Saturday night in the most geographically remote place on the planet

salt stains on my desk

suggest that I am real, but

it's another lie

Soul-itude

I like this time of night.

Nobody is awake. It's far too late on my side of the world, and it's a little too early for everybody else. I hear no voices, no footsteps. All I hear is the wind, and my fingers against the keys.

I sit up straight and my spine scolds me for slouching, voicing its displeasure with a half-dozen little pops.

The hours pass quickly when it's this late. Soon my world will be waking. The sun will peek up, warmly rousing the East. It'll pass over the land, casting its light onto sleeping bodies. More will wake, yawn, and stretch. Finally, finally the sun will find me. It will cross the water, traveling traveling traveling until it reaches me. It will creep up over the mountains, cast its light through the trees and into my windows. I'll admire the rays that cascade onto my floor, splay across my walls.

I will smile and shut my eyes.

I hope.

Imagination is not only part of an act: it is, itself, action.

This might not make the final cut, so here's the first 1200 words.

Reed took a deep breath as her grip on the wheel tightened. Her heartbeat seemed to echo in the empty car and her eyes twitched under closed lids. She tried to release the muscles in her jaw, but couldn’t, and opened her eyes. She gasped and tension flew through her arms. The car’s headlights illuminated the road ahead, showed the right front tire easing itself onto the shoulder. Reed screamed at her body to not jerk the wheel to the left. The car would probably flip, or at least fly into a spin. Instead, arms and shoulders rigid, she held the wheel steady. Inch by inch, she urged the car back onto the road and into the proper lane. Reed painfully rolled her shoulders back, trying to relax her muscles. She stretched her head to the left, then right, and exhaled loudly. She didn’t usually let it go that long. Normally, her eyes were open by the time she started drifting out of her lane. This time, she had crossed two before forcing herself back to reality. There was nobody else on the road; there never was. The destructive game was reserved for painfully late nights and long stretches of straight and empty highway. If she were to take it too far, Reed wouldn’t be responsible for anybody but herself.

The jeep bumped into the alley. Something rattled, something that had been rattling for a while, and Reed made a mental note to call her mechanic. The headlights played over the neighbor’s garage and backyard as she turned into her driveway. Reed gingerly put the car in park, as it had a tendency to stick in neutral, and pulled the keys from the ignition. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes for a moment. Reed shook her head, brow furrowed, and tried to find the humor in the situation as she climbed out of the car. She placed one foot in front of the other, head down, as she made her way through the gate, across the backyard, and up the back porch. As the key slid the bolt back from the doorframe, Reed heard something large and furry bounding for the door. She stepped into the kitchen as the dog padded in, feigning sudden apathy at her return.

“Conejo, idiota. Que pasa?”

The malamute sat back on his haunches and cocked his head to the side. His gaze seemed to inquire about Reed’s night.

“You really want to know?”

The dog sat, looking expectant.

“Worst sex of my life.”

Conejo sneezed.

“You’re telling me. Let’s go outside.”

Reed pushed open the screen door, allowing the dog to brush past her legs and emerge into the darkness. She let the door slam shut, taking the few steps to the fridge and grabbing a beer. Drink in hand, she leaned against the counter and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Conejo barked once and Reed headed out the back door.

“Caete la boca. Do you want to wake the neighborhood?”

Reed set herself down on the top step of the porch. She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket to glance at her watch; the glowing 3:48 cut through the darkness. Reed groaned and popped open her beer. Conejo was snuffling around the fence, looking for the perfect place to relieve himself. Eventually he found it, and the sound of urine on metal carried through the yard. That taken care of, the dog came sauntering back to the porch. He sat down next to Reed and rested his head on her knee. The light from the kitchen cast a light glow over the two of them; Reed could see the whine in his eyes.

“Eres borracho,” she said, and poured some beer into her cupped palm. Conejo lapped it up happily.

She took another sip and laid back flat on the porch. There was a break in the trees and Reed could see a few stars overhead. The light pollution obscured most of the sky’s potential, but there were always a couple visible stars on clear nights. Conejo, belly to the porch, edged his way to Reed’s side. His nose brushed against her outstretched hand and the moisture made her shiver. She was glad for the leather jacket, though it had been warmer than necessary earlier in the evening.

“Conejo,” she said, turning her face toward the furry presence.

The dog raised his head and looked to meet her gaze.

“What am I doing?”

Conejo had no response, save for a snuffle and a blink. Reed continued to stare at her pup, mind lost in the evening’s events. She let her eyes soften, and the few shapes she could see through the darkness acquired a general blur. After a moment, her eyes refocused on Conejo. She smiled.

“Eres mi amor. No necesito alguien sino tu. Vamanos.”

Reed sat up, got to her feet, and opened the door to let the dog into the house ahead of her. Conejo sauntered into the living room, presumably to curl up in his bed and fall asleep. Lucky. Reed set her partial beer in the sink; between her and the dog, it was a little over half gone. She grabbed her keys, replacing them on the hook next to the fridge, and shrugged out of her jacket before throwing it on an unoccupied chair. One more look around the room and Reed trudged away, the hour weighing on her. She took off her sneakers as she walked, not bothering to untie them or put them in the back closet.

Once in the bathroom, Reed turned on the water and began undressing. She pulled the t-shirt off over her head, letting it land in a crumpled heap next to the hamper. Her fingers fumbled as she undid her belt buckle, but managed to free her button and zipper. Slowly, sleepily, she eased the jeans over her hips and down to the floor. She stepped out of them and kicked them away. Reed closed her eyes and stepped into the shower. It was too hot, but she didn’t care. The water felt good on her skin, and she relaxed as the last 24 hours washed off her body and down the drain.

Shampoo, conditioner, body, face. The routine required zero thought and Reed went through the motions, hardly conscious of her hands on her own body. She finally turned off the water, face still angled up toward the showerhead. With a sigh, she stepped out, grabbing a towel from the shelf above the toilet. Reed wrapped it around herself and wiped the condensation from the mirror with her palm. A tired face stared back at her, makeup slightly smudged and green eyes dulled with exhaustion. She blinked at her reflection – once, twice, three times – then turned and walked from the bathroom. Reed took the few steps to her room, walked through the door, and let the towel fall. She moved toward the bed, throwing back the covers before climbing in. Reed’s wet hair began to soak the pillow as she drifted off to sleep.

Will threatened me.

Current life goals:
- Dragon Thunder (if you don't understand this, booooo.)
- wombat/sloth (either would be acceptable)
- Will as groomsman
- godparent (already arranged - thanks, max)
- sleep. right now.

The story didn't make any sense. There were too many colors.

You smell like everything bagels.

anonymous

He was a dream. He was in my dream.

He smiled with his eyes and he wanted adventure. We ran together, laughing. The world flew past us on either side. It moved faster than we did. We ran hand in hand until we reached the ocean.

The water lapped at our feet. It complemented our conversation, providing satirical commentary now and then. We shared an apple and our stories. He traced the lines on my palm; he kissed my shoulder.

Silence eased its way between us, closing the space. I felt him next to me. Breathe in. Breathe out.

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and whispered my name. I smiled. He touched my face and brought it close to his; he rested his forehead against mine. I closed my eyes.

"Don't wake up," he said. "I don't want to die."

blink

I've been trying to simplify.

I figure if I can rid my life of all non-necessities, some of this anger will dissipate.

No luck so far.

[I'm tired]

well that backfired

I didn't wear any makeup this week. Not that I generally wear a lot of makeup; I'm not one of those people who cakes themselves in layer upon layer of "beauty" products. That being said, I find myself outside of my comfort zone when I don't have at least a little bit of cosmetic support.

This week I thought I'd try something different. There have been enough stressors in my life recently that I figured any way to make my daily routine less complicated would be a good thing. I also thought that dropping makeup would give me a chance to become comfortable with my all-natural self. If I could get through a week, maybe I could give up makeup altogether!

Nope.

It's been a week and I cannot count the number of people who have told me I look "tired," "sick," or "pale." There have been those who haven't initially recognized me and a few who have asked if everything was alright.

Fuck.

Moral of the story: a) don't experiment with your physical appearance; b) if you're going to do it, be ready to take some hits.

ehhhhhhhhhn

sick sick sick. fuck you too, world.

I'll get some Maui stuff up here. Soon.

the problem with self-disclosure

I never realize how much of a nerd I am until I meet somebody new.

When I start talking about myself, it always comes out. First there's student government. Orchestra. Plastic animals lined up on the dashboard of my car. Kites. Outer space. The fact that my Facebook has been in pirate English for almost six months. Music preferences. Calculator watch. The story about sticking my phone in the fan. Thrift store clothes. That thing about tall people.

Yikes.

If a person is normal, they look at me like I'm crazy. If a person is being a good sport about it, they smile and nod. If a person is beyond awesome, they listen and laugh and shake their head in good-natured disbelief.

I like the last type of person the best.

my dearest Paloma

Do you remember middle school Spanish class? I went through that strange phase in which I would often forget the "n" in words. Spanish became Spaish and Juanita (my name at the time) became Juaita. That was also the age of las vacas rajas, lorenzo come los pinguinos, and soy maldita. And Gberg put up with us beautifully, despite the fact that we were complete assholes.

Damn. What a ridiculous period in our lives.

Also, has anybody ever seen the PBS special Natural History of the Chicken? It's amazing. I need to find a copy.

baffling/perplexing/anomalous

This has been an interesting week. It has been filled, thus far, with physical trauma as well as other adventures.

Monday: As I readied my backpack for the day ahead, I glanced at my iHome. It told me that I had five minutes to get to my staff meeting. No problem. As I shoved another book into my bag and scanned the room for my jump drive, I glanced at my calculator watch. It told me that I had less than a minute to get to my staff meeting. Problem. My cell phone confirmed my predicament. Major problem.

I sprinted out my front door and toward the stairs that would lead me to my meeting. I was determined not to be late. Desafortunadamente, my right foot hit a patch of mud and slid from the path. My left foot followed suit by slamming toe-first into the pavement. Cursing loudly (especially for 9am on a Monday) I hobbled up the stairs as my toe bled onto my slipper.

Tuesday: Dress rehearsals for Da Freakshow had gone smoothly and we were preparing for our act. I wandered up to the dressing rooms on the third floor to say hello to Billy and we chatted for a minute as he played somebody's guitar. Nicole came out and congratulated me on our rehearsal, saying that Travis stole the show with his awkward attempts at dance. We both laughed and began down the stairs.

My right foot (I think there's something intrinsically wrong with it) landed a little too close to the stair's edge. It shot out from under me and down I went. Nicole screamed, concerned. Luckily, I'd had a hand on the banister so instead of flying down the stairs on my ass, I managed to catch myself with my upper arm. I painfully righted myself and cautiously proceeded down the stairs. The bruise began sprouting within about 15 seconds.

Wednesday: Da Freakshow was over and I could finally take a deep breath. I returned to my daily breakfast routine, something I had forgone in order to capture as much sleep as possible during our heavy rehearsal schedule. Toast, banana, and cottage cheese were nestled on my tray as I sat down at the table. I cut my toast in half and took a few bites. I was vaguely conscious of something in my eye (normal for having just woken up). Per usual, I used one finger to ease down my bottom lid and the other to eliminate the infringing debris.

As I removed my hand from my face, I was conscious that my efforts had been in vain, as my eye was blinking in an aggravated manner. I looked toward my hand and discovered the culprit: a glob of peanut butter was smeared on the end of my finger. I had just stuck peanut butter in my eye.

It is now Wednesday evening and I hope the rest of my week goes smoothly. We will see.

Yarr

Dear avid readers,

You may thank (or blame, your choice entirely) Ms. Whitney Westman for my return to this lovely little blagosphere.

Ahem.

There is a tendency in many people to dismiss the stories/knowledge of old people simply because they're old. This is something that has affected me as it has affected most people I know. Instead of listening intently and gleaning as much as possible from another person's stories and experience, we write them off, deeming their input not worth our time.

This is a huge mistake.

My grandpa Ollie passed away about three and a half weeks ago. Ollie was 95 years old and had been living alone for the last decade, since my grandma died. He was an absolute character and anybody he didn't offend couldn't get enough of him.

Unfortunately, I didn't spend very much time listening to him.

Ollie taught me to golf. He taught me to shuffle and play poker. He could not have been happier when I announced my shift from science to communications ("now there's a skill you can sell"). He cared about me, though I didn't always see it.

On the day of the funeral, Andy and I went over to Ollie's house. We entered through the garage, per usual, and meandered through the empty rooms. The decor of a 95 year old widower left much to be desired; the floors were still covered with orange shag carpeting and the living room furniture was upholstered in white leather.

As Andy and I went room to room, we didn't say much to each other. We simply looked around and remembered what we could. Andy went to the basement to take a look at Ollie's tools. As a (broke) sculptor, he can use any tools he can find. Meanwhile, I wandered my way into the den and sat in Ollie's favorite chair, whose dark brown leather is now cracked with age.

I looked to a corner where Ollie's globe sat. We had spent hours with that globe, spinning it around and pointing out where we'd like to live. Ollie would tell me stories about being a traveling salesman and I'd run my fingers over the countries, trying to say the names in my head.

That globe is outdated now.

The day after the funeral, Sunday, I came back to Hawaii. My mind was settled and I was feeling relatively at peace. I called my mom to tell her that I had arrived safely and that I loved her.

Before I hung up the phone, I asked her to keep that globe for me. I need something to remember.

I'm bringing back the face-wipe. What up.