There's nothing like being "sort of dumped", by a guy you didn't like very much to begin with but who was growing on you like a new hairstyle you could never love but began to tolerate.
He said his reason for changing suddenly from last night to this morning was "the questions." He thought I asked a lot of questions, and added, "...I don't know if it's because of your age, you're older, or what, but..." and I said nothing. He later brought this up and I suggested it might not be age, but a brain that's to blame.
I knew from the first I couldn't fall in love with him. He is startlingly good-looking and I was somewhat attracted, but when I asked him to imagine something one night, a singular object, and I would try to guess what it was (questions!!!), he first "thought" of singular objects. Then I couldn't, for the life of me, guess the third thing he was thinking of and he finally says he was imagining "lingerie". Okay. I wasn't put off by the genre of objects, but the fact that he'd thought of something that was plural and general: "lingerie". Like what? a bra? underwear? He said, "I don't know! just, lingerie." So then I was annoyed that he didn't "get it" and realized there might be a problem. Then I saw his favorite books: Star Wars novels. Then I asked him what his favorite movies are and I believe they included Battlestar Gallactiga (?) and Ernest Goes To Camp. He was/is 25 and he thought I was his age and I let him think whatever he wanted, refusing to say, until a week later. I've known him for almost a month and seen him everyday.
I've learned a lot about marijuana lingo though. They say you have to take the good with the bad, and I thought this was actually the best and most interesting part. That I got to learn about something I had zero experience with, and learn firsthand from die-hard professionals. I have never been around anyone who did pot, or at least around me, and so I watched. I've perused through the popular pot mag, "High Times", and heard all kinds of pot lingo. "Taking a toke", "cashed", and more. I had no idea there was a totally different language for the entire pot smoking sit-in. I remember when one guy cracked up laughing when I asked him if he had just taken "a puff of marijuana". That was on Day One or Two. On Day Two I think this "sort of now ex" said he "knew me". He later also said he wanted to live in isolation, away from society somewhere, which seemed odd, and that he believed the whole United States was coming to an end soon and he'd just received some insider info about it from an underground group. Now that I think about it, maybe this is part of the alleged paranoia effect sometimes stemming from pot? No, probably not.
To speak of the good, and what I saw in him at all, I would say his face and hair first. Black ponytail (short), and Mexican or Italian features. I later found out, half Mexican but he took after his Dad, who is Mexican. His broad shoulders. He's out of shape now, but not by much. And, it seemed he had a good heart and I still think he does. He has many good qualities. There were just these strange sticking points, where in conversation I felt we didn't match up or were not equals in the best sense of the word. I know he felt the same. So I withheld and then I think he changed his mind. I gave in a little, but to put it bluntly, I wouldn't go as far as he wanted to go, and has he been trying hard! I even asked him if he had a bet going at the office, or what? Ooops. Question. The best part was when he was pressuring me like someone in high school, and then pouting that "You don't like me". He even said, "I loooove you," and then quickly added, knowing I knew it was a scam, and I knew he was joking, "Just kidding."
The strange thing is, for all the things I didn't like about him, I was sort of starting to like him anyway. He was growing on me. I was annoyed, and questioned his motives, and even told him I didn't think we had a "connection"--we were attracted to eachother, but something was missing. He wasn't someone I could fall in love with or have fun with. Sometimes, we had a brief moment of clever and witty reparte, but it was brief. I sometimes thought I saw more, that there was more depth, or something hidden I couldn't get ahold of. He seemed to be exactly who he said he was, and, he was currently living with his mother...so...I would know right? But I've so often been wrong. I'm always waiting for the jack-in-the-box. Is it just this box? or is there something more? People are not one-dimensional...well, some more than others...but maybe it's that I was just wishing and hoping there was something more.
I kept looking for something else I could hold onto. Maybe he was more interesting than I thought. I kept my ears open for signs of intelligence. I kept my eyes open for shifting expressions. There were times that his eyes were fuller, and seemed to hold secrets. But I guess I was wrong.
I tested him on a lot of things. Maybe too much. Who wouldn't though, from where I'm coming from. He's into an illicit industry and I don't know, anymore, who is undercover and who is not and why I'm meeting the people I meet. He had worked for big marijuana farms in California & Arizona. He said he didn't do any traveling in the last year, but he had tickets from here to Chicago with a huge layover (well a few days) and then went to Nebraska, where he says he's from. He's been here only 5 years. He said he has a gun in storage in Omaha. He said he's only had 2 girlfriends and only with them 5 times, but that part didn't seem to add up. He made a quick excuse for that. He knew how much wattage almost anything electrical took. He was into photography. Then again, he had some posters of Yoda, and some kind of marijuana smurf. He said his Chinese zodiac fit him perfectly when it said he had many friends but was unlucky in marriage. He said he's never been married. The guy lives with his mom, right? So you'd think there's no mystery.
I think the only mystery is why I wanted so badly to believe he was something he's not. He wanted a relationship and to date and I told him I didn't want that, it wasn't a good time for me, and I had too many things going on. Then I just sort of settled into a weird undefined "other" relationship with him where I'm debating whether I'm just attracted to him or there could possibly be something else. I did ask a lot of questions. I think I was looking. But, even if there were other facets of his personality and life, I realize I saw enough. You either hit it off with someone or you don't. And after almost a month, you should know.
So, he was very upset with the idea I wouldn't have sex with him. I think he thought I could give him more worldly experience. I said I wasn't going to be a "ho" and I didn't even know him. He said, "I don't want you to be a ho for anyone either! ...I want you to be MY HO, and that's different." Then he was laughing. He said he didn't want a "one-night fling" but a "multiple, multiple, night fling". And when I said I thought I was saving it for marriage again, he said I couldn't do that because it was too late. He did like me at first, I could tell, but after I told him I didn't feel the same way, then he just wanted to fit in wherever he could, and I don't think he was happy with that, nor was I. We went out one night and he was very P.D.A. and I don't mind a little, but it was a little much. In the end, I asked him about different options and what he wanted from me exactly. That was today. He said he was pretty much done by saying he didn't want a relationship now either, but just casual relations. I wanted to test him so I asked if that was the case, could I also see other guys and he be okay with that? I was actually thinking of telling him later that I was beginning to like him in earnest and that my feelings had grown a bit. But then I wouldn't respond so much on the way home, to his attempt to hold my hand, a fleeting attempt, which I think he rethought himself, and then it was over. He was a jerk all day today besides, which was probably his immature way of telling me he was cutting the line. I didn't give him the experience he wanted, but something tells me he didn't need my help anyway. I kept my dignity and self-respect and so I walk away happy with the resolution. And, I do know there was a new phone number from another woman today, which probably opened his eyes to other possibilities.
He did give me something in return...He opened up my eyes to the pot & cocaine world. It does seem that a lot of his associates were ending up in jail for drug stuff after they were hanging out with him, but probably coincidence? I gained wordly experience from a guy who is younger. I swear on my mother's Bible, though, he was either with some undercover group or a kingpin. I kept hoping he was smarter than I gave him credit for. If he IS undercover or in with mafia, he is very, very, very, good. Good enough to keep me guessing. Or, he's an idiot and it's not an act.
I noticed some things. They were small things, but there were a lot of small things. Lots of info from others about drug stuff. Lots of trips to the convenience stores, gas stations, and other stores on the weekends. And he went from claiming he was going to start his own "business" in his house, to, at the end, telling me he wasn't even going to grow the one plant for "medicinal purposes". Darn. I missed out. I probably could have learned a lot more if I'd kept my big mouth shut. Not that I was going to tell anyone important about what I knew. I don't reveal names and all the details. I just wanted to know more, out of intellectual curiosity, the same stupid gift/fault that got me in trouble with my questions.
I need a job where I get to ask questions. LOTS of questions. This is not the first time I've been told I ask "too many questions". Any ideas??? Anyone??? (see, questions)
Well, D., I'll see you around, and I don't THINK you ever read my blog or know one exists, but if so, I hope this post isn't too bad. The kissing wasn't bad. There was a big improvement from the first time. Not bad at all, which is why I know I will genuinely miss you, even if it was too much too fast.
What I don't get, is why you never wanted me to do any of the drugs, but then look annoyed when I say tonight that I don't think I ever COULD because I don't like feeling out of control. "Boring..." is what M., your sidekick, said. I wonder if you could share that assessment with CPS and the rest of the world? It could help me, to be viewed in that light.
And Fate, it would be a good idea to send someone my way who doesn't mind being written about in a discreet manner. Or who will tell me what I cannot share with the entire freaking world, if there IS some big secret. And it would probably be in his best interest to enjoy being interrogated and analyzed. "You profile EVERYONE", said my "sort of now ex". I don't really profile per se, I just think people are interesting and want to know what makes them tick.
But yeah, ummm, I haven't even KISSED anyone for almost 3 years, so this is a bummer. Now I'm back to ground zero. And I have about zero chances of meeting anyone right now. Meeting him, the "ex", was due to a chance meeting at an Italian diner. Did I really screw this up? or, is the real question: Does he REALLY like Battlestar Gallactica?
I think I'm really rambling. Need to find some girlfriends over here. That was my first thought when I began to write this post. These guys think I'm a "talker" and D. said me on cocaine would be crazy and he made the chatty talking hand signal.
I can attest this was an improvement from the last guy who was interested in me, who only wanted one thing and one thing alone. To his credit, he didn't press his luck. I met him after I became a border toss. Funny thing is that THAT guy ALSO told me "don't ask questions!" after I'd asked his boss, who owns a Mexican restaurant, if it was a cover for a drug (cocaine) operation. I said it in a kidding way, but the boss went from married-and-looking to serious and closed-off in 2 seconds flat. As it turns out......Well...I just won't say.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
Another One Rides The Bus...And Almost Dies
Hours after writing the last post, I almost died...again.
I wrote the post at a library and then went to the bus terminal in Bellingham. Took the bus and got off in Everett for the next connection, waiting for an hour or so inbetween. Got on the bus to Wenatchee.
About a mile and a half before Leavenworth, our bus came around a corner and suddenly--BAM! My head was down for a nap and I didn't see what happened, but I felt the impact and heard it and felt the bus sway. The driver said something in a serious, panicked, but measured voice. We had hit a huge rock. There were 5 people on the bus, including the driver, who said, "I think it got the gas tank."
I had kept my head down, wondering if we were going to roll, but at that, I sat upright. Gas tank? We could all smell something. The driver said he couldn't use the brakes. He also didn't have a shoulder to pull off to the side. There was a terrible sound from underneath the bus and the driver was fighting to control the steering wheel.
Everyone was seated but I stood up. "Where is the gas tank?" I asked, knowing nothing about buses, "Is it in the front or the back?" The driver said it was in the front. So I remembered city buses have window exits toward the back and was going to go back to look for one when the bus started to slow down and he found a shoulder. As soon as it looked like we might be able to get out the regular door quickly enough, I grabbed my travel bag and said, "Everybody get OFF of the bus, NOW!" The driver agreed with me, adding, "Yeah, get as far away from the bus as you can."
Everyone was still seated when I was standing and all I could think about was my son, and I ran out the door and sprinted past the bus, to the back of the bus, and beyond. I looked behind me and saw no one else. I figured they must have gone the other way but didn't know. I was hoping they weren't just sitting there. I saw a truck go by and waved it down, asking them to call for help/police. At least 2 other people had cell phones but I didn't know if they had their phones on them if they ran out.
After about 15 minutes, the driver yelled at me to come back to the bus, and I saw the other passengers. He yelled there was no gas leak. Was he sure? He said he'd checked it out and the fuel line was intact. So I went back. Another woman spoke up and said the safest place was back on the bus, now that we knew there wasn't a gas problem.
We had been dragging a boulder underneath the bus. It bent the bumper and was stuck underneath, squarely in the center.
We got on the bus and the driver said he wanted to try to back off of it. We were able to back off. Then I turned around and asked a woman behind me, Ashley, to take photos of the rock with her cell phone. She did. She took one of the rock in front of the bus and then I asked her to take one of me next to the rock. I stook inbetween the bus and the rock and held up 9 fingers for "Nine Lives".
She showed me the photo and it came out and I watched her send it to me. For whatever reason, when I checked my email, the one of the rock came through, but not the one with me.
The police came and took our names. State Patrol. It took him and another guy to roll it to the side, and even that was difficult but not impossible to do.
Then I asked some questions. Had the driver seen the rock first? No. Had it rolled off the hill or was it there already? It was already there, centered perfectly in the middle of our side of the road. There had been a car ahead of us by about 3 minutes. The driver thought it odd they hadn't flashed lights or someone didn't flag it down ahead of us and surmised the rock had fallen after the car in front of us. We had also passed a car that was directly in front of us, and if we hadn't they may have all died from the impact.
"Were you having a pretty hard time with that steering wheel?" I asked. "Yes", said the driver, "I don't want to scare you guys, but we came this close to not making it." He said he impact had nearly jerked the wheel out of his hands and then it was extremely hard to hold onto. The rock was steering and even after we were freed of the rock, the steering was tighter. The driver said he hadn't been able to use the brakes and had had to allow the rock to bring us to a stop. He said if the rock had been slightly to the right or left, it would have hit an axle or tire, and we would have flipped right over. If we had hit one side, we would have been in the river, which was right next to the road, and on the other side, it was the mountain.
We all came very close to losing our lives.
There were zero injuries. I asked about the gas line for future reference. I didn't realize the tank was at the front, but that there is a line that runs to the back, where the engine is. So, I had run towards the back, which might not have been a good idea. He did say that diesel is difficult to explode.
A spare tire hanging down under the bus was what kept the rock from puncturing the gas tank. The bumper fell off, the frame was bent on the front of the bus, and the door wouldn't shut.
We took it the rest of the way to Wenatchee. "I need a drink" I think I said, and I don't think I was the first to say it. One of the guys on our bus was taking the bus to a rehab center and I remembered thinking, "Wow. Bad timing to go into rehab." Sure enough, he lasted only one day and was on the next bus I took. I said to him, "I thought about you, and thought, boy, if I was going into rehab, I don't know that I could do it after THAT."
I mean, ummmm... Can we do this NEXT week?!
I don't know how many times I've nearly died at this point. I think it's over the number 9. I'm a little concerned. For some crazy reason, I'm still here. By the grace of God.
On the way back from Wenatchee, there was a little boy, about 2 years old, dark-haired Mexican boy with curls in the back the way my son's hair curls up when it's longer. My imagination took off. I saw the same scene, and this time, the bus was on fire and I was saving this little boy, and in the process, die in the flames, leaving my son an orphan. Saving one little boy and losing my own son, and I wondered how his life would be without me, raised by my aunt's family, with only a memory of his mother.
I don't write about my son in this blog much anymore, or to him. I feel my writings to him, now, are to be private. The direction of my blog has changed to an account of my life, which maybe someday my son will want to have himself, and which may do some good for someone else as well.
How was the ride back? Great. I got back on the bus.
What I took from this was that I should have made sure everyone else was behind me, getting off the bus too. I just ran and didn't look behind. I DID tell everyone in the most commanding way to GET OFF THE BUS NOW, but then it was every man for himself. If there is a next time, I hope I will be the first to take action, but it would be nice to think I could be the last to leave.
I'll add the photo of the rock (the one without me) to this post when I have a chance. Proof!
I wrote the post at a library and then went to the bus terminal in Bellingham. Took the bus and got off in Everett for the next connection, waiting for an hour or so inbetween. Got on the bus to Wenatchee.
About a mile and a half before Leavenworth, our bus came around a corner and suddenly--BAM! My head was down for a nap and I didn't see what happened, but I felt the impact and heard it and felt the bus sway. The driver said something in a serious, panicked, but measured voice. We had hit a huge rock. There were 5 people on the bus, including the driver, who said, "I think it got the gas tank."
I had kept my head down, wondering if we were going to roll, but at that, I sat upright. Gas tank? We could all smell something. The driver said he couldn't use the brakes. He also didn't have a shoulder to pull off to the side. There was a terrible sound from underneath the bus and the driver was fighting to control the steering wheel.
Everyone was seated but I stood up. "Where is the gas tank?" I asked, knowing nothing about buses, "Is it in the front or the back?" The driver said it was in the front. So I remembered city buses have window exits toward the back and was going to go back to look for one when the bus started to slow down and he found a shoulder. As soon as it looked like we might be able to get out the regular door quickly enough, I grabbed my travel bag and said, "Everybody get OFF of the bus, NOW!" The driver agreed with me, adding, "Yeah, get as far away from the bus as you can."
Everyone was still seated when I was standing and all I could think about was my son, and I ran out the door and sprinted past the bus, to the back of the bus, and beyond. I looked behind me and saw no one else. I figured they must have gone the other way but didn't know. I was hoping they weren't just sitting there. I saw a truck go by and waved it down, asking them to call for help/police. At least 2 other people had cell phones but I didn't know if they had their phones on them if they ran out.
After about 15 minutes, the driver yelled at me to come back to the bus, and I saw the other passengers. He yelled there was no gas leak. Was he sure? He said he'd checked it out and the fuel line was intact. So I went back. Another woman spoke up and said the safest place was back on the bus, now that we knew there wasn't a gas problem.
We had been dragging a boulder underneath the bus. It bent the bumper and was stuck underneath, squarely in the center.
We got on the bus and the driver said he wanted to try to back off of it. We were able to back off. Then I turned around and asked a woman behind me, Ashley, to take photos of the rock with her cell phone. She did. She took one of the rock in front of the bus and then I asked her to take one of me next to the rock. I stook inbetween the bus and the rock and held up 9 fingers for "Nine Lives".
She showed me the photo and it came out and I watched her send it to me. For whatever reason, when I checked my email, the one of the rock came through, but not the one with me.
The police came and took our names. State Patrol. It took him and another guy to roll it to the side, and even that was difficult but not impossible to do.
Then I asked some questions. Had the driver seen the rock first? No. Had it rolled off the hill or was it there already? It was already there, centered perfectly in the middle of our side of the road. There had been a car ahead of us by about 3 minutes. The driver thought it odd they hadn't flashed lights or someone didn't flag it down ahead of us and surmised the rock had fallen after the car in front of us. We had also passed a car that was directly in front of us, and if we hadn't they may have all died from the impact.
"Were you having a pretty hard time with that steering wheel?" I asked. "Yes", said the driver, "I don't want to scare you guys, but we came this close to not making it." He said he impact had nearly jerked the wheel out of his hands and then it was extremely hard to hold onto. The rock was steering and even after we were freed of the rock, the steering was tighter. The driver said he hadn't been able to use the brakes and had had to allow the rock to bring us to a stop. He said if the rock had been slightly to the right or left, it would have hit an axle or tire, and we would have flipped right over. If we had hit one side, we would have been in the river, which was right next to the road, and on the other side, it was the mountain.
We all came very close to losing our lives.
There were zero injuries. I asked about the gas line for future reference. I didn't realize the tank was at the front, but that there is a line that runs to the back, where the engine is. So, I had run towards the back, which might not have been a good idea. He did say that diesel is difficult to explode.
A spare tire hanging down under the bus was what kept the rock from puncturing the gas tank. The bumper fell off, the frame was bent on the front of the bus, and the door wouldn't shut.
We took it the rest of the way to Wenatchee. "I need a drink" I think I said, and I don't think I was the first to say it. One of the guys on our bus was taking the bus to a rehab center and I remembered thinking, "Wow. Bad timing to go into rehab." Sure enough, he lasted only one day and was on the next bus I took. I said to him, "I thought about you, and thought, boy, if I was going into rehab, I don't know that I could do it after THAT."
I mean, ummmm... Can we do this NEXT week?!
I don't know how many times I've nearly died at this point. I think it's over the number 9. I'm a little concerned. For some crazy reason, I'm still here. By the grace of God.
On the way back from Wenatchee, there was a little boy, about 2 years old, dark-haired Mexican boy with curls in the back the way my son's hair curls up when it's longer. My imagination took off. I saw the same scene, and this time, the bus was on fire and I was saving this little boy, and in the process, die in the flames, leaving my son an orphan. Saving one little boy and losing my own son, and I wondered how his life would be without me, raised by my aunt's family, with only a memory of his mother.
I don't write about my son in this blog much anymore, or to him. I feel my writings to him, now, are to be private. The direction of my blog has changed to an account of my life, which maybe someday my son will want to have himself, and which may do some good for someone else as well.
How was the ride back? Great. I got back on the bus.
What I took from this was that I should have made sure everyone else was behind me, getting off the bus too. I just ran and didn't look behind. I DID tell everyone in the most commanding way to GET OFF THE BUS NOW, but then it was every man for himself. If there is a next time, I hope I will be the first to take action, but it would be nice to think I could be the last to leave.
I'll add the photo of the rock (the one without me) to this post when I have a chance. Proof!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Fr. Joachim Questions Hostage Aftermath
I remember, after I told a priest Fr. Joachim (from Mt. Angel Abbey) about inappropriate advances by Br. Ansgar, he specifically asked me, shortly thereafter, about any "trauma" from the hostage experience. He said, "You probably had nightmares, or still do?" and when I said "No, I never did," he seemed disappointed. He went down a list of symptoms of trauma and I hadn't experienced any of them.
I never had nightmares, I wasn't hypervigilant, I wasn't anxious or afraid, and I didn't have any problems with people. It didn't affect my work or my hobbies, or lead to depression, or cause me to change my lifestyle in any way.
I had one week of being afraid, and calling 911 at every odd noise around the house, because at that time, we didn't know yet if there were other people involved. When we were told there were no other people involved and that he had supposedly acted alone, this removed my concerns.
I considered what had happened to be random and as likely to happen again as lightening striking twice. I think it must be something about my family constitution, because my parents are the same way about things. After I called them when the police were at the house, conducting their investigation, I told my parents what had happened. They didn't believe me at first, until another roommate got on the phone and said it was true. I asked my parents to come over so they were there with me and they said, "Well, aren't you coming over here for the BBQ later?"
They figured that if the guy was caught, the whole thing was over, and since I was coming over to the BBQ later that afternoon to celebrate the 4th, I'd see them later anyway. For a long time, I was shocked they would respond in such an "insensitive" way, but I realize now that I am this way too. I must be, because the entire hostage situation rolled off my shoulders after I knew the danger was gone.
The guy was a total stranger to me so he hadn't affected my trust or respect. Things happen. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and, I guess, being attractive is not always an advantage. I later heard, though I'm not sure it is true, that he had noticed me before, while he was mowing lawns. I don't know if this is true, but if so, I never noticed him.
I guess I was proud of how the whole thing went down anyway and that must have helped. My respect and trust were unscathed, and he hadn't watched me undress or touched me or physically harmed me, so...I guess I was just fine. I really was.
My childhood was not perfect, but there was no trauma in my childhood. I had been raised with a very strong and solid foundation, and faith, and this has enabled me to endure things that happened after I was in my 20s, intact.
I can honestly say, the worst thing that has happened to me, in my life, was what happened at Mt. Angel Abbey and with their lawyers, 3 years later, and the people they used against me thereafter.
I had one other experience before meeting them, which put me in a vulnerable position, not wanting to draw attention to myself and needing a safe place to go, and what they did to cover themselves, is, to this day, unforgiveable.
I never had nightmares, I wasn't hypervigilant, I wasn't anxious or afraid, and I didn't have any problems with people. It didn't affect my work or my hobbies, or lead to depression, or cause me to change my lifestyle in any way.
I had one week of being afraid, and calling 911 at every odd noise around the house, because at that time, we didn't know yet if there were other people involved. When we were told there were no other people involved and that he had supposedly acted alone, this removed my concerns.
I considered what had happened to be random and as likely to happen again as lightening striking twice. I think it must be something about my family constitution, because my parents are the same way about things. After I called them when the police were at the house, conducting their investigation, I told my parents what had happened. They didn't believe me at first, until another roommate got on the phone and said it was true. I asked my parents to come over so they were there with me and they said, "Well, aren't you coming over here for the BBQ later?"
They figured that if the guy was caught, the whole thing was over, and since I was coming over to the BBQ later that afternoon to celebrate the 4th, I'd see them later anyway. For a long time, I was shocked they would respond in such an "insensitive" way, but I realize now that I am this way too. I must be, because the entire hostage situation rolled off my shoulders after I knew the danger was gone.
The guy was a total stranger to me so he hadn't affected my trust or respect. Things happen. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and, I guess, being attractive is not always an advantage. I later heard, though I'm not sure it is true, that he had noticed me before, while he was mowing lawns. I don't know if this is true, but if so, I never noticed him.
I guess I was proud of how the whole thing went down anyway and that must have helped. My respect and trust were unscathed, and he hadn't watched me undress or touched me or physically harmed me, so...I guess I was just fine. I really was.
My childhood was not perfect, but there was no trauma in my childhood. I had been raised with a very strong and solid foundation, and faith, and this has enabled me to endure things that happened after I was in my 20s, intact.
I can honestly say, the worst thing that has happened to me, in my life, was what happened at Mt. Angel Abbey and with their lawyers, 3 years later, and the people they used against me thereafter.
I had one other experience before meeting them, which put me in a vulnerable position, not wanting to draw attention to myself and needing a safe place to go, and what they did to cover themselves, is, to this day, unforgiveable.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The True Story of My Life #8 (Hostage Situation Pt. III)
After I told our gunman that we would all pray for him, I looked over at Monica and Shirina. Monica was nodding and Shirina glared at me like I was out of my mind. I don't know remember where the gun was but it was probably next to him. We put our hands on him and prayed for him, for his family, and for his other relationships.
He said thank you and said he was going to take off his face mask. I felt a little concerned about that because if he changed his mind, and we'd seen his face, then what? He kills us? So I said quickly, "Oh, that's okay, you can leave it on." I guess it was good for identification but I just wanted to think ahead and live. "No, no, I'll take it off." So he took off his face mask. He had tawny hair and I can hardly remember what his face looked like now, it's been over 10 years. I think his eyes were blue. He also took off the latex gloves he was wearing.
He still had us at gunpoint though and took us into the livingroom to look at some photos of us. He set aside ones he liked, many of me. Eventually, he just set the gun down and stuck the knife in the doorframe. He said he wanted to make the beds he'd messed up, and clean up things he'd thrown around, and he said he was sorry. He was chatting in a friendly way and Monica was chatting right along with him. They were cleaning things up in the bedroom and Shirina and I were in the kitchen, opposite sides, leaning against opposite counters, looking at eachother without saying a word, like, "What do we do next?" When all of a sudden we heard this loud POP! and we both jumped and panicked for seconds, freezing when we heard Monica giggle and say, "Haha! Did I scare you?" Monica was so relaxed so had thrown a popper firecracker at the floor behind the gunman-turned-friend. We waited seconds for his response and he just laughed back. Shirina and I looked at eachother with bugged out eyes, incredulous that Monica had thrown a firecracker at this guy.
We couldn't just run out the door and leave Monica behind. We were all there together. So I was hoping to eventually get him to leave of his own accord. By pretending to be his best new friend.
He said he wanted to fix our stove later, and a bunch of other things. He looked at photos of me, and set aside ones he liked, touching them with his bare fingers. I announced I was going to have orange juice and did anyone want breakfast? Everyone said no thanks to breakfast. But the gunman wanted orange juice and I gave it to him in a glass. He touched the glass and later detectives got prints off both the glass and the photos. I wish I could say I had done this purposefully, that I was thinking about getting prints, but it just worked out that way. I was only focused on putting on the calm and collected show until he left.
After over 4 hours, after an end had come to the "I don't know what to do; I have to finish the job" talk, he said he had to go and would come back to fix the stove and go to church with us later.
He left out the same door he kicked in, waving as he walked away. I waved back. The other roommates stayed back. He took his gun with him. We were waiting until he was out of sight to run to the car and leave but then, at the end of our driveway, he turned around. "He's coming back," I said, and Monica and Shirina started to panic. I said, "Don't worry, I'll get it." He knocked on the door and I pretended I hadn't been watching him leave and acted surprised. "Oh, HI! What's going on?" He looked at me, watching my face. He said, "I left my knife". I said, "Oh, okay, just a minute, I'll go get it for you," and he waited at the door while I went into the bedroom and tried to pull it out of the doorframe. It was stuck. Tight. The knife was deeply embedded in the wood, with the handle sticking outright. I went back to the door, trying to be calm and said nonchalantly, "I tried to pull it out but it's stuck; you'll have to come get it." He still had a gun on him and I think I was thinking that I wanted him to feel I was helping him make a good escape like it had all been no big deal.
He went back to the bedroom and I was standing beside him. He put his hand on the knife handle and I remember thinking he could pull it out and turn around and stab me. I was afraid but didn't let it show and just stood ready to defend myself if needed. He pulled the knife out and I said, "Oh good, you got it! I sure tried, and it just wouldn't come out." He took the knife and then said goodbye to everyone again and left for good. I watched him disappear around the corner. We waited a few minutes to be sure he was gone and then we all got into the car and I drove to our pastor's house.
People have asked why we didn't call police. For one thing, I didn't want to be on the phone if he decided to come back again. We just wanted to get out of there. Secondly, we were all in such a state of shock and survival, and the first person we thought of going to was our pastor, and then once there, we called police.
We actually wondered if we were supposed to just forgive him or if we still needed to call police. We weren't thinking very clearly. I know Shirina always knew the severity of the situation, and I did but pretended otherwise, but Monica had almost bought the whole thing as much as the gunman.
When the police and detectives came out they said it was like a "reverse Stockholm Syndrome". They told us not to tell reporters or the media and not to talk about it. They asked us if any of us had seen him before and we hadn't. We all said no. They put yellow tape around the house and started dusting for prints and took the clothes he'd made us dress up in, me all in white "like you're going to a wedding" he said, and Monica all in black, "like you're going to a funeral" he said, and the detectives hung it up and photographed it. They asked us questions and at some point I went to the house across the street, and told my neighbor what had happened. When I described him and the name he'd given us, she exclaimed, "Oh my God. That's our lawnmower man." She then went downtown and on her way to the store, saw him walking towards a grocery and she called police. Police caught him and picked him up about 1 hour from the time he left my house. He still had money in his pockets, underwear and pantyhose, duct tape, and socks. It was ours. He had given back our ID and keys, but not these other things. I still remember seeing him from the police car and the officer asking us if that was the guy. It was.
The woman neighbor who found him walking towards the grocery gave me her lucky 4 leaf clover after that and her family moved out of the neighborhood. I didn't know then that I would need more than a 4 leaf clover for what lay ahead. I can honestly say this hostage situation is one of the more dramatic, but least damaging things that has ever happened to me. Partly, it's because I could recognize this was a somewhat random act, and it was done by a total stranger. It was logical and rational to believe something like that wouldn't happen again.
I was worried maybe there was a gang involved and they knew where I lived, because of the way he was talking when at our house. Later, the police claimed it was only him and he acted alone and since I wanted to believe it, I did. I stayed at my house and didn't get a dog or a gun. I did get a more secure door and a screen door that couldn't be broken down. And I know we were all jumpy for at least a week, at any and every small noise, and we all slept in the same room for a week.
For me, I got over it pretty fast because the panic went away quickly for me, and I could rationalize the situation and believed the threat was gone and it was 1 in a million to happen again. I also felt God protected us, and me. I do know that Shirinia and Monica didn't feel comfortable living there after that and they requested victim's assistance and looked into counseling. I didn't, and I have never, to this day, felt I needed counseling for that situation. I accepted it, processed it, forgave the offender, and moved on.
It is far worse when people you know, and love, and think you can trust, violate that trust and attempt to destroy everything about you in their quest for justification.
The gunman received 11 years for his crimes. He was charged with 3 counts each of burglary, break and entry, and kidnapping (in the ? degree?). The plea bargain was that he didn't go to trial and took 11 years in exchange for dropping the kidnapping charges. No one, no prosecuting attorney, asked us if that was okay with us. They just did it. We were pretty much out of the loop. We each met with the Prosecuting Attorney, and gave details, but that was it. They said they felt, after they told us about the plea deal, that it would have been worse for us and more traumatic to go through a trial. We were pretty much okay with it, but I did feel the kidnapping was the most significant thing that happened. Maybe he needed another chance though. He had a wife and kids. I considered visiting him in jail, and taking him a Bible, but was strongly advised against it. I didn't know why exactly until I got copies of the police report.
The police report included details of the interrogation of the gunman, and they asked him if he had had a special "attraction" for me, Cameo. He said yes. When they told him he was going to jail for a long time for what he did, he responded with, "What would have happened if I had fucked the bitch?"
I remember reading this and swallowing and shutting the report suddenly, like trying to shut it out. I didn't go back to that report for over 6 years. The Prosecuting Attorney said that based on the evidence, they should have tried him under attempted rape or some kind of sexual thing, and that if they had, they could have added some years.
I knew I would need to change my address in the future, but I didn't believe the incident would affect my future. I was proud of myself for how I handled myself, and how my roommates handled themselves. Not one of us became hysterical, or screamed, or cried. We were shaking, but we were all brave and we stood by eachother. You never know what strength you have or how you will handle a dangerous or traumatic situation until it happens, and then sometimes you're shocked and proud of your response and other times, you feel guilt and shame, even though you shouldn't. In this situation, I was proud of myself. In the next situation that happened to me, I felt guilt and shame and thought I'd done something wrong. But I did what I felt I had to do to survive, and there is no right or wrong to that.
He said thank you and said he was going to take off his face mask. I felt a little concerned about that because if he changed his mind, and we'd seen his face, then what? He kills us? So I said quickly, "Oh, that's okay, you can leave it on." I guess it was good for identification but I just wanted to think ahead and live. "No, no, I'll take it off." So he took off his face mask. He had tawny hair and I can hardly remember what his face looked like now, it's been over 10 years. I think his eyes were blue. He also took off the latex gloves he was wearing.
He still had us at gunpoint though and took us into the livingroom to look at some photos of us. He set aside ones he liked, many of me. Eventually, he just set the gun down and stuck the knife in the doorframe. He said he wanted to make the beds he'd messed up, and clean up things he'd thrown around, and he said he was sorry. He was chatting in a friendly way and Monica was chatting right along with him. They were cleaning things up in the bedroom and Shirina and I were in the kitchen, opposite sides, leaning against opposite counters, looking at eachother without saying a word, like, "What do we do next?" When all of a sudden we heard this loud POP! and we both jumped and panicked for seconds, freezing when we heard Monica giggle and say, "Haha! Did I scare you?" Monica was so relaxed so had thrown a popper firecracker at the floor behind the gunman-turned-friend. We waited seconds for his response and he just laughed back. Shirina and I looked at eachother with bugged out eyes, incredulous that Monica had thrown a firecracker at this guy.
We couldn't just run out the door and leave Monica behind. We were all there together. So I was hoping to eventually get him to leave of his own accord. By pretending to be his best new friend.
He said he wanted to fix our stove later, and a bunch of other things. He looked at photos of me, and set aside ones he liked, touching them with his bare fingers. I announced I was going to have orange juice and did anyone want breakfast? Everyone said no thanks to breakfast. But the gunman wanted orange juice and I gave it to him in a glass. He touched the glass and later detectives got prints off both the glass and the photos. I wish I could say I had done this purposefully, that I was thinking about getting prints, but it just worked out that way. I was only focused on putting on the calm and collected show until he left.
After over 4 hours, after an end had come to the "I don't know what to do; I have to finish the job" talk, he said he had to go and would come back to fix the stove and go to church with us later.
He left out the same door he kicked in, waving as he walked away. I waved back. The other roommates stayed back. He took his gun with him. We were waiting until he was out of sight to run to the car and leave but then, at the end of our driveway, he turned around. "He's coming back," I said, and Monica and Shirina started to panic. I said, "Don't worry, I'll get it." He knocked on the door and I pretended I hadn't been watching him leave and acted surprised. "Oh, HI! What's going on?" He looked at me, watching my face. He said, "I left my knife". I said, "Oh, okay, just a minute, I'll go get it for you," and he waited at the door while I went into the bedroom and tried to pull it out of the doorframe. It was stuck. Tight. The knife was deeply embedded in the wood, with the handle sticking outright. I went back to the door, trying to be calm and said nonchalantly, "I tried to pull it out but it's stuck; you'll have to come get it." He still had a gun on him and I think I was thinking that I wanted him to feel I was helping him make a good escape like it had all been no big deal.
He went back to the bedroom and I was standing beside him. He put his hand on the knife handle and I remember thinking he could pull it out and turn around and stab me. I was afraid but didn't let it show and just stood ready to defend myself if needed. He pulled the knife out and I said, "Oh good, you got it! I sure tried, and it just wouldn't come out." He took the knife and then said goodbye to everyone again and left for good. I watched him disappear around the corner. We waited a few minutes to be sure he was gone and then we all got into the car and I drove to our pastor's house.
People have asked why we didn't call police. For one thing, I didn't want to be on the phone if he decided to come back again. We just wanted to get out of there. Secondly, we were all in such a state of shock and survival, and the first person we thought of going to was our pastor, and then once there, we called police.
We actually wondered if we were supposed to just forgive him or if we still needed to call police. We weren't thinking very clearly. I know Shirina always knew the severity of the situation, and I did but pretended otherwise, but Monica had almost bought the whole thing as much as the gunman.
When the police and detectives came out they said it was like a "reverse Stockholm Syndrome". They told us not to tell reporters or the media and not to talk about it. They asked us if any of us had seen him before and we hadn't. We all said no. They put yellow tape around the house and started dusting for prints and took the clothes he'd made us dress up in, me all in white "like you're going to a wedding" he said, and Monica all in black, "like you're going to a funeral" he said, and the detectives hung it up and photographed it. They asked us questions and at some point I went to the house across the street, and told my neighbor what had happened. When I described him and the name he'd given us, she exclaimed, "Oh my God. That's our lawnmower man." She then went downtown and on her way to the store, saw him walking towards a grocery and she called police. Police caught him and picked him up about 1 hour from the time he left my house. He still had money in his pockets, underwear and pantyhose, duct tape, and socks. It was ours. He had given back our ID and keys, but not these other things. I still remember seeing him from the police car and the officer asking us if that was the guy. It was.
The woman neighbor who found him walking towards the grocery gave me her lucky 4 leaf clover after that and her family moved out of the neighborhood. I didn't know then that I would need more than a 4 leaf clover for what lay ahead. I can honestly say this hostage situation is one of the more dramatic, but least damaging things that has ever happened to me. Partly, it's because I could recognize this was a somewhat random act, and it was done by a total stranger. It was logical and rational to believe something like that wouldn't happen again.
I was worried maybe there was a gang involved and they knew where I lived, because of the way he was talking when at our house. Later, the police claimed it was only him and he acted alone and since I wanted to believe it, I did. I stayed at my house and didn't get a dog or a gun. I did get a more secure door and a screen door that couldn't be broken down. And I know we were all jumpy for at least a week, at any and every small noise, and we all slept in the same room for a week.
For me, I got over it pretty fast because the panic went away quickly for me, and I could rationalize the situation and believed the threat was gone and it was 1 in a million to happen again. I also felt God protected us, and me. I do know that Shirinia and Monica didn't feel comfortable living there after that and they requested victim's assistance and looked into counseling. I didn't, and I have never, to this day, felt I needed counseling for that situation. I accepted it, processed it, forgave the offender, and moved on.
It is far worse when people you know, and love, and think you can trust, violate that trust and attempt to destroy everything about you in their quest for justification.
The gunman received 11 years for his crimes. He was charged with 3 counts each of burglary, break and entry, and kidnapping (in the ? degree?). The plea bargain was that he didn't go to trial and took 11 years in exchange for dropping the kidnapping charges. No one, no prosecuting attorney, asked us if that was okay with us. They just did it. We were pretty much out of the loop. We each met with the Prosecuting Attorney, and gave details, but that was it. They said they felt, after they told us about the plea deal, that it would have been worse for us and more traumatic to go through a trial. We were pretty much okay with it, but I did feel the kidnapping was the most significant thing that happened. Maybe he needed another chance though. He had a wife and kids. I considered visiting him in jail, and taking him a Bible, but was strongly advised against it. I didn't know why exactly until I got copies of the police report.
The police report included details of the interrogation of the gunman, and they asked him if he had had a special "attraction" for me, Cameo. He said yes. When they told him he was going to jail for a long time for what he did, he responded with, "What would have happened if I had fucked the bitch?"
I remember reading this and swallowing and shutting the report suddenly, like trying to shut it out. I didn't go back to that report for over 6 years. The Prosecuting Attorney said that based on the evidence, they should have tried him under attempted rape or some kind of sexual thing, and that if they had, they could have added some years.
I knew I would need to change my address in the future, but I didn't believe the incident would affect my future. I was proud of myself for how I handled myself, and how my roommates handled themselves. Not one of us became hysterical, or screamed, or cried. We were shaking, but we were all brave and we stood by eachother. You never know what strength you have or how you will handle a dangerous or traumatic situation until it happens, and then sometimes you're shocked and proud of your response and other times, you feel guilt and shame, even though you shouldn't. In this situation, I was proud of myself. In the next situation that happened to me, I felt guilt and shame and thought I'd done something wrong. But I did what I felt I had to do to survive, and there is no right or wrong to that.
The True Story of My Life #7 (Hostage Situation Pt. II)
My guitar was lying in the middle of the dining room floor. I had last played the night before, sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, next to an acoustic corner.
I picked up the guitar and then he wanted us to go back to the same bedroom so he walked behind us with the gun.
One of us had to use the bathroom and asked him if she could go and he said yes, but that we all had to go in together. It was a small bathroom with a screenless window by the tub. Once we were in the bathroom, Shirina quickly motioned for us to stand up against the wall, away from the door. I think she was worried he was going to shoot through the door. I saw the window as an escape and motioned, asking them with my lips if they wanted to try it and they shook their heads no. I would have tried the window myself but they were worried he would hear the window opening or catch us midway. And while Monica and I were petite, I'm not sure that Shirina would have fit. There was no shoot-out. He directed us back to the bedroom.
I chose a chair rather than sit on the bunkbed. I was afraid to sit in the chair and have my legs exposed, and to single myself out in that way, but I felt better when I held the guitar against my chest. I asked him if there was a song he wanted me to try to play and he said to play whatever I wanted. So I tried and nothing came out. Like a bad dream, I opened my mouth to sing and there was no noise. I was too scared even though I think I appeared to be calm. I coughed and said my throat was dry and that I needed some water. But I swallowed a few times and tried again and began to sing. I was so nervous I missed some notes, but after the first verse, I began to relax. I sang the song: Jesus, Name Above All Names.
The strangest thing happened, because as I played and sang, I lost my fear and at the same time, for the first time, the gunman became nervous and seemed to be losing confidence. I felt a peace and calm come over me. It was like there was a transfer of power at that moment. I could feel the change and see it with my own eyes. I sang another song that I had written and both Shirina and Monica were either watching him or me and sitting very still, and Monica was praying.
He just stood there, his gun down, and knife down, and came across to me as very nervous, sort of wanting to pace but not pacing. He suddenly must have recognized he was influenced and snapped back into a directive mode, and said firmly, "I have to finish the job." He said we were going to go into the next bedroom and told me to stop playing. I saw Shirina's eyes widen.
I felt he was trying to take control of the situation again and didn't say anything and we went into the next bedroom. He started going through the closet and things in that room and pulled out underwear and made derogatory comments about it. He was sort of targeting Shirina and told her he wasn't going to have her dress up, just me and Monica. Shirina, meanwhile, was making mental notes of his height, weight, a tatoo she spied on his arm (I believe) and other identifying characteristics. He kept saying he had to finish the job and we were going to go someplace.
I asked him about his family. He was married and had kids. He made some comments about her and I used it to follow up with another question to keep him talking. The more he talked, the less he focused on what he was doing. He said, "I don't know why I chose this house." He said we were a bunch of "christians" and he wished he hadn't chosen this house. I asked him if he went to church or what religion he was. I always looked him in the eye. I tried to speak to him as if he was no threat, but a potential friend. He kept talking and said he used to go to church when he was younger but not anymore, and he talked about family problems. I told him he could come to church with us sometime if he liked, and I told him that if he wanted us to, we would pray for him too, right then and there. He said yes, he wanted us to pray for him.
to be continued...
I picked up the guitar and then he wanted us to go back to the same bedroom so he walked behind us with the gun.
One of us had to use the bathroom and asked him if she could go and he said yes, but that we all had to go in together. It was a small bathroom with a screenless window by the tub. Once we were in the bathroom, Shirina quickly motioned for us to stand up against the wall, away from the door. I think she was worried he was going to shoot through the door. I saw the window as an escape and motioned, asking them with my lips if they wanted to try it and they shook their heads no. I would have tried the window myself but they were worried he would hear the window opening or catch us midway. And while Monica and I were petite, I'm not sure that Shirina would have fit. There was no shoot-out. He directed us back to the bedroom.
I chose a chair rather than sit on the bunkbed. I was afraid to sit in the chair and have my legs exposed, and to single myself out in that way, but I felt better when I held the guitar against my chest. I asked him if there was a song he wanted me to try to play and he said to play whatever I wanted. So I tried and nothing came out. Like a bad dream, I opened my mouth to sing and there was no noise. I was too scared even though I think I appeared to be calm. I coughed and said my throat was dry and that I needed some water. But I swallowed a few times and tried again and began to sing. I was so nervous I missed some notes, but after the first verse, I began to relax. I sang the song: Jesus, Name Above All Names.
The strangest thing happened, because as I played and sang, I lost my fear and at the same time, for the first time, the gunman became nervous and seemed to be losing confidence. I felt a peace and calm come over me. It was like there was a transfer of power at that moment. I could feel the change and see it with my own eyes. I sang another song that I had written and both Shirina and Monica were either watching him or me and sitting very still, and Monica was praying.
He just stood there, his gun down, and knife down, and came across to me as very nervous, sort of wanting to pace but not pacing. He suddenly must have recognized he was influenced and snapped back into a directive mode, and said firmly, "I have to finish the job." He said we were going to go into the next bedroom and told me to stop playing. I saw Shirina's eyes widen.
I felt he was trying to take control of the situation again and didn't say anything and we went into the next bedroom. He started going through the closet and things in that room and pulled out underwear and made derogatory comments about it. He was sort of targeting Shirina and told her he wasn't going to have her dress up, just me and Monica. Shirina, meanwhile, was making mental notes of his height, weight, a tatoo she spied on his arm (I believe) and other identifying characteristics. He kept saying he had to finish the job and we were going to go someplace.
I asked him about his family. He was married and had kids. He made some comments about her and I used it to follow up with another question to keep him talking. The more he talked, the less he focused on what he was doing. He said, "I don't know why I chose this house." He said we were a bunch of "christians" and he wished he hadn't chosen this house. I asked him if he went to church or what religion he was. I always looked him in the eye. I tried to speak to him as if he was no threat, but a potential friend. He kept talking and said he used to go to church when he was younger but not anymore, and he talked about family problems. I told him he could come to church with us sometime if he liked, and I told him that if he wanted us to, we would pray for him too, right then and there. He said yes, he wanted us to pray for him.
to be continued...
Rapunzel Revised
I had the following conversation with a friend (male) 2 days ago:
Him: You should cut your hair.
Me: Mmmmm.
Him: Give it to Locks of Love.
Me: I have already.
Him: You could do it again.
Me: I might need my hair...for an escape, like Rapunzel.
Him: You're planning to have some guy climb your hair to rescue you?
Me: No, I'll do it myself. I'll pin my hair to the windowsill or something and get down.
Him: There's a knight; he climbs up her hair.
Me: Oh yeah, I forgot. I was thinking she did it herself. Well, I think the fairytale should be that she does it herself.
Him: No, she needs the knight--how else is she going to fight off the dragon? What are you going to do? swish, swish, swish your ponytail at the dragon's face?
Me: There's a dragon?
Him: I think so, at the end, they have to pass to get out of the woods.
Me: I forgot about the dragon I guess!
Him: And how are you going to get down from the tower?
Me: I'll pin my hair to the windowsill...
Him: ...throw your hair out and bungee jump?
Me: No, I'd nail it or tie it to the windowsill and, what do you call it? mountain climb? down the tower...what's the word for it--you know, where...RAPPELLING, that's it. Yeah, I would rappell down the tower wall. THAT's how the fairytale should be. I think someone needs to rewrite that fairytale...hmmm, maybe me.
That was the end of our conversation about Rapunzel. I might be able to use a knight for fighting off the dragon. But Rapunzel gets out of the tower on her own.
In another tale, from King Arthur legends, the woman (Elaine? waiting for Lancelot?) encloses herself in a tower of her own accord--as Tennyson wrote,
"There she weaves by night and day,
A magic web with colors gay;
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
to look down on Camelot."
Waiting, always, for the knight in shining armor, and the woman on a pedestal of sorts, out of reach, imprisoned. Juliet, on the balcony, Cinderella in the attic...Just waiting...sort of abused woman's syndrome. Then once down to earth, the fairytale ends, usually in marriage or tragedy. Hmmm.
When I was a girl, I went to the library several times a week. I read all the fairytales in the fairytale section. I read all the books of Grimm, and fairytales from other countries. I especially enjoyed the Japanese fairytales and illustrations, aside from traditional stories or versions. Reading these stories, some well-crafted, stimulated my imagination and love for literature.
They also gave me about as much real-world knowledge as playing with barbie dolls.
Him: You should cut your hair.
Me: Mmmmm.
Him: Give it to Locks of Love.
Me: I have already.
Him: You could do it again.
Me: I might need my hair...for an escape, like Rapunzel.
Him: You're planning to have some guy climb your hair to rescue you?
Me: No, I'll do it myself. I'll pin my hair to the windowsill or something and get down.
Him: There's a knight; he climbs up her hair.
Me: Oh yeah, I forgot. I was thinking she did it herself. Well, I think the fairytale should be that she does it herself.
Him: No, she needs the knight--how else is she going to fight off the dragon? What are you going to do? swish, swish, swish your ponytail at the dragon's face?
Me: There's a dragon?
Him: I think so, at the end, they have to pass to get out of the woods.
Me: I forgot about the dragon I guess!
Him: And how are you going to get down from the tower?
Me: I'll pin my hair to the windowsill...
Him: ...throw your hair out and bungee jump?
Me: No, I'd nail it or tie it to the windowsill and, what do you call it? mountain climb? down the tower...what's the word for it--you know, where...RAPPELLING, that's it. Yeah, I would rappell down the tower wall. THAT's how the fairytale should be. I think someone needs to rewrite that fairytale...hmmm, maybe me.
That was the end of our conversation about Rapunzel. I might be able to use a knight for fighting off the dragon. But Rapunzel gets out of the tower on her own.
In another tale, from King Arthur legends, the woman (Elaine? waiting for Lancelot?) encloses herself in a tower of her own accord--as Tennyson wrote,
"There she weaves by night and day,
A magic web with colors gay;
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
to look down on Camelot."
Waiting, always, for the knight in shining armor, and the woman on a pedestal of sorts, out of reach, imprisoned. Juliet, on the balcony, Cinderella in the attic...Just waiting...sort of abused woman's syndrome. Then once down to earth, the fairytale ends, usually in marriage or tragedy. Hmmm.
When I was a girl, I went to the library several times a week. I read all the fairytales in the fairytale section. I read all the books of Grimm, and fairytales from other countries. I especially enjoyed the Japanese fairytales and illustrations, aside from traditional stories or versions. Reading these stories, some well-crafted, stimulated my imagination and love for literature.
They also gave me about as much real-world knowledge as playing with barbie dolls.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Bookcovers From The Bus
My car petrifying in Canada, I have taken to the bus.
"Two kinds of people ride the bus," said my friend, "Crazies and tree-huggers." I like to think I fall into the latter category. Ummm...yeah. Can I create a third category? artists-turned-desperados who fell prey to a crazy system?
Anyway, I only met 2 "crazies" on my RT to Wenatchee and back. On the way there, I met a woman who sat across from me and told me she was certifiably crazy. She had been diagnosed. It was just me and her on that bus at first and I wondered where it was taking me.
A few more people got on. Across from me sat a man who appeared to be homeless, with all his clothing in a clear comforter package bag with a zipper. Behind me were two guys. One of them piped up, "Hey! Hi! Are you going to Wenatchee?" I said yes. Then he said, "Are you going to the treatment center too?" huh? "I don't THINK so," I said, "WHAT treatment center?" I was quite alert at that point, but the guy who seemed homeless next to me burst into laughter. He turned around and yelled, "You fool! That's not a pick-up line man... Are you going to the treatment center too???" he kept laughing and then added, "Save the personal baggage for a little later down the road!"
I started talking to the "homeless guy". I asked where he was going and what he was doing. He was on his way to man a fire station on a mountain with some other guy, and worked as a firefighter. In an hour, I heard about how he'd done a tracheotomy, delivered 5 babies, and jumped out of planes into the back end of the fire. He said all those shelter tents that firefighters carry for cover, are "I.D. bags". Useless for protection. He said the first baby he delivered came out looking at him like he was an alien and then looked at the mother and then back at him and then at the mother and then back at him (the mother was white, and he was black). He told me I would like sky-diving and then told me to go to Langley, Canada for hang-gliding.
I fell asleep, and then, I missed my stop. Not being a bus-taker, usually, I had thought it was a direct-flight (direct-drive?) ticket. So I was suddenly in Seattle instead of Wenatchee, with a huge layover until I could take the next connection to Wenatchee. So I went to the library and posted on my blog and read magazines on glass art, feminism, torture (Mother Jones), NYT Book Review, the NYT magazine article about "Dr. Phil With Guns", and some other stuff. I meandered back to the bus, where the nicest baggage guy handed me my things. He saw me starting to put money into a machine for a locker and insisted he save me the money and keep them in safety in another baggage area. Leen. His name was Leen.
On the transfer from Seattle to Wenatchee, I met a man who was fighting a legal battle to get witness protection. He gave me the name and phone number of his attorney. He helped police and FBI with a sting for a murder-for-hire deal and saved 5 lives, but one state promised witness protection and the other one didn't and when it was over, he got nothing. He had to hire a lawyer to help him disappear. Of course I'm never giving his name, occupation, or where he went or was going after the bus came to a stop.
The next day I was going home and missed my connection by 5 minutes. Hitched a ride to a gas station, hoping I'd find truckers going to Seattle where I could catch the rest of the bus. Standing around, with the convenience store people understanding my situation, I told them I'd work for free while I was there. They refused to let me clean, so I offered to front the shelves for them. Then a grocery distributor overheard and said I could help her. She handed me the exacto knife and I started opening boxes and stacking snacks onto the stand. It was a little humiliating in a way, as people from Wenatchee were coming in and giving me looks and I recognized some, and they would smirk and leave. But I plugged away, and after no one had come in all that time, after I started helping the store out, this guy came in and asked the cashier the best way to get to Seattle and she yelled at me, "He's going to Seattle!" They were all excited for me and my good luck. One of the few times of "instant karma".
He was interesting. Educated, I could tell, after he said about 5 sentences. I asked--was right. He had a degree in Economics and another in Transpersonal Psychology. I wanted to know what Transpersonal Psychology was and he told me about it. He also told me how he knew Rajneeshi personally and was part of the group. The same Rajneeshi from Oregon that bought their own town until some people started embezzling and the U.S. deported Rajneeshi for immigration reasons. Really interesting guy, anyway. I was dropped off at the bus terminal and was approached later that evening by a guy who looked like a former gangster.
He was tall, with a snowcap on and then a baseball hat over it, tipped to the side, and baggy pants. He asked me where I was going. His tone was sort of "Joey-from-friends"...i.e., "how YOU doin'?" Where YOU goin'? So I was open to chatting, and it was no big deal and he's talking about how he is going to technical school to be a flagger and then I see this rolled up magazine in his hand. I saw a flash of the letters: New Yo... and said, "Is that the New Yorker?!" He sort of glanced at it like no big deal and said, "Oh. yeah." I said, "You read the New Yorker?" and he said he had a subscription. He said he wasn't in politics but kept up on them and current events. His grammar wasn't the very best, so I questioned whether it was really his subscription, and, he didn't look like the type to pick up the New Yorker, but he wasn't using it to swat flies either.
We talked about hippie culture. He let me keep the magazine, it was the Feb. 21, 2008 issue, with the woman walking her leopard on the cover. Inside, he had flagged down a corner from an article about the CIA: "The Spymaster". He had flagged down the corner of page 49, which has a photo of McConnell, director of National Intelligence, standing at Bolling Air Force Base, a good half-way into the article.
"I wouldn't have thought you read the New Yorker." He asked why not. I said he didn't look like someone who would read the New Yorker. He asked me what I looked like then, and what impression I had. I said, "I don't know...(stumbling)...Uh, sort of former gang member, who either isn't doing any drugs now but getting ahead, but used to deal or something, or someone who does a little dealing on the side." He said no, he'd never dealt drugs. We agreed one cannot judge a book by its cover.
I told him I'd seen a bunch of marijuana, and that there were all kinds of varieties and I never knew this before. He started talking about how some people even use flavors and I started laughing because some people I met used blueberry flavoring, he asked me about the variety I saw. It was Christmas something or other, and had lots of crystals on it. "What color were the crystals?" he asked. "White and clear" I said, and he nodded after I answered, and he explained how it was processed and how it got that way. Despite his grammar and slang, he explained the process with the accuracy and fluidity of a chemist, pouring one liquid from a vial into another and swirling it around in the glass, lifting it up to to the light to peer through the transparent new color.
"I realized I was looking through a different lens than before," I had said, hours before, to the man with the degree in Transpersonal Psychology. "How do you know that?" he asked, "Where did you hear that phrase?" "What phrase?" I said, "The different lens phrase", he said. "I don't know," I said, "Maybe in an English class in college?" But I had first noticed the concept, playing out in my life, after I had taken a nanny job on the East Coast at age 18 and then come back with a different view of things, and recognition that I had been affected and changed in my surroundings.
There was another man I noticed, who was taking the elevator in the Everett bus terminal, when I was speaking with the guy carrying the New Yorker. I don't know who he was but he was staring at me, watching me talk to the other guy, with a delighted smile on his face, and was smiling until the elevator doors closed, like he knew me. Did he know me? Probably not. But I've found a lot more people know about me or recognize me than is reciprocal.
We don't get to know about anyone by making guesses. I am always surprised at how different people are, than they appear to be, once we get to talking. Sometimes people simply "are what they are" and what you see is what you get. Then, sometimes we think we know someone so well, and yet we don't know them at all. Some covers are thicker than others, for better and for worse.
Hardbacks vs paperbacks. Each has its pros and cons.
"Two kinds of people ride the bus," said my friend, "Crazies and tree-huggers." I like to think I fall into the latter category. Ummm...yeah. Can I create a third category? artists-turned-desperados who fell prey to a crazy system?
Anyway, I only met 2 "crazies" on my RT to Wenatchee and back. On the way there, I met a woman who sat across from me and told me she was certifiably crazy. She had been diagnosed. It was just me and her on that bus at first and I wondered where it was taking me.
A few more people got on. Across from me sat a man who appeared to be homeless, with all his clothing in a clear comforter package bag with a zipper. Behind me were two guys. One of them piped up, "Hey! Hi! Are you going to Wenatchee?" I said yes. Then he said, "Are you going to the treatment center too?" huh? "I don't THINK so," I said, "WHAT treatment center?" I was quite alert at that point, but the guy who seemed homeless next to me burst into laughter. He turned around and yelled, "You fool! That's not a pick-up line man... Are you going to the treatment center too???" he kept laughing and then added, "Save the personal baggage for a little later down the road!"
I started talking to the "homeless guy". I asked where he was going and what he was doing. He was on his way to man a fire station on a mountain with some other guy, and worked as a firefighter. In an hour, I heard about how he'd done a tracheotomy, delivered 5 babies, and jumped out of planes into the back end of the fire. He said all those shelter tents that firefighters carry for cover, are "I.D. bags". Useless for protection. He said the first baby he delivered came out looking at him like he was an alien and then looked at the mother and then back at him and then at the mother and then back at him (the mother was white, and he was black). He told me I would like sky-diving and then told me to go to Langley, Canada for hang-gliding.
I fell asleep, and then, I missed my stop. Not being a bus-taker, usually, I had thought it was a direct-flight (direct-drive?) ticket. So I was suddenly in Seattle instead of Wenatchee, with a huge layover until I could take the next connection to Wenatchee. So I went to the library and posted on my blog and read magazines on glass art, feminism, torture (Mother Jones), NYT Book Review, the NYT magazine article about "Dr. Phil With Guns", and some other stuff. I meandered back to the bus, where the nicest baggage guy handed me my things. He saw me starting to put money into a machine for a locker and insisted he save me the money and keep them in safety in another baggage area. Leen. His name was Leen.
On the transfer from Seattle to Wenatchee, I met a man who was fighting a legal battle to get witness protection. He gave me the name and phone number of his attorney. He helped police and FBI with a sting for a murder-for-hire deal and saved 5 lives, but one state promised witness protection and the other one didn't and when it was over, he got nothing. He had to hire a lawyer to help him disappear. Of course I'm never giving his name, occupation, or where he went or was going after the bus came to a stop.
The next day I was going home and missed my connection by 5 minutes. Hitched a ride to a gas station, hoping I'd find truckers going to Seattle where I could catch the rest of the bus. Standing around, with the convenience store people understanding my situation, I told them I'd work for free while I was there. They refused to let me clean, so I offered to front the shelves for them. Then a grocery distributor overheard and said I could help her. She handed me the exacto knife and I started opening boxes and stacking snacks onto the stand. It was a little humiliating in a way, as people from Wenatchee were coming in and giving me looks and I recognized some, and they would smirk and leave. But I plugged away, and after no one had come in all that time, after I started helping the store out, this guy came in and asked the cashier the best way to get to Seattle and she yelled at me, "He's going to Seattle!" They were all excited for me and my good luck. One of the few times of "instant karma".
He was interesting. Educated, I could tell, after he said about 5 sentences. I asked--was right. He had a degree in Economics and another in Transpersonal Psychology. I wanted to know what Transpersonal Psychology was and he told me about it. He also told me how he knew Rajneeshi personally and was part of the group. The same Rajneeshi from Oregon that bought their own town until some people started embezzling and the U.S. deported Rajneeshi for immigration reasons. Really interesting guy, anyway. I was dropped off at the bus terminal and was approached later that evening by a guy who looked like a former gangster.
He was tall, with a snowcap on and then a baseball hat over it, tipped to the side, and baggy pants. He asked me where I was going. His tone was sort of "Joey-from-friends"...i.e., "how YOU doin'?" Where YOU goin'? So I was open to chatting, and it was no big deal and he's talking about how he is going to technical school to be a flagger and then I see this rolled up magazine in his hand. I saw a flash of the letters: New Yo... and said, "Is that the New Yorker?!" He sort of glanced at it like no big deal and said, "Oh. yeah." I said, "You read the New Yorker?" and he said he had a subscription. He said he wasn't in politics but kept up on them and current events. His grammar wasn't the very best, so I questioned whether it was really his subscription, and, he didn't look like the type to pick up the New Yorker, but he wasn't using it to swat flies either.
We talked about hippie culture. He let me keep the magazine, it was the Feb. 21, 2008 issue, with the woman walking her leopard on the cover. Inside, he had flagged down a corner from an article about the CIA: "The Spymaster". He had flagged down the corner of page 49, which has a photo of McConnell, director of National Intelligence, standing at Bolling Air Force Base, a good half-way into the article.
"I wouldn't have thought you read the New Yorker." He asked why not. I said he didn't look like someone who would read the New Yorker. He asked me what I looked like then, and what impression I had. I said, "I don't know...(stumbling)...Uh, sort of former gang member, who either isn't doing any drugs now but getting ahead, but used to deal or something, or someone who does a little dealing on the side." He said no, he'd never dealt drugs. We agreed one cannot judge a book by its cover.
I told him I'd seen a bunch of marijuana, and that there were all kinds of varieties and I never knew this before. He started talking about how some people even use flavors and I started laughing because some people I met used blueberry flavoring, he asked me about the variety I saw. It was Christmas something or other, and had lots of crystals on it. "What color were the crystals?" he asked. "White and clear" I said, and he nodded after I answered, and he explained how it was processed and how it got that way. Despite his grammar and slang, he explained the process with the accuracy and fluidity of a chemist, pouring one liquid from a vial into another and swirling it around in the glass, lifting it up to to the light to peer through the transparent new color.
"I realized I was looking through a different lens than before," I had said, hours before, to the man with the degree in Transpersonal Psychology. "How do you know that?" he asked, "Where did you hear that phrase?" "What phrase?" I said, "The different lens phrase", he said. "I don't know," I said, "Maybe in an English class in college?" But I had first noticed the concept, playing out in my life, after I had taken a nanny job on the East Coast at age 18 and then come back with a different view of things, and recognition that I had been affected and changed in my surroundings.
There was another man I noticed, who was taking the elevator in the Everett bus terminal, when I was speaking with the guy carrying the New Yorker. I don't know who he was but he was staring at me, watching me talk to the other guy, with a delighted smile on his face, and was smiling until the elevator doors closed, like he knew me. Did he know me? Probably not. But I've found a lot more people know about me or recognize me than is reciprocal.
We don't get to know about anyone by making guesses. I am always surprised at how different people are, than they appear to be, once we get to talking. Sometimes people simply "are what they are" and what you see is what you get. Then, sometimes we think we know someone so well, and yet we don't know them at all. Some covers are thicker than others, for better and for worse.
Hardbacks vs paperbacks. Each has its pros and cons.
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