I’m in flux and I can’t stand it. Everything around (and inside of) me is turning sour. I dread this period. It happens every time I start something new. My mind does nothing but reminisce, comparing every current sight, sound, and breath to something from before. Even if the past was horrid, it suddenly becomes a scene from a black and white Christmas film, and I’m awash in melancholy.
At the same time, every minute of my day is being filled with new sensations and experiences. I leave my car at the end lot of the campus’ north side, and walk all the way up the hill to Mather Hall where the IDP lounge hides behind the elevator shaft, in the basement. Where it’s safe. It’s good to have a cave to shamble off to.
On that walk, I can literally survey a dozen examples of architecture, from the Neo-Gothic chapel to the modern cement sculpting of the Science Center, from the angular windows of the Admissions office to the pajama stripes of the arch-roofed Summit Tower dorm.
I know Mary Tyler Moore had the same excitement bursting within her when she spun around in downtown Chicago and tossed her hat into the air.
Well, I don’t wear hats, and feel too conspicuous to pirouette in the Quad and try to hug the whole campus. And I keep checking the crowds for the cheerful gait of Bob Brown, or the carefully balanced coffee-and-book-stack stroll of Ersinghaus. I am surrounded by ten thousand people, and I am all alone.
(Me, wanting sympathy.)
No, not alone. Spatial disorientation. Remember we also fill the spaces we walk through.