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NYC

Apr. 13th, 2011 07:05 pm
brigdh: (the city)
People keep asking me if I have culture shock since I've gotten back. No, not that I've noticed, but I think I might have something like climate shock. In India it was the middle of summer; here in New York there's not even leaves on the trees yet! Though some of them have flowers, mostly little white ones that might be cherry blossoms, though I'm certain these trees don't produce cherries, so maybe not. Small white flowers that cover the entire tree, so that from a distance the whole thing looks like a child's drawing of a cloud, and that freckle the sidewalks beneath, tiny circular petals marking the gray pavement like drops of milk. And there are my favorites, the magnolias: such big, heavy flowers, one petal the size and weight of an orange peel.

The farmers' markets are small, still, offering only the last dregs of winter vegetables: potatoes, parsnips, turnips. Even ramps- which I think of as the very first sign of spring- aren't here yet. But the sky is blue, bluer than it was in Gujarat, which had a high sky, distant and pale as old denim. New York's sky is a vivid blue, and lower, so that it often seems just a little way above the buildings.

But today it's raining, so there is no blue in the sky of any shade. Instead it's a cloudy gray, so low that it does touch the buildings, overlaps with the tallest ones, in fact, erasing their upper stories. The rain washes the petals from the trees, plasters them to the ground like tissue paper. The branches of the trees without flowers are dark with water, stark black lines against a sky which is somehow bright and colorless at the same time, the light coming from everywhere with no sun for a source. At night the streetlights turn the bare branches to glass or silver, some shining, reflective substance that seems more than wood and water.

And it's cold, of course, much colder than India, though not enough to really bother me. It's the sort of brisk, damp cold that comes with rain, enough to chill your face and turn your breath visible, but not enough to reach under your skin and effect your inner warmth. I walk around and I think New York, New York, a feeling that has no more words than that, just love for this city and so very much joy to be home again.
brigdh: (heart of light)
So, I am currently in Delhi, sitting on (faux marble) stairs just outside my hotel's lobby, as that is the only place that offers wi-fi. I have been here (in Delhi, not on the stairs), for two days, and will continue to be here for another two. Before that I was in Haryana, visiting various archaeological sites; before that, I was in Baroda, a city in Gujarat; before that, I spent two months living in a tent in Kutch, a semi-desert area, to excavate yet another site.

It's much colder here in Delhi than it was in Gujarat, and much damper too, which seems to make the cold worse, and I'm very glad I brought my hoodie along. Today was cloudy, and seems as though it might rain tonight, which is quite the change from the infinitely clear blue sky of Kutch. I've been spending my time here so far shuttling from one meeting to another; networking, basically, with all the important people so that I can ask them for help on my project. Soon I'm going to dinner with a Hungarian woman I never heard of before today, but who apparently I should know. Tomorrow I should have time to do some actual tourist things.

My impressions of Delhi are of a wide, sprawling city; low, with few skyscrapers, but extensive. When the sun is out, it's almost warm, and things shine. There's many trees and wide, green lawns; water fountains; new wide highways. But most of the short time I've spent here has been cloudy, with thick layers of haze or smog, and then the city has more of a gray look, and the cold gets into your bones. Though, of course, I can complain about being too cold in all sorts of perfectly fine weather, and it's certainly nothing like what's currently the weather back in New York.

My Hindi is very slowly increasing. I can do a few basic conversations, though I quickly stop understanding after a few sentences. I can read, but only if given plenty of time to sound out each letter. So far in India, I have seen camels, water buffalo, monkeys (which tried to steal one of my flip-flops), parrots, peacocks, and many wild dogs (which did steal one of my boots, but luckily someone found it for me), but no elephants. My internet connections continue to be come and go, particularly as I continue to travel every few days, but I thought I'd write up a post, even if I don't know when I'll find the time to respond to comments. But I miss you all!

Food News

Nov. 8th, 2009 02:29 pm
brigdh: (food is the best)
Yesterday's farmer market goodies: a half-gallon of apple cider, a half-gallon of pear cider (from different orchards, so I can compare!), a jar of fresh tomato sauce, a pint of green zebra tomatoes (I am stocking up on them, buying lots and freezing them, before tomatoes disappear from the market for winter), two quarter-pounds of fresh cheese (an Aged Bloomsbury, which sort of tastes like a sharp, nutty piave, and a Dutch Farmstead, very creamy and rich), and a stalk of brussels sprouts (photographic evidence here).

I also have exciting weird beans to try, as I got an order from Rancho Gordo which arrived last week. So far I have tried the Vaquero Beans, which are absolutely gorgeous, mottled black and white and so shiny and bright. They got gray in the cooking, unfortunately, but were delicious, like black beans but more flavorful. I've also had the Scarlet Runner beans which, I swear to God, tasted exactly like baked potatoes with bacon. It was a little eerie.

Today it is warm for the season, but the light is winter light- hazy, dusty and yet too bright, white and glaring. But as much as I disapprove of winter, it does lend itself to strange effects of light: people climbing the subway stairs up into the open always look like they're vanishing into the sun, into light solid and full of dust motes.

Things

Sep. 12th, 2009 07:34 pm
brigdh: (tomato star of the earth)
There is nasty weather outside today. Grey, low, cloudy skies, strong winds, rain that never quite stops but that never grows strong enough to be a storm either, just drizzles and and mists and sometimes, briefly, patters.

Despite all that, I went to farmer's market today, and bought an enormous amount of things, mainly because I had missed the market for the last several weeks. My haul includes: grape-apple juice, oyster mushrooms, a dozen eggs, bok choy, white onions, white carrots, garlic, a pint of mixed heirlooms tomatoes, and a handful of mixed hot peppers (jalapeno, poblano, Hungarian wax). Nom nom nom.

Also! This video is brilliant.
brigdh: (food is the best)
My farmers market haul:

a jar of peach raspberry jam, sugar snap peas, red dandelion greens, Saturn peaches, a quarter pound of an amazing blue cheese, a half-dozen eggs, maple sugar candy (plain and coconut flavored). Om nom nom nom nom.

Summer farmers markets are so exciting! I've never been in New York in the summer before (having been on digs continuously for the last several years) so it's all new and enthralling to me. Fruits! Veggies! Flowers! So many colors! I love my farmers market all year round, but there is something way more exciting about fresh tomatoes and peas and berries than the potatoes and apples which winter reduces the variety down to.

Sunshine

Jul. 9th, 2009 07:10 pm
brigdh: (near roses sing)
New York has been having record rainfall; it rained 25 days out of 30 in June. It seems to have finally stopped. This week, at least, has been more sunny than not, and the forecast holds out hope that such luck will continue. The sun seems surprising, or short-lived; I feel as though I shouldn't be inside. It's a feeling I get in late fall, sometimes, when you know there's only a few warm, bright days left before winter arrives, and full advantage should be taken of every one.

The sky is high and that particular shade of summer-time baby-blue, slightly paler around the horizon. There are no clouds to be seen. The grass and trees are every shade of living, growing green, from almost yellow to almost black, and everything in between. The light catches some of them, drops others into shade, increasing the number of greens. The tops of the trees look like brocade, the light and dark like a pattern. When the wind blows, the trees toss, and the light shafts below move, skimming across the leaves of bushes and ivy that grows on the ground.

And all these colors and shifting take place against the backdrop of New York's buildings: their still geometrical blocks in dark glass and and gray stone and shining metal, the straight lines of the roofs, sharp against the blue sky.
brigdh: (yet it will come dazzling)
Washington Square, a small park about the size of an average block, is the park I walk through the most, the one most central to my daily routes. It has been closed for about two years, due to construction intended to move the enormous fountain in the middle of it about eight feet to the left. This is because the fountain was not in line with the arch built at one side of the park, or with Fifth Avenue, which runs up to the Square. Of course, the original designer intended for the fountain to be off-center, to encourage people to stroll around, but clearly no one in charge of the construction was concerned about that.

However! Washington Square is finally open again. And the worst of the proposed changes have not happened- there's no gated fence around the park, and the fountain (which has lovely inner rims for people to sit on and for small children to climb down before running screaming through the water) has not been rendered inaccessible. I'm so happy! And the fountain was particularly lovely today; all white foaming water shooting up against the green leaves of trees. There is even (probably temporarily) a blue sky, after weeks and weeks of unending rain. It's still not really warm enough to appreciate all the joys of cool water (despite it being the middle of June, what the hell is up with the East Coast's weather pattern), but it's still wonderfully pleasing.

Photo of Washington Square.
brigdh: (spring)
Politics + The Sandman = AWESOME.

I went to the farmer's market this morning, as I do, generally, on Saturdays, sad as it is this time of year. Winter in the north means that nothing exciting is growing locally, so the only offerings are the things that are done indoors- cheese and bread, mostly- or the root vegetables- onions and carrots and potatoes and parsnips. Which are all good, I grant you, but when I compare them to what's there in summer- ripe, red tomatoes and tiny sweet strawberries and dusty grapes- a parsnip is, well, sort of boring. It's been a winter where I've felt guilty about complaining, because it hasn't been very cold. Snow has been infrequent and even when it fell it didn't last, and it's hard to whine about freezing when the temperature's been above the freezing point much more often than not.

But today! For the first time this year, I saw that they'd brought the flowers out. All the earliest spring ones; daffodils and crocuses and tulips, in yellow and purple and pink and blue and white, and green of course, the bright new grass-green of leaves and shoots. Every color that the winter products don't have. It made me happy.

Back Home

Aug. 18th, 2007 06:32 pm
brigdh: (art)
Today is a very lovely day.

I'm back in New York now (I think I've said that already, but maybe not), which I am finally done traveling, at least for a few months. In the last four months, I have been on planes from: New York to Ohio, Ohio to New York, New York to England, England to Athens, Athens to Cyprus, Cyprus to London, London to New York and Ohio to New York. And in all that, not once was my luggage lost, a plane missed, or a flight delayed for more than a few minutes. I even only got called over for extra searching by security once. Clearly I have the best airport luck of anyone ever. Although, come to think of it, I've never had my luggage lost, but perhaps that just proves my point.

I like being back in New York. It's not quite like any other city; London has the skyscrapers and the history, Columbus has my family and a skyline and districts I know by heart, like a mirror image, and Nicosia has character and individuality, a pretty little halved city with ancient Venetian walls and UN guards diving into the capitals of two different countries. But New York has that and still feels like a place where people live, a home and playground and market and setting. Even the parts of the city that are most gentrified, most designed to appeal to a tourist, still feel like that to me. Even Time Square, for all its ads and chain stores and crowds so huge they spill out into the streets, crowds so dense they feel like a mob that hasn't decided which way it wants to go, even Time Square has its people who are there to live in it: the guys selling ten-dollar watches and fake purses shouting and joking with their friends or customers, and the women in heels trying to shove across a sidewalk to make it to a show on time at one of the theaters all around there.

I missed New York while I was away. I 've never been homesick before (if you can call it homesickness when you've only lived someplace for a year); I've missed people, or a certain restaurant or store, but not whole places, just for their feel. I do love something indescribable, intangible about the city, the angle of its roofs against the sky, or the pattern of all those rectangular buildings- some taller, some shorter, white marble or grey stone or red brick- that shouldn't be different than any other city's but somehow is. I love the dusty purple of the night sky and the long, narrow horizons down the avenues and how the subway trains sway and roar and their brakes squeal in the stations, and how people move quick and sure to an exit or a transfer.

Today I went to the Union Square farmers' market, which is bigger this time of year, wrapping around three sides of the park, the south side with people selling paintings and photographs and t-shirts and candle-holders giving way to the west and north sides with vegetables and fruits and honey and flowers and houseplants, everything smelling like green growing things. I bought bread, a fresh loaf with white chewy insides and a crunchy crust. I missed bread in Cyprus; we ate homemade bread, but the only kind available was thick and tasteless, some trick of local wheat or cooking style making everyone's resemble rubber; and cheese, sharp cheddar, smelling strong even wrapped in paper; baby carrots, pale but thick and round, like little fingers; tiny strawberries the size of my littlest fingernail but so sweet, stronger-tasting than a huge berry; and my favorites, the heirloom tomatoes. They have so many of them right now, and in every variety: yellow and orange and red and green and purple, little tart green zebras striped in shades of grass and lemon, and big old germans, mustard colored with ketchup streaks coming up from the bottom, but sweet as sugar and big enough that one tomato easily weighs over a pound.

Then I sat in the sun for a while in the grassy part of the park, to watch the people. A man in his mid-twenties climbed a tree until he got as high as the branches could hold him, perched there for a few minutes, and then came back down; he was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt that was just the color of the underside of the leaves when the sun shone through them. Across the street, a man stood on the roof of a building, far enough away that he was half the size of a dime. He had dark hair and stood with his back to me, wearing only a pair of pale grey sweatpants, so the line of his spine was visible when he leaned back against the railing at the edge of the roof. He stood there for a long time, half an hour or so, taking in the sun and doing nothing, until a man wearing only black shorts came and said something to him, and they went away together.

As I said, a lovely day. Though it would be even nicer if, you know, Racheline was not currently on the other side of the continent.
brigdh: (spring)
I've been back in Ohio for several days now, and it's always the little things that most surprise me. The size of the sky, for instance. It's not that I ever feel closed in when in the city, but as soon as I get out of the airport here, the horizons seem so distant. There's almost a sense that I could actually see the curve of the earth.

Which you can't, of course, and the feeling fades fairly quickly anyway, but it's strange. In a lovely way, though I'm equally fond of the canyons down the avenues in the city, the narrow slices of sky between the rows of buildings.

And it's so much darker here! Nothing like when I spent the summer in Nevada, which was the darkest I've ever seen a night sky: actually black and an unbelievable number of stars, even the Milky Way was visible, which I'd never seen before. Columbus's night sky is more a deep indigo, and you can pick out the Big Dipper and sometimes Orion, but not much more than that.

It's funny the small things that stand out to you, the things you don't notice until they change.

Rain, rain

Apr. 4th, 2007 06:55 pm
brigdh: (you know you love me)
Yes, yes, so I'm apparently spamming livejournal today. I'll stop soon.

I am so tired today. Possibly because it's that time of the month; I'm lucky enough not to get cramps or mood swings, but massive blood loss wears me out terribly. I should be writing a paper, but I can barely manage to stay out of bed, so I'm not certain if that will happen. I can always write it next week instead, though it would probably be a better decision to do it now.

I think I'm tired because of the rain, and the cold. It's been raining since last night, in a drizzle that occasionally fades to merely a heavy mist and occasionally increases into a real storm. My apartment has an air conditioner in one window, and when it rains hard the water drums on it, echoing in the hollow metal box like someone tapping their fingers on a table except ceaseless and without rhythm. There's the sound of cars on the road too, softer and distant, the shushing they make as they drive through puddles. All of it seems the soundtrack for sleep.

The city looks different in the rain too, of course. Smaller, because the clouds and rain blur anything far away, or hide it completely in faded gray static. And everything is colorless, except for the few trees that have started to flower already: magnolias, all vivid pale pink compared to everything else. I've started to dread the rain because it always lowers the temperature. A few hours of rain mean days of cold weather to follow, even if the sky clears.

It's day for fireplaces, and soft places to sit- the kind you sink into when you flop down- with pillows and blankets. Maybe someone else to share the seat with, to fall asleep with a head on a shoulder. People do make excellent heating pads, after all.

Come and tell me interesting things so I'll stay awake, since I unfortunately don't actually have a fireplace. I do have coffee and an interesting coffeeshop with wood floors and big glass windows, but it's not at all an adequate substitute.
brigdh: (down to the river)
The food is cooking.
I smell it, waiting, hungry,
thoughts of emptiness.
brigdh: (ugh winter)
Yesterday, ice cream.
Today, neon slicks on streets;
Wind shivers puddles.
brigdh: (New York City)
Today I had to go to the Institute of Fine Arts, which is, among other things, a library of the sort that has copies of ancient, first-edition-but-never-republished, obscure scholarly texts. And thus the reason I had to visit it, as it is apparently the only place in the city which had a copy of a book I needed for research (though not an old one, but instead one barely in English; a sentence from the 'Introductory': In conclusion, I hope that you will find the opportunity to acquaint yourselves with this book since it is a record fraught with the entire required information about Eridu and since it contains the answers of so much inquiries). Because of this, you cannot check books out of the IFA; you simply go and visit them during the few hours a day the place is open. You come in the massive front doors, made of glass and wrought black iron, and show the appropriate identification to a guard sitting at a desk just inside. You sign a timesheet, and the guard gives you a new ID tag to wear; you take this across a black-and-white marble tile floor and up a wide, curving staircase to another office and another desk, where you tell the people what book you want.

The IFA is not the sort of place where one fetches one's own books from the shelves, you see. They find what you need, and sit you in one of the many rooms to study your find.

The IFA is on the Upper East Side, and is surrounded by other, equally impressive buildings. Most of them have marble columns guarding their doors and windows, or copper gratings gone green with age; what brick there is has long since faded to a respectable, dull brown. They generally look like the sort of hotels wealthy adventures would have stayed in before the first World War, or maybe the sort of place an unusually wealthy pop star might live in, when they happen to be in New York. Directly across the street is Central Park, so if you tire of looking at the pale marble and dark metals you can turn and admire the green hills and trees stretching away. Someone was painting a portrait on the top of one of these hills when I walked by today.

The IFA itself apparently was once a house or, more accurately, mansion. Instead of the big, open spaces more typical of libraries, it has multiple hallways and small rooms, which were presumably once bedrooms and parlors and so on, stuffed with bookcases and plain wooden tables and chairs. These rooms still have their wide windows and false balconies, fireplaces, paintings, molding around the ceiling and floorboards; certain corners hide statues or exquisite furniture. It has the silence and creakiness appropriate to both libraries and old homes. It makes me feel particularly young and awkward; I don't think I own the right kind of clothes to be there.

I have to go back tomorrow, because I wasn't finished with my work when they closed at 5. Of course, it would help if I ever managed to make it to the place before 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Tomorrow- or sometime soon- I also have to go to Chinatown, which is in the opposite direction, to buy a chicken, or a duck, or a goose; whatever happens to be available and which I feel like eating. Why Chinatown and not whichever grocery store happens to be nearest? Because I need a whole fowl, with the feet and head and bill attached, so that I can use its skeleton for a different class. After I've, you know, boiled the flesh from its bones, a process which will surely make my roommate wish she'd gone somewhere for Spring Break.

The juxtaposition of these two things makes me think I have the strangest life.
brigdh: (Konzen & flowers)
Remix assignments are out! Ah! Other people, come flail with me.

Anyway, my extra icons are expiring soon, and LJ has informed me of this by email, as it does. Which would be fine, except apparently LJ is Really Concerned that I am aware of the status of my icons and has already sent at least ten emails. They're coming nearly every hour. I get the point, dude. Do not worry! I fully intend on renewing my icons (as much as this, and the weird issues you had with posting and comments a few days ago, makes me reluctant to give money to you); I just assumed that since I had two weeks before they expired, that there was no reason to rush.

But I'm in a very good mood. I have fresh sourdough bread and sharp cheddar cheese from a farmer's market, which seemed to have far more vegetables than it has in months. Mostly apples and potatoes, unsurprisingly given that it's February, but it's still hopeful. And there were all sorts of flowers for sale: just the green little tips of tulips and lilies and so on poking up above the dirt in their pots.

Remix! Ah!
brigdh: (orange paper airplanes)
It didn't snow very much; we didn't get much more than an inch, at most. It's been doing a bit of an off-and-on thing for the last few hours, so I suppose we might end up with a little more, though I don't expect much. Not that I'm surprised. Weather never seems to turn out as dramatically as the forecasts predict.

I haven't been in snow- actual snow, which has accumulated on the ground- for a long time, since Thanksgiving of '05, I think. It's funny how you forget little things, but which seem so familiar as soon as you experience them again. Like how walking in snow feels like walking in sand, that slight give and sink when you step into it, and the small extra effort it takes to step up and out, as compared to solid ground. Or the appropriate hop-skip-goose step motion for getting over the snow piled and plowed along curbs and at street corners.

Today I have discovered that my boots have a hole in the sole, which I'd known, actually, but had not realized how far it had penetrated; I'd thought they were still waterproof. This is the third pair of boots New York has destroyed in six months! Also, tiny children who don't even come up to your waist are nonetheless capable of having a powerful impact, in they happen to slam into you while escaping from snowballs.

The snow's very pretty. It's already turned to brown slush in the streets, but on roofs and balconies and in fenced gardens, it's still pure white. The sky has that low, solid quality where there's no way to distinguish one cloud from another or even tell where the sun is, every inch of it the same polished, shallow color. Grace Church, which is a lovely, small gothic-looking building built of stone, complete with flying buttresses and a tall, pointed spire, had the thinnest layer of snow along its ledges and the upper protrusions of the bigger squares of stone, like an outline to emphasize its distinctiveness from the gray sky and more modern buildings. Union Square was like some holiday postcard, all the plain, severe colors and look of winter: the black, straight line of trees and bare branches and the deep, wet green of the dome and rails of the subway station, above the flat, undisturbed blanket of snow, set off from the streets and traffic on all sides.

I'd walk up to Central Park, just to see it today, if I didn't have (another) paper to write for tomorrow. So, it's probably better if I stay in this warm coffeeshop, crowded with discarded scarves and coats and snow-melt bootprints on the wooden floor. Besides, it's Valentine's Day! I should stay here and tell you all how much I love you, and that you should have silly cards and chocolates and whatever else you like.

ETA: 'pdjskhdfhj what the hell, LJ; it took me five hours to be able to post this. Five hours which I have definitely not spent writing that paper. I fully expect free time or icons or something from this.

Fall

Nov. 15th, 2006 07:10 pm
brigdh: (autumn leaves)
The trees are changing color here. It seems ridiculously late to me, to have all these ochre-bright colors a week before Thanksgiving, but perhaps it's just a result of the country-wide lack of winter temperatures we seem to be having, and I'll certainly never complain about that.

I love how the fall leaves, in their parks and gardens, look against the browns and grays of most of the buildings. They seem all the more vivid for it, yellows and oranges and reds like streaks of paint. There's a row of trees a block away from here, and each one is plum-purple on the top, fire-orange in the middle, and banana-yellow underneath. I was going to take a photo of it, but I'm certain I'd never convince anyone that it wasn't just a trick of the light; I have no idea what kind of trees they are, but I never knew they existed, that trees could have such colors in such distinct stripes.

I like the fallen leaves, too, and the crunchy noises they make when you walk through them. I was doing that thing this morning where you're so tired you dream of being tired (and this is why you shouldn't go to bed at 4am, my dears, though I seriously hadn't meant to stay up that long), except it was more like being half-awake and daydreaming of sleeping, and I had turned so I could look up out of the window. Lying on the bed at that angle meant the only thing I could see was gray sky and the black branches of a tree, shaking in the wind, and leaves falling straight down at me in spirals, so I nearly expected them to hit the window.

I like the rain, too. Of course, I hate the rain, because every time it rains my umbrella blows inside out five times and I get soaked, but it's gorgeous, especially at night. I've never known rain to be so lovely. Clouds hang low enough that the top of the Empire State building usually disappears, and a few other tall buildings leave only their lights, smeared to a streak inside the clouds. When the rain catches in the glow from a streetlight, it doesn't look like it's falling, but like there's a texture to the air, something endlessly shifting and changing but motionless; it seems like if I could reach it, I could touch it, like it would feel like fur or silk.

Ah. I must be feeling better; I haven't subjected you all to one of these purple prose posts in months.

Rain

Aug. 14th, 2006 09:44 pm
brigdh: (Ow.)
For the last few days it's felt like rain here; the sky thinks of raining or almost rains or is on the verge of beginning to rain, but actual rain has been rare and brief, and cools nothing. Mostly it's just been grey, sun gone behind clouds and the wind lost in the humidity, and the sort of haze that makes everything look far away and unreal, and occasionally there's a roll of thunder that does nothing more than the sound of an airplane. It's not as hot as it has been, but it feels like it regardless; everything looks so grey and misty than any heat is unexpected and unavoidable.

When it does rain, it does it heavily, the sound of water spilling and rushing off roofs and along the ground drowning out any individual drops, and the electricity flickers on and off. Lightning flashes pick out the white patio table in the blackness of night and grass, so for a moment it leaps out in the corner of my vision, vivid white.

My grandmother is dying. Or maybe not. She thinks she is; the opinions of family and doctors differ. But then, she thinks she is, and how much of a placebo effect do you need, if you're already ninety and sick?

I don't know how I feel. The last time someone close to me died, he was only 17, and that was easy to be angry at, because I was already half-furious at the universe for mortality, and this was a blatantly unfair example of it. Now I vacillate between that same anger and sadness and resignation that if she wants to die, it's her own choice, but none of it is as strong as before, as if they could cancel each other out to leave nothing. I don't want to call anyone to talk about it, because I don't have anything to say. I want to do something, or more accurately, I want to want to do something, but what- I don't know. It's like I have only half-starts, and everything else is confusion, or waiting.

Yay!

Jun. 21st, 2006 02:42 pm
brigdh: (mmmmsummer)
Happy first day of summer!

Now if only it would warm up and stop raining...

Thoughts

Jun. 9th, 2006 12:06 am
brigdh: (Bring me that horizon)
It's weird to be graduating.

Not so much the graduating itself, because it's hard to be particularly nostalgic over taking classes or being a student when I'll be doing it again in three months, but it feels strange to be moving off campus without expecting to come back. Every time I go somewhere or do something, I keep thinking, this is the last time I'll ever do this!. It's just so bizarre to have these things and these places that I know so well, and to simply... stop.

And I do know this place well, incredibly so. It's past the point of knowing, even, and into muscle memory; sometime I'll walk over to my coffeeshop, or a class, or to get dinner, and I'll find myself halfway there without even having looked up, without having realized what I was doing. I'm hardly conscious of the way to go, I know it so well.

The people, too! Not my friends, because obviously I can keep contact with anyone I want to, but the people I don't know except in the most causal sense. Like the guy who drives the bus route I always ride, who held up traffic yesterday when he saw my walking by the road so I could run over and climb on, and then told me the new gossip he'd overheard from people who'd been riding earlier. Or the people who work at my coffeeshop, who all recognize me so easily that I don't need to order anymore, because they know what I want.

It's sad to leave all these people and places that I've made for myself and memorized and gotten used to. Not terribly so; I mean, I know how to deal with change without throwing a fit, and I've never much liked trying to cling to how things were. But I still feel a bit sad, even though I wouldn't stop it from moving on, even if I could.

Of course, possibly all the disorientation is coming from the fact that I went to bed on Tuesday at 8am. I keep forgetting what day of the week it is.

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