Friday, December 09, 2005
At Last, A Quality Snow
Four years at Syracuse University has given me many things: Enormous student loan debt, a questionable attitude towards alcohol and, most importantly, an appreciation of snow. It just wasn't a semester until the snow started falling, usually in early November.
The first time this happened as a freshman it freaked me out. Then I realized the snow wasn't going anywhere, and I adjusted. By the end of the first semester I would walk to my finals wearing nothing but a big flannel shirt, a hat, gloves and scarf. I made sure I would never be mistaken for a silly newbie.
I was happy to see New York City blanketed in snow today. Those big, thick flakes were reminiscent of Syracuse. The kids at the school across the street from me were having a snowball fight, and so I took a photo of it. My socks are still a little wet from my ghetto boots that don't seem to be water proof. Nevertheless, snow is welcome, especially in December.
Insomniac:
Sleeping has not been my forte lately. There are two versions of it: I'll either fall asleep at a normal hour and then wake up at 4:00 AM, ready to run, or I'll pass out at 8:00 AM and wake up again at midnight with nothing to do.
Yesterday I fell asleep around 8:00 PM , only to find myself wide-eyed at midnight. My back hurt a little so I popped a Darvocet and sat down to start my Christmas cards. Three people had already sent me cards, which only reminded me how I was slacking.
I popped a few CDs into the stereo and sat down with my cards, labels, Rolodex, address book and a few good pens. My first CD was John Mayer's Heavier Things, an album I thought had been stolen from me two years ago. I had been listening to it while on an overnight shift in 2003 and suddenly it disappeared. I thought I had left it in one of the computers at work and someone had walked off with it. In fact, for two years I had been secretly blaming one guy in particular for taking it.
Then last week while moving my furniture around I found a copy of Miles Davis' Bitches Brew, one of my favorite albums of his. I opened it up to slip it into the stereo, and there was Mayer's album.
Heavier Things didn't get the greatest reviews across the boards, and admittedly I was a little underwhelmed the first time I heard it. But since I've been spending some time with the album lately, I have a new perspective on it. For whatever reason, the album reminds me of driving around the back roads of Fairfield County, CT, twisting about and looking at all the pretty houses. Heavier Things is a mellow body of music, and I think sometimes that's what someone needs, especially when it's one o'clock in the morning and they're writing Christmas cards.
I also listened to Herbie Hancock's Cantaloupe Island and Kenny Rogers' Greatest Hits. I just can't shake that guy.
1997:
While writing up the Christmas cards this morning, I stopped and marveled at how mellow I felt. Make no mistake about it: I am a spaz. I lose things. I forget to take out the trash. I leave my clothes hanging dry in the shower for days after they could be folded away. But last night, as I licked and folded and tried my hardest to come up with witticisms for everyone's cards, I realized that the last time I was this calm was December, 1997.
I had just finished the first half of my junior year at Syracuse. I was 20 years old. 1997 was when I discovered the joys of long-distance running and fell into my stride as a writer. I spent that summer working as a receptionist at an insurance company in Stamford, making a whopping $5,000 in four months. I spent most of that money on cool clothes and trips around the tri-state area. It was one of the times in my life that I never worried about cash. I also drove a car, a 1984 Ford Ranger pick up truck, the first and probably only time in my life I drove on a regular basis.
That first semester of junior year was an important one. I earned a 3.5 GPA while living in my sorority house and partying like it was going out of style. I wore little tank dresses and Blue Asphalt jeans. I met an aspiring poet named Jon and we spent many a snowstormy night in his spacious apartment, watching The Simpsons and discovering the pleasures of the flesh.
During the month or so that I was home between semesters I worked at the Victoria's Secret at the Stamford Mall, helping clueless men pick out bras for their wives and girlfriends. When asked for the ladies's bra size, some guys would say they were "a handfull" while others would tell me they were "chesty, like you, sweetie."
When I was at home I would sit up in my room and read Tobias Wolfe short stories or try to figure out a computer game about The Titanic in which I had to stop the ship from sinking and save a rubiyat. I was at a crossroads, from being a confused undergrad to focusing on writing and getting to know the art better. (I soon did, although I'm still working on understanding the people in the writing world better. Y'all are a little nutz.)
In 1997, particurally in the fall and winter, I moved on to The Next Level.
1997 was a great year. 2005 has been a great year. They are 8 years apart. In Chinese culture, the number 8 is supposed to be good luck. I'm starting to believe it.
