The KBH.

Sister: I haven't seen her for ten weeks, so naturally, most of our conversation over the past few days has revolved around whether we snore (each sister maintains that she sounds quite ladylike at night while the other sounds like a freight train) and who's more up-to-date with the latest slang (she insists that the word "failure" is so out as of, like, months ago.)

Brother: I can't get enough of him.  As usual.  Has his six-year-old brain been shocked by the ten weeks' worth of love that has been spilling out over a matter of days?

A model in the making.  He put this outfit together all by himself...from our dad's closet.

He invented a new acronym to add to the archives today: KBH.  A KBH describes the act of charging into another person, head-on, and flinging one's arms and legs around them as tightly as possible.  Ladies and gentlemen, the Koala Bear Hug.

Parents: As we settled into these old, forgotten roles, the foundation grew a few cracks.  I am slowly learning to fill them in with measured conversation and heartfelt music.  I am slowly learning to allow the balance to shift, because I am home.  There was a time when I would marvel bitterly at how quickly a pleasant day could turn sour and terse.  I am slowly learning to notice that with some patience, the converse can happen as well.

P.S. I wonder whether it is possible to upload my songs to this blog.

Five minutes with my shadow

The lukewarm black coffee in my favorite mug from home is glinting in the slats of lukewarm afternoon light through the blinds.  After just a few days of tangy Earl Grey and giddy hopefulness, I've regressed to my reliable addictions to caffeine and mournful Hindi music (lyrics and translation here).  True, they are hampering my progress on my Baroque Music research paper.  But that can't possibly be more important than how I just spent the last five minutes.

I turned on my bedside lamp so the wall beside me glowed a soft, dilute orange.  Before I quite understood why, I lifted my right hand off the keyboard, rested it gently on the wall.  I allowed myself to pretend for a moment that the shadow was a real hand, someone's hand, the perfect complement to my hand, just about to curl its fingers between mine and squeeze my palm.  I  reached around behind me then (with my other hand) and turned off the light.  Alone, now...my hand was alone.  The shadow, just within my grasp a few seconds ago, dissolved as if it had never existed at all.

For now, at least, I've clearly chosen to embrace the cliché.

Fatigue, Facebook, and fro-yo

It's a sleepy morning, and the sky is the muddled color of yesterday's slush.  The muted paisley fabric on this armchair is in desperate need of re-upholstery, but I hope that it goes unnoticed until I leave for the term so that for now, I may sink into the comfort of the worn cloth, the frayed loops of thread arching out from the patterns.

From my vantage point among these bookshelves stuffed with every title from Sarah from Alaska to People of the Whale, I peer through hallowed windows at students warily clutching gloves as they plod from class to class in snow boots that were fished out of closets a day too late.  The stray leaves that haven't yet been neatly blown away from the footpaths have stubbornly plastered themselves to the ground.

Inside the library, there is a similar atmosphere of fatigue which differs from that of the outside only in its source.  Strain your way through the two sets of unnaturally heavy double doors, and when the inevitable, obnoxious draft blasts your face, you will understand.  There is a tangible shift from the feverish nervousness of looming deadlines and fingers blurring as they fly across keyboards to the sluggish, resigned calm of students who know finals are coming, and coming quickly.

The countdowns have begun.  So many Facebook statuses read, "one paper, two lab practicals, three finals, then HOME", or some variation of the same.  I much prefer smaller goals, if only for the more frequent rushes of gratification.  I work towards the next hour, the next night, the next assignment, tomorrow if I feel particularly daring.  But if I were to conform for a moment, I would post the following:

"one lab practical, one research paper, two concert reports, two exams, then SLEEP AND BEN & JERRY'S FRO-YO FOR A WEEK."

Does it count...

...as heartbreak if you never had a chance?

Maybe I shouldn't be writing right now, because I don't think a blog shouldn't be an "emotional throw-up bin" (courtesy of http://meanderingspark.blogspot.com/2010/01/why-blog.html).  I'm fairly confident that this post is going to turn into just that, if I'm not careful.  Perhaps I'll be able to think clearly and write something coherent after I've had time to process...although right now, of course, the idea of processing seems almost laughable.  Apparently, shock does not a coherent writer make, so off I go.  I may or may not return to this post, but whatever the case, I leave with this:

It counts.  There's no rationale, no logic, no justification behind this (which, strangely, only bothers me faintly at present).  There's only a feeling.  And the feeling says that it absolutely counts.

How much thinking is too much thinking?

My mother dispenses perfectly good advice.  At the risk of sounding biased (which I obviously am), I deem her much better than the average guide.  I just wish it were easier for me to accept that guidance.  Obviously, my idiosyncratic mental blocks frustrate her; they frustrate me just as much!  For as much as they make me slow down mentally and actively consider the merits of her suggestions, they're also irritatingly paralytic.  What it comes down to is the issue of how much thinking is too much thinking.

The mind is an exquisitely-designed device; its complexity lies far beyond our comprehension, and I often take that for granted.  But sometimes, situations like the one I encountered this morning remind me that thought can be as complicated as that...or as simple as choosing between the English muffin or the bagel.   (Side note: I always choose the English muffin.  It's those easy choices that give me some hope.)