The World is a Better Place than It was 2500 Years Ago

About 2500 years ago, there was this family. The House of Atreus.

I could insert a picture of the family tree here, but it all just gets too complicated and doesn't really convey the truly astonishing number of affairs and murders that occurred within the family itself. So you can go Google it yourself if you really need it.

Anyways. The whole shebang kind of started when these two brothers, Atreus and Thyestes, murdered their half brother and were exiled. And then Atreus' wife Aeropes had an affair with Thyestes, so Atreus killed Thyestes' kids and tricked him into eating his own kids. And so Thystes was banished (for cannibalism) and Atreus became king.

But that's not all.

Thyestes was pretty pissed about this, so he asked some trusty old oracle what to do and came away with the idea that he needed to have a kid by his own daughter, Pelopia. And so Aegisthus was born. Unfortunately, Pelopia was so ashamed of this that she gave Aegisthus away to some shepherd, who gave the baby to Atreus (Oedipus, anyone?). When Aegisthus found out about all this, he responded in the logical fashion by killing Atreus.

Atreus had two sons before he died, Menelaus (who married Helen, aka Helen of Troy) and Agamemnon, who married Clytemnestra, Helen's sister. Then Helen was "kidnapped" and the Trojan War happened, but there was no wind for Agamemnon to set sail for Troy, and some old dude told him that he'd pissed off Artemis and would have to sacrifice what he considered his most precious belonging to appease her. And so Agamemnon killed his oldest daughter, Iphigenia, which really pissed off his wife (understandably).

While Agamemnon was away at war, Clytemnestra hopped into bed with Aegisthus and decided to kill Agamemnon when he returned. And so they did.

But then Agamemnon's exiled son Orestes returned and killed both Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, his own mother. Orestes was cleared of the murder charge by a split vote among the Athenian elders in a court presided by Athena herself. And this was the origin of "innocent until proven guilty." Or something like that.

You see, the world is kind of becoming a better place. It's actually a pretty wonderful place if you take the story of the house of Atreus at face value. We're not chopping up people's kids and eating them. Or murdering our mothers. And we don't run to oracles for sage advice. Not really, at least.

There is hope.

Whose Eyes?

This evening, I was finalizing my chair application for BruinMUN next year when I decided to skim through my MUN Monday posts again to see if I'd forgotten anything.

I've forgotten a lot.

Man, why can't things be the way they used to be? Hotel rooms and airplane rides with a massive group people we called family. Now, I sit here, wracked with uncertainty and disappointment about what the future holds. I didn't understand reality then, and I'm sure that, when I look back on this in a few years, I'll wish I could afford to be so uncertain about little things like summer plans and internship applications. The world just keeps getting bigger, and I'm scared that it's all just going to pop one day and collapse like a punctured hot air balloon.

At that moment, then, I'll wonder what it is that I've actually done with my life. Stuff that wouldn't fit on a resume, stuff that doesn't go in the "Would you like to add anything else?" box at the end of online applications. Stuff that means something.

It's vague, uncertain, sure. In anyone's eyes but mine, these things mean nothing. But I am I and I am.

So I have this box. It's a sort of white-ish, green-ish color. Small-ish. Shiny. Ish. It was a gift from the mother of perhaps my oldest friend. It's got a lock on it, which made up for the swirly little butterflies engraved across the surface. I started putting stuff in there when I started middle school. Deflated balloons from a birthday. old movie tickets. A shotgun shell. Gradually, stuff began to pile up in the little box. A foam chili pepper. A tiny FM radio. A dried out strip of leather. A letter stained blue from riding around in the back pocket of my jeans. It was a mess, really. It is a mess. It's a terribly cluttered analogy for everything I've done, gaudy on the outside, but locked tight, jumbled on the inside.

This box is shoved deep into the bowels of my old desk at home, the one with the metal drawers that screech and groan. I still carry the key with me even though I once picked the lock with a bobby pin. Keys mean something, just as boxes do. Something. Some stuff.

Some time.

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.