Had a bit of a crisis late last night; major life changes are never easy or fun, and the next five or so weeks of my life are no exception. Consequently, I got about four hours of sleep and am planning on staying awake until midnight or so tonight, so this bout of insomnia will probably work itself out. Or not? Either way, anxiety disorder, let's do this thing.
It's strange, living in these in-between places (finished with graduate school, still not working in my chosen field, sort-of-but-not-really employed, working hard on jobs whose only compensation is in experience), and I feel as if I should be making a home in this one, just to have something to call my constant. I won't, though--there's too much to do right now, between rehearsal and learning music and making photocopies and packing up the apartment and trying to sell the furniture I don't want to drive back across the country. The grief over Opa has, for the most part, worked its course through my body, but the empty space it leaves behind has left a vacuum into which all my other concerns and anxieties are rushing. I need a job. I need a job. This is my primary worry right now, finding a way to pay bills in Chicago, and this worry just barely edges out the terror resulting from the possibility of becoming isolated and antisocial once I move.
My coping mechanism is escape fantasies. Lately, I've been missing Florence, even though I know that it's obscenely hot there right now, and humid, that I'd think I was dying and be covered head-to-toe in Florentine mosquito bites. It certainly isn't the weather that I miss, or the crowd of tourists pushing through every single too-narrow street and gawking at cafe signs filled with unfamiliar words ("What's a pera? Does anybody know what a pera is?" "It's a pear."). My connection to Florence was, I think, the fact that I had the most basic of cell-phone service and limited access to the internet, and that forced me to leave the apartment in the morning and find real-life adventures in a city that felt like a painting. When I think of Florence, I think of blistered, black-with-dirt feet and prosecco in the middle of the day, flowing skirts and scarves and fruit stands and orange sunlight. It was easy there for me to be on my own, and to be left alone. The tourists, after all, were more concerned with the sensory overload caused by their surroundings, and the locals had their own lives to concern themselves with, rather than mine. I wrote a handful of blog entries while I was living there last summer, located here, and maybe the next time I travel for an extended period of time I'll revisit that blog--but then again, maybe I won't. I'm more comfortable on the Blogger platform, I think. Not that anyone cares.
(I'm still exhausted, but this is probably due less to continued grief than to the fact that I barely slept last night.)
Saturday afternoon, for the first time, I visited a locally-owned Van Gogh-themed coffeehouse in Wedgewood. Sunday morning, I went back. If I lived in Wedgewood instead of the next neighborhood over, this would become a problem (not unlike the three-times-in-three-days San Crispino stunt Stefanie and I pulled in Rome last summer), because I might be in love. The interior is decorated in colors I associate with Tuscany and Provence (for obvious reasons, I'm sure), and the walls are lined with reproductions of Van Gogh's paintings. The coffee is incredible; initially, I was skeptical of drinking something called a "Mayan Mocha" at a coffeehouse whose theme was a Dutch painter who lived in France, but, really, it was delicious, even iced--I drink iced drinks now, by the way. Iced drinks are cool. Sunday Nicole and I had sandwiches (my forgetfulness, which resulted in my leaving a gallon of milk at the house where she and Steve are dog-sitting, necessitated the second visit, of course), and the Van Gogh Coffeehouse's tuna melt is, as it turns out, pretty fantastic, as well.
The caffeine I've had this morning isn't working too well, just now, though. When I get a moment to breathe--if I do, as I really don't anticipate that happening anytime soon--I'll have to do a one-week detox or something, just so it has something vaguely resembling an impact on my body and brain again, because right now, it's about as effective as drinking orange juice--maybe less. Right now, though, I'm overwhelmed by all the things I have to do, which is ridiculous: it's summer! I should be having fun and sleeping all the time! But between work, rehearsal, and trying to organize my life for the upcoming move, my brain is full. Absurd.
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