what's love got to do with it?

There's this website called oneword.com that I use everyday. The premise is that the website gives you one word, and you have 60 seconds to write whatever comes to your mind about that word. Everyday is a new one, and by the end of your writing sesh, it posts your blurb and you can read through other people's one minute surge of thought. I suggest this because: The most unexpectedly beautiful things can come from your head when you don't think and just do. I promise, you'll surprise yourself with what comes out.

But what really amazes me is reading everyone else's posts. The word one day was possible. Another day it was cheek. Another was seconds. The commonality between every 60 second brain splat was the subject of love. Everyone managed to turn the word possible into a heartfelt love note, both happy and sad. It's amazing how consumed we are on the matter. I myself am guilty of wondering at it's existence at all, but then you see 85 pages of 4 sentence rants about a final goodbye, a first kiss, a moment when the world evaporated and only two people were left...and somehow the word of the day was pencil??? You can't help but realize that no matter how much you deny it's existence, this love thing is inescapable. It's bringing with it heartbreak and happiness, but mostly the power to consume our entire being so completely that we can't see a single word that doesn't make us feel it.

just around the riverbend

If you want to catch me in a weak moment, just sit me down in front of the last 15 minutes of Pocahontas. Forget the fact that John Smith, a man she magically learned English for, leaves her forever, but just look at how her hair blows in the wind and never gets tangled.

Ever since I was little I've dreamed of being her. I wanted her tan, her natural running ability, and to pull off a mid-driff animal skin ensemble so effortlessly. To me, she is the epitome of grace, and since a young age I would stand down wind, practice my serious face, and allow my curly mess of hair to be taken where it may. Coincidentally, this plan doesn't turn out as glamorously when taking place in my front yard and not drawn by an animation artist. Two bottles of conditioner later, and my dreadlocks would begin to loosen.

Years later, my secret desire to be a strong Native American woman is as intense as ever. Although I may just be holding out for John Smith to pop out of a tree somewhere close to a river that may or may not include a waterfall that we may wade through to reach each other in slow motion with strings playing in the background...the dream is still alive. Lord knows I don't know which colors make up the wind to even begin painting with them, and I won't lie to you and say I consider any raccoons to be my close personal friend. However, when I feel like the outlook is hopeless, I still channel my inner Pocahontas. She goes canoeing, I take a drive. She runs through the woods barefoot, I put on my Nikes and go for a jog on the road. She seeks advice from trees, I consult the bottom of an ice cream tub. She jumps off a cliff, I move to a foreign country. She chooses her fate, I choose mine.

Wingapo.

a dog's life

Everyone knows that I have the rare and formally awesome ability to communicate with dogs. They get me, and I understand them. Up until just 3 minutes ago, the source of this gift was unknown to me. But then as I sat having a deep conversation about life, love, philosophy and chew toys with my own four legged friend, I was overcome with the grief of having to leave him in just 5 weeks. After I go to France, I will fly straight to California, and after the spring semester I will either be in LA or New York to begin an internship which could and will propel my career into amazingness in just 3 short months. Forget the fact that I have no idea what this career will be, as he is still a faceless blob in my personified mind -the point is, my Marley and I will be separated for an indefinite amount of time stretching out into the abyss. This may seem overly dramatic, but Marley is my bestie and I just can't see my life without him for more than a couple month stretches at a time.

Karen, the woman who birthed me, is slightly jealous of the tears I'm shedding for a dog. What she doesn't understand is that I can Skype her, I can write her emails, I can Facebook chat with her, I can call her or text her. Karen and I will only be separated physically, but our relationship won't be detrimentally affected. If anything, not seeing each other will restore the warm and fuzzies we seemed to have lost over a summer in close proximity of arguing about vacuuming, television show preferences, and the definition of "clean" (mine being straight from the dictionary, and her's in a psychologist's manual listed under OCD).

But the relationship I have with my dog requires that I be there to take him for a run or feed him leftovers or snuggle with him at bedtime. Marley doesn't have a cell phone, nor does he have much patience for the DogBook account I set up for him through Facebook. So without my physical presence, I don't exist to my pooch. To him I represent that run, those leftovers, a cuddle sesh. Dogs need a physical presence to feel the relationship. I'm not so far off from the canines in that respect. In my romantic relationships (with men, not dogs--I feel this is a necessary distinction) I too need those concrete experiences to solidify my bond with another.

I once had a stuffed animal dog that said "Love me! Pet me! Feed me!" when you squeezed its tail. That's all a dog needs in life...and coincidently, the same suffices for me.

je ne sais pas pourquoi

I'm going to France in a month and a half to live and study and exist. When I picture myself in Paris I always see myself wearing a beret and smoking a cigarette, while I sit at a cafe and discuss poetry with an attractive French man. I usually sigh with relief at this vision, until I snap to and remember that I don't smoke, don't discuss poetry in ENGLISH even, and French men are creepy. Then I usually feel my heart drop to my stomach, my stomach drop to my feet, and my feet sink into the floor 29 inches. I'm moving to another country on my own. I'm doing WHAT?!

I suppose that I am basically 21 years old and these are things that 21 year olds do. I think. Do they? And since when did my life become that of a Hollywood starlet? Living in LA, trips to New York, winters in Paris? I have to take a second and re-evaluate when I reached this point in my life. Wasn't it just yesterday that I was sitting on the dance floor in the middle of a circle of friends to avoid Anthony Bonjiavano from asking me to slow dance at the 7th grade semi-formal? Anthony, I never meant to hurt you...I just didn't see it working out in the long run. Like your locker was REALLY far away. That apology still flows from a very recent and real place within me, so when did I enter my 20s and start globe trotting and saying things to friends like...well let's meet in London for Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving is spent at my grandparents' house with an overabundance of relatives asking the same questions over and over, and dying of heat exhaustion because my grandfather is wearing 10 flannel shirts and 3 pairs of socks and is still freezing. Thanksgiving does NOT include fish and chips and the phrase "top of the morning to ya"...which is most likely Irish or Scottish...but it doesn't include those countries either. I'm scared. I'm scared shitless. When I announce that I am studying abroad, people instantly blurt out, "what a great experience", to which I want to say..."Would you like to go in my place? My visa and passport say Caitlin, but Dave you're practically my doppelganger...France will never know the difference." I am beyond lucky, I know...but my cojones are not large enough for this.

After a month or so, when I'm wearing that beret and speaking French to that good looking man, I'll look back and laugh at my sillyness in the matter. Until then I want to cry to my mommy...and I better start, because soon that will cost me $20,500 a minute in international phone calls.