T minus 4 hours, 32 minutes

In four hours and thirty-two -- make that thirty-one -- minutes, my alarm will go off.  I will roll out of bed, shower, pack my deodorant and my hairbrush, and double check that I have my passport.

(Five days ago, I lay on a massage table at Two Birds Tattoo and listened with half an ear to my friends chatter hilariously about everything and nothing, and had a beautiful flying little owl [athene noctua] tattooed on the inside of my right wrist. It's in the scabby and gross phase right now, but I love every inch of it and what it means to me, and when I look down at my wrist I feel no surprise to see it there.  The pain of the tattoo burned in a dull, fierce way, but I almost welcomed it.  It made it feel permanent.)

The Epic of Gilgamesh

O Gilgamesh!  O Epic Cat!

Evil mastermind.

Here's the thing.  In theory, I hate cats.  They're cruel.  (How many other animals play with their food before they eat it?)  They're manipulative.  They're a little bit crazy.  And I strongly believe that they are actually way stupider than dogs.  But they're cute and fuzzy, and they have big eyes and we like it when they purr, so we keep them around.  

In theory, that's how I feel.  But in practice?  I love my cat.  She's not an easy cat to love, but somehow I still do.  She's been my roommate for seven years.  She's been there through seven (human) roommates, one breakup, two plane rides, two cities, and five apartments.  Last month, when I had food poisoning, I was lying on the bathroom floor after five hours of vomiting.  I was trembling, sweaty, spent.  I couldn't move.  I wanted my mom.  Instead, Gilgamesh curled up against me and purred until I fell asleep, and I nearly cried with gratitude.

This is normal for her.  As bratty as she can be and as manipulative and cruel and crazy and dumb as she is, whenever I'm sick, or heartbroken, or have had a terrible day at school, she seems to know, and she always helps.

So this is the story of Gilgamesh, my constant companion for these seven years.  As you've seen, there will be pictures.  There will be a video.  And then I promise never to post about cats again.

Two Weeks and Counting

In two weeks, I will be on a plane to China.  In two weeks and a day, I will be at a new school, under a new sky, with a new roommate, learning a new language.  In less than a month, it will be the first day of school.

I am unbearably happy.

I am unspeakably sad.

And I want to throw up.

On Food

I am degenerating into my usual summer anarchy, albeit with the everpresent knowledge that in three measly weeks I'm going to be getting on a plane to China and I should probably start packing at some point.  

Things I've loved about this summer so far:

• Fresh tomatoes
• Pelee Island 
• Seeing my family
• Passing out on the couch until 5 a.m. for no good reason other than I can
• Finishing two books in one day
• Having a 2.5 hour conversation with a hilarious twelve year-old girl on the plane.  I don't normally like talking to strangers on airplanes -- I like reading or sleeping better -- but this girl was amazing.  We talked about EVERYTHING:  The Hunger Games, the Outsiders, blowing stuff up for the science fair, her reading level, ziplining, Debate Class, how laws are boring but necessary, Tyler Perry, Trayvon Martin, Criminal Minds (her mom claimed it was based on true stories; the girl shook her head at me and mouthed exaggeratedly, "NO IT ISN'T), the Green River Killer, and crime in Cleveland.  At the end of this conversation she told me that her name was Diamond and that I looked like my name should be BeJewelia.  

Where I'm From (with apologies to Joan Didion)

my backyard in summer; photo credit Rudd Crawford

Ohio -- for me -- has always been a place of stark color and beauty.  In the winter, we are encased in bleakness:  grey sky, brown trees, white snow, frozen mud.  Every now and then there is a snowstorm, and we live in a world of swirling, shimmering whiteness.

I hardly ever get to see Ohio in the summer anymore.  I have childhood memories -- riding my bike on the old railroad tracks, catching fireflies, falling in the creek next to my house, playing planet tag with the King Street crew -- but mostly what I think of when I think of Ohio in summer is a lush green, green everywhere and on everything.  Sometimes even the sky seems green.

(Usually, though, that's right before a thunderstorm and then you push your luck, staying outside for one more berry to pick, one more game to play, one more dance at Illumination, one more adventure to have, and then CRACK, you hear the first peal of thunder and you're running as fast as you can for shelter, laughing with the friends and strangers who are running with you, and the rain starts to pelt down and it hits your skin like bullets but the air is still warm and for some reason the discomfort is good, amazing, and you reach home or the bandstand or the library or Gibson's Bakery and stand there shivering, soaked through, and you grin so wide you think your face is going to fall off.)

(I used to want to get married in a thunderstorm.)