Just checking in here, guys, before the week starts again. Happy Halloween, by the way! I actually kind of hate this holiday, although I say that very good-naturedly right now. This might come as a surprise to you since I spent two years of Fridays in costume, and it actually took me by surprise on Saturday night as my gypsy alter ego wiped down menus behind the hostess booth. I was feeling relatively peaceful, just a little anxious about the SNOW (wtf?!) when suddenly I was obliterated by a memory.
The memory comes from this weird crash-scene of a Halloween two years ago, when everyone was out of their minds in nearly every way possible, and in costume. I doubt if anyone could give you a clear and sensical account of anything that happened that night, because I don't think anything that happened was either clear or sensical. There was a lot of love- and pain-induced delirium, a lot of people went M.I.A., and a few boulders were set to rolling that eventually changed everything. And Halloween on the Hill was the Great Catalyst.
I'll spare you the disconnected details, because the only reason this particular college weekend is relevant now is that it blindsided me at work and I remembered why Halloween is complicated, and I remembered that it often makes me cry. (I also noted no emails from Dean K asking me to be sensitive of Northfield residents, mapped no honor house strategy, and made no arrangements for transportation to the Slegion. Halloween is different, and so far pretty sleety/snowy, in the real world. Don't say I didn't warn you.)
It's hard to believe that October is over. Winter is coming. I might be spared some cricket-killing through the colder months. National Novel Writing Month starts in about 23 hours. I'm apprehensive, and totally pumped, to take my first real stab at fiction in years. I should also warn you that if you graduated college with me, you will soon receive an email message asking you to send me stories about your life since graduation. Yes, I am St. Olaf's 2011 Class Correspondent, and I can't believe how excited I am about that. I guess vocation is often, at least in my case, scribbled in the margins. I think I actually like it that way.
November also means I'll be 22 in a few weeks. I already know what the banks are getting me this year: my student loan grace period ends right on my birthday, the day after Thanksgiving, in fact, and a month before Christmas. Good timing, right? Just so you all know, I won't be able to afford Christmas presents this year, so don't expect anything from me, 'kay? Semi-kidding. There are a lot of big purchases and payments on the horizon, so on top of my to-do list is figuring out how to organize my assets to do what I need them to do. (I'm drafting a post on financial planning in my head as I speak, so don't worry about that yet. I've got the DL. Or at least some of it.)
I function well with a plan to move forward. I suspect I will always regard the Summer of '11 as this idyllic break from "The Grind," from my uninterrupted push forward, forward, from my inability to stop and lie down and watch the fan blades go around instead of the hands on the clock. Looking back, even that unbelievably carefree summer involved a lot of working toward something. Peace of mind, maybe. Strength of character. I guess I spent a lot of time pulling together my frayed edges, and trying to contain and explain and come to terms with all the memories that can and will obliterate me at some point(s) along the way. I think I succeeded. And a little lesson in chucking crab apples at a tin roof never did anybody wrong.
Not that I can't ever be obliterated by a memory again. In fact, it helps to remember that I will be obliterated by a memory again. Because that means I survived the last one, and held onto my heart.
The memory comes from this weird crash-scene of a Halloween two years ago, when everyone was out of their minds in nearly every way possible, and in costume. I doubt if anyone could give you a clear and sensical account of anything that happened that night, because I don't think anything that happened was either clear or sensical. There was a lot of love- and pain-induced delirium, a lot of people went M.I.A., and a few boulders were set to rolling that eventually changed everything. And Halloween on the Hill was the Great Catalyst.
I'll spare you the disconnected details, because the only reason this particular college weekend is relevant now is that it blindsided me at work and I remembered why Halloween is complicated, and I remembered that it often makes me cry. (I also noted no emails from Dean K asking me to be sensitive of Northfield residents, mapped no honor house strategy, and made no arrangements for transportation to the Slegion. Halloween is different, and so far pretty sleety/snowy, in the real world. Don't say I didn't warn you.)
It's hard to believe that October is over. Winter is coming. I might be spared some cricket-killing through the colder months. National Novel Writing Month starts in about 23 hours. I'm apprehensive, and totally pumped, to take my first real stab at fiction in years. I should also warn you that if you graduated college with me, you will soon receive an email message asking you to send me stories about your life since graduation. Yes, I am St. Olaf's 2011 Class Correspondent, and I can't believe how excited I am about that. I guess vocation is often, at least in my case, scribbled in the margins. I think I actually like it that way.
November also means I'll be 22 in a few weeks. I already know what the banks are getting me this year: my student loan grace period ends right on my birthday, the day after Thanksgiving, in fact, and a month before Christmas. Good timing, right? Just so you all know, I won't be able to afford Christmas presents this year, so don't expect anything from me, 'kay? Semi-kidding. There are a lot of big purchases and payments on the horizon, so on top of my to-do list is figuring out how to organize my assets to do what I need them to do. (I'm drafting a post on financial planning in my head as I speak, so don't worry about that yet. I've got the DL. Or at least some of it.)
I function well with a plan to move forward. I suspect I will always regard the Summer of '11 as this idyllic break from "The Grind," from my uninterrupted push forward, forward, from my inability to stop and lie down and watch the fan blades go around instead of the hands on the clock. Looking back, even that unbelievably carefree summer involved a lot of working toward something. Peace of mind, maybe. Strength of character. I guess I spent a lot of time pulling together my frayed edges, and trying to contain and explain and come to terms with all the memories that can and will obliterate me at some point(s) along the way. I think I succeeded. And a little lesson in chucking crab apples at a tin roof never did anybody wrong.
Not that I can't ever be obliterated by a memory again. In fact, it helps to remember that I will be obliterated by a memory again. Because that means I survived the last one, and held onto my heart.
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