Fresh Air From The Age

“I see a harbor filled with masts and sails, wearied by the sea wind that wearies me.”

Archive for September, 2008


So I’m watching NatGeo, (the reduction makes them so much hipper), and it’s this documentary on Amish youth. It’s about something called Rumspringa. At 16, parents and the church let the youth explore the rest of the world without the restrictions of the faith. Later, they decide if they wanna join the church or not. During this great little montage the song “Cliffs” by Aphex Twin played in the background. Three days ago I heard it in a movie called, “Manic” and it was the same “find yourself” shmear. As soon as the documentary was over the same song played in a commercial! I had just gotten my fill of existential conundrums after “I Heart Huckabee’s” and I thought, how fun! My very own coincidence! Only thing was, I think the commercial was about a new hybrid or something… funny how I can’t even remember now– I was too busy getting excited about a coincidence. Pshaw.


Then Caribou sang.

And everything just seemed to melt away. It was then that I thought, “what was I carrying anyway?” I had no idea what was slowing me down. In these days fulla dead hours there’s nothing to do but try to burn it, but quick.

A life-long soundtrack to a movie not yet written? iTunes and Limewire rejoice.

Family is swerving and throttling harder and harder. Granny from dad’s side over– a month.

Suddenly, with a little help from something unnamed in Sunday nights, I find myself speeding along Alligator Alley. The night eats up the windows and the instrument panel seems warmer because of its gentle lights. “She’s The One” by Caribou helps the car cut through the night along with the overwhelmed headlights trailing behind it. Shotgun rides her, whoever she is. In there, deep in the recollections of when we read Heart of Darkness in high school, hides a not-so-platonic intimacy– no, not explicit at all. Hours pass, here and there, without our notice. The chatter becomes hushed and ripe with emotion and lack of confidence. Suddenly, we notice we’re whispering but neither does a thing about it. Then, I can’t help but stop. To want it too much would ruin it, yeah?

This forced vacation, (although not, but one could hardly call school a chore), has been a blessing. The days hold nothing but time to read and freak out and calm down again. I feel it’s just what the doctor ordered but I can’t ignore the gentle gnawing at the nape of my neck– a road trip is in order. I figure septemberish would be a good time to escape to New College for a weekend. I feel those trips have been vital to whatever is happening. Granted, I usually do have an obscenely good time, but hey, it’s me time?

Try to flat-earth it.

I always tell myself not to title before I even write the thing, whatever it is. It sucks though, it seems like it would help me find out what the hell I’m writing about. Just a couple of words- concise and meaningful, familiar in the way a toy from one’s childhood would be.

There’s a box in some closet or another in this house. It was designed to carry about a dozen packets of printing paper and it boldly proclaims, “Office Depot”, on its sides. On it’s top is about a half inch layer of dust but underneath it is a message, written in permanent marker: “Fragile!!! LEGOS!” Someone put that box there years ago. I know it’s there, and I frequently think about it. It’s the only childhood plaything of mine that has stood the test of time and, most frequently, the furiously heated cleanings of a menopausal mother. I don’t dare to as much as read my childish hand on the top of that box. I’ve been thinking of my childhood a lot lately.