Saturday, March 25, 2006
If I continue in the "alooooooooone FOREVAR" vein I am going to start to annoy myself in addition to everybody else, so let's talk about something different for a change.
Let's talk about doing things right.
At work on Monday there was very little to do, so in the absence of all normal librarian work I was asked to assemble some new office furniture -- a sort of shelving unit. When I went upstairs to the office where I was supposed to find the shelving unit in question, the lady there looked exceedingly distressed that I hadn't brought a book truck with me. "It's REALLY heavy" she said of the shelving thingymabob. And of the boxes of padded envelopes that I was also supposed to fetch, "They're not that heavy but they're THIS BIG," pantomiming a box that came up to my waist.
(For the record, due to the obstacle course of turnstiles and stairs and inconveniently-located elevators that only let you into certain parts of certain floors and some of which are operated by keys I don't possess, I have found that it is almost never worthwhile to bother with book trucks. In fact I can't imagine how the people who shelve books manage to get anywhere.)
But I smiled at the lady and got directions to where the boxes had been left and assured her that I would go back for a book truck if I needed to. The shelving unit was not that heavy at all, and the boxes were far closer to knee-high than waist-high. It did take two trips, but as the boxes were far too big to fit on any book truck I couldn't really see how it would have made things easier. I was unnecessarily impressed with myself for being able to carry far more than it looked like I could. Sometimes it is nice to have secret powers.
For the next hour I got to play with glue and nails as I put the thing together, and at the end I was filled with a sense of accomplishment at having a tangible, solid object to show for my effort. I am getting to feel fairly competent at other aspects of my job too. I was pleased with myself last night because in less than fifteen minutes I had finished paperwork and packaging for three interlibrary loan books, a task which used to take endless agonizing and checking to make sure I hadn't forgotten any of the many crucial steps. These days I spend too much time thinking and thinking and thinking myself in circles, and nothing ever comes of it but more angst and frustration and insecurity. But when I am doing instead of thinking, and doing things well, I have little moments of positivity. I can still be a basically functional human being, and there are shelving units and piles of packaged books to vouch for that fact.
But my real secret power is not interlibrary loan, or assembling or lifting things (obviously, since my lifting skills are only notable when compared to librarian-girls of my approximate size.) I still feel most accomplished when, during my dinner break, I can take a thought or a phrase that has been turning itself over in the back of my mind and begin typing a poem from it. And then the rhyme and rhythm begin to come, making their own music, and I try not to force them, trying to see what patterns they will form on their own. And at the end it is a little rough, but the music is there, and I email it to myself and know that I can refine it later and make it truly shine. This is the only thing that I am sure I know how to do, that I think I was born to do, after all these years it is still my one innate talent. It won't make me much of a superhero; in fact, it probably won't make me much of anything at all. But it is one thing that keeps me going, having the ability to create from nothing these little things that are truly mine.
Let's talk about doing things right.
At work on Monday there was very little to do, so in the absence of all normal librarian work I was asked to assemble some new office furniture -- a sort of shelving unit. When I went upstairs to the office where I was supposed to find the shelving unit in question, the lady there looked exceedingly distressed that I hadn't brought a book truck with me. "It's REALLY heavy" she said of the shelving thingymabob. And of the boxes of padded envelopes that I was also supposed to fetch, "They're not that heavy but they're THIS BIG," pantomiming a box that came up to my waist.
(For the record, due to the obstacle course of turnstiles and stairs and inconveniently-located elevators that only let you into certain parts of certain floors and some of which are operated by keys I don't possess, I have found that it is almost never worthwhile to bother with book trucks. In fact I can't imagine how the people who shelve books manage to get anywhere.)
But I smiled at the lady and got directions to where the boxes had been left and assured her that I would go back for a book truck if I needed to. The shelving unit was not that heavy at all, and the boxes were far closer to knee-high than waist-high. It did take two trips, but as the boxes were far too big to fit on any book truck I couldn't really see how it would have made things easier. I was unnecessarily impressed with myself for being able to carry far more than it looked like I could. Sometimes it is nice to have secret powers.
For the next hour I got to play with glue and nails as I put the thing together, and at the end I was filled with a sense of accomplishment at having a tangible, solid object to show for my effort. I am getting to feel fairly competent at other aspects of my job too. I was pleased with myself last night because in less than fifteen minutes I had finished paperwork and packaging for three interlibrary loan books, a task which used to take endless agonizing and checking to make sure I hadn't forgotten any of the many crucial steps. These days I spend too much time thinking and thinking and thinking myself in circles, and nothing ever comes of it but more angst and frustration and insecurity. But when I am doing instead of thinking, and doing things well, I have little moments of positivity. I can still be a basically functional human being, and there are shelving units and piles of packaged books to vouch for that fact.
But my real secret power is not interlibrary loan, or assembling or lifting things (obviously, since my lifting skills are only notable when compared to librarian-girls of my approximate size.) I still feel most accomplished when, during my dinner break, I can take a thought or a phrase that has been turning itself over in the back of my mind and begin typing a poem from it. And then the rhyme and rhythm begin to come, making their own music, and I try not to force them, trying to see what patterns they will form on their own. And at the end it is a little rough, but the music is there, and I email it to myself and know that I can refine it later and make it truly shine. This is the only thing that I am sure I know how to do, that I think I was born to do, after all these years it is still my one innate talent. It won't make me much of a superhero; in fact, it probably won't make me much of anything at all. But it is one thing that keeps me going, having the ability to create from nothing these little things that are truly mine.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
What I hate most about being out of college is the terror of being alone. I didn't think about it at first because I was excited about this new stage of my life, about getting into grad school and finding an apartment and nesting and hanging out with my new roommates. And after all I still had plenty of old connections from Colgate, an immense mailing list of friends with whom I was constantly trying to keep in touch. And now I was close to home and family again and near friends that I had been distant from for far too long. With all that I was distracted for a long time. I felt more emotionally functional than I had in ages and I rejoiced in my independence and felt for a while like everything was okay and even almost perfect.
But it was a fragile balance and it only took a couple of shifting relationships to make me feel as though I was falling. All of a sudden Brookline became a symbol of desolation and everyone I cared about seemed very, very far away. The big fat reality of it is that I have no community here. The city is so full of people that it feels empty sometimes. Where do I go to find the people who are like me? It used to be fairly easy -- just find the band. I don't know why that inevitably worked, but it did. In retrospect, it seems magical that it was that easy and comfortable.
Here my school is not really a source of comfort or community. Most of the people in my program have families and children and other jobs and no one seems to live in the city. My co-workers are mostly the same thing. I am starting to feel as though I am out of place here after all, and this city that I craved to live in doesn't mean a damn thing. And then each weekend as I sit at home with no one to talk to the loneliness sets in and so does the fear that it will always be this way, and they hang over my head and numb it and make it feel strangely heavy and it is all I can do to walk to the kitchen and make food. And a vicious cycle forms, because as soon as I feel that desperately that I need to get out and make friends or I will die like this, I am at once completely incapable of doing anything of the sort -- frozen, paralyzed with fear.
What I miss most desperately is the person I was at Colgate. I became that person almost instantaneously upon arriving, out of some incredible excitement at being someplace new for once, someplace where I was free to do as I liked, where no one knew me and I could have a fresh start. I became sociable, outgoing, enthusiastic (rather irritatingly so at first, if I recall correctly.) I was willing to take risks, laugh at myself, talk to anyone, and was always likely to say yes to any new idea or proposal. Eventually the initial excitement settled down to a calmer way of living, but I always lived well there. I could always be counted on to tell funny stories, or to take responsibility for large projects. There was always someone to talk to if I needed to, and if I was upset or frustrated, in the absence of all else I could go up to the old golf course and watch the stars until I felt okay again. I lived well there.
What I am most afraid of some days is that that person is gone forever and I will never see her again. Today's Amanda is dull and not very social, and lonely and afraid, and can barely be counted on to get her schoolwork done, much less take on anything significant. It is not precisely like a regression to junior high and early high school, where I was defensive and scared like a cornered rat, but it is not the forward progress I had hoped for. Mentally and emotionally, this is not where I thought I would be at this point in my life. Once I became who I was at Colgate, I never thought that person would disappear. But it turns out that there the circumstances were just right for me to be the best sort of person I could be, and now somehow I have to figure out how to recreate circumstances where I can be confident and unafraid and that person can blossom once more.
Sometimes when I get the right people on the phone I can feel her coming back. She tells funny stories and can even make humor out of this desolation and depression, making it feel like it's not all that serious after all. And the right people on the phone make her feel like living like this is okay and natural and nothing to be afraid of and that we are all in this together. And then for a little while I can be that person again and I am okay for as long as I can keep that conversation at the forefront of my mind. And then I can get things done, cook food, even focus on work.
But then I wake up the next day and we start all over again.
So, anyone have any suggestions for making this world seem like home?
But it was a fragile balance and it only took a couple of shifting relationships to make me feel as though I was falling. All of a sudden Brookline became a symbol of desolation and everyone I cared about seemed very, very far away. The big fat reality of it is that I have no community here. The city is so full of people that it feels empty sometimes. Where do I go to find the people who are like me? It used to be fairly easy -- just find the band. I don't know why that inevitably worked, but it did. In retrospect, it seems magical that it was that easy and comfortable.
Here my school is not really a source of comfort or community. Most of the people in my program have families and children and other jobs and no one seems to live in the city. My co-workers are mostly the same thing. I am starting to feel as though I am out of place here after all, and this city that I craved to live in doesn't mean a damn thing. And then each weekend as I sit at home with no one to talk to the loneliness sets in and so does the fear that it will always be this way, and they hang over my head and numb it and make it feel strangely heavy and it is all I can do to walk to the kitchen and make food. And a vicious cycle forms, because as soon as I feel that desperately that I need to get out and make friends or I will die like this, I am at once completely incapable of doing anything of the sort -- frozen, paralyzed with fear.
What I miss most desperately is the person I was at Colgate. I became that person almost instantaneously upon arriving, out of some incredible excitement at being someplace new for once, someplace where I was free to do as I liked, where no one knew me and I could have a fresh start. I became sociable, outgoing, enthusiastic (rather irritatingly so at first, if I recall correctly.) I was willing to take risks, laugh at myself, talk to anyone, and was always likely to say yes to any new idea or proposal. Eventually the initial excitement settled down to a calmer way of living, but I always lived well there. I could always be counted on to tell funny stories, or to take responsibility for large projects. There was always someone to talk to if I needed to, and if I was upset or frustrated, in the absence of all else I could go up to the old golf course and watch the stars until I felt okay again. I lived well there.
What I am most afraid of some days is that that person is gone forever and I will never see her again. Today's Amanda is dull and not very social, and lonely and afraid, and can barely be counted on to get her schoolwork done, much less take on anything significant. It is not precisely like a regression to junior high and early high school, where I was defensive and scared like a cornered rat, but it is not the forward progress I had hoped for. Mentally and emotionally, this is not where I thought I would be at this point in my life. Once I became who I was at Colgate, I never thought that person would disappear. But it turns out that there the circumstances were just right for me to be the best sort of person I could be, and now somehow I have to figure out how to recreate circumstances where I can be confident and unafraid and that person can blossom once more.
Sometimes when I get the right people on the phone I can feel her coming back. She tells funny stories and can even make humor out of this desolation and depression, making it feel like it's not all that serious after all. And the right people on the phone make her feel like living like this is okay and natural and nothing to be afraid of and that we are all in this together. And then for a little while I can be that person again and I am okay for as long as I can keep that conversation at the forefront of my mind. And then I can get things done, cook food, even focus on work.
But then I wake up the next day and we start all over again.
So, anyone have any suggestions for making this world seem like home?
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I hate this game of tiptoeing around my music, trying to avoid certain songs which will bring back certain memories that I don't want to think about right now, but then trying not to play the same albums over and over again for fear they'll take on the taint of this depression and be themselves depressing sometime later. I have lots of music but somehow none of it seems quite right -- I can't play anything too sad, or too happy, or too poignantly Colgate-flavored. Bad Religion and John Vanderslice are getting a lot of play, and the most recent Sleater-Kinney too, but I'm afraid I'll play them into the ground and ruin them for me for a long time. But what else is there to do but listen to music? What else to break the silence all day? I will play these four albums over and over until I know every breath and every word, I will sing with them even when my voice is breaking and try to channel some of this glut of emotion to somewhere outside of me, and in the end maybe I'll feel like I've connected with something human and intimate today after all.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
So, I have returned from a week of travels.
I flew to Pittsburgh by way of Detroit. In Detroit I had to pass between two terminals using a very odd tunnel. From far away it just looked like it was poorly lit, but when I reached it I realized that it was actually the home of extraordinary color-shifting lights and music. I thought it was all right until halfway through the tunnel it switched from soothing blue-greens and relaxing music to an intense flashing of red, yellow and blue. That broke my brain a little. Fortunately I was able to recover with the help of the world's most transcendent french fries. (For the record, I had never even heard of Fuddruckers before this incident, but apparently there are some in Massachusetts. Who knew?)
I arrived in Pittsburgh and was welcomed by friends that I hadn't seen in ages. I was introduced to Ikea and resisted the temptation to buy a large stuffed dragon. We went to see Doogal, which you should not under any circumstances do no matter how much you like Jon Stewart or any other of the voice actors. You go in there hoping that it will be so bad it's funny, but aside from a couple of scenes, it was pretty much just so bad that it was... bad. We drove through the city, a spread-out city of hills and trees and rivers and steel and lights. We had pancakes for dinner and relaxed with TV and internet. I left my life behind and was content.
I could go on for a while about all the things we did while I was there... riding the incline, going ice skating, visiting the Andy Warhol Museum (and discovering that Henry Darger is officially the Scariest Artist Ever). But what was most wonderful was being with people with whom I could relax, for whom an afternoon of reading and watching TV was sufficient entertainment. These are people with whom I lived comfortably for years, and it was comforting to realize upon seeing them again that things were not so different as I had feared. During the days I spent in Pittsburgh I felt a peace that I haven't experienced for a long time. As I lay in the living room drinking in the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay like someone dying of thirst, I began at last to feel quenched, with both good reading and pleasant, relaxing company, somewhere where I had nothing to prove, somewhere far, far away from my daily life and all its searing memories.
Of course here I am, back here yet again, but if I can remember that feeling for just a little while then I think I will be okay after all.
I flew to Pittsburgh by way of Detroit. In Detroit I had to pass between two terminals using a very odd tunnel. From far away it just looked like it was poorly lit, but when I reached it I realized that it was actually the home of extraordinary color-shifting lights and music. I thought it was all right until halfway through the tunnel it switched from soothing blue-greens and relaxing music to an intense flashing of red, yellow and blue. That broke my brain a little. Fortunately I was able to recover with the help of the world's most transcendent french fries. (For the record, I had never even heard of Fuddruckers before this incident, but apparently there are some in Massachusetts. Who knew?)
I arrived in Pittsburgh and was welcomed by friends that I hadn't seen in ages. I was introduced to Ikea and resisted the temptation to buy a large stuffed dragon. We went to see Doogal, which you should not under any circumstances do no matter how much you like Jon Stewart or any other of the voice actors. You go in there hoping that it will be so bad it's funny, but aside from a couple of scenes, it was pretty much just so bad that it was... bad. We drove through the city, a spread-out city of hills and trees and rivers and steel and lights. We had pancakes for dinner and relaxed with TV and internet. I left my life behind and was content.
I could go on for a while about all the things we did while I was there... riding the incline, going ice skating, visiting the Andy Warhol Museum (and discovering that Henry Darger is officially the Scariest Artist Ever). But what was most wonderful was being with people with whom I could relax, for whom an afternoon of reading and watching TV was sufficient entertainment. These are people with whom I lived comfortably for years, and it was comforting to realize upon seeing them again that things were not so different as I had feared. During the days I spent in Pittsburgh I felt a peace that I haven't experienced for a long time. As I lay in the living room drinking in the sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay like someone dying of thirst, I began at last to feel quenched, with both good reading and pleasant, relaxing company, somewhere where I had nothing to prove, somewhere far, far away from my daily life and all its searing memories.
Of course here I am, back here yet again, but if I can remember that feeling for just a little while then I think I will be okay after all.
One thing that is strange about the city is how long and loud a thunderstorm has to be to convince me that it's really thunder and not just a big truck going over the Green Line tracks. I'm not sure I like that.
I went back to Colgate over the weekend and was again struck by its beauty, even with all the unsightly construction all over the campus. I could really smell spring beginning there. It's beginning here too, but there's just not enough fresh moist dirt embracing the air to make it a really pervasive feeling.
There are times when I think that the city is beautiful, but I've realized that it's mostly when nature imposes itself on the city architecture -- the sun glinting off the Pru and Hancock towers in just the right way, or setting over the Charles, or the moon hovering over the Citgo sign, or the snow blanketing Brookline's trees and softening its rough edges.
I adore this city for the independence that it's allowed me to have, with all its conveniences and transportation options. But I desperately miss the hills and the stars and the trees, and some days I think it's inevitable that I return to them someday. Maybe not soon, but someday.
Occasionally I see Orion peek out from behind a building, and it's nice to know that he's still out there.
I went back to Colgate over the weekend and was again struck by its beauty, even with all the unsightly construction all over the campus. I could really smell spring beginning there. It's beginning here too, but there's just not enough fresh moist dirt embracing the air to make it a really pervasive feeling.
There are times when I think that the city is beautiful, but I've realized that it's mostly when nature imposes itself on the city architecture -- the sun glinting off the Pru and Hancock towers in just the right way, or setting over the Charles, or the moon hovering over the Citgo sign, or the snow blanketing Brookline's trees and softening its rough edges.
I adore this city for the independence that it's allowed me to have, with all its conveniences and transportation options. But I desperately miss the hills and the stars and the trees, and some days I think it's inevitable that I return to them someday. Maybe not soon, but someday.
Occasionally I see Orion peek out from behind a building, and it's nice to know that he's still out there.
Sunday, March 5, 2006
Hi! I'm in Pittsburgh!
And just to demonstrate what nonsense I spew here on a daily basis: Pittsburgh is probably not a city I ever would have visited in and of itself. It's not really the center of anything other than football-related obsessiveness. I have no history here; I don't know any of the names of things. But now I am here and it may be the most beautiful city I have ever seen, it may be the most wonderful place in the world, just because of the people who are here.
Sometimes I read my own posts and decide I just have too much free time on my hands most days.
And just to demonstrate what nonsense I spew here on a daily basis: Pittsburgh is probably not a city I ever would have visited in and of itself. It's not really the center of anything other than football-related obsessiveness. I have no history here; I don't know any of the names of things. But now I am here and it may be the most beautiful city I have ever seen, it may be the most wonderful place in the world, just because of the people who are here.
Sometimes I read my own posts and decide I just have too much free time on my hands most days.