Confusheroism

Everyone likes learning new terms. Here's today’s “term of the day”:

QUARTER LIFE CRISIS.
www.quarterlifecrisis.com: “a period of anxiety, uncertainty and inner turmoil that often accompanies the transition to adulthood.”

Wikipedia: “a term applied to the period of life immediately following the major changes of adolescence, usually ranging from the early twenties to the early thirties. The term is named by analogy with mid-life crisis.”

While I go through my quarter life crisis, I invent new characters. This one is a superhero. Yes, he is fictitious, and no I am not scizophrenic.  Yes, he is a dog. And the “C” well, naturally, stands for “CONFUSION,” which I decided today is an extremely heroic state to be in.

So, you might be asking yourselves...what the heck does Confusion have to do with heroism?

Let's face it people. If Confusion were a heroic state, I'd have more capes than freaking Superman.  Not that I fantasize about future little children sitting in classrooms a hundred years from now, leaning their chins on their hands, staring up at the domed-city skyline, and thinking, “Wow, that Liz…what a HERO she was!”

I mean, come on. What I’m going through now is not even close to heroism. I only try to boost my own little self-esteem to distract myself until there is conclusion to all this nonsense of the quarter-life crisis.

It is not so much my object to necessarily be a hero, but to SUCCEED,

 whether it is at waitressing - one of the most underappreciated and challenging jobs in the world - where I have watched people smaller than me carrying huge trays full of food with one hand above their head through a crowd of people with more grace than an olympic gymnast - all the while I cause near concussions with my small tray of two empty plates.

Or, being a flutist.

Or, a writer about music:
http://clefnotesjournal.com/yahoo_site_admin/assets/docs/BSO_Review_3142009.8995711.pdf

Or, well, myself:
“Ooohhh well,” I say, blushing. “Its nothing, I’m so glad you can take them off my hands. I just couldn’t finish them.” (I hand over a fresh, unopened bag of donut munchkins to the New England Conservatory Admissions woman.)
“And by the way,” I say, turning back from the exit. “How’s that wait list looking?”

Or, being nice about rejecting others.“I appreciate all the scholarship money and all the effort you are making to have me come to your school, but…”

But seriously, being a hero involves making decisions when you don’t have all the facts, rummaging for answers where there are none, taking advantage of opportunities but with a free addition of guilt, and certainly, not everyone who is a hero necessarily intends to be one.

There are REAL heroes:Willingly being confused in attempt to make a PLAN means I plunged myself into the deep end of the deep intimidating river (no pun intended…ehem, Hudson), swimming violently towards happiness, security, self-assurance and a NONCONFUSION.

Sometimes I imagine Enrique Iglesias pleading with me, "Oh Liz, let ME be your hero!"  

Perhaps, later in life, I’ll discover that my only real purpose was to jump in front of a bus in the middle of a big city to save the life of a tiny little African chimp who wandered in front of it. (Who cares that African chimps don’t show up in big cities? Don’t change the subject.)

In order to make something of myself, going to grad school, making money, having straight hair, and all the while not getting addicted to caffeine, thinking over a major decision is not like swimming, but rather like quick sand in a hole. The harder you dig out, the deeper you get.
That is the way of things.

Here’s a good part: I am, just by being what I am, I guess, a hero.

To conclude my randomness, I’ll use the words of the President:
“If you're walking down the right path and you're willing to keep walking, eventually you'll make progress. “
Well, Barack, in THIS quarter-life crisis (never mind the financial or terrorism or general world crisis), I hope you're right.

(Thank you to google image and everyone in my life who has taken the time in the last few weeks to have heart-felt, exhausting, at times LONG but extremely valuable conversations with my about my current life decisions, for your assistance. You didn’t necessarily sign up for it, but as a result, are my heroes.)

"The wind beneath my wings."

Movin' on Down the Road. Literally.

Since my auditions are now over, I now wait to hear back from schools.  Meanwhile, I continue my tasks for Radius and I search for another part-time job while everywhere is shutting the doors to their own current employees.  Despite the negativity in the slumping economy, I have scored a journalism internship and found out that I was accepted with a scholarship (in the voice of Napoleon Dynamite: yesssssssss!) to participate in a nonfiction writing workshop for two weeks this summer...in the city of Prague!!!  

To document things in an organized fashion, here are some stories as of late.

(By the way, why won't this blog website let me make charts?  Anyone know?)

My friend Andy from Oregon, who plays French horn, came to Boston last week for his audition at the New England Conservatory. We happened to walk in on a concert and during intermission we went back stage where Andy chatted with another student and I...well, I watched.  But later I was glad not to have been involved in social networking.

Once we were ready to leave, I pushed open one of the double doors, and stepped back when a bright red light crashed into my pupils. “WWWWAAAAHH WAAAAAHHW FIRE ALARM IS ON PLEASE EVACUATE WAAHWAAAH”
When I backed away I discovered something surprisingly not surprising: the door had a sign read “Emergency exit ONLY.” ☺
I turned around and the room of 50 something musicians all had their eyes were on me with fierce hatred.
“Didn’t you see the sign!?”
“Oh,” I said. “Wow, um, I’m so sorry! It’ll go off right?”
“Leave!”
“Just get out!”
“Go out the way you came in!”
“But…but, okay but..”
“Seriously, just get out.”
“GET OUT!”
“So,” I said to Andy as we hightail it away from the building. “What’s your most embarrassing moment?”
“Can’t think of any quite as good.”

I was in the big apple for the weekend, meeting up with friends I met in Israel, and overall having a lot of fun.  Plus my audition, the main thing I went there for, which lasted for about 6 minutes.  

Leaving New York on Sunday night, it started to snow on Canal Street in Chinatown, where I stood on the side of the road holding my box of 100 green teas for $4, my stomach full of dim sum, and waiting for the Fung Wah bus, the $15 bargain that goes directly from New York to Boston.
A young father walked from his four screaming children toward the Chinese lady wearing a "Fung Wah Bus Staff" jacket.
“Excuse me, but I bought our tickets for 7:15 and it is already 7:45. My kids are cold and hungry. When is the bus coming?”
“Bus come in five minutes!  They just called me, they're coming right now!”
Five minutes later, another woman approached the Chinese lady.
“Excuse me, but I bought my ticket for 7:15 and…”
“You missed the bus, you got here too late,” she said.
“But, I’ve been here since…”
“No! You walk too slow!”

Ten minutes later, I saw another woman and the Chinese lady on the verge of a physical fight. The mystery of the changing story is concerning.  Is it the snow that is delaying it?  Is it safe to even drive a bus in the snow storm?  Would I be better off stranded in New York?

You get what you pay for, apparently, according to a young man standing in the back of the angry crowd, not concerned.  At last, when the snow began to plummet down in big thick flakes, the bus arrived.  Though finding a seat that the Chinese lady approved of was difficult ("You no put your stuff there, I need full bus!), I made it back to Boston. 

Speaking of snow. 

So, winter is part of the experience right? Yes, dammit. It is fun. 
I knew that this winter would either bring out my total wimpiness, or a newly found endurance.  This has been what people are saying is the worst in 30 years. So, on that note, IT CAN STOP SNOWING NOW, I think as I pound my shovel on the snow-turned-ice around my car, pouring on the useless ice-melting crap as my landlord yells at me from the doorstep: “why don’t you move your car out onto the street and THEN clean it off? You guys just put all the snow in the walkway for ME to shovel and that ain’t right!”
And I respond quietly and sweetly:
“I HAVEN’T MOVED MY CAR IN TWO WEEKS YOU JERK AND IT IS NOT MY FAULT THAT THERE IS SNOW ON YOUR GODDAMNED DOORSTEP WHY DON’T YOU TRY WEARING HIGH HEELS ON THE ICE AND I’M SO SORRY YOU EVER HAVE TO DO ANYTHING FOR THE BENEFIT OF YOUR TENANTS!” (actually I didn’t really say that, unfortunately).

Then I continue shoveling, throwing some of the snow into the bushes, and some more into the walkway (yes indeed, just out of spite).  Then I start the car and when I press the gas the wheels struggle, spinning but not propelling my poor little California Carolla who seems to be screaming “Liz, this is too much” out of the driveway.  A a gust of gas enters the air, ice chunks fly out into the street, hitting pedestrians...where was I going with this again?

Anyway, each audition released a rush of endorphins and now I am kind of sad, but tremendously curious.  What will happen?  Did I make the right choices of schools?  Am I really doing the right thing?  Should I join the peace corps?  Should I move to Europe and teach English?  Just as I am beginning to feel roots sprout in Boston, am I going to have to leave it?  Even though I can't read signs and set off alarms in the middle of concerts, am I meant to be a musician?  

Is this really the time of life, full of confusion and anxiety and terror and adventure, that people miss the most?  Am I asking too many annoying philosophical questions that have no answers just because I am too overly analytical?  Perhaps that last question is the easiest to answer.   

I have some big decisions to make and am ready to make them, but then there’s the next challenge - to make the right decisions, if there even is such a concept.  

Insulation, Education, Inebriation

On my 23rd my birthday, I played in a concert in the “Old West Church” (well, if you consider 1737 old).The “Americanness” of the place combined some of the music dedicated to Abraham Lincoln provided one of the moments in which for the first time, I fully felt like I was in Boston.

In the scope of milestone years, turning 23 is not THAT exciting (as I like to think of it, in between potential alcoholism and renting cars).

However, for one of the first times in my life, I milked the fact that it was my birthday for financial benefit.  Upon discovering that I was paahhhked in the wrong lot, charged for $32 for the night instead of 50 cents, I said to the woman:

“But…but… [lip quiver] its my birthday today, and I just played a concert for homeless people.”
“Its your birthday?”
“Yeah.”
Her face: ☹
Apparently, my birth is more important than the act of helping the homeless population.  I drove away only a dollar poorer and feeling proud of my skillz.

However, even though my skillz worked there, they weren’t so helpful when dealing with my landlord.   

You see, it all comes down to philosophy. It is MY philosophy that when a tenant pays rent, they have the right to windows that are INSULATED during one of the worst winters in thirty years.  What does this entail, you might ask?  Well it's not that complicated.  For a warm-blooded west coaster, I think I've done a pretty good job so far.  

But here's more of my philosophy.  When the tenant is sleeping, they should not have to be awakened by the sound of blinds moving as the wind blows or the feeling of that wind on their face.  

  

So, with my philosophy expressed, two insulation kits, a space heater, and several arguments, the relationship between my landlord and I has resulted in my slamming the phone down and avoiding his presence (since he lives upstairs) after he confirmed HIS philosophy on the matter: “If you don’t like it you can move out.”

But onto happier matters.  At this point, I am happy to report being more than halfway finished with my graduate school music auditions! 

First was the Hartt School of Music, at the University of Hartford, located in Hartford Connecticut. (how many times can YOU say “hart” in one sentence?)
The city of Hartford was a combination of charming, quaint and New-Englandy, along with creepy, dark and sketchy that has nothing really attractive about it except for the school.
The experience of driving up there from New York during rush hour, my navigation GPS thingy (who I’ve fondly named “Magda” for her senile old woman attitude and flaky tendencies) deciding to fail on me as I was lost in the middle of nowhere while traveling alone up the icy east coast in order to play this damn instrument for ten minutes and possibly have my fingers and brain not work...was well, you know.  Super.  Doubt seemed to clog my pores and block my arteries.  

However, as I brought the instrument to my face the nerves went away and nothing else in the world seemed to matter other than the fact that I was a flutist. I even made the second round to audition for what I later found out is a full-ride scholarship. 

Then, wasting no time and escaping the next oncoming blizzard, I flew home, defrosted, and sailed through the audition at UCLA's Herb Alpert School of Music.  

(view of the Hollywood sign on a beautiful day from my dad's office)

The Boston Conservatory, for the third of the schools, seemed to jump right in between the first two in terms of first impressions. While it was polished and organized as an institution, performing there felt as though my soul was being slowly eaten. Once I got back into the world though, it came back. 

In the meantime, in my continued practicing (which I hope bothers my landlord), my flute began to feel strange.  I already spent $250 to get it fixed when the negative temperatures - lack of insulation not helping - made the pads leak and the screws come loose.  

So, I went back to see Pasqualle, the nice Italian man who fixed it the first time.

Naturally, when I brought it to him, the instrument played just fine.  

"Eleeeeezabet, my dear," he said.  "Perhaps you need a day off."

Indeed, two days later, the instrument played good as new.  

  

Then was the Longy School of Music, a conservatory next to Harvard University that is little-known except for in Boston itself.  Since the building used to be house, the public restrooms had bath tubs.  For some reason, during my audition, these questions kept coming into my mind:  

Could someone literally bathe before this audition?  Could they potentially do so after?  Does anybody bathe here after the building closes...like, if they didn't want to go home, could they just bring a sleeping bag and a towel?  Well, and maybe some moisturizing body wash?

Unfortunately, I did not get any pictures of the tub. 

To the happiness of all, the ice is starting to melt, 

and the mountains of snow on the street are slowly getting smaller as the grime and dirt that makes up the city sticks to them.

(see piles of filthy snow, bigger than size of average car, on left)

To let off a little steam, I drank a beer (maybe two) with some friends for the first time in a while.  Certain things amazed me.  It wasn’t the hour-long walk home which should have taken five minutes because I went down the wrong street, but the fact that just yesterday I was in middle school, refusing to have a bat mitzvah, then I was in college, going through the sets of dramas and friendships and heart breaks that I missed out on in high school, which was reality but not reality, and now I’m here on the other side of the country that in comparison to the rest of the world is really not so big after all, in a COAT, being careful of stumbling on the ice, but I am still the same person inside, at least in the ways that matter.

Israel

The El Al agent, a young woman with a severe bun, looked from me to my passport.

“What was the last holiday you celebrated?”

“Um, Yom kippur.”

“How did you celebrate?”

“My aunt and I made brisket.”

She looked disgusted.

"Don't you know that you’re supposed to fast on Yom Kippur?”

“Oh. Right. Well I guess we did kind of an alternative celebration."

“And you went to Jewish day school?"

"Yeah." 

She looked at my passport again.

"Did you light the Hanukkah candles last night?”

“Well, um…I was hoping to get the Hanukkah experience on this trip.”

"Did anyone give you a gift or package to bring on the plane?”

“No.”

“Please do not accept anything from anyone because it could be a bomb.”

“Definitely not.”

“Enjoy Israel,” she says passively, holding out my passport and nodding at the next person.

Though I was genuinely excited for the interrogation, I walked away slightly traumatized.

When we got off the plane, a guy introduced himself as one of the coordinators  of the program and gave us a welcome lecture.

“This trip is a gift, and if you abuse it you will be sent home. Do you know what that means? It means nobody is getting drunk. Nobody.”

We spent the night on a kibbutz on the Kineret or Sea of Galilee (where Jesus walked on water, supposedly…I didn’t test it out though).  Of the 40 people, about 2/3 got drunk.  This was only the first night.  

The little town of Zefat (or Sefad) resembles many little ancient Spanish and Italian villiages such as Casperia, a villiage I stayed in when I was in Italy. Original cobblestones and everything.

On a lunch stop I ordered a schawarma.

“You want chicken?” the guy asks. 

On a cylindrical spinning thing was a large mound of meat that the other worker approached with an electric shaver.  The meat plopped onto the counter. 

“No thank you,” I said.

“But its good!”

“Well okay, but just a little.”

After taking a bite ouf of it, I noticed that the chicken was still slightly pink inside. From there I decided not to eat it anymore.

The next meal I decided to have a falafel instead due to its vegetarian nature.

“Ani rozah falafel im col zman.”

“You are speaking Hebrew?!?” she shouted. “Oooooh Yofee, tov me od!!!”

Then with extreme enthusiasm, the lady threw in two extra falafel balls in addition to the five she already put in. 

Side note to my dad: All that money for my Jewish education: totally worth it just for this moment!

On the way to my seat I tripped over something and was slightly surprised to look down and see that it was a rifle.

“Um," I said to the body guard.  "You left your gun in the aisle."

“Oh,” he said, and proceeded to kick it back under the chair.  I sat next to him.

“That’s a really big gun.”

“I have to take it everywhere,” he said.

“Is it loaded?”

“No. But the bullets are attached to the side, see.”

“Oh good.”

Because the falafel was so enormous, I gave the second half to him. We discussed his time in the army. I asked him what it felt like to be done.

“It is like being free from a big cage,” he said.

“Well, its pretty cool having a former soldier for a body guard,” I said.

“I’ll be your personal body guard!” he said jokingly.

“Fine with me, “ I said not jokingly.

Peleg and Nic with their guns:

We entered Jerusalem from the Zion gate (one of seven), and hung out in about 400 square yards of the Jewish quarter. From there we went to the Wailing (or Western) Wall. It is called the Wailing Wall for a reason. 

Jerusalem:Close up of the Dome of the Rock and the Western Wall:Notes in the wall:

Then in the more modern part of Jerusalem was the "shuk" or Israeli version of a farmer’s market, but a little more chaotic. My favorite part: not the gorgeous fruit or the screaming (and I mean really screaming) vendors, but the street musicians.  

How can you not love the puppet?  Now that's talent. 

The next day we stayed in the hotel because the whole country shut down for Shabbat.  (By the way, the whole country shut down for Shabbat, but nobody even knew what Christmas was). 

 

We were having a nice time hanging out with the soldiers until the tour guide announced the missiles being fired into the Gaza strip and that the soldiers had to leave immediately to serve in the operation. At that point the cheerful mood came to a halt. The tour guide made it clear that the situation, while serious and a long time coming, would not affect us. 

Staying in the Bedoin's tents was quite an authentic desert experience. Real sand, real sunrises, 

real tents, real turbans, real camels,

 and even real polygamists. After sleeping in a dust-mite filled tent, we rode the  camels. They were smelly, angry, and awesome.

Then we hiked Masada. Pictures speak for themselves. Nutshell of the historical significance: after nine months of living on the mountain, a thousand Jews committed suicide just before King Herod and the Roman troupes broke in to take them all as slaves.  Heros or cowards?  You decide. 

I am Queen of the World:

From there we went to the Dead Sea. I didn’t get any pictures of this but being at the lowest point in the world felt like the highest point in my life. Floating in a salt ocean and having smooth skin afterward shows that nature is simply inspiring.  And that's coming from a very un-nature kind of girl. 

The next day when we hiked at another spot where dramatic clifs showed layers of ancient oceans, things started to get a little strange.   In the middle of nature, we heard deafening planes above us, though we couldn't see them.  We were told (just to make us feel better...not) that these were not just planes, but the F-16’s on route to Gaza. This is when, despite the fascinating parts of the tour, I was pretty much ready to go home and not be in a war zone anymore.

Overall I would say that I am extremely glad I went on this trip, and not just because it was free.  This was pretty much the only time I have put Jewish education to use, and it was worth it. The Middle East is a place that is rich in history, spirituality, and conflict that are all so intertwined and yet separated that it is kind of ridiculous

Seeing Israel up close was both wonderful and upsetting at the same time.  People were right when they said that Israel will change your life, but the principle of killing each other over things that happened so long ago, over one moment in time that nobody can ever really prove, is about as mature as a couple of two year olds fighting over a toy.  That is just my opinion.

It was also quite awe-inspiring and a little guilt-inducing to meet soldiers who are my age and put their lives on the line every day while I don't.  

It made me want to do something with my life to repair the world, not just to repair myself.  

Following the overload of pro-Israel propaganda I’ve had through high school, I was pleasantly surprised to find that this trip did not aim to do that. The tragedy lies in the principle that no human being should have to apologize for wanting to call that place home.

Here are some other tidbits from the journey: 

Me after hiking.  I feel so athletic:  Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin's memorial at the place he was assassinated by another Jew:Israeli version of an oxymoron?Jewish sistah's:

Sunset over the Mediterranean:

You have to look real close to see that its Kosher:The grave of Israeli prime minister Golda Meir:Sunrise over Tel Aviv:
One last thing.  I've been home for about 36 hours, and in the last 12 hours Israel the conflict in Israel has officially escalated into a war.  Send your good vibes over there for a peaceful resolution.  

Snowwww!!!

So when the forecast said that snow was on the way I snapped to action.

“Hi!” I say to the man at the Toyota place. “So here’s the deal. I’m from California, this is my first real winter, and I need to get my car ready.”
“Okay.”
“So…I need a little help in terms of what kind of stuff to get.”
“Well, you’ll need like, an ice scraper, a shovel…”
“Okay. I have a scraper. Do you guys sell shovels?”
“No.”
"Okay. Do you think I need anything else besides that?"
"That's totally up to you."
“Right. But if you were me, what would YOU do?”
"It really varies."
"Um, right. But so like, I'd rather be prepared for the worst then get into some disaster situation. So like, washer fluid, snow-melting stuff...?"
"Maybe some washer fluid."
I look to the shelf with ten different brands of washer fluid.
"Which one would you recommend?"
"Well, really, its up to you. Whatever you prefer."
"Okay, sorry, but let me reiterate. I'm from California..."
“Wait,” he says, as though just waking up. “You’re from California?”
“Yep.”
“And this is your first winter?”
“That's right.”
“Ha!!! Good luck.”

After twenty more minutes of deep discussion with the man, about five more repetitions of "Totally up to you" and me repeating that I genuinely needed HELP, I walked out with a new scraper (bigger and better than my original one and with a handy little brush on the side), winter wipers and a giant plastic container of bright blue washer fluid. Looks like a sports drink and works as low as -25 degrees. Got a $9 shovel at home depot, and today when I woke up the city was covered in a soft white blanket.

Ironically enough, nobody on the news, radio, or in the streets were excited. Their tones seemed to be saying "Well, here we go. Its official now. No more warmth for another three to four months. Super."

I went to Lexington to walk Keely (Uncle Nick & Aunt Becky's doggie), and was glad to spend time with someone who shared the same fascination as me. Look how beautiful it is! Look how wintery it looks! This is the beginning of the real east coast experience!

In general, my experience is that when I am outside for a while, it doesn't seem that cold. I think "This isn't so bad! I can handle it!" And then of course once I get back inside, my nose starts running and the heat confuses my body as to whether it should be tough or surrender to how cold it really is.

However, one thing is for sure. I will walk out of this winter a tougher and more skilled...um, winterer. California Schmalifornia.

GRRRRR E?

GRE (i.e. Genuis' Revolutionary Envy)

The Graduate Record Examination is a standardized test that determines how prepared one is for graduate school. The prep class through the Kaplan company comes with things like online tutorials, practice tests, teachers who always are available for help, stress management seminars, etc.
Based on the three sessions so far, it is my opinion that there should be one more addition called “Attitude Adjustment.” Here is what I would put on the syllabus:

Class 1: The Rules
a. First and foremost, no matter what, if you have an opinion, it ain't no good no more. Disagreements with answers are not even like...well, just...no.
b. As stated in pg. 48 of the 465 page book: “CAUTION! Creative writers, beware! The GRE does not test poetic skill-Sentence Completions should always be interpreted literally, not imaginatively.”
Got it? Imagination is not appropriate behavior. Time out for all you imaginationers.

Class 39: Things to do in the classroom as well as test environment:
* In class:
a. Spill your gram cracker crumbs all over the spotless carpet and the smooth little table. Give the room, bright purple walls, and buzzing fluorescents some personality.
b. While your teacher teaches, with his Harvard bachelor’s and U. of Chicago MBA degrees, neat haircut, white toothed, enthusiastic-about-learning disposition, don’t think too much about what’s behind it all. Don’t bother to ask questions in your mind like:
How much was that shirt? Are you trying to look like a "snob" or is it just who you are? What’s behind that everything-is-in-my-reach attitude? Do you ever let trash acquire in the back of your car?

* In the Test Environment:
a. Throw up, cry, and fail.
b. After failing, go home, get in pink pajamas, curl up under blankees, and talk to your stuffed animal about how much you miss childhood when the biggest test of your intelligence was how high you could stack blocks.
g. Get up, throw down stuffed animal, get out and play your instrument in the subway station where the people who you know for two seconds as they drop a dollar into your case are who really understand you, and feel great about giving your art.


Class 2300: How to eliminate negativity that commonly occurs through the following:

- Cursing (if you don’t like cursing I’m sorry because I curse in this section…), and more specifically how to stop annoying phrases that occur all the time (ones that you remember from high school SAT preparation) such as:

“Who fucking cares?”
“This is bullshit.”
"Um, well, shit."
"Fuck this."

- And other less severe yet still bad thoughts:

“I don’t care.”
“I want to shoot the person who wrote this.”



Class ?: Solution:
* Say mantras over and over until negativity is eradicated:

“There is nothing better I could be doing right now than being here."

"I am so happy!”

“Despite my lugubrious mood, I have fervid veneration for this erudite material because it is so...good...that it is unassailable in its opulent appositeness to real life. No need to be foolhardy in my recalcitrant feelings toward standardized tests given my limpidity towards these things and quibble towards unemotional, artistic-diminishing crap...ah! uh, I mean...impedimenta. I will go outside and watch a bevy of quail fly by, and as I do so, think of the imperturbable freedom I crave, and if my score is particularly halycon (which would be scarily fortuitous), I will experience it myself.”

Chilly yet Philosophical

I am writing at this particular moment because I figured typing is a good way to get blood flowing to my fingers.
It is 1:45 a.m., 37 degrees, raining, and the heater in my apartment is broken. But that’s okay. This is like the tropics compared to what it will probably be a couple months from now. Besides, I am tough! (I am pounding my fists on my chest like a guerrilla from southern California)

Here is an organized list of experiences in the last week, as well as their overall significance:

1. I went to a lecture by author Susie Squire on her book, I Don’t (about the evolution of marriage).
“Back in the day,” she said. “People died young. If you think about how high the divorce rate is nowadays, it is because divorce is really just a substitute for death.”
At one point in talking she trailed off, looked around, and said, “I’m thirsty.” Before someone could reach her with a bottle of water, she picked up a cup, walked to the refreshment table, and poured herself some wine.
“I’ve been married twice,” she continued. “And the second marriage has been going for twenty years now. I haven’t divorced yet because frankly I’m too old to find somebody else. Just kidding.  No but seriously.   My husband isn’t here tonight.”

All throughout, people were laughing. While she signed my book I asked her what age she thought was appropriate to get married.
“Well,” she said. “You’re young. You don’t want to marry for love alone. That is not enough. You need to marry for stability. Someone who will support you when you’re pregnant.”
On the train back I looked at what Susie wrote in my book.

For Elizabeth – The best of luck whether it is I Do or I Don’t.

Questions came flooding in. Were people laughing because they thought she was joking or because they were too shocked to acknowledge that she was serious?


2. I went to Salem, MA for a day. It is a fun place to go this time of year. It indeed has a slightly haunting quality. The memorial for the witches is a long row of engraved concrete. The words are those quoted from the people who were executed, cracked in the middle of the worlds to symbolize the way they were well...interrupted. I feel bad for those people (witches) who were caught in such a ludicrous situation and so lucky to live in this day and age. 

Side note: It is also good to live nowadays because of heating systems. Oh wait, unless they don’t work. Even though you pay rent.

3. A couple days ago I tried to play music in public. There I was standing in the Boston common.   For fifteen minutes I didn’t play one note, but it certainly was a show.  Right when I was ready to start, the music stand, with all its weights and paperclips, crashed to the sidewalk, sending the music flying. I tried the same process three more times before putting away the flute, throwing my stuff back in my bag, and storming off.

4. Yesterday after a meeting with my writers’ group I walked out of the café to discover that my car was not where I parked it.  I looked on adjacent side streets to see if I was suffering from temporary dimentia, but a call to the police department confirmed that it had been towed. When I reexamined the place I parked it, I realized that the sidewalk, though not that low to the ground, was a driveway to a house about 50 yards back. After I got my car back, driving home, I got philosophical.

                              a. The unnerving experience of thinking your car has been stolen releases adrenaline. Coming down from the adrenaline was when I realized, that lot of my experiences here have been fueled by adrenaline...not always as a result of panic, but rather, anxiety. Anxiety is the motivator for accomplishment. I'll admit that most of the time I feel dissatisfied with myself, constantly striving for higher levels of success, and I guess more importantly, lack of failure.  Preparing to come here was all about the big picture, but the little picture is actually much more difficult to figure out.

When one thing makes you question your entire life, you have to take a step back and look again at the big picture. It is so very big that each disaster is merely one tiny piece on a beautiful, gargantuan mosaic. ☺

That was probably a lot of information.  

To end, here is a picture of a 1 and 1/2 ton pumpkin: