P--

Are we still on for tonight?

In the time since I saw you last, I took a course in First Aid and Adult CPR. I received two little cards which certify that I am allowed to attempt to save your life should your life in the next few years need saving. I sang the Beatles’ “I want to hold your hand,” for a fifty dollar donation to the Mosaic Project. I read 3 poems at the festival in front of the assembled audience, one of which I’d never read publicly before. I rearranged my bedroom and I built the frame of my loft bed (with Andre’s sweet and dedicated assistance). I ate copious amounts of hot dogs. I spent one whole day crying at random intervals for no discernable reason. I decided it was for lack of exercise and I went to a yoga class that night, which, though it was excellent, did not put me in a better mood. I read two major papers I had written my last semester of college and decided that they weren’t crap at all. In fact, reading them was a major high point of that whole depressed day. I watched one episode of Six Feet Under. I voted for Camejo. I helped teach another fabulous class. I sabotaged myself.

I rollerbladed from my home to Rockridge, which I wouldn’t recommend (because almost the entire journey is an incredibly steep uphill climb), but it was quite exhilarating, nevertheless. After that, I really felt like I could have rollerbladed anywhere. I mean, I was already at College Avenue. I could go all the way to your house if I wanted to. Or Cal. And from there to Solano. Albany. Or the Marina. Indian Rock. Tilden Park. One or more bridges. The big red one. The one they let folks walk across if they want to. My thighs felt so strong. My lungs and cells grateful for the oxygen. Everything sweetly sore from the yoga class of the day before that I was only just now beginning to really appreciate. I almost didn’t want to stop. My body in motion always begs to stay in motion. Until exhaustion. Until it really, really hurts. There’s just the initial inertia to overcome. The prohibitive creak and heave of leaving the house. I forget how much I love to move until I’m already in motion.

I went to the Women’s Choice Clinic, reveling in the sense that I was taking care of myself. And furthermore, taking care of myself both for free and by appointment in a place that had no scary people or smells, no questionable stains on the walls, no long lines in which to wait. I laughed more than was absolutely necessary as I answered the intake woman’s questions. (She intrigued me very much—I liked her manner, as if she had seen everything and was all-understanding and unconditionally open-minded and young and hip and mature and sensible and wore her white-girl brunette hair in dreadlocks that neither offended me nor tempted me to take her less than seriously. She was a treat.) She asked me about life changes. (I had checked off the box that asked if I was going through stressful life changes.) I spoke of my primary relationship. I spoke of my neverending search for a way to make my life personally significant and meaningful. I spoke of death. Deaths. Five in the past two and a half years, each more hard to handle than the last. I laughed more than was absolutely necessary. I don’t know who I was trying to put at ease, myself or her. She asked me when was the last time I had had a UTI, the one which had turned into a kidney infection. I told her it was last April. That I knew the month because it was right after someone [Sifu Coleen] had died. I laughed and told her that I had begun to tell time by people’s deaths. That I was doing a lot of work putting together things for the memorial service at the time. And in the middle of everything, I had to go to the emergency room in the middle of the night. I told her more than was absolutely necessary. I laughed at that. I laughed in the bathroom, as I was trying to fill up a plastic cup and the trajectory was all wrong and I overfilled the cup and my fingers and had to wipe everything down really carefully. Then I laughed again as I opened the bathroom door to find that the intake woman (her name was Anna. Anna Wilson. She had noticed that our initials were the same. I told her that she would have sat right behind me in class. I told her that I had a plant named Anna. She asked me what kind of plant. I told her that it was a shefferlaria (sp?). She did not know what they looked like. I told her that she would recognize one if she saw one. They’re relatively common around here. I told her that I had named it after one of my favorite characters from Tales of the City. I trusted her to be familiar with the book or at least the film. I do not know if she was. Familiar. I didn’t notice. I was too busy laughing at myself for talking so much.) –she was standing right outside of the door. Waiting for me to finish filling my cup. I laughed at the fact that she must have heard me laughing all by myself in the bathroom. I must have come across as quite a funny little thing. And how funny that was to me. Oh, the whole thing was absurd. But I was having a good time. Perhaps I was delirious.

White blood cells in my urine. Which means that my urinary tract has been fighting off something. Which means that it was good that I had come in, even if the evidence of my suspected UTI had faded. A prescription for antibiotics. Ten black and yellow capsules, also free. But the nurse practitioner had said that she doubted that I had gonorrhea or chlamydia—could she tell that from looking at my urine?—but she swabbed me and said that she would send in the tests and let me know. I made an appointment for an annual. They had a slot open for next week. How efficient. How delightful. The whole thing was quite comforting. Made me want to volunteer there. Made me want to volunteer anywhere, doing something that felt personally meaningful. Helping people. Or building things.

I searched for volunteer opportunities on craigslist. I made a plan to attend a volunteer meeting for Habitat for Humanity next Tuesday. And to go. And build things. Houses in San Francisco. I think I need that right now. I think I will enjoy myself tremendously. Get outside of my own self-absorbed little head.

In the time since I saw you last, I have done extraordinary gymnastics on a thick brass pole. I have put both my feet behind my head. At the same time. The Oakland P.D. has put a bright orange sticker on my car that says that if I do not drive it at least one mile by Friday, they will tow it (for shame!: police everywhere always trying to steal my poor little Tercel). I have made a tomorrow appointment with a mechanic to do work which I cannot actually afford until after Friday. I have trusted that in the morning some sort of a payday advance place will sell me some money. I have never done that before. I have spoken with an dear friend who lives in Brazil. I have smelled the flowers that Andre has left all over the house for me to smell and touch, even as she is away, even as we are taking time for ourselves these past few days. I have lain on the grass at twilight surrounded by Mosaic family, looking at the sky through the trees and the trees against the sky listening to my brilliant friend Brett Dennen play music that holds a hand out to my heart and invites it to open. I have contemplated the questions he offers: "And in the morning when I rise, one question that feels like the sun in my eyes: am I making the most of this life?" And I have contemplated the answers he offers: "There’s a comfort in self loathing / and it’s easy to slip into it / but still i must learn to lead my life with no regrets / all the time it all moves in the same direction / so don’t let it pass you by / because it moves so fast, there’s no time for perfection / so make the most of this life, make the most of this life."

I have confronted my fears. I have realized that when I speak I feel so much stronger than when I keep everything I am afraid to reveal inside me. I have stagnated. I have grown. I have slept. I have reached outside of myself. I have hidden. I have helped little boys understand the complex mysteries of long division. I have blissed out on Brett’s lyrics ("wake I and pour I a cup of / wake I and pour I a cup of / wake I and pour I a cup of life!") I have fretted and fussed and meditated and stretched and danced and worried and wondered and dreamed over how to open my heart, how to be kinder and sweeter and gentler to myself and to those that I love. I have thought of you fondly. Thinking of you fondly, I picked up the vest of yours that I have borrowed, I brought it to my nose and reveled in the sweet surprise of finding your scent and with your scent, sweet delicious memories.

In the time since I saw you last, I have written you this letter. And written it for myself, as well.

Yesterday, I was rather depressed. Today I am quite well and feeling increasingly at peace with myself. And tomorrow (at least according to the American Red Cross), I might very well save your life . . . .

I love you, sweet friend.

Ariana