The following happened when I was given a writing prompt last night in my writing workshop.  We were asked to choose an object, event or place and write a paragraph or two about what it says about a character.  And to think about what things can (or can’t) tell us about a person.

It sits there silently and without the possibility of independent motion.  A yellow thread weaves around its curved body avoiding the gold hardware. One latch is broken and a piece of cheetah print fabric peaks through alongside a metal end of an unclipped string: a sign of something done in haste or indifference. The scratches were put there by theater doors and van seats.  The smudges from sweaty fingers and the leftover adhesive of airline tags: Seattle to New York. New York to London. London to Berlin. No clear return trip home. 

Colorful insignias and stickers cover its exterior: JamisonParker, Bon Jovi, Broke City, The Matches, Peachcake, Billy Talent, and other band names that have mostly faded into the obscurity of an ever-changing scene.  The onlooker is allowed a glimpse at the musical taste of the owner. Or at least what she was listening to when the case was purchased.

If one were to peak inside, open the guitar case, and gaze upon the instrument inside, what would an acoustic guitar in nearly pristine condition, oily buildup on only the first five frets of the strings, and no scratches on the body say? Would one call it an unloved second guitar and focus on the life of the instrument?  Or would one see the reflection of a girl accustomed to a musical life on the road but in a managerial role rather than an instrumental one? Does the story lie in the reflection of the onlooker or upon on the reflective surface?

There is a black bandanna tied around the handle. Its edges tattered and torn from summer days spent on cement festival grounds. Personified by old sweat, residue of beers chugged, and forgotten proposals. Is it just a guitar case and a list of aesthetic accessories or is it a biography free of text and too many emotional details?  The girl carrying it tells a story silently just by the case in her hand. Just by choosing to present this piece of herself to the public. 

those moments where you want to scream out all of your emotions. but due to fear you keep them inside. and walk away in an attempt not to get hurt. but in actuality the cage in which you have found comfort is suffocating.

She awoke from a dream about him. He hadn’t said hello to her but had sent her a letter afterwards saying how nice it was to see her happy. She awoke from a dream about him only to be reminded of their time together. Something she didn’t necessarily wish to be reminded of - but it was present nonetheless. And she opened her eyes to get up and get a drink of water. She felt a headache coming on. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she slowly found her way into the kitchen in the dark, her eyes fixed on a sketch on the wall. An envelope onto which he had delicately sketched portraits of her on before placing it in the mail. There was no note inside, just artistic sentiments. Why did she keep that hung up? What was special about that? A relic of adoration? A painful reminder that it hadn’t worked out? Slightly masochistic don’t you think. But then again she did it all the time.

Getting letters in the mail makes my day brighter. 
Somehow I started this day grumpy and feeling slightly sick. Now, though I still feel ill and have a fever, I am smiling and not glaring at everyone around me. 
Funny how simple words and handwriting can help/make such a difference.

You can take the girl out of her familiar surroundings and away from a landscape of recognizable faces, but that certainly does not mean that she will change her habits.  You might have had a conversation with her once about how she regrets the way that she acts in romantic situations or about how she wants to stop biting her nails or how she does not always wish to be the distant and mysterious one. But do not think that just because a desire to change this behavior has been voiced that it will be done. She has also always been taught to be true to herself.

Fast forward to a month of living in Berlin. The streets don’t look like those in North America; the streets are paved in cobblestones and the walls are dressed in graffiti or, more accurately in connotation, street art. The people are dressed in a wardrobe of monochrome matching that of the Berlin sky. Even the birds are different here though she doesn’t know all their names, just that the light reflecting on their wings is not the same hue as the seagulls of the Sound. The clubs are open later and some never close.  The wine is cheaper and the quality of the beer has higher standards. The boys are relatively the same – the men, too. They all stare but without the influence of alcohol are too intimidated to say hello or attempt to spark a conversation.  She knows that her own demeanor has something to do with this – when sure of failure, people usually refrain from taking the first steps of the process. Understandable, for no one wishes to rush into certain failure.  But there’s this one fellow that she has thought of pursuing for a while, discussed the possibility with her new acquaintances, and overthought all outcomes as per usual.

And then we find ourselves at a scene involving four friends: the girl, the boy she wishes to romantically approach, and their two mutual friends: a gay man whose conversation always steers towards the fetish-y and possibly sexual uncomfortable and a girl who has a penchant for romancing virgins. The setting is a bar in an overly hipster-fied section of town drowing in v-necks, fixed gear bikes, infused alcoholic concoctions, and acoustic guitars. The air is smoke filled, as every bar inhabitant in Berlin seems to have adopted the habit of nicotine inhalation; a habit that permeates all of my clothing and some how even attaches itself to my bras and lace undergarments. But she does not seem to notice the smoky smell until she crawls out of the evening’s outfit and between her floral print bed sheets.

The whiskey is infused with star anise and orange peel and served without the rocks. It lowers everyone’s inhibitions fairly quickly and soon the conversation is flowing between relationships, first sexual encounters, and current attractions. The four friends pair off. One whispering into the girl’s ear about how the boy is definitely interested in her. And the other listening to the boy talk about how he is intimidated by the girl’s beauty and entranced by her sense of fashion.  The hours pass. Soon the U-Bahn is no longer running, a perfect opening for the two friend’s to insist that the boy walk her home. All parties smile, nod, and, in some way, are proud of the evening’s efforts.

They stumble their way through the cobblestone streets. At some point her hand found his or did he search hers out. The details soon blur and are not of particular importance. All that matters is that they found his bed, his charming words found a route from his brain to vocalization, the two sets of lips met and met again, and the majority of their clothes quickly found their way to the floor.

That was last night. Through a bit of Jameson and the interruption of kisses, he said:

“I wish I could wear my glasses and kiss you because your loveliness is blurred.”
                                   and
“It’s going to be hard for me to sleep knowing that what I had been dreaming about is a reality.”

She smiled as he held her hand through the cold and during her superficial slumber. She smiled as he kissed her tattoos and had to squint his vision-impaired eyes to read their permanently inked text.  She smiled as he asked her to stay through the morning and afternoon.

She was content and truly happy with the outcome and the feel of his hands upon her body and the vibrations of his words in her ears. And yet all she could say was, “I find you to be slightly charming.”

Slightly. Some things never change despite the regrets that you voice.

Registering for Humboldt classes for this semester.
Registering for Bowdoin classes for next semester.
    The first semester of my senior year!!!!

And reading for class.

I need a bit more coffee. Overwhelmed but content scheduling. 
It just feels like I am planning the next six months of my life to a t.

Oh wait. I am. 

Choosing the day’s outfit whilst listening to Crashdiet. It results in cowboy boots and gold lamé tights.

Yeah.

I woke up today. And was a little depressed about the fact that I wasn’t spending Easter with my mother. Or my cat. Or my horse. Or anything possessing a lifelong familiarity.   

And then I put on iTunes and in true music fashion, it played something that made me cry. Alone the song wouldn’t cause tears. But this Nick Cave song was played at my friend Ben’s funeral. Everything time I go to type funeral, my fingers stumble a bit and attempt to type out wedding. An odd happening, perhaps my subconscious refusing to completely grasp such things.  And I sat and drank my coffee (maybe my second or third cup) and rested my hand over my ear just to hear my heartbeat, just to hear and feel the vibrations of being alive - something so simple and yet so complex. It might seem silly, but it was a needed reminder. A needed reminder that everything that has happened to be in life and everything that I have done in this life has lead to bringing me here…to this moment. And I am glad for such things and all that that encompasses: the good and the bad. I realize that it was all necessary. The tears. The smiles. The hugs that I miss. And the hugs that have yet to come.  The people that I see reflected in the faces of others. The goodbyes that were inevitable. The moments of uncontrollable giggling and cheeks aching from grins. 

But part of me…wishes I was young enough to be at home dying eggs and going out for a ride on Chance today.  Or that it was four years ago and I could go to the Comet and get a hug from Benny. Or that it was two years ago and I could spend the day with my mother and Samo and Oliver. Is it wasted time pondering how things could have been? The what-if’s? or is it just a reinforcement of where we are and what we are doing and why we are doing it?

Anyway. I am happy to be here. There are people I miss and people I have yet to meet and every breath and sip of coffee brings me closer to those moments and realizations. 

“News Flash, Lauren Sweets…you are a vision of beauty, elegance, confidence, and woman…” 

She said this to me today. Out of nowhere. These words mean so much to me…coming from such a strong and beautiful woman. 

I didn’t start my day until well after noon today.
And the physical activity was rather lacking for today.
Perhaps that is because my night didn’t end until this morning.
My energy has been used on writing and reading in German all day - which is more taxing than writing and reading in English. And my brain generally breathes a sigh of relief when I choose to switch back to my language of comfort and familiarity. 

Sleep needs to be pursued soon, for tomorrow is my first photoshoot in Berlin.

Tonight is the first time that my homesickness (or heimweh) has caused me to be less than smiley and content in my new Berlin home. So I just need to take some time to reflect on my time here. It has been wonderful thus far. In the last few weeks, I have been greeted with nothing but smiles and open arms.  I have seen some amazing medieval manuscripts, adopted the saint pose in architectural wonders, eaten more than my fair share of dairy products, witnessed a pervasive creative energy that I didn’t know existed in a city, and countless other things. So what is missing or what is making me a bit teary eyed tonight?

I miss my mother for one. My cat for a second thing. And my horse. Naturally, I miss my friends, but since I go to school in Maine and toured before that…I am used to being geographically distant from then. I miss familiarity, though I have been working very hard to make Berlin familiar and to find my favorite haunts early on in this venture.  The winter - even though the first day of spring was officially last week - is starting to get to me. I feel a need for affection - which I don’t feel comfortable just hugging anyone or emotionally sharing with convenient acquaintances. 

But I also feel a bit of distress at having to return to school for one more year. My education is breathtaking - intellectually. Intellectually, I am very happy. Goodness. How many times have I said that when describe my return to school? It has been eye opening and a bit of a relief to not have to deal with maliciously curious stares and whispers on a daily basis. 

So here is how I find myself tonight: A little teary eyes which will result in puffy eyes for tomorrow - a charming aesthetic. Eating chocolate in bed and reading (slowly and painfully) a German play for classes next week. Missing my mother and wishing she was a car ride away. But anxiously awaiting my next adventure in this city tomorrow. It is rather incredible to me that such opposite emotions can exist alongside each other: longing/contentedness, happiness/melancholy, anxiety/relaxation. 

Sigh.

Mehr Schokolade, bitte.