get ready, get set...

Speed is freedom. There is an odd sort of peace when you're careening through the world at a much higher rate of velocity than normal. When you swim so fast that the water itself carries you along, or run though the woods dodging trees or jumping roots...or my favorite, flying along on a bike with the wind coming at you from every direction. Or flying down a mountain on a thin board, kicking up a spray of snow. Especially that.

When I was smaller, I watched the movie "Treasure Planet" until the DVD almost wore out. I wanted nothing more than to build my own solar surfer and use it to catch the wind and lift myself above the trees, the clouds, the earth. I was too practical to try jumping off of roofs, but I still wished. I don't know what it would be like to skim over the earth that fast, that effortlessly. I can just imagine.

Unfortunately, for those who seek their freedom with their own version of speed, there is a glut of Cop types around here, whose latest offenses include interrogating people in their dorm rooms and threatening to drag them to court because they glanced out their window at a speeder who just wasn't fast enough. Of course, there were four coppers with flashing lights for the one speeder, so you can't really blame the college kid. Silly coppers.

Somebody in the world now thinks I'm a few huskies short of an Iditarod. I borrowed Bec's bike and got going fairly quickly headed out of SV, and the curve into the church parking lot was fun, and the wind was blowing in my face and the day was so very very warm and fresh, that I couldn't help myself and did something between a giggle and a chortle. Of course, the poor person I nearly ran over as I slipped around their parked vehicle didn't seem to share the joy. I guess I could be more careful. Or not.

I missed work this morning. First time since I started working every morning. I'm so screwed. If I was currently running on enough sleep to care, I'd be freaking out. I'll have to bring Mr. Benge some kind of bribe. Oh, gosh. I've rambled long enough.

Snell's Window

It's a natural phenomena I came across in my Physics textbook (proving that it is, indeed, useful for something), and it's absolutely rad, or sweet, or whatever antiquated word you prefer. Apparently, when you dive deep enough, either under the sun or the moon, the entire word from horizon to horizon condenses into a circle above your head. Everything is focused and clear and quiet.


Dad always tells me that trying to see your own problems clearly is like sticking your nose in the middle of a painting. You may have a general idea of size and subject. You might even get a little paint on your nose for your trouble. But unless you pull back and get a different perspective, focus on the bigger picture, you will never see clearly. Bless him for teaching me how, because I'm muck-deep in personal situations presently, and some perspective other than my close-up-and-personal, nose-in-the-picture, paint-on-my-eyeballs ones would be welcome. One that focuses my horizons into a vision floating on the surface would be even better. Oh, well.

I guess there's some deep insight tying these all together, but you're smart, you can figure it out yourself. I just wanted to share how cool this underwater window is, and that I want to see it myself someday. That's all.

Banishing the sting...

When you least expect it, Death reaches out and touches your soul. Tap tap tap. Are you there, Alyssa?

I've felt that light knock before, on a black icy lake, sprawled near a pressure ridge and a dead snowmobile. Just a light brush, but it was enough to made me scream in terror. I've been questioning my own mortality ever since that spring last year, and it's made me more thoughtful, more cautious, less prone to take risks just because I think I can. But yesterday, the pictures and the emotional backlash hit so very hard.

Are you afraid of death? I used to think I wasn't. I used to be firmly certain that I might be scared of dying painfully, or frighteningly, or--my worst nightmare--losing my life in a pathetically feeble attempt to save somebody I love; but that the concept of death itself didn't faze me.

I was wrong. Oh, was I wrong. I saw more death on that video clip yesterday than I ever have before, and it shook me. It's ugly, I never realized how ugly, but more than that it's just wrong. As if gravity suddenly reversed but everything still looks upright. We aren't supposed to die like that. Nobody is supposed to die like that.

I almost made it through, until the flashlight-lit picture of the twisted pieces of what used to be a blue-eyed girl. Her eyes were so very, very blue as they stared through the dark into the camera, at an impossible angle to her body. I could feel myself inwardly hyperventiliating and came closer to passing out than I ever have in my life (except for the time in surgery dad cut that lady's tendon and it sounded like celery crunching. That was pretty bad). I guess the only reason I didn't was because I felt it coming. You've got to be kidding, I thought in disbelief, there's no way I'm melting into a puddle in the middle of convocation. I don't mind blood--not even hunting--so I figure it was just my mind telling me that it'd had enough. And in a way I welcomed it because it let me know that I've not been dulled into insensitivity just yet.

Death is the antithesis of all my God created us to be, and the innate wrongness of it frightens the living daylights outta me. I wish I could say I had a long chat with God about all of this, and that now I could look death in the face and cackle, or something equally brave and perhaps a little more dignified. I can't. Yet even though my heart still hurts, my head thankfully knows that God takes away the sting. The victory is only temporary, and if I do have to answer the tap tap tap someday, well, that'll be ok. Can't say I'm not afraid, but that's ok too. Jesus did it first.

Remember how the evil dude in the Mummy scrawled "Death is only the beginning" on the inside of his sarcophagus? He might have been an ugly son, but he was right. This life is short but there's an eternity after this, and there's nothing ugly about it. Too hoo! say the Narnian owls.

It is so NOT my life...

Dr. Nyirady came to do pre-application interviews yesterday, and I showed up in my customarily dark dressy attire, hands cold and hair messily curled, because that's how I roll when I'm nervous.

But, while he was an interesting, genial gentleman and in no way intimidating, I still left the short meeting mentally drained and deeply disappointed in myself. And I'm tired of being disappointed.

Loma Linda's list of requirements is set rather...high. And while I mostly fall within the parameters, due to my two bad semesters of mostly B's I'm in Loma Linda's "grey area" of acceptance. What can save me is my continuing "upward trajectory;" aka nearly straight A's for the rest of my time here.

Oh, geesh. There goes my life.

But I hate how it seems like my whole college career has been a painful balancing act between falling just short of the elusive A and still being out and moving and alive, living, and yet being guilty; because if I studied all the time, I could indeed get A's. But if I'm not supposed to be out and getting to know people, making connections, then why are my parents paying skads of money for me to be here?

Is being a surgeon worth this? I have to believe so...

sleeping with nightlights

My heart is broken.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle kills off Sherlock Holmes. How I managed to live 21 years in happily naive enjoyment of the Hound of the Baskervilles, and The Sign of the Four, all the while contemplating the wit and shrewd deductive skills that belonged to the man with the pipe and trenchcoat, without realizing the author killed him off, I do not know. I haven't even read the story yet--but I'll never forgive Sir Arthur. Not even if it's really, really good.

The world no longer seems a safe and welcoming place with Holmes dead. Chuck Norris needs to sleep with a nightlight now.

Snow Dance

We drive so slowly. Rhythms of sleet and snow whirl past the windows, created by passing semis to the thud of windshield wipers. Adrenaline constantly leaks into our systems and provides an intense clarity we need. I'm the AI, reponsible for keeping Bec focused as she slowly changes our position in relation to home; Amanda watches movies in the backseat

-I really, really hate night driving in snow-

not paying attention until there's a tap of the brakes, and the momentum changes. It's a macabre dance rhythm for a car, this sudden fishtailing motion, and it instantly triples our adrenaline. There's only so much you can do and suddenly the car catches and begins to spin, white darkness flying past

-it's a lot smoother than I thought it would be-

and we're unexpectedly calm--thank God, I cannot abide screaming, it makes everything worse. A bitten-off exclaimation from the backseat; I think Becca may say "oh no" as she grips the wheel and I watch the guardrail pass me on the wrong side going the wrong way

-Oh God if we go off she's the first to hit-

so I turn my head to the back and quietly snap, "Amanda, hold on." For a moment the swirls of snow appear stationary as our rotation matches their velocity, and then we stop crossways, not quite back where we started

-stopped but not safe yet what next-

and we're all in motion. I twist to look up at the semi lights flying down the hill towards us

-what are these idiots thinking, going so fast?-

and Mandy says, "They're not going to stop, they can't stop." Bec snaps "I know" and throws the car in reverse, then forward and all I can do is pretend for her that we have all the time in the world, and quietly tell her to take her time and not spin out

-c'mon Bec, gently now, good girl just like that-

and my eyes are still on the semi and he's on us, his shift into the other lane completed just as he thunders past in a spray of snow. And we're moving again into the blizzard, shaking out the adrenaline

-dang, wish I had something to do with all of this-

and off again...going home.

-thanks, Abbi, you kept them safe. I owe you my life--guess nothing's changed. I'm ok with that. Love you.-

Teach me...

I have never wanted to teach, and now I know why.

Today I rolled up to my Issues class just in time to get an exam handed back. In this class, exams consist of a paper every few weeks. First paper wasn't too good--85%, well below what I'm used to for a paper, any paper. So i had high hopes for the second exam.

57%.

Fifty-seven percent. In 15 years of schooling, I have never. Ever. Done anywhere near this badly on a paper.

I used to pass well as an even-tempered person. Not anymore.

So, as soon as this class is out, I'm back to hash this out with the good professor and try and rescue my GPA from this nasty C I now have.

I am tired of fighting teachers. I am tired of trying to explain why I was right, and I am tired of being told, "Go ahead, try to convince me. Be creative and I might give you back your points." And they sit back and cross their arms, so confident in their control over the tenous grasp I have on my future, blithely asserting that "It's just one grade; in the long term it won't matter." They assert their right to take off 20% of a grade if you forget to sign your name, even though they're supposed to be intelligent and realize that sometimes life just happens. Instead of setting up obstacles, they should be knocking them down.

If this is what teachers are, I have no interest.

Freedom

Firefight

On my list for the day of Things To Do That Don't Involve OChem Or Physics, hiding between the "searching for bird nests" and "swimming laps", I came across this entry. "Write an epic poem." Epic, I thought, epic. Exaggerated metaphors, limited rhyming, heroes, impossible tasks, ending with both death and victory. Sure, why not? I could use some heroism right about now.

Roaring scream of a thousand banshees
Blind rage and death, valkyrie-swift and hot
Hell-bent on its destructive blast
Streaking down the mountain towards the line
And the nine stood fast.
Frail bulwark against a seething fury
Dried blood and sweat, burns and the reek of fear
Voices raised in ragged shouts
Who could have run yet chose to stay
Gave up their only way out.
Cool valley below waits in dread
Blocked off roads, smoke-choked trees
Holding off until they receive aid
For the telltale drone of an airplane's engine
And the people in the valley prayed.
The brilliant wall drew nearer to the nine
The few brave souls, laboring in its path
The monster seemed to span the very sky
And still no help arrived to rescue
The nine prepared to do and die.
And back they beat the raging flow
Foot by foot, they stopped it in its tracks
It snarled beyond their fragile break
Wind-whipped inferno swirled higher yet
And gave the nine all the fight they could take.
They labored for the lives of those below
But yard by yard, they lost the fight
Gave up precious ground at enormous cost
Muscles strained for the valley's fate
And pushed harder as their hope was lost.
One last ridge to have and hold
To keep the valley free of the demon's touch
The nine fell back and there arrayed
A brief respite only before the wind rushed in
As the people in the valley prayed.
Faster and faster up the mountain poured
The living wall, fury and vindictive might
Out of time and short of breath
Wild yells as the nine finally faced
The witch-light of approaching death.
Hard-pressed they fell before the coming glare
One by one, the nine became less
To a man selling their lives dear
In triumph the brilliant monster roared on
Topped the ridge above the valley near.
But the nine had held the line to the last
And bought the time for the call to go
Airplane engines split the sky
As their liquid load fell like rain on the ridge
And the valley watched the wildfire die.
So remember and recall the nine
Who stood their ground and held their line.

Quiet

Too tired of running to remember my name
But your presence leaves me breathless
Rubbing off the charcoal and burnt edges
It’s been so long since I could just rest
Head buried in my arms on your shoulder
Softly healing the burning, scars that still ache
The only thing in my existence that makes no demands
Past the limits of what my endurance takes
Content to stay here forever
Such a gift that you bring, that you are
A hope and a reason to wake up tomorrow
Someday I’ll be able to see that far

Exclusivity

I hate this. I'm angry, and sick, and it burns.

This time, containing it doesn't help. Doesn't help when I'm sitting across somebody's table and unfortunately overhearing (how could I not?) several variations of fun plans for "another community dinner...but without the 'community', you know, more exclusive, so we can eat more food", and the knowing sideways glances that go with it. Honestly, I couldn't believe it at first, and the anger was the only bulwark I had to check the words fighting to spill out. Way to remind that me and mine are only extra bodies in this communal gathering, making food that people aren't even showing up for. I know very well who the "community" is. I don't expect to be treated like a long-lost twin. I never worked at Wawona and I didn't grow up with them and I'm not attractively charismatic. I'm also aware that Ben broke the rules by trying his best to include us in the circle of people he loves, and by Sheol I'm tired of hearing about his "affair." I also wish my hearing wasn't quite as sharp as it is.

I'm not cut out to make friends easily, but I wish to God I was. And I ask myself, why in the world do I care so much?. It's because I look at some of these people and think, in another life, we would have been good friends. Why can't we be? Because I only have this life, and it's short. But no, everybody already has their friends, has no desire to leave their small, comfortable niche. Can nobody see that the world is bigger than this? I don't pretend to be the world. But I want mine to resonate with all types of music. Whomever lies at the core, it should never stop growing. Unless you're dead, and I have no interest in dying. Not yet. My heart-sis says I'm trying too hard. Perhaps. But it's important to me.

God help me, I hope that nobody, and but nobody, after being around my people for half this long, feels this alienated. Was any of it malicious? Perhaps not. I think they just don't care, which is worse. And now, I'm done.

Downward Spinal Twist

I will never again make fun of people who do Yoga.

Having surveyed myself and been found wanting, I've decided that working out is going to become a daily activity from now on--putting in my time in the pool, those (insert insulting comment) exercise machines, the Hulsey abs class, and the self-defense "class" that meets in my apt every few days.

In this week's quest to not die an early death, I started working out again and was abruptly reminded that, yes, my foot is still broken. I needed something gentle to do that wouldn't re-rebreak that darn foot and yet would get me moving. So, I youtub.commed some Yoga workout videos, waited until nobody else was around, and then set up in the living room. Yeah, I'll breeze through this sucker in no time, I smugly thought. It's stretching on a mat. How hard could it possibly be?

Ohhh. Yeah. I hurt.

But, it's good for me. M'gonna keep it up because I want that level of control. By the time I can climb again, it's going to come in handy. Hurrah!