Off the Record

My best friend Janelle is moving away. She is taking a chance and heading to Colorado with her boyfriend to live in a small "cabin" in the middle of Breckenridge. She has no job yet, a bit of savings and a carfull of memories. As of yet she hasn't expressed any fear of leaving her family or her friends or the only city she's ever known besides Geneva. She knows how to be with herself and she knows what she wants. She wisely cherishes her independence and separates her time among friends and family and her boyfriend. She's consistently been my oldes friend at Webster. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't teary-eyed thinking of her departure. This girl knows what she wants and won't stand for any less. She's a lot like who I used to be, when I was in school and busied myself with mulitple activities at the same time. I love you, Janelle. Good luck.

Between the Webster Conservatory students and the Nerinx Hall schoolgirls, I, for the first time in a week of being back, wished that I was still in Spain. The soy Cappuccino was my only consolation, soothing my palette and my soul like nothing else could. I had offers and opportunities and occasional optimism, but my general feeling was that of emptiness. Things weren’t the same anymore; not necessarily good or bad, just not the same.

I've received mixed signals about what to do with my life. Some say it's about time I got my act together and found a real job with benefits and full-time and a nice wardrobe. Others are telling me to live the next year of my life doing what I enjoy the most, taking it easy and seeing the world. I'm sure there's some middle ground there, where I enjoy doing something full-time and dressed in a pantsuit and heels. I've only been back a week, however. My car has broken down once. And I'm almost out of money. I have about eight potential means of employment lined up, all awaiting approval from some higher-up, I'm sure. I'm not discouraged. Yet.

No internet at my fingertips means a delay in my inspiration's fluidity. Please forgive me.

The thing about coming back to the United States after leaving for so long is that it never feels like you've left. New buildings may be erected, people may have gotten fat and your best friend may have moved to a different state, but America is still America no matter how long it misses you. I'm in the midst of moving, figuring out who I like and discovering that my beer options here certainly exceed those in Spain. I'm finding that clothes I bought in the 7th grade fit me again and that the bulk of my possessions is clothing. I am exhausted in a way that I'm ignoring and I'm starving for someone else to cook me food. All I want is to sit in a car and drive down highway 40 at night with my nose pressed against the window or hanging out of it. I want to spend time alone or with one person only. I feel socially inadequate, completely unable to carry on any sort of decipherable conversation. Yes, I'm back, but I'm not all there.

What inspiration for writing I lost, I'm not quite sure. My mom is here. Does that make a difference? I've been in the city every single day for the past week. Does that make any difference? I'm tired. And my feet hurt. And I'm beginning to pack. Anjelica Huston is on the TV with Woody Allen right now. Things are a'changin'. Opportunities are arising. And some are falling back down. And others stay the same. Like my option to go back to work at a restaurant just cause I need the money. I can't wait to drive again. And talk on my cell phone. And sit in Forest Park. And...

Today it felt like Switzerland: it was cold and dreary and grey. It made me want to be in Switzerland, feeling cold and dreary and grey. Fog rolled over the nearby hills, covering the very tips where the goats would nibble and roam. Rain came intermittently as the clouds would form over the lake from the Mont Blanc. And I could not see the water, as I could not see the mountains, from the clouds and rain forming over the lake. My room sat empty, cleaned out for my mother, one day late to arrive, whose mistake I am not sure. I wore my favorite new sweater, tight around the edges but loose in the sleeves, with my grey sweatpants whose color was like today. On days like these I'm content not being content. And I would kill for more feelings of the same kind. Where you know you can't do anything about anything--you just have to wait. The sun started to shine as the rain kept falling, telling me that it is, in fact, possible to be happy while feeling sad.

"Since I had some down time between live shots I decided that I needed to do something for you. I started a "Bring Sarah Home" campaign. I was stapling flyers to telephone poles, spray painting walls, yelling on a megaphone, buying spots on the radio . . . whatever it takes to "Bring Sarah Home". I was building quite a following for awhile. I had several people from the Sand Bar on board and a couple of wanderers claimed to approve of bringing you home. I'm not sure why exactly, but the police shut me down. They claimed some type of ongoing investigation into some dealings you are having at Fast Eddie's. I was forced to take down all of my flyers and paint over the graffiti. After some legal wrangling we struck a deal for a new campaign . . . we called it "Let Sarah Get On With Her Life". The police are pulling people over for the tiniest of infractions and putting aside all the $ in a fund for you to be able to get on with your life. I'm not sure why they have decided to jump on the bandwagon now . . . I personally felt that bringing you home was in the best interest of everybody . . . police are funny that way." ------Thanks for the write-up, EG.

Once you said, while smelling the desert air, that you liked the smell of rain in the desert. It was different than regular rain, and it was kind of comforting. Today I smelled rain in the mountains and on the beach and in the village, and now I know what you mean about it being different and kind of comforting.

When was it we learned that Crayola markers do not write on balloons? Or that ballpoint pens would only pop them? And that permanant markers are the only way to do it? Did someone tell us this or did we figure it out by trial and error or did we really sit down and think, "Crayola's are washable, and balloons are made of latex, which is a water-based substance. It's not possible that this ink would ever stick to such a surface!" What about the fact that cardboard will not survive in water, even if you dress it up like a pirate boat? Maybe it's something we saw on TV. Or maybe humans are actually kinda smart. No, I think it's just something we saw on TV...