'Cause I'm Moving Out

Probably this is going to alarm you. Don't let it. Know that it's coming from a spot where sincerity and honesty fester together. So, don't call my mom or anything. This is what I want to say:

If I haven't already told you, I care about you. And if anything should happen to me between now and the next time we talk, I want you to know it. I want you to know that thing we said to each other that one time was special. I'm serious. And you've probably been a person to save me, at least once. And a lot of the time, I write for you. I do.

As a follow up - when I was a teenager, I didn't think I'd ever be a grown up. I am one, though. Kind of. But now, I don't know what I'm doing. Is it weird to say I think I missed my chance to die? It is weird to say, but whatever. I'm throwing off the balance. And I'm paying retribution to whatever force I tricked into living.

Anyway, if I do not see you: Thank you.

This Old House Is Falling Down Around My Ears

I'm doing the most graceful pirouettes in this dizzying time of interim. A year from now seems blurry. A week from now is blurry. But right now, it feels good to pick up the fruits and eat them, to get red faced with whiskey, to pick apart the scales of the freshwater mermaid.

Life is myth. Or some lives are myth: superstition buried in the sand of Utah, love swirling around, tap dancing with the Tropic of Cancer, destruction with a fancy paper mask.

(Destruction with a fancy paper mask.)

like the warmth from the sun

Some days are days that last forever. Some days are days that last forever in the best way. In the way that you accidentally smell like sweat because playing in the sand with a bunch of kids is something not to be taken lightly. I mean, you have to start at the feet and end with the shoulders. Covering every inch of a 10 year old with Indiana sand at a swimming hole is harder than you think.

Then, you're not even finished. You have to bulldoze sand under their little necks so they can (comfortably) watch their friends in the water. Do you even get it? Today, it wasn't about the sand. Well, maybe it was about the sand for them. But today, it wasn't about the sand for me.

Little moments, right? Isn't that what it all kind of comes down to? Little moments and reminders and sand on your scalp and giggling kids and connecting in the sameness and falling asleep on the bus ride home and counting Jolly Ranchers. And living and loving and being happy? Right?

I know I'm right. I just know it.

It's been coming for sometime

Today I had a half day. My weeks will boast a few of those now -and anyway, today was one of them. As I was walking back to my car from the chinese restaurant, food in hand, I saw a friend who I used to work with at the library. It was nice, seeing her face in the sunshine and not under fluorescent bulbs - we hugged very near a busy intersection - we didn't care, really. It was warm to see her pretty face. And, here's the (second) best part of this story...

She said I looked good. Or happy. Or both. She couldn't decide which to land on.

And there you have it.

There are different reasons for it; I know it's not *just* job stuff, but let's not kid ourselves. Right? And yes, it's very early yet for both jobs. But I'm free. The moment I quit the library, something was let loose - something supernatural. I don't have to do things that make me unhappy. I don't have to make my decisions based on other people. I get to decide. I don't have to feel guilty.

I haven't let myself be. Just be. You know?

Other big reasons I'm happy? Well, I have bikes. And buds to ride with. And badminton. And summer.

And wine. Yes. I have these things.

You Belong With Me

Can you even believe I learned how to water ski in a cove named Lick Run? And a few years later, my Papa taught me to slalom in a bight we call Paradise. My dad caught his last catfish in the green waters across from Message Beach. Kingfishers nest off of Hummingbird Hill and the most coveted arm of our lake, of course, is Cell Point.

The hills above Indian Creek were bought by an old man who cleared the trees, promptly died and now his estate is all for sale. Cedar Hill Marina sells the best deep fried pickles. Wolf River Cliffs tested my guts every year until someone banged his head and died. The Milky Way trail and meteor showers make my brain explode out in the middle of this lake.

This lake belongs to me like my gray shirt belongs to me. But also, like the universe belongs to me. The summer my dad died, we wondered if it'd be a place of grief. It was, but the water cleaned our wounds. We wondered, this winter, if this summer would be different because my nena's health - but we're anticipating the clear water to work it's magic. It will. We know it will.

The limb lines will hang after the fisherman chore the shore. The slate rocks will lay until we pick them up. Poison Ivy will eat up our flesh. The sun will bake us. And we will drink Grey Goose in our orange juice and Bailey's in our coffee and listen to Billy Joel loudly.

And even though it's just a summer place, Dale Hollow water pumps through all the Andersons' bodies. We know the lake like we know ourselves.

sweeter than a grape on a vine

Waking up with a tiny bit of hope changes a girl. It makes waiting for tea not so burdensome. And putting off chores not such a chore. It makes drinking tea with honey AND milk like a New Year's Eve Party. It makes "Unchained Melody" even sweeter, like the first love story. Hope does crazy things. And that's okay.

I may even just sit here, press these little buttons, make words and sip this tea like nothing is wrong... at least, just for this small moment, this brief sliver of time.

We all know, though, after the tea is finished, I'll stand up. I'll disturb the sleepy, black kitten and life will come back. My grandma is still (mostly) blind, I still have dishes to do and covers to fold, and the songs have moved on from love to betrayal.

Just like life. Never stops.

I Think I'm Cured

It's been a long time. And I'm not going to sugar coat anything, so, be prepared for facts that slice through human bodies easily and without remorse.

Let's start with the basics: life can fuck you up. That seems circular, I know, but go with it. Truths are vague and ever changing and unfair. Existence is hard, because it is, and also because, if we go in and out of it, is it really existing. Okay. Basics covered.

Now, on to the hard-stuff: Remember my grandma who had the health scare? Well, it wasn't over. As it is with life, things only got worse.

She was finally diagnosed with Giant Cell Arteritis. The devastation is, though, she was diagnosed too late by her back-woods physicians. She has lost complete vision in her right eye and approximately 80% in the other. No peripheral. She'll close her good eye and cry about the "gray mud" she sees. "Gray mud" she'll cry - that's all I see. Now, the 20% she has retained is dim. She calls life the "Dark City" - and it wouldn't be so beautiful if it wasn't so shattering. She'll smile and shake her head and cry and convince me that she'll be fine living in the Dark City.

Yesterday morning she woke up and everything was a little dimmer. She began shaking and crying and we admitted her into the hospital again. This time in Indy. (We'll never go back to Ball Memorial in Muncie. Fuck those guys).

Blindness, guys. We are battling an auto-immune disorder that attacks blood flow to the brain- it's already killed one optic nerve and it's trying so hard to slaughter the other.

We're sad. My papa cries and cries when she's not around. She cries and cries when he's not around. We're all dying in the Dark City.

But I suppose we all are.

I will write more about this somewhere, sometime.

you may as well get what you want

I drove to the top of a parking garage tonight and stood on the roof of my car. It sounds insane, doesn't it? It is a desperate act of an unbalanced human. It has to be, right?

I haven't figured anything out.

If you're wondering, it was awesome. Just standing there taller than the mundane shit around me - people walking on the sidewalk not knowing that a looming petite girl was wavering right above their heads. Scurrying around, quickly, probably thinking about sweeping their floors or grocery lists or it probably really doesn't matter what they were thinking - I was just there. Existing in a solitary moment. Breathing and breathing. Wondering how I don't ever know what to do about how I feel.

Life is moving. And it makes me do a lot of standing still.

I'll See You in Heaven (if you make the list)

There are big things to write about all the time. And mostly, I don't do it. There are HUGE things that should be completely unavoidable: meaning of life, ancient atoms forged in the sun, Buddha, Gandhi, Jesus..all being born from the same mother - you know, big stuff like that. Mostly, I'm all selfish and little and petty and "my problems this" and "my problems that".

Today is going to differ this way: I'm going to talk about good, solid, salt of the earth stuff. And it's going to revolve around my mom.

My mother was a tile setter - one of the first women in Indiana to move past her apprenticeship and become a full fledged Journeyman, you know, Master. Not kidding. She worked hard as fuck for the money she made; she'd haul bags of dry concrete mix up and down stairs, she'd work in the freezing cold or smouldering heat surrounded by construction men, who, more than once, taught my worldly mother a new colorful phrase or two. My mother essentially became "one of the guys" by working her hands to the bone.

Before that, she was a hairdresser. Before that, she was a teen mom. And before that she dropped out of high school to ran away to Texas, following a boy with blonde hair and big teeth.

She decided to have me, despite having made an appointment for an abortion. Can you believe that? She was actually IN THE WAITING ROOM before she and my dad decided, "you know, we can do this..." And they did do it, people. Here I am.

She has given me her work ethic. She taught me to fry an egg perfectly, in bacon grease. Devotion and loyalty and to utterly lose my shit when a bee or a mouse or a moth is around. I know, because of her, that I'm strong. Even though mostly I'm insane, I know I could take this world on. I have learned through observation that we can all move past our pasts. She was beat, emotionally and physically, and while I was young, she was better to me. She always told me she loved me. There wasn't ONE NIGHT that I spent with her that she didn't give me a ridiculous amount of "good night"s, and "sleep tight"s, and bed time kisses.

She instilled in me a serious drive to always have clean sheets. She never once told me I was ugly, or a whore, or stupid like her dad told her a lot. She only spanked me with a belt once. She let me listen to Nirvana and Violent Femmes and Green Day. She didn't ever give me permission to date that older boy, I mean, I did anyway - but I also got that from her.

So, what I'm saying is this: most of my life was good. The "men standing around with one foot on the truck's bumper drinking beer and women gathered around clucking about weather and kids and men" good. There were some hard times - some of my deepest wounds are from her, but some of my strongest characteristics were cut from her mold.

This post is for my mom - and if I'm ever a mom, I can't wait to tell my daughter about the good things her grandma has done.

I Would Not Leave You in Time of Trouble

I'm up early on purpose. To write. If I'm going to live up to a label that I have plastered over my heart, it seems like I should carve out time and space in this little life of mine to work towards it.
Rewind a little: I actually talked about myself using the word "writer" yesterday.. I mean, I was utterly uncomfortable doing it and was talking with someone who is also a writer, so I felt safe(ish). But I did it.
I'm scared about doing that, though, you know? "Writer" implies creation; emotion provoking words being strung together with intention. I mean, I suck mostly, but I like the idea. So, I'll go with it.

Which, then, brings me back to this moment - this quiet, calm moment. It's early, the curtains are still closed and the cats have disappeared back to our bed. My tea is getting cold, but I'm not. I'm okay. At least, existing in this wonderfully dim-lit space in time, I'm okay.
My brain keeps lining up things for me to do, to accomplish today or this week or ultimately forever. But I can't right now. All I can do, all I can imagine myself doing today or this week or forever, is to write. Write away.

all farewells are sudden

Not once today did I feel rushed. For a moment, a panic attack teased my heart - those have been happening a lot since the bat got into my house - but I managed it. I took a few deep breaths and called wildly for my cats and realized that, at 10 am, there was no bat. And if there was a bat, I said, you'll take care of it. It worked. I calmed myself - a morning lake. But that was the only moment I felt anything outside of the parameters of good.

Moving slowly is purposeful. I meant to say "powerful" - but I'm going to keep purposeful. I might start doing it at work. Everyone expects us to hustle around, cloud up dust around our feet and beckon to every call. I'm going to have to quit that. And quit it soon. I'm honestly and fearfully at the edge of my current status. Which is to say, I need to stop this anxiety, I need to stop this rehashing every word to make sure no one is upset with me, I need to just stop. I need to calm, I need to be a morning lake. I need to wade like the Great Blue Heron. I need to saunter and smoothly glide. But beyond all this need, let's just say I want to. I want to do these things.

I'm mostly scared to not carry about pounds of stress and fear. I don't know who I'd be without it. I'm certain, though, in my most optimistic moments, that the Erica without all broken bones mended by negativity would be the best version of myself. So, let me start with that. Let me start with not gnashing my bones against all my anxieties.

Tomorrow, I'm moving slowly. Watch me.