Sidewalk Days

Lately I have been spending a lot of time alone, an inhibiting trend that tends to occur in this paradoxical world where many people exist while no random conversations do (unless it's asking for money or handouts, of course). The time spent alone has manifested itself primarily in the form of long walks, which rightfully occur more as the temperatures rise. I find my emotional state to be driven by apparent paradoxes as well: I've been doing a lot of thinking about how events shape our mental states, and whether it is possible to feel nostalgic about a place and time that has never been programmed into our psyches.

This song has been the flint for my ears to strike upon to spark this strange feeling. I don't know Japanese, and that's okay because I think this song might not be the same for me if I did. All I know is that it is perfect for those sidewalk days – the days that are so heavy you feel like you might sink beneath the pavement; where people don't shine quite as brightly as the trees do, so you take comfort in knowing that there's always a conversation partner underneath your feet, reminding you to slow down the world. But, as the :47 second mark also reminds me, nothing can last indefinitely – at some point or another, that sad string will work its way in to interrupt the sought-after content feeling, but it's what we do with that unexpected interruption that truly matters.

Baibaba Bimba, Tenniscoats

Of Diamonds and Squares

An elementary school teacher of mine once distributed a series of puzzles to everyone in the class. I wish I could explain this act as something grand, something of the ages – like a new psychologically-approved study to increase brain power 40% – but in reality she handed out little Ziploc baggies filled with brightly colored blocks of varying shapes which we were told to assemble into a square. After what seemed like hours staring at what perpetually returned to a light blue pile on my desk, hoping somehow the blocks would melt together cohesively, I managed to fit the blocks together into a perfect diamond. The resulting feeling was twofold: relief at having created something discernible, and disappointment at having created the wrong shape. These feelings quickly amalgamated into something resembling pride and excitement when my friend Kory brought to my attention that by turning the supposed "diamond" around so one of the elongated sides became parallel with the desk's horizontal pencil holder, the shape would magically transform into a square. Amazed, embarrassed, and thankful to Kory, I gathered my prize (probably something sweet and holiday-related – my favorite), and moved on to a new shape or maybe we gave up on the puzzle altogether and watched the most appropriate holiday special of Charlie Brown.

I guess what I'm trying to say through a painfully dull and minor memory is that it's all about perspective. And this concept has been something I have clearly struggled with since the days when learning was still a bright, messy pile of blocks on a desk. And sometimes it takes that one person to nudge you along by offering new perspectives. It is a key ingredient in transforming diamonds into squares. It has been about two weeks into the experience of living in a new city, trying to find out what it is I truly want, and, honestly, a slight hint at which shapes I've already built doesn't sound half bad right now.

Dark Places

I moved to Boston – at least short term. It still sounds a lot more cavalier than it is, so try this instead: take out moved to, insert something like ended up in, and it might hold more merit because I came here out of a fortuitous situation and free will – a leap into the dark, I suppose – and now that I am here, a pivotal question enters my mind: what am I looking for? It's a pretty heavy question, certainly one I can't answer as readily or confidently as someone dragged here for school or for work. And that's the difference: purpose. I think people move to be closer to what is important to them, but for me it feels backwards: move first and find importance in that process. I write this because, after four days, I'm starting to realize all that I had – great family, friends, comfort, a routine – and I am starting to worry that I unintentionally ran away from that. It's twisted, confusing.

The city has been somewhat bipolar, too, as temperatures hover slightly above freezing one day (prime sweater weather) and traverse over 50°F (tee-shirt weather) the next, but above all there's always a peculiar dark grey sky overhead, casually puking raindrops here and there (only when I decide to venture into another unknown territory, of course). And I guess I could draw a link between the threatening sky and myself: on the surface I am calm and I am eager to explore, but underneath I am spiraling. I don't know how else to explain it: bundles of nerves deep in my abdomen oscillate vigorously, waiting to explode with breakdown.