Invasive Species (Wyatt)

May 29

W I went home and I wrote you this song. For your ears only!!!

June 2

W Sorry, I just can't get you off my mind. Bummed there was no proper goodbye. Although no form of goodbye would feel good anyways.

June 3

W I love you!

J I'm going to pretend that doesn't terrify me!!

W :) Keep it together, Pidge!

J Not my strong suit but I'll try. Bad stuff happens when love is on the line.

W Nope, I disagree.

J I have 20 years of experience to prove you wrong

W I'll prove you wrong

J We should put money on it. I hope I'm wrong but I'd bet my car and my house (neither of which I own ;)

W So I win...eternal bliss. You win...I owe on a house n car. Perfect :)

June 5

W Let's not think about reality quite yet! I just gotta see you again. That's all I know at this point! You make me feel so full of life. Not that it's not real...just...ahhh!!! You know!

June 7

W Just seems like it's gonna be perfect. A good date. Maybe you'll let me call you my girl then.

June 9
W Kinda bummer cause it's dry n cows are a little thin, but work went well. Listening to cowboys tell lies: broncs they've rode, cattle they've roped, fights they've won and women they've had. Ya know...the usual tall tales. Thinking of my Pidge.

June 10

W Seriously, you make me feel so good, and I know that I make you happy too. If it's short-lived because of technical issues, or we just don't hit it off - like you say, or it's too hard on you, or you meet somebody better for you...it will be fine. However this crazy thing evolves, it will. Life just happens, you come to a fork and you make a left or a right. Sometimes it's easier than others. I will not fuck you around and lie to you. My life now has a lot of great things in it, and it's missing a lot of things, too. I'm not sure how it's going to play out but I'll do the best I can do make the best decision as they arise. Whether it's you as a friend, or lover, or more. Regardless, my heart is swollen with happiness because of you. I hope you agree.

Mars in Transit (Joce!)

My little sister got married last week. It was, as they say, a grand affair, with sparkle lights strung through the trees, a dance floor on the lawn, Champagne for days. It took an army of dedicated friends and family to pull it off – everybody was enthusiastic to make the day, the week, the ceremony, the after-party, an absolute ball. And it was. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Throughout the weekend, while I was dancing and eating and laughing and schlepping things here and there, and when I was in quiet contemplation, curled up in bed with my pups, I was thinking, of course, about myself and my own relationships. This time, this thinking, really caught me off guard because it wasn’t what I had expected to think and feel. I was surprised, standing up at the ceremony, holding the bouquet while my sister and her husband took their vows, that I didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy. That I didn’t feel sad for myself that it wasn’t a celebration of my relationship, my success at love. Isn’t this the exact time and place where I would feel those things, I thought to myself?

What I actually felt was relief that it wasn’t about me. That scenario – the big wedding, the three-ring circus of friends and family and dogs and proclaiming my undying love for someone, forever, in front of many, many people in a fancy, fancy, dress – it’s not for me. And the bouncing babies and the swinging toddlers on the dance floor, not even the tiniest twinge of heart wish – it’s not for me. And the talk of renovating houses and day-to-day at the job and one-week vacations and the water heater going out and sending the kids to college – not for me.

I don’t want to diminish or downplay or be discouraging about any of these things, because I do think they are great and wonderful and perfect, for most people (except maybe the water heater going out). Just not for me. Part of me really, really wishes that I would long for, and be content with a marriage and a house and a baby and everything else that we’re all supposed to want and be content with having. But, if I’m really honest with myself, not one ounce of me can get comfortable with a blockbuster wedding, a baby on my hip, a house in the hills: it makes me feel anxious and claustrophobic and trapped.

Reward Redemption (Dillon)

Dillon, Dillon, Dillon
I can just see you...carving a notch in your hotel bedstead for each day you spend, homesick, longing for the sunshine and the hot dusty air, imagining the taste of beans and rice on your lips, wishing you were hanging out with that girl you went on one date with, cursing the injustice of Arkansas halls of justice. The weight of the cross you bear! Jesus, and Atlas, and Andre the Giant all rolled into one. And I, I take a half days at work because I have a "sore throat" and go get a pedicure. How the other half lives, eh? But, the more notches you carve, the closer you get to this "pool and hot tub" of which you speak. Your day will come, "D", and it will be sweet nectar. Just keep your eye on the prize and your nose to the grindstone.

So, you like elephants, huh? Have you read the book Modoc? It's terribly written, but the story is true and AMAZING. It's the story of the greatest elephant that ever lived, and that's not just my impression of the whole thing. That's the actual tag line on the book, the subtitle, if you will. Anyway, I will loan it to you maybe and you will love elephants even more, particularly this elephant Modoc. But, I would caution you about the PBS series, Echo and the Elephants, which tormented me for three solid evenings after it arrived from Netflix. Saddest. Show. Ever. The drama, the heartache, the brutality, honestly, a part of me died when I watched. But, I'm a real bleeding heart when it comes to anything to do with animals. Particularly baby ones. Which brings me to the whole fur issue. Because you asked about the seal in my Facebook photo which is actually a giant inner tube for sledding. And full disclosure, honesty, is important. So...I do own a seal cape, and a couple of fur hats, and a couple of fur coats. BUT, in my defense, they are all really old, vintage pieces. They have been dead a long time, so it's not like I'm supporting the wicked fur trade or anything. And to tell you the truth, there is nothing more divine and soft than that seal fur. I can't help loving it...and it's seriously, from the 1920's. So, no big deal,right? Say right, Dillon.

The Owl and the Pussycat

I recently took a vacation, a family vacation, down the Salmon River (also known as The River of No Return). Seven days, five boats, nineteen people and one dog. Sleeping on the beach, sunburns and bee stings, white water, cooking over a fire, pooping in a bucket: it may not sound like the most deluxe vacation – but the way my family does it – it really, really is. We don’t use an outfitter – gear is cobbled together from friends and family – the tents, the coolers, countless cases of beer, the inflatable kayaks, the sleeping bags – we collaborate on food and drink responsibilities – plan games, assign teams and duties – and take off down the river – away from all responsibility, no phones, no computers, no wallets – to tread as lightly as possible in the land of osprey, bald eagle, bighorn sheep, rattlesnake and bear.

Photo by Copper Chadwick

Proof of Water in the Desert (Joce)

On my most recent trip to Tucson, I made a point of driving down the street I lived on when I first moved to the desert. My 330 square foot apartment was tucked into a tiny little jut of a dusty street in the Iron Horse District just a hop, skip and jump from one of the sleaziest bars in town, The Buffet. Open 23 hours out of 24, they closed the bar for an hour each morning to hose the place out, and the drunks would stand out on the sidewalk, weaving, bleary-eyed and red-faced as the morning sun. The closure was usually about the time I was taking my dog on his a.m. constitutional, across the Rattlesnake Bridge, down a pathway lined with prickly pear and gravel, and back. The bar flies and I would eye each other warily, likely, me, more wary than them.

It was an accident, perhaps a mistake, that I was newly 30 years old, 1,000 miles from the town I was born in, 1,500 miles from my adopted Midwestern home, living in a place where I didn’t know a single person, not one, for hundreds of miles. The desert was a desolate, desperate, dirty place, full of down-on-their-luck folks. Everything was old and weathered and run-down. It was really, really hot.

I learned the route from my job, to home and back again, and spent my evenings and weekends venturing in larger and larger circles to find my way; the grocery, the gas station, parks, shops, anywhere that might make me feel less lost, less alone. Eventually I started to make friends, discovered where to buy good produce, a nice bottle of wine, where to go on a hike, where to have a meal, see a movie. My community grew and grew. I took day trips, explored the outer reaches of the city, found the hidden gems, cute shops, cafes, shady gardens. By Thanksgiving I had three different invitations to join friends for a holiday dinner. I instituted a regular girls night. I started dating. Tucson became my home. Tucson friends, my adopted family.

Revisiting that street, driving past The Buffet, the run-down buildings with the barred windows, made me terrified for my past self. Unbelievably, I can’t remember now what it must have been like then, but I imagine how daunting it must have felt to be the stranger in such a strange land.  Remembering made me sad.  I’d gone up against that challenge. I was all alone, with nobody to help me, nobody to comfort me, to encourage me along. But it also made me proud that I survived, that I prevailed, that I actually thrived despite it all. And that I did that. All by myself.  

Artificial Turf or The Pursuit of Happy-ish (Joce)

I usually feel an incredible relief at the start of the new year. Arbitrarily, and somewhat dishonestly, it feels like a new beginning, an unsullied sheet in a notebook with a crisp binding, ready to take dictation with a swift pen – defining in clean concise terms a brighter future with kooky, creative doodles for a better day. This year, despite the numerical date shift forward, the rodent is still scuttering behind my eyeballs, the boa constrictor feels tight around my organs, my kidneys, my heart, and the shrieking monkey of guilt and obligation has rendered me permanently deaf in one ear. When I look back over my shoulder at the last few years, I find only marginal progress and lateral moves, I find sighs and irritation, a sprinkling of iodized salt. Hope is a dusty well; I am feeling old and unhappy.

If you asked me, up until quite recently, I think I’d describe myself as someone who is always trying to do the right thing, a person that sacrifices my needs for others, I give, give and give and I take what I see as the burden of family and work and life and I grin and bear it. I am a good friend. I am a good daughter and sister. I am a good girlfriend and a good co-worker. But, it’s not as easy as all that, because if I look closely I am also a bitter, crabby, exhausted old dog. I am impatient. I am frustrated. I am regretful. I am angry. My life is a ridiculous waste of time, I contribute little, and what I contribute I do slowly and poorly. I burden others, my family, my friends, my co-workers, with my bad attitude and inflexibility.

Over a year ago, during a conversation with my sister in which I was complaining about my frustrations probably for the millionth time, she said to me, “Joce, I just don’t think you’re ever going to be happy, your standards are too high and you’re too hard on yourself and others.” At the time, it seemed like an unfair jab. Now, I realize it’s true. I am never going to be happy. It’s not in my temperament. But I wonder, why is happiness the goal anyway, and is it actually possible? For anyone?

The Beginning of the End of the World (Bryce)

But that is not the end. The end comes months later; en route to a new life, a new home, a new job in a hot, desert state that you have never seen before. He says everything is going to change, everything is going to be different, new slate wiped clean. He promises. He wants that for him, for you, for “us.” Before the move you give him a list: these things must happen before we go. Before you agree to take this leap, drive this road with your life puzzle packed neatly in a Penske truck.  He agrees.

You take care of your obligations, your responsibilities. And most of his. You sublet your apartment. You give notice at your job and apply to others in the new city. You sell your couch and give away other pieces and parts. You spend hours online searching for a house close to his new work, in this new town. You set up the utilities, make the calls about the moving truck. You collect boxes and pack them neatly with all your things. He goes to work, he calls occasionally, mostly he just texts you. He checks nothing off the list.

And then it’s too late. It’s three days until your supposed to be on your way. He has packed nothing. Taken care of nothing. He’s still going to his job 12 hours a day, neglecting his inevitable future, your inevitable future. You take boxes and cleaning supplies over to his house. You scrub his bathroom, you wash his laundry. You throw away bags and bags of trash and sweep up mountains of dirt and cat hair. You pack his boxes. You walk his dog.

Sea Salt (Unknown)

Mid-week work trip. Drive 5 hours, eat a burger and tots at the Shoshone Snack Bar and check in to an old Best Western with a “river view.” There is a great big TV but nothing on and nothing to read but a Holy Bible. “Good Lord,” you say out loud and sigh.

You wash your hands, your face. Eye cream, Vitamin C serum, overnight cream, hand cream. Tomorrow someone will tell you you look younger than your 35 years. Have you fooled them with your snake oil elixirs…or maybe it’s the big zit punctuating your chin.

You turn in early.  Ghosts of the motor inn age: squeaky screens, metal car doors slamming, wafting smoke from a Lucky Strike, interrupt your already compromised sleep. “Good Lord.” Sigh.

The next morning you attempt to fortify yourself at Buddy’s Drive Thru Java Stop. This is a mid-western vanilla mocha double-whip with chocolate chip town and your cappuccino is resolutely thin.

It’s a four-lane road, wide and pitted and dusty. Up ahead and to the left, a digital billboard flashes pixilated fireworks and a robotic American flag. Your name in lights, misspelled. Welcome!!! You pull in the parking lot and park. The air is humid with the smell of chilidogs and pizza. Someone somewhere is practicing duck calls. It is a flat, desperate sound.

Standing there, behind your plastic table with the plastic tablecloth underneath a striped tent you turn on your alternate personality: you smile at everyone, chat easily with strangers, coo at children, tilt your head and nod knowingly. You answer questions and make jokes.

Hours go by, you meet hundreds of people. You chew on ice cubes and feel your voice weakening, cracking from use. You find it exhausting.

About 3 p.m. the throng thins and quiets. For the first time you can just make out the Muzak through the tinny speaker overhead. Don Henley. Sting. You sit down. You check your phone. No messages. You look up and out into the multitude.

The Reliquary of Nostalgia (Joce)

A few days ago I visited the new Natural History Museum of Utah at Rio Tinto. Dinosaur bones, stuffed birds, beaded moccasins, time lines and murals of soil stratification, an ant farm.  All the good stuff. Usually these kinds of places remind me how insignificant my existence is – how vast the cosmos, the incomprehensible math that conceives of time, the millions and billions of things in all their various forms that are living and dying at any given time. Sometimes feeling insignificant is comforting to me; it’s a relief to know that whatever may be weighing on my conscience, the schedules, the bills, the loneliness, wouldn’t even register on the timeline, wouldn’t make the sidebar of a history book, doesn’t affect the turning of the earth, the changing of the seasons or the evolution of a species. Sometimes feeling insignificant is horrifying: will I just pass from this earth and not even register on the timeline? How can I make the sidebar of a history book…any book? Does my life carry any more weight than the teeny lives of those tiny ants?

This time my visit made me think about relics, specifically, how averse I am to the relics of my relationships.

I’m guilty of staying in a relationship long after its expiration date. My exit strategy is always labored, uncertain, awkward. But once it’s over, it’s completely over, done, and I make quick work of anything remaining that might remind me of the other person, our life and time together. Into the trash go the photos and notes, to the Goodwill any shared purchases, furniture, household items, matching jackets. If he doesn’t want it, I discard it. I live in fear of opening a drawer or cupboard to find a lingering memento, a project, a scrap of paper with his handwriting. I get obsessive about purging the remnants and can go to extremes to wipe the slate clean. Many times I’ve changed apartments and twice I’ve moved to another state just to escape the burden of reminiscence.

But, unfortunately, it’s an insignificant portion of a relationship that is represented by material stuff. It is the non-material bits and pieces, the sights, the sounds and the smells of “us” that is the essence of who we were together. Those bodiless things, despite my best efforts to ignore and avoid them, cannot be abandoned. Those are the relics, the leftovers, that are the quicksand of my landscape.

We'll Always Never Have Paris (Malik)

Hi Malik,

Where are you now? You must, at least, send postcards from wherever you go. I have a collection. But please don’t send me anything that I will get arrested for (drugs, severed limbs, etc.) I’m really not in the mood. You must be terribly lonely there in the nether regions, to be thinking of me. Have you been back to Paris yet? I remember how you took that girl, the one before me. You only knew her for four months and she got a trip to Paris! We dated for a year. Anyway, if you go – apparently the Musee d’Orsay has a picture of me, I’m the spitting image of Madame Rimsky-Korsakov by Winterhalter. Different people at different times. Do you still look like the fat drugged up Elvis?

Honestly, I am very lonely, but that is my own fault. Loneliness is a funny thing. I mourn the loss of people who meant so much to me, even when I know I could pick up the phone and talk to them right this minute. I think it must be my cross to bear that I love unconditionally, forever, people that I shouldn’t. I am in a constant battle to forget them, to let them go. Having a dog helps with some of that.

I am ready for the life that I thought I would have: over the top, eccentric, fun and full of cash. Job interview on Monday. As my former boss, any tips? My interviewer is a woman and that never goes well for some reason. I have a new lipstick called Orb. It’s a very high brow, coked up, death mod shimmer gold.  I don’t think I’ll wear it.

I’ve seen it raining fire,

Joce

Moneypenny,

I’m in Copenhagen right now. I came by train and will be here for a few days.  Then I am off to London to negotiate my position with a new company.

Yet, even with all my grand adventures, I am still frightened and find myself wandering the narrow streets, in the dark, crying my eyes out wishing I was in Fair Oaks, California or better yet, running away to Kosovo to help the refugees, or somewhere in my past, like elementary school. Don’t know if I’ll ever be settled, I think my life is short…blah blah blah

JOCE, I was wrong. I treated you unfairly and poor at best. I think of you fondly, I wish we went to dinner more often, to the movies even. But, I was fucked in the head, I’m sorry you were part of the “collateral damage” of my fucked life at the time.  It breaks my heart that we never went to Paris.