Your elevator pitch—tell me, she said. What’s your book about in a 3-4 sentence summation? I didn’t have an answer at the time, but this is what I’ve come up with so far:

Mine is a story of being the second of seven, each born within 9-years, and raised by an impervious single-mom. (That three-tent circus alone might be “worth the price of admission,” as my dear friend Nan would say.) I’ll also revisit the impact of my father’s compulsions, which resulted in unprecedented consequences by way of his genius, albeit deviant, manipulation. And I’ll explore faith vs. folly as they pertain to my mother’s independence, which was often at odds with her installation of the LDS church as patriarch by proxy of our home.

So this blog may be a forum for wordsmithing—pounding out, if you will—some of the memories that are trying to make their way into my book. On top of that, I might stomp in the puddles of parenting, wrestle in the reeds of politics, or sit on the dock musing over the inner-workings of the universe. Whatever I’m writing, this blog is my pond to play in, and you’re welcome to swing by for a friendly splash.

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

The Noise of Ludicrous Happiness

Be Alert. Make Noise. There is no guarantee of your safety in bear country.

What is this admonition? Can you hear the noise of my ludicrous happiness?

I’ve stood in a pinafore dress on Central Beach. Riptides licking my ankles. Salt-spray kissing my cheeks. Waves washing me in the depths of an ocean below. Alert to golden flecks floating around me below the blue and white sky above. I’ve made the noise of sputtering and squawking water from my lungs, clawing my way back to the shore.

I still explore beaches, and waters, and sandbars.

I’ve shared an unabashed duet of Mirror in the Bathroom with English Beat in the confines of a red Nissan Sentra on the corner of 20st and Broadway. A would-be car-jacker emphatically pounded the glass of my passenger side-door. Alert to the shopkeeper jumping on the pavement, waving his arms a block away, giving warning to my surroundings. I leaned on the horn and squealed tires in response.
I still delight in the anonymity of urban cities.

I’ve jumped on the hood of a stranger’s car while jogging in the suburbs of Oakland. Alert to the stillness of the neighborhood, instinctively barking back at a pit bull. “Fuck you, dog! Fuck you!” I screamed into the 6:00 am air.

I still wander streets at any hour of the morning and night.

I’ve grown humans from seed within my hara. Delivered them into existence through my pelvis. Alert to the scent of bodily fluids and sterile gloves. Panting and growling in between commands to push up to 9 lbs 14 oz under my pelvic bone.

I did this not once, not twice, not thrice, but four separate times.

I’ve loved deeply. Alert to the crack of my own heart and the collapse of my own lungs in mourning. Howling each time. Sliding down an apartment wall.  On the stoop of my front doorstep. In the hallways of a hospital.

I still hold space for lost loves in my heart, and breathe new love into my lungs.

Have truer, more obvious words been written? “There is no guarantee of your safety.” And yet, do you hear the noise of my ludicrous happiness? 

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