I’ve realized lately my gross habit of complaining about everything. The funny thing is, the things I complain about are rarely those that actually bother me. And few things bother me now except those that happened a long time ago which I (successfully, most of the time) avoid thinking about as they have little to no effect on my current daily life, and my own difficulty in accepting a daily routine while simultaneously being afraid of anything else.
Perhaps I have made a fair amount of questionable choices in my life, but I regret nothing and it’s not a challenge to say/truly believe that.
I never thought moving into a small apartment in the suburbs could actually make my life somewhat entertaining instead of just a sad reminder of what I no longer have from college.
Par for the course, everything that’s happened here. And I will gladly take it.
I am still the girl I was before I “grew up,” and that’s surprisingly delightful.
Fuck yeah, YOLO!
And I said I know it well
That secret that you know
But don’t know how to tell
It fucks with your honor
And it teases your head
But you know that it’s good, girl
Because it’s running you with red.
Good thing I didn’t.
That is a good thing, isn’t it?
Life is so full of little deaths.
So many, so many,
so many things I miss.
Spent the majority of today (well, thus far) crying. Death is so foreign to me and life is so incredibly short. Rest in peace, Mando.
Mando, you were doing great things. I hope you are resting in peace and you will be missed by all of us. I was truly blessed to know you, even if only for a short time.
Well, I’m all grown up and awfully normal (on the surface).
I have a job as an Assistant Director of Admissions at Brown Mackie College.
I have a lab/border collie mix named Chico.
I have a one-year-anniversary coming up next week with my fiance.
I have an apartment in a complex with a pool and fitness center.
I have developed a taste for matching cherry furniture and good wine.
Less than a year ago, my biggest fear was boredom. If you had asked me to define it, the list would have looked a lot like the one above.
I’m not settling. There is still so much room for change. I’m still planning on attending graduate school for Latin American literature in a couple years. I’m still excited to wake up each morning. And best of all, thanks to my new job, I’m excited to go to work and more than able to pay my bills and enjoy life the way it deserves to be.
Yeah, life is good.
I’ve stopped writing, and that’s a problem. So while I’m in front of a computer for a hot second, let’s fix this.
I am graduated and living in Sandusky, Ohio. I despise this town for a plethora of reasons not worth mentioning right now. I just finished a job interview, and in June, I look forward to renting a houseboat for a week with some of my very best friends, and returning to my fair college on the hill, my Denison that I miss more every day, for the Reynolds Writing Workshop.
I am reminded of the last week of class - in particular, my 400-level Spanish seminar on transatlanticismo. One day, we spoke about transitioning from one place/area/time/space to another. Is there a grey area? Can we be two things simultaneously? Or do we slip in instants between specific moments?
There is always a grey area, and if there ever were one, I’m in one now. I think it is unfair (but in some respects understandable) to compartmentalize the world and those in it as much as we do. Especially Americans. We have this tendency to forget (block off, ignore, choose your verb) the fact that we are in constant interaction with spaces of transition. Though it is much simpler to think in terms of black-and-white, it is hardly healthy to apply that though process in real life.
In class we spoke about border-crossers, illegal immigrants from Mexico and other Central and South American countries, lost (and I mean lost) in a desert so vast it’s unclear what country they’re in. In the southern states, sometimes only a dying barbed-wire fence marks a border, but many times there is nothing at all. The sand, the heat, the peril all remain unchanged when they do cross that line in the sand. But that’s just it - it’s all imaginary, anyway. We create these borders and limits because they are easier to comprehend, seemingly more concrete when we envision them. But in practice they prove useless.
I was not a graduate until the day I received my degree, but that doesn’t mean I was purely an undergraduate up until that point. Preparing for jobs, every “last” moment with friends, that distinctive feeling of watching everything before you turn to memory, to the past, though it is still happening… you are in neither one place nor another.
When the Spanish conquistadores shipped out for the New World, seeing nothing but sea around them for months and months until finally reaching shore, where were they? I’m not talking latitude/longitude, or the name of the ocean, or what direction they’re going in. Where were they? There are no borders in the ocean. Do we draw lines where one sea meets another? The conquistadores were, literally, between worlds. They knew (or perhaps not) that the Spain they left would not be the Spain to which they returned.
In the same way, our memories change from the actual events. We pick and choose what we remember, and everything in our memories is constantly changing in the present no matter how still our minds can make things seem. Everything is subject to change.
I don’t know what all of this is trying to convey. Maybe that I’m feeling confused, maybe that a liberal arts education got the better of me (I’m still bitter I can’t read a poem about cats without pondering its sociopolitical implications), or maybe that I just need more sleep.
Either way, it felt good to get that out. Phew.