Curtain Call

you hide behind the curtain
waiting to come out, out
of the darkness and into
the spotlight because

who longs for the shade,
the dull, lifeless reckoning
with one's self, yourself
beckons, calls but

who are you, I wonder
behind the black veil
behind the red velvet curtain
you step into the spotlight and

I'm already gone, it's just too late
too late to figure out which
stage direction you need to take
stage left, I call out, stage left

but of course you don't hear me
you don't see me
I am not the director, I'm
just a person who points the spotlight

and tells you to go.

Roots

Do you ever dream of someone else's memories? Do you ever think of moments that aren't yours to remember?

It's like this:

I used to travel to Brown County, Indiana for Thanksgiving most of my childhood and up until I left for college. It's a small town, but not quite small enough that everyone knows each other. It's a beautiful little town about an hour away from Indianapolis (where I was born). It's full of rich history and eccentric shops. It's a place of culture and wisdom, like it knows where you're from and why you came. It's an art colony, luring in the artists of the midwest. It's a place that I always find myself drawn to -- not for the culture and shopping, but because my mom's and dad's roots lie around this small town.

I find myself imagining things in this place. I dream of my mom and dad and their friends. I dream of what once was, before I was even around. I've never felt like this about a place before -- a place that I'm so strongly attached to simply because my mom and dad grew up there. It's odd. I feel like I'm a part of this place -- as if there is still some part of me that was left there.

I've read the love letters. I've flipped through the yearbooks. I've left my own footprints in this place, this place that I feel so strongly for, and I can feel the history swimming through my bones when I think about what was left behind.

They may not be my memories to hold onto, but for my own roots' sake, I cannot let them go. It's been a few years since I've been back to Brown Country now, and every year, I think maybe I might be able to set foot there again. But to no avail, I've not returned.

It might be a few more years before I make it back, but I will surely be there, remembering, smelling the forests and fudge shops and snowy winter nights. Roots don't leave just because you left -- they hang on, awaiting your return, and breathe a silent air of relief when you finally, finally, go home.

Winter Song

I think it's finally winter. I can feel it in the way my hair blows softly against my cheeks, in the way my nose and fingertips numb after fifteen minutes of walking around outside. Although you may disagree with me, I find it very hard to believe that it has been 'winter' all November. The leaves were still falling in November. People were outside raking their yards, sitting on their porches chatting the evening away.

It's not like that anymore. It may not be snowing, but winter has slipped its way through chattering teeth and windburned faces.

I walked my lab this late afternoon, my favorite time of the day. He pulled me through town and as I was delightfully strolling along, I noticed something. I listened to the clap of my footsteps and I listened to the wind, and I listened to my own thoughts -- but the cheeriness of peoples' conversation is long gone. There were no kids playing in the streets, or climbing trees. No couples were sitting on porches. I saw maybe two cars drive by during my entire 45 minute walk through town. This surely equals winter.

There's also that absent feeling in the air, like something is missing. It's a loneliness that you can't shake. Winter clears your head, but puts your heart in a muddle -- and you can never really pinpoint what it is that you think you're looking for. I love the loneliness, though. That particular feeling is what I look forward to most. I think it makes being close to people that much more enjoyable.

My personal remedy for the Winter Blues?

-> Switch between hot tea and hot chocolate, and make sure you always have a mug in hand.
-> Cuddle up with a novel, and maybe a certain someone.
-> Wear a beanie! I don't know about you, but hats always improve my moods.
-> Tune into the Christmas music. Don't be afraid to let loose once in a while, Jingle Bell Rock awaits!
-> Take a walk. Let yourself think. Listen.
-> Break out the wool socks. And the knitted scarves. And the leather gloves.
-> ...and last but not ever least... go Christmas shopping. You don't have to have any money to be creative, this I know very well. But I find that when I'm thinking about others, my mood generally tends to lighten. It's magic, I swear.


The color of springtime is in the flowers, the color of winter is in the imagination.
-- Ward Elliot Hour

It's a little like this.

And maybe I was a tad wrong. Maybe I smelled like coffee and oversized chairs and conversation filled with laughter and memories. Maybe I showed too much appreciation, too many thanks for the good times, and maybe my cheeks burned red with happiness.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe love comes from novels and baristas and big silver bracelets. Maybe it comes in the form of piano keys and Christmas tunes and secrets that were never shared before tonight.

Maybe friendship isn't about scars or paintings or streetlights. Maybe it's more about how you interpret what you have. Maybe it's a bear hug wrapped up in time spent apart, and maybe it smells a little like coffee and apple pie and flurries of snow that never appear.

Maybe I was wrong all along.

::away we go::

I opened one eye this morning in an attempt to shoo away whatever was disturbing my slumber. Then I noticed that I was in my room, my room back home, and the bickering and pestering and slamming of doors were not the sounds of Behrend, but my home back home. Pulling my comforter over my head in a valiant effort to fall back into my wonderful dreamworld, I epically failed.

An hour later, I met an old friend for breakfast and we chatted over omelets and home fries. And although I've mentioned this several times before, it was delightfully weird. It was weird in the way that you go back to a place that once held precious memories, and now it's a place that you cannot get back to; either you've changed or the place has weathered, or maybe it's both.

But it's like that with old friends, I think. You've shared all of these memories, but then when you're eating omelets and chatting the morning away, you notice that your friend has a new haircut, and new frames, and has she always used the word "fuck" in every other sentence?

Then there's the 'trying to relate to each other' thing. It's hard when you don't see each other or talk much in six months and then try to 'catch up' over breakfast. In fact, it's kind of ridiculous. She told me about her boyfriend that I would approve of, and she explained her plans for Christmas and Spring Break. And you know, as much as people share of their lives with me, I'm still weary of sharing my summer with people, even old friends.

I brought it up a few times in our conversation, "That reminds of me Turkey!" or "There was this one guy in Bulgaria...."

.....and then I would get that stare. It's familiar, you know, but that doesn't make it any easier to take. It makes me uncomfortable. It's the kind of stare that screams, "I don't even know what the hell you're going on about, but maybe if I listen intently enough, you'll change the topic and we can move on to more normal conversation."

And so we did. We moved on, and that was that. It slips in conversation, sometimes, and there are only certain people that I will blatantly reference my trip to on a regular basis. I try to hide it, as if it were a bad thing, because I A) don't want to sound arrogant about it because I am most certainly not, and B) because it's this big black hole of unrelatable-ness. People get fidgety when they don't have anything to contribute to a conversation.

So, I listened and listened, and I talked a little and then I dropped her back off at home. "I'll see you for Christmas!" she said, hugging me, and then we separated until the next time.

They are interesting, these "quickie" friendships. We see each other for 1.5 hours every few months (or in this case, 6 months), and we expect that to get us through the next few dry spells. If this were anything but a friendship, I guarantee it wouldn't work. I would call that an epic fail of a relationship. But as a friendship, we pick back up where we left off, and all seems okay in the world. Even though so much has changed, so much has shifted and gone away, everything is as it used to be -- new frames, new haircut, new lingo that wasn't ever used in high school, and all -- it is part of being away, I suppose.

And away we go, back into our own lives. Until the next time, until the next time.

Waitamoment!

Wow. I just realized that I sounded a bit domesticated in my previous post.

I will never be domesticated, just get those ideas out of your pretty little head.

I am a free wanderer, a sort of hippie-minded, kin-to-the-mountains kind of gal.

Let's just keep this straight, okay?

Tastefully Simple.

I was seated at the right corner of the dining room table, twiddling my thumbs and watching, waiting. Something was bound to happen soon.

Ten women (including my little sister) chatted animatedly about seasonings and dips and Oh My! Chai. It was incredible. These kinds of parties always take the cake (no pun intended). My mother was hosting a Tastefully Simple party, and the attendees had that anxious Feed Me! gleam in their eyes. You could tell they had skipped dinner especially for the occasion. I myself had skipped dinner because it might have been a sin to indulge the stomach before passing around the first appetizer without partaking. It was kind of like Communion, in a sick, greedier fashion.

Chris, the woman in charge, gleefully cooed about each item in the booklet we held in our hands. She explained deals and benefit buys and how to make/use/mix each product, and then we slowly, very slowly, passed around 18 different appetizer-sized food samplings. They were all delicious. I got up twice to refill my glass of 1%. You don't mess with Chipotle Terriyaki dip without milk.

I watched each woman as they passed around the different plates and bowls. There was a certain pattern to it, to these women. Some of them were eaters, you could tell. The woman sitting two seats to my right never dipped just one tortilla chip -- she was in this for the filling of her stomach. She would swirl both chips around the bowl in a rather obnoxious fashion and then proceed to scoop out the largest portion of garlic/bacon/Chipotle dip she could manage onto the chip. The woman sitting diagonal from me barely stuck her beer bread into the dips and salts. I think she might have been afraid of trying new flavors of whatever. My sister hogged the bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, and since I had the pleasure of sitting next to her, I dipped one chip after another into the scrumptious green goo.

Then came the time to actually spend money. I filled out my pretty little order form and handed it to my mom, who smiled appreciatively at me. She was going to purchase what I wanted because she is just that cool. Here's a shout out to you, Mama. Thanks for being so dang cool. :)

But the women all huddled together, putting on their reading glasses and talking about the upcoming Christmas holiday. Who should they buy for? What packaged deal should they splurge on? But weren't those cookies just Uh-Maze-Ing?

I love these parties because I see myself in twenty years in some of these women. I suppose I, too, will look forward to yummy food get togethers and find reasons to splurge my well-earned paycheck of the week on some seasonings and broths and desserts. I, too, will sit back in the dining room of a friend or relative in about twenty years and think about what my husband would like and what he would frown upon me buying. I like to think that I might be plump and happy with rosy cheeks and (gasp!) a double-dipper of tortilla chips.

People say that the 20's are your "prime years", but I'm telling you what. As much as I love being 20, when I can attend these parties with money to spend and a family to feed, I think that will be the life.

So tastefully simple, eh?

The Muse has slapped my wrist..

what my mother never told me

sprinklers are just faucets
of tears that water the earth
with joy

I thought when I was six

or maybe I heard that from a T.V Evangelist
who spouts the salt and light
of the Word

my word

you can never believe what your friends tell you
about the wood gnomes in the garden or about the boys
across the street

because lies are lies

no matter whose mouth they spew from
and Jake only kissed me
on the cheek

in the closet

and I thought, when I was 13,
that it might have meant something,
that kiss

but boy

he told me to relax, breathe deep,
it would only hurt a little
like a pinch, like a pinch

and it was over in a pinch

why had I never questioned
what I was never told

that sprinkler
that preacher
that kiss

It's downhill skiing

...until Thanksgiving break, at least. And then it's back to the grind of incessant reading and project-doing and poster board prettifying...but at least for today and tomorrow, all of my work (except for a lone response paper) is completed.

I've polished my fiction, nonfiction, and 3 poems thoroughly and will proceed to turn them in for the big contest on Friday.

The sky is gloomy and rain splatters occasionally on my windowpane, and this is me being happy.

Until all hell breaks loose again, I'm homeward bound tomorrow.

This week will be the longest I've spent at home for about 6 months. Oh, how nice it shall be.

Escape.

I need to come home. I need to drive away. Fast.

Fortune Teller

I spent 12 straight hours on Saturday huddled over two novels, exhaustion stinging my eyes, the dull inside lamps casting eventual shadows along each tired page.

I spent my Sunday (after managing to step into the sunlight for church in the morning), gazing into the taunting eyes of my laptop, writing critiques for 30 page stories, and writing (and still writing) the first of at least five essays that I have due before Thanksgiving.

Perhaps a glimpse into my future?

IlovemymajorIlovemymajorIlovemymajor.

Deuce to Love.

So, I've come to the realization (not recently, might I add, but rather over the course of my college career) that I profoundly miss the game. The game of spinning that worn grip between my palms, of scuffing my heels and bouncing my toes along the white lines of concrete or clay (if it was a special tourny). I even miss the mindgame, the anticipation of my performance, my opponents' performance, and keeping track of when to switch sides of the court. I miss seeing my family sitting in the bleachers, or behind the glass, silently cheering me on, begging me to keep my head in the game.

I miss tennis.

I devote my time to writing and reading now. I think in highschool I was much more well-rounded. I was in all of the musicals and I played tennis with vigor and ease, and I was on National Honor Society and a member of the Christian Club. I did things with my spare time.

Nowadays I laugh in the face of spare time. There is no 'spare time'. All of my time is devoted to my craft, to the honing and carving of my writing, my reading, my critiquing of others' writing and reading. And then the next day comes and I write and read some more. And I love it, don't get me wrong.

But I need something else. There's more to my life than my craft...because when I get tired of the writing and the reading, I need a break. I need tennis back in my life. It was this huge stress reliever, this chasing of ambition and exertion, this release of adrenaline and anger and sadness. It was my outlet for the longest time. And now I no longer have it when I need it the most.

I need the challenge of winning and losing, and keeping not only my mental skills sharp, but my physical skills in check. I am way out of shape, and I am slowly losing what was once my biggest love. I'm no longer quick on my toes, and I don't keep score like I used to, and I don't have anyone to play against that will be competitive with me, push me.

I need to get out of this tennis-less rut. I need my love back.

Aeriale is currently, and will be for the next week or so,

swallowing the sea.

13 ((ways of looking at a blackbird))

On Saturday, I didn't just buy a new fluffy pet. I became 13 again.

It's now Monday and I still can't help but smile when thinking about the past weekend. I think many twenty-somethings take life too seriously, and you might be thinking, Really? What about the ones that drink themselves into a stupor every weekend? What about the non-intellects sitting in classrooms, doodling on their essays and worksheets? Those people don't take life too seriously.

Well. I could agree with you and make this whole blog super agreeable, but I think I'll beg to differ this time. I'm going to argue that no, those people may not be super intellectual, but I don't think they are being childish, either. What kind of child drinks herself into a stupor on the weekends?

I was 13 again on Saturday and it was a nice change. When I was actually 13, I hated it. I hated being at that weird age; it was the age of puberty and hormones and heartbreaking crushes and pigtails. It was the age of pining and always being right and realizing that maybe my mom can't help me with all of my problems.

It was an age of transition. It was an age of ups and downs and plenty of semi-friendships and semi-boyfriends.

That's not the 13 I'm talking about, though. No, on Saturday night, the girls and I broke out the hemp and beads. We sat on my bedroom floor, giggling over 80's and 90's music videos on YouTube, trying and failing to make bracelets and necklaces for each other. Mary dyed her hair a dark red over my sink while I scooped large quantities of ice cream into bowls. I doused the ice cream with sprinkles and M&M's and Shell. It was a little slice of Heaven.

The boys across from us were having a party and the bass of their music thumped our floor. And I didn't want to be any one of those drunken college students. I was content with the coloring books that Mary had brought over, and I was content with the hemp and Vanilla Ice on the laptop.

I was 13, and for once in my life, I missed being that young and naive. I missed that awful, awkward age of braces and half-hearted arguments and notes that were passed in the shape of a football.

And so it goes.

Saturday's Whim.

I walked into the pet store today with very few intentions...

And I walked back out with a 10-gallon tank, paper bedding, a spin wheel, a water-sucking contraption, a small pink hut house, a cute polka dot food bowl, some seed-nut assortment of feed, and a puffball of a dwarf hamster.

I named her Erma.

My spontaneous, brilliant, decision-making skills never cease to amuse, or amaze, me.

...Michelle is going to kill me.

...

They say that college is supposed to help you find yourself, find your voice.

But.

What if you end up losing yourself in the process?

lisztomania

...is the one with the windows open in November, trying (and failing), but trying nonetheless to serenade the wind with the delicate notes of music. This is badly butchered by the hands of one who does not know the tune.

...is currently seeking and not currently finding.

...is not here right now, or tomorrow, or ever so please leave a message after the obnoxiously long beeeeeeeeeep.

.....is out buying cookies and cream truffles with a boy who has just been cheated on.

...is throwing her hands up in frustrated delight.

...is a bunch of xoxoxos waiting to happen.

Black and Gold

I found myself sitting in the Presque Isle Art Gallery (and coffee shop) this afternoon, a mug in one hand, my chin in the other, listening to a friend talk about his upcoming thesis. The black clouds swirled angry in the sky, and we were catching up under the heat of a sea-glass lamp.

Time is a funny thing. And the future is, too. When you consider them (both time and the future), you really have no control over what happens. Sure, you can make some things happen, but what about the spontaneity that is so unique and beautiful to each life? What about the fun in letting every moment run its course? Why drain every day of its natural What Ifs?

So, around this time last year, I was sitting on the hill by OBS, watching the stars, holding his hand. We had a thing, whatever that thing might have been, and then it was over.
And here we sit, almost a year later (a year full of not-really-talking-and-being-kind-of-awkward-around-each other), laughing over paninis and Chai in a coffeehouse. I never would have guessed it would be this way, not after a full year of semi-awkwardness.

It's weird. But it gives me faith in people, I think. It gives me hope that our futures are still precious, and who's to say what will happen? Who's to say who will leave your life and who will come sauntering into it? Who's to say who will come back and stick around for a while?

I think that's the fun of it, of everything. Sometimes it's enough to just take life as it is instead of trying to make things happen.

Sometimes, you just need to chill out and wait. Relish in the possibilities.

Jell-O can never be Crème Brûlée.

So tired of the ucky love stuff.

::A Halloween Melodrama::

Bob and I had finally, finally confirmed our plans for the Halloween weekend: We were going to spend Saturday getting our fill of adrenaline rushes on the Cedar Point coasters, and then listen to the amazing, melodious voice of Ingrid Michaelson and her band members in Cleveland at night, where we would proceed to meet up with Michelle and Maya.

The trip started off with rain bubbles popping on the windshield of the Beast. It was gloomy, cold, and the kind of day best spent in bed with a novel. But we were on a mission. So, not even seven minutes into highway time, my van starts to rumble. I look over at Bob to see if he has noticed. He hasn't. I stare down at my gas gauge into the troublesome orange square that indicates LOW FUEL. My car rumbles again and this time Bob glances over.

Three minutes later, we found ourselves pulled over on the side of the highway not even three exits away from Behrend. Bob and I laugh, saying this would happen, and he offers to walk to the nearest gas station, which is maybe a ten minute walk from the van. After offering to come with him a million and one times, I found myself sitting in my van, listening to the rain and the tinktinktink of my four way flashers.

Twenty minutes, and three phone conversations later, I see Bob (the Hero) sauntering along the exit, his cheeks flushed with the cold and trudge of carrying gasoline uphill. I could have called AAA, but honestly, who thinks of that in such a situation? I had forgot I was even a member.

I held the mucky stick into my gas gauge as Bob tried, and kind of failed, at getting all of the gasoline into the tank. Mostly it ended up all over us and the back left tire of my van.

We drove off with laughable expectations, but goofy grins adorned our faces because who knew what would come next? We had the whole day waiting, waiting.

About 1.5 hours later, we decided to stop for lunch before reaching the park. Neither of us had 8 dollars to pay for a lone hamburger. Geez. So, after walking into the restaurant, we sat down, took off our jackets, and the fire alarm proceeded to go off. We stared at each other for what must have been five minutes, and then burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed, and ordered a million plates of food for cheap, and laughed some more. This was too absurd.

We eventually arrived at Cedar Point at 2:30 (the original plan was supposed to be around noonish), and giddily ran to our first coaster: Top Thrill Dragster. After waiting in line for about twenty-minutes, the ride broke down and we laughed again. If I would have gotten a ticket for speeding, that would have been the cherry, but I didn't, (thank goodness), and so we shook our heads and moved on to Millenium Force. We ended up doing all the coasters our hearts could have handled, and eventually got on the Dragster (which took my breath away, literally) last. After a solid five hours of line-waitin', coaster-hoppin' glory, we raced back to the van and I sped down the interstate to make sure not to miss Ingrid Michaelson.

The concert was mind-blowingly amazing, to say the least. Aside from the fact that I could not see much, and the ballroom was packed body-to-costumed body, I had an absolute blast. Michelle, Maya and I sang along and made complete fools out of ourselves. I bought two of her CD's and a poster that I would have loved to be signed, but she was not having any of the crowd. She and her band really put on a show, though, and no doubt will I be a returning fan to future concerts.

We stopped at Sheetz after the show because Bob and I hadn't eaten since lunch earlier in the day, and I was starving. And after the much-needed Sheetz run, we made our way back (blaring my new Ingrid CD's) to campus.

I walked back through the trash-ridden, pumpkin-smashed' Quad at 2 in the morning with sticky hair and glazed eyes, but I was genuinely happy. It was, for sure, one memorable Halloween.