I'm at college now, which means the days before seem minimally relevant. Briefly: Last weekend I went to a luncheon for DC Penn locals, and I was bored and inarticulate and oh so grateful for all the friends I made in high school, in spite of my continual social gaffes. I did meet one nice young man, which was reassuring; maybe friends happen serendipitously, due to some offhand remark that creates a connection that makes the conversation interesting. If so, I'll be patient. Otherwise, my final days in Maryland were spent purchasing articles and putting them in boxes - and seeing Seth, of course, who remains the biggest obstacle to Life Before College receding from focus.


Most of you know already that we decided to break up at the end of the summer. I saw him for the last time on Tuesday, when we ate a late lunch at A&J's (we'd been to Pho as recently as Friday) and then went to Norwood Park to walk and talk. We sat briefly on a tire swing, but Seth said it was maudlin to go to playgrounds in times of transition; I felt mildly ashamed (grin). As we walked in the opposite direction from my car, the sky became progressively more forbidding (we made some obvious remarks about the pathetic fallacy), and a storm broke when we were at the other end of the park.

"Speak of the pathetic fallacy," said Seth. "Are you feeling tumultuous?"

We were quickly drenched, and high winds blew mostly green leaves around our heads and in our faces. We bantered some more; I, who had been so concerned about what I would remember about Seth and his influence on my life, said, "This I will certainly remember" - the wind and the leaves, like driving rain of solid matter. It was one of two moments in recent memory that stood out that way. The other was during a tearful get-together a couple days beforehand, when I was sitting on my red couch, rehashing mistakes, while Seth stood concernedly nearby. I apologized for at times being manipulative (I felt) so that we would stay together.

He said seriously, "But look at the end result." (He meant all the interim good times between stressful moments and this goodbye.)

And I said, "But this is the end result!" - and I experienced that moment with perfect conclusiveness and clarity, the red couch, and Seth's proximity, and the overwhelming indication of distance. It was nice to feel that way again on our walk, but not so pessimistically. Anyway, heavy with water and at a run, we made it to my car, where Seth offered a long sleeve shirt (the wallpaper shirt) as my towel. He helped guide me home; I was nervous from the lightning flashes and the very impaired visibility. Seth's sister greeted us at the door, where she told us that the power was out. We went upstairs gingerly, set a candle on the dresser, and Seth provided me with a temporary Quiz Bowl t-shirt.


We talked and kissed, illuminated by the candle and encroached upon by the loud, wet darkness of the outside world, and Seth finally signed my yearbook. (We commented on the bad-fiction aspect of our situation - the melodrama of the storm and lone candle.) The storm passed, leaving a damp, pastel sunset. I prepared to go, still wearing the t-shirt and clutching the yearbook; we shared an interminable, necessary goodbye through my car window. Then I arrived home to find that my power was also out, so I packed in the waning daylight, finished The Quiet American by flashlight, and shared a remarkably varied phone conversation with Seth around 9:00 PM.


The next morning, my family left for Philly. I felt emotionally drained and anxious about preparing for my math placement exam, which is on Wednesday. We set up my room halfway and saw some lovely areas of the city; then I slept and went back to Sansom Street (my new home) the next day for more unpacking. Arielle, her mother, and her sister arrived, sporting a really impressive array of household goods and storage tools. Luckily, we live in an enormous corner room, which can handle a vacuum cleaner, refrigerator, microwave, TV, coffee maker, various shelves, and other assorted things we (mostly Arielle) elected to share with each other (mostly me). Our room has six windows; here is my half of it (missing is Arielle's dresser, the door, a little shelf, the closets, the fridge/microwave, Arielle's desk, and three more windows). I am certainly satisfied, and so far I've slept better than I did at home (I'm very tired, I think).


One nice thing about college is that, even though I feel terribly isolated and strained and socially awkward, I can document all sorts of interesting social encounters - and it's only been two days. Last night, for example, Nick S. and I watched The Boondock Saints in his posh but carelessly furnished high rise (hey, he said it, not me), and then he escorted me back to my dorm, brandishing a can opener. Back at Kings Court, we collected Arielle, as well as two girls from across the hall and Ryan, the very earnest RA, and discussed objectification, polyamorous relationships, discipline and community, and Savage Love (featuring Penn this week!). I'm not sure what to say about college life yet. There is an overarching discomfort so far, but I could see myself being very happy here. The campus and neighborhood are beautiful, I love to walk alone (during the day) and feel grown up, and tonight I was flattered to be asked to a frat party I won't attend.

Even though I shouldn't, I'm going to blog from "work" this afternoon (at home, but while I have hours of work to do). It's probably pointless to try to reconstruct what I've done over two action-packed (hehe) summer weeks, but some things stick out: two dinner get-togethers with the lovely Alison, who must be at college or en route as I type. One of them comprised Seth, Hank, Al, and me, and it was honestly the first time I'd seen all possible permutations of flirting in a group of four. We wandered around Rockville, belting rap ballads ("When a girl walks in with an itty-bitty waist, and a round thing in your face, you get sprung!" recited the girls, cheerfully), playing summer reading charades, and conspiring to kiss Hank. Al requested an honorary farewell love tap, which both boys gallantly provided.


The other dinner with Alison was a traditional affair at classy Pho 95. We made the obligatory trip to the playground, this time near sunset; I marveled at how I'd turned that place, the hitherto pothead playground, into some... physical representation of Rockville or high school or my friends. I remember I briefly went out with a high school senior when I was a freshman. I was openly put off by the age difference. He tried to convince me, I think, that he wasn't a grown-up (I effectively thought of him as a grown-up); sometimes, he said, he played on playgrounds. I thought that was uncompelling. At fourteen, I didn't play on playgrounds, nor did I particularly associate them with my waning childhood. In retrospect, senior year is an odd and ungrounded time, and we cling to symbols where we find them.


Let's see, Ruchita's pre-birthday next: I did a klutzy thing and got muddy, which produced familiar, friendly teasing. I was impressed (not for the last time that weekend) with the creeping impact of "now" (when your life is about to change, the transience of the present becomes dazzling): we sat in assorted chairs in a glamorous community center (it was!), a circle of suddenly much larger people than I'd known at fourteen or fifteen. We were raucous and immature in the old ways, but we were also more often sedate and prone to talking about roommates, class schedules, start dates. The adults on nearby couches shot us quizzical looks when they overhead snatches of conversation ("I didn't get some! That's a first!") from their studious, straight-laced sons and daughters. Then, late in the evening, they stood up and surrounded our circle of chairs, holding wine glasses, and drank to our college success.


Lately, I thought, I'd been served all sorts of blatant visual symbols - the sun setting over the playground, the future encircling us and closing in. I felt amused and oh so silly, but, like I said, we construct symbols where we find them, so as to give life narrative structure, so as to cope. The evening petered off cozily with people singing and dancing to Chicago music, while a thunderstorm sounded outside. The next day I went to Hank's birthday party. Most of it was unremarkable from a descriptive standpoint (a fun party, though!), but the end was thoroughly strange and appealing. Seth regaled us with self-written songs on guitar and won cool points from Tara, which he quickly lost by administering the homoerotic viper.


Then we all hugged each other, faux-tearfully, which somehow turned into Ben E. selling Dena to the highest bidder. Hank won and started to carry her off, when his mother appeared on the landing and instructed him to put her down. Ben and I were the first out the door, which for some reason entitled him to sling me over his shoulder, dangled precariously (in real danger, I thought, of hitting my head or losing my purse), while he bounded down the residential street. Seth chased after him, vainly trying to prevent his woman from being absconded with. Finally Ben gave up, and Tara caught up with Seth and me (her ride home). "I can't leave you kids alone for a minute!" she protested. Also in the past two weeks, I've seen Seth an awful lot. We've had some definitively good times, albeit no interesting anecdotes. Weighing heavily on my mind is what I'm going to say to him, and about him, when I go.


P.S. I forgot to mention I had another sleepover with my old elementary school friends. Previous sleepovers were monopolized with talk of sex and consideration of our different life choices. This sleepover, we had ordinary conversations and I discovered that, after 10+ years of nominally knowing these people, at least three of us still get along. That's comforting: friendship by proximity and parent-arranged playdates actually brings together compatible people. It's good indication that friendship by arbitrary assignment in residential halls will work accordingly. On that more positive note, I will get to work. :-)

Sorry, sorry, blogger wouldn't load for a few days, but I'm almost caught up. Last Sunday I had a long Meaningful Talk with Seth. I've achieved equanimity and graceful rationality about my relationship (grin). I felt dizzy and impressed afterwards, though - impressed with him, because my friends consistently impress me (maybe I'm confusing affection and admiration, but they feel the same to me), and also impressed with my body's ability to manufacture physical side effects of emotion. There have been days when a comment, a gesture, a phone call has set off dramatic mood reversals - and what interests me is the accompanying overblown physical sensation. You don't get that from robot bodies (a proposed solution to the concerns raised in that post).


On Monday, Nick S., Tara, Seth, and I went concerting - an outdoor show at Fort Reno, billed as the final performance of the Dismemberment Plan. I dressed up as a hipster: tight jeans and a tight, faded t-shirt, with an enormous print of Felix the cat grinning vacantly across the bust (irony in spades). The concert took place in an open field at the foot of the fort; it was drizzling when we got there, so we walked gingerly through puddles and side-stepped scowling indie kids with hardcore facial hair and ponchos. The rain picked up as we met GPaul, Liz, and Lela & friends. The girls assumed pathetic, demure expressions and competed for space under Seth's umbrella. Meanwhile, a miserable warm-up band played into the deadening rain, and at some point the D-Plan lead singer announced that they'd hang around until 9:30 PM and see if the weather improved. Either way, there'd be another final show, but the fans, ruthlessly hardcore, planted themselves in the wet field.


Rain made me giggly (Tara said drunk) so I ran and played and eventually encouraged the others to join me in chasing each other in circles on the grass. Seth piped in with an idea for couples' chicken, so I got on his back in my soaked jeans and grappled fruitlessly with Liz (on GPaul) and Lela (on Nick). An old acquaintance of Seth's found us there and started reconnecting with him, when magically the sky cleared, and D-Plan took the stage. Tara and I knew nothing about this band, but we bounced eagerly and shouted "The ice of Boston!" and subsequently downloaded illegal tracks on Kazaa. The sky darkened around us, a little child danced and grew tired onstage, and the concert broke up punctually at 9:30. We shivered, made our way to the Metro, traded in ruined, waterlogged fare cards for new ones, and Seth and I went home to Bethesda.


After the excitement of Monday, Wednesday was a relatively sedate viewing of Terminator 2: Judgment Day. The movie was entertaining, as was the situation: twenty people in a tiny rec room, squished on two couches and across the carpet, overheated, and shouting one-liners at the TV screen. More media-viewing on Friday: Tara, Natalie G., and I, sporting ridiculous short skirts, clashed with the suburban-punk atmosphere at Regal, ate hoagies delicately, and went back to Natalie's for a "Sex and the City" marathon and sleepover. We three + Deb had a sleepover last August (almost to the day - August 1 this year, August 2 last year) and discussed similar things, including the same embarrassing, bewildering AIM conversation between Natalie and me that she'd immortalized in some fashion. Tara announced that she felt nothing important had changed in a year; I felt the opposite at that moment, that last year was full of promise and security, and now I felt an alienating newness.


"Are you better off than you were a year ago?" I asked, as I'm wont to do. Tara thought so. I hesitated. Finally I said that last year was more fun, but that this year had gone as well as it reasonably could have. I'm still charmed in many ways; important things either fall into place, or they don't hurt me very badly when they don't.


I had a lovely rest of the weekend, including a good date with Seth and an extended family gathering to eat Maryland crabs. I had a nice start to the week as well, seeing Seth for twelve hours and watching the reprehensible American Wedding with friends, and celebrating Ahrnold's announced run for governor over milkshakes at a late-night diner. After we ate, Tara directed us by car back to her house, with Ben K. and Joe in pursuit. Ben took advantage of my kindness as vanguard of the caravan by love-tapping me at a stoplight. Then he had the audacity to back up when I tried to reverse love-tap him! That meant war, so Tara, Seth, and I took him on a loopy, U-turn-filled detour through DC. Finally we drove into the elementary school parking lot by Tara's house, and our pursuers turned on us, faced us head on, and made as if to love-tap us again. Tara and I shrieked, Seth declared himself a conscientious objector and left the car, and our two cars dodged each other eerily and dramatically at 5 mph in the parking lot.


Eventually, Ben parked, I love-tapped the parked car, and Joe and Ben stood resolutely in my desired parking space. I literally drove them out, but the boys (Seth included) pressed their asses against my windows and Tara and I averted our eyes. We wondered later if they'd mooned us, they said they hadn't, and we were incongruously disappointed. Cut to Thursday the 7th (because this is a very long post and maybe unusually boring), I went bowling with a large party of '03-ers and experienced the timely reminder that I can't predict happiness. I thought Prom this year would be incredible and was disappointed; I was dreading bowling, because I'm incompetent at everything (the first and only other time I'd done it was at post-Prom), and I enjoyed myself enormously. Thirty kids I know and love, gossiping and flirting and spending many quarters on Spree and video games (grin). It was a great night, and I bowled the not-that-humiliating score of 65.

Written last night, but blogger wouldn't publish:

I love you... as much as I am able, considering!

I've started many blog posts over the past couple weeks, but abandoned all of them. With any luck, this will be one of the most awkward summers I ever have, and I'll get through it and write less cryptically or sporadically. I haven't done much that was worthwhile lately. Well, that's a lie: I read a book, Nine Stories, that referenced the last book I read, The Sun Also Rises. Also I constructed a photo board for my dorm room; also I got a job. It pays well and it's for my very kind boss from last year, Mr. Alcorn. Plus, it provides me with hours of focused, almost thoughtful purpose - it's just research, but it gives me a productive tunnel vision that cuts through indolence and depression, like math did.


For specific events from the past two weeks, I've consulted other people's blogs, where I (re)learned that I spent the weekend before last on social events with the class of '03. On Friday the 18th, a few girls drove to Lizzie's and ate British hors d'oeuvres and gossiped about whether Ewan McGregor was hot amid the Plight of the Coal Workers in Brassed Off. Jen was there, looking perfectly healthy and lovely. Some younger girls (Ruchita and Jen) left to adhere to provisionals, and the rest of us discussed our complicated love lives and college trepidations. It felt very comfortable to be chatting intimately (sorta) with people my age, as opposed to those been-there, done-that rising sophomores.


On Sunday, Nick B. and Alex hosted a dinner party; they bustled about and squabbled, the very picture of domesticity, before serving us delicious chicken marbella and two desserts. A debate erupted over constitutional law (something I have educated views about, so there was nothing restricting me from participation), but I experienced renewed distaste at the format of debate. I watched Alex's wide lawn instead, under the flickering of insect repellant lamps; then I fought Tara with a cut flower. We cleared the table and went indoors, where we sprawled on the couch and Nick B. tried to touch Seth's uvula.


The next event I can remember with any clarity happened on Thursday the 24th, a girls' gathering in Takoma Park. I was pleased to note that now several of Tara's friends dress up to see her (or perhaps to see each other); I wear short skirts and tall shoes, feeling the epitome of Girl Power, whenever I know Tara and her wide selection of patterned skirts and platform sandals will be in attendance. I met Jess and Amy G., very late and clunking down the escalator at Bethesda Station, to find them similarly attired. We proceeded to Mark's Kitchen for a good square (quirky, TP) meal and novelty beverages for all. We discussed love and friendship (what else?), but not pre-frosh anxiety.


Saturday, July 26 was another landmark occurrence - a They Might Be Giants concert on Pennsylvania Avenue! A very large group assembled, armed with detailed instructions from Nick S. on where to go to watch the concert, in order to avoid the $3 entrance fee. We showed up in DC very early, so we hung around the Hirshhorn for a while (many people ate paper from the Falling Paper Room, to my delight) and then dipped our feet into a communal feet-dipping fountain nearby. The concert itself was somewhat lonely, from our secret site outside the Rent-a-fence barrier. Ben K., Seth, and I belted favorite lyrics anyway, and we shared bewildered, enthusiastic reactions to Flansburgh's slurred humor ("We are not prepared," he informed us gravely at the start, and there was a haphazard quality to the show).


Afterwards, in the dark, we abruptly consumed ice cream, and Ben K. mounted a giant garbage can or some similar municipal structure. We cheered; two male friends helped him down before any police got involved. Discussing college visits on a ledge nearby, Seth bragged that a Swarthmore girl had said he was attractive.

"Well," I blustered, "some drunk frat boys hit on me at Penn!"

"Congratulations," said David. "You are unique among women."

Next, we took an escalator down to the Archives Station - and Ben, on someone's shouted instructions no doubt, ran down the ridged metal barrier separating two escalators. Ben is no hooligan (far from it), but he is lovably suggestible; we cheered more devotedly. Onward to David's house, we watched Terminator 1, which, bizarrely, I had never seen before. It was a very enjoyable thing, made more so by a roomful of commentary. David promised us a similar mass viewing of Terminator 2. I'm tired now, but I really will write more tomorrow. Oh, one other thing: The quote at the top is obscure, so I'll cite it. It's a silly love song from the aggressively tongue-in-cheek Little Me!, which my sister will appear in at BAPA later this summer.