2. My favorite thing is having a whole morning where I don't have to do anything except lay around with lots of coffee or tea, reading or listening to music.
3. Best memories: overlooking that one monastery in the West Bank, my first bus ride to Edinburgh, jumping in the leaves at that house in Fishers, sitting on the bench in front of Barnes and Nobles.
4. Room: wilted flowers, dirty shoes, two pairs of glasses, a pile of laundry, a pile of print-outs from 509 class, and slips hanging from a hook on my wardrobe.
5. Wish I could be: back at re-engage 07.
6. Maybe I want children, after all. Maybe.
7. Hate always having my cell phone on me.
8. Greatest desire: community.
9. Energized by my job at St. Andrew's. De-energized by my classes (with the exception of 509).
10. Procrastination is my vice.
11. Recently watched: Lord of the Rings. Decided I am like Eowyn. Decided it's time to grow the hair back out. Then started listening to "Hair" by The Cowsills. "Never have to cut it 'cause it stops by itself!"
12. Whiskey. In moderation. With a clove.
13. God who?
14. Pissed that the gov is imposing a uniform call the prayer over Cairo. I enjoyed the scratchy chaos.
15. Would love to: go horsebackriding through the desert tonight.
16. Feel like: I haven't accomplished much in the last 23 years. Better get on that.
17. Hate: when people are too busy to hang out.
18. Miss: pubs in England. Esp. the Old Bell.
19. Plotting: an epic Christmas pressie for someone.
20. Confession: just want to be happy.
21. Recently made some decisions about personality traits that were no longer working for me. See mom, I'm all growed-up now.
22. Exhibitionist.
23. I did not make any wishes this year. Just some plans.
I've had quite a load of friends recently get engaged or married, but for the first time yesterday, a friend actually bought a house. Yes, a house. Brand new. Suburban. Quite large. 22 years old and she bought a house with her fiance!
Everyone else my age seems to be perfectly at ease with the sudden onslaught of grown-up activities. Me-- eh, I'm a bit terrified by it. Can't make sense of it. A mortgage at 22? My god, I don't even know what escrow means! I can barely figure out how to prepare rice without ruining a pan! I still watch Disney movies for fun!
I guess I've always been a bit behind my peers in matters of growing up. I could never understand the rush to get a boyfriend in Jr high. Not that I didn't like boys, but I was preoccupied with tying sheets in the shape of butterfly cocoons to the tree branches in my back yard, dressing up in long skirts and exploring the forbidden fields in the park down the road. Reality has never been a strong suit for me.
The further in I get with life, the harder it gets to turn back. But if I could squeeze out a few more years (or even minutes) of childhood, I would. Why do we all so complacently shuffle our way to adulthood, with its necessary trappings and mortgages? I'm no Peter Pan-- I figure I'll grow up sooner or later-- but I keep putting it off. When I imagine love, it looks nothing like what I see around me, with shiny rings and bridal shows. In my daydreams love looks a lot more like those fairy games I used to play all summer long in the backyard. Love smells like fresh cut grass, musty dress-up clothes, wild chives we picked and ate, the creek bed. Not quite the scent of settling down, I guess.
just because i had insane amounts of drive, focus, and motivation during undergrad, does not mean i was in any way prepared to do it all over again times 2 in a foreign country. advice: the desire to postpone the job-hunt for another 2 years is not suitable motivation to get a person through grad school.
people who know me undoubtedly get sick of my near-constant quarter-life crises. i seem to be permanently discontent. all last year i was aching for cairo and freedom, and now here i have cairo (and i really, really love this city) but not quite freedom (though i really, really love all the opportunities i've been given here) and i've totally lost focus. i'd rather wander around the city enjoying the noise and bustle of the streets than get any coursework done. i take perfectly good free time (which should be spent preparing the insane piles of work coming due) and fritter it away on ice-cream trips to mohandiseen or feluca rides or leisurely conversations over cups of coffee. my head is not in the game.
the world's just so damn beautiful. i want to vanish into it, soak it in, drink it up. i'm not an academic; i'm an artist. why am i in grad school? why oh why???
i am standing in water, soft as the day i was born, licking my ankles and toes. the day is unlike anything i've ever known-- it's as though i woke to find everything still, the world stopped, the noise silenced, the colors brushed over with star dust. i'm encased by air or music, i can't tell which. and though i'm the only one i can see, i know i'm not alone.
every time i close my eyes, i wait for life to start again-- i wait for a thundering car to pass by, i wait for that pressing, panicking sense of urgency to refill my chest and make me weary and old. but i am young now, i am new. maybe the youngest i've ever been. i think maybe i am perfect. yes, surely i must be perfect now. surrounded by perfection, who could help but be perfect?
i think back to the old gray fields i used to walk, the moldering stumps that made me cry with their remnant of lost life. i think back to brown leaves crunching underfoot when i was a girl in tights on a dead-end road. i think back to that blinding white winter when i first began to freeze inside. now i am warm, warm as a first kiss long awaited.
oh, the gold! i am bathed in gold, not anything like gold metal either. i have been swallowed up in the fragrance of honeysuckle, or popcorn, or the wildly spraying sea.
i sink into the water, i let it sweep over me, i let it into my mouth and lungs, i let it into my bones and my memories. it is so much softer than the crushing air i used to breath. i could fly in this day, i think. perhaps i am flying. certainly i am singing. or no, perhaps that is the sky singing.
the waves rush out again, i am three thousand colors and just one thought-- you. you've come at last.
what a thing, to be known. what a thing of desire and impossibility...
what is there to know, within me, without me? what is there to plunder, to unearth?
what a thing to be learned, like the cracked back of a rocking chair, much used. or the cool plaster tile baseline of my current existence, learned absently from dancing feet.
what a thing, to be loved. what a thing of desperate, untenable hope. i've gone round the world, i've been many things, but i've never been this thing.
oh such a thing, to be finally seen. like the stars are seen sometimes, trembling through frosted panes, a revelation in a single point of light.
why must we wait, to be known, to be learned, to be loved? what storyteller marks our days and holds us back from that long awaited consummation of yearnings? oh, oh to finally be these things...
for the past two years, all i wanted was THIS. to leave, to travel, to have adventures, to experience new things, to be FREE.
it doesn't feel so free, now. growing up has a way of saddling one with a thousand and one cares that make every moment heavy.
packing. filling out paperwork. checking off a to-do list. saying horrible goodbyes. when i get there, i think i'll be fine. till then, it's a struggle.
will there be peace in my future? will there be glorious moments of rushing excitement, quiet moments of contemplation overlooking this beautiful earth? will there be love, passion, dignity, happiness? ahhh we all wonder...
I’ve found God in weariness I’ve found God in old smells The feel of sheets of paper everyday and tolerant
I’ve found God In chapped lips Goddess songs and Sunday school The complexities of a friend’s body The labyrinth of a man’s heart I’ve found God.
A moment here, A whisper there A little girl, angry with life A blanket In need of a wash Dinners and conversations Drinks and cigarettes Tasting like God Tasting of God’s sweat
I’ve found God Still looking, always Still waiting And God is still hiding Somewhere, manywhere
There are thousands of snow flakes Hovering, pink and perfect in this Blinding brilliant kiss of a storm
You are trapped in heat And bustle You are trapped Within yourself
But I am a snow globe Waiting to set you free, shatter you free Into the wintry world Of wretched western twilight
I am a shard of glass Leftover from the accident, the incident That set you free, and found me trapped Within your heat
Marble man, obsidian eyes Embrace me For I am so cold I will not last the night
And this snow globe ocean Placid as rain Tender as the ocean tossing ships upon a feral storm Drowns me in eastern heat The kind I’ve been thirsting for
Ah, Merlin of the thousand faces! Merlin of distance and wisdom, a sort of inhuman being, detached from her greatest weapon, lust! Merlin of wild words and searching fingers, sifting fingers, to sift through her mysteries like the pages of so many prehistoric stories and spells. Some days made him a boy, a creature of singularity not to be subjugated. And moments of moonlight and roses made him a blushing youth—blushing from weakness too soon concealed. And most vivid hasty days made him the worst version of this myriad—the slave of duty—duty to honor, duty to knowledge, duty to some great quest forever hidden from mortal kind. This duty she would have to slake without hesitation, rendering him quickly directionless, a feeble wanderer in the forest of her strategies.
She would have him then—a treasure indeed! The golden-egg layer at last collared and quartered away at her bidding… the thundering monarch of a mystic labyrinth kingdom brought to her on a platter. The burden of her triumph would be strange to bear indeed. Would she be magnanimous, the astute master carefully initiating his newest virgin bride into the terror of grown-up love? Would she be Achilles, dragging him thonged and sliced behind her chariot to the despair of his city? Or would she follow the way of Lilith, and, like a tender mother, cradle him, form him, teach him to stand with unsteady pride on her lap?
Too many choices! Morgana could not imagine leaving any path untrod now—she would walk them all, she would have it all ways, she would have him captured and yet be his captive—she would slay him cruelly even as she birthed him—she would drown him in the greatest love any on earth had ever known, drown him, and feast upon his newborn ecstasy with a relish demons groaned to feel.
Happy Biographer's Day, everyone. In case you have someone in your life whom you feel deserves a slightly-exaggerated or romanticized version of their life in print, check out these directions for writing a biography:
http://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Biography
I had my grandparents over last week and as we sat at lunch one day chatting, I strongly felt someone ought to write their biographies. Probably when I'm old, other people will think the same, even though I consider my life quite normal.
Since I graduated last week, I've done impressive amounts of laying around, taking hot baths, watching films and painting. I've yet to start any of the practical things I had in mind for summer, which is just fine. It's been sort of amusing because this seems to be the summer of the weddings... most people my age, I suddenly realize, are settling down, just at the point I'm about to head off into the unknown again. As I grow older, I'm becoming more understanding of their choice and less certain about my own. However, I am no less enthusiastic about moving back to Egypt. In fact, I bought luggage yesterday. Which signals something of a shift in long-term thinking because prior to this I always traveled with my backpack or a little carry-on, and now I am taking 2 (TWO!) checked suitcases.
Maybe if I escape to the rain and the gray The empty and the wild I wont have these questions These old silly questions Standing in my way Pretending to be important
Maybe if I learn myself again Like the twining rims of cedar root Always underfoot And fragrant Maybe then I might sidestep These vain passions And follies
For nothing endures of the night Not even the crusty silver moon I am so fond of And nothing comes of my plans Or forthrightness But stiffer follies
Oh man with your black eyes And hyacinth words You are zilch And I am the whole thing Oh man with your irregular desire Your wisdom is so much less Than my cherished follies
