blackbird, fly

I cried when I hugged my parents goodbye today. It wasn’t rational and I couldn’t explain it. It was enough to embarrass me and enough to freak out my dad and make my mom cry. I’m going to see them again in two weeks, and I don’t even live in Albany for most of the year anymore. I wasn’t crying because I was leaving home and I wasn’t crying because I was saying goodbye to my parents, as much as I love them.

This is the first time I’ve left home to do something other than school, which will benefit my aspiring career. It’s the first time I’ve chosen, in a serious spectrum, what I need to do over what I want to do. I’m making a bigger deal out of this whole internship/move thing than is warranted, but it’s affected me on a level that I didn’t think it would. I feel as though I’m living the time I will look back on and think of as my coming of age experience, if such a thing can be feasibly defined. To say the death of my childhood, is kind of morbid, but I feel as though I’m changing and, perhaps, growing up.

I’m accomplishing goals in ways I haven’t before. I’m finishing projects that I’ve started when I would normally abandon them. I’ve accepted a challenge for the summer that I want to run from. The reality of what I am doing, right now, is surreal if only because I am actually doing something. You never would have said I could do this-- Never encouraged me to take a chance on something that might mean something for me. You never let me fly.

proyecto

Beckie woke me up this morning and told me the coffee was ready and we were going shopping. After I finally got up to the promise of caffeine, we decided that we shouldn’t spend such a beautiful day inside. We were feeling productive. Project-mode.

We went to Home Depot with drawings and figures. We wandered around the lumber section receiving inquisitive looks with often mocking and condescending undertones. We had our wood cut in predetermined proportions. We were harassed mildly by a group of guys our age that were building a bar and we were slightly patronized by the man with the saw (who incidentally cut one piece ½ an inch too short…devil). We took our cut pieces to the paint section and picked out a creamy mocha. The men behind the paint counter raised their eyebrows. At the checkout a woman complimented my dress and a teenage boy implied, in a way we still don’t understand, that Beckie was my daughter.

Two young women in Home Depot shopping for lumber and paint are greeted with unwarranted chauvinism. I was kind of offended.

We built a bookshelf designed to fit on top of my dresser. I am moving to Buffalo tomorrow morning and we thought it was a good idea to have something to help organize my things so I don’t take over my brother’s living room.

An afternoon of drill-bits and misogyny turned into a night of feminism as I sat down with friends in an otherwise empty theater to see Sex and the City 2. Full of ridiculous outfits and a lifestyle impossible to afford, this was actually one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen. I love Sex and the City and I loved the first movie, but I guess this is a good example of the benefits of letting a good thing die. This movie was offensive in regards to the Middle East. It reinforced every stereotype and did nothing to work against any kind of expectation. The acting was so bad it was hard to believe and the story-line and script were shameful. Disappointing is basically the only word I can use to describe it.

not so eggciting

I went to downtown Albany for lunch with a good friend from high school. We went to Bombers Burrito Bar, which is basically the only place I ever eat downtown. It’s sad that Lark Street is the only thing keeping the culture of downtown alive.

I love Albany and I love having grown up here. I have so much “hometown pride”. I was born and raised in the city and I went through the inner city’s public schools. My graduating class was around 550, having started with a freshman class of over 1000. Albany High was featured often on the evening news and eyebrows were raised when professionals and other people outside the community realized where I went to school. Words like “dangerous” and “scary” were implied and questions about shootings, knife-fights and gang violence quickly followed. I used to say over and over that I loved Albany High and the educational and social experience it had to offer was unlike any other suburban or private counterpart.

I hope my persistence and unfailing defense of Albany and the city schools wasn’t from disillusionment. I see so much potential in what Albany could offer to a city of young and hopeful people but it is falling short. I see Albany falling apart and it scares me. I wouldn’t know where to start in revitalizing a city ravaged by a post-industrial economy and a severely growing case of white-flight.

I want my pride to be based in more than nostalgia.

on which the heat has broiled my brain

High of 97 degrees. Ran at 11pm and still 80 degrees. Lightening filled the sky and sweat dripped down my face. Looks like it’s going to storm.

blisters

I am living this week as my last week of the kind of summer I’m used to.

I have been sleeping in and seeing friends. I’ve been going on walks late at night to talk of the mysteries of life, questions and doubts that my best friend and I share. I’ve been running around on a carefree whim, with dirty feet and hair frizzy from the humidity. It was 91 degrees today and my fingers and toes are swollen.

Everything is swollen. Every muscle in my body hurts from running and the heat. I have blisters and a sunburn. I’m getting bug bites and I have a constant and conscious desire for water. Summer is sticky and uncomfortable, but I don’t want to take it for granted. Next week I’ll be inside in air conditioning, wishing I could run around with dirty feet and have nothing to do.

fun things happened today

1. My dad bought a new car and is letting me borrow it for the summer. He says I need a way to get to my internship!

2. I saw a group of good friends from high school that I haven’t seen in a while. It was great catching up and seeing where everyone is and what they’re all doing.

3. I ran 8k (about 5 miles) with my weird peer-pressure jogging club. This is the furthest I’ve ever run. Great success.

unwanted

It finally feels like summer. With 80 degree weather and sunburns. My entire family went golfing this morning. We went to a par-3 course and only had a few injuries (fore means look to see where the ball is coming from and move if it looks like it might hit you…but sometimes you don’t see it coming). We had a barbeque and went for a run. This is what summer is, it’s perfect.

Stretching on the lawn after running tonight, I was getting bit by mosquitoes. I got bit through my pants, which I didn’t think could happen. I always forget about the bugs. I grew up camping every summer so spiders and bugs don’t generally bother me (except when daddy long legs are thrown in my tent). I’m not squeamish about getting rid of bugs when they’re in inappropriate places, but tonight they were disgusting. Maybe because over the winter I forgot what mosquitoes were like, or maybe Boston doesn’t have as many, but their annoyance was prevalent enough to make my blog. Bugs are gross.

indiana's early morning dew

A road-trip from Buffalo to Albany with my brothers started this week: my last week at home for a few months.

My whole family was out in Buffalo for Jon and Ellie’s graduation from Canisius College. When we’re all together it’s ridiculous and exhausting, but comforting at the same time. My family has an energy: a cohesive unit that feeds off itself for hilarity and support.

I’ve found that friends, with a few exceptions, come and go at different points in life. Family is always there. I’m so lucky to have such a wonderful immediate family. I really don’t know what I’d do without them.

This is a bit sentimental and I apologize. I think it’s important every now and then to take a step back and appreciate things that are truly worth it.

jump

Jon said, jokingly (I hope), that when he told me to move out to Buffalo this summer he didn’t think I’d actually take him up on it. I didn’t either.

I applied for an internship not thinking I’d get a response. I went to an interview not thinking I’d get hired. I got hired. Fate has called my bluff.

I’ve surprised myself. I’ve done something that is what I should be doing, not just what I want to do.

For once I’ve done something without planning it to exhaustion. I didn’t get bored with the idea before it started, because I’ve been (relatively) living in the moment. I got a call from a coffee shop this morning and an hour later I was sitting in an interview. I’ve been running around, getting things done and not worrying if they’re right. At some point there is no right or wrong, there is only what’s been done. I guess between plans and actuality, what you pursue is the right path because it’s the only path.

glass

My soon-to-be sister-in-law, Ellie, cleaned her apartment today. She was organizing and going through things. While I sat unproductively on the couch, she came out of her room with a thick glass piggybank in the shape of a bear. The bear had a slit at the top: money goes in and doesn’t come out She announced that today was the day she would break open her piggybank. She had been saving for twenty-one years and she was ready.

Having learned from kids running away from home, we put a towel down on the kitchen floor and went for the hammer. With the first tap on the bear’s nose, Ellie was cautious. She was cracking open something that meant a lot to her: something she had for almost her entire life. The bear’s nose proved too strong to break easily, so the bear was turned on it’s stomach. With few quick swings to the bear’s head, the glass cracked and money spilled out, covered in a fine glass dust. Like archaeologists we sifted through the change with tweezers and afterward we threw out the glass, including the piece with the bear’s little black nose.

Ellie, like my brother Jon, is graduating from college on Saturday. She is facing a lot of what I have been feeling lately: fears of change and becoming a person. We’re going through this together, as I am living with them for the summer. She’s broken the piggybank, and I think she’s ready to go.

found a summer

I am the summer intern at Prometheus Books in Amherst, NY. I will be working mainly in the editorials department. I will be learning to proofread and copy edit this summer in a little office in the library at the publishing company. I am to be given a brief overview of the daily office atmosphere of a working publisher. I am terrified, but really excited. I start on the second of June. AHHH!

Prometheus Books publishes mainly non-fiction books for the educational, scientific, and professional markets. They are the leading publisher for topics of secular humanism and science of the “skeptical nature”. They publish, on average, 100 books a year, so during my time at Prometheus, 16 books will be published!

I am becoming a real person, and I couldn’t be more excited. I thought this summer was going to be a total bust. I didn’t think I would be doing anything more than [maybe] a part-time job at a fabric store. I am starting my professional career; even if is the form of an unpaid internship. I’m not going to be lying around watching reruns on basic cable. I am doing something real, now.

Stuff White People Like....Unpaid Internships, hilarious and true...

a fool's paradise

Everything stresses me out. From episodes of Law & Order to cans of peanut butter left opened on the counter. I don’t watch scary or suspenseful movies and I try to shy away from interacting with my irrational phobias because of anxiety. People always say I stress myself out for no reason. I think it’s partly genetic. Just like my father, I worry about everything.

I had an interview today at Prometheus Books. I was nervous about it for two weeks. I won’t know if I got the internship for a few more days but I am done stressing. I can’t do anything about it now. To use a shameless cliché, my fate is sealed, and I’m really trying to just relax. What’s done is done (how many clichés can I use...) and I’m going to enjoy my next few days in Buffalo. Not to count my chickens before they hatch, but I also put in a few applications for a part-time job out here in Western New York. I think this is shaping up to be a productive summer.

I’m preparing myself to not get the position at Prometheus. I’ve already worked through the stages of grief and I’m on to acceptance. When I don’t get hired, I’ll be on my way back to Albany for a summer with my friends, which doesn’t sound half-bad. I got interview experience, a new dress and a week with my brother and soon to be sister-in-law. Not bad. Stress-free. Breathe.

thank you

I took the train from Albany to Buffalo. A four and a half hour drive turns into a five and a half hour train ride, with delays becomes six hours. Despite the long trip, I really enjoyed it. I love travelling by train. It’s relaxing and I can sit and think, or sleep.

When I got on the train in Albany I walked three cars to an empty seat and tried to lift my suitcase up into the overhead rack. I am weak and decided against struggling with it to not look as incompetent as I felt. I wheeled my bag to the front of the car and a guy sitting in the front “save-for-disabled-passengers” seat (he wasn’t disabled) said I could put my bag there, where there is extra space. I removed my computer (as to not be irresponsible) and went back to my seat. Just outside of Amsterdam, the same guy was walking up and down the aisle until he found me and then said he was getting off at the next stop, if I wanted to sit near my bag.

This small gesture of responsible kindness made me so happy. This guy looked kind of sketchy, but he wasn’t. Outside Boston there are nice people: people that go out of their way, if just a little, to make a stranger’s day easier. I’d forgotten there were still genuinely nice people.

I love living in the city. I think the opportunities and experiences urban life has to offer outweighs any minor complaints I may have. My only fear is that I will forget to do-good, something I always try to do. Try to remember.

some day

I saw the new movie, Babies, which is a documentary that follows the lives of four babies for their first year. There are two boys, from Mongolia and Namibia and two girls, from Tokyo and San Francisco. It being Sunday night at the Spectrum, the only other people in the theater (apart from Sarah, Beckie and myself) were two grandmothers and two girls in their twenties. The exclusively female audience didn’t surprise us, but the difference in reactions did. While childbirth made us audibly queasy, the older women sighed reminiscently at the acquired definition of beauty. It was obvious that experience and maturity played a part in emotional investment. Everyone winced when the babies looked as if they were in danger of being hurt but we also laughed, our maternal instincts on the backburner.

After seeing this movie, I can admit that babies are adorable and it’s so interesting to see how cultures that are completely different in every way can nurture children to grow and develop at astonishingly similar rates. I don’t want a baby any time soon, but I wouldn’t mind having some around the family. Life is brilliant to watch.

old times

We cooked up a storm. We ransacked the refrigerator. We made the most delicious pasta salad. It had homemade Italian sausage that spent time drying out, hanging in my aunt’s attic. It had feta cheese and black olives, green peppers and sweet balsamic vinegar. We made white chai tea, steeped for three minutes. We made large pearl tapioca beads and added them to our tea with a boiled sugar syrup to create a delicious chai bubble tea. Stewart’s didn’t have crazy straws, but the normal ones worked just fine. We made a feast and haven’t cleaned the mess.

opa!

The St. Sophia’s Grecian Festival, more popularly referred to as the “Greek Fest” has been a staple in my childhood. Every May I spend a weekend watching my Greek friends dance in full costume and fill up on gyros, baklava, loukoumathes and spanakopita. The Greek Fest always means running around with friends and not being able to walk a foot in the crowded tent without seeing a familiar face: parents of friends, teachers or friends I maybe lost touch with but happen to see every year at Greek Fest. It’s loud music and sundresses that have been hiding in my closet all year. A parking lot of high school students sneaking vodka out of water bottles and a tent full of the Greek population of Albany drunk on ouzo. I grew up going to Greek Fest and being surrounded by people that I knew from every aspect of my life in “Smalbany”, as locals affectionately call my hometown.

Tonight was the first night that Albany didn’t feel small. Except for a few friends that I had planned on meeting up with, I had never been faced with so many unfamiliar people. The parking lot, instead of being a meeting ground for friends from school, was crawling with kids I didn’t know. My friends that usually dance in costumes every hour were now standing with me, watching the kids of the church dance those same dances we knew so well.

Home doesn’t feel like the home I’m used to. After being away for so long, things have changed. Every time I think about things changing and being uncomfortable with growing up I get upset, but tonight was the first time I accepted what was happening. I’m glad I didn’t know the high school students drinking behind their parents’ backs and I’m glad I didn’t run into a thousand people I can smile at and make small-talk with, knowing they know my parents and our entire life-story.

I’ve always been nervous that I won’t be able to let go when I need to grow up and call a new place my home. I don’t think it’s going to be so hard. I’m not there yet, but I can see that in a few years, when I graduate and need to move on to a new point in my life, it will more or less happen organically. I’m changing, but for once I can say, I’m not afraid.

chipped tea-cups

I am a hoarder. Probably not to the TLC-special extreme, but the potential is definitely there.

After procrastinating for a week, I cleaned out my room and unpacked from school. I emptied my closet and my bookshelves. I went through stacks of notebooks and papers from high school and my first two years of college. I found boxes under my bed filled with ticket stubs and playbills. There are pictures and friendship bracelets, birthday cards dating back to 2005 (the rest are probably in a box on the top shelf of my closet) and an arm from a stuffed bear that Beckie and I won from a claw machine and decided to “share” by ripping its arms off. I found memories I wish I hadn’t, but I also got to reminisce. I didn’t throw away as much as I should have. I have a bad memory and I think it’s nice to keep small souvenirs of important life events.

This is where it starts. A ticket stub here, a newspaper clipping there. Then, before you know it, I’m going to start wearing a life-alert bracelet just in case mountains of books avalanche, knocking me over into a pile of dirty stuffed animals, before a box of fabric does me in: making it impossible to see daylight again.

I read an article about an elderly man who was trapped inside his own home. His out-of-control quantity of meaningless garbage fell on top of him. His negligent family didn’t start looking for him for six days. That will be me.

My grandfather likes to stop at garage sales. He buys things regardless of whether or not he needs them or likes them. The less useful an item is, the more desirable it is: island of misfit toys complex, if that’s a thing. This is probably genetic. I should seek preemptive help.

plot

It was rainy and cold today. When it doesn’t make it out of the forties in May, a movie day is appropriate. Sarah B. and I hunkered down with pizza and old movies. We watched His Girl Friday, which I own but had never seen. In high school, Mr. McGurn used to tell us that kids have no patience for black and white movies. He said that the minute he puts one on, everyone in the room is asleep. I watch a lot of old movies, but I think he is correct.

I am not a film expert and I don’t claim to be but I think that it does take a lot more concentration to watch an old movie because of the way the film industry has progressed. With advancing technology, the story line is becoming increasingly less important as long as the special effects are there. If you were to take Avatar’s story line without the enormous budget, it is Pocahontas. I wouldn’t spend $30 to see Pocahontas, like I did to see Avatar. I think my point, if I even have one, is that if you have the patience to sit through a movie without color or exciting effects, old movies have amazing stories. Although this is a generalization, I think the plots of older movies are more intricate and creative. Crazy things happen in His Girl Friday, and while I still don’t understand the title, I really enjoyed the movie. Perfect for a rainy day with Cary Grant.

observations from today

1. No sales tax on clothes in Massachusetts is a great way to justify spending money. Everything is automatically 8% off.

2. A great friend is one you can shop with for seven hours and still want to hang out with afterward.

3. The soundtrack to Violet is great road-trip music.

4. Closed-toe shoes are professional.

5. The new New York license plates are ugly.

6. Some people make bad choices.

7. Running is painful when you haven’t in seven months.

coffee talk

I started to clean out my closet today, hoping to open up some space so I can unpack from school. I am currently sitting on my bed surrounded by the contents of my closet: covering every inch of my floor. My room is a fire hazard. If I needed to evacuate I would have to jump over a pile of ugly shoes and dance with a dress form before making contact with my doorknob. I’m not sure why I started this project knowing I wasn’t going to finish it. So irresponsible.

On another note…

I got ice cream with an old friend tonight, someone I’ve known since we were two, just starting out in preschool. One of the benefits of having lived in the same house in the same city the whole time I was growing up is having friends that have known me my entire life. While we don’t talk often during the semester, it’s so nice to have people to spend time with who might not know everything that’s happening on a day-to-day basis but know me so completely. I’m fortunate to have several friends that I’ve known since Day One. Sometimes I think they know me better than I know myself.

daunting

There were two occupied tables in the diner, a favorite hometown haunt; we were sitting at one, catching up after a semester apart. She says with her bachelors in anthropology she will end up working at Anthropologie, selling expensive dresses to girls who can’t afford them. As a junior in high school you can’t wait to finish, graduate and go off to a university. As a junior in college you start to panic, the only thing waiting on the other side of the tassel is life: unpredictable and too real to be fun. I tell her she can always get her masters.

At the other table, a graduating student sits with her boyfriend and celebrates over a piece of cheesecake. The waitress asks from where she is graduating. The girl replies, forlornly, law school because a bachelors isn’t enough these days.

We look at our coffee, rotten cream curdling on the surface.

“I’m not going to law school”, my friend says and raises a hand to ask for the check.

gutter

I’m probably not the worst bowler in the world. I’d say I’m in the top ten. Every time I’ve been asked to go bowling in the past year or two I have strategically found a way out of it.

Tonight, my family dragged me to Redwood Lanes. They have all-you-can bowl deals with disco balls, black lighting and a live DJ from 10-2am. It would be a great place to be if I didn’t completely hate the game. I’ve been thinking about why I dislike bowling so much. I think it goes beyond me being really terrible. I’ve narrowed it down to the following reasons.

1. The Shoes. I don’t know how often bowling shoes are replaced or how effective that spray is that they use. Every time I see someone with 8 ½ size feet at the bowling alley I wonder if they’ve worn the shoes that I’m wearing. I hate feet and communal shoes. Are you supposed to return the shoes with the laces tied or untied?

2. Heavy Balls. I can’t get a ball that is six pounds because that’s probably what I used when I was ten, but the ten-pound balls are always too heavy because I am weak. It’s really hard to find something in between and walking around forever putting my fingers into drilled holes where [unwashed] hands have been is gross.

3. Waiting for your ball to come up the ramp. It’s not a long wait but it’s just long enough that I stand awkwardly, not knowing what to do or how to stand. Is it long enough to walk back to where everyone else is standing? Should I turn around and say something? Maybe I’ll just stare at the pins and wonder why they’re all still standing up…

4. The Walk. I can never get the walk right. People do fancy little jumps and half runs. They slide one leg and do some kind of weird dance. Most of them just look silly.

Tonight I got a couple strikes and a few spares but the highlight was when Lady Gaga came through the speakers. Is bowling a real sport?

mom’s high heels

I went shopping to find professional clothes. I don’t own any. I tried on black pencil skirts with button-up blouses and black blazers. I looked ridiculous and didn’t buy anything. New York & Company was having a 50% off sale and they always have business-appropriate apparel but as I stared at myself in the mirror I couldn’t help but feel like a kid playing dress up, sliding around in my mom’s pumps, hoping to grow into them soon.

and just for fun...

science
He keeps a shoebox next to his bed for newspaper clippings and pictures from magazines that he finds interesting. He writes on small pieces of paper in the middle of the night when he has an idea he will forget before morning. When he wakes up and looks through the box, he often doesn’t remember writing what he reads and usually can’t read his handwriting. The notes that he can decipher are gibberish. He spends the day trying to make sense of the messages he’s left for himself. Elephants hate science. He ponders without conclusion and goes to bed again.

neverneverland

I am currently stuck in a weird Peter-Pan-mentality. I never want to grow up. I’m turning twenty in half a year and something about saying goodbye to my teens is very strange. I’m entering a time when it’s less acceptable to live the carefree existence of a child. I need to start taking responsibility for my future and it’s hard because I, selfishly, haven’t yet decided that I want to become an independent and functioning member of society.

I’m in a self-sabotaging cycle of not seeking out opportunities that might be beneficial because I’m afraid of where they will take me. Fear is at the root of this entire predicament. I’m scared of change and what it will mean for the life I’m used to. Dave Bard once told me, “no trepidation”. I like this phrase because it rings so true to my situation and my life, and trepidation is fun to say. I can’t be afraid to take a chance because if I never do I may never be successful, in any sense of the word.

I may have an opportunity to do something this summer that would be so fantastic for my plan to be a writer/editor/super(wo)man and I am absolutely terrified. To not jinx myself, I’m not yet going to reveal this opportunity to the blogosphere. All I can say is, no trepidation.

misfit

Walking away from Emerson today was surreal. As I strolled down Newbury Street with my family, the weight of the semester and my last final lifted and the realization that I wouldn’t be going back to my bed on the 7th floor of Piano Row tonight hit me. I am on my way back to Albany, sitting in a mini-van with almost everything I own. Crushed between a box of poorly packed shoes and the unlocked door as a laundry basket with Scrabble and Loaded Questions slides into my right shoulder is an utterly perfect arrangement for this fateful trip on the Mass-Pike.

Despite my initial plans to have a productive summer in Boston with a fancy internship at a publishing house and a pale-complexion characteristic of a nine-to-five, I am facing four months more akin to the summer after my senior year of high school.

I’d like to vow this as my last unproductive summer. In the fall I’m going to be entering my junior year at Emerson and as an aspiring member of the publishing community I will need internships and unpaid positions/skills and things.

I will not waste this summer; rather I’m going to view these next four months as a hiatus or a sabbatical, or something. I’m a researching writer striving to experience everything and anything. My first step to learning something from the world will be the job hunt I’m embarking on tomorrow, lets see what I can do.