crabby

Rainy days make me feel like a hermit crab.

Back when I was 5 or 6 and my family would go on beach vacations, my prerogative took me to one place and one place only - the hermit crab section of the sea shell shop. Sure, the ocean waves and sand were a nice treat, but the waves knocked me over and scared me, and sand annoyed me with its ability to sneak into absolutely everything. There was no pressure to get a tan as a small child, so laying out for hours baking in the sun offered little reward. But those tiny creatures with their cartoon-like appearance and awkward claws, that was something to look forward to.

I always picked out the tiniest crabs I could find. They were my favorite, gems I found after sifting through the crabs that every other kid picked out because they were gigantic or had taken on the sparkly painted shells. My little treasures.

Much to my mother's dismay, I would release them in our condo to freely crawl about the land. Now, I thought I was showing them a whole new world of exciting things, but, they were for the most part disinterested. They weren't even interested in me; they would crawl on me for a while, pinch my hand and then recoil into their shells. When they were bored, scared, tired, or basically not walking around or eating, they retreated into those itty bitty shells, and I wondered what was in there that was so damn appealing.

Now I finally think that I understand. It's a rainy day in Baltimore, and after a stressful weekend that took me to the hospital, I have no desire to be anywhere aside from my shell. I'm retreating; those little guys knew the art of doing nothing.

if at first you don't succeed...

...you better get over it and have a little patience. It is a virtue, after all.

I haven't written in this blog in quite a while. As a matter of fact, I haven't written much at all in quite a while. I got a little lost. I'm going to try to find my way back here.

May marked the culmination of my college career, and the beginning of my current stage of life that shall be referred to as the Twilight Zone. Here in the TZ, my identity seems transient. Without meaning to sound overly dramatic about the fact that I have a BA degree from a University, but...what does it mean now? For my entire life my profession, my direction, my purpose was one word: student. As a toddler I embraced the role and never came out of costume, from naptimes and coloring stations to metaphysics and romantic literature, through moods and styles and hobbies, hairstyles and mailing addresses, one thing remained constant: I was a student. As a sidenote my hairstyle remained fairly constant as well. Always long enough to be pulled back in a ponytail.

Now, for the first time, school doesn't start in September. It doesn't start at all. Nothing starts, in fact. I have no plan. I'm floating in the post graduate Twilight Zone, and it scares the living daylights out of me. I wonder if this is how a mouse feels at the end of a maze; you get dropped in, you follow twists and turns, choose directions, all toward this one goal of finishing, of proving you could get through it and then, well, you're there. No more corners to peak around. Just open space.

What's in the open space? I don't know yet, and that's why I'm nervous. Fear of the unknown is nothing new, and the only form of protection I have within the unknown is a piece of paper with my name on it, signed by the Dean, attesting that I made it through the maze.

But then I realize, the open space has been there all along. Losing the bubble of that one solid identity was, and is, a shock. There's really no decompression chamber, so when it comes to changes like this, I guess I shouldn't fault myself for losing my breath. The trick is to remain positive, and to open my eyes and look around. I've got friends who will help me stay steady on new ground, family to support me, and if I stand up and steady my breathing, that open space won't be so scary. That open space will fill up with whatever I put in it.

Don't be afraid of the unknown; when we came in, we didn't even know ourselves.

Rebound: Take 2

Friends, countrymen, my writer's block has yet to recede fully. Like an illness I can't seem to kick, the cement block atop my creative energy remains...cemented. But, in what I consider a little "f*ck you" to my mental captor, I will share a story.

9 volts

I have returned to Baltimore, Maryland in the year 2011. I came back earlier than my other housemates in order to get more hours at work; meaning, my bank account is squirming and squealing and accusing me of horrid abuse.
So thus, I spend my first night here...alone. Now this may not seem like a big deal; however, one must consider the facts: I am a downright namby-pamby (thank you thesaurus.com) with an outrageously active imagination. This means shower curtains must be checked, dead-bolts are not to lull one into a false sense of security, and every outside sound means danger. Woo hoo!
After forcing a friend to skype with me for about an hour and a half during which she patiently explained to me that there is not a sociopathic stalker out to get me and that I am indeed a 22 year old capable of independent existence, I decided to go to sleep. I'm laying in bed, listening to the metronomic tick of the clock which I enjoy, browsing through youtube videos of sleep meditations and streaming nature sounds. The gentle rain from the Amazon is soothing, and the frogs are croaking me a bedtime story, and the only interruption is an intermittent chirping from the smoke detector with a low battery. It's been pretty easy to ignore and so I'm relaxing, feeling good...then the second chirping starts.
I suppose the one chirping detector drained it's friend's energy, because now there are two chirpers, and of they're not in sync. A fugue of beeps. Awful. I try to ignore it; I try focus on the fact that I've now been transported to the pacific and the waves are crashing in and the ocean wants me to breathe deeply. But like the damn tell-tale heart, these things are creeping into my psyche.
I can't reach either device because the stepstool cannot elevate my small stature high enough. So I'm pacing around my room, headed for insanity. I decide to take a shower, because at least in there, I can't hear "blllip! blllip! BLLLLLIP!!" What do I discover? I had turned off the water heater to save energy. So I walk down to the basement to turn it back on. What to my wandering eyes did appear? A ladder! I frantically take it up the steps, and I'm sure I have some wild look in my eye. I climb to the offending chirper and examine. I need a 9 V battery. That little block of energy can save what's left of my sanity.
Superfresh is open 24 hours, so I head up there at 2 in the morning, looking like a one night stand. Long mesh shorts, uggs, sweatshirt, puffy vest, disheveled hair, confused look and all, I head to the batteries. AA, AAAA... tons of those... they had C batteries, even D batteries (who uses those?) but 9V are nowhere to be found. I stood there for a few minutes, as if they would just appear or something, out of thin air, like I'm Harry Potter and in front of me would appear a room FULL of 9V batteries.
An employee walked up to me, a little hesitantly, the way one would approach a stray dog. "Sweetie, what are you looking for?" I tell her I need a 9V battery because my alarm won't stop beeping. She told me that happened in her house and her boyfriend just cut the wires. I shook this idea out of my head quickly to avoid permanent damage to myself and/or others. She disappeared into the abyss of aisles and returned to me with a most precious pearl...a 9V battery. I think she was concerned for my well being because she walked me to the self checkout and proceeded to perform the transaction for me. I wanted to hug her but my better judgement told me this was inappropriate.
I returned home and with the utmost glee replaced the battery. I quieted the tell-tale heart. Victory is mine.