What is your favorite type of puzzle? I ask myself in the middle of class, where someone is presenting on Art and Fear. Is it one of those animal picture puzzles, or a deconstruction of a famous painting, or is it a distant landscape disassembled?

 

My favorite puzzle is personal, as I view every person as a puzzle. This type of puzzle is only solved when you understand. When you understand the ticks and quirks of a person and when you begin to expect what you know so well before they even do it. For me to discover a person worth exploring is both a place where I find meaning in my life and where I find the uttermost devastation of self.

 

A relationship is a perfect example of this unfolding and configuring of a personal puzzle. Providing an environment ridden with potential and rotten with expectation.

 

Seeing someone for the first time is like the first glimpse of the puzzle box, the initial image, the initial interest is sparked from this 2-D judgment. There is no need for touch at this moment, no need for understanding.

 

No attraction? – Move on.

Attraction? – Open the box. Say “Hello.”

 

–Fast Forward to End—

 

I’ll start here.

 

Currently, I am returning to a singular reality after an off and on two and a half year relationship. I am now taking apart the pieces, now looking at each of them intimately, sadly, desperately, tracing their edges one last time before returning them to the box.

 

Many of those pieces once brought me security and purpose as I placed them in unison with the larger picture. But now as I separate them, breaking the surface tension, anxiety, confusion, and sadness wash over me. A tidal wave of emotions I wasn’t expecting, rushing me into the walls, filling the space that I left for my breath.

 

Sinking. I drown. Slowly.

 

In the perspective that time is relative, and that when looked at from a distance human existence is nothing but a blip, a hiccup, – a mistake that is already being erased, – I grow gills.

 

I take my first breath in this underwater, upside down, inside out world of self. Although I have just begun to unravel this puzzle, I find that I am already in the Mariana Trench, the deepest, darkest, and most unknown place on earth. The weight of the entire ocean presses down on me as I sit in silence with skeletons equally innumerable to the stars.

 

In this eternal inky blackness I feel utterly alone. I strike out again and again desperate to connect my fists to flesh, to know that another body, another person, is down there with me.

 

But of course I am not alone, that puzzle is a person too, and their pieces press in around me, arresting my body, like the ocean I am paralyzed. My only thought is to escape, my only action is to breathe.

 

My breath comes slowly, and at times it is almost too much to lift the weight with my chest. I rest and begin my own decomposition.

 

Over time I find that the skeletons are not foreign to me. The bones are memories and little bits of myself that I have forgotten, tossed into the abyss and perceived insignificant.

 

I disintegrate into them and remember. My body shifts sifting as the tide changes, turning in.

 

Pieces of me settle into shape as I become again, part of the landscape.

I have an account on a dating website. I am only slightly ashamed. In the two years I have had it I have met two people from the site. One turned into a month long relationship with a girl named Reality and one turned right back around and walked away. Just kidding. It didn’t work out.

 

Most of the time I have my settings so only women identifying people can see and be seen by me, although I have dabbled in the realm of online men a few times, I am always quickly disheartened and hastily retreat from the hypersexualized verbal garbage that is tossed my way.

 

Recently, when I was scrolling through the profiles and found this woman who piqued my interest. I was too nervous to send her a message so I hit the ‘like’ button. Later that week I went back on and I had a notification saying that she ‘liked’ me back!!!! I was excited, but still I didn’t message her. Then two days ago I walked into Oly Coffee Roasters and there she was, behind the bar wiping down the counters. She glanced up when I walked in. Our eyes met. To me there seemed to be a recognition of our connection.

 

Heart fluttering I ordered and sat down, for fear that my legs would leave me laying at her feet. Once the caffeine hit my system I began to write.

 

 

Dear H—– (Her OkCupid name)

 

I have seen you before..

I know.

On the interwebs

Where you don’t need your mouth to speak

And confidence is more abundant with every

Click.

 

I saw you.

I don’t remember what you wrote, or..

I’m sorry.

 

I can’t think.

You are twenty feet away

With a rosebud pink dress that could

Revive wilted boughs with their natural beauty.

 

As if to camouflage myself within you

My cheeks flush

As eyes spark against yours

With a brief glance and a quick smile.

 

I melt

The chocolate in my mouth

With a worry fretted tongue

In anxiety at the thought of forming

Words.

 

To actually speak

To connect

To see if that ‘like’ that ‘star’ that ‘match’..

Can be made into a real connection?

 

~Jackie~ (###-###-####)

 

P.S. This is a silly crush, I was inspired to write a

poem in honor of the moment. My hear wont break,

but whatever the case, I’d love to be friends.

 

 

I finished. Beginning to sweat, and shake, knowing that today was the day, the day that I would have the vagina to toss my guts out on the street for the gulls to eat. I packed up, waiting for her to finish talking with a customer and then made my move.

 

She was making a drink as I ‘sidled’ around the bar towards her. I planted my feet across from her, making that quick and glancing eye contact we had been sharing throughout the hours I had labored. I leaned in slightly and held out the note, she smiled, like she had known the note was for her the entire time. She finished pouring and set the mug down wiping her hands on a towel and walked over.

 

“Thank you!” she said.

 

I nodded and fled, leaving my breath with the note and blushing a few shades darker than her dress.

 

Its been two days.

No word.

 

It was the weekend in Bellingham at Western, a cold Friday or Saturday in mid October. The winds that often blow through town had a message on them that night. All week people had been talking about the block party. A party that encompasses an entire apartment complex and parking lot. The party of the year, one that was accessible to everyone, even freshman. I got ready in the dorms and headed out to a friends house to further prepare for the night. We were planning on departing around 10:30pm, the party was planned to start at 9pm. As we ‘prepared’ we sat on the front porch watching the belligerent students sloshing by.

            We got some updates from passerbys that by 10pm the party had already gotten out of control and the cops had showed up to break things apart. People were getting angry. The majority of the 15,000 students at Western had heard wind of this party and they were on the trail. Because the block had been shut down the mob moved into the street. Swaying their ground the blocked off one of the roads, impeding traffic and a main bus line.

            Another group was waddling up the street towards campus, it was 10:30pm one last update before we make our move. The group informed us that the party was stationed on the corner of Lorell park. Lorell park was pretty close to my friends house so we started walking towards the fray. Crossing the grass we could see a crowd had gathered on three sides of one intersection blocking all three streets. On the ‘unoccupied’ street cop cars began filing into line for about half a mile down the road.

            Tensions were rising fast, the students began to chant, I cant remember what they were chanting at first.. slightly inaudible, but then the second chant came around and it was clearly identifiable. “Sea Hawks! Sea Hawks! Sea Hawks!” I cringed inwardly, the mob gained momentum with this seemingly classic hit. The energy of the mob swelled with their voices, they found strength in the verbal reassurance of their entity. Someone threw a bottle. It found its landing strip and shattered accordingly spewing glass across the pavement towards the first cop car. Again, this action turned to sound ignited and fueled the mob, more bottles were launched, vagabonds ran into near by houses and grabbed anything that would satiate this audible need for chaos. Plates and glasses and mugs were swiped and thrown up into the air. Someone started yanking the stop sign loose on the corner, others seemed to agree and went to assist. A few minutes later the stop sign was free from its gravestone grounding and air born, chucked by a stray piece of the mob. Why did they rip out the stop sign you may ask? Why are they mad you may ask? What happened next you may ask??

Face pressed against the glass, you look in.

Hands shielding the sun from your reflection.

 

From within I walk towards you. As if to make myself the subject of your pondering.

 

Glancing off the glass you walk towards the door, and enter.

 

I sit where you were standing, perhaps your reflection still stays there watching me.

 

I pretend.

 

The glass between us never really fades,

Our eyes glance off each other as you sit and I eat.

 

Never truly meeting.

 

Both sets of eyes bend slightly around book ends.

 

Blue, Brown, Blush,

Blush, Blue, Brown,

 

Plate empty. I prepare.

The pilgrimage begins with slow steps

Pausing. Holding the moment in my hands

The transparent plate holds one last crumb.

 

I glance up.

 

I walk through the impermeable separation.

Our eyes finally meet.

 

Brown, Blush, Blue,

Blue, Brown, Blush,

 

You watch me entering swiftly into the void.

 

Face flushing I bend my head and lick the crumb from my plate.

As if to kiss you goodbye.

 

Returning the plate I turn to leave.

Now I watch you, legs folded, head thickly forested, black, bent, down.

 

I think I know you.

From that linear reality encased between glass, a web in which we all meet.

 

I want to return to introduce myself with my mouth. To say hello. To speak ongoing with my eyes, hands, and feet.

 

Shuffling, fumbling, blushing, faltering

 

To make a connection.

 

Yet I find another glass wall, within my mind.

 

My tongue lays useless, my body encased in the duality of fear.

Freeze and flight.

 

I descend walking away, every step a question, a contradiction, an excuse.

 

These walls so safe, enclose me.

I settle to continue to look from within.

Meeting her eyes briefly, he said hello. Hands shoved into pockets, feet shuffling, how they wished to meet hers.

She looked up at the moon, pleading release from this gravitational pull.

She took a step back. Why was she taking a step back?

The bus was coming.

In her mind it was already here, she was sitting, facing the front, watching him go. She felt the weight of the kiss on her lips as her heart sank, and with the tide retreated.

He watched with the moon her meanderings, reading them carefully in the purse of her lips, and the condensation of her sigh.

He stepped closer.

Her eyes opened to the sound of feet. Was he closer?

The streetlight sent down stark shadows opening wide the crevices of his face, the fingers of secrets rested languidly on his lips.

Each brush of a butterfly’s wing reminded her that time hadn’t stopped, yet the world was frozen around them.

 

The bus was never coming. The moon their only witness.

Icicles of tension caged them in their minds.

 

He could see them, in the corners of her eyes, a myriad of emotions written in the wrinkles.

The butterflies began to crash about in a frenzy, their wings shredded by worry and self doubt.

Why was he looking at her in that way? Could he see the blood of the butterflies that rushed beneath her cheeks?

 

From a distance came the soft tired sound of the bus stretching and sighing, easing its way down the street, closer.

 

He held his breath. His mind racing, the bus was coming, closer, closer. Should he bridge the gap? He tiptoed to the edge and looked down.

Down.. down.. down..

She watched, and looked with him.

It was a big gap.

 

Forgotten in the moment the bus had arrived. Its soft light and impatient grumbles released them.

 

They moved, hugging quickly, so as not to lose balance over the gap.

 

He watched her go and felt the weight of the kiss on his lips as his heart sank, and with the tide retreated.

 

 

Last Friday and Saturday I attended a workshop on business readiness planning in order to be eligible to continue on in a ten week class on business training hosted and taught by Enterprise for Equity, a local nonprofit that aims to give local entrepreneurs the skills to run their own successful small business. The business that I want to create is called The Tité Project. The Tité Project is a social enterprise that works with fair trade artisans from around the globe and connects them with local brick and mortar retailers (such as Traditions in downtown Olympia). This provides communities like ours with a simple and affordable opportunity to support safe working conditions, family living wages, and sustainable community development projects with every purchase. –Those last two sentences are what is called a mission statement- A mission statement is a short concise introduction to your business, clearly describing the who, what, when, and where for consumers. I have been struggling to come up with such a description for a few weeks now, but Enterprise for Equity gave me the tools I needed!

            I am very excited for this class (Eye of the Story) because for my main project where I am going to begin my work with one local artisan! Through the ten weeks I plan to create a documentary looking into the inspiration behind the artist’s style and follow them through the trials and tribulations of one of their current pieces. I would also like to use this project as an opportunity to learn how to work with an artist and gain the skills to share someone else’s stories truthfully and in the most empowering way.

I was in Olympia at my parent’s house, I hadn’t been on the rental property, which we call Villa Villekulla, for a long time, so I decided to explore. I walked down to the doublewide and crossed over into the field walking the path towards the barn. Instead of grass someone had planted a bunch of lettuce plants that had become overgrown and gone to seed, looking more like prehistoric shrubbery than small leafy bundles. I continued walking as I got to the other side following the path down to the decrepit barn, as I walked the family that was renting the property appeared and began walking in my direction. I held my breath and knelt down trying not to be seen. They didn’t see me at first but when they got closer they sensed me, turning their heads in unison, they looked at me like I was stupid. I fumbled in the grass trying to pretend that I had dropped something, masking my red cheeks in the dirt. They continued on seemingly with disinterest so I got up and went on my meanderings. I walked up along the fence away from the barn towards a picnic table by the brambles. On the ground next to the table there were two masks, one laying on top of the other. The top one was the face of a girl, with black hair, cut in a bob, wearing a high school marching band headdress. The inside of the mask was lined with hard clear plastic, revealing the realistic looking skin like material stretched over the front. There were a few notes written on the plastic, with one reading, “When cows fly.” I flipped it over, my stomach dropped, it was the face of a girl, with black hair, cut in a bob, wearing a high school marching band headdress. It was real. The second mask was made in a similar style. With the hair on my neck standing stiff I dropped them, turned, and with increasing speed began to walk back to my house. The family watched me, still with only their heads following my movement and then they began to follow. One of the sons, a boy about my age, caught up to me first grabbing my arm and told me I couldn’t leave. He said they needed my foot. Spitting “No!” I pushed past him with the freezing heat of fear in my chest. The family had slowed, they knew where I lived, if they needed me they knew where to look.

 

Jackie