Anywhere But Here

As is to be expected, I am working on my personal statement for the umpteenth time, now distracted while writing about travels in Europe.  Let me out!  I want to get away from Seattle and the monotony that is my life.  I have visions of myself in Budapest, on Castle Hill overlooking the Danube, dripping sweat in the morning and dodging hailstones in the afternoon.  I see myself in Tarifa as I shield my eyes from the sun, looking across the strait of Gibraltar to hazy Morocco, where the Mediterranean and the Atlantic meet, the wind whipping the sand against my skin with a gentle violence found only in nature.  It's Christmas Eve and I'm in Lisbon, cobbled streets lit with thousands of tiny lights as multitudes of people laugh and talk, bustling past, small puffs of breath slowly dissipating in the clean, icy air; I stand transfixed, smelling, feeling, hearing the spirit of the city.

I want to be there now.  Anywhere but here.  More and more frequently, I find myself daydreaming about traveling.  Partially, it's an escape from the many things I dislike about my life right now.  This will be my first Northwest winter in two years, and it's going to be a hard one.  Mostly, traveling is the one thing that I can think of that would make me happy right now, that I would want to be doing.  I suppose I'll need to be a bit more creative.

Quarter Century

My birthday is tomorrow.  I'm not sure that I had some life goal or plan before twenty-five but if I did, I'm sure I've not achieved it.  Life check.  This year, it will not be the past-year examination but rather a life check about how far I've come and where I'm going.  Where I'll be at twenty-six.

I still work a job where I am micromanaged in nearly every aspect.  I still have a job where I serve people, defer to them, wash their dishes and clean the bathroom.  I earn slightly more than minimum wage.  I spend forty hours each week in customer service.  For those who have done this, you know.  For those who haven't, please be extremely nice to the person behind the counter and as helpful as possible.  Tip well.

I digress.  This can't continue.  I'm beginning to apply to graduate school--a huge step.  It's difficult, the most challenging task I've undertaken recently.  Still working on that personal statement, but it's hard to muster the motivation after an early shift on my feet, having played barista and smiled for eight hours.  I'll get there, I'm getting there.  In a year, I hope to be attending an LIS program.  Certainly, I know I'll get there.  And if I don't, there is absolutely no way I can continue the way I am now.

Twenty-five seems like a good age.  I hope it is.

The Wide World Calls, Faintly

Working on my personal statement for the University of Wisconsin.  I've been writing it for about two weeks now, alternately hammering and sewing it together to create some positive picture of myself for a panel of people I've never met.  First, I don't want to.  Second, if this is hard, what about graduate school?  I've become lazy!  Whenever I hear people talking about schoolwork, I think, Fuck, I don't want to do that again.  Third, (I'm not sure where this list is heading) I want to adventure.  As I struggle to incorporate my incredible travel experiences into the essay, my mind wanders to Tanger, Tarifa, Brussels, Barcelona, Budapest, Montezuma, Mostar, Monteverde, Leon, Lisbon, London, Liberia--spanning continents, time, life.  Then, the daydream turns to places not yet explored.  St. Petersburg, Santiago, Sapporo, Brisbane, Bogota, Montreal, Mexico City.  Can't lie: I hate this weather.  But more than that, I want to travel!  I feel the world calling me again.  Last year at this time, I was preparing for the trip to Costa Rica (which turned into the trip to Central America).  This money I'm saving...  Does it have to be for graduate school?

I'm feeling it again.  As the winter chill sets in, so does the need to experience, explore, see, learn and do.  Not write about why I should be accepted into some advanced-degree program.  Take me away!

Alcoholics Anonymous

Last week I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with one of my most favorite people in the world. It was partially out of support, partly out of curiosity. The only experience I have with AA is through literature and cinema. And life is never quite like in the movies (or is it the other way around?). Lo and behold: exactly like a scene from any number of films. The atmosphere is so strange that there is no need to exaggerate it for the big screen. I felt like Marla Singer--a voyeur--until tears formed behind my eyes during the story from a man who wanted to feel normal. His brother, his friends, his colleagues; they were all living life and he didn't know how. Another man spoke about self-possession, that for the first time ever he was discovering himself and controlling his life. Another, about sanity: each day that he stayed sober was less insane. A woman, unemployed for two years, spoke about squatting in her own home with her daughter.

Although I have not experienced addiction, and am thus unable to relate on that level, each story affected me on a personal level. Empathy, that of a human listening to another human describing deep and lasting pain, fear, anger, resignation, hope. I can't imagine the daily struggle that each individual at the meeting must face. The overwhelming urge to use whatever drug of choice, the self-loathing. Each person mentioned living each day at a time, not thinking about tomorrow. I try to live by this but for very different reasons.

The experience was emotionally draining. My companion said that after a few meetings, you stop listening to everything, that it has less impact. I was relieved.