Possesed

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

On a Lighter Note

I suppose it feels like I should ease myself back into heavy blogs. Trust me, I have a lot to say-- a lot to sort through. But even though it has been months, most things are still underdeveloped. So, instead, I’ve decided to ramble of things much less ambiguous.

Last week I signed a new lease for an apartment I had been eyeing. The studio is small anyway, but even smaller because of its slanted ceilings. The attic look has always struck some kind of good chord with me. I used to think it was a cozy factor, but I’m wondering if it’s the challenge to fit furniture that intrigues me. I can’t describe this place with having crisp books on the shelves and fresh paint brightening it up, because, well, it isn’t mine yet. So far, it smells of cold coffee and is full of all the tattoo art and music equipment you could fit in the few square feet. (compliments of the current tenant).

But come August, I imagine I will try making it my own. I have said all of this to arrive at what I am really trying to say, and that is how interesting it is to me what makes people “happy” (comfortable, content, satisfied, excited). This isn’t intended to be some kind of  “awe-evoking moral lesson” blog. But rather, just a ramble of my recent wonder. It is fascinating to watch everybody react differently to their drug of choice.

For me, it’s change. Always has been.

I get that sort of “high” from moving across the country or taking new classes, or picking a new wardrobe style or cutting my hair, or transforming a man-cave into something livable or seeing God in a new way…or planning in my mind for four months how to decorate my new studio apartment.

But the thought of an engineering degree bores me and a new, pink, bedazzled phone case wouldn’t turn my head for even a second, and no boy at a bar is going to give me butterflies. Just as the person sitting next to me couldn’t care less that I get to move out on my own again soon.

What is, perhaps, the most interesting aspect of this idea, is that these things—these silly little things—make up (at least for me) what defines happiness. I mean, sure, there is the initial foundation of real happiness that comes from Something Else, making any of this possible in the first place, but it is sometimes channeled through tangible measures. Which is kind of cool if you ask me.

Because while I am working to earn a career and I worry about money sometimes and I have lists of goals to reach for my life as an adult, it is so nice to know that a cup of tea might just be the thing that matters the most for a minute. Or a walk across town at night, or returning a dollar to someone who has dropped it, or a vase of flowers you find sitting on a red table at a coffee shop.

Coming Soon

This is my "running out the door, desperate attempt to continue blogging, I feel terrible that I haven’t posted recently" kind of apologetic post.


Please understand that I am dealing with crowds nearly pushing down my door, demanding, "Post another blog!" and letters from all of my thousands of fans I can't even get to. It's not easy being so needed.


Okay, okay, the truth:
I am disappointed in myself for rejecting such an exercise that I so desperately need. So, this is an “I Owe You” to myself. A pathetic excuse of an apology.


I still think about writing a lot (just like some people think about doing their laundry or going to church). But school and work seem to want me all to themselves. Sometimes I sit down to write, but then I get this constant tapping on my shoulder… “You have a test tomorrow”  “You need to get ready for work.” So I shamefully close the notebook I was so sneakily trying to write in, and get back to life.

I want to write about saying goodbye to my car, and what God has been doing, and having children, and springtime, and my evocative drive to school, and my thoughts about Film, and the people I have seen in new light, and my newfound happiness, and the art I find in telephone poles, andmystickyspacebutton, and a new apartment, and defying patterns, and relationship, and sun in the window and crumbs on my counter.

All I can say is that I will soon (eventually). I have got to get this writing into words, before I become an introvert forever.

Wish me luck.

Sincerely,

My Busy Self

An Excerpt of a Memory

We walked back from the pub that night, full and tired. The streets were lit only by the occasional porch light left on. Most residents were indoors by then, except the few smokers or those without an inside to return to. Even stray cats who had become wild might choose a different neighborhood to sleep, but I found the trash-lined streets perfectly fine. The Mothers who yelled at their children by day—even they—rested by night. It was a place that probably housed some drug exchanges and perhaps heard a gunshot from time to time, but it was a place I would call home—if only for that night.

I straggled in the back on the narrow sidewalk, having to pick up my pace when we crossed roads. The conversation ahead of me was a definite after-dinner topic—something slightly scholarly, but subject to be forgotten the second we reached the apartment. I didn’t hear much of it, though, for the only thing on my mind were my feet. After walking downtown for several afternoons, my sneakers had begun to rub on my ankles, and in an awkward attempt to shift my feet, my socks slipped down. This distraction followed me all the way back until I was finally relieved to flop the shoes off altogether.

The second floor apartment overlooked but more apartments and neat lines of paralleled- parked cars (with the exception of mine). It was cold and dark when we returned, but as soon as we clicked on the lamp and began stirring around, it was as if we had never left it. So, there we were, handling another night of uneasy transitions in getting to bed, followed by hours of lying awake in the dark.

The next day was a Wednesday and he had to work the lunch shift. I rolled over on the couch pretending to actually wake up that slowly while he got ready to leave. He tossed the apartment keys at my feet, nodded, and walked out apathetically.

Stronger Than Evocative

All I feel is the wind and rain slapping me in the face along to the music of Ben Folds. The gray sky is going to try trapping me here, I just know it. This town wants me. Its gravity has hold of me tightly, but I will find a way out. I will cut the cords of this lesson-less repetition and run.

Please Select Fuel Type

I am reminded, here, of when I was just a girl. Not a girl playing hop-scotch in church dresses, but the girl who thought she was a woman. A girl who had boundaries and kept them—who imagined things, and left it at that. She made mistakes, I imagine, but she probably used to regret them.

Remove Nozzle and Begin Fueling

Sometimes I remember feeling like home here. When it didn’t decide to move away from me. But mostly, I kept running anyway. And I will still. Because I had left and found new comforts, a new kind of solace. I had made new memories; doing everything I could to erase the old, good ones. There was a time when a year was nothing—a piece of cake. I could give up on my failed explanations, and start fresh. But I know that gibberish is for New Year’s Eve suckers. Fresh start is just a fancy way of saying you might finally be. . . okay. But just like that, "okay" didn't seem like very much at all.

Would You Like a Receipt?
No.

I can feel the pressure beneath my gas pedal, and my stomach turns. I am weaker than I thought. I am stronger than I thought. This is goodbye again, and I know it’s going to be a long one. The relief sets in as the buildings vanish and I’m allowed to imagine I’m anywhere. It’s quiet, comfortable, and I am almost back. But I left most of myself where it where won’t leave. In that insecure, evocative, walking home.


I near my street and am flooded with the lights of the city. But, no matter what, all I can see are those little, red, fluorescent lines that make up the stagnant image of 3:07a.m.