Ruli Wakes

I got up semi-early this morning and began the pre-surf ritual. The main component of said ritual is stripping down, pinning my hair up, and slathering myself with waterproof, sweat-proof SPF 30. Then, of course, there is the bagel eating portion of the ritual, followed by the strapping-Ruli-to-her-rack part.

You may not understand when I tell you that the drive over there was filled less with anticipation and more with dread. In a way all I wanted to do was turn around and go back to bed: I felt downright sick to my stomach. I thought about it then and I’ve thought about it since then, and I’ve decided that what it came down to was fear; fear that I wouldn’t remember how to do it, that I would be once more reduced to an utter kook making a fool of herself- but worse than that, the fear that it just wouldn’t be the same. That the joy and passion I once felt was only a wishful-dream of a memory, not and just as intangible.

When I arrived at the beach is was pretty empty- only a handful of joggers and walkers, and two guys with a short board learning how to use it. I smiled with nostalgia and thought to myself- please don’t let me fall down more than they do. As many times is fine, but just not more…

I’ll be honest- it was not good surf. But it wasn’t flat, either, which means that the waves were a hell of a lot better than they would have been in Birmingham, so I’m not complaining. In fact, I felt downright grateful for those teensy little swells that I knew would help ease me back in to the feel of things without threatening to drown me.

I unzipped Ruli (she travels in a pretty sturdy board bag, since I tend to have to take her ridiculous distances) and put on a fresh coat of wax- I was a little nervous about that, since I only had cold water wax with me and the last time I surfed in Jacksonville the water was warm as blood. It turned out, however, that the water was plenty cool enough to keep the wax in place (and me from wanting to die from lack of refreshment).

We eased into the water cautiously- although the calm meant I didn’t have to worry about losing my balance while I stood on one foot and strapped my leash to the opposite ankle. Then I walked her out a little deeper, keeping my fingers lightly on her back until it was deep enough for me to slip on and start paddling.

As soon as I was on I realized that I was in the wrong spot on the board- so I shimmied backwards until I felt the proper balance my body remembered. Then it was one clean stroke after another as I drew myself out to where I could see the little waves peaking. I have to say that a part of me didn’t mind one bit that I didn’t have to battle frigid white water to get out. It was definitely not a bad thing to not be exhausted before I even attempted the first wave.

I picked my spot and sat up, automatically shifting my weight to swing Ruli’s nose back toward the shore. I only had to sit maybe thirty seconds before I saw the tell-tale wrinkle that told me I’d be able to ride it in. Theoretically.

Down on my stomach I went, falling back into the familiar rhythm of paddle-paddle-paddle- then I felt the wave reach me and I felt the tiny drop that means Ruli is well and truly set and then…

I wish I could say that I triumphantly sprang to my feet and rode in on a blaze of glory, all my former hard-won skill undiminished by the passing of years. But the truth is that I lay there on my stomach and let myself be carried in while I re-familiarized myself with the movement of a wave. Time enough for standing on the next one.

And I did stand on the next one, for a whole split second, although it was the most awkward damn pop-up the world has ever seen. My body remembers a lot about how it should move while surfing, but not, apparently, how to properly place my damn feet. Nor how to keep my ass out of the air. A pop-up should be one fluid movement from prone position to crouched- mine was more like a pop-and-lock gone horribly wrong.

And yet.

And yet, even though the faulty pop-up was repeated several times (and yes, even the belly-ride to shore got repeated) I did manage to nail it once- and then again. And I remembered what it was to surf again.

I will admit that the joy was neither as deep nor as fierce as what I have felt in the past- but I think that has a lot to do with the fact that the Atlantic and I are Just Friends- whereas the Pacific and I have something of a Passionate Love Affair going on. Don’t get me wrong- I enjoy hanging out with the Atlantic, she’s a cool anthropomorphized body of water and all- but there’s just something about the Pacific that really stirs my blood and makes my heart sing.

It’s possible that it’s the raw power of the Pacific. I go in there and I know damn good and well that I could die- in a very serious way she could crush my body and fling it lifeless to the shore, or hold it down until the air has disappeared from my lungs. I step into her and I surrender to her- she lets me ride her- or she doesn’t. Whereas the Atlantic tends to be so mellow that I can wear my sunglasses in without fear of losing them.

But whatever. It’s a start.

On The Road Again

My alarm went off at 0500 this morning, and I was out of bed without the slightest bit of protest- such are the miraculous feats I’m capable of when there’s surfing involved. We were on the road before 0630, our bellies full of bread and cheese and our luggage stowed carefully in the back seat. Girly road trip, activate!

I’d checked out three different audio books from the library, but as it turned out we didn’t listen to any of them on the way down- just a cd mix on repeat (thanks Anna!) and a non-stop flow of words. We both missed my brother’s presence in the car- it was odd to make the trip without him. One of the topics we touched on was the Someday Home that Nathan and I like to design. The Someday Home has many fine amenities- including music and art studios, heated floors, an herb and vegetable garden, and a separate Mother-In-Law cottage for my mom to come stay in whenever she wants.

It took us about seven hours to get here- not bad, all things considered. Lunch with the girls and then shopping for a new rash guard (possibly there will be pictures… possibly) before we headed over to see my grandmother at her swank new assisted-living place. It’s not so bad, as far as these things go, but as we were kidnapping her for dinner we heard someone yelling, over and over, “Oh God, please help me! Oh God, please help me!” so I went into the room to investigate. It was a little old woman who calmed down when she saw me. I introduced myself, but she said she didn’t know her name. I asked if she wanted me to get someone for her, and she said she did- she wanted help, and clutched at her chest. I went back down to the front desk and told them, then returned to sit with her while she waited. I rubbed her arm for comfort, and as we talked I found her name written on her chair- Alma. The subject of family came up and I told her how many cousins my husband has, which made her laugh. Finally someone arrived to check on her, and I left. On my way out the orderly told me that she didn’t need any help, “That’s just her. She wants someone to be there with her all the time, and we just can’t do that.” I didn’t like her dismissive tone.

Later in the car I related the story to my mother, and she put her hand on my knee and said, “I can still come to stay in the mother-in-law cottage, right?”

Always.

Countdown

I’ll be spending the next few days in Florida with my Mom, visiting my dad’s side of the family. I’m not really sure what my internet-availability will be like, but rest assured I’ll write every day and post it all when I get back. That’s right, cats and kittens: a return to the Travelogue…

I’m pretty stoked about this trip, for a number of reasons. For starters I’m looking forward to seeing that part of my family. I haven’t seen them since December, which is a pretty short interval as my family measures these things, but still… once Nathan and I move back up to the PNW, who knows how often I’ll get this opportunity.

Reason number two is that I’ve never been on a road trip with just my mom and myself before. Well, not in within the bounds of my memory, at any rate. I’m sure my mom could rattle off some trip she took with me when I was two, but that doesn’t count. The drive to Jacksonville will be seven or eight hours (depending on who does the majority of the driving ::cough::) which means plenty of time for us to get into all sorts of topics without fear of interruption. This is a good thing: I enjoy long conversations with my mother.

But the reason that (perhaps shamefully) eclipses all the rest is this: I’m bringing Ruli, and she and I are going to dance again.

It suddenly occurs to me that you may not know who (or, rather, what) Ruli is. She’s my 8’6” mini long board, the great love of my life (after Nathan, of course). And she’s been propped up against my wall, hibernating, since my lonely road-trip to Charleston in March of ’08. That’s right- I haven’t been surfing in almost two and a half years. That is a long damn time. A long, long time.

But rather than let myself wander into the grey and gloomy region of my brain that counts how many days it’s been since I’ve been immersed in salt water, I shall instead focus on the fact that tomorrow- tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow- I can reset that counter.

(Countdown)

Thinking Too Much

You probably already know my story- most people do. They've even gone so far as to take my youthful, idealistic mantra for their own:

I think I can, I think I can!

Well let me tell you what happens when you think too much. Once the Powers That Be realize they can get that kind of work out of you they'll never settle for less. Never mind that you're not built for it- never mind that it's not your job and moreover that there are those whose job it is. Never mind that it was supposed to be a miraculous, once-in-a-lifetime achievement, and to force someone to repeat it over and over again robs it of its specialness.

No, never mind all of that. Instead, day after day I would hear, "C'mon kid! We think you can do it! More importantly, we know you think you can do it! Ha hah!" and no one caring what the strain was doing to my body, to my mind. Never any thanks for the extra effort, because after all, that's what I did: overcame impossible odds.

Is it any wonder I broke down long before my time?


(All Aboard)

Yo! Movie Producers!

Okay, so, there's a story behind this atrocious story. A friend of mine is building up her design portfolio, and she asked me for "five assignments"; I got so excited I gave her fifteen. They run the gamut from serious to seriously silly, and the absolutely most ridiculous one was this:

"A poster for the romantic comedy teen flick, "What Do Teens Like, Anyway?" about a woman who is mysteriously transported into her nephew's body and must up his social status before she can return to her normal life. The catch? She falls in love mentally and emotionally with his hot male psychology professor, but her nephew's body is totally in love with the prom queen! (Oh gods I want to slap myself for coming up with this, because you just know someone will make this shit into a movie. And it will do well. ::shudder::)"

Anyway we got to texting about it today, and I said maybe I'd just flesh out that plot for tonight's entry, and so I did. Please don't judge me. If you refrain from judging me, I promise to let you come visit me in the house I buy in Hawaii using the royalties this is sure to net me...

***

Seventeen-year-old Michael’s favorite cousin (actually his 29-year-old second-cousin on his dad’s side) (29 so that she can crack jokes about being only one year away from untrustworthiness) Joanie is coming for a visit and Michael couldn’t be more stoked. Joanie is a world-traveling artist and totally cool: something Michael is totally not. He’s hoping that during her extended stay she’ll give him some pointers.

Joanie arrives and Michael helps her unpack in the guest bedroom. As they do so she gives him a present she’s brought him from Japan: a daruma. She explains that it’s a wishing doll; Michael must make a wish and color in one eye. When the wish comes true he will color in the other eye. Joanie pulls out a handful of Sharpies and asks Michael what color he wants to make the eyes- she suggests brown like his own eyes, but he tells her green like hers, and colors in the eye wishing he could be as cool as Joanie. She tells him she thinks he’s pretty cool already, but she’ll do anything she can to help his wish come true.

That night Joanie has a dream in which she encounters a funny little old man who looks suspiciously like the daruma she gave Michael. The old man informs her that he’s taking her at her word to help fulfill Michael’s wish, and in the meantime he (daruma) will be taking a little holiday. Then the little old man hands her the daruma and tells her to take good care of it, reminding her to fill the other eye in once Michael’s wish becomes reality.

Green eyes flutter open and we hear Joanie thinking about her weird dream and wondering why she’s sleeping in Michael’s bedroom… She thinks she must have left a Maglite in the bed and reaches down to pull it out only to freak the hell out when she realizes what it is- and that it’s attached to her (morning wood hilarity!) Her awareness is in Michael’s body, and much jumping around and further freaking out ensues. She rushes into her room only to discover that her body is nowhere to be found, and that “she” has left a note saying something has come up and “she” will be back in a month or two. More freaking out, until she decides to find the daruma, which now has an eye the exact shade of brown as Michael’s. She tries to fill in the other eye, but it’s no use- the pigment just disappears almost as fast as she can lay it down.

Finally she accepts what must be done and goes to school, where she begins to plot Michael’s rise to popularity. The only trouble is that it turns out Joanie was never cool in high school, anyway. She didn’t really come into her own until college, and to this day doesn’t understand how the teenage mind works. Furthermore, Michael’s high school is in the suburbs, a culture she’s not really familiar with. As she struggles to adjust two people ping her radar: the first is Michael’s hot psychology teacher, Mr. Evans. The second is the beautiful but aloof prom-queen-apparent Daphne, to whom Michael’s body as a strong and undeniable attraction (erections are hilarious!).

After a couple of failed attempts at being “cool” by high school standards (including the requisite sports humiliation) Joanie decides her best bet is to win over Daphne- she figures that dating the most popular girl in school necessarily confers upon it a significant social rank. The only problem? Daphne never sees any guy more than once. Joanie at first attempts to woo Daphne “like a guy” but when that (hilariously) fails she decides to woo Daphne like she herself would like to be wooed- and is successful (during this entire time Joanie marvels at her extreme physical attraction to a girl when she has never felt any such stirrings before- contrasting it with her extreme mental/emotional attraction to Mr. Evans, whom her body is entirely indifferent toward). The courtship culminates in a sexual encounter- after which Daphne breaks down into tears and admits that she was afraid she’d never like a boy- that she’d thought she was a lesbian and that’s why she’s always been so aloof- she was afraid that people would be able to tell. But after her experience with Michael and his amazing tongue she thinks maybe she doesn’t mind sex with boys after all- although she says she feels her attraction to him is more of a mental thing. Joanie (who knows that her own attraction is based entirely in the hetero male body she’s possessing) has a long talk with her about “So what if you’re a lesbian? Screw the haters!” and the two end up agreeing to be (non-sexual) best friends.

Soon after Joanie starts noticing more and more girls giving him The Eye, and more and more guys wanting to “talk strategy”. She can’t figure out why until Daphne admits she started a rumor that Michael is the best lover she’s ever had- sort of a way to say “thanks” for helping her be comfortable with her own sexuality. It all comes to a head at prom, where Joanie winds “All-Around Best Guy”- she looks up to notice that her body is there, holding the daruma. Her body winks at her and suddenly she is staring up at dazed-looking Michael on stage, and the doll in her hands has two filled-in green eyes.

Joanie glances over and sees Mr. Evans is there chaperoning as well, and makes a move. Yay happy endings for all!

***

...now, about those royalties...

Jack Gets a Break

They say that the passage of time is nothing to an immortal- but I'm here to tell you they're wrong. Oh, perhaps time is nothing to an immortal who isn't tied to the seasons- but when you are then mister, time is pretty effin' evident. Your existence becomes broken down into two parts: the time of year when you're doing your job, and the other nine months. And maybe that sounds pretty great to non-immortals- only having to work a quarter of the time- but then I want you to remember that I don't get to quit. Ever. Literally ever. Can your brain even begin to process that concept? No retirement, no death. Just on and on forever. And I've got to tell you- there are only so many possible frost patterns to be made: the work gets damn repetitive after a couple of millennia. Every winter I more and more seriously considered shoving icicles through my eye sockets to alleviate the boredom.

But then I met Arachne.

She's an immortal, too- but she started out human. Most people might consider immortality a blessing from the gods, but just ask Arachne- she knows better. She royally pissed of some goddess or another back in the day, and in retaliation she got a (frankly pretty ugly) new form and an eternity to 'think about what [she'd] done'. Anyway I met her one summer as I was kicking around the Mediterranean (it's just prejudice to assume we winter creatures only like cold- we don't.) and we got to talking. Turns out she's an artisan, too, although she leans to weaving rather than etching. I asked if I could see some of her stuff and she showed me, and damned if I wasn't impressed (hard to do when you've been around as long as I have).

She waved off my praise, saying that honestly, she was getting a little bored with the whole thing. When you're immortal you have plenty of time to hone your craft- and she had long ago run out of new or challenging ideas. To her everything she'd created lately was static, boring.

I told her I knew exactly how she felt.

So we sat in that bar, sharing a couple pitchers of daiquiri and bemoaning our fates, and round about glass number four (or possibly five- I lost count) inspiration struck. I couldn't tell you now which of us had the great idea, but the next thing I knew we were at my summer place and I was teaching her the fundamentals of etching.

The upcoming winter was suddenly looking a lot more exciting.


(The Rare Arctic Spider)

Chronicles

I started watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles today. Many of my friends had recommended it to me, and since it's now available on demand on Netflix I decided to give it a shot. I've seen Terminator, and have enough of a grasp of T2 and T3 that I figured I'd be able to follow along without too many difficulties (plus I have the advantage of being able to poke Nathan for explanations). Turns out I was right- I'm about eight episodes in (don't judge me too harshly- I was doing other things like embroidering and eating while watching) and I am just absolutely loving the heck out of it.

What fascinates me about the show is that it's a fine example of our modern mythology. You know what I'm talking about- epic stories that were told by one person, but then were initially told by others, and still others, all in different media- stories that eventually take on lives of their own. Superman. X-Men. Even (dare I say it?) The Chronicles of Narnia (my brother-in-law has argued this point with me, but that's another post entirely). Sure, there is the Original Version, but that's almost beside the point now, because these stories have been retold and become so internalized by recent generations that we each have our own personal mythology surrounding them. I'm pretty sure that Harry Potter will soon follow suit.

It's wonderful tho, isn't it? Someone has an idea for a story- they tell that story. And if it has that magical spark, if it somehow manages to resonate with enough people, a whole different universe grows out of it. A more complex and beautiful creation than any author could possibly envision... shared creation. Lovely.