LJ Idol Week 2: Deconstruction
I used to spend hours putting together jigsaw puzzles. I loved it, even when I'd tried every piece twice and none of them fit. It was relaxing. It was also a challenge. I loved to see the picture come together as I worked.
Landscapes were my favorite. They were also usually the hardest, so much green grass and blue sky. I couldn't identify the colors, but I could see that many of the pieces looked the same. They often felt the same, too, which made it even more challenging to put the puzzle together by feel.
As I got older, the puzzles got harder. The pieces were smaller and more similar in shape, and there were more of them. A puzzle took me a few days instead of a few hours. But still I loved it.
But now, instead of having to figure out which one of the 50 green pieces goes in this one spot, I have to figure out things like which of the thousands of jobs out there is the right one. Unlike the jigsaw puzzles I used to put together, I don't even know what piece I’m looking for anymore. Somewhere along the line, the pieces rearranged themselves while I wasn't looking, or while I was trying not to look. Now, pieces that I thought were perfect no longer fit at all. Or do they?
Everything goes back to one large missing piece. I don’t know what I want to do now that I’ve graduated. Honestly, I never have. I've tried several pieces, but none of them fit just right.
When I was twelve, I watched E.R. obsessively and decided I wanted to be a doctor, until I realized how much math would be involved.
When I was sixteen, I joined my high school’s newspaper staff and decided I wanted to be a journalist, until I realized that I'd have to talk to people, a lot of people, and ask tough questions.
When I was seventeen, I attended a state Senate hearing and decided I wanted to be a lobbyist, until I realized again that I'd have to talk to people all the time.
Then in the summer of 2009, my friend Julie S. and I went to Chicago for a week, and I fell in love with the city.
* * *
We’re lying on one of the double beds in our hotel room listening to music. The song changes to “One Short Day” from Wicked.
“That’s us,” she says, “except without the wizard.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it is.” I think about that for a moment. "I could see us living here.”
At times like that, I believe it.
* * *
I didn’t have any idea what I’d do for a job once I got to Chicago; I just knew I wanted so much to be there. But moving to Chicago would mean leaving my friends, something I refused to do.
So I went through college with that one big piece still missing. Then, a few months before graduation, on December 2, 2009, I thought I'd finally found it.
* * *
It’s 9:41 AM, and I should have left for class at least ten minutes ago. Instead, I’m frantically typing an LJ entry, my fingers trembling with the excitement I feel right now.
“I woke up this morning and realized I love my job, really love it,” I write. And for the first time, I know that I mean that, that I’m not just saying or doing something because it’s what someone has suggested or because I feel guilty for being a senior in college and not having a real answer.
I finish writing my entry, throw on a coat against the December chill, and run to class. And I smile all the way there, thinking, "I can see myself doing this."
At times like that, I think I could.
* * *
But I guess that piece wasn’t the right one either. It almost was. Almost. It was like that one piece out of 500, that one piece that you know, just know, is the right one. Then you notice that it has this one little corner that makes it not fit.
I held onto it, though. After all, it was part of my plan, the first real plan I’d ever had for what I would do after graduation. It was going to be perfect.
* * *
I’m sitting on the steps of the quad with Julie S., two years after Chicago. Cars rush by on the street, and The library looms large over us in the growing dusk.
“I can see myself living here,” I tell her. “I mean, I’ll always have a place in my heart for Chicago, but I really can see myself here.”
We talk for a half hour about how it will be. I can get a place near the university. Most of my friends will still be students, so we can see each other every day. We can go over to the Community Music School once a week and play around on the piano. When winter comes, we can have snowball fights in front of the apartments.
I smile because I feel so sure of all this. "I belong here."
At times like that, I think I do.
* * *
Then I go home the next day and remember how close I am to my family, how I can’t imagine moving away from them, even just 40 minutes. How had I ever imagined I could move to Chicago?
But I also want to be independent, able to go to a movie or go to the grocery store when I want to. And I know I’ll never have that kind of independence living with my family in a rural neighborhood bordered by one of the deadliest highways in the state.
But, most of my friends will have graduated in the next three years. I'm in no position to move away from home right now. By the time I’m ready, how many of them will still be there?
And what about some of the hobbies I picked up in college? Singing. Playing the piano. I’m surrounded by musically-inclined people. And maybe it was being around them, but something made me want to learn, to be able to play the piano like Ines or sing like Julie M.
* * *
It’s Thursday night at the Community Music School. I’m sitting beside Julie S. on the piano bench. Julie M. and Ines are sitting on the floor beside us working on music theory homework. Their animated voices mix with Julie S.’s piano improv.
“Your turn,” Julie S. says, scooting over so that I can sit in the middle of the piano bench.
“What should I play?”
“Whatever you want.”
I play the first few notes of “Ode to Joy,” and Julie S. mimics banging her head on the piano keys. “Ode to Joy” was the first song she ever taught me, and for a while, it was the only song I knew. So it was the only song I played, over and over and over again.
“I’m just messing with you,” I say, smiling. I rearrange my fingers and begin to play “Fields of Gold,” only the right hand part because that’s all I know. I begin singing along, and then. . .
“Did I just match those notes?”
“Yep,” Julie S. replies, and there is pride in that one word.
“I actually hit the notes! That’s never happened before.”
“You did. Now do it again.”
I rest my fingers back on the keys. "I can do this."
At times like that, I think I can.
* * *
About a month later, Julie S. and I go to church choir practice with Julie M. When the choir members see that Julie M. has brought friends, they immediately ask us if we want to sing. Julie M. and I think Julie S. should, and I tell her she has to because it’s my birthday. So she agrees.
Then they ask me. I tell them with a laugh that I really shouldn’t, that I really can’t. They’re insistent, though. Oh, I’d like to. I would like to so much. But. . .
“No. Thank you, but I really can’t. I’m just learning how to hit notes when someone plays them on the piano. It really is that bad.” And I laugh again, but this time the amusement doesn’t quite reach my face.
And that's when I realize just how far I really have to go. So I sit beside Julie M. in the soprano section all through practice, listening to the beautiful music float around me.
I don’t want to, but I start to wonder if music was just a fantasy for me, an escape. Did I really want to learn, or was it just that I was so burnt out on school and homework and essays and deadlines that I needed something else to do, something that didn’t seem like work?
So I put the pieces back in the box. I guess they belong to someone else’s puzzle.
* * *
But, two weeks later, I can’t stay away.
The Julies and I are at the community music school again, seated in a tight half circle around the piano.
“Try this one,” Julie M. says, then plays a note.
“Waaaaaaay,” I sing. “Way” is the word we have chosen for me to sing; we don’t know why.
“Let’s try that one again,” she says, then plays the same note.
“Waaaaaaay.” That time, I don’t think about it; I just sing. And that time, I can feel it, and I know. . .
“That was right!”
“Yes it was!” They’re both clapping.
“I want to see if I can do it again.” I’m practically bouncing in my chair.
Julie M. plays the note again, and this time I don’t quite hit it.
“Try again,” they both encourage. “You’ll get it.”
At times like that, I think I will.
* * *
I reach back into the box. Hold onto those pieces. Just a little longer. Maybe, maybe I can make them fit after all.
I should put them back. They don’t belong to me.
But I can't.
So I drop them into the pile, that formidable pile I’ve labeled in my mind as “maybe.”
* * *
Now the pieces are all spread out in front of me, and the reality I thought I wanted then is mixed with the reality I think I want now, but I’m really not sure about any of it anymore. I wonder what will be left when I finish putting the puzzle back together again. Which pieces will still fit, and which aren’t mine to keep anymore?
Landscapes were my favorite. They were also usually the hardest, so much green grass and blue sky. I couldn't identify the colors, but I could see that many of the pieces looked the same. They often felt the same, too, which made it even more challenging to put the puzzle together by feel.
As I got older, the puzzles got harder. The pieces were smaller and more similar in shape, and there were more of them. A puzzle took me a few days instead of a few hours. But still I loved it.
But now, instead of having to figure out which one of the 50 green pieces goes in this one spot, I have to figure out things like which of the thousands of jobs out there is the right one. Unlike the jigsaw puzzles I used to put together, I don't even know what piece I’m looking for anymore. Somewhere along the line, the pieces rearranged themselves while I wasn't looking, or while I was trying not to look. Now, pieces that I thought were perfect no longer fit at all. Or do they?
Everything goes back to one large missing piece. I don’t know what I want to do now that I’ve graduated. Honestly, I never have. I've tried several pieces, but none of them fit just right.
When I was twelve, I watched E.R. obsessively and decided I wanted to be a doctor, until I realized how much math would be involved.
When I was sixteen, I joined my high school’s newspaper staff and decided I wanted to be a journalist, until I realized that I'd have to talk to people, a lot of people, and ask tough questions.
When I was seventeen, I attended a state Senate hearing and decided I wanted to be a lobbyist, until I realized again that I'd have to talk to people all the time.
Then in the summer of 2009, my friend Julie S. and I went to Chicago for a week, and I fell in love with the city.
* * *
We’re lying on one of the double beds in our hotel room listening to music. The song changes to “One Short Day” from Wicked.
“That’s us,” she says, “except without the wizard.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it is.” I think about that for a moment. "I could see us living here.”
At times like that, I believe it.
* * *
I didn’t have any idea what I’d do for a job once I got to Chicago; I just knew I wanted so much to be there. But moving to Chicago would mean leaving my friends, something I refused to do.
So I went through college with that one big piece still missing. Then, a few months before graduation, on December 2, 2009, I thought I'd finally found it.
* * *
It’s 9:41 AM, and I should have left for class at least ten minutes ago. Instead, I’m frantically typing an LJ entry, my fingers trembling with the excitement I feel right now.
“I woke up this morning and realized I love my job, really love it,” I write. And for the first time, I know that I mean that, that I’m not just saying or doing something because it’s what someone has suggested or because I feel guilty for being a senior in college and not having a real answer.
I finish writing my entry, throw on a coat against the December chill, and run to class. And I smile all the way there, thinking, "I can see myself doing this."
At times like that, I think I could.
* * *
But I guess that piece wasn’t the right one either. It almost was. Almost. It was like that one piece out of 500, that one piece that you know, just know, is the right one. Then you notice that it has this one little corner that makes it not fit.
I held onto it, though. After all, it was part of my plan, the first real plan I’d ever had for what I would do after graduation. It was going to be perfect.
* * *
I’m sitting on the steps of the quad with Julie S., two years after Chicago. Cars rush by on the street, and The library looms large over us in the growing dusk.
“I can see myself living here,” I tell her. “I mean, I’ll always have a place in my heart for Chicago, but I really can see myself here.”
We talk for a half hour about how it will be. I can get a place near the university. Most of my friends will still be students, so we can see each other every day. We can go over to the Community Music School once a week and play around on the piano. When winter comes, we can have snowball fights in front of the apartments.
I smile because I feel so sure of all this. "I belong here."
At times like that, I think I do.
* * *
Then I go home the next day and remember how close I am to my family, how I can’t imagine moving away from them, even just 40 minutes. How had I ever imagined I could move to Chicago?
But I also want to be independent, able to go to a movie or go to the grocery store when I want to. And I know I’ll never have that kind of independence living with my family in a rural neighborhood bordered by one of the deadliest highways in the state.
But, most of my friends will have graduated in the next three years. I'm in no position to move away from home right now. By the time I’m ready, how many of them will still be there?
And what about some of the hobbies I picked up in college? Singing. Playing the piano. I’m surrounded by musically-inclined people. And maybe it was being around them, but something made me want to learn, to be able to play the piano like Ines or sing like Julie M.
* * *
It’s Thursday night at the Community Music School. I’m sitting beside Julie S. on the piano bench. Julie M. and Ines are sitting on the floor beside us working on music theory homework. Their animated voices mix with Julie S.’s piano improv.
“Your turn,” Julie S. says, scooting over so that I can sit in the middle of the piano bench.
“What should I play?”
“Whatever you want.”
I play the first few notes of “Ode to Joy,” and Julie S. mimics banging her head on the piano keys. “Ode to Joy” was the first song she ever taught me, and for a while, it was the only song I knew. So it was the only song I played, over and over and over again.
“I’m just messing with you,” I say, smiling. I rearrange my fingers and begin to play “Fields of Gold,” only the right hand part because that’s all I know. I begin singing along, and then. . .
“Did I just match those notes?”
“Yep,” Julie S. replies, and there is pride in that one word.
“I actually hit the notes! That’s never happened before.”
“You did. Now do it again.”
I rest my fingers back on the keys. "I can do this."
At times like that, I think I can.
* * *
About a month later, Julie S. and I go to church choir practice with Julie M. When the choir members see that Julie M. has brought friends, they immediately ask us if we want to sing. Julie M. and I think Julie S. should, and I tell her she has to because it’s my birthday. So she agrees.
Then they ask me. I tell them with a laugh that I really shouldn’t, that I really can’t. They’re insistent, though. Oh, I’d like to. I would like to so much. But. . .
“No. Thank you, but I really can’t. I’m just learning how to hit notes when someone plays them on the piano. It really is that bad.” And I laugh again, but this time the amusement doesn’t quite reach my face.
And that's when I realize just how far I really have to go. So I sit beside Julie M. in the soprano section all through practice, listening to the beautiful music float around me.
I don’t want to, but I start to wonder if music was just a fantasy for me, an escape. Did I really want to learn, or was it just that I was so burnt out on school and homework and essays and deadlines that I needed something else to do, something that didn’t seem like work?
So I put the pieces back in the box. I guess they belong to someone else’s puzzle.
* * *
But, two weeks later, I can’t stay away.
The Julies and I are at the community music school again, seated in a tight half circle around the piano.
“Try this one,” Julie M. says, then plays a note.
“Waaaaaaay,” I sing. “Way” is the word we have chosen for me to sing; we don’t know why.
“Let’s try that one again,” she says, then plays the same note.
“Waaaaaaay.” That time, I don’t think about it; I just sing. And that time, I can feel it, and I know. . .
“That was right!”
“Yes it was!” They’re both clapping.
“I want to see if I can do it again.” I’m practically bouncing in my chair.
Julie M. plays the note again, and this time I don’t quite hit it.
“Try again,” they both encourage. “You’ll get it.”
At times like that, I think I will.
* * *
I reach back into the box. Hold onto those pieces. Just a little longer. Maybe, maybe I can make them fit after all.
I should put them back. They don’t belong to me.
But I can't.
So I drop them into the pile, that formidable pile I’ve labeled in my mind as “maybe.”
* * *
Now the pieces are all spread out in front of me, and the reality I thought I wanted then is mixed with the reality I think I want now, but I’m really not sure about any of it anymore. I wonder what will be left when I finish putting the puzzle back together again. Which pieces will still fit, and which aren’t mine to keep anymore?