Showing posts with label scribbled words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label scribbled words. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 17
All stories begin with once upon a time, or they should. So here:
Once upon a time there was a girl who was afraid to grow up. She was afraid that growing up meant settling (down and for) and giving up her days of dress up and make believe. It was like she thought that one day someone would come and say, "you're a grown up now; give us your tutus and your glitter and your imagination."
So she made a promise to herself. To keep living in dreamland and dancing in public and painting each nail a different color. To be Peter Pan not Wendy Bird. To never grow up.
Now I'm grown-grown-gone. Working, paying bills, cooking meals, cleaning (haha). Steady, steady. I wear a pencil skirt, sensible shoes, and blouses seven days a week. My paycheck goes to verizon and harris teeter. I eat my vegetables. In bed before the clock strikes twelve and my carriage is parked before it returns to pumpkin-state.
I used to wear tutus. I danced until two and skipped class to sleep in. Coffee at noon and an afternoon of woods-walking, photo-taking, and Boyfriend-kissing. What happened to the fairy who sat on my shoulder and whispered wicked things that curled in my brain and drove me mad? No more sharp toys, no more chasing chaos, no more hangover-inducing all night parties where everyone curls up as the sun rises.
Where is the wild self-destructive glee in this grown up world?
this post brought to you by a possible-concussion, an overdose of coffee, and way too many fairy tales.
We sat out on the balcony in the heat and felt the storm come closer. We could feel the electricity in the air before the first shot rang out. From the heavens to our earth, light connecting us. For God so loved the world. We sat on the balcony, cold beers sweating, watching the heat crackle. The lightening grew. Single strands then strands of two and three. We knew were were safe. Untouched by the far off raging storm.
It's really gray and cold here. I haven't had the desire to do anything but curl up on my couch, drink coffees, and watch Torchwood. The past couple of days that's exactly what I've been doing. I have also spent a lot of time going through my many photo albums from my time in England. I found these outfit photos that I never got around to posting. Everything except the boots, tights, and hat are from England. Even my hair cut and color was done at the Vidal Sasson on Bond Street,London.
I miss London so much it hurts.
It was the first place I felt confident in who I was as an individual adult. I grew up a lot in those four months. I learned to cook, I had a job I loved, I was interested in learning again. I spent lots of time walking around the city and through its parks. In London, I truly felt like me. Since returning to the United States I've had a lot of good days but lately the weather has been kicking my ass. Why is it so cold and gray in April? How is this fair?
If it's going to be cold, gray, and damp, I might as well be in London.
In London, there are trains every few minutes that speed you down tunnels and take you to exciting new places. There are little alleys to explore and you feel like a character from Shakespeare. The buildings are old and the bricks have history that is palpable. Even the new buildings are designed in ways that excite the imagination. There are large parks in the middle of the city; it's possible to be so far deep into a park that you forget there is a city around you.
The last time I was sick (well, the time before the time before the last time I was sick, I’ve been sick thrice here in London), Boyfriend microwaved me chicken noodle soup and brought me ice cream from the dinning hall. He stayed curled up in bed with me and watched SVU and NCIS for days and days until I felt well enough to leave the comfort of my room. My parents used to take off work when I was a sick kid. They would bring me soup and sandwiches and pester me to ‘drink some water, finish half that glass.’ When you’re sick someone is supposed to take care of you, right?
Well, apparently not when you’re an adult. When you’re living on your own there isn’t anyone to take care of you. That means, even though you’d rather stay curled up in bed, you have to walk to the corner store and buy cans of soup. Then you have to microwave the soup yourself, standing in the kitchen with your feet cold against the floor and your nose running. You have to remind yourself to drink water, and take the cold medicine, and buy more toilet paper to use as tissues. Sometimes you have to call your work and explain why you can’t come in. You have to email your professors and explain why you missed class, “hi Professor, sorry I wasn’t in class today. I have a really bad cold and I drank NyQuil to help me sleep and then I slept through your class. Sorry.”
Normally I love that I’m growing up. I love the freedom that comes with working for my money and paying for my own things. I love not having to ask permission or to apologize for breaking rules I didn’t make up. But this past week, as I lay on the floor of my room and struggled to breathe through my stuffed nose and my needled throat, I would have traded all the freedom in the world to have someone telling me I would be OK and bringing me bowls of soup and glasses of cold water.
I believe in fairy tales. I believe in magic and wonder and mystery. Because I believe I'm always looking. My eyes are open to things that aren't quite 'normal'. Sometimes I'm rewarded for my constant alertness. A month or so ago I stumbled upon this magic coffee shop. I think it's run by fairies. Perhaps it came to the Thames River Festival after a trip to the market at Wall.
When I was younger I was a gymnast. Not, by any means, a fantastically talented gymnast; in fact, I started gymnastics at a late age and was really too old to be any more than average at it. I loved gymnastics though. I loved powdering my hands before using the uneven bars, I loved mastering a new trick, I loved practicing my flips on the trampoline. The balance beam was one of my favorite acts, however, it was also one of the most difficult. Perched on top of a skinny beam you are alone performing your tricks. Falling isn't simply hitting the mat, there is a danger of whacking a shin, elbow, or head against the hard beam. Some days it was easy to perform a trick, my body would remain perfectly centered as I pirouetted, jumped, and occasionally flipped. Other days I spent more time falling and picking myself up from the fall than I did on the actual beam. Some days I had balance, other days I didn't. It's a bit like that now. Instead of balancing my body on a plank four inches wide, I'm balancing my life on my sanity. I feel like for years I've struggled to find the balance between responsibility and fun, adventure and reflection, relationships and solitude, chocolate and vegetables. It is more clear to me now, here in London, than ever before that striking the right balance is crucial. Unfortunately, the awareness of the need to find balance does not provide me with the guidebook. I have built in myself the habit of imbalance. I stress over not writing papers and instead of just sitting down and writing them I let the stress overwhelm me until the only thing I can do is vegetate while watching TV or reading and then I'm forced to pull all-nighters writing a paper while guzzling energy drinks and eating shit food. This is of course followed by a crash and then the vicious cycle begins again. But I'm done with that. It just won't do anymore. I'm learning from my mistakes. I'm practicing the art of balance. I am sleeping eight hours a night. I am working on homework in advance. I'm making sure to take breaks to explore London and to have fun. I am making wholesome meals with chicken and vegetables and fruits but I'm also eating chocolate when I want to. I'm doing what I need to to be well both academically and physically. Figuring out balance is not easy. Some days I spend far too much time watching Doctor Who and look around suddenly to find that not only have I not done any homework but I've also spent the entire day indoors. On days like that I go to be grumpy and discontent. I'm learning to listen to my instincts- my inner me doesn't want to waste days indoors getting nothing done. On the other hand, when I first arrived in London I ran around nonstop and went sightseeing and went dancing and I ended up with a nasty cold; the physical me has a limit and if I fail to respect that I can do damage. I'm trying to learn balance but it seems that, at the same time, I'm also learning a lot about me.
This is the stack of books I would much rather be reading than working on my projects (which is what I'm doing). Here's an excerpt from the short story I am reworking for my creative writing course.
My father and Dr. Brennon talked far into the night. I sat at a table by the dirty window. I stared at my distorted reflection and ran my finger up and down my scar. I tried to picture myself without it. I turned and looked at my profile. My eyes are big and dark. My skin is pale and my lips look red against it. I might be beautiful from this angle but always there was the pale red scar on the other half of my face. I stared and wondered if without it I would be beautiful. I stared and wondered if life without my scar was real. Was this the answer to all those prayers, those nights curled up crying out to a god, any god? Was Dr. Brennon the proof that all my wishing had not fallen on deaf ears?
“Beauty, Beauty,” My father rested his hand on my shoulder. “Wake up, my dear Beauty. Tomorrow you go with Dr. Brennon.”
I lifted my head off the table and looked around the bar, Dr. Brennon was gone.
“He went to his hospital to arrange everything. Tomorrow I will drive you there and soon you will have the surgery.” There were tears in my father’s eyes. “Soon the scar will be gone.”
The next morning I packed my small suitcase with a few items of clothing and a picture of my mother. I kissed Joanna and Lettie good-bye and my father and I got into his old, dirty car. We drove for hours but for once, the sleep that normally stole over me on long car rides was kept at bay. I stared at the window and smiled up at the sun and the clouds. When we stopped for gas I almost didn’t notice the stares from the other customers; soon no one would stare at me.
We arrived at the hospital as the sun was setting. The mirrored windows of the building reflected the red and pink of the sun over and over; every way I looked there was beautiful color. A nurse met us at the door and took us to my room. The bed was big and soft, not at all like the hospital beds I had slept in after the accident. The walls were pale blue and the floors were a thick carpet. When my father left that night to return to the bar and my sisters, I took off my shoes and sunk my feet into the carpet. I stood with my arms outstretched and smiled. That night, before I went to bed I said a prayer of thanks for Dr. Brennon. While I slept, I dreamt of princes and castles made of sunsets.
Tuesday, March 9
Some days, you wake up disoriented and discover you've slept through your first class. Some days, nothing in your extensive, messy closet goes together. Some days, a sarcastic comment, normally brushed off, hits you hard and spins you. Some days, it is hard to smile, much less function, in a busy world.
Some days, you make it to your second class on time and understand math. Some days, you throw together an outfit that makes you feel beautiful and different. Some days, your boyfriend holds you until you stop crying and the words don't hurt. Some days, there is sunshine and wildberry smoothies to get you through.
