...In which our heroine is back with a vengeance, just like you knew she would be.

So I lied. I said I was killing the blog, and I thought it was dead, but I cannot stay away. Consider this Katydid in the City a zombie of a version that it once was - unpredictable, bite-y, and hungry for brains  I have too much to write about, and it's the writing that helps me process my day to day activities. I can't promise frequent updates, or even meaningful ones, but I have to have this here when I need it to be. Briefly: kept my job until next September and am now the Joan Holloway of CCAP. Started junior year, can't even think about all the work I have to do if I want to go to LA next year. Started taking yoga to calm mind and body. Have a few new script ideas.

We had to write an autobiography of ourselves for Peace Studies about where we come from, where we are, and where we are going. I took that abstraction and ran with it -

I come from a stance between two worlds – one foot rooted deeply in Catholic guilt, the other placed in the baby makin' bluegrass of Hazard, Kentucky. I come from a home where matters of chief importance are best discussed over tomatoes grown in a newspaper-covered garden, and movie quotes become the chosen vernacular. I come from the place of imagination that being an only child can create, where the characters in books and stuffed animals on the shelf speak volumes. I come from late nights spent slaving away over pages and pages written about Hamlet, lest I graduate with something less than a perfect 5.0.

I come from nights spent in basements, garages, fields, homes with out of town parents where sipping grain alcohol and smoking out of a pop can seemed oh so sophisticated, and the merits of Led Zeppelin II are discussed in the most exhaustive detail. I come from strains of Neil Young on summer nights, midnight movies on couches in the winter, and tastes of spring in well root beer, the tang of salty popcorn on lips.

I am on a couch in this, my very first big girl apartment, in the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago. I am wondering whether practicing the sun salutation from my very first yoga class this week should take precedent over the three hundred or so pages of reading I have to do. I am still feeling very something about sleeping with my ex-boyfriend this weekend - I care for him deeply still, as much as I don't want to admit it. I am feeling even more guilty that he has taken up residence in my thoughts, despite the fact that I met a perfectly nice, driven boy who should be there instead. I'm still wondering if when I woke in the dawn to him kissing my cheek he actually whispered “I really miss you” into my ear, or if it's one of those convenient spots my memory has tricked itself into believing because it wants to. I am looking up when the next information session is for the semester in Los Angeles – do I even want to go there? - and wondering how much a shitty studio would cost. Too much is probably the answer.

I should have talked to my mom for longer today, told her more about my classes. I am looking forward to my usual Tuesday morning conversation with my father, when he'll tell me some old song to listen to, taking his Townes Van Zandt and Nancy Sinatra records and finding a spot for them on my iPod. I am craving my grandma Daisy's french silk pie, and my grandma Mary Alice's pork roast with mashed potatoes with a stick of butter. I am still stuck on “The Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong,” and I wonder if it is just strange enough to be true, and if the necklace of tongues was truth or fiction – probably a little of both. I am in love with the chill in the air and the possibilities of fall – the horror movie marathons, the homey taste of my mom's pumpkin squares, not pie, and my twenty-first birthday.

I'm going to do my laundry tomorrow, because I'm out of clean jeans to wear and almost out of quarters. I'm going to find out about that semester in LA meeting, really, and make Leah come with me because she has the great ideas and I have the great words to express them. I'm going to finally pay that urgent care bill when my paycheck comes on Wednesday, even though I would much rather buy some pairs of jeans so I can have to drag my laundry up five flights of stairs less often. I'm going to get really tired of watching Monday Night Football with my roommates, but it is certainly going to help me write this. I'm going to make plans with the perfectly nice boy this weekend, because it's a smarter decision. I'm going to apply for that internship doing the summer camp with Facets Cinematheque this summer, and get to tell kids all about why they should love Citizen Kane even though it isn't in color. I'm also going to try and tutor at 826CHI because I think my real passion is working with youth, and I think it makes up for the bad karma I try my best not to generate.

I'm going to figure out more ideas for screenplays, even though everything I come up with sounds banal and trite in my head – I'm going to have more faith in my writing abilities. I'm going to smile and nod politely at work on Wednesday when I have to make individual copies of sixty parking receipts belonging to my executive director at work, even though he could do it just fine on his own, and I know he really, really needs that $87 reimbursement on top of his $100,000 salary. I'm going to get through the stack of twelve “to be read” books eventually, even if it takes me five years. I'm going to succeed where my parents haven't because nobody likes living paycheck to paycheck, and those $80,000 (and counting) in student loans certainly aren't going to pay off themselves. I'm going to visit where I come from – the chilly green countrysides of Ireland, and the coal country of Hazard some day, and think about what my grandparents thought when they left there. I'm going to have a child by age thirty-three, even if I'm not married, because being a mother is the only thing I've ever known that I really, really want. I'm going to stay in school for as long as I can, because there's a safety in writing papers and turning them in on time that doesn't exist in the so-called real world.

I'm going to take things as they come to me, and ride all of the bad decisions out with the good, and be thankful I can tell the difference between the two. I'm going to stop worrying about a career or those questions my parents friends ask me and just be happy that I can make such choices, that I don't have a four-year old or a drug problem or a full-time menial job, like some of my friends. I'm going to take a moment each day to take some big yoga breaths and be content with being here now, writing this paper, with this chill in the air, and all the possibilities that are lie ahead. 

So I'm back. Even if this is the only entry I make in the next six months, I'm at least back in the head space of writing again. Maybe you're back too, and even if you aren't, at least know that writing this always makes me feel better.