I am, if you can't tell by my less than articulate title, incredibly frustrated with myself right now.

So I'm here in this new state starting this PhD thing, which by the way is going well and I like it and I hope I'll be able to do a lot of good work and such while I'm here...and all that jazz, but  I'm here and I should be on top of things and all scholarly and what not but all I am is distracted.

I have a crush on a guy here, and it's ruining my life (look, I'm so far regressing I'm collapsing this situation into a disaster like I used to do when I was 17!).

I'm not going to spend much valued time going into the sordid details of my irritating and embarrassing apparent obsession with this person (who is very nice and knows I exist, but it's not that kind of party as far as I know). The most annoying part, apart from the fact that I'm already sort of slacking on school work, is the fact that I'm still not ready to not be single. That doesn't make any sense! There are so many exclamation points in this entry!

All I know is that this emotion, while marginally pleasurable, is death on wheels right now. Make it stop. Please.

Skepticism might be the death of us;

But we’re afraid of the death of logic

Except logically there is no logic

in a world where the sky is blue.

We don’t believe in shadows

But shadows are everywhere we walk

And no matter how far we walk

The old ways are the only ways with magic.

~Tricia~

I haven't yet decided if writing is a way of escaping the life that involves everyday things like feeding yourself and making sure your rent is paid, and hoping and praying that members of your family survive another day (because life is sometimes an interminable jungle of things), or if writing is an everyday thing, like talking to oneself in the mirror in the morning before teaching a class of young and possibly uninterested students.

But it helps regardless, helps me to organize the bits. Put some of it into black mental boxes for future sorting at appropriate times. In my mind I write titles. There are a few that say "Childhood", one that says "Places to Travel", one named "Things that Scare Me". That one overflows. There needs to be at least three more boxes to fit all of those bits. But I refuse to produce them. They will all eventually fit into one box. One says "People I love", but inside that one are smaller boxes, with further categories and many with names. This box sits directly next to "Worries". That box has no cover; no need since it's always open. Some boxes have deep insides and never-ending bottoms; the better to fit more bits in.

It's all the same in the real world, but sometimes writing is the only way the constant grasping at the smoke that is control, that is comfort, that is some form of understanding life becomes bearable.

It has taken me some time to realize that to cry, to let free frustration and fear, to admit to some vulnerability is actually a form of strength...particularly when you can accept these things, the vulnerability and fear, as being real but not enough to slow you down.

I cried two days ago (for a combination of reasons including physical pain as well as emotional stress), silent tears behind a hand clasped over my mouth at first, almost choking on my hurt, my fear. But soon I was crying, sobs and gasps for air and I made no attempt to wipe away the tears. It was startling to hear myself; whimpers and sobs echoing in the room. It had been a while since I'd heard myself cry. I'd cried recently enough (preparation for this recent move almost across country has taxed me) but mostly in silence. This most recent time was not unexpected but still a bit scary, a bit unorthodox. And yet I feel like I've had a bit of a revelation because of it.

 I am strong.

Several people on several different occasions have had cause to say this to me, and I always took the compliment without really listening, without really acknowledging what it meant. It had never occurred to me that I possessed any kind of strength, let alone enough for people to see it. True enough I've done many things on my own, taken care of myself for a very long time and I've managed to achieve a level of responsibility as well as accomplishments that are perhaps impressive to some people (to me most days too, when I allow myself to be impressed). Honestly though I haven't given any of it much thought. Everything I've done seemed like a natural progression...sort of. I have had some trials, and sometimes wondered if quitting weren't the best option, but I almost felt at all those times like quitting wasn't ever a serious option. A change maybe, but not quitting entirely.

I've always felt that because I don't have as clear a vision or a passionate goal that I'm working towards in mind as some people I've come to know over the years my accomplishments were...so so.  An accomplishment yes, but to what end? I have no end in mind. Never really have. Finished my undergrad degree and didn't think twice about going to graduate school. It was the obvious next step, not because I had a dream job in mind (aside from traveling and making money off of it), but because it seemed like the next step. I'm on to the PhD now with a bit of a clearer sense of where I'm headed, but only vaguely because I realize there is some comfort in that vagueness for me. There has always been something terrifying about knowing my future. I have no idea why. And yet there is the part of me that wishes I had an acceptable response for people and the quizzical look I get every time I explain to them that I'm getting a PhD in Folklore (my own mother asked how I'd find a job when I'm done over the phone yesterday). A part of me does realize I need to write the vision and make it plain. A part of me realizes that I do actually have a vision, and end in mind but maybe one that I don't entirely believe I can have, and so my goals seem hazy. But there is always something we want. Something we think we can do, that we're good at. That we have some passion for.

I've moved to a state about a 12 hour drive from the only place I've ever really known to live on my own for about three to four years (God willing! I refuse to be here much longer than that) and I did it despite the fear and the doubt in my heart. I intend to do something out here. I intend to get what I came for and do something with it. And while I'm here maybe I'll make a little bit of a difference to someone.

I am strong, and I must continue to remember that.

The point of blogging, apparently, is to write. To keep writing, talking, as it were to yourself, to the people who happen to stumble upon you talking to yourself, and those who have subscribed specifically to read as you talk to yourself. I've mentioned multiple times about the sparseness of my writing as of late. This spareness hasn't only been relegated to my blogging (if I can even call is that anymore), but to other areas in which I am expected to write. Thankfully at the moment I have no homework, no real responsibility (that is, until I move in two days and get acclimated with all that is academia again), except for the articles I'm expected to write for the magazine that I contribute to (one of which I'm working in conjunction with this blog...I gotta make up for not writing by multi-tasking my writing).

I've come to a realization after endless back and forth sessions in my head. I need to be able to find a useful and meaningful "distraction", a hobby that is reminiscent of me when I'm back in school. In life really. We are, mostly, a sum of what we do. That includes our interactions with people and all that. Anyway. There's a lot more to my theory, which I won't bore you with here. In any case, I need to have some more action verbs in my life. Healthy distractions. Writing, naturally, should be one. Hopefully that means more writing here. More writing elsewhere too. For money maybe? That sounds a bit dirty (but honestly to get paid for writing..something. Anything...ok maybe not anything...would be excellent).

In other news I move in two days. Fairly certain I mentioned that, but figured I'd throw it in there again. I've just accepted the fact that I will look (and probably feel) like a bag lady until the move is done, and I've at least got a bed to sleep in again. It occurs to me that I've mentioned probably at least three moves during my tenure on xanga. A true chronicling of life, this little place. This move is decidedly more permanent (well the state is anyway. Though I adore my future new apartment I don't know if any horrors await until I get there). Just think, soon I'll be posting Thanksgiving and Christmas apartment pics like I've done in the past. A small part of me is finally getting excited, if not for the change in life, then certainly for the decorating possibilities .

I have approximately two weeks left on the east coast before moving inland, midwest-ish to Bloomington, Indiana for my PhD. For months I've been having mini panic attacks of sorts; mild things involving no screaming or crying or the stomping of feet, but panic attacks nonetheless. Fear, primarily, is at the root of them all. I have no idea what Bloomington is like, aside from the weekend I spent there in May (the first day of which I called my sister and declared I hated it) where I discovered that it is an hour from a major metropolitan area and is chock full of beautiful, green and plentiful trees (which mostly delights me, but also makes me wonder whether I will go crazy because of all the quiet and non-smog infused air). I move in two weeks, and I'm realizing it is the farthest I have ever moved on my own, and that I'll be there for a longish period of time (3 years if I'm lucky, 4 years at most). I know no one out there really, except for my ex who lives in Chicago, which is decidedly very much north of Bloomington (and in a different state), and an Indiana U student who used to work at my undergraduate institution (but I don't really intend to bother him very much).

I'll be living in a fabulously cute apartment, but by myself and off campus. Enter the fear. There are a few obvious things to be afraid of: not making friends, doing horribly at school, being shunned by all of Indiana. Clearly these things are next to impossible ( I might manage to get shunned by most of Bloomington...possibly). Really I'm just not looking forward to the work it takes to build a whole new life. To cultivate new friendships, and potentially a romantic involvement (apparently necessary since people seem to think I'll come back from Bloomington engaged, or married with children, or not come back from Bloomington at all because I got engaged, married and had kids there...). The work I'll need to do to succeed academically (which I unequivocally intend to do). The work it'll take to keep myself sane. The work will all get done, but it will be tiring and laborious. I suspect though that much of it will be fun and obviously rewarding. For the moment I think I'm just holding on to the fear because maybe I think I need to.

So, I have two weeks. And during those two weeks I intend to use my time wisely. Tonight I am at a small Bed and Breakfast in Pennsylvania. I have never ventured to stay in one of these before, and some time ago during a particularly large panic attack I decided to book this place for one night to clear my head. To relax. So far it has been wonderful. Creaky wooden stairs. A one eyed white fluffy dog who jingles when he walks. Floorboards older than anything I own, or could conceive of owning. Clean, but lived in rooms. Wooden armoires of deeply dark colored wood. Fresh cut flowers in a painted vase. Jazz on a small clock radio near the bed. Brightly colored quilt and a white stuffed bunny on the bed. A cookie on a small silver platter brought up and placed in the room by one of the inn owners. Excellent, all of it. I intend to fill the tub down the hall with warm soapy water and sit surrounded by sandal wood scented tea light candles. I also intend to read a book, perhaps in its entirety, in this bed tonight.

No fear tonight. None at all.

The back of my hands smell like sandalwood body butter. I keep smelling them as my hands move around, keep lifting them, one at a time, to my nose. There was rain today. Torrential and loud. And now the sky is dry and everything seems scrubbed. Light and clean. Freshly washed sun.

It's hard to talk today. To think even, because there would be too much to say and far too much for my mind. Instead there are snippets, bits. A breeze. The smell of grass. I only allow the senses to process but so much. Anything more would be over load, and I will not allow for over load today.

Instead I light a candle. Listen to the vague sounds of remaining thunder. Plan distraction for the remainder of the evening. Step lightly. Speak softly, if at all.

Wait for daylight.

I'll be back here soon. I can feel it. Already I'm reading and commenting, and generally feeling like I'm going around and saying hi to neighbors and sharing cake after being away for some time. I don't have cake, but I'm saying hi, slowly.Life has not been uneventful necessarily, but I think I'm learning to work things out in different ways these days, these months. This year really. Life. All one can do is learn. Or, I suppose, not live anymore. But where's the fun in that?

Yeah. I'll be back. Sooner than you think.

I only joined twitter because my favorite author (i.e Neil Gaiman) mentioned it on his blog, and since I have an unhealthy crush on all that is that man, I joined so I could follow his tweets. I am unashamed.

At first I really didn't know what to say within the 140 character limit, and found myself talking in third person like facebook's little text box forces one to do if one's sentences are to make sense. It soon became obvious though that with twitter you could literally say whatever you want...with 140 characters however you wanted.  I am now a bit of a twitter addict. I haven't given up facebook yet and probably won't, mostly because my friend threatened to unfriend me in real life if I deactivated my page, but also because facebook also allows me to do what twitter has let me perfect: the art of short, random but enlightening sentences.

I won't divulge how many updates a day I make, but I will say that they range from commentary on the nature of pick up lines (as yelled by two men from a truck in my general direction while walking along the sidewalk) to the largeness and oddness of life. I've realized, in a circumlocuted sort of way, that I am much better at writing short things, vignettes, moments, thoughts, things without a general focus or story line (as evidenced by the decided scarcity of short stories on my laptop). Some day I'll learn to capitalize on that.

At the moment though, this is much longer than 140 characters, and I'm spent.

I miss writing. That's sort of a weird thing to say really because writing, like walking or singing or breathing, is just one of those things you can just do. Anywhere. And in any format you want. I haven't actually used a pencil to write anything in ages, but I could if I wanted to.

The thing is, I miss writing for the heck of it. Come to think of it, I can't honestly say that I've done that since I was, oh I don't know, very little and making books out of old notebook paper and sewing the pages together with my grandmother's needle and thread. I used to write for the heck of it then. About farm animals and little girls and Bengal tigers. I didn't know what Bengal tigers actually were or what they looked like, but I wrote (and illustrated, and edited to a certain extent).

When I was in high school I'd get inspired by the summer, by a movie, by the way the trees talked to each other, or by a single line that I thought I could fit expertly into some dialogue in some story I hadn't actually thought out yet, but boy that line was cool. I had notebooks, still have notebooks of half started tales, of family secrets and destined lovers and rape and intrigue and mystery. None of them have endings. None of them have middles really. Just shadows. Ideas. Thoughts. I can't finish them. I really don't think I will. I think if/when I do get something published it will be entirely new, different. Better somehow? I don't know. I know I have it in me. I know I could create something, fashion something I can be proud of, can introduce to the world.

I think I'm almost afraid to try.