Frontier Fantasies
A couple of days ago, Katie and I went running on the Arizona Trail, sprinting up rocky hills and slipping around shady, snow-covered corners. Katie told me that every time she stands at the outlook point with the rusty trailhead sign she is overcome by Laura Ingalls Wilder fantasies, imagining herself at that same trailhead in the 19th century. In the fantasy, Katie/Laura steps out of the chuck wagon in her flannel gown and long underwear to take in the splendor of Southern Arizona. After breathing in desert air for the first time, warm sun on her face, she promptly returns to the wagon, pulls out her diary, and writes: “February 23, 1876: Arizona!”
During our run I also learned that young Katie had elaborate daydreams in which she brought historical figures to school for show and tell—Laura Ingalls being one of the featured guests. She would protect the fragile historical figure, warning eager students to be gentle, “Laura Ingalls has never seen television before, be careful with her.”
But I think my favorite of Katie’s frontier fantasies is the dream that her and her true love would someday go on a romantic trip, perhaps even a honeymoon, out West to see the chuck wagon ruts. Nothing warms my heart quite like the thought of a young Katie (or, let’s face it, our current day Katie) day-dreaming about seeing those ruts.
Lately, I am lamenting the loss of things that were never really mine—imagined directions for my life that I wanted badly and could see clearly. I know that imagination can be dangerous, that is can torment people with a deep longing for impossible things. But there are impossible things that fill people up in good ways, the best ways, steadily supplying thoughts of hope and grandeur and solace. I think that recognizing the things that people long for can make us love them more. It’s certainly the case with Frontier Katie.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
48.
Taking a Moment
Before every major birthday, I have taken a moment to reflect on the magnitude of the event. On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, I wrote a profound farewell to my youth in my Hello Kitty diary, paying homage to my childhood as I faced that first bold step into my teenage years. I stayed up late on a school night and wrote until my pink Sony cube alarm clock said 11:59. I watched the numbers and waited, feeling both ready to be different and terrified of it.
At seventeen, I wrote a similar farewell, again reflecting dramatically upon the sunset of my childhood and the dawning of a new, adult era. “November 15, 1995. Well this is it. In approximately two hours and fifteen minutes the childhood of Kelly Myers comes to an end.” I went to bed that night facing what felt like an unavoidable, inalterable transformation. “I’ll be eighteen years old when I wake up and there is nothing that I can do about it.” (It didn’t end there. I went on to quote Shakespeare—something about stages and performances. Really nerdy.)
Somehow, my thirtieth birthday came and went less dramatically. There was no diary countdown, no dramatic farewell. I was sound asleep at midnight. It was a little bit like the first time me, Case, and Meg slept in on Christmas morning. After years of getting up at dawn and racing down the stairs together, there was finally a year (not that long ago, if I’m being totally honest) when we just slept.
Even though there wasn’t a diary involved, I did take a moment to think about my 20s before falling asleep. If there’s an epiphany to be had, it’s that my window of self-doubt has narrowed, which means that I question myself less broadly, but what I do question is focused and deeply rooted. In my old diaries, I was searching and hoping in sweeping ways, trying out different personalities and aspirations and needs. At some point, though, the searching shifted and I started to make choices—big ones that I have been reliving for years and little ones that I didn’t even feel. As I sat in my house, my dog curled up on my lap, I realized that I’ve reached a point in my life where I have built the majority of my immediate world. The choices that I have made over the last ten years are all around me, lining my physical and emotional spaces.
Lee called on the night before my birthday and just before hanging up he said he would talk to me when I’m 30. He said it at the right moment and in the right way, just like Julie would have said it, just like my family would have said it. I fell asleep thinking about my people, feeling appreciative of all that is consistently good in my life.
Before every major birthday, I have taken a moment to reflect on the magnitude of the event. On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, I wrote a profound farewell to my youth in my Hello Kitty diary, paying homage to my childhood as I faced that first bold step into my teenage years. I stayed up late on a school night and wrote until my pink Sony cube alarm clock said 11:59. I watched the numbers and waited, feeling both ready to be different and terrified of it.
At seventeen, I wrote a similar farewell, again reflecting dramatically upon the sunset of my childhood and the dawning of a new, adult era. “November 15, 1995. Well this is it. In approximately two hours and fifteen minutes the childhood of Kelly Myers comes to an end.” I went to bed that night facing what felt like an unavoidable, inalterable transformation. “I’ll be eighteen years old when I wake up and there is nothing that I can do about it.” (It didn’t end there. I went on to quote Shakespeare—something about stages and performances. Really nerdy.)
Somehow, my thirtieth birthday came and went less dramatically. There was no diary countdown, no dramatic farewell. I was sound asleep at midnight. It was a little bit like the first time me, Case, and Meg slept in on Christmas morning. After years of getting up at dawn and racing down the stairs together, there was finally a year (not that long ago, if I’m being totally honest) when we just slept.
Even though there wasn’t a diary involved, I did take a moment to think about my 20s before falling asleep. If there’s an epiphany to be had, it’s that my window of self-doubt has narrowed, which means that I question myself less broadly, but what I do question is focused and deeply rooted. In my old diaries, I was searching and hoping in sweeping ways, trying out different personalities and aspirations and needs. At some point, though, the searching shifted and I started to make choices—big ones that I have been reliving for years and little ones that I didn’t even feel. As I sat in my house, my dog curled up on my lap, I realized that I’ve reached a point in my life where I have built the majority of my immediate world. The choices that I have made over the last ten years are all around me, lining my physical and emotional spaces.
Lee called on the night before my birthday and just before hanging up he said he would talk to me when I’m 30. He said it at the right moment and in the right way, just like Julie would have said it, just like my family would have said it. I fell asleep thinking about my people, feeling appreciative of all that is consistently good in my life.
Friday, November 2, 2007
47.
Aging Poets
“Do you know how long it takes for any one voice to reach another?”
I’m not sure what I was looking for tonight, but I know that I was hoping to be filled with something new. One night in college I happened to wander into the Soda Center when Carolyn Forche was reading and she simply stopped time for me. I honestly did not know that words could do that. “What you have heard is true.” Stopped time. Life in my body felt different.
And then another poet came to campus. She visited my Aristotle in Modern Literature class and sat right next to me—I could have touched her shoulder with my shoulder. We had been studying Aristotle’s Poetics, memorizing and scrutinizing Aristotle’s carefully laid out formula for how poetics work. But the moment she sat next to me, poetics buzzed in my body in a way that Aristotle could not contain. That night she read her poetry with such force that we all shook a little—the people, the chairs, and even floor seemed to shake slightly when she was reading. As I sat there, I did not want it to end, and, at the same time, I wanted badly for it to end so that I could begin to live my life with this experience. Tonight, thirteen years later, she came to Tucson, again to read her poetry.
With all of the vulnerability and rejection of the job market, I went to her tonight feeling depleted. I needed for her to shake me, to stir the poetics, to tip me back in my chair and remind me of the force of the female body. But somehow in the last thirteen years she has become an old woman. She stayed seated and her voice did not carry. I could not hear her.
My poets are aging. The forces that originally brought me to writing and the teaching of writing are growing quieter. I owe it to them to try to shake the ground a little.
http://www.blueflowerarts.com/cforche.html
“Do you know how long it takes for any one voice to reach another?”
I’m not sure what I was looking for tonight, but I know that I was hoping to be filled with something new. One night in college I happened to wander into the Soda Center when Carolyn Forche was reading and she simply stopped time for me. I honestly did not know that words could do that. “What you have heard is true.” Stopped time. Life in my body felt different.
And then another poet came to campus. She visited my Aristotle in Modern Literature class and sat right next to me—I could have touched her shoulder with my shoulder. We had been studying Aristotle’s Poetics, memorizing and scrutinizing Aristotle’s carefully laid out formula for how poetics work. But the moment she sat next to me, poetics buzzed in my body in a way that Aristotle could not contain. That night she read her poetry with such force that we all shook a little—the people, the chairs, and even floor seemed to shake slightly when she was reading. As I sat there, I did not want it to end, and, at the same time, I wanted badly for it to end so that I could begin to live my life with this experience. Tonight, thirteen years later, she came to Tucson, again to read her poetry.
With all of the vulnerability and rejection of the job market, I went to her tonight feeling depleted. I needed for her to shake me, to stir the poetics, to tip me back in my chair and remind me of the force of the female body. But somehow in the last thirteen years she has become an old woman. She stayed seated and her voice did not carry. I could not hear her.
My poets are aging. The forces that originally brought me to writing and the teaching of writing are growing quieter. I owe it to them to try to shake the ground a little.
http://www.blueflowerarts.com/cforche.html
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
46.
Halloween
Alright, when did I become the crazy lady who dresses up her dog on Halloween and waits by the door, huge bowl of candy under her arm, peeking anxiously through the blinds? When did I become the person who says, in a high-pitched voice, “And who do we have here?” I just said that: “And who do we have here?” By “we” do I mean “And who do me and my small dog dressed in a wee leprechaun outfit have here?” Seriously, what am I doing with my voice? I can’t seem to just say, “Oh you’re so cute.” Instead, there is giggling and “ooooohing” happening: “Ooooohing, you’re so cute!” I’m basically squealing.
And holy crap, I just said, “Hey, where’s my trick or trick?” to a little Thomas the Tank Engine. Who am I?
During my first semester teaching at the U of A, I dressed all in orange, put on a headband with two ghosts on springs, and brought a giant bag of candy to my 8:00 class. This morning at 8:00 I met with a group of my Business Writing students and they gave me a full run-down of their client project proposal. Really, the “And who do we have here?” excitement makes sense. I don’t know who to be on Halloween, so I’m performing the role of the women who used to give me candy when I was kid (or a teenager, because let's face it I went trick or treating way beyond the appropriate age). I don’t want to be the crazy candy lady or the all-business teacher lady—I want to be somewhere in between, preferably wearing a springy headband.
Alright, when did I become the crazy lady who dresses up her dog on Halloween and waits by the door, huge bowl of candy under her arm, peeking anxiously through the blinds? When did I become the person who says, in a high-pitched voice, “And who do we have here?” I just said that: “And who do we have here?” By “we” do I mean “And who do me and my small dog dressed in a wee leprechaun outfit have here?” Seriously, what am I doing with my voice? I can’t seem to just say, “Oh you’re so cute.” Instead, there is giggling and “ooooohing” happening: “Ooooohing, you’re so cute!” I’m basically squealing.
And holy crap, I just said, “Hey, where’s my trick or trick?” to a little Thomas the Tank Engine. Who am I?
During my first semester teaching at the U of A, I dressed all in orange, put on a headband with two ghosts on springs, and brought a giant bag of candy to my 8:00 class. This morning at 8:00 I met with a group of my Business Writing students and they gave me a full run-down of their client project proposal. Really, the “And who do we have here?” excitement makes sense. I don’t know who to be on Halloween, so I’m performing the role of the women who used to give me candy when I was kid (or a teenager, because let's face it I went trick or treating way beyond the appropriate age). I don’t want to be the crazy candy lady or the all-business teacher lady—I want to be somewhere in between, preferably wearing a springy headband.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
45.
Crafty Animals
I’m dogsitting for Katie and Matt this weekend, which means a weekend-long dog party with Jeb, Cielo, and Short Dog. If I’m being honest, the dogs are a little needy—a twinge emotional and perhaps a hair neurotic. I’m a poor substitute for Matt and Katie, the cross-eyed old lady who shows up in homeroom when everyone was hoping for the hip young guy with the spiky hair and sweater vests. No matter how many times I wrestle Jeb or rub Ciel’s belly, they just look at me from across the room and sigh: Oh, you’re still here.
For the last two and a half hours, Jeb has been chasing the same lizard. I watched them for awhile and I swear the lizard is deliberately messing with Jeb. At one point it was hiding at the top of a tree stump and when Jeb got within an inch of the spot, it sprung into action, executing a Mountain Dew X-treme leap off the edge, landing perfectly between two pieces of bark. There’s something going on with this lizard, honestly, no one’s that good. Wedged between the bark, the lizard breathed heavily, clearly calculating its next move. This is spy tech lizard—or the spy tech lizard training ground. It’s hard to imagine how a lizard could get wilier than this one, but I’ll remain open to the possibility. Jeb just came in for water, every part of his body shaking. The lizard is clearly winning.
Last night when I was at the movies, the dogs banded together to lash out at me—and I know that Short Dog was the leader. I have a history of animals T.P.ing my house, starting with Abe Froman in New Hampshire. After making the fateful mistake of leaving Abe alone for a night, I came home to find that he had busted out of his cage, grabbed the toilet paper with his very small hands, and darted madly around the house. He was exhausted when I got home, stretched out on his belly under the couch. Last night I arrived home to a similar scene—an entire roll of toilet paper spread out through every room of the house. When I finally found the roll it was wedged in a small nook between two pillows at the top of the couch: Short Dog. I like to think that when I left Short and Abe alone together, they had long conversations, sharing stories and talking about world events. As I went from room to room scooping up toilet paper, I made a series of loud, sarcastic comments (“Oh no, you are right Milo—the one thing that I was hoping to do tonight was to collect streamers of toilet paper tossed wistfully around the house. Honestly, I can’t imagine a better way to end an evening”), but ultimately I’m considering it a tribute to Abe Froman. His legacy lives on.
I’m dogsitting for Katie and Matt this weekend, which means a weekend-long dog party with Jeb, Cielo, and Short Dog. If I’m being honest, the dogs are a little needy—a twinge emotional and perhaps a hair neurotic. I’m a poor substitute for Matt and Katie, the cross-eyed old lady who shows up in homeroom when everyone was hoping for the hip young guy with the spiky hair and sweater vests. No matter how many times I wrestle Jeb or rub Ciel’s belly, they just look at me from across the room and sigh: Oh, you’re still here.
For the last two and a half hours, Jeb has been chasing the same lizard. I watched them for awhile and I swear the lizard is deliberately messing with Jeb. At one point it was hiding at the top of a tree stump and when Jeb got within an inch of the spot, it sprung into action, executing a Mountain Dew X-treme leap off the edge, landing perfectly between two pieces of bark. There’s something going on with this lizard, honestly, no one’s that good. Wedged between the bark, the lizard breathed heavily, clearly calculating its next move. This is spy tech lizard—or the spy tech lizard training ground. It’s hard to imagine how a lizard could get wilier than this one, but I’ll remain open to the possibility. Jeb just came in for water, every part of his body shaking. The lizard is clearly winning.
Last night when I was at the movies, the dogs banded together to lash out at me—and I know that Short Dog was the leader. I have a history of animals T.P.ing my house, starting with Abe Froman in New Hampshire. After making the fateful mistake of leaving Abe alone for a night, I came home to find that he had busted out of his cage, grabbed the toilet paper with his very small hands, and darted madly around the house. He was exhausted when I got home, stretched out on his belly under the couch. Last night I arrived home to a similar scene—an entire roll of toilet paper spread out through every room of the house. When I finally found the roll it was wedged in a small nook between two pillows at the top of the couch: Short Dog. I like to think that when I left Short and Abe alone together, they had long conversations, sharing stories and talking about world events. As I went from room to room scooping up toilet paper, I made a series of loud, sarcastic comments (“Oh no, you are right Milo—the one thing that I was hoping to do tonight was to collect streamers of toilet paper tossed wistfully around the house. Honestly, I can’t imagine a better way to end an evening”), but ultimately I’m considering it a tribute to Abe Froman. His legacy lives on.
Monday, October 22, 2007
44.
Dress Up
A few years ago, I bought a pair of huge, round, orange-rimmed sunglasses—not because I thought that I could pull them off, but because I really like to the idea of that person, the version of myself who can jauntily throw on a pair of outrageous sunglasses and stroll out the door, carefree and fabulous. On the real life me, those sunglasses look ridiculous, but they are connected to this idea of myself that exists vividly just outside the realm of reality, one that I have held onto for years—desperately at times. As my mom and sister will remember, when the orange sunglasses went over the side of the paddleboat and into the lake, I did not hesitate to throw my body overboard. I dove down after them and opened my eyes under lake water until I saw them. The whole thing lasted a total of about four seconds and as I climbed back into the boat there was a moment, before the laughing, where my mom and sister just stared at me, frozen in a shared state of utter confusion.
There is this long-lived part of my personality that feels compelled to wear mildly strange and surprising things on my body. It’s not a constant compulsion, but it has surfaced consistently every few years. The first incident I can remember was in sixth grade when I insisted on wearing big plastic earrings shaped, in perfect detail, like pieces of popcorn. I loved them, but more than that I loved the idea of me in them. They were just weird enough, hinting at an inner weirdness that I imagined people would find irresistibly charming and unique.
When I was a kid I used to have a little trunk—and later a huge cardboard box—full of “dress up” clothes, grown up dresses and jackets and costume jewelry and hats. The thought of that dress up box still thrills me, butterflies in the stomach thrills me. It held the possibility for transformation. I would go upstairs, close the door, and try on grown up lives. Sometimes I would play with other people, but mostly I would slip into the clothes by myself, imaging, even acting out, the lives I was trying on. They weren’t often very glamorous lives, just different. They were always me somehow, but they were different versions of me.
I can see now that have spent a lot of time living between myself and imagined versions of myself. I think that such imagination is essential for growth and aspiration, but there has to be a balance, an appreciation of all that I am in this moment, along with hope and desire for new elements of my personality. I guess the big picture thing here is that I’m living the part of my life that I used to act out in the dress up clothes. I’ve reached a point where my imagined self and current self are coming face-to-face more dramatically than they have before, which means I have to be honest in new ways about who I am and what I want and why I want it. That doesn’t mean letting the orange sunglasses go overboard, but it does mean looking more carefully at the fears and desires that they represent.
A few years ago, I bought a pair of huge, round, orange-rimmed sunglasses—not because I thought that I could pull them off, but because I really like to the idea of that person, the version of myself who can jauntily throw on a pair of outrageous sunglasses and stroll out the door, carefree and fabulous. On the real life me, those sunglasses look ridiculous, but they are connected to this idea of myself that exists vividly just outside the realm of reality, one that I have held onto for years—desperately at times. As my mom and sister will remember, when the orange sunglasses went over the side of the paddleboat and into the lake, I did not hesitate to throw my body overboard. I dove down after them and opened my eyes under lake water until I saw them. The whole thing lasted a total of about four seconds and as I climbed back into the boat there was a moment, before the laughing, where my mom and sister just stared at me, frozen in a shared state of utter confusion.
There is this long-lived part of my personality that feels compelled to wear mildly strange and surprising things on my body. It’s not a constant compulsion, but it has surfaced consistently every few years. The first incident I can remember was in sixth grade when I insisted on wearing big plastic earrings shaped, in perfect detail, like pieces of popcorn. I loved them, but more than that I loved the idea of me in them. They were just weird enough, hinting at an inner weirdness that I imagined people would find irresistibly charming and unique.
When I was a kid I used to have a little trunk—and later a huge cardboard box—full of “dress up” clothes, grown up dresses and jackets and costume jewelry and hats. The thought of that dress up box still thrills me, butterflies in the stomach thrills me. It held the possibility for transformation. I would go upstairs, close the door, and try on grown up lives. Sometimes I would play with other people, but mostly I would slip into the clothes by myself, imaging, even acting out, the lives I was trying on. They weren’t often very glamorous lives, just different. They were always me somehow, but they were different versions of me.
I can see now that have spent a lot of time living between myself and imagined versions of myself. I think that such imagination is essential for growth and aspiration, but there has to be a balance, an appreciation of all that I am in this moment, along with hope and desire for new elements of my personality. I guess the big picture thing here is that I’m living the part of my life that I used to act out in the dress up clothes. I’ve reached a point where my imagined self and current self are coming face-to-face more dramatically than they have before, which means I have to be honest in new ways about who I am and what I want and why I want it. That doesn’t mean letting the orange sunglasses go overboard, but it does mean looking more carefully at the fears and desires that they represent.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
43.
Moving
My friend Anna has talked about how she feels the need to travel on a bodily level. When she stays too long in one place she can feel the next place pulling her—and, from what she has said, it seems like she can feel it in her skin.
In the last year, two of my friends announced that they have moved into the house where they will spend the rest of their lives, one in California, the other in Alaska. In each case, they played a role in the construction of the home, pouring themselves into the fiber and foundation of the place in a way that they tell me feels permanent. There is a part of me that likes the idea of a home that holds that much of me, but mostly I feel deeply unsettled by the thought of such stability.
I’m caught somewhere in between, a place that demands a blend of movement and home. It’s like the snails. For twenty-six years I believed, strongly, that snails shed their shells. I was convinced that they had a system of shedding and replacing that kept them outfitted in the right size and shape of shell. For decades, I imagined snails moving easily up hills, down sidewalks, across yards, always motivated by the hope of a better place—a home perfectly fitted to their bodies. It was a theory I developed when I was kid and saw all those empty snail shells in the ivy at Nanny and Uncle Tommy’s house. It made sense then and it makes sense now.
I’m not sure when I’m going to get to stop moving and I don’t know that I want to, but I do know that I need to keep home close to my body as I go.
My friend Anna has talked about how she feels the need to travel on a bodily level. When she stays too long in one place she can feel the next place pulling her—and, from what she has said, it seems like she can feel it in her skin.
In the last year, two of my friends announced that they have moved into the house where they will spend the rest of their lives, one in California, the other in Alaska. In each case, they played a role in the construction of the home, pouring themselves into the fiber and foundation of the place in a way that they tell me feels permanent. There is a part of me that likes the idea of a home that holds that much of me, but mostly I feel deeply unsettled by the thought of such stability.
I’m caught somewhere in between, a place that demands a blend of movement and home. It’s like the snails. For twenty-six years I believed, strongly, that snails shed their shells. I was convinced that they had a system of shedding and replacing that kept them outfitted in the right size and shape of shell. For decades, I imagined snails moving easily up hills, down sidewalks, across yards, always motivated by the hope of a better place—a home perfectly fitted to their bodies. It was a theory I developed when I was kid and saw all those empty snail shells in the ivy at Nanny and Uncle Tommy’s house. It made sense then and it makes sense now.
I’m not sure when I’m going to get to stop moving and I don’t know that I want to, but I do know that I need to keep home close to my body as I go.
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