Warning from the Author

What I do, what I think, and who I am should be of no interest to anyone; nothing I do is particularly noteworthy, none of my thoughts are particularly original, and it's my thinking that no aspect of my being should consume anyone's attention for any amount of time. I can't see how my words will have any value as entertainment, much less instruction, since I have neither the talent nor the inclination for composing such things. In sum, I can think of no reason why any reader should be bothered to read any part of what I have to say.


The fact is that I write for my own benefit and amusement; partly to pass the time, and partly in the hopes that I might gain some insight into my character although, to be honest, I suspect that my efforts will be useless even in this regard, since what I write contains mostly lies. But the truth is that I don't write with an audience in mind. This may be a lie. I suppose this is a fair warning.


I offer no apologies, ever, but I realize that the aforementioned may seem somewhat dry, even mundane. The purpose of blogging seems to consist of postulations that are nonconcurring. For reflection? For oneself? For entertaining others? For journaling significant anythings? For business purposes?


I do not plan to propose any purpose for my prose, nor do I expect the other authors to state any form of intent. Between the timestamp this post is marked to the initiation of my next entry, I will ponder how I will exist on this blog. This may sound profound, but it isn't. High brow? Yes. Always.


I am leaving you with Michel de Montaigne's address to the reader from Essays of Montaigne.

READER, here is a book of good faith; it doth at the outset forewarn thee that in it I have proposed to myself no other than a domestic and private end: I have had no consideration either to thy service or to my glory. My strength is not capable of such a design. I have dedicated it to the private commodity of my kinsfolk and friends, so that, having lost me (which they have to do shortly), they may therein recover some traits of my conditions and humors, and by that means preserve more whole and more vivid the knowledge they had of me. Had my intention been to seek the world’s favor, I should surely have adorned myself with borrowed beauties: I desire herein to be viewed, as you see me, in mine own simple, natural, and ordinary manner, without study and artifice: for it is myself I paint. My defects are herein to be read to the life: my imperfections and my natural form, so far as public respect permitted me. If I had lived among those nations which (they say) yet dwell under the sweet liberty of primitive laws of nature, I assure thee I would most willingly have painted myself quite fully and quite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book: there’s no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure on so frivolous and vain a subject. Adieu, then!

For Clarification:

Despite any contention that could potentially follow this entry, I think everyone should know that I, Kathryn Kostroski, am the definitive champion of Grassballz.

Yum....

Words, delicious indeed.

Like lavender, honey and vanilla gelato, consumed with a tiny translucent, neon-colored shovel of a spoon.

I'm constantly thinking about language; its limitations, its foundations, is (mis)uses and the manipulation of a single word or brief phrase for (mis)interpretations; how I can write 'neat' and those reading it might think, oh, cool, and others might know my sarcasm and think, oh, you. This is a topic to which we will certainly return.

Right now, I'm thinking about how certain words feel good as they are leaving the tip of your tongue. Palpable words. Words that almost taste good rolling around on the backs of your teeth and the roof of your mouth. J.R.R. Tolkein in his English and Welsh posited that 'cellar door' was the most beautiful word sound in the English language, but is it the most fun to say? Cellar door. Cell-ar doooooor. Hm, not bad.

I guess 'gelato' isn't English. But it still sounds really good.

as promised, a beginning.

i tend to take refuge in the earnestness of my writing.  i don't know what exactly i have to offer this particular endeavor, what my own contribution to the unapologetic answer will be.  the odds of genius, or poignancy, or vivacity tumbling out of my key strokes seem slim.  really, i only have one guarantee: that everything i give, i give wholeheartedly.    

to begin with, some thoughts on words.

words have been as familiar to me as peas or bananas, as swing sets and carpeting, for as long as i can consciously recall anything.  they have surrounded me my entire life, in both my physical and psychic worlds.   my mother read fairy tales to the fetal version of my self.  there were stories written on my baby room wallpaper.  at nap time, i hid books beneath my pillows, to read after the lights were turned out.  during the heinous years of adolescence, i spent hours in libraries and plot lines, taking cover from the worst blows of puberty.  for the last 5 years words have been my currency, through which i have managed to purchase some self expression along with a degree.  after so many years of devotion, words are strung up like christmas lights in my imagination, gently illuminating my innermost impressions.    

i love them.  

beginning a venture that will be conducted almost entirely in text, i feel that it is important to take a moment to appreciate this very impressive medium.  though the actual aesthetics of our words will be limited by computerized fonts and color palettes, formatted to the reader's screen, there is still so much potential in what we set down here.  potential for pleasure, for pride.  potential for embarrassment (for, though i am not a writer either, christine, i am also sensitive about what i write) or misunderstanding.  there is even the potential that something truly grand or wonderful or exciting will happen.  words can crystallize events, solidify memories or stories from their immediate, possibly ephemeral state into something that can be shared, even after we have all forgotten them.  however, whatever we write can also deliquesce certainty, can soften and blur the harder edges of fact or verity.  we can create whatever we want to here.  

it's that potentiality that i find so incredibly alluring.  the layers of meaning imbedded in each specific formulation of letters, the lines that we read with our minds and hearts between the lines we read with our eyes... mmmm.  

delicious.  

i am going to try not to be intimidated by the skill and craft of you two co-authors (though, quite frankly, after reading the posts preceding mine that will be a rather difficult task.)  ending thoughts has never been my strong suite, particularly when it comes to writing them down- an ending always feels so artificial.  but then, i suppose this is just a beginning... so i guess i can relax a bit.  

until later then, loves.

The Eyes Behind the Blindfold

Okay, Kate, I'm going to put this out there. Where? Out "there." Creepy. Maybe we really should keep this on permanent classified status.

Unfortunately, I do not recall what led to the thought 'there's still blood on your hands.' Perhaps it was the (historical) danger (we encountered none) of the wild west. Tombstone. Talk of No Country for Old Men while on this aforementioned road trip, a contemplation of violence. Regardless, I have a tendency to write down words and phrases to which I hope to return and expound upon, creatively. Or otherwise. I rarely, in fact, do return. However, the phrase kind of stuck in my head and by the time I got home, ready to write my 'flash fiction' (250 words or less) for my online writing 'class', I put my fingers to the keys and this just kind of created itself.

Keep in mind that I'm not a writer, but I'm still kind of sensitive about my shit.



The Eyes Behind the Blindfold, by Christine.


‘Make sure you get all the blood off.’

Deanne glared at him over her shoulder. She turned off the water, threw the soap into the basin, faced him and wiped her hands on her jeans.

‘Your pouting won’t help. I’m starting to think you didn’t want this.’

Jack was good at that, making her think there was a time when she did want to break into his sister’s home, bind his twin seven-year-old nieces, their mother and father, in the barn and execute them.

‘The hard part is over. Now we just drive. Like when we were kids. Anywhere you want.’

His hands on her waist, he gently turned her toward the sink and began washing her hands. He was so fucking good at that. The sacrifices, always for her.

‘You’ll feel better once you are cleaned up, once we are on the road.’

She watched the blood swirl down the drain, she watched his hands massage the red out of her skin, watched him pat them dry with a rag. Just minutes before it had been tied around the now dead eyes of his sister.

‘There you go. See? Everything is working out exactly how we planned. Finally, Deanne, now it will all begin for us.’

It calmed her to hear him speak like that. He was so good. His voice made it easy. She took the pistol from the countertop, fired twice and went out the backdoor.

There was not a trace of blood on her this time.

Dunderpation in the States.

I have one more quote to impart in the spirit of recent ruminations from the freeway.

In response to being asked if he had ever been lost, Daniel Boone said this:

"I can't say I was ever lost, but I was bewildered once for three days."

Webster word entries are too short for accurate definitions.

Does any of this make sense, Kate? I think I audibly sighed with relief by the conclusion.

The daunting task of blogging about a road trip was weighing on me; I felt some kind of obligation to write about this event, but knew neither where to begin, end, or how to fill in the spaces. Too much space. Ironic, as I woke up centimeters from you day after day for a week, and sat maybe a foot from you hour after hour of a driving day. From your post, it seems we shared many sentiments. Also ironic, as, despite the collective nature of the trip - and the surprising moments of self-disclosure - with the dearest of friends, a great deal of it felt intensely personal.

Ponderance: either we read Kerouac and frame ourselves to have that experience, or, perhaps, the road trip simply is a universal experience. Kerouac didn't create it, just wrote it. Should there be something wrong with that? We spend so much time wanting to separate, distinguish ourselves from the other, maybe a common ground isn't such a thing to fear.

This is one of a few topics I returned to again and again while journaling on the open road, the (American?) romanticization of travel, of the road. Concrete (literally, cement) and tar representations of freedom? Access to change or newness? I wasn't necessarily looking for answers as we set out West on a Tuesday night. Which is good, because by the time we headed East, I was steeped in question and caked in wonder.

Just a few short days from driving the last mile, I am still in processing and I'm certainly not very articulate in expressing the feeling of feeling so much feeling. Goddamn, it was just wheels on a road, signs and signs and gas stations and gas stations! But in transit, I found myself rather emotionally labile.

I cried a bit behind my dirty, smudged sunglasses when Ranger John Bruce had us look at our hands the last time. I couldn't even wipe my eyes with those dirty, dusty hands, but I was so grateful that they were, in fact, so dirty and dusty.

I swelled with victory through my cardiac laboring as we returned to the ridge rim top from our hike down Gooseberry Mountain. Sweaty hugs all around somehow led to a calm that seemed nostalgic. But when before did I feel so calm?

In a few days, I bounded along the emotional spectrum, was angry and heartbroken and in love and grateful and sullen and sappy and happy and silly and mean and cold and warm and encouraging and distant and present and...am still in processing.

Post Script:

Christine, Does any of this make sense?

(I'd ask our readers, but we don't have any.)

Scenic Overlook Ahead (Or Inner-look, if you will; Below).

This is my disclaimer: The opening sentences of this entry (to follow, paragraph 3) may inevitably seem trite. However, (regardless) they are true. It is possible that the experience I aim to further expound upon is one that is, on its exterior, quite cliche, and the details that prevent it thus will be nearly impossible to convey in an accessible and concise way. Perhaps I will contend with the reason I feel the need to preface this entry in this way, instead of trying to justify the uniqueness of the experience. Perhaps it just is more universal than it is esoteric.

This being said, it is for posterity, not cool-points, that I continue. It happened like this:

The four of us were driving out of Mesa Verde National Park as the sun began to make its descent. It is Saturday, none of us have showered since Tuesday, and we're listening to Flamenco as we wind through plateaus on a serpentine canyon road. The windows are down.

My heart feels full. (Genuinely.)

Once this glow has waned some, much like the warmth of the sun, my contentment gives way to hunger. This degeneration ends somewhere like Durango when we stop for food, but I've already begun to dissect the elements of my general fulfillment in association with our venture to the West. The "road trip" and its persistence in the American psyche as a vague, romanticised pilgrimage is a fascinating study. I'm wondering if we need these odd (sometimes trying) experiments in isolation to solidify our usual relations with the ones we purport to love (so easily) on a day to day basis.

People have a myriad amount of things to say regarding travel. Jack Keruoac says this: "Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again, we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life." He may be suggesting that our mobilizations are intuitive, possibly involuntary. We are restless creatures. Movement is necessary. I came across another quote I found telling when combing the internet for various opinions on the subject of wanderlust: " Maps encourage boldness. They're like cryptic love letters. They make anything seem possible". This was stated by Mark Jenkins. (I have no idea who Mark Jenkins is, but I like what the man says of maps. I'm in agreement on this front.) But how does this involuntary boldness brought on by the illustrious notion of "roadtripping" actually effect the relations of its participants?

My speculative theory is this: A roadtrip offers a concentrated slice of our normally broad scope of emotions that is regularly played out in entirety within the vast theatre that is our daily lives. On the petrie dish that is a cross-country journey with friends, the multi-faceted specimen manifests itself in only a fractional microcosm of interaction, in this case, a Ford Focus or a three-person tent, housing four. If all participants are able adjust to the compression of their reactionary desires during the indubitable, unforeseen circumstances that life on the road may present, chances are everyone will still be friends when you get back to Madison. (Drinks at Natspil!)

On this venture, I found my emotions ranging from one extreme to the next in rather short succession. This is true of many trips I've taken, or have had the opportunity to hear about. The distractions are few, the challenges are many. On the day that ended as I've described above, only hours before my seemingly life-affirming drive into the sunset, I found myself seized with laughter while a cut-off clad Ed disappeared into a tunnel while touring an ancient cliff dwelling of the Ancestral Pueblo. He had to nearly get onto his belly to clear the roof of the hole with my back pack on, and for whatever reason (overtiredness? overexertion of emotional restraint thus far?) I found this hilarious. I shouldn't have been laughing, all considered. He was after all, carrying my backpack, and we were treading (crawling headfirst through) an archaeological wonder, but the feelings commanded by the road know not the bounds of propriety. Approximately 25 minutes after I finally get a handle of the incessant giggling (to the dismay of the respectful elderly couple behind me) , I nearly cry when Park Ranger John Bruce asks us to examine our potential as human beings through our reliance on the hands of others. Perhaps by now, if you're not a traveller, you're suggesting I get a grip, if you are however, chances are you've encountered a similar deluge of compelling feelings in as short a time span. It wasn't that these expressions were insincere, they simply were without the proper amount of time and space to project themselves realistically. This is the nomad life.

You may find yourselves eating an apple in a lean-to in the bottom of a canyon, after a 1400 foot descent, singing Total Eclipse of the Heart, practically begging for a sign from above that suggests you turn around for the car (Will a white butterfly suffice?). I couldn't tell if this was desperation, dehydration, or comedy. Abnormal circumstances breed abnormal emotional responses. (And in my case, more often than not, uninvited fits of laughter.) Or, perhaps you and Christine are pressing wet sand into turrets and towers under a sky filled with mountains and dunes. There are no clouds; the boys have set off on a foot-race across the flood plain leaving two of you to your fleeting architectural endeavors. But while you partake in this inconsequential, childish activity, you let conversation give way to some of your deepest insecurities. This is not the stuff of prediction. It is the stuff of the Road Trip. And I suggest you take one. I've seen some really remarkable places in the last week.

However, when creating an ambitious itinerary based on that awe-inspiring map in front of you, consider that with every new vista that opens to you, a new (emotive) can of worms may, as well. Benjamin Disraeli says this: "Like all Great travelers, I have seen more than I remember and remember more than I've seen".

No friends were lost in the production/research of this entry.