Jealous?

Jealousy...envy...seductive words, aren't they?  One would think that an act up there in the 7 deadly sins, an emotion that is, from personal experience, highly unpleasant, would have an ugly name.  But it doesn't.  Jealousy...envy...they roll off the tongue vampishly, like a 'come-hither' look across the room at a bar.  That's whay jealousy and envy are, aren't they?  The sexiest people at the party who flirt shamelessly for sport and coyly lead you...nowhere.  Jealousy, you minx.

I'm jealous of people, envy them, because what they have that I don't is tantalizing to me.  But what good does it do?  I give into jealousy's saucy pickup lines, 'now that's what it's all about, why not you? why aren't you fluent in 4 languages?'  And jealously then coyly slinks away, but his cologne still lingers, and I'm worse for the wear.

Jealousy's such a sleeze ball.  Shameless, absolutely shameless.  Not my type, but immunity is difficult because jealousy knows my weaknesses and I crumble, end up a puppet on a string.  And I'm tired of jealousy.  Because he's a player; he's a liar and a fake.  He's really never going to take me anywhere at all, I will gain nothing from this relationship.  Fuck off, jealousy, allow me to enjoy my beer in peace.

Right now, I can think of many things I want that others have.  Being in better shape.  Better work ethic.  People in love.  High intelligence.  Flamenco dance skills.  So here I am, and jealousy saunters over with a dirty martini, trying to make his moves.  "Damn Lauren, that's so terrible that you've never had a real boyfriend," he says, and gives me some puppy dog eyes.  But dammit jealousy, you don't give a shit about me, you've got the guy who's envying his friend's promotion in your peripheral vision if it doesn't work out with me.  I throw my drink at you, jealousy, you're SUCH an asshole.  

But you're always lurking, hanging out in the corner, seeking out vulnerability, and I hate knowing that I'll probably give into you again.  But there are more fish in the sea, jealousy, you're not the only game in town, and I'm going to find someone better than you, and we'll just see how you deal with it when I show up with a little someone named 'self confidence' on my arm.

Morocco.

Memory always seems inadequate - at least the sharing or retelling of memory.  Photographs are beautiful, but they'll never quite capture the bluest blue or the crispest divide between river and rock.  But hell, we try don't we?  We try to hold onto them, bring them up again, because we know they're there.  Things happen, and we want to talk about them.  But like slides that fell out of their chronologically ordered rack, the memories blend together, become jumbled and fantastic, take on their own life.  So thus in recounting my trip to Morocco, a time I never want to come close to forgetting, I'll do so as inaccurately and as randomly as I please.  The memories are up in a little box of wonderful pictures, and I'll write them as the fall down.

First time in Morocco?  A thousand welcomes.  Now pay the man 100 dirhams.

         What the hell are we doing in Morocco?  Seriously though, guys, what the hell are we doing here?  We arrived in Marrakech sleep deprived and malnourished after an absurd layover in Madrid which consisted of sleeping on a cold floor and eating tasteless, unhealthy and far overpriced snacks.  Fucking airport food.  They have a monopoly on the market though, so it'll never change.  Bastards.  So anyway we arrive at the airport and 5-6 taxi drivers levy for our attention and patronage.  150 DH later, we are dropped off in the city.  We meander our way through the alleys and derbs to check into our hostel.  The reception area is dark and freezing.  We sit down and an employee brings us tea and forms.  We fill out our information and pay, receiving 0 change, as he took the liberty of calculating his own tip.  How nice.  The tea is sweet and warm and reminds me that I'd like to pass out in a cozy bed for a few hours. 

"Ah, we take a tea for the last time.  How was sleeping for you last night?  We were fine since we had two blankets,” says a fellow traveler across the room.

“Oh my god we were FREEZING! Christ.  You know, this has been fun; but after last night I am DONE with Morocco.”

This charming sentiment was an overture to the entrance of an Arabic woman who was to show us to our room, in another building.  So we followed her to a tiny alley and she walked into the building, knocked on a closet door, spoke quick Arabic, and a phantom hand emerged from said closet holding the key to our room – number 4.  I felt a bit like Alice must’ve felt in Wonderland as I turned around from this queer little scenario to see a donkey pulling a cart of fruit, 2 or 3 stray cats and a woman fully veiled pass by.

We entered our room to find 3.75 beds (the .75 accounting for the baby sized bed), a clothes tree, and 6 inches of free walking space.  My friend Tim went and forged for food for us; we ate hot bread and brie cheese and fell asleep on the hard beds with no sheets.

The four of us woke up at 1 pm and decided to explore.  We purchased a map; however, the labyrinth of the medina with few street signs and even fewer that weren’t solely Arabic made navigation a difficult task.  So we adopted an attitude of ‘we’re lost, fuck it, we’re in Marrakech,’ that served us well.  I took a picture of a snake charmer who then demanded money.  I deleted the photo and avoided altercation.  Had my first experience of culture shock while being stared at like some sort of creature with an inordinate amount of limbs.  Walked through the souks for the first time, purchased a tea set for 120 DH.  The man told me he was putting an extra tea glass in the box to make a good deal.  He didn’t.  I was over it until I saw many awesome glasses and my friend Ginger decided to give me shit about my tea glasses, and not let it go.

Drank more mint tea, watched the sun set on the merchants.  Back to the room, took freezing showers, lay in bed talking and goofing off until drifting off to sleep in our perfectly parallel beds.

“Not a problem.  This is Morocco.  All that matters is money.” – Hostel owner explaining that I don’t really need to be 23 to rent a car.

“It’s the call to prayer.  Welcome to an Arab country,” mumbles Tim in response to the rest of our questioning as to what the rhythmic and very loud hymns were, and more importantly, why before the sun came up.  I know the sun had not yet risen because upon walking across to hte bathroom I looked up through the absence of roof to a dark cold sky.

We got a few more hours of sleep, or at least I did, then got our breakfast of bread, butter, honey and tea.  Let the carbo-loading begin.  We set out this day hoping to find some sites but fully aware that we may not.  Wandered around for a few hours, received 6-7 false directions and made a giant circle.  Great.  Got a glass of DELICIOUS fresh squeezed orange juice however.  Did some more shopping, we were getting better and better at bargaining.  Kara and I held chameleons.  I thought that if the chameleon came back to Belgium, it would turn grey.  I wanted to see what it would do among the vibrant purple, pink, yellow and green dyes in jars, but settled to let it cling to my fingers.

Saw the Saadian tombs.  10 DH entrance fee, and you had better have exact change.  Saw a palace.  Explored the ruins, remains of orange fields, saw storks’ nests, made friends with a stray cat, ate vegetable tagine and bought lanterns.  Walked bcack toward the circus of the Djeema al Fna, along the way passing a hole in the medina wall that sufficed for a home for five.  Passed by the man’s outstreched hand, palm up and open, international code for ‘please help me.’  Considered what the spare dirhams in my pocket would actually do.  Probably nothing.  Wondered how many people thought the same thing, maybe in this same spot.

We spent the evening on the rooftop terrace of a restaurant overlooking the Djeema, Tim smoking a cigar while we ladies sipped our tea.  A night of many where we just chatted about everything and nothing, laughing and occasionally reflecting on the fact that we never predicted this in our own futures.  Learned many of eachother’s childhood stories.  I turned my chair around and looked out over the scene below.  The sound of the drum circles put me in a trance as I watched the crowd walking in time with the beat beneath the canopy of swirling smoke from the grills cooking kebabs, bowls of escargots and who knows what else, the men at the fruit stands creating a chorus of ‘3 dirham! 3 dirham!’ and from where I sat, the square was less a place and more of a living, breathing being.

Retired back to the room, showered again in the room that made me feel like a pony with the ability to wash itself.  Lay in the dark thinking of the family in the hole in the wall, wondering what they think of before bed, wonder if they hope to leave the hole, or if it’s the end of the line.  Wonder what they eat.  Wonder if they think about me, the tourist who didn’t give away her spare change.

Pulled up a waterfall by a strong Berber hand

Went to Europcar at 9 am promptly to rent a car.  Walk up to a closed door and women cleaning, telling us they don’t open until 8:30.  Yes, you do, and it’s 9 am, we tell them.  No, it’s 8, they say.  Look at the clock!  Look at our phones; that clock says 8, but these say 9.  Look at ours, they say, it’s 8am.

On day 3 of Morocco we became aware of the time change between Marrakech and Brussels.  We go get breakfast, tails between legs.  Return.  Age requirement omitted from conversation, the car is rented, and we wait an hour for it to be ready, the employees running down the street to bring us tea while we wait.

Drive off into the Ourika valley.  Beautiful mountain passes, snow capped peaks, varying brown rock, green fields.  The view is never boring.  At Setti Fatma we stop and get a guide to take us to see the waterfalls.  Stunning.  At one point our guide, Mustapha, essentially hoisted me up a rock.  For some reason I trusted him as soon as I met him, and after we met his family and had tea and cookies, I realized, I love the Berbers.

I learned that people from the peace core lived in the village and learned the language.  Would I ever have the guts to do that?

Returned to Marrakech, aka, death trap for drivers.  Got pulled over 3 times throughout this day:

1.     extorted for 100 DH for false charges, made an ‘arrangement’ to get the charge down from 400 to 100.

2.     Policeman: Vous n’arretez pas (you didn’t stop.)

Me: Mais oui, j’ai arreté là bas (but, yes I did stop back there).

Policeman: c’est 100 DH pour cette infraction (it’s 100 DH for this infraction).

Me: Mais, je n’ai pas fait une chose interdit (But I didn’t do anything illegal).

Policeman: Touriste?

Me: Oui.

Policeman: Go ahead.

3.   Policeman: Vous n’arretez pas (you didn’t stop).

Me: (getting out of car) THERE ARE DONKEYS AND SCOOTERS EVERYWHERE COMING AT ME!!

Policeman: First time driving in Morocco?

Me: Yes.

Policeman: Go ahead.

 

Learned rules are different here.  Went to bed sharing more funny stories, mostly about Ginger’s big family, entertaining ourselves in our tiny room.  Discovered the 5:30 am call to prayer was so loud because a minaret stands, conveniently, next to our window.

Pretty views, a mosque, but no shot at a free lunch.

         Headed out for a day of car window sight seeing.  Drove up and down the high atlas mountains, through the valleys toward Tisi-n-test.  Learned that busses pay no attention to the width of roads and oncoming traffic.  Drove past 10-15 hitch hikers and women carrying huge piles of herbs on their backs.

         Made our way to the Tin Til mosque, not quite an ancient ruin but not a practicing mosque either.  Regardless, being able to walk through door of a mosque was still a privelege, and somehow the lack of roof cover brought life to the place.  The golden brown of the structure contrasting the baby blue sky with fast moving puffy white clouds.  Thought, I could pray here.

         Walked out to find Tim sitting with two kids on the hill.  Decided to head back and find food on the way.

         Stop 1:  A bathroom, nice terrace, man with 5 teeth, no english, a big of french, but no food.

         Stop 2: Very nice place, cute pathway, but a 4 hour break between lunch and dinner in which we happened to fall.

         Stop 3: Expensive place, middle of nowhere, lantern-lined pool.  Tim’s about to pass out from lack of food so we stay. 

         Head back to Marrakech where my driving skills are tested again.  Thankfully I can parallel park, and yes, my life did depend on it.  Went to the square, harassed by every stand owner claiming there food is the best. TIP: they are all the same.  Ginger and Kara get dinner, I got tea, and we all got swindled out of money for the bread and olives that they placed on the table.  Ready to leave Marrakech.

Berbertastic...delicious dinners and a family in Tisselday

         Got some smoothies before hitting the road.  Mine was avocado and milk – tasty!  We arrived at Dar Isselday, a hotel remodeled out of the owner’s father’s Berber home.  Kamal greets us warmly and brings us mint tea and snacks.  He speaks no English so my French is put to the test.  I realize I actually know more than I thought.  We tour the Berber village where Kamal grew up.  Kind of feels like we’re on another planet.

         He shows us almond trees, fig trees and quartz rocks, and a Berber cemetary.  The cemetary is little more than a vacant plot of grass.  Kamal explains that after a member of the village dies, there is a 40 day mourning period during which friends and family visit, eat together and talk about the life of whomever passed.  After this period is over, he says the grave site isn’t visited.  “The dead are dead,” he says, “the memory lives on but after the mourning is over, the village must move on.”  Can’t decide if that’s comforting or not.

         We walk back to the house, crossing a river to do so.  Kamal runs across the rocks, explaining that you can’t think about it too much, or crossing becomes difficult.  You let go, run across, and you’ll be just fine.

         We sit upstairs for a while and we’re brought out delicious home cooked tagine.  The chef is Kamal’s oldest brother, a happy excited and personable man.  Full and warm, Kara and I sit outside and look at the sky.  High elevation and no city lights or clouds opens a curtain to a gorgeous starry night.  We see three shooting stars, and Kamal’s brother tells us they call part of the sky their river of stars because it appears to be flowing.  We agree and I sit there, purely happy, with my friends, the stars, a fire, and a family who wants to share their culture.

Bob Marley’s Camels and shelter from the storm

         Camels are awkward creatures.  Strange, gangley animals.  Four of them were waiting for us, eating hay.  Four chamaux, more accurately, one hump.  The man who owns said fauna has some of the nicest dreadlocks I’ve seen.  Kamal explains that he and his family are rastafarians.  I picture a clan of dreadlock-headed babies and it makes me smile.

         Sitting on a camel while it stands is unlike any other feeling; forward, up, completely tilted toward the ground, then the back legs go up, and up again.  You know what riding a camel feels like?  I don’t really know what, but it’s not comfortable.  You know what makes it worse?  Pouring rain.  All we could do was laugh as a rainstorm came in over the arid terrain, and we dismounted our steeds, climbed some rocks and hid out in caves, formerly inhabited by Berber tribes.  The rain fell, our camels grazed, seemingly unaffected by it all.

         After the rain let up, we returned via camel to the town, got bcak in the car, and headed back for hot showers.  I took a nap and when I woke up, got to help out in the kitchen.  We watched the proud chef make his tagine.  I got to fan the fire.  A good tagine has to simmer for about 2 hours, and so in the meantime, what better to do than a Berber drum circle?  Drums were passed around, clapping dancing and singing ensued, us and this family.  I kept thinking...this is there life, what brings them joy.  I like it.

         We had dinner – oh wait, correction, 2 dinners.  And then we sat around talking and holding the house kitten, an adorable black and white male – no name.  Went to bed hoping to come back some day – inshallah, as would be said...if God wills it so.

Local Busses

         Family photos, then back to Marrakech.  Caught a local bus to Essouaira, complete with sacks of grain on the top.  4 hour trip, frequent ‘stops’ during which passengers more or less had to run to get on.  Arrive in another rainstorm, can’t see anything, lost in the medina.  Soaking wet, we arrive to a haven of Bob Marley, hookahs and the owner named BizBiz.  Wrung ourseslves out, and met a trio of women from Chester, which is NOT Manchester, but between there and Liverpool.  This is important.

         Chatted with them for a bit, listening to their discussion on whether or not at 29 you should just settle for ‘the bloke who’s there, ya know?  He’s alright, and he’s there.’  Woke up to them the next morning yelling through the halls, “Jules, do you need the key, Jules?”  Not sure if she did.

“They’re sneaky motherfuckers.  Like monkeys.” – BizBiz on his experience in Bali

         The next two days were pretty relaxing.  I attempted to surf, which was a blast.  Met an Irish surf instructor in the ocean.  Eventually was able to stand, but acquired a pretty large bruise.  Free souvenir.  Ginger and Kara had to fend off flies, stray dogs and salesmen on the beach.

         I got offered drugs on many occasions.  Apparently I look like someone who goes for a walk on the beach to find opium.  Like in Marrakech, we couldn’t go anywhere without attracting attention.  Found delicious ice cream, were forced to drink tea at a fruit stand regardless of our fear of the herpes simplex virus, found some cool art and beautiful woodwork – thuya wood. Bought a few things, and dreamt of furnishing my house some day when I’m rich and famous.  Had a barbeque on the roof of the hostel, drank a few beers and hung out.  Decided we’d stay here the next night instead of going back to Marrakech, BizBiz assured us that we’d have a driver at 3 am.  Tiba (as I’m spelling it phonetically), one of those guys you just trust and love without him really saying anything, wouldn’t let me stop eating.  Looked out over the city, pondered my luck, and where it could take me from here.

Argane oil and Colombian acrobats

         Kara and I gathered the courage to try out a hammam.  Best decision I’ve made in a while.  The dark room is heated by water pipes and wood stoves.  It feels like a combination between a sauna and a steam room.  Sweated more than I have probably ever, and it put me into a meditative state.  Then I laid on a marble table and a woman exfoliated my entire body, throwing buckets of warm water onto me which felt incredible on my skin that felt so new – I won’t go into detail on how much skin came off of me, but suffice it to say I felt like a new woman.  Then she washed my body and my hair, and put a thin clay mask on my face.  I felt kind of like a baby – the feeling of being washed was familiar in a comforting, subconscious way.  Then we sat in the heat for a while more, and after a massage with argane oil, I felt so fully and incredibly relaxed.

         I’m not kidding, the air felt different on my skin.  So did the sun.  Everything did.  I wish I could do that every month, I felt so refreshed!  Kind of goes along with the theme of rebirth that seems to be underlying my life story these days.

         Kara and I spent the afternoon on the beach, and left when we could no longer stand every man stopping to talk to us, or sell us ‘happy cakes’ the last straw being the Colombian man who told us his life story – cirque de soleil wanted him – and he wanted us to watch the sunset with him.  Worst of all, he invoked one of my pet peeves, the, ‘it seems like you don’t want to talk to me,’ line.  No shit I don’t want to talk to you, fast-talking man on bike, I have my headphones in and I’d like a moment of peace looking at the ocean, if that’s alright with you.  But, apparently peace is only available in small doses.

Epic journey home

         I decided that sleep was futile in the scenario of traveling home, so, I didn’t.  I won texas hold ‘em against some Aussies and Californians, bonded with Tiba, got offered a job, and woke everyone else up at 2:30 am.  Now, our arrival at the airport hinged on the fact that BizBiz arranged the driver, and at this point, BizBiz was drunk and asleep on the couch.  Tiba assured me, it’s all good.  So we soldiered on with faith.

         Let me say, the crazies come out of the maze at 3 am.  We walked through the street past a man with his pants down, pissing, who tried to get our attention by shouting out his love for us.  He grumbled in this disgusting tone of a cave-dwelling monster with a serious phlegm issue. I didn’t look at him, but as we continued walking we heard him yell, “Don’t you know who I am?  I’m Jimi Hendrix!” As we turned the corner I heard that far too distinguishable sound of vomit hitting pavement.

         As we kept walking outside the walls, passing a man digging in the trash can with the blankest of expressions, I kept thinking how many faces of this place I’d seen.  Merchants who just want your money.  Beggars.  Little children happily running through the streets playing soccer.  Beautiful mountains.  Trash on the beach.  Dirty water.  Wonderful home made meals.  I guess every place where’s different masks at different times, and then again, maybe they’re not masks at all.

         We reached our ‘taxi,’ a large unmarked car.  Most uncomfortable seats in existence.  Our driver stopped at one point to get coffee and casually smoke a cigarette, not as if we had a time restraint or anything.  But by this time in the trip, nothing surprised us.  We met Jimi Hendrix already.

         When the police pulled us over, I thought for sure we were trapped, just like back in Marrakech when I broke the key off in the lock with us all in the room (woops).  But, we arrived, went through “security,” and after 2 flights, about 20 hours, bad timing for trains, lots of snacks and hysterical laughter later, we made it back to the huis.  An amazing adventure complete.  It was fun, Morocco.

could you freeze a waterfall?

anytime i look up and think -

i got a plan got it figured out this time - 

i connected all the dots - 

there's always stars i don't see

that'll throw off my perfect symmetry

more times than not i've got it wrong

i'm a  few beats behind and a bit off key

choirs of angels won't be singing my songs

but just as long as someone does

well then

i'll be alright.

When you're lying on the ground staring up at that inverted compass I mean, Christ, who knows?

Today I returned back to Belgium from a little jaunt to the Canary Islands.  Well, rather, one Canary Island that is, I went to Tenerife.  Interestingly enough, during the month of January, the demographics of this island resemble an oceanside retirement community for the British.  But this only enhanced my vacation, because come on - who doesn't love an old British couple discussing the exorbitant amount of dental clinics on the island, or telling you all about their daughter who moved to Boston with her husband whom she met while he was studying abroad in England, and their grandkids?  Lovely, fun, elderly people.  Makes you happy to see that people can enjoy life at all years; kind of gives you hope that maybe when everyone tells you 'its all downhill from here,' that maybe they're wrong.  Or they've never been to an island filled with happy 70 year old tourists. 

But anyway, I felt like a spoiled little brat.  My friends are back in Leuven with the perpetual rain, chill and cloud cover, studying to the brink of insanity, and I'm flopping on a black sand beach off the coast of Africa, with no decision to make other than what cocktail I'm going to order later.  I guess though, life can be a lot like playing the slots, and lately I've just been turning up straight 7's.  

We decided to adventure to the Western part of the island to see the cliffs, Los Gigantes.  Asked the man at the front desk what beach would be best to see said cliffs, and received information about beaches with good windsurfing.  Not so helpful, but he's a nice guy, so we said 'gracias' and used that magical little thing called a Blackberry to google our way to this scenic masterpiece.  We walked around, taking in the incredible views, and found a path to a natural pool, which was an oasis of black rock surrounding a tidal pool with the crashing waves of the Atlantic.  I lay on the rocks, looking out at the water, wondering, as I have on so many occasions, how the hell I ended up here.  

I took a break from my reverie to go swim in the tidal pool.  Now, I've had some bad luck with water in the past.  When I was a kid, I was stuck on an inner tube towed behind a boat going faster and faster because I was too afraid to take my hands off the handles to give the signal that means 'stop this death machine.'  Last summer, I got sucked down a rapid.  In the natural pool, I decided to try and cling to the rock masses while the waves crashed on me, instead of, you know, doing the smart thing and moving to the deeper water, as my fellow swimmers (again, mostly around 70 years old) were doing.  But nay, I had to keep my grasp on the damn rocks, which owe me nothing, just like the ocean.  First wave, oh thats fine, I can take that in stride!  Number 2 throws me for a loop.  Number 3?  Number 3 is a typhoon to me, and knocks me on my ass.  So I get thrown around a bit, pick up a few scrapes and scratches, and lost a flip-flop.  One flip-flop remains in the Atlantic where I left my mark.  The other flip flop is in my backpack because it was returned to me by my prince charming, a tall dark and handsome island native, with whom I certainly would have lived happily ever after if I knew how to speak Spanish.

So I survived that ordeal to continue on and drive up and around a volcano in a tiny stick shift car with approximately 7 horse power.  Have you ever driven around tight switchback uphill curves where you've had to drop down to 1st gear every 8 feet to keep moving?  My forearms are sore, I'm not kidding, and so is my heart.  Jesus.  The drive was gorgeous, but sometimes I wonder if roads were really meant to be there or not.  The area looked remarkably like Arizona.  Driving amongst what my astute friend pointed out to be, igneous rock, I felt like I was going through a time warp.  Once again, how the hell did I get here?  One year ago, I was just getting back to Baltimore to start classes, well, missing my first day of classes due to a hangover (woops).  Now I'm driving a car around a volcano on an island? 

There's that saying - live the life you imagined.  It's a nice thought, isn't it?  That you can control your path enough to make it just what you want.  But if there's something I've learned from my streak of luck, my travels and misadventures, it is that the imagining part - that's not important.  It's the living.  When I think about it, the island isn't what I imagined.  Leaving for Morocco in a few days isn't what I imagined.  Being happy to be back in foggy and cold Belgium after being in the sun, sand, and 70 degree air, just because this is another place I call home, that isn't what I imagined.  But, it is my life, and I love it.  And that's better than what I ever could've imagined.

daydream believer

No one’s singing; Miles Davis is playing so lead vocals are given to a brass trumpet.  The recording, though not the best quality, authentically crackles because, well, they didn’t have the ability to doctor anything up back then.  I’m trying to focus and read, get ready for an upcoming exam, but my mind isn’t here.  My mind’s back there. Sometimes I get lost in my day dreams.  Like this one.  I’d be sitting in a restaurant – I’m not sure what color it would be, I’ve only ever seen it in shades of black and white – one where you could picture Humphrey Bogart hanging out.  I’d sit there and smoke a cigarette out of one of those long ridiculous tube-contraptions, only this wouldn’t be ridiculous, it would be cool and classy.  Maybe I’d wear a hat, not a small one, a big one, with a feather in it. I’d sit by the window and watch the people walk by.  A waiter would come over, it’s a half past five at this point, and ask if I’d like something to drink.  I'd ask for a gin martini, dry and a little dirty, 3 olives.  He'd nod, because I would have been here before more than a few times, around the same time, ordering the same thing.

I think daydreams are funny.  I mean, why does my mind to choose to go the places it does? It doesn't take much, either, to tip into a thousand different directions.  I don't even like cigarettes, but for some reason, Miles Davis puts that in my head, as clear as a lot of memories that are up there.  I thought about it the other day, about memory that is - how strong is it going to be?  When I stood in my kitchen the other watching the snow fall, gently and with serenity, like a thousand tiny ships headed for the shore, the clouds shifting slowly as if tiptoeing not wanting to wake up the sun, the street dark but with a wintery blue glow, anticipating its visitors, I wondered what that image would look like in my mind.  Would I remember the cold that reverberated off the glass window?  The heat from the coils of the radiator warming legs as I leaned against it, my elbows on the windowsill? I wondered when I'd think about it.  Maybe the next time it snowed, or in 6 months when everything was silent in just the same way, but I'm back at home?  Or maybe never.

So I suppose that's the beauty of daydreams, and the small memories, the ones that have no significant purpose.  You never know when they're coming or where you'll go.  It's like a chance to get lost without consequence, a chance to drift off, take the scenic route.  A little transposition of night into day, dreams without sleep.

Little things I've realized I enjoy...

-A proper footstool 

-The moment in your bed when you find the perfect, most comfortable position to sleep in

-Accents

-Seeing my breath in the cold air

-When the natural sunlight comes through the windows, enough so that I don't need to turn on lights

-Soft tissues

-Quiet.

-Wearing a jacket with a high collar 

-Waking up 3-7 minutes before my alarm is set to go off

-When people smile and it makes their eyes close like half moons

-Printing out a finished paper for a class

-Showering after running outside

-The sound of someone in heels walking down a hallway

-Coincidences - the 6 degrees of separation 

-Lavender 

-Working late at night with a candle burning

-Finding the perfect gift for someone 

-Comic strips, song lyrics, or passages in books that relate to my life

...thoughts of these, along with the thought of a tropical island oasis vacation (complete with pool bar and cliff/volcano hiking excusion) and an adventure to morocco, is pulling me through these long days consisting purely of study, sleep, and the occasional meal.  But hey, I guess I was bound to have some work sometime.

2010

     2010.  I've been alive for 21 new year's eves, and I've been a conscious living being for over a decade now.  I made it through the 90's with fond memories of "Solute Your Shorts" and "Legends of the Hidden Temple," survived Y2K, managed to crawl through high school without too many scratches, graduated from said obstacle course in the lucky year of 2007, stumbled through 2 years of college and 4 months abroad, and now I'm here.  Sitting in front of my fire in the year 2010, one suitcase packed, ready to fly off to another 6 months of Belgium and all it may hold for me.

Do I feel any different?  Sure.  Don't we always with a new year?  Don't we always expect a change, or a fresh start, or promise ourselves a few new life changes?  In my opinion, January can often equal identity crisis.  More so than a birthday I think, a new year is more poignant a meter of the passage of time.  

I don't have a new year's resolution.  I've never really done that.  I'm not against the idea; however, the argument that you shouldn't need the dials to turn in order to make goals does seem logical.  Anyway, I never seem to "resolve" to much.  Maybe I'm afraid I won't accomplish it.  Maybe I'm perfect and don't need to change.  Maybe I'm overwhelmed and can't choose one.  Or maybe it's just that I don't understand what another year sums up to in my life.

Now I'm thinking about 2010.  I think about the year itself.  How does one even say it?  Do you say, two thousand and ten?  Twenty ten?  It's a year that can't even say it's own name.  This year, I'm going away from home again, longer this time.  I'm planning trips to more amazing destinations, I'll get a new room mate, I'll be further out of the loop, I'll need to have a downpayment on a house in Baltimore by the time I come home, I'll be looking toward senior year, I'll be needing to find an internship, I'll need to figure out what I want to do with my life to pick an appropriate internship...what the hell 2010?  I don't even know what your name is, and look what you're throwing at me.

I was home in Lancaster, PA for two weeks.  Home has never felt so different.  I don't think Lancaster has changed much, I know I have.  It's like a puzzle, and I'm a piece that got wet, or got torn, or got lost.  I don't quite fit.  Or perhaps it's more like as more of the puzzle came together, I needed to be shifted a bit.  Either way, I'm different here.  Things haven't changed, the times haven't been a changin', just me.  And here's the thing; if I'm not the same at home, well, then, where am I the same?  That is to say, where can I locate myself where I'm not in a state of identity shift?  Maybe it's nowhere.  I think I can relate to the year 2010; after all, I don't really know what to call myself right now.