think about long distance rates instead of

Ohh the relief, that great exhalation as I flew over Los Angeles which, until this morning, I had only recently seen on episodes of The Hills. I was groggier than anything as I came off the plane, leaving the season 3 of The Office which Emma gave me for Christmas on my seat! Which truly sucks. Because what's going to keep me occupied on the flight back now? Nancy met me, Mum met Peter, she handed off Dad's car to him and while he drove down to long beach to pick up his boys from their jet blue flight, Nancy, Mum and I drove to starbucks where Mum and I sang along to the James Taylor song playing over their sound system that seems to leave this troubled world behind, then we drove to 3rd street where we attempted to find a farmers market, no dice, we decided on Whole Foods, we came home and cooked a little, I got the rollerblading bug but realizing I no longer had blades that fit I went to Big 5 Sporting Goods and dropped 100 bucks on some baby blue, very snazzy rollerblades.
I went out, down Entrada, going under PCH and coming up on the other side on the beach path that I took all the way down to where Venice blvd meets the beach. These blades were heavier than my old ones, and strained both knees a good deal, but it was so satisfying to feel that salt air tear at my throat and the burn in my quads while Paul Simon sang in my ears. I love blading on that path because I feel like I am taking advantage of my life, living to my capacity, under the sun, against the sky, through the wind, I am fast.

Tonight Peter brought over his visiting friends, Mum made killer fried chicken, and I made tapioca that Mum put too much orange flavoring in, so I'm a little bitter, and now I'm sitting upstairs in my room listening to the wind move through these trees, wondering how it's possible that I really live in a little room in Medford. The way I feel sitting in bed there, and the way I feel here are two entirely different skins, although I haven't really the vocabulary to explain why. Something about feeling less critical of myself, and trusting my head more. Or maybe it's just my sense of ownership and comfort here. I was trying to describe this to Mum earlier- in Boston it feels as though my life exists within these series of little rooms: my bedroom, Kate's house, Andy's office, the church, Upstairs, the rehearsal spaces, and outside of those rooms, or rather when I'm traveling between those rooms, I'm neither inhaling or exhaling, I'm this static isolated thing merely made to travel (yes, I realize this makes no sense, I'm talking about how it feels not how things necessarily are. And in LA, my life is open, both literally in that I spend more time outside, and in that it continues when I'm traveling, that I have a momentum here. I recognize that all these feelings, and this perspective itself, are just expressions of my relief in having this homesickness quelled, and that I wouldn't necessarily be flawlessly happy, and not depressed, and perfectly stable here as opposed to Boston. I know this isn't my ultimate cure. What I do know is that it feels marvelous to be home, and I'd like to hold on to that.

I'll go to the 9:30 women's meeting with Mum tomorrow, then to the bank and other errands, then to yoga *smile*. Mum's just called up to me; the tapioca's cooled.


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Every time I'm home I rummage through my books and old journals, school notebooks and random spirals I've kept from years of education and spontaneous poetry, in search of notes I've left myself. Since I was little I've been leaving scraps of paper for me to find sometime late, informing myself of what I was doing on this day, or reminding me of what my favorite song was on the date the note was written, or some little thing reminding me that I love me. I found one tonight when thumbing through my copy of Faith On trial. It reads "To this place, I leave this girl so swollen by the noise in her head. From this place I take Mollie B- volume down."

Working my way back to square one, my slate is clear.