"...the World, the Universe."

Cigarettes burning, smoke exhaled, curling around my nostrils, stale and ashen. I breathe the spiced scent of my neighbor's addiction from the deck outside my living room windows. I adopt a second-hand habit, perhaps to distract from my own addictions, or rather withdrawals.

Facing a wall of torn, faded covers I leaf through the tattered, bent pages of scribbled notes in margins and underlined phrases.

"What was after the universe? Nothing."


Relapse. Novels, plays, short stories, epic poems; I dive into the unspoken genius of classic literature long avoided through recovery from academic exhaustion.

And I can't get enough. I want to read and reread everything, I want to study, to analyze, to write, and all without the pressure of a syllabus. Joyce, Browning, Wilde, they all beckon me, inviting me to taste each delicious page, and devour every word.

To further my craving, I was attracted by a brief article in The New York Times on a current exhibition. Steve Wolfe on Paper reproduces timeless books and vinyls to, in a sense, preserve weathered classics after generations of use... an inspiration to us all.

We Are...

Restless sleep, twisted sheets flapping madly against tireless legs. Maybe he'll be early.

I kick the blankets from my bed, stirring through the still darkness of a way too early morning. How cold is it gonna be? Will it rain? Which socks should I wear? Should I take -

Excited thoughts streaming, interrupted by light tapping on my apartment door.

...

"Here, you better hold on to these."

I hand the large, flat tickets to my dad as we trek the muddied lot of bored tailgaters pulling tight on their authentic fleeces, and past the drunken fans dressed in white and blue wigs. Up the hill to the tall silver gates, we soon enter into the greatest day of our lives.

PSU vs Eastern Illinois

EJ Row 1

touchdown pass

field goal

Blue Band

Take a hike

I woke early to a thick morning fog, threw on some torn jeans, layers of thin flannel patterned shirts, my trucker hat with the camouflage rabbits, and tossing my canvas Jeep bag over my shoulder, already packed with my own trail mix and shiny red thermos, I set out for an adventure.
Still unfamiliar with much of the area, it took awhile to find the nearly hidden back road that stretches up a steep hill to a small gravel parking lot. Mount Nittany.
I’ve been warned about these hiking trails; with several steep inclines, I was often climbing the rocky pathways at an 80 degree angle. Around the top of the mountain, the trails smoothed out, speckled with sun spots glimmering between the bending creaking trunks of soon-to-be-leafless trees, reminding me of the trails I ran in the south by the lake one year ago. Toad from Mario Bros?

I was distracted by the bursts of reds and yellows from the few leaves already changed among the still vast greens. I’ve started a project, a series of branches and leaves with pen & ink, which I now see as rather bland and 2-dimensional compared to nature itself.
I took the “road less traveled”, changing trails for the longer, farther, riskier one. It was clear not many visitors hiked this way, for the plants and bushes created a narrow corridor reaching out with their long branches as though to grab your ankles and arms and pull you apart.
I thought of the Lost Boys from Sudan who walked for weeks across their country in Africa (and not on carefully marked trails) as I’m currently reading “What is the What” told by a survivor through Dave Eggers’ clever words, describing his boyhood lost through a war unresolved.
The path seemed to change, as though I’ve crossed onto another mountain range, far from civilization. But it eventually wrapped around the mountain as I found myself slowly climbing down the familiar rock covered cliff. I hiked over 3 hours, probably covering close to 10 miles.
But the day was perfect and exactly what I needed after these recent weeks. I want to come back later next month, in the heart of fall, when the trees are all different colors, the cool air spiced by fallen leaves crunching underfoot, the scenic views clearer, better.

"Growing darkness taking dawn

I was me but now he's gone."

“Like the autumn trees that shed its orange and yellow leaves”

I dial the number one last time, determined to make it official. I knew this would be the beginning of my inevitable breakdown, but I had to make sure in the only way I could. It was now or never, and after a year, I couldn’t let myself wonder about it anymore.

It rings once, heart quickens pace… twice, hands tremble… someone picks up – “Hello.” sings a young girl’s voice.

My heart shatters, everything goes black. The floor opens up and swallows me whole.

“Helloooo?”

Smudged tears of gray streaming down my cheeks, I lay down the phone, never speaking a word. I silently listen as the confused girl utters a few more annoyed “hellos” until she finally hangs up.

And I thought it was hard when the number was disconnected before. Now it is in use by someone else. I can only think of our final conversation 6 months ago, when we decided to stay in touch; the last thing I heard him say was “I’ll call you back.” There was no goodbye, no end…

The “hard” has become impossible.

I begin to wonder if I will ever get over something as intense as this, if I will ever be able to move on. Like the autumn trees that shed its orange and yellow leaves, my world will continue to fall apart, piece by piece, until nothing is left. Just me and vast nothingness.

Picture Fail

Back at Starbucks, hopefully no one notices I brought my own coffee. I've strategically placed my blue travel mug sporting a different coffeehouse name behind myself and my laptop screen...

*glance glance siiiiip*

This morning, lugging detergent across the front lawn to the laundry room, I could sense the coming of fall. It was a weird cosmic "in the air" kinda sense, and maybe the yellowing leaves of the black walnut trees too.

I had the weekend off, so I did attempt picture taking of my space. "Attempt" is indeed the key word because my camera is officially dead, angrily tossed back into a box, frustratingly tangled in now useless cords.

Relying on my camera phone, I can now admit with confidence that I fail to develop as a bona fide photographer.

Here are the good ones of the few snapshots I took:



the front of the mansion


my sun porch - and it's not the picture that's crooked



kitchen area - with my amazing green oven


a gift from the previous tenant - bedroom window and deck outside

I live in a mansion on an 800 acre farm

I'm sitting at a small table in the corner of Starbucks, my favorite bronze stilettos clicking against the adjacent chair occupied by my empty laptop bag. I keep glancing at the tiny clock in the corner of my computer screen, counting down the minutes of my brief 2-hour session of free complimentary Internet.

Just a few hours ago I completely finished settling into my new apartment. I'm still awaiting the arrival of my glorious books, but everything else is cleaned, unpacked, and livable.

And I love it all. The brown wood paneling, linoleum floors of oranges and yellows, deep window sills of chipping paint, a large crooked sun porch and the equally large collapsing deck.

"It gives it character," I say.

Also, it's ten minutes from my job, and everything else... all the restaurants, shopping, and businesses you can imagine. And did I mention I'm only 4 miles from Beaver Stadium? Football season is about to start, and college students are everywhere.

I will make an effort to take pictures tomorrow and post them later this week. But for now I'll continue to torture myself and refrain from buying any delicious coffee from which the aroma currently engulfs my nasal cavity. The clinking of mugs and espresso machines whirring behind me, all the more enticing...