If you’re out there, please let me know.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 07:22:00 PM 0 Comments
Labels: the wilderness, exercise bike generator
Wednesday, August 8th, 2023
Wake-up Call (or: Today I Choose to Fight)
Shit. Shit shit. I saw one today, right on the edge of the compound. Practically walked into its groaning maw as I walked the perimeter. Thing would’ve had me if I was a foot taller. I always envied the tall blondes in high school, the volleyball players and the slender cheerleaders, but who’s laughing now? Okay, you’re right, no one’s laughing. But who’s still alive?
(Maybe you shouldn’t taunt the dead, Lizzie, you say. Or the undead, for that matter, you add. And to that, I respond: you’re right. Poor form. I’ll work on that.)
But there’s a deeper lesson to be had, here: I’m getting lazy. I need to be more alert on patrols; I need to be more prepared. I can’t let them get that close. This is the first one I’ve seen up close since May—so, maybe, they’re getting more sparse, if the diminishing numbers I’ve seen are anything to go by—but that doesn’t mean I can let my guard down.
Here’s a weird thing, if you’ll forgive a tangent: sometimes I think of this whole damn situation in terms of cancer. Maybe this will sound weird, but it helps me to get a fresh perspective on the urgency of things. Please, allow me to elaborate.
Sometimes, I think of myself as having a form of terminal cancer, and there are two basic options open to me. One: I can do everything I know I need to do, I can do the chemotherapy, the radiation therapy, I can eat right and visit the doctor regularly and do all the x-rays and body scans and whatever. I can even go above and beyond that, with crystals and essential oils and auras or whatever. And you know what, if I do these things, then I have a chance—a chance—of surviving. The second option: I can lie down and let the disease take me. What’s scary, and frustrating, and exhausting, and really really sucks, is that the first option is a decision I need to make every day, every minute of my life; the second option is a decision I only need to make once. If I get too comfortable, or if I consign myself to my inevitable fate, or if I just start getting lazy and missing “treatments” and “doctor appointments” and so forth (are we on the same page with the metaphor, here?), then I’m dead. I’m dead in the water. (And now I’m mixing metaphors, which probably doesn’t help with the clarity thing.) But I do have the choice. That part of my fate—that small part, that whether-I-live-or-die part—is kind of in my hands. What I do with it is up to me.
But whatever I choose, They, with a capital “T” (I’m coming back from the metaphor, now—you with me?), They-Who-Are-Dead-But-No-Longer, are still out there waiting for me. And it only takes one. One bite, one scratch, one moan, and if I’m not prepared, I’m dead. And where there’s one, there are always more.
Today, all I can say is thank God for Mr. Fluffy. (Mr. Fluffy is my shotgun.)
I’ll be where I usually am. But you can bet your ass I’ll be more careful. Today is another day I choose to fight.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 07:41:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: I’m an idiot, it only takes one
Saturday, August 5th, 2023
What Might Have Happened
I can’t sleep.
And it’s been five years, to the day, I think, since I last saw my mother alive.
I’ve tried to reconstruct the last time I saw her. I’ve tried to remember what she looked like, what we were doing. I was leaving to start a graduate program in American Lit after spending most of the summer at home, with my mother, in Montana. I was young—I finished my undergrad pretty early—and I was going to road-trip it, by myself, across the country, and my Mom was worried.
By that point I was an only child, and my father was out of the picture.
We had a discussion—an argument, really—about me leaving. I’d been dating a boy, Benjamin (I always hated that he liked being called “Benjamin” —like, how pretentious are you that you insist people use all three of those syllables?), and she wanted me to stay and “pursue that relationship” or something. Benjamin had told me repeatedly that he loved me, and that he supported me in whatever I chose to do. I believed him on the first count, but I was dubious on the second. It wasn’t hard to miss the flash of anger, or frustration, or whatever in his eyes when I talked about my graduate program. And just mentioning a PhD would send him careening into silence. Sometimes it took me hours to get him out of those moods. We were never very serious. No, that’s not right. I was never very serious. Things between us would never have lasted—you can only hold a one-sided conversation for so long, you know?—even if all hell hadn’t broken loose, and everyone hadn’t ended up dying.
We talked about other things, my Mom and I, on that day. If I wasn’t going to keep dating Benjamin, she wondered, then who would I be dating? (It never crossed her mind that I didn’t plan on dating anyone.) There would hardly be any church-going Christians at the college at which I’d been accepted, let alone “active” Mormons. And back then I knew, even if my Mom didn’t, that I would never be able to sustain a long-term relationship with someone who didn’t share my religion. (My beliefs have changed significantly since then, both on religion and relationships. But religion, unlike faith, doesn’t matter unless there are people to share it with, right? Same thing with relationships.)
Anyway, even if I think differently now, I didn’t tell her a truth that might have helped her in the moment. I let her doubt, I allowed her worries to fester. I did that on purpose and it was an awful thing.
We argued. It was a stressful time for us. I wish I’d been kinder to her, of course I do. Especially in those last moments. But there’s this thing about last moments, that they sometimes sneak up on you. With my brother, at least we knew our last moments were our last. With my Mom... I think I kissed her on the cheek as I left, but honestly, I’m not sure. I remember senseless things, I remember how my backpack snagged on the screen door as I left, but I don’t remember whether I kissed my own mother the last time I saw her alive. So much happened in the days, weeks, and years that followed that I just can’t remember anymore.
I told her I loved her. I said that, at least. I know I said that, I’m sure of it. I had to have said that.
I did call her that night, but not from a hotel in Iowa as I’d planned. It was from a rest stop on the side of the road, after seeing the road blocks ahead of me, and when she answered her voice was frantic and there simply wasn’t time for forgiveness.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 02:34:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: none
Wednesday, August 2nd, 2023
My Day-to-Day
6:00Wake up.
6:00 - 6:20Check the perimeter.
6:20 - 6:45Check equipment, repair or restock if needed.
6:45 - 7:00Light breakfast.
7:00 - 8:00Yoga (or my interpretation of it, anyway).
8:00 - 9:30Read.
9:30 - 10:30Exercise bike, read.
10:30 - 11:00Brunch.
11:00 - 12:00Check weapons, repair if needed. Archery practice.
12:00 - 16:00Hunting/Foraging (T, Th, Sa), Exploring/Recon (M, F), Watching (W), Whatever I Want (usually: Reading [Remind me to write a post about how fictional characters are the only people left alive for me sometime, because I have a lot to say on that.]) (Su)
16:00 - 17:00Check perimeter. Snack. Gardening, and more archery practice if there’s time.
17:00 - 18:00Dinner.
18:00 - 18:30Check the perimeter.
18:30 - 19:30Whatever needs doing. Read.
19:30 - 20:00Supper.
20:00 - 20:30Check the Perimeter.
20:30 - 21:00Prepare for sleep.
21:00Sleep.
Of course, that doesn’t include days I go out in the wild, or days on which I’ll actually shower or bathe. Reading is replaced with blogging (and swapped with the exercise bike time slot) on Wednesdays. And sleep doesn’t always
come easily at nine. If I’m honest, it never comes easily at all. But for the most part, that’s the gist of things. So... now you know, I guess.
Today’s Wednesday, obviously, so you know where I’ll be.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 10:29:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: schedule, day-to-day
Wednesday, July 26th, 2023
Something Funny, But Not Really (or: I Should Have Watched More Movies)
When the apocalypse finally came along, it felt almost scripted. Hollywood had done such a thorough job of showing us what to do that we did it exactly the way they’d always said we would. Cities of looters and riots? Saw that. Entire towns that had holed up in a church to pray, only to be slaughtered on the ground they thought sacred? Check. The aged husband and wife who committed suicide together? Saw that, too. (Really. I’d rather not talk about that right now, but really.) Everyone had roles to play.
But there were some roles that Hollywood forgot to script. What was I supposed to do, for example, when so many of the people I loved the most were already long gone before the apocalypse even started? What am I supposed to do when I feel just as alone now as I ever did then? I mean, what is a Mormon woman, a woman who believed in a God and an afterlife and so much more, what is she supposed to do when she’s the last person on earth? There aren’t any scriptures for that. There aren’t any church handbooks or sermons. Am I supposed to keep believing? Have more faith? Is that what I’m supposed to do? Because, seriously, I don’t know. I really don’t. I hardly knew what to do before the apocalypse happened, but now...
Anyway. I guess maybe I should have taken some improv classes?
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 10:09:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: the apocalypse, Mormons, the meaning of life, faith
Wednesday, July 19th, 2023
On Dying in Another’s Arms
This may seem hokey, and I’m honestly not sure why it should given the fact that I have nothing to be embarrassed about anymore (embarrassment is conditional, right? on other people being around?), but there’s a scene from the seventh Harry Potter movie that I’ve always loved. [And yes, now that you ask, SPOILERS DO FOLLOW. Although I’ll say what I always said, back when there were people to say it to: if you haven’t read the freaking Harry Potter books by now, or at least seen the movies, that’s your own fault. Don’t expect people to go to great lengths to keep you a virgin from the storyline you’ve obviously avoided for who knows how long. Also, if you haven’t read the books, you’re a dummy. Also also, IF SOMEONE IS READING THIS WHO IS ALIVE BUT HASN’T READ THE BOOKS JUST FIND ME FFS I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK ABOUT HARRY POTTER.
Anyway. So, the seventh movie. And by seventh movie, I mean the actual seventh movie, not the eighth one that is still about the seventh book or whatever. The scene I’m talking about is at the end of the film, when Dobby the house elf, who was about as faithful a friend as Harry could ask for, is killed. I won’t go too much into the circumstances of how he was killed, because I’m actually much more drawn to how he dies, if that makes sense. Dobby dies in Harry’s arms. And even though the scene is sad, Dobby seems pretty damn happy that that’s where he gives up the ghost—in the arms of someone he loves.
Now, hold that thought. I’ll come back to it.
I took an essay workshop class—essay as in creative nonfiction—when I was finishing up my undergraduate degree, and a friend of mine in the class wrote an essay about fainting. I didn’t know this about her then, but apparently she fainted, like, all of the time—a few times per month, at least. She maybe had a medical condition of some kind, or she just happened to faint a lot, I can’t remember exactly. But the point is, she wrote this essay about fainting, and reading it fascinated me because I had never (and still haven’t) fainted, not once in my entire life. I’ve never been exposed to this world of volatile consciousness. I don’t remember much of the specifics of what she wrote, except for one thing. She talked about how she had woken up in hundreds of places after fainting, both unfamiliar and familiar, and sometimes waking up was scary, frightening, disorienting. But something that always helped, and of the most comforting experiences, had been those moments when she woke up in another’s arms. It didn’t matter whether she knew the person or not. For those first few seconds, looking up into someone’s face who cared enough about her to hold her, feeling their arms around her, she couldn’t feel safer.
Waking up, falling asleep. Living, dying. I think doing each of these in the arms of someone who cares about you can make all the difference. My friend woke up in the embrace of friends and family many times; Harry held Dobby as he died.
My brother died in my father’s arms. I wished then, and I wish even more so now, that he could have died in mine.
There’s a feeling there, a connection, I think. In those few seconds between unconsciousness and consciousness, and especially between life and death, there’s got to be a connection. I think of all the people in the history of the world who must have died alone, without anyone around them, no one to hold them, and I get this horrible sick feeling in my gut. And I hope that everyone who has died in someone else’s arms knows how lucky they are—how good they had it.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 10:54:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: death, dying, love, loneliness, Harry Potter
Saturday, July 15th, 2023
It’s really hard...
...to wait a whole week in between checking this thing. I try to wait, partly to conserve energy, partly to exercise some form of self-control. This week was a fail at that, apparently, given that it’s only Saturday. It’s silly, but every time I run the exercise bike, a bubble of hope forms in my chest. (I use an exercise bicycle generator, by the way. That’s how I get power. And yes, I think it’s pretty damn cool, thanks for asking. Every time, I’m worried something will go wrong—that the generator won’t power up, or that the computer won’t turn on, or that the router won’t connect. But so far, it’s worked. Halle-freaking-lujah.) The process of turning everything on and logging in seems to take far longer than it should, like I’m forced to watch everything in slow motion or something, and the bubble of hope doesn’t do much during that time except press uncomfortably against my ribs. Then I’m finally connected, and of course there’s nothing waiting for me except my own words on the screen.
I’m sure I’ll start wondering whether this is worth it, eventually. But for now, it is. God, it absolutely is. It’s been long enough since I felt hope, anyway, and I guess at this point I’ll take it any way I can get it.
Goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: I’ll be at the same place, at the same time, as usual. And please: if you’re out there, if you’re reading this, respond.
Posted by lonelysurvivor7 at 07:01:00 AM 0 Comments
Labels: exercise bike generator, hope
Wednesday, July 12th, 2023
A Question
Am I really the only one left?
Is it selfish of me to ask that? I mean, if there’s really no one left, does selfishness even exist anymore? (That’s morbidly interesting. For me, selfishness and altruism are the same thing. Mind: blown.)
But, really, there has to be someone else out there, someone like me, somewhere. Statistically. Right? I mean, what are the odds that everyone in the world is dead except for me? (I opted out of a Stats class in college but... about 7 billion to one, I guess? “Never tell me the odds.” Name that movie!)
I think about them all of the time, those people that might be—that have to be—out there. Should I be seeking them? I’m not sure what else I could do other than what I’m already doing. But then, it’s been a while since I’ve done something for anyone but myself. Not that there are many alternatives (and there’s the selfishness = altruism thing again... doesn’t that tie my brain up in painful knots of philosophy).
A Bishop I had once used to tell me that
life is all about relationships, Lizzie... it’s about the connections we make with other
people.
Okay, maybe he didn’t say it directly to me. But I think I remember him saying it in church once or twice. And, now that I think about it, what he said reminds me of something else:
For what is significance? It is significance for people. No people, no significance. That is all I have to tell you.
Good old Annie Dillard. Emphasis mine, by the way. (I found a copy of Teaching a Stone to Talk a few months back. It’s sitting on a shelf nearby right now, actually... so no, I didn’t quote it from memory. And lay off—I was almost a grad student once, so I can quote random books whenever the hell I want.) You can probably see where I’m going with this.
But you know what? Maybe I’m better off without people. Maybe that’s why all this happened, all of this, so that I could be alone. That might be what’s best for me in the end, anyway.
That, I could almost believe. But now I’m getting into things that I’m not too keen on talking about, even with you. One day, maybe, but not today.
Until then, I’ll be here. Temple Square, Salt Lake City, Utah. Noon to 3 PM.
P.S. I’ve updated the links at the top of the page. Click on them to read more about me (and how I’m still alive—with two people to thank for it in particular), how to find me, and what the hell happened to everyone else in the world.
Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within Page 5
