I Met Commander Riker at the Bar Last Week

They'd sat down next to me at the corner of the bar, though there was plenty of room for them to sit elsewhere. I couldn't tell if he and the woman were related or actually dating. There was a tension between them that suggested they couldn't just be friends, but even so they showed no affection for each other. The two of them both had dark brown wavy hair, medium skin tone, and dark brown eyes. There was even something similar in their noses. After ordering glasses of wine they sat without speaking, almost waiting for someone else to pay them attention.

My mother has a brilliance for discovering people's life stories. But the truth is, it's a kind of uncontrolled power for her. She'll walk up in line at Home Depot and moments after handing over a hammer and nails to pay for, suddenly the cashier will be crying and discussing her tragic divorce, though she'd been calm with each customer before. Or, my mom and I will be out shopping together and suddenly she'll be finding out about a man's childhood in Korea, the youngest son of Internationally traveling ESL teachers, while I'm off looking at blush and lipstick on the other side of the counter. Her technique seems to be as simple as offering an attentive ear and just the right pressure of questions to open the vault of personal information from whomever happens to be lucky enough to engage her in even brief conversation. Having grown up observing this talent, I developed a few similar techniques of my own that I've jokingly called "putting on my mom scope."

After sitting beside the quixotic couple for at least half an hour while they sat side by side without talking, except to order their wine, I decided it was time to find out if they were romantically involved, or not. I turned on my mom scope and asked them where they were visiting from. It was obvious they were from out of town.

Within twenty minutes I'd discovered that the two had indeed been dating for over nine-months. She was visiting Flagstaff for the first time, and he was here guiding her. They'd both grown up in the Salt River Valley of Arizona, and now both lived in Scottsdale as well. He'd been unemployed for at least a year, though he used to work for the government, and she was a producer of videos. She wanted a dog but didn't have one. He rented a room close to his favorite restaurant-bar, where as she owned a house down the road from it. She was the youngest in her family and wasn't very close to them any more. He didn't have any siblings. Nine months ago they'd both visited San Francisco and happened to fly back sitting next to each other on their return flight. It was then their apparent interest in each other had sparked. Even so, beyond their being side by side at the bar, it was hard to see sparks of interest between them now. Still, I thought, they must be involved now for some reason. They must like each other somehow.

We chatted for a while. He did most of the talking. Though I found out details of both their lives, and their mutual relationship, it was he that related most of those details for the both of them, and he succeeded at avoiding any personal questions about me. It was clear he fancied himself knowledgeable about wine--he'd advise her on whatever she ordered--and that he took himself to be there to take care of her, and yet most of his attention went to talking with me. Finally he paused the conversation and then looked at me quite seriously. "Now it's time for the really important question," he said. "Kirk or Picard?"

I looked at him and laughed. "You don't even know what you just got yourself into," I responded. I'd been teaching a class on sci-fi at the university the entire semester and was used to having conversations on STAR TREK with friends as well. "The answer to that is obvious." I said.

"Oh?" he seemed pleased.

"Yes. Even the straightest men I know still say 'As long as he keeps talking, Jean-Luc can do whatever he wants with me.'"

The man laughed. "Good. Good." He responded. The conversation turned, then, into the value of Jean-Luc Picard--he was a good man, we agreed--and of THE NEXT GENERATION more generally. "I want to be Picard," the man said, and then he stared off into space for a time. Something about his silence made me wonder about him. "Who do you want to be?" he asked me.

Anyone really into STAR TREK is likely familiar with a tendency of fans to take the characters of the franchise into a kind of personality test. There are two levels of this style of question--which character do you want to be, for one; and which character do you think you actually are? Not everyone is integrated with the person they'd want to be, after all.

I laughed and told him I too admired Picard and that I took myself to be a kind of mix of Picard, Deanna, and Worf, and that I'm happy with that idea. I'm driven by principles, am a little too aware of other people's feelings, and am determined to be passionate in whatever I do. He seemed to appreciate this answer. "I want to be Picard," he said again. Again he stared quietly into space.

I turned to his girlfriend, who had been silent throughout this conversation. "Do you enjoy sci-fi too," I asked her.

"I like STAR TREK a little bit," she responded. Still they sat away from each other. I'd already tried multiple times to bring her into conversation without success so when her comment ended there, I left it. Finally she got up to go to the bathroom.

He was still staring into space quietly. Again, something about his silence intrigued me. "Tell me about why you want to be Picard," I said.

"He's such a good man. He's almost too good. He seems too ideal. I'm not sure anyone could be him. But Riker. Riker admires him so much. Riker can't even leave the ship, he admires Picard so much. He stays on the Enterprise just to keep learning all he can from Picard." The man kept focusing on Riker and began laughing talking about Riker's obnoxious behavior at different points in the NEXT GENERATION series. I realized then, it wasn't Picard he wanted to be.

In all the years since its inception in the 1980's that I've been discussing THE NEXT GENERATION with others, I have never met a person that would answer the personality question "which of the characters do you WANT to be" with the answer "Commander Riker." Riker is brash, arrogant, a touch too reactionary. He fancies himself a ladies man and a loner at the same time. He is never willing to take his own leadership role but then almost demands it inappropriately at other times. People don't even really like Riker. There just don't seem to be many reasons to WANT to be him. He seems written into the storyline just to highlight Picard's well established Captain demeanor.

I have, however, met plenty of people that will jokingly say they think they're in a Riker phase. A close friend even made the comment to me just two weeks ago that he thought he was "coming out of [his] Riker phase." The idea here is that we can all acknowledge we go through periods where we're not quite what we idealize, and yet it's just the phase of our lives that we're in. We're just going through a Riker stage of life.

But after over an hour of conversation with this man sitting a bit too close to me at the bar while his girlfriend was either silent or now in the bathroom, I realized I was sitting beside someone that actually wanted to be Riker. That wasn't in a Riker phase, but actually admired Riker and wanted to be like him. So I broached the subject. "You keep pointing out that Picard is too high an ideal. Are you sure he's who you want to be?"

"Well, I admire Picard," he said.

"Oh, yes. Of course. We all do. But admiring someone and wanting to be him don't seem to be the same thing." He nodded. "Riker admires Picard," I continued. "But Riker knows he can never actually be Picard. Riker accepts himself. It seems important for any of us to accept who we are and who we want to be both. Riker admires Picard, but he knows that's not who he is."

"Yes. Riker. Riker chooses to be himself. That's right," the man said. He was staring off into space again.

"You know, Riker gets an awful bad rap." I said. "People think they don't want to be Riker. But he's not a bad person. He comes off like a womanizer, but he never actually cheats on anyone, and he's devoted to Deanna till the very end, even when they're not together. And he admires Picard, who is a very good man. Someone could say they want to be Riker, and still totally admire Picard."

The man looked at me. "Yes. Riker is not a bad person, is he?"

"No. You could admire Picard but be Riker. Riker admires Picard." I said again.

The man wasn't staring into space anymore. He was clutching his glass of wine and looking at me. "I want to be Riker." he said. He took a deep breath and looked down into his glass of wine. He repeated himself quietly. "I want to be Riker," and then he was silent.

His girlfriend returned from the bathroom. She hadn't heard his Riker confession. He seemed relieved she'd missed it. We all sat there quietly for a while. "What do you do for a living, by the way?" he asked me. This was the first question in over an hour of talking that he'd directed at anything specifically personal about my life (beyond the STAR TREK personality test).

"I teach sci-fi at the University," I said. "I teach a class on STAR TREK."

He started laughing and turned quickly to his girlfriend, putting his arm around her for the first time since they'd entered the bar. "She teaches sci-fi at the university! She teaches a class on sci-fi at the University." he said to her. He was laughing and leaning into her. "A class on it," he said again. They were quiet for a minute while he chuckled.

Finally they stood up and said, "We've got to go." He was still chuckling to himself. "Thank you." he said reaching out to shake my hand. "Thank you." They left the bar, this time his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Why I Am A Bad Mother

I don't want to do a fucking lemon stand and I'm not going to do a yard sale just so my kid can raise money either. I don't have the patience to braid anyone's hair. I don't even brush my own. If I make cookies I AM going to make them. I'm not going to make them with anyone else. I don't know how to do that. When prom time comes around I'll probably send her in a vintage Christian Lacroix dress that makes her stand out as an odd ball from everyone else wearing all those cheap crap ugly polyester-satin dresses. I won't be able to stomach it otherwise. I let her listen to Lady Gaga and I make her listen to Prince. She manipulates me a little bit and I know it and go for it anyway. I let her finish her school year a whole month before the rest of town did. I send her away to her grandparents at least twice a year. We've moved too much. She asked if she could cut all her hair off and I said, "okay." She's only 11 but the way she dresses some random dude went up and asked, "Hey girl! You got an extra smoke." She's super anti-smoking. She knows the key words to use when describing how a glass of red wine smells. She knows all the cuss words in English except the big and little C, and she knows some in French too. She just doesn't say 'em. Unless we're playing Lily Allen or Mumford & Sons in the car then she sings right along to the lyrics and sings the F-word along with them too. She's seen all of SEX AND THE CITY. Until she was 7 she used to have a drink of beer every New Year. When she turned 7 the Bush Administration convinced her that was wrong. I embarrass her some of the time. Then her friends think I'm cool and she's not embarrassed. Except none of the other moms are cool so my being cool means I'm somehow less of a mom. She wakes up before I do. I don't make her breakfast. Sometimes we eat ice cream first, before dinner. She only goes to church with her grandparents. Somehow I accidentally raised her to talk too much. When men try to come on to me by being nice to her I just walk away and let her deal with it. She's good at that. I've fixed up my bedroom closet before I've fixed up hers. I still haven't paid her lunch bill at her last elementary school. I rarely put sunscreen on her. I wasn't the one that taught her how to fart quietly. She burps loudly too. When we lived in Montreal one of her favorite people to dance with was trans. It didn't occur to her to think this was odd. I taught her whether people love each other and treat each other well is what matters when it comes to marriage and relationships. I taught her marriage might not actually be important and when you were born in relation to how long people have been together or whether it's legal probably doesn't matter either. I discouraged her from watching BRATS but let her watch both HELLO KITTY and BARBIE movies. When she's super upset and crying I let her cry. I told her she doesn't have to go to college, but some things in life might be easier if she does. I still haven't uploaded a video application to that reality show she's into. I can't decide what I think of this. When she tries to tell me she's strange I say things like, "none of us should assume any of our ideas are new or interesting." Sometimes she eats cookies for breakfast. She still doesn't know how to bake cookies. She does know how to cook four different kinds of eggs. Other people taught her this. She's worked with camels a bit. I make her clean up her own pets' poop. Every time she takes out her hamster I tell her to be careful with him, even though she's taken him out more than I have. All of these things are okay with me.

A Visit with the Life of My Closet: Or, The Spy's Guidebook In Clothing and Accoutrement

Most recent costume: Maarf Vhan,
a half-Vulcan, half-human inter-galactic diplomat

Around the age of ten I used the money I'd earned from commercial fishing for salmon in the summers to buy myself THE SPY'S GUIDEBOOK. THE SPY'S GUIDEBOOK was an inch and a half thick book mixing intricately detailed text with cartoon like drawings. The book was full of words like "query", discussed using fingerprint powders in black or white, depending on the background to be tested, and also contained a thorough index of codes. I was enthralled.

One of the key elements of THE SPY'S GUIDEBOOK was the chapter discussing costumes designed to turn you into someone else, keep others from recognizing you, and also simply throw people off your trail by distracting their attention from you to what you were wearing. Soon after purchasing and reading THE SPY'S GUIDEBOOK I turned the storage sections of my desk at the time into a costume arsenal. I gathered any clothing and accoutrement I could find in my room that might serve to alter my appearance and organized them into the drawers and cubbyholes of the desk. My parents were unimpressed at this room change. Having odd sized dresses and small pillows with rope sewn into them (to tie about the waist, of course) hanging out of the teak cabinet above my desk didn't have the aesthetic appeal for my parents that it did for me. They didn't look at the piles and see other possible worlds and characters to be consumed by. They just saw a mess of fabric.

Years before I was old enough to buy myself the book, my sister and I used to ride our dirt bikes to the Rexall Drugs behind our house. Once a month we'd have gathered together and saved enough coins from around the yard or living room to manage the purchase of the new Vogue magazine and a pint of Haagen Daazs Chocolate Chocolate Chip Ice Cream. We'd buy our two items and rush back to the house, descending into the basement, and leaning against the dark wood paneling to flip slowly through the fashion magazine while we ate the ice cream. We'd spit each chocolate chip back into the lid of the pint and at the very end, when we'd finished the magazine and the ice cream both, we'd split the chocolate pile and fill our mouths with our own half. I'd stare off out the window while I worked on the chocolate hoard slowly melting it down dreaming about what it must feel like to wear any of the dresses I'd just seen.

After my parents demolished my costume treasury, returning my desk to being just a desk, I dreamt of different ways I might be able to have a costume collection robust enough to transform me into whatever figure I might need to be for spying purposes. Somehow mixed into this imagery in my head was the idea that some of the costumes might resemble the high fashion extravaganza my sister and I saw each month. I had this idea that with a simple change of clothes, and a full commitment to whatever persona the clothing was meant to represent, I could completely alter my mood, who I felt myself to be, and the way others interacted with me too. It wasn't that I would literally be a different person. There would be some consistent self making such choices, but still I would be changed, having stepped into some other world for as long as the costume was worn.

One of the other things I understood from THE SPY'S GUIDEBOOK though too was that wearing costumes wasn't just about entering alternate worlds but also about study of the human psyche. Spying for me was about coming to understand what other people were really about. Changing costumes would change the way I felt, but it would also help me dream my way into understanding other people's worlds. Their daily lives. Such insight would be gained from developing my imagination as flexible enough to stretch into an empathy with other people's lives, but also through careful observation of other people's behavioral habits. That was the key to mastering costumery and the knowledge of what it was to be a person both, and both, from what I could tell, were what spying was all about.

It occurred to me this morning while I put wigs into one bin, leather bracers and harnesses into another, various clip-on animal ears, whiskers, and paws into still another, and then sorted oddly shaped wrap dresses in silk from ruched sided brightly colored dresses in the hanging closet, that I've somehow turned my entire adult life into a combination of these two childhood experiences. Here I am living out both the question of what it would feel like to wear any of those dresses I saw in the fashion magazine and the fantasy of inhabiting alternate worlds via how I dress, what costume I put on. My closet has become the costume treasury I dreamed of as a child. And somehow too, as a result, my daily life has become that same exploration of the human psyche in which I explore continuously not only what it is to be me, but what it might be to be the people I have committed to in my adult life, and the various people I interact with briefly on a more daily basis. So that somehow my closet represents a mix of the worlds of people I've loved and people I've simply met, and at other times only dreamt.

Whooping Hanta Tin Man Virus

It's been a nutball month for health around here. Since it's the last day of November, and I got sick at exactly 12-midnight o'clock on Nov 1, I'll write up a summary of it here and then move on into healthy-ier December. Thank the lord.

Turned out I got pneumonia, as some of you may recall. Then it turned out I stayed quite tired, and my lungs remained crackly when I breathed laying down, and I kept a cough long after I finished that round of anti-biotics. But when I went to the on campus clinic here they said my lungs sounded fine, I didn't have a fever, and I should just wait to recover. It can take a long time to heal up after pneumonia. So, off I went. Then another two more weeks went by and my lungs were more crackly. I was started to suffer deliriousness off and on; my body was having flu like aches; and my lungs were making lots more noise. But only when I was breathing laying down. See, the thing is, even when I was really really sick (how sick DO dogs get, by the way, since people often say "sick as a dog"?) and got diagnosed with pneumonia my lungs never did make noise through a stethoscope when I was sitting up. Tricky dang lungs. So, anyway, I was staying sick even though I'd been told I was fine, and it was starting to not only really bother me since I couldn't actually leave the house and do anything, it was starting to worry me too.

A few days ago I saw the most adorable little mouse in our house, and right after screaming I thought, "oh! isn't it cute." and then I screamed again. And then I decided I MUST have hantavirus. Hantavirus as EVERYONE knows is passed from mouse to human via mouse poop. It is NOT passed from human to human, thankfully. Those humans that spend a lot of time together will tend to both have it since they likely were both exposed to the same mouse poop. But, even so, we bipeds don't get it from each other. Further, amazingly those cute little scream inducing mice don't get sick from the virus at all. They just carry it around, healthy as an ox, and then poop the virus out.

Now I see mice out of the corner of my imaginary vision everywhere, and for a whole day was certain I was laying here continually breathing in hantavirus. I had ALL the symptoms too, you know.

Then I found out my friend in Seattle had pertussis. YOU KNOW. Whooping cough (that's a whooping crane just there, you know)--a disease called that because it is characterized by vigorous coughing followed by a WHOOPing noise echoed from the chest of the cougher as their lungs struggle to take in air. My friend in Seattle had it. SURELY she could have given it to me over the phone.

Then, I decided I'd go for a short walk (5 minutes) just to get out of the house for a bit. Only, half way into my 5 minute walk I suddenly developed this weird pressure, and then also pain right in the center of my chest. And then I was having trouble breathing. And then I couldn't talk and stand in one place at one time cause it demanded too much air of me. So I turned around and promptly went back home. Except I was still having chest pain after sitting down. And I was now coughing excessively too. And I couldn't get enough air. And now CLEARLY I WAS HAVING A HEART ATTACK.

So, I did what any sensible person with a hanta-whoop-pertussis-virus-cough induced heart attack would do. I drove myself to the emergency room.

After 5-hours of testing and observation in which it was first ruled out that I had any remants of pneumonia left, and then ruled in that I COULD have a pulmonary embolism, and also ruled IN that I could have something wrong with my liver or kidneys, and then ruled out again that anything was wrong with my liver or kidneys, and then briefly ruled in that my heart really could be broken, and then ruled out again that it could be... they FINALLY decided to settle things once and for all and give me a ct-scan. Cause, see, the thing was, with the symptoms I was having if I didn't have pneumonia something could be really wrong.


So, I got iodine squeezed into me while I was pushed into a little tube of photographic magic in which they took 600-pictures of the inside of my chest.

It turned out there was no clot (no embolism) in my lungs. THANK GOD. There was pneumonia.

See, it was a good thing I finally went to the emergency room to get checked out cause even there my lungs, while sitting up, sounded just totally fine. Even after an entire month of trying to fight off a bacterial infection STILL my lungs were vain enough to sound pretty for the stethoscope. Amazing. Clear as a bird (how clear are birds?). And so a clinic would have just thought I had some standard upper respiratory infection. And then MAYBE the clinic would have been big enough to have an x-ray machine. But my pneumonia was determined enough to hide itself there too. Be pretty for the picture. (I really actually kind of admire that lung determindness to strive for perfection, to be honest.) So, it took the cross-sectional radiation-laden invasiveness of the ct-scan to show my bacterial infection in the middle lobe of my right lung.

I've spent the whole month of November in bed. I don't think I even have legs anymore, actually. How could I if I haven't needed them to move in anyway at all? But, now I'm on two different "synergistic" types of anti-biotic, and I really just think I'm gonna head straight into healing right up this time.

In the meantime, my friend that has whooping cough and I are doing the only reasonable thing people with such illness can do. We're making commemorative t-shirts.

Dam*ing Palin and Coining New Words

Earlier today I got to have a Sarah Palin moment.

Anyone that's spent time around me much in the last two years, knows how irritated by the Sarah Palin phenomenon I've been. Being from Alaska, having met the woman, and knowing the places she's from, there are times when I feel like I can see right through both her bullshit, and also the ways she's been misunderstood on the national stage. It was interesting for me during her candidacy to watch the ways she was described in the national media, or that ways she behaved were responded to. Because being someone from Alaska that has now lived "abroad" in the rest of the United States for quite some time (the contrast between Alaskan life and continental-U.S. really does feel like being in a foreign country), I had the luxury of understanding how what she was doing made real rational sense in the place she was from, and also why it still looked bat shit crazy in her now much larger national context.

Honestly, I have no sympathy for her now that she's clearly chosen to pursue her national spotlight post-McCain kaffafel. But, I've also gotten more comfortable with the idea of referencing her (though still mostly ironically). For a while, I'd very angrily tell friends that brought her up that, dammit, she was on the NO TALK list. Mostly, I've moved on from there. Still, I have no desire to discuss her various merits or foibles here.

Then WTF? Why do I bring up Palin at all? I have to reference her recent recogition by the people of Oxford Dictionary in having generated the "Word of the Year." Her use of the coined-by-her word "refudiate" in a twitter message last year (that she then immediately deleted out of embarrassment over the fact that IT IS NO WORD AT ALL, and replaced with the word "refute", which admittedly IS IN FACT A WORD but MADE NO BLEEP DAMN SENSE IN THE CONTEXT IN WHICH SHE WAS USING IT) garnered her inclusion in Oxford's practice of indoctrinating newly minted, but somehow appropriately evocative terms.

Oxford's explanation of taking up the new concept was based in the process they found implicit in the coinage. They took her made up expression to be a combination of "refute" and "repudiate" that somehow captures the meaning of both words in a context where neither would be adequate on their own. Um, really? (...insert pause here) Two words that are not appropriately meaningful on their own to the idea being expressed, when combined into a made up non-sensical could actually sense making make anew? ...Well, okay then. It's an incredible power when someone has the ability to do THAT.

So, getting back to my original comment--earlier today I got to have a Sarah Palin moment. I attended a presentation given by a colleague on campus here that was discussing the idea of dignity and Indigenous rights. Afterwards during the discussion session I responded to his interesting talk by suggesting that a brief comment he made about the role justice played in the question of Indigenous peoples and nation-state laws could be expanded to give further insight into the question of this relationship. I took a few minutes to consider the way in which Justice is often understood as a matter of individual rights versus overall good, but that theorists like Iris Marion Young expand our understanding of justice to say that individual rights operate in conjunction with group dynamics as well. That it is only in examining the way in which justice depends upon individual rights in conjunction with group dynamics that we can more clearly understand the various intricacies of a just society. The point I was making was simply that such a distinction seems especially important in terms of understanding an idea like Indigenous rights, since there is a critical element of group politics operating there.

Afterwards a man that had also been in the audience made a point of introducing himself to me. Our conversation included merely my responding to his "hello" by offering my name, and then answering his question of why I happen to be here on campus for the year. Then he looked at me sideways with a smile in his eye and asked, "Are you Narragansett?"

Honestly, I'd never heard the word before but in the context understood he was asking me my tribal affiliation. I paused for a second scanning my memory for what I guessed was a tribal name and then responded, "no, actually, I'm from Alaska. Aleut and Inupiat."

Gratefully, my referencing the home state of the current head nut job of the so-called Tea Party did NOT make him reference her. Instead he moved on to explain why he'd asked.

"Ah!" He said. "Well, I didn't mean it as an insult." (Which, honestly I thought was an odd thing for him to say. I hadn't taken it that way. But perhaps my pause misled him.) "I meant it as a compliment, actually. You have a VEROCITY to you that is very much like the women of the Narragansett. You don't mess with any of them." Then he smiled again, explained it was nice to meet me, and walked away.

You don't mess with any of them... Well, that would imply you don't mess with me either. Huh. I talk about justice. I give him my name, and it turns out that's intimidating enough to garner a "you don't mess with me" name plate to put above my door like New Hampshire's frame around their license plate, but not intimidating enough to keep him from meeting me. Interesting such people are. (Honestly, maybe I should find a "You don't mess with me!" sign to always hang in my office where ever I may go?)

I stood there for a minute. Huh. I have a verocity about me, he said. A verocity. I honestly don't know what that means.

But then I remembered the Sarah Palin power, and its celebration by the now clearly nutbag crazy Oxford English Dictionary and realized what he was saying to me. It's not that the Narragansett women and I just have veracity, oh no, that would not be enough, though we DO have that. We do have an ability to see and tell the truth. We also have ferocity. (That's right. We are FEROCIOUS, Mo-Fo!) In fact, we have veracity and ferocity in a way that is so simultaneous and intertwined with each other that we have a presence that can only be described as kind of newish-like and wild. We have verocity. We are simultaneously truth-seeing, truth-speaking, and ferocious in it.

Compliment indeed! Baby, that's powerful. I've decided to own it. I want a shirt that says, "Baby, I'm verocious!"

9-hour Phone Calls and Friendship Appreciation

Earlier tonight I was feeling tired and got a quick phone call and then suddenly remembered a moment I'd had with an old boyfriend about 9 or 10 years ago.

I had moved back to Alaska for a year and a half, but my boyfriend at the time was living in Colorado. Neither of us had cell phones. It was actually difficult to have one in Alaska at the time, and in general fewer people had them outside of places like California and New York. Instead, I simply had my own land line phone number. In Alaska there was a long distance system where you could pay a flat amount of $15 and then have unlimited long distance calling within the United States. With the remoteness of the place, sanity depended on being able to call out to family members and friends that lived elsewhere.

As a result, my boyfriend and I would talk at least daily. We'd often talk at night, after a long day of work when we were both tired. It was nice to close the day with him that way. I'd get ready for bed. It was Alaska so it was always dark, and then one of us would call the other and we'd talk until we were both too tired to stay up any longer. It really was incredibly sweet and it made both of us feel quite close to each other despite the physical distance. More often than not though I'd wake up the next morning with the portable phone next to me and a bit of drool on the pillow.

At the end of the first month I checked my phone bill and scrolling through the long distance calls I found a nine hour phone call. What the hell? It turned out he and I had both fallen asleep on the phone while talking to each other. Neither of us ever hung up the phone. Thanks to the monthly flat rate long distance plan the call didn't cost any more. It was just hilarious to know we'd literally slept together via phone. It turned out he was able to get back up to Alaska after only two months, so the long distance part of the relationship didn't last too long. As a result, long distance night time sleep fests via phone only happened a couple more times too. 10 hours was our record call.

Growing up in Alaska I got used to keeping various sorts of relationship connections going over the phone. My dad, for example, started working on the North Slope of Alaska when I was 2 years old. As a result he'd be gone at work for a week at a time, and then home not working for every other week. That meant while he was gone to stay connected to him we'd talk on the phone, even if sometimes only for a few minutes. As far as I remember, he called everyday. He always talked to my mom, and some days to either of my sisters or me too.

In the summers my whole family migrated to the Western coast of the state for commercial salmon fishing. By the time I was in high school I'd developed close friendships, that at the time I imagined as more intimate than the relationships I had with my family members. To keep in contact with them I wrote letters regularly, and also would call once a week or so to play catch up over the phone. It was mostly me listening to their summer run around stories since my side of the update was largely the same--"no, no sleep. yeah, lots of fish. tired. oh yeah!? you hiked Flat Top? oh. awesome. who else was there? no. no mountains to hike out here." etc.

As a result of this kind of life I got used to the idea that I can be close to people that don't live near me. In adulthood I've moved all over the place too, and have consistently stayed in contact with friends that now live all over the continent, and a few on other continents too. I feel fortunate to know people so well that way--to get to know the amazing changes and growth processes people go through in their lives over years, even when I don't always see them in person.

Really, the thing I count myself luckiest for in my life is the relationships I have with my various loved ones. It is such a blessing for me to come to know people closely over time. To know how a person has overcome struggles, faced obstacles, loved deeply, dealt with their own fears, enjoyed goofiness, explored their own creativity--these things are incredible sources of inspiration and joy to me. I draw heavily on knowledge of such intimacy when I find myself struggling in my own life.

This kind of attitude has rolled over into my view of romantic relationships too. I've never been afraid of long distance relationships, and even have joked that if I added "lack of physical proximity" to my list of reasons not to date a guy I'd NEVER fall in love. Honestly though some of my dearest relationships have been kept going for at least a time over the phone.

Living in a new place now I'm fortunate to have a number of friends I keep in close contact with via email, and phone. It's kept me going here while I feel semi-reclusive in person around the idea of getting to know new people. Still, it admittedly doesn't replace in person contact. I got to speak with a good friend of mine back in Flagstaff via phone today. It was nice to hear how he's doing, and to catch up with a few town updates too. It felt good to remember that Flagstaff is a place I really have such connections in, and that if I want to return there I have friendships to root down with there.

In the meantime, dear friends, keep staying in contact--even those of you less used to phone calls. Email, and letters are good forms of communication too. It's wonderful to be in each other's lives. Lots of love!

The Healing Power of Prayer

Charlie Brown's famous expletive--Augh!

My father's family is Inupiat from the Northern parts of Alaska. Though he doesn't speak the language, he understands it, and uses various words of it in appropriate contexts mixed into English sentences. As a result, I grew up regularly using various Native words myself. They don't tend to come out of my mouth as often anymore living away from others that would understand them. Still, occasionally I'll find myself saying or remembering a Native word unexpectedly. One of my favorites is more of an exclamation than anything else. Truth be told, it's kind of a cuss word, but only relevant to certain kinds of situations.

If you're hurt and it's almost too much you call out "Argh!" (pronounced "Ah-RAH!") usually quick and short. It's commonly used by older people whose joints have gone bad. As they stand and their knees creak they'll call out "Argh!" and then hobble across the room.

My parents were just visiting the 11-year old and I out here in the East. They'd flown out from Alaska so they could see where we're living and also stay with the little one while I took my ersatz conference trip.

This morning I toured my folks around little towns in the area they hadn't been able to see while I was gone. We entered a book store in Woodstock, Vermont that turned out to sell hand painted signs in the back. While we each wandered around separately looking at the merchandise my dad waved me over smiling. He was standing there reading the signs.

Most of the signs were longer statements like, "Forgiveness: the letting go of a burden", or, "You haven't lost your smile at all. It's right under your nose." A few were shorter signs saying something simple like, "Joy", or, "I said, no." Standing next to my dad I was skimming the wall.

He pointed diagonally across the wall. "You know that Native word don't you?" He was smiling enormously, with both eyes mischief and shiny.

I looked up to where he was pointing and there on the back wall was a sign that just said "ARGH" across it. I laughed at the duality of the moment. It was painted as some kind of complaint over the state of things in English, a simple exclamation, and at the same time, surprisingly enough, it was a sign hanging up in Inupiat. My mom walked over and was tickled enough by the sight of it she purchased the sign, but not until the three of us had stood there for a bit talking quietly and laughing.

At the counter the saleswoman had noticed the three of us all tickled over the sign a few moments earlier (something, honestly, I doubt that she sees very often over a sign that just says basically "Ugh") and so kept asking my mom repeatedly, "Oh! Do you like Charlie Brown? Yes, you must like Charlie Brown. Is that your interest in the sign? Charlie Brown?" trying, apparently, to explain to herself what we were so interested in.

The reliance on Charlie Brown as an explanation was odd. (He actually says "Augh!", you know.) But it was apparently the only cultural reference the saleswoman could muster to explain our enthusiasm over such a simple thing, and neither my parents nor I felt like explaining it to her.

On the way out of the store my mom told me a story about an Inupiat, family friend we all share. The woman was the oldest in her family now and had earned her way to arthritis and a bad back. She'd complain regularly about her discomfort and have difficulty getting up in the morning too.

Parts of the Alaska Native community have a strong Evangelical Christian background so that people fly in from the villages to attend church services in Anchorage. Evangelical churches regularly burst into spontaneous song, or speaking in tongues, and also offer healing prayer services. During prayer services the person in need will go to the front of the sanctuary, often with family members accompanying them. The pastor will call on everyone in the church to turn their attention together towards prayer for the person in need. Then he will lift his hands into the air, call on god's power, and through prayer bestow that power onto the individual sufferer. It is often a powerful moment for the individual being prayed for, and people will often express some kind of relief from their suffering during that moment of prayer, and sometimes for a long while after. People will also feel a sense of deep humility and gratefulness during these moments of prayer and when the pastor is finished the individual prayed for will often quietly leave the front overwhelmed by so much attention from the entire church community.

The Inupiat woman's daughters had begun going to Evangelical services regularly, and on a visit to town the Inupiat woman was of course complaining about her joint pain. She'd get up from the couch, "Argh!" and hobble off to the bathroom. Then through the door they could hear that she'd "Argh!" herself from the toilet to the sink. The pain was finally enough that the family decided they would bring her to an Evangelical church service and ask her to be prayed for.

The Inupiat woman waited in the audience while various others went forward, were prayed over, and then quietly stunned went back to their seats in the audience overcome by the power of the lord. Eventually it was her turn to be prayed for so her two daughters accompanied the woman up to the front of the church, one on each side. The woman kneeled down on stage in front of the pastor as he spoke into a microphone asking the church community to turn their attention to the woman's healing. He prayed for her knees. He prayed for her back. He prayed that her joints would in this moment feel relief. She knelt quietly in front of him. He held his free hand in the air as he prayed, calling on god's power, and then lowered his hand to her head bestowing the blessing of christ on her as he did. Then he asked her to rise.

He was standing in front of her holding the microphone. He'd just told her to "Rise! Rise in christ's love!" so she did what made sense. She grabbed his arm to pull herself up to standing again. And as she stood her mouth just happened to pass the microphone right as she let out her loud, reliable "ARGH!" Through the microphone the noise of it filled the sanctuary.

The sign my mom purchased is apparently being sent to the younger of the two women's daughters that stood with her on stage.

Halloween Prelude

One of my favorite stories from the absurdity of my childhood actually originates with my sister Melanie. When she was very little (and likely before I was born) our mom was helping our oldest sister Paula get ready for trick or treating. Paula was donning her costume. Melanie was watching and starting to get animated, realizing that she didn't have a costume too, and what would she wear? I've learned from this story that, like my mom, when I get over stimulated by a super animated kid I do two things: (1) OHMYGODBEQUIETIAMDYING and (2) think quickly to solve whatever is working the kid up so that I can get some peace again.

The thing was, there was no costume for Melanie. My mom hadn't actually planned one, and Melanie being so little hadn't come up with her idea in advance either. But, clearly Melanie now needed SOMETHING to walk around trick or treating, so my mom did what she could. Being in Alaska it was already well into winter on Halloween (I actually have my own clear memory of literally crawling up a neighbor's driveway while wearing a genie costume on some other Halloween because we'd had a flash freeze the night before and their driveway had a slight tilt to it. But ice be damned, I was getting that candy.). So, my mom took the only reasonable option she had. She dressed Melanie in a head to toe snowsuit, then put Paula's swimsuit on Melanie over the outside of the snowsuit and told Melanie her costume was "swimmer."

I love the image of little Randy, the younger brother to Ralphie in A Christmas Story having been shoved into his full body snowsuit and now so surrounded by warm-clothinged puff he can't walk except by keeping all his limbs out stick straight. So, yes, he can now go outside but he might not be able to move enough to enjoy it. In imagining little-Melanie dressed up for Halloween as "swimmer" I imagine her as little Randy times two--surrounded by sausage encassing snow clothing now squeezed further by lycra water racing wear.

The 11-year old excitedly told me on Monday that she would get to wear her Halloween costume to school today. "Oh crap" is honestly the first thought I had because it meant we'd have to get up extra early to don her Rock and Roll Medusa hair, complete with tied in rubber snakes. As things are usually we wake up no more than 15 minutes prior to the school bell (I kid you not) and manage to get everything she needs ready and then to school on time. Getting up in time to braid hair, paint hair, tie in snakes, get dressed, deal with lunch, and put on Medusa makeup would surely count as more than 15 minutes. Still, this was clearly important. If her school was going to have Friday Halloween costumes, then the realities of social currency dictated she'd best go with very cool Medusa hair. So, this morning we got up early.

Voila! The results...





With the extra preparations she missed the bus, so I drove her to school. On the way I was thinking back to my elementary Halloween experiences that included a full school parade of costumes on the day Halloween was observed. All the kids would go to school thoroughly festooned and then mid-morning the entire school would stop and prepare itself for the parade of classes to go by. Somehow it would all be timed so that each classroom saw every other classroom, and the kids would cheer for each other wildly. I remember both the intimidation of walking through the ENTIRE SCHOOL as a first grade witch complete with green face, and then the total pride and condescending adoration of cheering as a fifth grade magician. Foggy from fatigue, I drove the little one to her Halloween school day dreaming about her costumery life on parade, figuring the advantage of driving her to school was I'd get to view a sea of cheap wigs and overdrawn face paint.

Oh! So not true.

The 11-year old had failed to inform me that in her entire school it was only her class (not even the other fifth grade classes) and the first graders that were getting dressed up today. As she just put it, "The other teachers are too strict." Mid-morning they would celebrate the first grader parade, but had been instructed not to cheer because last year it apparently scared some of the little ones. What?!! So, when we pulled up to her school I did see one over sized pastel blue hat, and that was it. My kid had on the most costumery anywhere. Ah well. Jeez.

So, the morning school drop off turned out to be an ultra-fast pep talk consisting basically of, "now remember, you've got on too much hair paint, make up, and STUFF to back out now. You're in costume, trying to remove anything just won't work. So you've got to commit. Just completely go with it, and love it. And also, if anyone laughs, it's because they're excited to see someone doing it."

"That's right!" She responded. "If anyone laughs it's cause they're jealous cause they wish they were doing it too." And off she slowly trotted. A horde of girls from her class ran up, none of them dressed any differently than they would be on some other day, but all in adoration surrounding my daughter (who also turns out to be taller than any of them, I now discover). I stayed for a bit to watch from a distance at how the little one was handling it. She was rocking around on her feet a bit, obviously a touch awkward from the attention, but standing there like a people loving modern day medusa bad ass just the same.

Wish her luck!

Ridiculous Self-Indulgent Spontaneous Nostalgia

Out of no where just now I suddenly remembered my 6th grade crush. His name was Josh. For the life of me I have been unable to come up with his last name (or I'd have to do some kind of internet power search to dredge up a photo of him too), except that I know it started with a W, had about 11 letters, and something like 3 syllables.

He had curly brown hair, and was the less glamorous Josh in our class. There was another one in our class too, you see. All the girls had crushes on the other Josh. He was classically handsome (in the way a 6th grader could ever approach being classically handsome) with glowing blond hair, bright blue eyes, and an athletic, fast build. That Josh also dated the most obviously attractive girl in our class at the time, Kristen. Kristen dressed just like she was one of the singers from the duo Heart, and somehow managed to get a hold of more lace gloves and ankle boots to wear then I'd ever seen anywhere.

My Josh though was totally different. He wasn't all that comfortable socially, though I wouldn't call him shy either. He just wasn't dashing, nor overly talkative. His favorite tv-shows were He-man, and then later She-Ra too (She-Ra came out a few years after He-man, you see), and he'd race home after school everyday to make sure he got there in time to see them. He could recount the story line for either series if you asked him, and I admired his dedication to and clarity on what it was he liked. He was also kind, even if a little in his own world, and that was the combo that meant the most to me. The thing about Josh though was he never did realize I had a crush on him.

Somehow during rearranging school desks, I secured a seat next to him, and as a result, Josh and I were able to sit next to each other in class for part of the year. It was this little bit of torturous heaven to be in such close proximity to the person I had such affection for. Even so, it's a stretch to come up with what I even thought having a crush on someone meant at the time. I remember that I'd kind of keep an eye on how the other Josh and Kristen interacted to have some sense of what it even meant to have a boyfriend at that point. From what I could tell it just meant they SAID he was her boyfriend, and not much more happened than that until appropriate card and gift giving holidays came around.

As for me, I know a lot of the wiggling discomfort I felt was simply about wanting to be near him, and to run around the playground with him at recess. I wanted to hear about things he liked, and to have him pay attention when I liked something too. At recess I wanted to climb monkey bars, and make up otherworldly outer space tag games, or go on adventures to figure out what kinds of frogs might be in the small bit of woods at the back of the school grounds. Mostly I just wanted to feel connected to someone.

After sixth grade ended I went off to the middle of nowhere in Western Alaska, as I always did in the summers, and then on to a different junior high school than my elementary school was zoned for. As a result, I mostly just lost track of kids from my elementary school until a lot of us ended up more or less together again in high school.

After reconnecting with kids from my elementary school I got to see how they'd changed. In the meantime Kristen had become what looked like a completely different person. She had always been a sweetheart, and certainly still was. But her glamorous, just-like-the-singers-from-the-band-Heart look had calmed into a you-won't-much-notice-me girl without hair spray, lace, or fingerless gloves. She wasn't that well known any more either, even though in elementary school she'd been the coolest girl anywhere. Still, she seemed happy. The blond Josh had disappeared by high school, apparently having moved out of Alaska with his family to somewhere else. This other boy Leon that would pretend to give me hell throughout sixth grade by punching me in the arm every time I mentioned a swirl of hair on his neck (I had no sense of crush on Leon. I just liked that he so reliably got worked up about the mention of just a little swirl of hair on his neck.) went on to become a high school star of sorts that actually dated by best friend during our sophomore year, and then lost all his hair to baldness by his senior year. His senior year graduation wish in the high school newspaper was to have hair again "just for one more day of his life." In high school he wore either a baseball hat, or his football helmet all the time.

No one ever told me what happened to my He-man and She-Ra loving Josh. From what I could tell, after sixth grade he just faded out of the school narrative. Apparently none of the other kids had as much attention to give to his whereabouts as I'd had during sixth grade, so I not only can't recall his last name, I also have no idea whatever happened to him.

I was wondering though how much our elementary school crushes tell us anything about who we are as adults, or how much the change we may undergo from 6th grade to high school might say much of anything about our life story. I laugh that of course I had a hankering for the unexpected guy with a bit of a dork side. I think I've always had a thing for the underdog. My mom commented one time that I've always had a tendency to love the ugly duckling, be they friend or otherwise. I think that's true--I tend to be drawn to people I see some not-yet-quite-shown wonder within. It's a lovely thing really to be lucky enough to get to know a person in ways not just anyone gets to be a part of. I've gotta be careful too though to discern the difference between really seeing that swan nature inside a person, and wishing for swanness when it isn't actually going to be lived out by a person. This seems to be even more especially true as I get older, and so my various acquaintances do too. Even if I believe in the great possibility for people to step into and embrace their potential throughout their lives, many people live as though their lives and personalities are kind of set pretty early on.

Josh, I imagine, went on to become a fantasy fiction writer, with a couple of kids, and a lovely wife, living in some medium sized town in liberal, but not radical, America. In other words, he's got a simple life that comes from being a solidly good, kind person, even if a bit in his own world. Okay, obviously, that's a story I just made up for him. Still, it's a pleasant one even if a life I could never turn out to live, and wouldn't exactly want.

As for myself, I don't think I've even figured out my own story yet. Turns out its direction keeps changing. I think some of my feathers haven't even started to show, so we're still figuring out what kind of bird I'll turn out to be. My great grandparents lived well into their 90's, so I've always assumed aspects of youth go on for quite a long time. As for how I now want to spend my time at recess--I still mostly just want to feel connected to someone I can run around and climb stuff with while making up otherworldly games of tag, and then go off to explore the woods. Turns out I've somehow cultivated something like this in friendships, and am glad for that, even if I'm not here sitting next to my Josh.

Morgellon's Fibers, Handwashing, Dancing, and Daniel

Years ago when I first moved to Montreal I went late in the evening to a bar in Miles End to get some dinner. It turned out there was a cover band playing that night so after eating a smoked meat sandwich for the first time in my life (I nearly died. I couldn't believe a simple meat sandwich could be SO good. Turns out Montreal is known for its smoked meat.) I decided to hang around and listen to the music. Something more than just the music had convinced me to stay. There was a man in the bar that walked around with his backpack kept close to him, and every time the band would play a Neil Young song he'd jump up and dance, mostly doing a classic guitar hero stance with the arm swinging slowly in a circle for a big chord strum. He'd stand there strumming that imaginary guitar again and again for a full six minute cover, and then if the next song was Young, he'd sit down again. For whatever reason, I found this fascinating.

When the band stopped playing the man with the backpack got up to leave. As he walked by me (I was sitting near the entrance) I said to him, "You can't leave, man." I enjoyed the spectacle of him a little too much. He turned at me sharply and yelled, "Why are you yelling at me?!" then walked out. It was a surprising moment that I certainly hadn't expected, most particularly because from what I could tell I hadn't been yelling at all. About ten minutes later the man returned through the front door and asked me if I knew where I was. "In Montreal, in Miles End," was as much response as I could figure. He answered me, again yelling, "I don't know where I live! I don't know where I'm going!" then rushed out the door again and was gone.

A few months later I saw him again during day light, again keeping close to his backpack. Eventually I would discover this man I'd spoken with during one of my first nights in Montreal was actually a kind of local institution. He had a whole back story it turned out. Someone told me he'd actually been a well known cartoonist but at some point a decade or two prior had a drug overdose of some sort (acid, I believe) and had basically gone crazy. Now he lived the life I'd caught glimpses of, and someone had even, I guess, made a documentary about him. Right now, I honestly can't remember the man's name.

After he left the club I'd mentioned to one of the bar managers that it seemed the man needed help. They told me at the time that they knew that, but that they also knew he'd be fine, and to go ahead and sit down. A little unsure of what that all meant, I did sit down again. Within minutes most of the bar patrons cleared out since the band was finished. New to the city I figured just relaxing a while longer in this place I'd found was a reasonable thing to do. I wound up one of the few patrons left and when most everyone else had cleared out, out of no where rolls of black velvet emerged, all the windows were covered with it, and the lights were turned down low. Suddenly a whole new group of patrons started coming in the front door, but this time they all had to be let in via list. If their name wasn't on it, they were sent away. For whatever reason, the bar managers had decided I could stay, and as a result I became witness and participant to what they called "Caribbean nights," a private and regularly scheduled salsa event. The music was all pre-recorded, but the dancers were passionate about what they were doing. Within two songs the man that seemed to have organized Caribbean nights spoke to me in French, then when he realized I didn't understand, said to me in English that I must dance, that that was how it worked. I let him know I couldn't salsa, and he took my hand and led me to the floor anyway.

That was my brief introduction to salsa dancing. It was followed a couple years later by my dear friend Daniel counting in my ear "1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4." as we salsa'd to whatever music happened to have a close enough rhythm. He was a wonderful lead, and forgiving with my missteps too. We first danced at a late night house party with cover that a woman in Toronto hosted regularly. Half the cover, apparently, would go to the band, the other half would go to her living expenses. The party, afterall, was held right in her living room. Thinking back now, with all the work I've been busy doing, and living a life of a single parent with no childcare, I honestly haven't danced since the last time Daniel and I visited in Toronto at least three years ago. We'd gone to the weekly show of some friends of ours. They got together every Monday to play live music. In the midst of this, he convinced me to get up and salsa to jazz standards. I know the combination sounds ridiculous, but like I said, he's a wonderful lead, and somehow it worked.

Over the weekend I caught myself reading about this horrific medical condition online where people feel like they have bugs crawling under their skin, eventually develop sores, and claim to have these weird blue, red, and white fibers growing from the sores as well. The medical establishment is divided on their views of the ailment with some thinking it is entirely psychological, and others believing there really is some crazy bug-sore-fiber disease that, though rare, is triggered by some pathogen caught by some people. There hasn't been enough research on the condition yet to determine which view is right.

At the start of this week I was working on a chapter of my dissertation and in the midst of thinking hard on how to clarify a point I caught myself getting up to go wash my hands. I realized what I was doing--washing my hands as a stress reaction, rather than out of dirty hand washing need--before I'd reached the bathroom. I recognized too that I'd just been reading, the night before, about odd medical ailments. The combination, you may recall, arose out of a stress reaction during the coursework stage of graduate school. First I started unnecessarily washing my hands, and then I started reading about obscure medical conditions until I started to fret that I had them. Clearly this wouldn't do. I wasn't going to willingly fall into a bad cycle of hand washing and tape worm frenzy if I could help it.

I decided that it was time to focus on something new, something positive, and something from a list of skills I wanted to develop that I wrote for myself something like three years ago--it was a list of things I wanted to do when my life eased up a bit and I had both the time and the money for it. So, yesterday I started taking dance lessons. I just moved to a new place, and I've been feeling really inward because of it, so I decided it was not only acceptable but a good supportive thing to do for myself to take the lessons privately. So, at this point I've signed up for five lessons to occur once a week. We started with dance basics, and then quickly moved into salsa basics, and by the end of the hour long lesson my teacher was leading me around the floor to music complete with spins, and spontaneous new steps thrown in. I want to say I sucked at it, but instead I'll say I actually picked things up kind of quickly for a person that has been living in her graduate school intellectual self devoid of body for several years now, and hasn't danced at all for several years either. What I care about though is that dancing is something fun. If a man can air guitar for six minutes and enjoy it, surely I can let myself relax while I salsa.

About half way through the lesson I realized my teacher was counting in my ear, "1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4." just like Daniel used to do, and I had to laugh. It's funny how the timing of these things works out. I'd actually gotten a letter in the mail from Daniel just the day before. It had been two years since we'd really talked, and it was wonderful to hear from him. Cheers to friendship! Cheers to trying something semi-new!

I Grew Up In Alaska. People Like To Ask Me What Alaska Is Like. This is What Alaska Is Like.

(1) A friend of mine posted today on facebook about how he went out ptarmigan hunting this afternoon with the gun he traded some of his ivory carving for. It turned out he doesn't much like the gun he got in trade. So, tomorrow he's going to go out with his other, trusty gun instead. Along the way he found a beer in the middle of the trail. So, he sat down in the snow on the tundra in the middle of no where and he drank it.

(2) A couple of years ago two friends flew out to their moose hunting site in the middle of the state in a small two-seater plane. The area they'd gone to was remote enough there was no way in or out except by plane. They landed the plane in a clearing, and then went off to scout the camping area, and look for moose. A couple hours later they came back to grab their supplies from the plane and set up camp. When they returned they discovered a bear had gotten there first. The bear ripped open the sides of the plane body, tore up a bunch of the wing, and ate most of the food they'd brought with them. There they were with no way home, and no food to eat till someone checked on them and picked them up. So, they reached into their supply can in the back of the plane, pulled out three rolls of duck tape, taped up the torn up parts of the two-seater and flew their butts back home.

My friend's plane post tape job

(3) In the middle of winter years ago my sister's car broke down. We couldn't drive anywhere. It was -50 degrees F, -46 degrees C outside. To get anything done we had to walk. So, in the morning before stepping outside we'd put on a pair of tights, then a pair of knee high socks, a tank top, a long sleeve thermal shirt, then a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of wool socks that were pulled over the bottom of the jeans, a sweater, a fleece vest, a pair of snow pant overalls, a fleece jacket, a neck warmer, then our backpacks with whatever we needed for the day, a parka over the back pack, ear muffs, thermal glove liners, gloves, over-mitts that fit over the gloves, a hat, a pair of knee high, high insulation, winter boots, and a scarf to wrap around our face as we walked. On the upside, because it was the middle of winter, there wasn't enough light for us to need sunglasses.

(4) In the northern parts of the state you can take a core sample of the tundra and find mosquito larva a full 3-feet deep in the ground.

(5) In the biggest town in the state you'll have to stop your car while driving home through your neighborhood as moose, wolf, coyote, bear, fox, ravens or bald eagles move across the road. You know, depending on which neighborhood you're in.

(6) Even the ugly parts of town, in the worst time of year, are still surrounded by mountains like this:

Southwest Anchorage

Ba'Qa': Marrying Brides of the Klingon Universe

I seem to have the most horrible, hilarious friends.

One of my dream-hopes since the little-kid years has been to walk into the middle of a surprise party that I didn't know was happening. (hint! hint!) Growing up it seemed like there were surprise parties going on all the time. So-and-so Father just turned 40. Mrs such-and-such Auntee graduated as an older student from college. Honey-love-wah-wah was heading off to university on the other side of the country. Whatever the reason, there we were going to or hosting a surprise party. I thought the idea was fabulous, and have tried to carry on the practice of surprise gifts in the ways that I can.

It turns out I've never hosted a surprise party myself. Though I've pulled a number of surprise-for-a-party pranks on my family or friends like hearing they're having a get together for someone's birthday, or because one of them is expecting a baby, and then there I go flying across the country with only one person in-the-know ready to make sure the door is unlocked so I can walk in all casual like it was planned all along.

I also enjoy sending people gifts at random dates, rather than just for a holiday, because walking through town, there I came across the thing that was perfect for whoever it is and I just had to send it on its way --like the Olivia Newton John Cowgirl-in-Fringe-and-Now-Dancing photograph I happened upon a couple of weeks ago for my friend Christine.

It appears my friends have recently started returning the favor.

Back in December, out of nowhere, I got in the mail the most horrible, horrible gift. I started receiving BRIDES magazine. At first I thought maybe the thing was some kind of promotional, and the publishers had just made a mistake on who (me) they were marketing to. But instead, later in January, I was notified separately that the magazine was provided through anonymous, gift subscription, and here the thing has continued to appear monthly in my mailbox. WHAT?!!

In case I haven't been clear enough on this here blog, I'm not married, don't expect to get married, and in fact don't even have what some people like to call "a prospect." In addition, while I'm not closed to the idea of LOVE! OH AMOUR! MY HEART! MY HEART! entering into my life, I haven't actually been looking. It's nice to know, however, that someone out there is either content to RUB THIS FACT IN A LITTLE HARDER EVERY MONTH FOR A YEAR, or is trying to communicate that THEY BELIEVE IN ME AND MY ABILITY TO FIND AN OCCASION FOR THAT SPECIAL DRESS AND FLOWERS, or, perhaps, as others have suggested, are trying to let me know they WANT ME TO BE THEIR BRIDE? (what kind of screwy way would a subscription to BRIDES be for wooing someone? that's mildly funny when thought of as never-actually-going-t0-happen). Another friend and I had a good laugh over the idea that someone was actually trying to send me a subscription to a travel magazine called something like Bridges or perhaps a motorcycle magazine called Rides or maybe a psychological-philosophical-spiritual periodical about accepting life's challenges named Abides.

Gratefully, I have a friend in town that creates, alters, and repairs wedding dresses, so, without even cracking open the pages, I just walk that 1 lb. periodical straight on over to her studio every month and drop it off for her to enjoy as part of her job.

As if BRIDES appearing anonymously wasn't enough, this week I received another un-admitted-to-by-anyone gift. (To be honest though, with this one I think I know who it is, Miss Olivia Newton John.)


ghay'cha'! (Klingon for "damn it!") Goofy friends! You've gotta love a book with Christopher Lloyd looking like a bad ass on the cover though. More often he's been forced to play entirely doofy characters, and in the Star Trek universe at least he gets to appear as a hard-hearted, slobber-dog loving, enemy of the Enterprise. You've gotta love a man that challenges our dear Captain Kirk.

Unlike the other anonymous gift of BRIDES magazine, Receiving The Klingon Dictionary at least has clearer purpose. It'll be useful for the 10-year old I live with and I to tell people off without them knowing, or to translate the couple of Klingon-heavy Star Trek movies we're watching as part of our Warp Project. maj. maj. (Klingon for "good. good."). It turns out too, interestingly enough, I should be able to really excel at this Klingon-speak thing. A lot of the sounds are remarkably close to the Alutiq-Yupik language I grew up listening to, and in both cases, the only words I've had the opportunity to learn so far are some variation of cussing. I'm also planning to petition my Ph.D. program to find out if I could take a Klingon translation test in lieu of French.

Thanks Mr. or Ms. Anonymous for your goofy thoughtfulness. Lots of Love to you in return!

The Romance of Rain Not About Simple-Romance at All

One of the more romantic moments of my life consisted in a friend and I caught together in the rain a couple of years ago. The funny thing is that this was a time with someone dear to me that, even so, is simply a friend. So, in that sense, the moment I reference is not one typically romantic. That is, we were in no way entering into a romance. Still, it stands out as a moment special to me, and one in which I felt life, closeness to another, and the aesthetic of love as represented in classic movies all came together to express themselves in a moment.

I suppose I bring this up now partially because earlier tonight I was texting with this same friend, but also because here I am now, entirely across the continent we share, caught inside a house because outside there is a snowstorm. Because of the snow, I am thinking on the experience I am in the middle of now, but also thinking to experiences I have had before.

We were walking across town together in the late evening in Montreal one summer. It was dark outside, and the streets already were empty. We were dressed in clothes that were light, because outside it was warm. We'd just left the home of our friends. In our leaving together there was something important we shared --an understanding of our standing outside that situation, and so together in our new one (most simply, that of walking together outside).

We'd decided we were hungry, but mostly we were walking simply because it was what the evening demanded. In the midst of it we were speaking on things --what is important in the way we live our lives, how we make decisions, the way such decisions connect to our work in philosophy, the ways philosophy can make it hard, otherwise, to live a simply normal life, the way that we were both single and okay with it.

The sky had begun to cloud over but we'd payed little notice of it. Someone had even said they expected it would rain. Still, we hadn't planned. There we were outside, on largely empty roads, walking in the night, just the two of us. Then, without warning heard by either of us, the sky opened up and it was rushing rain. The water falling was thick and rich enough we'd be wet in mere moments. There we were hiding together under a store awning. We had a choice. We could crouch waiting for who knows how long. Or, we could run. We chose to run.

Together the two of us raced through the rain, not caring about our bodies, or our clothes, or the goods inside the bags strapped to our bodies, except that any of them were part of our movement. We ran until we reached, several blocks later, another awning. Then we stood there again laughing, laughing, wet through to skin, laughing together.

It was one of the more perfect moments I've lived. Just the two of us there in a world silent except for the un-ignorable sound of the falling rain, laughing as we looked at each other, both soaked through our clothes to skin. It occurred to me at the time that if we'd been romantically inclined to each other, that would be the moment to kiss. Instead, we laughed again waiting as we caught our breath, then dashed out into the rain running as hard and fast as we could to the next awning. We covered the city this way. We ran in three minute bursts again and again for a mile or two that night until we reached the awning before one of the main walking streets in town, and stood together waiting before we ran on one more time to a pizza venue. We waited partially because in the moment we entered the pizza venue the night would be changed from our private space together in the rain, to an experience of weather shared with others, also laughing.

I don't remember how I slept that night, though I must have made it home again somehow. I do recall that days later when I washed my clothes they'd been stained green by the leather bag I'd carried my books and papers in. It had been held across my body as we ran, its green strap coloring through my shirt, my bra, all the way to my skin. Mostly, the papers inside had stayed dry. It's leather was never the same. In that friendship I still share an unspoken, but palpable brilliance --an understanding of the feelings of life when accepted as wonderfully expressive bursts of joy run through inescapable rain. I can feel it each time we reconnect after months of living apart in the various cities our work demand of us to live. For such life I am grateful. It is a kind of joy I'd gladly reconnect to again and again, a reminder of how much fun we can have in unanticipated surprise.

Alaskan Art and Red LaCroix

"Wake" by Byron Birdsall

I grew up in a home filled with art by Alaskan artists, and images of the American West. Rie Munoz and Byron Birdsall were two of the main artists featured. Between the two of them they presented charming and stylized images of Alaskan life, and representations of aspects of nature, respectively.

Part of my parents' personal legend includes how cash poor they were the first several years of their marriage. They commercial fished in Western Alaska off a little town called Naknek, and though they lived very month to month in terms of pay checks, they always had to ensure they'd come up with the cost of a family's worth of plane tickets out to the remote area. If a season went well, they'd come back from it with a boost to their bank accounts that would help for the rest of the year, and also replace gear they'd need for the following season.

One summer, years before I was born, the story goes, they'd purchased their plane tickets but had only $80 left to their names. They'd skrimped through the entire year and lived off the minimum to get by feeding their family. On the way home from work one day they stopped in a little shop area for something they needed, and happened upon an art print of a stylistically "Asian" scene. Both of them fell in love with the image. They were facing a summer long fishing season of hard work at the end of a year of living bare and decided suddenly they would get the print to reward themselves. It cost $75. They flew out to Naknek for fishing two days later with $5 in their pocket. When they (rarely) tell the story now they laugh because of how the print instigated a life long process of investing in art, but prints radically different in style than that original splurge.

"Determined" is one of the characteristics that readily describes any member of my family. Eventually their hard work led my parents to be able to more easily afford to purchase art prints they enjoyed. Many of them really do greatly increase in value, as well, so selling prints years after purchase would serve as aesthetic appreciation turned to financial gain. As their process of collecting art grew my mom became known for her ability to locate hard to find prints. She'd accumulate knowledge of boutique size art galleries that sold the artists she enjoyed from all over the United States. Then she'd call about to inquire after a print, and also gather the names of additional galleries along the way. When we traveled she'd investigate yellow pages for more galleries we could visit.

A family friend graduated from college, took on serious buisness minded employment, after retiring from the more Peter Pan style life of successfully climbing Mount McKinley, and climbing throughout the Rockies. To reward himself for his turn towards financial security he decided he wanted to own Byron Birdsall's print "Wake." It had been released though years before and was near impossible to find for sale. So, the friend called my mom and asked if she'd find it for him. It took half a year of searching, but she located the print and within a matter of weeks it was at his home all the way over in Iowa, a state in which few have heard of the artist. I recall the process of her getting the print clearly. It hung on our wall briefly, because the gallery had sent it to us in Alaska, and while sorting out packing needs for reshipping my parents figured they might as well see what they thought of the print too. In less than a week of them shipping it on to our friend in Iowa, my mom was on the search for a second one that in less than a year would hang in my parents' home. It is still one of their favorite prints and dons the living room wall. My parents love being on the water and when they're away from fishing it gives them a sense of what they're missing.

I realized last night in the middle of trying on a just-altered-to-fit-me red strapless Christian LaCroix dress I searched for for over two years because I couldn't afford the original retail cost (approx. $4100), and then couldn't afford the sale price either (the lowest I saw it reduced retail for was $1125), that I've gotten good at finding clothes I want, even if it takes 20 some months, and that my mom is in someway to be thanked for that. My hunt for accoutrement includes knowledge of various boutique style shops, and what they tend to sell, internet resources, and sale or discount sites from all over the world. When I spot something I've decided I want I just keep looking systematically until I find it. It hadn't occurred to me before this week that this process is an updated-to-the-internet-age version of my mom's quest for art. The other night a friend responded to my revelation of this comparison with the comment, "You two are hunters."

My parents likely passed on another characteristic they didn't anticipate, and perhaps wouldn't be pleased to realize. When I found the LaCroix finally after such a long time it cost only $50 less than what I had to spend until my next pay period. It was such a shock to finally locate the dress I wasn't going to pass up the chance to secure it. When it arrived it was a full European size too big, which I'd expected, and it was missing the belt that was shown with the dress on the runway. But it turns out in Flagstaff we have a talented seamstress, Pam, that altered it for me.

Yesterday when I picked the dress up she told me a story about completing the work on it. Pam was trained as a couture/vintage dress maker in Washington D.C. She had some questions about aspects of the dress so she called her teacher, who she has stayed in contact with these couple of decades since, to get some advice. Her teacher is currently in Paris serving as translator for a couture pattern maker that is teaching a class on pattern making. When Pam described the dress to her teacher, the woman asked who'd made it. Pam answered, "LaCroix" and also emailed a picture. The teacher responded, "Oh. I'm having drinks with their seamstress tonight. I'll ask him for his recommendations." It turns out my seamstress Pam, was basically in consultation (through her teacher) with the man that helped prepare the dress for the RTW 2007 runway show because he works for Christian LaCroix. When she told me the story she had goose bumps.

Having found this dress I recognize, I live in a town where there will never be occasion to wear it. Perhaps I must treat it like art and display it in home for a time.

The Dress my Sister Said Makes Me Look Like an "Exquisite Cake"

(Christian LaCroix Dress with Jimmy Choo Shoes Complete with Hair that Needs to be Cut Real Real Bad)

To answer a question some of you no doubt have: I found it for $300, and it's authentic.