Tonight on the train I was in a serious mood, lost in my own little world and turning things over and over in my head. I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and I turned my head to find some dude clowning around outside my window (we were stopped at a station), maybe dancing to his iPod. I guess he saw me turning my head in his peripheral vision and looked up at me, frozen in a silly pose. We made eye contact and immediately burst into simultaneous grins. The train pulled away and I was left smiling at the miles of nothingness between me and the mountains.
I love it when people are so unabashedly human, and so fucking cheerful about it.
Dinner conversation tonight covered annuity options, cancer research, basic math and architecture, Haitian Vodou, charity work, and eating goats while hiding from violent rebels in the Congo. I'm not even going to pretend like this was abnormal for our house, but tonight it just really struck me that these are probably not your usual American family dinner conversation topics.
Then again, I'm not sure if there is such a thing as "normal family dinner conversation" given the number of people who have tilted their heads at me and asked, "So you have dinner at the table... every night? Like, just all the time? With no tv? What do you DO while you eat?" So, maybe I'm the new normal due to lack of competition?
Pretty sure my grandparents are quirking an eyebrow from the great beyond like Oh my god, we have no idea what happened, here. She's doing all the right things, but she's doing them all wrong! Also, her hair is pink. What the hell.
I don't really have anything to say tonight, and I'm mostly just typing to procrastinate on this project that I really don't want to work on.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
One
I remember a moment when I was a teenager, still oddly-shaped and knobbly-kneed, sitting on my mother's overstuffed blue sofa with a boy and eating chocolate ice cream. We were talking about whatever teenagers talk about when I asked, "Do you ever want more than this?"
I can picture his face, frozen for a second with his mouth still open in anticipation of the spoonful of ice cream which had also stopped moving rather abruptly just above the bowl. "More than... what... exactly?" he finally asked, looking at me suspiciously.
I suppose in retrospect he probably thought I was about to demand marriage or solicit sex or something like that. Ask for a baby? It was Mississippi, y'all. But at the time I was cheerfully clueless about the greater social implications of words, so I just kept talking like everyone lived in my head and not in the real world.
"You know this. THIS." I waved my spoon haphazardly around at everything: tv, stupidly posed school pictures in gaudy frames, medals and trophies, shelves of knickknacks, nicotine-stained mini-blinds, mismatched antique chairs. "All of this!" I waved my spoon in a larger circle to represent the whole neighborhood, the whole state, our whole world. "Don't you ever want more than this, knowing that there is so much more out there?"
I don't remember what he said, honestly. Poor guy, I probably scared him to death. I'm pretty sure these are not the conversations you expect to have with the mousy girl from a couple of streets over when you're a teenage dude.
Nearly 20 years later I feel like I'm still asking the same question and still getting startled, blank looks. I've gotten more subtle, I guess, unless I've had some wine. But my "there's always a fuck-it-go-on-tour option" speech still isn't as well received as I always think it will be, my "ok, so this plan seemed like a good idea but you're unhappy, so what's the next one?" question still gets me dismissed as someone who doesn't understand the way Real Life works.
Real Life doesn't have a feasible plan B, much less a plan C or D or Q. Real Life only has two options (generally "exactly what I'm doing right now" and "starving to death on the streets"). Real Life is inevitable and can't be changed, and wanting more than exactly this does you no good, after all. Ask anyone as they're nattering on about how empty, monotonous, and meaningless their lives are now that they're Real Adults, they'll be sure to tell you all about how trapped they are, you are, everyone ever is. It's frustrating to see people basically wasting the one life they get ("One! You only get one! ONE! What are you doing?!" I want to yell) on a bunch of self-defeatist nonsense.
One day I swear to god I'm going to say, "Don't you want more than this?" and someone is going to say, "Yeah, you know what, I DO want more than this. Let's make that shit happen, wanna?" And then we're going to go on an epic road trip or start a non-profit together or travel the world or adopt a bunch of kids or start a food pantry or paint a mural or write a book or something, and it will be amazing.
Until then, I guess I'll just keep repeatedly throwing myself out of my own comfort zone at the top possible speed. I'm basically my own manic pixie dream girl.
Hollywood would not approve.
Brilliant!
I can picture his face, frozen for a second with his mouth still open in anticipation of the spoonful of ice cream which had also stopped moving rather abruptly just above the bowl. "More than... what... exactly?" he finally asked, looking at me suspiciously.
I suppose in retrospect he probably thought I was about to demand marriage or solicit sex or something like that. Ask for a baby? It was Mississippi, y'all. But at the time I was cheerfully clueless about the greater social implications of words, so I just kept talking like everyone lived in my head and not in the real world.
"You know this. THIS." I waved my spoon haphazardly around at everything: tv, stupidly posed school pictures in gaudy frames, medals and trophies, shelves of knickknacks, nicotine-stained mini-blinds, mismatched antique chairs. "All of this!" I waved my spoon in a larger circle to represent the whole neighborhood, the whole state, our whole world. "Don't you ever want more than this, knowing that there is so much more out there?"
I don't remember what he said, honestly. Poor guy, I probably scared him to death. I'm pretty sure these are not the conversations you expect to have with the mousy girl from a couple of streets over when you're a teenage dude.
Nearly 20 years later I feel like I'm still asking the same question and still getting startled, blank looks. I've gotten more subtle, I guess, unless I've had some wine. But my "there's always a fuck-it-go-on-tour option" speech still isn't as well received as I always think it will be, my "ok, so this plan seemed like a good idea but you're unhappy, so what's the next one?" question still gets me dismissed as someone who doesn't understand the way Real Life works.
Real Life doesn't have a feasible plan B, much less a plan C or D or Q. Real Life only has two options (generally "exactly what I'm doing right now" and "starving to death on the streets"). Real Life is inevitable and can't be changed, and wanting more than exactly this does you no good, after all. Ask anyone as they're nattering on about how empty, monotonous, and meaningless their lives are now that they're Real Adults, they'll be sure to tell you all about how trapped they are, you are, everyone ever is. It's frustrating to see people basically wasting the one life they get ("One! You only get one! ONE! What are you doing?!" I want to yell) on a bunch of self-defeatist nonsense.
One day I swear to god I'm going to say, "Don't you want more than this?" and someone is going to say, "Yeah, you know what, I DO want more than this. Let's make that shit happen, wanna?" And then we're going to go on an epic road trip or start a non-profit together or travel the world or adopt a bunch of kids or start a food pantry or paint a mural or write a book or something, and it will be amazing.
Until then, I guess I'll just keep repeatedly throwing myself out of my own comfort zone at the top possible speed. I'm basically my own manic pixie dream girl.
Hollywood would not approve.
Brilliant!
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Gravity
I talked to my neighbor, B, today while the boys jumped on her trampoline in their socks and teased her dog. She said, "Look, you don't have a washer or dryer and you don't have a car... why don't you just use my washer and dryer? The landlord pays for all of the water, and I think the dryer is on your side anyway."
She also gave the guys some colored paper to make masks with, since we couldn't find any construction paper at the store this afternoon.
It seems like such a mundane domestic thing, but I want to record that I am noticing this, and I am grateful for it, and I'm taking it as a sign that the Universe thinks I'm doing something right and is helping me out. I honestly had no idea how I was going to pull this "living on my own" thing off, but it's been a million times easier than expected, not entirely because of my own hard work.
Though, that has been a large part of it. I am badass.
I probably have more to say, but there's a test to be studied for and things to draw. My life is a never-ending loop of everything.
She also gave the guys some colored paper to make masks with, since we couldn't find any construction paper at the store this afternoon.
It seems like such a mundane domestic thing, but I want to record that I am noticing this, and I am grateful for it, and I'm taking it as a sign that the Universe thinks I'm doing something right and is helping me out. I honestly had no idea how I was going to pull this "living on my own" thing off, but it's been a million times easier than expected, not entirely because of my own hard work.
Though, that has been a large part of it. I am badass.
I probably have more to say, but there's a test to be studied for and things to draw. My life is a never-ending loop of everything.
Friday, November 2, 2012
No Sleep Til Brooklyn
I woke up this morning and just completely trashed my entire plan for the future.
That sounds negative, doesn't it? It wasn't a negative thing. It was a great thing. But holy shit what did I just do?
I'm officially ditching the BFA to hack together my own little degree and I got a job. Kind of all at once. I was running all over campus, getting signatures and sending emails to my top 5 grad schools and turning in lists of references and all sorts of things. Up and down stairs, in and out of offices, all the while snacking on the stuff I had in my pockets to keep from passing out.
(Luckily there was an apple and two granola bars and Halloween candy in my pockets, not just, like, lint or something.)
I have no idea what I'm doing! I don't know how this is going to work! It is impossible! Which means it's right up my alley, of course.
I need to talk to some people and make some decisions before I can officially solidify anything, but holy shit. I feel like I finally am on the right path again, or at least headed that way. I'd wandered off there for a little while.
Right now, it is time for a nap. It's the only chance for a nap I'll get until Thanksgiving, I think.
That sounds negative, doesn't it? It wasn't a negative thing. It was a great thing. But holy shit what did I just do?
I'm officially ditching the BFA to hack together my own little degree and I got a job. Kind of all at once. I was running all over campus, getting signatures and sending emails to my top 5 grad schools and turning in lists of references and all sorts of things. Up and down stairs, in and out of offices, all the while snacking on the stuff I had in my pockets to keep from passing out.
(Luckily there was an apple and two granola bars and Halloween candy in my pockets, not just, like, lint or something.)
I have no idea what I'm doing! I don't know how this is going to work! It is impossible! Which means it's right up my alley, of course.
I need to talk to some people and make some decisions before I can officially solidify anything, but holy shit. I feel like I finally am on the right path again, or at least headed that way. I'd wandered off there for a little while.
Right now, it is time for a nap. It's the only chance for a nap I'll get until Thanksgiving, I think.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Be Ok
When we sit down to eat at the table - which currently involves a coffee table with a tablecloth thrown over... one day I'll have real furniture - I always ask the guys three questions:
"What did you learn today?"
"What was your favorite part of the day?"
and
"What was your least favorite part of the day?"*
Today the eldest could find nothing wrong with the day. Eventually he decided his least favorite part was dying in a video game. "Yes, death by pit scorpion will put a damper on one's day," I said.
T could only think that Language Arts was too long. I decided that waiting in line roughly a billion years to pick up my prescription at the Walgreens was kind of annoying.
My project is done ahead of schedule, we had dinner, there's clean laundry, my errands are run, a cabochon was purchased, we turned up that annoying Party Rock song that they love so much and shuffled/club danced all over the living room before bed.** They're ahead on schoolwork tomorrow. My house is still a wreck, but you know, project. I've given up on having a clean house until after grad school.
What I'm saying here is that we all got through Monday with no great disasters or anything. It was nice. I like it when there are no disasters.
* - the last two were shamelessly yoinked from my bb a few years back. Whenever we would eat with their family, her youngest son's answer was inevitably "WHEN AVERY TOBY COME OVER!!" Adorable!
** - I imagine that when the kids go to a club for the first time they'll look at the gogo dancers and be like "... she kinda dances like my mom." Sorry, guys.
"What did you learn today?"
"What was your favorite part of the day?"
and
"What was your least favorite part of the day?"*
Today the eldest could find nothing wrong with the day. Eventually he decided his least favorite part was dying in a video game. "Yes, death by pit scorpion will put a damper on one's day," I said.
T could only think that Language Arts was too long. I decided that waiting in line roughly a billion years to pick up my prescription at the Walgreens was kind of annoying.
My project is done ahead of schedule, we had dinner, there's clean laundry, my errands are run, a cabochon was purchased, we turned up that annoying Party Rock song that they love so much and shuffled/club danced all over the living room before bed.** They're ahead on schoolwork tomorrow. My house is still a wreck, but you know, project. I've given up on having a clean house until after grad school.
What I'm saying here is that we all got through Monday with no great disasters or anything. It was nice. I like it when there are no disasters.
* - the last two were shamelessly yoinked from my bb a few years back. Whenever we would eat with their family, her youngest son's answer was inevitably "WHEN AVERY TOBY COME OVER!!" Adorable!
** - I imagine that when the kids go to a club for the first time they'll look at the gogo dancers and be like "... she kinda dances like my mom." Sorry, guys.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
October
Today was the sort of October day that I live for. The perfect blue sky, the yellow leaves blowing in a nice breeze, temperature just right for long sleeves.
It occurred to me, while I was standing around on Beth's side of the back yard, that this is what normal is. I'd just finished carving a pumpkin with the boys, making faces with them as we scooped out the guts with our hands, saving the seeds aside to toast up later. I was watching the kids bounce on the trampoline while my new neighbor and I gossiped about the neighborhood. I was thinking about dinner and about how I needed to rake, but fuck it... it could wait until tomorrow. The raking, not the dinner.
How very ordinary, average American.
(If you scratched the surface of that moment, obviously, you would find a lot of not-exactly-Norman-Rockwell bits. Let's just ignore that and let me feel special for pulling off a normal fall afternoon, ok?)
---
I took a minute to mark my progress in metals today and feel proud of myself. In August annealing was terrifying and I could never manage it evenly. In September I had issues soldering the two ends of a ring together. Now I'm struggling with butt joints on larger pieces, but when I needed to solder a circle I just spent thirty seconds on it. Annealing is something I do with one hand while I'm texting with the other.
... not really. But I really don't pay that much attention to it because it's become second nature.
Today metals lab was full of upper level students making gods know what and rocking out to industrial. C was there as well, and we were newbie metals buddies, doubling up on torches and freaking out together about how things weren't working right. Freaking out sounds so much cooler when you're doing it with a French accent, let me tell you. I should work on getting one of those.
It occurred to me, while I was standing around on Beth's side of the back yard, that this is what normal is. I'd just finished carving a pumpkin with the boys, making faces with them as we scooped out the guts with our hands, saving the seeds aside to toast up later. I was watching the kids bounce on the trampoline while my new neighbor and I gossiped about the neighborhood. I was thinking about dinner and about how I needed to rake, but fuck it... it could wait until tomorrow. The raking, not the dinner.
How very ordinary, average American.
(If you scratched the surface of that moment, obviously, you would find a lot of not-exactly-Norman-Rockwell bits. Let's just ignore that and let me feel special for pulling off a normal fall afternoon, ok?)
---
I took a minute to mark my progress in metals today and feel proud of myself. In August annealing was terrifying and I could never manage it evenly. In September I had issues soldering the two ends of a ring together. Now I'm struggling with butt joints on larger pieces, but when I needed to solder a circle I just spent thirty seconds on it. Annealing is something I do with one hand while I'm texting with the other.
... not really. But I really don't pay that much attention to it because it's become second nature.
Today metals lab was full of upper level students making gods know what and rocking out to industrial. C was there as well, and we were newbie metals buddies, doubling up on torches and freaking out together about how things weren't working right. Freaking out sounds so much cooler when you're doing it with a French accent, let me tell you. I should work on getting one of those.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Drunken Lullabies
One day I'm going to learn to say no when Kenny starts in with the shots of whiskey.
This weekend was supposed to be all crazy adventures, all the time, seeing as how it's my last un-spoken-for weekend until January. Dancing and drinking and being generally merry was to be the name of the game all weekend. Last night was pretty merry by itself, though, and today I managed to break my metals project so it looks like I'll be in the lab all day. Maybe that's for the best.
I was going to say "I need some time to think" but that's not true. I've been doing nothing but thinking, and thinking has gotten me exactly nowhere. I probably need some time to talk with very specific people about the things that I've been thinking about, but that isn't going to happen any time real soon. So perhaps I just need some time to create in the interim.
Things I want to remember about last night:
- Sawyer dropping his guitar and hopping down off of the stage to grab me up out of my chair and dance with me when Kenny started singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand.
- Kenny singing, "I like my girls just a little bit older..." at me. I gave him the eyebrows and blew a kiss. He started laughing and botched the verse.
- Sara(h?) who went to Italy and loves playing skeeball. And Jordan, who did not talk.
- Kat is going to cut my hair for me on the cheap, and she promises not to lecture me about my ever-evolving color.
- Jess excitedly messaging me "Mr. Jones is singing!!" I messaged back "Is playing? Or someone is singing it? Or is this actually some dude named Mr. Jones?" She replied, "Lol, playing. I might be dink. drinj. DRUNK." I am so excited she'll be here in a few days.
- Introducing Gus to the term "dudebro" because that is exactly what the bar had been invaded by right as I got there.
- "That guy looks familiar. The one in the flannel shirt." "GUS. That is every guy in here. Except for the waiters, Kenny, and you. Be more specific!"
- The annoying guy on the train asked, "Do you drink?" (This is after flailing around to get my attention for thirty seconds, when I finally took out one earbud and said "What?!") With a straight face I replied, "Never a day in my life." While he was busy making a shocked, surprised face I followed up with "Too young." He switched to a side-eye, and I just gave him my best sarcastic jackass face and put my earbud back in, pointedly ignoring him. He stopped being annoying.
This weekend was supposed to be all crazy adventures, all the time, seeing as how it's my last un-spoken-for weekend until January. Dancing and drinking and being generally merry was to be the name of the game all weekend. Last night was pretty merry by itself, though, and today I managed to break my metals project so it looks like I'll be in the lab all day. Maybe that's for the best.
I was going to say "I need some time to think" but that's not true. I've been doing nothing but thinking, and thinking has gotten me exactly nowhere. I probably need some time to talk with very specific people about the things that I've been thinking about, but that isn't going to happen any time real soon. So perhaps I just need some time to create in the interim.
Things I want to remember about last night:
- Sawyer dropping his guitar and hopping down off of the stage to grab me up out of my chair and dance with me when Kenny started singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand.
- Kenny singing, "I like my girls just a little bit older..." at me. I gave him the eyebrows and blew a kiss. He started laughing and botched the verse.
- Sara(h?) who went to Italy and loves playing skeeball. And Jordan, who did not talk.
- Kat is going to cut my hair for me on the cheap, and she promises not to lecture me about my ever-evolving color.
- Jess excitedly messaging me "Mr. Jones is singing!!" I messaged back "Is playing? Or someone is singing it? Or is this actually some dude named Mr. Jones?" She replied, "Lol, playing. I might be dink. drinj. DRUNK." I am so excited she'll be here in a few days.
- Introducing Gus to the term "dudebro" because that is exactly what the bar had been invaded by right as I got there.
- "That guy looks familiar. The one in the flannel shirt." "GUS. That is every guy in here. Except for the waiters, Kenny, and you. Be more specific!"
- The annoying guy on the train asked, "Do you drink?" (This is after flailing around to get my attention for thirty seconds, when I finally took out one earbud and said "What?!") With a straight face I replied, "Never a day in my life." While he was busy making a shocked, surprised face I followed up with "Too young." He switched to a side-eye, and I just gave him my best sarcastic jackass face and put my earbud back in, pointedly ignoring him. He stopped being annoying.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Girl
People on the train were over-friendly tonight. I don't like it when that happens, makes me nervous. I know that I'm a friendly sort and all, but people reaching out to untwist the straps of my backpack or prying for information about my love life is just a little too far from random strangers. What do they think this is, Mississippi?
I waited at the bus stop with an old man who wore a tan overcoat and carried a plastic shopping bag. He tapped me on the shoulder and I thought, "Jesus, and now this guy." When I turned around he was holding out a sucker.
"Oh! Thank you," I said, perhaps a little suspiciously. I put it in the pocket of my hoodie. His lady friend/caretaker/family member said, "I've had five of those today. That's his thing today, passing out candy. I think maybe because it's Halloween time."
The old man had gone back over to his side of the bus stop, leaving me alone. Watching him, it was obvious that he was suffering from some form of dementia. I talked to the lady for a few minutes about flavors of dumdum suckers and when the bus was due. Eventually, the man came back, tucking another sucker into the pocket of my hoodie when he thought I wasn't looking. He caught me watching him and said, "I thought you might want another. Or maybe for a friend?"
"Thank you very much," I said. "Root beer is my favorite flavor." I told them goodbye when we got off of the bus. I noticed he'd left a sucker for the bus driver, too, propped haphazardly on the dollar bill receptacle.
He reminded me of my grandfather, I guess because he treated me like a little girl instead of a woman. He just wanted to be kind and give me a sucker, because out of all of the people at the bus stop I might need one.
Later it occurred to me to be a little sad that I can no longer interact with men the way I interacted with my grandfather. It's impossible to have that sort of completely innocent interaction with a guy, no matter how platonic we are or how gay they are, and has been since I've had boobs. It's just a thing. There's guarded distance at the least, like at any second something might happen to send us into inappropriate territory.
Of course, I regret nothing of the less-than-innocent variety that I've done with the males of the species, so I guess it evens out.
One of the suckers fell out of my pocket on the walk home from the bus. At least it wasn't the root beer one.
I waited at the bus stop with an old man who wore a tan overcoat and carried a plastic shopping bag. He tapped me on the shoulder and I thought, "Jesus, and now this guy." When I turned around he was holding out a sucker.
"Oh! Thank you," I said, perhaps a little suspiciously. I put it in the pocket of my hoodie. His lady friend/caretaker/family member said, "I've had five of those today. That's his thing today, passing out candy. I think maybe because it's Halloween time."
The old man had gone back over to his side of the bus stop, leaving me alone. Watching him, it was obvious that he was suffering from some form of dementia. I talked to the lady for a few minutes about flavors of dumdum suckers and when the bus was due. Eventually, the man came back, tucking another sucker into the pocket of my hoodie when he thought I wasn't looking. He caught me watching him and said, "I thought you might want another. Or maybe for a friend?"
"Thank you very much," I said. "Root beer is my favorite flavor." I told them goodbye when we got off of the bus. I noticed he'd left a sucker for the bus driver, too, propped haphazardly on the dollar bill receptacle.
He reminded me of my grandfather, I guess because he treated me like a little girl instead of a woman. He just wanted to be kind and give me a sucker, because out of all of the people at the bus stop I might need one.
Later it occurred to me to be a little sad that I can no longer interact with men the way I interacted with my grandfather. It's impossible to have that sort of completely innocent interaction with a guy, no matter how platonic we are or how gay they are, and has been since I've had boobs. It's just a thing. There's guarded distance at the least, like at any second something might happen to send us into inappropriate territory.
Of course, I regret nothing of the less-than-innocent variety that I've done with the males of the species, so I guess it evens out.
One of the suckers fell out of my pocket on the walk home from the bus. At least it wasn't the root beer one.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Pets
Tonight the guys and I were talking about food webs (what we used to call food chains back in the day) and were coming up with a bunch. Like:
sun -> corn -> crows -> hawks
sun -> carrots -> bunnies -> foxes
sun -> algae -> little fish -> big fish -> SHARK
Then the youngest came up with sun -> oak trees -> mice -> cats.
"I don't think anything really eats cats," he said.
"Except Alf," I replied without thinking.
They stared at me.
"It was a show that I watched when I was a kid. The main character ate cats."
They continued staring at me.
"No, see, he was an alien, right?"
They tilted their heads in unison and drew their eyebrows together.
"Look, it was the 80's, ok? Don't judge me."
sun -> corn -> crows -> hawks
sun -> carrots -> bunnies -> foxes
sun -> algae -> little fish -> big fish -> SHARK
Then the youngest came up with sun -> oak trees -> mice -> cats.
"I don't think anything really eats cats," he said.
"Except Alf," I replied without thinking.
They stared at me.
"It was a show that I watched when I was a kid. The main character ate cats."
They continued staring at me.
"No, see, he was an alien, right?"
They tilted their heads in unison and drew their eyebrows together.
"Look, it was the 80's, ok? Don't judge me."
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Monster
Today on the train I sat beside a guy in the earliest of the early twenties. He had a Monster energy drink in one hand and was wearing a hat emblazoned with the same logo. When I looked again I realized that his shirt and hoodie also had the distinctive slime-green M printed on them. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he had the logo tattooed on his arm.
Yep, not only was he entirely decked out in energy drink merchandise, but he actually had the brand's logo tattooed on him as well. This was such a foreign idea to me, to become a living and breathing advertisement for a brand that I didn't personally invent. What would drive someone to do that?
I know many people become personally invested in consumer goods, allowing it to become part of their identity. There are people who will live and die for Nike shoes or Levi's jeans or a Luis Vuitton handbag. I have a friend whose nickname is a clothing brand popularized in the 90's... for the longest time I didn't even know his real name. Nicknames can be changed, though, and your obsession with this brand or that can be quietly forgotten when you find a different brand that you like better. A tattoo is a pretty serious commitment.
Then again, I'm quick to avoid and deny corporate advertising whenever possible. When William Gibson's Pattern Recognition was released, I had a few people tell me that they couldn't see Cayce (who goes so far as to have the logos sanded off of the buttons of her jeans) as described in the story because they were so busy imagining her as me. I don't think I'm that obsessive - and I've even calmed down over the years as I have gotten other things in my life to worry about - but perhaps it clouds my perception in matters like these.
Curiosity was killing me (and Jess, who was yelling at me via text message "Talk to him!!! Ask him if he likes Red Bull!") so I said, "Hey, the ink is really well done. [It was well done, this is not a lie.] Where'd you get it?" I intended to ask if Monster employed or sponsored him somehow, but apparently I greatly underestimated my own intimidation factor.
He muttered, "NYC." Then he stood up abruptly and made for the door, nearly tripping on my feet as he crossed over me. It was my stop as well, so I followed him and stood behind him while the train ground to a halt. As he exited I noticed that he had a lanyard with the Monster brand and that he had pulled the labels off of his Oakley sunglasses.
God, people are weird and I love them. Is it any wonder that I just want to study them forever?
Yep, not only was he entirely decked out in energy drink merchandise, but he actually had the brand's logo tattooed on him as well. This was such a foreign idea to me, to become a living and breathing advertisement for a brand that I didn't personally invent. What would drive someone to do that?
I know many people become personally invested in consumer goods, allowing it to become part of their identity. There are people who will live and die for Nike shoes or Levi's jeans or a Luis Vuitton handbag. I have a friend whose nickname is a clothing brand popularized in the 90's... for the longest time I didn't even know his real name. Nicknames can be changed, though, and your obsession with this brand or that can be quietly forgotten when you find a different brand that you like better. A tattoo is a pretty serious commitment.
Then again, I'm quick to avoid and deny corporate advertising whenever possible. When William Gibson's Pattern Recognition was released, I had a few people tell me that they couldn't see Cayce (who goes so far as to have the logos sanded off of the buttons of her jeans) as described in the story because they were so busy imagining her as me. I don't think I'm that obsessive - and I've even calmed down over the years as I have gotten other things in my life to worry about - but perhaps it clouds my perception in matters like these.
Curiosity was killing me (and Jess, who was yelling at me via text message "Talk to him!!! Ask him if he likes Red Bull!") so I said, "Hey, the ink is really well done. [It was well done, this is not a lie.] Where'd you get it?" I intended to ask if Monster employed or sponsored him somehow, but apparently I greatly underestimated my own intimidation factor.
He muttered, "NYC." Then he stood up abruptly and made for the door, nearly tripping on my feet as he crossed over me. It was my stop as well, so I followed him and stood behind him while the train ground to a halt. As he exited I noticed that he had a lanyard with the Monster brand and that he had pulled the labels off of his Oakley sunglasses.
God, people are weird and I love them. Is it any wonder that I just want to study them forever?
Friday, August 17, 2012
Anticipate
Sometimes I dream that I get a text or a call or an IM that says, “You should come over, I miss you.” I throw on my shoes and grab my bag and make the ten minute walk to the train in five so that I’m panting like an over-excited dog when I throw myself down into a seat, just like always. It’s hot now, though, no snow to excuse the red face and the running. I clear the obstacle course that is 16th between California and Market in record time, too, skipping down the escalators at Market Street Station.
Then I’m standing in front of the screens that explain the buses and the times and I realize... I don’t know which bus to take. It’s not the AB or BX anymore. It hasn’t been in months, and I was just thinking the other day that I missed giggling at the “Kiss and Ride” sign at the McCaslin stop. I wrack my brain, there’s something big that I’m forgetting. What is it that I’m not remembering?
I start to panic. How can I not know which bus to take? For gods’ sake, I basically live on public transportation. I take a deep breath in and concentrate: where exactly am I going?
Then I remember. Oh, right, this dream again. Ah, well.
---
On Facebook there’s an announcement that a friend of mine split up with his girlfriend. I pick up my phone and stare at his number for a few minutes. It seems like there should be some words that will make it a little better, some magical phrase to fix a wounded heart, but I don’t know them. I put the phone down, then pick it back up again.
I tell him that I love him and offer up wine and cookies. He doesn’t take me up on the offer, but thanks me anyway. I feel like being human is making all of us tired right now.
---
Last night was all blues music and solitude. Today is productivity (dishes, library, artsy things, laundry) and Parov Stelar. School starts next week and there is no ambivalence this time - I simply cannot wait to dig in. Whether it's distraction that I'm craving or just forward momentum, my classes seem like the perfect antidote to what's ailing me.
Then I’m standing in front of the screens that explain the buses and the times and I realize... I don’t know which bus to take. It’s not the AB or BX anymore. It hasn’t been in months, and I was just thinking the other day that I missed giggling at the “Kiss and Ride” sign at the McCaslin stop. I wrack my brain, there’s something big that I’m forgetting. What is it that I’m not remembering?
I start to panic. How can I not know which bus to take? For gods’ sake, I basically live on public transportation. I take a deep breath in and concentrate: where exactly am I going?
Then I remember. Oh, right, this dream again. Ah, well.
---
On Facebook there’s an announcement that a friend of mine split up with his girlfriend. I pick up my phone and stare at his number for a few minutes. It seems like there should be some words that will make it a little better, some magical phrase to fix a wounded heart, but I don’t know them. I put the phone down, then pick it back up again.
I tell him that I love him and offer up wine and cookies. He doesn’t take me up on the offer, but thanks me anyway. I feel like being human is making all of us tired right now.
---
Last night was all blues music and solitude. Today is productivity (dishes, library, artsy things, laundry) and Parov Stelar. School starts next week and there is no ambivalence this time - I simply cannot wait to dig in. Whether it's distraction that I'm craving or just forward momentum, my classes seem like the perfect antidote to what's ailing me.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Solid Gold
The other day I told my best girl my super-secret weapon for dealing with tough situations, and then decided that it was simply selfish to keep it a secret for any longer. So, here's what you do:
When you are in the middle of some extremely stressful or crazy point in your life, take a second and imagine yourself in 30 years. You're sitting with your best friends, you've got a glass of wine (or margarita or whiskey or whatever your poison is) and are regaling them with your stories. Sure, they've heard all of them before, but when you're old you get to retell stories and no one is allowed to call you on it.
Is this story, the one you're living through right now, going to make the cut? Are you companions going to laugh or gasp or yell, "Oh I know you did NOT!" when you tell them about it?
In my mind, I'm sitting on a patio of a quasi-swanky restaurant with Andrea, Jane, Becca, Sarah, et al. I've got a glass of red wine in my right hand and I'm waving it around all crazy while making faces, impersonating voices, and perhaps talking a little too loud. My girls are howling with laughter at my antics, occasionally telling me that I am so wrong for what I just said. The waiters are mildly scandalized, but what are they going to do? Throw the nice old ladies out? Besides, we tip really well, and we're regulars. Even they have to snicker a little at our self-deprecating tales about bad jobs, bad boyfriends, bad investments, and bad luck.
"... so there I am covered in blood, having just flashed the entire neighborhood my ass..."
"... and I said 'fuck it, if we're going to be homeless, we sure as shit aren't doing it here' and we headed west two days later..."
"... then the teacher was like 'you realize you missed the final entirely?' and I about pissed myself until..."
"... I thought he was trying to screw us all over but it turned out that the building manager was selling the coffee shop out from under him and he had no idea..."
It doesn't cure whatever craziness I'm going through at any given point, but it certainly takes the sting out to realize that it's going to be hilarious to tell when I'm old.
When you are in the middle of some extremely stressful or crazy point in your life, take a second and imagine yourself in 30 years. You're sitting with your best friends, you've got a glass of wine (or margarita or whiskey or whatever your poison is) and are regaling them with your stories. Sure, they've heard all of them before, but when you're old you get to retell stories and no one is allowed to call you on it.
Is this story, the one you're living through right now, going to make the cut? Are you companions going to laugh or gasp or yell, "Oh I know you did NOT!" when you tell them about it?
In my mind, I'm sitting on a patio of a quasi-swanky restaurant with Andrea, Jane, Becca, Sarah, et al. I've got a glass of red wine in my right hand and I'm waving it around all crazy while making faces, impersonating voices, and perhaps talking a little too loud. My girls are howling with laughter at my antics, occasionally telling me that I am so wrong for what I just said. The waiters are mildly scandalized, but what are they going to do? Throw the nice old ladies out? Besides, we tip really well, and we're regulars. Even they have to snicker a little at our self-deprecating tales about bad jobs, bad boyfriends, bad investments, and bad luck.
"... so there I am covered in blood, having just flashed the entire neighborhood my ass..."
"... and I said 'fuck it, if we're going to be homeless, we sure as shit aren't doing it here' and we headed west two days later..."
"... then the teacher was like 'you realize you missed the final entirely?' and I about pissed myself until..."
"... I thought he was trying to screw us all over but it turned out that the building manager was selling the coffee shop out from under him and he had no idea..."
It doesn't cure whatever craziness I'm going through at any given point, but it certainly takes the sting out to realize that it's going to be hilarious to tell when I'm old.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Just Breathe
Some days are so easy. I can wake up and just feel the potential of the next several hours. Whatever I decide to wear is entirely flattering, my breakfast is exactly what I want, I somehow make the 10 minute walk to the station in 7 minutes without breaking a sweat, and the papers practically write themselves. Housework is done in record time, I make the guys laugh, I solidly connect with the people that I love. I glide effortlessly through space and time and trials, like an Olympic swimmer or an extra-graceful swan or some other aquatic metaphor.
Dolphin? I like dolphins.
Yes, some days are so easy that they seem perfect and they make me feel like I am on top of everything. I'm capable! I am completely able to handle life in general.
And then there was today. Which was the exact opposite of all of those things.
Today was the sort of day where I woke up and immediately realized that it was a bad choice. Where everything in my closet fit weird, and nothing sounded appetizing for breakfast, and I spent a couple of hours simply trying to convince myself that I was going to have to deal with the day so I might as well attempt doing something. Then all the somethings I did were just a little off... this thing was broken, that thing was missing, that thing isn't going to work out like I'd like, this one-paragraph discussion was a two-hour struggle, and I accidentally re-learned that ovens are hot when they are turned on.
My loved ones seemed very far away, even the ones that were in the room with me or in constant contact via text or the internet. I was not making anyone laugh, because I was tired and grumpy and had a second-degree burn on my knuckle. There was no effortless gliding! Instead it was more like trying to play QWOP.
I did not feel capable or reasonable or like I should be trusted to be an adult.
But you know what? I made it. I mean, I didn't have any great breakthroughs or strokes of brilliance. My sink is full of dishes and my pool table is covered in clean laundry. My dog is kind of annoyed that I didn't want to run around with her much and my stairwell goes on being half-painted. My to-do list only got larger. Still, I'm resting in my bed at the end of it, having survived the day without going absolutely nuts in the process.
Sometimes that's the best win you're going to get. So I am accepting it with as much aplomb as I currently can and going to sleep hoping that tomorrow is different.
And if not, well. I guess I'll survive it, too.
Dolphin? I like dolphins.
Yes, some days are so easy that they seem perfect and they make me feel like I am on top of everything. I'm capable! I am completely able to handle life in general.
And then there was today. Which was the exact opposite of all of those things.
Today was the sort of day where I woke up and immediately realized that it was a bad choice. Where everything in my closet fit weird, and nothing sounded appetizing for breakfast, and I spent a couple of hours simply trying to convince myself that I was going to have to deal with the day so I might as well attempt doing something. Then all the somethings I did were just a little off... this thing was broken, that thing was missing, that thing isn't going to work out like I'd like, this one-paragraph discussion was a two-hour struggle, and I accidentally re-learned that ovens are hot when they are turned on.
My loved ones seemed very far away, even the ones that were in the room with me or in constant contact via text or the internet. I was not making anyone laugh, because I was tired and grumpy and had a second-degree burn on my knuckle. There was no effortless gliding! Instead it was more like trying to play QWOP.
I did not feel capable or reasonable or like I should be trusted to be an adult.
But you know what? I made it. I mean, I didn't have any great breakthroughs or strokes of brilliance. My sink is full of dishes and my pool table is covered in clean laundry. My dog is kind of annoyed that I didn't want to run around with her much and my stairwell goes on being half-painted. My to-do list only got larger. Still, I'm resting in my bed at the end of it, having survived the day without going absolutely nuts in the process.
Sometimes that's the best win you're going to get. So I am accepting it with as much aplomb as I currently can and going to sleep hoping that tomorrow is different.
And if not, well. I guess I'll survive it, too.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Storm
The one thing I find supremely disappointing about living in Denver is the lack of storms. They are so infrequent here that I sometimes forget what they feel like, which is not something I ever had to deal with in the south. Sometimes it would storm for days or even weeks at a stretch, constant rain and thunder. I remember having no less than eight tornado warnings in one 24 hour time frame when we were living in the Bridgewater house.
"Why do they even bother putting an end time on it anymore?" I asked after the third one. "Why don't they just say, 'You should probably just stay in the bath tub* until you see sunlight again,' because that's more realistic."
Tonight, though, we had one of the rare Denver storms move in about dinner time. Not a lot in the way of rain, sadly, but it was still pretty impressive. There were giant strobe-like lightning storms off to the south and the east, gorgeous purple and blue flashes in the clouds with the occasional impressive bolt. I stood out on the patio and watched it, shivering in the freezing drizzle, until I just couldn't stand it anymore and went back inside.
When I grow up I want a house that allows for storm watching in all directions without standing in the rain. Maybe a covered balcony in the back and a front porch. Or just a lot of windows. I will curl up and watch the storms from under my blanket with a mug of hot tea.
You can come sit beside me and share my blanket. I'll say, "OHMIGAWSH, did you see that one, over there behind the tree? That was the biggest one yet!" and "Oh man, I love storms so much!" I might do a little happy dance. You can laugh at me and tell me that you're pretty sure I'm actually a puppy because everything is just so great all the time! with me.
Then, when the storm is over, you can come tell me funny stories while I do the dishes. Ok? Ok. It's a date.
* - Memphis doesn't really do basements, y'all.
"Why do they even bother putting an end time on it anymore?" I asked after the third one. "Why don't they just say, 'You should probably just stay in the bath tub* until you see sunlight again,' because that's more realistic."
Tonight, though, we had one of the rare Denver storms move in about dinner time. Not a lot in the way of rain, sadly, but it was still pretty impressive. There were giant strobe-like lightning storms off to the south and the east, gorgeous purple and blue flashes in the clouds with the occasional impressive bolt. I stood out on the patio and watched it, shivering in the freezing drizzle, until I just couldn't stand it anymore and went back inside.
When I grow up I want a house that allows for storm watching in all directions without standing in the rain. Maybe a covered balcony in the back and a front porch. Or just a lot of windows. I will curl up and watch the storms from under my blanket with a mug of hot tea.
You can come sit beside me and share my blanket. I'll say, "OHMIGAWSH, did you see that one, over there behind the tree? That was the biggest one yet!" and "Oh man, I love storms so much!" I might do a little happy dance. You can laugh at me and tell me that you're pretty sure I'm actually a puppy because everything is just so great all the time! with me.
Then, when the storm is over, you can come tell me funny stories while I do the dishes. Ok? Ok. It's a date.
* - Memphis doesn't really do basements, y'all.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Killing Time
"A therapist, really? Hearing people's problems day in and day out is going to make you cold and cynical," he says, squinting at me. "It'd be a shame."
I want to laugh, but I just shake my head with a smile. It's human nature to assume that the tightrope walker has never stumbled or tripped, so it's easier to watch her tiptoe across. Just assume it's simple for her, she's just talented, she probably has some superpower, you could never. Applause for the amazing woman in the sequins, folks!
It would be easy to crush his illusions, I suppose, but he's just some guy with a cigarette that I'm talking with to kill time because all the people I care about are somewhere else. Let him have the image of me as trouble-free pixie, skipping through life unchallenged up until the point that I get a job helping people who have actually had problems. It doesn't cost me anything. I change the subject and we talk about him, instead. I know it's his favorite topic.
Denver caught summer, finally. The dry, quasi-desert heat sucks the moisture up from everywhere, turning the grass in the abandoned lots brown and crunchy under my feet. I walk at night when I can, avoiding the sun for another few days. My classes start soon and then I'll be walking home at high noon every couple of days. Maybe not the best planning on my part.
I am only half paying attention to the things around me right now, going through the motions of classes and whatever it is that I do when I'm not doing schoolwork. It's hard to focus on the moment when I feel like there's something coming, some giant event that is going to change everything. Or maybe some little event that is going to change everything?
Instead of giving myself fully to the now (which would be the zen thing to do) I have one eye out for the first hint of trouble or opportunity. I'm mentally crouched on the starting line, ready to run the second the universe reveals what's in store for me... whether I'm running away or toward it is up for debate, I suppose. It's difficult to really live moment-to-moment when your brain has this heightened awareness, on the edge of fight-or-flight but without anything to fight or anywhere to run to.
I make a bunch of plans that might never happen, just because planning makes me happy. I price flights, look at event dates, daydream about visiting friends and familiar places. There's a tree in New Orleans that misses me, and a bunch of dead people in Memphis that I haven't talked to in a while. There's a couch in St. Louis that I need to go claim a corner of (since it's new and all) and a river that remembers when I was born. My house in Connecticut might miss me, too, but it at least has Mike to keep it company while I'm away. I let him live there, see, since I have to be here.
Then there are friends in DC that I haven't seen in years, and California keeps getting talked up, and I always wanted to visit Portland.
In the end I know that my time and resources are limited, and most of my plans will take years to come to fruition. I make them anyway. It's something to keep me occupied while I'm waiting.
I tell myself that in five years I'll have this all sorted. I'll be in possession of the answers to all the questions that are plaguing me.
Of course, I forget to mention that I'll just have a new set of questions. Myself and I have a gentlemen's agreement not to notice this oversight.
I want to laugh, but I just shake my head with a smile. It's human nature to assume that the tightrope walker has never stumbled or tripped, so it's easier to watch her tiptoe across. Just assume it's simple for her, she's just talented, she probably has some superpower, you could never. Applause for the amazing woman in the sequins, folks!
It would be easy to crush his illusions, I suppose, but he's just some guy with a cigarette that I'm talking with to kill time because all the people I care about are somewhere else. Let him have the image of me as trouble-free pixie, skipping through life unchallenged up until the point that I get a job helping people who have actually had problems. It doesn't cost me anything. I change the subject and we talk about him, instead. I know it's his favorite topic.
Denver caught summer, finally. The dry, quasi-desert heat sucks the moisture up from everywhere, turning the grass in the abandoned lots brown and crunchy under my feet. I walk at night when I can, avoiding the sun for another few days. My classes start soon and then I'll be walking home at high noon every couple of days. Maybe not the best planning on my part.
I am only half paying attention to the things around me right now, going through the motions of classes and whatever it is that I do when I'm not doing schoolwork. It's hard to focus on the moment when I feel like there's something coming, some giant event that is going to change everything. Or maybe some little event that is going to change everything?
Instead of giving myself fully to the now (which would be the zen thing to do) I have one eye out for the first hint of trouble or opportunity. I'm mentally crouched on the starting line, ready to run the second the universe reveals what's in store for me... whether I'm running away or toward it is up for debate, I suppose. It's difficult to really live moment-to-moment when your brain has this heightened awareness, on the edge of fight-or-flight but without anything to fight or anywhere to run to.
I make a bunch of plans that might never happen, just because planning makes me happy. I price flights, look at event dates, daydream about visiting friends and familiar places. There's a tree in New Orleans that misses me, and a bunch of dead people in Memphis that I haven't talked to in a while. There's a couch in St. Louis that I need to go claim a corner of (since it's new and all) and a river that remembers when I was born. My house in Connecticut might miss me, too, but it at least has Mike to keep it company while I'm away. I let him live there, see, since I have to be here.
Then there are friends in DC that I haven't seen in years, and California keeps getting talked up, and I always wanted to visit Portland.
In the end I know that my time and resources are limited, and most of my plans will take years to come to fruition. I make them anyway. It's something to keep me occupied while I'm waiting.
I tell myself that in five years I'll have this all sorted. I'll be in possession of the answers to all the questions that are plaguing me.
Of course, I forget to mention that I'll just have a new set of questions. Myself and I have a gentlemen's agreement not to notice this oversight.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Colly Strings
The night my grandfather died I was visiting some friends of my uncle's at their little house in south Memphis. I don't remember their names, but they had a parrot that thought it was hilarious to bite me and some plastic horses that I generally ended up commandeering because I was five. Everyone else got uproariously drunk when we visited, I played with plastic horses. This described about 3/4 of my weekends for a while.
That evening we were all in the living room and one of the other guests said, "I want to play the guitar! Go get yours." So the lady of the house did, and the friend tried to recall how to play. I remember her futzing around with it and eventually slicing the tip of her finger on the high e string. She didn't notice at first, but blood ran everywhere - probably due at least in part to alcohol being a thinning agent. It ran down the strings and her wrist and stained the cuff of her light blue shirt before she realized. I felt woozy and confused because the adults were simply shrugging it off and saying things like "yeah, that happens if you don't play for a while."
I thought: ADULTS ARE WEIRD. I'M NEVER PLAYING THE GUITAR. I MIGHT NOT EVER GROW UP.
And then the phone call came in and my dad was crying and I had never seen a man cry before and I was totally freaking out but no one would tell me what was going on and Guitar Friend was bleeding through the kleenex she'd wrapped around her finger while she was trying to clumsily comfort me (even though I had no idea what she was trying to comfort me about) and my mom was nowhere to be found. It was a mess. I don't remember being told about my grandfather's passing. I don't remember much else, just the woman playing guitar with blood running down the palm of her hand and being utterly convinced that I was the only sane one in the room at all given points.
This is what I think about every time I pick up a guitar. It's probably why I keep putting them down immediately afterward.
Not this time, though. This time I am going to learn to play the damned thing, even if it does lead to blood and chaos.
(Let's be honest: it'd hardly be the first thing I've done in my life that led to blood and chaos.)
That evening we were all in the living room and one of the other guests said, "I want to play the guitar! Go get yours." So the lady of the house did, and the friend tried to recall how to play. I remember her futzing around with it and eventually slicing the tip of her finger on the high e string. She didn't notice at first, but blood ran everywhere - probably due at least in part to alcohol being a thinning agent. It ran down the strings and her wrist and stained the cuff of her light blue shirt before she realized. I felt woozy and confused because the adults were simply shrugging it off and saying things like "yeah, that happens if you don't play for a while."
I thought: ADULTS ARE WEIRD. I'M NEVER PLAYING THE GUITAR. I MIGHT NOT EVER GROW UP.
And then the phone call came in and my dad was crying and I had never seen a man cry before and I was totally freaking out but no one would tell me what was going on and Guitar Friend was bleeding through the kleenex she'd wrapped around her finger while she was trying to clumsily comfort me (even though I had no idea what she was trying to comfort me about) and my mom was nowhere to be found. It was a mess. I don't remember being told about my grandfather's passing. I don't remember much else, just the woman playing guitar with blood running down the palm of her hand and being utterly convinced that I was the only sane one in the room at all given points.
This is what I think about every time I pick up a guitar. It's probably why I keep putting them down immediately afterward.
Not this time, though. This time I am going to learn to play the damned thing, even if it does lead to blood and chaos.
(Let's be honest: it'd hardly be the first thing I've done in my life that led to blood and chaos.)
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Chicago
Today I bought myself a birthday present!
Firstly, I bought myself some tickets to Chicago so that I can see my favoritest favorite and hopefully Jenn and Rae as well. Oh, and the pizza. I would like to see a lot of the pizza, please.
Secondly, I bought myself a ticket to Lollapalooza on that Friday. What an amazing lineup! Black Keys, Black Sabbath, Band of Skulls, Metric... it's basically my iPod live. And I want to catch at least part of Die Antwoord's set, because I imagine that their stage show is interesting.
Also? Something crossed off of my list.
I am endlessly amused that the girl who got on an airplane for the first time when she was 27 is now looking at her frequent flyer miles and planning her fourth trip in 8 months. Of course, I'm endlessly amused about a lot of things these days. The college and the bank account and the workout routine and the art studio in my bedroom and the parties and the friends...
Me five years ago would be completely baffled by me now, should we meet through some TARDIS-related accident. She would totally want to buy me a drink, though.
Firstly, I bought myself some tickets to Chicago so that I can see my favoritest favorite and hopefully Jenn and Rae as well. Oh, and the pizza. I would like to see a lot of the pizza, please.
Secondly, I bought myself a ticket to Lollapalooza on that Friday. What an amazing lineup! Black Keys, Black Sabbath, Band of Skulls, Metric... it's basically my iPod live. And I want to catch at least part of Die Antwoord's set, because I imagine that their stage show is interesting.
Also? Something crossed off of my list.
I am endlessly amused that the girl who got on an airplane for the first time when she was 27 is now looking at her frequent flyer miles and planning her fourth trip in 8 months. Of course, I'm endlessly amused about a lot of things these days. The college and the bank account and the workout routine and the art studio in my bedroom and the parties and the friends...
Me five years ago would be completely baffled by me now, should we meet through some TARDIS-related accident. She would totally want to buy me a drink, though.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Rootless
I love airports so much sometimes. I mean, I could do without the TSA and the liquids in a bag and the shoes coming off and the surprise radiation and all, but other than that airports tend to be a giant amalgamation of things that I like: travel, adventure, and people watching.
Yesterday, as I waited for the illustrious Sooj to come get me from the Denver airport, I sat in the food court above the section where all the people anxiously wait to welcome their travelers. As I ate my (extremely greasy and entirely ill-advised) pizza, I watched each wave of people coming up the escalators, greeting and being greeted by the people behind the barrier. My unabashed observation was, in turn, being observed by a gentleman across the way. I paid him no mind, lost in the narrative of other people's lives unfolding before me. It was good balm for a soul wounded by rough goodbyes.
Families met and hugged their hellos, parents and college students mostly. There were a few business-like handshakes between what I'm assuming were coworkers or maybe just non-demonstrative relatives. Some people held signs with "Welcome home!" written on them, others brought flowers or stuffed animals.
There were the couples, of course, most of them all but running to meet each other at the end of the barrier, catching one another in a near tackle. Some were more sedate than others, settling for a good hug and maybe a chaste kiss before walking off hand in hand. Others dove face-first into each other, luggage dropped and all but forgotten for however long the embrace lasted. Oh, I missed you.
A pretty college girl couldn't contain her happy dance, bouncing from one foot to the other and wriggling like an excited puppy. I almost laughed out loud, because I'm sure that's what I looked like all day Friday. I would have guessed that she was meeting a lover, but instead she ran to hug a girl at the top of the escalator - despite the Do Not Enter sign - and they squealed the universal best-friend squeal of excitement as they jumped up and down mid-hug. They walked away talking a mile a minute, gesturing wildly with their hands.
Five minutes later a little boy ran around the barrier, then kicked up on his heelies to roll the last few feet to embrace his slightly embarrassed older brother. Little brother was followed by Mom, who did not care even a little that her gangly teenage son was hugely uncomfortable in her bear hug. He was relieved to grab the majority of the bags as an excuse to escape any more affection.
Then an older woman strode quickly up to her husband, who had spent the past twenty minutes nervously patting at his gelled hair like he wasn't used to it and was hoping it looked ok. They didn't hug or kiss like the other couples, but they held each other's hands tightly while saying their hellos. They stood still, never taking their eyes off of one another for what seemed like an eternity, love and relief at being together again obvious from a several yards away and a story up. Finally, she gave him a sly smile that clearly said, Take me home. He grabbed her suitcase and ushered her toward the door, trance broken.
There was a man in a bright orange shirt and black vest clutching a little bunch of red flowers in paper. He was there when I got off of my plane, pacing along the rail, going to sit on the bench, going back to the rail to pace. I assumed that he was meeting a love, someone he hadn't seen in a long time. He was nervous, checking his watch every few minutes, pretending to study various artwork, pacing again. I decided to wait it out, see how the man or woman in question was going to react to his flowers and obvious affection. I hoped that he wouldn't get all stoic once he saw them, suddenly embarrassed by his emotions.
When the next wave of people came up the stairs I got distracted by the cutest little girl in a pink shirt and pigtails shrieking "Daddy!" so loudly that I heard it over my headphones. I watched her bolt and run as fast as her tiny legs would take her (she couldn't have even been kindergarten aged yet) from her mother's side and around the rail. She ran right up to... the man in the orange shirt, flinging her arms around his legs with her face upturned. He knelt down so he was closer to her level and handed her the little bouquet of flowers. Then he scooped her up and hugged her close to his chest, laughing at something she'd said. Definitely no stoicism there. His wife came up and put her arm around his waist, stealing a kiss even as the little girl continued whatever story she was telling with wide eyes and expansive hand motions, coming dangerously close to smacking them both in the face with the flowers she wielded in her fist.
I was pretty sure that I would die of it if things got any cuter or sweeter, so I discarded the rest of my pizza and soda in the trash before wandering off to find a nice, secluded spot just off of the baggage area to check my phone. I didn't realize how much being stared at by the man in the food court had bothered me until I was out of his line of vision. I chatted with Mike about clock spiders and cupcakes, and then I caught my ride back to the house. Sooj had just kissed her boy goodbye for two weeks. We did the fist-bump of sad solidarity on our way out of the airport garage.
The sun was out and the mountains were beautiful, still a little snowcapped and wrapped in a blue haze. I saw them but they didn't resonate at all. It was as though they were a picture in a book, very pretty but ultimately not a part of my reality. My spirit is somewhere else, curled up and sleeping soundly, staunchly refusing to go along with my "be strong" agenda. It will have none of my dry-eyed warrior princess act, none of my big girl pants, thank you very much. It has taken to bed with the vapors. I wonder if it will find its way home or if I'll have to go retrieve it.
Either way, I imagine that there will be happy squeals and bouncing when we are reunited. Maybe I'll buy myself flowers.
Yesterday, as I waited for the illustrious Sooj to come get me from the Denver airport, I sat in the food court above the section where all the people anxiously wait to welcome their travelers. As I ate my (extremely greasy and entirely ill-advised) pizza, I watched each wave of people coming up the escalators, greeting and being greeted by the people behind the barrier. My unabashed observation was, in turn, being observed by a gentleman across the way. I paid him no mind, lost in the narrative of other people's lives unfolding before me. It was good balm for a soul wounded by rough goodbyes.
Families met and hugged their hellos, parents and college students mostly. There were a few business-like handshakes between what I'm assuming were coworkers or maybe just non-demonstrative relatives. Some people held signs with "Welcome home!" written on them, others brought flowers or stuffed animals.
There were the couples, of course, most of them all but running to meet each other at the end of the barrier, catching one another in a near tackle. Some were more sedate than others, settling for a good hug and maybe a chaste kiss before walking off hand in hand. Others dove face-first into each other, luggage dropped and all but forgotten for however long the embrace lasted. Oh, I missed you.
A pretty college girl couldn't contain her happy dance, bouncing from one foot to the other and wriggling like an excited puppy. I almost laughed out loud, because I'm sure that's what I looked like all day Friday. I would have guessed that she was meeting a lover, but instead she ran to hug a girl at the top of the escalator - despite the Do Not Enter sign - and they squealed the universal best-friend squeal of excitement as they jumped up and down mid-hug. They walked away talking a mile a minute, gesturing wildly with their hands.
Five minutes later a little boy ran around the barrier, then kicked up on his heelies to roll the last few feet to embrace his slightly embarrassed older brother. Little brother was followed by Mom, who did not care even a little that her gangly teenage son was hugely uncomfortable in her bear hug. He was relieved to grab the majority of the bags as an excuse to escape any more affection.
Then an older woman strode quickly up to her husband, who had spent the past twenty minutes nervously patting at his gelled hair like he wasn't used to it and was hoping it looked ok. They didn't hug or kiss like the other couples, but they held each other's hands tightly while saying their hellos. They stood still, never taking their eyes off of one another for what seemed like an eternity, love and relief at being together again obvious from a several yards away and a story up. Finally, she gave him a sly smile that clearly said, Take me home. He grabbed her suitcase and ushered her toward the door, trance broken.
There was a man in a bright orange shirt and black vest clutching a little bunch of red flowers in paper. He was there when I got off of my plane, pacing along the rail, going to sit on the bench, going back to the rail to pace. I assumed that he was meeting a love, someone he hadn't seen in a long time. He was nervous, checking his watch every few minutes, pretending to study various artwork, pacing again. I decided to wait it out, see how the man or woman in question was going to react to his flowers and obvious affection. I hoped that he wouldn't get all stoic once he saw them, suddenly embarrassed by his emotions.
When the next wave of people came up the stairs I got distracted by the cutest little girl in a pink shirt and pigtails shrieking "Daddy!" so loudly that I heard it over my headphones. I watched her bolt and run as fast as her tiny legs would take her (she couldn't have even been kindergarten aged yet) from her mother's side and around the rail. She ran right up to... the man in the orange shirt, flinging her arms around his legs with her face upturned. He knelt down so he was closer to her level and handed her the little bouquet of flowers. Then he scooped her up and hugged her close to his chest, laughing at something she'd said. Definitely no stoicism there. His wife came up and put her arm around his waist, stealing a kiss even as the little girl continued whatever story she was telling with wide eyes and expansive hand motions, coming dangerously close to smacking them both in the face with the flowers she wielded in her fist.
I was pretty sure that I would die of it if things got any cuter or sweeter, so I discarded the rest of my pizza and soda in the trash before wandering off to find a nice, secluded spot just off of the baggage area to check my phone. I didn't realize how much being stared at by the man in the food court had bothered me until I was out of his line of vision. I chatted with Mike about clock spiders and cupcakes, and then I caught my ride back to the house. Sooj had just kissed her boy goodbye for two weeks. We did the fist-bump of sad solidarity on our way out of the airport garage.
The sun was out and the mountains were beautiful, still a little snowcapped and wrapped in a blue haze. I saw them but they didn't resonate at all. It was as though they were a picture in a book, very pretty but ultimately not a part of my reality. My spirit is somewhere else, curled up and sleeping soundly, staunchly refusing to go along with my "be strong" agenda. It will have none of my dry-eyed warrior princess act, none of my big girl pants, thank you very much. It has taken to bed with the vapors. I wonder if it will find its way home or if I'll have to go retrieve it.
Either way, I imagine that there will be happy squeals and bouncing when we are reunited. Maybe I'll buy myself flowers.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Sin
I stopped at the salad shop in the middle of the business district because I was dying of starvation. The boy behind the counter (with his dress-code baseball cap cocked just so) asked if I wanted any chicken in my salad.
"No thank you," I said. "I'm a vegetarian."
He nodded and went to work on my food, while I stood in bafflement. I'm a vegetarian? The hell I am. Why did I say that? In my consternation I blushed and bit my lip. He took it as a sign that I was flirting with him and paid me extra attention while I ate. Fine karma for my sin, there.
Now, I am not above lying. I do it every time I go downtown or to the clubs. "No, I don't have a dollar." "I'm from out of town, can't help!" "My boyfriend would be so mad if I danced with you!" "I'm a felon, voting rights revoked." I tell people these things because I know if I'm honest they will follow me around and pester me, and I do not have the time for their nonsense.
The poor salad guy, though, he didn't deserve my sudden and inexplicable dishonesty. Maybe it was acting out from being a responsible adult all day and telling people the truth:
See, I was married, but now I'm not, so this is why I'm suddenly broke. See, I didn't actually have any W2's last year. Yeah, so, I still live in the house, but it isn't in my name at all, and I pay rent but not as much as the mortgage because he still lives there, too. Yeah, I took out those loans and I'm an art major.
I know what I look like to these people, and maybe that's exactly what I am. I am well past the point of caring, however. There are things I need to do, and I just need everyone to either help or get out of my way so I can continue doing them. It is tiring to constantly have to explain myself, over and over, to a million different people.
While I ate (under the watchful eye of the salad maker, who swooped in to refill my soda and offer me vegetarian cookies for dessert), I decided that it wasn't entirely an untruth. Today I feel like being vegetarian. I will probably change my mind tomorrow. Instead of looking at the whole of me and labeling myself that way, I chose to take who I was that second and use that label instead.
I let the Pisces in my life take credit for my amazing rationalization skills.
That made me think of the boy that I met at the bar last weekend when I went to see Kenny play. He came over to flirt, but he was very high and I was very sober. He complimented me on my hair, and told me he felt a kinship with me because we were both so fair that we were practically glowing in the gloom of the bar. We compared "tans" by holding our arms together, his skin only half a shade darker than my own.
"I've worked construction for five years," he said. "This is all the tan I managed to get!"
I doubted him immediately because he was not only very fair, but also very pretty and soft-looking. His hands weren't calloused, he showed no evidence of a fading sunburn, his lips weren't chapped, his build was slight, his hair was gelled. I know a few construction workers, and none of them look like him.
Later he said, "I work at this restaurant on Chatfield, if you take a jog around the lake you'll see us. We serve a lot of healthy food."
Less than a minute later he was saying, "I work for an off-site growing facility. I have been trained by a guy who understands the science of it, see, and I'm one of eight people in the entire world who know how to grow it the way he does. I could show you if you want to come?"
I sent him a silent apology for labeling him a liar. Maybe he was just representing himself as all of his various selves at once, one assumes because of over-consumption of his own wares. Maybe he did some light residential construction work, maybe he picked up a few hours at a restaurant, maybe he works part time at the grow. He could be all of those things.
Or he could be like Anais Nin's Sabina, all allegory and myth. Who am I to judge? Apparently I suddenly become vegetarian in the face of giant salads.
Maybe I was worried that it would become the Salad of Doom and disapprove if I admitted to just not wanting chicken today.
"No thank you," I said. "I'm a vegetarian."
He nodded and went to work on my food, while I stood in bafflement. I'm a vegetarian? The hell I am. Why did I say that? In my consternation I blushed and bit my lip. He took it as a sign that I was flirting with him and paid me extra attention while I ate. Fine karma for my sin, there.
Now, I am not above lying. I do it every time I go downtown or to the clubs. "No, I don't have a dollar." "I'm from out of town, can't help!" "My boyfriend would be so mad if I danced with you!" "I'm a felon, voting rights revoked." I tell people these things because I know if I'm honest they will follow me around and pester me, and I do not have the time for their nonsense.
The poor salad guy, though, he didn't deserve my sudden and inexplicable dishonesty. Maybe it was acting out from being a responsible adult all day and telling people the truth:
See, I was married, but now I'm not, so this is why I'm suddenly broke. See, I didn't actually have any W2's last year. Yeah, so, I still live in the house, but it isn't in my name at all, and I pay rent but not as much as the mortgage because he still lives there, too. Yeah, I took out those loans and I'm an art major.
I know what I look like to these people, and maybe that's exactly what I am. I am well past the point of caring, however. There are things I need to do, and I just need everyone to either help or get out of my way so I can continue doing them. It is tiring to constantly have to explain myself, over and over, to a million different people.
While I ate (under the watchful eye of the salad maker, who swooped in to refill my soda and offer me vegetarian cookies for dessert), I decided that it wasn't entirely an untruth. Today I feel like being vegetarian. I will probably change my mind tomorrow. Instead of looking at the whole of me and labeling myself that way, I chose to take who I was that second and use that label instead.
I let the Pisces in my life take credit for my amazing rationalization skills.
That made me think of the boy that I met at the bar last weekend when I went to see Kenny play. He came over to flirt, but he was very high and I was very sober. He complimented me on my hair, and told me he felt a kinship with me because we were both so fair that we were practically glowing in the gloom of the bar. We compared "tans" by holding our arms together, his skin only half a shade darker than my own.
"I've worked construction for five years," he said. "This is all the tan I managed to get!"
I doubted him immediately because he was not only very fair, but also very pretty and soft-looking. His hands weren't calloused, he showed no evidence of a fading sunburn, his lips weren't chapped, his build was slight, his hair was gelled. I know a few construction workers, and none of them look like him.
Later he said, "I work at this restaurant on Chatfield, if you take a jog around the lake you'll see us. We serve a lot of healthy food."
Less than a minute later he was saying, "I work for an off-site growing facility. I have been trained by a guy who understands the science of it, see, and I'm one of eight people in the entire world who know how to grow it the way he does. I could show you if you want to come?"
I sent him a silent apology for labeling him a liar. Maybe he was just representing himself as all of his various selves at once, one assumes because of over-consumption of his own wares. Maybe he did some light residential construction work, maybe he picked up a few hours at a restaurant, maybe he works part time at the grow. He could be all of those things.
Or he could be like Anais Nin's Sabina, all allegory and myth. Who am I to judge? Apparently I suddenly become vegetarian in the face of giant salads.
Maybe I was worried that it would become the Salad of Doom and disapprove if I admitted to just not wanting chicken today.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
The List
I am terrible at planning, at deciding, and at setting goals. Every concrete, definitive answer feels like a shackle, limiting my mobility. What if I decide on this restaurant but everyone has a terrible experience? What if I plan this trip but then I get sick? What if I set this goal and then I don't meet it or change my mind about it? It's just so much easier to allow other people to decide, to allow things to happen randomly, to just duck or grab each opportunity as it presents itself.
I'd say that this is very zen, except that it's not coming from a place of oneness with the Universe and acceptance of all possibilities, it's coming from a place of cowardice. If I didn't make the call, if I didn't set out to do this, then I am not culpable when bad things happen! Which is - not to sound uncouth - total bullshit.
In my quest to at least attempt to be more in control of my life, I sat down and wrote out my goals. This didn't come easily to me at all. In fact, I'd been trying to do it since February, when Mike and I had a conversation about how things are more easily achieved when one writes them down. It did finally happen, though, and now I am fully prepared for the question, "What is your five-year plan?"
Ok, being honest here... that's not actually the sort of thing people ask me. People ask me, "How did you get your hair that color?" or "Where have you been these past six months?" or "What the hell are you ON?" Everyone assumes that my future plans are the same as my present plans: have hilarious adventures, roll with the punches, try to avoid arson charges. I do rather like this state of being, it is true. Hopefully having goals will not interfere with it too badly. (And also, I do not have money for bail if I catch it with the arson charges.)
All of that was a giant lead-in to basically say that one of my immediate goals was make up a quasi-bucket list. Yes, one of the things that I decided to put on my list of things to achieve was a list of things to achieve. Meta, right? But bucket lists are generally a set list of things you feel like you have to do before you die, so my bucket list is easy:
1. Everything ever.
I am not known for moderation! So instead of trying to do everything all at once (which will lead to me doing nothing because where do you start with everything?) I decided to pick 10 random things that I really want to do, then work on crossing them off. Once I scratch one thing off, I can replace it with something new.
I don't consider any of the following "goals," because they don't have a set date of completion. These are just things that I would be really, really disappointed to shuffle off of this mortal coil before doing. In no particular order I want to:
1. Visit Rome, specifically the Pantheon.
2. Learn some sort of partnered dancing.
3. Visit all 50 states. (I hope to spend more time in Hawaii or California than, say, Idaho, though.)
4. Eat at one of these restaurants. (Maybe not the one in Denmark... I don't care that it's #1, I've heard things about Danish food!)
5. Learn a martial art.
6. Go out to sea.
7. Get my tarot cards read in Jackson Square.
8. Snowboard.
9. Attend a large music festival. (Lollapalooza, Bonnaroo, Cochella, etc.)
10. Hike a 14er.
It's a pretty good start, I think. Once I manage to completely replace everything on this original list, then I will probably go on and say with some confidence that my life is 100% more awesome than it was when I made the list. Which is an astronomical amount of awesome for one life.
I am tempted to go start working toward crossing things off, but it is 4am. There should be more adventures to be had in the wee hours of the morning, really.
I'd say that this is very zen, except that it's not coming from a place of oneness with the Universe and acceptance of all possibilities, it's coming from a place of cowardice. If I didn't make the call, if I didn't set out to do this, then I am not culpable when bad things happen! Which is - not to sound uncouth - total bullshit.
In my quest to at least attempt to be more in control of my life, I sat down and wrote out my goals. This didn't come easily to me at all. In fact, I'd been trying to do it since February, when Mike and I had a conversation about how things are more easily achieved when one writes them down. It did finally happen, though, and now I am fully prepared for the question, "What is your five-year plan?"
Ok, being honest here... that's not actually the sort of thing people ask me. People ask me, "How did you get your hair that color?" or "Where have you been these past six months?" or "What the hell are you ON?" Everyone assumes that my future plans are the same as my present plans: have hilarious adventures, roll with the punches, try to avoid arson charges. I do rather like this state of being, it is true. Hopefully having goals will not interfere with it too badly. (And also, I do not have money for bail if I catch it with the arson charges.)
All of that was a giant lead-in to basically say that one of my immediate goals was make up a quasi-bucket list. Yes, one of the things that I decided to put on my list of things to achieve was a list of things to achieve. Meta, right? But bucket lists are generally a set list of things you feel like you have to do before you die, so my bucket list is easy:
1. Everything ever.
I am not known for moderation! So instead of trying to do everything all at once (which will lead to me doing nothing because where do you start with everything?) I decided to pick 10 random things that I really want to do, then work on crossing them off. Once I scratch one thing off, I can replace it with something new.
I don't consider any of the following "goals," because they don't have a set date of completion. These are just things that I would be really, really disappointed to shuffle off of this mortal coil before doing. In no particular order I want to:
1. Visit Rome, specifically the Pantheon.
2. Learn some sort of partnered dancing.
3. Visit all 50 states. (I hope to spend more time in Hawaii or California than, say, Idaho, though.)
4. Eat at one of these restaurants. (Maybe not the one in Denmark... I don't care that it's #1, I've heard things about Danish food!)
5. Learn a martial art.
6. Go out to sea.
7. Get my tarot cards read in Jackson Square.
8. Snowboard.
10. Hike a 14er.
It's a pretty good start, I think. Once I manage to completely replace everything on this original list, then I will probably go on and say with some confidence that my life is 100% more awesome than it was when I made the list. Which is an astronomical amount of awesome for one life.
I am tempted to go start working toward crossing things off, but it is 4am. There should be more adventures to be had in the wee hours of the morning, really.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Go
It occurs to me that I only feel like myself when I'm in motion.
This realization hit me as I was waiting on the train this afternoon, relieved to finally be getting on it and heading north. The idea of being on the train was comforting, calming - like being home after an extended trip. I felt like I could spread out, be myself, take up the space that I know so well. It was, all in all, a weird set of emotions for public transportation to trigger.
But I suppose that is how I've spent the last... however long. I've been constantly moving. My stride has eaten up miles and miles of sidewalk; black stompy boots beneath me strolling through the heat to the bus station, running through the snow to catch a train, walking in circles at midnight because I have nowhere else to be. When my feet aren't enough, I take buses, trains, planes to where I'm headed - class, the club, the bar, the show, my lover's bed, my sister's aid - and then back again or further on.
Sometimes I rest, obviously. I'll sink down and settle in for a couple of hours, a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. I'll cautiously start to relax, let myself become part of this space for the present. I'll pull things out of my backpack or sprawl in the booth or fix myself a drink or possibly even do some laundry and hang my underthings up to dry. But there's always something, some end, that sends me on my way. The pistol-crack of the last call or the morning light or the return flight sends the stern message: Not yours. Go.
And so I pack up, finding all my things and slipping them into my bag where they stay. ("You really do live out of your bag, don't you?" my sister said in wonder as I pulled out deodorant, a toothbrush, a phone charger, and some assorted cosmetics one night during an unexpected slumber party.) Then I go, out the door, up the street, on to the next adventure.
I spent the train ride back from class looking out the window and pondering what would happen to me in the future. At some point my life will lend itself to stillness, right? I won't always be zipping between a bunch of temporary landing spots like some sort of homeless hummingbird. At some point I will have someplace that is "home base" instead just another stop in an endless litany of places that are not mine.
By that time, though, will I remember how to be still?
This realization hit me as I was waiting on the train this afternoon, relieved to finally be getting on it and heading north. The idea of being on the train was comforting, calming - like being home after an extended trip. I felt like I could spread out, be myself, take up the space that I know so well. It was, all in all, a weird set of emotions for public transportation to trigger.
But I suppose that is how I've spent the last... however long. I've been constantly moving. My stride has eaten up miles and miles of sidewalk; black stompy boots beneath me strolling through the heat to the bus station, running through the snow to catch a train, walking in circles at midnight because I have nowhere else to be. When my feet aren't enough, I take buses, trains, planes to where I'm headed - class, the club, the bar, the show, my lover's bed, my sister's aid - and then back again or further on.
Sometimes I rest, obviously. I'll sink down and settle in for a couple of hours, a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. I'll cautiously start to relax, let myself become part of this space for the present. I'll pull things out of my backpack or sprawl in the booth or fix myself a drink or possibly even do some laundry and hang my underthings up to dry. But there's always something, some end, that sends me on my way. The pistol-crack of the last call or the morning light or the return flight sends the stern message: Not yours. Go.
And so I pack up, finding all my things and slipping them into my bag where they stay. ("You really do live out of your bag, don't you?" my sister said in wonder as I pulled out deodorant, a toothbrush, a phone charger, and some assorted cosmetics one night during an unexpected slumber party.) Then I go, out the door, up the street, on to the next adventure.
I spent the train ride back from class looking out the window and pondering what would happen to me in the future. At some point my life will lend itself to stillness, right? I won't always be zipping between a bunch of temporary landing spots like some sort of homeless hummingbird. At some point I will have someplace that is "home base" instead just another stop in an endless litany of places that are not mine.
By that time, though, will I remember how to be still?
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