Joe and I, listening to a particularly fine piece of music.

Cluphead: i want to spacewalk to that one day
Cluphead: even if it is when all my particles just belong to space
Eidolon JS: that's the best time to spacewalk
Cluphead: i hope i remember it , that music
Cluphead: and float along with the space
Eidolon JS: at least, seems like it would be
Cluphead: it certainly cuts out the middle man
Cluphead: and it is pretty much what i would consider heaven
Eidolon JS: yeah
Cluphead: not because it is the lofty skies
Eidolon JS: me too
Cluphead: but because it would be absolute pinnacle complete contentment
Eidolon JS: to me it would be because of the absolute 100% integration into the components of the universe
Cluphead: i hope my particles bump into yours.

fire on the mountain

tonight I had a moment; I know my penchant for these, bear with me. I was going down on a knee, reaching for a volleyball in the backyard of a palatial home on Denver's south side, a house belonging to the parents of a dear friend of mine. I got sweaty enough to pull my hair back, and laughed as we kept the ball going in circles and only occasionally over the fence into the untamed prairie beyond. I was playing with a Moroccan, a Frenchman, and a Jew, and it was the most natural and easy thing in the world.

After brats and burgers and flaming shots of about 5 different liquors, we wandered out in the road and lit off about 60 dollars worth of fireworks. From the vantage point on the hill, we could see about twenty individual shows, the country club being the closest. If you kept your head on a swivel and remembered to look behind you, the best show of all may have been up in the foothills, illuminating black against vibrant golds and greens at rapid interval. The whole mountain looked like it was erupting. Like it was on fire.

I saw something earlier today to the effect of, after 235 years, it's definitely not perfect, but it's still the best idea. Talking with Elise, who lives in the north of France, made me realize our excess-- but also our push to celebrate ourselves. They never do anything like this, on this scale. I thought how we were just looking at the south of one medium sized city, and how the whole country was lighting up like this. We all do it together, because for one night it just feels good to celebrate. To throw a smoke bomb, or wave a sparkler, or get silly with some kind of mystery cocktail. To laugh when the automatic sprinklers turn on while everyone is laying on the lawn. To play volleyball in the land of the free, home of the brave, with whoever is there, because we are friends. Because that is what America is all about.

After the show, the owner of the house took me down in his basement and showed me pictures of his mom, who was a WASP in WWII. There she was, standing on the wing with one leg on the edge of the cockpit, sass just dripping off of her with that flight jacket and silk scarf. She's in the ground now, has been for years, but we build on that. I've reaped the rewards of every time she climbed in that bird and did her job because it was worth doing. Tonight somebody had the watch at OCS, and somebody's land nav'ing around the desert in California or maybe the wild woods of Maine, running into cacti or tripping over roots. It's not perfect, but it's better than good.

I'm glad I'm here; I'm glad it's now. We've got good days ahead, and I'll be happy to be there too. Happy 235th Birthday, you grand ol' gal.

'Merca Weekend

Greetings from the Mountain State. I'm in Denver this long weekend for some R&R and celebratory happenings re: our country's birthday. The only things on the agenda: long drives, BBQ's, adult beverages, petting dogs, lazing away in the summer heat. Almost forgot what that last one felt like in the wild north.

So, for those of you stumbling by this location that don't pay attention to my facebook (and why would you, really?), I've been given the gift of peace of mind this weekend as well. My Skipper pulled me aside at the command picnic on Thursday, telling me with a somber face that he had bad news. He then dropped a bomb of good news like nobody's business all over my head, confiding with a grin that I've gotten the last elusive PAO slot of the fiscal year. I shook with laughter/shock, the edges of the periphery--filled with a whole roast pig, dunk tank, creepy clown and climbing wall--dulling to a soft background. I hugged him, twice. He laughed with me, and told me he thought I'd be an admiral one day. LB said f*ck encouragingly, and I stumbled off behind the pavilion to call my mom. I sank to my knees in my dress corduroys, facing Victoria Island and the vast flinty swath of Puget Sound, and heard every last note of sincerity and relief in her voice--and mine.

I've been tense for a long time, in my deep gut, probably the seat of the soul that the ancient Israelites describe or perhaps the tsubo of Japanese martial arts. And it is released. I'm not worried now. Waking up this morning, and yesterday morning, and tomorrow morning and all the mornings after, I just feel good, peaceful even. It is really nice to feel this good.

SO here I am, sitting in Denver, and when I get here there's a welcome message with hand-cut-out stars on the bathroom mirror, and a handmade Regretsy coffee coozie waiting for me. And enough beer and chinese food to lay me up for a long while. I have so many people in my life that want and love me, it blows my little mind from time to time. I just want you all to know: I appreciate you. Every little bit of what you do makes me feel loved and gives me strength to keep going, keep pushing, wake up each day and decide that I'm not going to quit. So thanks.

I'm gonna go get lost in the mountains now. Have a great Fourth!

eventual eventuality

and I had watch yesterday till almost balls, and today I felt like a drunk slug at work. Admittedly, it was a short day- but I get the watch right back tonight and have it again until late tomorrow.

I was talking with Senior this morning, about kidney stones and too many hours at a desk, and I told her, well, somebody around here needs to work for a living. Might as well be me. She seemed a little surprised, broke into a tired grin, and said that she liked my attitude. I don't get why it should be anything out of the ordinary.

On the phone with Mom, I told her that hope I end up in Japan for this first stint. She wasn't careful enough and didn't quite mask the disappointment in her voice. I just want to go; go do something else, something useful. Years from now I don't want to be the only one that looks back at what I did. I balance this in my mind- am I merely being self-serving? Question any motive long enough and you'll winnow out some selfishness, I'd wager.

Been listening to some Over the Rhine this afternoon, introducing new friends to the tipping point in their musical consciousness. What is it about a certain artist that will resonate so deeply with certain people? I can't imagine not connecting with Linford's words, Karin's voice. But really, as long as we're being honest here, if the music's not shit I'll probably like it.

I think I'm going to get up and take a walk. I really want to know what this board has decided, and the more I say I'm not thinking about it, the more I'm lying to myself and everyone else. I want this thing so bad. More than that, I just want to know what's next. I like to be prepared for every eventuality. I bet it looks nothing like I think it will, no matter what it is-- but that's ok. It'll get here, eventually.

time lapse.

This last weekend I found myself in the middle of a massive, shaking crowd; people sweating, lights flashing, music thudding and blaring and pumping. I enjoyed it at first, and then as a longer moment passed I found myself doing more staring than dancing. Many times I feel like an observer, internal to my own body, external to everything else. Fully into adulthood, tall and broad, and I stare like a little child in wonderment. A kindly near stranger pulls me out of the street- the anarchists come rushing by, hooded, blackened, pushing at the gates, the linked fence.

"Be careful," she warns, patiently and without condescension. I needed (and heeded) the warning.

I am welcome among strangers, at home among friends.

Sometimes I worry about being alone, but I have to laugh at myself as I walk to the car, hoofing it for 45 minutes past apartment buildings and over interstates buzzing in the heart of a new city. This is not an easy thing, to be as transient as I am. I wonder if I will ever meet anyone who's interesting in keeping up.

I can smell the sweetness of the blossoms on the branches just as well alone.

There's so much I don't know. The more I learn, the more I see, the more there is before me. Life is an inexplicable container.

A car sits off to the side of the freeway, and a man gets strapped to a backboard. The traffic thins out on the otherside, the slipstream picking me up and shuffling me on. The ride home is peaceful, and the islands rise up out of the water like massive, old stones glossed with moss and trees. The mountains wait patiently on the shore.

I think about leaving a lot. There is a wildness here that I love, a newness and oldness that marries up into perfect reflection, tall evergreens doubled from glassy lakes into heavy gray skies. I'm always restless inside, like a little stone in the bottom of a boot. I can never get quite comfortable. But I'm not looking forward to it. Sometimes I think I love things too hard, because I can never let go cleanly enough.

Time lapse. Another year runs by, and I stare into the beyond.

solstice and everything after

first of all, I should be working out right now. or folding clothes. but I'm not- I'm eating about half a loaf of rye bread, torn off in little chunks, and staring at my laptop. I guess I enjoy it more than working out.

This morning was cold. 53 degrees, poppets, and misty- cold enough I was wearing my leather jacket and still suppressing an occasional brr. The summer solstice was two days ago, and that's what you get, I guess, when you can see Canada from your house.

I feel pretty placeless- sitting on a fence right now of instability, insecurity, and that niggling bitterness that probably won't ever leave my soft palate alone. I guess I always moved forward with this philosophy that if you gave something your best, I mean really went all balls-to-the-wall, you'd get by without any regrets. I'm finding out that isn't completely true. Maybe this feeling will dissipate, time heals everything, right Jerry Herman? The landscape of where my life could go, must go next seems frenetic: a tableau of ships, grey hulking superstructures--all flat tops and squared edges. Rolling fields of flinty, white-capped waves. I wanted this. Did I? I think I did... I can't remember.

I'm trying not to think about it. After all, the decision has been made, the board has deliberated, and I just don't know it yet, the future that is my future that is bogged down in the cogs and machinery of bureaucracy. I stand watch. I write, remembering the forgotten feel of banging out a hardline news story. Reaching for that twist-of-a-phrase in the human interest piece, grabbing the glint of a command bell against a flag. Simple tasks. Things I can do.

There will be plenty of time this year, for this cold solstice. And everything after.

coming down is the hardest thing

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

The diminuitive flight surgeon looked across the small office at me, her face a measured mask of compassion and regret. I breathed in a moment, pursing my lips as I looked down at brown flight boots, nicked in dozens of little places. Dusty, still, and more beat up than they should be at their age, no thanks to a week out in the field at SERE.

It had come to this. I thought back to my first time, in the back of the Cessna, puking up husks of pumpkin seeds while Dave had a go at his third landing of the day. Later on, in the T-6, popping my mask to huck up stomachfuls of bile and belch out hot, gingery burps.

"You back up with me?" the IP would ask, and I'd lock my mask back up to my face, gulp down the 100% and say, "Yes, ma'am. I'm here." You've really got to make sure you get the ziplock seal good for the split S, cause it's coming up next. Interestingly, I didn't puke during the spin. I think I was so concentrated on oil pressure and not dying, my gut forgot.

Pills work wonders. They also slowly kill you. Moderation in everything, I suppose.

Jacksonville, after quaking in delight at my selection letter. LT Sagehorn half-laughing at me, one eyebrow drawn up. And in-between bailout drills that would never actually be carried out anyway, I'd reach for my bag, beneath the airsave vest and tucked into the chest of my flightsuit. Eating bright orange goldfish at least provides for some variety on the way back up. Tip: bananas taste the same the second time.

Two flights out from winging, and the dreaded "I word" shows up on my gradesheet. Incapacitated. Acclimation flight after acclimation flight, and I find myself packing back up for Pensacola, ready to jockey a chair for eight weeks, forty-five minutes a chop. And laying on the floor afterwards, grateful to press my face against the dirty carpet because it wasn't moving. I pass because, unlike my stomach I can control my mind, and I can trick myself about that damned chair. The old muppet-shaped man signs my paperwork, and I'm splitsville.

Two days later back in Jax and I barf four times on a Tac flight. I make my peace with flight, grateful to God that my last moments out here in the delirious burning blue would be over these glinting waters, blue-and-fire in the late Floridian afternoon sun. A leaf tells me not to get discouraged, back in STUCON. I wonder when the right time for that might be. They wrangle me Q orders, promising that I'll be able to hack it if I can adjust to a Nav flight profile. I get limped through, nursing drills and taking breaks standing in the flight station whenever my skin starts to crawl. Months belated, my folks come down, I have a dozen guests and I get my wings after all, feet shoved into spraypainted shoes and tearing up after it's over.

And then SERE, and Advanced SERE-- training that left me with loose teeth and a permanent frayed nerve when it comes to Rudyard Kipling. My clearance. Flight physicals. Now here I am in Washington, and after thousands of miles and multiple airframes, there is one constant. I threw up on my first flight, and now I either get queasy or pass out. How far am I willing to go? There's surfing the knife edge, but if you slip, the severance is brutal and permanent. I think about the kids in the back. The clouds where mountains hide. My own exhaustion, keeping even pace with me this whole time. I look at my hands for a moment, and know one thing above all others: Not on my watch.

I look back up at Doc Pham.

"Yeah, I am." I sigh. "Cause I'm not going to."

She smiles, gently shakes her head. She's already told me she hates this part. Who wouldn't?

"Ok, go talk to your department head."

There's a moment, I blink my eyes and let her words sink into my skin. I walk out in a daze and cry in a corner of the hangar, my favorite Chief Warrant holding my shoulder and being altogether softer with me than she usually is. I keep my back to everything else, letting her see this raw part of me, but nobody else. Leslie told me back at OCS, you cry in your room if you need to, but when you open that door and walk out, it is game on. Nobody needs to know. I wipe my face and take a few shaky breaths. Soon this, too, will be a memory.

--

As of last Thursday, I have been permanently grounded from flight, aeromedically disqualified due to chronic airsickness. I'm going to stay Navy, but I don't know what I'll be doing yet. Something good, because I don't jack around.

I don't know what the timeline is for anything. I don't know what comes next. I'll keep you all posted. Thanks for caring. And for the record, I'm ok.

As Chappy said in "Happy Texas," one of my favorite movies of all time: "That's what life's for, isn't it? Findin' out."