Back in Boland

I have dreams that have story lines. They don’t typically jump around—they follow the standard pattern of storytelling, they have clear conflict and resolutions. People do things in character.

The dream I had this weekend was based around a science experiment. In the dream, when I had moved into my dorm my freshman year of college I had signed paperwork agreeing to be part of a study on personal space. Our living on that dorm floor was conditional on us moving back into the same room with the same people 11 years later, when we were 29, and staying there for two weeks. Two weeks back in my freshman dorm room, with my freshman roommate. We had to take freshman classes. We were only allowed the same things we had when we moved in 10 years prior—if we didn’t have a cell phone then, we couldn’t have one now, if we didn’t have a car then, we couldn’t have one now—and we filled out surveys and had interviews talking about the experience. I think it was a study on perceptions of personal space, but I fully don’t recall. In the dream I was realizing how fascinating it truly was.

I hope the Woodchuck 32oz bottles come back too! Oh wait.

Now I can’t stop thinking about it. What would that be like? Would friendships rekindle or would we be insular after the years?And dear god, would we still buy Hooch?

Just Dance

Six years ago I sat in the Carrier Dome in flip flops, wedged between Caroline and Jen Cash, eager to get out of a smelly rented robe. We were all hungover, exhausted and stressed about the sheer volume of family currently in town. It was time for Commencement and our speaker was none other than the 42nd President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton. As expected, he was a phenomenal, talking about the difference between the headline and trendline in history. Jen and Alexis fell sound asleep. Like mouth breathing, drooling asleep. Caroline's eyes kept fluttering and the FEG boys behind me were busy blowing up a huge Little Caesar's inflatable pizza. I was enraptured with his words and I soaked them in.
But with all the love I had for his speech, if this had been what we heard that day...well. Watch it. It's 10 minutes, but it sure is worth it. She did a great job.

Work in Progress

This afternoon I checked my email to find I had a new myspace comment from an old friend from college. He'd posted it at close to 3am, so I'm assuming (hoping?) he was drunk when he wrote it. The jist of the comment was, "Christian!? Not when you..." and it went on to list, in salacious detail, some of those things in my life that I am least proud of.
Things that also occurred, oh, 8 years ago.
I'm reeling, honestly. I kind of want to cry. I can't believe how much that has stung.
This is someone who I was close to the first two years of college, then we grew apart as our habits and circles of friends changed. We are myspace friends by approximation; it's not as if we've communicated in any detail in the past 6 years so this comment was not only unsolicited, it was out of left field.
I can't figure out where his anger comes from, to leave a comment like that. I don't know why my statement of Christianity was so offensive to him, he's normally a pretty chill guy. It's not like my myspace page has a large picture of Blond Swedish Jesus on it, with my hobbies being "the stations of the cross" and "judging sinners". It simply says, at the bottom, "Religion: Christian-other". Doesn't sound too holier-than-thou to me, Church Lady.

Here is the thing: I know what I've done; I don't have to be reminded. I haven't forgotten, and frankly I don't hide it or gloss over it, as most who've met me in the years since can attest. I am disconnected from it, however, because it was long ago and I've been changed out of that. I am different; that is not who I am. I am not the worst of me, just as I am not my greatest successes. This knowledge has cemented me today.

Needless to say I immediately deleted his comment; my little sister checks my page and that isn't something for anyone to read. I sent him a response that simply said, "What can I say? People change. Especially after 8 years have passed." Part of me wants to see healing in that friendship, as some is obviously needed but part of me says to leave it be. Some people cannot let others be anyone but who they were at a specific point in time.

After all this I did add something to my page:
"It is by the grace of God that I am a work in progress and my mistakes don't define me. Simple as that."

I have never been more thankful that such a statement is true.

The 1,000

I found this photo the other day--the 1,000 steps. As one walks along Euclid Ave, between Maryland and Lancaster, a steep stairway arises from the cracked concrete and dashes of college houses. There seems to be no purpose to it; by darkness it is dangerous, a place to be avoided. In the winter it's the most entertaining sledding around. Yet at it's summit was a small park, an overlook onto Syracuse with one of the best views of city, day or night (short of the REALLY sketchy Air Force tower on top of the old ski hill on South Campus). Westminster Park, as it's known, is largely a secret. Most students never know it's there, and the city has all but forgotten its existence as well. I don't know why I'm thinking about that little park and those steps so much right now.
My first trip to that overlook was about a month into my freshman year, with a boy I'd kissed when we were drunk and he wasn't yet sure how to end it. He was a senior and to me seemed to know the world. He showed me places that would later become some of my favorite spots in the city. This was one. I recall standing up there next to him, feeling invincible, free, opulent, graceful and good, looking down onto a new place and claiming it as my own with a grin.
I didn't go back to that park again til my senior year. Time caught up, threw some viscous hooks and jabs and had left me simply weathered. My house was on Lancaster, and there was a way to get to the park without braving the steps. The first time I went up that year was with my roommate. It was late, the stars were out, and our friend who should've been in a house a block away was gone forever and we were still trying to process it.
The next visit was with a boy who was trying very hard to get me to love him, and I knew I couldn't, but still I was glad for the company. That night was spend with wooing and ultimate rejection, and in memory it is melancholy. Standing next to him that night I felt more alone than I ever thought possible.
After that I'd take walks up there to smoke a clove, sit on a little cement fence post and stare out. Be still. I could hear the parties, hear the drunkards, hear the mistakes being made like the breaking of glass. The world still felt like my own, like it was full, but not of what I'd claimed that night years before. Below those steps was the world I lived in and knew well, but in that little space I had my own cloister--my own reprieve in which to simply...I don't know. Remember maybe? Dream? Without it I think I would have cracked in the chaos.
I'm realizing I'm forgetting these things.
Some I'd like to keep.