Small Town Gripes

Returning to the town where I grew up after my mother's death seemed like a good idea at the time. When she was in the hospital in September, 2008, I was all "it's so beautiful here, the air is clean and the people are friendly, why did I leave?" After being back for two years, I TOTALLY remember why I couldn't wait to leave.

I miss the energy and anonimity of big cities. I miss the fast pace of urban life. I miss the option of refusing to return to a store when I get crappy service. When there's only one place in town to get something, then you pretty much HAVE to go there, crappy service or not. The other options are to order over the internet (and pay for shipping,) or drive a hundred and sixty miles round trip to the next, slightly larger, town (and pay for gas) neither of which is a great choice.

Having lived here for over thirty years, my mother had quite a history. She was a visible, active member of the community, ran for city council a couple of times, never failed to make her opinions known. It can be a nice thing, being known for your family, but sometimes you can just feel the judgment when someone finds out who your parent was. It can leave a bitter aftertaste. And did I mention seeing her ex-lovers? That can be rather embarassing, especially when some of them really have NO idea what's in good taste.

I like running into people I know, even though I've become quite masterful at the sweet-but-swift brush-off, since otherwise a fifteen minute trip to the store becomes a forty-five minute "Oh I haven't seen you in so long!" conversation. Being surrounded by people who've known you for years is great, except when it's not, when it's petty and spiteful and grudge-holding.

Small town life can be amusing. There was a letter to the editor in one of the local papers this week about the illegalities of shooting and butchering a neighbor's goat that happened to get loose. It was funny, but it also struck me as being so provincial and vaguely ridiculous.

I liked having my choice of first-run movies to see in a variety of luxe theaters, even if we rarely went. Ditto with other entertainment and dining options. Here, there is ONE theater that hasn't been updated since the 70's, showing two or three movies per week. Last time I saw a film on the big screen, I was distracted by the ratcheting of the projector and how cold the building was.

Maybe I'm being petty or short-sighted, maybe I'm spoiled or impatient, but 99% of the people I went to school with now live elsewhere. Some of them didn't go too far, a couple of really good friends live in Anchorage. Anchorage is a city, a small city, but a city nevertheless.

No Free Bags

I guess this would not come as a surprise to those (wonderful, loyal) few who still read my almost-nonexistant blog, but I often find my mind wandering far afield. Like the old "paper vs. plastic" debate. Pretty mundane on the surface, but rather complicated once you delve deeper. Because you have to kill trees to make paper bags, and you have to drill oil to make plastic ones. At least trees are a renewable resource. And probably the best bet is to bring your own reuseable bags to the store with you, provided you don't wash them too often, which uses water and detergent and electricity. Which brings me to the thought that that's how it used to be, you brought your own containers to carry things home in, because there were no free bags. You brought the miller your wheat, he ground it, and you carried the flour home in your own sacks. So who started giving away free bags when you purchased something at their store? I think it's a pretty enterprising thing to do, people were maybe more likely to shop there, but then, how did it become standard? And these days, it seems we're coming full-circle, with a movement by stores to stop giving away bags. Hmmm...

Lately...

I haven't been writing...like AT ALL. No journal, no blog, no memoir, pretty sad really. I have been tweeting, but only sporadically, and how much can you really accomplish in 140 characters or less? I keep promising myself I'll do better, but all that's proven is that I'm bad at keeping promises, even to myself. I have big ideas, but without follow through, ideas, big or small, mean nothing.
I've been watching too much T.V., letting myself get lost in other people's fantasies. It's easy, which is such a trap for me. I've been doing nothing creative, and very little that's healthy. I haven't worked out since leaving California, and Alaska makes it expensive to eat well.
I socialize more than I did in So Cal, there are so many people I know here and it's generally okay to drop in for a cup of coffee and a chat, but I'm not sure how productive it is. I feel the love and support, but there's no real impetus to change or be better. Also, it can be a huge time-suck.

I'm dealing with a beautiful but moody boy-cat who gets upset easily and likes to pee in inappropriate places, like MY BED. He's one of Mom's cats and I tried to adopt him out, unsuccessfully. He spent three months in the local shelter, which did not help at all.

New Year's Resolutions I Can Live With

1. Drink more red wine.  Two (6 oz.) glasses a day is okay.
2. Eat more healthy seafood.  I kind of forgot how yummy salmon is, and fish-oil capsules give you nasty burps.
3. Ask for help when I need it.  There are lots of people who love and support me, but they're not mind readers.

My Unrequited Love For Katy Perry

I don't know why I've developed such a thing for Ms. Perry, it kind of snuck up on me.  Maybe because she started out as a Christian artist, but then decided she wanted more success and went the sexy, secular route, undoubtedly disappointing her parents.  Maybe because some people trash her for this, while I find it laudable.  I think Lady Gaga is a better artist and more original, but Katy makes me laugh.  "California Gurls" and "Teenage Dream" just make me want to dance around in my underwear and giggle uncontrollably.  I want to say she makes me feel fifteen again, but the truth is that I was too self-conscious to ever feel that free when I was fifteen, so I guess it's most accurate to say that she makes me feel how I wish I could have felt when I was a teenager, or something like that.  I love that she married Russell Brand, 'cause he's wild and hot and funny, even though I don't think it will last, I hope it does.  She seems more down-to-earth than Brittany, and I love that she's not conventionally gorgeous, but has a bit of character to her face.  I can't wait to see how she develops as an artist, and what fascinating chaos and implosions her future might hold.

39,000,000

Big number, huh?  That's the number of sexually abused children in the U. S., according to Darkness 2 Light.  Thirty-nine MILLION.  Million.  Mind BLOWN.  And I'm one of them.  One in six boys.  One in FOUR girls.  And that's just the U.S.  It's really tripping me out right now, I guess because I try not to think about it much, and when I do, I minimize (it could have been worse, I was actually kind of lucky...).  It can be a lot to deal with, and I don't think I've necessarily done a very good job of it.  I'm not an addict, not a prostitute (although I did come close).  There's still so much anger, so much shit that I don't know what to do with.  I need to call my therapist, and maybe find a lawyer.

The Sound of a Single Shot

it echoes and echoes and echoes...

Sometime in the dark of the late night or early morning of October 23rd or 24th, my little brother ended his life.  No one heard the single gunshot, or if they did, they didn't know what it meant.  Dismissed it as a car back fire maybe, or wrote it off as a warning to a bear.  Gunshots aren't uncommon in rural Alaska, sometimes if you hear a succession, you might wonder what the hell is going on, but people rarely call the police.
He lay in the grass by the edge of the canyon for twelve or fourteen hours before Olga found him.  I think of the stillness of the night, the dew settling, I can't remember if it frosted or not, not that it's really important.  I feel bad for her, finding him that way, it must have been terrible and shocking.  She knew him all his life, he played with her kids, she must have wondered, like all of us, how could I not have known? why didn't I see?
He shot himself in the head with a gun taken from an unlocked safe in a office.  There was a note, a passed-in-class note, in which he and an unidentified friend wrote.  One of the things he wrote was about shooting himself at the edge of the canyon and rolling down the steep slope, how peaceful it might be.  The friend never said anything, obviously thought he was just talking, wasn't serious.  So much guilt, so many unanswered questions.
There were signs, of course there were signs!, but no one was really paying attention, including me.  I spoke with him on the phone a couple of weeks before, and he didn't want to talk to me.  Had to be pestered to tell me he loved me, so unlike him.  I should have known then that there was something wrong, I just thought he was being a moody teenager.
Fifteen years ago, that's quite a while in human terms.  Time passes, life goes on, as they say.  And I hope he's a part of something larger now; the wind and the grass, the earth and the rain, the dark sky and the shimmering stars that were his only witnesses that lost, lonely night.