Coffee, Hike, Shower, Shoot

"Let's get coffee, then hike, then shower, the go shoot."

We discussed our afternoon plans while our pedicures dried.

And I realized that I'm a little bit of everything all rolled into one.

Everyone here thinks I am a crunchy, granola, hippie who spends my days climbing mountains and drinking out of a Nalgene while driving a Subaru with a carabineer on the keychain.    But everyone from Cleveland thinks that I would never dream of living in a place without granite countertops.  Or wearing anything but trendy, overpriced denim and Stuart Weitzman heels.  And everyone from college thinks that I am an academic snob who spends my night in a book and my days pondering the meaning of life.  They think I’d never be caught dead in a bar past 10 PM.  And everyone from Ketchum laughs when they read that on their iPhone while watching me throw back Jager shots and pound Budweiser.  And get pedicures.  I like to chew Copenhagen.  And drink girly martinis.  I like to get muddy.  And go shopping for overpriced denim.  I like to drink PBR in dive bars.  And get all dressed up and spend too much on wine and dinner at fancy restaurants.  I like the Beastie Boys.  And Brahms.  And country music.  I like to hike (a lot).  And spend all day laying out and getting third-degree sunburns.  I like to drink coffee (a lot).  And wake up too late.  And stay out too late.  And watch movies.  And go to bed early.  And cuddle.  And be NC-17.  I like a good piece of gossip.  And a good conversation about world politics.  I like to read US Weekly.  And Ayn Rand.  I believe in God.  But I haven’t been to church since Christmas.  I hate wasting my days.  And there’s nothing I love more than an afternoon spent drinking beer in the sun just wasting away the afternoon.  I like to travel.  And I’m a complete homebody.  I love nice houses.  And sleeping in my car.  Or on a stranger’s couch.  I like dating.  And I am a serial monogamist.  I’m not sure I believe in marriage.  But I believe in happily ever after.  I am terrified to love people.  And more terrified not to.   I am a crunchy-hippie, redneck, fashionista, academic who likes pricey wine, nice clothes, cheap beer and getting dirty in the woods (take that how you will). Like most people I’m not to be defined by one nice adjective.  Unlike most people, I stand up for this right.  I’m a square peg in a round hole.  And so far this Valley of the Sun is the closest I’ve come to finding a place that lets me just be me.

On Writer's Block and Bipolar Disorder

Writing gives you a glimpse of what it’s like to be manic depressive.  Bipolar.  So does all art I suppose.  I’m sure I’m not the first person who has said that.  After all Hemingway killed himself and Van Gogh cut off his ear.  Talk about a depressive state if I’ve ever heard of one.  The highs are so high.  The words are pouring through your fingers like Spiderman’s webbing.  You are simultaneously witty, poignant and intelligent.  You are making readers laugh and cry and ponder their very existence on the earth.  You are resolving latent psychological issues and becoming a better person.  All through the power transferring from brain to MacBook Pro.  And it just keeps on rolling like a boulder down the mountainside.  Until it stops.

Nothing.

Silence.

Dead.

And there you wake up one day without the words.  Sometimes they are gone for years.  Sometimes just for a few days or a few hours.  You feel like you can’t even type a grammatically correct sentence let alone a poignant observation on personal experiences that somehow sheds light on the deep-seated fears and longing of all humanity.  There are no witty remarks.  There are no laugh-out-loud anecdotes.  Just a big, fat, blinking cursor on a blank page.  It laughs at you, mocking your inadequacy and lack of intelligence.

And it won’t stop blinking.