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I Didn’t Move.

I’m in Alaska, but I didn’t move to Alaska.

Campus.

The decision was made over a week ago. An exact week before my contracted move in date. Not so much a decision, but a realization: I can’t move to Alaska, not now.

I kind of hinted at the issues in my earlier post, when I wrote that oh so awesome tangent about how in one day I’d decided I wasn’t moving to Alaska only to conclude I was moving to Alaska because fuck hesitations and fuck sane choices and blah blah blah and cheers to another maybe move! I wrote that and proceeded to feel sick about the decision, flip flopped and flopped and flipped, drove my family crazy, didn’t sleep, etc etc etc.

Coffee.

For the sake of simplicity:

I didn’t move to Alaska because my health isn’t what it should be. I didn’t move because the risk of my not making it through the semester was too high. I didn’t move because it wouldn’t have been fair to my professors or students or colleagues or the program as a whole. I didn’t move because every time I told myself I was going to go—that I WOULD move no matter what—I hurt, hurt so much. I don’t want to move and start grad school now, because I’m don’t feel like me and I know I need to pause and take care of myself before this next big thing.

Also! I must break my the habit of rhyming.

So I said goodbye to the idea of Alaska. Sent the email and called it The End, because I thought that by saying no to now, I was saying no to forever. But then my program emailed back and asked if I wanted start this January or next year instead and I said yes.

And that was that.

BUT, for some IDIOTIC reason, I still boarded my plane to Fairbanks, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t accept the fact that I wasn’t going to be in Alaska THIS WEEK after all of those months of imagining myself in Alaska THIS WEEK and I needed to come here. I simply needed to be here. Well, there, Fairbanks.

Golden Heart.

Because though I’m still in Alaska, I’m now on a train, not in Fairbanks, already eight hours out from Fairbanks. Exhausted and aching and confused and idiotically missing the place I should be claiming as home but I won’t be for at least four months, maybe twelve, and I’m overwhelmed by the land and the green and that lake I idiotically assumed was unnamed and the people who were everything good and offered some of the most greatest hugs and even the mosquitoes that managed to bite through four layers of clothing.

So now I’m on this train, rolling south to Anchorage where I’ll be until Tuesday morning. And Tuesday morning I fly back to California, because I didn’t move to Alaska. I couldn’t move to Alaska, not now, now last Wednesday. In California I’ll try to make myself better, healthy, and I’ll see my doctors and I’ll hopefully take advantage of the unexpected time and writewritewrite (or revise my past rewrite) and be present and trust this feeling that I did the right thing. Deferred. Deferring.

North.

I think the hardest part was letting go of my ego. The Big Fucking Deal of Moving to ALASKA. That was weird. That was hard. To accept that the scarier thing wasn’t relocating to somewhere so severe, but staying still. Since I turned sixteen, moving, going, leaving has been the answer. Right now, the answer is going back to bed.

So for at least a few months, I’m going to try to stay still. Because staying still is horrifying and because I think this fear is a pretty good indication that staying still is especially necessary at this time.

In Fairbanks, I was happy and I was tired and I promised I’d try not to die so I’m going to try not to die before I attempt my journey back. And that should be easy, as I like to think I’ll journey back sooner than soon, however you want to define soon.

So I didn’t move to Alaska. Not yet. But I’m here, Alaska-here, for a minute, so at least there’s that.


23!

Hi. I’m now 23. And I wrote 3000 words yesterday and I’ve added 20,000 words to my rewrite, which is way too many words–words that are going to require cutting–but I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy.

up.

But it’s weird because I’m 23.

23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23. 23…!!!???!!!


Cold Feet.

Yesterday I decided I would not move to Alaska.
Today (tonight) I decided I will (probably) move to Alaska.

Can I be human for a minute?

monday.

This summer hasn’t been easy. Panic attacks at a severity I’ve never experienced. Writing at a snail’s pace. Sadness. A stupid, overwhelming sadness. The what the fuck am I doing where am I going how am I going to pay for bed sheets and oatmeal and why am I going and why am I not writing and I don’t even like close reading so who the hell am I going deal. More than anything: I am sick. Sick. Sick. Sick. Pretending not to be sick. Denial. I won’t go into details, it’s nothing crazy or life threatening, but something that makes me weak every day, gives me the spins, makes me nervous about students and colleagues relying on me.

If you’d told me a year ago, I would move to Alaska, I’d be shocked and confused and very happy. And I think Past Me would tell Current Me to buck the fuck up and get on the plane.

But does past me know the whole story?

Pikes Peak Shuttle Lot

Two weeks from tonight, I’m maybe in Alaska. I may (definitely) need some wine.


Summer.

So July is relentless.

July.

I visited Mexico and got sunburned for the first time in 10 years. Grad school started early with a hybrid pedagogy course. Writing is hard. The heat makes me wonky. A summer flu knocked me out for a week. August kicks off on Friday and I’m on eBay bidding on parkas suitable for the arctic and soon I’ll be twenty-three.


Solstice.

It’s summer solstice. 8:04 pm and the sun is still beaming. If I were already up in Fairbanks, up in Alaska, the sun wouldn’t set until tomorrow–until past one am–and would only remain down for about an hour.

But I’m in California. In the house I grew up in. In the office where I wrote Harry Potter fan-fiction for Quizilla.com and threw hours into Neopets. Difference is that at thirteen, I used the desk. Now, almost twenty-three, I prefer the floor. Thank you, please. Not much has changed since winter 2010, before Colorado Colorado and Humboldt County. Saturdays nights spent in this office on the moss colored carpeting wanting to write but not wanting to write and kind of feeling like I should cry or maybe eat chocolate.

netflix.

It’s been over a month since I left Colorado. Over a month since I graduated. I miss it and I don’t miss it and I’m angry that Colorado Springs is experiencing its rainiest summer in the last three years. I miss people. Friends. And I miss people I didn’t expect to miss. The dude at the grocery store who always worked the self checkout lines, who always nodded goodbye. The baristas at the Starbucks I went to when I was trying to hide from my college life. The baristas I didn’t want to be on talking terms with but somehow was coerced by endearing smiles. And then the lanky barista with short curly hair at my college, who I somehow often saw at the most random places, far away from campus, like the Barnes and Noble up on Academy and Briargate.

I swear I don’t have a thing for baristas. Those baristas were just rather nice.

I miss the people I can’t find online, that I can’t talk to from here, can’t even stalk. I miss the I-25 and the drive from 19th street to Mesa Rd to Garden of the Gods and then further north, always north, drive until Centennial curves and I then barrel east on Woodmen to suburbia. To the strip malls that are inexplicably relentlessly comforting.

You know, I’ve been either in a state of missing Colorado and headed to Colorado soon or in Colorado, blessedly in Colorado, since 2006. But now I’m only missing the place, with no plans to return, no idea when I’ll land in El Paso County again.

June (May) Gloom.

Corporate life is unexpectedly soothing. I’m seasonly employed by a financial management company that is owned by a big time bank and I thought I would hate it, that I’d grit my teeth in my attempt to pad my savings, attempt to throw some money at my loans, but I’m not gritting my teeth. Not at all. In fact, it’s calming. It’s the most calming job I’ve had and somehow my copy writing and copy editing and web design and all that jazz experience has already been of unexpected use. My primary task is database clean up–that’s why I was hired, that’s my real deal task. So the surprise of playing with words and images paired with the surprise of how freaking nice everyone is, how the soft hum of the 11th floor calms my nerves, how the escape from my frazzled writing space is a welcome moment of my day–I didn’t expect any of this. I didn’t expect my summer to be this way.

Maybe academia and creatives lend a more chaotic workspace. Maybe I’ll feel differently about the lure and clickty clackty and foreign language of finances by August. Maybe the calm will turn into a dull. I’m not even saying I prefer it to my usual gig. I’m in no way saying I’d want to remain in the long-open-shared-whatever cubicle desk forever and ever and ever. Hell no. I’m only surprised. Relieved. The paychecks are exceptionally nice.

I also didn’t expect to take a knife to my manuscript and cut the last 10,000 words and start out to wholly rewrite the end. But so it goes. I am. I knew I was doing a revision and revisions seem to typically turn into rewrites for me. So why am I even surprised?

revision board.

The sky is white and warm and thick. I feel like I should do something to celebrate the solstice, but summer has never been my season. Never inspired me. Not the least bit invigorating. Summer makes me sluggish and weepy. Winter solstice is what sets my fire. When I take deep breaths and light candles and write lists and bake crazy chocolate cakes and don’t even mind when I wake to floods the next day. I never know what to do with summer. How to consider summer, but I’ve stopped hiding my legs. I miss ballet. This limbo zone is weird. Alaska. Is that even happening? I don’t think I’ll think of it as a real thing until I’m there. I don’t think I’ll realize I’m actually not returning to Colorado until I drop myself into Cold Country, scavenging a new life up there, so far removed.

This little blog has been back up and running now for over a year. Woohoo?

Summer solstice. I suppose I’ll touch my toes.