The Deer Hit Me, No Really.

I twice had a deer hit me. No, really, I was at a complete stop. Both times. Same car. Deer ran into me.

It started one late night when I decided I was going to take a shortcut home. I was wondering to myself if I should take said shortcut because it was dark and that might mean there were deer out on the prowl. The road was a direct shot to my house so I turned off the highway onto Gunbarrel Rd. That’s right, I lived on Gunbarrel Rd. and that wasn’t in Texas. Although, I’m sure they have plenty of roads named after guns, and gun parts.

The stretch of road from the highway to my mother’s house is 4.2 miles. Oh, the trouble you can get into in only 4.2 miles. Like a deer jetting out in front of you. I see the deer and hit the breaks, coming to a complete stop only inches from the deer which is standing in front of my car giving me that deer in headlights look, then BAM. Something hit the side of my car. Holy shit, it was a second deer. Damn deer.

My heart is pounding and I’m sitting stopped on this paved stretch of country road, surrounded by open cornfields. The moon is full, the only reason I saw the first deer to begin with, giving me enough light to assess the damage of my little tank of a car. It was a 1993 purple Honda Civic and it had been through so much at this point, like the cow that almost completely destroyed it. I digress, that is another story for another time. Although, once again, not my fault.

The only damage done to my car, Toughens, was the drivers side electric mirror was broken off and hanging by the power cord. My heart slowed and I finished the drive to my mother’s, pulled into the driveway, parked, and heading into bed.

The next morning I was abruptly woken up to my mother barging into my room and asking, “What happened to your car?”

The comfort and warmth of my little twin side bed made it hard to pull the covers off my head, that and how do you explain that you were hit by a deer? The conversation normally goes as follows­–

Me: “A deer hit my car.”

Other person: “Oh, you hit a deer, that sucks.”

Me: “No, I was at a complete stop when the deer ran into me, that’s how the mirror was broke”

Other person: Hysterical laughter.

Only when it was my mother there was no hysterical laughter. She was kind enough to fix my mirror with some funky black glue. It held like a champ. The only down side was when I was driving on the Interstate at 80 mph it shook a little more then it should have.

Here I am driving around with this mirror glued back on, too busy running around to get it fixed, and it stays like that for 8 months; at which point I decide that I’m sick of this whole shaky mirror on the interstate syndrome. I finally break down and call my mechanic, Lavander, who tells me he has to order the part and will call me when it comes in.

He calls. I take my sweet time making an appointment to get it fixed. The part sits on his shelf for 6 weeks while I busy smoking pot. Don’t judge, I was in high school with nothing better to do. Work and pot, what else is there at 18? And I know your asking yourself if I was high when this supposed “deer” hit me. I was not. Nor was I the second time a deer hit me. I often wonder if it was the same deer.

Six weeks after Levander told me the part was in for my car I was hit by a second deer. No, I was at a complete stop when the deer ran into me. I was driving, late at night, on the same stretch of lovely paved country road, Gunbarrel Rd., on my way to my mother’s house, when by the light of the full moon I see a deer run out in front of me. I hit the breaks, coming to a complete stop only inches from the deer which is standing in front of my car giving me that deer in headlights look, then BAM. Something hit the side of my car. Holy shit, it was a second deer. Damn deer. That last thought being followed by the strange feeling of déjà vu.

I assess the damage by moonlight and notice that this time the deer took my mirror clean off. I finished the drive to my mother’s, pulled into the driveway, parked, and heading into bed.

The next morning I was abruptly woken up to my mother barging into my room and asking, “What happened to your car?”

I guess now would be a good time to get that mirror fixed.

Halloween—San Francisco Style 2009

Everything is relitive.   That being said, I came home Wednesday night from the musical Wicked.  11:15pm when I get off the muni.  Powell St is quite.  Relitivly speaking.  It was an enjoyable walk home. 

Three days later.  Halloween night.  We head to the Castro - 9:30pm.  A pink pussy, two sailors, Spock, Sherlock Holmes, and… well I’m not really sure what that one was.  Get to our fist club.  Note to my friends back in Nebraska, “Suckers!”  They might have closed down the party in the street but the Castro was still the place to be.  First bar/club we go to is the Q.  Fun, dancing, having a great time.  Drop my phone, broke it, out of commission.  Next club, dancing, sweating, hot, hot, hot, sweat sweet, wet, wet, wet, red heat. 

Leave the Castro and head to a friend’s flat.  All the dancing, long lines to the bar, does not make for a drunk Kat.  Quick fix, liquor store on the way back.  “I can’t figure out how to get the cover on the futon.”  Cut to girl in pink cat outfit showing the futon what up.  Good thing someone thought to take photos. 

Move to the roof.  Party next door.  Loose a member of our party to that party.  Bed time finally comes – 2am.  I’m not one to wait, even on a hike home, middle of the night, in a big city.  I start walking.  Alone. 

Yeah, I got the lectures already.  It was San Francisco on Halloween.  I never once felt unsafe.  There were still plenty of people on the street at 2am and we all looked like freaks.  All things relative, there were loads of people out.

Broken phone,

Next club,

Getting home,

Jeets appt

Me taking my closes off (not like that you perves)

Roof

Party next door,

Walking home alone at 2am

Photos

Writing for my next project in class.  A Nikon DSLR.

Voyeurism

Looking at a photograph is like looking through a window.  We are always on the outside.  Never knowing what else is going on behind the scenes.  It’s like walking down the street at night and seeing into someone’s home.  Framed in like a photo.  We aren’t suppose to look.  That is a private space and we are to give privacy to that private space.  To look in from the outside is wrong, yet we all do it.   Invasion of privacy happens everyday that we leave the lights on and the curtains open.  We as people invite it in, then scream in horror when some one is looking, but we play the hypocrite so well when we look in on others.  We have done nothing bad if we haven’t been caught. 

A picture like a window doesn’t give us the whole scene.  We are not allowed to know what is going on in the margins.  We don’t get to see the big picture.  The image wasn’t even taken for us to see.   It was taken by the artist for the artist.   We should be humbled that we are even allowed to view the image that was selected for us.  The artist knows what was going on, the feelings, the smells, the everything else.  The things we don’t get to see. 

To look at a photo in to partake in voyeurism, to look into someone else’s life, to look at something that was never truly meant for us.  We are outsiders looking and engaging with something that doesn’t belong to us.

The story

Who ever said a picture is worth a thousand words was an idiot.  A picture is worth a thousand questions.  We get a glimpse into a story.  It’s like reading the first and last sentences of a book but never reading anything in the middle.  So often the world around us is framed with little questions. When you see the car that is so far away from home.  What are those Hawaii plates doing sitting at the drive in theater in the middle of America?  How did it even get there?  Why are they here?  What is their story?  A photo doesn’t tell a story.  It leaves you hungry for more.  The image of a pregnant woman shooting up meth in Tulsa.  You don’t get to experience the high that she gets.  A high so good that she would put her baby in danger.  It don’t get to find out if the baby lives, dies, or is forever messed up from the drugs.  The picture can never explain the story of drugs hitting the brain.  This is why there are more books then pictures about some topics.

But we don’t want the story.  That’s why we look at the photos.  We want to make up our own story.  We want to see only beauty.  When the background, or back story is taken away, even the ugly becomes beautiful.  Photos give us a way to look at the bad.  In a form we can digest.  “What about the beautiful models?” one may ask.  We see a cultural standard for beauty that is nice to look at.  What we don’t see is the starvation, the sticking a fingerer down the throat to get rid of that cookie that was eaten, nor do we see the lines of coke or meth that suppress the appetite.   We know those things are there and choose to look the other way because we want to, because we can.

Even war becomes beautiful in photos.  Removing us from the blood, the stench of death.  How many of use would puke in revolt if we were faced with the destruction of war?  How many of us would piss our pants in battle?  But the picture lets us face the ugly.  It lets us see the beauty.  There cannot be beauty with the pain.  The photo give us humans the ability to function on the lite version of life.  We don’t need, nor do we really want the whole story.

Frozen in time

A photo is a moment frozen in time.  So many things from life that can’t be remembered anymore but the time from the photograph is remembered.  It can be years between viewing but when I see it I remember.  I can remember the sun in my face, the smell of the wind coming off the ocean.  The smoke from the fire, the laughing and loving of friends.  A photo isn’t just an image, there are feelings and sensations attached to it, like the time I made a waterslide in Deloris Park.  The feeling of the mud and dirt coving my clothes and body.

The time I held a baby koala, his name was Leno, son of Oprah.  I can still smell the eucalyptus leaves, how soft his fur was, and I see the happy grin on my face.  A moment in time that will always be magical. 

Time marches on but the moment that is captured in a photo will last a lifetime.  We can stop time, if only in that one frame.  In less then a second we can capture an entire night.  Embody everything that was good, every memory we want to keep.

Jewelry, and Leather, but Not Lace

Jewelry.  First thoughts are the ring on a finger, necklace, or earrings.  My definition of jewelry is a little loose.  Nose studs, nipple rings, implants, is it a bend barbell or straight? Looking through a drawer I found a couple of studded leather neck-bands (one with spikes), leather wrist-cuffs, and some other heavy metaled jewelry.  I have plenty of body jewelry that I dig through on a regular basis; but today was different. 

I use to have eight or nine piercing in my face, all at the same time for a few months there.   That didn’t count my ears.  That would have put me over 20.  It’s been over a year sense I took them out.  I don’t miss them.  I don’t think about it that often. I don’t even think about it when I dig through my old body jewelry.  So why was today different?

Today I tried on those different leather and studded jewelry.  It wasn’t me or was it not me anymore?  I looked at my picture from when I joined my sorority.  I was blonde, all those piercings, tan, I looked bad.  Why did I ever think it looked good?  Because of a guy.  I think he would have taken me even without the purple hair, piercings, and with a little more meat on me.  I looked like Lindsay Lohan.  Skin and bones. 

How often do we change who we are to fit into a group, or just fit with one person?  A lot.  I’ve seen it and I’ve done it.  I was so unhappy as that person, leather and studs, chains and piercings.  I did it to fit in.  I didn’t use to be that kind of person.  And I’m not that kind of person now.  I know I lost myself for a few years there.  I don’t know how it happened and I’m not sure how I got it back.  That is a topic for later. 

When I looked at that picture of the blonde, pierced, tanned person I thought, “man I was ugly.”  I mean, I was beautiful but I had made myself ugly.  That studded person wasn’t me.  Never was.  It was the first time I ever understood what people meant when they said, “you’re so pretty; why do you do that to yourself?”  I did it for all the wrong reasons.

A small part of me wishes I had never done it; but most of me is glad I did.  I wouldn’t be having this revelation if I hadn’t.  How different of a person I would be now if I didn’t.  I don’t what to change where or who I am now.  I’m happy.  With my life, where I live, what I do with my days.  I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t lost myself when I was younger.  The brightest side of having been lost is when I get to feeling board with myself, I can look back on my youth and remember why I’ve chose to settle down, but only a little.

McD's Assignment

Katharine Hubbard

You know that lone person sitting in the corner of the bar drinking by themselves? That’s me; I’m back home for Christmas and not enjoying myself. I hate Christmas and I’m pretty sure this place is the 9th circle of hell. I’m watching the crowd in the bar. I’d call it a dive bar but every bar in this town is a dive. I’m drinking a Martini, flavor – redneck zombie, how fitting. Oh, and chill the goddamn glass! Were these bartenders trained by monkeys? Note to self – start taking shots, the human stupidity will hurt less.

Ah, shit. Someone is walking this way. A guy. Don’t make me throw down fistacuffs, bitch.
“Hay, you’re Alysia, right?” he ask.
Alysia is dead asshole. I’m her doppelganger. “Yeah, and your are?” was my actually response.
“I’m blah blah blah,” he says, “remember that time in high school that we skipped lunch, smoked pot, and hit up McyD’s?”
Yeah, I remember that day. It was called every f’ing day of high school, jackass. You were involved on one occasion and you expect me to remember you? My actual response “Yeah, excuse me please, I need to go to the bathroom” and I walked off. I just saw my friend walk in the door, thank god, I make a beeline towards her.

The guy did bring up a good point. I’m getting kind of drunk. McyD’s is going to sound really good in about 2 hours. We’ll have to find a sober person to make a burger run. Maybe the baby sitter will do it if we tip her extra.
I’ve never been sober while eating at McDonalds. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen a sober person there either.
Damn it. The babysitter is drunk. I guess I’ll just have to wait till the hangover kicks in and I can drive myself. McDonalds is also the perfect cure to a hangover.

The Runaway Human

I never ran as a kid or in high school. I walk fast. I’m in a hurry to get somewhere but I don’t know where. I took up running because I’m a runner. As in, I run away from things. I’m not trying to get anywhere, hence why I don’t know where I’m going; I’m just trying to get away. From places, people, memories. I’m not the only one. I’m just one of the few who admit it. Who even knows they are doing it.

I was running from places that held bad memories. My friend died on that street. Ran over by a cement truck. I use to do drugs there, there. There and there. Oh, and over there. Lets not forget the boyfriend who won’t let me live down the fact that I dumped him on his birthday. I was 19, high out of my mind, and we had only been dating for 3 months. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? One, five, is ten not enough? Don’t say you’ve forgiven my past then continue to throw it in my face. I’ve admitted that I fucked up, that I feel bad, that if I could change it I would, that I have remorse that I was such a shit piece of a human being. Once you finally change your life it gets old being reminded of the person you use to be.

I feel bad about what I’ve done in the past and that’s why I changed my life. I cleaned up, cold turkey, no rehab here. I went back to college. I got involved with things, people, places. I was an RA, a sorority girl, I have friends I say “I love you” to. I graduated. I started thinking about how my actions would affect other people before I did them. I’ve grown as a person. I’ve also learned that those who truly love me have forgiven me for what I’ve done. Even though I’ve never properly apologized to them.

Yet I still felt like I needed to run. The more my life changed, the better it got, the more I felt the need to run. I tried to start my life over when I went back to college. All of the people I meet there let me leave the past where it belonged. But I was still to close to where I had caused my shit storm. People who knew me then, places I had to drive by from then. I just wanted to start over. I wanted the chance to be the person I can be and not the person I was.

When you hit that point only one thing to do. Change your name and move to California.

I moved to Cali and I stopped running. Literally. I didn’t have the motivation anymore. I had finally stopped figuratively running from my life. But when a situation arises that I want to run from. I run. And while I’m running the hills of Berkeley I let my mind race. I sort through what it is I’m running from. Once it all makes sense I don’t fell like running away any more. I’m finally being the person that I want to be. I can’t forget my past but I’m free of the ties that bind me to a person I no longer am.

Was told this was a bad ad because it "tells the person what to do" It still needs body copy.