Vermont 2, or Buried

[snapshot]

I'm alone in the library, while C is in class. This is the only place I have access to the internet up here, but I find myself pulling away from the computer in favor of books. This library is quite a place. There's almost no restrictions on noise, checking out a book means slipping a sheet of yellow paper into it to remind yourself to bring it back, and all over the place, students have set up camp. Thesis students in their final year bring sleeping bags, extra lamps, even a desktop computer. The library is open twenty four hours a day. People have been known to live here, particularly during finals. They set up tents, stringing clotheslines across the aisles. My inner nine-year-old is agog. If only she'd thought of of running away to live in a library.

[snapshot]

I grab tea from the dining hall in a compost-able paper cup, inhaling mint and honey steam on the schlep up the hill. My throat woke up cranky today, and I'm blaming it on the forced-air heat in the apartment. I have a gig tonight, hosting a poetry open mic and slam, so my voice needs to be in shape. I'm almost glad to have so few people to talk to.

[snapshot]

C and I invite G over for dinner and depressing movie-watching. We make vegan burritos, velvety black beans stewed with onions and garlic, the luxury of tomatoes and avocado, quinoa to bulk it out, and cashew nuts blended with lemon juice and soy sauce to make "cheese". G says he doesn't mind doing all the dishes, which inspires me to take a scrub brush to the patchy linoleum floor. We snuggle together on the futon to watch Boys Don't Cry, which I have never seen. G and I make comments about how incredibly handsome the lead actor is throughout the first half of the film. Afterward, we finish the dishes and send G home. C and I curl up together and say we're okay. It's a hard movie to watch. C's plaid shirt looks like the ones the main character wears in the movie.

[snapshot]

J asks if I want to go to the Wednesday night Proposition 8 protest in the city, and I want to say NO. I also want to say OF COURSE. I want to say CAN'T WE PROTEST SOMETHING WORTH PROTESTING? D writes about how Prop 8 distracted him from issues that matter to him far more. I am sick of the default. I'm not interested in standing in a crowd with a bunch of folks who will shout testimony about the virtues of marriage. I hate being pigeonholed into defending something I don't believe in. I say maybe I'll go.

[snapshot]

This is a land of maple syrup and cheddar and fallen leaves. I have managed (knock on wood, kinahora) to not injure myself this time. I stop shaving my armpits. The impulse to grow insulation is fierce.

[snapshot]

I wonder what my grandparents will say after having read this entry. Lately, I've been pushing away from them. It hurts. All of us. I remember the way E picked fights with me before I moved away like he was trying to make it easier on himself. It's always easier to depart angrily. I have spent my life alternating between choosing the easier path because it's easier and choosing the harder path because it seems right. Don't worry that I don't love you anymore. I'm still your little bird. Grant me my wings, my claws and beak. They'll serve me better than a nest. I love you. I love you. I love you.