A Familar Smell

I just walked from the parking garage, where I parked this morning, to the library, where I am supposed to be studying, and in front of Duncan hall of Science they were doing yard work. The smell of gasoline, from the cars and the leaf blower, mixed with the smell of fresh cut grass felt nastalgic to me.

Growing up in the midwest, Indiana more specifically, we always had a large lawn mower to help cut the 8 acres of mowable land from the totalling 32. Early in my childhood I anticipated cutting the lawn as a priveledge as opposed to a chore. Later, when I became wiser and knew that my job of mowing the lawn was labor, the anticipation moved to dread. When i began outwardly refusing to mow the lawn, my mother would do it. Since I didn't have the responsibility any longer, I would instead sit in my overly heated and humid room and watch television. It wasn't until I saw how much energy that it took from my mom that I felt badly and began volunteering once more. When my sister got older, she started doing it. To my understanding she still likes to do it, so I don't have to worry about my mom.

Now that I live in the San Fracisco Bay Area I am beginning to realize how much of my previous life I missed. The smell of gasline and freshly cut grass was not a treat, then, but more a daily occurance, during the season.

Despite the smells of home I miss what it looked like. There are fully grown trees and a seemingly endless supply of people who are not mystified by the glamours of city living and are not jaded by such things as Louis Vuitton, BMW, Gucci, and Prada. I miss the time when before I realized what these items really were and longed for simplier things in life like acceptance, a girlfriend, most importantly - a way out.

I am realizing more and more that my off and on feeling of being trapped here is ironic becuase of how badly I wanted to be anywhere but where I was when I was in grade school. I often think of moving back home, but when i go to visit I am depressed by how much different it looks to me. I am not sure if the land has changed of if I am expecting more out of it than what it ever was.


What is more depressing than nostalgia, is a realization that you, too have become jaded and mystified.

Running With Scissors

Yesterday I finished Augusten Burroughs' memoir called "Running With Scissors". I found it strikingly similar to the experience I have had in life, thus far. Not the pedophile part but his mother and their relationship. The quirky, innaporpriate, and overall firghtening demenor of his mother and her way of life. More importantly her feeling that she was normal when, so obviously, the opposite is true.

Since I finished this book last night I have since began the sequel, Dry. I am excited to read how he rocovered, dealt with, and moved on from the terrifying childhood he lead.

Will update as I read more.