Comparisons: hunting and the ride home.

It only seems appropriate that when driving back to Wisconsin after a so far unsuccessful Minnesota hunt (in terms of harvesting a deer) I almost hit two, one being a nice buck. The drive back took forever, mostly because I didn't want to go back. For once I didn't almost fall asleep being behind the wheel in my normal narcoleptic state, but instead I scanned the road for hazards, almost like scanning for deer in the stand eh eh? You like that?--My comparison between the natural world and the transition back into a world of waking after sunrise, and mindless jabbering (I'm quiet in the woods)?
I arrived back at my huge and crappy multiple-leased mansion with a headache. I hate driving at night. Brights or no brights, I get blinded, and I end up squinting the entire way (especially when driving under the speed limit and scanning for the silhouettes of deer). You say you want another comparison? Well of course! How about trudging to our spots in the morning, crunching on invisible sticks on the path beneath our feet, almost being adjusted to the pitch black morning when my dad looks back (wearing his mini red light strapped to his forehead) to see where we (me and my sister) are at, or to show us where a steep incline is:  inward groan at the shrinking pupils! That also has to do with being the walking sleepy dead.
Ok so now I'm back in my college town. I missed four classes today, and I am leaving back home for more hunting on Thursday, adding three more to the list. Eh whatevs...happy senior year!

Strange Encounters...err with squirrels.

Today I learned the difference between the red squirrel/pine squirrel, and the fox squirrel. Both are red, but only one looks like its hungry enough to eat your face.

When I encountered the red squirrel, I had been in a tree-stand. Hearing a quick rustle I would lean down, hoping to wake myself out of a sleepy trance by watching the little guy run around. I'm pretty sure they all have ADHD. Watch their tails. With every little chirp, it moves in a new direction. The eyes are wide open in perfect spheres, unblinking, staring yet looking unfocused, freaking out and becoming excited over a leaf, a gust of wind, the blaze-orange a hunter wears. Chirp, chirp. My dad told me he once saw a hawk swoop down to take out one of our spazztic friends. At the last minute he (our spazztic friend) sprung into the air and out of reach. Of course he knew it was coming. Of course he was quick enough to escape--he is always aware.
The fox squirrel is a big guy. For this encounter, I was leaning against a large fallen tree. Again hearing a rustle I looked to my left, and watched as the ginger monster unknowingly approached where I was sitting. Scampering forward atop my back rest, the chubbster had his hands-er mouth full. Go figure. It took him awhile to notice I was there. When he did, he stood up, and I stared at his soft squishy light belly, at his two palms lazily facing me (his right had a freckle near the thumb), at his black little fingernails. I looked at his fur, how the orange was intermingled with tans and black, how from root to tip it was transformed. He looked at my face, and tried to determine if I was male or female. Then I made the eye contact. That was a mistake. It was a duel, one I most definitely lost. My eyes crossed, my vision blurred, and he kept moving closer, making my breath catch. I thought if I looked away, if I moved a little, he would startle and scamper, giving me my accustomed space from the tree climbers. Instead he ran up the log, clattering behind me (chirping threats as he passed my head), and continued his life of obesity and constant bullying of humans.
The rest of the night's hunt the grey squirrels kept making my heart palpitate. The rustle of leaves! A deer-- it must be!
The species are tricksters.

Trails

Today was the first day of the MN gun deer hunt. My face is on fire, both because it is horribly sensitive, and because it was a very windy day on the bluffs. It was sunny. There were deer.
Southeast Minnesota has a four-point restriction regulation. One antler must have four points. I am really bad at seeing this and counting in my adrenaline-pumping state. A buck came, the first I've actually seen ever the woods as I've only been deer hunting for three years now. Anyways, it came and my eyes were too watery and blurred from sleepiness and constant wind. I couldn't tell, so I didn't even raise my gun (regret). My dad, sitting in the tree stand above me (two stands in one tree), took the shot. Then we watched it lope away.
We looked for blood and finally we found some...until we trailed the crimson red splotches to a dead end and a chunk of deer coarse white fur. We decided to let it bed and come back later. Unfortunately, when we met up with my sister at her separate stand down the hill, she informed us that she saw a buck run through (a nice buck). And we saw the trail continue...and continue...onto someone elses land. A dying deer wouldn't run that far.
My dad doesn't think it was a kill wound. We just hope that another hunter gets the buck and stops its suffering. I just wish I wasn't a dope sitting numbly in a tree stand, watching a wounded deer run away when I could have shot it (my dad has a muzzle-loader, so it takes civil war finesse and time to reload). May tomorrow bring faster reflexes, better eye-sight, less wind, and early morning vigor-perhaps also a fancier blog post!

Ugly cakey fake face

My ugly face feels like it was dipped in syrup. Yes, thats the kind of day it is, the wake up and know all you can do is cake an inch of heavy and obvious makeup in an attempt to cover the acne that comes with stress, shitty food, producty-hair all up in the face, and the constant tired face-rubbing. I raise my eyebrows up and down, up and down, and its slow, thick, nasty-uncomfortable. I left campus today to hide out in my room, wasting gas but saving face, only appearing before sunlight by necessity. I'm tempted to throw on my hunting mask early, walk around like a creep, feeling prettier, and actually quite warm. Blech. I'll do my eyes ridiculous, that way, people will be like dang whats with that girls eye makeup instead of dang why is her face a shade darker, cakey, and failing at concealing the red blotches. For some reason that seems better: getting called out on being dramatic, versus trying to hide.

I am a tame cow.

Lifting that shovel, I realized something was wrong. I scraped metal against the metal of the wheel barrow, repetitively lifting soil and transporting it to the compost, slowly adding a layer to encourage the lovely long process. My arm muscles slowly started to burn, and instead of enjoying it, I tried to recall the last time they did that- worked hard. I imagined and predicted the coming hunting trip, stepping over fallen logs, ducking under branches, crouching, standing, squats, pushups, hiking. I may die. I’ve become a walking breadstick dipped in ranch. I’ve become a girl whose workout comes from a once-a-week garden hobby. I’ve become heavier, both in the hips, and in the mind, and I realize that right now I choose booze, food, and laziness over a finesse that could survive in the wild. I am a tame cow.

Is this really a new post?

I kept putting off blogging. The last time I wrote something was in September, almost two months ago. I wait for inspiration, for something new and ingenious to share with the cyber world, and as you can see, nothing really made the cut. I'd felt that my writing and thoughts were getting repetitive and that scared me.
Now that deer-hunting season is upon us, I've prepared myself with thoughts of woodsy-memoirs, willing to make the binding internet promise of blog postings, when I obviously fizzled out with my South Dakota Turkey Hunt.
Writing inspires reflection, inspires action, inspires inspiration.
The internet is not a book page. A blog is for reaction, discussion, sharing, so I need to just write away. This is a place for typos, musings, and creativity:  I can always hit the edit button. :)

Sometimes the hardest thing is forcing yourself to take time and do something you love.

I am from

My body is filled with sunlight, boiling beneath my skin (because I’ve been trapped indoors for too long). Soon I must return to where I am from.

 I am happiest in the dark early mornings, when I am blind and finally focused on what’s going on around me, inside me. There is no hum of machinery slowly, constantly fraying my soul. There is no concrete, only snapping twigs when I venture off course carelessly. When I am so lucky, I can lean against my family, against their bark, and watch the horizon as new color marks another day. They support me as I see pink, the flushed cheek of a friend whose face I can no longer touch; the orange of the pressed flower I sent my grandmother in the last letter. I wonder where it is now, that flower, broken in the bottom of a storage box? Pressed into her bible? Does it matter? Soon all is the shade of blue, of white, and there are flowers growing beside me.

And it is today. Here in my home, lessons are easier and much more complex than the foreign language of classroom conversation. I am growing as an elm, my mistakes turning into mushrooms at my feet. I can be as a fiery red thorn bush, aggressive and angry, ripping at anything that comes too close. Tomorrow I will be an apple tree. You can bury your favorite dog under me. My home is my body, my soul. I am the woods and it is me. I breathe because it lets me, I breathe because it tells me that life should be so simple. And I breathe because of the wind, because when it blows I am inspired to finally exhale. I cry because even the clouds need release.

I am a tree replanted in front of a house. My feet are buried in cement. I try to hear the birds and I try to blink and be happy but my limbs are being bent to allow for power lines.