What I did on my summer fall vacation.

I arrived home in the pouring rain, the type of rain that ruins all the foliage. But it was okay, because the foliage hasn't peaked here yet. You get hints of it in the dying, older trees, and in my brother's maple (the one that makes everything bask in a red glow), but most things here are still verdant.

I mostly ran around in something like a frenzy. I got my monthly sewing craving out of the way. I got crafty. I ate delicious food: apples, roast chicken, salmon, acorn squash, clam sauce on pasta, and lots of salads. We eat well here. It is living with my parents that has convinced me that bad food isn't worth eating. I mostly sat around enjoying the feeling of digesting all that food; the blood in my stomach making me light headed.

I went to my favorite place: the pastureland up the road. I wandered around thinking about how much it is like a house. It is not a natural place, no matter what the carpet of grass and the walls of trees might lead you to believe. It is a very distinctly man made place, but I love it. It has secret staircases that only I know about, peepholes so that you can keep an eye on your guests, a grand foyer of new growth forest, and even secret rooms full of cardinal flowers (though not at this time of year) that only I can find. The rest of it is grand, enormous rooms, open to the sky. I picture it as a banquet hall, as a dancing hall, and an enormous bedroom for me and my groom. It isn't a very large space, not at all - it isn't even a hundred acres, but I feel like I own it.

My family, ah, my family I could live without. My mother spends hours playing Solitaire, as usual, my father drinks himself to sleep every night, as usual. My brother and I share secrets about the family, dark and dirty ones, but also ones that we need to know about. We need to understand where we come from, what made our parents. "They never tell me anything," he says, and I say "You ever want to know things, you come to me. I will share." I decided not to volunteer some things, because I don't want to force them on him if he isn't ready, but I am still available.

My brother is lucky. He has inherited paternal mental health. "I ride the middle," he said, "and it is quite pleasant, thank you very much." Then he told me that I'm being manic, and my hypochondriac self kicked into overdrive. Manic? Crap! Get me some lithium! I'm 20, it's in the family, it must be true! But then I realized that having had five diet cokes that day probably contributed to my hyper mood. I have been hyper, and extraordinarily happy. But it doesn't sound like a manic episode - I looked it up.

I have been writing constantly. I am not quite sure where this urge to document comes from, but I want to write down everything, take a picture of everything. I also want to share, like crazy. I am creating my archive, very deliberately. I am creating my own memory. My father does this for his job. Sometimes he has a political reason to put something very prominently in the archives - he tells me this outright. My historian self is fascinated to see this happening (because in my classes we often talk about the necessity of understanding why your archive exists), but I do it too. I am very deliberate. I have a vision of myself that I want to leave for the future. So, historians, be careful with me. Although it's not like you wouldn't be.

I took care of my errands around town and now I have to head back to school. Homework awaits, and so does a lonely concert.

2002-10-15, Vacation

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