hello, good friend

Today is a new day, and somehow I have to muster up enough energy to pick up yesterday’s tasks where they left off. It’s a little like eating leftovers. I’m not wild about leftovers.

Me and Reality, we having a heart-to-heart. Like, “Why did you think it was a great idea to exist schedule-less for five weeks after moving to a new place? Did you really think you would spend those weeks organizing the apartment and exploring the city? Perhaps, if you had conversed with me then, you would’ve remembered that all of your friends work during the day (like Real People) and, yes, Cash Cab is always more appealing than MVA and grocery store errands.”

The truth is not, though, that I’m lazy. Or that I’m detoxing from wedding stress. (But, sure, if you’d like to give me that, I’ll take it.) The truth is that this new place intimidates me.

We take for granted the knowing of a place. We - I - take for granted the years of running the same roads, knowing the turns and the correct street names. I take for granted the acquired familiarity, the sensing of who’s where and why and for how long. I take for granted the running-into-So-and-So at the gas station, the check-out guy who knows my name, the old friend who gives me the movie ticket discount. I take for granted the memories associated with that restaurant booth, that party, that parking lot.

Sucks when you’re deep in the knowing of a place. Hate it that people know you, know your parents, know your history, claim to know your future. And that’s when City of CleanSlateFreshStart becomes appealing. A new place, a place yet unknown, a place of my own making. Perfect.

Except, once you arrive, you remember how many years (and how much monotony) knowing a place requires. Not every day feels like the opening montage of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Days feel boring. Errands get old. People don’t know you, and they might not try to. And a new apartment, no matter how ‘cute’ and ‘homey’, starts to look pretty old really quickly.

I haven’t lived in the same town my entire life. I’ve traveled some. I moved out of state for school, yes. This transition shouldn’t be so difficult, that’s what I tell myself. Yet I keep forgetting how utterly un-buffered this new place is. (I thought college was a blank slate? And a guided semester in Spain was freeing?) No, today I need to find a gas station (which, by the way, I haven’t noticed anywhere), shop for groceries, find a doctor’s office, cook dinner, mail packages, apply for a driver’s license, register my car, and find a dry cleaner. Boring, monotonous, necessary things. Things that, back home, would require two hours - max - of my day. (You just jump in the car and go, right?) Here, they require tremendous effort, a lot of gasoline, and some impossible quantity of patience.

I knew it. Called it a week ago. Someone asked me if I felt upset about graduating and I said, “Nah.” How nonchalant. Then I said “For me, these events rarely register until long after they’ve occurred.” Not until I return home, not until life slows, not until my mind mulls over them do I feel any…thing. Well, folks, today is the long awaited day.

Today I packed up my life in boxes (that’s becoming a generational catch phrase. cute.) and loaded life in a trusty Penske hauler. Thanks to my siblings and parents, of course. In the past six days they have unpacked one apartment, loaded its contents, transported said contents home, unpacked, organized, then packed up my room - plus accumulated first apartment belongings - and loaded the sum total into a moving van. My possessions are nomads.

I’ve also spent the past week on the road. Only two days since graduation haven’t involved endless car hours. Tomorrow we will arise at 5 a.m. for Baltimore and yet again tackle the highways.

You know, graduation wasn’t sappy sad. Or, it wasn’t sad for the usual reasons. Post-graduation day found most of our friends reunited in Ocean City, New Jersey. After our mini-vacation ended, we didn’t part with emotional goodbyes because, as our friends remind us, they’ll see us at the wedding. (A good thing, Jon and I figure. By that point we’ll need a reconvening.) To tell the truth, I’ve only been friend-absent for two days. Today: the initial pangs of separation anxiety.

I give in. I concede. This is sad.

All I did was step over a finish line. It’s just paint. All I did was say a few words. It’s just a ring. All I did was walk across a stage. It’s just a piece of paper. All I did was finish four years of course work. . .?

Today is a turning-point day. Today is a turning-point day, but it finds me bleary-eyed, hazily passing the morning with eyes half-open, or half-shut. Yesterday I turned in my last final exam of my undergraduate career. I’m not usually one for sentimentality, but that was pretty sweet. Somehow I don’t feel alert enough to enjoy it.

Today I awake exhausted and hurried. Pack the car for the drive home. My youngest brother graduates from high school tomorrow. My roommates are gone, taking their remaining finals. The quiet unnerves me.

Isn’t it amazing that significant moments like these pass quietly, subtly, unnoticed? Their weight hangs in the silence - barely audible, but unbearably heavy. I am notorious for missing them. Or ignoring them. Two days ago a camera-armed friend chuckled at my cynical photo-resistant self, “Just remember to savor it!” I apologized for my sleeveworn apathy.

Last night we celebrated my best friend’s 22nd birthday. Four years ago, when we celebrated her 19th, we colored the sidewalks from Lottie to Witmer with chalk messages. For complicated reasons, we laughed when Rica accidentally typed “Happy Birthday Hola” instead of “Happy Birthday, Holla” on the 20+ birthday banners we were to post around campus. We posted them anyway. In the pre-dawn hours, we piggy-back-raced to the dorm, and the Fuzzy-Bryce team performed the most dramatically entertaining, unintentional tumble/spill/collapse of any two grown men I have ever seen in my life. We rolled in the grass, cackling, for unending moments. Kate says it was one of the funniest events of college, maybe of life. Ever.

Last night, singing “Happy Birthday, FrannyTrousers” was, as Kristel says, a full-circle moment. Fran will body slam me for writing this, but the only thing missing was a choclate Easter cross thrown at my face. And maybe a WalMart run complete with a AAA man and his hyperactive labrador.

I’m not sure how these moments acquire significance. They occur seemingly arbitrarily. Taking up time, just as brushing teeth and showering take up time. But they hang weighty, Christmas tree branches laden with the heavier ornaments.

I want to experience them alert, with both eyes open.

Last weekend lost me in a blur: Acclamation Dance Ministry performed our spring concert,”With Beautiful Feet.” ‘Twas a tiring, yet successful, blast. Check out some of our photos. Hope y’all enjoyed the show!

A shout-out to the men’s tennis team for yesterday’s stellar match against LVC and a three-peat Conference Championship! Way to go, guys!

Buena suerte as you prepare for your individuals competitions next weekend!

To catch up on the Falcons’ winning season, check out the team’s website.

Also, congrats to the tournament MVP, Jonathan Siemen ‘08. I hear you’re pretty awesome.

Last night I got a backstage look at the Compassion Forum. I worked in the Message Room and the Media Filing Center, observing journalists from several major publications in action. What an eye-opener. Call me ignorant, but, not being a journalism major, I haven’t experienced the broadcasting side of the field. Last night I learned new vocabulary terms, rubbed shoulders with some influential Faith in Public Life figures, and witnessed the crazy pace at which the professionals function. Experiencing the media commotion was exciting - what a great opportunity for the College. I hope the forum served to encourage a thoughtful and honest relationship between politics and faith.

I spent this morning on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, guzzling coffee and watching The Today Show. My cell phone alarm had sounded at 8:30 a.m., much earlier than my sleeping self anticipated, and I stumbled out of bed (literally – I’m on the top bunk and missed the lower rung) in a groggy state of pseudo existence. I didn’t bother with turning on the lights or opening the shades, preferring to leave my roommate’s younger sister – our weekend visitor – blissfully unaware of the post-dawn day. My roommates were nowhere to be found. (Ah yes, the concept termed “classes” rings a bell) I stumbled to the living room, groping the walls for light switches. The refrigerator light temporarily blinded me as I searched for milk. I shoved down multiple, consecutive bowls of Corn Flakes to stay awake; my eyes weren’t yet open. Somehow I brewed a pot of coffee, traversed our cluttered floorspace safely, collapsed into the couch, and flipped on the TV for noise. Anything to prevent myself from reverting back to dormancy.

This is how I passed the morning. Or, the morning passed me. Mind you, Fridays usually discipline me toward productivity, prompting me to make use of the 24 hours of class-liberation. Yet today, despite my lengthy to-do list, I accomplished virtually nothing. I didn’t go to the gym. I didn’t read the assigned chapters in my senior seminar book. I didn’t catch up on my required literary criticism blogs (I’m eleven behind, excellently enough). I didn’t read the dog-eared articles in the news magazine. I didn’t print out the couples surveys my fiancé and I are supposed to tote to this weekend’s marriage seminar. I didn’t create lighting sequences for the upcoming dance performance.

Around ten o’clock I endeavored to crack down on the blogging. I poured another mug of coffee, pried open the textbook, and fired up my laptop. Then watched TV. Then read a page. Then turned off the TV. Then read a paragraph. Then opened InStyle magazine. Then gave up.

Nearing noonish, a knock on our door. I didn’t bother to get off the couch, and croaked “Come in.” I shouldn’t have done that. First, they were the first words I had uttered all day, and they sounded like frog audibles; second, I had forgotten that the rest of the world was long awake and running. Me: in my pajamas, minutes away from my third siesta of the day. A classmate opens the door timidly, observes my sorry state, asks if I’m sick. We’re just trying to organize an end-of-the-year furniture and appliance giveaway, ya know, the stuff you’d otherwise throw away; we’ll donate it for you, he explains. Oh yeah, we’d actually love to give away this couch, I say. If I can detach myself from it, I think. He doesn’t sound convinced. And his facial expression reads concern in all forms.

Maybe I should be concerned, too. A perfectly fine Friday, filled with unfulfilling laziness. Unashamed, unabashed. And here I am at work, blogging about it. (Articles yet unwritten, of course.) Some call this ‘senioritis.’ Whatever it is, today I’m the posterchild.

Currently I’m learning a lesson which refutes everything my childhood self learned about self control and restraint. I’m learning the value of saying it.

As in, my recent papers amount to single sentence fragments meant to hide my immaturely-formed thoughts behind nebulous evocations. (How’s that for nebulous?) As in, I’m lately incapable of expressing myself verbally so I resort to pages of frantically-scribbled jargon. As in, this blog looms before me like a matrix of indecipherable binary code. Words, bleh.

Like the Grinch lamenting “Words, words words!” They make my head hurt too, Grinchy.

Maybe the years of emphasizing “saying it well” (thank you, English major) have culminated in a grand inability to say anything without processing the thought through a sieve of mental edits. Maybe I’m just learning to refine my speech, hold my tongue. Or maybe it’s a case of severe cat-got-your-tongue. Because I’m apparently incapable of engaging in intelligent, spontaneous conversation. I mutter crazy talk like “oh, well, ya see, like, it’s kinda just like, sorta, maybe, ya hear me, actually, but if, ya know?” (Excuse me, WHAT?)

Yesterday a friend edited my senior thesis paper. A kind gesture, considering it needs significant revision. Admittedly, I wasn’t surprised by the tactful “I’m not sure what you’re writing about here” comments. Yes, yes, an utter lack of subject would make it totally incomprehensible, I guess.

My professor, upon reading the paper himself, suggested that I could near triple the page length by merely explaining myself in detail … erm, at all.

Today a friend and I disagreed over a minor issue. Yet I found myself verbally stunted in expressing how I ever arrived at such an emotional explosion. Cavemanesque grunts of “Me. Mad. Now.” don’t exactly cut it as reconciling communication.

At home last weekend I (unintentionally!) said something awkward and off-putting to an old friend, attempted to dig myself out of that hole, then wedged myself deeper into verbal faux pas. Should’ve stuck with “Good to see ya, take care.”

Word vomit. Maybe it’s the incessant crossword puzzling that’s forcing my brain into word overload. Or the reading. Or the writing. Or all three. I felt the same way after returning from a semester in Spain. (Which language for which context? Why not use both? Or, hey, invent your own!) For months I communicated in disjointed versions of very bad Spanglish. Many thanks to my interpreters.

I could use an interpreter again. Or maybe an inner computerized voice to articulate for me exactly what the jumble of thought in my head sounds like audibly. In the meantime, forgive me if I say anything ridiculously incoherent. I’m learning to spit it out already.

Last night at dance class we made the mistake of praying before class. Not that praying’s bad. Just that the eye-closing and head-bowing makes already tired bodies very sleep prone. We have several more weeks til the annual Acclamation concert, but few of us feel any sense of urgency about it. Our routine isn’t finished. That’s probably bad.

Last night I should have devoted the two hours before bed to my obnoxiously unfinished Literary Criticism midterm exam, but American Idol beckoned. So, yes. That was a bad choice.

This morning a productive self would have arisen slightly before, oh, say, 10am. Alas, productive self didn’t show up today, so here I sit, actively procrastinating on a few remaining assignments, delaying that midterm exam until about 2am, and moderately content with the whole lack of ordeal. Spring Break’s acomin’.

That glorious celebration chimes in at about 4pm-ish tomorrow. I’ll be celebrating with a full tank of gas, residual sleep deprivation, and a fully-charged iPod. I’ll also be blog-absent until March 25th, or thereabouts. Merry Spring Breaking!

Bienvenidos, blog devotees. I apologize for the lengthy absence. Recently, my blogging attentions have focused on Godspell-related journaling. You can peer into my current goings-on at our web magazine, The Bridge Online.

But now we’re back in business.

Recent components of my erratically-constructed world:
Fasting, Feasting by Anita Desai
a well-worn Dell Pocket Crossword Puzzles book
The Union’s cookie dough Microblasts (what does that mean, “microblast”?)
Oprah (admittedly)
orange juice and black beans (odd combo, I’m aware)
apartment shopping
Towson, Maryland
www.verseit.com (guaranteed entertainment, check it out)
“Clap Ya Hands” on repeat. Choreography.
World Magazine
The “Juno” soundtrack (well worth the listen)
Spring Break planning
The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris

Currently, lists are my genre. Thus far in the semester, I’ve read and written more than I have in a while, so lists are about all I can muster. I’m in the midst of composing a 30-page senior thesis on my writing life. Go figure. I wasn’t aware that I led a writing life. (If I didn’t before, I certainly do now. Cranking out several pages a day hasn’t been easy.) So the straining, striving, and overall stressing yields a measly list. Hmph.