- Trailhead: process over product 2. GPS and heart composing 3. Concepts, the Word, and running
“You’re turns are looking really nice,” I tell my friend ‘S’. We are standing in the snow half way up Silver Mountain. Well, we are really standing in ski boots, which are bound to fiberglass popsicle sticks with a sliding slick underbelly designed to induce near death visions.
“Oh yah? I kinda don’t feel like I’m doing that well,” she tells me. We’ve stopped to let the internal muscular burn of lactic acid production fade a bit before skiing the rest of the way down to the designated ski lift.
“Ya, when I went skiing with my dad he told me I was looking pretty good on the moguls and I was like, ‘really? I feel like I’m in control, maybe, half the time.’”
“Ya, that’s how I feel too!” ‘S’ laughs and produces one of her elfin smiles, the kind you have to smile back at no matter what.
We go quiet so we can just breathe. It isn’t the first ski of the season for either of us, but we can’t make it quite often enough to stay in shape for our near death experiences that for the same and different reasons, we both love. We didn’t think the rain was going to turn into snow but kept the faith and about half way up the Gandola ride, much to our relief, snow. We’ve skied for four or five hours now and I don’t know about ‘S’ for certain, but my burning quadriceps are starting to accrue a strange sort of squishy feel.
“Well,” I say after a few moments thought, “I guess that’s the secret, everybody’s just pretending, faking it. They really aren’t in control half the time either. “ ‘Hey dude’ “ I change my voice and act out,” ‘that was so awesome!’ ‘Yeah man, it’s cool, no big deal but uh, I got to go to the bathroom now cause I shit my pants.’ “
We laugh about this for a while before skiing the rest of the way down the mountain. It’s the call back joke for the rest of the day, because I guess poop is just funny. Thinking of the oh-so-cool trick snowboarders shitting there pants, is just a satisfying, goofy thought.
But I’ve discovered that this assessment of my fellow sliding-down-snow-lovers applies very well to the big picture, life, being an adult. All adults and grown ups, (and this includes me now, much to my shock and awe) are faking it. They’re pretending. They’re scared shitless. Which is the only reason why they don’t actually shit themselves until the effects of the bran muffin that is Time kicks in after retirement.
So I laugh at my dorky crashes and awkward pole versus skis moments and don’t care what people think because I love skiing, period. Why can’t I do the same with life? Mmh. Well, shit.
Spring is a ways away depending on where you live. It visited here mid-January randomly. Kind of cruel really, warm weather? Just kidding! And this from a girl who loves winter–and hates spring.
I hate spring because it’s supposed to be all lovey-dovey time, happy, pretty, innocent, etc. The only reason people are happy is because they know summer is coming. Everything is still dead in spring. Spring is the time for preparation for summer, subsequently, lots of hard work.
The spring semester for academia is no different. Did you fill out your FAFSA? Did you hear about that fund that you can apply for? Deadline is coming up! It’s a week after the scholarship deadline but before the internship application deadline. Then register for classes for fall. Fall? Who thinks about fall in March? Oh, and don’t forget about homework for the classes you are in RIGHT NOW!
Dear Loving Readers,
because I’m pretty sure that most of the people who actually read this site, love me!
I’m currently bogged down with a preposterous amount of writing in lieu of my upcoming finals. Everything is due December 15th, either at high noon, causing me to have to cancel my fast-draw duel, or at 5 pm sharp in classic magazine/newspaper writing method and style, or by midnight, at which point I turn into a pumpkin. It’s convenient really, because my mother and I discovered it’s much easier to ship me home in form of pumpkin.
After a few days I grow back into a woman, ideally. As long as there are no hiccups in that process, I shall then be able to write and post freely in this little haven I have come to love. I’ll also have a shit-ton of stuff to post from the semester, so, there you go!
Much Love, and Happy Holidays,
March 29, 1993 is the first journal entry where I write in cursive. I’m eight years old. It adds a new element of possibility for misspellings. It’s great. Again, there is some things lost in this transfer, because the handwriting is great. I’m still writing with pencil too.
Today I woke up, as usall and hurried to school. I read my
homework tine and got my morning work done. Then after lun
-ch we had a sell. I had nindy two daller at the begening at the
end I had fouredy five daller’s lelt and I only bought four things
Then I plased and playied with my fiend Amanda. Then I ate,
I danced then raid. Then I snugle in bed to go to sleep.
To the friends, family, random readers that have somehow stumbled onto this little newborn baby site, THANK YOU!!! And, I predict approximately another two weeks before I’ve settled into a good groove with school that allows me to write and post and update this site as much as I want. To any who want a shout out for when I do/have, let me know. In general I’m saying thanks and keep the faith; more is coming! I suppose in truth, this is more for me, because in my ideal world I would have already documented and posted all my Liverpool adventures.
In the Great Northwest (USA) Fall’s breath sends goosebumps down our necks and a pair of gold-colored glasses to see the world through; I love fall, second favorite season of the year! Enjoy!
Queen and I were roaming together come day two in Liverpool. I did not know yet that she was a dancing queen, but she is. The entire study abroad group had done a little more touring of the city that morning and bought calling cards and similar day to day maintenance things needed while living here. I had to be reprimanded because though I told someone I was going to the toilet, they neglected to tell the others and momentarily thought they’d lost me. Due to my wandering spirit it would not be the last time, but it would be doing more adventurous and fun things then visiting the toilet. (If you ask for the restroom they look at you like you’re crazy.) Now the afternoon was ours.
The dormitory we are staying at is close to a colossal and Eden-like park called Sefton Park. It is the host of the fourth annual African Goya festival. The day was bright and simultaneously overcast, a skill that this British Isle has perfected. This particular afternoon it only taunted rain, having drizzled a bit in the morning, and didn’t actually come down on us. Queen and I drifted in and out of the circle of tents and booths. All kinds of food, Jamaican/Caribbean, Arabic, Somalian and more, were available. Breathtaking colours of linens composed the clothing being sold alongside a vast array of jewellery and crafts and different medians of art. I couldn’t resist and added to my collection of hats and bought a top of royal blue shaded to a wine red and intricately embroidered.
The art of West African dance was being tutored at one of the booths. With a very little coaxing I got Queen to agree to take the next class with me. In the meantime we gravitated to the stage where Daby Toure, a phenomenal guitarist and singer was performing with his band. After about twenty minutes we were sold, and wandered to the music booth where they were selling CD’s. We weren’t the only fans, because they were sold out. I wrote down their information to track them down later and we made to doubly enjoy the rest of their performance. We ran into Chip, and Chip being Chip, he took it upon himself as a personal quest to get their CD for us. When they finished performing he went backstage and got to speak with all of them, got an autograph and pictures but—they didn’t have any extra CD’s unfortunately.
Whilst he worked at that task, Queen and I headed over to the dance booth for our class. Now, not to be disparaging to my roots, but quite frankly, we do NOT emphasize or learn dance. Queen and I come from a similar background, albeit from different sides of the lower forty-eight. The dance is spectacular and its core is being able to do body isolations; rolling the shoulders, now shifting the feet, now both at the same time then circling the ribs, the walking/knee lifting, then both followed by some hip circles. Suffice to say, Queen and I were in WAY over our heads. Lots of giggling ensued. Our instructor made it look easy and was so connected to her own body. That combined with a fantastic smile made her mesmerizing. It was fantastic to witness, how couldn’t it be? She obviously is passionate and loves what she does. I don’t know how they do it really; I can’t concentrate on that many things at once. I got the hip circling down pat, but then I had to roll my shoulders and do a 360 all at the same time. I’d forget to roll my shoulders, or somehow only roll one and end up sort of jerking one hip to get turned around. Luckily I only ran into a couple of the others learning with us. I couldn’t say how Queen did because I couldn’t spare any attention for anything else, but in comparing notes afterwards, it sounds like we have the same awkward groove. We celebrated exerting ourselves for the entire hour and our mad skills in… something other than dance. The hair jutting out of my new hat clung and dripped on my neck and my body tingled in its layer of glisten. I was a bit sore the next day too. And the best horrifying part about it is somewhere in the middle I looked over to see Chip with his camera out recording. I haven’t been able to convince him to destroy the evidence yet.
The lesson having mercifully finished, the three of us got some water and Arabic food. Chip and I engaged in our first (of many, MANY, more to come) debate on gender roles. He ordered for me, which I thought was weird, which he thought was weird. “Why don’t you just pay for me while you’re at it?” I asked. “I was going to!” he replied. “Why?” I asked, “Wow, you are so old fashioned.” I didn’t yet realize how serious he was, as I don’t believe he realized how serious I was, but we had a good time teasing and bantering for and with the man that waited on us, he thought we were hilarious. I’m sure we were.
The day couldn’t have been complete without me getting us lost on the way home. Luckily, Chip isn’t ashamed to ask for directions. And now I know the area quite well for going on runs and such.