Tyra

"Well hellooooooo dere!"

When Tyra was maybe four years old and we were living in Lexington, Kentucky, we took a road trip. We took numerous road trips during that time period and especially that summer, but the trip I'm thinking of right now took place in late-July, 2003. My good friends Tomas and Ro, along with Tyra and I, took a long weekend and drove in my 1989 Honda Accord hatchback known as "Big H" (his name was Horace) down to a protest in New Orleans, Louisiana.
       
Holy crap it was sultry. NOLA in July - my only experience with New Orleans thus far, and the only one I'll ever have Pre-Katrina, which changed the city drastically, we've all been told.

Of course Tyra was with me. The main event of the protest was a march against a Central American Free Trade Agreement. Check it out - I just found this news blurb in the archives of Indymedia.

http://neworleans.indymedia.org/archives/archive_by_id.php?id=15&category_id=3

The photo on this page - this photo:

Post-trip-and-fall-onto-Canal-Street-with-hundreds-of-people-watching

This photo was from that march. That's my best friend Ro on the left of the giant white banner. That's me on the right, nearest the curb. Check it out - we appear to match. For the first half of the march, I had Tyra with me, attached by her leash looped around my waist. If I remember correctly, my friend Tomas left his post at the center stick of the banner to walk Tyra off to the side a bit. This photo was taken after we turned onto Canal Street, which has massive metal grates/plates across it - a material that sweet Tyra had NO intentions of walking across. When the march crossed the first one, Ty went to scoot around my legs and away from the metal under her feet, and she ended up tripping me with the leash. I totally bit it and scraped my knee and elbows up. She was not hurt, but perhaps a bit nervous of the crowds and general hullabaloo. As it seemed to be bordering on too much for her, Tomas offered to take her and walk her separately, since the banner didn't really need three people to hold it anyway.


*sigh*

Oh Tyra. I'm sorry you ever felt even remotely nervous, though you did invariably steal the show and the hearts of all the hundreds, if not thousands, of people we met together.

I miss you, baby one. My little babushka. I expect to see you when I enter a room. I hold my breath when I wake up in the middle of the night, straining to hear your deep breathing that means you're asleep near me. That sound was the most comforting and sleep-inducing sound imaginable. A single minute spent laying near you and listening to you sleep and I was already falling, if not completely asleep with you. It was as if my soul knew it was safe to relax because you had. Let's face it, kiddo - you were the best parts of me. We were never separate. We still aren't.

But dammit I miss your face. I miss how soft the hairs on your head were, especially that spot between your eye and your ear, where I could kiss you and perfectly smoosh the rest of my face into yours and inhale your comfort. I miss the way you smiled at me, both with your eyes and with your grin. I miss how we could go anywhere - ANYWHERE - and no matter how many admirers were loving on you and giving you people food - the second we made eye contact or you overheard me say your name, even in talking ABOUT you to someone else -- you left your shining spotlight and trotted over to me, happy and eager to share your excitement and Love with me. You lived for me and made certain I knew it. You lived to make sure I was ok. You gave your entire self to me with no expectations and no reservations.

And you were FUN. Dammit, doggy. We had so much fun. SO much fun. Remember when you were still quite young and could easily run circles around me? The hours upon hours we spent in the car - me, rocking the fuck out to whatever music I was currently enthralled with, singing at the top of my lungs, talking out loud to you - you, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, leaning up against the door with your face in the wind, that blissful smile on your face, eyes slit nearly closed, nose craning upward to catch the finer points of the scented wind. And then you'd open your grin and the wind would flap through your doggy lips and your long pink tongue (with the black spot in the middle) would flop out and across your cheek. :) Generally by then, I was grinning right along with you, unable to sing through my giddiness, likely telling you how effing cute you are. You'd always respond to my voice by turning your face into the car, your entire being just beaming at me with Love.

You gave the best Love, Tyra.

And the most enduring. I am ok without you physically in my world right now only because you built me up and taught me how to be OK.

My family says Tyra was an angel. From God. Sent to me to protect me and help me and Love me through the worst times of my life. They sincerely believe - at least a few of them that I'm aware of - that I would not have lived through my mental breakdown without her.

I know this is true. I would not have survived. Tyra has been the singular reason for not committing sincere suicide at least three or four times. I just couldn't leave her alone. She did nothing but Love, and I was her world. How could I take that from her? I couldn't.

*BIIIIG sigh*



Oh Tyra. I did it again. I went off onto another tangent, losing the intended story entirely. We didn't even mention the ORIGINAL story I wanted to tell - the one about when we went to the Gulf of Mexico, that weekend we were in New Orleans. :) Oh well.

There's time for more stories. This'll work for a blog post, don'tcha think? See - I just don't work right without you. My pitiful ability to pay attention is even worse without you next to me. *more sighs*

I Love You, Tyra Ann Quick. I always have and I always will. Talk to you soon, baby.

<3,
~Q~

turning around to see - ending up in a dance

**WARNING** There is quite possibly writing in here that could trigger someone into doing self-destructive things. If you are not in a good place mentally and this is an issue for you, please don't read it right now. It'll still be here later. I'm not trying to heal myself by triggering others or giving other people ideas for self-harm shit. It's a horrible, painful addiction and I will be quite terribly upset if I learn that my words have caused someone else any hurt.**

"Baby, when I call for you, I want you to come

And lay it out for everyone

Exactly how it was before any of this happened

And why I can't leave it behind"

-- Conor Oberst, "A New Arrangement"

I moved recently. It was probably 3 weeks ago that I began discussing my current situation and I guess about 2 weeks ago that I actually moved in. There were 5 days in there where I was not here, but up in Fargo with my family paying my respects to Grandma Quick's life and seeing her burial in tiny and all-but-barren Starkweather, North Dakota. Other than those 5 days away, I have been fully immersed in learning the ropes around this house, unpacking and rediscovering treasures from my storage unit, and adjusting to life in the countryside.

It just now occurred to me that it's been a lot longer than the 10 months of storage that I've not seen a few of my tangible memories. In the years prior to leaving Jason, now a little over 10 months ago (holy crap!), I didn't delve into many of these items. I left books on shelves and music in cases for many years without acknowledgement. Some of these things were untouched for so long because I was trying to let go, stop dwelling on painful subjects, and heal. I also left many items unexplored while I was falling in and out of love with my husband, which took probably 3 years. Half of me didn't want to focus on anything but my relationship with him and half of me wasn't allowed to retain memorabilia from my shrapnel-filled past without extreme measures taken to induce guilt, fan my self-hatred, and block any possible fond memories of Life Before Jason.

I no longer have most of my photos from any previous romantic relationships (except for a few copies my parents still had -- like formals from high school. He hated those photos.), I got rid of several CDs and tapes of and from ex-entanglements that I now crave (the music, not the entanglements), and I no longer have any paintings, drawings or sculptures made of me or for me by any male that I've ever kissed. That's sad to me. I've kissed some talented men and probably the only common thread amongst them is how their creativity moved me in some manner. Those tugboats of emotion are now gone. Sad!

I managed to escape my marriage before my journals were censored by a big fat marker or fire pit. Such heretical acts were on the docket to take place any minute for almost a year. I put up with a TON of shit as a result of "procrastinating" on this request, but it was worth every insult and mind-fuck and argument and sneer and threat that came at my stubborn resistance to erase all proof that I had a life prior to meeting the man I married. It was worth it, but I'll never put up with THAT shit again.

Gyah -- that really sucked.

The quote from Conor at the beginning of this post is from the song "A New Arrangement" on "Every Day and Every Night" by Bright Eyes. It recalls nights spent alone in my Powderhorn Park apartment when I lived in Minneapolis and driving to and from my job at the Heart Association, the last full-time job that I held, over my lunch hours when I needed to hurt out loud. I only went home over lunch if I wanted to cut my forearms or play with my unlit fire swings in my living room. Jeff Buckley was great for doing both, but mostly dancing with my swings. I learned that a few minutes of getting my heart to speed up with oscillating arms increased the blood flow and somehow made my purging of pain in the form of blood just that much more effective. Conor's music was always good for urging on the anguish, pushing me past a point of resistance until I felt real. Alive. Involved in someone else's pain instead of the crushing solitude of my own.

Hearing this particular music again ----- I'm looking forward to a summer filled with writing. Maybe not on this blog so much, but for my memoir. To finish the healing process and give legitimacy and create proof beyond my scars that I have been to Hell and I made it out. Turns out it shares the same physical space as Heaven, as well as Mediocrity, and our experiences within this life are entirely determined by how we see the world both inside and outside of ourselves. I used to hear those four lines:

"Baby, when I call for you, I want you to come

And lay it out for everyone

Exactly how it was before any of this happened

And why I can't leave it behind"

and in my mind I was singing about "how it was before any of this happened" meaning how life was before my mental illness hijacked my brain and "why I can't leave it behind" because I was trapped, completely engulfed in hot blistered soul sores.

Tonight I heard these four line and in my mind, "any of this" was now my current living situation -- the serendipitous events and souls who have changed my world for the better -- and I now can't leave "it" (my years of living hell) behind because I meant it when I vowed to do what I could to help anyone else who suffers like I have, and I think that if I can somehow explain what it was like and what I did to find my happiness - I think it could possibly help someone. It's worth writing for that possibility alone. If anything, it'll help ME, so there's my one person. :)

So yeah. Looking forward to delving back in, from a new perspective. I hope that down the road I'm able to share the full story with all of you.

<3

~Q~

Unexpected Reaction

February 2nd and I'm finally moving into the room I'm technically occupying. That's only - what - five and a half months of couch surfing in my mom and dad's home, where I grew up?

Not too shabby, Q, not too shabby. :)

I worked for probably five and a half hours, listening to the Cirque du Soleil soundtrack for "Varekai", which is achingly beautiful in a way that flies high above the various languages it speaks. I cleaned off the big dresser, which was definitely my sister's and before that I believe was my Grandma and Gran'pa Nelson's. Up until today, it had served primarily as a dumping ground for unopened mail, various hats, and a few things that Emily didn't move out with her when she left home many years ago. Now, it's much more in line with me. I also cleaned my highboy dresser, I cleaned the corner shelves and put all my books away, cleaned off the desk and even put several photos in new frames.

I'll post photos of my reorganized room when I get to that point. Right now, half of the room is in that awful middle stage, where things are strewn all over the middle of the floor. Mostly paperwork. :)

When I started this blog post, several hours ago, I was needing a break. I made the mistake of filing through a file folder entitled "Jason". My first Love got a Xerox box for all the 5 1/2 years of our sentiments. Jason got a file folder. A fat one, but not a box. It's either the 3 years vs. the 5 1/2 years, or perhaps I stopped collecting every little thing as I got a bit older. My husband and I actually lived together, too, so there wasn't nearly as many letters or notes to document our relationship.

Anyway - the point is -- that file folder: I wasn't expecting the reaction I had while looking through it. The times I'd go through the original break-up box, which generally happened about once a year, whenever I'd be getting ready to move -- my heart would ache and I'd generally end up crying. I don't really have many of those things left, as I was guilted into throwing away so very many things that had to do with my life prior to meeting Jason. Naturally, a similar sadness would be a reaction I would maybe expect from my first time really sifting through my estranged-husband memorabilia. What happened, however, was much more unexpected.

I literally and quite physically got nauseous. I had to put the folder away without quite finishing the perusal, close my eyes and breathe slowly and deeply so I didn't upchuck all over the carpet. Ew. I did not see that one coming.

Nor did I expect faint waves of sickness to return at the very thought of the things I read tonight. Gotta go - making curtains & watching "When Harry Met Sally". Much less volatile.

Love to you all,

~Q~

an awesome email, with a precursor of a completely random memory that I ran with (go figure)

I received this email in my facebook account earlier today, from my fantastic friend, Moosh. A bit of background for those just hopping into my life in the recent past:

Right out of college with my bachelor's in equine administration, I went to work for the US Dressage Federation as a Programs Coordinator. When I was hired, we were based in Lincoln, Nebraska. After 1 year (exactly), I was piled into Big H (my trusty olde Honda Civic hatchback, incredibly full of random stickers spouting my viewpoints. Because if anyone knows anything about Life, it was me at.......22 or 23. Duh. And I so obviously know SO much more at 30. Seriously.) and I was picking up a good-looking young hitchhiker off of Highway 2 headed out of Lincoln. His name was something that is normally spelled with a "C", but his was spelled with a "K". Kody. That's it. Kody, who was a few years younger than me (I think he was 21 - I would've been 22 for another 6 weeks, so.....almost 23). He was hitchhiking from California to Bonnaroo in Tennessee. I happened to be moving to Kentucky at that very moment. He threw his stuff in the claustrophobic back of Big H, met Tyra, Trinity and Maya, as well as me :) and we spent the next 3-4 days chillin' out. We went to my ex-fiance-#1's for a stop through, and we spent the night at my aunt's house in St. Louis. Kody cooked us some killer scrambled eggs in the morning. We drove to Lexington, KY and had water fights in the pool at the extended stay hotel my company put me up in, ate buns and peanut butter from the local grocery store, drank all too much with people we just met, and then hugged and said good-bye. For the record, nothing sexual happened. It was almost innocent. In that aspect, it was completely innocent. :)

Whoa tangent. Slow down little lady.

Wow. So the point was, before my wandering fool brain took off into a memory I hadn't thought of in probably 5 years --- the point WAS, dearest internet --- I worked with Moosh since about 2-3 months after I started at USDF, which was a good 8 years ago, and shared tons of time, stories, and life with her over the next 2 years or so.

You should hear some of the stories we have from when all of the LC was together over those years. Ye gods.

I got this email from Moosh earlier today and yes - I did get permission to share it with the world (all 3 of you).

Q-
Love the lefse! I really didn't know what to expect, so I didn't look it up online or anything, I wanted to be surprised. I followed your serving suggestion, and I was so hungry when it came that I ate almost a whole pack myself.

So here is the conversation with the boys and me, after Scott brought in the package:

Aaron: who is it from, mommy? Me: it's a treat from Sarah! Matthew: Sarah Palin?
Me: no, Sarah Quick, you know her. Matthew: oh, your new friend? Me: she's not really my new friend, I have known her for quite a while. Matthew: is she a judge? Me: no, she was just coming to the show to see us. Aaron, upon seeing the lefse: I thought it was going to be candy corn! WAAAAAAAAA. Matthew, upon seeing it: it's ok Aaron, I like quesadillas.

Yes, they think they are so funny :-).

Anyway, thanks so much. A very cool treat!

Love,
Moosh



Aaron and Matthew are Mooshey's twin boys, who just turned 5. They have a younger brother, Luke, who is 2. She and her husband Scott have their hands full, but they are absolutely delightful kids, all of them. I *heart* them. Even if they did think I might be Sarah Palin.

Love to you all!

~Q~