Stranger Still

At dinner this evening, a stranger sat down at my table as I tried to finish a class reading. Before long, I gave up and decided to see what this person was all about. She looked to be in her sixties and had already consumed a carton of rice milk. She wore a colorful cardigan over a turtleneck sweater, and she'd carried nothing with her. In short, her appearance was enough to intrigue me into a conversation.

After some general discussion of the Madeline Albright panel that took place on campus this afternoon, we got to talking about more personal stuff. She told me that she was a part of this group that "sounds like a cult but isn't one." I tried to keep an open mind, and then she said "death isn't real to me." After that, she told me how the man she loved didn't love her back, that he'd moved out of her house and that his return was unlikely. She told me about her 92-year-old mother, with whom she speaks on the phone twice every day. Recently, she's noticed that her mother's voice is changing, and she worries that her mother is getting very sick in a way the doctors won't be able to help.

It was all very strange. I wondered what experiences had led her to the table where we sat, and whether she'd imagined her future accurately when she was young. I wondered if she'd had meaningful friendships, and whether she'd been able to maintain those. I wondered if she was lonely, or happy, or both, or neither. I wondered if she felt like she'd found answers.

There is, maybe, a sweeping point to be made here, but I can't be bothered to find it. Some things can't be tied up into neat little bows of clarity and order, and isn't that spectacular?

Myth

I hated this song the first time I heard it. The introduction felt prickly and dissonant and uncomfortable, but after a few spins, I became a total convert. Even Beach House's bad songs are good, which almost makes it okay that 65% of their stylistic choices and melodies are lifted from Mazzy Star.

- "Myth" by Beach House, from Bloom (2012)

Mt. Auburn Cemetery, Pt. II

These photos are from the summer, but better late than never...right?

Darklands

After my first day of Romantic poetry, I realize that unhappiness has always been en vogue, and that everyone else had this realization long ago.

Even the slowest boat eventually crosses the river.

- "Darklands" by The Jesus and Mary Chain, from Darklands (1987)

Making Peace

I found a copy of this poem shoved into one of my notebooks. I've no idea where it came from.

"Making Peace"

A voice from the dark called out,

             ‘The poets must give us

imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar

imagination of disaster. Peace, not only

the absence of war.’

                                   But peace, like a poem,

is not there ahead of itself,

can’t be imagined before it is made,

can’t be known except

in the words of its making,

grammar of justice,

syntax of mutual aid.

                                       A feeling towards it,

dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have

until we begin to utter its metaphors,

learning them as we speak.

                                              A line of peace might appear

if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,

revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,

questioned our needs, allowed

long pauses . . .

                        A cadence of peace might balance its weight

on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,

an energy field more intense than war,

might pulse then,

stanza by stanza into the world,

each act of living

one of its words, each word

a vibration of light—facets

of the forming crystal.

- by Denise Levertov, from Breathing the Water (1987)

Leaves That Are Green

Sounds of Silence has been on non-stop repeat in the car. Now that I'm legally, arbitrarily older, hearing this song makes me feel even more under-accomplished...my knee-jerk reaction is to think that if Paul Simon was really writing tunes like this at my age, I need to step up my game. But then I breathe a sigh of relief and remember that I'm not Paul Simon, and that I'm exactly where I need to be.

I've got a good feeling about this year.

- "Leaves That Are Green" by Simon & Garfunkel, from Sounds of Silence (1966)

Cemetery, Orleans

Thanksgiving break 2015, Orleans, MA.

I'm 98% sure this film was several years beyond expired. Thanks, Lomography.

Now I'm Learning to Love the War

I'm trying, futilely, to finish my book before tomorrow.

Something tells me that won't happen.

What kind of vines?

On A Nerve

Nameless as the way we started
I'd like to go
Back to time before name
Name for all we know

When the room was filled with chances
No one would take
We collided with them
Knowing chances fade

- "On A Nerve" by Vetiver, from their self-titled debut (2004)

Self-Congratulatory

This post is an outright boast. A straight-up, undeniable brag.

But you know what? I've been taught for so long that my femininity necessitates modesty. And while modesty is a trait I respect and admire quite a lot, I think that's some bullshit. Self-advocacy is essential, and though there's a distinction between advocacy and gloating, it's a shame women in our society aren't more encouraged to be proud of their accomplishments. My life has been extraordinarily easy and sheltered compared to most, but I've still worked hard within my own circumstances, and I deserve to celebrate that.

So here's some good ol' word-vomit, Amtrak style.

*****

In the last five days, I've experienced a little over thirty hours of solitary travel. For the people who know me well, this is far from surprising: I cherish time spent alone, and there are few feelings more fulfilling than venturing someplace new.

Growing up, my family was not into traveling. Or, perhaps better put, we simply didn't. Taking three kids to a grocery store, let alone an airport, isn't easy or cheap. Aside from the occasional trip to visit a grandparent, we stuck to our stomping grounds. That's not to suggest that my siblings and I were raised without an awareness of the planet—our parents tried their hardest to remind us how big the world was. But simple logistics kept us from traveling merely for the sake of exploration. If we went somewhere, it was usually out of necessity.

Yet those reminders of the world nagged at me constantly, and I leaped at any chance to travel. This compulsion was, I'm sure, exaggerated by setting. I'm a contrarian, and the overwhelming narrative in my hometown involved few physical journeys. Most of the residents had lived there since birth; most had families that had been there for generations. Being stubborn and willful, I decided to do what I felt everyone else didn't. This was, in all honesty, a large part of my decision to go to Wellesley: I was completely seduced by a Romantic notion of "getting out" and playing with the tempting fire of the big, bad world.

And now I'm out. In the last year, I've gotten the chance to see two continents, seven countries, and nine states. To some people, those numbers are laughably small. Others will never get the opportunity to see even half of that. However you parse it, I've had more chances to travel even in the last month than I ever had in high school. This freedom means more to me than almost anything, because I earned it.

I fought like mad to get where I am. College was, to my high school mind, the way out, and I did everything I could to make it there. I stayed up late trying to understand my basic calculus assignments. I took extra online classes through Mizzou because I thought it would help my case in the nightmare of college admissions. I petitioned my high school principal for permission to take an independent study, which he deemed "excessive and unnecessary" because it wasn't the precedent. I completely overtook my own college search after my high school guidance counselor told me that in-state schools were "good enough." I put my parents through hell, making them proofread, advise, and drive me hours for interviews. They were my surrogate guidance counselors, and there's no doubt I got where I am because of them. (Mom and Dad, if you're reading this—and I'm sure you are—thank you.)

Now that I'm here, right now in St. Louis, wandering around alone, I couldn't be happier. Not a day goes by that I don't think of my overeager teenage self, desperate to get somewhere, anywhere. The exploring, the newness...it's all so much that sometimes I feel as though I'm making up for lost time, trying to prove to my past self that I made it, at least to something different.

I couldn't be more grateful if I tried.

Wisconsin

Today, we go to Milwaukee. I'll have about a zillion things to post about once I'm home. Until then, here is a two-headed taxidermy calf we met yesterday in Andersonville at The Wooly Mammoth.

Brussels Sprouts

Twilight

The view from the backyard.

Starman

Good night, sweet prince.

- "Starman" by David Bowie, from The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)

Disappointing Elephants

As seen on the website of the artist Miriam Elia.

In 2014, Elia was nearly sued by the Penguin Group for her book We Go To The Gallery, a satire of the popular Peter and Jane series. (The book is dark, weird, and painfully funny; you can read tidbits here.) Penguin claimed that Elia's work, independently made and published in an initial pressing of 1,000 copies, infringed on their copyright of the original series. They ordered her to stop selling the book and to destroy any remaining copies she owned.

As you might have guessed, a lot of artists, writers, and human beings thought that was a little far-reaching. But Penguin's voice (and wallet) was bigger, and Elia was—as far as I can tell—elbowed out of the mild and non-threatening success her work had earned her. If that weren't bad enough, a year after issuing their cease-and-desist to Elia, Penguin began a new series of Ladybird books for adults on topics like "dating," "the hangover," and "the mid-life crisis." I haven't read any of these books, but I have a more than slight suspicion that the ideas were copped from Elia.

All is right in the world.

Smooth

On the third day, I am still sick. My body feels as though it's trying to exorcise me, but I also have the privilege of being able to sleep excessively without worrying about school or work right now, so it's not nearly as bad as it could be. All things considered, I'm a lucky duck.

- "Sick Bed Blues" by Skip James, from Greatest of the Delta Blues Singers (1965)

The Great Salt Flats

I'm going to Chicago for a few days next week. It's safe to say that the travel bug is alive and well, somewhere in my inner ear.

Nostalgia for the Great Salt Flats

Contract Bridge

A Walk through the Woods

Today I was exploring a nature preserve and got a little lost on a non-path in the woods. After sliding down the world's muddiest hill, I laughed at myself for a solid ten minutes and went back to the indoor comforts of home.

Still, the sun was tantalizingly warm for early January.

Baby's first city

Leavenworth / worth leavin'

On and on and On

Posting from a cell phone is a royal pain.

I did not expect to feel this strongly, but I miss Wellesley very much. It's hard to believe there's only one semester left.

This winter break marks the beginning of a hesitant job search. It's uncomfortable and exhilarating to be so unsure of the future, but I'm also eager for some degree of stability and routine to return to my life.

That's all this little brain can muster right now.