I’ve written at least ten posts that I never finished in the last year.  I can barely set my thoughts straight long enough. They wriggle and prance and kick up dust, a tiny roadside attraction in my brain that I pulled off the freeway for, and then never left. A fairy ring; a curse. Today I helped my mother–pumped full of the hemoglobin of other people to ward off a cancer that cannot be killed–sort through her life’s things while I pushed my own life as far away as I could. It’s not a life I am proud of. It’s an embarrassing ex: I try to hide it, but something about the past always betrays me.

Was the world coming to an end that last time I posted? I’m too immobilized to check. Or I’ve been drinking a clumsy, homemade martini and I no longer give a shit. What I know is that I started this blog to record an adventure I was certain would change my life and now it’s just where I go to exorcise demons. In some ways I was able to adventure. I saw much of the country before it began gunning for the cliff’s edge. I met wonderful people; ate pleasantly mediocre food in peaceful settings. I built fires and pitched tents and drank cheap wine under a sunbrella in the pouring Pacific Northwest rain because I was “rugged” (read: tired and grumpy) and did not give a fuck. I camped, explored, and took pictures that the Internet told me would make other people jealous of their nine-to-five lives, even though I sort of envied their money and their stability. I adventured, and pretended I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do, when I knew that I wouldn’t ever do what I wanted; I would have to eventually do what I had to do.

And let’s be honest: I should’ve started on that path a long time ago.

We left Portland on the heels of a snowstorm and a massive disaster known as an election. We the people hired a televangelist for greed, and as he took the reins he began to unfasten the bolts of the great mechanism we call America. It’s too insane, too ridiculous, too painful to write about. Already there is a wave of hate upon us so deeply ingrained in and reliant upon ignorance that its weight cannot be shook from our shoulders.

This is not to say we don’t deserve it. But let’s be honest: the people who should’ve taken up the hammers of justice should’ve done so years ago.

My heart hurts as I type this. Not because I didn’t see it coming– I did. While sighs of pained realization floated all about me during election night I couldn’t rid myself of a feeling of familiarity as the president elect celebrated his win. Not a good familiarity. Not one of pleasant recognition. Just one of resignation as I realized that this was truly, for all intents and purposes, a long time coming.

We left Portland, and came back to help our parents through whatever trials and tribulations await them and us and everything.

I’d like to say that moving back to California has done me some good. Like an ad for milk, I’d like to say that I pull my shining hair into an easy ponytail, sip on a glass of Golden State sunshine, and exhale exuberance. I’d like to say that I wake up in the morning looking forward to the day. Instead, I wake up wondering how long it will take until Miles is annoyed that I haven’t moved. He won’t see that my feet are stuck in existential cement. That I dreamt–when I was able to sleep– of walking in a slow circle in a field full of nothing and that that dream didn’t seem to end when my eyes opened. I’d like to say that I am filled with hope, even as my prospects for a job, for the ability to see a doctor, for my nieces and nephew to know a healthy planet, for my Native relatives to grow stronger on their uncontested land, for my grandmother not to think her life will end in a world of turmoil and grief, for a chance at a future without fear and worry, all seem to diminish as quickly as my shitty, cheap martini.

For now, I will go to bed. Tomorrow, I will try again.




About Oona Suzannah

Returned to California. Old habits die hard.
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