Minneapolis, MN (music; beatles)

(notes from the week)

A dark storm of chocolate chases the tan steamed remains of milk down the glass as I tip it towards my mouth. Its chalky remains slide down still separated, and the glass, coated with the glittery remains of sugar, is replaced back onto the table atop the remains of the day’s paper. It’s morning.

The sun is shining in through the camouflage of fingerprints on the large storefront window and casting leafed shadows of the ledges potted plants onto my shoes. Despite the sun, it is cold, and all feeling in toes has become fleeting. I’m playing paddleball with the boy at my elbow. I sit turning pages of a book, in attempts to distract myself from tabulating how many days I’ll be away before inevitably landing back where we left off. I watch him cross t’s on the bottom left of the cross word and mentally cataloging the aftermath of my hot chocolate alongside this fleeting moment, as flight confirmation e-mails tally the passing of each day.

Minneapolis, MN (music; Beatles)

(notes from the week)

I speed full force into the evening from behind a plastic steering wheel with a margarita in my left hand, surveying pedestrians on sidewalk cafés in Tokyo. “If you tap the gas pedal twice you can get your car to do a flip.” I’m at GameWorks. I glance over to the passenger on my left. His seat is tossing him side to side as he roars around corners. He’s finished his second margarita and his car, complete with upgraded lighting, engine, and fairing, is tearing through Tokyo averaging ninety miles an hour. I reach for where my seatbelt should be.

I push a red button on the dash to check my rearview mirror and continue through a roundabout. Neon words are flashing at the top of my screen telling me I’m headed the wrong direction. I’m off of the main strip and there are no other cars in sight, but I’ve been raised on the scenic route. I haven’t seen any speed limit postings or pedestrians in the past twenty miles, so I’m easing into a steady 55mph. I press a green button on my right to change the music selection.

“Do you know they have videogames like this targeted at truckers? At truckstops. So to take a break from their driving, they drive. Oh, I guess that’s how you feel, huh?” He laughs and pushes me as we walk over to refill our drinks and find faster cars. I smile and shrug. I’m thinking back to my interview and the questions I was asked about my driving record. Having not driven substantially in the three years leading up to that moment, I was confident my record was clean, but maybe I should have mentioned drinking and driving.

Minneapolis, MN (music; Beatles)

(notes from the week)

“It was like he got strung out on RedBull and reenacted fucking Grand Theft Auto,” the man behind the paper cupped double espresso stated as he described his attack, wildly gesturing in outstretched arm movements. I would place him in a business casual mid thirties, but he’s wearing neon high-tops, and there are fun-size candy bar wrappers on his table. The uniformed detective took off his aviator sunglasses and folded them onto the table. He pulled his hand downwards across his face, over his mustache, pausing in contemplative gesture on his chin. Naturally. As one might expect from an officer.

I can’t turn away. We’re the only three in the café. If I were heartless, or diligent, I would have access to this gentleman’s social security number, home address, birthday, allergies, and prior record information. As it is, I sit with my headphones plugged into my computer with the sound turned off, snacking on a Cliff bar as I take in the live show. I’m wondering how this story pieces together, if the victim will be asked to be a part of the reenactment for COPS, how long that mustache has been there, and whether either of them would mind waiting two seconds for me to get a refill.

Minneapolis, MN (music; the rolling stones)

I'm writing new laws for this city.
1). You will receive one broken car window everytime you drive within two feet of a cyclist. Three feet is the law, two feet is deadly. Back off.
2) More breakfast taco stands shall be created, posthaste.
3) You must have a similar ratio of available outlets to table space in your cafe.

Ten minutes til powerdown.

This room can seat approximately thirty-five people, fifty if some of those people just wanted to sit without table space. Fifty seven if you count small children and irritating couples. How many outlets are available, you ask? One single powerstrip. One. I would forgive this if the business would have organized its tables in a large group circle, a pow-wow around the glorified powerstrip. I would commend their attempts to band together brethren over lattes and iced tea in an environment where folks sit together silently for hours at a time. Alas, they have not. In this current arrangement, despite having six slots available for your electronic pleasure, only three people can reach the powerstrip. Sadly, the rest of us forgot our extension cords in our other backpacks today.

What's equally troubling is that there is a second wall outlet entirely inaccessable. Two outlets, being denied the ability to complete their sole function, denied their reason for existance, smashed by a referbished church pew. There is no room to drop your cord behind the pew in hopes that some magical magnetic attraction will suck your plug into it. Don't bother dropping to all fours crawling under the pew, the outlet is behind the backrest, just out of reach.

Four minutes til powerdown.

The knees of my pants, brown and wet cling to my leg as a constant reminder of my failed attempt. Everytime one of the chosen few shift in their chairs I am ready to pounce, my legs tense in ready action to spring for their spot. The room is on edge waiting for someone to finish their coffee and unplug. New folks join us, surveying the room back and forth like chickens, scattering towards the places one would usually find outlets to be met with the crumbling brick of the interior wall.

It seems some social experiment, some sick joke. Free internet access is advertised with a window cling on the front door and inside you have, well, nothing. Coffee too hot to chug and relocate. I know where this is headed, yes, it could be viewed as my fault to not have a properly powered computer. But this is America. We shouldn't be denied our basic rights due to our lack of preparation. This is the country of blaming others, take arms with your patriotic brethren and take a stand against these business mongrels.

Time's up. Powering down.

Minneapolis, MN (music; the rolling stones)

The scent of onion is clinging to every piece of my clothing. Undoubtedly, if you were to brave the innards of my cycling shoes, moist with melting snow, you'd be met with onion. This is the final breath of last night's meal, a biweekly commitment with each returning visit to Minneapolis.

A fresh break from hotel cooking and tables for one, the impromptu dinners involve counters toppling with fresh produce and endless supply of new recipes awaiting exploration. Wine bottles surf through an overcrowded kitchen, echoing with 90's song lyrics and laughter.

Neighbors never knock, bedtimes never take precedent over dessert. This is the makeshift version of adulthood we've created for ourselves without wholly embracing the term itself. Personally, identifying by such a title would seem false advertisement, with my inability to fold fitted mattress sheets and the childish giggles I emit at the mere thought of the dancing mushrooms from Fantasia. But in true family-style form, circled around the table observing plates being served, in the silent moment as we each survey the plates of our accomplishments, there is recognition that we are getting close. You can only eat gummy bears for breakfast so many times before your teeth fall out.

The truth is that you can go home again. It's just never quite the same as when you left. The reheated meals of yesterday transformed into well seasoned souffles and fresh rising bread. Sometimes you realize the best you can hope for is to circle around, fork in hand, for the final result.

Minneapolis, MN (music; Billie Holiday)

(1/18/09)
His eyes are locked into the beige and teal diagram of his study materials. He pulls his fingers away from their duty as page turner, extending them to stretch, first all at once and then individually. They wiggle, gyrating his muscle back and forth across his forearm. If he had it his way, they'd be dancing these same steps across the neck of a cello in a room illuminated by a single fireplace, walls lined with books he'd read between the trysts of his youth. As it is, here we sit. Straight back wooden paneled chairs beneath us, our tea shifts with each graze of the offset coffee table. Engulfed in our individual reading materials, fingers stiffening under the foreshadowing of each page turn.

Minneapolis, MN (music; velvet underground)

The snow here has aged since we last met. The previously glistening piles have been here long enough to lose their attraction, and are now pushed aside, trampled and greying. Ignored tiny flakes are losing their steam, wandering aimlessly, meeting their match as they drift onto the crunchy over salted sidewalks. It's winter. Bundled and frozen, the city itself hasn't changed much, but the sky has given up. Its seemingly impermeable overcast spread in a thickening haze above the city. The blue skies of my last visit are all but a memory, distant hope to cling onto until the buds of spring.

Phoenix, AZ (music; ray charles)

I'm flying U.S. Airways. I'm flying U.S. Airways the day after their crash landing into the Hudson in NY. And I'm sitting in the exit row, closest to the door. My regular survey scan for the competent, those with brute strength, those that likely have rubber knifes tapped to their calves takes place with a bit more care. I listen more intently to those safety instructions.

Mentally I take note of my own belongings. What is truly necessary and what will be lost and left behind. I compare these to the items used by folks in television shows and the movies I grew up on. I checked most things that would serve as excellent survival gear, but I did bring my climbing shoes in my carry on along with my UV ray protective jerseys. I will be the only one not suffering from sunburn and blisters as I scale the trees to knock down coconuts for the children before we have ostrich races on the beach and build connecting tree houses.

I wander for a few moments before boarding the plane, looking for last minute survival needs. Sadly, matches, tarps, and hiking boots are hard to find. I settle on LifeSavers and board the plane.

Morgan Hill, CA (music; iron & wine)

Sitting in a conference room. There are six other laptops open, schedule planners, and cell phones strewn about. A variety of multicolored pens congregate in pairs of two near each place setting. It's as if a fire alarm went off and I'm the only one remaining.

This is the aftermath of a five hour scheduling session, and we are 90% done, at least for the moment. As months change and details unravel, there is bound to be some rearranging, but for now I'm finding comfort in having something to hang onto, if even for a moment. This is the only predictability I have, detailed in pencil in the confines of my zebra patterned datebook.

Take, for instance, if I was to be asked out on a hot date on October 23rd, I would have to decline, as I will be driving to Kentucky which will likely take me all day. If you were looking for a souvenir from, say, Atlanta, Georgia- a gold blingin' Jesus chain perhaps- I could tell you that it would be June 26th at the earliest that I could get something with postage, and you probably wouldn't see it til the following Monday, the 29th. Earliest.

Holidays? Obliterated. Weekends? Booked. Vacation? The typical vacation identity has completely reversed itself to collapsing into an overstuffed couch with an ample amount of tea and a fair Marx brother's stock. Days that don't involve sunburn. I'm going on vacation, starting Friday, my paradise an iced over cityscape surrounded in greying snow. Home sweet home.

Morgan Hill, CA (music; the decemberists)

There are two full suspension mountain bikes sitting in the kitchen of my hotel room. Though blocking the electric stove, the microwave, and the refrigerator that houses only the leftover Thai meal I couldn't bring myself to waste, it seemed the most logical placement. The plastic dollar-store utensils and flimsy cutlery have received only a glance of appreciation since I've been here. This is the closest thing I have to an apartment right now, yet I can't bring myself to unpack and meet the neighbors, let alone cook.

My suitcase lies bursting, innards spilling out onto the floor. I have almost doubled my load since I've arrived with work manuals and truck necessities, new apparel transforming me silently into a true spokesperson. I have three days to figure out a packing strategy, but the bikes are staring me down.

The bikes are the abusive relationship I come home to. They sit there, mocking me as I turn my back on them, digging out my pajamas and settling into the couch. Yesterday's beating exposed itself overnight. Splattering of purple decorating my ribcage and shoulder, deep red lines map out my shins, I'm in an incomplete color by number, each stroke showcasing a different portion of the trail.

One point, Santa Cruz. Tomorrow the rematch.

Morgan Hill, CA (music; feist)

When I get nervous, I get quiet. I think of terrible things. Hospital bills. Getting ditched. Lying injured in a bed of prickle bushes and my own vomit. Feeling a coyote rip through my legs as I'm unable to move. I don't mountain bike, so for me, all of these are viable things that could unfold when embarking on a six hour ride with folks who do ride them. Broken ribs. Eulogies.

The demo team had been invited by our West coast drivers to embark on an day of trail riding packed full with steep climbs, sharp corners, muddy descents, and every possible terrain California could muster. I went along to find a grave plot. (Demo team crossing rail bridges; discussing the movie Stand By Me)

(White sand trail leading through a long stretch of tunneling brush. The bushes came out to each shoulder and the canopy was low enough to duck or ride off of the back of the saddle)

The ride was intense. Great folks, great scenery, and great brew selection waiting for us as we rolled back into town. All seven of us. All my limbs still attached.

Morgan Hill, CA (music; be your own pet)

"This one looks like Tetris," he pulled a Gusher out of the package. Eight of the tiny jelly squares had stuck together. He wasted no time cramming them into his mouth and began humming the Tetris theme song. The box for the fifteen packages was disposed of the moment he'd exited the store and now each step brought out a crinkling of the wrappers that were occupying each of his pockets.

We walked across the parking lot. Three shadows grudgingly follow behind us as we head straight towards the hotel, weaving between the sand, medians, and bushes that lay in our direct path. A plastic bag of our purchases hung tightly on my wrist bounces repeatedly off of my left leg. The chocolate milk shakes against the Rolos and Haribo Gold gummy bears. I dug my hands deeper into my jeans and stare at the ground as we walk.

The night passes us by as we lay giggling in my hotel room watching cartoons.

Tomorrow, we'll get up at 6:30. We'll shower. We'll sit in the front row and dutifully answer questions. We'll censor our dirty jokes. But right now we're six years old. We're dirty, we're tired, and we're ready to come home.

Morgan Hill, CA (music; bon iver)

Day one of a three day fit class.

Today was spent listening to lectures divided between two bike fit specialists. They used various charts, plastic appendage replicas, and a skeleton to answer any anatomy related questions as we walked through the body feet to face, detailing the makings of a perfectly comfortable and efficient fit. Bike fit is a general interest of mine. I’ve read several books entirely devoted to different schools of thought on proper alignment. I’ve watched different professional fit specialists in their environment. I can ride up behind folks silently tabulating all of the minor ways I could solve their aches and pains before riding away giggling. So I was amazed to leave the class today and feel as though I may have wasted it staring down a skeleton that sat teetering on the stage.

I’m not afraid of skeletons. Butterflies? Yes. You take a spider and throw some wings on it, leaving no predictability as to where it could be headed and pass it off as some beautiful wonder, that’s fearful. The walking dead, afterlife, zombies? Not this girl. So what was it?

First I thought of whose it may be. I’m sure it’s a replica. But it was tiny, a child. They had to have based it off of something. It’s spine slightly twisted nearing where the neck would have been. What Make-A-Wish foundation child wanted this to be their afterlife?

Thoughts turned to a museum that I worked in when I was in college. It was a tiny brick building that I would pedal six blocks through the snow to get to. I’d lean my bike against the stairs outside, push back the thick wooden doors, and trudge downstairs in my soggy winter boots, laces trailing behind me. I would walk the perimeter of the room, finger trailing the shelves of endless books. Grabbing the first title that jumped out at me, I would sit for hours, still bundled in my thick jacket, reading and drinking tea until I was discovered by a co-worker. I was supposed to be working on an exhibit regarding the downfall of the classic American red barn, so justifying how biographies of Abraham Lincoln and endless pages of rural burial traditions related to any sort of barn took some creativity. It was excellent research for my creative writing class. And I was getting paid.

It was about two months into this routine when I was asked to finalize an order for the barn-life dioramas we were installing for an open house. I integrated the order into the 40’s schoolhouse mission I had been leafing through for easy access when I was disturbed by approaching footsteps. The ceiling above me would creek, the lights flickering, and sharp heels on the stairs serving as my two minute warning. Time for two more paragraphs. One more. Then I’d make the swap.

The approval signature took two minutes I managed to draw out into two hours. But as I was deciding whether to sign in cursive or left handed, I had an idea. The lights flickered. This exhibit was in partnership with the Traveling Institute of the Smithsonian; in partnership with the Smithsonian; in partnership with all of the historical objects I’d been dusting off and reading about. The job got a lot more interesting.

Lincoln’s hat never came. The exhibit open and closed before the arrival of the first bone of a dinosaur. I suppose it’s disputable whether I quit or was phased out of that museum after they discovered my massive order, but looking at that skeleton, I thought of all of the potential that lay in that form. How much bigger would the draw have been had the dinosaur exhibit arrived in time to integrate with the town manger scene.

I still visit those tiny museums in the towns I pass through, and when I see the quick shuffling of papers, I smile, nod, and switch rooms to leave the caretaker to continue their reading, thinking of what orders they’re attempting.

Morgan Hill, CA (music; beirut)

(1/5/09)
I ended up in the emergency exit row for both of my flights into San Jose. As I checked my baggage, or more over, as I got the questionable glances as to what could possibly be occupying a bag weighing in at 53 pounds and how I managed to singlehandedly lift it on to the scale, I was surprised to hear a break from the standard routine Photo ID? Final Destination? Checking any bags? sentencing.

She looked up and apologized for the delay of the computer booting up and explained it would just be a moment. It was the eye contact that got me. Somehow, despite the mass of thousands of insecure, scrambling travelers, she focused on who was in her direct line of vision. Me. It sucked me in immediately. I was drawn to her. There she was. Beige pantsuit, kerchief tied loosely around her neck, chunky sensibly heeled shoes. Her graying blond hair loosely bundled atop her head presenting her dangling gold earrings. She, unlike her fellow uniformed squad in the front lines of Frontier Airlines, was I’d like to imagine, a kindergarten teacher in her past life. She listened to me with the same care one might a small child choking back tears as they tell you how they caused that scraped knee.

“You’re heading to California? That sounds exciting."
I pushed back my immediate suspicions of her kindness, I bet she just got a raise. She probably just started her shift. Xanax. I let myself fall into it, nodding, anxiously awaiting the conveyer belt cycling around to present us both with a tray of fresh cookies and cool milk.

Then she leaned closer.
“I have two seat options for you, Ms. Kippley. Would you like the isle of exit row ten or the center seat in row nineteen?”

Usually the only options I get at the airport are whether I would like room for cream or whip. I was startled, skeptical even. I paused for a moment. Surveying the crowd, the larger, taller folks might be more comfortable in the exit row. For all sensible packing purposes, I’m the middle, the blackberry jam, Amy-sandwich.

“You know, I don’t much have a preference today. Whichever one is fine,” I found myself saying, awaiting my sticker for consideration of others.
She smiled and typed vigorously.

“Let’s get you situated in the exit row. I think you can handle that, don’t you? Plus,” she leaned in whispering, “it’s a much better seat.”
I thanked her, and when she told me she hoped I’d enjoy my flight, I believe she meant it.

I took my seat, tucked my bag under the seat in front of me and slowly turned the bickering over overhead compartment space into mumblings in the background as I began turning pages of a book. The flight attendant came over to deliver the exit row speech. This is done, as is per regulation, barely decipherable, as quickly and uniformly as possible. I spend this time of the flight studying how involved their eyes are in this speech, trying to guess what they might really be thinking about. What caught me was the moment that followed the speech was an added line I hadn’t heard before.

“…This can be, and recently was, necessary. Please make sure you are, indeed, efficient in these tasks and are fully capable.” Recently necessary? My mind began racing, not out of fear, but curiosity. How hadn't I heard about this? Who booked this flight? How much of a discount do they offer after such an emergency evac?

I turned to survey the door. 35 pounds? No problem. Lift & pull. Lift & pull. Got it. The real question were the folks around me. I felt my eyebrows scrunch up as I surveyed the crowd.

Who can I count on to catch folks at the bottom of the inflatable slide? Who is going to chop firewood when we get stranded on an island? Which one of these people packed necessary items in their carry on that will be essential in building a shelter? A gentleman in the row next to me caught my skeptical squinted gaze as I eyeballed his impractical choice of footwear. Well, I guess we’ll just see how well you do when we’re running from island predators, now wont we?

Minnepolis, MN (music; the bens)

Four days until I leave.
I squint in attempts to make out constellations as each individual star blurs together with the next, leaving a smear of iridescent light across the ceiling. Mythologies unfold themselves in astrological bedtime stories. Sleepless, I listen intently. There’s a flicker in the faint green hue on my left.
It’s one-fifteen.
I roll to my side tucking my knees closer to my chest, surveying the little things I’ve grown accustom to. Carabineers and climbing ropes laid to rest in the corner. Glasses tucked into their case. My jeans, cuffed with street salt and chain grease intertwining with his on the floor. He rolls over. His arm wraps around my waste and draws me closer to him, his deep even breaths a metronome, calling for me to succumb to sleep’s rhythm. These are the photos I'm taking with me.
It’s two-thirty.

Three days until I leave town.
With a guest in town, I retreat to the couch. It has become more comfortably recognizable to me than the air mattress.
It's ten-thirty.
Particles of dust sift downwards in the light through the slanted blinds on my right, the snow bright against the window. The light switch is roughly seven feet away but my legs are too worn to stand and flick it on.
It's two-thirty.
My legs may have admitted defeat, but my mind has not. Despite my subliminal messages, the switch has not turned on. I lift the lid of the laptop on the table to my right and use the blank stare of a word document to illuminate the room enough for reading. I grab a book.

This sleeplessness will only amount to me being well read.