I Love Christmas Lights

He says "Daddy loves you, even if you did grow up on me." He says I promised not to.

I wonder if he knows it's hard to grow up.

I wonder if he knows I promised because I never wanted to.

I wonder if he knows I still don't want to.

I wonder if he knows that it happens no matter what, and what you grow up into is just a matter of how you take it.

Everyone grows up, like it or not. Some people just turn into big children. Or maybe we're all always big children. I don't know.

I never say anything when he says that. I usually sulk, but so far I've done a good job of not sulking.

I told my mom that some people have fun putting up their Christmas trees.

When my dad walked in and said "What the hell are you doing?" I answered, as calmly as you please, "Putting up the tree," and on impulse "Do you want to help?"

"No."

That didn't bother me, though. It's funny, really.

Sometimes I wonder if anything is really happening at all, or if every day is actually a strange variation of a single day, repeated over and over and over...


This is from Tony Kushner's afterword to "Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde" If I read it correctly, this is from a prose poem of Wilde's (decribed by Kushner):

"Lazarus, whom Christ meets weeping by the roadside, answers, when his Savior asks him why he's lamenting: "Lord, I was dead and you raised me into life, what else can I do but weep?"

Kushner responds:
"...there is much to do, after being raised from the dead, besides weeping."

Plans

Blue sky December fades to cloudy grey. Flat empty land rises into gentle hills, fills with skeletal trees and gas station islands lead to clusters of rundown houses. The smooth pavement submits to potholes and loose gravel. There, "Welcome to Cooper," the old sign quietly reminds us where we are. As we fly down familiar streets, my eyes pick out scattered subtle changes, strange and familiar faces walking down the cracked sidewalks. Finally, pulling into that driveway, there it is, the old white house. Faded wood, scraggly weeds and trees, a gun by the door. Home.

I'm taking it much better this time. When we came back over Thanksgiving, the feelings that rushed over me were crippling, physically nauseating. That sense of both being a stranger and coming home tangled in thorny knots in my stomach... but this time I'm fine.

Medicine or attitude? Both. I found out something interesting: you can still get depressed while taking medicine for it. Healing is a combination. If you try to heal with just thoughts, it's a terrible battle. If you try to heal with just medicine, it's a terrible battle. A battle is a battle no matter what, but doing both things definitely makes it less terrible.

So I'm doing my best, and it's going really well. I feel good. Last time, I couldn't write. Not writing is one thing, but not being able to write is another. It's a horrible feeling. But look, here I am, writing. Here I am, experiencing the world, contemplating the world, and sharing the insights I find from it.


I love the clouds. I love the skeletal trees. It's truly beautiful here.

Glen said "You always have music." I thought about that as I sat in my unchanged room and played Ukuhaley for a while. I sang and smiled at all the books in my room.

So I have plans. You know how plans are, but we'll see how they go. Get a driver's license, clean the house, play my song for my mom...

I had an exciting thought on the drive down here. Pen names. Writers use those. I spent a few moments in happy relief before I realized a pen name wouldn't be my panacea. Whether anyone knows who's telling the story or not, it isn't fair to reveal it to the rest of the world without revealing it to the people involved. Curséd non-fiction.

That's okay, though. Hard roads and difficult tasks are good things. They make for good stories and eventually some wisdom, or at least some experience.

So. Show as much kindness to my parents as I can possibly muster over the next couple of weeks. Start writing letters, very regularly. Salvage relationships. Send them the essay. Try to publish it with their blessing.

It sounds silly, of course. I can imagine eventually sending it to my mother. But my father? What would it be like to read your daughter's essay and discover you're the monster in the story?

Too bad it's a short essay. It isn't supposed to be the whole story. It's just one tiny frame... it's the response of a troubled college freshman to the question "What is home?"

It is not the complete chronicle of her childhood and interaction with her parents. It is not the summation of all her thoughts, emotions, and memories. It is a not a verdict.

But that's what they would think it is...

and so I've just told myself what I have to do. With the letters, I first have to establish a safe form of communication. Then I have to tell my story. I have to learn to trust them and teach them to trust me. I have to get them to believe that I am not a judge, my words are not a jury, and paper is not a courtroom.

Tall orders, tall orders...

I'm fighting a man. He's a giant who lifts more than Tom, has no ears, and his lips are stitched shut. He's tradition, he's a cycle, he's as old as the earliest families. He's angry, and he never sleeps. He is pain, and he is full of pain.

But I don't have to be stronger. I just have to be smarter.

Trust the floor.

Harden not your hearts.


I wish you the greatest strength of heart in your battles. That's all you need. Don't give up. I love you. <3

Kent, the Gentleman

I know I've been updating a lot lately, but all these interesting things keep happening. Physics is waiting, but... I just have to write this.

I just got back from a little adventure to Sam's at Sneed, a quest for apple juice and tea. After all the biking, aikido, and dancing, I was so thirsty.

As I left, a guy who was also leaving said "Oh, after you ma'am," and held the door for me. I thanked him and he said "Anything for a lady."

That was so surprising. I've heard strangers say some amazing things, such as "Mija," and "Have a beautiful day," but nothing like this. So I thanked him again.

Coincidentally, we walked the same pace, so he struck up a conversation. "Out for a bite to eat?"

"To drink, actually," I said. I might have left it at that, said an awkward goodbye, and come back to my room, but on a whim, I added "I just got done with a rehearsal, so I'm really thirsty." I had also just finished an incredible series of conversations with Laura, so I was feeling very happy and friendly.

"Rehearsal?" He asked with the most smoothly executed arched eyebrow I've ever seen.

So, since I already started, I told him it was a Celtic Ensemble rehearsal--both eyebrows arched--and tonight's was mostly fast dancing. I felt girly saying I was thirsty from dancing, a stereotype on my part, I suppose, so I added that I'd gone to aikido--confused expression--sorry, it's a martial art--before that.

He quite obviously lived in Bledsoe, and I in Gordon, so at that point we reached a separating point. "Well," he said, standing tall and composed. "I know you're tired, so please have a wonderful evening."

I thanked him and said it was nice to meet him because I felt like I'd met him. "Well... we didn't really meet exactly. Just talked a little," he said.

"Well... would you like to officially meet before we go?" I asked, again on a whim.

He smiled. "Sure."

So we each halved the distance and he said "I'm Kent," half extending his hand. "Tracey," I said, reaching in return. I expected a typical American male handshake, but instead... I'm not even sure how to describe it. It was a gentle handshake, and it was sort of sideways--exactly like holding hands for a waltz, but with added motion. And, of course, much more brief.

"You're very warm for a cold night," he said. That was odd. My hands are usually always cold.

"I've done lots of running around," I said. Aikido + dancing + biking = warm hands.

"You must be very tired. Well..." he said, as we both began to back away. "Do have a wonderful evening, Miss Tracey. I'll see you around?"

"Sure," I said, smiling. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

And then I continued on, back to Gordon, thinking in my head how to describe everything that just happened.

I found just the right way: He was all British gentleman without the accent.

What an incredibly interesting character.

As I left, I was mostly thinking about it from a writing perspective, as I usually do, but then I considered it as a reality. Things like that don't really happen. That's out of a book. A perfectly in character British gentleman without the accent, a chance meeting and none of the mystery solved? Straight out of a book.

But we're not in a book. So how do I interpret this?

I don't really know. I think it must simply be his personality, because nothing about my appearance should have prompted him to call me "ma'am" and "lady." I was wearing layers of baggy clothes because it's cold, was recently sweaty, and my hair was in a messy ponytail. Nothing about me was lady-like. Yet after I left, I had a vague sensation that I might have been hit on, but the idea seemed ridiculous because... When I think the phrase "hit on" it goes with a typical American handshake and doesn't involve the word "lady" unless it's preceded by another word edging toward offensive.

I'm not worried about it at all. My ultimate conclusion is that it's his personality, and I'm unlikely to really see him again, which is just fine. I just think it was an extremely interesting scene, especially because it quite seriously happened, and I felt the need to write it.

SHAKABUNDE!

December 1st has been looming on my calendar for the last couple of weeks. The Monday before, I had to be ready to play my song, and on ominous Tuesday, December 1st I had to turn in my 3rd essay, a set of 3 poems and a journal, be prepared to perform in physics class and take a quiz, and later turn in a lab.

For whatever reasons, I had done little of any of those things until Sunday.

So. The 3 poems involved some adventures in the building, trading with people, getting and giving critiques. I finally returned everyone's poem and got mine back, too.

That essay was so hard to write, and I don't know why. I think I'm just tired. But I finally finished it.

I was up until 4:30 this morning, manipulating my way to a final draft of that essay, finding all the scattered pieces of my poems, and writing in that journal. I don't think any of it is really amazing, but it was all finished. Well... the journal wasn't really finished at all, but I had done at least one thing in each section, so that should be okay. Sadly, my physics wasn't even started. I just couldn't do it at that point. I'd spent all day focusing on something, so I had to let one of them go.

And I still needed to print.

I no longer have the ability to stay up all night. I exhausted it in the last year, so now staying up late is actually painful. When I got in bed at 4:30, I was terrified I wouldn't be able to get up in time to go print everything and make it to Spanish. In just a couple of hours, I could fail so many things, and the painful early hours would be for nothing.

But I did wake up. I was out of bed at 7:45. I put on layers and layers of clothing, and walked out the door to discover snow. Even tired, worried, and in a hurry, it was breathtakingly beautiful.

When I left, it hadn't begun to stick to the ground yet. It was light and slow, but it quickly sped up. By the time I was riding Schwinny past Holden Hall, it was falling so fast I had to wipe ice off of my glasses every few seconds.

I was so cold, and when I got to the library, I was coated in snow. I dusted it off before I came in, but I was still dripping my way to a printer.

The snow, falling fast and thick, looked overwhelmingly vast through the large library windows. I walked back into it and got coated again. Schwinny had a nice one-inch tall pile of snow on her seat and handle bars. I wiped it off at first, but it collected again in seconds, so I just hopped on and rushed to Spanish.

Somehow, I made it on time. I'm almost never on time Tuesdays and Thursdays. 8:30? Insanity.

I melted when I went inside. There was a nice puddle in my chair, and somehow, the idea of snow-covered people melting was extremely poetic to me.

On to Writing in the Outdoors. And we were, indeed, outdoors in all that snow. Today was the first day of presentations, so we walked around campus to people's various places. I was wearing tennis shoes, so I soon had soggy socks and freezing toes. But a classmate was kind enough to bring handwarmers for everyone. Mine didn't start working until after physics class, but it was incredibly nice of him anyway.

So. I turned everything in and had until 5 to finish the journal. On to physics, where I performed without incident and happily discovered the quiz is Thursday, not today. And there's a lovely Wednesday in between.

So I came back to Gordon, ate some soup, completed the physics lab, and wrote as much as I could in the journal. When I went to deliver it, I saw Caswell himself at work in his office. Oh my gosh. From there I went to the lab without incident.

Yes! Finished! Finally! 

I made it. Glorious.

I don't feel like I wrote this very well. Everything was so much more difficult, easy, daunting, encouraging, and beautiful than I can find words for right now. The point is that I'm amazed and extremely thankful.

The point is, I wanted to thank you and God.

I just really felt a thank you note was in order. I feel so good, even though I'm a little behind on sleep and might have lost a little weight. I've been so happy today, since I watched all these stressful things become okay, and I felt so amazing.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.