least not until tomorrow.

I have a healthy, happy (and recently bigger) family.  I get to go back to the States for Christmas Holidays to see them.  I got to talk to one of my best friends this morning via Skype.  I will see another one in less than a month.  My dog is currently sleeping (small things, remember).  It only just now started raining (that might be a big thing, actually).

To all my loved ones, near and far and far-fetched and wonderful...

Happy Thanksgiving.

Be good, be happy, and eat well.

The Short Version.

I could probably pen a treatise on why- and how intensely- I dislike public transportation.  Seriously.  A treatise.  A footnoted, quote-laden, properly educational essay on how much I cannot stand public transport.

But I'm getting ahead of myself... It's really just buses.  I loathe buses.

And here's the thing- I get public transportation.  I do. And it's not like I hate all of it- honestly, it really is just the buses.  In fact, I totally support trains, metros, subways, etcetera.  There is all manner of really grand, functional and functioning, cheap, and environmentally friendly public transportation- which is a win no matter which way you turn it.

But there's something about buses.  (And here's where I have to step back from the edge of the treatise).  It doesn't matter what township, city, county, country you're in- buses are buses.  And pretty consistently awful in some way.

Take China.  In all of my blogging, I think the bus only came up once during the China posts.  Nevertheless, this one's personal.  Every time I got on a bus, which was often then, I was gawked at.  I was scrutinized.  There was pointing, whispering, nudging- and that was between everyone else.  And it was in far too close of a personal space zone.  I mean, there are 1.4 billion people sharing the same poorly planned roadways there- and it frequently felt as though 1.3 billion of them were on the same bus as me.  Hanging onto the same hand rails and bars and grips as me as we navigated potentially deadly trips to the grocery stores.

Fun.

Which brings me to my next point- hygiene.  I mean, it sort of brings me to my next point.  Think of how hygienic 1.3 billion people are when crowded into the same small space as you.

So I'm riding in to work (of course on the bus) today and I notice that the seat next to me has something that resembles dried poo crusted to it.  That's the seat I started out in.  Yup.  So I can only imagine what the bottom of my pants looks like now.  And let me not get started on the two dozen coughing, sneezing kids surrounding me.  Did someone say Flu Shot? (Actually, someone did.  But that process is another story for another post... trust me.)

Buses are dirty.  They are gross (even here in pristine Scandinavia).  And I'm not a germo-phobe.  Far from it, actually.  I rarely remember to to wash my veggie, don't mind at all eating day-old something that has sat out overnight.  And if you could see the things I've plucked out of my puppy's mouth... I'm not grossed out too easily.  (Oh, but wait... Back to China...Do you know how much- and the number of different species- blood I stepped in or had dripped on me while riding on the bus?  I'm not a germo-phobe- but I don't do juices.  And those buses transported a lot of juices. )

Okay- so far: crowded, check.  Gross, double check.  Vehicles for cultural confusion as well as transportation, check.

But wait, there's more.

And this one is the real clincher for me. Getting on a bus is tantamount to surrendering all locomotive  independence (to be fair, almost all public transportation has this same effect on me). Which is basically the same insult as taking any of my cherished, hoarded, careful independence away from me.

Hear me (read me, I guess) out.  You get on the bus. You are then subject to the whim of both the bus as well as it's driver: mechanical error is just as possible as human- and easily worse.  But I digress.  You are on someone else's schedule.  You are in a moving vehicle over which the only control you exert is your physical placement- if you have even that luxury.  You are on a road, in a flow of traffic, but you have no control over either of those things.  You're not active on a bus, but supremely passive.  I hate passivity.

There could be no stops between you and your destination, there could be every stop. The passengers might start a fight with the driver- thus delay, delay, delaying you.

You could be waiting in wind, rain, hail, snow- or some combination thereof.  (And I have).

You could be running and miss it; you could be standing there and wait f.o.r.e.v.e.r.

You could get where you are going 10  minutes late or half an hour early.  You have no control.

No control at all.  You are utterly dependent.

On a bus.

And that's where this gets curtailed- because I could go on.  And then it would get not a little philosophical, not a little psychological, and not a little at all ridiculous.

A bus is a bus is a bust.  Oi.

And until next time... I think I'm free of the bus until Monday.  Happy sigh, Dearhearts.

November Notables

Oh yes, the monthly (well, almost monthly) obsessions blog.  And, like any other obsession post, this one is scattered: multitasking schools, podcasts, the challenge of staying warm just below the arctic circle as we crawl toward winter. 

Amongst other things.

But let's begin at the beginning.  I am super late on this one, I know.  And to be honest, it would not have been on my radar at all had I not recently rekindled my love affair with BBC News- especially online.  When I lived in China, I compulsively checked BBC every day.  It was one of the unblocked news venues we could get there- and it became my inlet back into the 'real world.'  Anyhow, I checked BBC on Saturday morning to find this article.  I don't know why it really caught my eye, but I followed the link and fell down the rabbit hole.  

About thirty seconds after reading the news brief, I downloaded the entire season of Serial.  I then had a rather impolite argument with iTunes when it refused to sync the podcast to my iPod (yes, I still have one of those- which I also use obsessively).  Several words later, I started listening to the first episode.  I'm actually dreading the end of the season.  It is incredible, interesting, provocative and terribly terrifying.  

And with that teaser, I'll move on.  In October I found out that I was accepted to Oregon State University to pursue a post-bacc (a shorter, second bachelor's degree) in Environmental Sciences.  Those of you who know me know that I was that kid in college who never took math and science because I was convinced of my own failure (rightly so, I would have argued).  Two self-fulfilling prophesied degrees in History later, I still did no math or science.  In fact, two weeks ago as I sat at my computer and took a math placement exam for my new school, I realized that I have not done anything besides 'making change math' in over a decade.  Seriously.  

13 years, to be exact.  

Anywho- I've got no business fearing failure these days.  I've tasted it for sure, I've been there, and now I'm back.  And I'm utterly obsessed with my class schedule.  Building it, molding it, pouring through course offerings and catalogs; I'm getting to know how the skeleton of my time will look for the next couple of years.  It looks a lot like letters: ATS 320; GEO 323; BI 360... you get the idea.  And I'm having a blast. 

This website.  Outdoor goods on supersale?  Living in a somewhat cool locale?  Win. Win.  (Also, the  "Current Steals" are outstanding.  And addictive.)

And Thanksgiving.  It's getting to be that time- when the turkeys go off the shelves and people begin sorting out pumpkin pie? Or cherry? Or both?  Sweet potato casserole or sliced yams with mini marshmallow?  Pearl onions (no thanks but they are a staple at our house)?  Thanksgiving is sort of an ongoing obsession of mine.  This year it will be a new experience.  I've had it overseas before, that's nothing too new to me.  But this year I am mistress of ceremonies- I'm the big kahuna... I actually have to clean the bird, and stuff it, and cook it... and not kill anyone in the process or aftermath.  Plus, I will have guests.  

Yeah.  This will be entertainment at it's finest.  Stay tuned for that post. 

And until then, or maybe before. 

Courage?

I just deleted the working title of this blog and the first two sentences.  Largely because none of those had anything to do with courage.  I had started writing a piece of nonsense loosely titled "The Short Answer."  It had every element of one of my silly posts- a puff post, if you will.

And then I got an email from a friend I have known, but not heard from in, a long time.  It started out like this:

Hey Ranger-
You've got a new name. Either you got married or you joined the world's worst witness protection program. Congrats/condolences as appropriate. 

So to begin with, I'll concede- that's what I'm up against.  The man is not a dummy and he's not even a little dull- and in fact has probably given me some of the sagest wisdom of my life (one piece of which involved, in my post-breakup madness, bourbon, a bath, and eating a steak with my bare hands.  Oh hell, hang on. Specifically it involved cooking a steak and eating it with my bare hands while downing a bottle of bourbon in the bath.  That's it.)  But here's the kicker, that's just the opening of the email.  My long-lost part-time, long distance friend then goes on to say:

I was actually reading your blog a few weeks ago. (I'm not a stalker, I happened to be in my inbox here and ran the mouse over your Google+ icon, which made me curious, which led me to your blog, etc.) You're a courageous motherfucker, pouring it all out there like that. 

Well shucks.

And hell.  That had me mulling over a couple of things... at what point, what entry, what period of my life that is written, played, poured out in this blog, did he begin reading?  Because honestly, if you begin at certain entries... you're likely to think that I should have been hospitalized... and/or lobotomized.  I hardly recognize myself- and the word courageous rarely comes to mind when I look back over the span of this thing.

In fact, had it been left up to me, that sentence would have read something like:

You're a desperate motherfucker, pouring it all out there like that. 

Because frequently, that's what drives me to do this.  To write, to unravel, to unleash all of this language and thought and emotion into the world through this particular vehicle.  Not all the time is it a bad desperation.  There are many posts that come out of me from a desperation to acknowledge, to educate, to share, to celebrate the world around me and the places I go and see; the people I know and those I meet along the way.  And that's not at all bad.  Not even a little.

But I suspect the posts he stumbled upon are the bad ones.  The ones driven by a madness and a desperation to get some of the toxic self-loathing from which I frequently suffer out of me and onto the page- because it can't hurt me there, right?  I suspect he found the ones that are less courageous than they are confrontational and maybe a little cowardly.  Because some things don't need to be talked about- or maybe they do need to be talked about, but between the privacy of loved-ones, not here in an open forum.  But even then, I think 'but I made a promise.  A long time ago.  To be honest.  Always.'  And so that desperation to write and reveal is hounded by a need to be as open as I can be.  For myself and for others.

Courage?  I'm not sure about it.  I am honest.  Or I try to be.  I am honest about myself, the state of my being, the state of my brain.  I am honest about the demons that haunt me and ride in the back of my brain like remoras.  It might not be the best policy, but it's the one that keeps me on my toes- and keeps me coming back here.

And until the madness ends or the desperation quiets- and honestly, I hope neither of those things happens- until then.

Vanity... and Potatoes.

This time last week (I'm writing this in Central European Time Zone. It's noonish here- you do the math) I sat in a taxi and watched as Dublin appeared in front of me- slowly materializing from green hills and small industrial holds near the airport, to the somewhat shabby suburban structures littering the outskirts of the city, to the mix of quaint brick buildings and pubs, and magisterial cathedrals, colleges and state houses that make up the center.

My camera was already attached to my face, eyes and fingers ready at the trigger.

Now, I am not normally a vain person- but I am absolutely when it comes to my photographs.  Especially the ones I take traveling.  If I do say so myself, I think I am not such a bad photographer.  To be fair, many places I go turn out to be "point and shoot" places- where the mountains align perfectly, or the sun scatters shadows in the most delicious patterns, or even where the rain obscures the view and creates an elusive photographic masterpiece.  It's not really me, that is, it's the destination.

And the camera.

Except for Dublin.  As we tooled around, me constantly searching for a photo opportunity, I started to question the viewfinder, and then my own eyes.  I just couldn't find The Shot.  I couldn't find the eye-catching, all-consuming, will-interrupt-the-flow-of-pedestrian-or-motorized-traffic-to-get-it SHOT.  You know it, you know the one I'm talking about.

It bothered me for a while.  I mean... the Temple Bar Food Market; Dublin Castle; Christchurch Cathedral; even the Guinness Storehouse wouldn't give up a good shot.  Okay, so it bothered me for more than a while.

Until I sat down at pub and started sipping a wine (Yes.  I drank wine.  In Ireland.  Get over it.) while taking in the scene.  There was a Hen's party at the same pub, along with a huge group of tourists, about three dozen football (European) or Rugby fans, and a host of other characters.  And sitting there, having a drink, letting the crowd and the culture wash over me, it hit me.

While I may be a vain person, Dublin is not a vain city.  There are beautiful parts to it, absolutely.  But it's not a city you go to for beauty or vanity.  It is a city you go to for laughing; for witnessing impromptu serenades, listening to a story, sharing a table or a pint or a perch, stealing a kiss in public.  It is a city with such depth of personality that it doesn't need pretty.  Perfect strangers will share a giggle with you- there are not a whole lot of major cities that can boast that particular quality anymore, not to my estimation anyway.

Once that hit me, once I let go of the need to capture the perfect picture (once I let go of my own ego) and instead focused on the city for what it is, I saw so much more.  So many colors and characters, so many moments in time.

And so, I give you Dublin:

Il Fait du Vent

The wind is still blowing.

Yesterday the wind inspired a blog about the fall- because of the way it feels, the way it sounds, the way it pushes each step to some specific but unknown destination.  The wind is magic- an ancient, secret thing.  Especially here, especially now.

Having largely chosen to live either inland or in the mountains for the past decade or so, I had forgotten the chop and severity of sea wind, the push of it; the relentlessness.  Especially northern sea wind.

I had forgotten that when it blows like it has for the past two days, with ferocity and determination, it utterly transforms the world.  It rearranges every natural and unnatural thing to suit itself, to become itself.  When the wind kicks up here, and remains kicking, everywhere smells like the sea; every noise sounds like a storm; everything feels fateful, fated, inexplicably sinister- as though every aspect is driven by this unyielding force at your back.

I love this wind.

It is inconsiderate at 2:30 in the morning when it cracks at my windows and drives cool air and ear splitting howls into the bedroom.  It is frank, unapologetic, and quixotic.  It is the nature of the sea itself: of course the unbound wind coming off it would reflect it's unchallenged power.

And now it's time to walk in it.

Until next time….