2 Years Later

I didn’t realize the date until I came into the office this morning and saw the sign posted in the elevator lobby: September 11, We Won’t Forget. Strange, the way the human mind works – when confronted with an event that surreal, so far beyond comprehension, we tend to let it slip from our minds, taking on the same quality as a disturbing dream – remembered but not really absorbed, lingering half-over the edge of consciousness. On the one hand, I can vividly remember the whole day – the timeline of it, what I was doing when I found out, who came over to the house to watch CNN and drink wine, what time Coz and Eric, who had been scheduled to fly to New York that morning, finally called to let me know they were alive. On the other, it seems so long ago and far away that I might almost have seen it in a movie somewhere, and not in my own house. I also remember the first time I saw the post-9/11 skyline, months later. I was riding in the back of the hired car, forehead leaning against the window as usual, daydreaming and planning my weekend. As we crossed the Triborough Bridge, I got my first clear view of downtown, and it sucked the breath right out of me. There was this enormous hole. I hadn’t banked on it hitting me so hard; I hadn’t even thought about it, really.

The drama’s over for me, now. Today, I’ll just thank my lucky stars one more time that nobody I loved died that day, even as my heart goes out to those who were not so fortunate.

And isn’t it fitting that I just happen to be hosting a little dinner tonight for some of my dearest friends? Totally coincidental, but I can’t think of a better thing to do on this day than sit with them and laugh and eat and drink and love each other. Friends make the future bright – and the future, not the past, is where it’s at.

The Ode You’re Owed, By Popular Demand…

Many of you have suggested (some even insisted) that I post this and take credit for it, so here we go:

Before You Were Crazy
[an ode to the KrazyPantz]

We talked through the night like two torrid geeks
We smiled as we thought of the six to eight weeks
That lay stretched before us, and agreed to meet
To see if this thing might turn out to be neat.
You brought me some drugs, we went out for a while
And then fucked like it was going out of style
The day after that we did more of the same
You said, “You’re amazing.” You whispered my name.

A few short days later, you started to freak
You asked me strange questions, you thought I would sneak
Around with my good friend, and shag him instead
You were angry I’d had other men in my bed
I tried to explain how I thought it should be
And you chided, berated and insulted me
Even though I was honest, you said I was not
But still, you kept saying, the sex was so hot
And you were falling for me, and you asked me again
And I told you the truth- there were no other men

You were sorry the next day for things that you’d said
Insisted you weren’t trying to fuck with my head
You wanted to see me, you wanted to try
So despite my gut feeling to tell you goodbye
I let you back in. What an error that was!
I told myself you weren’t crazy because
You were only a nice guy, afraid of the fall
I convinced myself you weren’t loony at all.
But three short days later, you freaked out once more
Sent notes to my friends, more or less declared war

And now, a week after I thought you had gone
You’re sending me texts saying let’s get it on
And the things that you said to me, you didn’t mean
And suggestions that range from funny to obscene
I’m sorry, my dear, but you’re clearly insane
And I can’t see how I would have a thing to gain
From trading you sex for a lesson in code
Or trying to downshift to “casual” mode
So I’ll make it as plain as I possibly can:
Please stop it, just stop it, you KrazyPantz man.

1986, revisited

Since I was a child, I have had a propensity for nostalgia. I’m not sure where it came from or how I got my head around it with so little experience behind me, but there it is. Perhaps I learned it from my mother, who has had much in her life to long for; perhaps it came to me through the blood of my Slavic ancestors, who have made an art of wistful (and occasionally bitter) remembrance and living in the past – I don’t know. What I do know is that even when I was 14 years old, in the first romantic relationship of my life, I instinctively looked forward and anticipated looking back on it when it was all over. I found a way to be nostalgic for something I hadn’t even lost yet. It was a self-indulgent practice, but one that fed my writing. It’s also one that I’ve struggled to eliminate (with some success) over the years.

Autumn is the best season for nostalgia. In the waning of the year, it seems natural to take stock of what you’ve had and seen and heard and loved, and it’s only natural to remember something missing and mourn its absence. This morning, the sky as I drove to the office was a fall sky, the first of the year: sunshine and blue juxtaposed against gray thunderheads; the lake ruffled by a not-quite-wind that’s still more than a breeze. I was listening to New Order, which has been in my head since I watched 24 Hour Party People (highly recommended!) last night, and at one point, rounding a corner in Evanston, the sun on the water, just at the beginning of True Faith, I felt a stab of something that was almost like pain, but not quite. It was a familiar feeling, one I knew from long ago. It occurred to me half a second later that it was a bolt of pure nostalgia, rife with angst and drama, hearkening all the way back to those high school years when I’d torment myself with thoughts of how things would be when they weren’t so good anymore. I’ve missed things since then, lord knows I’ve had my heart broken more than once, but I don’t know if I’ve had a moment this pristine. I can’t blame Bernard & the gang for it, really, although it’s true that they were my favorites back in ‘86. It’s me that brought this up, it’s me that’s feeling it. So what’s going on? It’s been a rough month, but so? I’ve had rough months. But here’s the thing: I really am longing for a time when things were simpler, or at least seemed to be. I feel so old saying that, and so dramatic and so immature all at the same time. But I can’t find better words for this feeling. I have been scarred by a recent encounter with a virtual stranger – in particular, my trust has been broken, and it’s spilling out of that encounter and into the rest of my life. I won’t get into all the details here, but I allowed myself to be lured in and now I’m paying for it. I actually caught myself last night distrusting a good friend because of this experience. How quickly, I thought then and am still thinking now – how easily I can be broken, after all. Is it just this one experience I’m feeling the brunt of, or the weight of a collection? I never thought I was one to hold a grudge, but am I?

It’s a disturbing thought, that I might be changing in this particular way. I’m interested to see what will happen – can I shrug off the shroud that this past month has thrown over me? How quickly can I go back to being myself, even if myself is too open an idiot for her own good? I don’t want to distrust people, even though I’m often told it’s an exercise I should learn. Constantly asking myself if someone’s trying to deceive me strikes me as much the same kind of exercise in futility as the preemptive nostalgia of my younger days. And this year, I’d rather spend my free time playing in the leaves.

Underoos for Grownups, and other nonsense

Right, yes, I know. It’s been forever since I updated this thing. Yeah, it’s true, I’ve got thousands of pictures from my trip that I never posted. Yup, I’ve been lazy and people are starting to wonder if I’m even still alive. I am. I’m even toying with a(nother) redesign, although when it will see the light of day is another story altogether. But I am sorry, dear readers (if there are any of you left), for the long silence. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. One way or another.

So I remembered yesterday that I heard somewhere, a while ago, something about Underoos for adults. Remember Underoos? You could be a superhero under your clothes. I remember being annoyed as a child that they didn’t make Batman underoos for girls. Because those chick superheros were all pretty lame, right? I mean, I know they were all hotties, what with their skimpy clothing and incredible muscle tone and all, and I will confess to a fleeting but intense desire to own Wonder Woman’s gold bustier, but they weren’t, like, cool. Superhero crossdressing. Maybe I do need psychological help.

Anyway, about a year ago I read a story about Fruit of the Loom bringing back the famed undergarments of power, but in sizes that would fit those of us who grew up wearing the things. Now Underoos are, indeed, back – but only for kids. What, I wonder, became of the ones for us overgrown four year olds? I for one would have bought ’em the second they hit the shelves, and I can’t be the only one! I vote we get together and petition Fruit of the Loom. Maybe we can get Cameron Diaz to be our spokesperson. What do you say, people? Are you with me?

And who’s got some drugs? My head is about to split open.

Captain Serendipity

serendipity: n : accidental sagacity; the faculty of making fortunate discoveries of things you were not looking for

“If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living…. If you are following your bliss, you are enjoying that refreshment, that life within you, all the time.”

– Joseph Campbell

Well, color me a believer. The last nine months of my life have been an incredible demonstration of both of the above. To wit:

1. I find myself in a rut. I am tired of my career and need to find a way to change my life to something I can be proud of. My employer lays me off with a juicy severance package. I pay off my debt and go travelling.

2. While travelling, I realize that what I really want to do is work on some creative projects: writing both old and new, music, theatre. I start trying to work out how to do this without starving to death. Then I meet this guy in a bar in Queenstown, NZ. He lives in London, is a writer and an editor. We hit it off, decide to do some travelling around the South Island together. Two weeks later we agree to collaborate on a script for British television.

3. I go to London to work on said script. The work goes incredibly well. I start looking around at real estate and trying to work out how I can move over there. I pop over to Bristol to visit an old friend and tell her this. She offers me her spare room on an indefinite basis. We also decide to collaborate on a sculpture project. I confirm with the passport office that I can legally live and work in the UK.

4. I come home from England, with 10 weeks to sort out my life and get it ready to move before my lease runs out, and a face from the past resurfaces in a most unexpected manner. Entirely aside from the joy of reconnecting with a long-lost friend, he starts telling me about this incredible project he’s got going. And asks me to collaborate on it. If it works, it will easily fund my life in the UK for some time, allowing me to write and create. And did I happen to mention that he lives in Europe? Yeah. Added value bonus.

I am beginning to feel like the universe is actually conspiring *with* me for a change. I mean, what are the odds? What are the odds of just one of these things happening, let alone all of them, all perfectly timed? I occasionally feel an urge to mope and whine about things – I’ve got too much to do before I go, I’m leaving so much behind, blah blah blah. So this list is as much for me as for you, dear readers. I’m the luckiest bitch I know right now. The other night at dinner, I told another old friend about all of these serendipitous events. He kept thinking I was done after every one. I started to feel like I was in a Ginsu commercial: “NOW how much would you pay? But wait, there’s MORE!” When I was finished, he looked at me and nodded sagely. “We’re going to put a cheese plate on the menu next week,” he said.

Maybe Joe was right. Once you know what you really need to do, what your passion really is, and you dedicate yourself to it, the pieces will fall into place. How fucking cool is that? How about we celebrate with some music? In the Waiting Line:: Zero 7 [4.16MB MP3] and, since you need your disco and your disco needs you (thanks, Nikola), Little L:: Jamiroquai [5.64MB MP3].

So. Who wants to buy some really nice furniture?

Pitchers!

OK, I’ve finally posted a few of the gazillions of photos from my travels. I know there are no captions. I know the only identifiers are in the ‘alt’ tags. I’m sorry. I’m working on a new and improved layout that will actually allow me to explain the photos. It’s on its way, and with it more pictures than you can shake a stick at. Even a hockey stick. Even a goalie stick.

But seriously, folks…

I was going to say I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, but really I probably haven’t been doing enough. About the trip and what it did to me and for me, how it rattled me and put things into perspective and chilled me out all at the same time. Since I got back, I’ve been in this rut of sitting surfing the web trying to work out what?s going to happen next, or thinking about (and occasionally working on) posting my tales and photos from the journey that’s past, but little or no time paying attention to the present. I know I don’t have much money but I?m not broke yet ? I know I don?t have any guarantees on any of the irons I’ve got in the fire, but I should be able to find a way to muddle through, right? And I’ve got all this richness of experience in me that I really shouldn’t let slip away.

So, OK, let’s think about it. What have I already articulated, what do I already know? I had allowed my world to become so small. I couldn’t see it until I left here ? it’s not just seeing the wide world, but also the people I saw along the way. Mostly younger than me, sure, but with so much less manufactured nonsense of rules in their lives. Here were people who got out of university (or skipped it altogether), worked for a while and decided it was crap. Now they’re divemasters in Southeast Asia, or they’re backpackers who’ve been on the road for years, or they’re working in some Irish bar in Queenstown and snowboarding whenever the mood strikes them. Or they’ve got businesses that take them to all their favorite places in the world. They made it. This was such a moving experience. What have I been so afraid of?

And then there’s the other thing. I’ve been a little ashamed of being me for so long that I’d got used to it and didn’t even remember it sucked. I would say things to make other people comfortable even if they weren’t true; I would play chameleon, a different person depending on the situation; with men, I would settle for not even close just because I felt it was (a) better than nothing, or (b) what I was supposed to do, somehow, taking care of these man/boys just because they needed me to. For possibly the first time, I don’t feel that way. I’m under no obligation. The me I’ve got to offer is a good thing. Love it if you can, I say. If not, I wish you much joy elsewhere.

Overall, I’m just much more comfortable with who I am. I know not everybody likes me. I know not everybody agrees with things I say and do. That’s OK. I don’t think anyone can say I’m a bad person, and I’m having a lot of fun being me.

And what about Southeast Asia? What did those times teach me? That I can do a lot more than I thought I could. That resourcefulness can get people a lot further than wealth. That even when I get scared, it’s going to be OK, but it’s a lot more fun when I?m not scared. That it’s universal human nature to want what you’ve never had. That it’s not always easy making friends, and not all friends are worth making. That being a good person really does pay off. That people are generally sweet, except when they decide not to be. That to get moving is so often the hardest part of the journey – and not just the first time you get moving, but every day when you walk out the door. That just because you’ve started something doesn?t mean you’ve finished it. It also doesn?t mean you have to finish it. And it certainly doesn’t mean that the thing you finish has to be the same as the thing you set out to do.

I’m glad I went out largely without a plan. I’m glad I talked to people and I’m glad I listened. I wish I’d taken more photos, but I’m so glad I can close my eyes and see another place behind my eyelids just the same. I’m amazed I managed to live for 7 months out of a single pack, although I’m not surprised it had 5 pairs of shoes in it by the time I came home. I’m amazed I learned a little Thai. I can’t believe I can give people advice on how to get around and where to eat in Hoi’an and Bangkok.

Shylo asked me the other day, ‘Where do you get your confidence?’ I didn?t know how to answer her, and I still don’t. I don’t know that confidence is something I acquired at one point or another, although I do have to admit that I’ve been pretty low on it at times, one of those times being the months before I left home. So it must have happened at some point along the road. But when, and how? It occurs to me that it’s probably related to this loss of fear. Isn’t the lack of confidence insecurity, and doesn’t all insecurity begin with a fear? Maybe that’s really all there is to it. I was afraid of so many things before I went ? that I wouldn’t be able to rough it, that I wouldn’t be able to get along in a country where I could neither speak nor read the language, that I would be lonely, that I wouldn’t be able to make friends, that I wouldn’t be fit or courageous enough to do half the things that were out there to see and do, that I wouldn’t be able to find people to keep me company, that I would crap out and fail and have to come home, that I would wind up holed up, sick in some crappy little room or bleeding somewhere in a drainage ditch? And I made it. I made it through on the dodgy buses and the even dodgier motorbikes and the places where there are no roads. And I sprained my ankle and still hiked on it. And I drove my own 650. And I learned so many things. And I made some excellent friends. And I got my Advanced PADI Certification. And I drank gallons of booze. And I got my heart broken and also lifted to the heavens. And I said no when I wanted to say no and yes when I wanted to say yes. And I confronted the things that bothered me, and the people too.

I met people along the way who only seem to travel to collect more stamps in their passports. I am distressed by these people. I mean, you expect a certain amount of that behavior from high-end tourists, but these people I?m talking about are backpackers! How much do they miss, with their regimented schedules and itineraries that cover 6 countries in 3 weeks? I don’t even know that that qualifies as travel. How can you say you?ve been somewhere when you’ve never left the safe little cocoon of your ways? Of course there are going to be things that scare you and things that piss you off ? if there weren’t, what would be the point of going? This is the price that comes with seeing things so different from anything you’ve ever seen before that you have a hard time coming up with words to describe them, even to yourself. This is the price tag on exposing yourself to as much beauty as you can possibly take in. That?s just the way it goes. Quit your bitching, people!

I’m sorry this post is so soapboxy. Phineas maintains there’s no such thing in the blogaday world, but I have a pretty serious issue with condescension, and don’t want to be the perpetrator.

Even more importantly, I don’t want to give the impression that one has to go halfway around the world to come to these conclusions. I’m just particularly obstinate (just ask any of my friends), and therefore required some fairly serious rattling to get out of my worst habits. But life, and joy, and beauty (and all the ugly and stupid shit that goes with them) are always around. Sometimes it’s just hard to see what you don’t expect.

Home Sweet Home

Well, folks, it’s official. I’m back. Hair cut, bright blue trainers on, desperately hung over. It’s just like old times. Also familiar is the fact that I somehow managed to leave my mobile lying about in Dave and Marty’s flat last night (and they, of course, are dead asleep and not answering their phones or their doorbell). I really must find a way to have it permanently attached to my person. This is after I caught my heel in the lawn outside their door and found myself sprawled out on the pavement (perhaps stilettos have their dark side too). But a good time was had by all, I’ve not gotten to sleep before sunrise since I arrived home on Friday night, and even though everybody still owes me money for the tab last night, damn but it’s good to be home.

Homeward Bound (Or, Oh Dearie Me!)

It’s really alarming how behind I am on posting. What’s even worse is the number of partially written posts that have accumulated in the Drafts area of this site. No, I’m not publishing any of them. I’ve read them and the best that can be said is that with a whole lot of editing some of them might be considered coherent. The good news is, I shall soon have lots of (free!) time to bask in the monitor’s motherly glow and fix them – not to mention all the photos I have to process. But how on earth am I going to get free Internet access, you might ask? Not How, dear reader, but Where:

I’m coming home.

I’ll be arriving at Chicago O’Hare late on Friday night, jetlagged to the bejeezus and desperate for my own rickety old fourposter. I’m hoping to put together a group to go be stylish in restaurants on Saturday night – anyone in?

How Much is that in Feet?

We turned up at the A. J. Hackett store at 2:00. We sized each other up furtively at first, trying to work out who’d done this before. Eventually we all started chatting nervously, watching the video of person after person taking the leap. We were weighed, we signed paperwork. We filled out a little piece of paper endearingly called the ‘toe tag’. And then the driver came to get us.

The ride up to Nevis is gorgeous, winding through wine country and staggering alpine scenery. The sky was brilliant blue, the sun was warm, the hillsides golden brown. It took about 40 minutes, including a hair-raising 4WD climb up a very narrow, very muddy road carved into the side of the mountain. Rounding the last corner, we could see the gondola. Suspended on steel cables over the Nevis River ravine, it looked like a craft left behind from some alien expedition. It was here that things started to feel not-quite-real.

Off the bus, into the station, harnesses on and tightened. Weighed again, organized by heaviest to lightest for jumping order. I was #3. Out into the shuttle, clipped to the cable, over we go to the gondola. The gondola is divided in half, one half being a sort of watching/waiting area and the other the staging/jump/equipment zone. In the floor on the waiting area side, aligned with the jumping platform, is a pane of glass. You can watch jumpers through this as they drop. I couldn’t work out whether this was a good or a bad thing.

I sit on the ledge in the waiting area. Jack has just jumped. Tim puts the cuffs on my ankles. I say, “Is this the part where I’m supposed to get nervous?” Tim looks up at me. “Yes,” he says. “This is the part where you get as absolutely scared as you possibly can. The greater the fear, the greater the high. Simple biochemistry.” I laugh, and then I realize he’s not kidding. “Listen to the wind,” he continues. “And watch the river. Otherwise you won’t remember any of it. Your brain needs to have something to hang onto.” I nod. Listen to the wind. Right. I’m nervous now, but still not nearly as much as I’d expected to be.

I sit in The Chair. A crewman attaches the bungy cable to my harness and to my ankles. He shows me the release I need to pull after my second bounce, which will release my ankles so that I can assume a sitting position for my ascent. He tells me what I want is a big dive, that I can’t possibily overdo it, to jump out as far as I possibly can. Not to forget the release. Don’t be afraid to wiggle in the harness and get comfortable. I nod sagely as if this all makes sense. Right. I’m going to take a flying leap off a big shiny piece of metal in the middle of a ravine. I’m going to hurtle at something like 100 kmph towards a rocky river 200 meters below. I am going to do this head first. Then, around 134 meters below the alien craft, I will bounce. Somehow I will retain the presence of mind to find and pull a little yellow cord, and then I will calmly assume a sitting position and wait to be winched up. Yeah, right. Sure. “Any questions?” Nope.

Wink at the camera. Stand.

Shuffling over to the platform seems to take about an hour – I can’t move my feet because they’re clipped together and to the bungy – and on the other hand, it’s like I’ve teleported there. Suddenly there I am, toes dangling over the edge, thinking (and saying, I’m pretty sure) “Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I doing?” Smile for the camera, signal ‘OK’, then 5-4-3-2-JUMP. Freefall. The wind is whistling in my ears. The water is bright blue. I am going so fast. And then it sets in, what I have just done, and there is a moment of absolute terror. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod… And then the bounce. And the exhilaration. I am flying on the end of the bungy, almost horizontal from the force of my first bounce, then dropping again, the river and mountains swinging wildly across my perspective. I let out a whoop of triumph. I remember the rip cord. I look up/down. Where is it again? Oh yeah, all the way up there by my knee. I fold myself in half, grab it, give it a good yank. I feel the carabiner release, and catch on the heel of my right boot. Damn. I rattle and shake a bit, still bouncing, and it comes loose. Suddenly, I’m sitting up. Looking around the canyon, still bouncing slightly.

God, it’s a beautiful day. I can’t believe I just did that. I feel great, I feel like everything’s in perspective. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I can feel my whole body shaking. I can feel the grin on my face. And they begin to winch me up.

*******************

So yeah. I went bungy jumping. And I’ve got the video to prove it. I must say it’s one of the coolest things – if not the coolest – I’ve ever done. Sorry mom, but I had to try. And I survived. And I did it. I jumped. Even now, I’m grinning.

The stats: the Nevis Highwire Jump, at 134 meters total, is the highest bungy jump in Australasia. As far as I know, there is only one jump higher, in South Africa, at 180 meters. I don’t really feel the need to do that one. But there really is nothing quite like looking fear squarely in the face and sticking out your tongue.