And with a gust of wind . . .

And with a gust of wind autumn has arrived. During the middle of the week it was still humid and warm as it rained but today it was chilly and blustery. The gusts of wind were so strong today that the power went out at work. We were operating in the dark, which was amusing to say the least. We had brought in our usual welcome sign, Mitten Man, earlier in the day because he'd had two rather unpleasant encounters with the pavement, he biffed it and biffed it good. So, from the outside with the lights out we looked closed. People kept walking in and saying, "Are you guys open?" or worse, "Are you guys going out of business?" The smart-ass in me wanted to retort, "Um, did you read the sign on the door that says OPEN?" Needless to say I restrained myself. Business had to be conducted in the old fashioned way though, hand written receipts and the big clunky credit card imprinters. One customer gleefully announced upon seeing the credit card machine, "Whoa, I haven't seen one of those in like 15 years when I used to go shopping with my mom!" Shopping for yarn in the dark isn't very productive though, unless you know exactly what you're looking for, which is rare except for the most disciplined of knitters. Thankfully the power was back before the end of the day. I had a chilly and windy walk home from work. It's a pleasant sort of chill when the sky is the color of navy blue velvet and lined with the palest shade of orange. It makes me want to curl up and knit a cozy sweater to warm up my chilly limbs but leave just the tip of my nose still a little wind chilled. And so sweater season has officially arrived too.

Alone

I've never minded being alone. I don't know if that's because I'm an only child and have spent a fair amount of time by myself or if it's just the person that I am. Frankly, there are plenty of times when I prefer to be alone. There is a certain amount of comfort in the freedom of being by oneself. I like both the anonymity of being alone in a swarming crowd of strangers in the city and the isolation of being alone when standing on a deserted lakeshore. I think most of all I like being alone because it rarely lets me down. I know exactly what to expect and don't have to be disappointed by raised hopes. It is heartbreaking to be with people, to share time with them, and yet feel completely alone. The pain is even more acute when those people are friends, people that one should feel at home with and enjoy spending time with. Perhaps I seek solitude because it's easier and I'd rather not face disappointment. Does that make me cowardly or practical?

Letters unsent, words unsaid

愛しい君に書く手紙
久しぶりに手にとる筆　

いつか書いたあの詩
覚えてるかな

天から降り落ちてくる星
見上げる淡いブルーの空

君のために書いたつもりはなかったけど
結局はそうだったかもね　

君を思うと欠けたハートは
一昔に知っていた「愛」を思い出し

寒い星空の下でも
暖かく微笑んでいる

君におくる言葉
心をこめたこの気持ち

愛情ではないこの気持ち
それが君におくる言葉
それが君に書く手紙

Bittersweet fruit for a bittersweet time

A brief moment of the Cranberries on the radio this afternoon made me desperately want to listen to them. So, now I'm finally at home sitting at my desk listening to Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We? I know that I've said it time and again but there is a certain special quality to music. It can transport you through time and make you feel as though you're reliving moments of your life. The Cranberries take me back to being a teenager . . . all the bittersweet memories of teenage heartache and heartbreak. Somehow it's both exhilarating and heart-wrenching to recall those feelings. Oh, to be a teenager again . . . to have those cares and concerns. I suppose I can only say that though because I was a relatively happy adolescent. I know there are plenty people who were unhappy adolescents and would never wish to return to that time in their lives. It's a scarring time for all of us, though in vastly different ways.

Though I won't bore you with the memories associated with them, I'll tell you that my particular favorites on the disc include "Sunday", "Linger", and "How." They are attached to both immensely fun and happy memories and blisteringly painful ones.

Into the night

The other night I was waiting at the bus stop on campus regretting the fact that I had stayed so late since it's not fun to wait for the bus in the damp cold darkness. There was a sudden gust of wind and the leaves in the tree rustled so loudly that I looked up to see a burst of leaves in the wind backlit by the orange street lamp. Against the deep navy sky they looked like flakes of gold pirouetting through the air. It was so beautiful. And in that moment I couldn't remember why I didn't like the darkness and the night. We only fear the night because of the things that we humans have created and infused in it - violence, crime, heartbreak. Without those things the night is just another time of day, a time when the world feels smaller, cozier, and intimate.

The darkness brings the magic hour where illusions seem more real and time can't be trusted to tell the truth. I used to imagine the night as the softest embrace of the darkest velvet. In the darkness I can lie in the grass and listen to the tree frogs and crickets sing as the stars inch across the sky. In the darkness I can drive through the cornfields to watch the harvest moon creep along the horizon. In the darkness I can watch the snowflakes drift upwards in the air, glowing in the moonlight.

And since related things always seem to happen as if by chance at the same time, I came across this poem on the bus a day or so later. Another sentiment for the darkness and the night. In my heart of hearts I love the darkness and the night.

Hello Star Wars

So, just a random note to say that I keep seeing this kid walking around campus in full Stormtrooper get up. Actually I didn't know it was a kid necessarily except for the fact that I saw him without his head/helmet on today. The nice and yet bizarre thing about college campuses is that you can be wearing and doing just about anything and people won't give you a second glance. So, Stormtrooper around campus is seemingly totally normal. Of course, it's not really normal but that's besides the point. What I want to know is why anyone would decide to walk around in costume for no apparent reason? Especially in the weather we've been having lately, it's not very costume conducive. It was pouring rain the first couple times I saw him and today it was too warm to be comfortable in Stormtrooper gear . . . probably why he took off the helmet. I guess I should give him props for his dedication to costume wearing . . . a round of applause for the Stormtrooper?

Where will you be in 10 years?

Usually I'm quite unconcerned with age. I take it in stride that most people think that I'm several years (at times even a decade) younger than I actually am. Other peoples' age doesn't really seem an issue to me either as I have friends across the spectrum. But today I did a bit of wigging out over age, although I guess really it was more about the passage of time than age to be precise. It was a rather foolish and embarrassing freak out and in retrospect completely unnecessary but that's usually the point of wigging out, isn't it?

Why the wigging out? Well, next year is my 10 year high school reunion. In preparation for this reunion people have started to get in touch and such over the internet. This morning I had a particularly dense onslaught of internet contact with former classmates and it sort of pushed me over the edge. I've stayed in touch with an array of friends from that time but there are people that I haven't heard from or seen in quite a while. And the pictures that I see now of them and the things that they have to say about their current lives is both uplifting and bizarre.

I realize that I've progressed down a rather different path in life compared to many of them but I hadn't expected their current lives to be so alien from my own. Some are married, and some have kids, neither of which is surprising at our age but they've all aged. That really doesn't clarify anything does it? I guess what I mean to say is that they look grown up, in a way that I don't think I am. Plus there is a certain quality to memories from that adolescent time in life, as though they will always remain unchanged and in technicolor and therefore so will the people in those memories.

So many times I'm surprised by life and I guess this is no exception. When I was in high school I don't think I considered very seriously where I would be in 10 years and perhaps that is why it catches me so off guard to find that life has progressed. Although had I imagined it that would not have necessarily made me more prepared, would it? Food for thought . . .

Easter, weddings, old friends, and old flames

Let's start with Easter. It is a holiday I enjoy mostly for the candy. However, it's a little tainted for me compared to other candy based holidays because of the presence of the Peep. That's right, as some of you may know, I have strong objections to Peeps (if you missed my rantings on this topic they can be found here). However, this is their holiday of origination, if you will, and therefore I feel like I should give them a break. For that matter I will even direct you to this story that I heard on Weekend America which was both revolting and intriguing - listen to the story it's amusing.

Now on to weddings, there are several that I am planning on attending this summer. They come in clusters I've noticed. The thing that is troubling is that the majority of them are people who are younger than myself. It's not an envy thing, I haven't the slightest inclination to get married at this point in time, but it is a little disturbing to one's sense of balance and order. These certainly weren't the weddings that I had anticipated on attending at this point, I thought I would be seeing people my own age getting married first. It just seems like a natural progression, at the very least I expected a variety in the age range but not so. Strange and curious.

Finally, old friends and old flames. This evening I reconnected with an old friend (an old friend who is incidentally younger than myself and getting married soon) and that is always a pleasure. In our conversation we fill in the blanks since we last saw one another. And even with the passage of time, it is so easy to fall into the same pace of conversation. I like that. Along those lines, she asked me after an old flame of mine who also happened to be a mutual friend of ours. He is another person with whom I fall easily into conversation after long intermissions. It's funny since I haven't talked about him or thought of him in those terms, as an old flame (a lovely almost antiquated turn of phrase that I find rather charming), in a long time. He has since become a good friend, as he always was, but now he is that both in reference and in actuality. And perhaps I don't talk to him as often as I should but I know he will not bear a grudge, just as I know that we'll fall so easily into conversation when we do talk again.

Growing up, much like breaking up, is hard to do

When I was eight and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up the question didn't seem quite as menacing as it does now. And even though I hate it when people ask me that question, I can't help asking other people. Does that make me a terrible person? Perhaps it's only terrible because I myself don't have an answer to that question. I grow more and more confused as to the answer as the years go by. Although one thing I have realized, it's not really what I want to be but who I want to be that's important. Jobs and careers may come and go but I will always be myself. I'm not too worried though (although perhaps I should be), I believe in serendipity, or if we want to be oh so practical we could say that I usually manage to iron things out.

When all else fails turn to music, and there's nothing like cheesy music from another decade to describe ones thoughts. I don't know why I thought of "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do" perhaps because it was on a mixed CD of oldies that I had as a kid. I'd forgotten how truly cheesy the lyrics were until I looked them up online. It was perhaps an era when music was just . . . well, simpler, for lack of a better word. So I shall leave you at that . . .

Don't take your love away from me
Don't you leave my heart in misery
If you go then I'll be blue
'Cause breaking up his hard to do

And the last verse, just for kicks . . .

I beg of you, don't say goodbye
Can't we give our love another try
Come on baby, let's start anew
'Cause breaking up is hard to do

So much to do, so little time

So, another quarter has started. I've had all of my classes and all I can say is that it's going to be a doozie. Tons of books, lots of reading, and exams upon exams - which oddly enough I'm not too rankled about as I'm feeling a little burnt out on papers lately and am willing to accept anything else. This quarter I'm resolved to turn a new leaf (as I am almost every quarter) to mend my procrastinating ways and start early on all things important - no more end of quarter madness. Will I actually make these changes? It's debatable, I always have such good intentions but well . . . it clearly hasn't panned out in the past so it may not this time either but I will try and try again, I'm nothing if not optimistic.

At the moment I'm feeling a little torn between reading for class, doing taxes, and reading my new book from the library. Taxes have taken a back seat to books, after all books are much more exciting than taxes (ick!). But should I read school books or fun books? I know I should read school books but fun books are just so much more . . . fun. It's like falling off the wagon at the first bump, how did I ever expect to make it the whole ride? Clearly at this rate if I can't prioritize serious school reading I'm never going to be able to turn a new leaf and be uber productive and avoid procrastination . . . oh dear.

The problem isn't ameliorated by the fact that I'm already in the midst of three fun books which I started over spring break.
The Earthsea Quartet - My father gave me this in high school and I finally decided to commit myself to reading it. I know that sounds strange, committing oneself to reading a book, but the circumstances under which it was given to me have a lot to do with that. My father gave it to me since I had so enjoyed the Lord of the Rings trilogy and it was of a similar genre and he thought I would enjoy it also. But I decided to not read it since I was afraid that it just wouldn't be able to compete with the Lord of the Rings. This fear is born from a similar experience I had with Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. Hardy was recommended to me by my father since I had so enjoyed Austen but when I read Hardy, not long after I had whisked through several Austen novels, he just put me to sleep. In retrospect I may have not given Hardy as much of a chance as I ought but there it is, I wasn't impressed upon first trial. Anyway my point is that I didn't want to have that same experience with LeGuin and thought that perhaps a break from the genre altogether might be beneficial. Little did I anticipate that break to be years upon years. So, The Earthsea Quartet came back from Japan with me over winter break but I didn't even start reading it until a month ago - this is the sad state of affairs around here.
Persepolis - Note to Sherry: I can just imagine your exasperation, I know, I know. I'm finally reading it. It got buried under so many other books that it really didn't have a fighting chance until now. Besides, in comparison to The Earthsea Quartet this pace is downright speedy!
Time Was Soft There - I haven't gotten very far in this yet so I'm not entirely attached. But it sounded so lovely on the staff recommendation card at the bookstore that I was suckered into finding it at the library. It's about a bookstore in Paris called Shakespeare & Co., a store which I just fell in love with when I was there. It is the epitome of the bookstores that I daydreamed of as a child, scruffy around the edges, vast while being compact, and it is as much a visual feast as it is a literary one. Of course, the fact that it's on the banks of the Seine just across from Notre Dame doesn't hurt either. On a tangential note, how many kids daydream about old scruffy bookstores? What an odd child I was.

Do you see my dilemma? They're so fun . . . or at least full of the promise of fun. How could I decided between these three books and school books, let alone the new book that I got at the library today?

Move me

I'm always surprised by how much art in any form can move me. Books that make me want to drop everything and travel to a far off place just to feel the air there. Music that makes me want to be in love. Films that break my heart and move me to true sadness. Stories that make me want to be a better person, to do more than I would have ever expected of myself or anyone else. Sculpture that bates my breath, making me feel as though I've seen beauty for the first time. And paintings, drawings, and photographs that transport me through every memory, reliving moments in my life so vividly that I can feel them all over again.

What is it that makes all of this so real to me? Sometimes I think that I should have pursued art. At various times in my life I wanted to be an architect, a poet, a musician, a photographer, a novelist, and a filmmaker, among other things. It's not too late to do any or all of these things. But there is a part of me that knows I couldn't, because I couldn't fight for them. Would I fight for what is beautiful as hard as I would fight for what is right and just? It seems an overly broad question, a question that in this context may not even make sense to anyone but myself. I think though that it's a question that is always in the back of my mind guiding the decisions that I make. I've loved beauty as long as I can remember but I feel duty toward what is right and just. Which is stronger, love or duty? They pull me in such opposite directions that I wonder if I'd ever be happy going just one way. Perhaps that's why I wander the middle ground.

Life, location, and disillusion

Sometimes I wish I were anywhere but here. At times I wish that I had a different life with different friends just to know what it was like. And then there are times when I wish I had a different life because I become disillusioned with what I have. Would life be different if I weren't here? Would the disillusion be less potent in a different place or in a different life? Probably not, but I still wonder.

Just follow your nose

I'm sick and tired, literally. I've caught a cold and my nose, throat, and even my ears hurt. It's that painful feeling as though someones run a cheese grader all over. My nose is running left and right and I can't go anywhere without my hankie. Which brings me to ask, why don't they make hankies out of softer material? And why hasn't anyone thought of the already-worn-in hankie . . . or perhaps the distressed hankie (since that's basically what distressed jeans are, right?)? Is that my next calling, to become the inventor and distributor of the distressed hankie? A tempting thought since I do like handkerchiefs but I don't know that everyone else likes them as much as I do.

Another question I've been pondering over the last couple of days, why does the sun feel so much warmer when it's shining on your back? Have you noticed that?

The space between living and dying

That's the space where we build our lives. It's so run-of-the-mill, so everyday, that we tend to forget about it and yet it is what our lives boil down to when we are gone. It's not just the physical space that we occupy and call home but also the space that we occupy in people's memories. The latter weighs more heavily in my mind since without that we could disappear so easily. Physical objects and places can be removed or destroyed and all traces of a persons presence can be erased, a memory is much harder to erase - even if we want to.

We went to get furniture from a coworker of Anna's. All we had heard was that they were cleaning out an apartment and everything needed to go. When we got there we learned that the tenant of the apartment had died in an accident and their belongings were being given away to Goodwill, so there we were in this person's apartment. Most things had been moved to the living room and put into boxes for us to rummage through but there was still the semblance of a life there.

It was bleak and haunting to look through the boxes and walk through the rooms. I had no knowledge of this person's life, I didn't have any memories or associations, all I knew was the space in which they lived. There were bits and pieces that could be put together to figure out what their life must have been like, sporting equipment, cleaning products, kitchen utensils, glassware, shirts. It made me immensely sad to imagine this person's life and then realize that I'm standing in the middle of what was their life. Is that what it all boils down to, a room full of stuff that some strangers rummage through? I know it's not always like that but it just made me think how fragile the balance of our lives is, how small that space between living and dying can be.