the little squash

I was supposed to race in the women's crit today. My first race ever. I raced once in second grade and came in third, but it was one of those races where you have to balance an egg in a spoon and jump around in a big itchy sack without getting pissed and calling quits to go eat more pb&j, and I raced a few times in fourth grade when I was the new kid at the public school in my town, and when we got in from recess I would jog towards the door and these stupid kids would try to one-up me, which if you haven't understood by now is impossible, so of course some days I would just plow through the field of kids and make it to the door first, and then once I found "cool" (I actually remember the day I became cool, it was late in fourth grade and I was sitting on the swing set telling stories and just got on a role and everyone started gathering around me to hear my tales, and then this one girl started giving me a hard time because she was one of those friends who also hated me, I hate those people, but anyway I stopped her in her tracks by telling her, her name was Jill, to "go suck an egg" which I'd heard in Dick Tracy, and everyone laughed and I was able to carry on with my lessons of fate and morality) they would occasionally run after me to try to beat me, but then I would just stop running and maybe would just turn around all together because I didn't even give a care.

I have also pushed myself to go faster than arroyo mutts or Liberty Ave cars. But other than that I've never really raced in my life. Today it started raining through, about an hour before the race, and it's still raining now, and I figured the last thing anyone needs is a rookie showing up to ride with all her might and no skill or plan of attack, in a big pack of women, on a slippery-ass track, thus wiping everyone down and perhaps gouging someone in the throat with a handlebar or a chain ring.

So I stayed home and napped and made calabasitas for Soupie when he gets back for winning the big bicycle race, or at least the version of it I could make with the ingredients I had at my disposal. Zuccini, corn, muenster cheese, red onion, garlic, jalapenos, oil, salt, water. I thought I had a hooknose squash, but I don't. It's all steeping in a pot now, drained and trying to not cool too quickly before Evan gets home.

The last time I made calabasitas was with Anita, at Jaime's house in Belen, just outside Albuquerque. It was a great night. Anita and Cedar and I made food, Jason and I hung up tarps to help keep the music from blowing away. It sounds crazy, but unless you've been to the desert you may not understand the winds there and how they can suck away sound. (Insert awkward story that begins with a bottle of rum, intercepts with being put to sleep in a truck, and ends with Krispee blueberry pancakes, and perhaps a few nods in the direction of friendship love. It's for another entry.)

In the kitchen, however, it was sort of the first time I saw Anita as not a partier but as a caring person who took drugs because she was in pain, and who did not abuse them and saved her party drugs separate from her pain drugs. She was good at making calabasitas, and good at teaching me, and at giving me things to do to keep me from feeling as awkward as she instinctively knew I was capable of feeling. She wasn't drinking that night, and she wasn't wearing a two inch long skirt or a tiny made-to-fit tank top with a ton of belts. Just shorts and a tshirt and a black denim vest. She looked comfortable, which meant she was sore. This is when it clicked to me that Anita was dying.

The first time I met Anita was at Jason's house when he and I first became friends. She came in wearing the tiny outfit mentioned above, small even for her teeny body, hyper and ant-like. She made comments about gross movies she'd seen and bands who'd traveled through who she'd recently acted as groupie for.

"Woooaaahhh, who was that?" I asked Jason, not knowing yet how I felt about her.

"That's Anita. She's my best friend. She's going to die soon, it's sad." He explained to me the gout she had bulging out the side of her arm, how her kidneys have been failing, how she is the most beautiful person he knows. "She can just sort of do whatever she wants, because she has to, because she doesn't know how much longer she has. It's inspiring but, fuck, you know?"

"Yeah."

So Anita and I, both being Jason's good friends, became friends ourselves. She lived in Albuquerque, and every time we'd head down there we'd stop by her place. She always had some story that is too much to explain on here, and anyway not my story to tell. But the thing about Anita that I always forgot at the punk shows where she'd play games such as "smell my finger" was that she was a genius. She read books on math and quantum physics for recreational reading, while she was just sitting at home, and tutored kids in math for money.

I dunno. This story isn't really going anywhere, by now the calabasitas have long been eaten, and she was right that the nonvegan recipe is much better than the vegan recipe Jason and I used to make (he wasn't vegan, just a sympathizer). Of all the friends and relatives that have died, though, her story feels the most tragic. She died young and there wasn't much she could have done to prevent it, at least as far as I know. Most everyone one else was in charge of their death in some way, even if it had to do with actions taken a long time ago. My aunt, although her death was of an illness she'd come down with as a child that had nothing to do with her own judgment, also lived much longer than anticipated, and got to see her daughters grow up, meet some of her grandchildren, die peacefully in her rocking chair while her loving husband was upstairs.

The last time I saw Anita was at her mom's house. It was shortly before I left New Mexico, and she'd stopped really socializing, and had begun the process of weeding down visitors. I had taken a big spill the day before, and my leg was very infected and swollen to the point where I couldn't walk on it. I'd seen Jason that night after the show where I'd fallen, in the silk screening room of Warehouse 21. The next day we met up again for breakfast and I was still unable to walk, my kneecap swollen stiff. We were supposed to go on a hike or do construction or something, and I wouldn't say no because I was enamored, so Jason took me to Anita's to get pain medication. She gave me a couple pills and Jason gave me a beer to wash them down and boost their activity. Anita was in a lounge chair, and despite the New Mexican summer hear, there was a blanket on her lap. She looked little as ever, her ant-like cheeks puffed out, probably from all the painkillers. She had a bit of a belly, with such skinny limbs, the whole time I'd known her, but here in her house she just looked thin and dreadful. Jeer was with her, helping her move about and get things in the house. Jason and I left shortly. It was a bit much for all of us.

I moved away about a month later, and Jason didn't see her much after that either. She didn't want him to see her to weak and vulnerable.

It was a long process. I'd moved from New Mexico to New York, and from New York back to Boston, and from Boston I'd traveled around Europe and come back. I caught news of her death on the internet, via a post by Jaime of her obituary and the news of her wake. There was a show at my house going on in the basement. I ran downstairs screaming. No that's a lie. I walked downstairs to get a glass of water and there were people in the kitchen and when they started asking me questions and I tried to talk I collapsed and started screaming. I was ushered upstairs and just banged against the window with my head and screamed and wanted to die, the way I feel every time a friend dies but more intense and pathetic. I'm no good at these things. Anita's death made me miss so much that I could never have back. I still miss it, though not in the same way I suppose. Every time a person dies they take a tour van of experience with them. I can't enjoy metal shows anymore the way I used to, or grind, or calabasitas. Visiting friends in New Mexico is different, there aren't as many reasons to go to Albuquerque, and just another slapped on the long list or reasons to stay away.

When Anita died I lost my job for failure to show up, even though I called in. My friends in Boston turned to angels and threw a benefit show for me to go down and see friends. Devon had passed away that past November, I was a mess and was afraid the entire Santa Fe was just collapsing. It is a fear I have whenever someone dies. That someone won't be able to handle it and will kill themselves, thus pushing everyone else over the edge. It wouldn't surprise me, death is hard to overcome. So I visited. Shane, Sue Fury and I sat atop the Cross of the Martyrs and shared stories and reminisced. It was nice to hear their sides of things, to get someone else's stories. When you are by yourself on the other side of this vast expansive country, telling yourself the same stories over and over, you can start to worry maybe your memory is failing, maybe the person you remember isn't the person who existed. What a transformation. I don't care if I am remembered horridly, as long as I am remembered correctly.

But I am right in my memories, at least in the general feel of them. Maybe not the color of her hair on a certain day, but on the wideness of her smile, the way she made people feel, the fun she had despite it all, while everyone else was moaning off their hangovers, Anita was sucking up her breathes as fully as she could, knowing not to count them. I love her.

life since mexico: unemployed bliss

So I am unemployed. On my last day, Mary brought me in a box of Godiva chocolates, and Sue gave me a new journal with a really nice set of pen & pencil, both refillable (not the journal, I believe that is a one-time-only sort of thing). I don't know if Sue gave me a present solely because I left Mary's gift and card (where she talked about me being family!!) out on my desk, or because she genuinely wanted to give me something as a parting gift. Regardless, what she came up with was very particular to me and very thoughtful and appreciated. The chocolates, though they said more about Mary than about me (chocolate is her favorite food group), are delicious and I have been snacking on them secretly whenever I walk past the pantry.  I still did all of my work for the day, and tried to alleviate the stress for everyone with the transition from my competent self to this new person taking over my position (I met her, and showed her the computer, and she seems nice, I hope she works out well for the office).  I think that could be the reason why Sue went out and got me a gift, if she weren't planning on it before, that even though I had no real obligation to the office, I still felt obligated to them as people, and took care of things that they would take care of on Friday, were I to not care to work hard on my last day, because I don't want it to be like that, and they have always been good to me, and I would like them to remember me well, and not as a poor sport, or as a person who worked only to keep her job and not because she respected it or herself.



Soupie came in to help me load up all of my belongings, two very stuffed messenger bags full of condiments, protein powder, shoes (2 pairs), a picture of us lovebirds at the Jersey State Fair (framed), Spanish flash cards, random nicknacks, food, clothes that had piled up over the past 8 months in my office.  Evan a small boom box that doesn't work, and a hammer it took a moment of trying to remember whether it was mine and why I would have brought it (it was mine, and I brought it in one day to put studs on my vest).

I'd been riding the Eliza Furnace Trail home from work every day for the last two weeks or so, because it is a longer ride and the weather is nice, and the lack of traffic and quality of pavement make the trip take just about as long, if not just minutes slower (though to Evan's house I believe it is the same amount of time if not quicker, because it is a more on-track route than to my house, which is slightly out of the way).  So on this last day we took the trails again, with our heavily loaded bags, and dispite the weight on our backs, felt as free as ever, with no jobs to hurry away from, and mainly each other to look forward to, right next to each other.

Since being unemployed, Soupie and I have gone out to breakfast at our favorite diner, Pamela's, and got pancakes, then went to his dad's house and helped him clear out his basement (more on that later, in the section about the yard sale).  We went to a punk show (Phobia, which should have been the first warning), and got into a fight with a couple kids who thought it was alright to bring dogs into the venue, went on a few city night-rides, and have actually spent time with friends (though I confess I suppose this began while I still had a job, but no more class or trip or emotional recovery to tend to).  Also, what a joy to both of us, we have begun this year's mountain bike season.  I also hung the hammocks in my back yard and planted basil, tomato, and blackberry seedlings/bushes in Evan's yard.  Oh, and I also started reading Moby Dick, after so many years of NOT reading it.

Today, perhaps, was the best day.  But lets start with yesterday.  Last night, after a day of running errands and not much getting accomplished and running our of time to go for a road ride, we noticed the dog to be sick.  We'd taken him to Hot Dog Dam with Evan's dad the day before, where he got slobbered and trampled by the other dog wading in the water there, since I could not take him off the leash since it isn't very fenced in at all, just right by the trail.  That night we left him for a bit to grab pizza with Leanne (I told you life was real good now that I have no job), who was breaking vegan with us, and a few bands on tour.  The bands came back to Evan's to sleep, and the dog was pretty sleepy, but it was late.  The next day, he was still a bit sheepish, but he was around strangers.  No big deal.  We took him for a walk in the woods and to the dog park, and he had energy but got bored of the other dogs easily and spent time wandering around by himself instead of running, but it was hot out and he overheats easily.  He slept most of the day while we continued with our errands.  But when we looked at him before getting on our bikes to head to a party where our friends' bands were playing, he was extremely bloated looking.  We decided to wait a bit and see what happened, and he went intermittently between running around with the new toy we bought him and barking at the neighbor dog to laying bloated and sore-looking on my bed, to the point where he just had his legs stretched out and his head drooping off the edge of the bed, not sleeping though it was past his bedtime, and when I pet him he shivered a bit.  He felt like a water balloon.  After some deliberation, we decided to hold off on taking him to the vet, but to not go out.

So we stayed home and watched Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, which I'd just gotten in the mail that day, or the day before.  We made popcorn and kept an eye on the dog.  Around 1 a.m. we almost gave in and took him to the emergency room, but as we got ready to leave he finally fell asleep, so we took that as a sign to let him rest and not ruin his night any more by waking him again and putting him in the car.  About 40 minutes later, he jumped back on my bed (we'd put him in his own bed so he wouldn't fall off mine) and curled into my legs, a sign that he was feeling better.  In the morning, sure enough, he finally ate a bit of food after not eating anything all yesterday, and seemed to be completely cured of whatever monstrous parasite was surging through his body, causing him to throw up Friday's meal, poop three times, and not want to eat Saturdays dinner.

So it is today, now.  We wake early to check on the dog, who is fine, and who is already awake and trying to get out to bark at the neighbor dog.  We tell him to go back to sleep, but instead he pees on my rug (it's ok, that rug doesn't really tie the room together, it was a gift and is machine-washable).  So our day begins.  We walk around the block and stop to get coffee.  Evan sells the surf board that was rotting away in his dad's basement for $20 to one of our favorite baristas.  People are just starting to set up for the community-wide yard sale.  We have stuff to sell so we go home and start setting up shop.  Ultimately, we make about $45.  I sell things real cheap and Evan accounts for inflation and emotional worth.  I just try to get my stuff out of my hands.  We still have some stuff left, mainly me, but we did get rid of all his dad's junk from the basement: the surf board, a set of speakers, a lamp from the 50's.....lots of treasures that had been sitting for too long for Bob (Evan's dad) to see as anything by trash.

We could have made more money, but Todd stopped by so we started chatting, them we just got bored of the whole yard sale all together and packed the whole deal up, sent Todd home, made lunch, and then met Ted at Evan's house to go mountain biking.  It was a nice ride, I felt really strong for the most part, and a lot of things that sometimes scare me were no big deal at all.  We did do one trail though that freaked me out and put a stick in my spokes.  It's called Roller Coaster, and is essentially that.  Lots of steep ups and steep downs, lots of turns, riding on curves and curbs.  I can ride down hills ok, generally speaking, as part of a trail to make it to the second spot, but when that is the entire trail and it is windy, all I can think of is losing control and hitting a log that is jutting out and smashing into the tree next to it.  I don't mind scars or scabs or bruises, but getting poofed into a vegetable for the sake of overcoming some trail that doesn't know whether I am riding it or not isn't really that important to me, and in fact just the possibility freaks me out somewhat.  Soupie and Ted tried to break this thought process by reminding me of how dangerous riding through city traffic seems to most people but how I do that so effortlessly.  Soupie said he doesn't like riding some trails that shoot down real fast because they cross other paths and he doesn't know whether or not there might be something there.  He said it's a matter of control, that he doesn't like feeling like he isn't in control, and he isn't in control of that sort of situation.  I said that perhaps, then, my problem is that I don't like to be in control.  If I crash into some kid who is doing down the perpendicular trail, at least it was fate that ran us into each other, and not my horrible mountain biking skills.

Other than that, though, the ride was great.  We came home and read and shared a bowl of wheat pasta with garlic, and iced tea.  In an hour we will get half-price burritos at Mad Mex.  We don't have to get up early for anything but each other, and maybe for a road ride in the morning before I have to meet a guy about setting up a website, and Evan had lunch with his friends and then helps his dad organize and clean his art studio.

Perhaps, also, I will have time to mail out chapbooks to people, and maybe even file for unemployment.  In the evening, we are checking out a bike trailer, which we will hopefully use to cart the dog around, so we can take him to the dog park, or on long bike rides and camping trips.  Better than stuffing him in my backpack (we've tried, he hates it), or taking him to a Phobia show, anyway, right?