AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: Here We Are Again. DATE: 11/09/2004 11:09:00 AM ----- BODY:
Ever see the episode of AbFab when Patsy asks Saffy what time it is, and Saffy says 7:30, and Patsy looks around for a while and finally says, "...okay, that means nothing to me"? That's how I feel when I look at the calendar. The idea that today is November 9, 2004 simply refuses to compute. Abort / retry / fail, y/n? Sometime while I was watching the Sox, or while I started to blink sometime back in September, the leaves turned and fell and last night as I was driving to cover a story out in one of those little towns along Rte 2 the rain started to look funny--fluffy, like, and then I realized with a gasp of horror and a squeal of the brakes that it was...snow. I feel like Rip Van Winkle. Really. Am I the only person feeling like the world is melting and streaming by the way the stars would on old Star Trek episodes when they'd kick it up to Warp Speed? Am I the only person who feels like she's aging and decaying visibly? My constant feeling is, there's no time, there's no time, there's no time...I feel like I've missed a deadline already. This is similar to how I recall feeling as a teenager when I thought about twenty. I realize I lived my life like I was going to die at twenty, and in the end, I almost did. Now thirty looms, I can't stop thinking about thirty and all I have left to accomplish by then. Is this how I'm going to lead my life? Coming to a crashing halt with each decade, being annihilated by a turn of a calendar page and then resurrecting myself like a video-game character on the other side, somewhat faded, maybe smaller, but still bounding toward some silly goal? I didn't mean for this entry to get so serious. Last weekend we stayed up till three in the morning playing with Michele and Beana's kittens, Bindi and Isis. We started out rolling a ball with a little bell inside it between us on the kitchen floor while the cats hopped in and out to chase it like Double-Dutch with fur. Then we moved to rolling the ball back and forth down the front hallway while the cats, their little pink paws kissing the floor like a ballerina's pointe shoes, tippy-toed their way toward the jingling ball, then enacting a crazed pas de chat full of incalculably complex footwork and Matrix-style leaps of the wall... We stayed up until three in the morning doing this. Really. We were captivated. Us. The same people I used to dance in a drunken stupor with at Stooge's when they played "Hot in Herre." The same people I've attended parties I still can't fully describe in detail with at 142. Now here we were in a house in Cambridge on a Friday night playing with cats till almost dawn. Not doing drugs. Not raising hell. Not drinking beers. Not dancing and carousing with the best of 'em. Playing with cats. It was still damn fun. Until I allowed myself the thought: pretty soon, these won't be cats. Pretty soon, these'll be... Stop it. Stop the world. I need a moment. Let me off the ride. The weather's really fucking with me. Little pinpoint flakes of snow falling out in central Mass. Iron skies and a woodsmoke chill in the air. It has occurred to me that this is just my second autumn that didn't involve school of some sort. It feels alien. I feel like I'm forgetting something, maybe to attend football games at the high school on Friday nights or to be holed up in the library of a Saturday afternoon or... But I know I could go there, I could sit on those freezing bleachers at the football game and it wouldn't the the same ones, it wouldn't be the same high school, hell, it's not even the same town anymore, probably. Right now it's like I'm homesick for someplace I've never even been.