of the emotional baggage we carry around with us
A few days ago, I suddenly decided I really needed a car. So I found a good deal and bought it. It was a good deal, except that it would only be available end-May. Meaning that I had purchased a car for the purpose of moving house (and to California eventually, of course), only to not have the car for use when I needed to move. So I reluctantly called U Haul and rented a 14 feet-long truck for the big day tomorrow (just moving most of my stuff but will still be living on campus until finals end the week after).
A few hours ago, I suddenly realized that I needed to pack up all my stuff. In a moment of impulse, I tore down everything in the room and put them into boxes and crates and luggages and bags and what-nots. Suddenly, the whole room looks bare again, just like the first day that I stepped into it. Honestly, when I was a freshman, living in Thomas Eliot house was quite a good experience. I had a swimmer hunk, a New Yorker Jew and a local St. Louisan as my suitemates. It was a party floor and every wkend I got to see pple puke, puke, and then puke again, while my neighbour blasted some Lil Jon hip hop music like there's no tomorrow. And then in my sophomore year (which is almost coming to an end minus the big bang), I moved to Rutledge because one of my suitemates wanted sub-free housing. So I ended up living with the geeks from Beaumont and that was kinda fun too... seeing people study orgo in the morning, and then in the afternoon, and then in the evening, and finally at supper again. The RAs were terribly nice (Duretti in pyjamas and Sarah the musclewoman) and stuff looked pretty good.
But like water, we humans always tend to move in the direction of least resistance, whether or not we like it. The new house is just too good to be resistable. Granted that I would probably be cursing and swearing when I have to actually mow the lawn or pull out the weeds or kill overgrowing populations of kois in my pond, I just couldn't say no to the Venetian plaster walls (think: I am gonna hang my Caravaggio painting on it, how much cooler can it get?).
But tonight, ar, tonight, after ripping my room back to square one, I am suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia. After moving here and there (and I don't mean dorm rooms), I am a little weary. I can't help but wonder when it's time to actually stop and allow yourself to really grow into a place (did i ever mention that one of the most beautiful sights in Singapore is the night view outside my bedroom?). But the little voice reminds me that both fear and attachment are the mind killers that I must overcome. So I look upon my limp and lifeless room and try not to think where the Van Gogh poster went, or my winter clothings on the top shelf, or the Lonely Planet guide to Ireland on my desk.
Today is the last day of school (although I so spastically signed up for Sat 9-2 classes every week which means tmr is still school day for me and I swear never to make such a dumb mistake again because the flesh is weak and the mind is even more so). My italian professor came into class with her 10-yr-old daughter and made us continue our in-class composition review of a movie called "Io non ho paura" (I am not scared). At the end of the class, she needed us to fill up an anonymous evaluation form and so she had to leave the class while we would fill it up. She looked at her daughter and said,
"Cosima, it's time for us to leave."
And her daughter, who was having fun just sitting around us college kids, refused to budge.
"Cosima, we REALLY have to leave. It is time for us to go." A firmer tone.
And then my professor literally held on to her daughter's elbow and pulled her to the door, and then she realized she had forgotten to say anything for the last day of class and so she turned back and said "Goodbye class. I really enjoyed teaching all of you and I really hope to see all of you in some other italian classes in future." The class responded enthusiastically with our fake italian-accented "brava!"s. And then she went on,
"So this is goodbye for now and ...." and the next moment she was tearing and she quickly said in italian "I don't like farewells, they are just too..."
And then she rushed out with her daughter with the door slamming shut behind her. I felt a tinge of sadness in me then; the kind that's not over the top but subtle and enduring.
Yes, sometimes emotions have this habit of creeping up behind you step by step for god-knows-how-many-eons and before you even know it, they have captured your heart. Amen.
A few hours ago, I suddenly realized that I needed to pack up all my stuff. In a moment of impulse, I tore down everything in the room and put them into boxes and crates and luggages and bags and what-nots. Suddenly, the whole room looks bare again, just like the first day that I stepped into it. Honestly, when I was a freshman, living in Thomas Eliot house was quite a good experience. I had a swimmer hunk, a New Yorker Jew and a local St. Louisan as my suitemates. It was a party floor and every wkend I got to see pple puke, puke, and then puke again, while my neighbour blasted some Lil Jon hip hop music like there's no tomorrow. And then in my sophomore year (which is almost coming to an end minus the big bang), I moved to Rutledge because one of my suitemates wanted sub-free housing. So I ended up living with the geeks from Beaumont and that was kinda fun too... seeing people study orgo in the morning, and then in the afternoon, and then in the evening, and finally at supper again. The RAs were terribly nice (Duretti in pyjamas and Sarah the musclewoman) and stuff looked pretty good.
But like water, we humans always tend to move in the direction of least resistance, whether or not we like it. The new house is just too good to be resistable. Granted that I would probably be cursing and swearing when I have to actually mow the lawn or pull out the weeds or kill overgrowing populations of kois in my pond, I just couldn't say no to the Venetian plaster walls (think: I am gonna hang my Caravaggio painting on it, how much cooler can it get?).
But tonight, ar, tonight, after ripping my room back to square one, I am suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia. After moving here and there (and I don't mean dorm rooms), I am a little weary. I can't help but wonder when it's time to actually stop and allow yourself to really grow into a place (did i ever mention that one of the most beautiful sights in Singapore is the night view outside my bedroom?). But the little voice reminds me that both fear and attachment are the mind killers that I must overcome. So I look upon my limp and lifeless room and try not to think where the Van Gogh poster went, or my winter clothings on the top shelf, or the Lonely Planet guide to Ireland on my desk.
Today is the last day of school (although I so spastically signed up for Sat 9-2 classes every week which means tmr is still school day for me and I swear never to make such a dumb mistake again because the flesh is weak and the mind is even more so). My italian professor came into class with her 10-yr-old daughter and made us continue our in-class composition review of a movie called "Io non ho paura" (I am not scared). At the end of the class, she needed us to fill up an anonymous evaluation form and so she had to leave the class while we would fill it up. She looked at her daughter and said,
"Cosima, it's time for us to leave."
And her daughter, who was having fun just sitting around us college kids, refused to budge.
"Cosima, we REALLY have to leave. It is time for us to go." A firmer tone.
And then my professor literally held on to her daughter's elbow and pulled her to the door, and then she realized she had forgotten to say anything for the last day of class and so she turned back and said "Goodbye class. I really enjoyed teaching all of you and I really hope to see all of you in some other italian classes in future." The class responded enthusiastically with our fake italian-accented "brava!"s. And then she went on,
"So this is goodbye for now and ...." and the next moment she was tearing and she quickly said in italian "I don't like farewells, they are just too..."
And then she rushed out with her daughter with the door slamming shut behind her. I felt a tinge of sadness in me then; the kind that's not over the top but subtle and enduring.
Yes, sometimes emotions have this habit of creeping up behind you step by step for god-knows-how-many-eons and before you even know it, they have captured your heart. Amen.
posted by smartypants at 2:30 AM
<< Home