strange musings of a distracted spunk

He held my hand, loose but warm. His enthusiasm caused him to pump it up and down as though we were swinging along as we walked, though we were only standing in the back of a restaurant. Something felt different about that moment. As though our world was about to shift, again.

Just the night before, he had accompanied me to an event in our shared hometown. Where we wandered among vendors, performances, and hundreds of people, wailing kids, and smeared faces of cotton candy and funnel cakes. We had friends there, and were just putting in an obligatory appearance. Yet I was excited; there would be fireworks. The first time in our history of friendship and more that there had ever been the fireworks of the exploding kind, and not just the ones that jumped when his lips had touched mine. I wanted to stay, sit on the dewy grass on an early summer evening and watch everything I had felt for him light the sky like a visual stage of our tumultuous relationship.

As we walked into the park, I teased him. “You know there’s no one more awesome than me,” I said. He nodded sagely. “Yeah. You are the coolest girl I know.” Half teasing, half wistful, his words were the lyrics of the song I had been waiting to understand. After three years of tense friendship, a week of romance, and another year of tense friendship, I was reassured to know that I was his number one girl. His hand swung close near mine, but we never touched. My heart didn’t leap, but it was then, in that moment, that I knew something was there still.

We stood in the restaurant the next day, me in a strapless dress, and him in maybe a blue checked shirt, or a green one. His eyes were bluer than I recalled seeing them, and even with my family and friends surrounding me, all I could think of was, “He’s holding my hand.” In the past, we would only hold hands when one of us wanted to pull the other somewhere. Or when I was tipsy and about to fall over. We had said goodbye to the days of romance when he said he couldn’t do it, not now. That he regretted kissing me, being with me, after we spent five hours exploring each other, mouths, cheeks, shoulders, more our first night together.

But that day, when the sun was bright and shining, and I was already in a great mood, surrounded by my closest friends and family, he held my hand, vigorously, excitedly. I teased him about how the past year had been hard on our friendship, but we were better than ever. He blushed, turned red, ran to sit with my friends from college, all of whom he had befriended when he visited during a particularly eventful weekend.

I felt as though light would stream from every pore, like Beast at the end of the film when Belle revives him with a tear and a kiss. I had wanted for so long a signal to say he was still there. He was still in that moment. That he never regretted kissing me, being with me, that he cared about me as more than a friend. That him holding my hand in front of everyone was a sign of more to come.

But like the night before, when he suddenly turned sick before the fireworks and I could only turn behind me to watch them splinter the night sky as we drove back to his house, I wasn’t meant to see those fireworks. I wasn’t meant to watch spinning Catherine wheels of delirious delight. I’d see the occasional spark, a brief rush of “Can we do this again?” before a tree would block the view. Had I been able to watch our story, it would have showed spikes, up and down, holding onto the smallest detail for more. Why is it that we cling so tightly to the actions we construe as signs?

Our story wasn’t written in the skies that night or any night. Our story ended with an angry text message, leaving behind a blank sky and a broken me.

I never realized how green the Pacific Northwest was. Though Princess Pointful corrected me and said that we are technically in the Pacific Southwest currently as we are in the southwestern portion of Canada. Hello, Vancouver. Green? Trees? Ah-choo!

So a basic recap of my Northwestern/Southwestern journeys:

-Once again, United Airlines wins. Apparently this time, they forgot they needed a pilot to fly the plane. This apparently didn’t occur to them until AFTER we boarded the plane. And I was so excited that we might actually leave on time for a change. Hour delay? Hello, my old friend.

-I’m still five years old at heart. The Seattle Science Museum was probably my favorite part of the Seattle experience. How often do you get to walk around in a butterfly conservatory? Or test your flexibility skills? (By the way, at twenty three years of age, my flexibility range was 23.0. The normal average for people my age was 12. I am awesome.) Or take a picture inside a dinosaur footprint? Check, check, and check.

-I can do a kickstand on 1 & 3, a snare on 2 & 4, but not with a top hat on 1, 2, 3, and 4. It’s sort of like trying to rub your tummy and pat your head at the same time. I have a new respect for drummers, seeing as I can only do two of the three at any given point. (Experience Music Project; good for releasing your inner rock star.)

-Just because you can take a golden capsule to the top does not make you Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, Space Needle. In fact, you need to take a few lessons from the John Hancock Observatory in Chicago or any one of the tourist destinations in New York. Clearly labeled markings on what one is looking at is helpful. Not a computer screen with exclamation points a la Super Mario Brothers and a big octopus. (Apparently, the Giant Pacific Octopus lives off the shores of Seattle. Good to know.)

-The Underground Tour? Totally worth it. Where else do you learn about drunkards falling off the street and into a ditch somewhere between 5-30 feet below? Or the fact that 87% of Seattle’s revenue in the late 1800’s/early 1900s was accounted for by the high percentage of “seamstresses” in Seattle, where nary a sewing machine was in sight. Occupational hazard? Syphilis.

-A harrowing experience at the Seattle Bus Depot was fun for no one. Forty minutes just to get my ticket because the computers and a printer was down. Travel luck, you strike again! However, we did befriend a native Vancouverian on the bus ride home. It appears he was eavesdropping on our conversation and found us particularly entertaining. Which we are. But still. Between him and PP, a four hour bus ride went by impressively quickly. He even accompanied us through customs and on the train and bus ride home. Wearing a kilt!

-Vancouver has sea buses. As in…a boat. That’s a form of public transportation. It’s a bus! But it’s a boat! But it’s a bus! Ah!

-Also, there’s a suspension bridge. 230 feet above a rushing river kinda suspension bridge. Like the ones you used to see in a playground that would bounce when you walked on it. There was always the asshole (usually me) who would jump on it and make it swing and cause you to lose your balance. I stifled that impulse, but I did run the last fifteen or so feet of the bridge back, just cause I could. In addition, there are treetop adventures. Even MORE suspension bridges in the trees. Basically, if you’ve ever loved playing in a treehouse, this is totally the place to go.

-American Gladiators. ‘Nuff said. I’m pretty sure this is one of those things that you can only do while in another country, like the “It’s okay to cheat because it’s another country” kinda philosophy.

-Vancouver has a police museum! I didn’t really know what to expect, just that it’d be something different and completely unique to Vancouver. When I travel, I like to find places that you won’t find anywhere else. So we went. And we figured it’d be just about an hour at the most. After two hours, nunchuks, Ninja throwing stars, an autopsy room, a morgue, and crazy interesting exhibits, we finally staggered our way out from Vancouver’s police history. They are the only police force that I have ever heard of that have Harley Davidsons as part of their motor vehicles. Red ones, at that. Go Vancouver.

-Totem poles scare me. If I were a pioneer and I came across a totem pole of a demon-like figure eating a human, I’d run right back in the direction from which I came. However. Totem poles with stories aren’t as scary. Unfortunately, the Museum of Anthropology doesn’t share the stories of most of its totem poles, which makes it difficult to really absorb as much of the history as one possibly could. However, it does have one super cool exhibit of a Raven saving humankind in a clamade of cedar, with natural light shining down on it. It’s pretty groovy.

One thing that both Seattle and Vancouver have that are unusual is the abundance of mountains and water. It’s absolutely stunning and gorgeous, especially when in contrast to all the greenery. Flying into Sea-Tac Airport was like no flight I had ever taken before. Additionally, both have a style of architecture that is completely different from the neo-classic, brick, and steel architecture I’m used to from the East coast. There is so little European influence here, it’s refreshing.

With that said, I’m jumping back into the states where I eagerly await naughty text messages for all of sixteen hours before I get on my sixth plane in three weeks and make my way to a completely different climate. Hot and steamy. Hello Thailand.

I went all the way to Vancouver, Canada to get hooked on American Gladiators.

No, really! While Princess Pointful made a yummy dinner, her boyfriend and I debated what to watch on TV. “The Big Bang Theory?” I said.

“Nah.”

“Dancing With the Stars?”

*dirty look*

“Ugh, Punchline is on.”

“What’s that about?”

“Sally Field and Tom Hanks.”

“Oh god no. I can’t stand Sally Field. Let’s watch American Gladiators!”

I gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“It’s good. You’ll like it. They’re crazy.”

Twenty minutes later, I was yelling at the television like a mad woman. “Watch out for Helga! Why is it so difficult for them to swim the entire length of the pool? Do the breaststroke, it’s faster! What are you doing?! He’s going to crush you! What’s the Wolf? Oh. That’s the Wolf. Ewwww.”

American Gladiators was one of those shows that was cool to watch on Saturday early afternoons, after Saved By the Bell because those people were crazy and scary, and also, it was the impetus for Guts on Nickelodeon. When it went off the air all those years ago, I never thought much of it, even when it returned. But now that I’m in Canada? I actually turned down an opportunity to go out with some of Princess Pointful’s friends because I wanted to watch Major Pain try to get past freaking Helga. (Incidentally, Helga looks like a two hundred and five pound version of a girl I went to high school with.) I was so involved with the show, I couldn’t even keep up with the conversation, because there was a former Para-Olympics medalist with one leg trying to succeed on the Eliminator. (On a side note, hand pedals? What demon conjured up that torture trap?)

As I got more involved with American Gladiators and the plight of one John Siciliano who only has the one leg, so did the others in the living room. And as we watched him try to keep his balance on a tightrope, or run down a spinning barrel, or climb up arm first on a teeter-totter rather than run up, it began to feel a bit like you couldn’t look away. But as he persevered, I realized, had I been him, I would have been pissed to know people were aww’ing every time I succeeded at doing something I had initially set out to do.

The guy who did win, after three minutes and twenty seconds did a great job, but he was ignored in favor of the human interest story of the guy who was disabled and still playing the game. The crowd began chanting, “Go John, go!” and you could see the looks on people’s faces as though they wanted to see him succeed but every time his prosthetic leg went wayward, they’d grimace. Hell, even I grimaced, because I wanted to see this guy kick Gladiator ass.

The camera stayed focused on John, zooming in to show his awkward gait because much of his weight had to be stored on one leg, regardless of the black prosthesis attached to him. It began to feel like an exploitation of his disability, rather than a genuine portrait of giving a guy a fair shot. At the end of it all, while people cheered, I was frustrated. I saw parallels in how people played up the inspirational aspects of his activity to how people have suggested I am an inspiration. I don’t think most people set out to be an inspiration. In my case, I lost my ears and did what I had to do. I don’t find anything about that inspirational.

I doubt John feels differently; in an interview at the end, he said, “If you want to do something, get up and do it.” There’s nothing heroic or poignant about that. Nike’s been riding on the “Just Do It” slogan for as long as I can remember. It’s not about setting an example. It’s about achieving goals. Why are we so eager to confuse the two when it involves someone making do with the hand they’ve been dealt? When sympathy and encouragement often walk the same line of a disability, it’s harder to be thought of as an inspiration for just living our lives.

And to think. All this came from watching American Gladiators in Canada. Not bad, eh?

She brushed her hair back with a wave of insecurity. Her pink dress kept riding down, exposing a black bra. I wondered who the black strapless bra was for, underneath her informal prom dress, on a night where she was one of two dateless girls at a table full of couples.

Would I have ever dared show up at prom without a date? I recall breaking up with my high school boyfriend multiple times before prom, and even going so far as asking a friend if he’d accompany me in the case that the breakup stuck this time. The breakup didn’t, the boyfriend didn’t, and senior prom was a bit of a bust. Even the catering hall’s power thought so, as it went out halfway through our dinner.

The undeclared photographer of her table, she kept looking around, watching, waiting to see who was talking about her. I asked Princess Pointful, “Were you this insecure in high school?” Without so much as a pause, she said, “Yes.” It surprised me, to know that someone who is so aware of who she is now, was maybe almost too aware of who she was then. Though it seems that’s the nature of high school.

A girl in a lime green dress sat alone with her lime-green vested date, and frowned most of her way through dinner. He tried to make her laugh, but she was too busy watching the two tables of high-school prom goers that surrounded us. We watched her, wondering if she had just had a falling out with one of the other girls at one of those tables. Wasn’t that all high school was? Uninvitations, blocked memories, girls putting each other down. I once had a bully take my can of soda and drink the entire thing in one gulp. At least it wasn’t my lunch. I don’t care to remember much else about high school.

At yet another table behind us, more dresses slipped down, showing black bras, nude bras, and bare backs. These kids had credit cards, cell phones, their dresses skimmed their thighs and reached just below their non-existent cleavage. Princess and I talked about how we didn’t get credit cards till college, how puberty hit us at different points. For me, it was after I went to college that my chest exploded with first C-cups, and now D.

One has to wonder, what’s in store for these girls? Their prom, so different from mine, involved going out to dinner first and to a dance later. Would they go home with their dates, fingers fumbling beneath corseted backs, safety pins, and laces, underwear sliding off, pants unzipping? Or would they shuffle out of barely heeled shoes, shimmy out of low-swinging dress, plug in a USB cable and upload pictures of their table laughing and drinking non-alcoholic Mojito Breezes, wishing there was someone to slide the corsage off their wrist?

I have pictures from my own proms, junior and senior, where I took silly pictures with my then-boyfriend, as though it would be the time of my life. It wasn’t then, it wasn’t now. I don’t even know where those pictures are anymore; for all I know, they may have been thrown out during one of my many moves.

I wanted to tell the girl in the lime green dress to stop fretting. It’s just one night. Let your date make you laugh, smile a bit, whatever’s got you down is going to be all over in a matter of weeks. I wanted to tell the girl in the pink dress, stop looking around; don’t wear your insecurity on your sleeve. You’re already stronger than I was at seventeen, showing up dateless when I had a roster of guys recruited in case my boyfriend and I broke up again. I admire you. But I can’t, when you don’t even admire yourself.

How do you tell a seventeen year old girl the things you’ve learned when you’re not much older than she?

10. My roommate streaking past my bedroom door when he realized I was up and he was naked and on his way to shower. I had to stifle my laughter, but that’s one hell of a way to start a day. Especially one’s last day in an apartment!

9. Pushing my boxspring down two flights of stairs and wishing I could surf it down the stairs a la Princess Diaries. I blame a narrow hallway and ever-multiplying dust bunnies from the carpet that had regenerative growth syndrome for hindering my stair-surfing opportunities.

8. Getting a phone call about a job interview opportunity back in New York for a job I was super interested. Can’t make the interview, but it still makes me feel good about my future prospects.

7. Selling every last piece of furniture I had and making a profit on all the furniture I got for free when I moved in. All that cash in my pocket will go a long way in the next few weeks.

6. Asshat roommate giving me back my $650 security deposit. Whoo!

5. Leaving a completely empty room, with the blue phone on the wall. I still secretly hoped it would ring for me, just before I left, but it never did.

4. Dinner at McGee’s, with her and J, which will be my temporary residence for the three times I pop back into San Francisco before flying home.

3. Accidentally breaking the battery pack of my vibrator when I tried to remove the batteries. I banged the whole thing on the windowsill, the battery pack fell off, the bunny ears started twitching, and I couldn’t figure out how to keep it all in my hands because damnit, that lube is slippery. If America’s Funniest Home Videos were rated X, I’d walk out with that ten grand prize easily

2. Taking yet another lovely bath to wash away all the dirt, grime, and sweat of packing, moving, and cleaning. Though it was slightly disturbing as there were half-naked and unattractive construction workers arguing loudly right outside my window. Why is it that I’m always naked when the construction workers are right outside my window? Is there a special “DS NAKED!” spotlight, like the Batman signal? Seriously.

1.5. Fitting everything I own that was left into two suitcases, a small duffel bag, and a backpack with room to spare. I am clearly an expert packer. But what’s up with this new rule that each passenger can only check one piece of luggage for free and must pay for any additional luggage? Baaaahhhhh.

1. In less than twelve hours, I will be on my way to Seattle, Vancouver, Thailand and Japan.

Ready? Set? Go!

The youngest sexual fantasy I remember having is being dressed as Jasmine, but in the red outfit, and seducing men to get myself out of ugly situations, such as kidnappings or attempted rapes. I imagined myself witty, clever, and cunning; all things that would capably render them useless as putty in my hands. I can’t tell you why this was my youngest sexual fantasy as I don’t think the Disney company set out to give young girls new ideas on redefining the sexual norm.

I always thought I’d be sly, my hips rolling in red pants that showed off every curve I had (this of course assumed I had curves and not the stick straight boyish body I had up until I hit puberty right before college.) I never had pretensions of just who those men would be; they tend to be of the faceless sort, but as long as they had nice bodies, it didn’t matter. Steve, from Full House, who voiced Aladdin would do quite nicely, but there was something about the slightly nerdy and thin yet muscular look to Aladdin that I loved. Prince Eric was always a bit too muscular for me, but I did love his blue eyes. Slightly ironic, seeing as you know, the boy I loved for the last year is all muscle and no fat. (Jerk.) I even imagined that I’d have my own Rajah and Abu to hang out with, a carpet to lay on when I grew tired of my current scene and wanted to float elsewhere. I would have everything I needed, and my sexuality would be just one of my many charms.

I’ve never been overtly sexual, or perhaps I have, but I can’t recall ever thinking about being sexual until I saw Jasmine seducing Jafar. (I still can’t believe she kissed him!) When I watched Aladdin today, I groaned when she did. I guess we block out the parts of our minds that disturb us most. Also, I never actually pictured myself having to kiss the bad guys. I’d just trip them up with how cleverly spectacular I was.

I used to look at Victoria’s Secret catalogues and imagine myself as having one of those bodies, with large, luscious breasts and flat abs and while I knew the perfect tan was just not in the cards for me because I’m pale as sin, I thought I could decently rock a teddy or a negligee. Even the sound of the word negligee rolling off my tongue still evokes a bit of that twelve year old me who knew that one day, she would be a sex goddess. Even then, it was clear that one could use one’s femininity to get whatever one wanted from a man.

I don’t exactly know why sex became such an important factor to me; I don’t think I really truly understood what it meant until I was older, in my teens, when I held my first penis and was told, “Just pull on it, and tug it back and forth. If you keep your hand wrapped around it tight, it’ll feel really good.” So I did. I tugged. And I pulled. And at the end of it, there was a little surprise which I knew about from health class, but you never really see it in the movies. I became an expert semen-cleaner then; napkins quickly swiping at their stomach, their balls, my stomach, my breasts, wherever it happened to land really. And from that moment on, I knew that the penis was my friend.

I’ve lured boys in with my subtle maneuvers, my simple flirtations, and sometimes, my flat-out honesty. I’m sure I’ve said on at least one occasion, “Want to touch my boobs?” It helps that by now, I do have those large, luscious breasts that one does see in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Granted, my bras range in sizes because my breasts have more mood swings than I do. I’m not ashamed to say that when I’m annoyed with something or bored, I have pulled out the bombs as a weapon to distract the male of the moment and lure them into bed. I have a 99.9% success rate.

But I’ve never had that chance to so completely and utterly seduce someone, to play the wily female of the night. I want to put it on as a costume, slip my skin into her languorous whispers in clandestine coat rooms or in a stately ballroom, wearing clothes unfamiliar to my body with the intent to have the man I want to control submit completely. (This makes me sound like I want to be a dominatrix, doesn’t it?) I want to do something so out of the norm for me, that the guy can barely speak, and he’s completely overturned by lust. I want to know that in a time where I can’t predict anything more than what I’m doing in the next minute, there is a scene I can portray that will play out much more erotically than it ever would in a Disney movie, where kisses last no more than a few seconds.

And maybe it will even involve a red outfit.

Jazz music wafted into the air, slow notes languishing upon one another, dancing on elevation of keys. For the second time in two days, and the second time in the year I’ve been here, I entertained. We sat on my floor, trading stories of doctor horror stories, pending engagement (theirs, not mine) and just enjoying each other’s company, something that hadn’t been done in a long time. For the first time in what feels like years, my ribcage hurt from all the side splitting laughter where there would be that moment of silent comprehension and then as the joke became clear, we would crack up.

The music provided a background to what will definitely be one of my favorite nights in a long time. Why is it that it’s only when one is leaving that the earth conspires to make everything seem beautiful and lovely, after putting one through so much emotional trauma? My apartment glistens with its quirks and charms, and I think of how much I’ll miss the sunlight streaming through the bathroom window, lighting up the bath and making my baths in a clawfoot bathtub ones that I sorely needed. The kitchen with the oven I still have not bothered trying to learn how to use because it’s from the 1940s is a testament to all things old fashioned that I love. Even the construction zone outside my window, where I used to wake up naked and find construction workers leering at me in through the window while I stood in front of my mirror trying to decide what to wear before I noticed them will be missed.

I am ready to say goodbye, to this, to so many things, but I’m not. I want another day. I want a few more days. I want more days of this, of sitting on the floor and laughing, eating grapes, apples, cheesecake, whatever we can find that will help empty out as much as we can before it all gets turned over to McGee. I want more days of sunshine, of meandering down streets with McGee and Skylar Blue and Not Mary and all the other wonderful people I’ve met out here in the past nine months; I got so lucky in being able to meet such amazing people. I want less days of running packages to UPS to be shipped back east, thousands of dollars worth of clothes in a single box. I want more days of actually being able to walk around my room, no longer cluttered by all the furniture that it once held, hiding the narrative that would unravel my story.

It feels empty somehow, and almost too big now with all this space. There are moments when I lay catatonic, unable to do anything because I am so exhausted from the poor sleeping, from the overactive dreams, from the packing, from the lifting, from the moving, from the $400 bill I’m being charged to cancel my cable service, from the medical bills I just received for no reason, for all the money that moving requires, not to think about traveling.

I haven’t even wrapped my mind around the fact that tomorrow’s my last night here, in this apartment, in Berkeley. That Friday morning will see me get on the fourth plane ride in a month, having taken a brief respite this past weekend to stay in one area. That come Friday, my address with the quirky “__24 and a half” will no longer be mine. I’ll be back to a perfect Court, the residence of my parents, where my bills and mail will pile up for a month while the East Coast not-so-eagerly awaits my return.

There won’t be a bar outside my window. There won’t be jazz music wafting into my room, or even marching band music, which was the soundtrack for a conversation I had with GDB several weeks ago over webcam. It’s hard to have a serious conversation when the band outside sounds like it’s about to break into a rousing rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever, made more so by the irony of it being at one of the best places to get beer in town. There won’t even be an odd neon blue phone on my wall anymore - not that it actually works, but I always imagine that one day, it will just start ringing, and on the other end will be the fairy tale life one always imagines one is due.

Why is it that life always pushes us into a crossroads before we’re actually ready for one? It’s so hard to pretend to be strong all the time. Part of the reason I look forward to all this traveling is because there’s no time to think; there’s only time to do.

I will miss this place. I will miss the memories I’ve made here, the laughter I’ve had, the friends I’ve hugged and said hello and goodbye, the hills I walked and the streets I tripped over, the laundromat with the homeless people stripping down in front of me, the Tibetan protesters and the tree huggers, the radical Berkeleyan neighborhood, the walks down as the sun sets upon the Golden Gate Bridge, far off into the distance and the bay gleaming below, the crappy drivers and the awful BART, the bubble baths, the huge library, the high schoolers hanging out on every corner when school lets out, the absurdly long lines in Walgreens at all times of day, the amazing French bistro a few blocks down, the random Victorians only a few blocks away, all the little nooks and crannies that you find on Shattuck Avenue, and more. I will miss Berkeley.

But most of all? I’ll miss those quiet nights, with or without laughter, when I could write, jazz music lilting the air around me, instantaneous in its relaxing effects, as though all it took to soothe the uneasy world was a calming balm of saxophones and guitars.

The trouble with being in the middle of a shitstorm in May is usually, no one wants to come close.

When the sun’s shining, flowers are sprouting, and people are walking with smiles and friendly glances, it’s best to stay away from the girl who has the dark cloud of depression hanging over her head.

Once again, the tears won’t come. I might spring a leak here and there, with a droplet that wouldn’t so much as nourish a single leaf, let alone an entire forest of emotion. What I need is a fucking river. I need it to pour out of me and just take me with it, instead of putting on a good face, instead of trying so hard to cling to a semblance of sanity of “I am strong, and I can do this.” I know I’m strong. I know I can do this. But I’m tired of hanging. I’m tired of waiting for the adrenaline to surge and for the energy to come to pull myself back to the brink of normalcy, or as normal as I’ll ever do.

I feel a bit as though I am the lone tree in a desert, ravaged by sand and occasionally leaned upon by a weary traveler looking for their oasis. I am a symbol of all things lasting and living in a place where so much seems dull and insipid. There’s just yellow everywhere, monochromatic in its shades, beautiful when it springs up on you, tiresome when that’s all there is.

So I seek out new colors. I seek out new lands. Where I know that my exhaustion from sightseeing will allow me to crash and burn as I no longer sleep well otherwise. It’s inevitable that I’ll return to the states a weary mess. You can run, but you can’t hide, I believe is the saying. With every little inch of growth, another part gets cut off. I can’t even hug anyone anymore without fearing that I’ll break down. As though the most well-intentioned touch would shatter me into dust.

Where is this river? It can’t have run dry this soon. I feel distant, detached, as though the slowly emptying room I currently occupy is someone else’s and I am just passing through.

I would ask for someone to rescue me, but I don’t think anyone can.

Last week, I watched water fluctuate in gradients, mountains rise up from the road almost out of nowhere, hairpin curves and bathing-suit less boys. Seagulls were shameless and squirrels motioned to attack. Redwoods soared beyond measure, I hiked in flip flops and socks because I forgot sneakers and it was cold, and I tucked everything aside for five days.

I didn’t worry about what I would do what I got back. I didn’t worry about what would happen with GDB, though we did have a discussion during my trip that opened new doors, but leaves things as open-ended as ever. I didn’t worry about how I would get the five remaining pieces of furniture out of my apartment and all my clothing and books home. I just drove. My shoulders began to ache, helmed at the wheel, and I would pause every few hundred yards to stop, run out, snap a picture, admire the breathless beauty of the Pacific coast, especially in Big Sur, before finally heading home. I watched sea lions play in Monterey Bay. I slept better, more soundly than I do in my own bed, where my subconscious infiltrates my dreams with thoughts of everything I have to do. To say the last time I slept well was Wednesday night would be truth; and only because I was so exhausted from exploring coastal California so intensively. Since then, my dreams dance with a future that still wavers with that same boy in Chicago who can fulfill my needs so well, yet walks a fine line between being my love and being my friend.

You would think that the world would give it a rest.

I went to my office on Thursday, cheery with the knowledge of all the travel I had planned. It became clear that my bosses had explained my leaving as my decision, saying, “She’s moving on.” They sought to assign me new projects when I was only in to finish old ones. They even asked me to put my dentist appointments on Friday down as sick leave, when I technically didn’t even have to be in the office that day, or ever again after they told me I wasn’t a good fit. By the way, showing up to the office with the right side of your mouth numbed out on Novocaine is one hell of a way to make an exit. I felt a bit like a 40’s film star, speaking out of the left side of my mouth. I should have said, “Take this cigar and smoke it, kid,” but alas, I waved and said, “Bye!” The impulsive trip up the coast somehow made it manageable for me to walk into my office, not take the sympathetic look one of my former bosses gave me personally, listen to my boss jumble her words as she said, “I really appreciate you coming in; I realize how awkward this must be,” and have the wherewithal to reply, “I’m not awkward at all,” and even allow them to take me to lunch. No hard feelings? Check.

Leaving somehow felt more freeing than it did when I left in tears just a week and a half ago.

Yet in that same week and a half, the hits keep coming. My tuition bill made an appearance, asking for almost five thousand dollars that I certainly don’t have. My grandfather landed in the hospital for the fourth time this month, and is having surgery tomorrow, a surgery that has me racked with guilt for making plans to travel instead of flying directly home to be with my family. My stepgrandfather has been sedated for the last week because blood stopped traveling through his intestines; a man who is almost 90 and has been a cigarette chimney and a beehive of Coca-Cola activity for most of his life without a single effect.

You would think that the world would give it a rest.

My bags are getting packed, the furniture emptying out. All that’s left are toiletries, about 20% of my clothes, and four books. The electronics are slowly dissipating as buyers exchange me their cash for my used toaster oven, television, space heater. And yet, I worry. I worry that I won’t be able to find a job when I get home. I worry that somehow, this month of irregular communication is going to end up hurting me more than anyone else. I worry that I’ll land down in Thailand and get the phone call that I need to come home. I worry that somehow, going home is going to lose the me that I’ve found in the last year. Where I become wrapped up in family obligations, commitments to friends, jobs, school, and the time that I had to write, to think, to reflect, to regain the little sanity I had is going to dissolve. That my writing will change as my voice changes as my habits change because I’ll return to a fast-paced lifestyle that keeps things zooming and zipping.

How do I make the world stop turning again?

Crawling into my bed, pulling the blankets up to my waist and sinking down into my soon-to-be-sold mattress, I can’t help but sigh. The exhaustion of going to work to clean up shop after five solid days of traveling will be nothing compared to what’s in store.

Next week, this bed will belong to someone else. Next week, I will officially live out of a suitcase for a month. Next week, I say goodbye to my lifestyle in Berkeley, only a transient visitor. It’s strange not having an address to recite anymore. It’ll be stranger still to see the pile of bills awaiting me at my parents’ house when I finally arrive.

But for tonight, while this bed is still mine, I’ll wrap my arms around the bear my father brought home from Boston when I was seven, snuggle myself more tightly within the layers of blankets, and enjoy the last few nights of living on my own.