Wednesday, August 3, 2011
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?
Sunday, July 17, 2011
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.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Old Poetry That Should Win Me The Award For Disturbingly High Amounts of Post-Teen Angst
Silence for J. Alfred Prufrock
From the oil slick ocean
To the dark pebble beach
The mermaids, they watched
Singing each to each
When along came the man
They despised above all others
Stumbling distantly down the beach
Dragging a woman behind him.
The mermaids grew quiet
Watching with somber disdain
As J. Alfred Prufrock shook the woman
Who cried out in pain
Then through the yellow fog of the October night
The shining gold orb, like a dead man’s dull eye
Appeared from J. Alfred’s pocket, his faithful watch and chain
As though holding time could possibly save his life.
These mermaids, they watch him with muted disdain
As J. Alfred replaces his watch and his chain.
Then frantic and panicked he pulls up a sleeve
Checking the time pieces on each arm
Four by four
Then sounds the alarm:
Time is running out!
Does he dare to eat a peach?
Thirty-four women he’s brought to their sea.
All of them he fears.
All of them he needs.
Each woman comes from the dark London streets,
From dirtied, wooden shacks
Where frescos by Michelangelo are tick marks on walls
Counting lustful engagements.
Tonight he won’t be alone
For time is running out!
He must slash their throats,
Soft flesh surrounds the gaping wound,
As they gurgle and tremble
Beneath the bleeding moon.
Then to the sea he tosses
The bodies, still murmuring with life
And he watches gleefully as the sea
Steals their last breath.
Their lives to save his own.
No, tonight… tonight he won’t be alone.
“What pollution is this?”
The mermaids, they screech
As from tar black waters
They pull the pit of his peach.
In his loneliest nights, J. Alfred implores them
To sing him a song,
But the mermaids deny him
Casting their angry eyes across the sea.
So he sings to himself,
Crooning songs of the utmost despair,
His anthems of drowning, death and decay
Like the Devil’s soul, bared
Touch the ears of the mermaids
Like ice picks to eardrums.
The mermaids, they dive deep down
Cursing that J. Alfred, the Ripper,
Had ever come
To their beach.
Knight in (Shining) Armor
Sobriety was never his strongest suit.
Intoxication was in his armored flask.
He rode the White Horse down the road
It was three years gone before he even looked back.
Once clear blue eyes, now murky pink glazed,
Stole my heart and swept me off with him,
My knight in (shining) armor now wears
Armor, like his eyes, darkening and dimmed.
Selfishness has become his constant shield
While addiction is the dull sword he waves
He’s forgotten to care for other’s souls
As long as the source of his ailment is safe.
And me, the lady he swears he loves
In his moments of sobriety,
I question how he can care for or love anyone
When he lives his life so selfishly.
Oh, there was a time, his lifetime ago,
When he was my knight in (shining) armor,
But as intoxication tarnished him
I realize that he is my knight no longer.
I wait in my tower patiently,
My tired blue eyes watching the end of the day.
The sun is setting on this fairytale nightmare.
His armor, not shining as he staggers away.
The Faceless Man
And the faceless man walked on
Rustling the hanged bodies in the trees
As he walked through the forest of
The Dead
In search of me
Muttering:
Running out of time
Running out of time
In search of Goodwill Industries
To recycle my belongings
God said to give up
Worldly possessions
To prove devotion
Mantra repeating:
Running out of Time
Like a Buddhist monk
Meditating to find
Heightened Awareness
I search for Jesus
In my dreams
But the Grinch swears that
He’s dead
Hanging in a tree
With a swollen face
And pecked out eyes
Because I’m running…
Running out of time
With Jesus dead
Is there salvation?
I ask the green, green Grinch.
He smiles his Grinchy smile
Running out of Christmas?
Stealing Christmas?
Stealing Christ
Out of time?
And so I run
Back in time,
To a place before God
Let Jesus die
In a tree, in midwinter
Where the faceless man,
Hooded, cloaked reaper,
Stands and waits for me.
Wagging a long finger
He sneeringly says,
I told you that you would
Run out of time!
And you have.
Oh, you have!
Gleefully stated:
You’ve run out of time!
The Silence of Us
It’s like the wet snow falling
Muting my crunching footsteps,
So that my ears hear nothing
But the deafening ring
Of quiet. And so that my eyes
See nothing, but hazy white.
All of this nothingness, hanging
In the air around me,
Well, it’s like wet bras and panties
And other unmentionables on a clothesline
In the rain.
Rotting and molding and festering
And stinking.
Especially the stinking of the words
That got lost somewhere in my throat
Choking me like a piece of food
Lodged halfway between my mouth
And my stomach,
Causing my eyes to tear and bulge,
Unable to even whisper that
I might be dying here.
Warring Factions
The embers
Illuminate our faces,
Set like stone.
And the fire burns,
The way an angry sun would kiss
No words will be uttered tonight.
The silence hangs thick
As a wet blanket,
Threatens to extinguish
Us.
Wanderlust
Feeling that wanderlust again
A nomad by nature, and in my own skin
Still not quite happy in this world,
Like it’s time to shed this shell, serpent that I am
There’s something missing
Something crucial, like the difference
Between Transubstantiation and Consubstantiation
Forget that the principles are identical in the end.
It’s enough to claim a saved status for one
Leaving the other damned
And somewhere purgatory waits for me
Turn the cards that fate lined up
Not quite sure how to interpret the images,
But he tells me that I’m on my way
The stars don’t lie
How could they without mouths to speak?
Follow the North Star to destiny’s path
Quench my thirst
And leave this place behind.
Defining Your Perfection
Considering the fact that we are perfect for each other
I wonder if you know what perfect means?
While you are busy treading on me, doing as you please
I emulate the Hell in which I live.
And in rare moments of earthly Purgatory,
I am transfixed by the artist's eyes, not yours.
They are the trustworthy color of faded blue jeans,
Worn down by years of wear and tear... and caring.
Oh, and how the artist cares for me!
There is a connection for us to plug into
Like the last puzzle piece fitting into the seascape.
We are artists and prisoners of tortured lives together, yet apart.
Common ground is large enough to run upon it,
As though we were two halves of the same person, incognito.
When I lose focus of the artist's eyes
You are again drilling holes through my soul.
What about this is perfect to you?
Dying Embers
Dying embers like molten lava
Flowing into the pit of the bonfire
Set the mood
Imagine that it is only wood
That burns in this pit?
Imagine?!
And so I watch the wood
Turn from a solid to a liquid
Burning away to nothing and
I wonder where you have gone.
Looking away from the fire
Is little help.
Smokey dark night.
And then I see you.
I love you, you know.
You don't reciprocate.
It's the end, you say.
Wish I could explain it
But I can't.
Instead we go home
Climb inside of our warm bed,
Two warring factions
Lying side by side
Angry in the dark.
No sweet talk.
No touching.
No "I love you"s.
The only thing here is anger and distance.
Lying here in this bed with him,
Is the first time in my life
That I've ever felt so
Utterly and completely alone.
From the oil slick ocean
To the dark pebble beach
The mermaids, they watched
Singing each to each
When along came the man
They despised above all others
Stumbling distantly down the beach
Dragging a woman behind him.
The mermaids grew quiet
Watching with somber disdain
As J. Alfred Prufrock shook the woman
Who cried out in pain
Then through the yellow fog of the October night
The shining gold orb, like a dead man’s dull eye
Appeared from J. Alfred’s pocket, his faithful watch and chain
As though holding time could possibly save his life.
These mermaids, they watch him with muted disdain
As J. Alfred replaces his watch and his chain.
Then frantic and panicked he pulls up a sleeve
Checking the time pieces on each arm
Four by four
Then sounds the alarm:
Time is running out!
Does he dare to eat a peach?
Thirty-four women he’s brought to their sea.
All of them he fears.
All of them he needs.
Each woman comes from the dark London streets,
From dirtied, wooden shacks
Where frescos by Michelangelo are tick marks on walls
Counting lustful engagements.
Tonight he won’t be alone
For time is running out!
He must slash their throats,
Soft flesh surrounds the gaping wound,
As they gurgle and tremble
Beneath the bleeding moon.
Then to the sea he tosses
The bodies, still murmuring with life
And he watches gleefully as the sea
Steals their last breath.
Their lives to save his own.
No, tonight… tonight he won’t be alone.
“What pollution is this?”
The mermaids, they screech
As from tar black waters
They pull the pit of his peach.
In his loneliest nights, J. Alfred implores them
To sing him a song,
But the mermaids deny him
Casting their angry eyes across the sea.
So he sings to himself,
Crooning songs of the utmost despair,
His anthems of drowning, death and decay
Like the Devil’s soul, bared
Touch the ears of the mermaids
Like ice picks to eardrums.
The mermaids, they dive deep down
Cursing that J. Alfred, the Ripper,
Had ever come
To their beach.
Knight in (Shining) Armor
Sobriety was never his strongest suit.
Intoxication was in his armored flask.
He rode the White Horse down the road
It was three years gone before he even looked back.
Once clear blue eyes, now murky pink glazed,
Stole my heart and swept me off with him,
My knight in (shining) armor now wears
Armor, like his eyes, darkening and dimmed.
Selfishness has become his constant shield
While addiction is the dull sword he waves
He’s forgotten to care for other’s souls
As long as the source of his ailment is safe.
And me, the lady he swears he loves
In his moments of sobriety,
I question how he can care for or love anyone
When he lives his life so selfishly.
Oh, there was a time, his lifetime ago,
When he was my knight in (shining) armor,
But as intoxication tarnished him
I realize that he is my knight no longer.
I wait in my tower patiently,
My tired blue eyes watching the end of the day.
The sun is setting on this fairytale nightmare.
His armor, not shining as he staggers away.
The Faceless Man
And the faceless man walked on
Rustling the hanged bodies in the trees
As he walked through the forest of
The Dead
In search of me
Muttering:
Running out of time
Running out of time
In search of Goodwill Industries
To recycle my belongings
God said to give up
Worldly possessions
To prove devotion
Mantra repeating:
Running out of Time
Like a Buddhist monk
Meditating to find
Heightened Awareness
I search for Jesus
In my dreams
But the Grinch swears that
He’s dead
Hanging in a tree
With a swollen face
And pecked out eyes
Because I’m running…
Running out of time
With Jesus dead
Is there salvation?
I ask the green, green Grinch.
He smiles his Grinchy smile
Running out of Christmas?
Stealing Christmas?
Stealing Christ
Out of time?
And so I run
Back in time,
To a place before God
Let Jesus die
In a tree, in midwinter
Where the faceless man,
Hooded, cloaked reaper,
Stands and waits for me.
Wagging a long finger
He sneeringly says,
I told you that you would
Run out of time!
And you have.
Oh, you have!
Gleefully stated:
You’ve run out of time!
The Silence of Us
It’s like the wet snow falling
Muting my crunching footsteps,
So that my ears hear nothing
But the deafening ring
Of quiet. And so that my eyes
See nothing, but hazy white.
All of this nothingness, hanging
In the air around me,
Well, it’s like wet bras and panties
And other unmentionables on a clothesline
In the rain.
Rotting and molding and festering
And stinking.
Especially the stinking of the words
That got lost somewhere in my throat
Choking me like a piece of food
Lodged halfway between my mouth
And my stomach,
Causing my eyes to tear and bulge,
Unable to even whisper that
I might be dying here.
Warring Factions
The embers
Illuminate our faces,
Set like stone.
And the fire burns,
The way an angry sun would kiss
No words will be uttered tonight.
The silence hangs thick
As a wet blanket,
Threatens to extinguish
Us.
Wanderlust
Feeling that wanderlust again
A nomad by nature, and in my own skin
Still not quite happy in this world,
Like it’s time to shed this shell, serpent that I am
There’s something missing
Something crucial, like the difference
Between Transubstantiation and Consubstantiation
Forget that the principles are identical in the end.
It’s enough to claim a saved status for one
Leaving the other damned
And somewhere purgatory waits for me
Turn the cards that fate lined up
Not quite sure how to interpret the images,
But he tells me that I’m on my way
The stars don’t lie
How could they without mouths to speak?
Follow the North Star to destiny’s path
Quench my thirst
And leave this place behind.
Defining Your Perfection
Considering the fact that we are perfect for each other
I wonder if you know what perfect means?
While you are busy treading on me, doing as you please
I emulate the Hell in which I live.
And in rare moments of earthly Purgatory,
I am transfixed by the artist's eyes, not yours.
They are the trustworthy color of faded blue jeans,
Worn down by years of wear and tear... and caring.
Oh, and how the artist cares for me!
There is a connection for us to plug into
Like the last puzzle piece fitting into the seascape.
We are artists and prisoners of tortured lives together, yet apart.
Common ground is large enough to run upon it,
As though we were two halves of the same person, incognito.
When I lose focus of the artist's eyes
You are again drilling holes through my soul.
What about this is perfect to you?
Dying Embers
Dying embers like molten lava
Flowing into the pit of the bonfire
Set the mood
Imagine that it is only wood
That burns in this pit?
Imagine?!
And so I watch the wood
Turn from a solid to a liquid
Burning away to nothing and
I wonder where you have gone.
Looking away from the fire
Is little help.
Smokey dark night.
And then I see you.
I love you, you know.
You don't reciprocate.
It's the end, you say.
Wish I could explain it
But I can't.
Instead we go home
Climb inside of our warm bed,
Two warring factions
Lying side by side
Angry in the dark.
No sweet talk.
No touching.
No "I love you"s.
The only thing here is anger and distance.
Lying here in this bed with him,
Is the first time in my life
That I've ever felt so
Utterly and completely alone.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The LOVE project: A Collaboration
Interested in collaborations? Yeah, me too. In fact, Jon Powles' (@JonPowles on twitter) project, in which he sewed together micropoetry written by various authors on twitter to create lyrics to a song, has captured my interest. I think that his project is genius and I cannot wait to hear the performance of the song. That said, I am interested in creating a collaborative project, too. I would like to use twitter as a platform to find others who might be interested in contributing to this project. Please know that you will receive proper recognition for your contributions. Unlike Jon Powles, I do not intend to make music, though there might be a musical component to this project. Instead, I am interested in creating a creative multimedia project, which could include written prose, poetry, spoken word, music, sculpture, paintings, sketchings, film, photographs, performance, etc. The topic of this collaborative project is love. If you are interested in being a part of this collaboration this is what you must do: 1) Create your contribution (ALL WORKS MUST BE ORIGINAL AND OWNED BY YOU), 2) Put your contribution on the internet (i.e., blog, youtube, twitpic, twitter, etc.), 3) Send me a link to your contribution via twitter (I am @StarOfSavannah), and 4) You must give me permission to use it in this collaborative project. Please know that if you send me a contribution I may use any part of it, or all of it in this project. Once the project is completed, I will put it on the internet, giving credit to all contributors.
BUT WAIT! That's not all!
Once the project is completed, I intend to analyze the methods used to complete the project and I hope to write a scholary essay on the ways in which twitter has made creative collaboration at a global level possible. I also hope to be able to analyze the limitations of this type of collaboration and consider the potential opportunities that twitter can offer in the future.
Now that you know what I'm hoping to accomplish, are you interested in contributing to this creative collaborative project? I can only hope so.
Questions that might help to get you started: What is love? What does love mean to you? Where can you find love? How does love look, smell, feel, etc.? What do you love? Who do you love? If love were a color, what color would it be?
I hope that you'll contribute to this project. Remember, you can send any type of artistic contribution as long as it is your original work and it pertains to the theme of this project. Further, remember that you must give me written permission to use your contribution in this collaborative project. All artists retain full rights to their works. Finally, if you're interested in participating in this project, remember to use twitter to send @StarOfSavannah a link to your work. Deadline for submission for this project is December 10th, 2010.
BUT WAIT! That's not all!
Once the project is completed, I intend to analyze the methods used to complete the project and I hope to write a scholary essay on the ways in which twitter has made creative collaboration at a global level possible. I also hope to be able to analyze the limitations of this type of collaboration and consider the potential opportunities that twitter can offer in the future.
Now that you know what I'm hoping to accomplish, are you interested in contributing to this creative collaborative project? I can only hope so.
Questions that might help to get you started: What is love? What does love mean to you? Where can you find love? How does love look, smell, feel, etc.? What do you love? Who do you love? If love were a color, what color would it be?
I hope that you'll contribute to this project. Remember, you can send any type of artistic contribution as long as it is your original work and it pertains to the theme of this project. Further, remember that you must give me written permission to use your contribution in this collaborative project. All artists retain full rights to their works. Finally, if you're interested in participating in this project, remember to use twitter to send @StarOfSavannah a link to your work. Deadline for submission for this project is December 10th, 2010.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Hope
Emily Dickinson once said, "Hope is that thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops... at all." I think that's a beautiful description of hope, though perhaps not quite accurate. Perhaps it was accurate for her. After all, hope represents something different for each of us, thus, it is only logical to consider the possibility that perhaps hope is represented differently to each of us as well.
Hope is something that I carry with me everywhere that I go. Even in my darkest hours, my hope of better days exists. I have never been utterly and completely hopeless and my heart hurts for the people who are. It must certainly be a terrible thing to experience -- the loss of hope. I wonder, what must go wrong in a person's life for them to abandon all hope for improvement in much the same way as a sailor might abandon a sinking ship. Or to twist the question about, what could bring a person to decide to cling to a sinking ship when there are lifeboats within their reach?
I hope. Even now, I hope. I hope for so many wonderful things that some days I think that I might explode with optimism.
Silly as it may seem, what I hope for the most is to find you... whoever you are and wherever you are. I don't believe that I know you yet, but one day I hope to know you. One day I hope that you'll fill me up with happiness and love and that I will do the same for you. I know that you're out there somewhere and I'm hoping hard that I will find you soon.
Hope is something that I carry with me everywhere that I go. Even in my darkest hours, my hope of better days exists. I have never been utterly and completely hopeless and my heart hurts for the people who are. It must certainly be a terrible thing to experience -- the loss of hope. I wonder, what must go wrong in a person's life for them to abandon all hope for improvement in much the same way as a sailor might abandon a sinking ship. Or to twist the question about, what could bring a person to decide to cling to a sinking ship when there are lifeboats within their reach?
I hope. Even now, I hope. I hope for so many wonderful things that some days I think that I might explode with optimism.
Silly as it may seem, what I hope for the most is to find you... whoever you are and wherever you are. I don't believe that I know you yet, but one day I hope to know you. One day I hope that you'll fill me up with happiness and love and that I will do the same for you. I know that you're out there somewhere and I'm hoping hard that I will find you soon.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Quiet
I like when the world is quiet,
Which it seldom seems to be.
Oft discordant.
Oft too loud.
Plagued by warmongers' hate speech.
Anti-everything,
Anti-you and anti-me.
This is the world that I've grown up in:
A world that knows no peace.
I am old enough to understand this,
Old enough to know what it means.
I am young enough to change it,
To stand apart in peaceful mutiny.
I will not acquiesce to the status quo of war,
For I like when the world is quiet.
"There is only you, and you are but a thought." -- Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts
Which it seldom seems to be.
Oft discordant.
Oft too loud.
Plagued by warmongers' hate speech.
Anti-everything,
Anti-you and anti-me.
This is the world that I've grown up in:
A world that knows no peace.
I am old enough to understand this,
Old enough to know what it means.
I am young enough to change it,
To stand apart in peaceful mutiny.
I will not acquiesce to the status quo of war,
For I like when the world is quiet.
"There is only you, and you are but a thought." -- Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Is this culture shock?
I guess I never stopped to think about how moving 2150 miles from the place I've called home for much of my life would affect me. I've done so much traveling around the US that I've become accustomed to the instability, or so I thought. What I didn't realize is that this is an entirely new type of instability. In the past, whenever I traveled to a new place, I always knew that I would be returning home, that this new place was not going to be my new home. Being in a new place becomes a much easier experience when you know that you are just a part of the transient population and that this isn't a long term situation. And there is something about the simple enjoyability of being a member of a transient population that I've always loved.
When I moved to Louisiana, I thought that I would find the same enjoyability in moving that I do in traveling, and for a time I did. However, it's now occurring to me that I am not a member of the transient population here, that this is my new home, and I've lost the comfort I take in knowing that I can always go home. I think that I am finally being affected by culture shock. And homesickness is really setting in.
In effect, I've had to recreate myself and begin building a life for myself from almost nothing. I've left my large network of friends and acquaintances behind and I often find myself working much harder to make friends than I would have in Pennsylvania. I mean, making friends and being social has always been a natural and easy thing for me, but in Louisiana that's not the case. There are a different set of rules and requirements to make friends here. And signals that meant one thing for me in Pennsylvania have an entirely new meaning in Louisiana. Navigating social activities has become something of a chore and it's completely exhausting to present myself as a potential friend to someone when at this very moment, I'm not even sure that I know who I am or what I want. That's not to say that I'm giving up, because I'm not. I'm just frustrated and tired and occasionally, I'm lonely.
I miss my old life in Pennsylvania. It wasn't always an easy life, but it was comfortable. I had a routine and I almost always knew what I could expect. Here, I am unsure of almost everything. I feel like a piece of driftwood being tossed around in the sea. I'm sure that after a certain amount of time I will adjust to life here and be comfortable again, but for now, I just pine for my memories of ease and comfort.
When I moved to Louisiana, I thought that I would find the same enjoyability in moving that I do in traveling, and for a time I did. However, it's now occurring to me that I am not a member of the transient population here, that this is my new home, and I've lost the comfort I take in knowing that I can always go home. I think that I am finally being affected by culture shock. And homesickness is really setting in.
In effect, I've had to recreate myself and begin building a life for myself from almost nothing. I've left my large network of friends and acquaintances behind and I often find myself working much harder to make friends than I would have in Pennsylvania. I mean, making friends and being social has always been a natural and easy thing for me, but in Louisiana that's not the case. There are a different set of rules and requirements to make friends here. And signals that meant one thing for me in Pennsylvania have an entirely new meaning in Louisiana. Navigating social activities has become something of a chore and it's completely exhausting to present myself as a potential friend to someone when at this very moment, I'm not even sure that I know who I am or what I want. That's not to say that I'm giving up, because I'm not. I'm just frustrated and tired and occasionally, I'm lonely.
I miss my old life in Pennsylvania. It wasn't always an easy life, but it was comfortable. I had a routine and I almost always knew what I could expect. Here, I am unsure of almost everything. I feel like a piece of driftwood being tossed around in the sea. I'm sure that after a certain amount of time I will adjust to life here and be comfortable again, but for now, I just pine for my memories of ease and comfort.
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