Tuesday, May 28, 2002
The moon was low in the sky—a surreal and giant orange circle reflecting off the glassy pond. We sat there, shivering just a bit, even in spite of the temperature. WE talked.
"I know the things she says sometimes, they're coming straight from him, they're not really her thoughts."
We nodded.
"It's like he's a shit factory," she mused, flicking her cigarette ashes carelessly on the beach. "And sometimes, he delivers."
[11:16 PM EST] [reply?]
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
I'm sleeping strangely again. It's been this way for maybe three weeks and the end of classes, finals and dorm life has not been able to set my circadian rythyms right yet.
I can see where the problems started: the roomate situation. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love(d) my roommates, and in many ways, sharing a room suits me better than sleeping all alone. I didn't mind moving down the hall into the double back in January. I never minded sharing the room, I just began to notice every morning when Michelle got up at eight for work.
Actually, to put it more accurately, my body began to notice. And it's overly-anxious sort of way, it set its internal clock to buzz a few minutes before Michelle's clock-radio could. My body, always so on top of things, it is.
The thing is, I never needed to be up at eight in the morning. Ten-thirty would have worked better most days; eleven-fifteen on Tuesdays; around noon on weekends. I went to bed planning on waking up at those times. I planned on getting that much sleep.
At first, it was kind of convenient. Weekly response papers due every Tuesday morning called me out of bed early to work on pounding out two-to-three pages of crap before class at noon once a week. Waking up at eight generally gave me just about enough time to pull something together while still being able to lesiurely peruse various distractions, and it's kind of nice to be up-and-at-'em early on in the day.
But then classes ended. And finals came and went. And I still kept waking up, even on days when I had so much time on my hands one of the most time-consuming parts of the day was worrying about what I'd do with all that time. Sleep is a good answer to that question, but unfortunately, my body didn't want to cooperate. There it was, every morning at seven-fifty-two, ready to beat out Michelle's clock once again.
Since I've been home, this situation hasn't gotten much better. Nobody's waking me up that early (except the occassional visit from the dog, who always seems so pleased with himself when he manages to sneak his way up to the forbidden third floor), but my bed faces east. Where there is a strip of windows along my wall. Without curtains or any sort of shading device. (I should note, for those would-be Caroline-vouyers that it's not as much fun as it might sound; it's really quite high off the ground where no neighbors can really see in unless they're working way too hard at it, and well, whatever. If you put that much effort into trying to watch me change, I figure you deserve what you get. Anyway.)
I now find myself waking up—feeling quite well-rested, mind you—and glancing at my watch only to realize it's much, much earlier than any sane person ought to be awake. Especially a sane person who was up until 3:30 playing Spider Solitaire. That person should not be awake so soon thereafter, especially with nothing to do at all during those daylight hours.
But alas.
I recall having read somewhere in my Psych book that "sleep deprivation is a powerful antidepressant" and I can't help but wonder if my body is doing more than simply trying to beat out the alarm clock, but I don't know; I'm too tired to think about it.
[02:01 AM EST] [reply?]
Saturday, May 11, 2002
My room is scattered with boxes, garbage bags and piles and piles of books. In four semesters and seventeen classes, I've amassed quite a library—Norton Anthologies, Defoe, Eliot, Swift—I've even read a good portion of it.
And there are pictures and letters, term papers and newspaper clippings. And dozens of little trinkets, reminders of events, trips, places. People. It's enough to more than fill my shelves, my drawers and under my bed. Soon it will all fill the back of my mother's minivan, en route to Massachusetts.
It's all going to quickly—these years are halfway done and I'm not ready for that. And though I know I've grown and changed a hundred thousand times since I arrived on campus August 31, 2000—I can't be only a year and nine months older—it's all gone by in a heart beat. I'm not ready to blink to graduation.
Halfway isn't all the way gone, but with every moment that passes (please bear with me, I'm far too sentimental now) something is gone that isn't coming back. This year—though full of frustrations and awful, awful events—was wonderful. I'm never going to live with these three girls again in this room. I will never look out my window to the glittering lights of South Philadelphia with quite the same view ever again. And maybe that's not so bad; after a while, the view became indelibly linked with a sort of loneliness I developed over the course of the first semester. And though for the past week, I'd been questioning why I tried to stretch this year out a little bit longer when really it had already slipped through my fingers, I am again not sure if I'm ready to let it go just yet.
Finals have been finished for me for well over a week. Grades were posted days ago. Nancy already left, over a week ago. Kristin left a week ago, coming back on and off until she departed for good Wednesday morning. Michelle is still here, but it's just the two of us and she works all day. I've had a lot of time to think. I'm not a sophomore anymore.
Last night, we watched old episodes of Cheers and bits of the Top 100 One-Hit-Wonders on VH1. I will miss his couch. I could tell by the empty bedroom that his roommate had left earlier that day, but his room was as it always was. I will miss that room, even the Yankees posters looming over me, making me feel entirely dirty and tinged with evil.
After a while, he got quiet and said he thought he needed to go for a long walk. I said I understood; I have done more walking and thinking this week than I have in a very long time. He asked what it was I had to think about and I found myself rushing through a Cliff-notes version of all that troubles me in this world, but I know I'm never really good at putting my finger on it (let alone words to match) and in a way, I didn't want those things to mingle with this because by in large, it had been free of those sorts of melodramas. Light, fluffy and warm—I think what I seek in pancakes goes for relationships as well.
It was two-thirty in the morning. I let him go, even though I didn't want to. I know I'm lucky; I get to come back in seven months after a stint in London. He actually has to leave for good.
It was unspoken from the beginning that this was the end. He walked me back upstairs to my room, apologized for needing to be alone, which I said I understood. We hugged goodbye a little after three. I scribbled out a note that I tucked into his birthday present (two months overdue almost) and descended fifteen floors to drop it off at his door at four in the morning. I don't think he was home yet.
I know this is what's fair. I know this is how we're supposed to go—a bit of sadness, but promises of writing occasionally (eventually). I wonder if I run into him at Banquet next year if it will be awkward, or just nice to see him. But that's not for another eight months, and I haven't any clue who I'll be by then.
[04:31 PM EST] [1]
Sunday, May 5, 2002
"You," he said to the small blond boy who can be no more than six, "You. Stop running around like there's no tomorrow."
They're annoyed—this man and the woman he is with. They have come to the park to enjoy a beautiful May afternoon and for a moment I had thought the entire group—the man, woman and the four children who crowded round them—was a picture of familial bliss. But then they wanted their picture taken. And the kids wanted to climb into the frame, smile big and documented as well.
"No, no, not you. This is just John and me," said the woman with a hardness in her voice that tells me they are not her children and makes me hope she never actually has any of her own someday.
The oldest of the kids snaps a shot, but one of the younger boys snuck his way in at the last moment. The couple discovers this and instantly their Kodak smiles fade. They will have to retake this shot, just as it was but minus the boy.
After comes the chastizing. And the man tells the small boy not to run around in the park like there's no tomorrow. He tells them this day—this trip to the city and this stop in the park—it's for them, the children. It's their day, he says, and they better not spoil it, he says in a way that I can't help but think would spoil anyone's day.
I also can't help but think that running around as if there's no tomorrow is probably the best thing to be doing if you're five years old and it's "your day" and you're trying not to spoil it.
[10:52 AM EST] [reply?]