The Day the Earth Stood Still

This morning started out like any other Friday, careening bleary-eyed through the predawn morning. I settled in for another long day of daydreaming about sandwiches and discovering drunk selfies some friends left on my unattended cell phone.

And then through some fortuitous series of events I discovered that this is a real animal that exists on the planet earth:

Ohmygod you guys, please take a moment to admire this bird. Seriously, look at it. Are you kidding me? It’s fucking majestic.

Cassowaries are shy denizens of the rainforest, and also seriously badass. These things can run 30 MPH, jump almost 5 feet vertically, and they’re fantastic swimmers. Please take a moment to imagine this bird swimming. You can watch one almost swim in this video.

Fact: I’m approximately the size of an adult cassowary.

Also, that awesome headdress situation they have going on? It’s called a casque. Cassowaries developed those to protect their brains “when they are running full tilt… and occasionally careening into small trees.” Seriously, cassowary? Instead of just slowing the fuck down you’re going to evolve a battering ram to more effectively mow your way through the rainforest? Fair enough.

Casques might also have practical purposes, like improving acoustic reception and keeping them cool, but those are boring and nobody cares.

They’ve been voted the world’s “Most Dangerous Bird”, and I actually discovered them through this Wikipedia page. Also this: 

“Phillip McClean, 16, from Queensland, Australia, became the only person documented to have been killed by a cassowary. After encountering the bird on their family property near Mossman in April, McClean and his brother decided to kill it with clubs. When McClean struck the bird it knocked him down, then kicked him in the neck, opening a long cut in his carotid artery. He collapsed a short while later and died from the hemorrhage.

Moral of the story, don’t attempt to bludgeon a cassowary with a blunt object. Unless that blunt object is a moving vehicle. From what I’ve gathered, these little fellas have real issues with roadways. 

I would like to see Chuck Norris punch a cassowary in the face. 

Do you remember Ferngully? There was definitely a cassowary in Ferngully. Multiple cassowaries? All my life I just assumed they were a figment of some animation artist’s acid dream. I have the distinct impression they were strange and terrifying. Now that I know they exist, there’s no going back. For Christmas I would like someone to gift me a very small cassowary. I would keep it in my pocket and feed it gummy bears.

Anyways. I’m glad I got that off my chest. I love you, creeps. Don’t forget: if cassowaries can exist, you too can probably stumble across the embodiment of your strangest, most secret dreams somewhere on the internet.

Xoxo

-b

There's a Party on the Rooftop, Top of the World.

Last night after my fifteen minutes of fame and three glasses of chardonnay I crawled into bed with every intention of reading a few chapters of this amazing book. Then promptly fell asleep. Usually this wouldn’t be surprising. I’ve been a solid sleeper from the get-go. In fact my tendencies border on narcolepsy. I’ve slept in cafes, coffee houses, libraries, movie theaters, churches, classrooms, and while utilizing every mode of transportation under the sun. Including a bicycle.  But lately my sleeping habits haven’t been stellar.

Instead of drifting into sweet oblivion, I close my eyes and wonder if the angle of my face pressed against the pillow will accelerate my aging process. Those crows’ feet are starting to seem worrisome. Should I lie on my back? Invest in a Vitamin E supplement? Is that tinge in my back right molar a cavity? Maybe I should get up and brush my teeth again. Floss more thoroughly. Did I set my alarm? For 7am not 7pm? Is 6 minutes enough time to walk to the bus stop? What if there’s a typhoon? Or an earthquake? Do buses continue to run during natural disasters? Would I even have anywhere to go? My mind eventually runs circles around itself until exhaustion takes over and I sleep.  

But last night “fell asleep” could be synonymous with “slipped into a coma”, or “became unconscious after being walloped over the head by a grizzly bear”. So I was horribly disappointed to surface from this blissfully catatonic state around 1am. Upon waking I immediately became aware of two things:

               1) My bedroom window was wide open.

               2) Something was flailing about/potentially dying on the roof.

Since I’d let That Cat outside a few hours earlier, my first coherent thought was “a rabid raccoon is dragging her lifeless body up the roof’s steep incline to deposit it on my pillow because raccoons are sadistic fucks.” I’d like to believe this gut reaction evidences my impeccable mothering skills. Also a fundamental distrust of raccoons.

As I sat up, That Cat bee-lined out of the closet to wail anxiously in my face. Clearly not dead. Probs I should have been concerned about her concern, but mostly I felt disoriented and slow. Meanwhile, troubling scrabble/flop/grating sounds continued on the roof.

Having ruled out the psychopathic raccoon scenario, I quickly calculated the likelihood of the following: A) the Sharknado finally hit and a very small hammerhead was suffocating on my roof B) an airplane had desperately discarded the head and torso of zombie Patient Zero and the apocalypse was finally upon us or C) the construction workers from last summer were trying to break in, intent on pillaging and raping us. That last one is actually the most realistic, and caused me a pang of regret re: not arming myself per ULOL’s urging.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not biased against construction professionals in general. Even when the second-story installation they’re working on inhibits my morning topless time. Even when they talk so loud I feel like they’re standing in my bedroom. Hell, I even put up with Mariah Carey at 5am on a Saturday morning.

But Kevin, the neighbor’s contractor, was seriously creepy. Pulling up to the house after work one night he beckoned me over for a chat. He masked his disturbingly precise knowledge of my housemate’s work schedules, vehicles, and hair colors with presumably professional questions about our house. Did we own or rent? Who did our maintenance? Had we considered repainting? Then the curveball, “So how many men live with you?”

Instead of confirming that we all had gigantic Marine boyfriends/brothers/fathers that regularly checked on our well-being, I laughed nervously and replied “No men! Just three very large dogs.” I knew it was the wrong thing to say when he immediately turned to his pal with a “D’ya hear that? Just three girls live in that big ol’ house.” Fuck.

Later that week I sheepishly filled ULOL and Friend in on the conversation, and we dedicated ourselves to heightened attentiveness. Locking windows and doors, keeping a weapon within reach of our beds, etc. ULOL even asked the self-proclaimed neighborhood vigilante two houses down to keep watch. But that was months ago, and as of last night I was still woefully unarmed. At 1am, with my bedroom window wide open, and something tap-dancing gracelessly on the roof? This seemed problematic.

While many animals rely on fight or flight impulses to keep them alive during dire situations, I’m more of a “freeze” type creature. A little bit like these fainting goats. Some might argue this is actually the opposite of a survival instinct. Some people are right. I will likely die in a situation that requires springing into activity (e.g. a meteor, the zombie apocalypse, an avalanche). I had the fortitude to relatch the window, and burrowed back into the comically large collection of comically small comforters I keep on my bed. Is ignorance really bliss? Hell no. I spent most of the night pondering my imminent doom. But! I’m still here this morning.

Also turtles spent approximately 220 million years developing a similar defense mechanism, and they seem to be doing just fine.

All my love, creeps.

-b

I fell out of my stream of self-consciousness.

And I've got welts on my mind to signify all my accomplishments.

Hello kittens. While reading old posts for Throwback Thursday, I was confronted with an uncomfortable truth. I’ve survived this breakdown before. The last month or so I’ve been grappling with a disconnected déjà vu sensation. Or if not exactly déjà vu something in the vein of predestination; a predilection towards self-destruction. Two years ago, smoking on my porch she said I hate when you destroy yourself like this. Last year on my roof bumping elbows with the moon after a few too many nightmares. Two nights ago walking home after a poetry show. I cried because I was cold, and alone, and alive. I cried because I could.

I’ve survived this breakdown before, but never quite like this. They say You are more than the sum of your failures and Imagine yourself as limitless and so you will be or Shit has surely gone down, but said shit need not define you or your days and I love them for that and so much more.

Two nights ago stumbling through a car crash with the flashing lights and large men in heavy jackets bearing badges. A woman weeping on the corner and stars looking like the idea of stars. Like caricatures of themselves. I wanted to slip a piece of shattered windshield into my pocket. I’m adept at carrying wreckage. Instead I kept walking, and maybe I’m still walking, and maybe I always will be.

Now it’s Thursday and instead of throwing back I’m looking forward, because I’ve survived this before and I know there’s an end. I wrote this poem almost a year ago. I’ve read it seven times on three different stages; embedded it in my memory as a reminder that the only constant is inconsistency. The fever breaks. My hands become my hands again. I add another ring to the scar tissue of my memory. 

Anatomy of a Breakdown

Tuesday

The fault lines of your mother’s breakdown begin to

echo through your hollow bones,

your blood aches heavy with heredity

and slivers of purples.

Your hands will tremble for a hundred

years or more.

Wednesday

When the infection begins to spread, don’t panic.

Amputate and cauterize

before the gangrene enters your bloodstream.

Your heart will look

smaller than you expected,

laid out like a dead kitten

on the exam table.

Disregard the girl

lodged in the left ventricle.

Thursday

Time becomes mutable.

You might be cork floating,

a pulpy clot in the

cheap red liquid, you replace

your blood with gasoline

and search for a match.

You drink your dinner

and dream of feasts.

Friday

Pack memories into heavy

bodybags. Carry them beneath your eyes.

Remember laying your body

across the linoleum,

how she chewed the brittle crust

from the salted rim of your hipbone,

lapped tequila from the basin of your navel.

As the alcohol slid down your naked sides

you thought about open heart surgery,

wondered about the cavity

inside your chest.

Saturday

You want to ask the girl at the bar

if she found the poems

you tucked behind her teeth.

Her stranger’s hands rattle over

each knot of your spine,

you could be the ladder she climbs

into ecstasy. Your whiskeyheavy breaths

are prayers of deliverance.

In the morning

her naked back will be a foreign country

you explore with eyes/hands/mouth.

Sunday

Trace origami lines into your

arms and thighs so you never again forget

where to fold.

The moon surges tidal waves through your frame,

lodges shipwrecks (heavy with artifacts)

in the cove of your throat. There:

5 mood rings spitting purple,

a blue heron wing, the

scarlet cleft of a fish’s slit belly.

The moon asks you to be full with her.

Swilling down seawater, you

are left gasping.

Monday

You know the purple orange glow

of the night sky is just city light

refracted off the low-slung clouds

but in that instant it could be god.

Your mouth aches for butterscotch

but only tastes smoke and lighter fluid,

your lungs are low-slung clouds,

heavy with god and apocalypse.

Tuesday

self-inflicted wounds begin

to peel and flake.

Lodge the memory

beneath your nail beds.

You are growing a new skin,

days woven into spiderweb scar tissue.

Under the shower head, your sorrow

leaves you cleansed.

Grind saltwater exfoliant into

both cheeks

wake fresh-faced in the morning.

Wednesday

Splay your puzzle piece body

across purple sheets and

dare a stranger to cobble you

in her bloodstream.

Press your tongue against her scars

and wonder what she burned for,

press your stories into her palms

like offerings. Like prayers.

You tell her you’re a narcissist.

You tell her you’ve almost died twice.

You tell her, and tell her and tell and tell and…

I love you all so much more than you know. Thank you for staying here with me.

-b

What it means to say Missoula, Montana.

Hello weirdos! After a five day vacation, I’ve safely returned to the city of rain and high-velocity winds. Portland. Please get your shit together because this is terrible commuting weather. I’m currently lying in my bed trying to decompress and organize an entire week in my headspace, so bear with me.

Last Sunday night, lying next to Allison and mentally preparing for our departure, I succumbed to a terrible and confusing sadness. I was bombarded by the realization that in less than a week I would be saying goodbye to everybody I love back home. That premonition worried its way into my bloodstream and kept me awake most of that night. 

Pre-whiskey dance celebration

We still managed to leave town relatively on schedule. Equipped with 24 ounces of coffee, a Kit Kat I was goaded into buying for the low price of $.30, and one Little Debbie Nutty Bar, we were ready to tackle the open road. You guys, there’s really not much to say about driving for eight and a half hours. We ate Quizno’s sandwiches, listened to This American Life, and upheld the tradition of taking a shot at the 50,000 Silver Dollar. Because alcohol aids in navigating dark and potentially icy mountain passes.  

Me: I usually do something fruity. Lemon drops? Washington red apples?

A: Let’s have whiskey.

We made it to Missoula with only two notable episodes of white-knuckle driving.

Upon arrival it became apparent that I have no internal navigation system. My natural sense of direction has always been shoddy at best, and my brain seems capable of storing only one cityscape at a time. We had decided to spend the first night with my friends Julia and Morgan. I lived in Ju’s northside apartment for three weeks the winter I was homeless. During that time I watched a lot of movies, drank a lot of whiskey, and read the Hunger Games trilogy. That apartment took on surreal dimensions in my mind, elevated as an idealistic sanctuary. But pulling up to that building everything seemed foreign and daunting.

Why must I grow up to be Rosie O'Donnell?

Everything shifted back into place when we walked through that door. Ju and Morg greeted us with hugs, PBR, and heaping bowls of homemade beef stew. The next several hours were a slow unfurling; sinking back into an old place as a new human. We ate, and drank, and watched Now & Then, remembering how we all wanted to be beautiful and fucked up like Roberta. Except Morg.

Me: What did you do without a t.v. to babysit you?

Mo: We used to stand outside and watch for cars, and when they got close we’d yell “WIBS!” and drop to the ground until they passed.

Me: Oh. Of course.

Two movies, several drinks, and one half-hearted game of Uno later Mo and Ju wrestled out an air mattress and tucked us in for the night. Since they were leaving the next day to spend the holiday with family, Ju let us borrow her apartment for the duration of the trip.

Ju is a lovely and hospitable human being.

We woke slowly Tuesday morning, well after our friends snuck off to work. After ample lolling and showers, we decided breakfast would be a good place to start. [Confession: my itinerary for our trip focused pretty exclusively on eating. Once a fat kid, always a fat kid.]

Over coffee and chilequiles, we caught up with Lo and plotted the next several days. Activities included seeing friends, seeing family, and seeing Catching Fire again because Jennifer Lawrence. There’s more, of course. There’s always more. Cursive handwriting lessons, red wine and nachos, the Turkey Trot. But the majority of our trip felt like an extended dream sequence wherein your spirit guide utilizes the word “fuck” with gusto, and insists on eating an inordinate amount of Mexican food. Hint: I was the spirit guide.

It’s jarring to see your hometown through somebody else’s eyes and realize how many ghosts there are; a whole town heavy with yesterdays. Driving through Missoula I handed Allison stories like Polaroid photographs to prove I was there. To explain why it mattered. The basement apartment. The church. The pitch. That bar. The sunspot where I muddled through crosswords and early spring. The river trail we ran Sunday mornings. Everything in retrospect embodies a tender nostalgia, like a shoebox full of old love notes.

But there’s more honesty in the stories we hold back. The bookstore full of stolen kisses and palm-reading. The street corner. The bar alley. The coffee shop laden with parallel universes. I don’t know how to talk about these things without sacrificing their integrity. Maybe someday, but not yet. Thank you for being patient with my silences.

Now it’s Sunday, one week after the heaviness settled. I said my goodbyes. This morning over coffee with a friend, I sunk back into some state of normalcy and hoped she wouldn’t notice my loose edges. I couldn’t tell her about my grandpa’s stroke last year, or how his hands shook when he poured my second mug of coffee yesterday morning. So we discussed road conditions, Thanksgiving feasts, how children have a tendency to become real human beings. I don’t know where to go from here except back to Real Life.

To my friends and family in Missoula: I miss you all so much more than you know.

To my friends in Portland: thank you for becoming my new home. 

To the random creeper who found this blog post via Google: Sorry I’m not sorry. I lied about the puppy pictures.

Many miles of love.

-b