Indevan

I wandered out to the barn last night as dusk was settling down and getting comfortable on the hills where we live. The boys were shooting their pistols and revolvers--they have a small arsenal between them. Believe it or not, I have never fired a handgun, which I find appalling (generally sticking to my favorite, a .22 rifle, because even though it sounds like a light wimpy gun with no kick, if you're good with it, it doesn't matter that the bullet is small. And I'm not too bad). So the boys undertook to teach me.

It's not what I expected. Heavier, rougher (two pinched fingers), louder, and less accurate (I couldn't hit anything). But I do believe a concealed weapons permit is a good idea (everyone should take the class), and I want to know more about handguns so I'm not so leery of them. Knowledge makes a better weapon, anyway, in more ways than one. And I need to get better. Granted, the bottle cap fell out of the knothole, but my brother claims that it was just because the board jarred it loose. I can't really contest that yet, but I'll show'm. ;)

We stopped when the sun sank below the horizon with an audible groan of relief, and the fireflies began to scatter across the pink-skied hayfields with small shrieks of joy. The fields and forests were fair crackling with them. And then...a red fox ran across, weaving between the round bales of hay. He stopped and looked at me for a long moment. There's something unworldly about looking into the eyes of a wild creature. It makes you feel...smaller. A little more humble. I have a lot to learn.

Dirt under your nails

There's a satisfaction to be found in a long, freshly planted row of tomatoes that I'm not sure can be experienced anywhere else. I do know that we ended an evening this week just that way, over in the new garden at the new house site. Dad had just finished showing me where the living room is going to be, and we were discussing which kind of stone to use for the fireplace (river rock, of course), and what style we should use when we lay it out. He showed me a handful of perfect arrowheads they found where the barn is going to be. I'm so excited--so ready to have a home again. This new place is lovely of an evening.

So I had plans skipping through my thoughts, and dirt under my fingernails, and I sat back and watched a beautiful sunset as Thomas, our huge loveable barn cat, rubbed against my knee. His deep rumble of a purr is the most soothing sound I know. I watched my mom weeding the asparagus (50 feet of it!) across the way, and dad and the little brother putting up a fence for the half-runner green beans, and I thought, God, this is it. I am, in this moment, perfectly content with my life, who I am, what I do, what I am becoming and where I am going with it. I have missed this feeling, this joy. So if there was ever a time for me to keel over and die, this would be that time, because it is impossible for this moment to get any better, and if I had to go I'd like to do it planting tomatoes.

Obviously, I'm still here (typing from Valley Vista summer camp where I have hacked into their internet after working over an unsuspecting young man who had an idea what the password might be). So I figure that there must be even more amazingness coming up, things I don't even know to dream about, because I live and breath; and also because I feel God's excitement when we discuss my future. If he sees that much to look forward to, why shouldn't I be just as thrilled? Future, this one's for you--may you be filled with freshly planted tomatoes.

(H'okey, I know this one is a bit silly. I was just happy. Still am.)

For Alex and Victor

Every time I read through these, I’m hearing “Vanilla Twilight” run through my head, by Owl City.

Watching our last night draw closer
Guess this means I’m getting older
How’d we never see what this might mean?
The hardest part of moving toward our dreams
Your picture in my wallet
I cried the day I saw it
That crazy little kid I knew just grew
I like the man you turned into

Horizon lightens as the fire dies
And we start to make our goodbyes
We feel the minutes quickly pass
Wish we had a million and a way to make them last
What you’ve been to me you’ll never know
And as I stand and watch you go
You turn back long enough to smile and say
“I’ll see you again someday.”

all the bedtime stories sound like warnings

Our new foal is pretty clueless. Like all new babies, he likes to chew on things as his teeth come in, and every once in a while he'll take a bigger chew than society deems acceptable. The welts on my stomach and shoulder can attest to this, and he just barely caught my just-recently-broken-and-wrongly-healed finger in his strong little teeth. The shriek this poorly planned move elicited sent him skipping and whirling across the round pen, and I swear he was laughing. The little shnitzel.

The little sucker isn't named yet, sadly, and we've been fishing around for something that fits him perfectly, that will immediately give any newcomer a correct impression of his character and temperment. Dad says that we also have to give him a name that, if we have to sell him, won't scare buyers off. Unfortunately, this rules out Trouble, Mischief, Scalawag, El Diablo, or my personal favorite, Spawn of Satan. Grandpa calls him Rastus (not a complementary name--they don't get along well ever since the little bugger took a hefty nip out of the tail of grandpa's coveralls). Amanda wants to call him Alf, but I don't think that this gives an accurate feel. I'm sticking with Rascal for now. That's nuetral enough, right?

But he is a cute little devil. Even though he's losing his baby hair.

He's also getting ready to lose his mom to a rare form of cancer, which horses typically never get. That's one of the reasons he's such an imp, is that she's not feeling well enough to nip him and set him straight when he's acting rambuctious. So when I try to warn him away from biting, my heart's not really in it. I watch him nuzzle up to her and fall asleep leaning against her side in the sunshine, and I know he's just a little horse, but they feel loss too. And my heart aches for him.

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.

gotta have more cowbell

People say you can't miss what you never had.

As usual, people are wrong.

With the apartment mostly packed tonight, and my pillow jammed under my head, I can finally sit back and just listen to the quiet. I can also feel the introspective melancholy part of my character stirring. The choleric has had free reign today, to try and make order out of all this chaos, and now it's time to put my thoughts back in place.

I don't imagine my head to be this orderly, file-cabinet system, either. If I were to think about it, which I usually don't but obviously am doing al momento, I see more of a lived-in room with a fireplace and huge doors open to the wilderness. Lots of green and brown, some blue. It's comfortable, and slightly messy--you know, desk chair pulled out, book on the bed, shirt on the chair, pens and paper and sheet music scattered on the desk, and climbing shoes hanging off the hammock. I guess this is where I go when I need to rest. I wonder what an extrovert's head looks like?

Hmm. I just realized I like my mind. What an odd thing.

But anywho, I was laying here thinking about the past year. There are so many engagement pictures on our fridge that my bucket list has been almost covered. I was absentmindedly staring at them, and thinking about my dear friends who will be engaged soon...and I quietly asked God, in my heart, why I was still alone, when it's not good for us to be alone. And I just realized as I sit here that this is the first semester I've had where I wasn't either in the grip of first attraction to somebody, or crushed into tiny pieces because something wasn't enough. And usually in that order. Truth; the first part of first semester was rocky, and I still hurt over the pain I've inadvertantly caused, but this year was emotionally free for me and for that I can be grateful. Might not sound like much of an epiphany, but for me, it's big. I can wait. Though I still miss kissing. And there's something about twining your fingers with somebody else's thats just so darn...reassuring. Relaxing. Undemanding. Listen to me wax eloquent, oh my people. And so on, and so forth.

But the biggest thing on my mind tonight is...where in heck am I supposed to find a cowbell to ring at Bec's graduation? It was a solemn vow I swore our sophomore year of high school, and here I am, days away and still no cowbell. I gotta have more cowbell.

Anybody got a cowbell???

not-quite-midnight rambles

The apartment above us is taking advantage of the semester being over to blast their movie to decibels that are most likely offending the ear of God. I fully agree with those who say that the biggest proof of intelligent life in the universe is that it is NOT trying to contact us...I submit the people upstairs are blocking their communications with the racket.

Semester...over. Now, I could blog pages about the vertigo induced by realizing that Bec and I will never live together again. And that I'm going to be starting my last year at Southern. And that I missed out on a lot of neat opportunities this semester because I let myself get in the way. Suffice it to say, I feel "adrift with no life vest."

Now, for me, that is actually a terrifically comfortable state, as I can float and/or sleep in the water in just about any position for hours with minimal effort (freaky mutant genes or something. Or maybe body fat). But the point is that I haven't put effort into anything except studying, and that even halfheartedly.

I don't want to drift. I want to dive. I want to outrace the waves. I don't want to stagnate. I want change. I want to be the change.

While we're at it, I want a Puerto Rican pina colada, too. And some corn starch. Ponies are overrated.

Went to Guian's art show tonight. A crazy bunch of awesomely talented people, and I know that they have more fun on the second floor of Brock than most people have in a lifetime. And the show itself was such a composite of talent that I left smiling, and still haven't lost it yet. I love beautiful things--they awe me.

Oh, listen to that. The sound upstairs just increased. When I can hear the dialogue, then we've got a problem. But I guess I should be grateful to them, because they're helping to teach me things like patience, courtesy, and the thrill of stepping outside of my typical reserve to go upstairs and tell them to pipe down already. The last lesson being the most satisfying.

Goodbye, Southern. I'll be glad to see you next year, but summer is calling me. But I'll be back...one more time. This is the longest I've ever been in one school. Actually, the longest I've ever been in school period. Thank you, homeschooling. High school, I disliked you. College...sweet.
Of course, unless I get bit by something poisonous in Indonesia, or stung by another sting ray and want to die (no, but really), or get nailed by a krait (in which case I'll be dead and this blog will become sadly ironic).
If this IS my last blog, I wish it had been more interesting, or had a point. Nope. It just rambles. It's rambling me right off to bed.

Ode for Becca

Work in progress. I started out trying to write her something serious, and meaningful, about all the deep sharing moments we've had...but the memories that spring to mind usually involve screaming, or laughing, or just absurdity. And I couldn't get this Sound of Music song OUT.

Dastardly crickets and stalkers at midnight
Blithely assuring my mom that it's all right
Broken curfew by our roommate who sings
These are a few of my favorite things

Fending off bears in a Yellowstone campsite
Finally convinced my jamaica is all right
Making odd babies and wishing for rings
These are a few of my favorite things

Flirting with Danny and Hoptai and Ben
Flirting with Anthony and generally men
Freezing in winter and soaking in spring
These are a few of my favorite things

Camping at Foster the night that we froze
Caught in a river without any clothes
Charcoaling flatbread and a myriad of things
These are a few of my favorite things

When the job bites
When the (Massive Evil Flying Bug) stings
When life's not so rad
I simply remember my long talks with Lyss
And then I don't feel sooooooo baaaaaad.

whistle while you work, or snarl, or something

I can't whistle.

Actually, I can now, kinda, but that's besides the point. For all intents and purposes, I have passed almost 22 years of life without being able to manage the smallest trill. Oh, not due to lack of trying.

What irks me is that, whenever I'm forced to admit I don't know how to whistle, I get the exact same response. Every. Single. Time.

"You can't whistle?" Their eyes get wide, as if unable to comprehend the sheer proposterity of the statement without an enlargement of the pupil. They may sit in stunned silence for up to, but not exceeding, 2.78 seconds. And then...wait for it...they purse their lips and give a loud whistle. Every single one of them. As if to say, Well, it's not that hard, look at this! You can't do this? It's so easy! What's wrong with you? And then expect you to look upon them with the same awe that would normally be due to the winner of the World's Fastest Hotdog Eater contest. And if you inadvertantly respond, as I have done, "Goshdarnit, I don't need a demonstration, I've tried and I don't really care if I learn or not," they look at you like a hamster just snarled at them. Which makes me chortle and almost, but not quite, restores my good humor.

Oh, and I did learn. A month or so ago (probably longer) I'd spent the entire Sabbath with some friends of mine that I usually don't spend a whole lot of quality time with, and I was exhausted (mentally. because flaming extroverts tend to sap your energy), so I headed outside, away from all of them, and just leaned against the side of Maple with my head back and breathed.

As I did, I began to think about whistling, as one of those episodes described above had just occurred, and I got mad. I thought, Why do I care? Why doesn't it work? And then, Screw this, I'm going to try it my way. Now, logically, if I were to make a sharp, piercing sound come out of my mouth, how would I do it?

And it worked. First time. Speech therapy actually came in handy.

It's amazing what you can do if you say screw it and just try as hard as you can. Maybe unethical and makes my mom flinch, but it works.

Welcome, finals week. I hate you. You are the only thing that stands between me and the freedom of summer. Well, you and Tropical Biology and a month or so of studying for the MCAT. But you are the one who is killing my buzz right now. I don't want to study anymore.

Screw it.