Having lived in the general vicinity of Chicagoland for much of my childhood as well being an inhabitatant of St. Louis for over a year now, it came with unexpected realization that I had never actually seen anyone in the act of being arrested-- car tires getting slashed, possible transferring of illegal substances, solicitation by prositutes yes, but never the full "getting hand-cuffed and forcibly transported into a police vehicle ordeal". Until, that is... yesterday. The scene of the crime (or rather, where the culprit was apprehended) culminated on the intersection of Sarah and Westminster, approximately 200 feet from my destination in broad daylight, being that it was nearing noontime. In my very typically oblivious nature, I turned onto the street with very little to no regard for what was occuring. The sight of three police cars parked warily next to one another in the middle of the street is pretty commonplace. There's always something going on that warrants police attention, whether it be a water main break on Lindell or simply a wayward cat. However, as it turns out, I caught the tail-end of the reading of Miranda rights, and personally saw the alleged criminal being double handcuffed before being escorted into the backseat of the squad car. Supposedly, the shiny and new pristine-looking Escalade that he was driving wasn't his. Judging by the number of weighty gold chains hanging from his neck and the "ghetto-fab" apparel he was was donning, I probably wouldn't have given a second thought or further discernment on the topic of ownership. But then again, I apparently don't have that instinctual je ne sais quoi for upholding justice and obstructing illicit crime.
Even through the flurry of activities that the two weeks have brought, I still managed to make some time for the more simplistic on a romp out in the woods with some friends (and infinitely glad I did). I couldn't phathom the idea of spending a Monday afternoon in any other way than hiking on snow covered trails and enjoying gorgeous scenery (Pictures from our hike). The whole weekend essentially revolved around the short-lived snow, as I also went skiing for the first time (who would have thought that of all places, this first experience would occur in Missouri ?). Unfortunately I have no pictures to show from that exhilerating event; I was moreso focusing on not inducing great bodily harm or accidentally impaling innocent people with my skis. It's with a bit of sadness that as I peer out this foggy windowpane, to see the ice melting into hovering droplets of water and the eventual descent into puddles. Farewell to the winter wonderland.
The empheral, indefectible, all-consuming, yet not entirely definable feeling of love has always portrayed itself to me as very uncannily similar to a snowball. The delicacy of the individually unique snowflakes is comparable to the immense spectrum of analagous human emotion, and the interplay within this fateful bond. The conscionable process of packing the the minute slivers of ice though subliminal, is highly methodical, almost innate. Too much pressure, or conversely, too little undeliberately demolishes the potential for this perfectly concentric sphere; similarly, the hope for a state of being that transcends all that is tangible. All that is left amiss, a pool of tearful droplets, snow once melted by the warmth of touch, of drowning sorrow for once was and what could have been.
The last weekend of freedom before the onslaught of class captivity was surprisingly eventful. I remember very specifically that last year, the night before spring semester began I was sitting around in my living room rummaging around for a new crochet pattern for a scarf with a bowl of marshmellows and in the company of a CNN Headline anchor. While nothing truly trumps the meditative solitude that stems from being completely myself with no qualms or worries of judgment, each passing year adds more to the belief that social acceptance and in general, being social can be a wonderful thing.
Friday was the long awaited night for Rent. It's funny how tragic stories meant for entertainment purposes transgress over the years. La Boheme introduced starving artists and wayward death bound philosophers to an enthralled audience, while Rent, which was based on the former, magically transformed AIDS, homosexuality and substance abuse into a lovely storyline and engaging musical numbers. The night was made even more luminous by the short snowfall that dusted the trees and lined the streets with a radiant white after the show commenced and while we were walking to the car.
While there were no theatrical performances nor artistic musings to round out Saturday, it was a charming day nonetheless. As is my habitual nature, the morning was spent cleaning an already pretty clean apartment and doing much needed laundry. Plans to watch the third movie in a Kubrick marathon turned into a road trip over the river and to grandmother's house with a friend (his grandmother, not mine). Since we were in the vicinity and in trying to take advantage of the beautiful weather and what was left of the traces of snow, we went out to Cahokia Mounds for a quick history lesson on Indian tribal rituals and preservation of lifestyle. Climbing up and down the snow covered mounds inevitably led to childlike chasing and a snowball fight that resulted in my half-somersault through the air and onto the snow covered ground. Surfacing bruises and all, it was all in good fun. When Sunday finally rolled around lazily, the motivation to not sit around slothfully was still there, and so part of the afternoon into evening was spent at Eric's house, helping with some home improvement (and I use the term "help" lightly). I was obviously the novice in the room, and so tried my best to not get in anyone's way and not make too much of a mess. Paint smeared on everyone's clothes, faces and hair a couple hours later, we were essentially done with one room. While we probably won't be a featured segment on a Bob Vila special anytime soon, I thought we did a pretty dandy job, with just a little sweat but no blood or tears involved.
Last night was spent indulging in a bit of innocent fun in the form of "game night". Essentially, it consisted of my three other co-workers turned friends and I splayed out in my itty-bitty living room playing Scattergories andUno Dominossans adult beverages (though unusual for us) making the evening even more upbeat in its hilarity and random moments. Even the non-competitor in me enjoyed winning the second round of Uno!, and didn't mind in the least losing at Scattergories.
A five and a half hour train ride, followed by two hours of idle waiting in a station was surprisingly not entirely tedious and only slightly tiresome. I'm at home this weekend for Melissa's wedding; and was quite honored to be asked to play a piece for the ceremony. Last night was the rehearsal and then dinner. Being somewhat humbled after practicing the piece a couple times through with the organist, I admit to a strong case of stage fright that is not dissimilar to the anguish I used to feel about public speaking. Those days are long past, as it seems that given the right topic, I can speak exhaustively at length. But somehow I imagine most are not completely enraptured by the prospect of hour long lectures on spongiform encephalitis or whatever disease is the "hot topic" of the moment. Regardless of the air of nervousness and anticipation in the room last night, I'm sure that the effort in patchwork of so many people will make everthing flow together quite seamlessly. Today promises to be a momentous day for the young couple, and a wonderfully sentimental one for the family and friends who wish them all their best.
~~It's the heart, afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance. It's the dream, afraid of waking, that never takes a chance. It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give. And the soul, afraid of dying, that never learns to live. ~~
