Every Day

I'd like to think that I'm alone in here, but people change who I am every single day.

Farewell to an Artist

About a month ago, my landlord introduced me to his friend who has an art studio across the street from me. With my landlord semi-translating, she showed me her paintings and her students' paintings. I liked them. I tend to like anything that a real, live person creates simply because they created it. I liked her, too. And her cat. Their super short buzz cuts matched and she's the one and only female I've seen here with very short hair. Her cat's the only shaved cat I've seen here, too (excluding the puffy fluff ball left at the end of the tail). I felt like some sort of friendship could form there and despite our language barriers she'd be my Turkish friend. I could see myself spending many afternoons there, drinking tea on the studio's balcony while she painted or directed one of her students in watercolor. She could help me learn Turkish, maybe teach me some painting, and I'd provide her cat with hours of free pats in exchange. And maybe some cookies. She'd be my little drop of peace corps in an otherwise rather American experience so far. I could see it and wanted it to happen. Then school started and my days filled up and I saw her painting peacefully in her studio with her students and cat while I rushed past on my way home every evening, too tired to think of a single Turkish word, too tired for small talk over tea. Not realizing I was sacrificing a potentially lovely friendship for a pat on the back at work. All consuming work that I so easily let consume me. Yesterday, my glance into her studio was met by blank walls and emptiness. No tranquil painters to bring me a glimmer of a different life and no shaved cat to disapprovingly meow at my hurried pace. She's moved and I'll never be friends with her and my Turkish is going nowhere, as is my ability to paint.    

Apology

The days are getting shorter and colder and my life is exactly as I've carved it out to be. So let's just wait here quietly until it all feels right again.

Coffee and Pancakes

I woke up smelling coffee and pancakes and warmth. For the briefest moment, I was ten and my dad was in the kitchen making his usual Sunday breakfast, listening to Car Talk. My parents were still married and my sister was one of the best gymnasts in town, her medals all lined up on her shelves. Carson city was the capitol of America and the center of the universe. I wrote short stories about horses and drew pictures of flowers and felt jealous of everyone because everyone could do something better than me. The walls of my room were papered with roses that matched my bedspread and my trashcan and I was looking forward to wearing makeup. My fingers were not yet long enough for Fur Elise and still fumbled over Mary Had a Little Lamb. I spent hours wandering the field across the street, pretending that I was a giant and the little weeds were trees and I was destroying a forest as I walked. Growing pains sometimes made it hard to destroy the forests. I didn't wear glasses or contacts and didn't know how trees looked from a distance, with their leaves separated by shadows and depth instead of being one big blob of green. I couldn't recognize people's faces until they were right in front of me, but I could impress my dad by finding the tiny United States of America written in Franklin's collar on the hundred dollar bill. Other than the grandpa I barely knew, no one close to me had died. My grandma still made her famous pumpkin pie with us for Thanksgiving and my Aunt Joanne was roaming her Christmas tree farm in Portland and putting thistle theed out for her bird friends. My friends and my future friends were all healthy children, just like me. Ozzie and his memories were non-existent and Taco and Kurbsy were kittens who liked to run across the piano and had no idea how long they'd live nor how suddenly and sadly they'd leave. My parents' friends told me I'd grow up to be a heart-breaker and I didn't like that because it sounded mean and made me blush, but I kinda liked it because it made me think I'd turn out to be something special. The pancakes and coffee faded and I opened my eyes to my darkened bedroom and thought about how 32 years is a lot of years. And there are still quite a few to go.        

Observing

I say very little these days. Not that I've ever said much, but each day it becomes more apparent that there's nothing I can add that hasn't been added before. Teaching's thrilling and tiring. Students are wonderful and difficult. Our brains are getting smarter and dumber. The ocean's getting trashed while we research how we're trashing it. Religion causes problems and soothes problems. Authors write good and bad and interesting books and new music pulses out of every corner and the cheese is amazing and the beer is bland, but I don't like beer that much anyways. Do you?

I've always wondered how people who are good at talking and getting others to talk choose what to say. Of all the questions and topics and intriguing tidbits to say to someone, how do you choose? How do you choose the one or two things that will lead to anything new for either of you, or at least lead to a connection and a good conversation and a better understanding of who that person is? Other people are mysterious planets to me and one of the few ways of trying to understand them is by talking. Conversing. It's such a basic, daily ritual that I've never really thought about until now. Now that it's slipping further and further from my comprehension, along with the words that I've stopped saying because they feel pointless. It seems to be making me an outsider against my will, but in some ways I'm okay with that. I've almost always preferred observing over participating.

Though I do miss feeling close to anyone.        

I can pretend

I don't know if it's dumb or conceited or what, but listening to the silly recordings of the songs I wrote last year has been weirdly comforting lately. Maybe it's 'cause I miss the keys more than I want to acknowledge. Maybe it's 'cause I doubt I'll ever write songs again. Maybe it's 'cause keyboards are pricey here and I'll just have to pretend for an undetermined amount of time that I'm playing. And I miss those blinds and the pine trees on the other side of them.

Life from a balcony

Last night I ate dinner on my balcony for the first time. I frequently eat breakfast out there, at 7am, standing and staring into the layers upon layers of 7 story apartment buildings and wondering about the day, chewing and waiting for the coffee to brew. The metal spoon against the glass bowl always sounds really loud and embarrassing at that time and I try to not let them meet, but that's surprisingly difficult to do. There's usually this guy across the street and one floor up out on his balcony, too, but he's always staring in the opposite direction, puffing on cigarettes. As far as I know, he has never taken notice of me, nor been bothered by my breakfast utensil clinks. He just sits and stares and, other than his smoking arm, doesn't move for the entire 10 minutes that I am out there. His stillness and smoke make him seem sad to me. Like the day is too difficult to bear and the people milling about 6 stories below are too terrifying to face. But he can't do that forever and every day I hope he'll get up or turn around or go inside or do SOMETHING before I have to leave, but that day has yet to come. I silently bid him farewell and go about my day and hope for better luck and higher spirits tomorrow. Last night, though, I discovered that everything balcony-related is different in the late hours. Everyone's on their balcony, eating as a family, shaking out laundry, watching the city lights slowly turn on, entertaining friends, chatting across alleyways with neighbors. The clinks of my own cutlery don't even register in comparison to the nighttime balcony life of my neighbors. It's like a little sneak peek into a more intimate side of their lives. Like having the walls of all of their living rooms removed for me to see, and it's delightful. Especially when it comes to my sad neighbor across the street. Last night, as I slowly worked on my plate of sauteed pumpkin and carrots, I could hear him telling what I assume, based on the laughter, were jokes to his wife on their balcony while they ate. He was still smoking, but it had become the least of his mannerisms instead of his entirety. The darkness of the morning had evaporated and been replaced with a wide smile, a loud laugh, and a kind voice. I think I'd like to get to know him. I think I can relate to his reluctance to embrace the day, but his eventual acceptance and ultimate love of being alive. I can relate to not wanting the silence to end, but then also not wanting it to begin. And I can definitely relate to not being a morning person.

And now I'm going to go stand on my balcony for a while, listening to life and feeling like a part of something I'm really only a witness to.