Septemblog

Wow. Is it really September?

It's like I've blinked and suddenly my life's changed. Twice. All in the past month. Just think- This time, two months ago, I was at T.J. Maxx, crying about my pay check and completely fearful that I'd never be able to go back to college. Alternately, I would be at T.J. Maxx, determined that I would have a job by the end of the month, no matter if it was just out of retail or a large-scale job.

Last year, September, 2005:
I was shuddering from the aftermath of Katrina, helping the victims who came through the line at T.J. Maxx, watching them tell their stories to each other- to ME, uncertain of their future. Not sure where they'd spend the night, if family would take them in- or just driving to get away from their homes and find life... anywhere other than where they were.

This time, last year, I was starting my creative writing class, feeling the weight on my shoulders of lack of experience, lack of emotion, the eternal editorial voice telling me that I should never have taken a class that involved poetry. But I did. And, you know, I don't think I came away from that class with any one story, poem, or thought that I'm not proud of.

Two years ago, September, 2004:
I was unemployed, and draining my funds slowly. What I had built up in my account began to empty as I had begun to find out that the best thing to do on campus was bring an apple with me, and hang out in the cybercafe. I grew a steady, horrific internet addiction that became a near-problem in opposition to my growing list of books and plays that were obviously more important. And I did pay attention to those books and plays- giving them the attention they deserved.

My class list- though not overwhelming, was particularly hard to keep up with. However, the problem came with understanding. You see? To understand a play, I have to read it. I have to feel it. I've had more luck recently with getting people to read with me- or maybe the next time I have a Shakespeare play, I should find a good book-on-tape to read with. I don't know...

Three years ago, September, 2003:
Working at Wolf's, taking the bus to and from the house where I'd been born, wandering Webster, learning the Metrolink, walking... just walking in the morning before the sun even rose, some mornings, and listening to my CD player on my way to catch the first bus. Then, the second bus. I was looking forward to Hot Chocolate, but certainly not ready to start buying it yet- not until at least the end of the month, at any rate.

This time, 2003, I was cleaning roses and putting them in tissue paper, wiring flowers for wedding bouquets, floral-taping fall leaves for winter bouquets. I was watching the leaves rustle, and being teased by Jillian for being a dork. (And I am a dork. I don't even bother to deny it anymore. But I'm still not a nerd. I'm not completely socially inept. I also don't like math and don't do pocket protectors. But I digress.) I made my excuses as to why I didn't go see Mom's grave- no way to get there, etc. Maybe I was afraid of how I'd feel.

I miss Wolf's. Can you tell? I need to bring them pie.

~*~

And that brings me back to this year. This time of year. What's been going on with me? Oh, nothing too ridiculously much. For the first time that I can remember, I'm not stressed, pressed, pushed, frightened, worried, alone, scared, wound tight, or completely directionless. I'm... here.

It's disconcerting, especially when you've been on edge for the past three months.

I kind of like it, though. Gives me more time to focus on my Mammoth book of Pulp Fiction.


Happy September, everybody.