Scattered
I'm following him, I'm following you, don't tell me you don't know the way.
I'm sitting here, with a silk scarf draped rediculously on my hed, wondering what on earth has happened to me. My eyes keep tearing up, and every now I convulse with that crying-giggle of joy, exhaustion, emotion. It's just music that's done it to me, wouldn't you know it, live music too. Arcing, aching music. Music about running away, about home, about all the things I've felt lately, about love for the world, for people, about having a heart so big that it swallows up everything.
When I swim, and when I'm finished with my laps, I pull off my fogged up goggles and suddenly the world becomes an ecstatically alive place. The orange on the banners has never seemed so intense, the funny blue color of the pool has never seemed so clear. It's enough to make me sit, float on my back a little, splash my hot eyes with cold water, and marvel. This is no rosy filter, this is just the removal of the fog.
They're the most wonderful band. You can just tell that they have big huge hearts. One of them is shorter, compact, and elfen (not a pixie, nymph, dwarf, an elf) in appearance. The other is long. There's just no other word for it. You've never seen anyone so long, with such a fine, large mouth, with hair as long as her, with the wingspan of an albatross. She moved her arms, and danced, and sang so much that I cried.
My throat contracts, and I'm just full of so much joy. I'm sure I've felt like this before, but then again, I have a memory as long as a papercut is deep.
I was five feet away from the long woman. I kept smiling and wrinkling my nose, and exchanging happy glances with the two girls at the table with me. I had just met them that evening - they were sweet, I could tell that I liked them. It's sort of funny, though. In person, people find me initially cold. The girls here thought at first that I was snooty, because I was reserved and cautious, carefully watching everyone instead of talking. I speak when spoken to, I answer questions but volunteer no more. It's funny, cause I act like I'm nervous about people prying into me, but I usually like it quite a bit.
It's funny, you know. The Nields sing good natured, happy, random, earnest, and sad songs. Which are a lot of the things I'd use to describe myself. When I think about it, earnest isn't something that everyone wants to be, nor are The Nields a band that everyone wants to listen to, nor is my college a place that everyone would want to be at. I just can't get over how perfect they are for me.
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I have nerves of tin foil. Oh man, I'm just waiting for my heart to return to normal. You see, we have a basement in the dorm. The other night, armed with two girls, an empty wine bottle (to prop open doors, I figure), and flashlights, I ventured into it. We went through two Alarm Will Sound Doors, and ventured deeper into the basement. You see, the stairway that leads to the basement is covered in CDs. It's surreal and creepy, and something that should only happen in scary movies. We got into the basement, and its full of pipes and janitors closets, and its all very well lit and all of the doors are locked, but it's still an ecstatically scary place.
It was an adventure. I was always the one who squirmed and writhed when the other girls said "Let's go through this door! Let's go again!" I'm always the chicken. Despite, however, my intense shakiness on the first excusion, I ventured back into the basement. (I told my roomate, "I'm going back into the basement," and she said "Um, ok, sure Margaret," in that tone she uses when I drink seltzer or do something weird or fall off the bed. I said "yeah, to take pictures," and she exclamined "OH! That basement. I thought "the basement" was code for that you were going to study or something.")
Sometimes I'm scared at how brave I get. I become the unfazable, fearless, intrepid Margaret. Well, see, the Alarm Will Sound door should have only beeped once when I went through it. But as I climbed down the CD-stairs, I heard it beep again. And then again. Unfazable Margaret went haywire, and I hightailed it out of there.
But not before I took some photos!.
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My head has been all over the place lately. I scarf down King Lear, I shove books on Attic Red Figure pottery down my throat. I go to concerts that make me itch to write. I go on adventures and parties that are scary and mediocre respectively, and never have time or energy to write it down. My head is crowded, but even through it I feel like I've changed so much. It's just so hard to see and commit to a journal entry.
Also, I have an adjective addiction. Something has to be done.
2000-11-19, Scattered!
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