What Love Has To Do With It

So, here comes that day again, where everything is covered in blood red and bubble-gum pink and you are just trying to buy a pair of socks and the only thing available has little hearts or a fat baby cupid on them....and oh God, it must be Valentine's Day.

This time last year, I had just broken up with a guy, N, that I had dated way too long for anyway, but it just sort of kept happening. He bothered me with his pompous guitar playing and when he gave me a burned CD, (silly me, thinking they were songs from his favorite bands) I quickly realized it was all him....playing the electric guitar with an alarming amount of vigor. N always had grease in his fingernails, from being a mechanic, and wore too tight of pants. He really was a nice guy, but other than having a shared love for Mumford and the Avett Brothers, I wasn't sure what else there was to talk about.

I suppose breaking up with N ranked somewhere on my list of: Send grandma a big-ass Valentine's card, buy peanut butter for survival, schedule hair appt., break up with N.......

Does this make me sound mean? I hope not. But, let's be honest, unless someone is really blowing my socks off it's just not that worth having my precious time yanked from my palms. Not that the initial games and intrigue aren't enticing, because of course they are, but eventually, moving so many pieces start to make my hands hurt and I just want to go home.

Last weekend, I went out to Nasty's, Austin's best hole-in-the-wall bar ever, with some of my favorite people in this city. We drank great beer and played egregious pool and all the other great activities one expects from a wildly adorable sitcom about twenty-somethings. In this event, A, a good guy friend, was asking about my love life. I have grown use to this being a topic of high interest to those that are strictly monogamous and 'tied down'. I suppose one could even find humor in the, who is Kristen dating NOW? game, depending on the phase in my life. After telling A all of my male woes and raves he looked at me and said, "But wouldn't you rather be single than just date someone not great?" Well geez. When you put it like that, DUH, and of course that is totally true. After all, I am quite content doing things alone, more than most I fear, and thus I am not as wildly overcome with despair when men come in and out and prove to be disappointing (which, to date, that has been all of them, not that I'm counting or anything...). A smiled, perhaps because he was feeling better that I wasn't dating just because I had nothing better to do, and was calming his own darling fears that I would settle and then spend my forties staring out a glass window at an overly manicured garden or something. He gave me a nice pat and the back and I too felt reassured, having verbalized that I indeed would not let mediocre male behavior fly, and we continued to drown another pint.

The truth is, there is a lot of love happening in my life. Why, let me tell you, my students continue to surprise me with their warmth and the way they divulge precious information like beautiful little sand dollars that have taken so many years to be created and revealed by the ocean. I look forward to little hugs in the hallway, their happy faces when they get answers right, and the way those feisty little detention boys hover around my room when I'm not even their teacher! Lucky me! And, can I just say, seeing my 8th grade boys choose Tupac poems about loving unconditionally, was enough to make me literally make a cooing noise, then abruptly have to do a sort of cough-clearing-of-throat cover up. But truly, my work allows for me to feel alarmingly loved, and let me tell you, the feeling is mutual. Plus, let's be honest, there isn't a cuter pair of nephews than my little boys in Colorado. If there is anything I thank Apple for, it's letting me FaceTime with my babies in Denver, and for letting me see the newest train track Carter has set up, and the way Weston rests his soft head on my sister's chest, with those big pink cheeks and long eyelashes like his father. Why, just last week, Carter proudly snatched me (well, the me inside the phone screen) and dragged me to the impressive stack of snow outside their house, yelling, "Tia, snow, snow!"

I suppose sometimes, it is normal to think, at 25, that you just have rotten luck, or that you pick bad male specimens, but I think that is mostly narcissistic to think you're the only one with such odds. I mean, seriously, is there anyone in NYC under 30 and in a serious relationship? Could Katherine Heigl and Mandy Moore have careers if there weren't so many single women with dating battle wounds lining their hearts? Certainly not. I mean, I am a product of a father who treats me with respect and as an intellectual equal, and a mother who, verbatim, told me, upon telling her I was dating two guys at the same time, "Kristen, don't make any commitments, you've only been going out with them a month! Have fun!"

I do like fun, and I am young (though I feel old after controlling teenagers all day), and I like the idea that I am still free to do all the little delicious things that make me happy. I can head up a book club, do happy hour every Friday, go to coffee shops on weekends, start a boot camp, go to writing meetups, take up sewing, watch hours slip away at Book People, and leave the country for a month without blinking. Yes, I suppose eventually these things will be eclipsed by a relationship, perhaps even a small-town life that will frighten me at times, but overall I think that there is a lot of love around me, floating and bobbing like little balloons with fat inflated heads, reminding me that it's alright to be just where I am in life. Love isn't meant to be categorized, as we tend to do, always ranking romantic relationships as number one. For I know it to be divinely true that, when my students hug or thank me, when my mother tears up about how much she misses me, or my best friends back home remind me of our past adventures together, I don't think of men at all, I just think of how damn lucky I am to have any of that love stuff at all.

And I can not end this without telling you of the most important, yet most difficult love of all: the love you have for yourself. Now, I know this is starting to sound like a quote from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or something, but it's true. So many people don't really know or love themselves, but instead absorb and deflect the love from others. I feel grateful that at 25, I at least know myself, though there are new discoveries all the time, like the fact that I literally do squeal and jump into H's lap at scary movies, but overall, I am content with who I have become and I could certainly look in the mirror in some kind of video montage and tell myself, "Hey you, I kinda love ya."


So, in case you hate Valentine's Day, try not to, because it's a bit cliche to do that and also, you are way too loved to have a right to hate anything, don't you think?

Where Will You Place That Cap?

As the New Year begins, I find myself making my inevitable list of everything I wish to conquer, achieve, and encounter in 2012. But, before I let my pen touch paper with this activity, I look back at the year I have already had, the one that has brought so much to who I am and what I have here, in Austin. I will share some of the things, to you, in an attempt to encourage you to reflect as well on things gone by.

Things Gone By: 2011

1. I acquired my dream job: teaching middle school reading at KLMS
2. I finally began to make enough money to relax and at times, indulge
3. I went on a journey with my parents to Canada, Oregon and Washington
4. I spent a month in my dear Chico, in some of the most beautiful summer weather I have yet seen
5. I went on a trip with Heather to San Francisco, Santa Cruz and the Redwoods
6. I lost someone but gained others, and healed almost in full
7. I greeted a nephew, Weston, and held him in my arms when he was less than a week old, and had the most perfect shade of pink on his skin
8. I grew professionally and now have a confidence that I did not know I craved nor possessed
9. I wrote....and wrote some more......and have not lost my urge to FINISH my book
10. I kept all my family and friends safe within my sacred world, all while welcoming new ones, ones that will illuminate me more magnificently than ever before
11. And finally, a very small one, I purchased a banjo and started playing (though awfully) for no one in the world but myself

As I write this list, it is both calming to see what I have done, and thrilling to think of the list that will be written a year from now. Each year is so palpable with possibilities that it brings one into a near seizure with giddiness at what is possible for one that is 25, in possession of great family, friends and career, and so blessed. It seems unfair, in a myriad of ways, that I should get this time for myself and for exploration. That I live in country, where I can dream and be whatever pattern I choose to lay down. I read my students an article that discussed the Time Magazine "Person of the Year" for 2011, which was "The Protester" and found myself yet again preaching the blessing of living in a free country. I want them to see the world and its beauty, as well as its numerous flaws and inequalities. I want them to open their eyes, the way mine were thrown open, and I feel that in a way I am indebted to lady luck, and to appease her I must expose cruel truths to my students. Don't get me wrong, they love learning about such things, and though I feel at times guilty for pressing my strong feminist agenda, they have learned about real social and political issues in a way I know aren't taught by many. But how can I not? How can I not think of those who are not as sublimely lucky as myself? I am so privileged....but you know what, let's shelf that thinking for now because that is a much longer, more self-loathing post for another time.

I know that 2012 will surely have one thing in it, one thing that follows behind me like an elaborate, beckoning shadow; I know that I will long for the leaving. The leaving, what a statement? But it's true. I have a severe case of wanderlust, that I can not shake, no matter how violent my attempts are. I am always curious about the outside, of this safe little world, this local kind of city. I still want to live in Rio, Cairo, Vientiane, Istanbul and Antigua. No matter how much I love a place or a person there is a part of me not living inside, but that wants to trace the outline of a larger landscape that I can roam free upon. I will never stop loving the mystery of Ireland, the movement of tongues and language and castles in Prague, and the relentless battle of the old ways of the Andean Peru. It doesn't help to be around the whimsical minds of H and the delightful new arrival of R, from San Francisco. But I will try and lay these dreams of wandering aside for a while, and allow myself to be wrapped in the smushy embrace of middle school teaching. For most days, my longing is stretched only as far as wanting my students to find happiness, safety and greatness. But sometimes, I turn my spindle further, and my long line of velvet ribbon may weave over an ocean, and then I suppose I may have to leave again.

Until then, here is my list of 'goals' for 2012, none of which will burden you with 'weight loss' goals or sentiments and longing for great love, since those are both redundant and implied.

List of Longing and Attainment for 2012:

1. Finish the school year beautifully and with resounding accomplishment (and with a contract for the following year)
2. Join more Austin Sport and Social groups-such as kickball
3. Go to more poetry readings (and do some readings) and live music in Austin
4. FINISH MY BOOK!
5. Cook more healthy, locally grown meals
6. Maintain and create new friendships that nourish and don't deplete
7. Start a book club (I am already in the process of this)
8. Run 2 races (first one is scheduled in February)
9. Learn to play the banjo semi-well
10. Go to Central America for three weeks and experience absolutely everything I can (this is also planned, loosely, for July)
11. Move into a studio apartment and enjoy the sanctuary and silence of living alone
12. Buy a pet?
13. Volunteer more (get involved with Austin Literacy Center, perhaps)
14. Watch LESS television
15. Read 50 books
16. Wear my hair curly more (I have not started the year off well on this count)
17. Don't let myself judge others prematurely (especially guys, whom I can be either extremely hard on or extremely lenient with)
18. Watch four of my dearest friends in the world get married (2 weddings)
19. Write to my grandmother more often
20. Take time to drink tea and appreciate all that is lovely about myself, my life and my home

Alright, I think this post has enough meat in it, though in a different format than others, and it is now time for me to eat this hummus, feta and olive sandwich and talk with R about whatever comes into our whimsical little heads.

So I implore YOU to go forth and ask, 'What have I done?' and 'What can I make be done in this year before me?'

The Lights Abound

I do love this time of year, when everything is particularly luminous and aflutter.

Finally, winter weather has arrived in dear Austin and I have to say that it does help jumpstart the holiday season. Call me crazy, but 75 degree evenings does not make me want to drape the house in garland. If I wanted weather like that, I would brave the superficial nonsensical nature that is L.A. (sorry in advance to those of you that live there and are quite truly good people).

It has been a hectic time at work. You would think that three days off for Thanksgiving would rejuvenate us, similar to a cucumber face mask at the end of a long day, but if anything my co-workers look more overworked and irksome than ever, as though the break was more of a sharp gardening tour being dragged over their face. It's hard, with students that spend their evenings playing video games and eating orange #5 colored snacks all day long. I think all those chemicals make them sassy. It certainly has made me want to race home and pop a bottle of something to stop the constant thoughts of how my students will pass their classes. It seems that before the end of the grading period, all my ELL boys unfailingly are piled into my room with fifty missing assignments that feel impossible to tackle in twenty two minutes. All those little moments of 'kid free time' are suddenly filled with sticky fingers, Spanish, and the sound of a chips bag crumpling.

Lately it has been especially hard to get my kids off my mind, even when the lights are off. My nightmares, while always regularly occurring, have become especially prevalent in my dreaming state. They always start with kids being in my actual bedroom (now now....don't take this in a sick direction, or a creepy one where they're covered in blood or something) and I realize that the lights are off! How in the world can they READ? So I try to get up, feeling guilty that I could possibly have slept during a lesson, when I realize, oh shit, I can't let them see me in my pajamas! I am horrified, and confused and sure I will be sacked when suddenly, I cross over into consciousness and realize I am dreaming. These dreams have been every night for the last two weeks, so now I can not escape being a teacher even in sleep! I'm sure if I were being filmed, like for my reality TV show, there would be some very scary sequences of me sitting straight up in bed and telling non-existent kids to get their feet off my bed, or to use more correct grammar when addressing a teacher.....

I have also found some lovely co-workers at my school. There have been many 'choir practices' (codes for happy hour) that have made the culture at school a lot more unified (even if we are unified by a habit to drink beer in large mugs after a hard day). It's really hard not to want to drink beer, especially in the winter. H told me the other day that she simply wanted to move to Ireland so she wouldn't be alone in her passion of sitting in a pub. I completely understand this urge, and in fact, have been so moved by the fantasy that I have been to Ireland and Scotland twice now, and surely I will go five or six times more just to hear those truly juicy accents. It truly is as romantical as we think it is, for the first three days, then one does get a bit bored and bloated.

But let's get back to lights. Yes, the lights. What is it that makes them so pleasing to the eye? I put up a strand of white lights in my room and viola, it is transformed into a den of incandescent beauty. Suddenly, I want to listen to different music and journal. The same with candlelight. Is it really that romantic or have we just seen countless movies that tell us true romance is only seeing 5% of the person you're making out with? And, what is it about the lights of downtown, that once there make you feel almost invincible? And why does the little street, 37th Street to be exact, look so much more darling when little luminous bulbs are hung from the roof? I don't know. All I know is that it is lovely, and we can not help but be inspired and drawn to it. Just our modest Christmas tree, not even weighted down by ornaments, makes me want to be in my living room now than ever before. It's why, in Prague, I would stand in Old Town, awestruck, by such beauty of the clock, lit up. I remember one night in particular, with the snow coming heavily down in the square, and it was late, perhaps 1am, when I should have never been alone, but I was. The Square was empty and yet, it was shivering with light. The towers boomed above and around me, shimmering, as I walked on the snow compacting beneath my feet. It was as though that whole night was posing for me, just so, and I have to admit I was quite unable to control my arms from flying up and my body moving in circular movements until it was one, fuzzy dreamland of light.

In the winter, especially the holidays, there is almost a community from light. People are brought together around it, celebrate how many days it lasted, and drape it in and out of our homes to show that we are part of a common rejoicing. It is funny how, over the years, my family has developed new traditions (an oxymoron, I know) that as kids we didn't do, but now they are among my favorite ways to celebrate. Perhaps the one most dear to my nostalgic heart is the lights tour my family goes on in Chico. We pile into one car and, with a local paper in hand, my father guides us around town in search of the most well displayed houses in the area. I also get to hear my dad give off that splendid laugh that he only let's us bare witness to when he is truly happy. We have a very unique, completely neurotic ranking system which mostly consists of mocking and berating houses (I mean really, don't you know all-red lights look demonic?) with the occasional moments of silence for at truly spectacular performance. We wait all year to watch as these ordinary houses transform into glowing masterpieces. I guarantee I have spent more time judging and clucking at lit houses than I have over priceless European art (this may also indicate that I am more pedestrian and provincial than I wish to believe, but no bother). The point is, that it is the light that makes things come alive. And it is this time of year more than ever that we must pause, look around, and enjoy that way the light absorbs you, owns you, delights you.

I could certainly go even further and talk about the 'inner light' which is, no doubt, a compelling topic, but I think we all know that could go on for a disturbing length of time.

So, I will instead, leave you with this dazzling line of letters and literary divinity:

"We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light." -Plato

Pretty Little Numbers

Yesterday was 11/11/11. It was also Veteran's Day. Put these things together and surely something will arise. H told me that a baby was born, at 11:11, on 11/11/11 and that both the baby's parents were in the Air Force. I have to say that this strange little fact made me smile this morning. I know that somewhere, a family started yesterday, and that for them, fate had her arm wrapped around the whole divine experience. Even if a cynic tells you that statically, it isn't that incredible, you know that the mother of that baby boy believes that her child was meant to come out just when it did, to enter their lives at that very moment.

My 11/11/11 was a bit different. It started with a Veteran's Day ceremony at school, where I corralled children into an over-packed gym that smelled too much like dirty laundry. I realized pretty quickly that I was a real ass for not wearing any red or white (I did have an unintentional white tank under my tan sweater, but I doubt that one me any patriot points). So, I scribbled out a flag on one of my forgotten name-tag adhesives, before scooting my 7th graders to the assembly. The ceremony itself was nice, with the music and actual good behavior of all those teenagers crammed in together in a tiny space. They had a great speaker, who had been in four wars and had that sternness about him that was secure but doesn't make you uneasy. He spoke smoothly and confidently and I was nearly ready to encourage my kids to fight under his tutelage. The part that shook me though, were the letters from war that the theater students read. One, in particular, mentioned being so close to Dakau, the concentration camp in Germany, that they could smell bone. I remember going there myself, during my 13-country-whirlwind through Europe that somehow was completed in 33 days. When I went, it was summer, and there were yellow flowers scattered along the green grass, and it was too warm to appreciate the hell of winter, with no clothes, no hair, and nearly no body fat.
This got me thinking, of numbers, of the years, that decide what your life will entail. That my students were too young to remember the sheer panic of 9/11, and no matter how passionate of a lesson I gave on it, they couldn't get goosebumps the way I did, every time our principal comes over the loudspeaker, because it reminds me of my high school principal, telling us in his deep voice that the towers had fallen. I wonder what their memories will be, how they will stick, and if I will even dent them at all.
I did have a nice surprise at work, other than the assembly, and that was the return of one of my students from last year. He returned to Mexico last March and I hadn't heard from him since. I remember being so worried about him for weeks afterward, and then, as time passed, I worried and remembered less. I pretty much begged for him to be in my Reading class, and was pleased to see him on my roster Friday morning. He looks a little intimidating perhaps, with his baggy clothes and solid stature(and an almost perpetual hood), but when he smiled upon seeing me, I couldn't help but hug him back and beam. I will hopefully get the chance to bring him up to grade-level in reading, and, possibly equally as important, monitor him and help to make him feel welcome and safe at school.
As the day progressed, and my 4th period class filled with 7th grade boys sucked all the energy from me, I found myself gearing up for a rowdy 'Choir Practice' with some co-workers after school ended. I drank two beers and ate about a pound of queso, all while enjoying the bitching and banter that is unique to teachers. We have our own vernacular, as many professions do, and middle school teachers love to discuss the chaos of our daily working lives. It is a funny bond that teachers have, I think, mostly because when you're at school it feels like nothing else in the world exists. When I'm at work and in my room, which has no windows, there could be any number of natural disasters sweeping through Pflugerville and I wouldn't bat an eyelash. Beautiful, 70-degree days are simply wasted on me, because I am in a room that smells of sneakers and boys all day long. Let's not even go into the cleanliness of the pillows I have in my room for students to use while reading.......
But let's fast forward to last night. So, it is H, C and myself heading over to my friend D's house for an 11/11/11 party. We are meant to bring 11 shaped food items, such as long thin pretzels, or perhaps we could bring Yasmine Bleathe and let people snack on her fingers or something, but instead I brought those french Piroutte cookie things. Anyway, right off the bat I see that most the people there are the church folk I met the previous weekend on the retreat, so I was feeling mildly popular, which has not been a common feeling in Austin, let me tell you. There were so many sweet, charming twenty-somethings that I about died of joy. H immediately saw one of her own idols, a famous Austin blogger that she follows, well, I would say religiously but H and I aren't great at going to church....so let's just say H follows her methodically, the way a mathematician has to count those tiny squares on ceilings. The woman's boots were akin to the torso of a Collie, and she had a glow about her that assured confidence with a hearty dab of warmth. Now, it isn't often that H and I have an 'on' night in front of the cool people in our presence, but I do believe last night was one of them. People seemed to at least think we were as resoundingly funny as we thought they were. It seemed everyone we met was either in film, writing, or the business of saving African countries from emotional distress and famine (perhaps in that order). A few times I looked around to see if we might get our picture snapped for the local paper or something. It is strange to crave that kind of juicy discussion, where you can talk politics, poetry and philanthropy and then just as quickly crack a joke about how your pastor got the word "package" during Taboo and turned beet red. (Too bad the buzzer sounded before he could attempt to give us clues on that one.)
I find that most of the time, being in my mid-twenties is not so glamorous. It is mostly me flopping out of bed at 6 a.m. and messing with the coffee maker in a baggy t-shirt and blurry vision. Or, me looking dozing off to bed around 9 p.m., with a copy of some literary gem I've picked out to feel more well-read but have hopelessly discarded after ten minutes of skimming. But, occasionally, I meet friends for wine at Vino Vino and look around at the dim lighting, at the incredible people surrounding me, and I really let it sink in that these are probably the damned days of our lives or something. At work, things are a little too crazy to really sit around thinking, "Wow, we're changing lives here....." it's more like me looking around and saying, "Please, so and so, take off your hood," or "Seriously, is that your foot on my chair?"
A saying I have like recently, which naturally stemmed from my shouts at H's dog, Sophie, is "In what world?" I find that I want to say this all the time to my students, except I know they won't understand it. Though, in the hallway, when a kid was banging on the walls and disrupting other classes, I couldn't help but let slip, "In what world is that OK?" and give him my most ferocious scowl. He looked too confused to really give me any satisfaction (this seems to be a trend when teaching tweens).
So where was I going with this post? Well, I haven't the slightest, so I will attempt to connect that numbers are strange and confusing and yet, in a weird way, they are the equalizer of language. My kids straight from Mexico can't greet you but hey, they can knock out a division problem. I could end with something cheesy, like a smile is also universal, but let me just leave you with my guilty admission instead.........speaking of numbers........I watched two seasons of The City (yes, the spin-off of The Hills) in the last week, and though they are just 12 minutes long each, it still is gross and I probably should have tar poured on me and then rolled into a pile of feathers or something.

Little Sun Little Banjo

Wow. What a great weekend it's been. Yesterday, I woke up fairly early and drank my coffee while secretly thanking the heavens for the beautiful weather and cool morning air. I slowly got ready, and with some help from the darling Sophie dog, who sits on my balcony like a bitchy Juliet, I put on my cowboy boots and a white summer dress to go pick up C for the music festival. C and I drove to Driftwood, Texas, about a half hour outside of Austin, enjoying the sun and unmistakable fall breeze whipping our smiling cheeks.

When we arrived in Driftwood (after I passed our destination first, naturally) we were greeted with big grins from festival volunteers in worn jeans and t-shirts with banjos on them. I knew instantly it would be a good day. Since the music hadn't officially started, C and I decided to get lunch across the street at a famous BBQ joint called the Salt Lick. Now, I know what you're thinking, what in the world would Kristen even eat there? But they actually have a 'veggie' plate that includes a thick potato salad that sticks to your gums, coleslaw, and a nice helping of baked beans with, you guessed it, bits of bacon. And, to top it all off, a piece of big fluffy German bread to coat your already bulging stomach with. C got some actual meat, which at least helped make us not look like such hippies, and then we sat at over-sized picnic tables positioned under the most lovely Pecan trees you've ever seen. Their knobby, dark wood twisted and turned above our heads as we kicked back beers and talked about school, men and everything in between (which isn't much, because those two things are pretty potent elements to good convo).

I can't say I think about weddings too much, even though it is a hot topic in my house, but I have to say that the Salt Lick in Driftwood would be perfect. There are dangling white lights, an old wooden stage, and I can just picture myself in a beautiful white dress and my cowboy boots, looking around at everyone I love in this world holding up mason jars filled with beer to toast with. So, after we ate more than was sufficient, we made it back to the music festival in time to catch a jam session. Now, picture a lot of banjos, guitars, fiddles and mandolins all playing together in a euphoric harmony, while the shade lingers around you and the sun only peaks in to bring all of the music to a very magical glow. And the people, some in overalls, but mostly over 40 with such happiness spread over them that you know they look forward to this event all year. People are hugging old friends, reminiscing about last year's festival, and holding their instruments as though they are beloved toddlers straddling their hips.

And, the music, I simply can't describe. I think that the juiciest things in life are not properly portrayed in any form of communication, and music is one of them. I don't know what it is about the banjo, and folk/bluegrass in general, but hearing those porch-tapping beats brings my mind to its most simplistic, beautiful state. All I want to think of are the wildness of flowers, the luminescence of a sunrise, and the joy that comes with friends and American dreaming. I would say that if my happiness were some kind of recipe, I would need more than a pinch of folk music in order to get the flavor just right. It affects me in a way I am scared to think about, because the happiness comes at me so quickly, so sharply, that it's almost scary. I wonder sometimes if I heard a lot of it as a kid, or perhaps I acquired the taste, like I did with beer, but whatever the reason it is indeed my most true and dearest genre, and it inevitably makes me think of open spaces and all my dearest ones back home.

The creativity and rhythms of all the bands were sensational, that I will say, and while sitting in a foldable chair and sipping a beer, somehow hours slipped by and C and I grew so relaxed we both were at risk of drifting into a lullaby.

My favorite band yesterday was the Lost Pines. They were just awkward enough to be funny when they talked, and just passionate enough to blend into one true force of music while they played. They were truly magical in their playing, and even my lazy foot was coerced into a constant movement to try and be a part of it. It was also special to see my banjo teacher, though, strumming and picking away on his instrument in a band I didn't even know he was part of.

And now, what do I get to do tonight? I get to experience the magic of the Avett Brothers, at the most popular music venue in Austin, with two of my dear friends, D and H. So, has this weekend rocked? Yes, indeed it has.

I think if I met October on the street, I would hug her, because so far she has been the reason my spirits are high and my life is glimmering :-)

Just sitting, just living

From the aftermath of my last post, perhaps I might seem to be in a gloomy state. But, as the weather shifts, so does my mood. Now, I have the most beautiful day laid out in front of me, with a cool breeze and that blissful excitement of having a tall iced coffee in front of me, dripping delicate drops of perspiration. I have just added a new gruesome detail to my book and am anxious to get started. But before I do that.......

It has been a strange, busy week. We started last Sunday with a trip to the emergency room for Z, after he heckled our dear Sophie and she came out the obvious victor. There was blood everywhere. I held his lip with a paper towel that cruelly stuck to the injury like dried glue. We spent most of the day Sunday recovering from the escapade and lamenting that Z had to spend his 27th birthday unable to eat or drink anything. But, from there, the week trudged on, as it does. Monday is always my longest working day, where I am thrilled if I get out of there before 7. Then, Tuesday was fairly relaxing, as we knew Wednesday would hold a double round of kickball. It was fun, though, getting out and being social, though the grass felt like knives on my kneecaps and the air was thicker than peanut butter. We won our first game and man, I haven't felt that competitive and jubilant over a sporting activity in a long time. We were also all getting better, which is sort of hilarious, since we are honing the absolute most vestigial sporting skill of being good at playing KICKBALL! And naturally, it isn't just any kickball, it's kickball with a big ass ball.

So.......skip to Thursday and my roommates leave and I have the house all to myself. All I can think of all day is how lovely it will be to read and take a bath without anyone at all. N kept asking me all last week, "What will you do, being alone for four whole days?" It was as though she positively could not imagine that I may enjoy myself, which is putting it lightly! I am absolutely soaking in the pleasure that is solitude. Other than the obvious locking of my bedroom door, then putting the hamper against the door, and perhaps racing through the hallway so as not to be stabbed routine, I find myself cozying up to being alone quite nicely.

Doesn't N know the joy I felt as I traveled through Ireland alone, staring out streaked freezing windows on long bus rides throughout that incandescent green country? That I walked into pubs and ate alone, slightly fearful, but knowing that getting to know myself was the only thing in the world that I had to let matter? And how when I returned to Prague after that trip, I had a glow about me, that my other roommates, that had clumped together through Venice like a vine of heavy grapes, were perhaps even jealous of?

Perhaps this should worry me. Maybe I should be more like N, thinking it sad to be without constant human contact and friends. I should ponder and then disapprove that I woke up this morning with a grin ear to ear, squeezing my pillow affectionately and nearly pranced down the stairs. Perhaps. Perhaps I won't ever meet someone because I usually can get pretty damned weepy and fulfilled by devouring a good book alone. I don't really know. All I know is that it is 10:41 on Saturday and everything feels as though it is poised and radiant just for my pleasure. Sure, I will go out with friends tonight and leave my state of solitude briefly, but then I will race back home and curl up in my bed without the smallest concern for the empty house surrounding me.

But I do like humans, don't get me wrong. In fact, last night, I chaperoned the school dance, 7th and 8th grade. It was a long day, not leaving school until after 9pm, but I can't deny that the interaction with my fellow-teachers was lovely. Seeing even my businesslike AP question, even for a second, if he actually would line dance, and my friend D trying to the Cupid Shuffle were memories I refuse to let age or apathy extract from me. And oh, those awkward, awkward kids that looked around helplessly to find someone they recognized, and how they all jumped in when I taught them my favorite line dance. I can honestly remember that desperation. In middle school, I was in a constant state of panic that I would be found somewhere alone, and that I would have to eat my french loaf of french bread and ranch in a bathroom stall or something. But that was a long time ago, more than ten years, and I find myself wondering what the kids I teach now will turn into when they grow up. I hope that they will get an opportunity to knock on the sky and hear an answer.

I think that what the dance did for me, being that perfect mix of ridiculous and awesomeness that it was, is it let me know I can never truly be a recluse, because, if nothing else, I like seeing bad dancing too much.

To wrap this diatribe up, I will say, with unequivocal confidence, that I have no clue what will happen in my life. But. that doesn't mean that things aren't exactly as they are meant to be, right now, in this very corner of my most divine living.

Petrin Hill Blossoms on My Mind

What to say? I am sitting indoors, away from the thick clumps of air outside, and wondering about how time can go by so fast, and yet, sometimes lay out in front of you like the endless highway across the abandoned state of Nevada. Lately I have not felt as though life is moving quite as I want it to. This isn't to say it's moving slowly, because frankly, with the way work pummels me I can barely take a breath. No.....it is something more. I wonder how long I can stay in Austin and still love it the way I am certain it deserves. The weather, surely, is enough to break even the most cushioned of spirits right now, but it's more than that. There is no escape here, from the city that is. Everywhere I go there is concrete, or if I do escape it, I know that I am in a patch of trees that only tease me momentarily before yet another stretch of gray is revealed.

I feel as though all the people here are the same, and I grow antsy. I want something very very different. I want to get some epic tropical disease again and wonder, will I need a blood transfusion on a dirty Thai hospital bed? OK, maybe I don't want that exactly, but I do feel as though things are mundane. During the week, I work 12 hour days and come home and feel very similar to one of those large manatees who lives in one of the most beautiful oceans but can barely move fast enough to catch a floating piece of seaweed. Then, Wednesdays come and I am more exhausted than ever and I force myself to get into the car and make my way to kickball and GASP, socialize with people other than those in education! Finally, Friday sneaks up with a spurt of euphoric confetti and I am zonked by midnight from the joy of it all. It isn't really until Sunday that I have chiseled away the plaque from the rest of the week and start remembering that I even have a creative side that exists beyond lesson planning and putting up red and white polka dot border. I'm not even married and this is my life. I am single and still I find it hard to have time with myself. How is that even possible?

A year has gone by, and then some. This time last year, H and I were biking downtown to try and catch a few notes from the ACL music festival. I was still not hired and egregiously broke, and she was exhausted from life. Now, I have a great job that I love and we have 'game night' at our house and make chili and cookies. Naturally, if this weren't happening I would be complaining about that, too.....but I really do wonder how long will my life in Austin last? Will I meet someone who doesn't want to tie me down or 'figure me out' or think I'm interesting without really wanting to make me less interesting over time? Will someone every just rejoice in every bit of who I am the way I see it done in theaters? Will I ever stop loving Jane Austen and all the period pieces from a time where women were equally besotted and oppressed by gentlemen? And I digress yet again with Victorian sentiments.......

I just don't understand how to think about time. Am I meant to not think about next year? How can I not, when I may have to sign a legal document committing myself to set frame of days by April? Is Austin really somewhere I can be for much longer, or will I start to hate it, little by little, for not having seasons, not having an ocean, mountains, open space for me to run in? I just want to move to Italy, really, or return to my dear Praha, where the city is old and vibrant and the apartments are small only because dreams are bigger than property. But, you can escape to the hillside, the most wondrous hillside where pear trees explode in March, and you can weep at the lines of rock that have erected a magnificent place of worship. Why do I miss these things so much? Why does everyone else love Austin so ferociously when I feel mostly apathy? I wonder if I am deeply, deeply ungrateful, or if I am just being an insubordinate resident, a petulant child that doesn't want to like something that everyone else likes. How do you know when you are meant to be somewhere?

I often wonder if I have just been gone from home for too damned long. If I need to just get back there, get back home before I tear down every city in America with my longing for Chico. There is no beauty like that of my dearest orchards, my Bidwell Park, and the way the Pacific sighs int he evenings. How can I live anywhere that doesn't allow me to spend a Saturday gazing upon John Muir's most trusted friend, the giant Redwood?

But of course, so many questions, too many really, for a lazy, humid Sunday in a city that is jammed pack full of hipsters and celebs. So I will get back to my 'real' writing now, and stop telling you all the ways life astounds me, for I fear you would have to sit with me for some time before my mouth stopped moving.