May 20, 2012
Did you have a nice run?

Dylan asked the question as I turned the corner onto our front lawn at 35C Bartlett Farm Road Monday afternoon.

It was a warm, sunny spring day. There was a slight breeze in the air. It was our second to last day staying at 35C Bartlett Farm Road. I’d worked my last shift that morning at the Garden Center. I’d stressed about the level of moisture in the hanging baskets for the last time. I’d wondered whether those Hibiscus were beginning to wilt for the final time. The general rule of thumb I’d learned the past two weeks was that the Hibiscus are always wilting.

I’d said goodbye to Joan, Amanda, Adam and Maya, a group of people I was only just beginning to get to know, some of whom I would likely keep in touch with and some of whom I wouldn’t. When some told me they were sad about my going I wondered if that was just a response we’d become conditioned to give during goodbyes, whether our relations were intimate with people or not.

Dylan and I had eaten lunch quietly across from each other at the kitchen table. We’d both had different ideas about what this summer was going to be filled with which had quickly dissolved away and now here we were having leftover soup and looking out the kitchen window for our second to last day. Soon this would just be a memory. Soon this would just be a funny blip in my life. An idea I’d romanticized and a boy I’d thought to be something he wasn’t.

I finished my soup and laced up my sneakers. I started off along Bartlett Farm Road and continued a half a mile until the road met up with Hummock Pond Road. I passed the green pasture with horses and the smaller farm with only three greenhouses as opposed to the sprawling number Bartlett’s Farm has. I passed the rabbit carcass that Sam often likes to sniff at. (and yesterday picked up and then refused to relinquish, forcing me to wrestle it from his mouth, an unpleasant experience to say the least) I passed cedar shingled houses widely spaced along the road.

As I continued along I noticed the trees and the dirt and the tar beginning to blur from my peripheral vision. Sometimes I forget to drink enough water before my runs. I don’t realize how the heat will feel half an hour or forty minutes in. This didn’t feel like dehydration though. I continued to slowly lose sense of my immediate geography while simultaneously becoming more aware of the sound of my breathing, the feeling of my feet hitting the pavement, the sweat of my inner elbow. People speak of out of body experiences, but this felt as though the sounds of my internal organs were echoing. I was aware of blood pumping, of oxygen flowing, muscles contracting, and the motion of my moving. 

I became aware of myself as this living, breathing, being. That I was having a jog along a scenic road on Nantucket was of no significance. That I was moving, and that I was moving towards something (currently an undefinable thing, but something whose shape is slowly growing in clarity) was significant. That I ended up back at 35C Bartlett Farm road was almost surprising. 

“Did you have a nice run?”

Where to begin answering that Dylan?

“Yes, I did. It’s beautiful out.”

1:20pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yLq8ORG
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: running thinking simple question long answer it was a nice run 
May 6, 2012
Life/plant lessons.

For two hours yesterday I stood slightly hunched over the geraniums, pulling off yellow leaves and spent blooms while classical music played in the background. Each tray held 12 four-inch biodegradable containers and the trays went on for what felt like days, but was really only about a fifth of the giant Greenhouse at Bartlett’s Farm in Nantucket. My fingernails collected more dirt, and the two red blisters on my left palm worsened from holding the right-handed pruners, since left-handed pruners are difficult to come by. Geraniums can take full sun and can go bone dry (a level of dryness that is different from merely being dry, just as moist and damp are two entirely different levels of wetness). I finished with the fuchsia ones and turned to the backside of the table to get started on the scented geraniums, one of my favorite sections of the greenhouse. 

I finished with the peppermint geranium, the coconut geranium, the orange geranium and then began on the nutmeg geranium. My mind flashed back to the nutmeg geranium I attempted to keep alive in my apartment in Brooklyn almost two years ago. There’s even a draft post saved that I began, and never quite knew how to finish. (just as I couldn’t figure out how to keep the geranium alive)


Sometime in late September 2010:

I can’t get the geranium plant to grow. It’s stayed the same size since I brought it home a month and a half ago and placed the biodegradable corn flower pot on my windowsill. It sits next to a pot of lemon balm, some geranium nutmeg (something I’d never heard of but smells delicious and apparently makes a lovely addition to tea), and an ivy plant. I’ve made sure to only water it when the soil is dry, take it out of direct sun for a few days, and then put it back for a few days. 

The nice girl at Rosemary and Lavender on Metropolitan Ave. in Williamsburg told me the geranium had potential to grow quite large. I explained how much sunlight the windowsill receives as I slowly walked through the shop smelling, and feeling everything. The patio out back was overflowing with beautiful plants.  Around the corner to the right was a table lined entirely of herbs,  in a tiny alleyway in an unsightly part of Brooklyn. I pictured how nice a windowsill lined with herbs would look. I had always envisioned an apartment filled with plants, and an herb garden. There would also be pretty sheer curtains and a shelf on the wall holding a few select books. Yes, that is what a productive, successful room in my life would look like. 

I had yet to get past taking care of just two plants at a time though. 

That Tuesday afternoon in August I decided to make the walk in the opposite direction after work, and deal with the intense humidity, because a coworker had raved all morning about it being the best flower shop. Yes, I would walk to the flower shop, and start assembling my dream jungle. 

I carried the awkward sized bag the twenty-five minute walk to my apartment, careful to balance it so the plants wouldn’t jostle all about and dirt wouldn’t be spilled everywhere. 

But now the geranium won’t grow. None of the plants look great. But the geranium looks considerably worse than the rest. I want it to grow, I want to it flourish, I want to add it to tea, I want to say I have a successful herb garden, but I don’t know what to do.



I remember taking it as a very clear sign that my days in Brooklyn were numbered. Clearly the world was attempting to tell me something with a windowsill filled with wilted, sullen flowers. Things were not flourishing in Brooklyn. It was time to go. It never occurred to me at the time that I the way I was caring for the plants was likely to blame. I often to forgot to water them, an ever-occuring issue with my houseplants, which makes it all the more interesting that my main responsibility with this new garden center job is to keep the plants in the greenhouse properly watered at all times. I forgot to pay attention to exactly how much sun they were supposed to receive, and I never fertilized them. You can’t just put a plant on any old windowsill and expect it to do well. Not everything is a figurative sign from the universe, sometimes it has to do with a set of understood, scientific principles about how things work, or in this case, how plants grow. 

While my brain has not been as receptive to retaining plants names as I’d prefer, my few days in the greenhouse have taught me how much care things require in order to do well in their surroundings. You have to be very careful about how a plant responds to a particular environment. You have to know it’s triggers. You have to know it’s reaction to cold, damp days along with hot, humid ones. 

I remember reading that once we understand our own triggers it can allow us to flourish as well.  Paying attention to what reactions certain scenarios trigger is key. We have to pay attention. I have to pay attention.

I took my first plant home last night, part of a spider plant that my manager Liz broke off for me. Usually that’s what she does for little kids walking around with their parents since it’s about as easy a starter plant as one can find. It currently sits on my nightstand, next to a cream figurine of Lord Ganesha, God of good luck and remover of obstacles. I’ll be sure to check the water level later today.

8:37am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yKzpY90
Filed under: nutmeg geranium greenhouses plants keeping things alive paying attention I have to pay attention 
April 24, 2012
Longest domain possible.

9:35pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yKGlIN-
April 4, 2012
Tracks suits and turbans at the Jaipur train station.

I cautiously stepped around a large crowd of nearly 50 people sleeping on the dingy sidewalk outside of the Jaipur train station. I opened the door to the foreboding florescent lights and the smell of urine overwhelmed my nostrils. It wasn’t urine mixed with a bit of spice, or urine with a bit of incense. It was just an intense, overwhelming smell of urine that stung the back of my nostrils.  

Above me was a large board with flashing red letters and numbers announcing the coming trains. I scanned it for the overnight train, #12965, to Udaipur. I had arrived an hour early for the 10:35 train. Arriving early generally allows me time to breathe easy, knowing I’ve made it past traffic, lines and other potential obstacles. But there would be no breathing easy in Jaipur that night.

For a brief moment I saw my train listed. Yes, arriving on time. Just before I could decipher which track to look for, the entire board was flooded with a new list of approaching trains. 

I felt eyes leering over at me. At this point I’d been in India six and half days and was getting used to the amount of male attention my pale skin garnered. I knew the best tactic was to simply avoid their glances and not make eye contact. Quite easy said, and yet it still doesn’t take away the uneasiness of being in entirely unfamiliar surroundings.

Sabena, my old friend/roommate in Boston that moved back to her home city of New Delhi a year and half ago and who gladly hosted my my first three and a half days in India, had been mildly nervous for me to travel solo by train. While she eventually came to terms with the decision her mother and father remained shocked.

“Auntie” (as is the respectful and endearing way to refer to a woman older than ones self such as Sabena’s mother) had almost forced Sabena to accompany me on my Rajasthan journey, but knew Sabena had too much work to be able to take a week and a half off. After providing me with a lengthy list of dangers to avoid/watch out for, she reluctantly sent me on my way to Jaipur two days prior with a packed breakfast of sliced watermelon, a banana, and a cucumber sandwich. That morning I had taken the 6:00 am train from New Delhi to Jaipur and had never been more grateful to have a male companion. Sabena’s family driver lead me through the maze of insanity that was the New Delhi train station, all the way to track two, car C3, and seat 44. 

Tonight would be the first time locating the train by myself. I’d checked the train’s website several hours prior just to be sure I knew which car my first class cabin was in.  

I grew uncomfortable standing in that one spot with what felt like all eyes turned towards me. I stepped over more crowds of people hunched over and sleeping on the crumbling tile floor. I turned  a corner towards an open doorway leading to a track. I hoped perhaps there would be some signage to direct me but instead was greeted with  more crowds of leering men, stray dogs, beggars, and men selling bottled water and snacks. The tracks stretched on and on ahead of me and I could see no discernible way of figuring out which one I should be on. 

I went back into the main room and found a guard that politely informed me my train would be coming in on track three. Up and over the stairs to the right I went. 

Minutes passed and my backpack began to take it’s toll. I shifted my weight, stretched my arms overhead, and tried to suppress the yawns that were overtaking me. Must keep my guard up at all times was the one piece of advice I’d received from everyone. Could not slip into exhaustion while waiting for the overnight train to Udaipur. 

A man with intense eyes sat at a bench behind me. A group of five teenage boys passed by me for a third time, slowing their pace as they looked me up and down. Then a group of seven approached on my left. Two women in beautiful saris, four kids aged 8-13 and two men in black track suits and turbans. 

I instantly adored that family. 

A train approached. The number written on the side did not match the one I had scribbled down. A loud speaker emitted garbled noises. If that woman’s voice was informing me of something important it was lost on me. 

Men stepped down onto the tracks and up and over through train cars. One of the train doors opened as a man mopped out a floor full of dirty water. 

Was this my train? It’s nearly 10:15. This should be my train, I think?

I approached the woman to my left with the beautiful orange and green sari and buck teeth, standing with her family. 

“Next train,” she explained as I looked confusedly between the train and my ticket. The loud speaker gibberish had been announcing the train’s delay of half and hour. 

The taller of the men wearing a black track suit and turban came over to chat. Before I knew it Kaval and his family had taken me in. The sweet woman with buckteeth, Kaval’s sister, was trying out her english skills with me. We talked about Jaipur (where Kaval does research at a nearby science facitilty), and Udaipur (where their families were taking a weekend vacation), and marriage. “You are very lucky”, Kaval and his sister agreed. “Once you have kids life fills with responsibilities and moves very quick.”

Time moved quickly with new friends as well, and soon nearly an hour had passed as we waited for our now twice-delayed train. When it came time for them to make their way further down the track, Kaval motioned for me to join. He showed me right where car HC1 would be. They were riding second class and had to wait much further down. 

“Namaste,” they said waving. 

“Namaste,” I said with my hands together. “Thank you.”

Thank you Kaval for recognizing that what I needed more than anything in that moment was to feel the safety of family, even if they weren’t my own. 

10:25am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yJ3x7Tz
April 2, 2012
‘Walkin’ on a Dream’ in Udaipur.

The tall boy with the slight frame and thin moustache placed my dusty glass bottle of Lehar Evervess club soda down along with a glass of fresh squeezed lime. He walked back to his chair by the kitchen, sat down, and proceeded to stare out the back window again. Another boy, shorter with thick black hair and neon green shirt, plugged his ipod in and Empire of the Sun blared loudly from the restaurant’s speakers. He noticed me in the corner and went to turn it down. 

“No, it’s o.k. I like this band!”

He only turned it down a bit. 

After getting lost for a half an hour in Udaipur, a beautiful city in Rajasthan that sits along a lake, nestled in between mountains, I finally found the place my Lonely Planet guidebook wrote up as, “A funky little restaurant that is ideal for meeting and greeting other travellers. There are board games available, a mezzanine to loll about on, and plenty of cool background sounds.”

After much trekking up and down the same main drag, (where one rickshaw driver counted each time he saw me walk past and a small group of boys mistook me for French and proceeded to yell, “Paris!” at me over and over) I found the street. Tiny alleyway is a more apt description. The “funky little restaurant” was entirely empty, sans the three boys working.  

Minutes passed as I sipped my fresh lime soda, was served my thali, and scribbled more in my notebook. The boy with the moustache still stared out the window, motionless.  

I used to listen to this album on repeat while helping my old roommate out at her shop in the Old Port. Waterlily is stocked with merchandise that Renee buys while traveling in Asia three-four months of the year. I would listen to that Empire of the Sun album (specifically the song “Walkin’ on a Dream”) while re-merchandising hand-dyed scarves, hand painted elephants, crocheted earrings and beautiful brass earrings; all while conjuring up images of what those distant lands looked like. I’d picture myself far far away. I’d imagine what the colors of India looked like in real life, how it smelled, and what color the sky was. 

And now here I was, on the other side of the world. I knew what parts of India smelled like; A varying mix of incense, sandalwood, cow dung, trash and dust. I knew what the brightly colored saris looked like set against an arid desert background. I knew what a palace in the middle of a lake looked like from the perspective of a boat leisurely making its way around, while the sun slowly set in the back ground and locals bathed in the water. Earlier that day I even learned what it felt like to have a cow head-butt me as I traversed the narrow street to the clock tower.  

I looked back at the boy with the thin moustache and wondered what he was thinking of as he peered out into the dusty alleyway with the pottery shop and three cows laying down. A land far far away? Somewhere on the other side of the world?

Many days ago I sat by a window that looked out onto Milk Street, listened to this song and dreamt of here. 

7:09pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yI_OFCm
March 2, 2012
Consider yourselves warned.

 ”LOL, I’ve known you since elementary school Jenna.” 

If you knew me, you’d know I hate when people say “LOL” in text. It looks like an 11-year old girl typing which, interestingly enough is exactly the age I was when you last “knew” me. 

I don’t remember a lot from those chubby, awkward years. I do remember that you gave me a nickname that stuck with me all through the 6th grade. I remember we worked on a project about Mongolia together. (Jessi, Theresa and Selina were all horribly jealous as we all had crushes on you, though I refused to admit it) And then you moved away. And I began Junior High at Massabesic where no one called me George, I had a red locker, I tried out for soccer but hated all of the running, and I had science class with Mr. Scott who had balding, messy hair and a laugh that bellowed. 

You think you know me because we worked on a project about Mongolia together? 

You think you know me because you have access to smiling photographs posted on facebook?

You think you know me because every 4-6 months for the past few years you’ve sent me a message that says, “Hi!”?

You think you know me because we met up once at Union Hall just before I moved out of Brooklyn over a year ago and you learned that my favorite season is autumn and I enjoy typewriters?

You think you know me because we hung out for a day and a half in Weymouth, MA at your aunt’s condo where the hallways smelled faintly of chlorine and the streets were lined with strip malls, chain stores, and Dunkin Donuts? Where I learned that you don’t know what kale is?  (Seriously how is that possible?!? How could you think you know me if you don’t know kale?) I found it mildly unsettling and a tinge sad how isolated your life is. I couldn’t help but wonder if those few banal texts joking about how behind I was in developing my website (no, I still haven’t begun it) meant more to you than they should have.

The idea of what constitutes meaningful communication is certainly a relevant topic in our technologically isolating world. (and an idea I’m curious to see explored in the current “Are You Really My Friend” exhibit at the PMA)

You think you know me? What exactly makes you think that?

Those 235 tagged photos of me on Facebook (along with the 15 albums documenting such excursions as the Pacific Northwest, Boston and Brooklyn) tell a story but they are in no way an accurate representation of my life. They are edited/selected moments of it. Just as this blog is edited/selected stories and thoughts. The fact that I like red lipstick and vintage earrings has nothing to do with my character. Those are merely ways in which I choose to edit and present my physical appearance to the world. 

You knew of me as a chubby 11-year old girl. 

You knew of me as lady living in Brooklyn. 

You knew of me as a lady living in Portland. 

Knowing someone’s geographical location in the world does not constitute knowing them. 

Anyone could learn the chronology of my life; where and when I went to college, the jobs I’ve had, the apartments I’ve lived in. (that list goes on for days) 

Have you seen me defeated after a failed job interview?

Elated after receiving unexpected good news?

Have I sent you postcards and letters?

Did I excitedly let you know when I found out my Indian tourist visa was issued?

Have I shared passages of books I’m reading with you because I found them either inspiring or moving and thought you might too?

No. 

Please stop confusing the internet with an intimate environment. Please stop confusing texts with a meaningful form of communication.

At least now you know that if you consider taking up with a writer she might just write a long-winded rant about you on the internet. 

Consider yourselves warned. 

10:09pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yHN6kc1
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: What grown men really say Lol? Girls like boys that grow kale 
February 26, 2012
Sunday brunch and a parking garage.

Cara and I are magic. No we can’t saw each other in half, or make one another disappear, or even pick your card out of a deck using some long-practiced counting trick. Our magic is of a different type and last Sunday afternoon we put that magic to use outsmarting a parking garage. 

Sunday morning she enthusiastically responded to the brunch invitation I extended on Friday. She suggested The Otherside Cafe and just like that I was putting on my new burgundy lipstick and faux-fur collared jacket, grabbing change for the tolls and making sure the Caribou album I picked up a few days earlier was in my purse. Check. Check. Check. I was off! I picked Cara up in her new neighborhood of Somerville. Winter Hill is sweet. We journeyed through Harvard Square where Cara’s phone spoke directions to us. The voice in the phone did not realize that .3 miles in Harvard Square takes much longer than most other stretches of road.

Cara talked to her while I laughed uncontrollably, taking caution not to let my cackling laughter cause me to accidentally veer into the lane to my left. 20-something minutes later and we were circling the block Otherside sits on, looking for street parking. Cara offered to cover the cost of the parking garage just down the street. 

“It’s credit card only”, said the parking garage attendant as Cara and I pulled up. 

“O.k.”

A large sign just below the booth’s window also informed us: NO CASH. CREDIT CARD ONLY. Cara and I walked the block up Newbury Street to the Otherside Cafe, quickening our pace in the piercing wind. 

We sat down and continued to fill in the details of the past six months since we last saw one another.  

I’ve known Cara since I was a freshman at Emmanuel College.  The first night we hung out it was because I got a last minute invite from a new friend to accompany a small-but growing group of ladies to a party at Emerson. A few minutes in and Cara and I decided to head outside for a clove. I pushed the heavy wooden door open into the small, dim entryway leading to the stoop. I forgot about the step in the small entryway though and before even having the chance to correct my balance, I had already clumsily tripped and fallen. 

Cara didn’t laugh or ask me an excessive amount of times if I was o.k. She didn’t say how painful it looked, or note how she thought the cute boy in the hallway might have seen. She extended her arm, helped me up, and we continued our discussion on the stoop with some Djarum Special cloves.  

We’ve often joked that the themes from that night are reoccurring. The feeling of being on the cusp of something, whether it be a new stage in life or a shadowy step, has followed us throughout our near nine-year friendship.   

A few lines from our epic email correspondence confirms:

(These are dated 2007-2008)

Me: THINGS ARE FALLING INTO PLACE. NOW WE JUST NEED TATTS. OH. And I was listening to this song today, and one of the lines jumped out at me. 

“What you wait for will come.”

BECAUSE WE ARE MAGIC. AND WHAT WE WANT FROM LIFE WILL COME TO US.

Cara: Ha. Also, wanna do that thing again that we started to do last spring where we were all positive and attracting amazing things into our lives and were just so happy and confident (or getting there) and then we get everything we want and we win! Yah? We can be each others support? Yah ?

Me: I couldn’t agree with you more. Really though. This year is going to be wonderful because we want it to be. And that’s all it takes really. And it can start right now right now. And it’ll continue this weekend. Our first weekend adventure together in 2008!

Cara: YES YES YES

P.s. we will talk about our world domination plans over dress up dinner!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: I wish more people could see how awesome you are, but in your messages. They already know about how awesome you are in life.

Cara: Is it too soon to say I love you? Also Jenna, dinosaur comics make my life better.

Along with falling into place though, at times things have also fallen apart. There was a period of time in which her presence was so utterly and painfully missed that I thought the world might collapse. Several weeks were spent in a catatonic haze. (A dreamlike state where among many other oddities I could hear people speak but could not understand any of their words.) Days blurred into one another and the constant stream of blizzards only further solidified my ever-growing panic that things were coming to a cataclysmic end.

Winter thawed though. Spring sprung just as it always has. And this past summer Cara and I saw each other for the first time in two and a half years. For our lovely reunion we attended the Beirut show together at The State Theater in Portland. 

Schedules are tricky to coordinate though, so another six months have passed without a meet-up. Which is why even though 50+ work hour weeks and an increased commute haven’t exactly added to my stamina, I knew that Sunday brunch with an old, dear friend would do far more for my well-being than a day of rest and reading in bed. 

After Cara and I maneuvered our way out of the labyrinth parking garage, a process that entailed driving up two extra levels just to come right back down them again, we pulled up to the attendant in the booth again. Cara handed me her card which I then passed along to the man.

A few moments went by and he turned to me with an irritated expression on his face.

“So you’re paying with a credit card?”

“Yes, I thought you said I had to pay with credit card?”

“You’re not going to pay cash?” he asked exasperated.

“Huh? What? No. You said you only take credit cards!” I confusedly replied. 

“There’s a sign right there that says credit card only!” exclaimed Cara pointing to the sign inches below the man.

“Well the telephone lines aren’t working for the credit card machine, can’t you pay cash?”

Though I have a bad habit of never carrying cash, I went to make a motion for my purse. Cara stopped me. 

“No,” she said assertively. (though not aggressively) “You said we could only pay with a credit card and that’s what we have.”

“Fine. Go on ahead,” he said defeated.

We both burst out in laughter as we turned onto Comm. Ave. to head back to Somerville. 

It’s not quite world domination but it’s a start. 


11:09pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yH6ZDvh
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: sunday brunch parking garage Cara! credit card only No we don't have cash! 
February 18, 2012
Foray into farming and domesticity.

The spine of the book is broken from all of the times I’ve flipped through from cover to cover over the past four years. Anytime someone catches a glimpse of it on my shelf they think they’ve discovered my secret love for the The Real World reality show on MTV. It’s understandable considering “Delaying” is written in small red type whereas “THE REAL WORLD” is written in large, black type. 

It is not a book on a secret guilty pleasure though. Neither is the book whose tall, black spine says in crisp gold lettering, “Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen”. My love for their eccentric style has never been a secret and their co-authored book chronicling their own personal style inspirations complete with surprisingly well done interviews and eerily lit polaroids sits proudly on my shelf. Delaying the Real World is actually a book filled with numerous ideas for postponing cubicle life. Incidentally its shelf mate is a book titled The Anti 9-5 Guide whose cover contains a woman peeking out over the top of a cubicle. 

In that well worn book is a section I had a tendency to skip right over. But its relevance to life became all the more pertinent Wednesday morning as the fax confirmation came through at 9:36. 

“Take Nantucket for example. Long idealized as the most superb place to pass the summer months, Nantucket is complete with a gorgeous shoreline, a rich community of artists and intellectuals, succulent seafood [not entirely appealing as I’m still abstaining from animal], and the occasional breeze to cool off its patrons. The glaring “con” on the Nantucket is the cost of living and the fact that housing is pricey and very hard to come by.”

Lucky for me I happen to know a pretty spectacular person living and working on a farm there. Someone that let me know about a summer job they thought would be perfect for me. Someone that also happens to have a spare bedroom in their small house on the farm.

I knew from the moment the first text suggesting the idea came through three weeks ago that summer on an island was just what I needed. There were some formalities that needed addressing though so I filled out the online application, called Liz multiple times, had a phone interview while walking in the snow, and anxiously awaited her return call several days later. I reminded myself that I have ample customer service experience, I know how to be pleasant with people and no one need know about those couple of houseplants I’ve killed. (Do I have experience with plants Liz? Why yes I do. The still living English Ivy in the kitchen is proof I don’t kill everything!) I wondered if I should have Dylan gently warn Liz that I do happen to wear a lot of black. 

A scribble from January notes, “I am totally committed to living an interesting life one adventure at a time! Life is not a linear path!”  

This summer will involve an adventure of simple living, working in a greenhouse, adventures in pickling/canning/fermenting, and an unfamiliar foray into domesticity in the form of a sweet housemate and a dog.

I’m ready!

9:10am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yGcCxEi
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: summer adventure! life on a farm quiet domesticity 
February 17, 2012
I still miss you sometimes cigarettes.

Today after leaving Solari Spa in Portsmouth, NH where I treated myself to an hourlong massage, (Have you read that study about how they’re good for the immune system? I did!) as I walked to meet my mother for tea and a large glass of water, I passed a girl in her early 20’s wearing brown ankle boots and a pretty green scarf smoking a cigarette. The smell wafted over in my direction in the unsettlingly warm February 17th air.

Two days ago marked three months without cigarettes.  

“Quitters flu” was pretty brutal this time around. My temples throbbed for three days, I had a dry course cough, there was dull ache in the back of my head, and I felt light headed for most of day two. It was unpleasant to say the least. Other nicotine withdrawal symptoms include anxiety, tension, restlessness, frustration, and impatience. 

Like any dysfunctional relationship, for far too long I focused on the few positive things cigarettes did for me; upped cool-factor, supposed stress-reducer, and inducted into elite social gatherings outside of shows/bars/on stoops/on rooftops. I ignored the throat cancer, the mouth cancer, the emphysema, the yellowed teeth and the fact that the aroma of stale smoke followed me everywhere I went.

Despite floating along Market Street after Amara worked out all of the kinks in my upper back, the tension fully gone and the toxins feeling as though they were exiting, when I walked past that girl and got a whiff of cigarette the smell did not repulse me as I hoped it would. 

And last night after arriving at Space Gallery and beginning to ready the bar for Pecha Kucha, I noticed Jenny M. standing in the doorway to the Annex. The initial 48 Hour Music Festival meeting was happening, with musicians being placed in their designated groups. As I stepped into the doorway to give her a hug, one person’s face stood out in the crowd. I didn’t know this person would be in town.

It’s been three and a half months since we spoke. 

As I quickly retreated back to the bar, a wave of nausea came over me. What was he doing here?! My heart beat faster, my whole body felt tense. Part of me wanted to say something to him, but anger prevented me from doing so. So I stayed behind the bar and watched as he left.

Part of me did still want to talk to him. But luckily the rational part of me stayed present.  Right, that was a toxic situation. The emotional damage far outweighed the funish times, which interestingly enough mirrored cigarettes in what they offered me. The whiskey also played a large part in clouding my judgment, which is why I’ve also chosen to stay as present as possible the past three months by abstaining from alcohol. 

This is from a textedit document dated 11/29/09:

One day he will be a person I simply pass by on the street. We will smile politely, but I will keep walking…I will put you in a story. And I will keep that story in a box hidden away. Away. Away. Away. Most days I will put you out of my head. Most days I will leave you out of.  

Apparently it doesn’t matter if I’m headed to tea, have come from a massage, or am prepping the bar at Space. Those cravings, whether they be for cigarettes or other toxins, still hit.  They are still intense and they still require me to stay mindful, breathe in deep and remember how nice it feels to walk down Market/State/Congress Street sans emotional/chemical baggage. One cigarette and one conversation are all it would take to undo months of progress. 

 A small piece of paper pokes out of a credit card slot in my wallet to remind me, “Smoke messes with your head!” (and the other night I replaced “smoke” with that other silly vice).  It’s also nice to be able to stop and think about how much lovely life is filled with; I’m a non-smoker again, I’m going on a solo train ride through India, I have a summer adventure planned (post to come soon with details) and that silly person is finally just a person I passed by.  And now it’s Friday night and I’m here typing this up instead of chain smoking on the sidewalk outside of Local 188.

10:28pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yGb7lrE
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: cigarettes quitting toxic stuff massages are nice 
February 15, 2012
Take field Trips. Get off of the internet. Except for a bit on Wednesday night.

  • Process is more important than outcome. 
  • Allow events to change you. 
  • Harvest ideas. Edit applications. Produce a high ratio of ideas to applications. 
  • Don’t be cool. Cool is conservative fear dressed in black. 
  • The work you produce today will create your future. 
  • Take the long view and allow yourself the fun of failure everyday. 
  • Drift. Allow yourself to wander aimlessly. 
  • Don’t enter awards competitions. Just don’t. It’s not good for you. 
  • Read only left hand pages. Marshall McLuhan did this. 
  • Don’t borrow money. 
  • Take field trips. The bandwidth of the world is greater than that of your tv set, or the internet, or even a totally immersive, interactive, dynamically rendered, object-oriented, computer-graphic-simulated environment.

-Taken from An Incomplete Manifesto for Growth. “An articulation of statements that exemplify Bruce Mau’s beliefs, motivations, and strategies.” Taken, photocopied, pasted into a bright green 1 subject notebook, highlighted in bright pink and looked at often. 

Goodnight internet. Hello blankets. 

10:35pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Z8PX9yGUiOEq
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Take field trips. Only using the internet for a bit. Bruce Mau Marshall McLuhan is pretty great for many reasons including the fact that he liked to read only left-hand pages. 
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