My bed times for the past half week:
Sunday – 4 a.m.
Monday – 5 a.m.
Tuesday – 3 a.m.
Wednesday – 4 a.m.
I started feeling lightheaded when I stood up last night…that can’t be good, can it? And yet I still find time to peruse my twitter and facebook feeds. Priorities, people!
I always tell friends that the amount of conscious, rational thinking I do between the stages of deep sleep and waking amazes me, but I don’t think many of them understand how frighteningly thorough this process is. So in an effort to illuminate this phenomenon, let me tell you about my morning.
What a rainy morning sometimes looks like for me
From Teaching Life: Letters from a Life in Literature by Dale Salwak.
When Mozart was three years old he first sat down at his sister’s harpsichord in the family house in Salzburg “to find notes that like one another.” That become his life’s work. I enjoy sharing this story because I hear in it a metaphor for the writer — who strives to find words that like one another.
Silence are the things people don’t say.
So said professor Vincent Sherry. In my Virginia Woolf course, we are reading “The Voyage Out” and talking about feelings that know no vocabulary, that know no grammar.
The language we know, at the most, is inadequate. How laughable we may find the words, “I just want you.” There is no good way to say it, and how easily we roll our eyes at the ludicrously sounding cliches, the terrible writing we condemn romance novels for.
Then one day you are met with feelings that know no vocabulary and know no grammar. You sit there across from him, unable to articulate the weight that holds you down, knowing he is also held down without knowing whether the textures and complexities his weight bears resemble that which yours does.
And you realize that these clumsy phrase and grasping words, as inadequate as they appear, are the best we can do. In this place, you realize this desiring language encompasses a greater, uncommnicable condition.
You discover how difficiult it is to focus your vision on a face that appears so large, which looms so close.
You are surprised by how clearly you can actually see a reflection of your grim expression against the dark circles of two brown eyes.
It has only been the third day of class, and already I am up doing work well into the night. And now I am…blogging? Clearly, I am struggling to find a routine to snuggle into.
Without a rhythm, it feels like I’ve spent the past week and a half waiting for the other shoe to drop — waiting for a moment when I can take a breath, when I can close my eyes without my mind racing to compile a list of tasks to next take care of. It pains me that in this craziness, aBAD has been a straggling project, ever since I have gotten back to St. Louis. Its not that I don’t have anything to say. Returns are just like departures, in that they are full of stories.
But in a way, there is a reason for all this, though not an excuse. Because wedged in the moments of blurred time, dusty unpacking, and new-year anxiety are also moments like this:
When everyone has arrived in town and the group congregates around a hearty dinner table for the first time, there is nothing but smiles and sparkles in the eyes all around. Everyone leans forward, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor one another, each tied to the words of recounted funny episodes, big news, and juicy tidbits of gossip. Around this lifeline snakes a golden thread of general cheer and warm fuzziness. Good food, good company. Even good beer (cider).
In moments like these, as sad as it might make me in retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t break away at the end of the night to my computer. It is a great thing to write daily and sping stories and practice being a better writer. But it’s also simply wonderful to cling to the pleasures of feeling of fullness, in life, and to savor the taste of friendship till the last lingering moments of the day.
Over the years, Wash U’s underclassmen dorm area, known as the South 40, has undergone many changes — of the office chair, memory foam mattress variety. Now me, I’m sitting in an extremely wooden chair, failing to find a comfortable way to share a twin XL. Unfair? I think so.
As angry as I might be about the pretty European-looking new building with fancy glass coffee tables in the common room, I actually only have fond memories of my two years on the 40. In the midst of unpacking today, I found a poem I had written for Writing 1 freshman year inspired by a walk home on the 40 from class.
Super Sunday
The rustling of the trees;
Soft fluttering of wings;
Leaves that turn purple –
A bicycle runs by from behind.
The buzzing of planes in air;
Rumbling of a lawnmower;
Cicadas that call out –
A truck in revers shatters the calm.
The echoing last beeps;
Clattering chains on a cart;
Slow footsteps that patter –
A breeze races by bare ears.
The afternoon unfolds lazily –
The kind of day I like the best.
In the spirit of not panicking in the last few days, I’ve committed myself to taking it slow this evening. Which, at the moment, means kicking back with some of my mom’s homemade plum wine before attending to some work.
As I raise a glass to knowing there will be more trips and recognizing that these trips strike a good balance overall, I confess that I don’t know a whole lot about alcohol, particularly wine. I’m only confident that I like the sweeter stuff: white and, when I — by which I mean my parents — can afford it, dessert wines usually do the trick.
It’s not that I don’t want to become more fluent in the language of wines. But every time I pick up a bottle of wine to learn about its contents, the descriptions on the labels baffle me. How does this bitter, sharp red smell like melon or strawberries in anyway? Where are these “notes” of licorice or mocha?
It’s all too abstract and fluffy for me.
Which is why I love plum wine. Unlike the wines that boast full-bodied fruitiness and really smell like evaporating ethanol, plum wine actually tastes like plum. It’s sweet. It’s tangy. It has a fragrance slightly reminiscent of prunes.
Plum wine also tastes good — which is more than I can say for alcohol in general. There’s a reason I usually stick to girlie drinks and avoid the frat party pour so popular amongst other college students. Essentially made of rice wine and loads of sugar with a decent dose of rice wine, this golden elixir more closely resembles the ice wines I so adore than the common tequila or vodka shots.
As such, it’s usually served in a glass of ice cubes. And when it comes to drinks, absolutes are good — no halfway, lukewarm business. So as thick as plum wine can be in its sweetness, the frosty drink goes down easily (and, in my case, also quickly). In fact, the icy coldness proves most refreshing, maybe even perfect, on a hot and humid Asian summer night like this.
I guess the only thing left to do is the stop writing, and enjoy.
The last week of anything is always hectic. It doesn’t matter if it’s the last week of school, the last week of work, or the last week of a vacation or trip. During my remaining days in Taipei, I’m frantically making lists I’ll never finish checking off. I feel like I’ve been chasing my own tail, desperately running after time knowing I’ll never catch up..
There are always more things to do, more people to see, more places to go, and more things to eat. I’m starting to wonder if maybe we got it right in Boston after all.
A couple of months ago, I spent a few hundred dollars for a flight to see one of my best high school friends. I’d have loved to have more than a couple of days in Boston, but I figured half a week should be enough to hit all the major spots. People take weekend trips all the time.
Who knew that though it was a quarter into the new year, it would be freezing in Boston? Well, it was. Literally. It flurried. It snowed. It rained. I don’t remember if it rained and snowed at the same time so that it hailed.
But it was also vacation. So many days we found our selves finishing lunch at 3 or 4pm, or staying warm in the apartment. Many museum plans failed, and a number of parts on the sightseeing and shopping itinerary. We knew we should be maximizing the visit, but we more often than not couldn’t get ourselves to disentangle from the blankets or pull on the various layers and shoes.
We might’ve been lazy, and we might’ve wasted the days away. But when we weren’t full on laughter, we were stuffed with entrees and dessert. We always had good company and good food — which, in the end, are the most important things. Aren’t they?
During our two-hour conversation today about my post-grad plans, my dad wondered if my sister should be present. So she can learn from my experiences, he said.
I thought about it. I thought about telling her how she’ll probably get sick of making friends all the time a month into first semester. I thought about telling her how she’ll sign up for no less than two dozen clubs and show up to maybe four, then spend all her time at two. But she’ll figure these things out on her own. So I told her to be independent as possible so she will grow all she can.
But thinking about just starting college made me miss, just a little bit, the constant crowdedness of freshman year. Seeing the ever-present members of the freshman floor. Hall meetings. RA programming. Trying to fit in with existing members of the clubs you join. Making more connections at every event and party you attend.
Not that I haven’t moved on a long time ago. Just living in an on-campus apartment with other upperclassmen last year left me feeling a little claustrauphobic on occasion — though this might have something to do with living next to the fraternities.
What is it, then, about freshman year? Why do I look back upon it so fondly, even though I’ll give anything to not have to relive it?
I finally figured it out when I was reading my notes on my Japan trip and found the lines I’d jotted on a story our tour guide told us. It’s about this: we are all familiar with the concept “love thy neighbor,” but before this comes knowing thy neighbor.
The tour guide told us that on one Taiwanese tour, a couple of the boys he had been leading wanted a bit of help. One of their old professors moved to Japan years ago, and now that they were there, they wanted to pay him a visit. They presented him with a slip of paper, asking him to find them a taxi that would take them to the written address.
Christine is an aspiring journalist studying at Washington University in St. Louis. Her school doesn't offer a journalism major, so she launched a project of writing a blog a day. Her posts include musings on food, college, relationships, dreams, and life in general.
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