That is so meta...

I had a dream last night, and while I cannot for the life of me remember the general gist of it, I have one important detail stuck in my brain: I was on the internet, and I had six new comments on a recent blog post. SIX. That's right. I dream about virtual validation.

I have been writing in this little corner of the internet for almost a year and a half now, and I still haven't quite come to terms with the fact that I am, in fact, a blogger. When I announce this fact, it is not without some degree of shame--a shame similar, perhaps, to the shame one might feel when confessing one religiously watched Battlestar Galactica, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer (guilty and guilty).

While discussing my blog with a friend recently, she mentioned that she would be far too stressed out to write something that so many people read. I had a brief moment of panic, as I had been unaware that gauchedroitegauche is read by anyone other than Chelsea and the entire staff of VGP. And then I calmed. I breathed. And I remembered why I started my blog in the first place. That quip about virtual validation was not far off the mark. I blog because I want people to read my thoughts, I want people to think about what I am thinking about, and I want to know their reactions. I am putting the meanderings of my mind out on the internet for any and all to see, and I like it.

So read. React. That is what this is here for.

Speaking of Grace

It's no secret that I am a klutz. I am notorious amongst family and friends for being incapable of walking in a straight line. Sober. Just walking. I cannot do it. I waver. I run into people. I hit my head on lamp posts bolted to the sides of buildings.

On more than one occasion, my sizable junk in the trunk has broken glass. A window. A table. Sunglasses. I think the song "Baby Got Back" might have been written for me, but Sir Mix-a-lot seems to have forgotten the verse where the Oakland booty shatters glass. I have kicked wine glasses into loved ones' faces while sitting on a couch, and I have had to come to terms with the fact that I am just a bundle of elbows and knees and hips and awkwardness. There's no getting around it.

Now, I have been told--on more than one occasion--that I can compel myself to be graceful. That I should take ballet, learn to plier, be conscious of my limbs, my extremities, and that glass-shattering behind. How does that go, though? The one about not teaching new dogs old tricks? Old dogs new tricks? Something like that...I am twenty three years old. Doomed forever to a life of clumsiness and windows broken out behind me. I think if I even tried to stand en pointe I would end up kicking whoever was next to me in the face. Nobody likes an awkward ballerina.

Trivial Pursuit

I am looking for the little things. For the things that tie me to this coastline, this "best coast" in the country. For the swingset on Garden Street that I have visited many a time late at night ("park closes at dusk", be damned!), for an trivia game on the Ave, for rain leaking from the sky, a hug from a niece or nephew, word games on the kitchen table.

What I am finding is that these little things do not add up. It is not the simple addition of these little pieces of home that make home, that make the Pacific Northwest so magnetic. One bagel from the Bagelry + champagne shared between friends while watching the fireworks go off the Space Needle + Yahtzee (or Farkle...) does not equal home. And furthermore, that equation is not greater than baguettes + cheap cheese + explanations of odd British slang + southern French sun, and it isn't even greater than gross "London nachos" + freestylin' in an apartment with a guitar beat borrowed from Eminem + all-day brunches - New Hampshire, for goodness sake!

Quite honestly, if I continue to look for the little things, I am liable to end up quartered, with parts of my body scattered all over the world (William Wallace, anyone?). Because those little things I find myself searching for--those things that fill up my days and my memories and make places important--those little things are not just in Bellingham, or Seattle, or Washington State. They are scattered across countries, across oceans, across continents. There is this amazing cafe in Collioure, France, where I had a hot chocolate in January, and the sky was blue and the wind was cold and our chocolat chaud cooled before we could drink it, and we sat chatting in broken French, and that is my home. There is an attic in New Hampshire where I danced for hours to hip hop music, where I have listened to poets tell me about theory, and that is my home. There is a specific booth in the Ranch Room on Holly Street that might as well have my name on it.

To some, this might feel a bit like homelessness. But it is, in fact, the antithetical problem. I suffer from too many homes. Home is where ever I've been, where ever I'm with you, in fact. In a way, I am afraid that this itself might cause a feeling akin to homelessness, a feeling that where ever I am, I will never be totally at home, because I have so many other homes in so many other places. I suppose, however, that is a kind of wanderlust, even if it is just to places I have been before, places where I have made homes. And wanderlust is something I am perfectly content to feel.

Savoring My Days

Before I moved to New Hampshire, I brainstormed fairly often with Chelsea about ways to "savor our days," and to emulate (in the least creepy way possible) Yellow's unabashed love for life and all things spectacular and simple. We planned to (separately, of course, as Chelsea lives in Scotland...) bake bread, and craft, and go on picnics, and play games, and hunt for beautiful things at antique shops, and cook lovely dinners and just revel in anything and everything we could.

For me, this turned quite quickly into stacks of student papers to grade, into days spent cooped up in my New Hampshire apartment, car-less, into writing frenzies to get through deadlines.

Now, as a rule I don't make resolutions. I have never kept them, anyway, and I don't see January 1st as a day that is better than any other for turning over new leaves. I am still a fan, however, of savoring my days, and plan to do so in a variety of ways.

I will:
-have better posture
-host potlucks more often
-invite people over to dinner regularly and bake for them
-make bread with my hands
-make everything i can with my hands
-drink more good wine amongst friends

I suppose, in all actuality, those are resolutions. But I am not resolving to complete anything. Once I host one potluck I won't be finished. I am resolving to savor my days, to hold on to those moments, those little things that remind me why I moved to New Hampshire (and also those things that remind me why I am always so eager to return to the Northwest as well).