Labels: music, playlists

Labels: anxiety, europe, summer, transportation

Labels: food, ireland recap, transferring, williamsburg

Mad Girl’s Love Song

Sylvia Plath

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,

And arbitrary blackness gallops in:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:

Exit seraphim and Satan's men:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;

At least when spring comes they roar back again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)



Howth, Ireland

Labels: fall, growing up, poem, transferring

It seems strange that in a few weeks I'll be back in the United States. I can't tell if it's because I think my time Not There has gone so quickly, or so long. Part of it ties into spending four months identifying, defending myself as an American, and now I face returning to my ancestral home. When in Barcelona, walking up to Park Guell, we passed what looked like a punk house. Written on the roof was 'Why do they call it tourist season if we can't shoot them?'. I was sympathetic; I remember the same sentiment from living on the Shore, waiting and wanting for all the Bennys to leave so the stop signs could be covered again and the beaches empty. But then right after, was a bit of graffiti that said simply enough 'Yankees go home.'

I was angry. I may be an American, but I am no fucking Yankee. A Yankee is the kid in our group who went to Spain with a cowboy hat; a Yankee is someone who doesn't bother to learn the language (not even a please, or a thank you); a Yankee wears socks with sandals.

And since then I've been rethinking how I feel about being an American. Reading 'Into the Wild' only encouraged the questioning, and instilled a desire to road trip across the Pacific Northwest, to boot. And now knowing that I am leaning towards relocating down to Virginia, Williamsburg no less, where I will face tourists, and Yankees and inevitably be North--- the meaning of American hasn't settled down much.

Still, it seems unusual that soon enough my hands will be close to my mother's hands, that I will be able to have lunch with my father and coffee with my friends; that I will see Boston and New York and the same old town I have lived in for much too long. I worry about slipping back into my old ways, and yet not being able to shed the worst habits I picked up here. I must resolve to hold onto the good things- the sense of freedom, and better baking especially- while returning to better habits- running, not eating at all hours simply because I am in the mood to cook- and holding onto integrity. Such a little town, and I am half-afraid of it, convinced it is loaded with weights and claws, everything joined together in a grand attempt to impose stasis.

I'm not really worried about the summer. It sucks that I haven't heard back from internships, but even if nothing turns up, I'm sure I'll find some sort of gainful employment, be it Starbucks or doing some sort of transcribing. Things will come through; they always do.

Music: Broken Social Scene 'Swimmers'

Labels: americano, barcelona, photos, summer, transferring