the soapbox derby champion of the world

I'm just going to hop right up on my soapbox, before I worry I'll sound too preachy and change my mind.

I want to talk about something. About the heavy workaday things I said I wasn't going to say yesterday.

Well, honey-darlin-sugar-pies, it is today now. 

There is a boogeyman living under all our beds. Sometimes, in the little bubbles of our daily drama's, between the kids who won't write their papers, the boyfriends we don't know if we should keep, the hangnails that drive us crazy, the irking slivers of life that get under our skin and seem for an instant like a Shakespearean tragedy...in the shelter of these predictable daily struggles, we begin to see ourselves as beings too small, too insignificant, or too intrinsically us to be affected by life's big scary boogeymen.

Thinks like cancer become words that can't possibly apply to us. That word, oh no, that is the word that is someone else's to carry around. It's what the grown up's use to keep us from microwaving food inside plastic, or smoking cigarettes, or sitting too close to the tv. But this word is yours.

This word is as close to you, as the three blocks between your morning class and your yearly checkup with University health. 

But this one, today, is for the girls. Cervical cancer awareness commercials are all over the place now. It's not because it's some more sinister form of cancer, it's not because the makers of the Guardasil vaccine want your cash; it's because it's caused by a virus that one in three sexually active women will acquire at some point in their lives. And because it may be one of the few cancers out there that may be preventable, and because there is a test that can be done regularly and painlessly, to catch it in it's baby stages, to stop it in it's tracks, while it's still manageable.

So, boys,(i know there is at least one of you, mike) this is for you, too. For your daughters, your wives, your friends. This is for the girl you see smiling every day, and never get the chance to tell her about the sacred heaven ascending light she brings to your life; this is for the girl you might not get a chance to tell.  This is for your chance to hear that, girls.

If you are under the age of 23, get the Guardasil vaccine ( i promise, they are not paying me for this). Most colleges subsidize the vaccination for their students and even doctors are recognizing the importance of a possible cancer preventative, and are willing to help. You may not think you have the money, but let me tell you, most ardently; you can find the money to protect yourself from cervical cancer.

For women of all ages: always wear a condom. Most men are carriers of the HPV virus, and the destruction of cells by this virus is the leading cause of squamous cell carcinoma.

Always get checked. Fifteen minutes, once a year. If you are, or have been, or are considering being sexually active, get checked. If you are embarrassed, it's as simple as saying to your doctor "I need my yearly." The social stigma and awkwardness of actually having a pap has made it a very easy thing to ask for.

I could save myself some embarassment here, but I don't think each and every one of you realizes how close you are to this disease. So I'll tell you. My first love, the man to whom I first gave my most sacred possession to, was a carrier of HPV. Six years later, I have a carcinoma on my cervix.

I blew it off. It's just some boogeyman meant to scare you into spending money you can't afford at a doctor who doesn't care, right? Something too big for you, right? I got checked when I was 18 and found out about the HPV. One sexual partner. I thought, "This can't possibly be serious, I've been so carefuly, I've been so protective." But six years ago they were still saying 1 in 3 women has this, and most forms just go away. Now, we know. But it's that close. And you do need to be careful.

This is your life, and there are so many things in this world we can't control, so many things that can hurt us. We have millions of tiny heartaches we can't prevent, car accidents, lighting strikes, muggings, and a frightening list of cancers and diseases we can't do anything to prevent. But this, this is in your hands.

Protect yourself. 

oh yes

oh.
one of my favorite words.

today, there are heavy, thick, leathery workaday things at play.
saddle-fat, and careworn, they are waiting by the front door,
to be taken out when I go
or to take me out,
should i try going without them.

but I could not care less.

i have new boots.
and today,
there is no panic in my heart.




I have a sweet empty afternoon, and a rectangle of sunlight on my bed, whispering catnaps in my chilly ears. I can almost hear my own heart purring in feline reverence to the possibility of a mumbling wakeup, and an endless stretch. I have
a five foot square sanctuary
in which,
even if it's only for a moment,

i can keep my peace.

and that small two-letter revelation,
to keep me company.


oh.

a toast.

fall's first great soak began this weekend.

I feel as though the skies are pouring great cupfuls of change, and I walked home tonight with even my socks eager to drink it in. And I would like to raise a toast to the heavens:

To an old post, which reminded me of a me I love; of a girl who set out from home to set to rights what she had wronged, with a single suitcase, and shaky knees. A girl I plan to see much more of.

To the people who are already on their way to get you, because they are worried your hair will get frizzy on the way to start your new job.

To bright yellow glass pitchers, and the promise of mimosa brunches.

To understanding, finally, that empathy for others does not invalidate my own feelings.

To the final straw, which galvanizes you to actually tell her (while awake) that cosmetic aptitude and an ability to use hair product and do a truly excellent disgusted hair flip does not constitute true beauty, but a courteous kitsch, a cheap mass appeal, which is easily replicated. That beautiful insides, kindness, and empathy are of greater value.

To calling myself beautiful, and meaning it. 

To a long lost someone, who reminded me tonight of what it means to be unashamed.

Salud.

you should just know

that monday was a day of redemption.

That I told the darling, living-shock of a bright smile, Megan, that we'd go for a little hike. But I forgot, for just a second who exactly I used to be; more importantly, who Megan and I are together. Alongside her I brighten, as almost everyone does at being near to a very dear friend. When together we let the ordinary grow up tall, and slip itself neatly between the course threads of daily living, We follow it to it's peaks, as Jack with his beanstalk, we see what treasures await us in the clouds, and then we climb back into our lives. Return home, with the twinkling merriment of being able to slide so comfortably in and out of the extraordinary. It is a beautiful life, that alongside friends such as mine.

And so, yesterday afternoon, we hiked. Among the flaxen residue of trees growing sleepy for the winter; preparing themselves, shedding their spring and summer day layers in preparation for yet another sweet winter catnap to rest them for their endless yawning eons.

And we climbed, up and up, and endlessly up. Three thousand feet of up, over what felt like as many miles. In the shadow of the mountain's ancient fortitude, we grew, within ourselves, at ever taller foot. The laughs became louder, the songs more jubilant. Drunken on the amber honey-ale of light you could touch.

And when we reached the top, we found we were not truly at the top. So, in our hands, we took the great strength of boulders, and under shaky, height fearing legs we stood at the apex, but still we stood. And the conquering became a game. I playful hide and seek with our own courage. In the thrumming darkness of this crevice, or just the far side of this boulder.

I could go on, and on, and on. You know I can. But the photos must speak, the moment can tell you. But can I just tell you, that last night I dreamt of her again? I dreamt of my current greatest fear, and she didn't win this time. I threw a trash can full of iced tea on her? Several actually. The brain does what it must to cope. And I awoke to a geology quiz that reminded me that mountains are the product of the Earth's great collsions with itself. They are war wounds. And today, the resuscitating breath of the mountain still in my lungs, breathing is easier.

I can't quite tell you

I can't quite tell you what it is I'm seeing.

Because I know I'm not seeing it all.

I know that if I could just breathe deep enough, I could leave myself.

Because somewhere, above the shuffling of my feet along the roads, and with the insulation of miles of atmosphere between the effervescent dream of a me that can truly see and the girl who is yogi-breathing her way through the day, is the vantage point from which I could make sense of things. If I could find perspective, I just know I could see the great amalgam of what is coming. I want to see that things are going to get better, even if it means that things are going to get worse first.

But I am just a girl. A girl who was made a great fool. Just a girl who accidentally rants out loud, and sometimes forgets about breakfast, and lunch, and sometimes dinner. I am, at the moment, a girl mesmerized by the rerun of her great fall.

I am Nixon, watching Watergate unfold, hoarding tapes, imagining my downfall, until it comes to me, again and again. I am Achilles, wondering why the God's did not just thrust me into the River Styx and let me try my own floundering luck at escaping my mortality, rather than leave me blinded to my weakness under the roaring sun of assumed fortitude.

But these things are not a life. And all wallowings must end. I am just a girl, and so I must look for light in the world through the pinprick left me.


So, no. I don't know what it is I'm seeing right now, because I am too close, and my view is too narrow. But I'm trying to look. Because even if it's terribly cliche; if I am willing to push forward without seeing everything, then a crack is enough to give me an inkling. To give me a dream.

(i took this photo last winter, having no idea what it would mean to me tonight.

i find great joy seeing that sometimes, we already know the answers)

for the sake of ranting in peace

I think I need a bluetooth. I have no intention of hooking it up to my phone, but hear me out.

This is the part where I have to stop worrying that this makes me self-important, or that you'll judge me, and just tell you, that for the sake of caution, and not getting hauled off to the looney bin; I need to invest in a bluetooth.

You see, I just got my hearbroken. And yes, if you've been reading, it's the same vaguely alluded to once considered boy of my dreams, and now, lately, literally, nightmares. You see, I've never actually come out and said it, because really, it's too hard to blog about a boy sometimes.

Because sometimes this particular boy had flame-red eyelashes that made you forget what you were saying,  and who plucked your eyebrows for you when your couldn't see, so you wouldn't have to look like a bush man. Because sometimes, this boy liked to break your heart. Sometimes, he was too scared to love you, and kept a back-up, just in case.

 

Boys, in case you were wondering, keeping backups is not fair.

 

So sometimes I need some help, when I make it to campus, when I'm walking by the places I saw them together, and let myself be convinced it was innocent, it was happenstance, when I am pretty sure I've become epileptic and asthmatic (because my lungs are supposed to work and whole body should do what I tell it to, because it shouldn't shake liek this), when I remember that Thanksgiving break won't be in Portland, or when she stands outside our philosophy class on the day of the midterm just to see him; when these things happen, when I have to leave the midterm because there is not enough oxygen getting to my brain, and why is my face all wet; when I'm just trying to make it home from the library through the landmine of everything I can't stop seeing,
I imagine.
It's very similar to the dreams I've had every night this week.

I walk through an elaborate discovery of her, of him. Together. I am classy (sort of). I look them in the eye. I ennumerate their wrongs, and if I am asleep and have no control, they kiss and he does the same thing he did in real life, and I am banished.

But when I'm walking, when I'm awake, I get to pick.
I am majestic and eloquent.
And I don't cry.

This is how I get through.

But sometimes, I cope too hard. And I might slip a few words out loud, as though it were a song stuck in my head.
The Ballad of The Chastised Infidels.
And people passing look bewildered, they take a few steps away.
So I was thinking, if I just had a bluetooth in my ear, they wouldn't know I was broken.
They would just think I was an obnoxious bluetooth person with a need to publicly air her laundry.
And I was thinking I could be okay with that.

So I can rant in peace, you know?

it was neither diabolical nor divine; 

it but shook the doors of the prisonhouse of my disposition; 

and, like the captives of Phillipi, 

that which stood within ran forth.

-the strange case of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde

Robert Louis Stevenson

I have realized, that although I may be a good writer, I am censored. everything I write is vague, impersonal. And what appears to be my best blog, was the one in which I was vulnerable; in a real, not just whining, sort of way. So now I have to make a decision. Where is the line between being self-important, and wanting to connect? Why do I think it's okay for all the other blogs I read, and find it unacceptable in myself?

I either need to cross the line and let it out in all my writing or I need to pick a new love, a new hobby, a new profession. I need to say goodbye to the prodigal child. 

Advice?