my mother once found my dad's refugee contact on the 3rd-yardline at a football game. he was playing. she was in the stands. and found it, almost immediately when it could've been lost anywhere between the goal and the 10 or 11. (the exact details are somewhat lost on me since i've not heard the story in 12years or so.)

i was quite good at finding things. things such as specific places; small, inanimate objects with little luster; money; important documents misplaced by the hands of others [the most notable exception: my first three american passports.]

scavenger hunts were child's play. but the joy of setting out to search for odds and ends written on a particular, peculiar list! i started making my own "scavenger hunts". first, there was the trouble with where to live and feel at home (since i never felt at home any of the places i lived as a child and felt odd for not having any loyalties or even sparse attachments to the faces and places of my milleau). and having now been most any and everywhere, i've four cities in which i consider "move-in ready." and a few others that need a week or three of additional exploration before i hand down the verdict.

second, the perfect boy list... the first one, i threw out; it was IMPOSSIBLE [even for my standards.] and it was basically a throwback to scavengerhunt lists that required one to take a picture in a cockpit of an aircraft whilst flicking of the "welcome to" such-and-sucha-bordering-state sign. the second perfect boy list i crafted in sweden under the influence of gin and riina. i've forgotten nearly everything on there, which is for the best since i found someone that met all but one of the 72 items. and it didn't work out. and i knew that it wouldn't fairly early on. so, i threw out lists.

by the time i met djp, hellawaybackwhen, i must've internalised and honed the skills of seek-and-ye-shall-find. when that ended, in secretly-badly fasion, i felt a great deal of lost hope and "what's-the-fucking-point"-ness. then, i came across brian and was reminded of how damn sharp and serendipitous my finders' skills were.

then back to djp.... after running around the block a few times in the utter despair/disrepair which bears the native american name, "stoneface coldheart" ...and though i spent much of the relationship suppressing the festering dread of being left, i was hopeful; happy; IDEAL.

and now back to the det-spelar-ingen-roll/jag-har-inte-lust plotline... only i'm not drinking any alcohol, soda or caffeine, which makes the frustration of being obsolescent far too real to stand sometimes, mosttimes.

but, i'm not sure where i'm going with this.

cos really, i just wanted to share anecdote of my mother, against all odds, finding my dad's contact lens on a dewy football field within minutes of stepping out of her fan-seat.