Stargazing

We laughed a lot.

Everything had a bright side, nothing was as serious as the world made it out to be, everything ultimately made sense. And if it didn't, it didn't matter because we were all together. Even saying "forever" was ok, because rationality didn't hold up to the bond we knew we had. Perfect ingredients, notes splashed across a page of music and it all fit like we had been made for each other. Spilled milkshakes, rock slides, sunburns, killer science classes, and (literally) thousands of miles under the wheels. Special dinners and crowded hot tubs, late nights and pictures caught those years and smiles and adventures and tears and heartache and stargazing. Close enough to see the glow inside the others that the casual observer might miss and miss out on. We had the blond adventurer, the exuberent enthusiast, the artsy musician, the curly-haired dreamer, the driven athlete, the quietly fierce one, the incessent talker, the rugged outdoorsman, the laughing blue-eyed one, the talented designer, the ironic realist, and the crunchy granola one.

But forever is shaded a million different colors, and the wheels keep turning. Like the fourth of july firecrackers that spill out from an epicenter into long bright arcs across the sky, we traced different paths--different colleges, different countries, different worlds. The bond  holds but the immediacy is gone. And that still bites.

Grip as hard as you can, when you open your fist there are just a few dying sparkles left.

I got caught on this train of thought when I got home from Indo and turned on my cell phone. In my voicemail was a cheery call from the athletic one, just back from Gimbie and eager to talk to me. That was two days ago, and I ask myself why I haven't returned the call yet. Closest I can come to answering that is, I'm afraid. No, not afraid of her--she's one of my closest friends. But my subconcious remembers the months it took to adjust to the absence of them all, and even though I tell it that these precious people will slip right back into the holes they left--it doesn't believe me. And that would hurt just as bad.

Why am I so afraid all the time?

homecoming

Not being one to take the Lord's name in vain, I limit my cursing pretty much to using the word "bloody," and occasionally to the phrase "bloody hell," if things are bleak enough (thank you, James Herriot). I spent most of last night in a terrible state, and am pretty sure that every single curse word in the history of mankind breathed in my brain at some point or another. Thankfully, upon waking I don't remember half of them. Might be tempted to use them again if that were the case. Haven't been this sick since I was eleven. Probably be reduced to a skeleton if I ever even make it home, a shadow of my former self. Bet my parents won't recognize me.
But, I'm feeling well enough to joke, that's something. Being sick in a foreign country sucks, and not just a little.  Been torturing myself with visions of mama's tomato soup, broccoli soup, vegetable soup...any kind of anything she makes. Just looking at dinner here makes me ill all over again. Still have a whole week to go. I'm going to die.
I know I'm feeling sorry for myself. Trust me, I know. There might even be a tear or two--I'm such a wimp when I'm sick.
I want to go home.

survival of the fittest.

Last night, Eric had a temperature of 104. Mark, on his way across the lawn to get medicine from Dr. Snyder, passed out twice and woke up in the grass with no idea how long he'd been there (as the uber alert night watchman snored beside the house). Josie sweated off her chills and fever and woke up better, Lauren had stomach problems and dizziness, Emily still has a rolicking cough that sounds hilarious when she laughs, and Richa has been sick since we've been here. Even Jordan had a stuffy nose and headache one day. So far, only Hannah and I have retired victorious from the field...I call us the pillars of health in a cesspool of disease. Of course, my stomach has been feeling funny, but I choose to ignore this. I can't imagine getting sick at this point in the trip. Please, God...please? Those of us who are still well have been huddling in one room, trying not to breathe. The island felt a lot healthier. I didn't have a pair of shoes on my feet for days. It was glorious.
The diving was incredible. I've seen turtles, dolphins, eels, sea urchins (WAAAY too up close and personal), and myriads of fishies. Emily sings to the fish-- "Hey little fishies, swimming in the sea, hey little fishies swim away from me, hey little fishies swimming everywhere, hey little fishy-you're-getting-too-close-to-my-feet-go-swim-over-there!" Of course, all of this is through her snorkel. We got really good at Snorkelspeak, too. The conversation most over heard is "Look at that over there!" "Where?" "There! Right there!" "WHERE?" "RIGHT THERE, RIGHT THERE!" Makes me laugh, which isn't conducive to keeping the seawater out of my lungs and in the ocean where it's supposed to be. Oh, but when I told them where the sea snake was (right underneath them), then it got across loud and clear. That was funny.
No sun...it rained a lot of our diving days. So I nixed all sunscreen and ended up with a nice brown hue, at least on the half of me that wasn't facing downwards. Hopefully our free day in Bali is sunnylichious.
The people here...I don't know what to make of them. For the most part, they are open and seeped in a friendliness that must be in the air here, because I haven't seen a single frown. I love the ones at the market. We showed up there and they started yelling with excitement when they saw Mark, who at 6'9" is the tallest. But the people in the malls are what I would consider rude. They stare and there are constant catcalls of "Meese! meese! I love you! meese America!" I will never again wish to be the center of attention--I hated it. Every second. I'm good at being anonymous when I choose to be, but here, it's impossible and I hadn't realized just how much I rely on blending when I want to. At one point it got really bad and I just wanted to snarl back at them. I miss my boys. Oh, sure, standing up for yourself isn't that hard, but when you have a herd of tall male types to do it for you, it's so much easier. Shoot, they don't even have to say a word.
I guess that's enough for now...I'm tired. It's sabbath afternoon here, and I just want to hold off this stomach thing for a while longer. I think I'm winning. Yup. Definitely winning.
I miss home. S'beautiful here, but the colt is growing up and Alex is graduating and the baby chicks are trying to fly...the well is getting dug tomorrow and the footers for the new house are getting poured on Monday. Things are doing, and I want to be there. I want to be there.

asdf

I have four and a half minutes to relate what I've learned in the last 36 hours, which is how long my day lasted from sunrise to sunrise.
I learned that I love flying even more than I thought I did. I spent lots of the 20+ hours of airtime glued to the window, watching the beautiful patterns of the world flowing by. Incidentally, I remember in Superman returns when the airplane and the shuttle are accidentally waltzing into outer space, and the atmosphere turns dark blue and then black as they leave it...and so I craned my neck to look up ABOVE the plane, where people usually don't look. And to my dismay, it was very, very dark blue. Almost like I could see into space. It felt...dangerous. In a dispassionate sort of way. To know that only a few (give or take) meters stand between you and nothingness. And then there's the elusive pull to know what it would be like to go there.
Also, I learned that if very, very drunk gay people are asking about your male friends and their anatomies, and waving books about satan around in a plane on a twelve hour flight, it's going to be a very, very long flight.
Also, I jsut realized my time on this computer is running out. Lata.