True Value

1 pint real apple cider: $2.99
2 lemons: $1.50
1 small jar cinnamon sticks: $5.99
Nutmeg: $3.49
James feeling "a little better" after some of my hot apple cider: Priceless.

Thump Thump

Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing wrong. Or, rather, what things I lack the ability to do that would be considered 'right.' It's kind of exhausting.

I know part of it is that I have very little time that is my own. I have to work to make rent. I have to go to school so that I don't have to wash dishes to make rent for the rest of my life. I feel lately that I don't have the ability to accomplish anything; I feel like a failure, a failure at everything. I make everybody wait. I make everybody wait for something, and I can only move so fast. There is pain in knowing that others are waiting for you but you won't be done in a timely enough fashion no matter how fast you move, how hard you force your brain and heart to work.

It's my heart that works the hardest, I know. I apply it like a salve to everyone I love who is hurting, in whatever way or for whatever reason. And I want it to be enough. I want giving my heart away to be enough, but it's not. It doesn't change the past, it doesn't bring about some much needed amnesia, it doesn't make anyone love me more. It doesn't change the landscape, the faces, the leaves on the trees, or how inadequate I still manage to be (for some people at least). But I try so hard. It's not easy forgoing everything you want to do for everything you need to do. It's either disappoint everybody else or disappoint yourself, or both.

My mom always told me that happiness is a choice. But what if the one thing or person you would choose over everything else in the whole world makes it hard to be happy, because it chooses not to be? Can that even be true? That it's a choice? It doesn't make sense. Hunger isn't a choice, pain isn't, pleasure isn't, so why is happiness? It happens to us and not because of us. I want to make it happen for other people, I want to choose happiness for other people, but it's not up to me, and it's not up to them either.

I know for a fact, however, that we do make a choice to dwell on things. We choose to hang on to hope for people and times we know are gone, even when we know it's destructive, to ourselves and those who love us. It brings about unhappiness. We can't choose not to be unhappy, but we can choose not to revel in the things that we know are bringing it about. Part of this is masochistic, part of this is just selfishness in it's basest of forms. We all do it, at some time or another, and really, it's just...it's just plain rude. It's not fair. Sometimes it's just better to be grateful, I am finding out. I need to be grateful that I have a job, a place to live, the opportunity to get a college degree, and for the time (however scant it may be, these days) that I have with James and my family. I can wish for more time, but I'm not going to get it soon, so I should suck it up and get over it. I should just treat what's been given to me like gold, like silver, like dinosaur bones and pressed flowers, and I'm getting better at that.

I just want other people to know how much it means to me, how much it will as time goes on. I want other people to stop dwelling and start looking forward to things.

There are, I promise, some decent things to look forward to.

And Inhale

What is the smell of apples?

A cobalt glass bowl big enough to wash a new baby in (one of my favorite possessions) is sitting on the table in front of me. No less than fifteen little MacIntosh apples are peeking at me from their smooth blue confines, and when I sat down, I had to look at them because of that smell. It's like an onomatopoeia, except object-visual and nasal, instead of literature-visual and audio. What I mean to say is, these apples smell like what they look like. The deep sweet red and stingy streaks and smears of tart green, electric, living, green spotted by tiny speckles of cinnamon brown. And I can smell the stems, little branchless trees growing up from the island of fruit, hard and earthy and bitter. It's wonderful to pick one up, press it hard against your closed lips and sniff, sniff like you're trying to suck the wonderful thing right up one of your nostrils. Macs are one of those things I appreciate no matter how they are presented to me...if they're warm from sitting in the sun, cool from shade and breeze, not quite ripe enough to eat, or on the verge of being too ripe. I put them to my face, and I sniff. They remind me of all the good things that come erupting from the onset of fall, and all the things I miss from years ago; being thrown into leaf piles, making pyramids of fat acorns and leaving them like pagan offerings at the bases of stone walls for squirrells and chipmunks, finding the biggest, most beautiful maple leaves EVER and putting them between the pages of my thicker books, to be forgotten until I need to see them most and some unseen force directs me to pick up my anthology of Modern American Poetry. My past and present mush together under the weight of hard apples...I am left greedy for my own history even though I have so much, so much Now all around me that I don't know what to do with it.

I want to travel, but wherever I am in whatever autumn, I will demand access to apples.

Waking Up

I am a lion
but only for you, who knows
That it's all just hair.

Yowzah!

Igneous rock, it is not.

Actual conversation I overheard as I was exiting work this evening:

DUMB-LOOKING KID #1, TO DUMB LOOKING KID #2: Dude, you got any rocks left?

(Ali thinks, "Surely they are talking about some new energy drink or a geology project")

DUMB-LOOKING KID #1, CONTINUES: Because I really wanna smoke one before I go to the library.

(Ali thinks, "Oh shit!")

DUMB LOOKING KID #2: Nah, man. We did all of it last night.

DUMB LOOKING KID #3: Aw, dude! Last night was bomb, man!

DUMB LOOKING KID #1, WITH DOUBT: I dunno man, some of that stuff we tried was too dopey.

Really. You're critical of something that seems "too dopey."

I was no less than ten feet in front of the small pack of drug-users as they had this discussion. Now, I didn't get hear whether Dumb Looking Kid #2 agreed if the other stuff was too dopey, or if last night was, indeed, bomb, but I really don't know if I could have listened to much more without turning around (in my ballet flats, pleated denim skirt, and messenger bag, no less) and saying "Um, hey, you guys are in a historic college town in NEW HAMPSHIRE, okay? I mean, Thoreau's mom was born right down the street. Hard drugs are really not what we do here. Sooooo, please go back to your ghetto and leave us alone." I kinda wish I had actually done it, just to see their reaction. Although, if they're in the category of people that commonly talk about smoking crack cocaine in the front entrance of the busiest building on campus, perhaps it's better that I didn't get the chance. Maybe one of them would have pulled out a gun.

Or thrown rocks at me.

Ralph Waldo Breakfast or Ralph Rainbow Emerson. Your Choice.

So, today is Tuesday, and Tuesday is a day on which I have class. 19th Century American Literature is at 10:00 and runs till noon, and Renaissance Literature starts at 2:00 and runs until 4:00. I had every intention of going to both of these classes, but knock-off Fruity Pebbles don't come up easy, I have found out. And ralphing isn't my cup of tea to begin with. Well, I don't know if it's anybody's cup of tea, but if it is, that person needs some profession help, I do say.

I felt all right for the most part upon rising this morning, perhaps a little crampy, but nothing awful. I woke up at around nine to prepare for my first class, gobbled some cereal, took a quick shower, debated which hoody is most acclimated to the rather crappy weather we're experiencing, and in the process of putting on my jeans, my stomach jumped up to my uvula and said "Kay baby, time for show and tell." I made it to the bathroom just in time, but the rainbow of fruity flavor was rather painful and didn't cease for quite some time. That was almost four hours ago, and still my tum-tum is super-pissed, even after being emptied, and I don't know why. I had some chicken noodle soup (Mmmm Mmmm Good, it was) for dinner while I was at work last night, and didn't eat anything really caustic upon returning home. I have a pretty solid immune system and I don't know anybody who's suffering from any nasty stomach bugs at the moment, so I'm a little miffed. I mean, I love me some class skippage every once and awhile, but if you can't enjoy it then it's pretty much just 'meh' and means more work to make up later. Speaking of that, I'm going to try to get my writing done for Theory and Practice as it needs to be posted to Blackboard before midnight tonight. Bleh.

Baby's Got A Brand New Bag

A few days ago James and I were wandering around the crimson-spotted paradise that is Target, looking for items that we may not need, but must, indeed, purchase, as dictated by the Target-Gods (or, more commonly, 'Tods') that invade and control the consciousness of all shoppers once they have passed through the magically parting doors so clearly marked "IN" (it is a command, you see). I was half seeking a bike-friendly bag for carrying all my newly purchased books to class in, and did not happen to find one hiding within the suspicious looking stripey zip-up hoody that caught mine eye not long after our initial entrance. I decided that, just in case it was super-wily, I had better examine the sweatshirt further in private (which is the name of the Target dressing room). After a full cavity search I discovered that the hoody was not in fact concealing a decent messenger bag, but I figured that while I was concealed it I would ask James for a second opinion. His opinion was that I should buy the shirt. "I'm not used to wearing clothing that fits me all over," I said. After a pause he replied "You should get used to it, because it looks really good." It's true, though, what I said about things fitting me...I have very few items in my wardrobe that are actually my size; most are at least a size (sometimes two, or four) too big for me, or as I like to say, "comfy." Another plus of my purchasing the shirt was that James could also wear it, considering I found it in the Boys' clothing section. With sweatshirt in hand and the Tods twittering delightedly somewhere above us, we strolled along the wide bright aisles, pausing to look at books and movies and all toys that employed the use of Legos (it was imperative to James that we do this, so that he take a mental inventory of all the things he will purchase once he gets his paycheck).

There was a section of brilliantly colored and styled backpacks, but most seemed rather juvenile and I didn't want to go to class with Hannah Montana's beaming face radiating from my back. We were passing the luggage department and noticed that, along with rolling suitcases and duffels large enough to transport bodies in, there were some smaller, rather sleek looking bags that could easily be worn by someone who relies on a bicycle for transportation, such as myself. There among them was the most lovely specimen of messenger bag I had ever seen. The blackest of black exteriors was broken only by a raised and shining red square in the center of the flap. And in the center of that square was a white equilateral cross, a symbol I had seen many times appearing out of and disappearing into the frayed denim pockets of the farm boys I grew up with. "Could it be?" I thought. I checked the tags of the magnificent item before me and discovered that yes, this was the king of messenger bags. This was...The Swiss Army Bag. If the famous knife somehow came to life and then died and was reincarnated as a bag, it would be THIS BAG with no less than 20 different pockets and compartments of all shapes and sizes and a very robust shoulder strap with adjustable pad for comfort and a bottle holder that hides zipped up into the side of the bag until one sees fit to let it out and a TEN YEAR WARRANTY. Now, you know that's gotta be a good bag, a decent bag, a well-made bag, A BAG FIT FOR AN ALI.

And still. Still I was wary of purchasing it for the price of $39.99. James and I were squealling over the thing and trying it on and adjusting all the dohickeys ("I WANT ONE, TOO!" James said and gallavanted down the aisle with it over his shoulder) when I calmly turned my back to it. "What?" he asked, "What's wrong?"
"Well, that's just a lot of money, and I mean, it's not like I can't wait until get my next paycheck...or maybe I could just get one that isn't as nice, you know? It won't last me as long or be as comfortable and awesome looking but it would work..." Meanwhile I'm thinking "C'MON, CONVINCE ME IT'S TOTALLY WORTH IT AND I CAN'T LEAVE HERE WITHOUT IT, DANG IT."
"It's a really nice bag, Ali."
*thoughtful pause consisting of "YES, THAT IS DEFINITELY ENOUGH CONVINCING"*
"You know what, you're right; it's on clearance and it may not even be here whenwe come back and I want it and it's good quality so okay." and I put the shining beacon of book transportation on my own self and felt nearly as satisfied as the Tods did.

Of course by the time we got out of there we had also grabbed a box of 120 Crayola crayons and refills for our G-2 Pilot pens and I'm sure at least a few other items that seemed absolutely imperative to our survival but I can't remember what they were as of now. I'm out of range of the Tods. I am, however, wicked thrilled about my Swiss Army Bag and all it's pockets. I'm still looking for things to put in all of them.