Highway 50 is also known as "The Loneliest Road in America".
Indeed it is. Even have the bumper (erm. . . laptop) sticker as an emblem of my survival.
Sometimes do I bury my writing in context. Like an archaeologist with an obsessive need to unearth: to explain the "who. what. where. when. why. how." beneath, I know that when I'm in "the zone" there's almost nothing that can prevent me from attempting to finish the thought. Takes ages, sometimes, but almost always do I wish to go back, draw borders around the image, and explain further. Details are, after all, what enrich life.
One of the most awesome things about the Internet is that it saves my work, allows me to edit, and expound. Each new day of ponderance shows me something about myself, something that I didn't realize at the time -- something my mad-typing / writing caught inadvertently. Character flaws? Oooh yeah. manymanymany do I have.
Here are a few "scraped from the archives" pieces:
Originally posted on Thursday, December 7, 2006
Notes from the Road: Goodbye, Utah
Roads and sidewalks and paths and trails.
Roads and sidewalks and paths and trails have this interesting tendency to reveal how the travelers go; trodden deeply or with a light step.
Tuesday afternoon I said goodbye to an old life. Heading west on Highway 56, the dismal and bland desert seemed oppressive. A sense of vastness lay ahead, that certain quality of light that occurs in the afternoon, as shadows cease to become thinner.
Road warriors know the secret code of mile-markers; they begin at the borders.
Mile-marker 48 and a minor amount of worry layered itself upon my comprehension of the vastness. Mile-marker 37 and the worry transformed into anxiety. I should just turn around and go. . . where? Home? I don't have a home. The giant oblivion was uncertain, but surely it or anything would be better than this desiccate desert, this place of stagnation, this place where I had almost given up hope entirely. I had made the decision to leave Utah, and it had to be done. Furniture and material comforts had been left behind -- practically given away. There was no going back.
A deep breath and I was able to prevent the anxiety from upgrading itself to panic. Deep breath: I would use neither hurry nor excessive linger as I made my way, and I would take everything in stride. Sure, potential bad/worse/worst case scenarios outnumbered the good/better/best ones. Sure, it probably wasn't the best idea to embark upon this journey in December of all months, but it had to be done.
Mile-marker irrelevant, and I took this sighting as a good omen of the journey ahead
All the subtle nuances of the Greater forces of the Universe . . . this amazement was only the first of many along the roads and sidewalks and paths and trails of my journey.
Indeed it is. Even have the bumper (erm. . . laptop) sticker as an emblem of my survival.
Sometimes do I bury my writing in context. Like an archaeologist with an obsessive need to unearth: to explain the "who. what. where. when. why. how." beneath, I know that when I'm in "the zone" there's almost nothing that can prevent me from attempting to finish the thought. Takes ages, sometimes, but almost always do I wish to go back, draw borders around the image, and explain further. Details are, after all, what enrich life.
One of the most awesome things about the Internet is that it saves my work, allows me to edit, and expound. Each new day of ponderance shows me something about myself, something that I didn't realize at the time -- something my mad-typing / writing caught inadvertently. Character flaws? Oooh yeah. manymanymany do I have.
Here are a few "scraped from the archives" pieces:
Originally posted on Thursday, December 7, 2006
Notes from the Road: Goodbye, Utah
Roads and sidewalks and paths and trails.
Roads and sidewalks and paths and trails have this interesting tendency to reveal how the travelers go; trodden deeply or with a light step.
Tuesday afternoon I said goodbye to an old life. Heading west on Highway 56, the dismal and bland desert seemed oppressive. A sense of vastness lay ahead, that certain quality of light that occurs in the afternoon, as shadows cease to become thinner.
Road warriors know the secret code of mile-markers; they begin at the borders.
Mile-marker 48 and a minor amount of worry layered itself upon my comprehension of the vastness. Mile-marker 37 and the worry transformed into anxiety. I should just turn around and go. . . where? Home? I don't have a home. The giant oblivion was uncertain, but surely it or anything would be better than this desiccate desert, this place of stagnation, this place where I had almost given up hope entirely. I had made the decision to leave Utah, and it had to be done. Furniture and material comforts had been left behind -- practically given away. There was no going back.
A deep breath and I was able to prevent the anxiety from upgrading itself to panic. Deep breath: I would use neither hurry nor excessive linger as I made my way, and I would take everything in stride. Sure, potential bad/worse/worst case scenarios outnumbered the good/better/best ones. Sure, it probably wasn't the best idea to embark upon this journey in December of all months, but it had to be done.
Mile-marker irrelevant, and I took this sighting as a good omen of the journey ahead
All the subtle nuances of the Greater forces of the Universe . . . this amazement was only the first of many along the roads and sidewalks and paths and trails of my journey.
Well, I'm back in Utah.
This is not a bad thing. It is actually a very good thing.
Before, when I left . . . literally driving into the sunset, it was something that I simply had to do. The Evil ex was still in town, and I couldn't bring myself to be in the same place as him: his gigantic and fancy house, his multitude of toys, boytoys, and girly magazines. I had a lot of anger issues, and literally leaving them in the dust was the only way I knew how to cope, at the time.
The journey that followed is one that has many shadows. I never collected a penny of alimony; nor had I ever collected a penny of unemployment. Why should have I? I was an MBA, after all. If anybody should be able to make it on her own, it would be a University-educated person. It never even crossed my mind to fight for what was and is truly mine.
If it's possible to break a person's spirit by destroying their very sense of hope, I can candidly say that at that point in 2006, mine was broken. It was December. I'll never forget the day I headed West on Highway 56: on a straight path out of Utah. Somewhere along the road that connects Utah to Nevada, I saw an antlered elk, roaming free. And a bald eagle. That serene eagle, perched on the top of a dessicate tree, reminded me that this is indeed a free country. . . even if it is, I thought wryly at the time, barren of good people.
I lived basically out of my car for about a month: December 2006 through the end of January in 2007, I was, for the umpteenth time in my life, homeless. Sustaining on bread, oranges, cheap wine, and the occasional package of swiss cheese, I'd park in parking lots (California has no shortage of those) and pretend to be waiting for someone.
I have family in Sacramento. Originally, I rationalized that I'd be able to stay with them while I sorted things out. Be it old age or dementia, the relatives that I thought I could count on fell through, and left me optionless. Back into the car, and back on the road I was, again, destinationless. And there was _no_ way I was going back to Utah. I had no sense of home; the road was my only friend. And given the concrete maze of California, I got lost.
At the University of California, Davis, I stopped and stayed awhile. After a couple of weeks, sleeping in an automobile's upright seats becomes massively uncomfortable. I wandered around its empty campus (out for the holiday), lost and alone. Looking back into that cold memory, literally can I say, "As I walked in the valley of the shadow of death" . . .. Yes, I have been there. It is something I would never wish upon even my worst enemy.
This is not a bad thing. It is actually a very good thing.
Before, when I left . . . literally driving into the sunset, it was something that I simply had to do. The Evil ex was still in town, and I couldn't bring myself to be in the same place as him: his gigantic and fancy house, his multitude of toys, boytoys, and girly magazines. I had a lot of anger issues, and literally leaving them in the dust was the only way I knew how to cope, at the time.
The journey that followed is one that has many shadows. I never collected a penny of alimony; nor had I ever collected a penny of unemployment. Why should have I? I was an MBA, after all. If anybody should be able to make it on her own, it would be a University-educated person. It never even crossed my mind to fight for what was and is truly mine.
If it's possible to break a person's spirit by destroying their very sense of hope, I can candidly say that at that point in 2006, mine was broken. It was December. I'll never forget the day I headed West on Highway 56: on a straight path out of Utah. Somewhere along the road that connects Utah to Nevada, I saw an antlered elk, roaming free. And a bald eagle. That serene eagle, perched on the top of a dessicate tree, reminded me that this is indeed a free country. . . even if it is, I thought wryly at the time, barren of good people.
I lived basically out of my car for about a month: December 2006 through the end of January in 2007, I was, for the umpteenth time in my life, homeless. Sustaining on bread, oranges, cheap wine, and the occasional package of swiss cheese, I'd park in parking lots (California has no shortage of those) and pretend to be waiting for someone.
I have family in Sacramento. Originally, I rationalized that I'd be able to stay with them while I sorted things out. Be it old age or dementia, the relatives that I thought I could count on fell through, and left me optionless. Back into the car, and back on the road I was, again, destinationless. And there was _no_ way I was going back to Utah. I had no sense of home; the road was my only friend. And given the concrete maze of California, I got lost.
At the University of California, Davis, I stopped and stayed awhile. After a couple of weeks, sleeping in an automobile's upright seats becomes massively uncomfortable. I wandered around its empty campus (out for the holiday), lost and alone. Looking back into that cold memory, literally can I say, "As I walked in the valley of the shadow of death" . . .. Yes, I have been there. It is something I would never wish upon even my worst enemy.
[Brainstorm: V1 Edited 10:27 PM 04/01/07]
[Hasty edited V2 10:33]
[Published to Emphastic.com on December 29, 2009]
-------indie 03-21-2007 11:08 AM--------
One of my online friends once asked me why I have so many blogs and journals all over the Internet. Thinking about it, I realized I like to keep strict separation controls on my writing, building a barrier of contextualization with which I can do free-writing and association for certain types of writing: some serious, some for fun, some experimental, some that I might as well, or have been, gushing blood or sweat or tears or potentially broken bones during composition.
Anyway.
Aside from my online journals, I have (rather had) a notebook journal that was gifted to me via a "Secret Santa" thing that from an online writing forum I frequented in the early 00's, when started using "indiejade" as my online pseudonym for writing and coding. This notebook/journal has been stolen/lost. I think about it sometimes, like . . maybe somebody has read it, all my secret private thoughts and such -- makes me very uncomfortable.
This digital gypsy has a new muse these days; the depth of space between adjectives.
-------indie 04-01-2007 10:27 PM-------
Balancing
Don't know why I'm in a mad-typing mood tonight.
It's as though even the tiniest reminder of the distant past . . . rage and anger can dissipate and be diffused long enough to quell. And then a wee bit of sorrow/regret: a wee bit of fire cooled by a wee bit of ice. Just like comets do. But the distant past does not matter. No use in expending energy on that rage. So why do I? And what of dust?
Sublimination; skipping states: from gas to solid, without the delta in between. Gas to solid, as a single fragile soap-bubble hovering over a rugged surrealscape of ice and does not know; poised above, but not yet joined with the invisible lattice, it is. The diffusion of light and color over that bubble -- the oils and patterns and reflections, all so beautiful and strange, apt to explode at any moment. . . given in fate to be either eternally frozen in time or high-fiving the sky.
And just like the pendulum swings or oscillates, the tip of its center of gravity might nudge or be apt to form or make intricacies in the finest grains of sand. . . or even as a marker over paper to move and shake, spreading ink thick and refined.
Another sip held on the tongue, a curious diffusion and nothing numb.
[Hasty edited V2 10:33]
[Published to Emphastic.com on December 29, 2009]
-------indie 03-21-2007 11:08 AM--------
One of my online friends once asked me why I have so many blogs and journals all over the Internet. Thinking about it, I realized I like to keep strict separation controls on my writing, building a barrier of contextualization with which I can do free-writing and association for certain types of writing: some serious, some for fun, some experimental, some that I might as well, or have been, gushing blood or sweat or tears or potentially broken bones during composition.
Anyway.
Aside from my online journals, I have (rather had) a notebook journal that was gifted to me via a "Secret Santa" thing that from an online writing forum I frequented in the early 00's, when started using "indiejade" as my online pseudonym for writing and coding. This notebook/journal has been stolen/lost. I think about it sometimes, like . . maybe somebody has read it, all my secret private thoughts and such -- makes me very uncomfortable.
This digital gypsy has a new muse these days; the depth of space between adjectives.
-------indie 04-01-2007 10:27 PM-------
Balancing
Don't know why I'm in a mad-typing mood tonight.
It's as though even the tiniest reminder of the distant past . . . rage and anger can dissipate and be diffused long enough to quell. And then a wee bit of sorrow/regret: a wee bit of fire cooled by a wee bit of ice. Just like comets do. But the distant past does not matter. No use in expending energy on that rage. So why do I? And what of dust?
Sublimination; skipping states: from gas to solid, without the delta in between. Gas to solid, as a single fragile soap-bubble hovering over a rugged surrealscape of ice and does not know; poised above, but not yet joined with the invisible lattice, it is. The diffusion of light and color over that bubble -- the oils and patterns and reflections, all so beautiful and strange, apt to explode at any moment. . . given in fate to be either eternally frozen in time or high-fiving the sky.
And just like the pendulum swings or oscillates, the tip of its center of gravity might nudge or be apt to form or make intricacies in the finest grains of sand. . . or even as a marker over paper to move and shake, spreading ink thick and refined.
Another sip held on the tongue, a curious diffusion and nothing numb.
Originally written on February 14, 2007
Waking up this morning, early in the AM, I had this epiphany about how art (creating art, viewing art) is like. . . a variety of evisceration.
The artist, buried in soul, reaches in deep-deep to find that elusive tendril of something and then exposes the origin of that tendril in a manner which can be shocking, stirring, scary or even feared; usually it's only feared if it's likely to be misunderstood. Bloody tendril. The ultimate initiator, however, is to evoke and the need/decision to evoke is completely risky. Evocation is done so at a degree of risk/expense of exposure/harm to the artist.
Writers, poets, artists, musicians, sculptors, all wishful / wannabe artists subject themselves to this self-inflicted evisceration whenever they choose to share a piece of work. There's an undercurrent of uncertainty and ridicule that one subjects one's "self" to whenever choosing to share, but at some point, the artist decides that the alternative is no more or less dangerous or embarrassing than the self-humiliation of being so open or raw in expression, thought or form.
Waking up this morning, early in the AM, I had this epiphany about how art (creating art, viewing art) is like. . . a variety of evisceration.
The artist, buried in soul, reaches in deep-deep to find that elusive tendril of something and then exposes the origin of that tendril in a manner which can be shocking, stirring, scary or even feared; usually it's only feared if it's likely to be misunderstood. Bloody tendril. The ultimate initiator, however, is to evoke and the need/decision to evoke is completely risky. Evocation is done so at a degree of risk/expense of exposure/harm to the artist.
Writers, poets, artists, musicians, sculptors, all wishful / wannabe artists subject themselves to this self-inflicted evisceration whenever they choose to share a piece of work. There's an undercurrent of uncertainty and ridicule that one subjects one's "self" to whenever choosing to share, but at some point, the artist decides that the alternative is no more or less dangerous or embarrassing than the self-humiliation of being so open or raw in expression, thought or form.
Is it possible to tell a story in perfect consecutive order the first time around?
Perhaps, but it'll likely lack depth and substance details of real life. Surface-skimming can place the markers, but it is sculpting and continual re-formation that gets the details right, vibrant, and definite.
After all, it is experience that gives life depth: specifically, memorable experiences. Relaying memory as vividly as possible gives it color. The raw emotion conveyed candidly gives the written words substance.
And so the point of this article is that it's neither possible nor necessary to "continue" in consecutive order here. The subsequent articles on this website will be posted without that novel or plot-driven "need" to recount consecutively. For whatever reason my brain has decided to retain certain things about the long and winding road my life has taken (and will still yet take), I know not.
Additionally, the Internet has truly changed the write => edit => publish sequence. As of about, a month ago, I now have 30 whole years of memory to work with.
For over a decade now, I've been somewhat of a Drill Sargent regarding the strict separation-controls on my writing. The numerous "partial blogs" posted to various sites all over the Internet, originally rationalized as "best to keep these separate, for now," have evolved. Once I realized that those Google spiders already seem to have indexed some of my "secret" writer pseudonyms and musings into oblivion. . .erm, protein. Search engine protein. . . I decided to take another approach: emphastic.com.
People sometimes get the wrong idea. In today's data-driven society, those protein-fed search indexes can contain far too many things a writer wishes they didn't contain. Yet. . . I must continue to write. Because something within me needs to explain. And in order to explain properly to this theoretical "audience", I sometimes need to write things such that the reader will know precisely what I've been through.
I do not make excuses. No blame here: separating those personal from private matters was one of my foremost cautions, as I grew up in the analog age. As the analog age transitioned into digital, my curiosities grew, too.
But we'll talk more about that next time.
/** hacking into high school, literally **/
Perhaps, but it'll likely lack depth and substance details of real life. Surface-skimming can place the markers, but it is sculpting and continual re-formation that gets the details right, vibrant, and definite.
After all, it is experience that gives life depth: specifically, memorable experiences. Relaying memory as vividly as possible gives it color. The raw emotion conveyed candidly gives the written words substance.
And so the point of this article is that it's neither possible nor necessary to "continue" in consecutive order here. The subsequent articles on this website will be posted without that novel or plot-driven "need" to recount consecutively. For whatever reason my brain has decided to retain certain things about the long and winding road my life has taken (and will still yet take), I know not.
Additionally, the Internet has truly changed the write => edit => publish sequence. As of about, a month ago, I now have 30 whole years of memory to work with.
For over a decade now, I've been somewhat of a Drill Sargent regarding the strict separation-controls on my writing. The numerous "partial blogs" posted to various sites all over the Internet, originally rationalized as "best to keep these separate, for now," have evolved. Once I realized that those Google spiders already seem to have indexed some of my "secret" writer pseudonyms and musings into oblivion. . .erm, protein. Search engine protein. . . I decided to take another approach: emphastic.com.
People sometimes get the wrong idea. In today's data-driven society, those protein-fed search indexes can contain far too many things a writer wishes they didn't contain. Yet. . . I must continue to write. Because something within me needs to explain. And in order to explain properly to this theoretical "audience", I sometimes need to write things such that the reader will know precisely what I've been through.
I do not make excuses. No blame here: separating those personal from private matters was one of my foremost cautions, as I grew up in the analog age. As the analog age transitioned into digital, my curiosities grew, too.
But we'll talk more about that next time.
/** hacking into high school, literally **/
Grades 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and part of 9 were all courtesy of what I like to think of as a particularly awesome public school system in the county of Martin in the state of Florida. There's absolutely no snobbery about education here: an education is what one makes of it.
Even if my parents could have sent us to some private school, I doubt they would have. Waking up early every day to board that yellow school bus, in the Sunshine State, I learned all about just about everything that a curious child with a love of science would want to know. Of particular value was a learning of the scientific method: questions should be followed by hypothesis. There's almost always a logical explanation for why things are the way they are; sometimes it just takes a bit of curiosity to come up with possible solutions.
Jensen Beach is a small community on the Indian River Lagoon which is in a particularly unique ecological environment. With streams fed, in part, by the freshwater Lake Okeechobee running into the salty Atlantic ocean, it harbors an amazingly diverse ecosystem: mangrove trees, brackish water, bull sharks. Snapper fish, manta rays, barracuda. Nurse sharks, snook, dolphin fish, loggerhead turtles. So much life and beauty. Three different variants of mangrove trees -- I don't know why I remember this, but I do! -- red, white and black, all of them vital to this fragile ecological system.
One of our favorite weekend destinations was a place on the coast called Bathtub Beach: a place with a natural barrier of stones and coral that created a sort of calm and placid beachgoing experience. Many weekends were spent here, scouring for seashells and other shoreline goodies, always being careful to not disturb things that aren't meant to be disturbed.
Pelican Island
Part of fifth grade involved our having an overnight camping trip in the middle of the inlet, at a place known as Pelican Island. My teacher, classmates and I boarded a boat and rode out to the island. For those who'd brought watches, they were temporarily revoked, as I assume (today) our teachers didn't want us to know what time it was -- regarding bedtimes and all.
With that question of "what do fish eat?" I became fascinated. As a fifth grader, I learned of this imaginary invisible concept known as "plankton". It actually became the subject of a later science fair project which was titled (warning: NERD alert ahead) "Ultraviolet Plankton" which explored the hypothesis of possible effects of UV rays on plankton.
Even if my parents could have sent us to some private school, I doubt they would have. Waking up early every day to board that yellow school bus, in the Sunshine State, I learned all about just about everything that a curious child with a love of science would want to know. Of particular value was a learning of the scientific method: questions should be followed by hypothesis. There's almost always a logical explanation for why things are the way they are; sometimes it just takes a bit of curiosity to come up with possible solutions.
Jensen Beach is a small community on the Indian River Lagoon which is in a particularly unique ecological environment. With streams fed, in part, by the freshwater Lake Okeechobee running into the salty Atlantic ocean, it harbors an amazingly diverse ecosystem: mangrove trees, brackish water, bull sharks. Snapper fish, manta rays, barracuda. Nurse sharks, snook, dolphin fish, loggerhead turtles. So much life and beauty. Three different variants of mangrove trees -- I don't know why I remember this, but I do! -- red, white and black, all of them vital to this fragile ecological system.
One of our favorite weekend destinations was a place on the coast called Bathtub Beach: a place with a natural barrier of stones and coral that created a sort of calm and placid beachgoing experience. Many weekends were spent here, scouring for seashells and other shoreline goodies, always being careful to not disturb things that aren't meant to be disturbed.
Pelican Island
Part of fifth grade involved our having an overnight camping trip in the middle of the inlet, at a place known as Pelican Island. My teacher, classmates and I boarded a boat and rode out to the island. For those who'd brought watches, they were temporarily revoked, as I assume (today) our teachers didn't want us to know what time it was -- regarding bedtimes and all.
With that question of "what do fish eat?" I became fascinated. As a fifth grader, I learned of this imaginary invisible concept known as "plankton". It actually became the subject of a later science fair project which was titled (warning: NERD alert ahead) "Ultraviolet Plankton" which explored the hypothesis of possible effects of UV rays on plankton.
For those readers on the edge of their seats, waiting for this story to unfold further, I offer apologies. Hopefully you're enjoying the new and lovely theme (also applied at my Twitter site), aptly titled Summer Heat. It is interesting how I'm motivated to style this site to match the tone or vibe of certain memories or times in life, all of them bright and colorful. This part of the journey is filled with memories that are especially bright and colorful.
Heat in Florida carries a weight. Unlike heat in the desert, which tends to suck moisture out, the heat in Florida is something that can actually quench a body. This is due, largely, to humidity, but also attributable to latitude: the skies change quickly, the clouds are low, the constant undulation of rising daytime temperatures over water and land creates a persistent movement of air that is manifested in winds and breezes.
My mother had traveled to Florida herself as a youth, via train. She spoke vibrantly of this place that she loved, the raw beauty of it. Immediately I knew why.
After stepping out of the airport into that Miami noonday, I remember noticing the sky. The palm trees. The birds. The scent of salt and sky. The giant, sweating city of Miami. And everything was so green.
We stayed in a motel that was fairly near the airport for a couple of days. There was a swimming pool, which my siblings and I enjoyed. Since we carried almost no baggage, travel was easy, and later that week, after taking a variety of transportation methods (the most memorable of them being a train), we ended up in Homosassa Springs.
Although I am not certain, I'm pretty sure we visited this wildlife preserve. It was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on a manatee. Being the curious child that I was, I had many questions. What did it eat? Why did it have whiskers, like a cat? Why was it so fat?
After a couple of weeks, my parents bought a van. Room for six. This was a van with curtains and nice seats, one where I wasn't practically sitting on my siblings' laps during transportation. It was a nice change.
As the summer neared an end, we somehow ended up in Jensen Beach, where we finally settled into a small white stucco house. This house was on a hill, and I remember thinking that if there were ever a hurricane with floodwaters that my house would be a good place to be.
Heat in Florida carries a weight. Unlike heat in the desert, which tends to suck moisture out, the heat in Florida is something that can actually quench a body. This is due, largely, to humidity, but also attributable to latitude: the skies change quickly, the clouds are low, the constant undulation of rising daytime temperatures over water and land creates a persistent movement of air that is manifested in winds and breezes.
My mother had traveled to Florida herself as a youth, via train. She spoke vibrantly of this place that she loved, the raw beauty of it. Immediately I knew why.
After stepping out of the airport into that Miami noonday, I remember noticing the sky. The palm trees. The birds. The scent of salt and sky. The giant, sweating city of Miami. And everything was so green.
We stayed in a motel that was fairly near the airport for a couple of days. There was a swimming pool, which my siblings and I enjoyed. Since we carried almost no baggage, travel was easy, and later that week, after taking a variety of transportation methods (the most memorable of them being a train), we ended up in Homosassa Springs.
Although I am not certain, I'm pretty sure we visited this wildlife preserve. It was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on a manatee. Being the curious child that I was, I had many questions. What did it eat? Why did it have whiskers, like a cat? Why was it so fat?
After a couple of weeks, my parents bought a van. Room for six. This was a van with curtains and nice seats, one where I wasn't practically sitting on my siblings' laps during transportation. It was a nice change.
As the summer neared an end, we somehow ended up in Jensen Beach, where we finally settled into a small white stucco house. This house was on a hill, and I remember thinking that if there were ever a hurricane with floodwaters that my house would be a good place to be.
Florida.
Florida Florida Florida.
I will never forget the first time we stepped out of the cool, air-conditioned airport and into that heady and muggy summer noonday: Miami, Florida.
It seems like a lifetime ago. Even the lens here gets a bit thick.
I'd never experienced a sauna, and it was not until later in life that I was able to grasp and wrap my mind around this most perfect analogy: stepping out of the airport and into Miami for the first time was like literally walking into a sauna. Of course, at the time, my 9-year old body had never experienced such an assault. Accustomed to the dry, desiccating heat and alpine altitudes of the rockies and Northwest, it just didn't know what to make of this sudden sea-level elevation and humidity. My body did the only thing it knew how to do: attach an extremely vivid association to the moment.
When first learning that we were moving to Florida, I remember thinking that I didn't know what to think. I pictured a literal jungle: a thick, dense jungle of overgrown vines and tall trees. . . swamps and snakes everywhere. Alligators in waiting. I pictured living all camped out, next to a riverbed, hammocks swinging in the breeze. . . I thought for all practical purposes, that my siblings and I might actually be attending school in an open-aired straw hut.
Stepping out of the airport building and into that noonday, Miami was heavy. It was nothing like I'd expected, my soon-to-be fourth grade eyes were wide with wonder. This was a city. It was a giant, living and breathing city.
The summer that followed was whirlwind: once over sky, then over trains and automobiles, my family and I became very well acquainted with the Sunshine State.
Florida Florida Florida.
I will never forget the first time we stepped out of the cool, air-conditioned airport and into that heady and muggy summer noonday: Miami, Florida.
It seems like a lifetime ago. Even the lens here gets a bit thick.
I'd never experienced a sauna, and it was not until later in life that I was able to grasp and wrap my mind around this most perfect analogy: stepping out of the airport and into Miami for the first time was like literally walking into a sauna. Of course, at the time, my 9-year old body had never experienced such an assault. Accustomed to the dry, desiccating heat and alpine altitudes of the rockies and Northwest, it just didn't know what to make of this sudden sea-level elevation and humidity. My body did the only thing it knew how to do: attach an extremely vivid association to the moment.
When first learning that we were moving to Florida, I remember thinking that I didn't know what to think. I pictured a literal jungle: a thick, dense jungle of overgrown vines and tall trees. . . swamps and snakes everywhere. Alligators in waiting. I pictured living all camped out, next to a riverbed, hammocks swinging in the breeze. . . I thought for all practical purposes, that my siblings and I might actually be attending school in an open-aired straw hut.
Stepping out of the airport building and into that noonday, Miami was heavy. It was nothing like I'd expected, my soon-to-be fourth grade eyes were wide with wonder. This was a city. It was a giant, living and breathing city.
The summer that followed was whirlwind: once over sky, then over trains and automobiles, my family and I became very well acquainted with the Sunshine State.
For all accounts which have been rapaciously skewed to bias in favor of the father of my oldest sibling, I write: I have nothing but love and respect for all of my half-siblings; I have never even met most of them. I would, however, like to bring to light the other side of the story, the side that they're probably not familiar with.
In some incredibly biased journalism, The Deseret News reported in May of 1989:
Sources: http://archive.deseretnews.com/archive/47595/UTAH-CASE-SPURS-INHERITANCE-LAW-REVIEW.html http://archive.deseretnews.com/archive/45713/150000-OF-SONS-ESTATE-GOES-TO-MOTHER-WHO-LEFT-HIM.html
Fact Check. First of all, she did not willfully "abandon" her children. From my mother, I inherited two important things: tenacity and the small gene. Tenacity to keep going, despite the odds, as well as a very small gene. We're talking physically small -- my mother was 5'2" and I am, as a full-grown adult, a mere 5'1".
Being small has its plusses and minuses. Being a small female also has many dangers, especially when there is an abusive relationship involved.
So it was this Easter weekend in 1989, after I hopped up those stairs and into the house I learned of this inheritance that my family would receive.
As Spring turned into Summer, we literally gave away almost all of our material belongings: to my friend Angela's family we gave our tents and camping gear and clothes. To other neighborhood people we gave our television, towels and food, pots and pans.
Summer of that year, the summer before I was to start fourth grade, we hopped a plane for Miami. This was yet another turning point: by the tender age of 11, I would already have been a resident of the most barren and cold northwest corner of the country *and* the most humid and lush tropical southeast corner of the United States of America.
In some incredibly biased journalism, The Deseret News reported in May of 1989:
Connecticut's Supreme Court reluctantly ruled that a mother who abandoned her 2-year-old son is entitled to half the $300,000 awarded his estate after the boy's death 13 years later.
Justice Robert J. Callahan said in a unanimous decision that . . . Benson could collect $150,000 because state inheritance laws do not distinguish between parents who abandon their children and those who raise them.In a rare move, however, the Supreme Court recommended on Monday that the Legislature change the law. Currently, a parent can be denied half the estate only if parental rights have been formally terminated after a court hearing.
Sources: http://archive.deseretnews.com/archive/47595/UTAH-CASE-SPURS-INHERITANCE-LAW-REVIEW.html http://archive.deseretnews.com/archive/45713/150000-OF-SONS-ESTATE-GOES-TO-MOTHER-WHO-LEFT-HIM.html
Fact Check. First of all, she did not willfully "abandon" her children. From my mother, I inherited two important things: tenacity and the small gene. Tenacity to keep going, despite the odds, as well as a very small gene. We're talking physically small -- my mother was 5'2" and I am, as a full-grown adult, a mere 5'1".
Being small has its plusses and minuses. Being a small female also has many dangers, especially when there is an abusive relationship involved.
So it was this Easter weekend in 1989, after I hopped up those stairs and into the house I learned of this inheritance that my family would receive.
As Spring turned into Summer, we literally gave away almost all of our material belongings: to my friend Angela's family we gave our tents and camping gear and clothes. To other neighborhood people we gave our television, towels and food, pots and pans.
Summer of that year, the summer before I was to start fourth grade, we hopped a plane for Miami. This was yet another turning point: by the tender age of 11, I would already have been a resident of the most barren and cold northwest corner of the country *and* the most humid and lush tropical southeast corner of the United States of America.
Before moving on in the unfolding of this story, I must insert the disclaimer: I love, love my parents dearly. For all readers who have living parents, or even just one living, consider yourselves very fortunate. My parents were genuinely some of the most hard-working and humble people I have ever known, or known of, and for that, they paid the price and departed from Earth early. As far as the contract with nature goes: my mother carried me around in her womb for 9 (almost; I believe I was a bit preemie) months and gave birth to me. She did her part, and for that I am grateful. I made it out safely, just as her previous five children did.
If you find yourself re-reading that last sentence, you read correctly: I made it out safely, just as her previous five children did.
In all, my mother gave birth to nine children; I was number 6 for her, number 1 for my father. As a very small child in Alaska, I remember learning of these other siblings that I'd never met, not even being able to wrap my mind around the fact that I had siblings who were (a) older than me (b) far away, and (c) half-related, in terms of genetics. Living in Hurricane, I had gotten to know my extended paternal family very well: my grandmother and aunts and uncles and cousins. Until this point, I had almost no concept of my maternal side of the family.
So within my nuclear family, I grew up as a contradiction: the oldest girl, the only girl, the youngest daughter, the oldest sister, the youngest sister, the baby girl. Mostly, though, in our house, I was simply the big sister.
Easter of 1989, I learned just how fragile the bond between life and death can be.
My oldest brother, Paul, was 15 years of age in 1986 when he was struck and killed by a motorist while riding his bicycle. Paul was one of two children that my mother had had with her first husband, a person who from her honest accounts had abused her. They divorced and she left the relationship, but unfortunately she also lost her oldest children in the process.
Later, she had three more children with another father: two boys and one girl. The boys were claimed by their father, but the girl was not: she was taken away, and put into adoption by the state of Wyoming. My mother named her "Love," and she was the one who occupied the womb two years before me.
Easter weekend, I ran up those stairs and into the house where my parents sat, the weekend that changed my life forever.
If you find yourself re-reading that last sentence, you read correctly: I made it out safely, just as her previous five children did.
In all, my mother gave birth to nine children; I was number 6 for her, number 1 for my father. As a very small child in Alaska, I remember learning of these other siblings that I'd never met, not even being able to wrap my mind around the fact that I had siblings who were (a) older than me (b) far away, and (c) half-related, in terms of genetics. Living in Hurricane, I had gotten to know my extended paternal family very well: my grandmother and aunts and uncles and cousins. Until this point, I had almost no concept of my maternal side of the family.
So within my nuclear family, I grew up as a contradiction: the oldest girl, the only girl, the youngest daughter, the oldest sister, the youngest sister, the baby girl. Mostly, though, in our house, I was simply the big sister.
Easter of 1989, I learned just how fragile the bond between life and death can be.
My oldest brother, Paul, was 15 years of age in 1986 when he was struck and killed by a motorist while riding his bicycle. Paul was one of two children that my mother had had with her first husband, a person who from her honest accounts had abused her. They divorced and she left the relationship, but unfortunately she also lost her oldest children in the process.
Later, she had three more children with another father: two boys and one girl. The boys were claimed by their father, but the girl was not: she was taken away, and put into adoption by the state of Wyoming. My mother named her "Love," and she was the one who occupied the womb two years before me.
Easter weekend, I ran up those stairs and into the house where my parents sat, the weekend that changed my life forever.