Not a book review

1185 Park Avenue is a beautiful book, the telling of lives made extraordinary because it happened only to the people on the pages and no one else. I avoided Bill Clinton's "life", and opted for memoirs of people not in the spotlight. I think they redefine what is "ordinary", especially when I don't approve of that particular word at all. Is it possible to see glimpses of myself in a book about upperclass Jews in New York City? In my own life, I have no memories of going to a Park Avenue psychoanalyst, but there were distinct moments of craving help beyond my own consoling voice. Someone with a degree, a hourly payment I can't afford, seems so much more reassuring. There is no screened silence between my parents and I, ours is not affection held in balance by polite conversations and avoided taboos. But surely, there were screamed words that scratched and clawed and threatened to permanently shatter all hopes of reconciliation. Anyways, this is not a book review, I probably shouldn't have included the title.

The summer has come and (almost) gone, and I find myself at exactly where I imagined I would be three months ago -- shocked by the flight of time (yet again!), haunted by the uncertainties of next year, and all the while dimly reassured by the consistency of time, trusting it to take me away from future moments of hell as abruptly as it will bring me there. I will miss my friend, who was always more than a friend. You are my pick for the island, yes you are!

Last year of college awaits, really?! It seems like only yesterday I clutched my acceptance letter from Rice and refrained from jumping up and down my drive way. Did it not, at the time, validate all that I was and guarantee all that I wished to be? So why is it, one prolonged blink later, arrives today, and me, nauseous in my fear that medical school should find me wanting.

Have I ever faced rejection? The kind that would shake me to the core and launch me into a temporary depression, only to wake up latter stronger and wiser but exquisitely scarred? Maybe only from myself... That silly boy in the eleventh grade doesn't count. Remembering him is like remembering falling on concrete, a shell of memory persisting without pain. What would medical school rejection do to my fragile self-esteem, rebuild each day as it is? A part me (big big part) hopes to never find out...

Expecting Flight is the name of a little store that borders Louisiana and Texas. I see it everytime my mom drives me home from Rice. It has a rooster outside above the door and this beautiful name below. I smile every time. There is a fear that what's inside wouldn't live up to the name, or worse, other people agree and tare it down. It is the title of my blog, this way, it is immortal!