What melody could lead me from my bed?

Once again, and as often, I have retreated fretfully into myself, to adjourn the proceedings of my life, and let all hang open, facing inward, to fall on itself. The past few weeks have found me not unhappy, but introspective, and desirous of a calm, quiet place. Maybe this is who I am, I wonder, that I should pull out from beyond whatever circles include me, forever following what fleshy and flowery things appeal to me.

On Thursday, the teachers, staff, and I all culled together a Thanksgiving, spearheaded by Alana's mom's appearance. She flew from the States to visit Alana, and to spend the holiday with her. What had been planned as a small and light celebration turned into a festival, including the whole cadre of my school's staff. It was an airy night, the conversations floated amicably by in increasing pitch, and I spent the time with a plate in front of me, chowing down the potatoes and turkey (slathered in gravy, of course, like any self-respecting southerner would eat them). It was calm and blissful.

The night ended early for me, unfortunately with an exit immediately preceded by ill-chosen, though not ill-intended, words with Loren, and a questionable comment about the resemblance of leftover turkey to that old image of the famous Zuiyō Maru's decomposing basking shark. This was a moment where I was reminded that one of the downsides of your thoughts being mostly a series of pictures is that you sometimes choose analogies full of unpleasant imagery.

I went shopping afterwards. Friday was the end of my first full semester here, and for all my classes we had finished our textbooks. Interestingly, despite what was meant to be a relaxing day of snacks and games -- as opposed to book-learning -- I was stressed. The reason I had to go shopping so late at night was so I could purchase the snacks for these various classes. If you're wondering, I had to provide for approximately 20 students, so I bought these things: 5 things of drink, a couple dozen cookies, a bag of potato chips, nacho chips and cheese sauce, and a box of truffles for my youngest class.

When I got home from shopping, I went nearly straight to bed and slept soundly through the night, only to be disturbed by my alarm early. The day went as expected, full of stress and vigorous attempts to complete all that was doable under the oppressive thumb of linear time. I managed, for the most part, a success.

And when all was over, I murmured a farewell to the office, and I walked out. I took my time on a soothing walk through the wet cold, with my fingers stuffed in my coat, my music playing in a serenity around my head, and my thoughts in a distant rut, channeled through the familiar cosm of symbols and glorified abstracts. I sat and wrote in my journal, and remained stuck. The rush is over, I thought; life, new, is familiar again. The sounds climbed into an awkward, bombastic frenzy: horns in my head; and some silver saxophone in an atonal roar. I walked home, and registered myself once more as an individual in this world. And then I was content.