Who knew it could feel so intensely physical, like a giant lymph node tightening under the diaphragm, I’m sinking into the chair, sinking all the way down my legs, clinging to the soles of my feet, tight between the heel and the shoe, down to the floor, to the ground, where there’s no longer any space to sink further. Inhale again, a tight bowstring in the lungs, it would be easy to let it go, but for all the endeavor of holding it tight. It's tough to let go of the endeavor.

dream

I dreamed that I was still packing when my flight to Beijing was going to take off in 15 minutes. I panicked, but not intensely, because in the world of this dream I knew that the airport was just across the road from where I lived, and neither check-in nor security existed.

I scurried about the apartment – a darker, bigger version of the one I had back in Voronezh – trying to find things, and shouting at my grandmother, who was the only other person present. As I heaped clothes and books into multiple bags, I grew frustrated with my sudden inability to find anything or even remember what I needed. I don’t think I packed any toiletries. I hovered over the bags in a sort of paralysis, not knowing where to shove a pair of pants to maximize efficient use of space.

My grandmother was bickering at me in a very uncharacteristic way. She was trying to guilt trip me into washing her clothes right there and then. I would have to hand wash them, seeing as we didn’t have a washing machine at the apartment. She was saying something along the lines of “you owe me this much.”

I was exasperatedly trying to point out to her the fact that my plane was taking off in 15 minutes, and I hadn’t even finished packing yet, so there was just no way I was going to wash her goddamn clothes too.

I can’t remember whether I made it onto the plane or not, but the next thing I knew I was on some dark street in a crowd of strangers with bags, waiting to get on a big bus. Were we in China? I’m not sure. It was dark all around, except for a few streetlights, which created dramatic shadows. The wide road in front of us was empty, except for the giant decrepit bus that stood waiting. Suddenly I heard someone yell: “Ana, you insane motherfucker.” It sounded like something Matt would say. I looked around and saw the head of my ex program director from IES, Brian Eyler, soaring disembodied somewhere in the dark space behind the bus. He yelled again. Dumbstruck, I waved at him. Then he stepped down from the sky onto the road and was lost on the crowd of students.

An engine roar approached from the left and soon a smaller bus full of people came into view. “Ana!” I heard someone shout. I saw that it was Matt, hanging out of a window of the small bus as it rolled by. “Fucker!” I yelled back, as would have been customary between us.

“Quick dude, get on the bus!” Matt said, stretching his arms out to me from the window of the bus, and I suddenly realized that I had to get on that bus, because it was going somewhere good, and Matt was there, and I had no idea where the fuck the big bus was going and when. I tried to run after the bus, stretching out my hand towards Matt’s.

Then suddenly, just when I was about to reach his hand, I dropped my bag. There was something very important in the bag that I knew in my dream mind I simply couldn’t leave behind. I’m not sure what it was. I jerked my body back towards the bag and I tried to seize both the bag and Matt’s hand at the same time, but I couldn’t. I missed Matt’s hand and the bus surged ahead of me.

I was devastated for a split second, but then I remembered that Matt was going to be in China as well. (Weren’t we already in China? I don’t know. Why did I suddenly think that then?) “Anyway, I’ll see you soon!” I shouted after him, thinking that we’d be in the same place soon enough anyhow. As soon as he heard me though, his usually insane smile faltered in a confused sort of way. Hold on, I thought. What does that mean? Where the hell is he going on that small bus? What the hell is really going on?

Then I woke up.

Need That

Need it.

Small painting I just did instead of sleeping.

The Only Way to Be Decadent

It’s 9 p.m. on a Sunday night. I’m behind the kitchen bar, cutting parsley and tapping my foot to a reggae tune by The Groove Armada. Ayesha is next to me watching over the couscous and dal on the stove. The smell of boiling chickpeas floods the kitchen – warm and sweet like freshly baked bread. A whiff of parsley – cool and slightly bitter – arrives at my nostrils as I slice up the brilliant green herb.

Tonight’s stir-fry: tomatoes, carrots, radishes, sweet peas, yellow bell peppers, eggplant, coriander, and a little bit of every spice and sauce in the house. Another day it might have been red cabbage, cucumber, squash, mushrooms, broccoli, and lemon juice. The combination is different every day.

We take time to wash and cut all of the fresh vegetables carefully, make certain everything is just so. Procrastination meets efficiency. We’ve perfected our cooking routine: dal cooks the longest, therefore it’s the first on the stove; next is couscous or rice; finally we cut up the stir-fry and sauté the vegetables in the biggest pan. While everything simmers to perfection, we lay bread, cheese, carrots, and hummus out on a plate, set the table, and pour wine.

Few things bring such thorough satisfaction as cooking a first class meal and consuming it in a cozy atmosphere. We eat unhurriedly in silence, savoring every bite, thinking about the music.

I dip a piece of bread into the bright yellow dal in a half-circle motion and take a bite. I lick my fingers. Then I sink my fork into the colorful mound of vegetables on my plate. The spice is heady and makes me reach over for the wine glass. The couscous and dal together are like a warm hug. Ayesha and I exchange smiles and little moans of pleasure across the table. Expensive hummus. Expensive bread. Expensive cheese. This is the only way to be decadent.

We finish eating, clean the table and wash the dishes. We take several minutes on the couch to enjoy the food-coma-afterglow. If we hadn’t quit last week, we’d be smoking.

It is now after 10 p.m. Both of us have colossal backlogs of homework to take care of. We could have wolfed down a sandwich and maximized study time, but instead we chose to spend the precious hours making food. But who really gives a fuck about what Philip H. Pollock III has to say on Bivariate Regression? Time enjoyed is never time wasted.

Schedules

Schedule, what the fuck? Where did I rub you the wrong way? I got you a classy black leather-bound planner, nailed you to the wall next to my high school diploma, organized you all good and proper, week by week, day-by-day, and programmed you into my Outlook calendar, but still you tease me with momentary cooperation and then go on eluding me like the fucking cure for AIDS. Well guess what? I’ve had enough. I’m not taking any more of your schedulistic shit. No more. From now on it’s pure academic apathy, movies, and MSN, 24/7/365. What’s that? Oh. I suppose you’re right: that wouldn’t be shaking up the current routine, not exactly. In fact, that’s exactly how how things have stood with us for the past few years. But I figured it was time one of us got up and said it, came to terms with the relationshit, you know?