It's been a long day . . .

I need to tell this story so that I don't forget any of it. I suppose that's why we tell any story.

Yesterday started at 6:45am when I woke up with energy for no apparent reason. I had been up late the night before studying for a test/hanging out with Joe and Justin. So when I woke up that early, I was surprised that my eyes even opened. But I was up. So I kept my word and went to the gym with Mary Lee at 7:30am. Half an hour and about 65 floors later, I got off the stairmaster and came back to my room. I showered away the sweat and got back to studying. At 9:45am, I headed over to work. The first hour was slow, since most businesses don't open until 11, but I eventually got into the groove around Union Square and was very successful. It was gorgeous out, and by the end of my shift, my sweater was in my bag and the sun was beating down on my bare shoulders. I then went to take my test, and I'm pretty confident that I did well. Then, it was back to Brittany (via the market to get bread) to make a picnic of sandwiches, salads, and fruit. And then to the deli for vitamin water. Mary Lee and I then hurried down to Chinatown, wandering the unfamiliar streets in the increasing heat until we found the Fung Wah bus line ticket window. Tickets in hand, we collapsed in front of the Buddhist temple until the bus arrived. When it did, we got into the front seat to avoid getting sick, as well as to make us of the table there. We set up our picnic and enjoyed. The girls behind us were possibly the most vapid people in the world, and served as our entertainment for the first 30 minutes of the trip. Then we decided that sleep was a good plan. Around 4pm, we woke up for a rest stop. And realized that we were about a year away from Boston. So then we zoned out with our ipods. Then mine died, so I did some reading. Then we hit another rest stop, though only the driver got out, plastic bag in hand ... I still don't know what happened there. At that point, it was about 80 degrees on the bus, and the driver had been going about 40mph the whole time. So we got cranky. Around 6:30pm, we arrived in Boston. After running around a seemingly endless terminal, we found a taxi to take us to the opera house. And when we arrived, the marquee said "Wicked". Fortunately, Wicked is opening tonight, and last night, Jamie Cullum was in fact there. A great opening act, two cokes, and some goldfish later, he took the stage. From the first note of "Wind Cries Mary" to the amazing finale with "High and Dry" and "All at Sea" (and all the wonderful moments in between), he was an outstanding performer. Sadly, the crowd was older, so we were somewhat out of place standing in the back and dancing around. But after "Get Your Way", it really didn't matter. SO much fun. And so at 10:05pm, our carriage was about to become a pumpkin, and we hurried back to the bus station. We jumped onto a Greyhound (no more Chinatown bus!) at 10:30pm. After about an hour, we were out of ways to distract ourselves from sleep, and we passed out. We woke up in Harlem (never though I'd be happy to be in Harlem at 2am) and were soon at Port Authority. Which was essentially shut down. Into another cab, down 30 blocks, and we were back at Brittany. I said good night to Mary Lee and was asleep within moments of hitting the pillow. Around 3am. An insanely long day made well worth it by good music and good company.
Today, I'm exhausted. But alas, I have to go to work.

Hot Dogs

I just consumed a delicious hot dog (which, by the way are pretty much the perfect food) that I bought from a street vendor outside of the Met. I also decided on a major. Sweet.

And the winner is...Art History!
I always forget how much I love art until I'm surrounded by it. I always go to a museum and say, "Wow, I can't get enough of this." And then I carry on with my life. But today was different. I went to the Met with the sole purpose of seeing one painting (Bastien-Lepage's Joan of Arc). I have a lot of work to do so I was just planning on seeing the painting and leaving. But of course, I couldn't. And as I wandered around the 19th century paintings (my favorite period anyway), I just understood how important art is. It not only tells our story (or anyone's), but it lets us glimpse at the emotions of an era, the subtle ideas that a brush stroke can illuminate. There's no such thing as "just a painting". Every inch of the canvas offers insight to out history, our culture, and our own hearts. And I want to know as much about it as possible.

Now don't think that this means my life path is mapped out. I have no idea what I want to do with my life - I just know what it is that I want to know.

New York State of Mind

I don't really have an explanation for my blogging habits. It's not like I only post when something important happens. And there is no great reason for the lapses between posts - I simply don't do it for a few weeks. I don't think it's a reflection of me, my life...or anything really. There is life, and then there is the way in which we choose to retell it.

I've been homesick on so many levels recently. I've been homesick for Laverock, for my bed and my couch, for my pets, for my parents, for a fully stocked fridge and my own space. I've been longing for Jon, for some arms to hold me tightly, for someone to kiss, someone to laugh with about nothing, to fall in love with everyday. I've been yearning for Diest, for antiquity and tradition, for romantic ideals and ignored reality, for cobblestones and brick, for a world that's always changing but never changes. I miss comfort, I miss security, I miss confidence and serenity. I miss knowing anything for sure. I miss being a child, when being naive was cute and having hope wasn't foolish. In this city, where no one will ever know your name if you aren't careful (or if you're lucky), it's hard to feel most of the things I know how to feel. Safe. Comfortable. Strong. Quiet. Not alone. And yet it is the easiest thing in the world to be scared, lonely, weak. I wrote a poem in one of my first weeks here about the New York state of mind, and I feel that this is as good a time as any to publish it.

We are so rarely alive
That life
In the breath of the leaves as they
await their departure
In the pulse of the birdsong
naive yet sorrowful
Disturbs
This disruption of a hollow existence
Of our carefully crafted shelters -
faces and masks are interchangeable -
Forces interaction
Forces sunlight
through the steel blinds that we
never
again
planned to open.