the urge to fly.

(Thriving Ivory)
This time last year I was in Rwanda with 31 other American students and a bunch of Ugandan students. We were travelling to different Rwandan cities and memorials of the Genocide of 1994 by day- cramming ourselves into buses, driving across the dusty roads through small towns of waving children and stern-faced adults. By night- we were being hosted by the nuns of Presbyterian guest houses and served piles and piles of sweet bananas and various rice-based meals before Becky and I would lead yoga in the open courtyards under the stars.
Here in New England there are no large buses waiting to swallow me into the melee of mixed races and backgrounds- offering bonding and cheesy sing-a-longs and lifelong friendships in exchange for my willingness to sit on a rugged seat for the duration of our travel across the country- across the border- etc. In New England I hear dogs barking and trash pick-up outside my apartment that I share with four other girls, rather than monkeys and exotic birds screeching in the dawn light from a cement dorm of about 20 girls that I grew to love out of natural inclination to befriend those around me when I knew no one. Here in New England I have to put on a helmet to ride on the back of my best friends’ racer motorcycle; there is no more access to boda bodas with Ugandan men who will drive me anywhere on their motorcycle taxis for less than an American dollar.
This time last year I sat atop a cement ledge on a gazebo-like structure in the Rwandan hillside in part of a guest house overlooking the city of Kigali. I remember writing an ode to September- missing the New England fall with its pumpkins and apple cider and changing leaves and natural ability to change everything about itself in time with the season. I wore a skirt and had a tan and long hair and sun-induced blonde highlights. I was eating mangos and breathing in the equatorial air of East Africa. Today, after a very exciting year of waiting to experience the Autumn I missed last year, I walked from Atomic back to my apartment via all the small streets that weave through Beverly- sporting their New England old home porches with the beginnings of reds gracing the tree leaves along the way. A cool breeze swept around my whole body as I clutched my cappuccino and my essays of Wendell Barry.
I’m happy with the coming of Fall but the cool gales of Autumn are sweeping up more than leaves and pushing along more than cigarette butts on the gutter line of my street. It’s bringing back that nostalgic state of mind that keeps you rewinding all the things you’ve loved, you’ve lost, you’ve dreamt of. It’s pushing all my desires into a heightened frenzy: do I stay here, do I go back to Uganda, do I go to grad-school  out west? Abroad? Ay mi dios- no se!
While it’s all whirling around in my mind, my body is exuding this faux message of calm- sprawled on my floral couch that Amelia picked up from a mansion in Manchester by the Sea, ripped jeans marked with holes from Fisher Farms and paint from past projects… basking in the chilly breeze through the window and listening to Thriving Ivory. I’ve only been back since January, and since then I have moved from one apartment to another for a weekend…back to the original apartment, and out again to this new place I’ve been in now for a month. And still- despite the living on my toes, a new job, classes at two schools and taking mini adventures through new parts and new mountains of New Hampshire and Maine on a regular basis- still I’m fitful. Still I can’t be still. Still I fight the urge to fly.

mondays with cory

There is that book, Tuesdays with Morrie--- in which Mitch Albom visits his old professor and they share weeks of Tuesday meetings discussing life, love, marriage, money, ambition, education--- everything. These sweet times of wisdom and laughter and reminiscing throughout the end of his professors life. As the stars or God or luck or nature- or all- would have it, as I was reading this very book, I happened to stumble upon my very own Morrie…except it was a Monday, and his name was Cory.
I was dawdling through Rockport with a friend when I happened into an art gallery right on the point. I was drawn in by this very soft painting- blue backdrop with a Van Gough style tree of yellow blossoms- standing by the door of the small gallery. I went in, and to my delight was this extraordinarily lively, short round man with a striking resemblance to Danny DeVito. Cory- the owner of the gallery, the painter himself, the charmer extraordinaire. He welcomed us warmly and kindly went over some paintings of his with me. But as I listened, I could not draw my gaze away from this small, simple, uncoloured painting of two swans. I was hooked.
I left with a regretful “sorry, not today…” excuse to follow the lead of the friend I was with who was clearly ready to get a move on. All I really wanted was to send this guy away on his own exploring and perch myself on the old futon next to Cory and continue our afternoon in light conversation.
For the next two weeks, I could not get these swans out of my head. So I found a free Monday from work, from school, from errands and drove my Jeep back to the coast to sit with Cory. He remembered me immediately, we poured our coffee, he cut me a deal on the swans and we sat, and there I remained for a solid three hours. We spoke of astrology, the Moonies, religion, education, tattoos, art, love, family, musical muses--- everything two strangers should happen upon in conversation that is the result of Kahlua in coffee and the sense of abandon that accompanies a seaside gallery owned by a man who looks like Danny DeVito. I came back a week later and had a shorter, but just as delightful, encounter.
Today, I went back again- and he seated me like any good gentleman host on his cozy futon then bustled across the way to get me some coffee and apple strudel. We sat in his shop surrounded by the rich fantasy of his paintings and the breeze from the ocean through his open window and talked art, broadcasted names for the hypothetical bar I may someday open, and listened to Damien Rice and Radiohead in turn as he asked me which “tender” and “ripper” music inspires my art, my thoughts.
Albom had Morrie, and I have Cory. I have his wisdom, his energetic sense of urgency in listening to my stories, his enthusiastic and heartfelt compliments and all the charm of an older gentleman who was born into art. I think I’m becoming fond of Mondays.

Mr. Swales' wears Pants

Tonight, Mr. Swales wore pants.
Since March, David Swales has come to the hotel I work at every other week on business. And I have delivered room service (generally a cup of soup or a chicken quesadilla) to this kind old man with his English accent and his wild array of boxer shorts. Each time I go to his room, room 815, I am greeted kindly at the door, asked in to set the tray on the desk, and he grabs the check as I walk between him and the ironing board which is always covered in the next day's dress shirt- half pressed. And each time I enter his room, I am intrigued by the fabric flapping about his hairy man- thighs. The first night (appropriately in mid-March) offered a nice set of bright green shorts with shamrocks dancing in a scattered display of Irish pride. The next visit was a dull blue with golf icons neatly on the sides. I have since seen Red Sox emblems and one particularly vibrant design of peace signs. Tonight he called down, inquired as to the "stodginess" of the chilli, opted for a steak melt with chicken instead of steak (chicken melt?) and greeted me at the door in a strikingly well-pressed, crisply creased set of trousers- appropriate for public use and in no way indicating the muscular make-up of his upper leg region.

I walked away quite simply astonished that he had opened his door wearing pants. And by time I had reached the employee elevator, I was shaking with giggles as I realized that I work in an environment where it is not uncommon to be greeted by clients who are, in fact, NOT wearing pants.

of finals

James Vincent McMorrow
Dubstep
Caro Emerald
many thanks to the musicians getting me through finals time.

Done: 6 page anaylsis of teamwork and group strength from Discovery
Done: 10 page analysis on education as a sociological system

Not Done: 7 page argument on both sides (supporting and bashing) a holistic approach to sex education in public schools

Not Done: 20+ page argument on the effects of patriarchal society's control over mass media and infrmation outlets on female sexuality, with anaylsis of power structure playing to hegemonic masculinity and close impact on women regarding sexual behaviour.

location, location, location

It’s been a strange couple months being back in America.
Having left and returned to Gordon before, that campus very much feels like a neutral zone of ambiguity- of unfamiliar faces but a solid routine of classes, of introverted walks down Phillips Path with coffee clutched in my hand against the streams of people heading to chapel (which I’ve yet to attend).
It’s been an adjustment to fall into other areas of living back on the outskirts of Boston though.
Grocery shopping is still overwhelming. Grocery stores used to be such a relaxing place for me. It was always such a comfort to be able to walk around a warehouse full of comfort foods and being able to see them there, available, but not need to buy them or gain the calories from them. It was nice just to know that your old friends were there- quietly sitting on their respective shelves. It was nice- the organization, the lighting, the availability and variety. Now- every time I walk into a grocery store, I have flashbacks of what the grocery store was like in Mukono- I miss City Shoppers. I miss the deodorant and perfume behind the counter- as if was contraband like cigarettes. I miss the mango ice cream in the freezer and the SPLASH juiceboxes, fresh bread, strange ginger cakes, and Harry Potter wide ruled miniature notebooks. I miss the bars of soap that took up half an aisle and the wall of single rolls of toilet paper, the flamingo print BIC lighters and handwoven baskets of kitchen knives. I miss the stand of fresh fruit that was outside the door, next to the stand for cell phone air time and next to the man who sold meat- which was always bloody and chopped and spilling over the counter edge of his small wooden kiosk.
I was driving through New Hampshire last night and saw the sunset over Portsmouth and the stars sprinkling out above the treeline over I-95. And I thought back to Bemba nights on the roof- sitting on a small stack of cinderblocks on a cement roof, looking at the stars opening up above the Mukono jungle. I thought about sunset over the Kenyan compound and how I can’t remember the striking beauty precisely- but I remember watching the sunset night after night from my stoop and thinking “I will never feel this exact way again- I will never experience this beauty again the way I am experiencing it right now.” So true.
It’s strange to be accessing all these memories alone. To not have anyone around to talk to that can say “mmm, yah! Me too!” No relation and no understanding from a first-had experience. It’s strange to be walking alone and think back to these things and not know how to process, how to share, how to experience this again. It’s strange to sense the presence of these experiences, this past, without context. Without ability to return.


I am starting to sense your location
You are somewhere in the basement
Beating on a makeshift drum kit  Freelance Whales

don't wait for me

don't wait for me- by Josh Garrels

january to march in Beverly:
lightning paced quad of classes.
full dedication/addiction (tomato, tomahtoh) to Atomic Cafe.
painting and experimenting with oils.
turning my dining room into a studio.
moving apartments down one block.
new job as bartender :)
lovely thursday morning study dates with The Gibbons.
beautiful, precious moments with Becks & Co.
living without constant computer access. so nice.
new Canon Rebel
first encounter with high heels and Long Islands...
played my first coffee house performance
curry cookoff in Bangor
shaved hair growing out to stylish rocker/swoosh stage.

life back in America has been strange.
while my one word for my experiences in Africa was "more" (more challenging, more beautiful, more surprising, more relaxed, more comfortable, etc.) my word for re-adjusting to life Stateside is "strange" (strange how easy, strange how difficult, strange how unfamiliar and strange how routine...).
my neutral zone is school- having left and come back there multiple times with transfers and what, it feels like "home plate" to be back there...but everything else has a hint of "odd" to it.
i was at a show in Cambridge about a month and a half ago and as my roommate was showing me where the bathroom was, i swung the stall door open to see a small hole in the ground (where the old plumbing for the toilet had USED to run through...). before seeing the fully funtioning toilet in the corner, my immediate mental reaction was "oh, well alright. no big deal..." (yes, i did see the toilet before assuming the position over the hole in the ground as i did so frequently in Uganda/Rwanda/Kenya). there were no complaints from the establishment that night, however- i realized just how unadjusted to American life i still really was- even at a show, back in Boston, with friends, out for a typical night- i still had to double check myself from falling into "African routines".
i was recently talking to friend who has been touring with a band in Europe, and my roommate called him out on so nonchanantly chatting up his upcoming Australian tour. he pointed out that it was difficult to talk very enthusiastically about upcoming shows/tour dates because it's hard to hype up something until you're in the middle of it. even after the European tour, he just kind of shrugs his shoulders when talking about the sold out Vienna shows. i identify: i have been criticized for not playing up my trip to Uganda. not talking about it much. prior to travelling, i rarely talked about it- mostly out of self preservation to not build up expectations for myself. and since returning, i haven't wanted to be That Girl who is constantly starting conversations with "Well, in Uganda..." and i haven't wanted to compare the two cultures...resulting in a lot of silence. and it's so true: only in the middle of the red dirt and flying grasshoppers in the shower and loose goats on the road to the market and in the living room with my Mukono host family did it hit me that i was LIVING in Africa..that "this was my life!" and now... it just feels so far away. so out of reach. so evasive to my abilities to describe it to others.
and i find myself constantly checking airfare to see how soon i could possibly get back.
but at the same time...i have just moved to a new apartment...began a new job...fallen into new friendships...and picked up old relationships as well...
and i find myself stuck with what Pandora dished me out tonight from Josh Garells:
"Please don't wait for me,
I ain't comin' back again.
I cannot turn around
from the place I'm going to where I've been" (at least not yet...)

of Cabot Street

there is a small, third story, two bedroom apartment - with three girls sharing one room, a tiny but functional kitchen, and a linoleum covered "dining room" which has been simply converted into a dance room by the strategic placement of a stereo.
there is an old, crass man named Sunny. he has a snowblower and helps us dig our cars out of our side-street parking.
there are sleeping trees- which stand white with blossoms in the spring, and white with snow right now- and all year long they stand sparkling and whispering with small white "christmas" lights strewn their branches.
there is a circus mural painted on the side of the old-time Cabot Street theater- which only ever plays one film at a time, and is currently hosting a number by Cher.
there is the bicycle repair shop.
the consignment shop.
the organic cafe.
the other organic wrap cafe.
there is the italian-styled, over priced, red chaired coffee shop.
there is Montserrat school of Art- ever quaking with the works of right-brained Beverly residents, with their lip rings and paintbrushes.
and there is Atomic. "The Friendliest Place in Town." Atomic Cafe; where the baristas know my name and invite Heidi and i to such events as welcome-to-your-new-apartment dinners, music nights complete with upright bass and accordian, concerts in Cambridge featuring the band which all the Atomic-guys play in, and Record Night- which marvelously featured a narrated vinyl of heart murmurs. yes, heart murmurs (and that was the one we listened to ALL the way through). Where an old couple starts talking to you just because they overhear the mention of Maine in your conversation, and they end the icy evening by giving you a business card and offering you a job. Where latte/foam art is still practiced. Where local art, Stan Rogers or The Decemberists, and the smell of on-site roasted coffee beans surrounds you.
we are the in crowd. come one. come all.