Cabin in the Woods

It was difficult being a senior in high school when your boyfriend and your best friend were both on to the next chapter in life already. Why sit learning about economics when I could be smoking a bowl with James and Curtis? I started cutting out of class fairly quickly into the year. Curtis worked at a car dealership downtown detailing used cars for sale. Much to the dismay of the owner of the dealership, whom also happened to be a member of our church and family friend, I would wander in at all sorts of odd hours during a school day. I have orientation I would say, I don't need to be there. Uh... gym, who cares about gym? 

One day, as I cruised over to the dealership, no doubt high and contemplating the beauty of the earth, I pulled into the parking lot to see Brother Kastner standing on the side of the road holding up a large poster board with writing. What is he doing I thought... surely his father knows how to throw down some money for marketing. They sell brand new cars for god-sakes, this isn't some sleazy plaid-jacket wearing used car dealer we are dealing with. Next time am I going to see him dressed in a chicken costume, sweatin', ear buds in his ears as he pretends to dance on the corner of the street as if its just him? 

I pulled my old honda into the parking lot and glanced over at the sign. "GO BACK TO SCHOOL MARY!". Shit.

I certainly should have taken this as a slap on the wrist from a parental figure, but my stoned self just giggled at the fact that he would even MAKE the sign in the first place. Who has the energy for that? 

Here is the deal. Curtis was my best friend. And to make things that much sweeter, he also was very close to my boyfriend. So the 3 of us? Fuck the responsibilities. Fuck what the rest of the world expected of us. We were content causing all sorts of chaos in our own reality. 

When my birthday came around, we collectively decided it was time for a serious party - one that our friends would be talking about for years to come. 

Curtis' family owned a small 2 bedroom cabin up in northern Napa. High enough to be surrounded not by the given Napa Valley vineyards, but by redwood trees towering over, causing the long days to be in endless darkness with the shade. We had the bright idea to make flyers. What is this? Some generic stereotypical 90's movie? Yeah well, I made the mistake of leaving that flyer in the copier... one that my parents owned.. in our library. And yes my mom found it months after I thought the whole event to be the success of the fucking decade.

B.O.B it said. Meet us in the parking garage downtown so we can carpool... well at least we were being environmentally friendly! We did the hour drive up to the cabin, all of us piled in each others cars, anticipating this moment of pure freedom. Freedom from our parents, from society, from the pressure of being seniors about to embark on a greater more meaningful path. For the moment, we were young, we were liberated.

The drugs were passed about casually as the trip to the cabin came to an end. We are close now, close to parking the cars and leaving the world behind... if only for a fleeting moment. One kid got so hopped up on acid by the time we pulled into the driveway he leapt out of the car, grabbed an axe leaning on the side of the house and took off into the darkness. We didn't see him till the sun came up the next day. I have not the slightest idea what he did out there in the woods by himself, seeing creatures appear in the night, chasing imaginary demons. Luckily after scanning local newspapers during the week that followed, I found relief knowing he didn't kill someone. 

The cabin was small, musty, filled with furniture that has sat dormant 90% of the year. It was perfect.

And in that moment, I watched as our group of friends truly celebrated each other. The alcohol was passed, the bong gingerly given hand to hand, music blasting. And then he grabbed my hand, pulled me into the bedroom and under the covers. It was quick, and casual. Not like the fist time where you remember that nervousness and excitement of doing something you vowed to wait for. It was messy, sloppy, fast, and yet so full of passion. And as we held each other afterwards, giggling, embracing the moment, and naively unaware that others could hear... our friend drunkenly burst into the room. I laid buried under the covers, acutely aware that the air felt heavy around me. "Holy shit it smells like sex in here!" He laughs, climbs on the bed and starts pretending to hump James as if this is some male ritual to congratulate your fellow mate on a success.  James laughs unashamed and i quickly giggle and go along...

It wasn't for a few weeks after that he admits it was his first time. First time? Perhaps I should have been more monumental, sexier, dirtier... but do I even know what that means? Or am I just a young girl, laying with her legs spread open and anxiously aware of her limited experience? 

We were driving down the small highway in Napa. 2 lanes, each side crowded with Northern California blossoming vegetation, the occasional Eucalyptus tree. Pink Floyd is quietly serenading us in the background, the neon lights of the car stereo eliminating our faces in cool blue. If we are going to keep doing this, I need to get on birth control. I say. 

You want to keep doing this? I hoped for it.. but didn't want to expect it.

Well do you? I said. 

Of course I do! I loved it. 

Well then ok. I turn off the highway and start heading East towards his house.

I will find some birth control. 

A plea for sanity in a world perceived as insane

This is something I wrote many years ago, but wanted to post it as my computer is crashing... don't want to forget about it.

          When I was 17 I started playing with the idea of getting a tattoo. I didn't know what I wanted, where, or how badly. I thought well, it's cool, it's neat; isn't this what is in? I bounced ideas off of many people, watching their face expressions for that clue that my idea was either really unique or just plain dumb.  I got plenty of the 'plain dumb' stares. The problem was I didn't know exactly what I wanted to express. Maybe now that I think about it, the real problem was that I didn't look at it as a way of expression at all. I just came up with symbols that I liked and didn't take the time to see how it really tied into ME as a unique being.

 I was stuck on this idea for about two years so I decided to speak to a friend of mine about it. Ian has plenty of experience with tattoos, as a good portion of his body has been covered. I felt that his insight would not only be helpful, but needed. When explaining my idea to him I was hoping to see an indication that my idea was really 'unique'. Instead he smirked slightly then proceeded to tell me in an ever so polite way that my idea was just plain dumb. The problem was, I had no respect for the history, the beauty that is represented in tattoo work.

 I once read that if the average body were to be laid flat as a map, it would cover twenty square feet. That if only Leonardo da Vinci realized this, he would have had a canvas four times the size of the Mona Lisa. We are story tellers by nature. For thousands of years stories have been engraved on a multitude of surfaces, allowing us to draw others near, to explain who and what we are; to celebrate in the transformation of the human spirit. This is what being tattooed is, and should be all about. A way for us to tell our stories, share our experiences, celebrate our age.

 In the ancient times, there were many different reasons one might bear the pain of being marked; cultural identity, ancestral heritage, even a spiritual connection. To endure that type of excruciating pain was to not only pass the initiation from innocence to experience, childhood to maturity, but also to establish a connection between oneself and the spirits. To be decoratively scarred was to be human, and to be human was to know the gods.

Now days it arises in societies pressed down by globalization, stressed by overpopulation, and individuals struggling against a loss of identity. While the reasons for being tattooed may have changed and we do not look at it as a way to bring the 'spirit world' into existence, there still inlays this beauty that surrounds it if you dare look. We are all looking for a way to celebrate the uniqueness of ourselves, to tell our stories, to be tied to a culture that is now so immersed with others that its existence is fading. And so it may be, that for some of us, we will etch our stories as our ancestors have. We will share our experiences. We will press upon this world our ideas and visions. And do so in a way that is full of beauty, of history, of respect for those that have past.

 It is with this knowledge that I was finally able to decide what I wanted. It is this knowledge, and the artwork that I have chosen, that reminds me daily to remain balanced, centered, and full of tranquility. Of what I have gone thru and what I need to hold close to my heart.

"Just as we have marked the earth with our stories, so have we drawn marks of self-expression upon our own sacred geography, our skin, the most intimate canvas of all."

It started to Rain

When I was little I would stand at the window of my bedroom and stare out into the vastness of our yard.  The giant oak trees stretched their limbs towards one another, intertwined, as if they were the guardians of our piece of heaven. This canopy allowed only slivers of moon to filter through onto the lawn. The darkness enveloped me, and yet I felt no fear. I was too young and naive of the world to be afraid of the darkness just yet.  The sweet smell of the property would wander into my room and with deep breaths I would let my thoughts drift. I would think of my future husband. Where was he? What was he doing in this exact moment? Would I have to wait patiently for him to find me or would it come sudden full of hurried excitement? Would I be a successful strong independent woman?

Do all little girls imagine this life ahead of them? And does it always turn out to be so drastically different?
After my mother died and the chance to start my own family was ripped away from me, I wandered aimlessly, no direction, nor any motivation to challenge this. I let the wind carry me through my day. Some days were busy enough to keep me distracted, but when I would climb into bed, alone and so far from my family, the Northern California rain would begin to beat down on my roof. I would watch out my window at the sheets of grey filling my world. The sound of raindrops that was once so powerful and full of peace, now pulled me down to the reality of where my heart really stood. Scarred, a large dark red gash running its way from one end to the other. An ugly scar that will never close completely. And a heaviness that seemed to sit on the back of my neck and push my head down into my chest. Where was my childhood dream? Where was he to sweep me away from the pain that seemed to swallow me whole? This isn't how I had imagined it, I shouldn't be here.

I was lost, with no real intention of finding my way out. I just wanted to slide down to my knees, and hide in the darkness. Let the world pass me by, moving fast, lights blurring, scenes changing, and there I crouch, hoping my shroud of darkness would shield me from eyes that slowed down enough to look.
One particular night, as I sat attempting to go through the motions of a normal 18 year old at a party, my brother slipped something into my hand. Take it, he said. It will make you feel happy for a bit. Happy? I don't even stop to ask him what it is. I swallow it and wait for the heavy cloak of my life to lift off my straining neck. I sit and wait for a fleeting moment of happiness, caring little of the chemical chaos I just so readily invited into my brain. And then it hit me. Not a slow moving stream that lightly carried me to a place of peace. But a crashing wave that began at the top of my head and surged down to my toes. This wave kept crashing over and over down my back, sending the sweetest tingle out towards the tips of my fingers and toes. I glance and with eyes wider than ever, taking in more of the world I attempted to hide from, drinking in the smells, the sights, and the touch. Oh god, the touch, my friend, lightly streaming her fingertips along my back, the sensational tingling spreading to my spine and down my legs. How can this pill make my life so sweet? I move from room to room, my cheeks beginning to hurt as if the muscles I use to smile have been dormant too long. I excitedly talk nonsense like the girl that used to stare out the window onto the vast yard, to anyone that will stop and listen.  A strong desire fills my heart to walk, run, sprint into the night air. I move with a quickness so long forgotten by my body. I twirl over and over, watching the stars merge into bright silver lines dancing quickly with me, following me as I turn faster and faster. And when I stop, the waves begin again, at the top of my head and down to my toes. The dizziness of spinning out of control has heightened exponentially, and fills me with such euphoria I gasp, and throw my head back. And I watch, as I take deep breaths and exhale to fill the night air with warm steam from my lungs. I clench my jaw over and over again, curl my toes, and let myself sink into this moment of pure silky  ecstasy.

When I wake, the sun stinging my eyes and my neck feeling once again heavy, I move room to room in search of my brother. I am acutely aware of that ugly scar, and how it pulls me back into the darkness. But I don't want to crouch any more and watch the world pass in a blur. I want to lay on my back and  make the stars shine brighter, feel the tingling again. I want to spin in circles only to stop abruptly and feel the waves crashing through my body. I want to make my own world blur.

Hey, brother, can we do it again?

Searching for mom

My mother was crazy. I knew it, my family knew, I am pretty sure the whole town did. But it wasn't like we were going to tote her off to the Napa Mental Hospital and put her in a straight jacket with padded walls. No. It was more the unpredictability that made us all wonder what was going on in her head. Curtis shows up at the house when he buys his first car, and instead of nodding in approval, and giving the courteous smile while inside she is thinking what a piece of shit, she drops what she is doing and asks to go for a ride... doesn't bother with the door handle, but climbs through the sun roof giggling like she is 16 instead of 45.
When a teenage boy would follow me home and shyly shake her hand, she followed no etiquette. She simply swept her foot around him, and easily placed him on his back on the cement. He would stare into those dark eyes with pure shock wondering what the hell just happened to him. And again there is that giggle. However instead of it being the giggle of a 16 year old girl this time, it is a more mature giggle. One full of confidence; as if to say, see how easily I can put you on the ground? Love me, and love my daughter, but remember how easily I can knock you on your back.
From watching her teach, sing, dance in the kitchen, talk to complete strangers, I found myself in awe of this woman. Is this what all mothers are like?
She never stopped, that crazy woman. Not when we had too many chores, too many kids, and too many books to write. Not even when her body tried to force her to quit. No, not even then. It would take a massive cotton tree knocking the soul straight from the body to stop the freight train that was my mother.
And so I sit. Frantically trying to remember every detail of her hands, every moment I shared with her. I feel the sting on my cheek the one and only time she slapped me, I feel the anguish poring from her body when I told her I was pregnant, I see the pain in her eyes when I tell her I don't need her.  What I don't see is those moments where she might of been proud of me. What I don't hear is her voice on the phone when I call searching for advice. And I don't feel the hugs any more. Mom are you proud of what I've become?

Dark skies and heavy lies

I remember the first time I ever lied to my mother.  I must not have been more than seven or eight at the time. I had a girlfriend down the street named Kristina and I had walked over to her house with the explicit instruction to be home before dark. My mother was already uneasy with this friendship of mine as Kristina was a couple years older than me. But what did I care? All I know is that she had a pool, we didn't, she had a TV in her room, and we were allowed to eat all the Cheezits we want. Even now as I look at a box of Cheezits, the first thing that comes to mind is Kristina's room.    
It had hard wood floors and you were lucky to find a spot to sit with all the clutter. She didn't have to clean her room, or hell, even pick up anything off the floor for that matter. My mother, well if she had to tell me too many times to clean up and I didn't listen? She had her own way of handling that... she would simply walk into my room with an eerie calmness. She would pull out all my drawers, and begin to dump all my precious belongings on the floor in the middle of the room. My eyes would grow large as the pile would continue to grow, and the stuff that I had discretely hide under the bed, were now being yanked out and thrown on top. Once satisfied with her work, she would turn to me and say, 'now clean it up."
Kristina didn't have to deal with an eccentric mother like I did. She didn't have to eat grape nuts in the morning for breakfast and have to hide the mounds of sugar that needs to be added in order to make it taste decently. She didn't have to attend church every Sunday and say family prayer every night. She didn't have to be 'friends' with her siblings and  only watch TV on the weekends. And she certainly didn't have a curfew.
Many years later I would recognize a method to my mothers madness. It would come in the form of watching a police car pull next to me as I stood  at the top of my driveway. The policeman would roll down his window and ask me if i recognized the teenager in the back seat of the car, that he was trying to find her house. I would look at Kristina with yellow vomit dripping off her chin and onto her skimpy blouse. I would see the drunkenness of her eyes as she tries so hard to stop the spinning, to keep her head back from the strings of puke pulling her closer to resting her chin straight in the mess. And as the shock would begin to wear off, I would smirk, feeling as if me seeing her in this disastrous moment would be my revenge for her cutting off our friendship when she became a teenager before me.
But for the moment, for a few short years, I am sitting in her room, my terribly skinny legs tucked under me as I push my long stringy blonde hair away from my face so I can stuff it full of the most incredible unhealthy cheese crackers. I am too distracted by the fact we actually have the ability to watch a movie in her ROOM to realize the sun has begun to set.
I watch the ending dancing scene of Sarah Jessica Parker in Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, day-dreaming of what it would be like to dance like her, when it dawns on me that I have lost track of time. OH the pain in my heart when I realize that my mother must be worried sick about me. She probably is walking over here right now,  head titled down, arms swinging quickly, as if that will mover her body towards me faster, a force that is not to be reckoned with. I drop the box of Cheezits and run. My measly 80 pound body pulls open the dark heavy oak door with the strange knob in the middle, and I sprint up the driveway. Onto the deserted night street I run, with the heavy trees that arch their way over the road adding the sense of total darkness as the leaves are too full to let in any last hint of dusk. I run as fast as my little scrawny legs can carry me, my heart feeling heavy, my fear of disappointing my mother enveloping every part of my being. The fear escalates to me looking around at those dark trees. Those dark haunting trees that have now turned into arms reaching down to grab me and take me away from this world. I sprint as if the devil himself is after me. And as I reach the edge of our property line, I stare at the large home knowing I better come up with something to escape the wrath that is my mother. I move across the field and onto the side driveway, feeling the anxiousness creep into my throat. As I ease to the front door I can see my mother sitting in the library with my sisters. Her dark black hair cut short and permed to perfection. My throat is closing at the thought of disappointing her, and I begin to feel tears stream down my cheeks. I open the front door, turn to the library, and say.. ' oh mom, it was so scary! I was coming home and this doggie comes running after me! I thought he was going to eat me mom, I was so scared!" I wrap my arms around her waist and look up into those dark eyes. I search for the emotions that she is portraying, anything to give me a hint of whats going on in that mind of hers. I search for the wrath, the frown and the furrowed eyebrow. I find myself grasping at this small little lie, hoping that my tears will veer her away from the dark skies. And yet, all I see is concern, and love? She simply wraps her arms around me, kisses the top of my head and says 'well I am glad you are alright. Want to help with the wedding invitations for your brother?' She turns and sits back at the head of the dinning room table. Covered with tissue, pictures, different envelopes, and a roll of stamps, it is the project at-hand. And with it comes a mother that is leading the charge, making sure that anyone within shouting distance is helping. And with that comes a mother that is not so distracted that she can't stop and hug her crying little one, but enough to not realize its black outside. And my lie that I have conjured up, that I to this day am still carrying around, was for nothing.

Water

What is it about water that soothes us, lulls us to peace? I would like to believe that in the beginning of our existence, as our mother’s bodies worked overtime to create every cell needed to sustain and support our lives, we felt completely comfortable and at ease surrounded by the amniotic fluid. It protected us, kept us safe. So is it surprising that even as we grow we still crave that protection?

Water. It’s the first thing I thought of when asked what I wanted. What would you like to do Mary, is there anything we can do for you?

I want to lie in a pool, I said. I want to lie in the middle of a pool.

Perhaps it was the thought of being weightless, not having this pressure that was slowly enveloping me. I wanted to feel light, and protected by the water.

How are you expected to process this type of news?

When Shiloh first asked me to get Micah on the phone with me, I thought nothing of the uneasiness in his voice. When he told me if anyone was at the house that I needed to ask them to leave, I wondered if we were in trouble some how. How this is possible considering he lives 800 miles away, who knows.

There was an accident. A tree fell. Little Mollie was gone, dad and others in the hospital. Mom is gone guys. She is gone. The tree killed her. It crushed her.

 It crushed my mom and she is gone.  I am alone.

I felt the walls come close, I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me. My brother stood by the island in the kitchen with his hand over his mouth. And I swore. I swore so loud and so long. My voice was rough, my throat hurt, but I didn’t stop. Micah stood silent, his shoulders hunched over, looking at the floor. His hand never left his mouth, he just stood, whimpering.

How dare you. I already experienced the agonizing pain of watching my son carried away from me. The one man that was supposed to always think me beautiful, left me.

 

I gave up my son, I lost the man I loved, and now you are going to take her from me too? Fuck you, and fuck this life.

Phone calls were made. I fought it. I threw punches in the air; I felt the house pressing down on me. Aimlessly I wandered thru the home. The home she had created for us. I wandered, found my brother curled up in a ball in one of the guest rooms, and I quietly pulled open the covers and climbed in beside him.

I didn’t dream that night. And when I woke, they were sitting around the table discussing how to get us to Utah. The country club left breakfast, untouched. I walked in, they looked up.

What would you like to do Mary? Is there anything we can do for you?

Sundays with Grey

Sunday, the day of rest. The day we all allow ourselves to let the stress drop, set aside the phone, and the world comes to a peaceful halt. It’s the day when if possible, we spend with the people we hold dear.  The to-do list is pushed back in our minds and we focus on giving ourselves the gift of relaxation.

I wake with him at my side every Sunday. With one leg tucked up tight, his arm hugging the pillow. There is something about starting the day with the one you love, it’s the most comforting thing in the world. The thought of actually climbing out of bed is quickly pushed aside as I curl my body around his, for the moment is surreal.  The warmth of his skin has a way of fading all worries behind me.  I want nothing more than to feel him, to press my body close to his, and embrace the moment.

I have a tendency to rush thru life, to have my little boxes aligned just so in my head, waiting for that satisfying check mark. I am constantly looking at what still needs to be done, and coming up with a strategic plan. I live for organized lists, cupboards, clean laundry, and the sound of the dishwasher in the evening stating that chores have been done. I am constantly looking at my weaknesses and figuring out a way to become stronger, not allowing the justification of where I lack. I over analyze conversations, have every project mapped to the minute, and think too much of things that do not deserve the attention. I rush through my responsibilities with the hopes that by the time I climb into bed, I have allowed myself to breathe. That I have felt some satisfaction from what was accomplished instead of eying what was left behind.

And then, Sunday comes, this one day where I let the strategies go. I think not of my perfectly squared boxes waiting to be marked, but of how I can possibly prolong this day. For this day, is exhilarating.

I grasp the beauty of indecisiveness for a brief moment. The freedom of not really being able to make up my mind on what I want to do, to eat, to watch, for it holds no meaning.  It’s simply to be with him that I want; the only thing that I can confirm with true clarity.

And so, I allow myself to be content.  And I feel as if I have gone from surviving, to experiencing.

This is what I have been waiting for; experiencing the peaceful halt of the chaos that surrounds us with the one that compliments me entirely.