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Posts Tagged ‘birthday’

Well, the end of my first year at uni is upon me, and I can’t shake this feeling that it went by far too quickly.  As spring came along, my sense of time and directions seemed to do backflips, until I felt like I was at the beginning of the school year all over again.  I’d walk into the room and think it was September, but when the calendar said May, I’d skulk away, shaking my head.

It’s odd to see my room the way it is after having packed nearly two thirds of it away.  I ended up spending Saturday not studying and getting all of my clothes and items from drawers packed away into my truck.  And after only an hour, I was surprised to see my truck full and my room, well, not so full.

I’m actually taking home the truck load on Tuesday, though my reasons for going back to St. Charles are entirely different from a simple dump of items.  It’s starts back on Friday with a text message from one of my friends saying that the mum of a mutual friend had recently passed away.  She’d had cancer for several years, so it didn’t come to that great of a shock, but it was still very saddening.  I found myself worried and feeling empathy (I know, actual empathy), for my friend who had lost his mum.  And I ended up spending an entire night tossing and turning, wondering what to say to him.  In the midst of bad dreams, my brain somehow rattled together two sentences that I decided to send him via Facebook the next morning.

But it was a bad night.  A T-Rex dream kind of night.  Ever since I can remember, I’ve had these nightmares.  I’m running, running as fast as I can, but there’s always this T-Rex behind me, waiting to eat me up in one bite.  As much as I try not to, I always turn into this little child, this five-year old Missi who can’t seem to leave the middle of the street and run for safety.  And then, completely helpless and out of control, I’m gobbled up.  But this dream was different.  Suddenly, I was me, just me, and the T-Rex, well, it was nothing more than a silly stuffed animal.  It bit at me like a yappy dog, not able to do much more than draw a drop of blood.  Yet it was still ferocious, and I still felt an immense amount of fear toward the tiny thing.  I tried throwing it, bashing it against the floor, anything to keep it from turning right around and biting at my fingers, but I couldn’t kill it.  After a while, I was so lifeless, so angry in this dream as I bashed it again and again until I realised that I wasn’t me any more.  I may have still looked the same, but I had become the monster, the T-Rex, and that yappy little stuffed-animal of a monster was no different than me in all of those other dreams.  How pathetically funny that I had lost control.  No matter what, I would never win against this, because I would never have the control.  But I looked at the two situations.  In one, I had no physical control, but I still had me.  In the other, though I had the physical control, I was nothing more than a husk; there was no humanity left.  And, putting that T-Rex down and waking up, I decided I’d prefer to keep my humanity.

As I awoke, I finalised the words I would send to my friend, and upon checking into Facebook, I found that he had placed the time of his mum’s visitation as his status.  Tuesday, 4 until 9.  Well, I hadn’t any finals during that time, so I decided in the matter of only a minute that I would go.  I called my mum to finalise it, and now I have my plans set.  I’ll leave after my finals on Tuesday, get back to St. Charles around six, maybe eat something real quick, go to the visitation, unpack, wake up at seven on Wednesday, and drive right back up to Truman.  It will be hectic, but it’s something that I should do.  Or that I feel I should do, because even though I hadn’t really met her, I was friends with her son.  And that’s all that really matters.

– – –

My birthday is this week–on Friday.  Nineteen.  I’m still unsure what to think of it, so I try to think of nothing at all.  Chances are, I’ll make a fool of myself, wear a tiara, and go out to dinner.  Like every birthday, really.  The only difference is that it will be my last day of finals, so I will spend a grand majority of this birthday packing and driving back to Saint Charles.  But, how I see it, there is no greater present than getting to be alone for four hours with my own music, the windows down, and my own voice to sing and talk through my thoughts.  As I told some friends yesterday, it’s quality time that can’t be bought.

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…I know where I’ll be this November.  Oh no…I don’t know where I’ll be in two weeks.

Dear goodness, the final weeks are upon us at university, and the realisation that I will be back home in less than two weeks slightly terrifies me.  Part of it is the looming desire to get a job that I just can’t get.  The other part is the angry rumble of finals starting this week and lasting until 7 May, which, by the way, is my birthday.

Now, I won’t say that I feel so old, because damn-it, nineteen was never meant to be old, but I won’t say that I’m particularly thrilled with getting to be another year older.  And it’s funny, too, because I used to scoff at people who feared their next birthday.  Sure, I don’t really fear the 7th.  I’m already an adult, so what can another year do aside from lower my drivers insurance?  But it’s still an odd realisation that I’m two years from drinking age, four from when I’ll have to get my own insurance, and six years from when I hit that middle bump in the twenties.  All of this is coming closer like a squall line.  You see it moving awfully slow, but before you know it, the rain comes.

Squalls have been moving in quite a lot lately, and my window gets pelted with mist and water droplets continuously.  It’s relaxing to just sit with the window open, feeling the mist pour into the room and stick to the cover of a National Geographic in hand.  Because, as we all know, I’m an addict for National Geographic magazines.  Add in some NPR, BBC News, and a cup of tea, and I’m set.  Set to be either educated or a fifty-two year old man: you decide.

Really, though, this grandmum of a girl has no clue where she’s going.  In two weeks, will I be getting calls about my volunteer job that the State said I’d get?  Or will I be listening to some Joanna Newsom and painting?  Never before have I been so fearful of what I’m doing in my future; I’ve always been a planner who knew exactly where she was going.  But the summer is a gaping hole in my vision.  Once uni starts up again, I’ll be right back in the swing of things: I know where I’m living, how my room will be set up, what classes I’ll be taking, the clubs I’ll be in…  I even know that I will be seeing Harry Potter in the theatres and Muse in concert in November.  Oh yes, MUSE!

I rant and rave about my favourite bands–Nickel Creek, Vampire Weekend, Regina Spektor, et cetera–and Muse is no exception.  I’m incredibly blessed to have the opportunity to see them and be in good seats.  The only downside is that buying tickets didn’t go according to plan, so my group will not all be sitting together.  But, such is life.  I figure that I did the best I could, so it’s time to except what it will be, get the fuck over everything, and just muse at, well, Muse.

Anyway, I’ll leave you with a poem.  It’s nothing fantastic, but I feel like I should add some of my more creative works onto this blog as well.

– – –

Invisible and present only to reflections

in glass ponds upon southern streets,

Drift the tears of ghosts once

scattered by the angels.

They miss the sun piercing the hearts;

the hearts of blossoms in mourning

of a spring that never came.

But Mason jars brushed with dust

lie in the arms of the angels

who wait beneath the spektors’ cry.

Sweet circles echo upon the mirrors;

rubbish from the point-of-view

of those so desperate to touch God.

And so, invisible be the mourning,

never viewed by the humans

who pass by the blossoms,

still lit in cold,

but in the pools of glass on southern streets.

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