Send Me A Tree

I miserably, miserably, miserably failed my math final today.

I sat there in the lecture hall, flipped through all ten questions, and came up dry. My BS meter just about busted the roof. By the end of those three hours, it'd pretty much reached the stratosphere. I took a long walk afterwards to clear my head, eventually wandering all the way down to the botanical gardens.

I tripped down the dirt paths, wobbling in my oxfords across a stream and through several stands of bamboo. It was blessedly cool down there under the shade of the large trees, the overgrown bushes. I meandered around, not entirely certain what I was doing mucking about in my imaginary Sherwood Forest, just knowing that I was looking for something I couldn't quite understand.

And then I turned a corner and saw this.

It was like something out of a Hallmark movie. Sun shining through the cherry blossoms, a gentle breeze. I almost forgot about the cars whizzing by on the other side of the gate. And the nagging grind of construction. Almost.

I kind of stood a bit. Stared. Just to make sure this was a real cherry tree and not some creation of my fried brain. I looked some more. It was real.

I turned around and hiked back up, sunshine warming my back.

Laundry

One should not underestimate the relaxing qualities of laundry-folding. 

It's quiet, repetetive. Grab the shoulders, flip the sleeves back. Tuck. Drop. Done. Move on. 

With only the humming of the dryer finishing up heavier items, an empty laundry room is a place to take a breath and let the mind wander, gather itself, and categorize a to-do list. It's neat, orderly. Just like the individual stacks of polos and shorts and shirts that line the counter. 

Folding laundry is like piecing together a puzzle you know will fit together because you've done it so many times. There are no questions, no mischance. Except, perhaps, a missing sock.

Never underestimate the power of static cling.

Once everything is sorted, then, all the pieces disappear into their own drawers, each in its rightful place. Socks reunited with their mates. Handkerchiefs pressed and folded. Towels hung up to hide bare walls.

It's perfect, really. What more is there to wish for?

From order to chaos to order. Neatly defined. Plainly made. 

Sleeping is Hard

Cal decided that sleeping was difficult. At night, he'd lie in bed, drift off, maybe fall asleep for a few minutes. Start halfway-dreaming. Then twitch awake. Then he'd drift off again. And dream. And twitch awake. Sleep. Dream. Twitch. Repeat.

As if flinching awake every few moments wasn't irritating enough, the half-dreams-or what fragments of fragments he remembered the next morning-left him with images he couldn't shake.

Like shadowed doorways and snatches of sunlight on barren concrete. Like friends long-buried.

And every time Cal flinched awake, he felt the fresh grief of leaving again.

Running: Revised

I went running today on a surprisingly scenic lap around an industrial park near my house. It seems as if the city planners put all their landscaping mojo into that little two-mile square plot of land, building gently sloping little hills lined with grass and trees up against some bland concrete buildings. They even threw in some now-defunct railroad tracks half-buried under the remains of autumn's leaves. How considerate. It's all very picturesque if you can ignore the main thoroughfare that was thankfully quite deserted on this Sunday afternoon.

It's not often that I feel so happy while out running. Lately, I've been dragging myself all over the hills of Westwood, mostly down cracked concrete beside angry L.A. traffic. Running, for me, has become a way to maintain my individuality because in all honesty, I'm a crap runner. I like to think that I'm one of those incredibly fit maniacs who live off of salad and brown rice, but I've got a one-pack of adipose and I regularly eat salad because I'm literally allergic to everything else in the dining hall downstairs.

I guess my reasons for running have changed.

I'm running now because I want to prove I'm not like everyone else. I'm not running to get in shape or stay in shape. Neither's going to happen any time soon. I'm not running because I want to be a healthy person. With all the exhaust I breathe in on my runs, I'm pretty sure I'm killing something in my lungs. I'm not running to look good. God knows it'll take a lot more than running for that to happen.

I'm running to clear my head. I'm running to focus. There's a reason I never go out running with headphones. Running is a time to think, and music distracts me because I get so caught up in the beat.

Plus I can't hear anything around me when I run, so I'd probably get hit by a car. Or hit a car while running. Or something equally uncoordinated.

I'm running so I can feel good about myself. What better way to enjoy this self-imposed isolation than by flaunting it? Hey. Yeah. I'm running. I'm running alone. All. By. Myself. Got a problem? No one's ever got a problem.

Running's the only time I'm not thinking about how many problem sets I have left to do. When I run, I think about how I'm feeling, both physically and emotionally. It's only when I'm running that I realize that both of these are important.

This is running.

Friends

Among my friends, I am known as a bit of a party animal. 

I'm a beast on the dance floor. I can carry a conversation without the use of pronouns. I stay out until the crack of dawn. I wear skirts and combat boots. Makeup is my friend. I drive my parents' BMW and top it off whenever I feel like it. Everyone likes me. 

I think guys are awesome because guys are always on my mind because all I can think about are guys and guys and guys and more hot guys. The world revolves around attracting the attention of the opposite gender. 

My world. 

Which is everyone else's world, of course.

Among my friends, I am known as a bit of a brat. 

I grind like there's no tomorrow. I speak incessantly about nothing at all. I sleep in class. I like advertising my skin. Pasting layers of crap on my face is fun. I don't understand the concept of making my own way in the world. Everyone puts up with me. 

Among my friends (if I really even have any friends), I feel like maybe there's something missing. 

To be honest, I don't think I have any friends.

If I were my friend, I wouldn't like me. 

Thank goodness I haven't got any.

Friends. 

Or me. 

Ghosts

The man in the trench coat ghosted through pools of light, shoulders hunched, satchel in hand. The orange glow that fell on him brought with it a sense of other-worldliness, as if this man did not quite belong.

He didn't.

On this unseasonably warm winter's night, he was a monster, his silhouette a lumpy creature of the darkness into which he melted with almost a sigh of relief.

This was a thing caught between imagination and reality, Cal decided, unzipping his jacket in a show of defiance. There was no man.

All the same, he turned, almost against his will, to look over his shoulder. Darkness. Just darkness.

Cal shivered.

Chance

Today's sermon was about baptism.

I frankly don't remember very much of it. I never really do. As the message began, I resigned myself to another round of let's-try-not-to-fall-asleep-this-time!

About halfway through the message, a young man walked up the center aisle. Purple T-shirt. Tight black jeans. He stood right in front of the stage and looked up at the pastor.

"My name's Collin," he said, "I want to get baptized."

There was a collective intake of breath across the auditorium.

"Uh... Can you wait until tomorrow?" the pastor said, mid-message.

"No," Collin said, "I want to get baptized today."

The pastor froze. I shifted uncomfortably, sleep forgotten.

"Why don't you take a seat over there?" the pastor said, "We'll work something out."

Collin turned, walking straight past the seats to the back of the auditorium. At the door, he bolted and ran.

I sat, thinking, how many more have we lost?