Champion of the Semicolon

My thoughts on death have been galvanizing over time; as people who are close to me or my loved ones pass away, my perspective gets a little tweak. I don't know Carrie that well -- at best, we could be called mutual friends. The sorrow I feel now is quite different from the sorrow I felt when Joy Greisen died, which is different from the feelings I had when my distant relative Vera died, and on and on. I have yet to lose a close friend, family member, lover. But gradually, I'm learning what it is about death that makes me cry and clutch my pillow and wish for impossible things. I grieve for the dead -- like we all do -- and wish they were not so, but what makes me equally or more sad is the anguish that friends, family and lovers go through. There aren't any words for the simplicity and sadness. When I read the livejournal circuit, I see Areli, Sophie, Katie hurt and seek refuge from it. I'm crying with you.

Carrie's loved ones, the ones that I love as well, will not be the same. And in a removed, but powerful way, neither will I. Because it will be my turn one day to receive the wound that doesn't close. I've been lucky (I guess that's one way to put it) enough to be eased into the concept of death. But every person dies, and that is part of the greatest tragedy. No one wants to bury their best friend, mother, next door neighbor, but we can't all die first. I dread the day of the accident or the news, though rarely do I dread it actively because for the moment, my inner circle is safe. Everyone is mobile, concerned with all shades of their lives -- from the lightest to the most grave.

I've been thinking a lot about mobility. We all control our limbs, walk and all that. But we control our bigger motions too: moving out of state, moving toward our various goals, moving away from the old. I'm hyper-aware of the ramifications of this mobility and the responsibility it gives. In the small scale, I'm looking for a home to move into. It will be the first time I seek my own housing, and whether or not I end up in a shanty made of sticks and Elmer's depends entirely on me. More broadly, I hold my life between my fingers every day. I've put myself on a path that veers away from Anchorage, and anything that resembles a home. This too makes me cling to the safety of my friends and family, and yet I drive myself away. It's starting to scare me more than a little.

My dorm is adajacent to Straub hall, the Psychology area. When I walk back to my room after classes, I walk past a bird's nest that I can't see. The baby blackbirds' crying and cheeping gives it away, as does the ever-present mom bird with some kind of tidbit in her beak. We had a (very small) thunderstorm tonight; I hope the nest is safe under the eaves.