End of Month One: Almost Cherry Blossoms

The last week and a half (since I last posted) have been absolutely hipsteriffic. My parents have moved into a small townhouse in Alexandria, Virginia. The house is very close to Old Town (established in 1746 or something) and is literally minutes from Washington, D.C. The Pentagon is about two miles from my house. No kidding. Needless to say, I've really been enjoying my time here, and my stay has been characterized by a lot of indie activity.
We arrived Sunday. Monday, my mother and I walked to Old Town to look around. We stopped in at a few thrift shops/antique stores and I had a lot of fun trying on various (very old) high-end suits (that didn't fit me in the least). That evening, after dinner, we went to a little cupcake cafe for dessert and coffee. I've had better cupcakes in my life, but the atmosphere was hipster beyond description.
Tuesday I went to the library. It's not huge, and it's not the most well-stocked, but it's absolutely adorable. The building looks very colonial (bricks, columns, all that) and is very austere. I walked in to be greeted by a huge, airy room with plenty of natural light and open space. A curving staircase to the right lead me up to the second floor, where I found a large reading room bathed in light from the wall-sized window that made up the far wall. I sat down with my laptop, but after a few minutes of working I began to feel guilty for not reading in the sunlight. So, I pulled out a book and started reading.
I've been on a bit of a reading kick this week. I've always loved reading, but college took my yen away, thanks to the incessant flow of textbooks. Once I sat down in the library and began reading The Ugly American, I couldn't stop. My dad sent me The Ugly American from Kandahar while he was stationed in Afghanistan; he found it an interesting biopic of American foreign relations (an interest we share) and thought I would enjoy its wisdom and humor. I did. I read the 250 page book in about three days, and moved on to Candide by Voltaire. That lasted me two days. Now, I'm well into The Brothers Karamazov and hope to finish Catcher in the Rye (if not another book) before I leave in six days to move in to my dorm.
Before you write me off as the epitome of hipster based on my reading selection, I have to confess how I read these. I read a lot of The Ugly American at the library over a couple visits, but I read a majority of it at home with a cup of tea. But that's not all. I read basically the entirety of Candide underneath a weeping willow on the banks of the Potomac, looking over the river upon the monuments of D.C. Veritably, I was in heaven, and even if I wasn't reading Voltaire I would have waxed philosophical. I'm hoping to return to that same spot (which, coincidentally, was Lady Bird Johnson's favorite locale) so that I can sit on that bench in the shade of the willow and finish my Dostoyevsky. Does that make me hipster; or does that make me intellectual? snooty? cosmopolitan? I'm so new to this thoroughly urban existence!
Even in the midst of the sprawling metropolis of my new life in D.C., I have managed to maintain a semblance of connection with nature (which I believe is something many hipsters pretend to aspire to, but I honestly enjoy). My sister and I have been taking my dog on walks to different parks along the river (which is how we found Lady Bird Johnson's garden) and doing a little biking and walking. Yesterday, we decided on a whim to go to Theodore Roosevelt Island. We were at LBJ arboretum and had planned to go to the Navy Yard (the base my dad works on) to workout later, which is two miles South of Teddy's Island. So, we decided we would run there in lieu of spending thirty minutes on an elliptical.
It turns out that this sporadic decision was not the most well thought-out--3pm in Washington D.C. means about 95 degrees with 85% humidity. Needless to say, we didn't exactly run there, and we ended up crawling across the bridge to the island. Luckily, there are tons of water fountains all over the island and plenty of shade. After escaping from the clutches of heat exhaustion, we explored the island a while.
I don't know why it's named after Theodore Roosevelt. They're building a HUGE statue of him in the middle of the island, so I guess now I have one reason. The island stretches from the Memorial Bridge (which is right next to the Lincoln Memorial) to the bridge that crosses over into Georgetown. It's surprisingly natural--the whole island is heavily forested, and there's a large part of it that is natural swampland. They prefer the term "marshes" but everyone knows D.C. was built on a swamp. Literally. My sister and I diverted from the main path for a little while, and happened upon a portion of coast that had huge, flat boulders and looked over the river to Georgetown. So, we sat on the rocks and, in the sight of Georgetown University's looming terraces and dozens of kayakers and rowers, read and sun-bathed. It was beyond pleasant. We walked the two miles back to LBJ park and drove home. Our excursion into nature was over, and we were immediately thrust back into the nature of the city.
I have a little less than a week here, and I anticipate a lot more tea, more trips to Lady Bird Johnson Garden, more hours spent in the sunny library, more cafes. I'm overjoyed that this is my home, and I think it's going to push me towards hipster much more quickly than I could ever have anticipated.
I'll catch you all on the flip-side (aka: Ohio),
Tucker

Week 3, Part 2: The Missing Piece

I have a whole slew of things in store to continue my hipster journey--look out for Luis Bunuel, Henrik Ibsen, and do-it-yourself projects. But, this week has been vastly unsuccessful insomuch as I have done nothing hipster-y thanks to my classes. However, those are done (with the exception of an online exam) so my focus will be more poignant in the near future.
I have decided, though, to make an effort to be more emotionally transparent. Is that a quality of the hipster? I don't know, but I definitely think I could get more out of my relationships with others, and every hipster needs a good posse. I do know that writing poetry is beyond hipster; in that case, I've been hipster for years (but more likely just emo). Pen and paper have always been my one true friend, and it's the only place I feel completely and utterly natural. I've been thinking about it though, and I think it's time I stopped using my writing as a form of escapism. I need to make the language of my heart and the language of my mouth one; being bilingual in this way has become wearisome. So, I'll begin by revealing a sampling from my collection of little writings that I've been amassing for about three years now. Hopefully this unveiling, in the privacy of public domain, will aid me in baring myself to others. (Emotionally, not physically, sicko.) So, here is the lifting of my steely curtain. I wrote it in my junior year of high school.

A sky of crimson, a sun azure,
grass maroon and flowers black;
trumpets whistle, and flutes fanfare;
children yelling and dogs of yore.
A cliff where she reclined,
the meadow where I lay,
a subtle breeze, a gentle aroma:
sunbeams hot, hard, heavy.
A flower torn, a cloud approaching;
the wind gusts and knocks.
One raindrop.
Swamp lays still, a log overpass;
meteor shower, hurricane blasts.
Love, hope, future, excitement.
Confusion, bitter, tears, isolation.
Again, again, the world spins backwards.
As the tape plays again, where is the horizon?

It's so weird seeing something that I've written be posted for the world's eye, and I'm terrified to share myself. But I'm going to have to learn how to do so, and not be so greedy. My emotional vulnerability for your dining pleasure.
Next time I post, I'll be in Washington, D.C.! Until then, bon voyage.
Tucker

Week 3, Part 1: The Lightning and the Shade

I recently watched the early 00's show "The Book Group," which proved interesting. I mention the show because it's about a group of people who love books, and most of them are writers. This one phrase kept being thrown around, and it got me thinking: "The most important thing is that you just show up at the page." I've been dabbling in poetry since high school, and I've been trying my hand at myriad forms of writing: this being one of them. Recently, though, I've been showing up at the page, and it's amazing what can happen when you just think about something and just start typing. As of now, I have written 24 pages of a novel that I hope will serve as catharsis for me and those I love. It's recounting my journey to self-discovery, my battles with society and traditional culture, and my struggle to come to terms with my homosexuality and the world's view of it. And every time I sit down and start typing, things come out of me that I never thought of. I admit things I haven't said out loud, and I start to see things differently. Of course, all the events are through my tinted paradigm, but seeing it written before me has made me realize how faulty I can be. More importantly, it has made me realize how weak, immature, stubborn, and selfish I have been. I have come a far way from being weak and immature, but I've still got vices to wrestle. Writing has provided me a way to heal and re-evaluate, and sometimes it's tough to be so frank with myself. I guess that's why they kept saying showing up was the hardest part, because sometimes you delve inside yourself and get scared by what you find.