I am in purgatory, perpetually waiting to be flung into whatever awaits me. This is what college is beginning to feel like.
Well into my fifth year, I suppose I only have myself to blame. Though I've never failed a class, I have been cursed with chronic indecision. I call myself a musician, a writer, and a teacher, when in fact the world sees me as none of these things.
The world sees only my most superficial title, my generic nameplate. A classification I have long outgrown:
Student.
It seems "student" involves lacking a few things: skills, experience, and money. Though these are all somewhat true in varying degrees, I feel my super-senior status must entitle me some small amount of respect. After all, I have taken a lot of classes. My GPA is notable. (Ok...I guess that does sound like something a student would say).
My current major does not help with this annoyance. As an education major, "student" gets tagged on to nearly everything I do: student teacher, for example. In the classroom, "student teacher" is code for "fuck up waiting to happen."
This time next year, I will be preparing to end my tenure as student-anything. Scary, I guess. But it's about damn time.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Antiquarian
Sometimes I think the concept of home exists only in the past. I left, in search of different people and traditions to call home. Pick up a friend here, a new tradition there. I keep my life in boxes, ready to move at a moment’s notice. I hang my hat at a temporary address.
It’s a quiet night. I went to the grocery store to buy pasta for dinner, because all we have in the house is cookies and hard liquor. Rain had fallen, making the air swollen and dreary. I wandered into the frozen food aisle to find something to snack on, and ended up trailing the path of a scrawny, middle-aged man with long dirty hair an empty shopping cart. I caught the humid scent of pot in my nostrils, and it took me somewhere else. Back to high school, sitting next to the mysterious stoner in class I knew only by his French name (Pierre). Kissing my first boyfriend, who wouldn’t stop smoking even when I begged. Sprawled out on the lawn at a summer concert, reveling in the crowd’s collective lack of responsibility.
I watched the man struggle between Stouffer’s TV dinners and Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks and lost my taste for pizza rolls. I wondered what home was for him. Maybe a trailer in the park on the edge of town, or maybe the old underground railroad house near the square. Maybe he works in one of the factories. He might be one of the owners of that left-wing vintage clothing store with walls covered in lyrics of The Rolling Stones songs and heavy hemp ponchos and posters with the president’s face pasted onto the head of a chimp. I know this town. I’m not sure it knows me.
We’re not really looking for new homes, I guess. We’re looking for old ones. We sift through memories of our childhood like miners panning for gold, filtering out dull pieces and pocketing the ones that still gleam brightly. And then we spend our whole lives looking for people to share it with, people who have precious metals lining their pockets, too. Because that’s home: shaking hands with someone who knows what you’re carrying. Someone who knows how to love you.
I paid for my pasta with quarters and offered a sheepish shrug to the clerk before re-entering the night, wet and silent and still. I allowed my mind a vague and fleeting fear of being assaulted as I shoved the key into the lock to my apartment and heard it click open. Carpet, lights, television. Sparsely decorated walls.
Home is where I boil my pasta.
It’s a quiet night. I went to the grocery store to buy pasta for dinner, because all we have in the house is cookies and hard liquor. Rain had fallen, making the air swollen and dreary. I wandered into the frozen food aisle to find something to snack on, and ended up trailing the path of a scrawny, middle-aged man with long dirty hair an empty shopping cart. I caught the humid scent of pot in my nostrils, and it took me somewhere else. Back to high school, sitting next to the mysterious stoner in class I knew only by his French name (Pierre). Kissing my first boyfriend, who wouldn’t stop smoking even when I begged. Sprawled out on the lawn at a summer concert, reveling in the crowd’s collective lack of responsibility.
I watched the man struggle between Stouffer’s TV dinners and Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks and lost my taste for pizza rolls. I wondered what home was for him. Maybe a trailer in the park on the edge of town, or maybe the old underground railroad house near the square. Maybe he works in one of the factories. He might be one of the owners of that left-wing vintage clothing store with walls covered in lyrics of The Rolling Stones songs and heavy hemp ponchos and posters with the president’s face pasted onto the head of a chimp. I know this town. I’m not sure it knows me.
We’re not really looking for new homes, I guess. We’re looking for old ones. We sift through memories of our childhood like miners panning for gold, filtering out dull pieces and pocketing the ones that still gleam brightly. And then we spend our whole lives looking for people to share it with, people who have precious metals lining their pockets, too. Because that’s home: shaking hands with someone who knows what you’re carrying. Someone who knows how to love you.
I paid for my pasta with quarters and offered a sheepish shrug to the clerk before re-entering the night, wet and silent and still. I allowed my mind a vague and fleeting fear of being assaulted as I shoved the key into the lock to my apartment and heard it click open. Carpet, lights, television. Sparsely decorated walls.
Home is where I boil my pasta.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Corsucate
Night signals the end of another cycle, and no night ends the same. Last night, one of my final thoughts was "I need to prepare a speech for the mayor tomorrow." Tonight, one of my last thoughts was "I'm glad that guy dropped me off before he went to buy drugs."
And nights bring lights. Headlights, starlights, tea lights and cigarette lights. If you drive long enough, the shine on wet pavement and the reflections in the river are the same. You could fall right into either of them if you aren't careful.
I still wish on stars. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, grant the wish I wish tonight." I make my silent request. And I thank the star, out loud, because that seems polite.
It doesn't matter if it's the brightest star, the closest star, the star with the name you know. All that counts is if you saw it first. It feels both innocent and poetic to pin a hope to a speck of light, a tiny dot you caught sight of when your eyes turned skyward. It watches you. It is your only God, because you don't believe in God. A poem and a wish made on a star is as close as you get.
Tonight was headlight, cigarette light, narrowly avoided drug deals and uncomfortable conversation. Tomorrow might be tea lights and laughter. If you can't be happy, if you can't pray to God, put faith in the lights.
And nights bring lights. Headlights, starlights, tea lights and cigarette lights. If you drive long enough, the shine on wet pavement and the reflections in the river are the same. You could fall right into either of them if you aren't careful.
I still wish on stars. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, grant the wish I wish tonight." I make my silent request. And I thank the star, out loud, because that seems polite.
It doesn't matter if it's the brightest star, the closest star, the star with the name you know. All that counts is if you saw it first. It feels both innocent and poetic to pin a hope to a speck of light, a tiny dot you caught sight of when your eyes turned skyward. It watches you. It is your only God, because you don't believe in God. A poem and a wish made on a star is as close as you get.
Tonight was headlight, cigarette light, narrowly avoided drug deals and uncomfortable conversation. Tomorrow might be tea lights and laughter. If you can't be happy, if you can't pray to God, put faith in the lights.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Trenchant
The key to life must be hard work.
I know that isn't true. I know plenty of lazy, complacent people who seem to have everything they want, and plenty of hardworking folk who can't get what they need.
I used to fear my heart would explode. I used to think it would beat out of my chest. I limited myself. One day, I stopped paying attention to that beating muscle and just pushed myself, hard. I did it the next day, and the next. My heart hasn't exploded yet.
There is no reason to hold back.
I know that isn't true. I know plenty of lazy, complacent people who seem to have everything they want, and plenty of hardworking folk who can't get what they need.
I used to fear my heart would explode. I used to think it would beat out of my chest. I limited myself. One day, I stopped paying attention to that beating muscle and just pushed myself, hard. I did it the next day, and the next. My heart hasn't exploded yet.
There is no reason to hold back.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Dolorous
Can we, just for one minute, talk about depression?
I don't like to talk about it. I don't like to think about it..and believe me, I like to think.
I started exhibiting symptoms when I was 11. It showed its face as anxiety. I had a very specific trigger, and when that trigger was pulled, I couldn't leave the house. My parents didn't know what to do with me. But, like all childhood fears, it eventually went away. When I got over that trigger, the depression started showing.
It isn't dramatic, especially not now, after 11 years of dealing with it. It comes and goes. I never feel like throwing myself off a bridge or listening to Dashboard Confessional. I've been to therapy, but I find it unhelpful, and when the discussion turns to medication (and it usually does), I know my time is up.
Because the fact is, I don't need meds. I'm pretty sure this is just who I am. Most of the time I am more than fine, capable of having a blast and maintaining my life. Some of the time I am weighed down, still functioning but quieter and more withdrawn. Occasionally I shut down a little...but then I have my writing and my music and my own head.
There are still triggers, yes. New ones all the time. But there is kind of a cathartic cleansing to the whole process, sinking to the bottom and rising back up. As for relationships...well, it can be hard to find people who understand this kind of thing. I am getting used to this, just as I got used to the depression in general. Sometimes I want to open up, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I love people, sometimes I just want to be with myself.
Depression hits the creative, the sensitive, the thinkers. Those three things are three of my best character traits. I'll take the mild depression if it comes with the territory. I just wish it was something more people understood.
I don't like to talk about it. I don't like to think about it..and believe me, I like to think.
I started exhibiting symptoms when I was 11. It showed its face as anxiety. I had a very specific trigger, and when that trigger was pulled, I couldn't leave the house. My parents didn't know what to do with me. But, like all childhood fears, it eventually went away. When I got over that trigger, the depression started showing.
It isn't dramatic, especially not now, after 11 years of dealing with it. It comes and goes. I never feel like throwing myself off a bridge or listening to Dashboard Confessional. I've been to therapy, but I find it unhelpful, and when the discussion turns to medication (and it usually does), I know my time is up.
Because the fact is, I don't need meds. I'm pretty sure this is just who I am. Most of the time I am more than fine, capable of having a blast and maintaining my life. Some of the time I am weighed down, still functioning but quieter and more withdrawn. Occasionally I shut down a little...but then I have my writing and my music and my own head.
There are still triggers, yes. New ones all the time. But there is kind of a cathartic cleansing to the whole process, sinking to the bottom and rising back up. As for relationships...well, it can be hard to find people who understand this kind of thing. I am getting used to this, just as I got used to the depression in general. Sometimes I want to open up, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I love people, sometimes I just want to be with myself.
Depression hits the creative, the sensitive, the thinkers. Those three things are three of my best character traits. I'll take the mild depression if it comes with the territory. I just wish it was something more people understood.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Rejoinder
The wrong end of a fascinating conversation
(ring ring)
Hello?
(pause)
Oh yes, hi.
(pause)
No.
(pause)
No, no. That isn't what I meant at all, I --
(pause)
What?? Why the hell would she say that?
(pause)
No, listen, do NOT do that.
(pause)
Don't you remember last time you tried that? You couldn't sit down for days!
(pause)
She's just going to have to do the thing with the bees on her own. You have enough on your hands with the lawsuit, and --
(pause)
Cream cheese?!?
(pause)
How did it get in the cream cheese???
(pause)
No no no, I just don't believe that. There is no way the mayor is that stupid.
(pause)
Ok, I'm sorry, say that one more time?
(pause)
Uh
(long pause)
Well...I've never heard anything quite like that.
(pause)
I think I'm blushing.
(pause)
Ok, I'm on my way. Don't let him leave before I get there.
(pause)
Stop, this is just crazy.
(pause)
No, NO, no more bees! Good lord, what is it with you and --
(pause)
Stay there! I'm coming!
(click)
(ring ring)
Hello?
(pause)
Oh yes, hi.
(pause)
No.
(pause)
No, no. That isn't what I meant at all, I --
(pause)
What?? Why the hell would she say that?
(pause)
No, listen, do NOT do that.
(pause)
Don't you remember last time you tried that? You couldn't sit down for days!
(pause)
She's just going to have to do the thing with the bees on her own. You have enough on your hands with the lawsuit, and --
(pause)
Cream cheese?!?
(pause)
How did it get in the cream cheese???
(pause)
No no no, I just don't believe that. There is no way the mayor is that stupid.
(pause)
Ok, I'm sorry, say that one more time?
(pause)
Uh
(long pause)
Well...I've never heard anything quite like that.
(pause)
I think I'm blushing.
(pause)
Ok, I'm on my way. Don't let him leave before I get there.
(pause)
Stop, this is just crazy.
(pause)
No, NO, no more bees! Good lord, what is it with you and --
(pause)
Stay there! I'm coming!
(click)
Monday, June 18, 2007
Disquisition
Why is everyone in their twenties, as Tom Paxton said, vaguely unhappy?
I have spent more time thinking on this than I care to admit, and I have come to the conclusion it is absolutely true. Here we are, as sexy and full of life as we'll ever be, and we're all looking for something more. We have great times, make memories, love our lives...but we are vaguely unhappy. I believe there are several universal reasons for this.
Location, Location, Location
When you hit the age of 18, you begin what is to become a long journey of partings. By the time you're 21, you can barely count on two hands all the people you miss at a given moment. You wander from place to place, home to home, and you are never with all the people you want to be with at once. You are forced to face the reality that you may never be in the same place as the person, or people, you want to be with. You realize the home you grew up in doesn't hold you anymore. You are in purgatory.
You say you want a revolution? No one cares.
At some point you realize all the youthful idealism in the world isn't going to pay the bills. And let's face it: At the end of the day, watching The Office and having a stiff drink sounds more appealing than changing the world.
Don't be a fool, stay in school
I'm still in college, going into my fifth year of college, and I can already acknowledge life doesn't really get any better. Yes, there are perks to being a full-fledged grown up, but on the whole, college is the place to be. Once you're out, people expect you to know things. And do things. But we can't stay here forever, because a bird with all its feathers looks like a total loser if it hangs around the nest.
Life is beautiful
I have a nice tan and no blemishes. I am free of wrinkles and crows feet, I have time to do my nails, I can get by with next to no makeup and I have yet to discover a gray hair. I can go for a jog without aching for days. Things are holding up. Still, I don't know a girl (or guy) on the planet who loves his or her body. We're not going to get any younger, but we just can't love ourselves. How silly.
We all just want to get some
Show me a twentysomething who doesn't think about sex roughly half the day and I'll show you a twentysomething in a coma. Almost everything we do is somehow motivated by that possibility of having sex. And don't you DARE say that isn't true for girls, because it absolutely is. It is how we are programmed at this stage of life. And while that can be great fun, it is also greatly troubling. It's like wearing those drunk goggles 24/7...it becomes very difficult to see a given situation in the correct light.
I can tell you this, though: I am not looking forward to 30.
I have spent more time thinking on this than I care to admit, and I have come to the conclusion it is absolutely true. Here we are, as sexy and full of life as we'll ever be, and we're all looking for something more. We have great times, make memories, love our lives...but we are vaguely unhappy. I believe there are several universal reasons for this.
Location, Location, Location
When you hit the age of 18, you begin what is to become a long journey of partings. By the time you're 21, you can barely count on two hands all the people you miss at a given moment. You wander from place to place, home to home, and you are never with all the people you want to be with at once. You are forced to face the reality that you may never be in the same place as the person, or people, you want to be with. You realize the home you grew up in doesn't hold you anymore. You are in purgatory.
You say you want a revolution? No one cares.
At some point you realize all the youthful idealism in the world isn't going to pay the bills. And let's face it: At the end of the day, watching The Office and having a stiff drink sounds more appealing than changing the world.
Don't be a fool, stay in school
I'm still in college, going into my fifth year of college, and I can already acknowledge life doesn't really get any better. Yes, there are perks to being a full-fledged grown up, but on the whole, college is the place to be. Once you're out, people expect you to know things. And do things. But we can't stay here forever, because a bird with all its feathers looks like a total loser if it hangs around the nest.
Life is beautiful
I have a nice tan and no blemishes. I am free of wrinkles and crows feet, I have time to do my nails, I can get by with next to no makeup and I have yet to discover a gray hair. I can go for a jog without aching for days. Things are holding up. Still, I don't know a girl (or guy) on the planet who loves his or her body. We're not going to get any younger, but we just can't love ourselves. How silly.
We all just want to get some
Show me a twentysomething who doesn't think about sex roughly half the day and I'll show you a twentysomething in a coma. Almost everything we do is somehow motivated by that possibility of having sex. And don't you DARE say that isn't true for girls, because it absolutely is. It is how we are programmed at this stage of life. And while that can be great fun, it is also greatly troubling. It's like wearing those drunk goggles 24/7...it becomes very difficult to see a given situation in the correct light.
I can tell you this, though: I am not looking forward to 30.
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