I was nervous about going home. I knew that things had progressed while I was gone, and I'd exited while creating loose ends. I returned after a lengthy suspense.
To cherish: To hold dear; to embrace with interest.
I cherished those four days. I went back, and experienced a greater break than I could have planned.
3 weeks here, in Boston, focusing on being here. I can't ignore my new situation, I can't push it aside.
Then 4 weeks back at home. With the people who matter.
The greatest things in the world are the hardest to express, I won't try any more tonight. Just know: for four days, I was very happy.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
My Paycheck: spaceships
Overheard on way back from Wellsley (sp?), while in subway. The man was talking for whoever would listen.
"I'm from a slum-ish place [...]
"My aunt's been trying to get a job for 18 months [...] So I did what I had to do, I told them I saw spaceships. They sent me to a psychologist and she wrote me as being mentally retarded.
I'm not, you can see I'm not retarded. Mental people don't know what they're talking about and I do. They give me 800 bucks a month with what I get for work. I give $150 to my Aunt, she doesn't want my money. She's retired, she gets checks each month. Every first or third day of the month."
-(11/21/09)
"I'm from a slum-ish place [...]
"My aunt's been trying to get a job for 18 months [...] So I did what I had to do, I told them I saw spaceships. They sent me to a psychologist and she wrote me as being mentally retarded.
I'm not, you can see I'm not retarded. Mental people don't know what they're talking about and I do. They give me 800 bucks a month with what I get for work. I give $150 to my Aunt, she doesn't want my money. She's retired, she gets checks each month. Every first or third day of the month."
-(11/21/09)
Monday, November 16, 2009
A quick note on the weather...
On Saturday I woke up at about 8 o'clock. I could hear a rustle outside my window. Out of the bed, across the room, to the window, open the blinds, and it is raining. Pouring. Blinds half pulled and I returned to bed for the most peaceful two hours of my rest.
Later, walking to the shower, I stopped to talk to one of The Sophomore Girls on my hall. The Sophomore Girls are a clan of about six girls who decided they wanted to dominate a corner of the third floor hall. These Girls leave their toiletries (all brightly colored, and of the same classic brand) in the bathroom, and, no matter the hour, no matter the layers needed for the weather, these Girls always look good. But, they're quite nice too. Starting with the power outage that knocked light out of Medford, where the residents of the dorm congregated in the hall (only the hallways had light), starting then with conversation over a cake, I've gotten along with those Sophomore Girls.
Right, so I met the black haired one (yes, this will be when I admit I don't know any of their names...) in the hall that Saturday morning.
I, looking out at the rain through the window and the grey sky, "It's beautiful out there."
She, "Yeah, I just want to run outside in it all day."
I smile. Beat.
I, "Oh wait, are you kidding?"
She, "Oh! Are you not?"
Then I launched into my usual speech about the glory of rain, about being able to enjoy it inside with a mug of hot cocoa, curled up with a blanket, or outside as you feel it on your head, playing off your shoulders.
She smiled and said she was glad to finally know someone who liked this weather.
---
In general the weather's been rather uninteresting of late. Not much rain, no sun. No wind even. It's just been cold, grey, and dark at 4:30 pm. All the leaves, the yellow, orange, red, have fallen. The colorful carpet has been replaced by crunchy brown. Looking around, skinny branches reach everywhere towards the sky in woeful configurations. The world has become more tragic, melodramatic, and bitter.
At first I wasn't sure how to take this shift, I thought I'd reached fall, and wasn't prepared for this second transition. Now I'm growing steadily fonder of this new era of weather, it takes itself quite seriously.
I do miss sunshine, though I didn't think I would. Walking back through the dorm on the way to a much needed nap, I spotted sunlight on the couch at the end of the hall! I hadn't seen traces of sunlight in a long while. Ignoring the fact that it was in a rather central location, I set down my backpack, took off my shoes, and fell asleep in the rectangle of warmth.
Later, walking to the shower, I stopped to talk to one of The Sophomore Girls on my hall. The Sophomore Girls are a clan of about six girls who decided they wanted to dominate a corner of the third floor hall. These Girls leave their toiletries (all brightly colored, and of the same classic brand) in the bathroom, and, no matter the hour, no matter the layers needed for the weather, these Girls always look good. But, they're quite nice too. Starting with the power outage that knocked light out of Medford, where the residents of the dorm congregated in the hall (only the hallways had light), starting then with conversation over a cake, I've gotten along with those Sophomore Girls.
Right, so I met the black haired one (yes, this will be when I admit I don't know any of their names...) in the hall that Saturday morning.
I, looking out at the rain through the window and the grey sky, "It's beautiful out there."
She, "Yeah, I just want to run outside in it all day."
I smile. Beat.
I, "Oh wait, are you kidding?"
She, "Oh! Are you not?"
Then I launched into my usual speech about the glory of rain, about being able to enjoy it inside with a mug of hot cocoa, curled up with a blanket, or outside as you feel it on your head, playing off your shoulders.
She smiled and said she was glad to finally know someone who liked this weather.
---
In general the weather's been rather uninteresting of late. Not much rain, no sun. No wind even. It's just been cold, grey, and dark at 4:30 pm. All the leaves, the yellow, orange, red, have fallen. The colorful carpet has been replaced by crunchy brown. Looking around, skinny branches reach everywhere towards the sky in woeful configurations. The world has become more tragic, melodramatic, and bitter.
At first I wasn't sure how to take this shift, I thought I'd reached fall, and wasn't prepared for this second transition. Now I'm growing steadily fonder of this new era of weather, it takes itself quite seriously.
I do miss sunshine, though I didn't think I would. Walking back through the dorm on the way to a much needed nap, I spotted sunlight on the couch at the end of the hall! I hadn't seen traces of sunlight in a long while. Ignoring the fact that it was in a rather central location, I set down my backpack, took off my shoes, and fell asleep in the rectangle of warmth.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Scab
For the last three days (the whole last week really) I told myself I'd go into Boston, undergo an adventure. "Tomorrow I'll go" was my daily excuse. So, looking over my week in preparation for blog-writing I decided to give myself the rest of my day, on the off-chance that something would happen. Well, walking back home I realized that stuff had been going on this week, subtle stuff. Without a thought on my part, life was taking place.
A week or two ago I fell. Nothing terrible, just embarrassing. Skinned a small bit of one knee, but mostly got about a quarter-size scab on the right part of my hand, right above the wrist. For a few hours it just bled. Nothing knows red like blood. The substance of blood, the taste (the copper taste of a penny), a "no-excuses" purity. It is blood, take that. Anyways, I put on a band-aid (delicately administered by Elizabeth), and went on with life. Well, sort off. I like to peek at my injury's, lift a corner of the band-aid, keep constant track of how it's fairing, what stage of the development it is at.
As a kid, I was constantly covered in scrapes, scabs, and bruises. Trees were meant to be climbed, fences squeezed through, and new locations meant new explorations.
Sidenote-my parents called me a "bull in a china shop", I would frown, and take the compliment, hearing "a bowl in a china shop". Apparently I was delicate, not discombumerated (my mother's version of "discombobulated" and my childhood middle name). To be honest, I loved the array of war-scars. Well, "scars" is misleading, none of them stayed. And as I grew up, I grew out of injuries, so that now it is rare to see me injured in any way. I live cautiously.
Anyways, this last weeks scrape soon became a scab, and a rather gruesome one, so that, once the bandage was off, many people would catch sight, return for a second look and then ask what had happened. It looked like my skin was festering. (I don't actually know exactly what "festering" means, but it remains one my favorite and frequently-used words...) It was a delight to watch.
Well, walking towards home I once again began touching the skin. Last night I discovered that, besides a rough barrier between old skin and new, the new skin that had replaced the scab was incredibly smooth. It looked cleaner, felt younger. I am better now, having fallen, than before I fell. I have this patch of crisp skin. My body took care of me, figured things out.
It got me thinking. Sometimes things need to get worse before they get well again, that much I knew. I guess I hadn't realized that, rather than "getting well again", things end up better, once you've been hurt. Maybe it's not a rule, but it's a possibility. Life gets ugly sometimes, and the ugly part is still you, you're the cause of your problem. But given time, it'll clean itself up, with effort. And sometimes, it can seem like nothing is happening, but all that nothing time is accompanied by healing, undercover healing.
I like the word 'healing'. It reminds of meditating, and finding peace with yourself. Because, sure, there is a mad world around us, but a person's relationship with the world has to always come second to their relationship with themselves. Sometimes it's terrifying, looking down at the bleeding or the scab, sometimes it is beautiful and fascinating. It can be worse, when you let yourself realize that it is you, the ugly is a part of you.
I live most of my life afraid of getting hurt, Rachel once said I choose to live on extremes. I see the options of giving (either a person or a situation) my everything (time, thoughts, love, hate...), or retreating and leaving nothing. At the first hint that I can't trust a person, or that they are interpreting me 'wrong', I disapear. "I am a whisper, I'm the wind. Arms aren't meant to hold me." So, for nearly a year now, I have been trying to reprogram my brain into realizing that it is okay to get hurt, it's good for me.
"Living is trusting that THIS isn't the moment that you will die.
Relationships are formed when you TRUST that they don't WANT (plan) to hurt you.
THIS=NOW
LIVE NOW
LOVE may not LAST. Little does.
That's no reason to avoid it.
CAUTION is always laced
(sometimes reasonably)
with FEAR." (8/12/09)
A week or two ago I fell. Nothing terrible, just embarrassing. Skinned a small bit of one knee, but mostly got about a quarter-size scab on the right part of my hand, right above the wrist. For a few hours it just bled. Nothing knows red like blood. The substance of blood, the taste (the copper taste of a penny), a "no-excuses" purity. It is blood, take that. Anyways, I put on a band-aid (delicately administered by Elizabeth), and went on with life. Well, sort off. I like to peek at my injury's, lift a corner of the band-aid, keep constant track of how it's fairing, what stage of the development it is at.
As a kid, I was constantly covered in scrapes, scabs, and bruises. Trees were meant to be climbed, fences squeezed through, and new locations meant new explorations.
Sidenote-my parents called me a "bull in a china shop", I would frown, and take the compliment, hearing "a bowl in a china shop". Apparently I was delicate, not discombumerated (my mother's version of "discombobulated" and my childhood middle name). To be honest, I loved the array of war-scars. Well, "scars" is misleading, none of them stayed. And as I grew up, I grew out of injuries, so that now it is rare to see me injured in any way. I live cautiously.
Anyways, this last weeks scrape soon became a scab, and a rather gruesome one, so that, once the bandage was off, many people would catch sight, return for a second look and then ask what had happened. It looked like my skin was festering. (I don't actually know exactly what "festering" means, but it remains one my favorite and frequently-used words...) It was a delight to watch.
Well, walking towards home I once again began touching the skin. Last night I discovered that, besides a rough barrier between old skin and new, the new skin that had replaced the scab was incredibly smooth. It looked cleaner, felt younger. I am better now, having fallen, than before I fell. I have this patch of crisp skin. My body took care of me, figured things out.
It got me thinking. Sometimes things need to get worse before they get well again, that much I knew. I guess I hadn't realized that, rather than "getting well again", things end up better, once you've been hurt. Maybe it's not a rule, but it's a possibility. Life gets ugly sometimes, and the ugly part is still you, you're the cause of your problem. But given time, it'll clean itself up, with effort. And sometimes, it can seem like nothing is happening, but all that nothing time is accompanied by healing, undercover healing.
I like the word 'healing'. It reminds of meditating, and finding peace with yourself. Because, sure, there is a mad world around us, but a person's relationship with the world has to always come second to their relationship with themselves. Sometimes it's terrifying, looking down at the bleeding or the scab, sometimes it is beautiful and fascinating. It can be worse, when you let yourself realize that it is you, the ugly is a part of you.
I live most of my life afraid of getting hurt, Rachel once said I choose to live on extremes. I see the options of giving (either a person or a situation) my everything (time, thoughts, love, hate...), or retreating and leaving nothing. At the first hint that I can't trust a person, or that they are interpreting me 'wrong', I disapear. "I am a whisper, I'm the wind. Arms aren't meant to hold me." So, for nearly a year now, I have been trying to reprogram my brain into realizing that it is okay to get hurt, it's good for me.
"Living is trusting that THIS isn't the moment that you will die.
Relationships are formed when you TRUST that they don't WANT (plan) to hurt you.
THIS=NOW
LIVE NOW
LOVE may not LAST. Little does.
That's no reason to avoid it.
CAUTION is always laced
(sometimes reasonably)
with FEAR." (8/12/09)
Monday, November 2, 2009
New York City
The best time to make a decision (or perhaps the worst) is between 1 and 4 in the morning. I make many of my decisions then.
The most recent was on Halloween. At 1 AM I received a text from a friend, asking whether I wanted to go with him to meet a mutual friend in NYC. "Yes". Of course.
The thing about New York is the people there seem coarser. They know why they are there so you better know too. It seems like New Yorkers have very strong identities, "I'm in New York to study film", "...to act", "...as a photographer", and if you aren't sure then you're probably working hard to figure it out. Back in Boston there's an aura of meandering. People can dabble, take pictures and write and play music. Isn't it odd that you "play" music, that there is no verb directly about music. You can "make" music or "play" it, whereas all the other art forms you simply do: "act", "dance", "write"...
Anyways, New York. We arrived at about 4. New York has a sort of dreary, desperate personality to it, just in general harsh, but bold. The combination of which is not unpleasant. We rode the subway to get to 6th Avenue (the subway is awful by the way, illogical and depressing, in comparison to Boston's inspiring underground). And when we emerged it had begun to sprinkle, thus began our interaction with rain for the night. Everywhere people, of all ages, roamed in costume. Masks passed on all sides. The most common costume of the night was the Joker, easily. At times there would be multiple Jokers waiting at a street corner for the light to change.
Oh, that was odd to: New Yorkers wait for the lights to change. I had to readjust to that. I'd gotten too used to Boston where the street lights are irrelevant both to cars and people, and where people always get the right of way.
One man, a favorite of mine, was dressed as a present, another favorite was dressed as the Artist Formerly Known As the Prince (or is he just "The Prince" now?). At one point, as we waited for a bus, we spotted a cop making out with someone, took me a moment to realize the guy was in costume.
Amazing discovery! There are, in fact, two more Tintin comic books that I did not know of, that were not advertised on the back of the main comic books (the collection of which I own). I found one while in NYC that I had never seen before (in a bookstore that didn't fulfill the promise it showed), it was Tintin's interaction with the Soviet Union, done in black and white. Tintin was a little more portly and more crudely drawn. Looking through it seemed like going back in time, watching the comic de-develop.
The New York weekend was also blessed with good food. Sliced duck, fried cheese, and lamb with potatos: we were at a tapas restaurant called Sala. Absolutely delicious. And in my good luck I found a $10 bill outside the door of the restaurant, dropped (more than likely) by a drunk.
More to tell, it was a long trip. But what it's left me with is an appreciation for Boston, a reminder to keep my eyes open, a more potent desire to live spontaneously, a better sense of comradeship, and great anticipation for my next trip to NYC when I will take the time to visit Central Park and roam the Met.
Last thought: this month is National Novel Writing Month, meaning you're supposed to write 50,000 words by the end of the month, that's about 100 (or less) pages. That, in turn, means 3 to 4 pages a week. Not bad. So, I'm thinking of trying to get 3 pages written a day of Lola and Ishack this month, as a sort of back-priority for my life. 100 pages of that (even if I toss most of them out), would be well worth it. The other alternative would be just to spend an hour writing a day. We'll see.
By the way, the format for this blog is I'm posting every monday, that's the current plan at least.
The most recent was on Halloween. At 1 AM I received a text from a friend, asking whether I wanted to go with him to meet a mutual friend in NYC. "Yes". Of course.
The thing about New York is the people there seem coarser. They know why they are there so you better know too. It seems like New Yorkers have very strong identities, "I'm in New York to study film", "...to act", "...as a photographer", and if you aren't sure then you're probably working hard to figure it out. Back in Boston there's an aura of meandering. People can dabble, take pictures and write and play music. Isn't it odd that you "play" music, that there is no verb directly about music. You can "make" music or "play" it, whereas all the other art forms you simply do: "act", "dance", "write"...
Anyways, New York. We arrived at about 4. New York has a sort of dreary, desperate personality to it, just in general harsh, but bold. The combination of which is not unpleasant. We rode the subway to get to 6th Avenue (the subway is awful by the way, illogical and depressing, in comparison to Boston's inspiring underground). And when we emerged it had begun to sprinkle, thus began our interaction with rain for the night. Everywhere people, of all ages, roamed in costume. Masks passed on all sides. The most common costume of the night was the Joker, easily. At times there would be multiple Jokers waiting at a street corner for the light to change.
Oh, that was odd to: New Yorkers wait for the lights to change. I had to readjust to that. I'd gotten too used to Boston where the street lights are irrelevant both to cars and people, and where people always get the right of way.
One man, a favorite of mine, was dressed as a present, another favorite was dressed as the Artist Formerly Known As the Prince (or is he just "The Prince" now?). At one point, as we waited for a bus, we spotted a cop making out with someone, took me a moment to realize the guy was in costume.
Amazing discovery! There are, in fact, two more Tintin comic books that I did not know of, that were not advertised on the back of the main comic books (the collection of which I own). I found one while in NYC that I had never seen before (in a bookstore that didn't fulfill the promise it showed), it was Tintin's interaction with the Soviet Union, done in black and white. Tintin was a little more portly and more crudely drawn. Looking through it seemed like going back in time, watching the comic de-develop.
The New York weekend was also blessed with good food. Sliced duck, fried cheese, and lamb with potatos: we were at a tapas restaurant called Sala. Absolutely delicious. And in my good luck I found a $10 bill outside the door of the restaurant, dropped (more than likely) by a drunk.
More to tell, it was a long trip. But what it's left me with is an appreciation for Boston, a reminder to keep my eyes open, a more potent desire to live spontaneously, a better sense of comradeship, and great anticipation for my next trip to NYC when I will take the time to visit Central Park and roam the Met.
Last thought: this month is National Novel Writing Month, meaning you're supposed to write 50,000 words by the end of the month, that's about 100 (or less) pages. That, in turn, means 3 to 4 pages a week. Not bad. So, I'm thinking of trying to get 3 pages written a day of Lola and Ishack this month, as a sort of back-priority for my life. 100 pages of that (even if I toss most of them out), would be well worth it. The other alternative would be just to spend an hour writing a day. We'll see.
By the way, the format for this blog is I'm posting every monday, that's the current plan at least.
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