I’m home for break and man, does it feel good. I’ve gotten sleep (yet acquired a cold), been working at The Gazette (I miss those people) and am actually reading something non-journalism related and isn’t a periodical…which I haven’t had time for since July. However, there is a bit of an ulterior motive (it’s not all fun and games)–I’m reading “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby for the 800th time to (hopefully) inspire me to write a rockin’ (pun intended) first draft of my master’s project about the underground punk rock scene in the Bronx (I am going to stop abusing parentheses now).
Being home is good. I desperately needed the break. Towards the end of the semester I was starting to go a little crazy with stress, flying hormones and self-doubt. I’ve perked up exponentially since being back in Halfmoon, NY. There’s something about my eccentric family that never fails to encourage and ground me. Same goes for The Gazette. I just feel so at home there–like I can be myself without any negative repercussions. It’s a nice feeling.
It’s also funny all the memories that a certain place can contain–emotional and tangible. Last night I was digging around for an envelope to mail my January rent check to my roommate when I came across a “book” I wrote when I was a 7-year-old at Tesago Elementary School (third grade, kids). It’s titled “Frosty and Me” and is exactly 13 sentences long (unless I counted wrong). It reads:
One Christmas day, I was playing outside and made a snowman. I named him Frosty. So I went to get my sister. On the way, I found a hat. I ran back to Frosty and put the hat on his head and he came to life. I ran into the house and got my sister. We were happy to have a new friend. Then we went for a walk in the woods. My sister was scared, so Frosty took us on a train with a freezer. We got off the train. We saw a clearing. It was Santa’s house. He let us in and we had hot cocoa. Then we left. The End.
What I’ve learned from this buried treasure of my youth is that clearly I am a talented individual (insert snark here). But seriously, a lot can be said about my first “official” literary foray. I clearly needed to be a non-fiction writer because I couldn’t be bothered to come up with my own plot. I liked commas and I had a knack for short, AP Style sentences. Ladies and gentlemen, that book should have been my application essay for Columbia. It can also be said that I clearly was not destined for art school (see photo).
Being home is just nice because you get to be who you are with no after thought or apologies. Everything is out on the table. I mean if my parents can still love me after that “book” then I’m in pretty good shape. I even dedicated it to my Dad and he doesn’t seem to hold it against me.