I thought only English majors had compulsions to write

moments.

that’s what this semester seems to be.

Fragmented.

not so much shards because nothing’s been broken. more like a billion little pieces of hundreds of different substances that somehow washed up next to each other.

it’s like one of those mosaic-in-cement pieces. The kinds of tables you find with wrought-iron chairs at art fairs or made by crafty stay-at-home ladies in the suburbs. or the kid version – garden stepping stones you make mom for Christmas, adorned with tiny colored pieces and a big sloppy “I <3 you Mommy” in the center. with one or two finger-sized indentations randomly placed because its creator couldn’t resist poking the mushy substance just once more before it dried.

The mushy substance in this case is Junior Year. It’s different for each of us I think; some of us are stuck swimming through the last of the sophomore slump, while others are halfway across the globe graphing emotions on a W-shaped chart and growing-up in fastforward… for me its neither.

time is gray. mushy. passing without pain or pomp.

and then there are moments.

when I’m walking through the rain dodging wormies on the way to the car, amusing myself as much as I’m amusing you. when we’re eating dessert and taking pictures when we laugh so hard we’re on the floor. when I’m lying in bed sobbing silently to myself because I’m scared to grow up. and then when we’re playing grown-up, looking at Bed and Breakfasts for a winter weekend away.

eventually it will harden. we’ll all become something – each of us, and together. we’ll probably be dimpled with finger-marks here and there, but we’ll be strong and sturdy…

“We’re going to be ‘those seniors‘,” she said to me. and I knew she was right because I can see it starting to solidify already.

everyday I can feel that I’m older. not that I’m getting older, but that I’m realizing how much older I actually am…

“Arrange whatever pieces come your way.” -Virginia Woolfe

yours.Rachel

maybe you just had to be there

TXT: We’re getting the fuck out of here… wanna come?

I was pulling the car out before I got a response, and when we pulled up in the driveway the music was already blaring.

and we were off

So alone, so alive (but I’m not sure) – and ‘I want to shove lard down her throat’! she says.< Don’t you dare play that projection on me, baby I got enough of that on my own> Nothing’s quite what we want to hear, and its skipping, and they’re still not sure which direction it is that I’m going. except that we want out…

Until we arrived. Of course it was the Denny’s Diner, and of course we sat down in the corner away from the only other people as lost as us on a Sunday such as this.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta

on top of Simon and Garfunkel. we couldn’t help but laugh at the people who’d brought their own soundtrack on their laptop, and all I could think of was that opening scene from office space. then she pulled out her cellphone and we piled Banana Pancakes on top of the plate, singing, and all the while sure we’d fallen straight out of a Verizon commercial.

We shared and spooned and forked and threw and dipped and laughed that kind of laughter that screams underneath because all you can really do is dip your Motz sticks in a melted pool of chocolate and whipped cream.

When the marinara’s got meat, the milkshake is all you’ve got left for dipping, right? That, and you can ask for Ranch.

The waitress’ name was Haven; of course we called her by it. And when she brought the ranch and another Diet Coke, we made sure to thank her. She only rolled her eyes a little. Less than how much we did when we saw our friends leave – the sunny sweater suburban-scrubbed gangsta and his furtrimed coat friend. Damn it feels good to be a Prepster.

She said it only added to the duality of the day, and I pretended not to notice.

We sat, digesting, and talking about where we would be when we finished treading water when suddenly her eyes grew wide and she stood upon the bench nearly smashing her gracefully awkward arm into the corner of the ceiling. She’d spotted them first. Four of them, like us, and as they squealed we pulled the tables together. They’d been playing board games, and we in our black and blue smiled as we discovered their flourescent shirts all displayed proudly our dear old Albion. Each of us thought it but not a one dared say it, for fear we’d steal their smiles sooner than should be. And as we stared she finally said “They’re the next generation”

They ordered Motz sticks, of course. Just as they were about to order ranch, we offered up ours – Her arm passed by me and almost didn’t want to see her take it. I didn’t want to hear the symbolism spoken, so I cooed hush and I hurried us out the door…

have a good one, ladies.

it was time. Hide and Seek. louder, but not so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves singing… it was silent yet filled and it swelled and it flowed as we each stared out the window seeing different constellations but watching the same long stripe pass beneath us. and it was Beautiful. beautiful, beautiful.

And we were playing it backwards, but it didn’t much seem to matter. Afterall, nothing seems to run the way it should, or perhaps the way it should means going backward to get farther forward…

when did we get back to Albion? she asked.

The wizard waved her wand, and with a blink, there we were. Back.

there are still cigarettes in my back seat, and on another night we may still drive out into a corn field and lay in its midst looking up at the stars and screaming like she did as soon as she closed the door of my car…

but not tonight. tonight we shall sleep.

sleep sweet my loves

for that NorfolkSouthern… she’s gonna come straight through here again in just another hour – chugging and screeching and sparking – but for now, rest. and dream.

yours.Rachel

broken

my ipod broke.

I threw it across the floor and watched it bounced, and I told her later that I was sure I threw my soul across the carpet with it.

I’ve broken 4 of them now.

But, I’ve got a fabulous warrenty, so everytime I destroy another one I take it to a man in a clean pressed white shirt with a black tie behind a counter. He looks at it quizically, and I explain that it simply won’t play, or that it makes the little face with the X X eyes – I conveniently forget to mention the times its been drenched or dropped or thrown like a rubber ball across the bridge of the Ungroudt Tennis Center. I suppose I’m afraid if I do mention any of this, he’ll fault me the damage, and I’ll be stuck with a broken Ipod. But assuming I have him fooled, he takes it away and for the next week I live – surprisingly comfortably – without it. And then, when the week has passed, I arrive to pick up a clean white box, opening it to reveal a shiny new Ipod without a scratch or scrape or even a fingerprint…

Maybe tomorrow I’ll go get myself another one

it’s about time.

i need to light the candle for this one

as I strike a match and smell the sulfur, I ask her if she can come down to help me process. <I know you’re busy, so if not it’s ok. >

AlexinPajamas87: I probably should be. Instead I am downloading episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, painstakingly waiting for them to load (Meredith is drowning right now, and it won’t finish Loading) And I’m playing the flower game. I might be able to fit you in.

It was a day for surreal emails. My grandma sent one to my cousin and I… be like Warren Buffet – donate all of your money to charity. Don’t take things for granted. Refuse to talk to rich people because it will make you a better person. something like that. Thanks grandma – by you accord my mother is fat, my aunt’s hair looks like leather, and my cousin and I are snobs. <for the record, she’s the most bright eyed snob I’ve ever met…and I’m fairly sure that’s a contradiction in terms> oh family lovin.

Then, as I’m deleting my WSJ news updates, spam, and some such campus non-sense, I get an untitled email from pompomkaren@aol.com … she’s been my mentee, I suppose you could say, for many years while I was at Salem Church back in good old Farmington. She’s in 3rd or 4th grade now, and we’ve been pen-pals since I left. I open it, expecting a review of the latest movies I’ve never heard of and an update about boys and soccer.

In pink text…

Dear, Rachel

How are you I miss you so much I wish you would come home. If you get andy of my emails please sent some notice back so I know you still remember me. I know you do I just miss you to much and if you could come home to church I would apreciatit. You were/are allways here for me so I want to be back. I got your postcard from london I really missed you so have fun on your adventure and never forget where you came from. With true LOVE, Karen Baldwin

That slid nicely into the surrealism. the idealogical battle that has raged this week – with Ramadan, with my future life and career, withmyself. At the moment, I’m at a loss.
Kids say the darndest things.

yours.Rachel

conversation

let’s have a conversation.

about poignancy.

About the things that really matter, and the things that really don’t.

About being irrevocably bound. I use that word frequently, but sometimes I really mean it.

About the fact that I’m intense. and that that was me. just as much as cupcakes and crafty cards.

About the fact that I’m afraid to let you in.

Let’s have a conversation about having conversations.

About remembering. tasting sophomoric depression in a pumpkin spice latte, and remembering what it was like to run.

About not remembering. for some things it’s been so long that I don’t even remember what they feel like.

About birthdays. and Christmas. nothing in the world makes me happier than Christmas.

About ambition.

duality.

About people who make velcro-noises when you pull them apart. Who was it that decided that being a stiff and slightly spiney piece of plastic fabric was a good idea? and by spiney I mean not-spiney at all. spikey, perhaps.

About Cherry Wine. or, rather, lets drink some cherry wine and refer to a few above.

About being friends. might be kinda fun to try that one on for size.

about the train. Norfolk Southern, screeching through here louder than usual.

About being fine. I’m always fine. before you come any closer, you need to know this.

About being anywhere but here.

About being.

poignancy
“Most conversations are merely monologues delivered in the presence of witnesses.” -Margaret Miller

yours.Rachel