Moments

When I was a junior in high school, we had an assignment in English class that required us to find a song that best represented any of the ideas of Transcendentalism. After going through all my CDs, I finally decided on "Parklife" by Blur, which to me best represented connecting to nature.* Jackie, one of my classmates, picked a song called "I Woke Up In A Car" by Something Corporate. I was so caught up in it, I had to ask her what the artist was and wrote it down in a margin in my notebook.

The song is really good. Some people might write it off as being too "emo" or [insert complaint here]. But honestly? It's a solid, well-written, well-produced track off of a strong album. I get annoyed with really particular classifications when it comes to music; music is far too diverse to allow for any accurate placement. Some songs pull from too many directions, and I really, really hate it when people use a song's "classification" as a reason against it, as if it's not worthy of our time because it falls into a certain category. But I digress.

I didn't get a copy of the song until shortly after my high school graduation, and since then I've listened to it over and over, repeating it on mixes and getting lost within its lyrics and musicianship and pure awesomeness.

I've been up and down over the last week. I've been trying to find ways of cheering myself up; I read Lola and the Boy Next Door over the weekend, and while I was cheered up reading it (because it's so, so good), I still cried at the end because it affected me so. I finished This Full House and loved it, but also cried at the end for different but related reasons. Work, as usual, provides me five hours daily to mull everything over. And over. And over. It's rough being inside one's head for too long. I was driving myself crazy. I hate finding myself in a funk; I have such a hard time pulling myself out of it.

"I Woke Up In A Car" came up on my iPod earlier tonight at work, and it must have hit me at just the right moment. The song talks about the joys of embracing the unknown, of finding peace with oneself in the moment. I don't know if I could survive without some kind of structure, but I like the idea of allowing myself liberation in the moment. I was reminded that the funk will lift.** The next couple years will be interesting, and will likely allow me these moments. And I'm so ready for them.

So, all in all, I'm not feeling 100% better. (I need Earl Grey.) But I am feeling marginally better.


*I remember obnoxiously singing along with it in class; if anyone reading this now happened to be in that hour, my apologies. I don't think I understood the difference between socially okay and socially obnoxious.

**I hate how sappy this sounds. *sigh*

Treading and Geraniums

When my upstairs roomie came back from work today, I greeted her with a big smile and threw my arms out. "I AM MAKING US DINNER," I announced.

She gave me a worried look.

"What?" I asked her, my smile falling. "Seriously, it'll be good. And it'll use up some of the stuff from the freezer so we don't have to move it next month. I called my mom and she gave me a recipe suggestion."

Her face didn't change at all.

Ultimately, I screwed up the baked potatoes. I forgot to poke them, and they were still a little hard in the middle. I had to reheat mine in the microwave. The chicken was kind of dry (though I encounter this problem whenever I heat up/bake chicken), but the salsa and seasonings tasted all right. My roomie didn't say anything about how she felt about the meal, only answering with an indifferent "fine" when I asked her how the chicken was.

I came out of the experience knowing that my roomie thought my cooking skills were appalling.* But I suppose it doesn't matter that much.

I leave the Tiny Blue Room in a month and a half. The room after the Tiny Blue Room will likely be the same size or even smaller. I don't trust my memory of how big the room really is. It will be, after all, a mere corner of the apartment I'm moving into with my roommate. There is much I have yet to pare down, and it's already halfway through June.

Another of my roomies, Amanda, brought me back a geranium from her work a few weeks ago. She works in a flower shop and has been bringing back ferns, flower arrangements, and just today, a Venus fly trap, for us to enjoy and care for. I was excited about the geranium. I've been trying not to over-water it and pulling off the browning leaves every few days. When we move, I want to put it just outside our door so it can enjoy the fresh air. 

Life after something so ingrained is almost bizarre. Everything seems so much more domestic, much more alien to the senses. The plants need to be watered. Walking the dog doesn't have to be a chore. Cooking is suddenly something that can actually be done, most of the time, but mostly it seems nearly impossible. Time between, before, and after work shifts must be used wisely. Evenings have become open. What is this strange stasis I've found myself in?

The crazy thing is that it's not really a stasis at all. It's more transitionary. I'm trying to adjust myself to the schedule of a graduate. A lot of my college friends have moved: Crystal is in Indiana, Whitney and Abbey in Illinois, others have or soon will be returning to their respective hometowns or new homes in far off places. I've just started the job search and will soon be diving into the grad school application process. Time seems to work differently, now. Things don't work per semester in the real world. I wonder if it's more by season, or perhaps the days meld together in one big clump and the only way to know the date is by the weather when you leave for your lunch break.

I know I'll be glad to get back into the learning mode whenever I start grad school. But for now, I'll enjoy writing, drawing, and adjusting to this new life. Especially evenings like tonight, in which Amanda suggests making pina coladas and indulging in both chips and salsa and mint chocolate chip ice cream. Which, of course, is a delicious combination.



*With that being said, another of my roomies tried the chicken and liked it. When I make the recipe again, I'll know what to do and what not to do.