I Remember You

Hi.

It’s been a hundred years.

And if I’m entirely honest, this isn’t even really me. I mean, it’s me- me, Kellie. But, a hundred years ago, something wonderful used to happen, once in a while, when I decided I had something worth saying. I had…

A voice. Separate and definitely not equal to my mundane daily. Something lovely and true, and honest and good. I used to be able to make people fall in love with me; I used to be able to make people understand exactly what I wanted them to understand. And I was better at it than you are.

So what if my voice might have been a bit of a cunt.

I loved that voice. I loved the timbre with its ideas and stories that represented the best of me. Somebody I wanted to be; someone I wanted to be remembered as.

I came by it honestly. My father, aniishanabe, was an honest-to-god storyteller and my mother, white, was a beautiful, hopeless romantic. And I let that define my entire youth. I believed in love and in stories. Love and stories fed me.

Could I do that..? Could I *be* that way again? I have no fucking clue. But man, the timing seems important. It’s mid-May, 2020, I’m on unemployment and can’t leave the house. I could probably convince myself I was being paid to write with little motivation.

For all my solipsistic declarations, I cannot entirely believe god has done all this just for me.

But maybe he has.

And maybe I’m running out of time.

Okay so here’s what I’m thinking:

- It’s been a long, LONG time since I’ve tried to do this. Over the course of my life, I’ve actually felt myself shedding things it didn’t find relevant anymore. For example, I got an office job and forgot how not to be lazy; for example, I started to work with a group of people who didn’t speak English and I lost my words.

No, that’s not right. (I wish you could see me, arguing, anguishing in a dark room with myself, saying- ‘no, no that’s not right.) I can see what I mean, feel what I mean- what I want to describe, in my head. Clear as day and as succinct. But the problem is- it’s been so fucking long since I’ve tried to connect to anything, I haven’t needed the means to show others those pictures in my head or the flavor of my emotions. So it’s possible, I’ve lost the means to do so or, even more upsetting, I no longer have things to connect to others with.

- I don’t feel like a part of anything. I don’t feel any sort of deep connection to the substance around me. I enjoy shallow, saccharine emotions because those are the easiest to share between strangers. I find everyone one-tracked and unfaceted. Every single opinion I come across bores me with its ignorance and hypocrisy. Conservatives infuriate me and liberals sicken me. Everyone is an expert and no one has a thought that wasn’t drummed up by someone else. We’re all looking for quick and easy (digestible) sentiments to get us instant gratification, our next like and share, and some sort of credibility in a world that tells us it’s not our fault we’re useless and at the same time, doesn’t think much of us.

I used to think- how can anyone be anything without some sort of conflict? Some adversity in their life? Where are all our foes? So I’ve had to think it’s entirely personal responsibility. The cost of admission on this ride is that I try to leave it in better condition than I found it. But it’s lonely here and I don’t know if I’ve made the correct conclusions.

- What if… what if I was never good at this; what if I could never do the things I thought I could do? A surprising amount of people know I’m no good. That I’m a garbage human- a sexual deviant with several deeds that earn me a spot in hell. Someone who walked away from what was right and good simply because she was lazy and incompetent. I’ve been baptized in the shame of things I’ve done; instead of being washed away, there they stay, flashing with every step I take forever. I have done things that utterly repulse me and I will never be able to change that. It’s very bold of me to find all of my opinions superior to people who are far better than me.

Tl;dr: It’s possible I’ve lost the ability to write, it’s possible I have nothing to say that matters to anyone, and it’s possible that I never had the ability I pretend to have.

If this is your first rodeo, you might not know I raised on an Ojibwe reservation in northern Minnesota. I danced in cemeteries on the reservation and raced with forest spirits- supped on manoomin with possibilities and adventure galore. I was constantly waiting to be inspired by all the beauty of life. And so it went for 20 years, give or take a decade.

And then one day, my mother called. The majority of the content of our conversation was irrelevant save one throwaway comment near the end. Out of nowhere, my mother reduced my father and told me his father was from northern Finland. (I shouldn’t say reduced but I haven’t dealt with this yet and I fucking feel reduced.) Suddenly, I went from the perfection of knowing exactly who I was to mucking around at an eighth blood quantum. The whole idea of my life has been a lie.

I’m not a manic pixie dream Indian at all.

I’m just regular. With no native magic to recommend me at all.

Despite this… I feel a little burning bit of pride in the back of my consciousness and can’t entirely let go of this idea of who I was always supposed to be. A little nurture over nature, maybe? And my spine stiffens. And my resolve is set. And so the only conclusion I can come to in my current predicament is this:

I might have a hard time pulling my voice back from my personal depths of obscurity and I might not have things to say that will resonate with anyone. Hell, it’s probable that I couldn’t even finish a project if I tried.

But if I don’t try- well, then I was nothing but a chamook after all.

I miss the crickets

*or*
The Big Disconnect.

I miss the crickets while laying in bed early one Wednesday morning. I haven’t slept in two days. Sleep, that elusive, fickle lover of mine has once again shown its coquettish ways by allowing me a fitful doze with the promise of real slumber... almost. What wakes me this time is my father’s cough.

My father would wake before anyone else in the house. His two-pack-a-day-habit was my alarm clock. I would open my eyes every morning to that ferocious coughing. It wasn’t a sick man’s cough, it was *fierce*. Almost like my father forced his lungs to get that sissy crap out of their system because the day was starting and he had shit to do. I was always startled by the violence of it.

What startled me out of sleep this time was to hear my father’s cough coming from me.

Pa would always get up while it was still dark. A real dark- a dark I haven’t experienced since leaving home. I grew up in the swamps of northern Minnesota, on Nah-Gah-Chi-Wa-Nong reservation (ou Fond du Lac si vous préférez) which is about a million miles away from anything. There was only one store called, aptly, Nahgahchiwanong adaawewigaamig. I still giggle when I visit home and watch white people try to write out checks while they’re tourist-ing for indians.

(Tangents are the curse of the two day non-sleeper. Every time I blink it feels like a week went by with this ritalin-riddled four year old I have running around my brain. Anywho.)

Maybe it’s the simpler time I’m remembering and missing. A time when my father would hand me lit cigarettes to light contraband fireworks to flare in the dark. A time when we kept a loaded .22 by the door to shoot stray rez dogs along with a trashcan lid and a stick to scare bears out of the garage. I’ve never been afraid of the dark.

People in the city can’t appreciate the idea of true dark. They can’t even comprehend it. It’s dark, darker than anything. Sometimes you can’t see your own hand in front of your face and everything is a stark, nameless void. Other times, the stars are that much brighter for it and your eyes still sparkle long after you’ve looked away. And the noise. The dark is not a silent place. Where I’m from, the crickets outnumber the stars and you can’t hear your own thoughts over their trilling din. I’ve never been alone in the dark. I’m not afraid of the dark.

In fact, (I think while tangled up in my sheets) if I still lived on rez I could fix this. I would go outside right now and sit on the cold concrete steps in my blanket. I wouldn’t have to close my eyes or stay my mind. Eventually, after enough time had passed- I would say (in no particular direction, to no specific entity):

“Oh... hi universe.”

And then, without sadness, resignation, surprise, or any sort of moody, martyrish connotations:

“...it’s *me*. Isn’t it.”

I bet I’d sleep like a baby after that.

It’s truly amazing how little it takes...

...to make me feel like I've shed my humanity.

Tuesday.

Oh-holy-jesus-god I swear that if I don’t have hot water tomorrow, I’m throwing myself in front of a bus.

Or at least jumping off the top of my building- it’s not the commuters’ fault maintenance is uninterested in my bathtub.

Due to the cold shower situation, my body is in various stages of shaving and I’ve been living like a goddamn hippie for the past month. One slow day at work, I devised a formula or ratio or something (how the hell would I know, I got a C- in high school calculus) determining how much of my body I could submerge in x degrees of cold water at a time. I am currently at 1/4th and it’s practically third world here with my one smooth leg and sink washed hair. I’m not feeling so pretty, folks.

Everyday last week I expected to come home to a nice letter from the building handymen explaining how they came in, discovered Norman and won’t tell, and by-the-way fixed the temperature- have a nice day. But NO! My mental state has since deteriorated and sobbing is quite frequent in this dwelling.

(...but isn’t that becaus-
No.)

Anywho. I decided to warm up from tonight’s 1/4th shower with a little rum and immediately was overcome with thinky-thoughts. Answer me this- in a situation where one has little control over the majority of the factors, where one is at the mercy of those with a better understanding of the parts, even though it probably doesn’t matter either way,

...is it better to wish or to hope?

Think of me while you’re taking fabulously long showers. I’ll get a pervy kick out of it.

The Army.

“An army of lovers. Really."

Melissa is capable of expressing a level of incredulity that has, on occasion, made me question my sanity, my dignity, and on one memorable day- my own name. She’s truly gifted.

“Kell, you know I love you- but an army of lovers? You can’t even say the word ‘balls’. I’m pretty sure you shower in your bathing suit and you blush when you read Cosmo. How the hell are you going to maintain an army of lovers?”

My dislike of the b-word stems from a much earlier incident involving a room full of men in their late 40s, two hours of sleep the night before, and general hilarity. The rest is pure speculation on Melissa’s part.

This particular decision, like most of my mine, was made with a broken heart, a heap of frivolity, and a dash of wine. Oh let’s be honest- it was more like a bottle... Anywho. It all came about last week.

....................

Wednesday night found Norman and I doing trashy chick-lit stuff like lounging about dramatically on the sofa, watching Pride and Prejudice, and moping over the loss of my most recent relationship. (Well. *I* was, god knows what goes on in his fool kitty mind.) My relationship wasn’t just over- trust, hope, and faith had been SHATTERED. I don’t know what I keep doing wrong. I’m 29 years old, I should be better at this. I mean- I really do enjoy being in them. Honest.

I adore having those intimate connections with people- I love learning about someone new and slowly becoming a presence in their life. The only thing is... it never seems to work out. The most successful relationship I’ve ever had was with a broke 20 year old reggae musician and I suspect that was because I didn’t really *have* a relationship with him. No commitments- I enjoyed his company (and found him sexy as hell) so we’d hang out. We’d be casually having fun and then, when the mood would strike... Hey. Wait a minute.

Epiphany.

..............................

“An army of lovers, Melissa. Attachment without the heartbreak of commitment.”
“But dude, are you sure it’s not becaus-”
“No.”
“If you’re feeling a little lost and directionless because of Jus-”
“That’s not it.”
“Kell, you’re going to want to be in a relationship again someday. And you’re going to have fun and tons of epic adventures again too. I promise.”

Is Melissa right? Am I just desperately seeking a new direction to not have to deal with how much this particular breakup hurt me? Am I worried that I’ll never find someone who could live up to what I want to be possible- eventually becoming jaded and cynical towards love? Is this the kind of open mindedness that will make me a better partner eventually or is it actually giving up by discounting the idea of traditional relationships?

::sigh::

“Missa, you’re right.”
“Right on!”
“I *am* going to have fabulous adventures and tons of fun again!”
“Yeah!”
“...with those guys who are enlisted in my ARMY OF LOVAHS!”
“Wait, what no! D’oh.”

To be continued, I'm sure...

O HAI. I was on vacation. But I'm back now.

When I bought my first plane ticket someone told me, 'Don't expect this to mean something. It's not going to change anything and the only thing you'll bring home with you are some pretty pictures and party conversation.' He was probably right. I am probably a self-indulgent tourist of the lowest order...

Meh! :D

So I'm standing on a Pacific beach feeling like a dirty hippie. At the moment, this is a very satisfying feeling. I haven't had a decent shower in a week. Or conversation either, I suppose. As I speak no Spanish- I've had to resort to pantomiming and mad pinwheeling of arms to order margaritas and tacos, etc. I've basically been wandering around trying not to irritate anyone too badly or get shot. So far so good!

I'm ankle deep in the ocean and I swear I have a swimsuit on somewhere underneath all my clothes. I have an irrational fear of people seeing me in any partial state of undress (which, let me tell you- does WONDERS for my love life) but I do have every intention of baring down at some point... I would just prefer to do it after I get in the water :D

Anyways. I'm wading out deeper now to join a certain gentleman acquaintance of mine when I start to feel a strange pulling at my feet. I should mention uhm... I really don't know how to swim. Like... AT ALL. My father always told me Indians don't float and I took that advice to heart- going out of my way to avoid any body of water, never in my entire life completely submerged. I've *never* been in the ocean before and while I understand the mechanics of this whole 'tide' thing, I've never experienced it. So when the first wave started coming towards me, I viewed it with curiosity and wonder. That is, until my feet were sucked out from under me and I found myself underwater- drowning, really.

In retrospect, I'm amazed that I can remember all the different sensations- the salt water burning my eyes and lungs... the sharp sting of the rocks I was repeatedly bashed upon, the complete disorientation preventing me from getting back upright. At the time only one thing ran through my mind:

OH-MY-HOLY-JESUS-GOD-MY-MOTHER-WAS-RIGHT-I-AM-GOING-TO-DIE-IN-THIS-FORSAKEN-COUNTRY!!!

But I didn't. I managed to right myself riiiiiight before the next wave which heightened my death/dying/forsaken-country panic to a whole new level as I went under again. Luckily, my companion reached me and hauled me up which is good- because how embarrassing would it have been to die in 2 feet of water? :P

Life is good! Life is wonderful! I love life! ...wassat? My swimsuit? Oh. It's not on my body anymore? It's *gone*..?

...

... I don't care! I'm alive!!!

So maybe it's true- about the whole meaningless travel thing. But for me, the people I meet are going to find me different and my mannerisms strange regardless so my day-to-day awkwardness doesn't seem as relevant. It's like I find a freedom and a comfort when I *leave* my comfort zone. Which may or not mean anything to anyone but me.

But it does mean something to me- the chance to rejoice and celebrate... while standing bucknaked on the beach.

Another Saturday.

I have a problem with recall- people in particular. If I haven't seen someone in a week or more, I can't remember what they looked like. (The exceptions to this rule are my father's hands- something I am incredibly grateful for) I mean, I *know* what they look like- but if I try to conjure up their exact image in my head... it doesn't work. It's more like looking at a stranger through a frosted window in a steamy coffee shop- you might be able to tell what color hair they have, the general shape of their features but the person walking through the front door could be Angelina Jolie... or Jocelyn Wildenstein. It's anyone's guess.

Anywho.

I had last Tuesday off (in exchange for Saturday. Want to tell me who got the better end in that deal?). After laying on the couch watching daytime TV and eating wasabi peas for a couple of hours, I realized I should probably go outside and enjoy the springtime weather, utilize my one day off, seize the day, et cetera.

So I went to IKEA.

Yes, IKEA. I love it there. When I first moved to Minneapolis- a small town, naive girl without a *dime* to her name, I used to go there and wander about fairly often. I'd hop the light rail to the megamall (illegally) and spend hours perusing the showroom. I'd look in each tiny, ikea-ed space and dream about what my new life was going to be like. I had a lot of ideas about what being a 'big-city' girl meant. Nighttime provided the best backdrop for these excursions of mine and I would imagine myself in each 'apartment' with different characters, occupations, and a myriad of those MOMENTS I was so ready for.

It took me a minute on Tuesday, daytime, to realize that the present has always been hard for me. The past- even harder. I peeked into the same displays only to feel... something. It wasn't disappointment; it wasn't sadness. Rather, it was a heavy, steadying weight that seemed to say- 'you can't *do* that anymore, Kell. You can't look to the skies all wide-eyed and innocent, visualizing your life played out in a series of movie-trailers. You've lived in Minneapolis for 3 years now. THIS is your life here. Now.'

Can a woman approaching 30 still wonder about what her life is *going* to be like? Is that an indication that she's not *living* her life? Have I spent all this time making plans and not enough time doing them? God, I dislike *wasting*.

Last night I had a dream. It was a very vivid dream. (Probably induced by the mass quantities of green beer I had been drinking up until said dreaming. Just saying:) I love it when I remember my dreams because in them, I can *see* people. Just like they were standing in front of me. I let my eyes linger and roam- taking in a familiar face that I've forgotten. Even if I haven't seen them in a long time- there they are. Gone, but obviously with me for good.

The content of the dream, the players in the cast- these aren't relevant. The smile they invoked is- the smile that I could feel even in sleep. The big 'hey you' and the re-remembering. The realization there *have* been moments...

Moments better than anything I ever imagined-
standing 3 years ago in IKEA.

Nancy Sullivan's life might be better than mine.

I live in a nice property in a questionable neighborhood that’s dedicated to a community improvement project. When the building first opened 4 years ago, people became concerned when those native to the location couldn’t afford to live there. The solution was government subsidies for qualifying adults which introduced working minorities living below the poverty line and their children to a building full of upper middle class white folk who hankered for lofty condos. *That* is a very long sentence and *it* is an interesting dynamic.

Anyways.

Instead of Megabusin’ it, I have a plane ticket to Chicago this weekend. I was instructed to 'wear something nice on the plane' presumably to go directly from the airport to... somewhere. Now for a Megabus girl getting in at 1AM- I’m sure I know what that means. (::winkwink:: scandalous!) But what for a frivolous weekend plane ticket girl..? Hmmm... I know- WWNSD? To the mailroom!

The prior occupant of my apartment was Nancy Sullivan. I know this because I get a ton of her mail. She still gets more than I do- even after 3 1/2 years. At first I tried to be polite about it- letting the mailman know she was no longer at this address, sending the mail back, calling magazines to be removed from listings, etc. That was then. These days I paw through her mail eagerly- I figure the post office *must* want me to have these invitations to posh charity events and catalogues for high-end items I didn’t even know existed. I can’t help it! Her mail is a secret glimpse into an alternative world.

"Take for example this article, Norman." We’re in the kitchen having dinner; I’m sitting on the counter, holding a travel magazine while the cat is standing on the kitchen island- looking down at his food with typical distaste. I read aloud- "Being a white American conferred on me an automatic status abroad. I represented power. Affluence..." Huh. I had no idea. I don’t know if *I’ve* ever had this experience. "But then again," I say- flipping through the rest of the mail and pulling out a glossy appliance catalogue "I’ve never owned a microwave that cost more than a month’s rent either."

Now typically, I tend to dislike the lavish on principle but I wonder if a teeny-tiny part of that is envy. "It’s not just having a $900 microwave, Norman. It’s the lifestyle that supports having a $900 microwave." I try to appeal to his kitty nature by explaining that this means eating something a lot better than tuna everyday. And THAT means it's okay to want nice things.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should have just picked a major for the sole purpose of landing a prosperous career. I mean- that’s doable, isn’t it? *This* makes the most money. I need to do *this* to get *there*. Ta-dah! This feels like a slightly sleazy way to go about this business but, if I’m entirely honest, it’s not like I’m doing any altruistic work at the moment anyways.

Norman, as usual, is undisturbed by my ponderings. Demonstrating his blatant lack of concern for the most things in life, Norm only half listens as he idly bats my cellphone from one end of the island to the other. He swats harder and we both watch as the phone goes sailing off one end- directly into his dish of tuna. Norman looks at me as if to say, 'Well? Are you going to get that?'

Then again... maybe there’s another reason I don’t have nice things.