Every new Beginning comes from some other Beginning’s End

Last January, after a bittersweet Christmas season, I did what every self-respecting “NFJ” (the I/E conflict rages on, but is unimportant in this instance) would do – I tried to create an umbrella of emotion and proper nouns under which to include all the experiences I’d had in the last year.  I struggled, grabbing and missing and stretching and squeezing until finally I found something – Love.  I decided 2007 was the year of love.  I acknowledged its many forms – some quietly beautiful, others quietly malignant, and still others aflame with passion.

Tis the season again.  The season to jump through introspective hoops, looking for something that unifies the experiences of the last 12 months.  This year, I settled on the theme of Endings.

Sounds kind of like a cop out, doesn’t it.  Hardly a proper noun until I capitalized it, and seemingly obvious as the calendar year draws to a close.

48 hours.  “What changed in 48 hours?”  he asked me in the dark wee hours of the morning.  2 days. 2 years. It wasn’t until last night that I could answer.

In 2007, we were in the thick of it.  Relationships began, strengthened, and started to fall apart.  I embarked on a period of travel – 8 months abroad and some awkward minutes inbetween.   The sophomore slump came on strong but fooled all of us when it continued into the first semester of senior year.    2007 was saturated, so full of life changing experiences that they spilled over to the first few months of 2008.   But by February, things began to unwind.

Daughter of a funeral-home family, I can’t help but notice empirically the numbers of deaths I’ve seen firsthand this year.  Grandma Buse.  Dylan.  Doris. Greg.  Two of a close friend’s grandparents.  Evie.  Young and old, merciful and unexpected, the end of their years drew a close not only to their own stories but pieces of ours.  I watched them begin in February and continue on throughout the year up to the bitter end.

Relationships ended.  Some were intentionally destroyed with the lucky ones being rebuilt, brick by brick.  Others have simply faded into the miles of inevitable truth that separates those involved.  We’ve all realized what we need, and what we don’t.  We adjusted accordingly.

The days of wine and roses ended.  America is in a recession (to put it mildly) and the days when Detroit automakers took bonuses and good benefits home to their middle class families are fading fast.

And as much as I hate to say it, College is ending.  This place that we know, that we know how to live in, that we know how to thrive in, this place that we call our home will not be ours for much longer.

But our depression is ending.  The economy may be reeling, but we are not. anymore.  Each of us letting go of our demons. Slowly. Carefully. Sometimes Painfully, sometimes Gracefully.  Each of us is an entirely different person than we were, and we are burring the lost souls we were in the soil of the past, fertilizing the parts of ourselves that now grow stronger by the day.

Tonight’s the night the world begins again.  A Christmas song of sorts that sounds a lot like all the other songs by that artist which sound a lot like a lot of other artists.  It played (blared) in the airport at 4:30 in the morning almost two years ago, and it came on the the radio last night.  I laughed out loud, and realized it was true.  This year has brought the end for many things.  Beginnings that ended here, with champagne, tears, and the soft glow of candles.  And new beginnings are springing up from where the others left off.

This New Year’s Eve, let’s toast to endings.  And Beginnings.

“So take these words, and sing out loud.  Cuz everyone is forgiven now.  Cuz tonight’s the night the world begins again.”

yours.Rachel

Like It Means Something

That song. Do you have that song “You can’t go home again?” She asked me with the crystal wine glass in her hand. She was drawing eyes and fire and a flower like the one on a broken wrist, and across it she had scribbled the word “POWER”. We were chewing on the words I spit out with the sounds of Our Endless Numbered Days soundtracking the moment (except without your song because it wasn’t my time), and we switched to a little DJ Shadow. “Do you want Blood on the Motorway with it?” I asked. Of course you do.

The four of us sat there, letting it wash over us like those lights bathed me in the tunnel over a year ago. “You were in the back seat with the two boys in the front… I listen when you speak” she said with a smile. What conversation there was had stopped until she with the locks that hang far down her chest mentioned the sampling of Simon and Garfunkle in the midst of this song. We smiled, breathed a little deeper. When it ended, we said somehing I don’t remember now, and I changed back to the song I’d been avoiding before.

I was trying to explain this to someone else over road-trip fettuccine the other night. I’ve gotten too old for a lot of things in these endless numbered days, and one of them seems to be this insatiabile ability to talk about mundane things with romantic excitement, and at my ripe old age of (almost) 21, I’ve all but given up on roses.  Still, I said as I took my glance briefly from the odometer, Its like a tiny blue flame – nothing you would ever rally the campus around on homecoming weekend, but something you find with a little digging, something glowing white-hot (that’s what my mother used to say about me when I was little – I was full of white-hot intensity. I’m sure at the age of 4 I had a less than complete appreciation of this concept.) It makes me cry, I laughed, like that nonchalant answer meant something meant more than flowers and babies and God’s love I (and all of that). I had this urge to flip the hour glass, my mother’s unknowingly epic gift to 501 Michigan Avenue, as I found it and pressed play.

One reached for her bag – notebooks it seemed – and the other two lay on the floor cuddling with their heads on a pink fleece pillow; I polished my silver. Like it meant something. I’d intended to take it from it from its robin’s egg blue pouch for quite some time, but I hadn’t gotten around to it until this moment where I felt the insatiable need. It was neurotic and I was well aware – I’ve know enough photographers to know when I am being noticed, but with the same sentiment I’ve begun to ignore it. The smelly pink liquid went on smoothly and took off more dirt than I could have imagined. I marveled to one with curls how black with tarnish the polishing cloth had become and she just laughed. So did I. “Oh the metaphor” she remarked, and I refused to touch it with a ten foot pole. Ask me to get back to that in ten years, I said, and I’ll have something brilliant for you.

It faded to a song of another, and each of us was in our own Sodom, South Georgia. Sleeping like buckets of snow or awake like a tree full of bees, or maybe both at once while white tongues sing God is Good. I noticed a heavier beat, rhythmic knocking, and I had the worldly thought to answer the door. Her eyes were tired but bright and young, and in waltzed visitors fresh for our entertaining. So I played the hand I know best – I smiled. We chatted about a lot of things while she held her wineglass and newly chewed monologues as a shield for them, while sheer stature served as adequate for the other. I think we’re going to make it to the weekend I said, probably laughing louder than was necessary to make my point.

And here I am. She’s asleep, they all are.  And I am alone.  There’s something about Black Sheep, and I’m looking at the clock counting the hours until tour guide training later in the morning. Like it means something.

Ask me about it in ten years.

“The only thing worse than growing up is never quite learning how.” (From a sticky-note I found unexpectedly while unpacking)

yours.Rachel

“Dali would be proud”

…she said as she sat making flashcards for her Baroque art class final. Not at her diligence, but at the scene surrounding us. We’d escaped the school and hoped to study in this cafe, just around the cobble-stone corner from the school that will be ours for only 7 more days. Immediately upon entering we were hit with a wave of sound, decibels at the level of a live show but in the belly of an empty bar. She sat facing the door to the patio for fear the television screen would distract her, and I settled into a chair with a panoramic view of the empty room. Dark wood chairs sat unused and the walls, flaking white plaster, were interrupted only by shelves filled with wine bottles. The only light in the whole place was what streamed into our table through the patio door and the colored glow emanating from the television – a VH1 countdown with the sound on mute. It caught my attention, and I found myself laughing out loud at the picture I saw. We were being serenaded by a 1970s rock-star, jacket glittering with red sequins and a bold gold cross hanging just a few inches below his luscious afro. Beside him a bunny-like blonde in a shiny white one-piece swimsuit leotard (complete with pseudo-oxford collar and wrist-cuffs) smiled and danced. But instead of the Hard Rock Cafe jam one might have expected in such a situation, the table was vibrating with the bass from an uber-dark and eerie indie album (think Frou Frou in emotional quota, plus an extra dollop of depressing).

The coffee we ordered finally came, my caffelatte in a Seagram’s logo-cup and her cold coffee in a martini glass. Our glittering lip-syncher faded to a video flashing phrases beginning with the words “Right Now.” (Van Halen, for you VH1 buffs) “Right now people are having unprotected sex.” I engaged her in conversation, trying not to fixate. “Right now God is killing moms and dogs because he has to.” Outside Trastevere buzzed by on motos and on foot. “Right now is just space between Ice Ages.” Students meandered past, throwing their arms up in frustration about finals, and tourists peered in the cafe curiously, wondering whether the waiters inside speak enough English to help them find their way out of the sud-Vatican labyrinth. “Right now maybe we should pay attention to the lyrics… <that we couldn’t hear> miss a beat, you loose the rhythm, and nothing falls into place.” The music went silent for a moment, and after eternity in an instant it switched to a South American groove. “Right now your parents miss you.” “Write this down” she said. There’s a blog entry coming, I responded, I can feel it. “Right now is harder than it seems.” Well, no shit Sherlock. “Right now, oysters are being robbed of their sole possession.” She was hard at work. “Right now a tired man with a wounded heart is seated on an East-bound trans-Atlantic flight looking out the window wondering how to say ‘dog’, ‘howl’ and ‘moon’ in French just in case it comes up.” The waitress was taking orders outside, and an inked Egyptian-eye stared directly at me from her midriff. “Right now she is going on with her life” Well yes, I thought, but burning that lovely picture seems a little excessive. “Right now time is having its way with you.” The waitress with the gauged clay swirl in her left ear complimented my companion’s ring by pointing at it – she didn’t know the word in English. I realized I didn’t know what its story was, but I forgot to ask. “WRITE NOW” appeared in bold letters – OK OK I’m doing it! I’m writing! “Right now keeps happening”. Yes, it does seem that way doesn’t it? The door to the men’s room closed on the television screen as a door in the cafe slammed, and I turned my eyes to her – she was still making flashcards.

Two women walked behind her, carrying drinks and wearing tee-shirts with cartoonish sea-creatures. A fish and a colorful turtle stared at me with googly-eyes, leaving me feeling like my caffelatte must have been laced with something slightly psychedelic. Outside I can hear an accordion. I couldn’t see its player, but after this long in Italy I didn’t need to see him to picture him perfectly. A man in his 50s, curly hair hanging to his shoulders, his face wrinkled and tan but merry (and hoping for a euro). The cafe’s speakers were still blasting a South-American guitarist who had now begun to wail, and the TV had been taken over by Snoop Dog, dressed in this mock-70s finest. Is it strange that Snoop Dog makes me think of home? Maybe, but there are stranger issues at hand. Like how we, two sweet American girls in cotton tops and broken-in jeans, are sitting here in an Italian cafe drinking coffee from booze glasses that are shaking on the table to the bass of South-American yodeling. And She was plugging away at those flashcards.

“These sugar packets are stolen”, I mused, furrowing my brows. She looked up and I explained that one was from The Rosella Commune, and the other was from another cafe – Cafe C… the waitress came and took our dishes, as if to keep me from discovering their dirty secret. She laughed, and I looked back to VH1. It was Barry White, sporting sunglasses and a velvety bathrobe, sliced in with shots of a women in a white bikini who dived into the sea just as the video concluded. “I’ll be 5 more minutes” she said. But I was in no rush.

I thought about my to-do list for the next 7 days, feeling a twinge of guilt for having a list shorter than my companion. But I reminded myself I have plenty to get hysterical about, and that I should savor this sweet moment of calm. She closed her book, loudly as could be with a relatively thin paperback, and I gently shut my gold-leafed journal. We took one last moment to look around the place, but as the South-American singer raised his voice a full octave we exchanged knowing glances and bolted for the door.

“Surrealism is embedded in the everyday, in the daily experience.” – Katherine Conley

yours.Rachel

Out of Body Experience

This afternoon it came to me.

For quite some time I had been trying to remember her name. I knew her first name – remembered it fortunately as we met coincidentally at Starbucks some months ago – but I couldn’t call to mind her last name. Clearly, I’ve had other concerns since the time I saw her grabbing coffee in the epicenter of our small town last summer, and so recalling her title was continually pushed back to make way for more pressing life issues. But sitting in my room today (in a spot that seems to be suited well for revelations) it came to me.

I looked her up on Facebook. 24 mutual friends, that’s gotta be her, right? I remembered her mentioning CMU and I saw FHS class of 08, so I clicked the “request friend” button and awaited my confirmation. Upon returning home from dinner, I found an email in my inbox notifying me I had been accepted as a non-preditor, and from there I did what any self-respecting non-preditorial individual would do – I stalked her from a respectful distance.

I read through her activities, interests, and other vitals first. As she cited writing and scrapbooking, and embraced a healthy love for Sex and the City, I found myself smiling. I remembered, I thought, that she was the president of the Student Council, and her mega-watt smile staring back at me seemed to silently confirm. Undying devotion to her darling rebel – her sweetheart with a healthy dose of defiance – seeped out of the page from wall posts and her relationship status.

I recall her most vividly as a Freshman, and from the moment I met her, I adored her. She sparkled with a natural energy, and her mind was as quick and sharp as her smile was charming. She wore a lot of black then as she was tying up the loose ends of a pubescent punk stage, but unlike the other punks she embraced the Stu-Co (student council, yes we thought we were that cool) culture of clean-cut WASPy fun. Still, unlike some of our fair-skinned friends, you could see the depth of her still waters shining brighter than any Tiffany that may have adorned her neck.

I decided then to flip through the photos of her, and as I did I found myself experiencing the strangest feelings of surrealism. She was sandwiched in between groups of girls, or holding signs displaying undying High School pride, or making funny faces in all the local restaurants. The one that really got me was of her in Charlie’s basement. He was a friend of mine – through my own darling rebel – and I would recognize those maroon walls anywhere. His sister, whose elfin figure was a constant source of teasing in my day, was in the picture (playing host) and four other fresh-faced girls held pool cues and were captioned by the words “Its weird to think about what your life would be like if you never met the people who changed it.”

There she was, with her bumper-stickers about love and girls standing on their tiptoes, hair straigh and make-up thick, smile shining with such a beautiful innocence. I’d always liked her partially because I saw so much potential in her youthful self and partially because I saw so much of myself there too. It became even more poignant today as I felt as though I was looking at my former self in pictures of her. Remembering that girl who loved a boy with everything she had because she had everything to give. The girl whose smile sparkled with childish innocence and lit up a room with genuine energy. Whose eyes were bright and hair was blonde and figure was slim and clothes were smart but young.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the past – burying things that have been long gone, and realizing how much, in aging, I need the things that I knew when I was young. Learning the difference between irreconcilable and irrevocable, and how important both of those words are to my existence. Redefining the place of things and people in my life, and realizing how my past life and self fits into the person I am now. Learning to look back at that girl – with the fresh face and bright eyes – and to see how she is, even then, the woman she will someday become.

“Growing up is never easy.  You hold on to things that were.  You wonder what’s to come.  But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be.  Other Days. New Days.  Days to come.  The thing is, we didn’t have to hate eachother for getting older.  We just had to forgive ourselves…for growing up.”  – The Wonder Years

yours.Rachel

I highly recommend the artichokes.

This afternoon my favorite Manhattanite and I met at the school and began a walk to the Jewish ghetto for lunch. The world famous fried artichokes here have been on my to do list since the beginning of the semester, and as the number of days I have left in Rome are numbered (18 to be precise), I supposed that now would be as good a time as any to go and partake. We walked along the river, rushing rapids on this rainy gray day, complaining about passive aggressive present roommates (“you mean they actually labeled their dishrags with their initials?”) and newly existent ones (“well, you only have her for a couple weeks, and at least she’s not a crazy bitch who steals stuff… we don’t think”). Conversation defied the weather and took a pleasant turn towards what we would be eating shortly, and she informed me I would need to fill out a card with my name and address upon entering the restaurant. “I’d heard about these places” she said, “where they call it a ‘cultural center’ to avoid inspections from the health department. Its cultural because its Jewish and everything, and so they take names like your visiting an exhibit or something.” I laughed a little, wondering what I would find in my fried artichokes later, and she apologized – “maybe this isn’t the most appetizing thing to be telling you…but it’s amazing I promise.”

We turned a corner where she darted into a small door, unmarked by anything other than what appeared to be stickers from various publications awarding titles I couldn’t understand to this little hole in the wall. Very literally. It was bustling with the Italian lunch crowd, and we were ushered back to a small table in the back. We sat facing eachother beneath flaking white walls, and next to us on the paper table-cloth a squiggling line was drawn with red magic marker, presumably to divide our portion of the table from our neighbors who would join us later. I filled out my name and address on the card I was given while she attempted to decipher our menu, written with markers from the same box as our table adornment. The waitress spoke no English, but a friendly woman sitting half a foot behind my Manhattanite informed us that our choices included various pasta, a fish, and many different words for lamb. We started with artichokes, ordered a carafe of the house red, and opted for mystery lamb dishes number 1 and 4.

I nibbled the leaven bread beside me apologetically as we reviewed the weekend and reveled in the bizarre inbetween that is now. She, headed for a tour of Europe and an internship in Venice, and I, headed for a summer of “experiential marketing” in the land of lakes, bbqs and the memories of my youth. Making weekend plans – to drink wine on the steps of various piazzas throughout the city – we were not disappointed by our artichokes, nor were we immune to the effects of a couple glasses of afternoon wine.

She remarked about the Seder where an Italian family had hosted her, and about an exhibit on Israel in Vienna that had brought her to tears, while I recalled taking ashes without the forbidden sacraments or standing in the Roman rain instead of singing the Hallelujah Chorus in a room bright with the sounds of brass and the smell of lilies. How could it be that the Jew and the Protestant, relaxed (and sometimes lax – for my part at least) in religion could find their faith revitalized in Rome, the world capital of the Catholic church?

This semester has been filled with revelations like that. Ones that came with passings and heavy handed hits, but also ones that came from dysfunctional machinery, breaking in new shoes, and chick-flicks. The simple color of the sky, the words to a song I’ve heard a thousand times, or completely un-unique afternoons in my apartment (“I can see this happening” she said, “you just sitting in your apartment one day going ‘(rolls eyes upward) hmmm…(furrows eyebrows) well then…” – I laughed because she had me nailed).

“This whole experience,” I said at the risk of sounding ridiculous, “is a kind of a big deal. I’m so in the middle of it that I have no idea how to process all these things that just seem to appear, but sometimes I furrow my eyebrows, and finally settling on a squint with one brow cocked upwards, I think to myself ‘that’s going to be a big one day’.” I read on a friends blog a piece of advice she received upon her arrival – that it takes 7 years to fully understand a study abroad experience. I scoffed at first, but I’m beginning to believe they might have been right.

We took a different way home – hoping to avoid work just a little longer and a bit to drunk to be writing anything intelligent – and stopped for gelato. Musing on death, the culture of NYC and its prestigious higher-ed institutions, art as an elitist institution, and the world’s best cupcake bakeries, we strolled back across the river. She was bound for the library and I for my apartment, both of us hoping more than expecting to get work done.

After saying our goodbyes, I walked home with my Ipod on shuffle and an old favorite came on. Elephant Gun by Beruit. Looking up and furrowing my brows, I remember a recurring dream I used to have while in London. In this dream, I sat alone watching an advertisement on TV for my life as a movie. In the short commercial, I saw myself played by Kate Winslet. She looked over her shoulder, raising her eyebrows inviting you to join her down a giant slide, and suddenly I can feel myself inside the television. There is a narrator, a scene where she/me is spinning around in a dress that twirls, and there is always some sort of kiss or scene of love. All of this comes with great feeling and emotion, to the epic tone of Beruit’s Elephant Gun.

I laughed a little to myself, settling in a squint with one brow cocked, thinking to myself. Oh yeah… this is definitely going to be big one day.

“Traveling through the world produces a marvelous clarity in the judgment of men. We are all of us confined and enclosed within ourselves, and see no farther than the end of our nose. This great world is a mirror where we must see ourselves in order to know ourselves. There are so many different tempers, so many different points of view, judgments, opinions, laws and customs to teach us to judge wisely on our own, and to teach our judgment to recognize its imperfection and natural weakness.” – Michel de Montaigne

yours.Rachel

bigger than reading, writing, and arithmetic

I’ve always been miserable at geography.

In the 5th grade, I remember some of my classmates could name all 50 of the United States and their capitals. It was a point of pride (and teacher’s pet-ism) but a claim to fame I could never call my own. Even now, I’m not sure I could name all 50 of our States without some serious thought. If given a blank map of the US, I don’t know that I could label which of the Southern states is which, and at the moment I can’t honestly remember whether Arizona is just to the West or just to the East of New Mexico.

When I arrived in Italy, I found with glee that there was a map of Italy and its surrounding countries included with my Italian text book. I recall studying it, engrossed, and discovering “Wow! Italy is right next to Austria! Who knew?” My European geography is worse than my American geography; I have a vague idea that Italy is south of England, and that the rest of the EU fits somewhere in between. (I do know that the Alsace region is a region which has been disputed between France and Germany for years, but I think I only know this because it explains the body of some of my favorite wines – an Alsace Riesling is a good German tradition with delicious French tones. But beyond my pseudo-wino tendencies… ) My knowledge of European geography is somewhat embarrassing for someone who has lived here for more than 6 months (yikes!). And don’t even get me started on anything East of the EU…

Rest assured, I am aware that our great state of Michigan does have an upper peninsula, and as the years come and go, I’m becoming more educated about the importance of geography. In college I learned what it meant to be Midwestern: To accent my A’s with a nasal tone, to smile like a cheerleader and use pleases and thank yous without sparsity, to have little knowledge about cocaine as frequent-use drug, and to know several couples under the age of 23 who are making plans to spend the rest of their lives together.

And as I travel, I begin to piece together a comprehensive worldview, and to understand the important implications of the shape of our planet – the spiritual in-between-ness of London to Italy and the US, and of Paris to Northern and Southern Europe. The way in which Dutch people bear a striking resemblance to Midwesterners (and, also, how Amsterdam isn’t actually anything more than a fairy-land), and – like Father like Son – America gets her attitude honestly.

Still, for as many profound worldly revelations as I come to, I still can not wrap my mind around how much power geography has over me. Not as a writer, slightly tipsy, musing on the world as a whole. But as me, a fake-redhead INFJ Virgo who’s short, curvy, intense, and emotional.

I don’t like the idea that anyone or anything has power over me, including thousands of miles. I don’t like that my emotions and actions are subject to geography – that I am permitted to have some feelings and not others, that I can only exist as the voice across AIM or maybe SKYPE, and that any world-saving I intend to do must be done across a big blue wet thing – all because of my latitude and longitude.

It still boggles my mind that the world can be aflame across an ocean – break-ups, miserable divorces, weddings, funerals, hospitals, college admissions, car accidents, job offers, purple-ocean spirituality, and life changing epic moments – and here I am, sitting alone in an apartment with the calm Roman sunlight streaming in my window. Outside the Romans are milling – beautifully fashionable and perfectly homogeneous, arm in arm, talking loudly with wild gestures, and sipping espresso knowing that nothing much will change from one day to the next. It’s surreal, and it’s been heavy on my head and shoulders since I returned.

This is geography. The reality beneath 9 hours in a coach seat with a personal video screen. Behind the subtraction of 6 hours from my watch. Between you and me.

“God created a world full of little worlds.” -Yiddish Proverb

yours.Rachel

I bet you think this song is about you

They hopped around the kitchen eating fried plantaines and tzadziki, dancing with their socks on because its Wednesday night and you know what time that makes it. Giggling, she knocked the peanut butter from the shelf onto a wine glass filled with water, and as it shattered shards and splashed me with water I turned and walked away.

it’s the stupid things. You know those songs? she said to me tho other day when we were talking about her J and C. Those songs just seem to play, for no reason randomly, and then you’re stuck. < Congratulations. your song is a stupid youtube video. that and a symphonic piece from the end of the Ocean’s Eleven Soundtrack that Easy Jet plays before take-off and just after landing. An improper or ironic or simply strange bookend to Paris, and I suspect it will be a similar endcap to London… but I guess that’s the point, isn’t it >

She joined me on the red-suede fortress. asked me to pick a song. and I chose Let it Be. We hand picked song after song, staring off into space and time and the abstract painting on the opposite wall. We settled then in an ocean – not a sea of soul per say but JBT bit with sweeping tidal melodies strummed by a man with the most beautiful dreadlocks I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure which one of you to thank for him, but in this moment he didn’t mean anything beyond she and I and the reds and blues and greens crossed by purples and yellows and dotted with tans. We looked up tour dates and perused Facebook, idly moving our hands while our minds wandered elsewhere.

I told her I was angry, and she agreed. we put it aside, like we’ve been doing for the day. we flipped the coin, I told her that you, sir, and she whom she adores hadn’t gotten along. She the one with me on red suede wondered if she’d like you, Maybe because you wouldn’t like her. not that I expected you two would ever meet, but she asserted that with a gold bikini involved you might be very much present. We laughed and I rolled my eyes. Regardless, she said, she loves your music.

She snuggled beneath the blanket I’ve been feigning sleep under for some time now and remarked how it resembled a big black bear. And a toast to yours, equally as mundane and unintentional as Wednesdays in socks, and we went and found the song. And the band, one man from London apparently and ironically, who hails from Shoredich and is probably acquainted with several of my ex-co-workers. Of course she loves this song because she loves your taste in music, and I love it because its a word-song that can be yours and mine hers and everyone else’s all at the same time.

We cackled at my immitation of a seagull giving a eulogy for a dying cat and made light of the fact that my voice is beginning to escape to wherever it is my appetite and my dreams have gone. We chuckled that she’d actually convinced me to try on the gold bikini at Primark, and laughed even harder that I actually wished they’d had it in a size that fit my … you know. you would.

she went to bed for work in a few hours, and I opened the computer once again to replay and replay and replay and replay the song we listened to before because I knew it would let the words rush in like the tide. — http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VAkOhXIsI0&feature=related (see for yourself.) —

there are no answers here. none for you about me, and unfortunately none for me about me either. All I can say is that I’m beginning to loose my voice. and I can’t remember how to sleep. and that I feel angry and alive and dead and hopeful and lost and amused and worthless and fresh and exhausted and girly and cynical and like I hold it all in the palm of my hand or better yet, my heart. and I’m greatfull for girls, especially those whose names begin with Ks.

“But examine everything carefully. Hold fast to that which is good.” – 1 Thessalonians 5:21

yours.Rachel

I never thought I would see Ann Arbor as a microcosm for our country, but then I guess there’s a lot I’m discovering these days

Until Sunday evening, I had even successfully avoided feeling re-acclimated to the United States. All was well, good, and detached until I pulled out onto 275 south. Merging from one lane to another, turning 94.7 WCSX up to the point were I could barely hear myself singing at the top of my lungs, and getting on to M14 bound for Ann Arbor. I parked in the garage I do every Easter and on warm evenings when I stroll though the downtown area because I can’t stand to be in Farmington or the cornfield we affectionately refer to as Albion College. After parking, I walked out of the garage and passed a haggard old man. Chocolate brown skin, wiry salt and pepper hair, and more than a few teeth missing, he stood near the edge of the parking garage and was quickly approached by a tall white (ex-suburban) boy in his early 20th, multiple piercings, with a backpack and a faded army jacket. “Hey man, do you know what time it is?”, as he and the other shook hands. I smiled. (I think I miss the sketchyness, even when its not attached to anyone in particular I know)

Upon reaching Main Street, I found it filled – as always – with ethnic restaurants, bars, music venues, and little shops and galleries. The streets weren’t cobblestone – they were concrete, and asphalt. On the street, I passed people of more than one race (it’s been ages), and chuckled at the troop of students adorned with sparkley and fuzzy green flair for the one day when everyone becomes Irish. and again as upon passing a young man sulkingly dressed as a woman, having clearly lost a bet, and providing great entertainment for his friends who followed close behind him.

I had Chinese with a good friend – in a place where, a year ago, we had seen a vision of our future, and I ate the same dish I had that day and one I love to order at another restaurant with which I have a series of fond memories in New York City. We chatted, gossiped, and divulged secrets, laughing like no time had passed. We walked together back to the parking garage, and prepared to go our separate ways. Neither of us was really sure we had seen each other, as such an event was not supposed to occur until the sun melted ALL the snow and we were permitted by the fashion police to wear white, but we embraced anyway and said another goodbye.

As I drove back to my house in Farmington, I remembered how much I missed being able to drive and sing at the top of my lungs, and upon my arrival I settled into the our brown lazy-boy chair to watch some Law and Order SVU.

yours.Rachel

ellipsis within an ellipsis? Or just more of that “Life” thing

Rome FCO to CDG: the short beginning to a short trip, and a classically French airport. Terribly organized, but the food was delicious and the airline attendants were dressed impeccably.

CDG to DTW: surprisingly, the flight passed quickly, or as quickly as 9 hours strapped in between a metal armrest and a concave plastic wall and mounted atop a cushion that doubles as a liferaft can. She met me at baggage claim – tall as ever – and I was convinced I must be shrinking. maybe it’s just the weight on my shoulders… that weight carried over my shoulder was all I’d brought home with me, so we headed to the car. We caught up, and mused together about why exactly this supposed-to-be uneventful semester had gone up in flames. Was the timber really that dry when I left?

…something between a week and a weekend – caught between jetlag and a holiday – this little ellipses in the middle of my semester was a welcome one. At first I feared I might be doing nothing more than running, expensively and across time zones, but as coffee and hookah and mongolian bbq and coldstone and tears and tissues and music and memories were shared, I found myself “whelmed”. No underly or overly so, just enough to be what was needed and to warrant the creation of a word. Another day in the life…

DTW to AMS: The stewardess who demonstrated how to save myself in the event of a tragic plane crash had not come by yet to pick up my trash, so I continued to pick (not “eat”) at the container of muck masquerading itself as “Beef Stew.” Still, the cookies were good, my video screen allowed me to make my own play list and choose my own movies, and oh-yeah-that’s-right-I’m-going-to-Rome so I can’t complain. I looked out the window to see a few lights on a coast-line. Referring to my jack-of-all-trades video monitor, I concluded we were in Canada, B.F.E approximately.

Ahead of me the mist was impenetrable and I could see nothing more than a haze. But behind me, the horizon was aflame. Dusk with her rose-red fingers lit up the sharp edge, a warm spectrum of vibrant color. It looked like the edge of the world, and as my eyes traced the hard line of color, I realized that in a sense, it was the edge of the world. Of a world. The world I was leaving, again. A world on fire with confusion, with discovery, with death, with love. Filled with relationships, ethnic food, saturated fats, sketchy drug deals, traffic, and poignant memories. Slowly, the vivid reds and oranges began to give way to sherbety shades and then finally to the darkness of night. I almost said “I love you. Goodbye” aloud…

AMS to FCO: the flight was short and nearly empty, so I comendired an entire row of seats and streched out with George in my arms. Under the watchful eye of a friendly Dutch stewardess, I slept like a baby.

When I arrived at my apartment, I found my bed missing. It was in another room, as it had hosted a weekend visitor, and I dragged it back where it belonged. My daze was so heavy even the squeaking of the metal frame against the door could not break my trance. I lay down, tossing and turning with feverish and frightening dreams at first, but finally I settled into the sort of black-hole sleep that only exhaustion can produce.

and it continues. Paris tomorrow, London to follow. Then Capri, Spain, and Morocco. Just under 2 months left. Here Dusk with her rose-red fingers fades quickly too…

“Happiness, that grand mistress of the ceremonies in the dance of life, impels us all through its mazes and meanderings, but leads none of us by the same route.” – Charles Caleb Colton

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