I’m supposed to be writing an essay (write) now

On this rainy Thursday evening in England, I am feeling really helpless because my piano is not around (couldn’t fit it in my luggage) and I want to make music more than anything in the world right this instant.  Alas, I live in a dismal apartment without so much as a radio.  And I don’t really feel like walking to campus in the rain to search for a practice room.  So I am doing my second most favourite thing – writing. 

This weather is quite perfect for snuggling up with a good book, which is what I’ve been doing for the past hour or so.  The book I’m currently reading is for my Ethnic American Literature class and it’s called My Antonia.  It’s turned out to be more enjoyable than I expected.  I love when that happens.  Reading for class can be such a pain.  Take, for example, Thoreau’s Walden.  Pretty sure I would rather pick up pieces of crushed cereal from off of the carpet than read Thoreau’s detailed reflection on what it means to be alive.  Yawn.

The point of this blog post is to keep me distracted and help me avoid writing my essay.  So far, this is working quite nicely.  Actually, there are two (2) essays that I need to write for next week.  But I’m using this time to let my brain catch up with the rest of my body.  This has been an uneventful week, yet somehow I’m still behind in terms of mental organization.  I’ve never been so scatter-brained in all my life.  On the other hand, it’s sort of freeing to just sit here and let my thoughts flow in whatever random direction they decide to wander.  I can almost hear each word in my head before it comes out through my fingers onto the page.  This probably sounds like I’m on some sort of drug.  And maybe I am.  Maybe it’s the Living in England drug that I’ve been OD-ing on… sorry-not-sorry.  I can do whatever I want here.  I can be whoever I want to be.  Nobody knows me here.  I’m not Kristin; I’m just some random student among thousands.  It’s all so refreshing. 

This song reminds me of my mom.  When it plays, I can hear her at the creaking piano bench; I can see her fingers expertly gliding across the keys.  Her music would fill the house and seep into every corner of the building before fading away into the air.  She would play this back when I was a youngster still trying to wrap my mind around the idea of a piano.  In those days, I would stare in awe as she improvised soft interludes and picked out her favourite tunes by ear.  Back then, she would usually play before and after dinner.  That’s when the family was always home together.  It warms my heart to think of those days.  As I grew older, she taught me to play duets with her.  We still break out those old duets sometimes when I’m home from school.  What a privilege to grow up in a musical household.  I will always treasure those days. 

I’m going to bed now.