From the white tent: an imaginary continuation of a story

     Today is Saturday.  I don't have work, so I finally got to sleep in.  It felt so good.  When at last I woke around 11, I plugged in my ipod and turned The Avett Brothers up loud.  The noise filled my apartment.  It filled the cracks in the room--it got under the armchair and the sofa, down the drain, and in the light fixtures--everywhere.  It reached down into me; I felt myself swelling up like a balloon as the music filled me up and pushed my ribs out as if to burst.  It was quite a feeling.  I washed my hair in the sink and toweled it off, dripping water all over.  Tiny little droplets of water blitzing through the air, plummeting to the earth, and smashing to wood flooring.  What to wear.  On my days off, this question is the supreme question on my mind.  And today most of all.  Today, I'm going to open my door.  I'm going to follow his lead and open the door--the gaping entrance to the outside world.  It's so vulnerable.

     I decide to go with the blue striped dress.  It accentuates my shoulders and is just the right length to show off my legs up til they start to get jiggly.  After carefully--more carefully than normal--applying makeup to my face, I walk to the door.  It's an odd feeling of expectation.  My socks slide across the floor--snagging a bit on the wooden floor--as I get closer and closer.  One more thing.  I back track quickly and bump up the volume on my ipod.  Go big or go home.  I set the song.  Still the Avett Brother.  Laundry Room.  Soothing.  Just right for opening the door.  The door.  I walk forward.  The guitar steps in anticipation; the voices on the ipod like friends.  The doorknob.  With a rush, I turn the doorknob, jerk my arm, and open the door wide.  Directly across from me is the gaping hole into the man's room.  So it's around 11 that he opens his door, I guess...

     The sound of the door opening draws his attention, and there we are.  Suspended in time.  He smiles at me.  I smile and shove the triangle wedge of wood under the door.  The door is open.  The guitar on my ipod picks up.  It's excited for me.  The Fiddle.  It's as if my ipod and  the song have been waiting for this.  I smile at the man and turn around and walk back farther into my apartment.  It felt less lonely now.  I was a part of something.  It was breakfast time.

     I wish I had an elephant.  Like seriously.  I would ride him--my dear Mr. Elephant--to and from classes.  I would never be late.  Jeff wouldn't hate me so much...

      Anyway, yes, an elephant would make my life so much better.  He would be my little pet.  But big.  I would give him a grand name to reflect his magnificent nature.  Like Edward the Second, Petrov the Innocent, or Harrison Ford.  As he stomped and crashed across campus from Fulton to Barrington, I would sit atop him like a queen--or at least like a very indie person.  I would be the hipster of hipsters.  Yes, I need to get an elephant.

     I think I would also like a pack of dogs.  Dogs of all kinds.  They would band all together and run wildly after  Harrison Ford the Innocent as we trekked across Gordon.  They would sleep in the woods with Petrov Ford at night.  And we would all be so happy.

     I wish I was in the band Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros.  We would tour around on elephants with packs and packs of wild dogs chasing madly after us.  It would be brilliant....

I'm leaving to the ice land.

     I'm in Lane right now not writing a paper--which is what I should be doing.  Directly across from me is the cape girl.  I didn't think she was at Gordon anymore.  Apparently I was wrong.  She isn't currently wearing a cape--sadly.  However, it is undoubtedly her.  I would recognize that cape girl anywhere.  Right now she's talking about Lady Gaga and anime with the girl who controls the card swiping action at for the Lane dinner shift.  I think she wants to make a Yu-Gi-Oh music video for one of Gaga's songs.  Beautiful.  Absolutely wonderful.

     My best friend and I are moving.  It's official.  I hope you will not miss me too much.  We're going far away to one of those islands at the top of Canada--the under-appreciated ones no one ever talks about.  We're going to build an igloo, and we'll live happily ice fishing until we die.  He is going to slay a polar bear for me, cause I need the fur to make a coat--I'm always cold.  I'm going to grow a garden on our ice island.  We're going to be counts--well, count and countess--the only residents with a wonderful greenhouse and furs for our outfits and blankets.  He says our igloo would only look like a regular igloos, however in reality it would be just like the houses on Tatooene with the underground rooms and everything.  He says it will be the only igloo with sun panel electricity and hydrogen gas generator plumbing.  Our bedroom has heated floors.  And the small kitchen has a rice steamer (cause I love rice) and a walk in "freezer" that is actually just a non sealed off room in the ice held together with steel.  The house also has satellite radio, internet, tv, and phone service.  Thank goodness for the radio.  He and I love Miike Snow.  (Which is ironic in light of where we'll be living.)  I will be painting the walls of our ice house.  One wall will have a painting of the ocean on it.  A beautiful, swelling ocean with seagulls flying overhead and huge, billowing clouds in the sky.  Another wall will have mountains and a forest painted on it.  Green, cliffy mountains covered in mysterious dark pines.  Other walls will retain the crisp, cool translucent color of Canadian ice.  The painted walls will remind us of home: the ice ones of our new life.  But we will be happy.  Happy as clams in our little igloo on the ice island.  We will miss our friends.  But once a week, they will all sail up in a rowboat to see us.  We will host igloo parties. We'll all go swimming in the cold, Canadian ocean.  And at night we will all drink hot chocolate before all snuggling down in a pile of polar bear fur blankets spread out on the floor of the living room with  the painted walls.  In the morning, when we all wake, I make tons of chocolate chip pancakes before packing them all up and sending them off back home in the rowboat sail boat.  And so we will never be lonely.  It will be a happy time.

The Honeycomb Triumvirate has nothing to do with this post...neither do mormons in Japan.

     Have you ever thought what band you would be?  What I mean is, what band or bands have the same sound and essence your soul does.  For example, I think I would be either Beirut or the Shins.  Well, a mix of the two really.  If I were a song, I'd be a mix of Home, by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros and Elephant Gun, by Beirut.  Whenever I listen to these songs, I feel a connection.  The spirit of the song has the same jive as my spirit does.  We're groovy, if I dare say.  What song would you be?  What song would your friends be?  We all know unmistakably Enya people--those quirky, weird, bumbling ones.  Or people who are Andrew Bird to the very core of their being--those beautiful people we all long to be.  And their's everyone in between--Ringo Starrs, Ke$has, Bruce Springsteens, Belle & Sebastians, Quiet Riots, or Ingrid Michaelsons.... 

      I forgot a cardigan.  Just thought you should know.  I'm currently chilly in Chesters.  I need my cardigan.   And here you see a perfect example of "digression."  Anyway...

     What is the one thing you really want?  The one thing that above anything else you crave with all of your being?  I don't mean like, a new iphone or a cruise vacation.  Unless that actually is what you want...which is shallow.  I doubt anyone would ever say above all they longed for a new Honda Civic.  So moving on.  What do we as humans long for?  I think we all desire different things.  Some people want freedom from the past or from themselves; some people want to trust someone else; some want a friendship that lasts forever; some people want purpose.  I, I want love.  I want to be deeply loved by someone.  Or by people.  This seems pathetic maybe, but seriously.  I've always longed for that.  I would die if I didn't have it.  Well, that's a bit drastic: I'd be very depressed.  What do you want most of all?

From the white tent: an imaginary story

     There is a man who lives in the flat across from me.  He's the only other American in the building that I know of. So I feel a sort of connection with him.  It's like we're brothers or something.

     Every morning when I leave for work, I open my door and there's his door across from me--a green enigma.  Closed.  I assume he's sleeping soundly, unaware of my coming and going.  But when I come back to the flat at night, as I climb the stairs, music drifts through the air to greet me.  Sometimes it's Simon & Garfunkel, sometimes Chopin, other times the Kinks, Mel Torme, or the Shins.  But most often it's the Rolling Stones.  As I walk down the hall to my door, I prepare myself for my one chance to spot him.  His door is always open in the evenings.  It's a beautiful thing.  A soft yellow glow spills out into the hallway.  His flat doesn't smell like a college dorm--no tang of stale clothes or burnt food.  It's just a warm essence that spills out the open door.  As I reach my door, I steal a glance to the left and into his abode.

     On the wall opposite the door there's a large mirror, so I have a pretty good view of the whole room.  It's filled with lamps.  He must never use the awful ceiling lights, I guess.  Artwork and posters are scattered on the walls.  There's an old couch with a questionable pattern--but not ugly.  It fits.  The coffee table in the middle of the room is overflowing with papers and books--I want so badly to know what books he reads.  On an small side table, rests a record player and the source of music.  And next to that, in a comfy looking maroon arm chair, sits the man.  He's reading a book--always is.  Tonight he's wearing a grey t-shirt and hunter green pants.  Barefoot.  He has shaggy brown hair.  It's not dirty or gross, but clean and inviting.  A bit of a beard frames his face.  Brown, square glasses.  From what I can tell, he's not overly attractive, but not ugly.  Just a man.

     When I arrive at my door and start digging around in my purse for my keys, he looks up at me, smiles, and nods.  I always wave distractedly as I find my keys in my coat pocket and say goodnight as I walk into my own, empty flat.

The Second

It's funny how we all rush into the Second.  It is almost as big of a deal as the First.  It's not until the Third that the anticipation and excitement dim a wee bit.  So this is the Second.  It's funny how life can become overwhelming all at once.  It lulls you into a sense of security, then flips out on you, causing a major mental upset.  You think you're finally on top of things; you've finally got it together and things are going smoothly.  But that's not true.  I have a feeling Chris Garneau would understand what I mean.  My song for today is Island Song.

I'm feeling the need to change.  I'm very influenced by the seasons and the weather.  And it's changing time.  I want to reinvent myself.  I decided to grow out my hair.  I did a few days ago.  And I'm determined this time.  It will be long.  I want to quit my job.  I want to revitalize myself.  Get some allergy medicine.  Get healthy.  Change my state of mind.  No more insecurity.  I'm a valuable, hardworking person.  There's no need for me to be intimidated by others.  I can do this...I think.

I feel it's time for a change.  I read on a website that ENFPs often feel this need.  They are everchanging.  It says," An ENFP needs to feel that they are living their lives as their true Self, walking in step with what they believe is right. They see meaning in everything, and are on a continuous quest to adapt their lives and values to achieve inner peace. They're constantly aware and somewhat fearful of losing touch with themselves. Since emotional excitement is usually an important part of the ENFP's life, and because they are focused on keeping 'centered', the ENFP is usually an intense individual, with highly evolved values."  So maybe I'm just feeling the need to "center myself" or something.  But something needs to happen.  I'm caught in limbo.

I feel change coming.  I have to make something different in my life.  I need to do some rearranging and as the new season comes, so a new season is coming for me perhaps.  The change in season is all around me.  Right now, in my Chester's booth, a crisp, cool breeze is blowing through the window and freezing my fingers as I type.  It smells like fall.  Change is here.

The First

The First is always exciting.  That's because you don't know what is to come in the future.  The First date is the one where you hold your breath in anxious anticipation as the butterflies threaten to revolt.  The First rollercoaster is the one that feels like you're going to die as the wind peals the skin from your face; you fear your stomach won't keep it together.  The First class you pay attention the entire class as you try and figure out the teacher--how much slacking will they take?  The First...it's addicting.  One must always try things first, must get that first rush.  So I'm trying a blog.  I think it might be fun.