Bainbridge, Je T'aime

I spend a lot of time getting organized so I can do things. I rearrange my desk and make sure items make right angles, then I can start my work. Chaos breeds creativity and I strive for the anti-chaos. My computer is so slow that the words on the screen come out after I type them, like a ghost writer.

I am living on Bainbridge with my friend Will's parents. Correction: I am living on Bainbridge with my ex-boyfriend Will's parents. We dated the summer between our junior and senior years of high school. I spent almost every day that summer in this house. Only I wasn't writing in blogs then, if you know what I mean. I never know when to make the transition from calling them my "ex boyfriend" to my friend. I suppose there isn't a hard fast rule, but I'm sure someone somewhere holds themself to one. Maybe I should only refer to my most recent ex-boyfriend as my ex-boyfriend. But, in that case, is it Dave or RoJo? Are Dave and I broken up? Am I visiting him in New York? RoJo is also in New York. It's all very confusing. Or not. I love all the boys that were my ex-boyfriends, still, to this day, which doesn't necessarily mean anything except for maybe my penchant for holding on. For trying to isolate the way someone used to feel about me. And this title "ex-boyfriend" doesn't include all those in between. Those I don't know what to do with. Those who exist like the pictures you take on digital cameras, turn the camera around, decide you're making a funny face, and delete. Like it never existed. No feeling at all.

I'm coming to terms with the transition. It's starting to make sense. All of a sudden dorm rooms seem ridiculous. Parties? More so. I found my post-college dream job today: working as a Editorial assistant for Dwell, an architectural and design magazine in San Francisco. I would die to have that job.

I love having nothing to do on a Friday night. This is an utterly bizarre feeling. When I'm not surrounded by would-be party-ers, I feel no remorse for "missing out". No tug. These days it's a slow roll back to normal.

I saw Paris Je T'aime tonight at the historic movie theater on the island. It's 18 short films by different famous directors (The Coen Bros., Cuaron, Gus Van Sant, etc.) about Paris, why they love Paris, love in Paris. It was cute and quaint, like a series of dainty short stories. And, yes, it made me want to go to Paris. But, I'm sure that if any of the times I've been in or out of love were chopped into bits and made into a seven minute short, it'd make you want to come to Bainbridge, or Stanford, or Berlin. It's the city, sure, but it's the love, yes. If you knew about me, you'd ask why everything has to come back to this. I have no idea. But it all revolves for a reason, right? I'm definitely going to the gym tomorrow.