Where is my representation?

So, I'm thinking about the Boston Tea Party. If I remember correctly, the slogan was, "No taxation without representation," or something like that, and by "something like that," I mean to say that this was most certainly the slogan. No taxation without representation. I'll say it again. No taxation without representation! And now I'm wondering about representation. Sure, there are senators and representatives from my state, and sure, I get a vote, but I wonder, who is really, and I do mean really, representing me? I mean, who is representing me as a grad student living in Louisiana at the poverty line? Who is representing me as a woman who was born in rural Pennsylvania? Who is representing me as an artist who sees beauty in everything, while still knowing that all beauty is subjective? Really, who is representing me? Those people in Congress are so far removed from me and my life that they might as well be the characters in a fairy tale. And the President, well, I definitely don't think he can relate to me in the way that I would like to be related to. And here's the thing: I can write letters to these people, my representatives, until my hands cramp up, but the only people who will likely read those letters are over-worked and under-paid interns. And these interns will likely throw my letters away as soon as they have managed to type my address onto a form letter thanking me for my initial letter. And this form letter will then be mailed to me post haste (or not). But really, who cares about me? About what I want? Who is standing up for me on Capitol Hill saying, "Well, there's this woman named Savannah who lives in Louisiana, but was originally from rural Pennsylvania. Did you know that she knows how to milk cows? Anyway, she's an artist and a graduate student and she's living at the poverty line. She's just struggling to get by. And so, as we consider this debt deal, let's keep in mind how our decisions might affect her life. Will she be able to continue going to school if we do away with subsidized stafford loans for graduate students? Or will this put her in a position where the debt of graduate school buries her? We don't want to see her default on her loans, or anything. So, while we consider this, can we keep her in mind? Thanks." But really, I know that there is no one on Capitol Hill who is standing up for me. And so I guess now I'm wondering, is this just another case of taxation without representation? And if it is, what can I do to be better represented?

As I drove

It has been raining off and on for days now, and so there is a perpetual fine mist about the air. I hadn't noticed the mist until I was driving back to my apartment sometime just after midnight tonight. I rolled down my driver's side window to let the Louisiana night into my car. The muggy air slid over my face like a wet, warm blanket. The roads were empty except for roadkill and the occasional car, and in complete honesty, I was happy for it. My mind was free to wander as I drove. It wasn't until I reached Antioch Road that I realized that the air was full of visible water vapor. My lonely car drove down the road, dodging the muffled halos of light from street lamps that lined the nearly straight piece of pavement. A beautiful, whitewashed fence stood guard over open fields that stretched into the darkness of the night. Something about this place, this road, these muted orbs of light, this proud fence, made me feel like I had fallen asleep and woken up within a dream. It was so beautiful that I had trouble believing that such a place existed in real life. Even more interesting was the way that driving down this stretch of road made me feel as though I was the only soul on Earth, as though no one else existed and I had found the Garden of Eden. At the same time, I felt connected to this place, like I was reliving a memory. It was a strange experience to feel as though I was in a dream, while simultaneously feeling as though I was experiencing deja vu, as though I'd been here before. And for just a second, that strangeness made the world a magical place full of merging potentials and memories.

The mutterings of a sleep deprived girl

It's late night here. Or maybe it's early morning. Is this what they call the pre-dawn hours? I suppose the time of day doesn't really matter though. What matters is that I'm sitting here, alone with my thoughts, in a room that feels more like a prison than a sanctuary. And I'm lonely. I'm not often lonely, though when loneliness strikes it always seems to find me at night when everyone else is happily dreaming. Even my cat is comfortably snoozing at my feet. Maybe if I hadn't drank so much coffee today, or was it yesterday already, I'd be able to sleep too.

I'm not being fair though. The coffee that I drank is only partially responsible for my wakefulness. Mostly, I am plagued by racing thoughts that follow one after the next, as though attached to each other like a train. The worst part is that these thoughts have little substance. They aren't important. I am not awake in the middle of the night because I am solving some great mathematical equation, or because I have just composed the next Moonlight Sonata. No, I'm awake because of thoughts like these: "I wonder if they have a lot of mosquitoes in Louisiana," and, "How many germs and how much bacteria does chlorine really kill when it's used in a public swimming pool?" and "Why does my ionizer make that annoying hissing noise even after I've cleaned it?" Why is it that these are the questions keeping me awake at night?

I'd play my guitar to help me relax, but it's almost four in the morning and I don't think that the other people who live here would take kindly to rock 'n' roll interrupting their slumber. I'd paint in the basement, but it appears that I am out of paint thinner right now. I'd read a book, but that would only give my mind more material to think about. So instead, I'm blogging, which doesn't seem to be helping much either. Rather than moving smoothly through my mind, my thoughts seem to have become a jumbled, tangled mess.

I suppose that my thoughts will fade away as I drift off to sleep. Until then, I will wonder if I should repaint my toenails with a bolder shade of silver glitter. I'll wonder if my impending move to Louisiana will give me the change of venue that I have been craving. And I'll wonder exactly how many hours of sitting in a car I can endure before my legs begin to tingle, cramp or ache.