Eighteen ~ Intersections
Dear K-----,
I went to have a look around the small local museum adjacent to the library in town this weekend. I'd been meaning to go for awhile, but it keeps somewhat irregular hours, according to its own rationality which I have yet to divine.
The museum was fairly interesting - a few rooms furnished in the style of a period long-gone, some varied artifacts of times past. A bit of a mish-mash in places, but with the contents being entirely of local nature, it was nice all the same. A jumbled cross-section of the town's history - an old desk from a past school (in the days when wooden school furniture could survive unscathed by the tagging of bored students), a hand-sewn quilt (of actual scraps of clothing, not merely in imitation of), children's board games and glassed-in shelves of countless old books (which I hope one day to be brave enough to ask if I might have a look at). The pool of surnames is so delightfully small - donations in memory of names which match the streets, items used by names which match the headstones I studied last week.
Really, what I wanted to find, was the personal histories the heroines in books always find tucked away in such places - an old diary, a microfilm machine with back issues of the local paper. I suppose I might find the latter on campus... but it's just as well, as I've never gotten on well with microfilm. I continue to be impressed with its simplicity and efficacy, but for whatever reason I have the worst luck in operating them. If anyone begins a project to convert the information into HTML code for use on the Internet, I'd be glad to help. Just don't have me try to turn one of the blasted machines on.
But there are always ways of finding stories - while I was in the post office yesterday, I fell into conversation about baking with the woman handling the box of cookies I was sending M-----. I mentioned a website I frequent, she recommended a book at the library - I'm swapping recipes with people, since when did I become such an adult? (Yet parents passing tell their children "careful, don't bump into the lady"...did they really mean me?) In any case, we chatted briefly on baking, and I went on my way - and in that short exchange, I had a glimpse of the world around her. Of such intersections is life made, far more intricate than any lace or spider's threads. Paths crossed, followed, abandoned, and found again, turns unseen and, of course, roads both taken and not taken. (I hate that poem. I probably wouldn't if everyone in the world didn't think it the most profound thing ever written. My apologies, but Robert Frost is not the be-all and end-all of poetry by any means.)
There, too, are always the stories felt if not told. So many people swirl in endless waves about me on campus, maybe a dozen out of a thousand whose voices I know... but that doesn't prevent me from writing about them all the same. A boy about my age, thin frame hidden in a long dark trench coat, a face hidden from the sunlight by the brim of a black cowboy hat... I've never spoken to him, but I see him often in the cafeteria. And there is such an air about him, mostly mystery I suppose, but also the imagery of a truth-seeking cowboy tinged with the melancholy eyes of a goth... Yet, I once saw him among friends, and for all the times I have felt such a distance between the soul beneath the coat and the world around it, he laughed as bright as any other.
In class one day, I overheard a few girls seated behind me, conversing about someone they knew - a friend's younger brother, if memory serves. And it was not these two peers of mine whose lives I felt a connection with, but this boy... They discussed how sweet and naive he is, how he would be one to always hold the door for you and all, but he wasn't the sort you could actually date, and have any physical sort of relationship with. Whether they said so explicitly or not I can't recall, but in how they spoke of him, I could tell they wanted someone to sully this angel of a boy, if he wasn't that much the younger they would probably have done so already. And I grew afraid, so sad for the loss of the warm innocence of this boy I will probably never meet, though I imagined him so clearly... I can see the deep, caring brown eyes I gave him, the slightly tousled dark hair, the strong arms and slim-but-sturdy frame, dressed well enough in a casual style. I can hear his voice, a little soft but warm and quick to laugh.
The sort of boy that populates my fancy, the sort of boy I find only in old books, but can warm my heart all the same...
And they wanted to dirty him up, they wanted to tarnish his halo and rend his wings.
And without speaking a word to them, or even turning around to look at them, I knew the style of clothing the two girls would have, their hair, their make-up. I knew I'd find them at the bars on the weekends, they could even have been among the crowd at the party I was at (and the only one I intend to attend), draping themselves over the nearest male, only half-aware of their own actions.
For all my time spent listening and watching, I will never understand how, or why, anyone leads such a life...
...but I suppose they could never fathom the quiet joy I find in a bike ride past the vineyards, the warmth I find in solitude.
We're all human, how is it we have such varied definitions of happiness? I know love, in some form, is at the root of most full happinesses, but...
Maybe it's in the loss of self that we're happy. Strange, I know, for such naturally self-centered creatures as us, but think on it a moment. Whether it's delighting in the detail of a sun-lit leaf, the rush of speed in a late-night drive, the ecstasy of physical sensation, the exhaltation of the soul in a song... We're happiest when we've abandoned ourselves to something outside of us.
I suppose this entirely validates Christian doctrine - when we've given our selves into Him, we're at peace - and that's definitely a comfort.
(If only I could have faith enough to trust His arms to carry me.)
I went to have a look around the small local museum adjacent to the library in town this weekend. I'd been meaning to go for awhile, but it keeps somewhat irregular hours, according to its own rationality which I have yet to divine.
The museum was fairly interesting - a few rooms furnished in the style of a period long-gone, some varied artifacts of times past. A bit of a mish-mash in places, but with the contents being entirely of local nature, it was nice all the same. A jumbled cross-section of the town's history - an old desk from a past school (in the days when wooden school furniture could survive unscathed by the tagging of bored students), a hand-sewn quilt (of actual scraps of clothing, not merely in imitation of), children's board games and glassed-in shelves of countless old books (which I hope one day to be brave enough to ask if I might have a look at). The pool of surnames is so delightfully small - donations in memory of names which match the streets, items used by names which match the headstones I studied last week.
Really, what I wanted to find, was the personal histories the heroines in books always find tucked away in such places - an old diary, a microfilm machine with back issues of the local paper. I suppose I might find the latter on campus... but it's just as well, as I've never gotten on well with microfilm. I continue to be impressed with its simplicity and efficacy, but for whatever reason I have the worst luck in operating them. If anyone begins a project to convert the information into HTML code for use on the Internet, I'd be glad to help. Just don't have me try to turn one of the blasted machines on.
But there are always ways of finding stories - while I was in the post office yesterday, I fell into conversation about baking with the woman handling the box of cookies I was sending M-----. I mentioned a website I frequent, she recommended a book at the library - I'm swapping recipes with people, since when did I become such an adult? (Yet parents passing tell their children "careful, don't bump into the lady"...did they really mean me?) In any case, we chatted briefly on baking, and I went on my way - and in that short exchange, I had a glimpse of the world around her. Of such intersections is life made, far more intricate than any lace or spider's threads. Paths crossed, followed, abandoned, and found again, turns unseen and, of course, roads both taken and not taken. (I hate that poem. I probably wouldn't if everyone in the world didn't think it the most profound thing ever written. My apologies, but Robert Frost is not the be-all and end-all of poetry by any means.)
There, too, are always the stories felt if not told. So many people swirl in endless waves about me on campus, maybe a dozen out of a thousand whose voices I know... but that doesn't prevent me from writing about them all the same. A boy about my age, thin frame hidden in a long dark trench coat, a face hidden from the sunlight by the brim of a black cowboy hat... I've never spoken to him, but I see him often in the cafeteria. And there is such an air about him, mostly mystery I suppose, but also the imagery of a truth-seeking cowboy tinged with the melancholy eyes of a goth... Yet, I once saw him among friends, and for all the times I have felt such a distance between the soul beneath the coat and the world around it, he laughed as bright as any other.
In class one day, I overheard a few girls seated behind me, conversing about someone they knew - a friend's younger brother, if memory serves. And it was not these two peers of mine whose lives I felt a connection with, but this boy... They discussed how sweet and naive he is, how he would be one to always hold the door for you and all, but he wasn't the sort you could actually date, and have any physical sort of relationship with. Whether they said so explicitly or not I can't recall, but in how they spoke of him, I could tell they wanted someone to sully this angel of a boy, if he wasn't that much the younger they would probably have done so already. And I grew afraid, so sad for the loss of the warm innocence of this boy I will probably never meet, though I imagined him so clearly... I can see the deep, caring brown eyes I gave him, the slightly tousled dark hair, the strong arms and slim-but-sturdy frame, dressed well enough in a casual style. I can hear his voice, a little soft but warm and quick to laugh.
The sort of boy that populates my fancy, the sort of boy I find only in old books, but can warm my heart all the same...
And they wanted to dirty him up, they wanted to tarnish his halo and rend his wings.
And without speaking a word to them, or even turning around to look at them, I knew the style of clothing the two girls would have, their hair, their make-up. I knew I'd find them at the bars on the weekends, they could even have been among the crowd at the party I was at (and the only one I intend to attend), draping themselves over the nearest male, only half-aware of their own actions.
For all my time spent listening and watching, I will never understand how, or why, anyone leads such a life...
...but I suppose they could never fathom the quiet joy I find in a bike ride past the vineyards, the warmth I find in solitude.
We're all human, how is it we have such varied definitions of happiness? I know love, in some form, is at the root of most full happinesses, but...
Maybe it's in the loss of self that we're happy. Strange, I know, for such naturally self-centered creatures as us, but think on it a moment. Whether it's delighting in the detail of a sun-lit leaf, the rush of speed in a late-night drive, the ecstasy of physical sensation, the exhaltation of the soul in a song... We're happiest when we've abandoned ourselves to something outside of us.
I suppose this entirely validates Christian doctrine - when we've given our selves into Him, we're at peace - and that's definitely a comfort.
(If only I could have faith enough to trust His arms to carry me.)
posted by Melissa | 4:24 PM
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