Bon (Paddleboat) Voyage

I am afraid.

Sludge-green water the opacity of weak coffee slurps at the raft. We're in the bull's eye center of the lake. Dry land - safety - looms tantalizingly near in each direction, yet not close enough. The wind whips my hair out of my face and then immediately back into my eyes. The clouds race across the horizon. The birdsongs go silent.

We're drifting with the wind now. I let out a stifled scream. Or, it escapes from my lips: a reflex of fear. I don't need to be brave. I just need you to think I am. What if you judge me? I let go and gasp, "you...you have to steer us! We're going to crash!"

Your hand is sun-kissed a deep bronze, rather "Hollywood" for a white kid from North Dakota. You clench the rudder with a calm strength. Our course smooths out. It stabilizes. My erratic navigation is forgotten in an instant. I think the craft wheezes its sigh of relief.

"I told you we weren't going to crash," I meekly mumble through the smile I attempt to flash in your direction.

Our conversation picks up again with the wind. Rounding a bend in the shore, we pass a family of four fishing, or at least dressed down for the part. The youngest - a girl - might actually be wearing pink pajamas. Images of aquatic monsters vanish from my thoughts. Children couldn't frolic so near the edge if such water-dwelling beasts really exist, I reason to myself. "This is very reasonable," my subconscious agrees with myself since I don't see any crunched and bloody bones littering the shore.

No, the aquatic monsters aren't the issue. For all we know, Nessie is quite friendly. But those slurky, chirging, squeerlish water plants! I attempt to avoid gazing too closely at the brine lapping the sides of our craft. What might be hidden in those tangled knots of vegetation? Tentacles! Pinchers! Thousands of tiny, lacerating teeth!

We have so much to catch up on. Small talk first, then"what'dya think of so-and-so's new book," and finally, "have you heard from your ex lately?" Over the years we've both ventured to imagine what life would be like if we were nearer to each other - if we could have these conversations weekly, even daily (preferable on dry ground). I wonder if I should mention it now. Instead I make a joke.

"If this was 50 years ago I'd be wearing a dress!"

"And I'd be wearing a three piece suite!" you say.

We both crack up. You think you're hilarious for pointing out that I'd maybe have a big floppy had and a parasol. I think I'm smart for informing you, "no. That would be 80 years ago." To your credit, you agree with me.

Up ahead the dimpled surface catches my glance, the telltale sign of a patch of underwater foliage floating very near the surface. I flinch involuntarily. Reflexively.

"What would you do if I drove us right over that?" you ask with a good-natured smirk. (It's like you know the contrast between your teeth and movie-star tan would be blinding. Your smile is teeth-less, and therefore somehow softer.)

In the second it takes me to process your question I see we've approached within feet of the floating menace. You don't really believe I could be scared of such an inanimate glob of chlorophyll and cellulose, do you? More than the dark, even more than public speaking? Yes!

Abruptly, at the last possible second, we turn, and we pass the saturated tangle with inches to spare. These inches are measured from your side of our craft. I mark this significant detail as I realize I had forgotten to exhale. And, I had forgotten that your smooth hand was still guiding our voyage.

You saved me. The thing I fear most, and you don't even flinch as you stare straight into the swampy depths.

The wind picks up again. We chatter on again about beauty, hard work, and family grudges. Soon we safely land at the dock, all dangers a memory of the distant past. Life and limb are safe once again, and really always have been. On average, how many paddle boat accidents does one hear about on a yearly basis? In North Dakota?

I never was afraid.

Single White Female

Single white female, 22, looking for... Damn it, looking takes effort. Let him come find me. It'll be like a game, like hide and go seek. Or kick the can? (Sounds a bit violent for love.) I don't think I ever really got the rules of that one down. There was this one game I was really good at. I mean really good. Ghost in the Graveyard, anyone? I used to attend a summer activity program in Bismarck called B.L.A.S.T. I believe it was coordinated by Bismarck Parks and Rec, or maybe the YMCA. We did artsy-crafty things, educational things, service learning things, teamwork things, and fitness things. Then we just did fun things. Ghost. In. The. Graveyard.

Sometimes we played it for several days in a row, sometimes it would just be once a week. In that case, it would be the highlight of my week. I almost always won. Like many adolescent games it began with one player "it" (the "ghost") and all the others pretending to be as stiff as death. Two rules: dead people had to have their eyes open and the ghost was not allowed to touch anybody. If the ghost got you to crack up, you in turn were also made a ghost. The game continued until one dead body remained - that was me. Now, a decade later, I feel it's safe to let the secret out. Sure, biting down on the insides of my cheeks until they bled was one way to keep from smiling. But I had a single phrase I repeated that instantly gave me nerves of steel. There, now you know. If I told you anymore I'd have to kill you, metaphorically speaking of course.

Now, if dating had rules, what would they be? Hopefully "no touching" isn't one of them. But I jest. Perhaps there are similarities between love and child's play. The one who's right for me, the one who's "it," may at this very moment be wandering the "graveyard," passing by one after another after a thousand other people as each one caves...cracks...crumbles. The he finds me. I'm the last one left in the darkened gymnasium. Sitting up tall, legs crossed in front of me, I'm staring straight ahead. You killed my rabbit, I murmur silently to myself because trembling lips fastly turn a corps into a ghost in this game. "Rebecca, the game's over. You won." Still, I don't budge an inch. They always say that right at the end to trick you into moving. I won't loose that stupidly.

He shrugs his shoulders and walks away across the linoleum, each footfall sounding more faint until he's just a silhouette in the bright playground light as the west door swings open heavily. It closes and the gym is cloaked once again in its graveyard twilight. I'm too skeptical sometimes.

I'm also too optimistic. It's like an ostrich who sticks her head in the sand but installs a skylight so she can still catch what's going on. The right one, should he exist, won't have to pry my fingers from their briefly clenched grip on singlehood. I will eventually let go. Maybe even sooner than I expected. Sometimes Ghost in the Graveyard would be over in 20 minutes. Sometimes it would take two whole hours. Though I won't need overwhelming evidence in his favor, I would advise him to have it ready just in case. If you meet him, tell him to take a seat on the cool gym floor, don't speak a word, and just look me straight in the eyes. I'll know then.

I've heard it said before that if a woman has anything at all she has her intuition. Amendment: single white female, 22, looking for an intuition. Apply within.

Appendix:

(Can blogs have an appendix?) Single white skeptical optimistic intuitive female, 22, looking for lean, athletic type with kind eyes and nice hands. Do you enjoy bathing regularly and wearing clean underwear? I'll love you forever. Men from single child families need not apply, you people have never had to share your toys as a kid and probably won't share them with me. Must be able to have intelligent discussions and must appreciate good music. Must love wine. You're allowed to be a city boy as long as you tolerates my adventures. I love the outdoors, although my greatest fear is being eaten by aquatic plant life. It's okay, you can laugh. Your smile will probably make you even more irresistible. Disclaimer: I am a neat freak. Don't freak out. I am violently disinterested in being romantic with any pot users (or any other "substances"). My greatest personal interests are reading and writing. Any man of mine must read seriously. Books are the world. Yes, I said it. Finally, the way to my heart might be flowers, sunsets, and surprises. But it's definitely love letters, lots and lots of love letters.

A True Story From Real Life

It was August 3, 2009, the Chinese year of the Ox. But this story is not about oxen and only coincidentally about China. These are the dear and precious facts, which I cling to in the darkest moments just before dawn overtakes the starlit skies. Prepare yourself, for what I am about to relate is a True Story From Real Life.

When I left Fargo that fateful summer day in my '88 Reliant with the crappy shocks I had a vague hope that I would indeed stop in Jamestown that evening on my way back to Bismarck. I was motivated by all the right reasons; I needed caffeine, and my best friend from college was back for the summer living in J-town. I can assure you that reigniting the hopeful marriage itch of a desperate mother was in fact far, far from my mind. But all the same, I should have known.

Stepping back in time, let us recall another fateful day, this time in the late fall. The year was 2007, or maybe 2008. Anyway, EONS upon EONS ago. My best-college-originally-from-Jamestown friend, let us call him "Tyler," had lost his prized cell phone. It was found by a kind-hearted stranger, as strangers usually are. It's the people we know the best who are the most unkind. This stranger had every intention of returning Tyler's phone to its rightful owner and apparently thought the best course of action was calling the number for "mom." Mom, let us call her "Bernice," answered and immediately sprung into action. Her plan was to examine the cell phone bill and start calling the numbers that appeared in the greatest frequency. According to Bernice's reasoning these numbers belonged to people that Tyler was closest to, and would thereby probably know where he was at that exact moment. A brilliant plan, I concede.

I can't say with full confidence that I was the first victim of this inquisition but I do know I wasn't the only one. I remember that afternoon well. I had just been with Tyler an hour earlier at our usual hang out spot on campus. Coffee may or may not have been involved. I remember Tyler had a poetry class that met at 3 p.m. - a class that I always regretted not taking - and the two of us usually met for coffee up until the time I was expected at my work, usually around 1-2 p.m. This day seemed no different than the rest as I greeted the building receptionist on my way inside and quietly slipped into my seat at the desk where the name plaque read "empress of death." Like any other day of the work week, I began editing obituaries at the Bismarck Tribune.

Then my cell phone rang. I was initially startled because I always made a point of turning it off, or at least on silent, out of respect for my coworkers. My cell phone habits after hours were a different story, but until about 5:30 p.m. I liked to keep things at least appearing more professional. The mood seemed rather relaxed in the office that day so I answered the unidentified number on a whim. "Hello, who is this?" asked a voice that sounded like it belonged to a beautiful woman with an attitude. "This is Rebecca," I offered. "Oh, are you Tyler's girlfriend?" the now excited voice replied. Thinking I deserved some clarification, I had a few questions of my own. "Who the hell are you and how did you get my number?" is what I wanted to ask. Instead, polite introductions were made, the lost phone was mentioned, and the list of most frequently dialed numbers revealed.

"Oh, but are you sure you're not his girlfriend?" the persistent Bernice quizzed me. I couldn't help laughing a little, remembering the time Tyler referred to his mom as "Mrs. Bennet" from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice." (Aw, she's not that bad T!) "Well, you can come home with Tyler anytime," Bernice excitedly continued..."You should tell him to bring you home with him sometime!" Not sure I could contain my giggles, I tried to get our conversation back to reuniting Tyler with his lost phone. "He's probably still in the U-Mary coffee shop. I bet you could just have him paged - they have a phone there," I said. And we wrapped up our conversation. Not an experience one easily forgets, right? Wrong.

Back to August 3rd. I was 10 minutes outside of Fargo heading towards Jamestown that fateful night when I reached Tyler on his cell phone. It was just past 6 p.m. "Yeah, I'm free the rest of the evening! I can finally take you to that coffee shop I've wanted to show you. Call me when you pull off the interstate and I can give you directions then," Tyler said. Babb's Coffee was everything a coffee shop should be, and more, except that it lacked extended week-night hours. This was unbeknownst to us. We had taken two sips when the girl behind the counter politely and urgently mentioned that she needed to close up. So we decided to go back to Tyler's house and regroup. Tyler had wanted to see pictures from my recent trip to China, especially if live narration was included.

I think I was right in the middle of my Great Wall album. Anyway, at some point I heard the front door open and Tyler said, "oh, my parents must be home from their walk." Almost immediately I heard that same beautiful voice with an attitude call out "Tyler, do you have a pretty girl over?" (This made me blush uncontrollably.) The pair of them came downstairs and Bernice took one look at me and asked "is it hot in here" (obviously noticing my pink face) "or maybe it's just because I was out walking," she said. Mr. and Mrs. disappeared up stairs and my breath came back in a rushing wind, draining the pink from my face as suddenly as it had appeared.

I think I was actually semi-prepared for the second campaign. Birthday cake and ice cream, along with sweetened iced tea, were the propaganda. As she set the snacks on the computer desk Bernice thoughtfully added "I cut you a smaller piece just incase you like to watch your figure...but you're so beautiful." Was this really happening? It got better. "Doesn't my Tyler just look so handsome? Don't you think?" she expectantly asked, watching me for any sings of flinching or pinkness. Well of course I thought so, Tyler has these natural good looks that he obviously got from his mother but how do I explain that in a way that would sound exclusively platonic? You just can't. So I stared back dumbly and silently. "I'm so happy to have him back for the summer, he's so special to me," she concluded and walked back upstairs. This woman was good, real good.

I thought it was over at that point. Flustered and a little bit on edge I babbled on about China as my ice cream melted into a giant lake of dairy-ness around the birthday-cake-island on my plate. Around 10 p.m., as if on cue, I heard Bernice call down from upstairs again. At this point her voice had such a complete Pavlov effect on me I'm sure I blushed just at the sound of it. "Rebecca, why don't you just spend the night? It wouldn't be a problem at all, and it's so late already!" Not sure if this was innocently thoughtful or suspiciously scheming, or a little bit of both, I stammered something about it not being too extraordinarily late yet and that I best be getting home tonight.

The rest of the details of the night are insignificant except for the befuddled state of my head. "How DOES she do it?" I nervously mused to myself the entire 100 miles back to Bismarck. I just know that next time I'll be ready. How? I'm not really sure at the moment - perhaps a Kevlar vest.

All names and places have been recorded without embellishment (like this story needed any embellishment!) according to my narrator's first person, limited omniscient point of view.

First attempts are always awkward

May 15, 2009 I decided to get over my fear of failure and at least start something, if not finish it. I have no idea where this is going, but I suppose that's the root of my fear. Do share thoughts/criticisms if you feel so moved. Danke. 

The benevolent hour when the sky reveals neither time nor temperature has the greatest potential. All other hours somehow demand or withdraw their expectations so that our inaction either makes us guilty of squandering the day’s great potential or justifies our lives in lacking any great potential of their own.

This was a benevolent sky that greeted her.

Rolling over towards the light, she knew by the building’s stillness that everyone else still slumbered. The hour demanded no extraordinary or valiant action on her part. She had no sense of urgency, like on the mornings she awoke to a different stillness – a coffee-tinged stillness that meant the others had gone and she was late. She closed her eyes again.

The window was open and rain was falling gently so that a person could be wet through and through before he realized what it was about. It smelled like London but stronger because London was just a memory. This was all just a memory. What time was it? An eggyness wafted from probably next door, or downstairs, or the memory. Or London?

“It’s always raining in my memory of London,” she explains from time to time.

Waking up for real this time, she sits up, noticing it’s not raining here. But someone is cooking eggs, probably downstairs or next door. What a strange joke to be living here with only a layer of wood and sheetrock isolating one tenant’s life from another. Only a flimsy physical divider, but it’s enough to make them strangers. “And we’re all strangers.” She thinks about this a lot.

She’s at the sink now, filling a glass and swallowing the first deep draft. Outside she examines her morning sky for the time and temperature and notices neither. “Well, this is my morning,” she reasons after another swallow. Meanwhile someone else’s alarm startles them from dreaming. “Right, turn your cell alarm off,” she reminds herself. It would no longer be needed. (To be continued...)

I'll follow you into the dark

Ready for some stream of consciousness? Set go. I caught a cold Sunday night. Add one and a half weeks of being stretched pretty thin plus many much-too-late bedtimes divided by a chilly three hour walk in the rain early Sunday evening. The upside of nasal headaches and running noses is that I always seem to experience a heightened and distorted sense of life during a cold. You know, like listening to someone breathe into a stethoscope. You certainly aren't hearing it "normal." But you hear it from the inside! When I'm sick I'm inside out. Well, I've never paired cold medicine with alcohol before because the label says not to. Except for last night at Peacock with Missy Murphy and Brigid Fitzsimmons - you'd really like her. We bitched about men, reveled in our strong-woman-ness, and toasted gin and tonics (one of Missy's toasts - Aahrg! - was more like a "primordial yawp"). We flirted with the idea of starting a bar fight. It's nice to feel out of control in a constant, dense sort of way. It's like the way your heart beat feels after a short burst of strenuous exercise. It feels out of control. But you know its spasms are all part of a constant rhythm that will continue until you die - which won't happen today or tomorrow or next week but many years from now. I'm also really into Death Cab at the moment. Last Thursday at open mic I was hovering over the sign in sheet when one last name caught my eye: "Patrie." It was attached to the firs name: "Rachel." I looked up at the girl leaning over the counter and asked her "do you know if Rachel Patrie is related to Ben Patrie?" This is the funny part. She said "yes she is." I asked, "do you know if she's here?" "I'm her," Rachel said. Her brother Ben was a friend of mine from high school that I've always regretted loosing touch with. He and his girlfriend of three years are getting married this spring - and Rachel is singing "I will follow you into the dark" in their wedding. That's poetic. I'm always trying to love people poetically, but I think it turns awkward so often. Well, maybe it is poetry but it's definitely slant rhyme. It's like I think I'm being subtle and that everyone else will discover the rhyme too, eventually, but can poetry be subtle? Not according to Austen's Margaret in Sense and Sensibility. I guess that loving awkwardly can be poetic in it's own way - think Ophelia? Gawd, no! Haha, I'll leave you with that! 

Hello, I am the prince of darkness

I used to be amused by those lists of "worst pick-up lines ever." Once I came across a list of "worst Christian pick-up lines ever." A random sampling for your reading enjoyment:

You know Jesus? Me too!

Nice Bible!

Would you like to pray with me?

I think heaven must be missing an angel.

Feel like sharing some loaves and fishes?

What would Jesus date...er...I mean do?

A week ago today I attended a Christian rock concert in New Town with my boyfriend Joe. The bands were Kutlass, Disciple, and Stellar Kart. We were running late - we usually are - and only made it about 20 minutes before the last set, which was Kutlass. I've fell out of touch with Christian rock since high school, but it was a high energy, entertaining concert nonetheless. As we walked in, a guy was on the stage delivering a salvation message to the couple hundred spectators. It was surprisingly relevant and attention getting, I felt. Still, I couldn't help being distracted by the two men standing to my immediate left. As I mentioned, Joe and I walked in late so we were standing near the back taking in all the surroundings before moving to the stage area.

Now I will try my pen at two character sketches. So far the characters involved are me, boyfriend Joe, relevant preacher dude, and about 400-500 spectators. But forget about all of us for a moment. My friends to the left stank of alcohol and cigarettes. Their pungent aroma an immediate clue that they were not of the regular Christian rock crowd. Both were Native American, one with short buzz-cut hair and the other sporting a long pony tail. This one wore dark shades that were a cross between aviators and plastic-rimmed '80s shades. He also wore a floor-length dark trench coat. I am no longer certain it was leather but at the time I thought so. The side-kick (buzz-cut guy) simply wore a faded gray sweat-shirt. I think our anti-hero had enough bad-ass-ness for the two of them together.

Side-kick immediately noticed me sizing them up. "Too late!" I remember thinking to myself as I quickly glanced away. Side-kick moves one side-step closer to me. I cringe as his raunchy breath hisses into my ear, "Heerstuthba prangles drockness." "Sorry, I can't understand you," I said. He repeats himself. I repeat myself. Twice. Finally, "He's the prince of darkness. Yeah, he's been the prince of darkness since 1975."

Oh.

I look at the Prince of Darkness himself. He smiles a sinister smile and I think actually winks at me, though I can't be sure. He was wearing shades, after all. I may have smiled back. I may have waved. I should have gotten his autograph. Who was the prince of darkness in 1974? I should have asked. PD did ask me several questions. One of which was, "why would Jesus want to have his concert at a casino?" And by Jesus, PD meant three Christian rock bands. "Not sure...enjoy the show though," I said and made a bee-line for the restrooms. 

Later I met back up with Joe. I started to ask "hey, did you see--" "The prince of darkness?" Joe finished. "Yeah, I hope those guys just leave. They were pretty drunk," he said. I smiled again when I thought of PD's side kick. Imagine that guy's let-down when he finally figures it out. I kinda feel sorry for him - when this gig is over what will side-kick use as a new pick up line?

"Hello, I am the prince of darkness. Yeah, I've been the prince of darkness since 2010."

resisting the fem-bot ideology

There's a box elder bug lounging on the top of my laptop screen. It's like he thinks he's a cat and my laptop has become a cat's equivalent to a couch back in front of a sunny window. My bug friend reminds me of climbing. A lot of things remind me of climbing. This blog, tabbed in my favorites bar reminds of climbing when I'm sitting at my desk all day.

Climbing, I think, is always associated with "pushing one's limits" or "reaching for one's goals." Naturally, the sport is about perseverance, endurance, and strength. A question now. Is this climbing ideology gender specific? Or rather, does my variety of calm, cool, and collected feminism get morphed into a disgustingly distorted fem-bot ideology in my pursuit of the summit? I don't want to get to the top of this mountain only to find my safety harness isn't clipped in. Because that's not bravery in the face of overwhelming opposition. That's stupidity. I want to retain my calm, cool, and collected feminism and it seems that climbing will allow me to leverage just enough "gutsy" without too much "grotesquery."

Kathrine Schweitzer addresses this concept of the grotesque female athlete in her book, Marathon Woman. My mom gave me this book for Christmas and it has become the single most influential piece of writing in my development as a woman and an athlete. Kathrine explains that during the early days of press coverage of women's running, it was a very real fear of hers that the general public would be shocked and horrified by the pictures taken of women during and after long distances races because of the exhaustion written on these women's faces. This look of exhaustion can likely be found on any man's face too, but then men were expected to be able to endure physical challenges - like marathons. Kathrine was afraid of a public outcry deeming running too difficult for the weaker sex. Among these imagined voices there would be just as many women as men, Schweitzer recalls.

And finally in 1984, the women's marathon becomes an official Olympic event. The first champion, Joan Benoit, wins gold in 2:24:52. That same year, in the men's Olympic marathon, 29 male athletes do not finish. In the women's event, only six do not finish. Paula Radcliffe, Olympic athlete, world record holder, mother, and personal hero of mine, ran a breathtaking (literally) 2:23:09 at the New York Marathon in November of 2007 ten months after giving birth. Is Paula gutsy or grotesque? Or does fame make a person an exception to the "grotesque clause"?

The bug has climbed down to the middle of the screen now. He - or she - doesn't need a harness because nature designed her to climb. So a climbing she will go.