It’s The Smell

It’s the first thing you notice when you step outside. Not the foreign letters and languages that flood your eyes and ears. Not the sea of skin tones against the dry landscape. It’s not the smothering heat or the frantic movements of the passersby. It’s the smell. The second you step outside, it warmly rushes into your nostrils, filling them with distant yet familiar aromas.

A strange combination of wood-smoke, burning garbage, strong spices and body-odor pervades the air. It’s sweet, delicious and nausteating all in one breath. You breathe in the whole nation. The foul and the beautiful. The insides of your nose burns slightly, but you like it. The smell is thick and it seems to clog your lungs but it’s refreshing because it’s new.

You stop to breath it in some more. It’s new. After 4 weeks, it will still feel new to you. When you go home, every campfire, every garbage truck, every crowded subway will remind you of that smell, but none of them will be complete. They will be fragments. Pieces of a whole that can only be found back there.

And so, as you stand there breathing, you make a promise to yourself to return, if only to breathe some more.

Alone in the Crowd

Sometimes I feel so removed. As if the world continued to move around me as I remained static. Still, unmoving, overlooked and ignored.  But how can I feel like this? How can I be ignored when I am the one that has removed myself? It was a willing, conscious decision that I made, so why do I feel so left-out? On a night when everyone is together, I stand alone, looking on or walking away.

Sometimes I wish I was a part of something. Even though I know that this is not where I belong, sometimes I wish that this is where I am supposed to be. Even though I know that I am most at home in my head, sometimes I feel the need to live outside of myself, to live the life that everyone else is living.

But then I would no longer be an individual. I would become just another face in the crowd, a forgotten voice in a sea of languages. Maybe that’s what it means to truly be an individual. Acknowledging my own pretension and my condescending nature, maybe being an individual means being alone, even when all you want is to be a part of the crowd.

Rain

He didn’t care. He just opened the door and walked into the pouring rain. There was no sign of surprise in his eyes or a break in his step to indicate that he felt the rain. But he felt it.  Every drop on his face felt fresh and relaxing. And although he continued to speed through the rain as if he had someplace to be, he was headed in no direction. No one was waiting for him, no appointments to make, no pressing issues to resolve. All he wanted was in the rain. In the most cliche of ways, it washed away what was behind while obscurring the future, leaving him in this gray and wet present. But atleast it was the present and atleast he felt it and for now, that’s all he needed.

Morning on the Lake Shore

It wasn’t worth it anymore. He’d already woken up a number of times because of the sunlight. He had tried to guess the time every time he woke up but he refused to look at his watch. Might as well look now. It’s 6 in the morning. He’s awake now and there’s no falling back to sleep.

He gets dressed quickly in his sleeping bag before grabbing his wood-smoke scented fleece that acted as his pillow. He likes to think the smell helps him sleep despite the rocks digging into his side and the eerie sound of trees in the wind.

He slips his boots on, unzips the tent and enters the morning. The cold air hits him hard but he likes it. The burning in his nostrils, the instant redness in his knuckles and the look of his breath dissolving into the air. He ties his boots and takes in the scene. The still lake before him, the gray sky above him and the dry trees around him. Its early enough that the clouds haven’t lifted and that the water lays undisturbed. He carefully slips his hands into the lake, making sure to minimize the number of ripples eminating from his hands. Fuck that’s cold. He squeezes his eyes shut and splashes some of the near-freezing water on his face. Wow. He’s awake. But now his hands are wet and freezing. He wipes them on his fleece which brings out the smell of the wood-smoke even stronger than before. Fire, that’s a good idea.

Soon, he stands above a modest fire warming his front. The heat on his chest feels good against the dull chill on his back. He sits and takes the scene  for a second time. There are few other places he wants to be, but something about the moment makes him feel strange. Maybe it’s the 6 AM wakeup or the over-saturation of fresh air in his lungs or maybe it’s odd the assortment of people that lie sleeping in the tents behind him, but something is strange. Not wrong, just….off. The moment is ethereal, seeming only to last seconds but still existing. Detached. Removed.

Maybe it was sharing a tent with her that made him feel this way. Why? Nothing happened.  Nothing was even hinted, intended or  even contemplated. But something….maybe it was her. A curiousity, an objective fascination. The way she interacted so smoothly with everyone yet kept herself distinguished and removed. What was it about her? He did have a clue. But it was something. Maybe it was the way she said goodnight or the way her hair fell on her face while she slept or her calming, rhythmic breathing that helped him fall back asleep time after time throughout the night. He had no idea. But the intruige was there. He didn’t know what it meant, what he felt or why he felt something at all. But he felt it, just as surely as his chest was almost uncomfortably warm in front of the fire.

He stands and changes positions to cool off his front. The tent flap opens and she sleepily walks towards him, her dark hair peeking out from under a white woolen hat. She sits down next to him and smiles, staring at the fire as if answers lay in the embers.

“Good morning” She says with a light perkiness that hinted at how many minutes she had been awake.

“Morning” He replies steadily. He smiles. She pulls her coat around herself tighter. He is very aware of how close she is sitting to him. She looks at him and smiles.

There is definitely something, even if neither of them knows what it is.

Rememberance

On the most basic level, humans exist to procreate. But taking one step forward, that definition translates into something far more profound: we exist to be remembered. What do we want more than kids, success, wealth? We never want be forgotten. Maybe that’s the reason we have kids or we horde money or we parade success, we have a deep, unsupressable desire to be remembered.

And what is wrong with that? Memory is the closest we will ever get to immortality. Even though we know that our names won’t be recited for millenia likes the heros of Greece and Rome, we still act that way. Conciously or subconciously, that is why we, that is why I think I exist. That is the reason I give myself when I write. That this is a piece of me that will be remembered, no matter how ridiculous that notion sounds as I say it outloud. I want to be remembered. Please don’t forget me.

Sobering

We walk. We stumble. We laugh. And we keep walking. We have a destination. Our end point is set but not for any particular reason. It’s there, it’s happening and so, we walk.

It’s cold but we don’t realize it. The rum in our blood has crept into skin and so we are warm, shielded from the reality that is the nipping Autumn air. Despite the distant bite of the weather, we are excited and expectant. You see, it’s been a tough few weeks and this is our reward. Finally we are out with the other youth of our generation: living, loving and drinking all the way there. We cling to each other so as not to fall, but when one of us walks astray, we are all pulled along for the ride. We laugh. We walk, and we stumble some more.

Our destination nears and expectations rise. The distant roar of a subwoofer rumbles the suddenly uneven pavement beneath us. A few less fortunate than us begin to trickle in our direction. Alone or in pairs, these wanderers no longer are enjoying their weekend reward, or if they are, the morning will unabashedly remind them that no, they’re not enjoying it.

The scene is getting stranger as we approach. More people are lurching around in the street, one is leaning over the trunk of a stranger’s car, getting the sidewalk familiar with the contents of his stomach. Primal noises emanate from the backyard of the house as we turn into the driveway. The smell of beer, sweat and unchecked passions pervades our nostrils. We plow ahead, though I am no longer smiling. I walk slower, I stumble less and I check my laughter.

The backyard unfolds before us like an exuberant riot or a violently dying fish, it is difficult to tell which. The crowd is dancing vaguely to the steady beat of the bass but it is hard to determine whether or not the scene is happy or just simply drunken. We all see friends and split up to give the obligatory inebriated hugs and receive the standard status updates. I am still standing at the end of the drive-way, breaths away from the pitching and heaving crowd but it is very obvious that I stand apart. I inhale and take it in, all the criticism and judgment running through my brain, even though I am in position to do so. I am not standing on a pedestal, I am standing on crushed red cups and the foot of a cute girl to my left. I apologize and then return to trying to quantify the many reasons why I am not a part of this crowd of questionable decisions and 12-hour delayed regrets.

But I am no better, I tell myself. I’m just sobering up and realizing where I am. Amidst a crowd of drunk 19 and 20 somethings all trying to forget a week. I know I am no better, but I still feel uncomfortable and out of place. I turn and walk down the driveway back out onto the street.

As I walk away from the house, the stale smell of beer fades and the thud-thud-thud of the subwoofer quickly dies. I just left my reward behind but I’m not sure what kind of reward it was. I try to remind myself that I am no better and that I am no worse but there is something that I can’t shake. What did I want out of tonight? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the alcohol leaving my body in favor of reason, or maybe it’s the realization that the place I thought wanted to be was not what I wanted at all, but it’s cold outside now and I’m feeling it.

Nostalgic Ramblings on the Concepts of Comfort, Home and Peace

I’ve found myself defining the difference between “being comfortable” in a place and “feeling at home.” In retrospect, I feel as if the difference is fairly obvious. Its the difference between being my dorm room and my room at home. It’s how I feel when I step outside in Los Angeles versus back home in Newton.

There is also an addendum to the concept of feeling at home in a place: being at peace. On campus, I am comfortable. In Newton, I am at home. And in Vermont, I am at peace. Maybe it’s just how the three locations smell or maybe its the weather that creates the differing feelings I associate with them.

In Los Angeles, there is a mixture of concrete, exhaust and pollen-gone-wrong in the air. Combined with the monotonously beautiful weather, there is something sickly and yellow about Los Angeles. All these factors mean that I am not at home here, though I do feel comfortable on campus and walking down the busy streets of Pasadena. It’s the sort of comfort that comes with familiarity, as opposed to the comfortable feeling I get when I stand behind a camera, which I associate with natural interest and excited focus.

Newton, for the most of obvious reasons, is where I feel at home. I’ve spent 18 years living in the same spot. There is nothing that I know better than my home and my neighborhood. Yes, I do get bored of it at times, as any upper-class suburb will become. But the seasons keep me interested. In the Fall, it smells of tree bark and crisp air. Settling in for the long winter, amongst the flannel sheets and multiple layers you don for school, there is the beautifully cold, neutral smell of snow accented with harsh hints of car exhaust. You step outside and your hands, toes and nose hurt just a little. Cars roll by almost silently, leaving tread marks down the center of the road. The front steps are slippery and everything glows at night. Finally, the spring arrives and the smell of flowers and fresh mulch proliferates the green lawns of New England. The summer brings highs in the nineties and the smell of gasoline mixed with cut grass. I miss the seasons, the unpredictability of the weather, the bitter cold. When I get there, I fall in love and then I fall into routine. The wonder and excitement wears off quickly as I rapidly return to the life I had before college, before the West Coast, before permanant weather and endless sunsets. But maybe that’s what “being at home” is, a place that you can pine away for every day, but when you get there, you are so comfortable, you forget to appreciate what it is exactly that you love about it.

Moving 2 and half hours North is Vermont. I think what I associate with Vermont the most, more than the endless rolling green hills, the constant murmer of creeks, the smell of fresh bread and fresh cow shit, is the moment when I get out the car at 10:30 on a cold night. The car is stuffy, wart and smells like dog hair. Then you open the door and the cold comes rushing in. You can smell the trees, the snow, the leaves, the river, the wood smoke, the floors of the house, the dried flowers, everything. I guess this is where I am at peace. I realize here, in Los Angeles, that I have nothing to complain about in Vermont. It’s beautiful, quiet, clean and quantly nostalgic. For those who have never been to Vermont, I strongly urge that you make a trip out there every season, because it is such a different place every time I go back. From mountains of snow to summer lakes to Fall hikes to Spring picking.

My reminiscence has taken over my train of thought, so I apologize for the rambling words that lack focus, but that’s what feelings are. Feelings, smells, memories are vague. Here at Oxy, I always look forward to the day when I return to the places that I feel at home, but when I’m there, I begin to miss the sun and the open friendliness of California.

So who knows where I belong. Between my exaggerated dislike of Los Angeles to my overzealous New England pride, I often feel lost somewhere in between. But here I am, experimenting with geography, attempting to create my life where there was none before. So once again, my apologies for my drifting thoughts, but I just can’t help imaging what it feels like to step out of the car and into the snow.

On the Horizon

You know that feeling when you have a word on the tip of your tongue but for the life of you, you just can’t say it? I’ve been feeling like that for the past few days. Inexplicably so, it seems like my life is just waiting to happen, but can’t manage to find the fortitude to happen yet. I can feel the future about to happen, and then it leaves me. Frustrated, disappointed and alone. Like I’ve said before, it feels like I’m living on the cusp of something great that is about to happen; like I’m running towards the finish line, and then finding that the end has been moved miles away.

Because tomorrow continues to tease me, its hard to not feel like I’m missing out on something today. But I have no right to feel this way. My life is going incredibly well. My classes are great, I’m excited by my internship and I’ve surrounded myself with people who, above all, enjoy nothing more than spending meaningful time with others. By all diagnosis, I’m happy. And I lead myself to believe that I am. Then why is it that when it’s late, the music is quiet in my room, I feel like an integral piece to the puzzle is missing? Why is that when I sit in my car on the way to and from work that I wonder where I’m going?

Maybe its not that I’m waiting on the future, but that I’m searching for the future. I’m looking to make something, to do something, to meet someone, to be someone. Something that will stimulate my senses. Arouse my emotions. Spark my passion.

I think that may be my problem. They always say look to the future, but at the same time, they want us to live in the moment. I want too much. I make my future too complex and distant, when it should be more realistic. And though I should keep those distant dreams on the horizon, I need to take the first few steps in the direction on my own, rather than waiting for that horizon to come to me. Right now, I’m too far in the future to be happy in this moment. So enjoy this moment Gabe, this very second, because this is the only one you’ll ever get.

The Cusp of Creation (Inevitability)

I am on the cusp of creation. The ideas, the words, the images, the emotions are all forming on the periphery, waiting for the gate to come down so they can race forward off the tip of my tongue and fingers. It’s all there. Sitting. Waiting.

The anticipation, the expectation and the inevitability are all gnawing slowly. I know what is going to happen, regardless of where I am now, yet the waiting still eats at me. Just knowing that I can create something beautiful and meaningful yet being unable to conjur it now is terrible. As patient as I am, I am wearing thin. I want this now. I want to make something that people can see and appreciate. I want something that people will absorb and relate to. I want something that is reflective of who I am, what I can do and what I can be.

Inevitability and anticipation is starting to seep out into the rest of my body. I am wanting so much that I know is just around the corner, yet feels so distant, so impossible, so frustrating. My mind is taking off in different directions all from the same start. I am chaotic. I am focused. I’m finding it difficult to organize my thoughts and put them down into a cohesive structure, but I hope that I am still coherent: I am lost in a sea of ideas and emotions. Thoughts and actions. Creativity and inevitability. I am frustrated and I am hopeful.

So just bear with me.

Maybe

It’s strange how we can come back to a familiar place after so long and still feel lost. There’s so much to catch up, so many new experiences and opportunities waiting, and so many new faces, that’s its hard not to get excited. And I am excited, except then why do I already feel the days growing longer? Why do I find myself yearning for something or someone new?

Maybe its the back-to-school blues. Those few days before a routine kicks in and you are left floating without wind and without a compass. Maybe in the next week or two, all the pieces will settle into position and I’ll start to feel like I’m fitting into the right place.

I don’t mean to imply that I’m unhappy or disappointed, I think I just need some special concoction: three parts structure and rigidity, one part old friendships and one part new friendships. Now, those ratios may not be exact, but the essence is the same. I need a structure to keep me moving forward, otherwise I drift off to the side and wind up stranding myself in hours of mindless Internet surfing and nights of self-rumination. I need the old friendships for points of reference, something on which I can lean backwards onto to remember more favorable winds. And I need new friends and relationships to stimulate my interest and keep my engines running. Despite my numerous sailing metaphors, I think this is what has me weighted down right now.

I’m not depressed and I’m not quesioning where I want to be, I think I’ve just stalled out at the starting line of this semester, even one day in. Maybe I’m lonely, maybe I’m lost, maybe I’m realizing that I’m not as social as I’d like to be, or think I should be, or maybe I’m just waiting for a routine. I have such an amazing semester ahead of me, I don’t want to be the one thing that brings me down.

Maybe I don’t even feel this way. Maybe its that I write better when I brood. Maybe I want people to see someone other than the guy I present in-the-flesh. Or maybe its just the night time, bringing out everything dark that lingers in the corners of our hearts and minds. Maybe.