The huts

The smell of melted candle wax triggers the most pleasant memories of my childhood. When I take in the scent, I think of the log walls of one of my first childhood dwellings, flickering warmly with the light of candles. The candles were forced into the open mouths of glass bottles, which betrayed their age with layers of melted, misshapen wax formations. The candles sat around the perimeter of the round log hut, creating the only man made light for miles. We were told that black bear and mountain lions had been known to prowl the foothills, and the more noise that we made the less likely they were to wander into our dwelling. So us girls would often stay up until the sun turned the sky that mysterious color that marked the arrival of dawn. We would tell stories to one another, loudly emphasizing unimportant details and cackling unnecessarily at each other's jokes. But before we drifted off to sleep, one of the older girls would always make sure to blow out the candles. Cheryl had warned us very firmly (which was not a common thing for her to do) against leaving the candles burning at night. Our hut was made of wood logs, after all.

Cheryl was a smallish woman with dull brown hair that hung to her waist, warm eyes, and crooked teeth. Although she wouldn't have been considered a beautiful woman, her countenance had the power to lift anyone's spirit. She had a laugh that would have scared away any wandering mountain beast for miles. And she loved us. I remember feeling so greatful to be loved by an adult, that I could barely contain my happiness when I was around her. Sometimes she would suddenly pull me close to her and embrace me firmly, and for that moment all that I could smell was a combination of patchouli oil and her natural musk, and all that I could feel was elation.

Cheryl slept in the hut that rested in the nook at the bottom of the hill. The round hut that we slept in had been named the "moon hut", and the small, square dwelling that Cheryl and our mother slept in had been named the "sun hut". The sun hut was a square room, with a wood burning stove. Cheryl would use the wood burning stove to cook eggs and bacon in the morning. But this was only in the winter, when it was cold enough to keep the eggs and bacon fresh. When we would get too cold, sometimes we would trek down the narrow, winding, dug out dirt path that led to the sun hut so that we could warm our hands around the cast iron wood stove.

We had to stumble down the same pathway at night if we had to go to relieve ourselves. Half way from the sun hut to the moon hut, there was a crapper. When I say crapper, I mean it in the historical sense. This was an "antique" john crapper toilet, mounted on a wooden block with four log posts and a little wood shingle roof. There was a chain that hung above the toilet that acted as the flusher. There were no walls surrounding the toilet. Before we sat, we would need to brace ourselves for the almost unbearable chill of the seat, which was weathered and fully exposed to all of the elements. If we were lucky, a squirrel or small animal would pass us by and entertain us as we sat. As an adult looking back on the situation, I am amazed that whoever built this contraption was able to connect it to conventional plumbing, and I wonder how they were able to do it. I also wonder why they would do it. The most fascinating aspect of this subculture was that they still seemed to cling on to certain conventional ideals, while rejecting others.

The mountain squatters were strong and proud people. Their lifestyle seemed to be an homage to the gold rush driven pioneers that had inhabited the area in the 19th century. But it was also a form of rebellion against the normal, t.v. influenced society that they grew up in. I suppose that this is what my mother found most appealing. But she was never able to fully devote herself to the lifestyle (or anything, for that matter). Sometimes, she would disappear for days on end. During these times, Cheryl would always make sure that we were warm and fed. Somehow, she was always able to make me feel safe. She would make sure that I was dressed and prepared for school.

The trek to school was even more involved that the trek to the toilet. I would hike down the steep, treacherous hill to the paved road. I would walk for miles down the winding road to the bus stop. When I finally reached the bottom of the hill, where the rest of my schoolmates were waiting, there was an even bigger challenge for me to overcome - the children.

I was always humbled by their clean, pressed clothing and carefree, white smiles. I would have to make a point not to smile, since I had a hideous brown crack down one of my front teeth. I would stand very still, hoping that they wouldn't notice me. But they always did. They would make cruel comments about my dirty clothing, or call me stupid because I could never bring myself to talk. I would endure their comments, feeling relieved that they hadn't seen where I lived. I had learned that the more people know about you, the more ammunition they had to make you feel ashamed. So I never spoke or drew attention to myself in any way. Although I convinced myself that I hated them, I couldn't deny that there was a part of me that revered them for their confidence and their shiny plastic lunch boxes.

I would struggle through my school days. Each moment of every day was dedicated to making myself seem normal. I studied the children around me intently. I watched the way that they stood, the way that they dressed, and the way that they spoke to the teacher. I never dared to try to imitate them. But I observed them. I thought that if I could understand them, I could teach myself how to be normal.

The day after Christmas, after I had turned 7, I finally gave up the notion of being normal. The children stood around, goofing and joking as children do. They recounted their memories of Christmas day. They listed the gifts that they had received as if they were badges of honor. I was astounded at the amount of gifts that they had received.

As I listened in astonishment, I conjured the memories of the night of Christmas Eve. Our mother wasn't there. When I had asked where she was, Cheryl had said something about Christmas shopping. But her nervous eyes and awkward nature of her reply had told me that she was elsewhere. My sister, Sunshine (Cheryl's daughter) and I sat on the floor of the moon hut. The candles flickered warmly. Cheryl had asked us what we wanted Santa to bring us for Christmas. Having rarely received Christmas gifts, my sister and I had replied with a very resolute "there is no Santa Klaus". Our cynicism seemed unsettling to her. A wave of concern passed over Cheryl's face. She was silent for a few moments. Then, with a burst of energy that surpassed her size, her eyes wide with excitement, she said, "I KNOW THAT SANTA EXISTS!".

We jumped with surprise. Cheryl's excitement had shaken us out of complacence. Cheryl slowly rose, her small frame casting large shadows on the log wall. She told us a story about the night that she had seen Santa Klaus. She explained that she was just a small child at the time, and that his size and the elaborate decoration of his costume had struck her with awe and fascination. She exclaimed that each step of his large, shiny, black boot on the floor created a thunderous roar. She mimicked his actions, her hands on her stomach, laughing wildly. She told us that he emitted a jovial quality that couldn't be expressed in words. His laughter shook the room, and filled her with joy. After her story, she slowly lowered herself to the floor and sat cross-legged, at eye level with us. With a sincere expression, eyebrow raised, she said "So...what do you want for Christmas?".

Still awestruck and convinced by her performance, I meekly answered "a barbie doll". Considering that I didn't own a toy at the time, this seemed to be a large request. Cheryl nodded in understanding. "I'm sure that Santa will give you a barbie". Her assuredness outmatched my cynicism. I was was overcome with hope that I may be a normal girl, with toys, a bed, and a house. Santa would make sure that I received these things in the Christmases to come, if I only had the confidence to ask. I went to bed feeling elated, and slept soundly.

The next day, I woke to the sight of stockings hanging off of the rafters of the hut. I lied in my sleeping bag, staring at the red felt stocking with all of my might, as if I could have opened it with the strength of my will alone. Just as I thought that I couldn't contain myself any longer, Cheryl climbed up the steps of the hut, bending down to crawl through the small door of the hut. She saw that I had been waiting anxiously, and waved her hands enthusiastically towards the stocking, saying, "Go, go, see what Santa brought you!".

For a fraction of a second, I considered waiting for my sister and sunshine to wake up, but my enthusiasm kept me from such consideration. I rushed to the stocking and attempted to rip it down from the rafter. Cheryl recognized my childlike struggle, giggled to herself, and walked over to help me detach the stubborn stocking from the nail on the rafter. I tore through the contents of the stocking furiously. There was a variety of hard candy, which I shoved into my mouth enthusiastically. Then, as I reached the bottom of the stocking, I felt the hard, plastic limbs of a doll.

I carefully maneuvered the doll out of the stocking. Then I saw her in all of her splendor. Her hair was patchy and brown. I could see the holes in her head, where I could only assume the rest of her hair belonged. Her clothing was crudely sewn, and obviously constructed by hand. There was a smudge on her face. But she smiled her plastic smile at me as if she were unaffected by her surroundings. I felt an instant kinship with this doll. She was me.

Confused, I looked at Cheryl and stated "this isn't a barbie doll". Cheryl smiled warmly and said, "well, I guess that Santa didn't understand what you wanted, but her NAME is barbie". I laughed and drew my "barbie" doll to my chest. At that moment, I was so overcome with gratefulness for Cheryl's efforts that I didn't care that Santa didn't exist. I ran towards Cheryl and let her embrace me. Her musky, earthy smell enveloped me. "Thank you, santa" I said, looking directly into Cheryl's loving eyes.

Waiting at the bus stop, listening to the other children's Christmas stories, I felt lucky. Even observing their fine, clean clothing, and shiny lunch boxes. I realized that I was the one that was lucky. I knew the true spirit of Christmas.

Last night I had a dream. I was in the middle of the ocean, floating in a cardboard box. I felt as if I was stuck in a Winslow Homer painting. The water was an ominous ink blue color, slashed with lines of white foam. The box bobbed through the waves, always one wave from tipping over and launching me into the mysterious, murky depths.
After floating aimlessly for what seemed like a long time, I finally saw the shore. My countenance sank when I fully absorbed the sight that wavered on the horizon. The shore was lined with the most jagged mountains that I had ever seen. The sunlight of the golden hour struck the side of the mountains, which ranged from ultramarine to tangerine. They were the same Maxfield Parrish mountains that I had always revered. So dangerous, yet so amazingly beautiful.

I decided that my only hope was to reach these mountains. So I paddled frantically with my hands. The box which I had been floating in had, remarkably, held up thus far. But it had begun to absorb water at the bottom, and I knew that I was moments away from sinking. As I drifted closer to the shore, I was able to see the fate that awaited me. The waves shattered the face of the rock with their tremendous force. But I had already given control of my tiny craft to the bedlam of the sea.

Just as my mind and body began to relax and accept my inevitable fate, I spotted something moving under a thin veil of the foggy blue water. It was the incarnation of my greatest fear - a shark. It's grand streamlined body cut gracefully through the water. It's tail moving side to side, creating waves that licked the side of the cardboard dangerously. The sight of a shark has always inspired one reaction from me - a terrifying combination of awe and utter dread. It was at this point that the rate of my heart reached frightening levels, and forced my body out of my panicked state of sleep.

I always make a point to dissect dreams that are as vivid and affecting as this one was. I believe that our subconscious is the only part of us that really has the power to reveal the things that we are afraid to face in our conscious, waking state. What did this one mean to me? Brad was able to help a little when he suggested that it was an anxiety dream.

I recently quit my job. Friday was my last day. After a life of struggling, I had finally achieved financial security. But I felt that I had sold my soul. I knew that working in the fashion industry meant only one thing for me - a career full of frustration and disappointment. I have finally decided to put my energies towards creating the things that I love - art and music. But I've never been without a steady job...ever. I cleaned houses and babysat through high school. I graduated early so that I could attend art school, throughout which I maintained two jobs and full time school work. I got my first corporate job at 19. The idea of being without work is the most frightening thing that I can think of. Of course, freelance web design and illustration will provide some security. But at my core, I know that this is the only path for me.

I hope that I can steer clear of the jagged rocks, and keep myself from sinking. I hope that I will be able to create beautiful things.

Everyone wants to be loved

I was reading a book titled "freakonomics", and came across a bit of information that I found very interesting. The highest crime rate in the last century directly correlates to the number of unwanted pregnancies. So- there was a wave of unwanted pregnancies, and 15-20 years later there were more criminals. The book was very objective. But I had to form my own annoying opinions (of course).

This statistic does nothing less than break my heart. But it does make sense. Criminal and violent behavior stems from a number of things. Self loathing actually affects a person's brain chemistry AND their actions. The more a person hates themselves, the more they want to destroy themselves. The way we perceive ourselves also directly relates to how we perceive others. So if a person hates themselves, they also hate everyone around them. Serotonin is the chemical that is released in our brains that allows our synapses to connect, thereby making us happy. It is released when we feel pleasure. It is released when we feel love. Low levels of serotonin can cause many ailments, including schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. So my uneducated opinion is that love is the cure.

I don't think that love is a biochemical reaction. I believe that love is a an unexplainable metaphysical force. You know when you are loved, and you know when you love someone. It's a spiritual understanding of someone. To really be open to it, you must shed layers of doubt, fear, and anger. You must also be able to acknowledge that people actually do have souls. Nothing that I'm saying is unique. These are inherent ideas that are thousands of years old, and have been acknowledged by Buddha, Krishna, and Jesus.

Parents most important role is to show their children that they are loved. Parents should teach their children how to read, tie their shoes, and also how to be loving and accepting. The poor criminals that I spoke of were not loved by their parents. They were brought into the world by people that were simply incapable of allowing themselves this emotion. So they would have to work extra hard to understand and be capable of love and compassion. I may have given this a little extra consideration, because I was one of those children. There are plenty of people out there – stock brokers, janitors, business owners, and crack heads alike, who were never taught how to love. Power, money, and responsibility are the only things that they understand.

I would encourage love of all kinds. Love for whichever version of god or unexplainable forces that you choose to acknowledge, and most importantly, love for the important people in your life. Some people choose only to love their god (and not their fellow man) because it's a love that can be given without the possibility of rejection. This quote sums it all up:

"If there is love, there is hope that one may have real families, real brotherhood, real equanimity, real peace. If the love within your mind is lost and you see other beings as enemies, then no matter how much knowledge or education or material comfort you have, only suffering and confusion will ensue"

-the Dali Lama

I think that dude was on to something.

I often think of what defines a person as "bad" or "good". After a lot of thought, I've decided that it all comes down to one trait: the ability to be empathetic.

I'm surprised that certain people seem to incapable of feeling remorse. Remorselessness and self-indulgent tendencies are two very unsettling character traits that seem to be mutually exclusive. I'm fascinated by people that indulge in their whims, and then when their indulgence ends in someone else getting hurt, they still don't feel any remorse. I've been trying to dissect this common human inadequacy, and have come to a conclusion.

People need to stop punishing their children, and start communicating with them. children that get hit as punishment for thoughtless behavior end up being too afraid of the consequences to really THINK about what they've done. This leads to a society of thoughtless, fear-driven, remorseless people who are incapable of empathy. Yay.

Marge was lonely. To most, loneliness is simply an unpleasant passing emotion; a brief annoyance that is regarded rather like a paper cut or a rodent problem. But to very few, loneliness is a state of being that has been cultivated from birth and settles into their fragile bones at a young age, becoming like the marrow from which they draw their strength. Marge was one of these few people. Loneliness and shame were like her shadow, lying low and dark, and hard to see in certain light.
But truly lonely people don't really realize how lonely they are until it's too late. And for them to see this obscure and unmoving part of themselves, it takes a series of very specific and unlikely events. Marge was about to experience such a series of events.

The first event was revealed, as many are often revealed, on a very cold winter day. Marge began her daily walk, despite the fact that her old and lonely bones begged her not to expose them to the chill. Her thin legs carried her rickety body through the crisp snow. Her worn winter boots slowly plowed a fresh trail to the mailbox at the end of the long and barren road.

She reached towards the mailbox with a shaky hand, prepared for the usual sight. But today, instead of emptiness, a brightly colored envelope caught her eye through a fog of breath. She squinted through her thick lenses. She reached in and carefully pulled the envelope towards her, handling it as if it were made of delicate glass. At this moment, her chest was filled with a warm, long forgotten sensation. Relief. She would have ripped the envelope open had the unforgiving cold not warned her against removing her gloves. So instead, she trudged back home, following the trail that her boots had made.

As she plodded down the road, she struggled to read the information that had been neatly printed on the envelope, but her glasses had fogged over with breath and condensation. So she trudged on.

At home, with her winter boots cleaned of ice and snow, and placed by the warm hearth, she lowered her body into the welcoming embrace of her favorite chair and carefully read the printing on the outside of the envelope. Although her body ached from the cold, and her toes and ears were still numb, the excitement that passed through her distracted her from these things when she read the name above the return address.

Gordon Young
145 West Elm St.
Dayton, Ohio 45410

Where had she heard this name before? The ghost of her younger self passed through her as she read it. A brazen, untamable, beautiful young woman. Suddenly her grip seemed more sure, and her hands more capable. She opened the envelope with the grace of a girl.
The letter had been handwritten (something that was rarely seen in that time) in the same careful handwriting that had decorated the front of the envelope.

Dear Ms. Collado,

I write to you today with a heavy heart. My father, Gabby Young, has passed away recently. Upon sorting his possessions, I have come across this letter, which I believe was intended for you. If this note was intended for another woman named Gabrielle Collado, I apologize for the inconvenience.

Best,
Gordon Young

Merely reading the name Gordon Young inspired Gabrielle's eyes to moisten, which was a reaction that she hadn't experienced in two decades. Ashamed of her brief bout of emotion, she swallowed forcibly and shut her eyes, hoping for it to pass. Emotion was something that she had never been quite comfortable with.
Visions of a young man with cleanly parted dark hair and dark, fiery eyes emerged from the depths of her subconscious. Even in memory, his eyes seemed to pull her towards him. He had a smile that was laced with playful balefulness, that, at one time, had matched her own so well.

How long had it been? Forty years, at least. And it had been such a brief liaison. Forty years since she had experienced the warmth of a kiss. Forty years of complete solitude. Four decades in hiding.