Moab

I meant to touch on the camping trip and realized, a month later… that I didn’t.

Moab is…. How to draw Moab?

We arrived in the evening and we started our visit then and there by scrambling around the top of Dead Horse Point. My best sweetheart told me the story of how the place acquired its name and it left me with a tightened throat. Sunset fell completely and the night wind swept up the sheer cliffs, blowing my clothes against me and my hair into snarls. My hands hurt which was interesting. My hands always ache when I am high up. Heights do something to my heart rate too. So although I couldn’t see perfectly, my body knew where I was.

For a woman raised on the east coast for most of her formative years…. Beauty, to me, is the wet grass, the fireflies, the smell of the sea, rain in the afternoon, green everywhere. This was a different world completely.

Moab is a swirling dance of red, orange, and dusty purple during the day. It is fire and brilliant shards of light at dusk. It is a calm grey blue at night.

Silence beats against your ears. Regardless of whether is it a trail with very few companion hikers or if it is where tourism and crowds abound, the silence streams around the shrill echoes of laughter and brushes against your legs, eyes and heart. Silence is alive there.

Towering rocks are temples, they are forbidding and watchful as you pass under them. The ground exhales under your feet and for all the stones, dust, and solid ancient landscape, somehow Moab is vibrantly Alive and Self-Aware. It is an Eerie, and almost Holy place.

There the wind woman is even more wild and dangerous and beautiful. Although I have always loved and distrusted her, I have never felt fear. There, I was so sensitive to my fragile body and her fierce freedom that I was actually afraid.

It was exhilarating.

Mr. Coffee Maker

News item!

I must announce, with great regret that there has been a tragedy. A good friend of mine has perished in a loud squealing death. Trusted for over ten years to be my morning motivator and inspiration –Mr. Coffee Maker… left us for a world (AKA trash can).

It started out as usual Thursday morning. I staggered blindly out of bed, scoped up a cup of dog food and on the way to Sal’s bowl, turned on Mr. Coffee Maker.

Heartened by the knowledge that a mug of warm smooth Gevalia, freshly brewed would be waiting for me in five to ten minutes, I fell back into bed for my five minute alarm clock snooze.

It felt like I woke up years later but actually it was about four mins and thirty seconds, in horror.

Where was the breath taking comforting aroma of my morning stimulation? I waited. The alarm went off.

A terrible sound reached my ears…

“GRRRRRBBBBLLLLUUPPP…sssssssssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS….”

Cautiously I got up… Charlie stared with complete fascination at the counter where sat Mr. Coffee Maker and a queasy amount of steam blowing out of its top.

I stared too.


“GRRRRRBBBBLLLLUUPPP...ssssssssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSSSSSRRRRRBBBBLLLLUURRRRRBBBBLLLLUUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS….”

The rest of the thirty minutes, before I dash out to work, are a blur. Shock and denial required me to leave Mr. Coffee Maker on, struggling, choking and gasping -until my best friend ordered the horrible noise to stop.

I bought terrible burnt stale gas station coffee on the way to work and sipped it morsely.

MT Olympus

My fiancé, our good friend, and I decided to climb Mt. Olympus here in Salt Lake City, Utah. We all met at Pete’s Point and began at 7am last Sunday.

The majority of the hike going up was in the cool shade of the mountain. We started laughing, talking, joking and shooting pictures. But as the morning drew on and muscles began to rebel, our teasing grew silent and the pauses to breath were without the camera.

This hike is about three and half miles up. And I mean Up. Stair climbers and stair masters have Nothing on this mountain. Even our amiable, good natured and mature friend looked a bit exhausted.

Although we were sheltered from the early morning sun, I sweated, gasped and coughed and at two thirds of the way up from the saddle, collapsed on a log blocking the trail struggling to breath the thin, sharp, fragrant air.

It wasn’t so much that I complained as I simply would fall further and further back from the two of them. My fiancé was my motivator. He took to hanging behind me to encourage and remind me to drink; coaxing me along, one step at a time. Our friend was patient with my weakness and heartened by their support, I pushed myself on despite my screaming heartbeat and frantic choking lungs.

We reached the ‘saddle’ and sat in the shade of a tree to munch on trail mixes and other snacks. It was Eleven Fifteen in the morning. There was the summit, looming a 1000 feet above us. We felt revitalized, invigorated and began to talk about completing the last half mile.

As I had started to follow them, I realized I would have to make the very steep hike down three miles but this time in the heat of a mid July day. The temperatures were already approaching the nineties, and as we descended and lost the altitude, the heat would be scorching at a hundred and six.

I had packed four liters of water in my camel-back, I had already gone through two. I decided to wait

The other two pushed on. I watched them from my little sheltering over hang as they scrambled up the sheer face and listened to the echoes of their voices. When they withdrew from sight I watched the dragonflies, a humming bird, bumble bees and flies. I watched the scattered hikers going by. There were a couple of dogs and as much as I had wanted to bring my dog I was glad I hadn’t. There was little water and shade for most of this. Even shaved, her black coat would have made this a cruel excursion.

They came back, looking triumphant and tired. It was Twelve Thirty.

The way back was brutal. The knees of both of my companions caused their faces to tighten under the glaring sunlight. Ankles threatened to roll as we picked our way down, each becoming increasingly separated as distance between us lengthened. Sweat rolled off as the body attempted to cool down, flies swarmed and I wondered if this was a bad dream. I felt lost in the swelling hot air, the ceaseless path, the tired throbbing in my hands and feet. I concentrated on my feet and the sound of my best friend’s breathing. He was struggling now. While I could do little but stay with him and touch his arm gently, I would be his motivator and ignore his protests that I should keep going and he would catch up.

We made it to the tiny stream in the little patch of shade we had passed earlier in the morning. Water trickles out of the mountain here, breaching the path to offer about an inch and a half of brutally cold water. Our friend made it there first. Shoes off, feet in, he half smiled at us and graciously offered us his seat.

Isn’t he kind? The one thought that crossed my mind before this was the relief that if we were all going to narrowly get ourselves into trouble, there are no other two people I would want to be in trouble with.

I don’t know how long we sat there. Maybe five minutes, maybe thirty. My best friend took my top tank (I had on two), soaked it in water and draped it around my neck and head. He rubbed water on my arms and face and legs. I shivered violently and offered the shirt to him and his face and neck. About then two young college girls came across us then. One chatted happily about birds and their calls, names, species. A pretty girl, with serious eyes and excited smile. She was from Montana and here for school.

At last we rose to face the last of the mountain. The refreshed looking girl advised that we were 1.4 miles from the bottom. We were just over half way back.

Protesting feet were re-stuffed, hats and visors re-soaked, sunscreen applied and off we went to continue down. I realized as we rose that I had drunk the last of my water on that 1.6 mile down. The dismay I should have felt was tempered by exhaustion. I knew the others were low.

I had thought that the first half of coming down was bad. This was hell. The world was an oven. My skin felt hot and tight and crisp. As if it would split open but if so it would only expose saw dust underneath. My mouth was hot and I kept swallowing without respite. I stopped thinking with the exception of two thoughts on repeat.

First… how did we go so far? I don’t remember it being this far. The trail went forever and I tried to stop looking ahead.

Second… thank God for these two men. They discovered I was out of water as I began to stumble and they shared the last precious drops they had. Their faces were grim and closed. I couldn’t feel the pain in my feet, legs or shoulders anymore.

My fiancé was once again my motivator. He reminded me to watch my step, held my hand when the world was fuzzy…

We made it to the car. We made it home to the cool dark house. At five o’clock in the afternoon, nearly ten hours from the time we began this venture, we climbed into showers and wearily fell into bed to restlessly sleep for an hour. We struggled to think about what we would want to eat and blankly stared at each other until going back to bed for the night.

Today and yesterday, our body’s have cried out their protest and in response we are trying to decide where to try out next weekend’s adventure!

The Libertarian is feeling clever and sent the following...

"I may be slow, but I am irresponsible."

"I am living vicariously through myself."

GPS and the Handy Bag of Unknowns

Once upon a time…

Camping/ hiking meant the car is driven up a gorgeous asphalt path, into the woods. Leaves and debris dance across a paved sunlit road and sometimes, you spot a deer from the window.

My groomed four legged companion lounges against the back of the seat, blissfully leaning out the open window with a happy, open mouthed, long tongued grin. Eyes would be half closed in happiness.

I would be dressed in smart yoga/ sweat pants, with shoes to match my tank, and my hair twisted just so that the sun would hit and highlight the right strands.

To be prepared I had two bottles of water, one to share and a collapsible bowl to put it in. A granola bar for me and two doggie treats for the friend. Plus my handy book bag full of easy to use unknowns was always packed and ready in the trunk in case there was a slightly extended stay.

If one was staying over night a cooler was packed with beer and steak in a bag marinating to be cooked over an open fire. A couple of blankets and tent were in the trunk and there was one of those disposable tooth brushes packed in the handy bag of unknowns front pockets and there were five bottles of water.

Then I moved. I met my best friend. He tells me happy stories of camping and although I am a little apprehensive of the camping stories that involve negative degree temperatures and the four lettered word “S-N-O-W”, all in all it sounds fun!

The tricky thing about the Wild West is that even in this modern world… hiking may include four legged creatures that aren’t your friend. There are not happy fireflies that dance at night either. And the day might end at 90 degrees and the night could start at 40.

Never the less… I love hiking and I loved camping. Surely this will all be just fine….

The fiancé pulled out a GPS last night and showed me how to use it. I didn’t want to know how to use it. Knowing may mean that fate decides to throw me a pop quiz where my score could be a very unforgiving grade that I would be unable make up later.

“So this is just incase we get separated?” I attentively asked.

He nods, still looking at the screen, “Or incase one of us has be left behind.”

I nod as coolly as possible, “Ok.”

He looks up at last, and says seriously, “Well if one of us breaks a leg and the other has to make it back to the car.”

I swallowed.

Today I have decided that the best way to handle this situation is not to think about it.

I did decide that it might be prudent to get and OPEN my handy book bag full of easy to use unknowns and discover was in it. I had added an extra pair of socks and female necessities but apparently, this bag contains all kinds of goodies. Like a battery or solar powered radio, a first aid kit, water purifier packet thingy, and other stuff. Very good to know.

Quote of the Day

"Shoes are the perfect clothing item as one’s size in shoes does not fluctuate with one’s weight."

Haunted

While in Mexico, a few months ago, I found a tiny fragile sea dollar... a breath could crush the translucent designs found bleached into its side. It hung softly to the top of the salty water, surrounded by broken and ragged beached brain corals and sharp rocks.

I could not hardly breathe when I found it. I am not one to pick up shells very often. But this one was part of my hands when I raised it with shaking wondrous fingers to my eyes. I could feel the well wishes from the giver of this jewel.

I left it in the door of the car on the way to get it something to rest in…

And there it broke. Perhaps it was the heat in the car or maybe it was when I opened and shut the car door, but how ever the ending happened, it happened.

It is that dreadful feeling that I felt afterwards. I felt clumsy, careless and awkward. It was a crime, just as if you were given a gift with love and thought and in exchange you spat on it, stomped on it, threw it into the street as the giver watched in dismay.

There are a few things that I am ashamed of… and this is one of them. It haunts me and sits on a shelf in my mind, with a handful of other things. They don’t taunt and say anything. But they are there and I am uneasy with how to put it to rest.

The Libertarian Part Two (See Capitalist -May 2009)

At work and walking past The Boss, who again, I really do like working for, the "Libertarian" crooked his finger at me in a ‘polite’ come here.

I stifled a sigh.

“I don’t believe in God,” he announced, “But I do believe in the Devil.”

I nodded as understandingly as possible.

He sighed heavily, and put his feet up on his desk. The "Libertarian"is a bit tall and honestly looked cramped in the small gray cube with his long legs awkwardly up

“I used to work for a lock down for teenagers who had drug problems, had been abused. I told them there was nothing wrong with drugs, that they can be used medically –Now, now, not meth! Meth is not included on this one. Meth is very bad and its just poison and should always be illegal- but the rest simply enhance your personality! Drug use is just a symptom! Picture a red glowing ball on an picture, see it floating forward, out, up down”,

Excited he used his hands to illustrate his words and bounce his ‘ball’ around the cube,
“And where were they? They were in lock down! They didn't know better. The only way a kid can make money at fourteen is to sell drugs! There aren't any other options!”

I attempted an interjection at this point, “Actually kids can babysit, deliver newspapers, mow lawns-.”

“That’s a lie! Only a rare few kids know about those things! You can’t hold kids to knowing there are other ways. All they know is that by sleeping with this person for drugs, they can make their pain to go away! I mean, hats off! They have technically found a way to successfully numb their pain -And it was a good thing they were screwing up their lives at their age. I mean, things could be worse! They could be 42 or even 43 with a nice wife, two point five kids, a house and job! What would it be like to lose the job, have your kids hate your guts, your wife divorces you and you're on the street without a penny? WHAT THEN??"

The "Libertarian" is turning an interesting shade of red as I ask, "So…can I help you with something?”

“This internal software is a bastard, a down right baseless and frustrating bastard.”

“Is it down?”

“No.” He stated defiantly.

“What is the problem?”

“I need to re-set my password but I don’t know my old password. I tell you! The Devil does exist!”

I looked at him and waited.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Yes…?”

“What is my old password??”

Now Reader, I confess I don’t go around asking everyone for their passwords and writing them down for this type of situation.

“Call the help desk and they will help you re-set it.” I made my escape.

Battle of the Earwigs

We all know that ear wigs are nasty bugs. NASTY bugs. Nasty should be Capitalized, italicized and underlined. I wonder if they really do go into one’s ears?

I live in the high mountains in a desert and although there are lots of creepy crawlers here, such as lots of ants, this is, at least compared to the east, a relatively bug-less place…

That is until the rain came about three weeks ago...

After a week of drenching rain began The Invasion of Earwigs. They swarmed the apple tree, the plum trees, the gutters and the front yard lawn. They could even be found on the bathroom floor occasionally. Charlie valiantly assisted in the war by eating them and then promptly throwing up.

Ruthless measures were taken. Just over a week ago, my fiancée brought them a mini Noah’s flood. They made a frantic bid for escape but they were cut off by sprayed raid bug killer.

But we had celebrated too soon. They still poured out of rain gutters, climbed into shoes and could be found in Charlie's upchuck.

Yesterday, we doubled our efforts. "To HOME DEPOT!", we cried. There we found bug killer and sprinkled it on what remains of the lawn. Grubs and such have eaten the roots and the dead patches are overwhelmed with ear wigs. We dug up the dirt and also mixed in grass seed with the bug killer. We sprayed the fruit trees and the edges of the outside of the house.

Shortly after, within about 30 seconds of completion, it rained some more. They began their evacuation in earnest.

I sat on the front porch, with the water hose vengefully locked and loaded in my hands, spraying them back onto the destroyed grass and wondered if the war was drawing to a close. Or did we simply up the stakes?

Dream on my Shoulder

I woke up with another dream. Literally. This Dream sat on my shoulder, yawned with me and staggered up and also came to have a cup of coffee.

I put on my mascara while it clung to my shoulder like a koala to a eucalyptus tree. Dream perched to the back of my head rest as I hurried to work and it squeaked in protest when I took a corner a little too fast.

This has been “One of those days.” We all have had one of these and although we all apply these days in different ways, all feel the same way about them regardless.

After this day filled with people who also seem to be carrying dreams around like sulky cats or yapping little dogs on too long of a leash, I have decided to talk about mine with the hope that by doing such, it will get down off my leg and politely sit in place.

The first dream this week was about a little boy. He was not mine. His sticky tousled butter hair clung damply to his serious face and large dark grey eyes. I woke up worrying about him and I haven’t been able to turn around without hoping to see him, but to see him with a smile.

The second dream was last night. This was a jumble of candy cane colored street stripes, snow in a high desert, Santa Claus forced up on stilts to be hung on a cross, wind shield wipers blown off by howling winds and losing my favorite shoes as I was forced to slug through a giant pond of a puddle. As I was standing on the other side, glumly glaring at the spot where mud sucked them off, I looked up and around and thought “I have been in this terrible version of Alice in Wonderland for a while. I should be waking up soon.”

With this thought I decided to ditch the car and walk for a bit. My feet bleed and ached but as I was aware that these were my dream feet I wasn’t too worried about it. I seem to be in perfect shape and none the worse for wear whenever I enter a new dream. Plus the wind only howled if I got in the car.

I wandered from the open field into what I thought was another one until I reached the slightly receding road’s bottom and saw wan abandoned, and once very nice, suburban neighborhood. Tumble weed tumbled, as it does; cracked and aching dry sidewalks and driveways split open for weeds and the front yards were filled with burnt yellow grass that tried to wave their tiny tinted blades in the (now)soft wind, but instead broke continuously into dust that sighed around me in the silence.

Where did the snow go? I looked back up. Yes Santa was still up there and yes he was too far away to help and yes there was about eighteen feet of snow….

But here at the bottom it was death valley meets the sub-prime crash of 2007.

I wished for and then looked at the helpful watch that appeared on my wrist. About thirty minutes until the alarm went off. I could wake myself up but I tested my physical self and I was still quite comfortable and deeply resting. Plus I didn't sense danger. It was as if this bizarre broken world did not yet know I was there still.

But then It did. I couldn't see it, I could not smell it but I could breath It. This danger felt like ants had crawled into my lungs and left me gasping for air. The sun was suddenly burning, burning, it was burning my skin! I could not breathe the air that had no life and choked as I tried. My pulse hopped up and as my heart tried to flee, the rest of me tried to stay calm. Where was it? What was thinking this malice and had noticed me? A dry cracked wail broke out from the deadly stillness; throwing hot drenching icy fear to trap and hold me in this world of deep despair.

I thought of waking up but forgot how to shake myself out!

I then thought of green and I thought of home. I thought of blurred hills and glowing moss, I tasted the smell of my best friend, I reached for the thought of my dog’s eyes. But I shivered and I lost them.

-Then I heard her coming.

My Wind Woman’s arms stretched out with her flowing cloaks of starlight, rain and mist. She slipped over the road where I had come from; she covered the snow, swept away the dust, the haunted hills and the road disappeared in her loose waves of grace; (she has a way of taking over everything); As she descends, (her face always haunts me) and I can see her dark, mischievous and dangerous eyes. She came down behind me, caught me up in her midnight blue hair and whispered “Wake up!”

I felt the clean chilling touch of her breath through my bones and sat up in bed.

Dropped

I dropped the golden ball I held last week. It is somewhere under the desk. I have been looking for it, or when spotted out of reach, glaring at it, for the last three hours.

Reflection

I am day dreaming today. I want to go to the art store and pick up some canvas. I want to feel the itchy tingle of paint drying against my skin. I like that feeling. It is not comfortable but it is comforting. When paint crams under my nails to the point that they ache I feel like I can understand the texture of the wind and the weight of breathing.

I walked Sally last night and watched the cloud’s reflection in street puddles. The storm raged and twisted and wrapped into its self, far above, it was a giant silken throw of silver grey.

Then I tripped on the sidewalk. It helps to watch where you walk.

Notice

I am happy today. I was happy yesterday. I am holding a little glowing gold ball in my hands and grinning like a kid with a pillow sack of candy on Halloween.

I am happy today. I woke up light and interested. The world is possible.

I gave two weeks notice to The Boss yesterday. Jr Boss is out and I am sorry for her loss but yet I am grinning once again today.

Maybe I will be an artist and make people happy too. Maybe I will figure out how to rescue a German shepherd named Max. I have been watching him for three days wondering about his fate. He has eyes that want to be happy.

I wonder how to make a better pork loin roast in the crock pot. One that will melt in my best friend's mouth and put him into a food coma on the couch.

The purple flowers are delightfully happy too and the bulbs I planted late earnestly stretch their arms out further –INCHES- further, every day.

Unhappiness and the statue

Every Friday morning, I mentally chew on the events of the previous week. It's an old habit of mine, an exercise I developed long ago with a boring history but the point is Friday is Digestion Day.

Digestion may help explain this week's turn of events and last week's incredible stress as last Friday I was denied time to process events. My sister got into a terrible car accident and my train went off the tracks with her.

With that said I am starting with last week's Monday, rather then this last Monday. I am remembering the statue from a dream when I was little. The question I ask myself today is, “How to remember the statue?"

I was interrupted by a hug around the shoulders from behind my chair.

I am at work and Jr. Boss is lovely today. Yesterday morning she was in offensive mode, but by afternoon she had switched to "All I ever wanted was to be your best friend!”. What she really wanted all along was her very own employee.

Tragically, for me, she has one at long last...

I came back from lunch to find that there were post notes on everything. Exaggeration not required. They were on the invoices, the check requests, a printed spreadsheet and on the computer screens. Yes, both monitors; no one was left out. Each scrawled out a different gleeful message "You are so awesome! Thank you for everything!!", "This spreadsheet looks AMAZING!!", "You got all of your coding right on the invoices! You are the best!", etc.

It was nice outside for lunch. I drove with the windows down. I never turn on the radio or plug in my ipod anymore. I like the quiet. It’s ‘real’ quiet. Not ‘grey maze of cubes and soft typing’ quiet but the ‘wind in my ears and the sound of my car rattling’ quiet.

Back at the office surrounded by hot pink and florescent yellow post it’s I felt the prickle of the sunburn on the back of my hands but I smiled. I couldn't help it. There is such grief in this world and 99.9% of it is self created. Yet we chew on it, trying to ignore the dry stale taste because we are hungry. Or at least, we think we are.

She is so unhappy. The turbulent waves of emotions, the happy friendly girl, the fiercely hypocritical child, the moody uncertain vicious woman –all reflections of her despair.

I thought about a different woman who visited this weekend. I thought about her despair. Her grief. I thought about her large heart, giving nature and self sacrificing love… and underneath her great unhappiness.

Unhappiness is the same as happiness because you must reach for it. It cannot come to you because you must choose your choice.

I remembered the words that are my bible, my gospel, my personal holy prayer;

‘Remember I am loved -If only by myself. Remember I am accepted -If only by myself’.
‘Remember to be brave and upright, that I may love me.’
‘Break my pride that I may be proud.’

How to remember the statue? I close my eyes, to see it, hear it, to remember. Remembering now I hear the shouting, how the sound echoes up and down. I see fists shaking out of the open windows, faces pressed against the windows with screens. Other faces hidden by stain glass windows and still more faces obscured by narrow windows hugged with shutters.

I do not like conflict and meanness. It frightens me. I see the harm inflicted.  In my memory, in one of many visits, my dream guide’s hand touched my shoulder, reminded me to relax. His voice was a shadow in my thoughts, “Remember, no one can ever really see someone else’s point of view. Every heart knows this and it is the source of all loneliness.”

How to remember the statue? Blinding light reflecting off its curves long puzzled my guesses of height, width. What is the statue? Why do we fight over it?

I went back last night, in my dreams, and stood alone at my window.

Reader would you like to know my window? My window is a large bay window with a window seat. The lower sections of the windows slid up and this lets in a friendly breeze, along with the anxious voices. I cannot lean out of my window like others can theirs though and I have often wondered how the view would change if I could.

I curled up on it last night and listened. I closed my eyes and listened to the voices arguing, crying, some singing; no one could agree and no one would agree.  They could not change the point of view of the other.

I tried to be still; to hear nothing but the sound of wind in my ears and rattle of my car in the morning.

I opened my eyes and looked at the statue. I saw marble trees engraved, branches reaching and wrapping. I saw fingers of light and writing that is mine. I saw the marks of tear stains and an imprint of my hand when I was five. I saw the green light of the east, filtering down through breathing trees to grace the ground with gold. The ripples in the stream were there with the glaring white salt flats behind them. I saw my best friend’s smile when I was seventeen the night before I left.

I saw my life. My precious small life.

Life is great…I thought, Life is good. How else can our hearts over come our fears of being alone, other then to know that we are alone? To know that even when we love and are loved; we are still alone inside. We have only ourselves for company.

Capitalist

I am sitting at my hidden corner cube and over hear the conversation on the other side of the wall. As a side note, people forget I am here and as this happens often, I have heard all kinds of office gossip from this side of the wall.

Today's argument is about Social Security. Onion Rings, argues that the monetary depletion is everyone's problem and the second, the self-proclaimed "Libertarian", (I wonder if he knows that it means to be a Libertarian...) argues that the younger generation should 'suck it up and pay it' for the sake of the older generation....

Sadly, I couldn't stop myself from blurting was "This is absolutely everyone's problem!"

Still out of sight, I hit myself in the head for the out burst. I was toast now.

The "Libertarian" descended on me, "It's the filthy capitalists! Its their fault! Are you one too? We are the ones who will work until we are old because you capitalistic kids went out and stole all your lives and then sold it for more then it was worth. That is what CAPITALISM means! To steal-"

The rant continued but I zoned out at this point. I let him go until his face was a little too flushed and I wondered about the octave his voice had reached.

I soothingly smiled my best smile and waited as he took a breath at last, "I see you feel involved with what is going on in the world."

He nodded jerkily and wiped his hands through his hair, pasting it back down with sweat, "Yes! It's very important these days."

At this opportune moment, The Boss walked by, slowing to eye us critically and I took this chance to coolly say, "Thank you Citizen '"Libertarian"." I then turned away, back to my desk. After an awkward pause, he walked off.

I know better then to react here. Everyone must be on medication.

Sunburn

I itch in my own skin. It is a feeling similar to having a sunburn and then laying on it without offering any apology to it, not lotion or a glass of water. A dry irritated anxious feeling.

To calm myself I go to my brother’s website and I look at the landscapes he has painted and posted online. I think about how the air tasted that morning. Moist, cool and quiet and the world is breathing with the paint… or in another one, it is choked by blinding baking sun light and the stillness is sitting on top of the heavy air.

But the feeling of rest is more just a memory of an echo lately.

We planted ivy and trees this weekend. When I opened my car door and stepped out yesterday afternoon, I reverently touched the one closest to me. Green... I stoked the vine and admired the waxy color of life.

Green… and somewhere there is not a world gone mad. There are not grey walls and bitter silent revolutions eating inside me. People are kind on the road again, Strangers are friends waiting to meet. The world is as I saw it only a couple years ago… That summer we spent chasing storms.

Somewhere I am myself again. Where I write and draw. I don’t fight off people eight to five. I don’t fall out of bed and forget to say good morning to the dawn. And there is somewhere that my skin will feel like my own again.

I opened the garage door in my mind and looked at my door. Open road on an open door. Something is calling me. I am on trains in my dreams lately, speeding heart stopping fast trains. And something is on the other side of the train that I need. I keep trying to get to the other side but the train car shakes and rattles over the tracks, throwing me back.

I had a wonderful weekend. I felt rested and safe. I felt like laughing and teasing. But the feeling came back anyway, Sunday, at 11pm. I ignored it yesterday. Today it is in my face -and now everyone else’s too.

What is nagging at the edges of my thoughts?

Ice Run

At least two to three times a day there is a run on ice.

Fellow co-workers herd each other up until there is a group of four or more. Then everyone heads to the other side of the building to fill their individual cup, jar, or bottle for water with ice at the company cafeteria.

Presently there is no charge for this service.

Personally I have a theory or two on these ice runs. First, the company doesn't allow smoking while on the company's property. People still need their break though and this is a good substitute.

Second, this is a lot like the popular table in the cafeteria of middle school and high school. You can tell when the project managers are happy with lessor employees because they invite certain ones and not others. Its funny sometimes, honestly, because they call out to Jack and Jill but then poor Bob is left out.

There is one smoker at work; or at least one non-closet smoker. He braves the cold shoulders of others and smokes out across the street. It looked a bit miserable a few days in February but now its cool and bright and spring. He stands out in the warming sunshine among the trees and timid green buds while the others head to the darkened cafeteria (its only open for food from 11am to 2pm) at the end of a dimly lit florescent hall and I wonder….

I know that cigarettes are bad and stinky and blah blah blah… but Is smoking that bad for you? I mean you, not your lungs, not the physical parts.

Meanwhile I have been invited to two ice runs in my four months. Have yet to decide if it lives up to the excitement.

A Car Named Katie

I bought my first car when I was twenty years old. Before that I relied on patient parents, crummy bus systems and boyfriends with twenty year old mustangs that sometimes worked.

My first car was a basic sedan, almost new (it had 500 miles on it), blue, power steering and manual everything else. The best part? It had a CD player.

It was the ultimate first car. I named her Katie.

Fast forward eight and a half years. My first car is still my only car.

Katie has been up and down the east coast from Pennsylvania to Georgia three times. I don’t remember how many times from Pennsylvania to Virginia. Katie and I have been to nearly every major city several times over on the east coast. We went cross country alone once. I drove all over south California for two years. Then the move to Utah came. Then I drove from Utah to Wyoming twice. Then Utah back to California several times….

Of course there were all the every day drives in whatever location I was at the moment and in whatever situation I had myself in as well. Maybe I hang on to the car because I am a Cancer, ‘home and hearth’ thing and all that. This car is my ship and anchor... but without the whole water deal and with wheels and axle. Passport not required (although I had one stashed and ready just in case), driver’s license highly recommended.

Anyway… Katie now rattles. She sometimes has a cough in the morning. The windows stick, permanently implanted dog hair is in the back seat and a nasty long scratch marks the outside –acquired when avoiding a semi on a little road four years ago. Randomly, lights will turn on in the dash board and I really don’t know why anymore.

She smells like really old Gatorade, shoes, burnt coffee, cigarettes (yes, yes, they are evil, bad for you and stinky, I got it), wet dog and books. I don’t know why books but that could be because I moved a few times and everything I owned had to fit in the trunk or be left behind. Books were usually the things I refused to not force fit. The back seat was out as the dog had dibbs.

There are too many cup holders, I never could figure out what a front seat did with one in each door, and three in the middle. The third one in the middle is filled with sea shells. Some are from the harbor in Baltimore, some from the Outer Banks, some from the Gulf of Mexico, Virginia Beach, Carlsbad, Mexico, and Santa Barbara. I think there are even a couple of shells I found while hiking in Utah.

From the rear view mirror hangs a dream catcher from Oklahoma, a necklace from an old friend I haven’t seen in seven years and a faded yellow ribbon for my dad and then for my brother.

I did get Katie a new pair of shiny ‘tready’ shoes at the beginning of this winter. And new brake pads… Her morning cough thing is new. That started about a month ago. Could be she is sick of the winter and smog and inversion too though.

I know I might have to replace this little blue car in the near future but I have to admit, I really am sad to see the car go. Even if it stinks. Even if it rattles… sometimes a lot.

Charlie

I have a cat named Charlie, or also known as 'little dude'. I raised him as I would a dog with the usual 'no', 'down', 'here'.... he listened the first six months or so but now he is deaf. His hearing is currently limited to only a few select sounds; the can opener, the back door opening and my alarm clock.

Sadly, the fact that I have not given him canned cat food in several months has not dulled his glee and hope. I, cruelly, have given him what I am really opening…. Like spinach. He is tenacious though. Someday, the can opener may be opening canned cat food once more.

The back door opening is really an unfortunate choice on his part. I don’t open it often so how he associated it with the concept of the ‘Great Escape’, I don’t know. You would think the regularly opened front door would get that honor. The uncomfortable part is that I only seem to open the back door when I am inappropriately clothed for neighbor viewing. The other awkward part is that Charlie… who is not equipped with any sort of common sense or any sense of self preservation, does not know what to do once he is outside. Which means, at 3am or 3pm and in rain or snow, he will make it about six feet out and then FREEZE. ‘The big world is awfully big’ and now what does a little portly black and white cat do? While he contemplates his choices, I get to stand there calling my suddenly frozen wailing cat (who is deaf to commands) until I give in and go pick him up… I did that once half naked.

The last one is the alarm clock. Also known as the morning and dinner bell. Every morning at 6:45am sharp, the yowling outside the bedroom begins. It does not matter to Charlie if I am sleeping in on Sunday, sicker then death, or just really really comfortable. He will eat immediately or I will pay for it.

Charles is not allowed in the bedroom for many reasons. One of the many reasons are things such as daylight saving time changes. Charlie does not accept daylight savings time changes. What does this have to do with his stomach?

Next Friday, there is a staff meeting about the Mailbox…

All of the account department gathered to discuss the phenomenon also known as the 'Building's outgoing mailbox'. Sadly, at first I thought the meeting was a joke and I had managed to get out half of a laugh before my manager shot me a ‘shh!’ look before my manager’s manager realized I laughed, not coughed.

So….I daydreamed myself away that I was twenty two again. That life was wide open. That I would never sit in a meeting about a mailbox. I remembered when I was semi-broke, (oh wait, that hasn't changed, oh well, anyway), when I had nothing but a dog, a few name brand pairs of shoes and far too many paint brushes.

The Mailbox Email Continued…..

Within two minutes of this email having been sent to the entire office, I begin to receive the replies to it (as everyone is replying all: .

First isPayroll, Site Management is a close second, but these emails are closely followed by additional emails from my co-workers in Accounts Payable… the theme of all?

“Hey! Did you know we have an outgoing mailbox here in the building???”

At the fourteenth email I simply start deleting the emails with the words “Secure Outgoing Mail”, in the subject line. Perhaps there was a way that they knew this because then I began to have visitors. The sliding doors of my cube began to be repeatedly slammed back as the opening to the excited question,

“Have you heard about the Mailbox???”

I smiled for the sixth person, I looked politely at the seventh, the eighth person happened to be my manager and again, I do like him so I smiled again.

“Have you heard about the mailbox downstairs?”

I sighed, “Yes,” I gestured to my computer screen, “Yes I have.”

He glances over, chuckles and says the unthinkable, “Lets go on a field trip to see it!”

I look at him blankly.

“C’mon!!” he urges.

Ok.

Down the hall, down the elevator and there it still is, the outgoing secured mailbox.  A nice little golden plate above the lock advises the contents are picked up at noon and 5:30pm Monday through Friday. We stand there for a moment. I try to think of something to say but for once decide silence is best.

My manager stood with arms crossed and pondered the mail box. I shove my hands in my pockets and shift the weight on my feet…

Silence really doesn't suit me. “So there it is…” I say at last.

“Hm.” He answers thoughtfully.

We go back upstairs after that. Within a minute and a half I get an email from my manager’s manager as follows below:

“Until it can be confirmed outgoing mail is picked up daily from the buildings outgoing mailbox slot, Accounts Payable will continue to hand deliver the company mail every day to the post office.”

The Mailbox Email…

I have given up on protesting or pointing out the obvious regarding anything with the mail box.

 There is a post office right by my house that is open an hour later then the one by the office building. Rather then leave and come back I stay the extra ten minutes at work and dropped it off on the way home.

Then there was an email that followed along these lines:

“Subject: Secure Outgoing Mail

There is an outgoing secured mail box here in this building by the elevator. All outgoing mail can be left there. Outgoing mail is picked up daily by the postal carrier at 5:30pm.

If your mail is too large to fit in the slot, It will need to be taken directly to the Post office or other mailbox. If the box should get too full, there is another mail slot available in Building II. Let me know if this happens and we can evaluate the need for a larger box. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns,

Sincerely, ETC.”

Reader… the outburst that follows is amazing.

The Post Office Field Trip

Employee B and I walk out to her vehicle in the garage with about twenty envelopes in hand. We drive just under three blocks over to the south of the building to park outside the post office. We walk into the post office, we say hello to the people standing in line and walk past all of them to a mail bin at the counter. 

Carefully she puts the envelopes, face out, in the bin.

In front of the six or seven odd people she clearly says her explanation to the curious onlookers as I try to melt into the ATM stamp dispenser behind me, “The only way the mail will be delivered is if it is put into this bin before 5 pm without any rubber bands or paperclips.”

If someone laughed I wouldn't have heard. I had already begun to play the X-files theme song in my head.

The Mail box downstairs...

Every office building I have ever worked in has an outgoing mail box. For that matter, every business, home, etc. has one too. This usually means a person employed by the local post office will be by on some sort of schedule to pick said outgoing mail.

Everyone with me on this one? Just checking. Apparently not everyone is.

Two weeks into working at this new job, I again suggested perhaps our building’s existing outgoing mailbox could be used for outgoing mail including items such as personal electric bills, personal letters and perhaps also Lia Sophia jewelry returns from employees.

“There isn't an outgoing mail box here.” I was told sternly.

I hesitated, not liking to argue but unable to duct tape my mouth shut at the moment, “But… there is…”

Heavy sigh, head shake, and my manager joins the audience of people at my cubes sliding doors (my manager is the one person I do really like) and he cheerfully suggests a field trip.

“A what?” I repeat stupidly.

He grins happily, “You and Employee B should go on a field trip to the post office.”

“But I know where it is.” I say slowly.

His smile becomes bigger as he ignores that and Employee B agrees to take me on a field trip tomorrow afternoon.

The Mailbox...

I am re-entering 'The Office' having accepted a full time position with a good company. I am replacing the position of someone who has been promoted. Co-worker A. Co-worker B is also on hand to train me regarding the importance of the mail as she is the ‘back up’ person I were to be sick or out of the office.

I sit in my chair in my gigantic cubical as they hover at the doors watching me, (yes my cube has doors).

Co-worker B begins, "The mail must be hand delivered at the end of each day at the post office down the street before they close at 5pm"

Co-worker A nods, adding seriously, "Even if we are slammed and you are stuck here, you have leave and make sure you deliver it and then come back to catch up"

I gently suggest, "But as the mail is posted here and the date is stamped on that postage, we could just drop it downstairs in this building's mailbox. It is securely locked and it says there is a pick up at 5:30 pm by the post office."

There is the silence and an exchanged look of horror between the two,

"No, it will not be delivered!" Co-worker B exclaims horrified.

Puzzled I ask, "Why? Have is not been picked up before?"

"We don't have a building mail box!" They say in time, exchanging another look, this one hints of 'maybe the new girl is an idiot.'

I smile politely and wonder when twilight zone music would kick on.