A 22-year-old experiential education facilitator by-way-of art school, employee of an Ivy, vegetarian, procrastinator, and rock-climbing wilderness first responder living in picturesque rural New Jersey. She's holding her breath as she tests her clumsy legs post-college.
Somethin' that almost insists upon swooning, the offhanded poetry seems to be easy easy easy to them. The words fall from their lips, their voices cut through the sounds of their acoustic guitar and you know, you just know from the way those words escape their lips that they can only be such good singers from being good listeners.
These are the boys who listen intently as addled and oxytocin-fueled words drizzle sleepily from your lips in hours that don't belong to night or day. Blue-eyed curly-haired boyish men that your mother can't help but love and approve of. Not to say they didn't approve of the last one, just that this one, they'd love, sometimes greeting him before you as they come home from work.
Of course, that's the fantasy of the sweet poetic singer-songwriter boy rolling around in my head. The reality I'm sure includes burps and forgetting anniversaries and losing shopping lists and forgetting milk, but the nice thing about speculation is that the spectacles can be as rosy as I please. And of late, I am pleased to order those glasses tinted near-magenta.
I like to know, I like to plan, but I am not what one would call a "planner." I'm a "Oh this is what I'd like to do yeah I'll make that work I think..." kind of girl. I like to know where I'll be, but I'm fairly flexible, and fairly pleased to try and be happy in every situation, take them all as learning experiences (painful and bloody as they may be). You never know what will lead to the next step, the next big thing, the next love of your life or life's work. And that sort of open-ended-ness is the scary thing, but it's also the most exciting bit of moving on. And who knows, maybe I'll fall in love with a musician?
[edit 3.4.08 @ 7:18pm EST] I guess I should note that the boy who inspired this post was playing in front of me at the time at Baltimore Hostel--he's a Maryland-area acoustic folk singer-songwriter-guitarist named Michael Berkowitz, who just released A Song For Every Station and sold me a copy of the CD that night (his site here).