The passing of time

I realized it's been quite some time since my last post, I apologize for the tardiness! One of the biggest adjustments I've had to make here in South Carolina is the methods of measuring the passing of time.
Last Friday marked my fifth month here in South Carolina, and had it not have dropped in to the low 30's, I may have just forgotten. I have always used the changing of Seasons as landmarks in the timeline of my life, and I suppose part of this is because everything is set up to be measured quarterly, namely Fall, Winter, Spring, and Summer. I want to get in to shape by the winter, I want to get my 5k down by one minute this fall, I want to ski at least 7 times this winter.
Now this is not to say that this same means of measurement are non-existent here in Charleston, the seasons change everywhere. However, I'm finding it more difficult to recognize such changes due to the hot falls and warm winters, especially given my history of twenty-four years in the Northeast.
This became a concern to me yesterday as I was trying to decipher my timeline here in Charleston. I always look back at seasons past, my favorite Summer, Summer 06. My favorite family vacation, Summer 03. The best shape I've ever been in, Fall 04. My best academic semester, Spring 08. Part of this concern harps on something that I have continually touched on throughout my rambling, identity. It's easy to measure time past in college by grouping memories in to categories, Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, and Senior year.
In my post-collegiate world I am struggling to measure this passing of time due to a lack of definitive categories to stuff these memories in to, and it is because of this that time seems to be moving faster than ever. It seems like just yesterday that Mom and Dad dropped me off at College my Freshman Year, and now I'm three years out and a month away from turning twenty-five. I think one of the reasons for the seemingly increasing speed of life is the monotony that the "real world" can present. You know, wake up, go to work, come back, cook dinner, go to sleep so you're rested enough to do it all over again tomorrow. My buddy Garrett said it best, the Real World has a real way of making you feel like you're in a rut.
Soooo, to break up this monotony and save myself from the "Real World Rut", I am going to switch things up a bit. THIS WINTER I promise to bring a new angle to my writing. Future posts will include, but are not limited to: Recipes, beer reviews, restaurant reviews, and travel recaps, with pictures! With a twist of course, and of course plenty of run-on sentences.
So readers, strap in, there's more to come...

"Six degrees of separation"

Recently I've seemed to struggle with Identity. I've noticed that the larger the role my past plays in to who I am becoming, the portrayal of that impact seems be smaller in my everyday interactions. This is due in part to two related issues, one being geographical restrictions, and the other being a lack of relevance that has become the reality of living 1,200 miles away from my hometown.

In my opinion one of the greatest parts of human existence is the idea that we are all in this wild experience together. In a world where voice carries thousands of miles through floating objects in space and 190,000 pound metal structures can propel you across the continental United States in four hours, it is still the little things like human interaction that seem the most abstract and unexplainable to me.


I've touched in previous posts about the lack of connection in brief conversation, and I find that lies mostly in the substance of said conversations. However, I find the idea of coexistence miraculous enough that it always seems to serve as a tremendous feel of commonality despite the vast differences between my makeup and that of the lunch lines most recent co inhibitor. But it's a connection nonetheless, something that we have in common despite his upbringing in South Texas and mine in the Northeast.

Due to the nature of my upbringing in New Hampshire I always found a different connection with those of my fellow New Englanders. The idea of "six degrees of separation" is more like one degree of separation in New England; if you talk for long enough you will find a matching piece in the puzzle that makes up the face in front of you; he went to my Cousins high school, she lost to my hometown in her high school soccer championship, we went to grade school together. When I find that connection, our individual upbringings always seem that much more significant due to the relativity of our experiences. So the conversation naturally progresses to, "yeah, I lived on Tonga Drive, like 5 miles from the High School" and, "I used to ride bikes by your road!". In these connections Bow, New Hampshire serves as a much more stable foundation to the building blocks that will ultimately make up our relationship.


This lack of connection has made for difficult and largely unfamiliar interaction here in South Carolina. Because of these differences, my own upbringing seems to play a smaller and smaller role in the initial connection between myself and my fellow patrons tonight. Tonga Drive in Bow, New Hampshire has become New England. Where in New England you ask? New Hampshire. Where in New Hampshire? Bow, a small town outside of Concord. Although my upbringing plays a bigger role than anything else in both the reality and possibilities of this conversation, the lack of commonality in our upbringings prevents these significances from becoming immediately apparent.

I find this particularly ironic, seeing as I have recently found my upbringing playing a more and more significant role in my personal day to day life. As I have previously drawn upon, where I've been is a major part of who I am. Every second of my life thus far has contributed to who I am now. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, as I move further away my past seems to play a smaller roll in these brief interactions; however the deep conversation remains largely influenced by a Youth in Bow New, Hampshire, an adolescence in Oneonta NY, and professional lives in Boston and Rhode Island. It is these individual experiences that help to blossom random interaction from merely coexistence to communal experience.

Speaking of these influences, I encourage any and all readers to check out my fellow family bloggers! My Cousin Sarah has started a great blog detailing her adventures in her new home of Charlotte, NC. Her blog can be viewed at www.sarinthecity.wordpress.com. Like myself, Sarah's muses also seem to arrive in Red Sox hats and Patriot's shirts smuggled in North Face jackets. Also, my brother Ryan, also known as Chainsaw Bonesaw, has created a very intriguing blog on his experiences as he adapts to life as a foreigner in London, England. www.ryangoesglobal.blogspot.com is always good for a laugh and some great insight.

I apologize for the randomness of today's rant, but as always, I appreciate those following. Hopefully you're picking up a little of what I'm putting down.

ConMUSEion

In a bizarre and unfamiliar twist of events the muses have presented inspiration in an almost unrecognizable format. A while back I sat down to spew on to my followers the woes of an all too familiar feeling, loneliness and the inner workings of the insecurities that somehow make it in to our day-to-day. However, when my fingers took to the keyboard it ultimately rendered a composition that somehow rhymed, contained only few commas, and what was very strange to my usual portrayal of thought, no run-on sentences! (I know, I couldn't believe it either).
But nonetheless, it was a relief to get these feelings out, despite the unfamiliarity of it's configuration. The format it has taken on appears to be, for lack of a better word, song. Now this is a dangerous road, seeing as my musical talent is restricted to the harmonica verse of "Piano man" and undoubtedly out-of-tune yelps to the latest Enrique Iglesias song when no one is watching. But as I've always said, this blog is more for me than anyone else, even though I must confess I love the feedback and am grateful for the followers. So without further ramblings here is my latest installment of "figuring it out as I go".


Well she said she was leaving, I've been gone since '98,
I said I'd leave the light on she said don't stay up and wait.
It'd been a long time coming but still she seemed surprised,
The color scale had turned to gray in my lackluster eyes.

Conversation had turned to weather for a lack of a connection,
And she had chalked her exit up to a lack of a direction.
Can't miss what you never had but you sure can miss the plans,
But I had missed it all from the second we locked hands.

And we could toss the blame but we know just where it falls,
She missed the pre-me part of her more than she missed my calls.
The space between the lack of words is where I hid the pain,
And the cover up was just enough to drive a man insane.

When she asks where I went wrong I'll tell her from hello, Can't use her as a filler for that emptiness below. She heard me say that August day that it was over from the start, And her poker face could had the spades but mine can hide the heart.

So I'll let it be and let her leave, she was already on her way, I'll wish her well no need to dwell tomorrows a new day. But if she's back and if she asks I'll know just what to say, I'll tell her I'd be gone since the one that got away.

How much time do you have?

With my recent new surroundings and unfamiliar interactions I've been forced to, for the first time in my life, introduce myself to others in a completely alien atmosphere . No matter what number the visit, I always remain infatuated with the idea of two individuals that happened to be waiting for the bathroom between mile 5 and 7 on the Savannah Highway in South Carolina at this particular moment. I continually feel as though first impressions, as 'impressionable' as they may be, lack so much.... for lack of better word, umph.

I'm sure Ms. Allen is a great girl, maybe she winters in Charleston, summers in Raleigh. Hell, with a first name like Ann Gregory I'm sure she's got a boatload of stories of Southern culture. Family trees, heirlooms, I could interrogate all night really. But once again, at first introduction a first name holds just that. To the girl from Isle of Palms, I'm a Geoff, a few letters thrown together with a vowel somewhere in between to make it work. Most likely I'm a 'Jeff" in her eyes, God knows she didn't suspect that curveball coming her way.

To pick apart the baggage and meaning behind the names would take much more than another $2.00 16 ouncer. In fact, we may never leave. Need i elaborate more on why the middle name question is merely a segway to "you should come see my new place" and ultimately, '"so, should i drop you off at your car or at your apartment".

I always find it amusing that we seem to start off with such a packed question. I mean, if you really want to know who I am how much time do you have? I was blessed to have been nominated by my peers to speak at the Hartwick College Baccalaureate ceremony about my experience at Hartwick. Although I eventually gathered my words with time running out, it would ultimately serve more as a reminder to myself seeing as I never turned the speech in. Nonetheless, my thesis focused on how as alumni, for the first time in our lives we would have to create our own identity. In a broader sense, we are no longer High School Students, Athletes, Political Science Majors, or Seniors. We are merely another ant in the march trying to find our own step.

In creating my identity it has become more and more evident that I am ultimately a piece of everything I have been. This is another reason I keep tattoos for every piece of my life. There hidden, so it's not for anyone else to see, it's for me. The Chinese symbol for 'family' and 'courage' warped in to a runner, the state of New Hampshire on my left leg with a Clover where Bow is, the Fraternity letters, with the desciptiavely yet ambiguous phrase "I am my Brothers keeper" below it. The Roman numeral six for a good apartment filled with some great people. All of these pieces are major parts of who I am, and I am so blessed for that.

So, to answer your question, Ann Gregory....

I am extremely fortunate to be born to Laurie and Joe, hard working Rhode Islanders who made not just a home, but a comfortable retreat that will always serve as the landing pad to my travels. An upbringing with the most unbelievable ability to provide the means of building my wings and giving them room to fly. I'm an admirer of my mothers prospective and am continually amazed by my fathers outlook.

I'm four years in Upstate New York with experiences I wouldn't trade for anything. I'm a Political Science Major, African Concentration, Alpha Sig. I'm a friend from school visiting Scotia for the first time. I'm a 3 am drunk dial, 4 am pizza order, 5 am wake up call, and 6 am practice. I'm a hell of a talker, and a pretty damn good listener.

I'm on evening in Fanueil Hall and a late night on the Red Line. I'm a $20 cab ride from South Station to Dorchester. I'm fortunate enough to have lived with my best friends.

I'm a year under one of the largest and greatest Auto Dealership in New England, with a last name that carries significant weight in my day-to-day. I'm a Saturday night bar crawl from Fat Belly's to the Grill with some tremendous company.

I'm a new start on an Island off the old home of the Confederacy.

But just as there is not enough beer in the bar, there's also not enough letters in the alphabet. So I'll save my Middle name stories for another day. Tune in soon, more of what I am to come... just as soon as I figure it out as well.

Painting Charleston

It's always funny how pre-conceptions become merely tiny pieces of our realities. This realization has become increasingly evident in my daunting task of describing Charleston to those who are not fortunate enough to fall asleep to the sound of palmetto bugs, and awake to the smell of Southern low tide.

These preconceptions have given way to daily authenticity's that have helped me to paint the South-east landscape on a North-east canvas. Without these timely interactions my canvas would undoubtedly showcase google images of the Charleston landscape with footnotes referencing the many blogs of both natives and travelers alike, and their interpretation of the ambiguous makeup. Ultimately I have forced my readers to fall in to the very predicament I found myself in only four weeks ago; the ramblings of a traveler trying to make a home, (see the next few paragraphs) and an image of Downtown Charleston, (google downtown Charleston, if you feel so inclined).

Through my daily adventures I have begun the task of painting that very canvas with hopes that the outcome would represent a grand portrait of a postbellum town full of charm and history. Unfortunately, it has only rendered chaos, an indescribable mess that can only be interpreted in pieces. The pieces have will take form in the conversations with the subjects that make up my interactions in this beautiful municipality.

These pieces all seem relate in two ways, the most obvious of these being that they are Southern in nature. However, the not so apparent factor that seems to carry across these pieces is the ubiquitous pride that is injected in the subjects stories of their youth and the love for their home town of Charleston.

The greatest thing about Charleston is that it is an "American City" in every aspect of the term. Charleston is a melting pot of cultures from every corner of the United States. Despite the different backgrounds each person carries with them the appreciation for palmetto trees, good barbecue, and great conversation. However, the biggest linking factor is this pride which spews across every corner of my my canvas. The state flag and "Native" bumper stickers that litter the cars on the James Island Expressway, the South Carolina Gamecock flags waving in the front yards in Mount Pleasant, the "Follywood" shirts scattered across Folly Beach. But mostly, the ability of these subjects to paint a perfect picture of a youth somewhere, and the story of how they came to call Charleston home.

The blue-eyed Belle downtown at Henry's insists that Mississippi is the greatest place to go to school, "may lose a game, but we never lost a party" she'll insist with her strong Southern draw. "Home of Faulkner, you know, Oxford is the most beautiful place on earth" she'll say. And with the way she paints it, I can't disagree. Her portrait makes it's way on to my canvas, next to the man over at The Pour House whose stop in Charleston seems to be the perfect hiatus between the Moonshine of Boone and the retirement homes of Sarasota, he swears there is something in the water. I guess it's just the Charleston bug, symptoms include happiness and and an ability to enjoy the little things. And the Charleston native, her story peers up over the bottom left hand side of my canvas, encompassing a youth of Friday night lights, Saturday night fever, and Sunday morning Mass.

To someone living it, the chaos is soothing, a start to a masterpiece. It's through these individual experiences that I'm able to piece together my own present day realities. I've just started my portrait, and I've left plenty of room for future stories and experiences. But I haven't forgotten about my own, just ask anyone one of my subjects about growing up in New Hampshire, I'm sure they could regurgitate an earful. I've still got room for any of my friends and family down here in the Low Country, I just ask that you bring a paintbrush and an open ear. I've learned the most important part of painting is listening, learning to invite anyone in to help me paint. Charleston, together, we can make beautiful chaos.

Greetings from Planet Carolina

I've found that when you lose inspiration it's tough to even flirt with creative mediocrity; hence my recent decision to pack up my car with all she could fit and drive 17 hours to Charleston, SC, hoping my new start would render an unfamiliar yet unique prospective. I also had visions of the the geographical contrast sparking inspiration from 24 years in the Northeast. Mostly, I was open to new experiences and hoping to recall many which had been pushed back beyond the reach of my ever wandering mind.

If I was writing a comparative piece on the cultural differences thus far, my thesis would undoubtedly focus on the contrast in pace of everyday life. It was almost difficult for me to prevent this slow-paced lifestyle from becoming far too apparent in this mornings run, where I ultimately learned my first Southern lesson, 8 am is not early enough to beat the Carolina heat. At first it was infuriating, five minutes in line at the grocery store seemed unnecessary and downright ridiculous, especially when compared to Boston where they couldn't get you out fast enough. It was alarming at first, the lack of an aggressive almost portrayed an indifference in earning your business with their slow pace and un-intrusive approach, however the angelic 'hello' followed by the warm conversation from a fellow patron helps to highlight the beauty in taking time to appreciate life's little pleasures and the idea that we are all in this together. This pace carries over to everything, restaurant service, driving habits, I've found it nearly impossible to close the door on the tempo that has begun to inadvertently slip in to my everyday life.

This pace has allowed me to take it all in; the woman in front of me gathering ingredients for her sons favorite barbecue recipe for his return from Iraq. The man behind me and the passion in his recommendation for the best crab cakes and oysters in town. The check out woman with her deep southern draw and weathered skin that screamed of a pre-SPF youth at Folly Beach. I'm not only adjusting, but becoming engulfed. I'm finding it nearly impossible to prevent the sweet tea drinking, hello neighbor Southern lifestyle from gripping on to my deep Northern roots. And I'll continue to let them grow together, hopefully creating a new prospective, rooted in Northern youth and infused with Southern charm.