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

you can’t go home again

I discovered, after the fact, that the song is titled “You can’t go Home again”.

hours of orientation prepared me to feel a lot of ways about home. Several charts and a woman with a deep smokers voice and French flair in fashion taught me that when I returned to the US, I might feel strange. Sorry to leave, and dissappointed to be home. Nostaligic for things I could do abroad that I can’t do at home. maybe even divided between my home culture and (insert country of study here).

but… the thing about a home is that you have to belong there.

what do you do when you don’t belong here. or there. or anywhere? how can anywhere be your home when you don’t ever spend more than 4 months in any given place?

Where is my home? The place I grew up and outgrew? The place I’ve loved since I was little, but in which I’ve never actually lived? The place I come back to, but where I have to rebuild my bedroom every time I arrive? Or some place across an ocean that I lived for 3 months – where I was just begining to build the life of a grown-up?

the thing about a home is it’s where all your stuff is.

not your luggage. not your toaster or your shoe trunk or even your stuffed monkey George. It’s the place where all your pieces are. The only problem is, I think I’ve misplaced a few of mine. or placed them, carefully and delicately. or, perhaps they were knocked of the table in the shuffle. maybe someone picked them up, put them on their shelf, and is waiting to put them back with the puzzle to which they belong.

I’ve left them in places and people that make me feel alive. In places and in people that I loved… still love. places where I grew up. people who’ve watched me cry. and whenever I come back to a place I’ve been, people pull out the pieces they’ve been saving for me, wrapped in fleece or satin or a hand-knit-afghan. Little bits of me seem to be scattered all across this state and country and world.

but I’m starting to feel the holes.

“To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition.” – Samuel Johnson
yours.Rachel

God Bless America

Oh say can you see?

by the sun’s setting light.

what so proudly we hail, by the twilight’s last gleaming.

37,000 people filled Comerica Park on Monday evening to do what Americans do best. White collars beside union crests, drowning the workday in beer and greasy food. Cheers and cries of dismay errupted as men in masks threw their hands in the air and others in tight pants slid through the dirt.

< (After they streched themselves on the field that is.) I’ve always found it puzzling how a nation of homophobs takes in stride these tight-pants-ed men mounting eachother, but a little hand-holding ruffles so many feathers. >

There was a race on the big screen – corporate sponsorship in high gear – between a cup of coffee, a bagel, and a doughnut. Dunkin Doughnuts was offering coupons to the section of the stadium that the winning food product reperesented. My dad hollered in my ear as the doughnut pulled ahead…”Eat my dust, bagel and coffee!” The crowd cheered but the game changed as the bagel caught up and crossed the finish line in a flurry of first place pixelated ribbons. My dad slumped back, dismayed. “That doughnut faded.”

Red strings tie more than white leather as the giant mass of people rose and fell in the wave that circled the entirety of the stadium four times before finally fizzling. And as the crowd stood during the seventh inning stretch, a chorus of of less that choral voices filled the air…

Buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks…

<mmmm…delicious capitalism.>

….And it’s root root root for the TIGERS! if they don’t win it’s a shame.

they didn’t win, but it didn’t seem to matter much.

Honey, I’m home…

yours.Rachel

OMG LMAO is appropriate, I think

Today, my grandma and my mom got into London.  After feeling sick (which has now escalated to a fabulous fever and possibly the plague), I cut out of work early and went to see them at their hotel.  We had a lovely lunch, stroll through the park and Kensington Palace, and afternoon tea/dinner in a cute cafe.  I spent lots of time spilling stories, trying to explain to a pastor and a 70-some-odd-year-old woman what it is like working fashion, music, and nightclub PR.  Needless to say that was interesting.

My mother was cutting our cucumber tea sandwiches when my grandmother noted “You know, your father won’t have to be worried about your virginity in an office full of gay men.”

…

my mother almost choked on something (a delicious blend of shock and hysterical laughter I believe), and I responded.  “I think you’re right about that one.”

Yes, Grandma, I feel its pretty safe to say that there is no chance of a gay co-worker taking my virginity this summer.

brilliant.

How do I love Thee…

Love is an interesting concept, isn’t it? Even more interesting to me at present is how people show love.

My dad was here this weekend, and we had a fabulous time! The thing I find funny about my parents is that their shifting presence in my life is graceful but meaningful – that is to say that when they are gone from my immediate life, I don’t find myself at a loss for them, but when I am with them I love and enjoy them very much. (It’s a good place to be in…I recommend it to all 19/20somethings. )

As my dad arrived, I began to notice the ways that we display our love for one and other. My family doesn’t do blatant physical or verbal affection. Hugs are for arrivals and departures (one for each), and the words “I Love You” almost never cross our lips. Any disruption to this pattern results in confusion… I remember once telling my father “I love you” on the phone, and he stumbled in his response, calling me my sisters name first and then just laughing as he returned the phrase. But when my dad arrived in London, I went to meet him at his hotel room where I found him staring, confounded, at his open suitcase. “Can I wear this?” He asked, holding up a crumpled mint-green shirt…”It’s pretty wrinkled” I answered…”You could iron it up really quick though”. “Naw” he said… “I mean I don’t care. Do you care? You don’t mind do you?” “Dad, do you want me to iron it for you?” “Really?” His face lit up. “Would you mind?”

The next day, we spent the morning at the Tate Modern museum in an exibit on Salvidor Dali, and after a stroll through a marketplace we headed to Marks and Spencers (the Brit cousin to Target or Kmart) to get my dad some clothes to replace the ones he lost in India. He would hold up shirts next to pants, or stand in the middle of an isle with an lost look on his face, and I would usher him to the sock section or the check-out counter.

The funny thing about my father is the things he can’t do. The man currently manages all the inbound transportation at Chrysler, and he’s been a successful business man at Chrysler in some capacity for 20some years now. His business takes him to countries all over the world, to wrestle with barries that only begin with the language. He can rationally solve almost any dilema, and he can negotiate like nobodies business. But he doesn’t know how to iron. Or match clothes. And Lord have mercy if he needs to locate anything in any store other than REI. When being faced with any of these tasks, he shys away embarrassed and genuinely confused, and people like my mother and I have learned to just pick up the iron, or head to the location in the store that we instinctively know is for pajamas.

The next morning in his hotel room we were talking logistics, and we discoved that he will be leaving llama trecking with my sister (take a minute to digest that………………. ok good, now move on….) 5 days after I come home from London, and then I’ll head immediately to Albion. As we waited today in the lobby for his travel companion to arrive (they were headed to the airport bound for Prague) we began talking about my internship. And then careers. and then 401-Ks and pensions (or lack there of), and then healthcare. and credit card debt. His luggage next to him might has well have been a silver-samsonite-soap box, but I didn’t even mind. Then he stopped. We stood together, staring out the windows at the cabs and people with luggage and the grocery store across the street. “You living in London.” He said, staring off. “That’s pretty cool, huh?” “Yeah, Dad. It is pretty darn cool.”

There’s really no one here that I love, and frankly, I’ve missed loving people. I’m doing my best… hand-writing postcards and letters, reading blogs, and listening. nodding, reassuring, and advising. But there’s nothing like ironing someone’s shirt.

And at the risk of sounding self-absorbed I’ll say that I miss being loved. Although, I must say that I’ve felt quite loved by the wonderful ladies who’ve posted on my blog or FB wall randomly, or who’ve commented on my pictures. Or by anyone who has just listened to and advised me. So thanks for that. As I’ve said before, going abroad is giving me a really good idea of what and who it is that I really love. At this point, all I could wish for is a similarly foolproof way of telling who really loves me. love is one of those words we all just throw around. But as a person who comes from a family where “I love you” triggers such confusion that the speaker could potentially be called the dog’s name, I need a little something more. < Tell me what you like, but I won’t believe it unless you iron my shirts. or tell me about good retirement plans. or whatever it is that you do. (You’d think I ought to know that) > I told my friend here that I was thinking about love, and she asked about my lovelife; she though I meant love like romance love. I laughed. “Honey, flirtation and romance are the easiest kinds of ‘love’ I’ve ever dealt with. It’s the other stuff that really gets you.”

One of my favorite things about love is that it’s a noun, and a verb
mmmm…perhaps that last part would better fit in my handwritten red journal that I keep under my bed; it’s pointed, and unfortunately not in any useful direction. but lately I’ve been quite content to shoot forward without being irrevocably bound to any given direction.

Reguardless, love is… as my dad would say… “pretty cool.”

you get two today: “Nothing takes the taste out of peanut-butter quite like unrequited love.” – Charlie Brown

on the other side of the coin:

“Love does not consist of gazing at eachother, but in looking in the same direction.” -Antione de Saint-Exupury

yours.Rachel

rose-colored glasses

I wrote this big long post, and I just highlighted it all. Delete Key.

 

 

Lately I’ve felt full of so much to say, but everytime I try to say it I feel like I’m spitting out rhetoric and bullshit. Maybe I should just stick to the facts today. (And the pictures, which are of course not up to my standards of what they should be…but I had to at least attempt to capture the place may have become my new love – check them out an FB)

I fell in love with Notting Hill. It’s giving NY a run for it’s money…I could be happy to live in Notting Hill forever.

and, lately I’ve been thinking that despite my hatred of the idea of raising kids in a city, I could actually see myself bringing up a family here. As I told one of my NY boys last night… “I could definatley be a London momma.”

I enjoy creeping around taking pictures of people’s houses/gardens. I didn’t really like people today, but usually I like creeping around them too.

If I could live in a house with an incredible garden, I would be a very happy woman.

If I could live in a place in the city with an incredible garden, I believe I would be in heaven. That’s where Notting Hill comes in.

I bought a pair of obnoxiously large pink with rhinestone sunglasses today in portobello market for 10 pounds. you can never have too many pairs of obnoxiously large sunglasses. especially when they’re cheap. and pink.

I also bought a necklace… 4 strands of pearls. Elegant, classic and sophisticated, just like a necklace my grandma used to have that I adored. But unlike hers, the pearls aren’t perfectly round; they’re the bumpy and every single one is a different shape – they’re beautiful. and pink.

As much as I might like to deny it, I am becoming my parents.

 

Also, in the spirit of confessions of things I never wanted to admit, I spent an 45 minutes wandering around a book store today. I’m becoming one of those ‘book people’ too. While there, I bought a book: Digital Photography for Dummies – 4pounds 99.

I am developing an obsession with my camera, and photographing everything I find interesting. This could become dangerous.
If I stop actually connecting to the world, please slap me like a good friend? mmmkay thanks.

 

“Heaven will be inherited by the man with heaven in his soul.” -Confucius

yours.Rachel