Sometimes I swear this blog exists purely to give me something to do when I can't sleep. I've tossed and turned more than an ice skater tonight. Times like these I always think, I should call people on the West Coast-- they'll be up! It's pretty handy, and it's always lovely to reach out West.

I had a dream last night about moving with my family... and how this J.Crew sportin', SUV-drivin family was going to tear down our old house in Maryland. This got me thinking: Would it be crazy to go to that old house and ask the current owners if I could just look around for a few minutes? I've been thinking about that house non-stop tonight for some reason. Would that be crazy, if I just showed up at my old house and asked to come in? Would they mind if I ran my hands over the kitchen tiles, which my mom picked out years ago, and would they shuffle uncomfortably if I leaned my arms against my old bedroom wall & daydream out the window like I used to?

When I was 10 I locked myself out of the house a lot (as a scatter-brained key-less latchkey kid) so I'd crawl back into the house through a bathroom window-- feet first, to avoid plunging into the toilet directly underneath said window. When I was obsessed with my weight (as a voracious latchkey kid who, when left to her own devices, would eat three dinners in one night), I'd hide my favorite junk food, Snackwells Fat Free Devils Food Cake (ick!) at the foot of the basement stairs-- in a rusty detached cabinet, hoping that the creepiness of the unfinished, dimly-lit, dank basement would keep me from my vice (it didn't).

I clearly couldn't fit in through the bathroom window anymore; but Would the current owners mind, do you think, if I snacked just a little in their basement? Just for nostalgia's sake. I could promise to keep it low-key. I wouldn't make a peep. Quiet as a mouse would be me. The only sound they'd hear would be busy munching... and at the most, maybe a happy squeak or two.

Fracture is the best movie ever. Holy cow. It was slick, sharp, and deeply, deeply affecting.

August & Everything After

I've been feeling restless lately. The days are long and humid, the nights spent tossing and turning, trying to find a cool spot on my bed. Occasionally I'll call out to my kitty to come entertain me, but she doesn't come. She's not restless. So I just lay there, swinging one leg over the side of the bed and sighing.

H is gone from New Haven. This is slow processing for me in my brain, and I know this because I'll be walking home from lab and find that my feet will be directing me slightly out of the way. They amble along Wall Street now, past the Law School where we'd meet before burrito runs. Along the way I shamelessly stare into coffee shop windows at people staring right back at me. Yale isn't quite the same without H, but at least I know part of the reason for some of my current restlessness.

Also random: for the past couple of weeks, my arms and hands have been inexplicably shaking. It's gotten to the point where I was interviewing a potential research assistant for the lab last week, and was gesturing to describe something (probably the shape of a woman's curves, to illustrate the similarities between human and fruit). My hands were trembling, and I saw the interviewee notice them. I wanted to stop the interview and say, Hey! I'm not actually nervous-- I'm just malnourished! -- but I didn't.

What I did do, however, was frolick in New York City a couple of days ago. It was lovely. Now I'm back in New Haven and my shaking is gone, but I'm still restless to the tips of my fingers. I just feel, as Adam Duritz says, like a change. My feet, heading back from the train station, had an urge to keep walking along State Street until I hit Mechanic, where H used to live. Before she left for San Francisco, that is. Manifest Destiny hits everybody, I guess (that includes you, Vik)... but it leaves New Haven just a little less shiny in its wake. There really isn't much to do anyways but hope that one day, I'll curl up in a nice warm place with both friends, family, career and cat. And also, in the meantime-- try to keep that place warm.

You can trace Adam Duritz's obsession with West & East coasts through his albums. I try hard not to dwell on Counting Crows, since everything moody about him washes off on me when I listen to his voice. He ended up in New York, and when I was in the city I wanted to hunt him down and tell him:

#1: to diversify his metaphor stash. He's a song writer, for cryin' out loud!
#2: to say goodbye to Maria-- that dame is nothing but trouble!
#3: to please record a studio version of 'Chelsea'-- that song just kills me everytime I hear it; and
#4: in august and everything after, I'm after everything too.