atriums suck

I got wet walking from the Reitz (student union) to Weimer Hall (J school building). These buildings are a three minute walk from each other. Weimer is an interesting building. It is a rectangle, the middle is empty. So when you walk through the gates, you are in Weimer, but you aren't inside the building. You are in the atrium. The atrium is covered by a glass ceiling. As stood outside on the second floor, under this glass ceiling, a sad thought occurred to me. I listended to the rain splettering on the roof and running down it's slanting glass panes. Plip plop plip plip ploosh. And I looked down at the three planters on the ground floor of the atrium filled with trees and ferns and shrubs. The plants that were watered by spriklers set at their roots and had to listen to the rain pounding the glass ceiling. They must long for that rain. They must be curious to know what it would feel like to have the drops wet their branches and pool in their leaves. I remember getting stuck in Weimer during a few really impressive thunderstorms. The rain sounded like war drums on the glass ceiling and the thunder shook the pains and echoed through the atrium. How the trees must have ached to feel the wind loosen their leaves and bend their slender trunks, designed to sway. They must feel trapped by that glass ceiling and all those bricks.

I am so scared about feeling trapped when I move in with Kenny. I mean, I love when he visits. We have the greatest time together and I never sleep better that when he has an arm slung over my side, but it won't be like his visits. He'll be working two jobs. I'll be going to school, working and doing my internship. We might not be sleeping at the same time. We might hardly ever eat dinner together. He'll wake me up when he comes home late and I'll wake him up when I get up early. What if we get on each other's nerves? We haven't been around each other so much since high school. I want to be excited, but I'm also scared. And I don't want to fall into the same pattern I always do of fucking shit up on purpose when things start going well.

hopes

I'm trying really hard to keep things that shouldn't matter from getting to me. But I feel like everything is pushing on me. It's suffocating and holding me down and pushing me to fail. I want to be confident in the decisions I've made. I want to be content with what I have, because it's good and more than I ever hoped for. It is more than I ever hoped for, but it isn't everything I hoped for. Because I used to hope for different things, things that don't fit into to what I hope for now. My dead hopes are haunting me. They're being thrown back in my face and making me question why I stopped hoping for them in the first place. But I know what I want, don't I?

Don't I?

New Semester

This semester has barely gotten underway, but I'm already focused on next fall. My boyfriend of four years is finally moving up to Gainesville and I've got a lot of figuring out to do about what I'll be doing with my final year here at UF.

Kenny's impending arrival has me making my living plans for August rather early. We hit up Apartment Hunters last week to get a list of our options and got some rather good news: a one-bedroom isn't too expensive. I immediately fell in love with a loft-style place over by the mall. We went to check it out, but they're closed on the weekends. I talked to the property manager today, though and we're going to go look at it (and probably sign a lease!) on Feb 2. The grounds are great. SO much open space and trees, so I won't feel guilty about adopting a dog from the humane society. At first I was concerned because we have to pay for our water, but the rent is only going to be 550 a month, so it shouldn't be any more than I'm paying now. It might even be a little less. I'm already planning out decor for the place. I'm going for an asian theme in living room and a beach theme in the bedroom. I've made lists for all the furnishings we need. Thankfully, my mom's giving us a sofa and I'm getting my wicker bedroom set from home. Still on the list: coffee table, bookshelf, bar stools, end table, lamp, bed frame. Craig's list, hopefully.

I'm super excited about moving in with Kenny, but also a little apprehensive. It seems like every time we get close to this point, something goes wrong. I'm a little worried about signing a lease with 6 months to go, but it lowers the rent.

I'm also starting to freak out about the fact that I only have three semesters left of college. I need to pad my resume. I'm doing an independent study with the Communications Office in the J school this semester. My boss promised me design work, but all I've done so far is grunt work. I'm hoping over the summer to intern at Insight, a local entertainment magazine, doing page layout. I'm really worried that I won't be able to find a job designing pages when I graduate, because I didn't do graphic design. I'd really like to work at a fun publication. Maybe something regional, like southern or coastal living. My dream would be Psychology Today or Play or HOW. My fallback plan is to get certified to teach and write freelance magazine articles.

I've kind of developed three imaginary lives for myself in my head.

In my first, and most ideal, fantasy future, I'm married to Kenny. He has a good programming job and I work for a relatively well known publication doing page design. We might live near the coast in some southern state (Florida, Louisiana, Georgia, whatever), California or in a New York suburb; it changes in my head (Do I want snow or sand?). We have a nice home and a couple of kids. We have lots of friends and I throw dinner parties. We save up and go on family vacations to interesting places like Peru and Prague.

In my second life, I'm single. I've climbed my way up to a good position at a magazine in NYC. I have a cozy, but stylish apartment. My friends and I go out on the town every weekend to art shows, concerts or plays. I'm a city girl and I like it. I buy expensive clothes, drive a mustang and travel in my free time.

My third life came to me briefly a while ago and never came to much fruition. The time has passed, but sometimes when I'm sitting in the movie theater next to my good friend Paul, this idea that flitted into my head for the briefest of instances flickers. I've stayed with Paul. We both teach english at the same high school. We argue about our interpretations of classic novels in front of students. We have tea and read the newspaper at night and go to the movies every weekend.

It's interesting to think about all the paths your life can take. The ones you walked down and the ones you turned around and turned your back on.

Ghosts

Beth stomped up the wooden stairs to her apartment, skipping the half-gone one with the six-inch splinters. They creaked and rattled with every step, but she jogged up anyway, to escape the cold. And when a gust of wind sent her flying against the railing, she flung herself onto the steps instead, afraid that the rotten wood would finally give way and send her tumbling onto the concrete slab below.

When she finally got into the sheltered corridor that lead to her door, she rummaged through her bag for her keys. Pushing aside half-finished cross-words torn out of various newspapers and slippery gum wrappers, she touched the clammy metal of her cell phone, the rough fabric of her wallet. She heard jingling. At last she pulled out her keys by her plastic Mach-5 key chain.

She jammed the key in the door with one hand, pulled the knob toward her with the other, twisted the key, twisted the knob, and pushed. She flew inward with the door and slammed it shut on the wind. But not the cold, the cold had invaded the apartment.

She shuffled over to the thermostat and squinted at the thermometer. Fifty-eight. Not cold enough to warrant the heat. Not when she only worked fifteen hours this week.

Instead she plopped down on the lumpy sofa and cocooned herself in her fleece blanket. She didn't even bother to kick off her Converse.

Her computer was open on the coffee table. The same blank word document's cursor was blinking at her just as mockingly as it had been before she left for work. She stared at it without seeing it and sat very still for a long time. She waited for the pressure building in her chest to subside.

She had been on a high when she left for the bus this morning. The air had been cold and crisp. She'd breathed it in deeply and felt her lungs and body working and humming. The wind had swirled around her and the world had seemed beautiful. What happened?

Now as she slumped on the couch, she knew she should work, but her brain was empty. She only wanted to sink lower.

Struggling against her tightly wrapped blanket, she dug into the pocket on her coat. Grasping the plastic bag, she extricated it carefully from her warm encasing. She yanked her other arm out and unrolled the bag. The pot smelled good. Like rain and sour milk.

Getting up to get her pipe would be such a drag. Then she noticed the little blue pill Steven had dropped in the bag.

"Try it when you've got a while and you want a real escape," he'd advised.

Normally, Beth would never. She'd never done anything but smoke. At least marijuana was a plant. Not something somebody cooked up in their bathtub. But this afternoon, she just couldn't bring herself to care.

She popped the pill in her mouth and swallowed it dry. Realizing this was a mistake she reached for the mug on the floor and took a swig of the cold morning coffee. She gulped it down, making a face.

I wonder how long this shit takes to kick in, Beth thought. She grabbed the TV clicker and flipped to Law & Order.

By the time the episode had reached Order, she had given up on Steven's wonder drug as a dud. The she realized she wasn't cold. Or hot. Or anything. She didn't feel the cable-knit of her sweater or the springs in the sofa.

Interesting.

The sound went next. Only a faint buzzing remained. Then she dozed off.

When she woke up, everything was black. At first she thought the sun had gone down, but it was darker than that. It wasn't even dark. It was as if she had fallen into some nameless void hidden under one of the couch cushions.

This must still be that fucking shit Steven gave me! Beth began to panic. Just like the first time she got high, the paranoid feeling that this would never end took hold of her. She closed her eyes, to no effect, and breathed deep.

When that wave of nausea ended, another one washed over her. A far more familiar one. Her fear of the dark. Of being alone in the dark.

She held her breath and froze, just like she had done since she was a child. Don't move and they won't see you. Don't look and they won't hurt you. Not that she could look. But that rationale was the same in her mind.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but she couldn't take it any more. She opened one eye a sliver - still black. So she threw caution to the wind and open both lids wide. She stared out into the void and wondered what was staring back at her.

The cold was coming back. Or more likely this was a new cold. The chill that comes with irrational fear.

Slowly, slowly, Beth stood. After she was on her feat, she realized she wasn't sure where she had been before. Had she been laying down? Like a snail, she slid her left foot backward, groping for the couch. Nothing. Cautiously she took a silent step forward and didn't bump into the coffee table. She couldn't tell if she could feel the floor. Maybe she was bumping into stuff and not feeling it. But she knew that wasn't the case. This place was empty.

Empty except for - except for someone. Someone else was there. She could sense them. They were only a few feet away, perhaps inches. They could be almost nose-to-nose. She was afraid.

Beth was afraid, but she raised her right arm, extending it in front of her. The air was so still, it seemed to cling to the hairs on her arm like water drops from a fog. She reached out, her fingers trembling. And a hand took hold of hers. It was sudden, and grasped her fingers tightly. All the muscles she had tensed up in anticipation relaxed and made her feel like she was floating. She didn't need any light to see who the hand belonged to. The soft, but worn skin and firm, reassuring grip was enough.

She didn't say anything. She just let out her breath slowly, through barely parted lips. She knew that it would be him, waiting for her in the dark. Coming to meet her in this empty place. She didn't need anything else when he was there.

He pulled her closer. She laid her head on his chest. She hooked her thumbs in his pockets. The feel of his denim pants and old t-shirt came rushing back to her from months and years ago. She burried her face in his neck and took in his scent.

Beth breathed deep for the third and final time that day and knew how hard it would be to wake up.

holes

I've been in and
I've been out
of this hole.
And in and
out of it
some more.

I've leapt in
guns a'blazin'
I've snuck in
like a navy seal.
I've climbed down
finding every hand hold.

But I only fell
in once.

sleep-over anyone?

I have a hard time falling asleep on a normal night. But when I'm home alone, it becomes a near impossibility. I worked eight hours today. I have to be up at 6:30 to go and work another eleven tomorrow. I am tired. I know I should sleep. Friggin' TV commercials for the "The Strangers" DVD. I wonder how many one night stands result from a fear of the dark?

I can't explain it. There is nothing rational about fear. If fear was rational it wouldn't be frightening. But somehow the empty spot I was starring at when I flicked the light switch suddenly, immediately, impossibly has the possibility of being occupied by a menacing figure once the lights are out.

I wish my dog were here.

soundtrack

"Thunder" by Boys Like Girls is a terrible, terrible song. It is ridiculously sappy and pre-teen love idealistic. And, dammit, I like it. "Your voice was the soundtrack of my summer" is a stupid, ridiculous thing to say. But it struck a chord with me. Personal soundtracks. What is the soundtrack of your life? You can have one now, because of Apple's gift to man: the iPOD. But really the music you filter through your brain while you're on the bus or in line for krishna lunch is not what you remember. Other sounds make up the soundtrack to your life.

That intensely creepy version of "A Few of My favorite Things" that once issued from century tower. Those same bells chiming 10 p.m. on a cold and foggy night after poetry class. Frank, the Jesus-guy shouting about why we're all going to hell. The fire alarm in Graham Hall. Flip flops. Bike wheels zzzing over pavement. Drunken chants of "It's great to be a Florida Gator." These are the sounds that make up the "UF" track on my life's soundtrack.

(Another terrible song on the CD at work that got me thinking about this stuff: Taylor Swift's "Our Song.") Even when it comes to my spotty track record with boys. Of course I have a particular song that I associate with each guy I have cared about. (Incubus's "Wish You Were Here," The All American Rejects's "Dirty Little Secret," Peter Sarstedt's "Where Do You Go To My Lovely?") But these men have contributed much more meaning full tracks to my life's album.
Let's take "Dirty Little Secret" for instance. He provided a critcal piece to my "Time Spent Alone in my Dorm Freshman Year" track: a voice mail greeting of "Hello Darlin." The sound I hear when I picture him is not AAR's crooning, but they way he says the word "gorgeous," the plop of icecream dropping into the bottom of Trudy the vending machine, brushing sand off of denim, and the scraping of my desk on the tile of Ms. Hansen's classroom floor.
"Wish You were Here's" track is comprised of shuffling sneakers, soft snoring, trumpet rendition of the wedding march, my bedroom window sliding open (the loudest sound EVER), flicking a lighter, car doors, sneakers on the tile in building 11, and unwrapping fast food.

"Home" includes such selections as Cosmo's barking, Sonic theme music, golf commentary, old pages turning and crackling, the slapping of bare feet on tile.

I lost my iPOD this summer. At first I thought I would never get over the loss, but now I'm almost glad. Of course I still love to listen to music. But I want my life's soundtrack to be more unique that that of a dramedy romcom or episode of Scrubs.