the whole world is moving, but i'm standing still

In this whole unpacking and repacking debacle that has taken over the living room, I managed to find my travel journal from the last time I ventured across the pond. The first entry was an observation of my flight experience. Here it is, redundancies, non sequiturs, and general fluffy formal language included:

July 28, 2008 Atlantic Ocean

I'm wondering if I can trick my body into rest if I just close my eyes and pretend to sleep. but my mind will not sleep; it remains aware of the engine hum and the little girl behind me whose periodic burst of upset are a a constant reminder that it is not the middle of the night to my inner clock. I cannot force the cluster of thoughts in my brain that bounce off its imagined walls waiting for attention to be paid them to settle until the sun pokes up its bright head. They win my hand and here I am, up with the people contentedly watching their in-flight movies, unbothered by the fact that in a few hours their inner clocks will go haywaire with frantic confusion because it is not the time it is supposed to be. Maybe we should all take a note from the Mad Hatter and smash the clocks to pieces and serve them to each other with jam and butter.

the plane windows are cold with the breath of night. The wings are flashing red light beams into the sky, silent signals to the stars, which will never receive our communication because millions of years is too long and the light is too feeble to be of much consequence. It is a weird thing, to be at an even level with the sky, to have something substantial miles beneath you. I used to think heaven was in the clouds, where God and His angels frolicked joyfully, but now I see that he has hidden His kingdom well beyond the reach of man. Heaven will never be a most-desired vacation resort for the well-travelled journeyman.

Restlessness, and nothing else to write of. Maybe now I can force my mind to be still and conform the the ever-changing time zones. Good night.

Expect a longer, more personal entry soon. There has been a lot to reflect upon these past two weeks.

day 4, oxford

Tonight I find myself in Oxford with some down time to actually update on my British excursion, so you’re welcome. I’m staying in a charming little cottage on one of the main thoroughfares, far from the center of the city (a good 30/40 minute walk) but quiet enough that I feel immersed in the stereotypical small-town England that so charms us on the west side of the Atlantic.

So I guess I’ll work backward, shall I?

The voice in my head is currently sporting a British accent, so forgive me if my writing at the moment seems incredibly formal. Also, the television is on some talking head program, so that might be the culprit.

So, today.

We left London on a charter bus at 9 this morning, arrived in Oxford around 11:30. After we moved in and killed the various spiders inhabiting the corners of our house, we made the walk back to the group’s meeting place and did a walking tour of Oxford. I love the quiet of the colleges; we went inside Corpus Christi and Trinity Colleges and they remind me of the quiet little bubble that is Oglethorpe. Coincidentally, Corpus Christi is the birthplace of Oglethorpe, a fact which I already knew, but was amazing to witness in person.

Dinner was at a seafood restaurant. I had some of the most delicious salmon and cous cous; the Brits really know how to do seafood right. After that, a bunch of us popped over to the pub next door to the restaurant, but I only stayed for a bit before walking home with Hillary through some of the neighborhoods around where we’re staying. It was so quaint.

And now I’m sitting in the common room watching The Inbetweeners, which is a very amusing show, to my surprise. It’s an early night; I’m exhausted.

I must admit before I sign off that it’s strange, writing this way. I feel as if it’s not nearly as interesting recounting my daily experience in writing. Please don’t hold it against me, I’m tired.

beyond the daylight, who knew what it could feel like?

"What do you think of James Spader?"
"He needs to call me."

That's the best of what I've gleaned from watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer today, viewed in the midst of washing dishes and folding clothes and general room/apartment cleaning. Or, what I had originally claimed as reading and relaxing on Saturday. Either way, I found the show to be mildly amusing, but I don't think I can find myself obsessing over it as some of my friends who love it. I watched three episodes. Maybe I'll give it another try later. For now, I'll do as my mother does and watch Star Trek while I take care of the laundry. How thoroughly domestic of me.

In other news, I finished A Single Man last night. I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially Isherwood's well-crafted style. There are very few books I feel I could extract more than a few lines from, and this is an exception. I know I've subjected you already to one of my favorite passages, but please bear with me as I share another:

"And now, an hour maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of drunkenness is like. Well - to put it very crudely - it's like Plato; it's a dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular relationship. George can't imagine having a dialogue of this kind with a woman, because women can only talk in terms of the personal. A man of his own age would do, if there was some sort of polarity; for instance, if he was a Negro. You and your dialogue-partner have to be somehow opposites. Why? Because you have to be symbolic figures - like, in this case, Youth and Age. Why do you have to be symbolic? Because the dialogue is by its nature impersonal. It's a symbolic encounter. It doesn't involve either party personally. That's why, in a dialogue, you can say absolutely anything. Even the closest confidence the deadliest secret, comes out objectively as a mere metaphor or illustration which could never be used against you."

And now onto a third book. I have plenty to choose from, but first, I must get through two books and evaluations for work on Monday. Scratch that, three. My life these days is full of books and manuscripts. I've developed the ability to absorb 300 pages in 4 hours. Such is the projects I've been getting from work lately: not merely slush and mediocre writing taken from the mailroom, but full manuscripts given to me by the editors who act as my supervisors. It's nice, the responsibility. But it's also a lot of pressure. The good kind of pressure, not the Queen + David Bowie kind.

it's 3am, i must be lonely

"A performer at the circus has no theatre curtain to down and hide him and thus preserve the magic spell of his act unbroken. Poised high on the trapeze under the blazing arcs, he has flashed and pulsed like a star indeed. But now, grounded, unsparkling, unfollowed by spotlights, yet plainly visible to anyone who cares to look at him - they are all watching the clowns - he hurries past the tiers of seats toward the exit. Nobody applauds him any more. Very few spare him a single glance.

Together with this anonymity, George feels a fatigue come over him which is not disagreeable. The tide of his vitality is ebbing fast, and he ebbs with it, content. This is a way of resting. All of a sudden he is much, much older. On his way out of the parking lot he walks differently, with less elasticity, moving his arms and his shoulders stiffly. He slows down. Now and then his steps actually shuffle. His head is bowed. His mouth loosens and the muscles of his cheeks sag, His face takes on a dull dreamy placid look. He hums queerly to himself, with a sound like bees around a hive. From time to time, as he walks, he emits quite loud, prolonged farts."

It's been good to do some reading beyond what is required for class and work. This snippet comes from A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. It's the second novel in my summer-long odyssey to finish the books on top of my dresser - I forget how many there are in total. I'll take a picture of it tomorrow. I find books to be so attractive; each one is unique, and when aligned together they make a very attractive picture. But back to my odyssey...I'm excited to be reading for leisure again. It's the curse of the student, reading academic literature and writing academic papers and at the end of the day too exhausted to even read another book.

Perhaps in the effort to keep myself writing I'll talk about the books I read; I think it'll be a nice direction for the blog, you think?

you, i cannot judge

I'm back in Birmingham for the night, and after a nice hot bath I'm feeling refreshed and in a better mood. And though at 10:30 at night this is probably a bad thing, I'm feeling more alert too. It's been gloomy weather for the past few days; I was so tired at work, it was hard to keep awake even with my Dr. Pepper pick-me-up around noon. Alas, at certain moments even my addiction to caffeinated beverages cannot rouse me from the clutches of lingering sleep.

Other things have gotten me in a better mood since that somber post yesterday. A surprise phone call and the promise of a future dinner from an old friend lifted my spirits significantly. It's nice to start things over, get things off my chest, and be honest with someone again. I look forward to reestablishing a friendship I once thought lost completely.

One of the reasons I love driving to Birmingham and back is that I get to really listen to my music. There's not a lot of moments in my life that I have the opportunity to listen to my music library uninterrupted, but the two and a half hour commute from home to second home is one of those times where I can let it run as the soundtrack to some imaginary movie in which I am the star, driving down the interstate to some unknown destination. Silly, perhaps. I'm not ashamed.

This song in particular, struck me. I rediscovered my love for R.E.M. today:



Tomorrow brings a big change.

and so i tell myself that i'll be strong

Disappointments.

I've had a couple of those lately. People have disappointed me. I've disappointed other people. I've disappointed myself.

It's been a strange couple of months for me. And while that is no excuse, it's true. I still don't think I've quite recovered from February. You know when people talk about digging a hole you can't get out of? I think February did it for me; it dug an emotional hole that I can't seem to crawl completely out of even now. And it's one of those things that seems to have affected other aspects of my life. Bad things happen. And I'm usually one to get over them. But sometimes, I think, blows like the ones February dealt me can manifest as something unexpected. I feel somewhat shut down. In March and April I felt like I was constantly overcoming some unknown distance between people and school and while it got better, I think I could have done more. And in not doing more, I think I suffered disappointment. I let someone down; I didn't live up to their expectations. I didn't do. And that's not who I am. Now I have to suffer the consequences and lose something that I once took a lot of pride in having.

I'm disappointed in myself. But I guess it's something I'll have to accept.

And it's not just myself that's disappointed me. Other people have too.

I remember writing a post a while back where I expounded on how a change in the nature of a relationship inexplicably changed the way someone behaved. It was a perplexing thing to me. I understand that things change, I never question that. But unless something really significant happened to change things, I don't understand why communication between two people has to completely break down into passive-aggressiveness, sporadic meaningless conversation, and the occasional emotional outburst that yields real talk. Maybe I just need to learn not to hope so much on other people? I don't want to do that, but perhaps it's time for me to really accept that not everything works out the way I would like it to. People can't be controlled, people won't always act as they should. And yes, changing the intimacy of a relationship invariably changes the way people treat each other. I wish this was not the case. However, I know that the way a person treats their friends should not be inconsistent from one person to another. If I did nothing to deserve rudeness, I feel like I shouldn't receive it. My patience can only last so long when taken advantage of.

One specific incident spurred that last rant, but it's a frustration of mine that can be universally applied to every lost friendship I've ever had. It's a disappointing thing.


Last night's exercise in breaking free of writer's block seems to have worked. Also, it's an overcast day and my hopes of spending Sunday in the park were dashed by cold weather. And gloomy days tend to my affect my mood to the point where I cannot be content unless I'm listening to sad music and doing nothing with my day. Maybe it's stir-craziness; I just have to make it through the week, and then I will once more be reunited with my Ogle-family for the summer.

Also, a new haircut is in the future. Something different. I'm nervous and excited at the same time. So my life is not all disappointments and bad moods. It just always seems to be pertinent to talk about on the blog. I'll do better, I promise.

if it were up to me, i would leave it up to you

It's a Saturday night. I just enjoyed a day full of writing and reading Young Adult novels for work followed by an evening double feature at the drive-in: Bridesmaids and The Adjustment Bureau. Despite my incessant need to converse about The Adjustment Bureau's commentary on the concept of predestination and its implications on free will and the human race, the boy and I agreed that getting out of the apartment was necessary; our Friday night consisted of me curled up on the couch watching a Star Wars "making of" documentary while he played World of Warcraft...how delightfully nerdy of us.

To be fair though, I've needed to just relax. After exams ended I was only allowed a few days of break before I started my internship at Peachtree Publishers. As of Monday, I am their editorial intern, sequestered in a back office with pen in hand and eyes at the ready, poised to tackle the thousands of unsolicited manuscripts would-be children's authors send in every day.my surprise, some manuscripts have been sitting in kitty litter smell for almost a year now. Reading (and most of the time, rejecting) this "slush" has been the bulk of my job so far. However, I do get a lot of time on and off duty to read what the company has published before, which has been very enjoyable, even if most of the titles are not my usual reads. This first week, however, has been eye-opening as an aspiring writer - I, the lowly intern doing the job for free, wields the power of judgment in deciding whether or not you are even worthy of possible consideration as a published author. Woah. That sucks for the hopeful writers out there.

But leaving that rather bleak note there, I have been slowly adjusting to apartment living. It's nice to have a real kitchen for once; I think I'll be sad to leave it once school starts again and I move back into the dorms. Cooking for myself has been a challenge in buying grocery in bulk and at reasonable prices. I think the summer, however, will be a good lesson for me in money management. I definitely need it.

I'm not sure what the purpose of this post was. I've had the itch to write for a few days now, and I'm hoping that maybe this will help get me through the writing dry spell.

Maybe that's a point in itself.

An Entomologist's Last Love Letter by Jared Singer

dear samantha
i’m sorry
we have to get a divorce
i know that seems like an odd way to start a love letter but let me explain:
it’s not you
it sure as hell isn’t me
it’s just human beings don’t love as well as insects do
i love you.. far too much to let what we have be ruined by the failings of our species

i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night
i know you would never DO anything, you never do but..
i saw the way you looked at the waiter last night

did you know that when a female fly accepts the pheromones put off by a male fly, it re-writes her brain, destroys the receptors that receive pheromones, sensing the change, the male fly does the same. when two flies love each other they do it so hard, they will never love anything else ever again. if either one of them dies before procreation can happen both sets of genetic code are lost forever. now that… is dedication.

after Elizabeth and i broke up we spent three days dividing everything we had bought together
like if i knew what pots were mine like if i knew which drapes were mine somehow the pain would go away

this is not true

after two praying mantises mate, the nervous system of the male begins to shut down
while he still has control over his motor functions
he flops onto his back, exposing his soft underbelly up to his lover like a gift
she then proceeds to lovingly dice him into tiny cubes
spooning every morsel into her mouth
she wastes nothing
even the exoskeleton goes
she does this so that once their children are born she has something to regurgitate to feed them
now that.. is selflessness

i could never do that for you

so i have a new plan
i’m gonna leave you now
i’m gonna spend the rest of my life committing petty injustices
i hope you do the same
i will jay walk at every opportunity
i will steal things i could easily afford
i will be rude to strangers
i hope you do the same
i hope reincarnation is real
i hope our petty crimes are enough to cause us to be reborn as lesser creatures
i hope we are reborn as flies
so that we can love each other as hard as we were meant to.

tremble little lion man

I know I've been absent. Many apologies; life has been rather overwhelming these past two months. And now, I'm almost at the end of my fourth semester of college. Just one exam and two more papers to get through and it will officially be summer.

As of the moment, I'm watching Dexter and packing up my life into boxes. I've made a goal for myself that when I move back into the dorms come August, I will only have one car load of stuff...we'll see how well that goes. I'm currently transferring half of it into the apartment I'm sharing with a friend this summer - I'm living in it for another friend who won't be back until August, so it seems weird to me to completely take over what in my mind is not my personal space. It's strange, lying in a bed that's not mine looking at walls covered in Lady Gaga posters. Not that I'm complaining in the least; it's a nice apartment in a convenient location. Plus, being able to do my laundry at no cost is a relief.

Even once I finish up with academia, I really have less than a week to rest before my internship with Peachtree Publishers begins. I'm working as an editorial intern, and I'm really excited and nervous. This is potentially what I will be doing for the rest of my life. I've always been someone who likes to plan for the future, but this is daunting.

I'm halfway done with college and preparing for what will happen after. Ohmygoodness. I don't think I'm ready.

i love the view from up here.

“We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.” - Dr. Seuss

I find that quote especially applicable to life right now. February is finally over, and I have high hopes for March.

It's just that first I must re-assimilate back into life. Agnes of God is finally over, and I'm only now realizing how much of myself I put into it. I'm proud of my performance, but in the aftermath I find myself a bit exhausted and a little distant from my friends. It's weird how life goes on in my absence; it's given me so many surprises. I was vain and just assumed that everyone would wait for me until I came back, but I'm realizing now that's not the case and that I, obviously, am not the center of everyone's world. Not that I really believed that, but it's been an odd week. I miss everyone, and I hope the adjustment won't be too painful.

Writing is coming easier.

whatever happened to saturday night?

Last night was opening night.

Wow is all I can say. The support and love myself and the other cast members have gotten is just overwhelming.

I'm just sad it's almost over. Two more shows and then never again.

But for tonight, I can only hope to do even better and hope people walk away from the show with a deep appreciation for what theatre is capable of doing.

i'm always in this twilight, ruminating.

The worst is over. Thank God. I can breathe again.

Well, not really. I have a cold and therefore can only breathe through one nostril.

But now that the day has passed, I feel like I can return to normal again. The year mark was supposed to be the milestone. It's supposed to be easier from now on, right? Time slowly heals all things. But I also feel like time pulls us away and makes us forget. I don't want to forget.

I suppose that's why I write. I go back to my old journals sitting in my closet often to see if I discover anything new. And I can remember the moment I wrote each poem, each bit of prose, each story. I remember exactly what I was thinking, exactly what I was feeling consciously and unconsciously when I put the pen to paper. I don't forget things easily. Maybe it's because I write so much. I can never truly let anything go. All my memories are immortalized in ink, and I prefer it that way. Writing shows me who I was, who I am, and sometimes even glimpses into who I will be. I don't think a lot of people have that.

I mean, I know that our memories aren't often completely truthful, that we reflect back on the past with bias and edit ourselves. And while writing in the moment or about a moment also brings with it my emotional biases, I like to think I have an accurate record of my life that I can refer to. I like that.

Which is why it frustrates me that I haven't been able to write. I'm afraid if I don't write I won't remember this brief period of my life, which I feel is rather important for me to remember. Everything is important for me to remember.

Even the mundane things.

Even the moments that cause me pain.

it's empty in the valley of your heart

A year ago today, the world lost Clinton Taylor. I miss him dearly. I know everyone he knew feels the same pain I'm feeling. Last night I looked at the clock; it said the time was 12:54 and I started to cry because I realized it was the 15th of February.

But really, I greatly dislike this month. I want it to be over.

say hello, wave goodbye.

What a week this has been. But I'm glad to say I'm smiling more and dwelling less. Bittersweet. Saying goodbye always is.

I have a paper due Monday, but I'm finding it difficult to come up with motivation. I just want to curl up in bed and watch Boston Legal. I need to get rid of all this unproductive laziness.

I really hate when I have the urge to write but find I have nothing to say. For that, I offer up something I wrote in my journal Wednesday, when I was decidedly more somber:

I can't give a genuine smile
unless someone pulls a laugh
from my overcast heart.
Lethargy prevails in the aftermath.
A funk pervades my countenance.
It seems so effortless to pretend,
but I don't desire to put on
two different hats and two different masks.
Happiness is a brief thing
that occurs in random spurts.
But it is fleeting, unfortunately;
I can't seem to grasp it,
capture it in my fingers and hold on tight.
But my grip would be desperate.
I cannot sink so low;
my pride will not allow me to need.

sing a sad song in a lonely world.

I'm exhausted. Just exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. All over. My head hurts. My body aches. And it takes all my energy to really smile.

Erik's memorial service this morning was inspiring. I'm envious of his positive outlook on both life and death. I wish I could view them the same way, all calm and collected. It was an honor to be able to sing in his memory.

I just wish that uplifted feeling carried over to my evening.

I drove home this afternoon in order to attend Richard's funeral service tomorrow morning. The family gathered to watch the Super Bowl at Aunt Gerry and Richard's house, and while it was nice to them gathered in one place again, I was completely unprepared to handle it. Gerry started crying as I walked in the door because she was so thankful I was there, and the rest of the night she called me Miss Agnes. I spent the rest of the night gathered around the dining room table listening to and sharing stories about my Uncle Richard, which was really nice and comforting until we started reading through the notes Richard wrote while on a ventilator in the hospital...

I've always thought myself to be a strong person, but this has been really trying. I just want some closure.

uncle richard

The guitar.

A quiet corner

in a house full of merry holiday noise.

You, the patient teacher,

your wrinkled, veiny fingers

curling around the neck

and plucking out notes

one by one.

You were old then,

and I so young.

You're gone now,

a mere memory in so little time.

And that guitar sits

collecting dust in a quiet corner.

I've neglected it.

And now that you're gone,

I fear I'll forget all the notes,

I'll forget how to play

that familiar tune.

If it's true,

I'll have disappointment to add

to the sadness.

My Great Uncle Richard died yesterday. Among all my memories, my favorite was the one Christmas he taught me Ode to Joy on the guitar, and it remains the only thing I know how to play.

I dislike February so far.

Ever singing march we onward, victors in the midst of strife. Joyful music lifts us Son-ward in the triumph song of life...

it's hard to let the miles pass me by.

What a start to the week. My Monday consisted of severe sleeping in, bad high-fives, the exchange of "stuff," and my favorite movie cuddled up on the couch. A day that started in frowns and a dull, sleepy panic and ended in smiles. That's how Mondays, I think, should always be. I rarely have bad Mondays; this one was no exception, considering. Despite the stress of having to relive a painful moment of the past, it was good to see certain people, even if the feeling was not reciprocated.

I realize this subject has somewhat pervaded my posts of late, but I'm hoping you'll patiently bear with me. I always find it interesting to see how relationship dynamics change over time. How friendships fluctuate from tight-knit to distant to anywhere between those two extremes; how romantic relationships develop and drift apart. The culprit seems to be the very obvious: people change.

Well, that's true.

And yet here I find myself with these relationships that seem to have changed while I have not. It's strange. It makes things more difficult. Communication breaks down where once there was an open exchange of thoughts and feelings. Now is all assumptions and perception. And it starts me thinking that maybe people change as a result of the change of relationship. Maybe they begin to act differently for the simple fact that the definition of the relationship has been altered.

Maybe because of that, they feel obliged to apologize for awkwardness there which I was unaware existed.

But I have not changed. I am still the same person I was when I last saw you. I act no differently now than I did a month ago. My life outlook has not altered significantly. It is merely the definition of what we are that is different. So why must you keep me at arms length?

Which also begs the question of myself: Why exert so much effort into salvaging something that appears to be lost? I put myself out there and have made it clear I have no expectations beyond the reasonable and appropriate. So if nothing happens, it will not be because I haven't tried. I can at least be satisfied in that.

But moving on. No one really wants to read much of my passive agressive rants, which surprise even me.

There is much to look forward to: tomorrow, my weekend, February. After an evening off, Agnes of God rehearsals start again tomorrow night. I really look forward to them - it's just something about the very relaxed nature of the way they run. It's very collaborative, very open, very comfortable. And I'm working with two other incredibly talented actresses. I want February to come so this show can open and I can share it with all my friends. I'm sure I annoy them every time I come back from rehearsal and gush about how great it was.

I'm such an acting nerd.

But I'm in such a good mood. Everything right now feels like it should. There are some loose ends, but it's not my job to tie them up anymore. I'm happy. And while my happiness is never exclusively defined by having someone to cuddle with on the couch watching my favorite movie, it certainly doesn't hurt.

And with that, I should probably attempt to fight this insomnia and go to sleep. It would be bad to start my Tuesday oversleeping as well.

make your past your past.

I have been idle for so long that this sudden onset of activity has left me a bit tired and confused. In a satisfied way, most definitely. The past few days have been full of rehearsal, reading, work, and late nights with friends.

They've also been full of thought. So many things require consideration that I find it strange to fall asleep at night without any number of questions and answers fluttering around my head. They make for interesting dreams, let me tell you.

Agnes of God rehearsals have provided the most rewarding and thought-provoking of those hours in my day. There is so much heaviness in the script, I'm afraid that I won't be able to peel back the necessary layers of Agnes' character and my own emotions to get exactly what I want. I feel so awkward during readings, when I get to a line in the script that instructs me to cry. I don't want to fake it, but I haven't gotten to the point yet where I can feel those emotions acutely enough to create real tears. But my directors seem pleased with the progress, and I know I'm in good hands. And I have more than a month yet until the show goes up in front of an audience, so all I can hope is that in that time I can come up with a performance, a truth, that I can be personally satisfied with. There is so much soul-searching to be had, so much emotion and pain to be uncovered. I hope I'm ready.

The idleness of the past week has allowed me to live in the sheltered present. Oh, I've thought of the past and those people who inhabit it quite a bit. There's a comfortable distance there, between myself and them. I felt so safe. I thought I was ready to face anything.

But then the past came walking into class this afternoon and caused nervous knots to form in my stomach. Then the past hugged me after class ended and I felt so young and bumbling, unable to form coherent and unawkward conversation. Jarring. I forgot that sometimes the past comes back to meld with the present; it was a meeting I was preparing for, but found myself quite unready to face. Thank goodness I've moved from those initial moments of dread that I had felt in the aftermath of reconnection. Someone who knows me so well would not judge me for being so surprised.

And the thing is, my feelings about the past have remained unchanged since the past left me for faraway places. The past can stay at a friendly - if much closer - distance and the both of us will be better for it. Time has given me the gift of looking at the past with an objectivity and rational calm that I did not have before. The past can live in my present if it so wishes. But it can never be my present again.

Because I've moved on. I live in the present. And I look forward to the future without the past holding me back.

too cold for me.

I'm currently thawing in the warmth of a thick blanket. Snow can be a wonderful thing, except that it's cold. And wet. Tonight in the snow was pure bliss: sledding down the hill in a plastic tub, trekking through inches of untouched snow on the quad, the way blizzards look in the light of a street lamp, snow angels, and the raucous company of friends who haven't been together in weeks.

Today, I've experienced a variety of emotions. Sadness, happiness, excitement, thoughtfulness. It happens when all of my friends are gathered in one place after weeks of absence. There is a certain honesty we share when we meet back up. We're willing to be more open, to assure people that the brief absence hasn't changed us, whether or not the circumstances of our lives have changed in that same time. I love it. It's probably the time I feel I know my friends the best.

And tomorrow, we'll have even more time to share and celebrate. Monday classes at Oglethorpe are cancelled. Snowed in for an entire day. You must know what that means...

oh damage, sweet damage.

I've been meaning to post for days, but I haven't really found the words. This post has gone through various incarnations and titles. I've gone through different moods and have finally settled into one far more somber and sad than I'd originally started with.

All I can say is that sitting on my bed here in my room, I have never felt more isolated from my Oglethorpe family. Loneliness is not even the word to describe it. What I feel is more like grief, mixed with a sort of panicked apprehension for Sunday, the day I'm supposed to return home to my family, my Oglethorpe family.

The reason I feel this way is because a member of my family will not be there when I return. Erik Downes is gone, a fact I'm still having trouble coming to grips with but which still makes tears come to my eyes when I think of it. My friend is gone. I will no longer be able to greet him every day when I pass him on campus. I will no longer be able to sit through Senate meetings and share a grimace or a roll of the eyes with him when someone says something incredibly obvious or stupid. And I will no longer be able to admire his level-headedness, his work ethic, his drive, or his kindness in the present tense.

The worst thing about death is that it forces us to add an -ed to the actions of those people who make a lasting impact on our lives.

I honestly wish I could write something much more eloquent than this, but it seems I cannot.

All I can say is this: Erik, you will be missed in such a way that words cannot begin to express. Rest in peace, friend.

it's a brand new year.

To start of 2011, I am exhausted. In a good way. I ventured back to Atlanta for New Year's Eve despite my original plans changing significantly (i.e. being taken to being single). Shared some quality time in McDonald's with Ashleigh, then I went to ring in the new year at Eric's house party with some new and old friends. Highlights included watching the documentary American Pimp and the mini-bonfire on the back porch, and of course a champagne toast. I ended up crashing on my big sister Brit's living room futon a little after midnight, but one of her housemates, Blaik, ended up having a couple of mutual friends over in their basement, and I was continually woken up by friends saying hi and asking me how I'm doing in the aftermath.

And the truth is, in the aftermath, I feel great. I know my policy with this blog is to be intentionally vague about the state of things in my life. But the thing is, break-ups happen to everyone. Good things sometimes come to an end for inexplicable reasons.

Maybe it's just my persistent optimism playing tricks on my emotions, but I actually feel happy. That's how the new year should always begin, I think. Sure, there are leftover frustrations; it comes with the transition process into friendship. But time will iron those things out, I'm certain.

For now though, I have an entire week to get through before I can go home to Oglethorpe and settle back into a new, busy schedule with all of my lovely friends around me. I'll make it through somehow...