Right now, I just need to get this out of my system:
Everything I'm feeling right now, the being pulled by tides I thought I'd slipped, stretched ane torn along old fracture lines, all of it can be summed up in easy chords in this song.
Caledonia
by Dougie Maclean
I don't know if you can see,
The changes that have come over me.
In these last few days I've been afraid,
That I might drift away.
I've been telling stories, singing songs,
That make me think about where I come from.
That's the reason why I seem
So far away today.
(Chorus)
Let me tell you that I love you,
That I think about you all the time.
Caledonia, you're calling me,
Now I'm going home.
But if I shall become a stranger,
Know that it would make me more than sad,
Caledonia's been everything I've ever had.
Now I have moved and kept on moving,
Proved the points that I needed proving,
Lost the friends that I needed losing,
Found others on the way.
I have kissed the lads and left them crying,
Stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,
I have travelled hard sometimes with conscience flying,
Somewhere in the wind.
(Chorus)
Now I'm sitting here before the fire,
The empty room, a forest choir,
The flames have cooled. don't get any higher,
They've withered now they've gone.
But I'm steady thinking my way is clear,
And I know what I will do tomorrow,
When hands have shaken, the kisses flowed,
Then I will disappear.
(Chorus)
Now please, let's not be melodramatic. However, it's late at night, you'll have to forgive my musical penchants. And honestly, I'll explain it all later. For now, just reread the pretty song and flex your fingers to the repetitive chords.
Showing posts with label Alone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alone. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Right, bullet time!
Okay, so I'm sorry, I'm a shit blogger and have been remiss in my updating. SO MUCH TO TYPE! Ergo, the wonder of spot editing!
- I'm living with a wonderful, delightful woman named Danger Muffin-- D-Muff for short-- and she's fantastic. She moved here from MI and, despite a failure to communicate for 6 years, has clicked back into my life like she never left it. We originally met through the MSF and have a mutual unhealthy relationship with Shakespeare and Arts Organizations in general. As it is, we're living at approximately the same speed. Which is the speed of light and sound. Together. Amplified.
- My student loans still haven't come through. This makes me a sad panda.
- I'm working too many different jobs. I can't keep them straight. And I haven't been in my office in ages. I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing something for the Ph.D., but for the life of me I don't know what. Good sign?
- I haven't heard from DS in ages. Again, sad panda.
- I've been cast in a production of Miller's Crucible at the University. And which character is little Miss Melville portray? The "death-haunted, embittered 45 year old woman" of course. Type casting? Please say no, I only look 35.
- My crossword addiction has hit record levels. The careers office is enabling me by saving all their old copies of the Herald and the Guardian. I still buy the Times on a daily basis and hit up the Washington Post online. Sick, sick puppy.
- I've rediscovered my love of white russians. They're delicious and way kinder to my tummy-lining. For a change up, I will order a vodka and cranberry, but only because I believe in the fight against UTI. I also drink gin and tonic because malaria is a bastard. Ergo, all my cocktails serve very strategic purposes.
- I think that Scotland is currently underutilizing my generous and nurturing side. I'll expound more on this at a later date if I get the time.
- Damn facebook. Yes, I use it and I love it and it's the only way people who know me in real time can reach me on a consistent basis, but it keeps telling me all sorts of disconcerting things. What things, you ask? Apparently everyone I used to know is either getting married or spawning. No joke. Entire photo albums of engagement rings, ultrasound pictures or tiny humans fresh out of their wrappers-- they're everywhere. I used to think my being perpetually between boyfriends wasn't that unusual, but apparently I'm a piraha. Still, better than being perpetually between husbands, right? Right?!?
- I really miss playing the tuba. Unfortunately, there appear to be very few of them in Scotland, and even fewer that belong to me. That number being zero.
- The roses down near the beach ballroom are still blooming.
- I still love Scotland.
- It no longer strikes me as strange that I'm here. What does seem strange is that I was never not here. Is that odd?
Enough for now. I'll finish writing and then backdate the rest of the Wedding entry, it's just too much for my less than nimble little fingers at the moment.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Christmas Eve
So, I'm still here in Aberdeen. For the holidays. Thousands of miles from my family and native home and snow and people I love and warmth and pine trees and my mother's kitchen. Needless to say, I'm having a bit of a tough time of it.
I've never been one for homesickness-- I went away to college, missed a handful of holidays and birthdays for assorted and various reasons, some of them good and some of them not. This isn't the first time I've been a long way from home, but I've never had such a hollow feeling in my heart as I do now.
Christmas music makes me irrationally hostile. My lips compress, my eyes narrow, and I dig my fingernails into the underside of the table before I even recognized the tune. If I hear Mariah Carey one more time I may smash something. Why? I was never a huge fan of modern christmas music, but I used to really enjoy hymns and traditional carols and some solid 1950s holiday ablums... now I subconsciously avoid street corners with loudspeakers, shopping plazas and the walks behind the chapel on campus where groups seem to be perpetually singing. Now that I think about, it seems simple enough-- it all reminds me of home, but I'm not at home and can't get myself there, so I'm ignoring the problem. Fair enough.
But why is this so hard now? Is it because, for the first time in my adult life, I've put myself in a situation where I can't physically get myself home via my own means? Before I always had my car, I could have just hopped into the driver's seat, put the fuel on the credit card and driven through the night, clawing my way from rest stop to rest stop if necessary. Now I don't have that luxury, and I'm just now beginning to realize what a luxury it was. I've always been conscious of my attachment and fondness for my cars (all two of them that I've ever had) and my dependance on them, but this just opens up a whole new level. They were my mobility, my freedom, my escape pod. I could always get myself back home.
Now there's a big ocean between Munith and myself, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. I called home a lot in the past couple of weeks, and I even called today without crying. I've cried more in the past moth than I have in the previous 12 months combined. I'm not a weepy person by nature, I don't think, but everytime I would get an e-mail from home or I'd hear the girls laughing in the background as I talked to mom, I couldn't get around the catch in my throat. I'd muscle through the rest of the call, not wanting to make the pain more acute for my mother, who has been rather querrelous this season as well, if my sisters' accounts are to be trusted, and I know that me not being home at this time of year is as hard on her as it is on me. However, once off the phone, I'd curl up on my chair or bed and cry like a little girl-- I'm not okay with this. Seriously. Not okay. I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups are sometimes alone on national holidays. These things happen and nobody dies. So why do I feel like my heart is breaking?
I'm currently house-sitting for a lecturer of mine from this past semester, watering plants and keeping company with their dog, Muki, who is a lovely, loyal creature if there ever was one. As I write this she keeps pacing back and forth in and out of the room, sitting now at my feet and gazing up at me. She follows me from computer to couch to window to kitchen and then back to the couch again. We've been going on walks and she gets me out of bed in the morning-- all in all, a very good thing. I'm infinitely grateful not to be the only beating heart in this abode.
I called home again this afternoon, and the crackle in the connection only emphasized the distance. I didn't cry, and somehow that was worse. I spoke to M3, and his sister is visiting him for the season. He's surprising her with a two-day trip to Paris for New Years, and they sound so happy. He finally got the package I sent him with a copy of Anna Karenina and a collected works of Shakespeare that I mailed 6 weeks ago, so I suppose that works as an inadvertent christmas present. He said he was sorry that I didn't have any family with me. I shrugged it off. How could I possibly explain?
My sister put up pictures of the tree and the decorating process at home, the making of pierogies, general festivities on the homefront, and though I begged her to do it, I didn't tell her how they pain me. They all look so happy and I just feel cold, even in my sweater. But I keep going back to them, sort of like the way you rub at a bruise and make it bigger in spite of yourself. To spite your self.
I walked down the block and found a little corner store run by a family of loud Pakistanis, and on a tip from a friend, found some polish pierogie. I bought two packages and fried up the one for dinner this evening. You see, dear reader, this is one of the traditions that I just can't replicate in my single solitude. It takes a whole day and every member of my family to pull of the hundreds of cheese and potato pierogie that we make, then fry up with onions and eat on christmas eve and christmas morning. The smell and spattering grease get into everything, like laughter and snowflakes. These are the trappings that I miss. The pierogie that I fried this evening were cottage cheese and raisin, and despite not being anything like what I'm used to, were just fine. Very filling, and as close to home as I could really expect on this island. I'll save the other for tomorrow evening, which I'm sure will be equally delightful.
I didn't even really realize that today was christmas eve until I sat down at my computer and looked at the date. I remember driving home from midnight mass by myself in a recently past year, stopping to buy gas, and think that, without all the human interaction, there was nothing in the air that would have told me it was christmas. Nothing that seemed special or unique or out of the ordinary. I was utterly devoid of the "spirit of the season." I guess I still am, but now I'm also without the driving human forces of home. I didn't put up a tree or even a bush, no boughs festooned my door, no smell of pine, no lights in the window. I thought about buying a string of lights and hanging them over my desk or maybe in my one window, but then I thought about my deminished funds and the general lack of outlets. I decided against it for these very practical reasons without delving into the impractical, embarrassing reasons of lonliness and disenchantment.
I didn't find a vigil mass to go to this evening. To be honest, it's been a really, really long time since I've gone to church. Even longer since I genuinely prayed. I think I've read too much philosophy to pray well anymore. I almost tried a few nnights ago, but just couldn't bring myself to make an honest try. So I rolled over and manhandled my pillow into a new shape and tried to sleep.
But I brought two different red sweaters, grey pants and a pair of stilletos with me for tomorrow, google-searched a church that will be open. I think mass might be at 10 down near the city center, which means I need to leave here around 9. I'm going to try. At least I've made the effort so far, the lead up to actually going, so I can't use that as an excuse. If I decide against it later, it's a decision and not a consequence.
I need to go to sleep. Muki has given up on me. In the process of writing this, it's turned from christmas eve to christmas day. No one will come wake me up in the morning, no hurrying of little-girl-bare-feet-over-carpet, no jumping on my bed to wake me up and haul me downstairs, no mom in her robe turning on the coffee pot and christmas lights, no stocking over the fireplace. There's a fireplace here, in the house I'm watching for the season, and I've lit a fire the past two nights, but it's long out now. Muddy Waters sings to me through the speakers, I've got a cheap bottle of white wine and somebody else's dog leaning heavily against me.
So this is what it feels like to be a grown-up.
I've never been one for homesickness-- I went away to college, missed a handful of holidays and birthdays for assorted and various reasons, some of them good and some of them not. This isn't the first time I've been a long way from home, but I've never had such a hollow feeling in my heart as I do now.
Christmas music makes me irrationally hostile. My lips compress, my eyes narrow, and I dig my fingernails into the underside of the table before I even recognized the tune. If I hear Mariah Carey one more time I may smash something. Why? I was never a huge fan of modern christmas music, but I used to really enjoy hymns and traditional carols and some solid 1950s holiday ablums... now I subconsciously avoid street corners with loudspeakers, shopping plazas and the walks behind the chapel on campus where groups seem to be perpetually singing. Now that I think about, it seems simple enough-- it all reminds me of home, but I'm not at home and can't get myself there, so I'm ignoring the problem. Fair enough.
But why is this so hard now? Is it because, for the first time in my adult life, I've put myself in a situation where I can't physically get myself home via my own means? Before I always had my car, I could have just hopped into the driver's seat, put the fuel on the credit card and driven through the night, clawing my way from rest stop to rest stop if necessary. Now I don't have that luxury, and I'm just now beginning to realize what a luxury it was. I've always been conscious of my attachment and fondness for my cars (all two of them that I've ever had) and my dependance on them, but this just opens up a whole new level. They were my mobility, my freedom, my escape pod. I could always get myself back home.
Now there's a big ocean between Munith and myself, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. I called home a lot in the past couple of weeks, and I even called today without crying. I've cried more in the past moth than I have in the previous 12 months combined. I'm not a weepy person by nature, I don't think, but everytime I would get an e-mail from home or I'd hear the girls laughing in the background as I talked to mom, I couldn't get around the catch in my throat. I'd muscle through the rest of the call, not wanting to make the pain more acute for my mother, who has been rather querrelous this season as well, if my sisters' accounts are to be trusted, and I know that me not being home at this time of year is as hard on her as it is on me. However, once off the phone, I'd curl up on my chair or bed and cry like a little girl-- I'm not okay with this. Seriously. Not okay. I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups are sometimes alone on national holidays. These things happen and nobody dies. So why do I feel like my heart is breaking?
I'm currently house-sitting for a lecturer of mine from this past semester, watering plants and keeping company with their dog, Muki, who is a lovely, loyal creature if there ever was one. As I write this she keeps pacing back and forth in and out of the room, sitting now at my feet and gazing up at me. She follows me from computer to couch to window to kitchen and then back to the couch again. We've been going on walks and she gets me out of bed in the morning-- all in all, a very good thing. I'm infinitely grateful not to be the only beating heart in this abode.
I called home again this afternoon, and the crackle in the connection only emphasized the distance. I didn't cry, and somehow that was worse. I spoke to M3, and his sister is visiting him for the season. He's surprising her with a two-day trip to Paris for New Years, and they sound so happy. He finally got the package I sent him with a copy of Anna Karenina and a collected works of Shakespeare that I mailed 6 weeks ago, so I suppose that works as an inadvertent christmas present. He said he was sorry that I didn't have any family with me. I shrugged it off. How could I possibly explain?
My sister put up pictures of the tree and the decorating process at home, the making of pierogies, general festivities on the homefront, and though I begged her to do it, I didn't tell her how they pain me. They all look so happy and I just feel cold, even in my sweater. But I keep going back to them, sort of like the way you rub at a bruise and make it bigger in spite of yourself. To spite your self.
I walked down the block and found a little corner store run by a family of loud Pakistanis, and on a tip from a friend, found some polish pierogie. I bought two packages and fried up the one for dinner this evening. You see, dear reader, this is one of the traditions that I just can't replicate in my single solitude. It takes a whole day and every member of my family to pull of the hundreds of cheese and potato pierogie that we make, then fry up with onions and eat on christmas eve and christmas morning. The smell and spattering grease get into everything, like laughter and snowflakes. These are the trappings that I miss. The pierogie that I fried this evening were cottage cheese and raisin, and despite not being anything like what I'm used to, were just fine. Very filling, and as close to home as I could really expect on this island. I'll save the other for tomorrow evening, which I'm sure will be equally delightful.
I didn't even really realize that today was christmas eve until I sat down at my computer and looked at the date. I remember driving home from midnight mass by myself in a recently past year, stopping to buy gas, and think that, without all the human interaction, there was nothing in the air that would have told me it was christmas. Nothing that seemed special or unique or out of the ordinary. I was utterly devoid of the "spirit of the season." I guess I still am, but now I'm also without the driving human forces of home. I didn't put up a tree or even a bush, no boughs festooned my door, no smell of pine, no lights in the window. I thought about buying a string of lights and hanging them over my desk or maybe in my one window, but then I thought about my deminished funds and the general lack of outlets. I decided against it for these very practical reasons without delving into the impractical, embarrassing reasons of lonliness and disenchantment.
I didn't find a vigil mass to go to this evening. To be honest, it's been a really, really long time since I've gone to church. Even longer since I genuinely prayed. I think I've read too much philosophy to pray well anymore. I almost tried a few nnights ago, but just couldn't bring myself to make an honest try. So I rolled over and manhandled my pillow into a new shape and tried to sleep.
But I brought two different red sweaters, grey pants and a pair of stilletos with me for tomorrow, google-searched a church that will be open. I think mass might be at 10 down near the city center, which means I need to leave here around 9. I'm going to try. At least I've made the effort so far, the lead up to actually going, so I can't use that as an excuse. If I decide against it later, it's a decision and not a consequence.
I need to go to sleep. Muki has given up on me. In the process of writing this, it's turned from christmas eve to christmas day. No one will come wake me up in the morning, no hurrying of little-girl-bare-feet-over-carpet, no jumping on my bed to wake me up and haul me downstairs, no mom in her robe turning on the coffee pot and christmas lights, no stocking over the fireplace. There's a fireplace here, in the house I'm watching for the season, and I've lit a fire the past two nights, but it's long out now. Muddy Waters sings to me through the speakers, I've got a cheap bottle of white wine and somebody else's dog leaning heavily against me.
So this is what it feels like to be a grown-up.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
So...
... just a thought: I'm so sick and tired of being the nice girl with the funny story who goes home alone.
I don't really know how to put it any other way.
Recently I've been hanging out with a handful of the technical crew with the MSF and while that has been a wonderful diversion, I'm still spending the majority of my evenings either at work or at home. I can't remember the last time somebody took me to dinner and a movie. Not to be shallow, but it's been a very, very long time since I've actually thought that some fellow held the door open for me so he could look at my ass and then smiled about it. I miss that.
Right now, I'm verging on side-show. Particularly with the way work has been lately, I'm the one who tells the amazing story about her day, people hoot and guffaw, but invariably somebody pats me on the head and I wander home alone. Boo, I say.
I know I'm too busy for a serious relationship right now, and I'm leaving the country soon. However, whatever happened to the summer fling? More to the point, what happened to MY summer fling? That enchanted stretch of time when everything was exquisitely superficial and the lightness of non-existent expectations made things so simple... oh, wait. Now I remember.
In the end, I'm officially announcing to you, my imaginary reader, that I'm looking for a simple free-time buddy. Maybe we'll catch an occasional baseball game, play a couple hands of poker, drink cheap beer while standing in a kitchen, picnic, and relieve some of my tension. No strings attached. I will not leave work early for him, I won't call him every night just to talk. He won't want to introduce me to his friends, he wouldn't meet my family. Just nice and simple. I'd appreciate a sweet guy who just wants to hang out and maybe some meaningless, good-natured physical contact-- does that every happen? To anyone?
What really irritates me is that the gentlemen I'm spending the most time with are either very, very married and yet adorable or (most likely) hitting something right now that I watched unfold right in front of me earlier tonight.
Which is why I'm writing this and debating drinking more and writing less or writing more and spending less. Goddamn toss-up, if you ask me.
I don't really know how to put it any other way.
Recently I've been hanging out with a handful of the technical crew with the MSF and while that has been a wonderful diversion, I'm still spending the majority of my evenings either at work or at home. I can't remember the last time somebody took me to dinner and a movie. Not to be shallow, but it's been a very, very long time since I've actually thought that some fellow held the door open for me so he could look at my ass and then smiled about it. I miss that.
Right now, I'm verging on side-show. Particularly with the way work has been lately, I'm the one who tells the amazing story about her day, people hoot and guffaw, but invariably somebody pats me on the head and I wander home alone. Boo, I say.
I know I'm too busy for a serious relationship right now, and I'm leaving the country soon. However, whatever happened to the summer fling? More to the point, what happened to MY summer fling? That enchanted stretch of time when everything was exquisitely superficial and the lightness of non-existent expectations made things so simple... oh, wait. Now I remember.
In the end, I'm officially announcing to you, my imaginary reader, that I'm looking for a simple free-time buddy. Maybe we'll catch an occasional baseball game, play a couple hands of poker, drink cheap beer while standing in a kitchen, picnic, and relieve some of my tension. No strings attached. I will not leave work early for him, I won't call him every night just to talk. He won't want to introduce me to his friends, he wouldn't meet my family. Just nice and simple. I'd appreciate a sweet guy who just wants to hang out and maybe some meaningless, good-natured physical contact-- does that every happen? To anyone?
What really irritates me is that the gentlemen I'm spending the most time with are either very, very married and yet adorable or (most likely) hitting something right now that I watched unfold right in front of me earlier tonight.
Which is why I'm writing this and debating drinking more and writing less or writing more and spending less. Goddamn toss-up, if you ask me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)