Sarah Lawrence College Class of 2010 had their commencement ceremony the other week. I caught some of it on the live feed (mostly Julianna Margulies' address and enough of the conferring of degrees to see a few people I know walk across the stage), but then I turned it off. That's quite a bit how I experienced my own commencement ceremony, to be honest. I sat in the audience, enjoyed hearing the readings and speeches, collected my diploma, had a compulsory glass or two of champagne as everyone milled on the North Lawn, but then I left with my parents. I didn't do goodbyes. I don't do goodbyes.

Maybe it's because I didn't really feel close with my graduating class. Maybe that's a bad thing.

See, I've noticed the proliferation of messages and notes and status updates on FaceBook of my friends declaring their love for each other and mourning the end of those four years and pledging to see one another again just as soon as goddamned possible. Something's probably wrong with me, you know, not having that at SLC, not really wanting it, by the time the end came around.

See, it went like this: My first year was hard, but I made friends with the people I lived with. I stayed friends with them as the second year started, but I lived apart from them and was caught up in overexercising and undereating, which upset a few of them who had their own eating issues and couldn't be around me as a result. So we fell apart. Then I went to Oxford where I fell in love with friends for the first time ever, and by the time I got back to SLC, I was still mourning my loss of Oxford and I only had one term left, so it just "wasn't worth it" to try to make new friends. And then I left.

Maybe I missed out, maybe I AM missing out. I can't help but wonder if this is all going to happen again at UCL, but compressed into one year instead of four, and if I'll deal with it the same, or if I'll just hold on to my Oxford/London friends and not even bother to make new ones ... I don't know if I still can make new ones.

Just a Little Higher

The roof of my garage is more perfect that I can remember. Whether sipping a heavy Cabernet and reading an scholastic analysis of the city of Oxford in literature or drinking Redhook ESB and listening to Ke$ha with newly old friends, it's simply excellent.

The sun hits it completely, covering every inch that isn't hidden by the deep green grape vines that crawl up the side of the structure. The breezes can be rare or lullingly regular, and a cube of ice on the small of your back is shockingly refreshing until you forget about it and it's just another part of the atmosphere.

Alone or with friends, quietly shimmering or glittering with excitement, there's nothing like this space, lifted just 12 feet above the grimy, glittery, false little city.

Yes, I've rediscovered my favorite place in Los Angeles.

Reminiscence

A friend of mine wrote on her FaceBook that she's increasingly ready to be done with Sarah Lawrence (she has two months till she graduates) and it reminded me of how I felt a year and a half ago in my last term at SLC. I laughed to myself as I thought about how it was like being at the end of a long, ready-to-end relationship. I commented thusly on her page, but without warning it went from funny to almost sappy.

It's like the end of a long relationship that has fizzled out. You know that you want out and maybe you're even keeping an eye out for other boys (or grad schools) and everything it does a even little wrong grates on your nerves, but for whatever reasons (his mom just died, you still have months of classes/thesis work left), you can't end it yet. So you sit and let it fester, growing ever more resentful with each new frustration or old habit of chewing noisily.

Of course there will be beautiful moments when you're still in harmony, when he makes you laugh like you used to, when you're drinking red wine on cool spring nights with your friends on the South Lawn or smoke a cigarette under the willow in Slonim Circle. Those moments will make you think, "Hey, it's not so bad. We can make this work. I may not be in love anymore, but if I can just know that we'll have more moments like this, it'll be worth it."

The anxiety, even the beauty, won't last; few things do.

When it's done, when you're gone, you might think wistfully back on those moments, but for the most part you'll be willing and able to let it all go. Even so, Lady Lawrence will always hold a special place in your heart.

Maybe, despite some of the rough times I had at SLC, I still love it. Maybe, despite some of the pain and desecration and heartbreak I experienced with Dan, I can still look back on our relationship with a bit of affection. Maybe.

Inspired by To-day, by Yeterday, and by To-morrow

Quiz on life/Observational humor, inspired by things I witnessed to-day:

"Oh, shit, I didn't take my Tylenol PM on time because I was distracted by my wine-drinking."
[ ] True
[ ] False.

Bonus question: "I self-medicate because, ohmigawd, I had to sit in the waiting room for 45 minutes, despite having set up an appointment ages ago. Medication via doctor takes too much time/effort/money."
[ ] True
[ ] False.

Bonus question #2: "My self-medication is a manifestation of my self-awareness. "
[ ] True
[ ] False
[ ] see latfh.com

Bonus meta-question: "The fact that I am self-aware enough to understand that my self-medication is, in part, a result of my self awareness ... that doesn't count, right?"
[ ] True
[ ] False
[ ] ... I have the number of a really great guy ...

With a Crunchy Outer Shell

I've been having a conversation via messages with a friend and in reference to my rejection from Oxford, I wrote the following. I decided that we're not quite close enough for me to send it to her, but I felt it was unusually honest and I didn't want to lose it.

I'm sure UCL will be a wonderful experience for me. I mourned Oxford for a day or two before coming to my senses, but I think the shock and resignation have faded and I feel the beginnings of bitterness stirring in my blood. Or perhaps that's just who I am these days. I was so stoic and together during most of my sophomore year and my year in Oxford, and I have been so pained since my return to the States, but the residue of these feelings seems to have hardened into bitterness, cynicism, and misanthropy.

Reject (n.)

I tried to prepare myself for it, I tried really hard. I thought of how I would feel and what I would think and what I would put as my FaceBook status (I know, shut up). But still, getting the rejection letter just knocked the wind out of me. I crumpled up, face and body, and started crying.

I just wanted it so badly, and a part of me (perhaps a larger part than I realized, a much larger part than is sensible) really thought I would get into Oxford.

If you need me, I'll be curled up on my bedroom floor, crying, with a bottle of wine clutched to my chest.

For the Future

So! Hey! I got into UCL!

Yes, that's right. Graduate school. In London. Me. Graduate school. It seems I'm still processing that information, no? I'm also waiting to hear back from Oxford, which is undoubtedly my first choice. (Just so you know, UCL would be a one-year taught MA programme in European History, while Oxford would be a two-year research MPhil programme is Modern British and European History. Better. Plus, in Oxford, so DOUBLE BETTER.)

I was very excited when I received the letter from UCL, as might be expected, since I don't think I really believed I would be accepted anywhere. Of course Daddy Dearest manage to take all the joy out of the experience. He and I don't talk -- like, at all -- so I thought it would be a nice gesture for me to share my good news with him. After a half-hearted "Congratulations," his first words were "How much is this going to cost?" and "What are you going to do to get this money?" Yes, these practical questions are important, but do they need to be the first thing he says to me? Can't he just let me enjoy the moment? Besides, I'm not asking my parents for any money on this -- I'm saving up money to spend and taking out loans for tuition and expenses if I don't get any scholarships. But as daddies do, he motherfucking killed the joybuzz.

In any case, if I get into Oxford, I won't let him do that. This might sound petty, but I just won't tell him I got in. There's actually no reason for him to know, since he's not involved in my life, I won't be asking him for money for school, and he'll never visit me. And this way I won't give him the satisfaction of taking away my joy and I won't have to give any of it up.

Whew. That does all sound a bit overly-emotional and childish, but considering our "relationship," I think it's pretty much par for the course. I don't know why I'm all upset about it really.

In any case: GRADUATE SCHOOL. ME.

City of Angels

"Sometimes you forget how mad this city is, and then you get on the roads and you see it up close and personal, smell the rotten stink of insanity on her breath. The people may seem like polite, well-mannered, well-adjusted folks, but then you hit those streets and you see how miserable they really are. There’s no regard for the sanctity of human life - mine, yours, their own - on these concrete rivers. Sometimes you’ll turn a corner and they’ll just be standing there in the middle of the road: Blank. Unaware. Waiting. Hoping. Praying for the sweet release of death."

-- Robert Brockway on Los Angeles

PS OK, this is really a bit from a nonsensical comedy piece of his on Cracked.com, but it is so brilliantly accurate.

Put the Kettle On

My good friends, the world is not flat (http://www.myspace.com/theworldisnotflat -- ohmigoodness, what a beautiful banner), have released a new album. As a friend and a FAN! (fan!), I bought it; it arrived this week. But! But. This album ("to both sides, dear") makes me feel so alone and warm and angry and strong and tired and pained and sad and renewed and (maybe?) hopeful. (I believe these emotions echo some of the the ones I felt when I heard their first CD.) This album is full of memories of the only place I've ever loved and the only me I've ever wanted to be.

I know there are many, many other influences and inspirations for this album, but the lyrics seem to have come from my own pain, my own pleasure, my own heart; "If I had to choose a place the day they run out of fuel and have to ground all the planes, you know that I would choose right here in this big, old house with you." It's January in England.

Gawd, I don't want to be repetitive, but Oxford, I miss you, I love you, I want you, I need you.

Roxy and Chris, you are everything I always wanted to be but never could.

I Stand Corrected

I don't have to be angry all the time! To-day is what I would call a Good Day, and it's not even 1pm.

Cases in point:
*I didn't want to go to the gym, but I convinced myself to anyway, and I ended up having a good workout.
*While at the gym, the girl I've been eyeing and chatting with for a while asked for my number and e-mail address. (OK, not like THAT, it's because she's going on tour with GUNS 'N' ROSES as their MASSAGE THERAPIST for at least six months and she wants to keep in touch. DO YOU SEE WHY SHE IS SO COOL? Plus, you know how most people sweat when they work out? She just glows.)
*Just after that I found a quarter, heads-up on the floor.
*A friend gave me something I've been waiting for for a few days.
*I was reminded that WORDS ARE SO COOL. This job can be mind-numbingly mechanical at times, but now and again, I come across something here that really makes me happy. Like WORDS.

Oh, and!
*Last night I booked my flight to return to Oxford for a few days in the Spring and attend my very first Wadstock.
*Last night was the first evening in weeks that I didn't get drunk and sad and alone. I've been regularly having incredible amounts of lousy wine every day, but I'm going to take a break from that now. And I began it yesterday.

Life's not all lousy.

Default

Anger is my default mode.

Lately when I've been frustrated or fearful about my applications or lonely and cold in the Los Angeles sun or when I see the ones I love so far away loving each other and I think of my impotence a fear, I just get angry.

I am so angry at myself for letting myself love when I said I wouldn't, for drinking with you till we couldn't talk and I crawled into your bed to not-talk again, for drinking alone till I couldn't walk or keep things straight in my head, for studying so hard I didn't find time to fit myself between the two of you, and for slacking off and ruining my chances to ever do it again.

I have been so angry in my sadness lately, and the self-loathing means I'm even more alone. When did this happen?

Straws

Lately, the only honest, non-stilted writing I do is when I am all-a-drink-a-roo. It is not good or safe or peaceful; it is rarely inspired. But this is something I scribbled last night, this is some piece of my soul as I grasp at familiar-but-fading straws:

The closest you'll have to something upon which to depend is the mist of your favorite perfume on your wrist. Perhaps then you won't feel so alone under the covers, resting your head against your arm (skinonskin) in the dark. When it fades too soon, you press the glass edge of the empty bottle to your veins, not even a drop left to spray, hoping to catch some scent upon your skin.

It's gone. All. Gone.

YOU ARE ALONE.

Ad-dick-shun

Things I've (Lately) Worried I'm Addicted To:
Work
Alcohol
Being Busy
Cheese
Feeling needed
Cocaine
Attention

Things That Make Me Think There are Other Things to Worry About:
Work
My dad coming into my room with produce in his hands asking, "Rina, can you tell me which of these is a pomegranate and which is a persimmon?"
My dad coming into my room fewer than five minutes later asking, "Rina, wait, I forgot, can you tell me again? Which of these is a pomegranate and which is a persimmon?"
Graduate school applications and all the strings attached, especially my referees. In this category, the health problems my referees have had; they put my "needs" in perspective
Sleep
So much art coming in at work; the whole lot of it makes me feel like a teeny, tiny cog in the whole operation.

In any case, I need to focus on:
Applications
Work
Sleep

I think this is what "Life" is supposed to be. I'm not looking forward to it.

Dear Jon Hamm, Please Come Back, Love Rina

I spent a few hours with sort-of-friends to-night and even carved my very first pumpkin ever, but now it's 1.30am and time to go to sleep and I'm painfully lonely. So lonely, in fact, that I hope a character from a dream I had last night comes back to my dreams to-night so I don't feel lonely anymore. I mean, this is a fictional character who appeared (as himself) IN A DREAM and I still want him to come back. To my DREAMS.

Fucked. Up.

And it's not that I'm alone all the time -- I'm never ALONE and I'm often with people I sort of like. But still: Don Draper playing Jon Hamm playing Don Draper loving me (dreams are complicated, duh), come back. Please.

Truthen Drunkery

So, I got drunk. I wrote what I felt, and then I tried to read it again when I was sober. Here's my best bet:

We're having some weather around these parts. When I say weather, I mean wind. But my cigarettes, they're weather-y -- they taste like they used to: smokey, tobacco-y I'm [...] but maybe it's the text from the one woman I love. Things seem real again. She's the only girl I could see myself spending my life with. She's [...] this is fucked up and I used to be able to read the words of my soul but I will never be able to read these words again. [...] writing these [...] used to be able hope. I hope can read these words when I'm sober. Life is a highway. How do I go back to the time when all my cigarettes tasted so good/bad? This is what life is supposed to be. With [...] the cigarettes [...] I don't think happiness is supposed to be a past-file. Life is planned. I don't think she will ever love me like I love her. I'm writing this in the dark. I hope I can read this in the light, because this! This is the moment.

Boss-Man

I'm pretty sure I have the best boss ever. He bought me a car after three months with the company so I wouldn't have to take the bus. He kissed me on the forehead on my birthday and told me I have "many more years to destroy my body." He (and my other boss) bought me a beautiful bouquet of flowers on my birthday. Whenever he can see that I'm stressing out, he asks how I'm doing. And just now? He saw that dazed look on my face again and asked.

See, I had just (a moment before) realized that I'm twenty-two and still living with my folks, without any real idea of when I'm leaving. And hey, even if I do get into grad school (there's a whole 'nother set of anxieties) and go next fall, what about when I'm done there? No marketable skills really come of a master's degree in history -- and then I'll be twenty-FOUR and living with my parents.

So the Boss-Man, he asks, and I tell him and, without a pause, he says, "if there's anything we can do to help you, let me know." And not in that insincere way a lot of people would say that -- he meant, "if you need help finding a place and making rent, let's talk." I mean, this guy, he doesn't just SAY things, he DOES things. He gets thing done. And he's wonderful.

Yeah, I'm living at home at the age of twenty-two and I'm scared and feel a bit useless and I'm spending too much time and money on my addictions and my self-loathing is through the roof and people breathe too close to me, but I have an incredible boss. And he's very nice to look at, too.

Brick

Oh. Shit.

What if I don't get into grad school?

Shitshitshit.

Open Letter to Rachel Shulamit

Dear Baby Frankiel,

You are so cute. All your nicknames are so cute (especially the ones I came up with -- Sully? I mean, your name is Shulamit and you were born just when Pilot Sully landed the plane in the Hudson!). I mean, even when you squawk and squeal, you are cute, so that's saying something. I'm even OK when you cry (most of the time) and I willing to help comfort you (all of the time). But. Dude. All I ask is that you NOT cry and squawk and scream right when I come home from work. I just want a fifteen minute window between parking my car and hearing your shouts.

Please?

Please.

After that, my ears are all yours. Because I love you and you are incredibly cute. I mean, the way that you don't care when you spit up mushed bananas all over your chest and shirt? So adorable (and kinda gross). The way you pet my face when you're tired? Heart-breakingly cute. Even when you pull my hair or earrings or nose -- I mean, as far as I can tell, you have monopolized the Cute Market. Even when you cry in the middle of the night, fine, that's not cute, but I can handle that.

But those fifteen minutes.

Because otherwise, dude, you lose serious Cute Points.

Love,
Rina

PS No matter what your parents say, I'm not "Doda Rina" or "Auntie Rina." Just "Rina." If I'm going to be the Cool Aunt (and I AM -- have you seen my facial piercings? My tattoo?) then I'm just "Rina" to you.

PPS YOU ARE SO CUTE I COULD CRY AND SOMETIMES I DO AND THEN MY OVARIES CRY AND DEAR CHRIST YOU'RE LUCKY I DON'T HAVE A BOY IN MY LIFE BECAUSE I AM TO YOUNG TO GIVE YOU A COUSIN.

Live People Anonymous

At a recent meeting in my brain:

"Hi, my name is Life and I dry up and flake off in little bits when you least expect it, leaving you staring in wonder at me and the little flakey mess I deposit around your home and office. I also love long walks at the beach (where I will dry up and drift away on the ocean breeze) and fluffy puppies (who will grow old and decrepit and die far too soon -- but don't worry, you will die, too)."

"Hi, Life!"

Futile Fire

My, my, how time does pass. I've spent most of the past few months working. It's been really good for me, keeping busy making a bit of money and spending too much of it.

I've been missing Oxford, of course, but in this futile, impotent way. Just missing it without doing anything about it and generally feeling there's not much to be done. I'm applying to grad school there for Fall 2010 and I have plans to visit "at some point" in the next few months. Or few more. But it all seems out of reach or not quite logical. Some times I think about how thrilled I would be to get in to Oxford and how I would celebrate and how it would change my day-to-day. On the other hand, I've thought that if got stuck here for a few more years, would it be so bad? (It would. Wait, would it?)

It's also been hard lately because the SLC kids are going back to that city of dreaming spires and rolling hills and the people that I love this week. When I think about that, I get sick to my stomach and maybe a little angry and just generally desperate. I'm not sure why -- am I jealous? Do I think they'll never appreciate it as much as they should? I know I didn't appreciate it enough. And there will always be people who hate (at least some of) the experience and I hate them for that. The feelings probably also include the anger and frustration with myself for not having made it happen yet ("it" being my return).

Oh, my god, if I could go back in time over and over again, I would relive that year forever. I would Groundhog Day the shit out of Oxford. But I don't have that option. So now begins a new year and a new set of problems and a bundle of fears and obligations and give-upping and recommitting and I have to take it all and relish it all. Maybe one day I'll want to Groundhog Day the shit out of this time.

Oh, hell. I hope not. But just in case ...