1 of 31: giving (up)

I'm giving nablopomo[.com] a try for March.  The theme is "giving (up)," however if I stuck with it, this would be a mighty depressing month, and I can tell you that the Forever Winter we are experiencing in these parts and deployment are doing a damn fine job of setting a forlorn tone.

For the kick-off, I'll do my best to throw on my rosey glasses and grace you with a little optimism.

[clears throat]

I wish that I had something profound and gracious to write.  And while I know that all the good outweighs the sacrifices (or I wouldn't be doing this) it's hard to be quiet enough to hear the meek, whispering reminders of choice.  The Staff Sergeant told me he was in the Army after luring me to coffee.  I considered walking out the door, giving him my best wishes and telling him to be safe but never to call.  However (entranced by his good looks and good shoes), I took my coffee from the counter and followed him back to our table.  He talked about literature and family and his smile, so perfectly perfect was hypnotizing.  By closing time my bones had dissolved and my limbs were tingly and beyond my body's physical acknowledgment that something was different, I couldn't stop what would happen in the months and months to follow.  

I was living the urban-dreamer life.  I had dibs on a loft in downtown Nashville, hopes to study sociology at Vanderbilt or to earn an MFA in writing, plans that snaked ten-times around the earth's circumference that did, in no way include or tolerate the Army.  Needless to say, I'm not in the loft of my dreams nor am I in a masters program at Vanderbilt, but I can say without a shadow of doubt that I am better for the altered plans (think space and money).  A year and a half ago I couldn't have told you that I'd be living it up in army-ville, working may way through a deployment.  In fact, I might have told you that a deployment was impossible.

I remember sobbing over the scene in The Interpreter when an African terrorist blows up the bus.  I thought to myself, I can't do this.  I thought that phrase a hundred times before looking around and realizing that I am doing it, regardless of how hard and heavy some days are.  At some point the thought became a question of how to be not whether or not I was strong enough.  

I hesitate to categorize any choices that I've made or changes to choices as "things I have given up", rather my perspective has changed and what I want out of life has taken a detour once again.  What I have [temporarily] given up is time and proximity.  He's not the first thing I see in the mornings or the last that I see before bed.  I've given up kisses and running inside jokes and dinner for two and the luxury of speed dial and an answer.  I've given up a lot of control that I probably never had anyway but let myself believe that I did.  

As I tell him almost daily, in emails that I'm not sure he really has time to read: I wouldn't change anything about where I live, who I love, and what that means about the person I have to be.  I don't like this leg of it but it will make the time that he's home so much better and so much more appreciated.

Friday

I finally started working.  I didn't really mean to but it happened anyway.  I have a few starter tasks before I can do any organizing in the English department.  One of those is a newsletter for the new semester, and while I really only intended to look at some possible templates, I somehow got sucked into the project and spent almost all day piecing together articles and important dates and a pretty, Spring-ish layout.  At 2pm I had to stop, take a shower and get dressed - I was needed in the Languages and Lit. office to sign some paperwork.  

Now I'm swiftly wrapping up some baking for my first army-sponsored event (lacking The Staff Sergeant) - a cookie swap.  I've got 8 minutes left on the last batch of Kitchen Sink Cookies and then I'm off.  They smell de-lish!  After meeting some of the wives and of course, swapping cookies, I'll be headed to Nashville to continue the birthday celebrations.  

I could get used to classwork and working from home.  It's doing little to discourage me from being a lifer.  It's been a wonderfully relaxing Friday.  Here's to a good weekend for everyone else!

Change. Progress. Hope.

I imagine that the rain held off until our moods were oil coated and resistant.  The earth needed quenching but our spirits were swollen and untouchable.  They say that water and electricity don't mix; I assure you that yesterday proved old precedence wrong.  The dark skies threw torrents to the thirsty ground while supporters charged with storms of conviction held their melting posters, held determined faces, held beliefs and hope like sturdy soldiers.  Like the smell of doused streets, the murmur of Americans permeated the damp air.  Even a person with no knowledge would have known that something big was occurring.

I went ahead of my friends to secure seats at the coffee house across the street from campus, the same place I've gone a hundred times to study and hang out on perfectly average days.  The street vendors and organizations held most everyone's attention until about 5:30 pm, but by then I had already draped cardigans and umbrellas and placed Nalgenes and any other marker from my bag of tricks on vacant seats so they would look taken and I wouldn't have to straddle an entire corner of Bongo Java with rabid eyes and a snarl to repel the crowds.  It wasn't long before my old roommate and her posse arrived.  We had our seats and time to kill and coffee and Cookies for Change right outside the outdoor patio.  Several times we remarked that it felt like New Years Eve, like a countdown should be in order for the event and the potential for change and our hope for change.  The people rolled in like waves and the rain fell in waves and goosebumps came in waves.  Everything felt too big to true.

My journalist friend had a break and excused himself from the circus in which only a press badge gets you entrance.  He didn't have much time, nonetheless he took a seat and we talked about his very entertaining and informative election blog and how he had received a REAL, LIVE ticket to the Great Hoorah.  Though my account is far less official than his and I didn't have a badge of any kind, just a hot tea and dry seat, I was there and I'll tell my babies about it, and no matter what accessories or adornments I was lacking, this is history.

There eventually was a countdown because we had exhausted ourselves and built a hype in our cores after two hours of waiting and watching the police guarded streets and the feather-shaped flags of red and blue whipping occasionally in spotlights and weather.  The street booths shut-down and their sponsors found seats of their own.  The floor space filled up first and then the front patio, the stairs leading up to the patio, the sidewalk leading to the stairs, and then left and right, as far as they could stand and still have a peek at the projection screens.

Browkow began.  Our biased group of Obama supporters cheered untamed when Barack made his way across the stage, so much so that McCain's first appearance was lost in the sea of opposition.  I was jealous not to be in the actual audience of the debate until the hoots and clapping wrapped me up in something more organic and bigger than myself, communal hope and fiery passion in a coffee spot that felt as much like home as campus every did. 

In fifty years I wonder where we'll be as a country.  I wonder how these days will affect the kids I haven't even considered conceiving and how my adulthood will be molded by the rebuild of all that is crumbling.  I wonder when and how the war will end, how I'll be able to afford the utility bills this winter, the gas for my car.  I wonder what this extra degree will amount to in a job market sinking like silt, and I think of how uneasy this state of our country leaves me, yet I know without a shadow of doubt that even my worst hardship brought on by the government is so weak compared to so many.

Presidential Debate [no. 2]

Welcome to my alma mater, Belmont University.  We may be a small, private school you haven't ever heard of, but who cares?  You know us now.

The audience begins to arrive via Gray Line tour buses. 

(This is the same building where I graduated!)

One of several viewing parties.  

We are live from Bongo Java, home of the Nun Bun.

Before our mesmerized gazes is a giant screen and all around our hungry ears is the booming volume of arguing politics.  We are pretending we aren't mere yards away from the Great Hoorah, but that we are there as well.  

Even more impressive was the crowd watching the outside screen in the 60 degree, pouring rain.  They are the true rockstars of the evening, and their numbers are many, many times those of us sheltered by the coffee house.

photo credits owed to tennessean.com

Debate '08

I've tried to keep the concrete details of my small existence a secret for reasons I won't go into now. This just seems too big not to brag about, though. Part of me wishes that I was still a student, to witness the historic madness ensuing on campus - news vans and national attention, etc. There are events all over town scheduled for Tuesday's town hall debate and I feel that I will be doing myself and the wide-eyes of my future children a grave injustice if I'm not a part of something so monumental. In recent history there have only been a few elections so exciting the American people.

If you know me, it's no secret that I was born 40 years late, missing the 60's (when my soul was conceived). The Civil Rights Movement and Vietnam and critical social progressivism created a tone that I have always envied. How powerful would it have been to hang in the electricity of so much needed change? After the first and second plane struck the World Trade Center towers, life as Generation-Unmoved knew it took a swift turn for the unknown. So here we are squashing under a system of drying Social Security, a diving DOW, a sky-rocketing inflationary situation, fuel dependency, failing medical-care, a struggle for gay rights, attempts to seize my right to choose what to do with my own body, and a 7 year war that threatens more for me than world peace. I so wish that I could attend the debate. Even as an alum, the tickets were few and snatched up by everyone else who has been swept away in the importance of this election. I will however, have to make time for one or two block parties!

Out of the Dark

I was sitting in the floor of the not-so-spacious stockroom, yet again recording inventory prices. In truth I was trying not to give into late afternoon sleepiness fueled by post-lunch digestion and my strategic position in front of the toasty little space heater I had childishly lugged along for the task.

11 at $23...

...65 at $32

3 at $22...

And suddenly, only two holes peering through to the outer storefront window were visible. Two eyes askew at the opposite end of the long, narrow space left to guide us out of the darkness into the only slightly less dark belly of the store.

An unexplained blackout had descended upon us, and the street lights, and the gas station across the road, and all other major establishments within a four to five block radius. It was as though we had regressed from 21st century order to third world chaos. It's amazing to me how poorly prepared the civilized masses are for such an occurrence. Treat the stop-lights as four-way-stops? Absolutely not. No access to credit card machines? What will we do? When I arrived at Panera to take advantage of my afternoon's extra hours of freedom they tried to give me my hot tea because they couldn't tender currency. While I dug for exact change the employees succeeded in several charitable pastry donations to others.

Due to the crippling events of the afternoon, we eventually closed up shop and in unison, cut into yesterday's leftover birthday cake...and entertained the possibility of heavy liquor consumption. Really, would there have been a more logical answer than lighting the store's display candles and stuffing our faces with sugary confections? No. We decided to wait on the bourbon. That may be better suited for a more dire affair.

there's no place like home.

Last night CNN got a little caught up in some breaking news, reporting that a tornado was on the ground, moving toward downtown Nashville...or so I hear. It was ugly for about half an hour as the old roommate and I stood on her front porch stoop, poised and awed by the rage of Mother Nature. It rained [a lot], every siren in the city wailed, the lightning was so sharp that it seemed the sky would be divided, and the thunder quickly following might nearly have compromised the earth's position. It was the hail that finally made us nervous, the tell tale signature of a twister...but nothing more than strong, gusty winds accompanied the storm [here]. And we're thankful for that.

The City Mouse

It has just occurred to me how soon February is approaching. February signifies the theoretical completion of my tiny loft in the heart of downtown, my "New York on downers," as I have coined it. It seems like only last month that The Roommate moved in to the apartment where my pieces of furniture have long since begun to root into the hardwood floors and my life has saturated the space between most walls for the last three years. What a daunting task it will be to leave that place. Not only will it take a crew to restore it to it's original state, but it has housed so many chapters and changes of me that I will be sad to leave [on some level].

The move isn't for a while yet, I know, but it's been a work in progress for two years. The last five months seem like no time at all before I'll be once again required to pack life into liquor boxes and separate possessions into categories for keeping and purging...lots will have to go, not much fits within the confines of 670 square feet. It will be a lifestyle change, but by then I'll be seasoned in the maneuverability of culture shock. It's exciting to think that everything necessary for sustaining life will be contained within a 2 block radius...post office, grocery store, bank, deli's, bars, coffee shops, library, venues, art galleries.

It's just so...soon, like falling asleep in the car and suddenly waking at your destination [5 months later].

a three-day recap.

Today I bid a joyful farewell to The Cooler, I mean the office. Around 3:30pm, I will be a former employee of [corporate co.], and the newest staffing addition to [upscale retail establishment]. I couldn't be happier! To celebrate, I went shoe shopping before showing up for the afternoon of key-punching in my little cave. The new job will keep me on my feet, so I predict that my 3 inch stilettos probably won't make the appropriate-work-attire cut. I acknowledge my masochistic tendencies and still, I'd rather not curse my aching feet at the end of each day. I bought two pairs of flats and plan to dedicate a few hours next week to the alteration of dress pants. They are all, as of now, long enough to accommodate heels [i.e., too long]. The new gig begins Wednesday. Not only will the hours be reasonable, but the compensation will rival my current wage earnings [hooray!]. I'm really excited for the change.

Word on the new job came Friday afternoon.

Friday evening I struggled for the first time with Uncle Sam. I continue to read that relationships with soldiers are additionally relationships with the Army. It seems to be a self-evident truth, so I helped The Roommate paint her room a gorgeous turquoise shade of robins-egg-blue. My bond with a paint brush is unlike any other, once I connect with the first stroke, be it on a wall or on a canvas, my mind drifts off to a place without concept of time or worry. I offered aid in order to lose my thoughts while awaiting word of return from The Staff Sergeant. At 10:30pm [after one full coat of paint including the cut-in of ceiling and baseboards] he was back from the sticks. I packed my tote, peeled as much paint from my skin as possible, and headed for his place.

Saturday I flexed my culinary muscles with a homemade production of French toast and mixed berries before heading back to Nashville. A commitment to volunteer beckoned my return. V, Future Californian, and I were delightfully recruited to work Wine on the River...and who doesn't love to play with wine-all the wine you could imagine? We hurried, signed in, and began a brief education before the event began. I drank and served and drank some more. It was fabulous! And following a wine-laced afternoon, The Staff Sergeant picked me up for a delicious dinner at Trace.

Sunday was as Sunday should be...calm and lazy. If everyday could be a Sunday spent with The Staff Sergeant, Heaven would quite nearly exist in earthly form.

...that brings us back to Monday. I dutifully sit, fingers and toes numb from the overworked A/C, ambiance set by fluorescent lights overhead and the echo of murmured phone calls and clicking keyboards [and a distant tune of what I can only imagine to be a kind of cubical karaoke?].

I'm counting down the minutes until this ends.

Cinnamon, spice, and everything nice.

Noon o'clock on this dreary Saturday finds V, The Roommate, and myself at a table for four in the Nashville renowned Pancake Pantry. It doesn't seem all that disorienting to be ordering breakfast as the rest of the city pores over lunch menus, we've all had long nights and are in need of satiating that lazy-day delight of stacked flap-jacks. Around the table we each echo half orders of cinnamon-spice cakes and coffee or OJ.

Heaven.

The conversation quickly shifts to the question of my academic productivity, and my response prompts disappointing looks from them both. I think it's a combination of several catalysts...

It is suggested that I be single until May. Respectfully, no. It is suggested that I map out a study plan in my planner, but I've already done that. I have perfected the ability to ignore the schedule so helpfully printed between the lines of each day. We reduce the largest distraction down to my internet addiction. No, it's not Facebook. I hate Facebook. No, it isn't Myspace (anymore).

The culprit: BLOGGER.

The verdict: CANCEL DOMESTIC INTERNET SERVICE.

::gasp::

Life without internet:Me::Kryptonite:Superman.

The Roommate offers to hold me down when the withdrawal induced shakes set in. It isn't that I'm giving it up all together, but we're looking into a T-Mobile subscription that would take the internet out of the house and open up such establishments as Starbucks and Borders for service - more places to go outside + less distractions on the home front = fewer nights spent playing and more hours sleeping AND fewer idle hours wasting away on my iBook, affording more hours dedicated to worthwhile tasks.

I rue the day that I can't lay in bed and introspectively blog about life, but I value a timely graduation more. Goodbye Bellsouth DSL, and hours and hours wastefully sacrificed to the Internet Gods. It seems that I'll be seein' you only in coffee shops and bookstores.

Getting back on track...

Labor Day weekend:

The stowaway

Tuesday:

Good morning, Nashville.

One, two, three, counting out the signs we see.

Today I read something that got my heart to thinking. Is there anything sweeter than being past the intros, but still in the mystery?

We've all been there:

...the please don't let me run out of things to say, first date. The one where you realize his eyes are the color of the black coffee he almost ordered. The one where you learn his profession, his origins, his favorite band, the books he's read, that his smile is perfect. Where you wish that you had invested a bit more time in the application of your make-up, that you had checked your teeth before he arrived, that you could tame butterflies. Before you make the surreal drive home through imagined clouds, he hugs you, and for a moment you forget to breathe.

...the can this frock possibly transcend the dress code of anywhere in this city and/or state that might be contained beneath the umbrella of "dinner, at eight," second date. The one where he comes to your front door like a gentleman. Where he's even more dapper in dress pants and a button-up than he was in jeans. Where he opens your truck door and you think Xanax thoughts to calm yourself as he walks around to the other side. The one where you try not to spill the wine, or spatter your entree as you move it in small fragments from plate to mouth in unnatural deliberation. Where you are ever more drawn to his sense of humor, his effortless display of intelligence, his class, his allure. You finally calm your nerves to the point of easy conversation, and you wonder if, rather you hope, he moves in for a kiss before the evening ends.

...the please don't let my cooking skills fail me now, third date. When you drum your fingers nervously on the kitchen counter in percussional prayer. Where you hope that of everything in your closet that might count for "casual," the GAP jeans and tee are the most perfect. Where you buy back-up, pre-packaged pasta an hour before he shows just in case. Where you cross your fingers under the table as he takes the first bite and seems successfully impressed. Where the details begin to act as mortar to the facts. The ones that you scrawl into mental notes. Where your heart jumps when he wraps his arm around you in the dark, and the unexpected burst of fireworks have somehow just made the night more epic than memorable. Where he tells you that this date tops all of his others and all of the others about which he has ever heard. And as you gaze out over the city lights, your fingers momentarily entwine and you try to hide the telltale smile that is strung from ear to ear.

This is my favorite part. When you move slowly and slightly past "strangers" and brave a step toward something more.

A breach of maternal boundaries...and date no. 3

I call Mom back this afternoon once I notice that I've missed her call - I know she's curious about the third date. She picks up, we relay the expected rhetoric - the "how are you's?" Immediately following, first thing, giddy like gabby girlfriends, she asks, "So, have you seen his body yet?"

Um. What?!

I'm still a bit taken aback from such an inquisition from my mother.

Despite the display of family dysfunction, the date was indeed fabulous. The menu consisting of caesar salad, homemade baguettes, homemade spinach ravioli with tomato sauce, white wine, and balsamic peaches with vanilla gelato (again, homemade) was well received. Afterward, our trek up Love Circle was also a hit. The weather was pleasantly unseasonal for the norms we've been experiencing. The daylight heat had subsided some and a breeze was an added bonus. Heat lightning flickered above the cityscape - a low glow in the dark clouds. It was perfect, and then when it seemed as though the night had peaked, an unexpected firework show erupted in the sky.

I love living in the city. I went for a walk this evening upon realizing that I had yet to take, much less post a photo for the day. I ran a few errands and noticed the moon - again a small, silver sliver in the sky. It seems that my moon gazing has come full circle. I went walking in search of a lunar photo-op, but found none. I'm taking it as a sign to move forward...the moon is no longer more than a glowing orb in the night sky and I like it that way, although I might notice its beauty more now, and that's something I can be thankful for.

This is why they call it "Music City."

I spent the better part of last night in the presence of greatness. It is times like those that make me so glad to be in Nashville over anywhere else in the world. I was at the Rutledge for the first of many RAINN benefit concerts that will tour the states (Boston, NYC, Asheville, to name a few stops). The line-up included Matthew Perryman Jones, who I have mentioned before, K.S. Rhoads, Kate York, Brooke Waggoner, and Katie Herzig, and can I just say, that for $5, anyone who wasn't there truly missed out.

It sometimes makes us Nashvillians jaded to be fortunate enough on any given day to be able to flip open The Scene to scope the evening's shows, or just to stop into our favorite bar/venue and be blown away by incredible talent. Other times, at least for me, it makes me sad that not everyone can do the same. Last night was...for lack of a less overused adjective, amazing.

Kate York, K.S.Rhoads, and Brooke Waggoner started the show off with a typical round - and by "typical," I mean only in format. Every song moved me with the sorrow that wrote it. The three even laughed in jest at their cumulative dismal tone. We've all been there, though - broken, I mean. Their brokenness, however, was far more beautiful than any state in which I have found myself. Inspiring is what it was. Beautifully inspiring.

Lowercase Collective followed the round in what I can only describe as the most boring performance I've ever seen. It wasn't the music, or the songs, it was the lack of energy in the performers. A few times I half expected the bassist to numbly flip the pages of a hidden magazine atop the speaker against the wall, or for the keyboard player to be sipping coffee, making out his grocery list between cud-chewing chomps of his gum. They were bored, hence, we were bored. I feel for the lead guy. If the others had his energy, the show might have been salvaged.

Third on stage was Matthew Perryman Jones. He rocked (hard). No less do I want to bear the children of his music, in fact, I may want to more. I purchased his album, "Throwing Punches in the Dark", on iTunes yesterday. It's incredible. He's incredible. His band was in NO way bored. He performed a version of an old spiritual song that I simply can't recall right this moment...but, wow. It flustered me, moved me, inspired me. Everyone should love him. OK, enough. He's married. ::sigh::

My roommate had mentioned her excitement to see Katie Herzig. I however, had not heard of her. She opened for The Fray a few months ago, she had written a song that caught my ear on the local indie station, but wasn't singing it. I must say that my life is further enriched now that I know of Katie Herzig. She seems the unlikely "rockstar" by appearance, but her voice will quite nearly move you to tears. She pours herself out on the stage - empties herself. For us to even feel a percentage of the passion she offers to her audience, we as society would be changed as a whole.

Four hours, a Michelob Ultra and turkey sandwich later, we headed home. Following so much creative energy, more than anything I wanted to paint, but alas, work waited in the morning hours, and I'm attempting to retrain my body to sleep.