My legs brought me to the beach by bike, with a milky, coffee-colored iced-coffee tucked into the water bottle holder which, when I thought about it, made me smile smugly. I knew this place and knew where I was going (if only literally.) I passed people, the obvious tourists-- the Quebecois speaking their hard, unromantic version of French, the family of 4 all wearing as close to the same shade of green as possible.

"On your left," I announced because, if they lived here, biked this path weekly for four summers; knew the stops, the public-but-private beach where they used to meet a friend and former lover and acted naturally when he said how magical their eyes were-- if they lived here, they would know to keep to the right to let others pass. And I always pass; I never know what is my rush.

That day, I was planning on going downtown for errands: getting an iced coffee and reading some Jane Eyre in the park that the townies called home, until the cops told them not to. But prior to my iced coffee I had my tires pumped and couldn't get the phrase "You'll go a lot faster now," which the bike mechanic told me, out of my head. So I just left and headed to the bike path and went fast. When I approached my first possible sit-and-read beach stop, I kept going. And 5 miles later locked my bike up and went down the long wooden staircase leading to the beach where I used to meet J. We weren't sleeping together at that point; I was an over-eager texter and then saw him walking home with another girl on a night we were supposed to hang out, so it was over. A month later, I convinced us both that I didn't hate him and we met at the beach. I was hesitant to give directions-- I discovered it on one of my bike path adventures, craving a change of scenery which is a thing that happens on a regular basis in this town. I went down at 5 pm and was one of three people there and wanted to keep it that way, as any other option would involve Coors Light and Frisbee. We lay down on my blanket watching the sun set across the lake and behind the pointed mountains and he rested his head on my stomach and I tried to think of something to say, but silence was okay between us-- it always had been. We met when I was Arts + Entertainment Editor for our college paper -- a position I look back at and question in the pre-music-blog-reading-illegal-downloading version of myself. J's pieces were always past deadline but they were well written and didn't need much editing. I started seeing him out at the bar where everyone knows your name, but would never talk to you, and one night after some $3 pitchers of PBR he mentioned an old typewriter he bought but was now broken.

"Maybe I can fix it," I said, and we left the bar.

And at the same bar several years later I was saying goodbye to him and wishing him and his girlfriend of 1 year the best of luck as they joined the ranks of the brave and motivated who fled town for the throes of a city and some culture and anonymity.

"This town is so small," is a complaint often made but only grave enough for several who mean when they say they will leave. Others are in a constant state of "thinking about trying to leave, maybe. Someday..." and wonder if they've missed their chance and why would they leave if they have a job and the economy is bad and they're kinda sorta seeing this boy and do you even know how expensive rent is in Brooklyn?!

But the longer I wait for the time to be right to move, the more attached I get --though it sure feels detached!-- and my strings are being tied tighter and I'm holding onto them for fear of change and starting over somewhere else as a grown-up who will not use staring across a huge lake at the Adirondacks as a source of entertainment.

A Feminist Looks at Bourbon Street

You find yourself in this city in the south, post-Katrina and not during Mardi Gras-- a time when New Orleans goes ignored like a pet during its owner's pregnancy. But even though it is not Fat Tuesday and you plan on keeping on your bra, you go to Bourbon Street.

You turn off Canal St. toward a neon pink "Hustler" sign and get a drink from the closest bar, one called Krazy Korner (or was it Utopia?) where a woman in a bra top and booty shorts is selling "shots,"artificially colored alcohol standing upright in what looks like a syringe. You opt for a margarita, with salt, to go, and sip down quickly from your green plastic cactus-shaped cup. You are shouted at by men on 2nd and 3rd stories of short hotels and lofts and think "ugh" but as you continue down the (surprisingly short!!) street, you begin to feel slightly overdressed. Not that you're not wearing your "goin' out" clothes, but that you haven't got much skin showing and these women selling themselves to sell a bar seem so confident and you want that.

But they also seem so sad.

"Do you think her mother knows?" you ask your friend, but you don't wait long enough to realize the unfortunate reality.

For a second you envision pushing through the crowd of men swarmed around her, taking her hand, and running away; maybe to a cafe somewhere where you could talk about how repulsive those men are, whose blue eyes glaze over and morph into venomous snakes (oh, those Biblical references!). Or maybe to France, to the real vieux France. Vive la verite!

Is this a positive step for our country? That our women (girls, really, as one "barely legal" sign informs you) can stand outside with their inner thighs and cleavage, sometimes asses, exposed and not worry about genital mutilation or being sold into sex slavery (god, you're naive). They use their sexuality as a tool and means of power over the men and women who expect them to be easy based on how they're dressed, and the more you and your friends go and stare and drink and stare and spend and stare, the more praise they get from their manager--maybe a slap on the ass for being good for business. But nothing is ever what it looks like--water is not blue and money is never just money, and this is not real confidence in these women. Bourbon Street is dirty and what many would call sinful but that doesn't stop you from having what you think is fun. This is a place where you can have your tits and eat them too because that's what it is known for, and this is America, and it's not like you're doing anything wrong, right?

Gone Beyond

i've been trying to figure out the difference between mindfulness and self-consciousness. i've tried to decipher and control the differences between thinking this is me!! and this is me??

but then i remind myself that It Is What It Is. but is "it" the same for everyone? i know the answer is no and i try to remind myself that, walking down the street and yearning for some kind of eye contact with someone that says "This Is 'It'" but that never happens. not sure if this is some normal type of social anxiety or some weird type of self-aware normalcy and maybe what i want is right in front of me and i can fulfill the thing i am wanting to receive from looking into someone's pupils.

then i got to thinking about psychology and the study of the brain and how, yes, it's a 'science' but how can you measure and compare the heated activity of one person's grey matter with that of another person's. especially when you're trusting lab rats to solve a puzzle for you.
so that when i say "i'm not happy," how do i know for sure that the feeling i'm feeling is different from depression or anxiety, as labeled in the form of a survey [I sometimes feel this way; I often feel this way; I never feel this way.] because when i was younger i thought that maybe my emotions were measured on a dial and at one point the needle would flicker into the green/yellow/orange, anywhere away from those blues, and that was when i would know and feel what it seemed like everyone around was all feeling simultaneously as happy.

and then i smelled saffron. and then i saw rabbit tracks in the snow. and then i heard a banjo. and the question is not solved but my needle peeked and i felt bursting and goosebumps and wondered why this is not a drug advertised by pfizer with side effects being that you are left wondering why you didn't know about this feeling sooner.