So back in Indiana, when I had started running and lifting and all that… I realized that I’m genetically predisposed to building muscle. I should have realized this by looking at my brother.

So I quit.

Girls aren’t supposed to have lots of muscle, right?

Then I moved out to Seattle. And I got into Parkour. And suddenly I feel like a badass. (ie). I’m starting to look more like what Libby describes as “built like a brick shit house” when referring to certain individuals. I thought about worrying about it again. I’ve always been fairly comfortable with my body, but that doesn’t mean I’m up to the task of the social rammifications of continuing to go full-throttle at an activity I love.

Then, having a picnic with some fellow Monkees on Sunday, we shared a quiet moment, munching on bread and cheese and meat, looking over Freeway Park. Brandee asked, “so Willow, what’s your zombie weapon of choice?” And because I had thought this out, I didn’t need much time to explain that I would use a machete, and listed my reasons. “You?” “Shovel.” We discussed pros and cons of carrying around something so bulky. Baron pointed out a military folding shovel as his weapon of choice. “Janine?” “My hands. I just want to… rip them apart. Anything that gets in the way of movement is a danger.”

Needless to say, Janine is a badass. She is also very feminine and built like a brick shit house.

And that’s when I realized I really don’t give a shit if doing something I love makes my form non-standard for social guidelines. Because I’m going to survive the zombie apocalypse. Maybe those skinny models will, too, but mostly because there’s nothing on them to eat.

It used to confuse me, why so many people who were extrodinarily into tech and The Future were also into basic survival skills… but I think it has to do with being aware of how fucked up things are, and how fucked we might cause ourselves to be at some point.

Also, the endorphins are rad.

disclaimer: kicking zombie ass isn’t the only survival skill. Also included are cooking, gardening, mechanics, etc… all of which I’m fairly limited at. Please don’t take my joy in my skill set as devaluing your skill set. We’ll make it work together.

prepositions and the back of my hand

You know when you spoon with a good friend or lover (or both), and you fall into a solid sleep? Not the hard sleep of exhaustion or the flighty sleep of anxiety, but the solid sleep that brings the most lucid of dreams and the freshest mornings? Your breathing matches, and no matter how one of you shifts, the other matches without waking, nestling into the hollows of bodies, unconsciously kissing the back of a neck, humming briefly to match frequencies. Your hair tangles with theirs, your dreams sometimes brush each other, and you know where to rest an arm so as not to harm them, not to wake them. Limbs wrapped around limbs, a complicated knot of comfort.

That is how I feel in this city. Walking the veins of streets, noting the celled bricks, exhaling with the wind. I blend with shadows, stepping with the city’s heartbeat, the BPM leaking out of clubs, the rise and fall of stories told on streets.

Being a child and swinging on your Dad. He grips your wrists and swings you up, you walk on his back, do flips into pools, never doubting his ability to keep you safe, to be prepared for a jump onto his back for a piggy-back ride.

That is how I feel in this city when I do Parkour. I am in and of and by this city. Prepositions explain relationships between two things, but how much love can you fit into two or three letters? Between? Within? Language – written or spoken is just lines and sounds shaped, trying to approximate life. Words poking holes in a curtain to let in points of light. Other cheesy metaphors that are as close as we can get to sharing an unsharable experience. Is my sky-blue your sky-blue? Do my synapses fire the same as yours?

This is me, just Being. This is me, Happy and Whole.