FreeWill

Monday morning I woke at 6:30, a few minutes before my alarm would have normally gone off. But there was no buzzer set so I rolled over and let myself fall back to sleep. A couple hours later I lay in bed wondering why I should get up. What on Earth should I do with my day?

Tea. Sure, tea is something to do. Eager to get as far away from my house as I could, I packed my books and journal and headed across town to the Wandering Goat. I scanned the clientele as I passed in search of a parking spot and almost drove right home. Of course, sitting outside the coffee shop had to be Cheyenne. You know Cheyenne - my first crush in this town who I have failed over and over again to connect with. I'd almost forgotten about him and only wanted to keep driving to avoid awkward chit chat.

I parked and sighed and went to see what my day had in store for me. Tea, indeed, and a cinnamon roll. And awkward chit chat. So it goes. After nine months of isolation, of endless obligations and work and days where I couldn't find time to cook a frozen pizza, I had returned to my little, leisurely, laid back Eugene.

Everything is still here and all the same, right down to the same people popping up in the same places.

After nine months learning another world and six months of complete hell, I've found myself with time again in this little town I call home.

I've been active: going for long walks, riding my bike around town and taking my dog up the butte just because it's there. I've slept: 9-10 hours a night plus those afternoon naps that I love so much. I've been sitting in the park reading My Antonia. I've scribbled some nonsense in my journal. I've walked to the natural food store for two pieces of fruit, stopping by the pet store for one dog treat on the way home. I've found time to not just cook a frozen pizza, but prepare entire meals (okay, one partial meal, but it's a start).

And I've found time to be sad. And to feel the gravity of my future and the pressure to make it happen. To mourn. To realize how much I was in love and couldn't make it work. To become restless. To feel lonely, but not want to be around anyone.

Yesterday as I summitted the butte a lone man sat watching me make my way. The shaggy hair and sweet nervous smile drew me in. We exchanged the 'I want to talk to you - You want to talk to me' look and I joined him. The stranger and I talked. We discussed the weather, the squirrels, his desire to drop out of acupuncture school, my dead parents, a Volvo trying to make it to Seattle and a dried-up lake in Eastern Oregon. We shared water and a smoke. I laughed without feeling self-conscious.

Today as I walked my dog through the park I spotted two young women from my church. I turned the other way and tried to disappear. I wanted to be visible only to strangers.

So, here I have returned to my Eugene summers: aimless wanderings to find like-minded strangers while avoiding chit chat with those acquaintances that you can't hide from in this little town. Throw in a rambling blog on live journal and I have me to deal with again. Oh, dear me.

*NOT schizophrenia

- detached manner with the inability to express emotion (especially anger) or a restricted emotional range

- have an artificial way of relating to others

- keep people at a distance

- seem unaffected by criticism

- shallow emotions

- incapable of involved, intimate human relationships

- "love made hungry" fail to develop attachments because the voraciousness of their needs for affection runs the risk of becoming uncontrollable

- not a problem of an inability to form or maintain relationships; rather, a problem of being able to be in a relationship without constantly experiencing a compelling need to remain apart from it

- aloof superiority occurs alongside feelings of being rejected

- difficulty expressing wishes or interests

- problem interpreting others' behavior

- shallow insight into self and others' motives or psychological states

- don't care about gaining interpersonal skills

- lack of close friends

I know I've always been a little different, but I never wanted to be different in the snotty kind of way. I don't want to set myself apart as an elitist. If there's one thing I love to rant about it's elitists. But I believe elitism is in how one acts, treats, or perceives other people.

So ...

I've never been a big movie fan. Most of them suck; they just do. I can't handle them. I don't have any thing against people who enjoy them. I've just never really understood how people can sit and watch the mundane mainstream propaganda (which is what it comes down to) that maintains our social structure. See, now I'm sounding elitist. But I really don't have a problem with people who enjoy these movies. I wish the people who made movies were more innovative and challenged people more.

But let me get to my point. So, I saw the new Star Trek movie today and, while I recognized the inherent fun and campy-ness of pulling from a retro t.v. show, I thought it was pretty horrible. Horrible acting. Horrible characters. Stereotypical macho male. Predictable plot. A whole lot of cheesy-ness. Typical American social themes: defending family honor, rebel male turned leader, quirky ethnic characters. The list could go on. I could see what people like in it. It's a fun action-packed movie. I just can't buy into it.

But what I can buy into is a video of an old man standing at a podium lecturing for three hours. Captivating. I spent my Saturday night watching a taped recording of a college professor talking about the Civil War in minute details. I was riveted. I did not want to turn it off and only did so when my hand began to cramp from note taking. I sat there ooohing and aahing and ah-haing. I hung on every word and couldn't get enough. Now we're talking real entertainment.

I kindof wish I could get into movies. It's much easier to find someone to watch the latest blockbuster with than someone to watch a lecture with. I'm setting myself up for a lonely existence. I hadn't even heard of any of the upcoming movies on posters and previews at the theatre today, but I know more about the election of 1860 than any Civil War professor could hope for. I do believe I've set myself up for social failure.

Killing dogs. Seriously, do writers have to keep killing dogs? I'm not just talking Ol' Yeller or Where The Red Fern Grows, but everyone from Homer to Vonnegut insists on killing dogs to get a cheap emotion.

Granted, dogs die. They are dear to many humans and have a short life span relative to us. The death of a dog is a common theme to many people. But so is the life of a dog. I'd like to see some innovation and read a story where the dog lives. Please.

Note: A book I don't recommend: Classic Dog Stories Edited by Nancy Butler

My posture bothers me. I tell myself to sit up straight, but minutes later I'm hunched over again.

I worry about my frown. I'm going to give myself wrinkles, I tell myself, but I can't get my face to relax into a normal position.

I think I'm grieving and it's starting to turn into a depression.

I miss my mom.

As painful as our relationship was at times, my mom always loved me. There's no one in the world who loves you as unconditionally as a mother. There's no one who knows me the way my mother knew me. There are aspects of my life that no one else knows and no one ever will. Aspects that I don't even really know. And those are gone.

I'm an orphan in the world. There's no going back. There's no fixing anything. It's all up to me.

Mid afternoon, between schools or right after class, I feel like I should be talking to someone. There's something missing here. Who do I check in with now? It wasn't always convenient, but I always made those calls to my mom. Sometimes we'd say nothing, but I'd made that connection. That cord isn't just disconnected now; it's gone.

There was so much undone and unsaid. In her life as well as in our relationship.

Life is good. Things are fine. I could easily be happy, but I'm just not. I sit and stare out, slouched over with a frown on my face. Sometimes I don't feel anything. Not sad or angry or annoyed or frustrated or stressed. It's nothing. I sat in a desk at school the other day and tried simply waiting for a feeling to come to me. There was nothing. I feel blah. My mind feels blank. I'm not excited to think about anything. I feel like I have nothing to offer anyone. I feel like I have nothing to say to anyone.

I want to be myself again. Even if I'm sad or angry, I'll take that. I want to sit up straight, relax my face and ponder the mysteries of the universe. I don't know what I have to do to get there. I just don't know.

To draw on an Oprah episode from years ago, a grieving woman said that you go about living like you should and then one day you find that you are living like you should.

I'll start with fixing my posture.

4:36 What is that ache that you get behind your eyes when they're so exhausted they want to shut so badly, but the rest of you can't let them? My eyes are bleary. My eyes are weary.

4:44 My brain has developed ADD. ADHD, maybe? It's become a disciplinary problem. I need a behavior management plan for my head. Or some drugs.

4:49 If it were light or lacking frozen gusts of wind outside I'd go run until I collapsed; until my brain surrendered to physical pain. But now I resign myself to the floor where I lay my head down and let tears fall until anger takes over. Fury doesn't allow for crying. There's no crying when you're purely teeth-gnashing mad. This is the time to throw things.

5:00 Then the crash and the tears come back. More like a little whimper this time. And now I do throw things. Like a 5-year-old pouting, I toss a stuffed dog toy half-heartedly against a wall.

5:13 I'm making notes about what I need to say to people. Frantic notes. Spelled 'need' with a 'k'. "I kneed to know." These will be interesting to read after some sleep. This is why we takes notes in the middle of the night (or early morning) rather than call people or send emails.

5:21 Did you know that in Asia and the Pacific for every 1000 people, three are subjected to forced labor? That's three slaves per 1000 people.

5:23 Did you get a glimpse of the moon last night? It was the closest that a full moon has been to the Earth in 15 years. I feared the clouds would keep it from me, but alas, they broke around 11:00 momentarily and I got a peek. Now I hear rain. Gentle rain.

You see your every flaw for who you are. You relive moment after moment in your life for the mistake that it was. You realize you have not a friend in the world would notice if you disappeared for a month or two or three ... You admit just how fucking hard it is to do it all by yourself all the time.

You're alone and you're ready to be done with it all.

I'm not the kind of feminist who supports all women just because they're women. I know there are plenty of women out there who are idiots and are causing harm to our society, most notably the delightful Sarah Palin. I don't support ignorance in any form, male or female.

I recognize the power and the importance of having women in important high profile positions. I know that having a woman on a presidential ticket is inspiring some women and changing the way some girls will view their futures.

So what I wish is that women and girls out there are saying to themselves, 'I am so much smarter and better than Sarah Palin. If someone that ignorant and closed-minded can become a state Governor and make it onto the ballot for Vice President, imagine what I can do.'

Classes start on Thursday. My first day of school as anything other than a student. This was to be a blog about my professional endeavors. About doing something that actually matters to me. Etc. But instead I'm dwelling on the students who keep me up at night who I don't even know yet and on one of my greatest gripes about this grand country we live in.

I've been sorting through standardized test scores (hurray - I won't go on about standardized testing because it's too obvious and too ... oh, just too much) and plotting them for different teachers. So, yeah, they do use those things to stereotype, classify, predetermine children's fates, etc. But I digress.

No surprise as I hit the bottom of the list names such as Muniez and Hernandez become more prominent. The few names I remember from registration are all there. At the bottom.

The kids who watched over their parents' shoulders to translate the English in front of them. The father who couldn't figure out a single form, who came to my booth at least twice, who left the school and returned later when he realized he left without registering his son. The mother who pulled out a wad of one dollar bills to pay her child's fees with tip money. The mother who showed up five minutes after registration ended in her Albertson's uniform apologizing that she couldn't get out of work sooner.

(Side note: It's actually in violation of law to have required school supplies and fees for anything that is part of the normal school day. All children are entitled to a free public education including necessary supplies. If only education were funded ... Sorry, so much to digress upon.)

Since I seem to be having a problem getting to my point, I'll just be blunt. I'm talking about class. Class differentials. The privileged and the not. Those born with opportunity and those who work their asses off every single day. Those with access to information and those who have never heard of the FAFSA.

Okay, I've bitten off a subject too big for this blog. Class issues drive me insane and I've never been able to fully express my feelings. It's not going to happen here. It's the single largest divider in America. Greater than race or gender or sexuality or religion or any, any other factor.

And the middle class in their unearned privilege are oblivious to it. The middle class are, in fact, oblivious to most things. Primarily, to their stupidity.

See, I can't make a clear point. I get too pissed off. So I'll resort to random thoughts.

Can you imagine all the brilliance that has been lost because it has been buried in the working class? How much crap has the world been filled with because people of mediocrity were born into middle class privilege?

Why must the world endure the horrid art and poetry of some middle class American priss because she has leisure time and resources spilling from her asshole? What has been lost because some little brown girl had to drop out of school to support her family and never had the chance to share her insights?

How many incompetent white men sit behind desks because that's what their fathers did? How many innovative leaders has our country been denied because they were encouraged to take wood shop instead of the college prep courses because their parents worked in factories or grocery stores?


I have a definition of trash in America. I guarantee you it’s white. It most likely dresses nicely and has a decent job. Mommy and daddy are very supportive of it. It spends a great deal of time thinking about itself and how it can get ahead. It falsely thinks it’s intelligent, perhaps even considers itself an intellectual. While its read Faulkner and Joyce it still thinks transgendered people should not be allowed to use the public restroom of their choice. It thinks everyone can simply do whatever it is they want and be happy without any thought to barriers to the American dream. It thinks gas prices are hard on it, but still buys a cappuccino every morning. It dresses up and does its nails everyday not because dressing nicely will make the difference between being considered a shoplifter or not, as is the case with its minority counterpart, but simply because it thinks it's pretty. It wakes up at night worrying about itself. It doesn't consider how it can make the world a better place for anyone but itself and those just like it.

I sat at dinner with a working class man originally from Texas. A journeyman carpenter. A vagabond of sorts. Someone who's worked his ass off and supported himself since 16. Someone who's been around and met different people with different ideas. He spoke of politics. In this election year I've had countless conversations with many people on politics and they all fall nicely into categories of mainstream American thinking. In a five minute conversation with this man I had more fresh insights into politics than I'd gotten from a dozen conversations with "intellectuals." He stopped abruptly at one point and wrote off all he'd said saying he didn't know all about it. But he did. He knew as much, if not more, than any American, but his voice isn't heard.

Now I've really lost focus.

What I wish for Americans? That they live consciously. That the middle class use their f**king brains. That many worthless middle class white Americans commit the first unselfish act of their lives and go shoot themselves in the head? Um, maybe. I guess if they're not up for that they could just start paying attention, caring, sacrificing, trusting, being open to the outsider, give up a life of fear, recognize their weaknesses and their privileges. It probably be easier for most of them to just shoot themselves.

It's 1:48 am. I have a paper due by noon - ten hours and twelve minutes from now. I have about four pages left to write. I'm not worried about getting it done. It will be completed, I just don't know when.

I began writing this paper a little after ten tonight. Since then I've skimmed thirteen news stories on the BBC, I've googled three people in my life, I attempted to figure out one application on facebook, I rearranged my flickr sets then put them back the way they were, I cruised an online dating site, I saw two people worth winking at, and I've spent way too much time reading the list of United Nations Member States.

Did you know that Switzerland finally became a member of the UN in 2002? I wonder why they finally bothered. If they'd held out for so long I wonder what enticed them to join. Don't you?

Original members included Haiti, Lebanon, New Zealand (but not Australia), and China. Canada took 16 additional days to join. Sweden joined a year after Canada. Montenegro, formally a part of Serbia, which was formally a part of Yugoslavia, an original member of the UN, became one of the most recent UN members (perhaps the most recent, but I don't feel well enough informed to be so bold to say so) after declaring independence from Serbia in 2006.

There's so much information hidden in the lines of that list. Damn those nations uniting. I'll be up all night.

When my dog dropped to the ground and refused to move in the middle of Willamette St. as our cross walk signal turned red it was her I was annoyed with as I quickly scooped her up and carried her to the sidewalk.

When we were running as far away from home as we could possibly be and she dropped to the ground and refused to move I cursed the easily amused.

I cursed those people who think loud noises and bright lights are entertaining. Those who ooh and ahh at cheap fireworks left over from the Forth of July.

When we ran in this same spot last week some of these simple minded idiots were lighting off some unimpressive noisy leftovers.

Dogs are afraid of fireworks. It's a fact of life. Every year I commiserate with fellow dog lovers about the annoying booms and bangs and crackles. But it's fine. It's tradition. Around the Forth of July I'm extra careful with my dog. I don't walk her at night and on the Forth she stays at home all day long. By August this crap should be over.

The big shows that cities put on can be spectacular, but in general, fireworks really aren't that amusing unless you're under eight. Especially not the little dinky ones that people set off in the streets. They're just noise and a little flash. Does that really entertain you? Why don't you go watch some TV with the volume way up.

So as my dog remembers the booms, bangs and crackles from last week she shuffles her way into the bushes. I pull her out, pick her up and proceed to carry her for 3/4 of a mile until she realizes we're heading home and decides it's best to run in that direction.

So to the noise makers: here's a shiny object. Be amused.

At first you feel nervous about being alone. You're the loser without any friends. It takes just one interaction to change your mind - a drunk man tells you about a dog that went into the woods and died, but then was sent back from heaven, though the drunk man isn't sure if the dog actually died, but he was in the forest and nature is just like heaven so the dog came back from heaven either way. Yeah, man.

You're amused and not just comfortable being alone, but you revel in it. Random interactions with strangers just don't happen when you're paired or grouped off. Now you hope no one you know shows up at this event because not only are you alone, but you're single and freedom is rearing its beautiful wild head.

You've gone back and forth on the whole relationship thing. You're 30 now and are leaning towards the idea of having someone to share you life with. You consider a teammate in the world's challenges, a lover who knows your inner workings, a witness to your life.

But in your soul you know your restlessness, your desires, your independence. When you meet a man you don't think, 'Is this the one?' but rather 'What does he have to offer me?' Not in a selfish user way, but as a possibility. 'Possibly we could have an hour or two of great laughs. Possibly we could have an impassioned conversation about modern day slavery, Kate Chopin and growing tomatoes in Greenland. Possibly we could have a few months of smoking pot and having copious amounts of sex. Possibly we could have an intense fling at Zion National Park. Possibly you could become one of my dearest friends.' Possibly.

When you're single, all things are possible.

So you flirt. You can't help it. You're single. You're free.

Tonight, at this event you showed up to alone, you're on. You feel unburdened and alive. The smile comes naturally. At times you can't even stop it. You sit on a curb along the main though fair and let the action surround you.

You catch eyes. You smile. Smiles come back your way. Eyes glance back over their shoulders as they walk away uncertain what to do. The handsome husband can't stop looking your way while his wife fusses over their daughter's whining, where her sunglasses are in her purse, where to go next - whatever it is wives fuss over. The husband looks over his shoulder as they finally walk away.

A man or two stops, but you realize quickly that they have little to offer. You're a pro: you know how to let them know their possibilities are over.

You were scoping out one direction when he came from the other and boldly sat down next to you. You immediately recognize a fellow professional. He is, after all, the ice cream man.

You exchange pleasantries followed by flippant comments. You remark on the passerbys. You continue to flirt with the passerbys while you sit next to one another. You ask one another provocative questions.

He sells ice cream off his bicycle. You watch out of the corner of your eye while he makes exchanges. Consumers appeased, he sits as close to you as possible; his leg, hip and shoulder against your leg, hip and shoulder. The Ice Cream Man may have you outmatched.

He shows you pictures of his dogs on his cell phone. You tease him. He teases you back until you giggle. You know a pro never giggles.

A half hour, forty minutes, more, passes. Ice cream is sold, but he returns after each transaction. You wipe a streak of dirt from below his eye. He notes a patch of hair on your knee you missed while shaving (you may be a pro, but you're not perfect). He pulls at the hairs and takes the opportunity to caress your calf. He offers his massive calf muscles obtained through peddling ice cream for you to feel. He smiles shyly as you show how impressed you are.

You move in close to speak. Time after time your mouths come within inches of one another's. At last a sentence falls off and you pause, your lips hovering over one another's. A moment, an eternity passes. You both give your professional half smiles and glance away.

A silent moment and some meaningless words pass before you exchange phone numbers. As he turns to help a customer you slip away. You don't look over your shoulder as you walk away.

You can't quite recall his name as you make your way out, but you're burning inside and the smile won't stop.

You're single and ice cream men are possible.

In search of a new plant, I found myself wandering the garden section of Home Depot. I've never been particularly fond of the mega store and am somewhat bitter that I have been driven here by the closure of my beloved Indoor Garden just down the road. I doubt Home Depot had a whole lot to do with their going out of business, but as I'm standing in the midst of hundreds of poorly cared for plants, I begin to blame them.

I wander. I have in mind what I'm looking for and am quickly realizing they don't have it. Dozens of identical plants line the racks, all in various stages of browning or wilting. Sure, they're all guaranteed for a year, but there's a sense of personal failure that occurs when a plant dies in your care. I don't want to risk my fragile ego. Plus, I really don't want one of their ugly dying plants.

Except for one. A vibrant begonia calls out from the midst of the death surrounding it. I run to it, examine its healthy leaves and sigh. It's bigger than I want and the price is more than I'm willing to spend at Home Depot.

I wander some more, knowing I won't find a special addition to my plant family. I casually look up and around, pretending to scan the pots high on shelves. There are no video cameras around.

I return to the begonia. I snip off a stem with my fingernail and walk away as I slip the growth into my purse. I casually head for the door certain I'll be jumped at any moment. What will I say, I wonder. What this? It's just garbage. I make it to the door, but don't feel safe until I've driven out of the parking lot, the begonia stem setting safely on my dash board.

They'll still get their money for the begonia, if it survives. My root may or may not take, but if it does, I've simply created more life, right? I do know one thing: I never would have snipped any plant at the Indoor Garden.

Some days are just good. Just plain good. Some days you just smile. You just smile all alone by yourself because, well, you feel good.

Perhaps it was finding friendly like-minded people who were willing to talk to me as I began my grad school career. Perhaps finding someone who I wanted to be my school friend and then having her take the seat next to me just like I wanted her to.

Perhaps it was running into people from a time before I was trapped in an office, including, but not limited to, the always-adored Cheyenne. Yes, Cheyenne. He just never goes away. Which makes me very happy. Just to see him and catch up.

Perhaps it was the afternoon nap.

Perhaps it was getting the nerve up to go to women's night at the rock climbing gym despite having only one brief lesson under my belt and being welcomed and having fun and feeling strong.

Perhaps, after feeling invigorated from climbing walls and opting to go for an evening run in the shade of the recently set sun, it was the three piece band sitting on their front porch playing some blue grass serenading me down the street. Sometimes this town is just perfect.

Perhaps it was the third day of a brown rice diet. No, it wasn't that.

Perhaps it was sneaking a York Peppermint Patty into that brown rice diet.

I have a dozen things to be stressed out about. I have so many things to do I can't even begin to make a list. I am utterly broke and have no income. My dog stinks. But today was good. Today everything is beautiful.

The first time every season that it happens I feel a little weird. Instead of lying calm and cool, not moving a finger or raising an eye as I will in future invasions, I give an immediate awkward jerk and try to cover myself before realizing how imbecilic I appear.

My topless basking has been interrupted, as it always is by a floating raft, by hikers on the trail across the creek bed, by someone stumbling absent-minded down a hill. I've resumed cool and collected by the time this interruption is passing. I return their waves. Men, if they're without women, always wave. Words are seldom spoken. Eyes are never averted. And they wave. These two men wave both hello on their way in and goodbye on their way out. Then they're gone and I go back to reading.

As I go to grab a ginger snap I find that ants have infiltrated the bag. Panicked and desperate to save the cookies, I jump to my feet, dump the bag and begin pulling sweet from insect.

This is how I am, squatted over a pile of cookies wearing only my pink panties with my breasts dangling freely when I hear the voice.

"Miss. Hey, miss? Do you have a lighter?"

"Huh," I grunt as I look over my shoulder.

The two men who just sailed by are heading my way.

"Just a minute," I reply. What to do first? Grab cloths? Sort cookies? Find a lighter? I give the ginger snaps first priority as I hope they have a bowl for that lighter. I opt next for a tank top. Don't let those hang there.

My search for a lighter turned up nothing, but, of course, their's works just fine.

When they offer me that bowl I don't feel threatened by their invasion. They're just a couple of young guys having fun on the river. But they approached quickly. I'm pulling on my skirt as they begin introducing themselves. "Melinda," I'm saying. "Bethany." Where's the damn zipper? There, I got it as one of them sticks out his hand.

Now clothed I compose myself and shake hands with the first before taking the pipe from the other. We exchange pleasantries. One rambles on while the other throws rocks for my dog.

They apologize for disturbing me, despite still being there. One of them insists he saw me here last summer. He probably did.

I chat. I laugh a little. Given the opportunity, always talk to strangers. That's what I've learned.

I'm flirtatious, but let them know that they're not making progress. By the time an old hippie couple show up, they've had their fun. I've got hippies to talk to now anyway.

****

Yes, I'm the crazy lady by the waterside. The naked or almost naked one with the dog. Stop and say 'hello'. I don't mind. Bring some herb. Just give me a minute to put some cloths on.

The sun has just set behind the trees. A few streaks of clouds are glowing pink in its wake. To the west, in front of the trees, is a field of grass, waist high with red on the tips of each blade. East is a field of purple lupine bloomed to perfection. Behind is a gentle hillside with scattered shrubbery and ground still green from spring rains.

I'm at the edge of the fields sitting on a piece of red farm machinery talking to my sister on a cell phone. We're discussing how to go about putting our mother in a nursing home. How do we tell her? My sister says she'll be volatile and scream at people. I say 'no'. She'll be devastated. She'll weep. She may try to kill herself. In my head I play the cheesy jokes I've seen on shows like the Simpsons about telling grandpa we're taking him on a fun outing and instead dropping him at a nursing home. They're suddenly incredibly real and incredibly not funny.

Gore Vidal rode with me to work this morning. The highly opinionated author was wry, uncensored and unapologetic as he berated the Bush family, gave up hope for the future, advised that sex outside of a romantic union was the only way to have a successful relationship and reminisced on the Roosevelts.

The radio interviewer gave Vidal an open invitation to talk about Eleanor Roosevelt, with whom Vidal was apparently close. He spoke of the First Lady's intelligence, her strength, her compassion, all the while describing FDR as a babbling moron in comparison.

I don't really have anything to take away from FDR, but all sources do point to the brilliance of Eleanor. She had an agenda and she took it with her to the White House. Being more than smiles and pleasantries, she was sharply criticized and she never backed away from it.

A brilliant First Lady is what she was allowed to be. Never anything more. She used her position well, but no political position did she hold of her own.

Now I watch as another former brilliant First Lady tries to become so much more. Hillary Clinton has always inspired me. I flet for her willingness to step up and be a part of Bill's campaign and of his administration. Not in the image race, but in the policy race. She was a strong career woman and she wasn't about to become a hostess just because her husband was president.

The criticism was harsh. And shallow. I remember an article TIME magazine had on her hair. Yes, TIME magazine analyzing her hair cuts. She was ripped apart in every way, not just her hair but also in her professional activities and in her policy.

She's taken the insults. More than any male politician has ever endured. It's easy to learn to conform to male society; to learn that pleasing people is the easiest way to avoid the pain of criticism. Remember those little insults you've gotten and how they bite at you. Think how good it feels to be praised. Think about turning away from that and choosing the insults. That's conviction.

Though it takes more than that. Conviction can simply be stubborn ignorance. Hillary Clinton has never been ignorant. Her opponents knew better than to simply attack her pantsuits. They saw her for the intellectual and political threat that she is. They respect her. They always have, not that they'd admit it.

It was she who held that Clinton family together. I admired Bill all the more because of her. Any man who will partner up with a woman that strong and intelligent must have a confidence and strength that runs deep. I won't pretend I think they've been together romantically in many many years, but I also won't pretend Hillary wasn't just as strong and intelligent early on. A man who chooses that over conventional society-pleasing women will get my respect any day.

I had a pen-pal in Italy in 1992, during the Clinton's first campaign. In one letter he described Chelsea Clinton as a "frog." Out of nowhere, for no reason. I never wrote him back, but more so, I paid closer attention to Chelsea's life as the president's daughter. What I saw was an amazing mother. You can see it in the person Chelsea became: bright, level-headed, normal, strong in her own right. I listened to interviews with Hillary on parenting and took from them values and parenting techniques I intend to use with my own child. Hillary protected her daughter when the glare of the White House fell on her and people began calling her a frog for no reason. Hillary Clinton had her shit together in more ways than I can imagine.

Eighty-eight years after women received the right to vote in this country, the first woman is finally running for president. Eighty-eight years. Is that long or not? It's relative, I suppose. Should women have made more progress? Should we be happy for what has been gained? Yes. But maybe we should have fought for more rights all along.

Women still have so far to go. At this point, as at many points, I suppose, it is women holding women back. Women have always been the ones to uphold rules set down by men. Women are the ones who fear upsetting anyone. Women are too quick to revel in praise and run from criticism. Women still don't realize that power - personal, professional, spiritual, intellectual - isn't given to you; you have to take it.

So yes, I get annoyed, angry, disgusted by women so eager to please. By women who fall to conventional beauty and white lace frivolities. By women who care so much about impressing men and society.

I'll cast my ballot for Hillary Clinton, though I know her chance of getting the Democratic nomination are slim. I'll vote for her not just because she's a woman, but because I believe she'd make the best president. Her and barack Obama's policy on almost everything is virtually identical yet Hillary is simply stronger and more intelligent than anyone out there.

And, hell, yes, I'll admit, I'll vote for her because she's a woman. But just because she's a woman who I admire so much. I cast my vote because she inspired me. Because she showed me what women need to do. I cast my vote because Eleanor Roosevelt was 36 years old before she was allowed to vote in her own country.

It took a thousand miles to escape. To have a mind free from worries, from betrayal, from self-doubt, from disgust. To have a body released of pain. To find rest.

Camping in the foothills of the LaSal Mountains a midnight storm woke me. I listened to the rain, felt the wind blow my canopy and watched lightning in the distance. I smiled at it all, rolled over and slept with an uninterrupted mind.

In a hidden oasis on the banks of the Colorado below towering red rock cliffs I waded to my waist into rapid, frigid sediment-filled river, I ran in circles on the beach crying out to my dog, 'Do not jump on me. Do not jump on me,' and I buried my toes in the sand. Not once did I weep. Fear and pain could not find me.



Twin Falls, Idaho. Five hundred miles from home my twin haunts spotted me. Dread crept in and began twisting my gut. Ache began to slice at my throat. Five hundred miles and growing. The cows awaiting slaughter in their roadside pastures remained oblivious.

I am a pagan, not by religious design, but by passion. I worship the sun. I worship the water. I worship the depths of the earth.

Take me from these urban cages full of vanity and pretense. Place me on sand, on rock, on grass, below a waterfall with the sun beating on my shoulders. Strip me of society's frivolous decors. Strip me to my flesh. Let my feet mingle with the dirt. Let me care not what another human thinks of me - only how their soul connects with mine.

Know that I've found God.

A glass of wine. A chilly walk along the river. A call from a favored friend. Flirting with the gas station attendant. Saying 'please.'

However you got here, at this moment you are beautiful and life is full of opportunity. You can't make the silly smile go away.