Revisitation.
I try to go down to the dock every night. It's the stars. I missed them so much when I was in the city, that I sometimes feel like I need to drink them in as much as I can, now, and here, or I will end up regretting it for the rest of my life.
Tonight, though, it was the fog. Carrying Pooks in from a long day at my parents, I lower her to the floor, then float through the cabin, pulling on my rolled-up jeans, hooded sweatshirt, and flip-flops. I threw my hair up into a ponytail, grabbed a towel and my iPod, and drifted down the wooded slope and onto the platform.
Sitting on the bench, I cued up Bon Iver's new album and stared out at the mist, the thick, comforting gray of the lake. On my bulletin board in the cabin, I have a collection of pictures, sayings, and clippings that I like to stare at in the early morning and night. There's a scrap of a Chinese fortune that says, "Discontent is the necessity of progress."
I took a job as a barista at a local coffeeshop about three weeks ago, after finding myself wandering around the cabin at night, bored and restless and with little to look forward to. Long stretches of open days, in the early summer, were heaven. In the past few weeks, they've become time to waste. I resisted the idea for a while, telling myself that I didn't really need one, that it would take time away from my writing, etc. But then the little coffeeshop I had been watching for months, with the thought in the back of my head that it might be fun to work there, posted an ad in the paper, and without a second thought I called and interviewed and was hired all in the same day.
I've been thriving. I delight in my hours there, ideas are tumbling out, and the structure of only having so many hours to write has actually churned out more writing than the last few months of open-ended days. It's caused me to think of all the other things that I've been arguing against that might also end up being really good for me.
Like people. Filling in for a server the other night, I looked up to see a tall, tanned, bald-shaven man walk in. I threw out a smile and a hello, then watched as he smiled back and walked into the kitchen. A new coworker, a cook. He already knew my name, and though he looked familiar, I couldn't quite place him. I didn't find out his first name until the very end of the night, though I did manage to collect a few other facts about him as I overheard his conversations with others: Baseball player. BMX biker. Fishing guide.
The next night I was having drinks with my old friend Adam, and somehow the cook came up. Adam instantly knew who I was talking about, and told me that he used to go to the same parties and hung out with the same crowd as we did when I first lived up here, which is why he probably looked familiar. "That's probably not a good thing," I stated to Adam, thinking back on that turbulent time and all that could be interpreted from it. "I'm wary of getting involved with anyone from around here. I know that sounds snobby and narrow-minded, but it's the same thing – I already did that. I already dated you. I'd prefer to shop from a different store." It's the guys who fish, who make jokes about Mexicans, who stand around in the bait store or gas station, bitching about their jobs and their wives. The loud-mouths in the bars, the ones who make me cringe with their loud engine-revving as they blast out of the parking lot. I know it's not true, and there are always exceptions to the rule, but sometimes it feels as if Hayward and Cable is a garden, and this is the only crop of men it grows.
"If he asks you on a date, I would tell you that you have to say yes," Adam insisted.
"Really?!" I sat up and stared at him. "I've never heard you endorse anyone, especially not someone from around here."
"He is one of the greatest people I know. He can fall into the trap of being an asshole when he's with his friends, but one on one, the guy is like Killian."
Killian is, hands down, one of the coolest and nicest people we've ever met, anywhere, ever.
"Hmm." I sat back in my chair again, thinking.
"Seriously. If he asks you out, I would definitely go out with him if I were you."
Later that night, while sitting in bed and reading, my mind wandered. It only happens once in a blue moon, but the feeling had become palatable...I wanted someone else. Something else. All the feelings and longings and buzz and pull that usually lay dormant during my solitary life starts to awaken, and suddenly if feels as if my nerves are on fire, that I'm ready to jump out of my skin. Usually, going on dates and kissing and the dance of flirting seems so boring...but during this small span of time, a flip is switched, and now everything is so boring without it. And I want it now. I know it will usually pass...I'll sigh a lot and stare off into daydreams and wander around in the discontent for a few days, but then it will slowly melt away and I'll be back to my happy life of just myself and Pooks to take care of.
But this had me wondering. I know that I may only be attracted to him because he reminds me of another bald-shaven man down in Minneapolis with a similar build and a quiet confidence, someone I also find myself wondering about on a semi-regular basis. I know that it would be hard for me to resist all of my preconceived notions and ideas of what he is probably like, even though I would fiercely declare that that's not fair if the tables were turned. And I know that the story is still much the same that it was the first time I lived in this place: That I don't really want to date anyone from up here, because I don't want to have a reason for why I have to stay. And what if he's actually really ugly and stupid and dumb and I'm only thinking about him because he's the best of what's immediately around? But the book has already been opened, I thought to myself, as I turned out the light and flipped the covers over my chest. And once it's opened, I never can quite let it go until I find out what finally happens in the end.
There was a chance that we would work together on Friday. On Friday nights, the coffeeshop morphs into an upscale eatery, and I fill the role as hostess, a role I relish if only because it gives me a rare reason to put on a dress and get glossed up. This evening was in particularly top form: It was one of those moments when everything just seems to come together and you know that you look as swell as you had hoped to. But he wasn't there, and even though I told myself to not be stupid, you knew there was a chance he wouldn't be, I couldn't help but feel a little bit disappointed. The thought of this dress and these boots only being worth a Friday evening that held a few hours of work, a long ride home, and an empty cabin with nothing to do but write and go to bed...it just seemed...sad.
Bored and needing something to do, I picked up a couple of empty glasses from the table to take into the main bar. Walking through the middle room, I envisioned magnets reaching out from my black-dress-clad body and pulling the cook in. "If this is worth anything, then he has to come in, I have to get to see him tonight." And literally right on cue, I rounded the corner as he was walking in the door.
Tonight, though, it was the fog. Carrying Pooks in from a long day at my parents, I lower her to the floor, then float through the cabin, pulling on my rolled-up jeans, hooded sweatshirt, and flip-flops. I threw my hair up into a ponytail, grabbed a towel and my iPod, and drifted down the wooded slope and onto the platform.
Sitting on the bench, I cued up Bon Iver's new album and stared out at the mist, the thick, comforting gray of the lake. On my bulletin board in the cabin, I have a collection of pictures, sayings, and clippings that I like to stare at in the early morning and night. There's a scrap of a Chinese fortune that says, "Discontent is the necessity of progress."
I took a job as a barista at a local coffeeshop about three weeks ago, after finding myself wandering around the cabin at night, bored and restless and with little to look forward to. Long stretches of open days, in the early summer, were heaven. In the past few weeks, they've become time to waste. I resisted the idea for a while, telling myself that I didn't really need one, that it would take time away from my writing, etc. But then the little coffeeshop I had been watching for months, with the thought in the back of my head that it might be fun to work there, posted an ad in the paper, and without a second thought I called and interviewed and was hired all in the same day.
I've been thriving. I delight in my hours there, ideas are tumbling out, and the structure of only having so many hours to write has actually churned out more writing than the last few months of open-ended days. It's caused me to think of all the other things that I've been arguing against that might also end up being really good for me.
Like people. Filling in for a server the other night, I looked up to see a tall, tanned, bald-shaven man walk in. I threw out a smile and a hello, then watched as he smiled back and walked into the kitchen. A new coworker, a cook. He already knew my name, and though he looked familiar, I couldn't quite place him. I didn't find out his first name until the very end of the night, though I did manage to collect a few other facts about him as I overheard his conversations with others: Baseball player. BMX biker. Fishing guide.
The next night I was having drinks with my old friend Adam, and somehow the cook came up. Adam instantly knew who I was talking about, and told me that he used to go to the same parties and hung out with the same crowd as we did when I first lived up here, which is why he probably looked familiar. "That's probably not a good thing," I stated to Adam, thinking back on that turbulent time and all that could be interpreted from it. "I'm wary of getting involved with anyone from around here. I know that sounds snobby and narrow-minded, but it's the same thing – I already did that. I already dated you. I'd prefer to shop from a different store." It's the guys who fish, who make jokes about Mexicans, who stand around in the bait store or gas station, bitching about their jobs and their wives. The loud-mouths in the bars, the ones who make me cringe with their loud engine-revving as they blast out of the parking lot. I know it's not true, and there are always exceptions to the rule, but sometimes it feels as if Hayward and Cable is a garden, and this is the only crop of men it grows.
"If he asks you on a date, I would tell you that you have to say yes," Adam insisted.
"Really?!" I sat up and stared at him. "I've never heard you endorse anyone, especially not someone from around here."
"He is one of the greatest people I know. He can fall into the trap of being an asshole when he's with his friends, but one on one, the guy is like Killian."
Killian is, hands down, one of the coolest and nicest people we've ever met, anywhere, ever.
"Hmm." I sat back in my chair again, thinking.
"Seriously. If he asks you out, I would definitely go out with him if I were you."
Later that night, while sitting in bed and reading, my mind wandered. It only happens once in a blue moon, but the feeling had become palatable...I wanted someone else. Something else. All the feelings and longings and buzz and pull that usually lay dormant during my solitary life starts to awaken, and suddenly if feels as if my nerves are on fire, that I'm ready to jump out of my skin. Usually, going on dates and kissing and the dance of flirting seems so boring...but during this small span of time, a flip is switched, and now everything is so boring without it. And I want it now. I know it will usually pass...I'll sigh a lot and stare off into daydreams and wander around in the discontent for a few days, but then it will slowly melt away and I'll be back to my happy life of just myself and Pooks to take care of.
But this had me wondering. I know that I may only be attracted to him because he reminds me of another bald-shaven man down in Minneapolis with a similar build and a quiet confidence, someone I also find myself wondering about on a semi-regular basis. I know that it would be hard for me to resist all of my preconceived notions and ideas of what he is probably like, even though I would fiercely declare that that's not fair if the tables were turned. And I know that the story is still much the same that it was the first time I lived in this place: That I don't really want to date anyone from up here, because I don't want to have a reason for why I have to stay. And what if he's actually really ugly and stupid and dumb and I'm only thinking about him because he's the best of what's immediately around? But the book has already been opened, I thought to myself, as I turned out the light and flipped the covers over my chest. And once it's opened, I never can quite let it go until I find out what finally happens in the end.
There was a chance that we would work together on Friday. On Friday nights, the coffeeshop morphs into an upscale eatery, and I fill the role as hostess, a role I relish if only because it gives me a rare reason to put on a dress and get glossed up. This evening was in particularly top form: It was one of those moments when everything just seems to come together and you know that you look as swell as you had hoped to. But he wasn't there, and even though I told myself to not be stupid, you knew there was a chance he wouldn't be, I couldn't help but feel a little bit disappointed. The thought of this dress and these boots only being worth a Friday evening that held a few hours of work, a long ride home, and an empty cabin with nothing to do but write and go to bed...it just seemed...sad.
Bored and needing something to do, I picked up a couple of empty glasses from the table to take into the main bar. Walking through the middle room, I envisioned magnets reaching out from my black-dress-clad body and pulling the cook in. "If this is worth anything, then he has to come in, I have to get to see him tonight." And literally right on cue, I rounded the corner as he was walking in the door.
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