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.

A Tall and Unstable Stack of Emotions

Today is weird. Yesterday was weird. Maybe tomorrow, too, will be weird. I'm trying so desperately to get a grasp on my life (a very firm hold, preferably around the throat); each time, nearly tangible, then gone.

So, at work today: I spent the better part of an afternoon (of a very, very long day) listening to Elliott Smith and feeling sentimental. Perhaps the maudlinness was inspired by the myriad memories associated with the music--intense relationships ending in painful break-ups, confused college years, solitude in Spain--or the realization that this month, this year is quickly coming to a close. It's that birthday time of year again and I will be twenty-five. The number itself doesn't intimidate me so much as the need, or desire, or compulsion, to evaluate the year past. I'm not quite sure of the accomplishments, failures, or lack thereof (evidence of stagnation). I'm also not quite sure if I'm ready to delve into this quite yet.

Which leads me to... the next emotion: anxiety regarding the graduate school thing. Enumerating each stress-inducing part is unnecessary. Suffice it to say that I'm afraid of not being accepted at any school and (either independently or as a result of) going about the process incorrectly. Unfounded stupidity that won't leave my brain.

I finally left work and was biking home through the neighborhoods--cautiously--when a woman came relatively close to possibly hitting me as she left her parking garage and waited to turn left. She probably would not have hit me but I could see it happening in detail. She saw the car in front of me pass, checked the other direction and was about to pull out. She saw and stopped but if she hadn't looked again, she probably would have hit me. So many drivers, myself included, would not have checked again upon occasion. I don't know how to make myself more visible and I hate being on my guard, constantly, for reckless and inattentive drivers. I hate envisioning multiple and varied collisions between surrounding motor vehicles and myself. This incident (non-incident) brought everything back: the accident, the frustration with the insurance company, the near-constant feeling of being ill-at-ease and tense while biking. So, I started crying. While biking the short distance home. I had to stop once to wipe my face and compose myself. The emotions could have been sadness, anger, frustration, despondency, I'm not sure.

I reached home, unscathed, cried a little more. Felt better, chatted with the roommate, looked at the mail. Opened a letter from the City of Seattle to find a subpoena to act as a witness for the case brought by the city against the stupid woman who hit me with her car. Disbelief, irritation, and resentment. Why can't this conclude itself ever? A touch of perplexity. Why is the insurance company only willing to accept 75% liability if there is a case brought against her by the city?! For the love of everything! Exasperation.

Not sure what I'm feeling now--better. Thanks for listening, all.

The Aftermath

I'm sitting here, it's Tuesday night, I'm eating an apple. I've designated the next few hours to researching graduate schools, so of course I blog instead (another thing I've put off for a week). I don't understand how I've been back in Seattle for nearly a week; time is rapidly escaping me in an utterly incomprehensible way that leaves me feeling panicked and far from being in control.

I made some decisions during the trip to Utah and now I feel the necessity to move in the direction of their implementation. Yet, there is the stumbling block of HOW. And I do feel as though I am stumbling along the path of Life at the present, bumbling along, semi-conscious of what I need to be doing to get where I want to be. That's a difference, though: I know where I want to be (more or less, work with me, please). Because the half-formed ideas that have been rattling around in my head are coming together into something coherent. And now I just have to get there.

I wish I could say that this trip was what I needed, but I'm not quite sure. It exposed the restlessness, the discontent, these issues that have been plaguing me under the guise of a meaningless, stifling job--which is only part of a much larger situation. I realized and finally admitted to myself that I wasn't happy with most aspects of my life. One possible solution is to shake it up completely, toss it in the air, and quickly reassemble the pieces as they fall before they re-solidify into more of the same.

I want to leave Seattle. I want to leave Washington. I've lived in Spain, I've traveled extensively in Central America and Europe, yet I have few tangible experiences from within my own country. I've only lived along the I-5 corridor in Washington, and it's time to leave. Graduate school is the prime opportunity.

Now, how to get there.

Upon Arrival in Salt Lake City

I have just arrived in Salt Lake City. Rather, Em, the Subaru (newly christened Rex), and myself have arrived in Salt Lake City. We drove from the California side of Tahoe, through Nevada (passing a whole five towns, probably), and into Utah. It's strange to be here. We arrived after dark, after discovering that this area is in a different time zone than the west coast, scanning the city for the Mormon temple (no such luck, must find it later).

We stopped in Wendover, Nevada--partially because it was the first town we came to after several hours of NOTHING in Nevada, partially because we couldn't stand being in the car any longer, and partially because we figured it was probably the last place we could gamble and drink before we hit Utah (based loosely on rough calculations and guessing as the pixelated map from Google maps showed nothing between Elko and Salt Lake City). We had a Budweiser ($1 schooner), collectively lost $4 on penny and nickel slots, and continued into Utah. Maybe it was the slight buzz or the hours of driving, but the earth became immediately unrecognizable. I don't know what Em was thinking but I felt as if the world had morphed into something complete alienupon entering the great state of Utah. It was a flat, white valley, with nearly nothing for as far as I could see. Disconcerting, to someone raised in the lush and mountainous Northwest. We had entered the salt flats, but it took a little reasoning to figure that out.

I have two days to spend here, and it most certainly will not be enough. This trip has revived my wanderlust--more specifically, to see more of this country. We drove through so many different landscapes, each stunning in its own right. I can't wait to see the island in the Great Salt Lake with the bison and the bighorn sheep (in the middle of a salt lake!? what kind of place is this?).