Gone.

We’re getting ready, steadily moving forward, changing the plan. There’s been a lot of yelling and frustration about something that should have been simple. It’s hard for me to part with my stuff.
I find myself most content when I have less, yet I have this compulsion to always have more. It’s a fact; it’s not a habit; it’s something I cannot yet change. Maybe as I ease into adulthood and come into being as my own person, I will be able to forego the material and embrace the singular ideal of life without clutter.
Remember when Mom and Dad got divorced and Mike and I lived out of duffel bags? I have decided that this is where my need for stuff comes from, the idea that perhaps I won’t have something for a few days, the idea that someone else will take it and I’ll never see it again, the idea that I’ll be somewhere and not have what I need with me.
It’s odd.
The new, revized Plan Z is this: Mom and Mike are leaving Denver at noon on the 7th. I leave before them, in the early morning hours. We meet in Chicago on Friday afternoon, sign the lease, hand over ridiculous amounts of money, open the doors to my new life and then settle in. Then they leave.
It’s great, really. Hopefully this will eliminate the need for a.) shippping and b.) plane tickets for Mom. Maybe we will save money, maybe we will not. At this point, it’s not about that anymore. It’s about the fact that all of this is happening in four days.
I can’t wait.
I have things to tell everyone, things I have mulled over and over.
But the thing I have to tell you is: I want to go abroad. I want to pack a bag and then just leave. I would like that very much.

Let’s embrace what we have left of everything.

I was born on a Wednesday

The world changes on Tuesdays. September 11th was a Tuesday. Columbine was a Tuesday. I remember only because when Dad picked us up from school and told us, I thought he was trying to tell us that something had happened to Mom. Tuesdays. Miserable. Worse than Mondays. Lives are shaped, molded, changed forever on Tuesdays.
And this Tuesday was no different than the rest. Phone calls were made, emails exchanged, desperation. I didn’t cry, not once, although I should have. Maybe I will. Someone reneged on a promise, left me in the cold, left me to live alone next year in a city I don’t know well enough to navigate by myself.
And so the decision was made for me. In case you weren’t aware, the first college that ever rejected me was Lewis and Clark, by my own fault at not sending the paperwork in rapid succession. That time delay, the time I so very much needed, cost me a future with someone I care about. Well, at least an academic future. And so, this fall, I believe I will embark on an adventure yet to be known as “Chicago, the Second Time Around and Just Maybe this Time, Things Will Work Out.”
Take care of Mom for me next year, please, make sure she doesn’t get too lonely in the house. Buy her plane tickets to come see me, or me tickets to see her. Tell her how much you love her and don’t let her get sad. It sounds strange, but I’m scared to leave her, really. I’m starting to tear up, something I haven’t done all day. It’s been a nice semester. I get to see her everyday, for the most part, and I get to talk to her and hang out with her and go see movies with her. People think I’m weird, but I love her so much. It’s nice to be at home, and to get to sleep in my own bed, something I probably won’t ever do after the end of this summer. I’ll be gone, out on my own, living the life I probably won’t even enjoy, educating myself, paying with someone else’s money for a degree that cost too much, too much time, too much money, too much heartache, too many tears.
There’s no place for me, except home, but I can’t stay here forever. I hate to say that; I hate to go back to Chicago, but something is telling me why not. Just go for it, just do it, get it over with. Be done, be educated, be a functioning member of society.
I was denied a credit card today. Apparently, to get credit, you have to already have credit.
Once again, I was reminded how mediocre I am. It’s a thought that has been haunting me lately, I’ve been brooding about it now for years, but I always held onto the thought that maybe I’d find something I’d be great at. Spring break brought hints by others that I should just become a teacher, something I would never deign to do. No offense, I’m not quite tough enough to teach, I wouldn’t be fulfilled by it; I would be left frustrated, unsatisfied, exhausted and annoyed.
That’s what I am now. All of it, and then some. I am terrified of the future, of what I can’t do, what I should have done, what I’ll never do.
And before the rest of my life begins, I have to kill two more years in Chicago, all so I can get a job, make money, get married, procreate and then expire. Great. All of it. Great.
What did you want to do before you settled into your lives of mediocrity? What was your great ambition?
Will I ever get to see mine fulfilled?

endnote: This was an embarrassingly melodramatic post, to your minds, I’m sure. I apologize. There’s no other outlet than the comfort I find in making the pretense that no one reads this. And once you have, and are unsatisfied, feel free to inspect your own ambitions and then realize that no one ever gets exactly what they want. Sacrifices must be made for the sake of society, and this is mine. Chicago. To you, it’s a city. It’s a school. I should go. To me, it’s endless torture, much like any other school, any other city, any other place. I can’t settle, for now. I’m restless and it must end. So it is. Chicago. 2010. And then, wherever my life will lead.
And the many plane tickets, airports, car rides in between.

Pre-Halloween and final Oregon pictures.





Saturday night was the pre-halloween party at Melissa’s friend Kaylie’s house at Illinois State University, which is a two hour car ride from Chicago. I dressed as Snow White and spent the better part of the night drifting between people that I knew, making the required small talk. I went outside, to talk to Danny for a little while and get some air, and then ended up having an actual conversation. Another party, another set of faces, and back again. It was enjoyable, but not overly stimulating.
I jumped on the trampoline at Melissa’s house today with her and Bobby and her 8 year old brother. That’s the one thing I was never allowed to have as a child, and the one thing I always wanted. Relaxing into the couch, curling up with football and a golden retriever, and a home-cooked meal. The drive back, eventually, and the weekend ended.
It’s back to the grind again.
The pictures: all of us at Kaylie’s; me and kaylie; melissa decided to give me a piggy back ride (at that point i had ditched my cute but painful shoes and slipped into my new favorites…..); Danny and I in Oregon, being young and in love.

Time melds as days turn into nights and then swiftly into days again. Lists and agendas pile up, good intentions never quite turned into actions. Clutter, so carefully attended to for such a long time, piles now, in places most awkward and obvious. THe desk, a dumping ground for paper products: receipts, art supplies, notebooks, textbooks that should have been opened nightly for the past two months. The floor, a collection of dirty laundry and clean, socks, mittens, a duffel bag, the Communist Manifesto. Pictures adorn the walls, models, friends, impressionists, photographs. There is no theme, no rhyme nor reason to the rooms. Now that fall is official, there are Halloween decorations, borrowed from parents whose lives are already set.
It is a question, hanging there, waiting to be answered.
It is the silence that follows, in the moments where one is unsure of what to say, or how to respond.
It is the deafening, the slow quiet in the room.
It is time to explode, to begin, to renew, to live.
She offended me, today, telling me I have nothing to worry about. I laughed it off then, standing at the check-in desk, waiting to let her into the building, but I wanted to tell her that sometimes things aren’t what they seem. Set into life, she has it easy. The endless stream of bills is constant. The mortgage payment doesn’t change. Her husband’s eyes don’t wander, her children are safe and happy. She has a career, a path, and I’d assume goals.
I stand on the edge of everything. Of staying, of leaving, of wanting to do what I love and loving to do what I want. I’m confused. I’m thrown and tossed a million different directions, caught between the two cities that I’ve grown to love and the people that I’ve become attached to. Every time someone says I’m too young, that I don’t know what I’m doing, I become more resolute. Life, to me at least, isn’t about doing what you should do, or what will lead to a standard life. I want to follow my heart, and if that leads me somewhere incorrect, then I’ll laugh about it, say I made a mistake and keep going. There are times I just want to run away from here, and not look back. I’d pack a duffel bag, taking Buddy and my Winnie the Pooh comforter that I just can’t get rid of, and some t-shirts and my clogs and just get away from here. I’d sell my books for plane tickets, and run to him and let him hold me against his shoulder and tell me everything will be alright. Or I’d run somewhere else, and get a job, or a little cottage by a lake somewhere, and spend hours working on the masterpiece that is daily edging itself into my brain. But not much, so don’t start holding your breath yet. I want to be happy. I want to experience everything. I want to move around and not settle down. Something happened in me this summer, a sort of yearning for comfort. I no longer want my heart to be broken in one of those heated arguments; I don’t want to be with someone just because I think I have to, that I need the practice. I want what I have, right now. It’s not that far-fetched of an idea, really. And today, for some reason, we decided, was going to be the day. 3 months, then, we are into this endeavor and I have not wavered in my opinion. If anything, it gets stronger every day. There is a connection there, the sort of thing that I never expected to find.
My clock has been blinking in a strange way, as though the power was turned off, since I got back from Oregon. And every night, I stare at it. I’m beginning to read it as though it was an actual clock. It’s only fifty minutes off, so I just sort of do the math in my mind. I don’t change it. I wonder how long it will take.
I’m consumed by thoughts of everything. Of worry for the safety of the one person I could never lose, of the success of the procedure people I don’t trust are about to embark on. I worry about him, always, just as much as he worries about me. I think about scenarios, I run them through my head. I play with the future, with ideas, places, people, life.
Australia, I think. Maybe.

Futuresque

I have a plan:

Double majoring in English with a concentration on creative writing and Journalism.
Minoring in Political Science, Communications, and Women’s studies.

The Communications minor could be dropped.
Total, however, it’s only 105 hours which means it’s doable.

I am beginning to slowly bring things from my room back to the apartment. The great move has begun.

Apparently, due to lack of financial hardships in my family, I will be expected to pay the lovely amount of $10,000 to live on campus next year.
I hate Loyola at the moment, and am not looking forward to becoming a sophomore.

On sunrises

I woke from a deep and untroubled sleep induced by pills to find this outside my window. And then I realized that for any shift of place, there must also be a sort of shift of time. In Colorado, I find that the sunsets arouse in me the love for the place I’ll always call home, but here, I find that the sunrises bring me that same simple joy. And so, to my second home, I am finally welcoming you into my heart and mind, and letting you run away with my spirit.

The weather has been warm of late. It’s taunting me, daring me to shed my layers and run to the beach, but I fear that if I do, I will only find ice and wind. Instead, cautiously, I tiptoe from my building and let the cool breeze graze my skin and pull my hair back. And I smile but say nothing because I do not wish the warmth to disintegrate. The heat in my room has mysteriously stopped working. I have taken the lid off the thermostat and fiddled with it, so that I might be able to magically make it work again, but to no avail. All of the blankets will be coming in handy soon, or perhaps my blood will have to thicken.

Good news arrived after a rather childish attempt on my part. Since the tattered remains of Alex and my relationship have been blown away by our own actions, I have been slowly reawakening to the thought of someone. And suddenly, here I am, giddy again with delightful thoughts. So with good intentions I am going, and I know he has good intentions, so we shall see where all of this leads. Hopefully…cross my fingers…good luck dance….please. Let me find something worth finding, please.

Room reapplications are out. I got #598, which is way better than Emily’s 1092, or something. So we are currently in the process of deciding where we will live next year and how that will happen. Cross you fingers again there as well. I will be needing $200 by next Monday. I know, short notice. Go beg the lenders and pry open your pocketbooks, the housing deposit is due!