"He has you on a pedestal and me in his arms.."

...this is not only a great elevator quote in an amazing film, but it also pertains to the biggest affliction my heart is feeling right now. I am currently sitting in an uncomfortable (and quite stiff) chair in a really cool hotel that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean (Bar Harbor style -- or if you prefer, Bah Haba!)


My family and I drove 11.5 hours today from PA to ME, and the latter state happens to be one that took my breath away and stole my heart five years ago. For some, that description would pertain more toward a person...but it's me, and Maine is it.


It's a funny thing. They (implement whoever you think "they" should be) say that 'home is where the heart is', but in this case, I beg to differ. I don't know anyone from Maine, no relatives or friends. I don't have a Maine accent (but I'm thinking I can pick one up pretty quick!), and I don't have any particular reason to be so attached to ME. After all, it's cold, dreary, and started to downpour the minute we drove over the state line. It's far from anyone familiar. It's a completely democratic state (Oops. Yes, I went there.) ...and it looks exactly like Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Connecticut.


So, what's the big deal? Why Bah Haba, Maine?


...Why does anyone fall in love with anyone? The way he walks, talks, lives life? Bar Harbor, in particular, is brimming with authentically charming shops. It has the most gorgeous and peacefully remote view of the ocean. And the people seem to always be smiling. Now, that might be because they know we are tourists (is it our lack of accent?), or just because it's a bit touristy. But I lived in Orlando for 13 years -- I know touristy, and would not describe Orlando as "charming" or even "dainty".


The idea of Moose(s) is oddly appealing. I want to walk in the woods and see a moose. I really do. The first time we drove to ME a few years ago, I saw one on the side of the road. I almost had a heart attack. They are huge. HUGE.


Tonight for dinner, I ate the true "Maine" meal. A whole entire lobster (It was looking at me the entire time...I gagged, and then broke its body in half, gagged and broke apart its tail, gagged and scooped out the littlest piece of meat from each leg. It was wonderfully gag-worthy, delicious), a hearty portion of clam chowdah, and the most amazing slice of Maine blueberry pie ala mode. I'm thinking that when I go to Heaven, that's the dinner I would like to sit down and eat every night. Let me tell you.

It's not all about the seafood feasts or quaint shops. It's the entire atmosphere. The town breathes in culture and artifacts and sea-legs. People know who they are in Maine. They have an identity. They call sprinkles "jimmies", and they say "suppah", and they have lobster races across kitchen floors. It's that luring, attractive "fisherman's" quality that must draw me in. Every moment I spend here is like a day on the sea. I feel like I should be sleeping in the cabin of someone's boat, peeling my own shrimp and bating my own hook.

I feel at home and it's nothing like my home. I have Maine on a pedestal and Pennsylvania in my arms.

Catch you on the ship in just one more day! :)

breaking the ((alabaster)) jar

I finally broke my jar today. It needed to be done. Six months worth of sporadic collecting and this is what I've come up with.

It doesn't look like much, but the eyes can be a decieving thing.

I collected (in cash, that is), a whopping total of $525.65, all spending money for SAS.

see ya later, alligator.

I said a goodbye tonight to a friend whom I will miss dearly. It's hard, isn't it? We ate dinner, and chatted over a mini-baseball game and icecream. It was fun, and it was sad. I won't see most anyone from home until November once I leave in a few days, and I forget how sometimes, goodbye's are the toughest difficulties to overcome.

There are songs, millions of songs, that remind you of that person.
There are places where you always hung out.
There are times that I will be in Croatia, or Greece, and wish desperately that so and so was here to witness this awesomeness with me.

I have a few more goodbyes to lend out, a few more hugs to offer before Sunday. And those will be just as sad. It's always sad, because who wants to be left behind? Who wants to let go of a meaningful embrace? A wonderful conversation?

I'm not the one who is being left behind this time, however, but I am leaving people behind for whom I care deeply. My family first and foremost, and then my friends.

I once was naive enough to believe that goodbyes would get easier as I became more experienced with them. Saying goodbye to family and friends before I left for college that first year was treacherous. It was harsh, and awful, and full of silent weeping. Saying goodbye to college friends after my freshman year at college was rough, difficult, and hurtful. After just getting to know those friends, we would be seperated by UPark the following year.

Then Sophomore year came, and saying goodbye to my family became a bit easier...just because I was used to living without them for periods at a time. But that didn't make Sophomore goodbyes any easier. I cried bitterly upon arriving home from my Sophomore year at school, because I'd become closer to a few people who are now transferring to UPark in the fall.

Amazing, isn't it? Goodbyes never get any easier, but frightfully harder. They never become less sad, but more heartwrenching.

I realize I'm not leaving forever, but suddenly, it feels that way. So...
Auf Wiedersehen
Adeus
arrivederci
αντίο
до свидания
さようなら
안녕
vaarwel
au revoir
Goodbye and I'll miss you terribly. But I will be back soon with stories upon stories, and a worldly smile upon my face. Won't that be worth the leave?

not quite in panic mode yet

I leave in a meager four days. My bags are not packed, I have not made lists, I am not trying to make many plans to squeeze people in for last goodbyes.

I think this is the part where I start to panic, and wonder what else has been on my mind these past few days.

pocket moments

Every year since 8th grade I've had my birthday party out at our cabin. Rustic doesn't really even begin to define the experience, but it sure does explain a lot. No running water, no electricity, logs out by the fire, toads clicking their throats by the pond, an outhouse with two (yes two!) seats, bugs everywhere, and a uniquely-smelling two-story cabin that my great-grandfather built with his own two hands. It's certainly an experience, if not one that many people might enjoy, one that we can all laugh and exclaim, "Remember when!" later.

 

This year was a bit different from all the rest of the years. Something felt off, like the toads were louder than usual, or the cabin didn't smell quite as musty. It really had nothing to do with these guesses, and I still can't quite put my finger on it, but I'm thinking it has something to do with age. We're all about to turn 20, 21, 22 and we're sitting around the campfire, quietly sipping Jones and reminiscing about the 'old times'. It's somehow not the same. Don't get me wrong...this time was just as great as the others, but it didn't feel quite normal. We didn't play drop-off, and not as many people spent the night with us on that famously bug-littered cabin floor.

 

We made mountain pies with yummy pizza filling, and littered the fire with marshmallow roasting sticks. We sat around and played Catchphrase, giggling with early morning goofiness, no alcohol needed. All it takes to make me act a little tipsy is simply sugar, good friends, and the wee hours of morning. I'm a naturally giddy person. It sprinkled off and on, and as I felt the rain drops softly pelt my skin, I watched my friends.

 

We each sat, huddled into our chairs, hoods up. Laughter spilling through the forest, and hair sticking sweetly to our rosy cheeks. One friend mentioned to me that I have a knack for bringing people together who wouldn't normally have ever gotten together. I realized that this rings true. I brought together people who, if not for my party, would have maybe wondered about each other in passing, and then left those thoughts behind. It's maybe a knack, but also a weird habit of mine. I'm often times a magnet for awkward situations and conversations, and as I think every year about my parties, I tend to think they all might be a little awkward because of my invites. But that was not the case this year, and it has never really been the case.

 

As I lay in my sleeping bag at 4 in the morning, awake and aware of my surroundings, I thought to myself that this might be my last cabin party. Who knows where next summer might take me, where I'll be, what I'll be doing...there are certainly a slew of possibilities and circumstances that could keep me from having another summer party. I think that might have been the issue with this year. It carried a different aura because my mind was whirling with the possibility of this year being the 'last year'.

 

I wasn't as talkative this year because I would catch myself watching. Watching the way my friends would animatedly converse with each other, watching the glow of the coals, watching my friends sleep because once we get to a certain age, sleep overs are not the same anymore. Nothing is really the same anymore.

 

I thought that maybe if I watched more than I talked, I could catch everyone exactly as they were in those moments by the fire. Capture those tiny moments and put them in a safe place to pull out later for a conversation containing some form of "Remember when!". I want to keep certain moments tucked safely away in my back pocket, because some things don't last. And I would be heartbroken should this party be a fleeting second, a pass over memory.

 

"There is nothing permanent except change itself." --Greek proverb

Rusted rides and the Claw

Kids with sticky fingers and a mess of icecream on their lips ran around in circles near my feet, seemingly playing tag. The small-town band sang the lyrics of an unfamiliar country song, wailing and jiving their hips. The members must have been in their late thirties or forties. Lights blinked on and off in front of dirty game stands, their owners leaning in boredom against the counter, caring very little if they recieved business from those sticky little kids or not. Skeeball. Basketball. Duck grab. Win a free fish. I swear, those goldfish that you win by tossing the ball in the glass jar...those suckers live forever. Everyone seems to think that they will die around the same time you pull into your driveway, but I swear, they are immune to death. Even if you never feed them. A ferris wheel squeaked round and round carrying people with death wishes and ride-night wristbands. The bright yellow slide sent screaming children on burlap sacks to their parents, who talked hurriedly on cell phones at the bottom. Rap music blared obtrusively from the dark innards of the alien spaceship. I still don't know what the name of that ride is...or if it has a formal name at all. I've always just called it the alien spaceship. People walk by eating hot sausages, cheesesteaks, fries. Cotton candy, funnel cakes, caramel apples.

I've always been amused by our small town carnival. We also have a fair, which is much larger and great for people-watching and gross-animal-petting, but the carnival comes first and lasts for a week. So, I feel it my duty, my obligation, to attend the carnival and people-watch. I would have brought my camera, but I hear that's a bit creeper-ish. That never stopped me before. What's better than catching strangers in their natural habitat? Especially in black and white?

As I stand there, pretending to listen to the band (which I have to say would have been tolerable if I enjoyed country twang), I do what I do best. I watch. I listen. I probably stare more than I should, but only my good friends call me on that. I should probably nix that habit before going over to foreign countries...

-Tweens pull their friends' wrists, talking animatedly about who showed up to the carnival tonight, and who seems to be absent. Apparently their relationship status on Facebook depends on which grungy guy gives them the hairy eyeball.
-Grandmothers huddle together at a table, eating pie and sipping milkshakes. I vow to one day be like those peaceful-looking older ladies. Who wouldn't want to sip a milkshake and converse about the latest perm-gone-bad over cherry pie?
-Sweaty boys dip fried foods in hot grease, shaking salt/powdered sugar/what have you on each sold item.
-My sister pokes me with tears in her eyes and tells me a heart-breaking story about how she found a dollar on the ground and now daddy won't trade her four quarters to put in the claw machine so she can win an ipod. I take her dollar and give it to the soda stand guy who in turn gives me four shiny quarters back. I place those in her palm and she leads me eagerly to the Claw.
-I run into two girls who graduated with me, and we briefly talk about the murky waters near each of our campuses, and what we are currently majoring in. It was very enlightening.
-Groups, lots of groups, congregating everywhere like buzzing flies.
-I meander through the throngs of people, my sister's hand tucked safely into mine, and point to different rides that are sure to break down while we are watching them. Our pure and honest stares are breaking the nuts and bolts of the grimy machines, I am sure of it. I promise that we will both get wristbands for thursday night and wait in line for these death-ridden, completely dangerous carnival rides. I live for the thrill of every squeak and churn of grinding rusty metal. She eagerly agrees with me and I know at that moment that she must me my miniature sisterly soulmate.
-A boy with a sly smile playing on his lips leads a girl behind one of the dirty game stands. Some things are not meant to be seen.

If I would have taken a journal with me, or my camera (set on black and white), I could have recorded many more observations. But I saw what I could, and remembered what stuck out the most. Sometimes a situation can't be fully remembered, but what you do remember is surely what you felt at the time.

"Discovery consists of looking at the same thing as everyone else and thinking something different." - Albert Szent-Gyorgyi

Gym Class Conversations

Friday night football. Tennis season. Gym class. German. Secrets. Locker rooms. Teachers lounge. Announcements lady. Awards banquets. Prom. Clubs. Math class. Secrets. Teachers that never taught. National Honors Society. Musicals. Report cards. Agendas. Note passing. Dressing up. Dressing down. Secrets. Dances. 6AM. Pep rallies. May Day. Bonfires. AP classes. More secrets.

 

I don't miss high school. Not even a little bit. I don't miss the classes, or those teachers who sat at their desks talking on cell phones when we couldn't. I don't miss the sports, or the clubs, or the long, drawn out hours. I don't miss playing tennis on a team that I could care less about. I don't miss the complicated way of asking people out, or most of my classmates who truly believed that we didn't have a clique problem. Yeah. Okay. I don't miss pretending to understand why friends were mad at you one minute and hugging you the next. I hated that the most.

 

And yet. Every time I'm home, I open my bedroom blinds and stare at the high school that consumed 5 years of my life. I watch kids walk around the track in their gym shorts and over-sized T-Shirts, and imagine they are talking about weekend plans, or how pointless gym class was, anyway. That's what my friends and I talked about when we were in their place. I'll sit on the porch and hears announcements being made, or bells blaring to signify the end of one class and the beginning of another. I remember walking through those halls, waiting for my friends at lunch, sitting quietly in classes, sneaking out of 9th period every chance I got so I could grab my backpack and book it out of there as quickly as humanly possible. There were plenty of aspects I enjoyed, sure, but once you've tasted college, who wants to go back?

 

I can't help but wonder if they know, though...those kids walking the track during gym class. I truly wonder if they know that one day, they probably won't be friends with most of the people they pass notes with now. I distinctly remember a gym class conversation I was having with a friend days before our senior graduation. I remember being so excited, so ready to move on with my life, to bust out of the mold high school smothered me in. Not a cloud was in the sky, and the weather couldn't have been more perfect. We were talking about keeping in touch, and how that wouldn't be a problem for us, because really, why would it? We were incredibly close, and had been for years.

 

No one ever mentions that the biggest difference between college and high school is not necessarily distance, and not really the fact that you're way busier than you ever were before. No, the biggest difference is that you forget. You grow up. You realize that gym class conversations were never really anything but gym class conversations, and that before high school graduation, you didn't know a thing about anything. Life happens. Conversations now are not completely different than those that escaped in high school halls, but they are not typically with the same people. These conversations are with people who never took gym class with you in high school, and had to learn how to spell your first and last name correctly. Not that one is better than the other...they are simply different.

 

I wonder sometimes what it would be like to go back to being a high school senior with the knowledge and two years of college under my belt. I wonder if I wouldn't care as much, or if I would be more vocal and just tell people how I feel instead letting emotions and arguments fester. I wonder if I would be more intelligent, if I would have gotten a higher score on the AP English exam, or if nothing would have bothered me like it used to.

 

I wonder, and then I sigh. I'm glad I don't know. Some pieces of life are meant to be immature, and stupid, and careless. It makes it neat to look back and realize that high school was how it should have been, and as much as I don't miss it, it needed to happen exactly how it did in order to make me into the person I am now.

 

"When you leave here, don't forget why you came." Adlai Stevenson