Installment Two (LA NOVELLA)

I leave work two hours before I have to be at class. My routine is disgustingly boring, and the weight of its monotony is getting heavy to bear. I come home, I eat something and I take the dog out and then I lose myself in a myriad of social networking sites or astrological information and prepare to dull my mind for the three hours ahead of me. I, like an estimated 70% of college students, am getting myself into a deep debt simply so a paper can hang on my wall that says I am an intellectual.

Meanwhile, I sit in class writing letters to my Grandmother or thinking about the day that just passed and never really absorbing what the teacher says. And, for the debt that I have accrued, why don’t I listen? Why don’t I take it in? Because the teacher is reading off of a damn powerpoint that spells word for word what I just read in an overpriced book. I have five classes, and four of them are this way. One of the teachers actually rewards us for reading our textbook by bringing in juice and granola bars. Maybe I am a tad bit rotten when I refuse the juice and mutter under my breathe that I can’t believe I am paying for this and “oh my jesus, are we five?” Then I realize that half of the students, who thanks to my five year break, are all a little too much younger than me, don’t even know who the hell Gandhi is. Then I really feel like I am wasting my time - wasting my days, and I sink deeper into my chair and dream about the park on a 70 degree day or a party where my closest friends from home will be, the ones I left to go chase down this journalism dream, and we will dance all night and laugh and take down drinks like they might be our last. Of course these are things that, in November in Western NY - 250 miles from home, will not happen any time soon. I will not walk out of class and into a beautifully warm park, and I will not be seeing my friends that night. So I dream of it, because our dreams keep us keeping on. I swallow up the memories and sometimes even catch myself closing my eyes and smiling and thinking of the days I didn’t come home to plug through homework or stare mindlessly at a blank screen while wishing, hoping beyond all clear bounds of hope, that some sweet little angel will come along and distract me from all of these grown up thoughts.

When did getting older become such a drag? When did I lose my ability to just fly by the seat of my worn jeans and take off into the night? Was it an ability or an innocence that kept me moving like a gypsy through this graveyard life? Everything dies - god, the truth of that kills me. No pun intended. Everything and everyone will someday cease to exist, and that death doesn’t always come in the form of one last breathe. I just learned that lesson all to well. I mean, who the hell am I, at 26 years old, to take off from a city I know and people I adore to the arctic armpit of NY where I have only two things - my dog and a dream. I will tell you the truth of it - every day the loneliness creeps in and takes a hold of me around the throat like a greedy beggar squeezing the last nickel of life out of me, and I choke. I think - man, what I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee and a long conversation. And it is all out there for the taking, that is what the wise women say - that I just need to march on out my front door, say hello, and spread some of my charisma around the room like a starlet who just got her first big break - just exuberate that electricity.

I think I would rather stay in my damp living room and contemplate how fuzzy the inside of my slippers are and how wonderful it feels to roll my toes around in them. Why? Because people are a fucking chore - they are a task and I am tired. Back where I came from a big portion of that task had already been completed. My friends knew me and I didn’t have to fancy foot “look at me I am just so cool and new school” around them. They knew I am a good girl and they knew I could be bad. That was enough for me because they accepted it. Now to go out that goddamn door and prove that to some other gang of people that I know won’t stick around because I somehow know I don’t belong in this town - the effort fails. I think I would rather sit here and just stare or turn on the record player and trance while immersing myself in those delicious dollar store memories - the ones that are fragile and disjointed and diverse like the plastic toys you buy for .99 cents - you know they won’t last and sooner or later they will fade from your mind, but for now their bright colors just draw your eyes. Oh, those delicious memories.

Then I hear the voice of so many before me that beckon for me to go out and make this world mine. Take a little corner of it and place a stamp on it that says Bella is here and she won’t turn back. Extend a smile or unfold my hands and let someone walk right through that door.

Bullshit. I tried that and I don’t know if I have room for it anymore. Now I know I sound like a bitter old lass sitting around at home knitting and petting a cat while brewing a green tea and thinking about the fate of all my lost loves and cursing the day I let them into my heart (I do all of the above except knit), but really - I am not. I am open to every day, wait, that is a lie - we all say that. We say that every day is a new one and we are open to the experiences that time brings. Not so. We are open to the laughter, the love, the great memories that fill us up and make us puff out our chest and declare that TODAY WAS A GREAT DAY. Some of the unfortunate few (and who am I to call them unfortunate - the jury isn’t out for me to judge) open themselves up to every mishap or break down and hold it in while they desperately fumble to pick up the pieces - all the while loving the fact that something was destroyed that they have to clean up and rebuild. Anyways - my point is - I am not open to every day, but I wish I was. Now someone clever would say - then go out there, girl, make this day work for you. That clever person would be right, that is exactly what I should do. Yet I would retort this to said clever person “and how many times have you walked out the door into this great, wide open world, when the memories tasted sweeter than today? How many times have you left the solitude and comfort of a room with a stereo that was blasting out your favorite record so you can embrace the wide unknown ALONE after placing a faint line of faith into the human race only to have it snipped away by cruel scissors crafted by the judgment of society?”

It just isn’t that easy my friend, because sometimes - not all of the time - the safest place for us might just be in our own head. I didn’t say that was the best place, because the mind is an angry demon who wants to stir you up to break you down when you are already feeling like you can’t get your brain off the pavement. But that demons taunting are safeguarded because we almost always know what the little bastard is going to say. We know that space and that makes the space safe.

I think of all this while waiting for the second hand to spin, spin, spin -- click click click -- around the clock. Then I will walk out my front door and into the dark (its six p.m. in Western NY in November but it looks like ten) and I will wrap my purple scarf tight around my neck, shiver at the cold and the thought of another holiday season alone while smiling graciously at the naïve fools in love, put my earbuds in, turn the music loud and walk in the crisp night to a class that thus far has only taught me that I like coloring with markers and writing letters that fill up the entire blank space of a card.

The walk is short - only a mile to school - but the vicious wind tests my endurance because the knee I abused throughout my life is screaming at me while I continue to place one foot in front of the other -- all while dreaming about the day and the way that this place is going to feel better. That this stage is going to be divine. What? No, I tell myself - I am only here to get some things done. I want nothing more than my mission completed and my name on the magazine street. Liar - I lie a lot when it comes to this - this thing - this devil called
Love.