Creative Writing, Personal

Sporadically Calculated: six

If I am not mistaken, I believe that today (and tomorrow?) there are Nazi protests/riots/crazy shit going on downtown. Probably smartest to stay inside anyway. I told myself I’d start on my math homework, too, for complex analysis.

 I feel very fluid. In flux. Not definite. Not necessarily in a bad or good way, just in a this-is-my-life sort of way. Change is, after all, the only constant in life. But I do miss jegeskávé with Brendon after number theory. And I do miss spilling the tea with Owen, on our long, fast-paced walks. And I do miss dinners with Qi and Karina, the conversations I assumed would always be there. I miss studying in the piano room with Fang, laughing at the gardener peeking in from above, humming, waving, twirling the rake. What an absolute privilege to have had such a wonderful summer. To have had a summer so good, in fact, the memories of it refuse to leave my head, and keep replaying like a broken record.

Seeing Elisé yesterday was, indeed, a tiny taste, reminder of the beauty. And to be able to talk about the memories, especially those of him, felt electrifying, like perhaps summer wasn’t truly over, that I might wake up back on Baross utca, or better yet, in his arms[i].

Organization feels a foreign concept to Holly, can’t focus her left brain, her right brain screaming at her to stuff! stuff! stuff everything in! Chaos expected, easily handled. Reading feels like quenching a thirst, yet math feels like trying to get a child to focus. She’s too scattered, adventure calling after her with every breeze of wind and sound she hears. Sounds she hears loud, pushed forward, no more quiet nor solitude of a former year. Silence is replaced with music, not my taste; solitude replaced with May and Xing. Leaving choices up to a randomizing function, figuring she can adapt better than she can choose. Frequently, her choices, the excursions she orchestrates, result in some type of pain, someone getting hurt.

A recap: Fifteen mile bike ride: She planned for something shorter, but a poor sense of direction (or a keen sense of adventure?) made seven miles double, plus one, so by the end, she couldn’t help but collapse into her bed, before a shower, and sleep. And two hours she slept until the loud noises of the frat next door woke her up out of pleasant unconsciousness, and back into the life she wished all summer would never come. A shower, and new roommate; yoga and Fire Trails the next day. Jo and I scrape what’s left of the weed from her box and smoke a small bowl. Dry, old greens. Unaccustomed lungs cough until eyes water and mind relaxes. Talk of addiction as a concept. Being addicted to nothing is still a type of addiction. Addiction is when something else starts to make the decisions for you, when something else takes away your agency. Control is necessary to avoid addiction.

Can there still be control out of random happenings? Or is the randomness just exercising control? Imagine that: randomness as a form of control. Perhaps.

Shower. Floor meeting. Holly sees people she knows while she still feels high, and though the shower washed away the scent, she worries if her eyes persist in their redness, or if her actions betray her state of mind. But she feels that she gets away with the secret because she make the people she knows laugh on two occasions, and is still able to hold conversation without losing herself midway through. And she can, and does pay attention well enough to the announcements, and soon the sober role she had to play ends, and she is able to explore her final high, dive deep into her thoughts, alone in her room. Sort of. And she falls asleep.

Wake up to the first day of classes. Enthusiasm from teachers is encouraging. Numerical Analysis. Ancient Greek Philosophy. Cook for the first time in the community kitchen with May after a trip to Trader Joes. Her usual rice and chicken and veggies, almost paella dish. Use cooking as a means to look to the future, plan out a meal that is not the one she is about to enjoy. Is being an adult knowing how to plan? Can there be randomness in plans? Or are plans and random things always opposites? The next day is, Complex Analysis, Time. Her complex analysis teacher, at least 60, or 50 years old, has a voice trembling from nerves, shirt soon soaked in sweat. But this class excites her; Narmin Debaur is in it, and she and Holly are excited to see one another.

Narmin is a traveler, works to save money to explore, similar to how Holly explored this summer. She and Holly talk briefly of their summers as they descend down the seven flights of stairs from their class, ending on a note of egeségédré, before rushing to their next classes.

Time has two professors, a geologist and a theoretical physicist. The latter reminds Holly of him and she finds her brain searching, wondering if maybe he’s Italian, then what part of Italy is he from? Holly recalls his mannerisms, the talking with his hands, the inability to stay still, even the way his nose fit on his face.

Yes, of course these feelings aren’t as intense as they were a month ago, and Holly can only presume that in another month’s time, the feelings will be even duller. Such a sad truth that good things must come to an end. A truth she had nearly been living in denial about for close to a month now. But there was an ending. And what happened, happened. And perhaps Holly would get more function out of my left side brain if she would just allowed herself to accept this.

[i] Just imagine a trip to see him. No, don’t, don’t, don’t. Because the thing about the old days is… they the old days. Is there room for newness?



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