how do you begin to write about settling--about your arms feeling heavy, as if they could sink out of their sockets if they just dangled there long enough in idleness. the sickening feeling of literally just spending a day to spend it, to fill it with repetitive tasks of cleaning, and straightening, and justifying not getting out of bed. The satisfaction of a having no fear for money or security, just the slow grinding of dragging your calloused feet through the sand, or maybe even better the grinding it into the concrete slowly wearing down the calluses. It is work that is constant and uneventful and painfully mundane. There is a glint of fear that one day you will shed that last bit of dead skin and reach something pink and tender and go too far. sometimes this desire to keep grinding can only be counteracted by standing on your head.

a difference

There is no urgency here, I felt, a week a go; only routine, the practice of subways and the complete  lack of control to arrive anywhere faster. This city dictates your speed and impresses on you a stillness, a deep breath in the hollowed moments of transit.
and then
The smell in seattle is lovely and the passing of time feels natural, not demarcated by train timetables or event schedules but coffees. There are plum trees and sideboard houses but I still do not think I could live there: it is too light and there is nothing to push against, to lean your weight into, it is gliding.

I want to know you all but I am only made more aware of how many

I met a young woman who ran across the Sahara desert for seven days. Her feet filled with blood so they punctured her toenails to drain them. Then she slept and ate in Florence with her former love who had ran through the desert with her only to say he wasn’t committed. Then the love letters in Geneva-but wouldn’t that be hard? I asked, to be in a relationship with a man from Geneva? I work remotely, I would just move there. She said it with no hesitation. But she wanted the man who ran across the desert with her.

You may think this a lie, but it isn’t.

There is also a woman who quite her job as an automobile engineer to start her own business that sells a contraption that makes friendship bracelets.

When I told them about art handling-they laughed and said it is funny to think of all the jobs in the world. I thought-you sell tutus, carnivorous plants, and friendship bracelet makers. 

This is not exciting to struggle with: nothing. For an absurd sense of fulfillment. To twiddle my thumbs,

and dunk my toes into waters full of unknown troubles only in search of the last string (spring) I can remember left hanging lose.

Or is it, actually, the other way around. Everything else has turned to bright embroidery floss. Tantalizing when presented tidy and organized-like rows of fresh fruit waiting to be handled and then consumed. But in the midst of the overwhelming sense of option-fail to realize that the floss, once untangled, is thin. Hard to hold, impossible to thread. 

Somewhere-I am wading through the colors to find a thick braided rope.

Once again it is an effort to let the fingers move- a perpetual public display of emotion.

Today I saw a dying slug. 

I unpacked boxes full of materials holding memories of space that I had not realize how much I had forgotten. My relationship towards these objects of matter is always a debate-to hold onto because their feel or sensation stirs up such a more concrete and visceral memory, or to let go in the knowledge that I can not hold on to everything and that sometimes we have to strive to see the beauty in the murkiness of the past. 

to make room for new things.

to believe that it isn't the things that matter.

to understand my resentment to those who let things go, delete photos and toss knick knacks but it is sign of something bigger, of a disregard for that time we built together. I am a saver by nature and a purger by circumstance. Two years with only a suitcase has made me lean in my inconsequential belongings but has not taught me how to discern my feelings toward objects.

I am wearing red and have done my make-up perfectly.  My hair is newly washed. 

you are mysteriously still there,  slipping in between the spring blossoms and the blades of cut grass and the glossy rain I watched from my window that spring in Belgrade. You are still lurking in the corners of loose park with the trees that never seem to shift. In all this movement there is stasis and the time folds on top of itself, the seasons casting their shadows as far back as I watch the sun fall through the branches and contemplating what that look on your face might have meant.

Its is looking for a sense of calm-constantly elusive.

The New Year has come and gone, and I have no new year post to post. Perhaps it is due to my current mental state. The fact of the matter is 2011 was a pretty epic year for me, I mean, it was great. I couldn't imagine a better year (well I could, but that would involve things that apparently don't occur in reality, like time traveling or dragons, something of that sort). Anyway, as far as realistic life opportunities, it doesn't get much better than the last 12 months.

Here's the kicker, it is now January 3rd, 2012, and I am dragging myself out of my bed at my parent's house conducting an internal mental debate as to why I should shower and eat breakfast and then proceeding to use every ounce of determination I have to fight the urge to crawl right back into the luxurious bed that seems to be whispering my name anytime I set foot in Kansas City.  I need a job. I need a job, and an apartment, and those things people supposably get when they grow up. I actually WANT to unpack my kitchen things. The looming dread of the job hunt even suffocated my desire to celebrate the new year in any historically precedented style. I did not go to any parties, I didn't dress up in sparkly attire, there were no fireworks, and I didn't even get tipsy. This is natural, right? The impending doom of post-college life. I'm not experiencing anything new or unheard of, especially in this job market. You have born witness to all of this ranting and raving before, from the NYTIMES to your friends and family. Perhaps that is the most staggeringly depressing part of it all: it is simply a predicament not even worth mimicking the standard struggles of and yet it is devastating my internal equilibrium.

In effort to not puppet a scenario that is so common its a drag even when covered by mainstream media, lets turn to the goals I set out a little over a year ago:


In 2011 I hope to: Wake up a little earlier on average. Or come to terms with being someone who sleeps in late. (I came to terms with being someone who sleeps in late, success!) Continue to learn Croatian. (Jucer, pisla sam pismo na hrvatskom, success!) Gain some insight into larger life goals: PhD? Law School? Job? Professional offshore fisherwomen? The last one is a joke. (I'd say, mostly a fail. I did take the LSATs and have an internship all in hopes of gaining insight, however, I'm still left here contemplating such absurdities as offshore fisherwomen...) Take better care of my body. (yes? I think so.) Refuse to be paralyzed by the unknown. (This is a constant struggle, however, I think it is one I gain ground on everyday.) be bold. (Why am I sometimes so cheesy?) Keep track of money like a real adult should. (Success!)