sprinklers.

A quick description of today's walking discovery: Fountains in a park shooting up out of the ground and landing on concrete for children (and in my case, adults) to run through. It's been a long time since I remember feeling genuinely jealous of children, but I was today. I shall never be too old to run through a sprinkler, and the City of Tulsa has made it so very easy for me. Cheap good clean (wink*) fun. I shall be pissed if there is a posted sign prohibiting anyone over a certain age. What are the odds that, if so, the sign reads, "no one over the age of twenty-five"?

across the lot.

Not only have I sat out on intentional walks, observing the sights and sounds and peculiarities that I tend to not see, I am also taking regular excursions across the parking lot to get Subway for lunch, or to have the quality photographers at Wolf Camera capture my semi-smile for the visa I will need to get out of the country I am headed for. Instead of starting up the Stratus to take me an eighth of a mile, I am instead relying on my two feet. Today for example, I passed the Post Man both on my way there and my way back. He was making his rounds in his MOTOR VEHICLE. I felt noble.

Currently, I am sitting in my living room, listening to Cat Power and drinking leftover wine, and I feel happy.

We have yet to turn on the air conditioner, and for some reason this makes me feel strong, capable, and maybe like I am a true survivor. Melodramatic? Yes. I believe that, to an extent, one's body acclimates...as I am no longer suffering greatly as I felt like in the beginning. I shall be thankful next month when I am in Korea, and have no money, and the gas bill is, like, close to nothing.

kendall whittier.

Looking down on my way out of the yard, I counted fourteen stones, rectangular in shape. My roommate Tonia had laid them down while I was away, to make a pathway from the porch to the driveway. Beginning my walk were these fourteen stones, in pairs, varying directions, leading somewhere.

I turned left at the stoplight, and without hesitation, my attention went to the yellow house with the purple door that we have affectionately labeled the pot house. Most evenings passersby will find its long haired inhabitants throwing the nurf ball around while standing in the middle of the street. When they get tired, they can take a rest on the full size couch or twin recliners that adorn their front porch. I think they were napping when I walked by.

I was on my way to Kendall Whittier park, suggested to me by Tonia, and a fitting place to begin this adventure. The street leading me there is lined with generic red bricked houses, as if that was the only house covering available in the fifties when these houses were built.

I followed her directions, to the “dead-end” sign that wasn’t really a “dead-end” at all. Rather, it was the end of suburbia and the beginning of sidewalks and trees and playgrounds and benches.

Sitting on the bench behind the batting cage fence was an older gentleman who some would refer to as a transient. I don’t know if I like that word any more than bum. To me, he was just a man, in a red sports jersey, and owned a bike, but likely not a home.

He picked the wrong bench, however, as he was forced to face the sky blue house on steroids that was definitely a painting mistake.

Then there were the tire tracks originating from a puddle rather than a road. A high speed car chase, I presumed, ending in a park, as the driver was trying to lose his tail by escaping the assumed road route. He must have missed the “no motor vehicles” sign posted at the entrance.

Winding the concrete sidewalk path, I came to the no name no character apartment building with the makeshift basketball goal in the street, the orange-ish round ball flying in from the shapely arms of two high school boys flexing their athleticism.

WIth my back now to the building, I passed the playground, for the second time, avoiding the swing sets. I was tempted at each crossing to jump on, but I think I am just waiting for someone to swing with.

As I left the park, and the children crossing the bridge from the imaginary castle to dry land, my heart was beating faster, and I felt a run coming on. So I obliged and fastened my pace. Nearly passing the yellow fire hydrant without giving it due attention, the word “darling” printed on the side caught the end of my eye. This is why I was walking and not running, I told myself...to see these things that the run nearly made me miss. I stopped abruptly and bent down to read the rest of it’s story. It was from Pennsylvania, born in nineteen-fifty-seven. Such an interesting contrast, to me, for a sweet work like darling to be adorning the side of an object that dogs are infamous for pissing on.

Running away, in a mental world of my own with yellow hydrants and frequent uses of the word darling, I snapped out when I heard someone from across the street yell to me a warm and emphatic “hi!”. The someone was a darling little girl in a pink shirt, who was being rescued from her car seat by her daddy. I glanced, returned her hi and accepted her wave, running now with even more purpose than before....eventually up the rocks to the stones Tonia laid, with intention, leading me between my flower beds, up onto my porch, and into my happy home.

walk.

I have never watched a complete episode of “Project runway”. Desire has never compelled me, and the fact that my current tv situation projects one channel semi-clear, but only when the antennae is duct-taped to the television at the correct angle that frequently changes depending on the weather, chances are I won’t get the chance to tune in, ever. I just don’t comprehend the appeal, but nevertheless, I talk to intelligent, well read, purposeful people quite often that tune in every week, citing the fact the Tyra really cares as what draws them, or the real struggle and inner transformation that each of the models go through. It’s a must for many...the kind of show you don’t risk channel surfing during the commercials, because you just don’t want to risk missing a second.

This truth leads me to believe that my current project, Project Walkway, may actually interest some of my readers! Thank you, Tyra, for creating a show that helps give me the courage to blog about my random walking adventures with the assurance that reading it won’t be a complete waste of everyone’s time.

In preparation for my jaunt to Asia, where I will be walking close to everywhere, I am getting my feet ready before I go...check back for written documentation of my new two-feet Tulsa adventure: Project Walkway.

the very near future.

Partly because I think some of you, my readers, may wonder about the specifics of my upcoming adventure, and party because I am so freaking excited that I want to see it all typed out...as if that makes it more real...here is what my five weeks will look like in a little over three...

June:

Friday the 13 - oooo - last day at Starbucks for a while.
Tuesday the 17th - hop on a plane for the Land of the Morning Calm
- after many hours in the air -
Wednesday the 18th - arrive in Seoul, sleep.
Thursday the 19th and the next day - learn how to be a good substitute English teacher.
Monday the 23 - begin the task at hand

- for five weeks! -
- make a few Korean memories with my friend Houston, the mastermind.
- meet people.
- make money to pay for my bills and plane ticket.
- see sites.
- abstain from baking.
- walk a lot.
- laugh a lot.
- test this wanderer lifestyle out.
- eek!

July

Sunday the 27 - hop on a plane for the Sooner State.

more of the place, and the people.

After the relaxing glass of wine at the house on Embassy Row, I was taken to Tosca , which is, from what I have been told, the best Italian restaurant in DC. Now, in relation to four stars or meal price, I couldn't care less. A thirty dollar a plate meal means very little to me, as I ordered a thirty-six dollar plate of Black Cod in Hawaii and nearly barfed all over everyone else's Japanese cuisine. What I am saying is this: It wasn't tasty because of the price. It was just damn tasty. Have you ever had thirty month old organic parmesan cheese? Neither had I. Now I have, and I can say with certainty, it was damn good. To add intrigue to my multiple glasses of wine, the spine tingling, dark brown eyed, salt and pepper haired Italian owner of Tosca, who happened to be visiting our table throughout the evening (did I mention his genuinely kind smile?), let us know of the "power house table", seated away from us common folk, in the Kitchen. We watched Tom and Linda Daschle, Dianne Feinstein, and Alan Greenspan file out of the restaurant when their inevitably fantastic meal had been consumed. Linda and Hillary are apparently friends, and Daschle is a supporter of Obama. Speculation by the DC crowd I was surrounded by was that Senator Daschle was trying to convince Delay to switch his allegiance from Mr. O to Mrs. Clinton, and become a superdelegate for Hillary. I just smiled and stared, realizing I was in the center of our election-year universe, witnessing the close of a dinner by influential leaders (possibly) attempting to influence the direction of history.

Following fine Italian dinner cuisine, naturally, was fine French brunch cuisine, on a Sunday, fittingly followed by a rainy day two hour nap. And that's one of the best parts of vacations; being with people that go with the flow, and don't consider a Sunday afternoon nap a waste of time. I benefited.

My last day in the City was affecting and infuriating, as we spend a good part of the afternoon at the Holocaust museum. I have thoughts and words, but I believe that deserves its own post.

With all these words about sites and monuments and museums and food, the thing I brought from that great historical city, and the thing that I most value, is my new old family. I haven't told any specific stories of my new cousin Pamela, or or spunky no bull-shit exceptionally giving and genuine attitude, so be prepared. They will come. What I will say is that she, and her husband Mark, were and are fantastic...hospitible, the kind of people you would want on your side; family.

Oh, and the wine was good too.

DC

I am sitting on the patio, in the back yard, with the great big elm tree, that’s friends with the cedar, who’s branches are reaching around as if to grace the cedar with a hug.

I am staring at the glass top table, holding the glass bottle, with the label reaching around, letting me know who the glass bottle is. Au Bon Climat, known to friends by the name of Rosemary, born earlier, ending her live growth in ninety-seven, allowing the flavor to expand upon the closing of the cork. A Pinot Noir, once residing in Talley Vineyard, in the Arroyo Grande Valley, has now been residing in the seven-thousand bottle capacity cellar of Mark, the husband of the cousin of my father, whom I just met yesterday. I just finished the glass, and, well, I don’t know what else to say. I am waiting for Mark to share with me the intricacies.

Today started with the spy museum, which we covertly escaped...followed by coffee and scones, and talk of family history, as that talk makes us understand each other better, and also ourselves. A decision, voted unanimously by all, that we would just go with the flow, sitting when necessary, breaking when wanted, walking a lot too. We started learning and remembering at the World War II memorial, which was grandiose and scattered with veterans, children, and the touristy type, followed by the World War I memorial, which was less grandiose, more and lovely, neglected and alone. We walked to Lincoln Memorial, passing by the Washington Monument, eventually revealing to us a different side in the surface of the reflecting pool. Next was another needed break, with sandwiches and pita chips and, of all things, gatorade. With more energy, and gumption to continue, we finished the day with the Vietnam wall, beginning at the start, ending in the middle, tears coming after seeing the faces of the last eighteen dead, on the last day of the war, so close to being safe, so far from home, so close to seeing the ones waiting for their homecoming, never to return. Finally, a taxi-cab, a ride home, to the chair, on the patio, next door to the residence of the Lebanese Ambassador, next to the coy fish pond, listening the the water trickle down the layers of rocks that have been stacked with purpose, covered in slimy moss.

I am really enjoying myself.

a trip.

The afternoon of the tenth of May, I read this:

"2. Care to come work 24 hours per week for 5 weeks starting the end of June? Many details would have to be worked out, but I'm just putting it out there? Monday - Thursday work. Friday - Sunday off. My old school - CDI. $30 / hour I think? Possible airplane fare help? I dunno. Maybe a little less per hour if they help with plane?"

The morning of the fourteenth of May, the details have been worked out. As a result, I have been bouncing around all day long.

Through all of my questioning, frustration, confusion and doubt, one thing I will always have control over: my choices. And when my mind is open, and opportunities walk up the steps of my porch, past my flower bed, I can invite them in to sit a while on my old couch. I work at a job I can walk away from to experience an adventure like this, and that I can walk back to when I am done. Some would say it's a sign of immaturity. I say it's a sign of smarts, and knowing oneself.

On Sunday afternoon, I began to dig up the soil in the flower bed across my current floral canvas. My mom had given me a few packets of mixed wildflowers that do well in partial shade. I raked up the mulch that had been blocking the soil from the sun, and, with intention, disrupted the soil so that the seeds would have a home to fall into. In the packet were flowers of every kind and color, and I started to get excited about the process of waiting for them to bloom. The purple paper package said they should bloom in fifty to seventy days, which is right in the heart of the time I will be spending in Korea.

What is so wonderful about this whole missing-of-the-wildflower scenario I find myself in? The people in my life. I shall be missing their blooms whilst seeing someone I adore, and while I am gone from my home and gardens, another person that I adore will be sending me photographs of the colored plants blooming from the ground. Stuck between two wonderful worlds of people that I love, with adventure waiting for me on the way there, and flowers waiting for me to return, is an exceptional place to find myself.

fertilizer.

My life is rich in people resources.

It's lacking in direction.

It's full of spring, and things that are green. My yard is blooming the weeds of spring that are aching to be cut with the mower that I do not have. And my flower garden has begun to sprout buds that were not present when I planted them. Today, a yellow flower made it's way past the green casing that had been hiding it's beauty.

In my near future, choices have to be made that will affect my future days, choices that I don't feel I have to resources for. These things, the reality of choices and the inadequacy I feel following through with them, basically make me feel like a twenty-five year old child; someone with necessary and inevitable responsibility that still needs afternoon naps, and a pacifier to put them to sleep.

To bring me back, and replace some of the insanity with that which is sane, I will go outside onto the front porch with a bowl of water, and drip it along the budding flowers that I planted in the ground, when the sun was shining. My hands were covered in dirt, with remnants of the ground scattered over my exposed pieces of skin. I was at peace, unearthing the roots that would hinder the growth of the kimono flowers about the go in the spot I had selected for them. I am not a lover of worms. Some would say, I would say, I dislike them very much. I react to slimey squirmy worms akin to the way a toddler would react to their mother yanking their pacifier from them. But I was being told, by my roommate Tonia, that I must leave them there, as they are good for the soil that my flowers so desperately need to thrive. With that, I put my hands back in the dirt, digging, arranging, making peace with the reality that worms must stay, and eventually, I must leave, and it's all necessary and a little disgusting and all together good.

The Throwing of Things.

Steaming milk, pushing the double shot button the pull espresso from the fully automatic espresso machine I face nearly every day, I was rushing in every sense of the word to give my attention the the ten beverages lined in a row, waiting to be made, while the ten people waiting on them stared at me with eagerness and impatience. More than one of the beverages were caramel macchiatos, and my bottle of caramel drizzle, something many people are very passionate about, was basically empty; drizzle was simply lining the bottle instead of filling it. And so, in haste and frustration, I threw it.

Sitting on the couch, discussing life with a dear friend, we brought to life the delicacy of a woman's heart, and how affected it can be by an unassuming, clueless man. When these wonderful head in the clouds men do or say something that affects it, and they have no idea, we are left to deal with the disappointment, all the while, knowing the one doing the affecting is completely unaware. Which means, not only are we sad, but also alone. Having actual scenarios in my head to draw from, in angst and frustration, I picked up the water bottle on the arm of the couch, and I threw it.

Standing behind the counter with a kind smile on my face, I greet the man with some sort of "how can I help you?". Tall black decaf coffee was his reply. At the place where I unfortunately work, we re-brew the coffee every thirty minutes. When the timer goes off, we dump the coffee out and put freshly ground coffee into a filter, which goes into a basket, which is brewed with extremely hot water, and in about four minutes time, becomes coffee. In this particular case, it was in the process of becoming decaf coffee. It was two minutes in to the brewing cycle when Mr. Decaf asked for his cup. I asked if he had about one-hundred and twenty seconds to wait, and his reply, given with a tone of annoyance, was, "well I guess I will have to." Funny thing is that by the time I was done taking his money, grabbing the cup, and walking it over to the brewer, he had about thirty seconds left to wait for AN EXTREMELY FRESH CUP OF COFFEE. As I was retelling this story last night to some of my regular customers, the annoyance and frustration came back into my veins, so I grabbed an empty cup, and I threw it.

It feels as if I am in a stage of limbo. I have a job I do not like with a degree that affords me no appealing options. I want to work, but in something that is fulfilling. Until I find a job I will enjoy, or convince my brick mason father that I would make a fantastic laborer, I am stuck behind a bar making caramel macchiatos with not enough drizzle in my bottle.

I also have no desire to spend anymore of my years without companionship. I am running out of the energy required to keep my heart up all by myself. But the thing about companionship is that you have to find someone that wants to be your companion back. Until then, it's me and books and movies and lovely friends, which are wonderful, but not quite the companionship I am looking for.

And littered throughout my life will always be tall decaf coffee people that are not willing to wait one-hundred and twenty seconds for anything. He represents a greater force out there that seems to be entirely missing the point, and so it is not just him that sends poison through my veins, but the school of thought that he is the president of.

The moral I am learning? I have no control over these things. I am in limbo. I can do what I can to fill my days with as much goodness I can, but there are things out there I cannot change. And so, when those uncontrollables rise to the surface, I will merely reach for the nearest object, preferably unbreakable, and throw it.

BoDe.

I witnessed a life enter the world today. One minute he was inside her, and the next he was squirming, breathing air, crying, confused, loved.

I have yet to experience anything like it, ever. Overwhelming in the most modest of attempted explanations.