fleeting.

i've spent the past 5 years, more or less, in a mountain town, filling my days with mind-numbing lectures, real-life intellectual experiences, and more inebriation than i care to own up to.

i'm a college student. a statement i will only be able to make for 5 more days, and it pains me to have just counted those days on one hand.

i am a college student. such a simple statement that on the outside, could never embody the unmatchable feeling the phrase truly ignites in me. instantly a montage of memories plays on the backscreen in my mind, flashes of faces, dancing, tears, hugs, hello's and goodbye's, music. significance. saturday it will be embodied in a square hat and long gown, a smile, an embrace from family, and then, somehow silence.

i remember the notes i jotted down to myself as i rode out of my small town, on my way to move in freshman year. they were approximately:

my last coffee was from mcdonald's? the last time i rode on my favorite road, my favorite curve, i was sending a text message? what is this reality?

i remember how fleeting each mile felt. i remember how exhilarating the unknown future felt, but how that exhilaration filled me with discomfort.

looking back, it was my own naivete that scared me. now i realize just how to cherish all of that significance rather than deal with the frustration of its elusiveness.

we started a mini tradition the past few days... each time one of my roommates was officially 'done' with the year, or in some cases, their college career, we pop a bottle of champagne. we stand around and toast to the one finished, to the year we've had, to the impenetrable bonds we've made, to which a meager bubbly does no justice. we sip.

today one of my roomates was leaving. although she will be returning to celebrate our graduation, the small hiatus signified a bigger end. we sat on the yellow kitchen coutners, glasses in hand, and spontaneously and unashamedly reminisced. we shared laughs with each story, of spring break misadventures and snow day shenanigans to say the least. we attempted again to piece together nights that had been marginally misplaced, while sharing tears recounting memories that were too real, too tangible to revisit just yet.

we sat on the counters as we had so many times before. we sat this time as 3 women who had come to know each other inside and out, to recognize each hair on our bathroom floor as well as every reaction, every feeling, every determinable neurosis that we shared to our souls. we came as near strangers and leave as near lovers, our shadows and footprints behind us and our indeterminable futures before us. and the confidence that if we did anything, we came and we loved and we did it with no abandon. and no regrets.

cloth napkin.

searching through the murkiness that is the 'drafts' section of my email, i came across this little gem... two short stories about my summer job at the new york deli, further proof that with sunshine and irresponsibility inevitably comes creativity, even in the form of goat cheese salads.
..............................................................................


daily trials of a carytown restaurant worker:



i didn't seat him, but i watched. fairly good-looking, fit.

lunch alone, without a book?

he smiled, confirming it.

not gay.

five minutes later, as i re-filled a family of water glasses, another man joined him. i observed their smart flat-front khaki's, each in a tucked-in button down. they sat together, leaning forward, joking.

dammit.

gay.

i began wiping down a table behind them and overheard the conversation: "i mean, mayonnaise is one thing, but you have to put the mustard and ketchup on the bread. putting it directly on the meat is a sin- it ruins the meat. condiments go on bread."

i laughed at the serious, protective tone in which they discussed ground beef.

not gay.

i overheard their order- one, a spinach salad with goat cheese, dressing on the side. the other, the cold plate with extra hummus.

yep.

gay.

i approached their table with their homosexual lunch choices. "salad with goat cheese?" i asked. the cute one smiled. "good choice." i lied. i gave the other his two ironically a-cup hummus mounds and asked if they needed anything else. "what, mine's not a good choice?" the other asked in an attempt to be clever. "no, you just didn't seem like you needed any positive reinforcement regarding your lunch." "oh, you're saying i'm fat." "i'm saying you're confident. enjoy the hummus."

and i could tell by the way goat cheese salad's eyes followed me...

not gay.

what's even better, he's the quieter of the two, and wouldn't leave lunch smelling of bean paste and garlic.

is it inappropriate to leave your number



.....on a cloth napkin?



....................................................

he was sitting at the end of the bar, a lunch-break beer with a friend. instantly i recalled 6 days earlier, a thursday night event, him leaning drunkenly out of his chair, begging me to stay.

the witty charm of this 20-something had been drowned by dark liquor and his glassy eyes leaked desperation. it was entertaining, if nothing else. i slipped him my business card- a simple 2x3.5" with my name, contact information, and a clever acid yellow stitched line across the middle.

i could tell by the way he talked, the designer jeans, loud printed shirt that he had recovered his clever, non-inebriated self along with his dignity, so once i conjured up the perfect line, i slipped behind the bar and stood in front of the two.

"oh my god..." he said, feigning an entertaining shocked expression.

"this may be deja vu, but didn't i leave you in that same seat thursday night?"

"no sweetheart, it was the back booth after you tried to makeout with me."

laughing sarcastically, "that must have been some other black-dressed brunette." redirecting my attention, i extended my hand to his friend. "hi, i'm liz."

noticing, he attempted to win it back. "weren't you coming over here to say 'michael, i've been thinking about you ever since thursday. tell me when i can take you to dinner.'"

relieved he divulged his name- something i unashamedly had forgotten. i smiled slyly, "well michael, if i recall, you have my card. if dinner is what you're interested in, i trust you'll contact me."

"when are you free?"

"next week."

"ok, i'll give you my number."

"you have mine- i'll hear from you."

i walked away, wondering where this confidence came from, considering i had been drinking with friends until 5am and still hadn't showered.

i avoided that end of the bar until the two left, not wanting to inevitably taint the image i left in his head.

inspirational wasteland.

the majority of the time i spend in my room in the south wing of my wilson avenue abode i am sitting in a high-back wooden chair, facing west, at my 'desk,' collecting my thoughts and words as they buzz about, channeling them back to my chosen medium, with a backdrop gustav klimt tapestry and whichever itunes specialty i have been craving as accompaniment.

today, my thoughts turn less to the obscure, limitless realm of human experience, but more concretely, to the desk itself.

it, for one, is approximately... (helen? the measuring tape, please?)

(helen is my dress form, and thus the keeper of my measuring tape and whatever project i am pinning and sewing onto her.)

31.5 x 22 inches.

it's... quaint. and while my laptop claims its rightful stake in the matter, the residual surface is covered and layered in... well, in my life. which equally serves as my ever-evolving inspiration and my mind's tangible wasteland.




it's contents, with explanations offered:

vase of pens, pencils, paint brushes, and other such useful/less items- i think 2 of the pens work. there is also a souveneir pair of chopsticks, a silver glittery leaf that was a festive hair piece, and a $1 chip from caesar's palace, which one day i will bet recklessly on a game of roulette and never look back.

two coffee- stained articles, from new york magazine- among the sporadic postal gems sent to me from harrisonburg.

an antique jewelry box- contents formerly a long, cameo pendant necklace from a shop in town. which i will never divulge the name, in fear that people will realize she sells antique jewelry.

a day calendar- and because i do not like keeping track of days on paper, i flip through it casually. according to the date showing, there is still snow on the ground.

albums- the black keys, spoon, mgmt, modern and traditional tango mix.

a spool of tan thread.

two bottle caps- one birra moretti, one flying dog- the italian, from mi italiana, and the flying dog a single-bottle purchase, just because there was a bike on the label and i wanted to walk outside and open it using the bottle opener on my bike. (i did just that.)

two wine corks.

a stack of post-it's, awaiting their fate as meager attempts to collaborate the random sketches that make up my life.

my moleskin journal- for those sketches and words that require more staying power than a sticky note.

a set of christian lacroix stationary that i overpaid for, but justified as 'inspiration'- which i did actually use as such for a project.

a fabric swatch, the necessary color i had to use as a central aspect of my challenge garment for the fashion show.

my passport, sniffling, neglected. shamefully dusty.

numerous safety pins, straight pins, sewing needles, thumbtacks.

a glass of wine- because i am supposed to be working on my story on this weekend's wine festival, which so clearly requires a glass of tempranillo for inspiration (but seems to have alternatively inspired some haphazard blogging.)

folded up bib from the monument ave 10k.

crumbled napkin sketches- unintelligible souvenir collectibles from blacksburg nightlife's finest.

and lastly, a perpetually relentless clock and a pending deadline.

<3.

the thawing out period- a haiku.

i'm alive thank God
i'm alive, i'm inspired.
finally thawed out

word quota.

i feel like i wake up each day with this underlying word quota. not so much thoughtless words, but the ones that you think over, say in your head first, compose onto paper and then scratch through, rearrange, toss and start over again and again. for this, there is a quota. a creative word quota.

and thus, my pleasant agony of being a reporter for my university's newspaper. i love the excitement of being connected with so many students, the pride i see in someone's eyes when their life is featured in a story, the thrill of seeing my name under that story at least twice a week.

however, most days i'll have an idea that won't leave my head without a fight, and i'll race home to develop it with a combination of words in my own style, only to be left with a series of jumbled characters and twice as much backspacing. i sigh, and watch another day go by, postless.

for my ongoing list of words with obligatory priority, click here.

white flag.

i am now on the third day of an ongoing battle with the spiders in my basement.

these aren't just regular old creepy spiders, mind you, but some sort of heinous hybrid of cricket, spider, and the abominable snowman that can jump unimaginable heights and tend to survive on a diet of kittens and pure steel.

i haven't been able to do my laundry for three days now, and it just doesn't seem fair. i've tried screaming warnings down the steps, politely asking them to move along, and even bargaining with them by offering small bits of leftovers from the fridge.

the gatekeeper, among the largest and likely wisest, mocks me from the bottom of the steps, keeping constant vigil of their newfound territory. often he high-five's the lewis-and-clark of the group, the forefront of the expedition and consequent fertilizers of the now herd.

i've tried everything, but most of the time i end up somewhere in between slamming the door, giving up while scoffing a 'FINE, you win!' or the much more subtle reaction of running back up the stairs screaming, throwing the majority of my clothing items in the recycle bin for fear of infestation, and doing that dance where you hop around a lot and wipe off every surface of your pants, shaking out your hair and shimmying your shoulders.

i've tried wearing my darkest sunglasses, so then they just appear to be greasy stains on the cement, which works until they launch themselves 50 ft in the air, fangs out, claws sharp, hungry for young collegiate brunettes.

i've considered bringing along my hairspray, immobilizing the mutant legs of the beasts just long enough for me to throw a load in... after testing the range of my pantene weapon i realized that by the time i was close enough to spray, they'd be dragging me into the depths of their den, feeding me piece-by-piece to the queen arachnamonster.

and so, i've given up. for the third night in a row i will sleep on a bed with no sheets. tomorrow i will revisit my beloved laundromat, and also draft a formal letter requesting the beasts pay for part of our rent, waiting to deliver the request upon the purchase of a hazmat suit.

lucille.

still the reigning king of blues.