The Dream Is Over

John Lennon was never in love with Cynthia, I’m convinced. It was Yoko all the way, Yoko love, love at first sight. She was his fire and peace to the last moment. I put Lennon on as soon as I woke up, first ‘God,’ which segued to ‘Grow Old With Me’ and finally ‘Imagine.' Sunday morning music when you are questioning what you should be doing on Sunday morning, when you feel like pain and sleep, when you’re hungry. I tossed on a skirt that didn’t fit and clipped a safety pin on its side to keep it at my waist, then smeared on a bit of foundation to cover up four hours of sleep. I was going to make Mom happy no matter what.

She’d poked her head in the door about ten minutes prior to see if I was awake. I stared and glared back, I’m sure, because I’d been awaken by the sound of marimbas on my alarm and interrupted a fabulous dream in which I had been engaging in a great hug, and touched the shoulders and the hands and lips and hair of the receiver, and it was beautiful. “You found me,” I said, “you found me! How did you find me?” I cannot recall the vague response, though I can remember not much caring either. He was there.

And dear Jesus, there was a man in church that looked like Tim Doyle, old Doyle that used to come up to the Inn and harp on all of the women in his charmed, sleek ways. I’d seen Doyle on Broadway one afternoon in Fargo, and how couldn’t I; a rotund man riding an old bicycle, gap-toothed grin on his chubby face and a mop of salt and pepper on his head. Doyle was practically a cartoon. And I recall being concerned because Doyle the old railroad man had so many years of Western Melts and strong coffee from a caked mug in him, it was a wonder how he stayed alive. Old Doyle, he was generally inertialess.

Yesterday,
I was dreamweaver,
But now I’m reborn,

Our carts began overflowing with the usual seasonal beauty: giant, puffy red geraniums, marigolds, and the petunias that I never much cared for and only saw the beauty of in Mom’s hands. I told her she should name her next dog Petunia and she didn’t flinch. The Dahlias on the end cap caught my eye with their peach and pink blossoms and I imagined them fine wedding decor, or as several stems in a simple vase on a table at a home that I’d once own, once someday.

I was the walrus,
But now I’m John,
And so dear friends,

A French press on a Saturday night was, of all things, the end cap of a feeling. It tasted just like England and the freedom I used to have, from familiarity and comfort. The cappuccinos that I sipped while mingling on North Parade Avenue were my anthem, gone now and a thousand or so minutes away. They tell me I’ll want to go back soon, and I do; but not before I find myself here, like I did there. Not too soon, but someday soon. Thus begins, once again, a new chapter.

You just have to carry on.

Day of Rest

day of rest
Originally uploaded by approximatelyes

I never noticed how nice the small light from my bedroom window is — probably because I'm always too sleepy to appreciate it. I'm very sleepy right now but plan to footslog through this lovely day.

It's hard to believe I've been home for nearly three weeks, unreal actually. i have a list of things that, ideally, I'd love to accomplish. Today I dusted off my camera, after two months of idleness. I'm going to take photographs again.

Airline to Heaven

There's an airline plane
Flies to heaven everyday
Past the pearly gates

You can get away to heaven
On this aeroplane
Just bow your head and pray

But you will surely know
When to the airport go
To leave this world behind

You can hold your head and pray
It's the only earthly way
You can fly to heaven on time
Fly to heaven on time

Your ticket you obtain
On this heavenly airline plane
You leave your sins behind

Them's got ears, let them hear
Them's got eyes, let them see
Turn your eyes to the lord of the skies

Take that airline plane
It'll take you home again
To your home behind the skies...

Happy 74th in the sky to Grandpa Ed, love and strength whom I continue to call to mind each day!

Once on the Lips, Twice on the Hips

I was driving past McDonald's today and glanced up at the sign see a line of text that I hadn't noticed before: Billions and Billions Served, it said below the monstrous 'M'. The sheer thought of "billions and billions" cramming Big Macs and Cokes into their guts is disturbing, granted it didn't happen all at once (in somewhat of a Big Mac Bang), unsettling nonetheless.

I know I know—McDonald's is a really stretched-out, overworked and reworked, deep-fried and breaded topic that's been flipped and abused, namely since 2004's Super Size Me, kicked down, beaten up then stuffed into Happy Meal boxes and paper bags and served to "billions and billions" around the world. If there is one thing that you cannot escape traveling the world, it's McDonald's. I can recall seeing at least eight in every country I visited, always busy with famished tourists and locals. While in Amsterdam I took the liberty late one evening to visit the Golden Arches and indulge in a McFlurry for some ridiculous €1.83—which really made me wonder, for so cheap, what the H they really put in there.

Later on during my drive I was stopped at a light near a McDonald's billboard. Gee whiz, I thought, I can't escape this place. The board was fairly sparse save a gi-gan-tic burger, which in real life must have stood eight inches tall but the scale of the billboard made it 10 feet, with a three-foot thick beef patty. There were only a few simple words on the board, something like "Beefy. Tasty." The burger was glistening. I felt sick.

So why do feel the need to prattle on about Mickey D's? It's not about them, but more about what's around in general. Junk everywhere, and invitations to junk. I flipped over a receipt to look at the coupons on the back and found bargains for the China buffet: Buy One Buffet at Regular Price, Get the Second Free. A sudden flashback of the last restaurant I worked at comes to mind, visions of people gorging themselves with plates and plates of fried noodles. It took me working there to realize how destructive and disgusting this is—yeah, I used to do it, too.

I've never been so aware of what I consume as I am now. During my first semesters of college I'd go to the grocery store and load my cart with the cheapest food I could find, loaves of white bread, sugary cereals and granola bars—things I thought were healthy. Oh, and Oreos. I love Oreos, I will always love Oreos, they will always be a staple in my diet; if only 'Double Stuf' didn't translate to 'Once on the lips, twice on the hips.' Eventually I learned that 98 percent of what I was filling my body with over the years was high fructose corn syrup, sodium, enriched bleached flour, and trans fat. I imagined my organs engaging in a civil war inside of me: my stomach was ticked off that it was full of crap, swindled into thinking it was getting fiber and nutrients, while the HFCS surged forth, telling it to keep eating. And the poor Our Family canned veggies couldn't get in a word edgewise because they're suffocating in salt and never stood a chance at being liked by the ol' tum, or my kidneys for that matter. Agh! Egads! Are you trying to hurt me? And must you really smother that in cheese?

More conscience efforts are being made, and I've scrapped a lot of the things that make me feel deep-fried. I learned that if I feel like a jumbo Oatmeal Creme Pie after I eat one, it's probably my body telling me it hates me. Alas, I'm getting better at this. One of my new secret favorite things to do is shop for fresh produce. I know saying this has automatically aged me 20 years and made me 10 parts more lame, but really. Too often in the past I'd skip straight to the freezer aisles and forget where the good, real stuff was: peppers, zucchinis, tomatoes, onions and herbs, fruits and beans. I'm quite new to the practice and have still to really get into it—right now it's overwhelming, and quite scary—but with time I hope to learn to gloriously meld ingredients…fresh ingredients. Then I can truly make something that's "Tasty."

Something In the Way She Moves

George Harrison + Pattie Boyd on their honeymoon, 1966.

I'm currently reading "Wonderful Tonight: George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Me" by Pattie Boyd, where she leaks her escapades of muse-dom with two rock superstars. I can't put the book down. There's a segment where she talks about going on a holiday with George to Tahiti, disguising themselves throughout airports and laughing all day and night amidst clear waters and white beaches. What I would not give for a time like that…!

In a way the book as made me feel sympathy toward the Beatles, who were supersoaked in fame yet endured zero privacy. Can you imagine finding fans that had snuck into your house, or notice that your belongings have mysteriously disappeared into the hands of obsessive followers?

Fame, I tell you what.

Hometown Glory

I've been walking in the same way as I did
Missing out the cracks in the pavement
And tutting my heel and strutting my feet
"Is there anything I can do for you dear? Is there anyone I can call?"
"No and thank you, please Madam. I ain't lost, just wandering."

Free My Soul

Thanks for the joy that you're given me
I want you to know I believe in your song
And rhythm and rhyme and harmony
You've helped me along
Making me strong

I miss everything about these.

The Secret Lives of Squirrels

I was walking in the park today when I spotted a baby squirrel trotting along the edges of the path. Naturally, I had to observe. So I stopped in my tracks, and the little thing came right up to me. Squirrels in the park aren't bashful because they live amidst luxury. I mean think about it. They frolic in the trees surrounded by few roads (which is in my book their number one cause of death, judging by how many squirrel pancakes I've seen around these parts) and are fed by the many young, old, and just plain weird, crazy squirrelpeople of the park — the ones that carry around bread crumbs and nuts. You know who you are.

This little munchkin didn't stop there, oh no! I've been told in the past (by my brother, namely) that I'm a "sturdy" girl. I won't deny this, I've got a little meat on me; I never figured it would be enough to be mistaken for a tree trunk. Junior crawled atop my foot and straight up my leg! As soon as he reached my knee I jolted, and shook him off. Never know what those things are carrying — never know.

All this got me paranoid, pondering, fearful and I suddenly began noticing all squirrels. Like a fever. There was one with a scraggly tail, a fat one, a black one, a long, lean one. Which got me wondering: What goes on in squirrels' lives? What?

Does Mo Scraggly snort cocaine in the Poison Ivy? Meanwhile, Fatty's high up in the trees eating fudge stripes and Doritos, Momma squirrel's yelling about Jr's grades — which is why he ran away to me in the first place. Do they get their tails done — cut, shampooed, styled, etc. — at the Squalon? Shop for groceries along the river, go camping, play poker, fly kites, square dance? What. Goes. On.

Something tells me these thoughts are not worth my wondering...

On this day

1927: Charles Lindbergh departed from Roosevelt Field in Long Island in the Spirit of St. Louis, Paris-bound on the first non-stop solo trans Atlantic flight. Well done, Charles.

Catching my breath

Morning in Minot, trying to regroup and track where I'm at. Barely sunrise and I've managed to figure out that I like mornings and should make them a part of my day. Years past I've lived watching the hour signs, reading the closing time. It's time to watch for the opening.

The woman next to me has had wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy too much coffee. She hasn't taken a breath yet. "I get up Sunday morning and I read it, and Joe's up as well and I say 'No, you can't have it.' And I read it. And when I'm done I say, there you can have it. You can have that section, and that section...She's not charging you for that, is she? But, so when it comes to the house now, yesterday and the day before Monday I called the kitchen designer and said can you meet me at 1:00 because I had to meet the electrician got there at a quarter to two, didn't even get to talk to the electrician — well Joe did — yadda yadda so Monday I was up posting no trespassing signs and I had to go match this to the pillars, I've just been running around doing things at the house arranging when the fireplaces are going to get in...I don't have time anymore!!!!!....and...and...AND before that I also have to figure out appliances for the kitchen and the ventiliation and I have to figure out!! I have like a week and it was it was it was…and she'd said to me, OH FUNNY I should have brought the pictures and stuff. It was BAD. I had some idea of what the design would be and I sat down with her. See here's the kitchen and here's this wall and the big wall here and the fireplace. Here's the back of the house that overlooks the trestle, and here's the front of the house. Then there's a staircase here and the dining room — YOU'LL SEE IT WHEN I GIVE YOU A TOUR. I can't do it this time because I have to do something for Joe. See it wraps around like this. But at the island I have three seats here and she gave me a lot better ideas on placement. She says to me she says…OH SHE WAS EXCELLENT. And the ice maker was $800. I said 'We don't need that much ice…'"

Barf.

LIBERAL, THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE. Liberal, with your piercings, your colors, your free thoughts. You stay out late and run the town, filling your head with all sorts of crazy, liberal ideas. And what…what are you wearing?! Are those clothes, or are you dressed in a statement? I don't get it. You're wild.

Hurricane Headroom

THESE DAYS ALWAYS GET ME. Sucked into the cyclone of a disheveled space, I find myself sitting on the floor untangling knots in the necklaces I wore during the 8th grade.

A crisis closet, six tons of never-been-worns, five bags for giveaway, one for my sister. The magazine scraps I saved back in Grade 13, finally in the trash. Jewelry and power cords upon notes from guys I dated six years ago. What is this stuff? And why in Sam Hill did I keep this nonsense around for so long?

My bed's made at least but it doesn't make a difference; my room's still a nightmare.

Blargh, I tell you. Blargh.

Work-a-days

DAD MUST LOVE THOSE SOUNDS, each night from the love seat before the giant windows of the sun room, of kitchen pans clanging and closing drawers as a metal spoon scrapes the bottom of the pot. Six-thirty rolls around and it's clockwork, feet kicked cross-legged and hanging over the leather arm, arms crossed, chin up, eyes closed. Dreaming, probably, of pork chops and applesauce and Tracy's macaroni-and-whatever.

"Honey. Honey. Dinner's ready." A startled awaking, he hurries to his feet and makes a loop, scanning the feast, around the table to his chair.

BlessusohLordforthesethygiftswhichweareabouttoreceivefromthybountythrough
ChristourLordamen.

Pass the butter, the water, the main course. He must wonder of these in the shop, standing outside that giant blue garage door and staring away to the cars flying down Burdick. One hand on his hip and the other rested at his side, foot atop foot with a bent knee, then shift his weight, and again. He'd step to his pickup truck, the one I always thought too large for him, and he'd lean and drift again. This was his smoke break, cigaretteless; a getaway for thoughts. He'd think of what car he'd love to buy but no matter, he loves that '88 Tercel to bits. Four wheel drive and a manual dream — whoooo-wheeee, like youth! Make an offer on it, he'd say, knowing full well it wasn't for sale, it would never be for sale. It made his life too interesting...

And once his plate was clean, and he after he finishes the Daily, National Geographic, Newsweek — the diverge rests between the basement sofa, resuming rested position, feet-kicked-cross-legged, and the garage with his half-solved curbside collection, gadgets, and the waves of thirteen-ninety KRRZ radio that steamed from that curious, curious-shaped radio thing of his.

Dad must love those sounds.

Annnnnnnd....I can't sleep.

All's Well That Ends Well

There it all happened, on that continent somewhere around the corner and across an ocean. I did it, I made it done, welcome back. And now there's just no way to make it all in writing the way I saw it through eyes and heart. There's no sleep, either.

The world was good to me for eight weeks, lugging, chugging along mountains and staircases, drifting through channels on ferries and high flying; wandering, wondering, being amazed. There was a feeling more alive, and aware. I made it done, I saw it. I loved it, beautiful scenes rolling on through windows, and sparkling city lights, sand between toes. Climbing. Driving. Planning and executing, the defeat of sitting still. No-matter-what, where-are-we-going, which-way, and we-made-it's. We made it done.

Sit down with my little friend jet lag. Confusion set in, steering down familiar streets in a recognized town and all I can think of is my incertitude of the air's temperature, the month, the day of the week...

...and my! Did that all really just happen? Did that happen?


Pinch me, I'm home.

I've been writing a lot about my travels, but hardly ever go beyond the surface of things. How is life? Of course when you're in Europe things seem shinier, the boys are always beautiful and each day is coated in the glory and satisfaction that you are far, far away. I love this. I love being far away, and I love remembering that I'm far away. It adds to the complexity of being unattainable, or at least distant. I hate this.

Things have been good, yes. To leave it at this — at 'good' — is to ignore the underlying verity of my mind. This has been the hardest thing. Not ever, but certainly a genre of difficultly that I have not encountered. I still wake up each day with the delight of a new journey at hand. I've seen more in six weeks than I've seen in my life's entirely: Oxford, Stonehenge, London, Ireland, Paris, Rome, cathedrals, castles, rivers, people and beyond. I've been fortunate enough to experience these days, to spend carelessly and worry little. Never has my life been as carefree as it is at this time, and I worry: Will it ever be again? When I leave this city, can I return? And when?

What then, is the difficulty? I've gone confidently with uncharted direction and made it this far. I've been surrounded by twenty or so, every day along the way. Together we saw the Eiffel Tower, the Roman Baths, Pisa. I've hardly felt more alone.

Things have been good, but all I really want to do is sleep with the comfort that I can wake up and see the people that make home, home. Those that know me from the core and to a 'T', that are a part of my life not because we are thousands of miles from home together, but because they willingly desire to be a part of my life.

Everyone needs someone, and right now everything feels so far away. And I'd just love a nice, close hug.

Gelateria

Heaps behind a glass shield
in tin bins gleaming with cold
Old Gelato in apron, gone smile
Done in, draws his weapon
the scoop.
Stracciatella, Coco, Fragola
smeared atop a cone
A fashioning of cream, bello
Handed slowly, gone smile
Done in, Old Gelato.