Nirvana: It's About Time

I'm a sentimental gal. Kind of like Zooey Deschanel. I save things like cards and notes and lucky pennies and seashells and... well, you get the idea.

I don't hoard, please don't be mistaken. I just save things that hold memories. Maybe this is because my memory is shit. So, saving the physical reminders of things that have happened helps me to remember the event. Or the person. Or the feeling.

Recently, my sentimentality became overwhelmingly evident because I moved. For me, moving means I have to unpack boxes I've not opened in a while just so I can repack them, eliminating what I don't want and saving what I do want. Or, I just move the box I haven't opened in a while, and then when I get to my destination, I then have to unpack the box and save/eliminate.

Point being - I went through a lot of sentimental boxes.

One in particular held a bottle of water. It's label is purple, and the water is called "Nirvana," and the line for the product is "It's About Time."

Now, I guess that it is about time for some Nirvana.Or nirvana. Or Kurt Cobain.

Anyway. This is just a minor digression - the name is funny in and of itself, but the story behind the water is why when I found that bottle in the box of sentimental stuff, it made the cut to the new apartment.

Last January, I traveled to Pennsylvania on an Amtrak train; I left from Providence and arrived at Penn Station, where I had to switch trains. Now, I am not the savviest of travelers when I'm by myself, and I get pretty nervous when I'm in New York solo. I love New York, but I'm no New Yorker.

So, when I stepped off that Amtrak train that January morning, I made a beeline for the first set of train schedule monitors that I could find - which were on a platform in front of a giant underground tunnel fan blasting hot air like a giant blow-dryer - and I stood there, leaning on my luggage and texting. My train did not leave for 45 minutes, mind you, but I was not about to traverse Penn Station. I was going to stay right there and wait until that monitor told me which platform to go to.

Idiot. 45 minutes!

Anyway, so there I stood, for about five and half seconds, and then, from around the corner, came a man in a long black trench coat with a conductor hat on. (Side note: my iPod just shuffled to Nirvana's "All Apologies." Weird.) As the man approached, I glanced up from the text I was sending - I'm pretty sure said something like, "I'm going to stand in front of these monitors..." and was to my bestie Mary-Beth - and as I glanced up, I made eye contact with Conductor Trench. He smiled. I smiled.That's what people do, right? Well, people maybe, but not New Yorkers. My cover was blown.

"Hello. How are you? What train are you waiting for?" Conductor Trench asked.
"The #43 to Lancaster," I replied.
"That doesn't leave for 45 minutes, why don't you go to the Amtrak lounge?"
"No, that's okay, I'll just wait," says the Idiot On The Platform.
"I'll show you the way," Conductor Trench beckoned.

Now, what happens next I'm not proud of. Like I said... Idiot.

Conductor Trench led me around the corner and into the tiniest elevator I've ever seen; it was just for employees, it was not a public elevator and it barely fit me, my carry-on sized luggage, and Conductor Trench. What I was thinking getting into that elevator, I don't know. (Cue my mother's lecture about following strangers circa 1989; I am age six.)

"This is the only one that goes up," Conductor Trench says, "They change them every day." (I still don't know what this means.)

The elevator ride was brief - only one floor - and when the doors opened, I breathed a sigh of relief. Conductor Trench then led me to the Amtrak lounge, where I sat down and thanked him.

"Do you need anything else?"
"No, thank you," I said sheepishly. Idiot.

Moments later, when I was engrossed in Chuck Klosterman and safely and comfortably waiting for my train not on a platform in front of a giant blow-dryer, Conductor Trench came back.

"I'm leaving you," he said, "but I wanted to tell you that your train is leaving from platform #9 - which is over there - and I brought you a water."

I think I managed to eke out a "thank you" despite my astonishment.

Penn Fucking Station. New York City. Nirvana water.

I didn't drink it, I just saved it, and will continue to do so, 'cause that's some crazy shit right there. 

Magnetized, Hypnotized

Well, my obsession with Magnetic Poetry continues.

I can't seem to get a glass of orange juice without being drawn in by those little white word blocks. Everything I do in my kitchen takes three times the usual time.

Good thing I don't do much in there besides make coffee and noodles.

This was today's MagPoem result (title added after, like "usual"):

Genre

you and I
play together
like beats on time
we must be
rock music

Mom Mail, Modified

So, today is Wednesday, which means it's Mom Mail.

Though, I think today I'm going to spin the theme of Mom Mail a bit; usually I take an old email from my mom, but I've been going through a lot of paperwork in my unpacking and I found two letters that I'd like to share instead. I'm bending the rules a bit, because neither letter is from my mom, but one of the letters is written to me by my Grammy Ad, and the other is written by me to my Mom.

The theme is still intact - it's mail that involves moms, it's just not electronic, or written by my mother.

So, here's mine first:

(The back of the letter) Mom Open Only!

Dear Mom,

Thank you for making my bed. I really enjoyed making and eating that delicious dinner. I just felt like I shoud cook something. Ya'know likan inspuration. The reason I wanted you to sta in bed is because I thought it might be nice if I could make you som pancakes.

I'm sorry about that big fit I had that afternoon. But the bike ride was fun and the rest of the day was great

Love and xxxx's

Katie N.

The spelling errors are as they exist in the letter, as is the bold - which in the letter is drawn over a number of times. I have no idea how old I was when I wrote this, and I'm really not willing to even speculate. Worth noticing is the fact that I signed it "Katie N." Lest my mother get confused with her other daughter Katie.

Also not dated, this is Grammy Ad's letter. I cried... just a warning. But, she is my Grammy. I don't expect it to be as touching for you.

Dear Katie -

You've only been gone a short while and I miss you already - when you leave in the car I feel like running down the street saying come back, come back - Grammy is so glad you don't live far, far away - I am very lucky -

Grammy wants to thank you very, very much for all the lovely birthday presents - for my money - which I will put in my piggy bank - it was very generous of you to give it to Grammy because little girls don't have very many pennies -

I cooked up the apricots and they are delicious and I will think of Katie when I eat them -

I love my bracelet and will use my note pads right away because I need them very badly - especially that nice eraser - How did you know I would need a good one like that when I do my puzzles in the paper -

I hope your lip is better and that it doesn't hurt anymore -

I meant to show you some spiders I have outside my kitchen window - they are all in little houses that their mother built and someday they will come out and go off and have fun with the other spiders -

Grammy is sending you the cookies you like - I forgot to give them to you -

I had a wonderful birthday party - just about my very best because you and Daddy and Mommy were there - at our cookout!

Have fun in nursery school with all your friends and I will see you again before too long -

Big kisses and hugs to my very very special granddaughter

Grammy

X

Well, that's Grammy Ad. The most amazing person ever.

And, though I never noticed it before typing this - she apparently hates any and all punctuation.

Making Up for Lost Time(s)

So, my plan for SftLO@H failed me last night when I couldn't post.

Now, I "couldn't" post because I was exhausted. And, in all honesty, I started the entry before I fell asleep, with my laptop, in bed, and this - literally - was the post:

I'm so, so tired; and I just realized that i haen' posted yet today. Pheeeeeseeem

Yeah.

I copied that from the "Drafts" of posts that Blogspot automatically keeps for its users.

Yikes, right? Talk about tired!

I tried, for a long time, to imagine how "Pheeeeeseeem" happened - I'm still not sure. I look at the keyboard... it doesn't make sense. Anyway, when I awoke, at three in the morning, my laptop was closed and laying next to me in bed.

I thought nothing of this.

My poor, poor hypothetical boyfriend is someday (maybe) going to have to understand that I sleep with that thing on the regs.

Sorry, Future Hypothetical Boyfriend, (Insert Name Here), and thanks for understanding.

Anyway. The point was this: I was supposed to post from "Songs for the Little Ones at Home," the book my Grammy loved and loved and loved when she was little.

So, I will be doing that tonight.

In addition, I have moved recently, and the magnetic poetry made it out of a box and back to my fridge - where it had been missing for a while. Anyway, if you've ever "unpacked" magnetic poetry - you know how tedious a job it is. But, while one does the unpacking, it's hard not to become a magnetic poet, right?

I was almost late to work today, and almost completely derailed tonight because of magnetic poetry.

So, I'm posting my collection of today's MagPoetry and I'm also posting one from SftLO@H.

Enjoy.

(Oh, and the titles were afterthoughts.)

Me & MagPoetry

At My Restaurant

your stare
is as sweet
as fluff

Sometimes

you play music
and
i recall a sad spring
together
i never have time
to think still
i do

Seagulls

what i love
about a stormy sea
is how most would trip & fall
under it
but we go there
to dream
of places in the sky

Homage

say TV
less
one

SftLO@H

Persevere

Go on, go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, GO ON!

If that isn't the most cuckoo poem you've ever seen, I challenge you to find one.