we wait at the gate for an echo
Just now it feels that the only thing my life's got for me is future, and I'm not in it yet. Trying not to daydream-project myself into Boston, the city of my heart, where I long to spend the next four years of my life, at least. There's a memory that comes back to me sometimes, stronger than most -- once it came over me for a brilliant handful of moments and I lived-tasted-heard it. Funny because it's such an ordinary memory, in a way -- one of the folk music festivals, either the Boston Folk Festival on the campus of UMass Boston, or the New Bedford Summerfest on the cobblestoned streets of New Bedford, and we're there, my family and I, and everything's all colours, crimson, golden, blue and brick and brown, and we're looking through some stalls, and there's music playing somewhere off to the side, and someone's painting up a mural against a wall, and there are people everywhere, and sounds, and it's summertime, and heavy with sunlight. I don't know why this is what I remember, why it comes back to me and beats wings against my heart: but I want to go back to it as best as I can manage.
I miss culture, and different kinds of people, and all sorts of ideas and lives and histories and things tangling up together. It's cold here, and white and pale and flat, and all of the people are the same kinds of people, and I'm lonely for experience and tired of having to create and hoard my own magic. It's worst in winter, of course, because everything is. I'm doing my best, wearing layers and rich colours, lighting candles and fairy lights, playing swing music, trying to get my writing spirit back (after NaNoWriMo and Yuletide I'm a little drained, and the Novel is so tangled and I have so much research yet to do!), trying to think of something meaningful to do... and any day now I've got to dive into FAFSA paperwork, which is due at the end of February/beginning of March, I believe. And I'm working on getting my music back into gear -- waiting on a microphone, and sort of warming up my creativity muscles, but there ought to be more songs for you lot before long. (Any ideas, while we're on the subject? Songs you'd like to hear me sing, or perhaps songs you think I might like to write, subjects you think might be interesting? The creative well is always lowest when I can't even take walks comfortably.)
And now I shall go huddle under the blankets with a book. Oh weather, why are you so cruel? Shiver. Shiver shiver.
I miss culture, and different kinds of people, and all sorts of ideas and lives and histories and things tangling up together. It's cold here, and white and pale and flat, and all of the people are the same kinds of people, and I'm lonely for experience and tired of having to create and hoard my own magic. It's worst in winter, of course, because everything is. I'm doing my best, wearing layers and rich colours, lighting candles and fairy lights, playing swing music, trying to get my writing spirit back (after NaNoWriMo and Yuletide I'm a little drained, and the Novel is so tangled and I have so much research yet to do!), trying to think of something meaningful to do... and any day now I've got to dive into FAFSA paperwork, which is due at the end of February/beginning of March, I believe. And I'm working on getting my music back into gear -- waiting on a microphone, and sort of warming up my creativity muscles, but there ought to be more songs for you lot before long. (Any ideas, while we're on the subject? Songs you'd like to hear me sing, or perhaps songs you think I might like to write, subjects you think might be interesting? The creative well is always lowest when I can't even take walks comfortably.)
And now I shall go huddle under the blankets with a book. Oh weather, why are you so cruel? Shiver. Shiver shiver.