Welcome To My Bed

Put your words in my mouth.

1. I have lots of things to say today, but none of them are my own. I am recording an audio anthology of poems for my father's Christmas present. He told me today that he missed reading poetry and I smiled and said nothing. He has been half blind since before I was born. He has been one cloudy detached retina and no depth perception and I want to give him back some of what he has missed, something that will also help him see me more clearly. I hope desperately that this project will be that clarity. It's a strange sensation, reading the words of my friends and other poets I admire to record them for someone who has met only one or two of the writers. It's like introducing him to a room full of people that I love, but all of those people are speaking in my voice. I wonder if he'll be able to pick my own poems out of the crowd.

2. I am back in New Jersey and feel strange, as I have come to expect. My dad listens to Rush Limbaugh every day at lunch and tries to incite me to political argument. I agree with him in oblique ways (that the government is doing things wrong--beyond that, we tend to diverge) and try to only focus on those points of intersection. I told him about a Jared Paul piece I saw this summer about being arrested for rioting when not actually rioting and he said he'd like to shake Jared's hand. I laughed internally, because I'm sure if my dad actually spoke to Jared Paul, he wouldn't have the same kind of opinion. It amazes me that we can transform people simply be speaking about them in certain ways; by withholding certain details and playing up others, the real person can be distorted into absolutely anything. That kind of power is scary and awing.

3. I am buried in spoken word mp3s. All I want to do is be among writers again. Driving across the Tappan Zee late last night, I could feel my chest tightening at the suburbia on the other side. I had to stop for cigarettes. I sat in the 7-11 parking lot almost shaking. I haven't been so overwhelmed in a long time. The feeling was especially strong because of how calming Providence is for me; every time I rediscover that city, I feel more at home. The other night Meg and I read poems to each other for hours. It was blissful. There is no one from my real life in this house. I feel like there are two different halves to the way that I function--the mask I wear in this childhood house, the straight, quirky, Catholic daughter/sister who washes dishes that aren't hers; and then there is the person I am everywhere else, that messy thing with a litany of epithets and definitions, none of which fit completely. Lady Gaga came up at breakfast (I find ways to work her into conversation at least once a day) and I was surprised to hear my father saying things about performance art and empowering women, but what was more shocking is that when speaking about the queer community, it almost fell out of my mouth that I am a member. I cartoonishly clapped a hand over my mouth before the secret fell out and ruined the perfectly normal (okay, maybe that's debatable) conversation we were having and promptly changed the subject to Rihanna and domestic violence so I could deal with an opinion I'd already scripted for myself. It seems I only shop the supermarkets that sell cans of worms.

Snow day.

1. This is how I feel about how close Christmas is:

Photobucket


So much to do, and I feel like none of it's getting done. I sometimes think I look like an elf, but I have roughly zero elf characteristics because Christmas is the holiday I worst at preparing for, and elves are bred for such purposes.

2. This is how I feel about being stuck inside for most of the day because PVD is non-functional:

Photobucket


Good thing I'm going out momentarily to fetch some soup for Meg and do some much needed catching up. I have missed that girl. It's been since August, for God's sake. C'mon snow, don't screw this one up for me.

3. Just found out that the artist I named and somewhat modeled one of my novel's characters after died this July, apparently from a drug overdose. I remember reading about him in New York magazine sometime recently after I had transferred to public high school. I was sitting in the library, avoiding my homework, and I picked up the issue without even thinking. The story really struck me though, and the guy became something of an impetus for me to write a piece of short fiction that ended up winning me an award and getting me into college. I know very little about this person other than what that article said, and I have never even seen any of his art. He was only 27. I haven't had time to work on the novel in a bit, but now I feel oddly compelled to jump back in after finding this out via Wikipedia as a result of a conversation with a friend about making art nests and possibly starting a treehouse artist collective called the Boredom Assassins. Today has been a weird day. Fingers crossed that it's gonna get wackier (in the best of ways).

Hello, world. No, I am not dead.

1. So much for ever talking about my life in public. The retreat to solitude (or rather, life without much internet posting) of the past week is in direct proportion to how much anxiety I have over the end of the semester. However, this anxiety is apparently unwarranted--I had a peer review of my critical/creative paper on the dangers of reading Plath's poems as solely inspired by biography that went incredibly well. Everyone told me that the paper was basically finished, but for a bit more textual evidence in a single paragraph. So perhaps all of this will be properly finished, on time, and handed in without any major panic attack? Maybe??

2. This weekend was the NorthBEAST slam regional, and I am proud to say that I drove out to Manchester for both nights of competition, in spite of incredible busted-ass-broke-ness and then a pretty gnarly snowstorm. Sophia made the individual finals, which I was absolutely thrilled about. I guess that statement loses a bit of its strength though, considering I was pretty syked to see most people who were competing. I really love living in the midst of the things that I do. Even if it does mean I lose my voice roughly once a week from yelling affirmations at poets (and admonitions at unsatisfactory judges), it always seems to be worth it. For most of the weekend, the question everyone asked me was what team I was on, followed by "Wait, you're not on one? REALLY?? Well, that just beats all..." Okay, so maybe not exactly like that, but the general feeling I got from such interactions was that the world at large wants me to be on a slam team. Driving back to campus late Friday night/early Saturday morning, Charley told me that he would be disappointed in our venue if I didn't make the NPS team this year. All of these remarks have my head spinning a bit--in my own mind, I was still hiding safely in the background--but my own compass about such things is point towards an August vacation to Minnesota. We'll see what happens.

3. Tonight, Sophia features at the Emerson Poetry Project. I am very excited to finally see what they do, as I've never been to another college's poetry thingamabob. And spending free time in Boston is second only in my mind to spending free time writing. Judging by my personal writing history, that's probably why I write so very many poems where Boston figures largely. Although, judging by the catalog, I haven't written one of those in a LONG time. Maybe tonight is the night for it to reoccur.

The fever pitch, and swing.

1. My thesis is a giant, diabolical machine sweeping all in its path up into its arms like children lifted into Santa's lap: it's terrifying, and there will be pictures, and many people will be involved. Or I guess that's just my imagining of it this week. They FINALLY posted the list of faculty assignments for the Creative Writing department, and now I know for absolute certain that Nell is going to be my committee chair. That is a sigh of relief, one tiny box checked off the list, and counting. The next order of business: find a committee member. I suppose these things happen in increments, hence the time-based nature of life? I am rambling and hungover and unprepared to be fully in the day, even though it is nearly two o'clock in the afternoon.

2. Last night Corrina Bain featured at Slam Collective, and as has become our colloquial phrase for such seriously awesome poetic experiences, she melted my face off. I catch myself using this colloquialism most frequently in reference to female poets, maybe because this is my year of epic feminism and woman love (I say this tongue in cheek, but also mostly serious), but also because it is most appropriate to the synesthesia that I have during the very best performed poems. And lately the very best have been by women. Then on the page, so much Sylvia, and right this very minute I'm having tea with Sexton. John Berryman's Dream Songs is buried next to Clarabelle on my desk. I borrowed it from Cass months ago and have yet to read more than one because of how many ladies have taken up residence in my big hollow head. I lent her my James Tate and she's done much better with it, but she always liked men writers better than I did. Like I've said in several recent posts, men just are not a large part of my reading life. Sorry boys, step your game up maybe?

3. But the boys are not to be forgotten about either. I've been spending lots of time listening to wordy records while I live fully immersed in my thirty or forty library books (my nest has grown quite massive and beyond its usual, already overflowing, bounds)--Adam Falkner's hip hop album Control the Circle, Sean's Pornography Diaries, the 2009 Cantab team's CD, and Connor and Ian's album The Narwhal's Revenge Song (beats and goldfish, mmm mmm mmm). It just so happens that most of the wordy tracks in my library are by men, which is acting as a nice balancing force while I've crawled into the life of Sylvia Plath and refuse to relocate until after the actual end of the semester. Even though my paper is due in rough form this Friday. And I should not be so fully amenable to living inside Plath. I am way too comfortable with the vocabulary of her existence. I need counterweights to keep me from disappearing into the abyss.

4. Continuing to put off the remaining New Jersey posts. Hopefully I'll get to them before I'm back in New Jersey again. In lieu of going to Puerto Rico for break, Georgie may or may not end up staying at 82 Columbus with me. If it happens, I expect extra debauchery, along with lots of angsty poems that will probably never see the light of day. When the two of us are in a room too long, shit gets deep. Or giggly. One of the two. Either way, break is beckoning with long bony winter fingers. I'm excited. I feel like I might be in my childhood house for the first serious snow of the year.

5. As an after-thought, my new book (Spindle, which is described in greater detail here) came back from the printer yesterday. It's $5. Ask me about it when you see me, if you want.

Ten things about today.

1. I am reading a psychoanalytic perspective on Sylvia Plath's work at the reference desk called Sylvia Plath: Poetry and Existence. It is very wordy and from the seventies. I am not sure if the writer is angry at Plath for her suicide or defending her behavior in talking about her schizoid personality and its manifestations in her work. Basically nerding it out for the first time in weeks. I have a taken a turn towards the academic, a process of throwing myself back into books that I tend to restart every time I get seriously overwhelmed by the rest of the world. Case in point: last winter, from about January to early April.

2. I am concerned that all of this reading about Plath is going to make me psychoanalyze my own writing. I don't think I'm ready for that, but I'm also pretty sure I wouldn't even know how to go about it in the first place. David Holbrook, in the aforementioned text, has thus far talked a good deal about Plath's reliance on an interior world to support her when her articulations were not understood by their intended audience. To be plain, she retreated inside of herself looking for answers when no one else had any for her, because no one understood her questions. He argues that her answer was the wrong one, quite passionately, saying a bunch about the glorification of modernist literature in the current (1970s) school system being responsible for rampant narcissism and nihilism.

3. The facsimile of the original manuscript for Ariel is one of the required texts for the class I'm doing all this research reading for. We haven't gotten to it in discussion yet, but we will soon, and I have to do a presentation. All the included scans of her type-written final drafts (in the order that she originally intended!!!) live at one of the Smith libraries. I suspect that I will soon make a pilgrimage, so that I may cry, and swoon, and wonder aloud what has changed about Smith since she went there on scholarship forever ago.

4. My aunt sent me a Halloween card from West Palm Beach. I never get mail, and I was definitely not expecting any from her. It had birthday money in it, which made me wonder why she didn't just send a birthday card.

5. I skipped work this morning because the pile-up of exhaustion from the events of the past week proved too crippling for me to get out of bed. I literally opened my laptop, which was next to my face, wrote a two-line email to my supervisor about feeling "under the weather" and hit send, promptly falling back asleep with my hand still on the keyboard. I did not write anything while asleep, but I kind of wish I had.

6. Every Thursday we end up talking about some aspect of space in our poetry workshop. I mostly blame Charley for this. Today's space topic was the space program during the Cold War. Sophia whispered to me that "cosmonaut" is one of her favorite-sounding words, much better than "astronaut". I would probably agree that "cosmonaut" sounds better to me, but that's probably only because I am less familiar with it.

7. I am getting very tired of my vocabulary. I need to read a book translated from another language so that I can think about sentence constructions differently. This method usually yields great results-- last semester, my seminar on the contemporary European novel drastically altered my writing. I produced some of the cleanest prose I ever have as an indirect result of the reading I did over those few months. I think I'll email the professor and ask for some suggestions, although she'll probably just recommend that I read more Sebald, and then I'll get terribly depressed and have World War nightmares that only subtly hint at what is truly going on in the background.

8. Kat Mott is sitting in my living room waiting for me to leave work. I feel like an over-acheiving employee for staying ten minutes past the end of my shift, especially because there's no one here to even see if I show up or not.

9. Cassandra bought groceries, the (arguable) best of which is my current favorite snack: Ruffles and Philadelphia cream cheese. Esme and I discussed the delightfulness of chips and cream cheese today, and it seems like we three have stumbled onto a goldmine of simple yet delicious snack food. Although Cass keeps buying fat free cream cheese, which sometimes creeps me out if I think about it too hard.

10. I have to do a presentation on the origins of microfiction tomorrow afternoon and have not done a lick of work for it. Time to slave over some photocopies of Baudelaire.

Armagedon.

Photobucket

let the light in


It's Charley's birthday party (as an aside, happy happy birthday Charley, and fuck you for having your party during a MONSOON), which apparently makes it the end of the world tonight? At least that's what we're told by the theme of the party. I somehow interpreted this to mean that I needed Egyptian make-up. Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies.

I have a somewhat serious sewing project in the works. Not serious in that the outcome is somehow crucial, but in that the skin on my right middle finger is a little bit angry at me (meaning that it is somewhat mangled since all of my sewing callouses have disappeared). It has a fair amount tot do with Halloween. Coincidentally, Charley will probably be very jealous when he sees it.

It feels like everything I say lately is "I was going to go to college for fashion design" / "I was going to go to college for painting" / "I was going to go to college for graphic design" / "I was going to go to school for _______". Odd that all of this comes out just as I'm getting my thesis project together in order to graduate. I am such a public mess. Check for updates about that whole writing thing over on Fiction Pays The Bills (I swear I'll update it soon, really).

She wore western style boots, foreshadowing things to come.

I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight.

Here are some pictures of Cassandra and I exploring the graveyard of the Blauvelt family around the block from my house in Jersey. Some of the headstones date back to the 1600s and most of the families that married into the Blauvelt line have streets or entire towns named after them nearby. Although, oddly enough, the town named after the Blauvelts is across the state line in New York. Long story short, there is really no rhyme or reason to how things are organized where I grew up.

Photobucket

Photobucket


I'm going to go do laundry now. Maybe. And pretend that it's not already morning. Daniel Johnston helps with this.

Outdated social commentary.

Photobucket


In my car stereo as we speak. I am a decade and a half too late, but I am still loving being in a time warp. I want to wear baby doll dresses and combat boots. I want to scream along to Courtney Love. (Unfortunately, or maybe thankfully?, I was too short to reach the shelf that they were keeping "Celebrity Skin" on. I plan to go back with taller shoes later this week.)

Also, Aly and I watching Queer as Folk. I love this day.

Also also, soon I'm going to buy a typewriter. The lady at the typewriter store and I had a lovely conversation this afternoon. In another two weeks, I'll pick up that blue Remington that I feel in absolute lust with. I need to go sell clothes at Plato's Closet. I feel like Marla Singer. I'm kind of terrified that soon I'll end up raiding laundromats to fund my currently non-existent pill habit. I don't want to be a book character, at least not one like that.

Attempting homework; the ensuing distractions.

Photobucket
What's that Grössby? You think the bourbon is hindering the writing process?!


I have to write a microfiction for workshop tomorrow afternoon and I'm trying to compose a piece of pseudoscience that I'll footnote with philosophy and poetry, but it's not coming as easily as I'd hoped. It's about sharks, which should make it come easily. But I got to Ampullae of Lorenzini and choked on the beauty of that name for an animal's organs and then got lost for a little too long to write anything coherent. Grössby keeps frowning disapprovingly. I want to do his cousins justice; this poem has been mentally in the works for awhile. I keep thinking about House of Leaves and how effective footnotes can be to telling alternative or, if you'll excuse the blatant (but somehow necessary) pun, marginal stories. The way that sharks are made, there must be some rhyme or reason to it. See that! It,s odd - I've been awfully reflective about otherwise trivial things lately. And then there's the fact that I cannot get a decent amount of sleep. I'm not really helping myself at the moment. This week has been so long, and I had a weekend that technically lasted until this morning.

Highlights of today: Sean on speakerphone while Sophia and I coached him on killing New York City cockroaches, the heat coming on for the first time, suddenly recognizing "Claire de Lune" and thinking about pineapple upside-down cake and the upright piano and Tabby stretched out in the sun, reading Wikipedia for a very long time, telling stories that made people laugh loudly in the crowded elevator.

Apparently there is a Lady Gaga party somewhere in the five colleges this weekend. I want one of those.

FX make-up, layer by layer.

If you took a gander at the video blog in the last post, you know that Cassandra and I spent the better part of last night looking at least slightly terrifying. Or awesome. Or terrifyingly awesome. At any rate, as promised, I've got pictures of the making-up as it happens. And whenever Maggie uploads them, I'll be sure to share our more professional shots (which were replete with in-character groaning and limping) which were an absolute blast to take. I need to remember to follow whims more frequently. Enjoy!



Photobucket
Maggie starts in with the nose putty

Photobucket

the finished facial wound, replete with exposed cheekbone

Photobucket

"it looks like somebody beat the shit out of you" was the night's refrain

Photobucket

halfway to undead

Photobucket

fully undead

The weekend, in brief.

Kidnapped Cassandra. Got BK. Hydroplaned coming off the bridge in NoHo. Rear-ended some French Canadians. Drove home anyway. Watched Drop Dead Gorgeous. Passed out in the living room. Slept through the entire morning. Watched Entourage. Ate mozzarella sticks for brunch. Went on a thrifting adventure. Scored driving gloves, more tops that facilitate super sock-wearing, quality time. Delicious assembled frozen dinner. Project Runway and Deadly Women on Lifetime until exhausted. Slept for 13 hours. Diner lunch mid-afternoon. Cigarettes for under six bucks. Typewriter quest. Read aloud from my high school life. Walk around the block/finger-freeze time. Chex Mix. Work out playlist while silently coexisting, unmoving. This is Jersey.

(de)Parting words.

Photobucket

semi-reliable proof that I am not dead


No, not dead, just having a love affair with super-socks. And spending the weekend giving Cass the Jersey tour of my teenage self. We're going to the Hoboken waterfront, we're going to visit cats, we're going to have to find ways to entertain ourselves without poetry for the weekend. This may or may not involve a visit to the second largest mall in America. I have this sinking feeling fairly frequently that the only times I leave the house are driven by a need for poetry. I've slammed twice this week, and it doesn't sound like a lot, but it feels like a pretty big thing. One win, once the runner up; not too shabby. This whole plan of making an NPS team that I've been kicking around quietly seems a little more tangible that I had originally expected.

Now, packing and middle school-esque antics. Also, Burger King.

Girl-crush of forever and always (and an explanation of sorts).

First off, proof that I am alive (and in dire need of a haircut...):



Photobucket


And now that that's out of the way, the main event:



Photobucket


I blame Sean completely and totally for this. When Cass and I were driving him home the other day, he made sure that we listened to at least half of I Am...Sasha Fierce, singing along emphatically the entire time. I have just recently begun admitting (mostly on this blog) my undying love for and devotion to female pop vocalists. I cannot stop listening to her - her entire discography (Destiny's Child included) has been on nearly constant rotation since the aforementioned car ride. What can I say? She's a diva. It seems an obvious obsession.

Aside from doing dizzying amounts of work and managing to come down with my first cold of the year at the most inopportune time (my birthday week, though thankfully the big day was spared), I've been spending far too much time holed up in my room watching ANTM with Cass and mentally talking myself through slam strategy (which for me typically means I'm showing off my legs and hoping I don't drop a line mid-poem). The open slam season has graced me with two home venue wins, and hopefully I'll work up the nerve to slam at Cantab this Wednesday.

Until then, I will remain in 23 A, wallowing in illness, attempting to organize all the things I still haven't unpacked fully. Watching music videos for songs that refuse to take themselves seriously. Like this one.





As a postscript, I guess it's fairly obvious that I've become obsessed with any and all reasons for dancing. Not that I wasn't always a closet party girl, but it just doesn't seem to jive properly with the whole librarian thing that I usually have going on. We are all too many things.

And as a post-postscript, happy birthday DC!

Our first trip to "The House".

Photobucket


One of our roommates (Aly) at the Lady Poet house has a long and exciting history with a certain house in Amherst. There are usually theme parties, and though this weekend wasn't one of those times, there was still a more general kind of party going on, so we made the trek out anyway. Aside from having not been to a real party in months, the whole thing was very exciting and allowed me to cross a few things off my "teenage debauchery that must be accomplished before Tuesday" list. Because Tuesday is my 20th birthday! Which means tomorrow I'll have to start acting older and wiser. Yuck. All I want to do is dance. And write poetry. But anyway, here are a few cell phone memories from the evening.

Photobucket


Cass and Aly pose, then forget that they are being photographed.

Photobucket


Bonsai!

Artistic endeavors.

Photobucket

Photobucket


Sophia had a bit of printmaking homework to attend to on Thursday, and in the interest of time (and for the excuse to go for a drive with all the windows down through the crisp fall air) I gave her a ride and hung out while she was prepping her copper plate. Instead of getting a lot of homework done, which I never quite manage when I go on such adventures, we talked a lot about boys and slam and other such Lady Poet topics of conversation. In all the pauses between topics, I got a little visually lost and made a mental note that I really need to start painting again before I drive myself crazy. Sophia and I have made plans to go draw at the Smith botanical gardens once it gets cold, but I'm not sure I can wait for such things. I've been doodling a lot, and it's terribly unsatisfying.

VLOG # 1



Cassandra and I have started video blogging. Now we are publicly and officially the best roommates of all time. Here we are, having snacks, recounting poor choices, and generally having a fantastic time.

The first weekend of the year.

Photobucket

Myself, Danica and Georgie getting silly after large liquor doses and lots of story-telling.


Things are already flying off the handle bat shit insane here in terms of all the running around, getting forms signed, making appointments, figuring out schedules, having mini heart attacks, buying books, reading said books, seeing people I haven't seen in months, seeing people I didn't think went here anymore, remembering my post office box combination, settling into my room, finding a place in the world that feels right now that I am such a different kind of puzzle piece. But in spite of things being hectic, we've still managed to have some seriously good times in between all the flurries of semester-starting.

Tuesday night was the first meeting of the Hampshire Slam Collective, and even though it was technically unofficial, we were blown out of the water by the sheer size of the audience that night. Our NPS team did a feature that had everyone in the room roaring with applause and nearly jumping off the edges of their seats. I had a new friend visiting to see what slam was all about, and the show was so strong that she told me she's coming back every week before leaving for France because she was so epically blown away by what went on that night. And after the feature was our first slam of the season, something I've been jonesing for since the last time I slammed way back in June. Apparently this jonesing has made me a slam superhero, because I was one of the final two performers left, going up against my dear friend Sean and losing by a slim margin. This seems insignificant, and in most cases it would be, except that he is our venue's IWPS rep and I nearly beat him in a slam. He asked me when I was planning on touring, and even though I greeted that with a nervous laugh, I told him I had ben thinking about setting out on the open road a year from now when I'm done with school and attempting to find my bearings in the world. Stay tuned for further developments on this front. After all the poetry, we retired to the Lady Poet living room with a gaggle of near-and-dears and shot the shit into the wee morning hours.

Wednesday night we made our first pilgrimage to the Cantab of the semester, a journey that had fantastically funny car rides to and from the city, a whole pile of free sandwiches, and most importantly, it contained the realization that I am actually starting to have a real career as a poet. It's been happening over the past few months - people, usually writers and performers I really respect from afar and sometimes even the poet who's featuring at the venue that night, will come up to me and ask me for my book or for a copy of the piece I read that night in the midst of praising me with high compliments and asking about what I do and where I come from. It's gotten to the point where I now have a collection of email addresses spanning several countries and most of the United States, all from people wanting to remain updated on my movements as a poet. So I gave birth to a new blog dedicated solely to my work as a poet and performer; it's called Fiction Pays The Bills and it went live yesterday. It's still a 90 lb weakling right now, but soon (fingers crossed) there will be things to update you about. Maybe a new chapbook is in the works? I'm not sure yet what's in store, but I'll be sure to let you know when new things are happening.

And then there was last night. All I'm going to say is that my living room was full of bourbon and forties and lots of laughter, and I am so happy to feel at home. Cass is making coffee and bacon and I'm about to pour myself a big bowl of cereal and start getting it al together for the day. Cheers to all of you - I hope your days are as full and bright and shiny as mine have been this week!

Itchy feet.

Photobucket


Last week Kait and I went to a truly wonderful dinner party in Narragansett hosted by a few of her friends who are visiting for the summer from France. Karen and Patrick living in Paris for most of the year but take long holidays every summer, and I was so happy to meet them after hearing so many wonderful things from my sister. Kait is going to visit them next April (which I am insanely jealous of - silly senior year...), a trip I'm sure she's been longing for ever since she left Paris after her last visit way back in high school.

Several glasses of wine and lots of delicious little appetizers got me to a warm and fuzzy state that allowed for some serious considerations, some of which I'll share with you now. Patrick and I spoke a great deal about traveling, how important it is to travel while you're still young and excited about learning everything you can get your hands on. I've always been a huge proponent of travel, but talking about it with this level of seriousness really got me revved for some world traveling. I figure that I should start on the smaller side, and lately I've been leaning heavily towards a North American road trip next September. If I'm in Rhode Island and working all summer just like I was this year, I'll be able to save up enough money to make it happen, and I've always wanted the open road and all that it has to offer. And I have seen far too little of this country to be able to call it my own. So there's that plan. And then there's my maybe-reachable pipe dream of a European tour including Helsinki, Stockholm, Oslo, Copenhagen, Berlin and whatever I can get my hands on in between. As much as I'd love to go to London and Paris, I'm more interested in the more northern oddities to be found. And there's always my off-in-the-distance longing for Asia - backpacking through India, bar hopping in Japan. The world seems so big, and the only foreign things I have any grasp of at this point are foods from places I have never seen. I feel ashamed of that, but I know that I have more than enough gusto to get on a plane, even if it's alone, and undertake some adventures.

Come this May, I have no idea where my feet will take me, but I'm very excited to follow them.

Why I am sad today.

Photobucket


I have not had much time off from work to dwell on this, but now that I've got a few days to myself to catch up on laundry and reconnect with the outside world, I have been making an ever-more-crippling list of things that are depressing me about August. The list is longer than most Augusts. I hate this month. I am sad because:

1. I am leaving Providence in twelve days.

I've definitely talked extensively about this already, but I'll repeat myself for dramatic effect - I am in love with this place. My life here has changed everything for me. I feel most myself here, probably because I got to start from scratch and act exactly how I felt without worrying about how people would perceive me. And in so doing, I made friends, met interesting people, got heaped with praise for my poetry, and even managed to save up a little money for school. I'm not ready to be ripped from this comfortable but challenging place. I've found my best self and I don't want to lose her when I get back to Hampshire. Not that Hampshire brings out the worst in me... but, well, I'm sure you understand my panic over all of this. I'm just not ready to move out yet. I like this semi-independence. I like it a lot.

2. There aren't enough hours.

This follows the first reason. Being that there is so little time left, I'm trying to cram many things into a small space. Even mentally, this is painful. I've got a bunch of work to do for school that I haven't touched simply because I am intimidated by it. This has not been a very academic summer, even if I have been reading and writing as much as time allows. It feels silly to be so anxious though. I haven't been my regular anxious self for months and for that to come flooding back now is foreboding to say the very least. I need more time!!

3. I want to spend every spare moment in Boston and can't.

This is tied to both of the above. Working nearly every remaining day here and packing in the spare time (for both myself and Kait, who is moving to North Providence at the end of the month) I do have leaves very little recreational time to begin with, but it sucks even harder when I want to be on the Chester Street porch with my very favorite people. I need to find a way to fit another Boston visit in this week. Which brings me back to problem #2, which I wouldn't have if it weren't for the pesky nuisance of problem #1.

Hence the sad face.

But there is at least one good thing about today. Borders rewards members have a coupon to buy one book and get the second half off. So I can go buy more books. Yay!