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[There are times I take a good look, realize how underestimated I have been by my male counterparts, and have a hearty laugh with myself.

Does he truly think I don't know he is reading my journal? Silly boy.]

Into the wild. A frozen and desolate forest. The absurdity that is civilization. And how alien I am in it. Little girl with the Eskimos. I have often begged for a Jack Kerouac reality. A tragedy the size of which would send me bulleting from the drudgery and anxiety of day to day monotony into the sweet salvation of train cars, and tarp tents, into beds of leaves and grass and hair frozen to the ground in the morning. A campfire, and a song, and my own bare knees alone burning orange blazing red and hot near the crackling. Bears – my worst fear – breathing menacing down my neck and I finally unafraid bathing jubilant in their saliva. A morning bath knee deep in a river filled with breath stealing ferocity that is Dunanda Falls ‘straight down’ the power and force of nature, of God – capable of taking me at any moment. And I near naked before the storm, ready to shed - everything.

A tear filled face of a lonely old man set to crack my heart in two – the motif that always breaks it. I thought of all of them and their scrambling for joy in the train wreck of complete lack of control that is life. The first reflection was unmistakable. A boy blossoming into man from a time in my life that has slotted itself into the mists of the unreal.

And that sprite doing the thing he himself certainly needed but had been too afraid for and I am too afraid for yet, burning his money for warmth and failing to comb his hair and running half naked in second hand sneakers through the desert - reminded me of my Nathan. The version I loved. The one I tried to forget until these last few weeks. Wild horses and open vistas and endless ‘adventures’ to nowhere. The way I had loved him and why and now I remember it just seven years later.

I thought of others as well. Of ‘Head Mutha’ skyrocketing her bald head into the midst of hell to buy fingernail clippers for orphans and Steve who, the same summer our little one had clung ferociously to life despite doctor’s warnings had put a bullet in his head because life was too frail for him and his then girlfriend a witness to ‘another senseless act’ left speechless still and Terri one week alone in a blanket unbreathing and Dave with his wild racing automobiles and inherent loneliness on a rock at Jenny Lake and April emerging changed from her cocoon all perfumed and decorated like a bright Christmas tree walking tall in the midnight glow of her new serenity, still at home, still alone, still hoping for the future, and I in this half stale theater with the man I struggle the most for and love beyond myself still in the thicket of the quagmire except now finding God in the sticks and the mud and the scabrous mass of complexity that is this breathing. Husband and our little bird as companions to emerge from this cave no longer looking into mirrors but truly looking now.

And before I find my own self lost in arctic wasteland and bound by a river now too wide to cross I will scrawl my own version of:

Happiness is not real unless shared.

And I will take another breath, gratefully.

7:25 p.m. - 2007-11-12
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