96 hours of haystack mountain and pugs

It's funny how life can develop very specific, predictable patterns over a year or two, which are all unexpectedly undone in a day or a week's time.

Two months ago, my life was extremely 9-5... I was taking vitamins every single morning, always had enough cereal and veggies in the fridge, went to bed by 11 almost every week night, and had very specific plans for work pursuits / book lists / future art projects over the spring. And here I am on a Monday night, aggrivated that I *still* do not have groceries after 5 days of insanity... haven't gone to bed before 1am in at least a week... inspired by new art projects and new changes in direction (albeit a somewhat confusing, frenetic, sad, inspired and way too past my bedtime change in direction)... a current life direction full of ellipses and peppered with question marks...

I just said goodbye to Peter, a very dear friend of Thad's and mine who was in town visiting us from Chicago. Over the course of his stay, we had deep conversations and insanely ridiculous bouts of laughter; learned the deeper nuances of Haystack Mountain and learned the origin of Pugs*; drank Fat Tire and martinis and absurd combinations of dark beers and donuts with sprinkles. My healthy streak was ABSOLUTELY demolished, especially since I had just been sick for TWO freaking weeks without feeling up to going to the gym.

(*Pugs. Over martinis and french fries downtown, Peter rhetorically asked... "what's up with pugs?" and laughed at my Insta-Answer, which mumbled something about Pugs definitely coming from ancient China, and being used for something like chasing Pigs away from royalty. The next night, when recounting the story to Meredith, she jumped at the word Pugs and said, "Ancient China, right? Weren't they carried around in their big sleeves?" I've done about 15 minutes of googling, and have only come up with "China" in pugs' history, although I'm proud of both of us for having incorrect memories, or friends who tell us deliciously untrue stories.)

Over four days, we sat on cacti at Encar, watching the clouds roll in, danced awkwardly at 7"Eurobar" in Boulder and laughed at the awkward Friday night dynamic downtown, frantically text messaged some stranger named Collin in Manhattan who was positive that he knew us and was supposed to meet us out for a drink in NYC, read Suzanne Somers poetry with Tom and Meredith, walked all the way down to my King Soopers at midnight and laughed hysterically when they discovered I'd tried shoving a huge box of donuts into a tiny King Soopers bag and hoped they wouldn't noticed... sat on my balcony drinking cheap beer and took the free tour at Celestial Seasonings and cried mascara (well, I did anyway) down our cheeks with the intensity of the infamous Peppermint Room.
We just said our goodbyes, and I realized that I didn't remember to take a single picture of our happy friend group over the weekend... and although I've known Peter about 7 years now, I don't have a single photo of us together. It's a sad but endearingly appropriate way to end his whirlwind tour through Boulder.

Whirlwind feels like everything in my life right now, and like the kites Tom and I spent an afternoon flying in Longmont on Sunday, I'm fairly certain that the gale force winds I've been in are about to send me crashing back to dry land.
The *insane* hours I've been working on my video project are nearing an end, and soon I'll just be opening databases all day and staring sleepily at cross dissolves 40 hrs. a week. I'm very excited to start a new video project and read a huge pile of books I've been eyeing recently, but I'll also have big, gaping holes in my weeknights, and I've had fewer than 10 of those over the past 6 weeks. I'll make myself replenish my groceries, start a consistent gym routine again, slap my wrist when I go to buy something fun to remember that I need to SAVE MONEY and not drop $17 on tacos and a too-tart margarita three days in a row.

One of the nicest parts of the weekend was having a cello date with Meredith... we decided to do something VERY brave and re-strung our cellos late at night in my apartment, which felt stuffy and hot as if it was already summer.
If there's anything scarier than removing the strings from your cello and realizing how dangerously close they were to breaking in half and gouging out both of your eyes, it's re-stringing your cello and listening to the agonizing groans and pops in the wood of the bridge and the pegs as you strap thick steel cables to your precious instrument. We had the concentration of two surgeons; toasty in the summer evening heat and proud of our hard-earned work.
When midnight rolled around, it looked like a girl-cello-bomb had gone off, with broken strings everywhere, cello music as far as the eye could see, a bra on the floor (cellos and painful girl apparel do not mix) and rosin pretty much all over my clothes.
It was nice to end my an inspired, hurricane weekend on a more productive note.

I will miss Peter, but it's nice to have a bizarre combination of old & new friends, ridiculous & deep conversations, factory tours and cello surgery, irresponsibility out on the town and calm, almost zen-like mornings alone in my grocery-less apartment.

It's cheesy to say, but truth be told, when the dust settles from the work crazies since April and the indulgent frenzy of the past four days, I feel like life might look a little different in general. I hope I can find the right balance between work and play.
Spring is my favorite time. It's so alive-- it begs for the celebration of simply being alive. It's a wonderful time to let the bittersweet and inspired bits all mingle and get some fresh air... and to simply head outdoors in search of quieter answers to big questions.

As with any storm, it's ridiculous to try to assess it while you're still up to your eyeballs in it.
But if I didn't end the day rambling about it, it just wouldn't be me...

here's to spring, and the powerful breath of life that comes along with it. *clink*