oenone_borealis

Away from light steals home my heavy son
And private in his chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight
And makes himself an artificial night

For me the phrase "artificial night" takes on another meaning. We will be moving at the end of the week. He told his parents some time ago, whereas I have not yet said anything explicit to mine. I was pretty much told that I'll be stuck here until the economy turns around. Yes, my mother is going to hurtfully dismiss this all as "playing house". After our most recent talk, my father said that he didn't mean to hurt my feelings; he only meant to follow my heart, of course, but to also follow my head. Right now the two of us are making more than enough money for one person to reasonably move out. Add to that the fact that Ryan will no longer need to commute. I'm alright with a longer commute 5-6 days a week.

This doesn't change the fact that neither is comfortable with Ypsi. Yes, there is crime. Take a look at the section reporting daily crimes in the Ann Arbor News. By no means does Ann Arbor have Ypsi's reputation despite a proportionally equivalent crime rate. That's what happens in urban settings. The student ghetto isn't pretty or a desirable location, but we're not living there, nor the scuzzy areas near Belleville.

I'm convinced it will be more convenient for everyone once I leave, I know I'll certainly eat better (not disparaging my mom's cooking). I have more courage at night than I do in the daytime. I'm articulate when I go over it my head before going to sleep, but I just get tongue-tied in the day when I want to confront them and it seems like I'm just going along with what Ryan wants (which apparently consists of food and sex, according to my dad). Knowing that living here is little more than a waiting room frustrates me. Moving, even if job prospects are nil, gives at least the illusion of liberty over uncomfortable comfort. Yes, my car is an old wreck. I already gladly pay my parents the insurance money. I will no longer be on their health insurance once I turn 25. In this job market, it makes no difference where I'm living when these benefits expire. I'll still depend on them a good deal when I go to grad school, the only chance I have at getting a better job without waiting for opportunities in June.

Unfortunately I can't just disappear on Friday. I have no choice but to carry the night with me. Any second thoughts are out of consideration for my parents--I don't want to disappoint them.

Ever since broaching the subject of moving out, my parents have given me plenty of advice. From my mom came the practical advice of making a budget and recording expenses. My father on the other hand has the idea that while it's good for me to pursue a career, it's more important that Ryan has a more secure job in case I get pregnant (!) or something else comes up leading me to leave work. If we lived together, he admits that Ryan would help with cleaning, dishes, and sometimes cooking, but that he'd be getting all the benefits of being married without actually being married. No word on what benefits I would not receive. I'm frustrated with the insistence that, despite marriage ostensibly being a partnership, a husband's duty consists of financially taking care of his family. Never mind the emotional support or sharing the "wifely duties" or any other cooperative gesture in a partnership.

Normally I wouldn't be so exasperated with this attitude. Downstairs at the breakfast table I heard them talking about how we're not serious about getting married. We talk about it, but we're not "properly" engaged. True, it's not as high a priority for us as say, finding better jobs (and getting out of our parents' houses). What is to them if he hasn't given me an engagement ring? I don't want one. I don't need one to know he wants to marry me and neither should anyone else! A wedding to me is supposed to be about making our commitments to one another public, a symbol that we're ready to start our life together in earnest (even if we've already felt this way about each other for years).

I notice that I'm harboring a resentful feeling which would only confirm their worst assumptions about me. I don't care how long it takes to earn enough money to get married, I want to be happy in the meantime. If that means following the irresponsible impulse to no longer defer happiness, then so be it. The road is going to be long and winding, but we're all right with that. We're committed to one another even if we don't have the monetary means to make it legitimate (aside from eloping, which would be a bittersweet reconciliation). I'm filled with melancholy hope.

What is maturity? It is not money, nor judgment, nor cynicism, nor a dream deferred.

We've been looking for rooms to rent, and I think we've found something good. Ryan's commute from Livonia to campus/work is intolerable. I want to move in him with him again. I know it's a little silly, but I miss Ypsi, too.

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It's hard not to root for the underdog. Anyway, today's the big day: Gaylord. I won't be online this week; in my absence, I leave you with a pulsing water tower:

I had my first day of class on Saturday, which went from 9 until about 13:45. I've had a class with Dr. Shichtman before so I knew I was in for a good time ("Twenty-five minutes late. Were you partying with Michael Phelps?" he asked a pair of tardy students.) Never before have I heard "schtupp" occur quite so frequently during a lecture on John Donne's poetry, though not terribly surprising. We primarily discussed Shakespeare and Elizabethan context (and the course itself). I'm not entirely sure what we'll be discussing next time, but I think it will be more Donne and some Blake. "Next time" here means the Sunday after next, by which time Ryan and I will have arrived in Gaylord for our winter recess classes; snowboarding for him and poetry for me.

Once these 3 credit hours are out of the way, I'm all set to graduate. I've had some stumbling blocks along the way and I often don't feel anything other than relief at the prospect of receiving my bachelor's degree. I just don't feel like I've accomplished anything noteworthy--especially when my mother is recommending menial jobs, such as at a hobby shop, when I'm eager to find my first "real" job. I plan on visiting the HR department at one of U-M's libraries later this week to see what I can do. I'm going to apply everywhere. It feels like I need money more than anything, especially for getting out of our respective parents' homes and getting married. I still don't know if I'm going to walk (for the diploma), though I certainly have some time to decide.

There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.

Farmers market season is nearly upon us, as our local one opens this month. I'm very much looking forward to finally getting some use out of the bike I purchased at the rummage sale back in October. It has a pannier rack and I've been looking at ways to transport things. At first I was drawn to these folding grocery baskets. I have canvas bags that would make walking around easier and ensure that nothing could fall through the grate. The biggest concern seems to be about potential rusting.

Ryan thinks that saddlebags would be the superior choice. I particularly like these two:
Sunlite Traveler 1- This is the cheaper of the two. It does have a carrying strap, but I don't know how awkward the doubled-up bags would be off the rack.
Inertia Metro- This is the more posh of the two. I don't know how having only one side would affect the balance. Unfortunately I've yet to find any other angles of the product.

My research has turned up other options, such as military surplus. We'll see.

P.S. Now I'm slightly hungry for matter paneer. Hopefully we have the peas for it.

As with many of my more recent entries, this one isn't going to be terribly thoughtful. Like a garden of our cephalopod friend, it's all about the acquisition of shinies and hopes for the future.

Thursday: I bought my first mortar and pestle. It's a tiny contraption, perhaps 3 inches in diameter; dark green, cute.

For some reason my mother had a kilogram of Assam* which she gave to me. Now that I have a mortar and pestle, I can experiment with making my own chai masala. However, I am not about to buy cinnamon sticks (just so they can be ground up) when I have plenty of ground cinnamon around the kitchen. Slight change of subject: Is there any folkloric basis for a flying mortar and pestle? In Calling on Dragons, by Patricia C. Wrede, I remember Brandin offerring Telemain use of one. He declined, thinking it terribly uncomfortable. Anyway...

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( FridayCollapse )

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I thought I was getting entirely too hippie-ish, but having it all written out like this it doesn't seem to be the case.

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All for Now,
Julie