Suffolk University, Boston MA
I think a lot about Music, looking out of the window on the ninth floor with the Christmas lights playing moody patterns across the common. Mostly I imagine my life as a movie, the soundtrack to which blasts forth from Meredith’s ipod when I have the presence of mind to steal it. Though my time in university is but brief I could easily write a scrawled list of music titles that would cover most of the check-sheet book I’m so proud of. All are related to memories; the merest bar of Elton Johns Tiny Dancer conjures up hours of reminiscing, and it’s far from alone. There are some songs however that speak so vividly to me that it’s all I can do to stop myself from instantly going to Facebook and clicking quickly through the reams of photos found there. These songs form a jagged ribbon through events, through deeds done and mistakes made and eventually out the other side to reevaluation and a sullen seriousness.
The Early Days of Chaos and Plenty
When I arrived in America, in the days before my chaotic lifestyle reduced my computer screen to a dozen glistening fragments, it was Franz Ferdinand I’d listen to. Chaos was the order of the day, running from class to class with assorted papers clutched under my arm, beer pong parties amid a sea of baseball caps and t-shirts. I’d listen to Jacqueline, the anthem of confident Scottish Middle-upper-class party animals, as I’d try to iron my favorite pink shirt amid clouds of fetid steam. Speaking honestly I don’t think work was a big concern then, in my defense I’d come from a near friendless existence and found myself plunged into the opposite within minutes of setting foot off the plane. I was more concerned with finding my way through the dormitories, trying to shyly hold hands with a girl when we’d walk back across Boston common after dark.
Reality Sets In
Within the first few weeks the work had thickened, the food seemed to be even stodgier than before and I’d fallen out with my roommate. This was a time I spent sleeping on couches for fear of incurring a massive row in my room, losing my key for days on end and regularly running out of money and persuading the canteen staff in my rusty Spanish to undercharge me. Two songs spring to mind, firstly The Who’s Pinball Wizard for the time spent lying on my bed while my roommate charged frantically in and out, blasting the above song and screaming into a cell phone. The second half of my existence then, trying to stop people from throwing my clothes and homework off the sofa I was living on and having to share it with eight others can only be described with Rozorlite’s America.
Apartment 606
About a Month into school I met Roy and Danny. Listening to Me Gustas Tu, a song written by Manu Chao in French and Spanish about Sun, life, Motorbikes, love, El Salvador, planes, traveling, the sea and a great many other things always brings back memories of their small apartment and all the people who’d find their way there. I’d arrive at about midday on a Friday night, sit down to grape leaf salad, borrow a laptop off the boys and get to work. Later, glass of red wine in hand I’d rip my work from the printer with a proud flourish and begin the gruesome chore of cleaning their sink, a sure gateway to hell and pieces of forgotten food and stale beer. I first really discovered my talent for hosting at 606, juggling glasses, guests and the ever-present complaints from neighbors.
Meredith
The night I became true friends with Meredith Jones we stayed up for seven hours straight, talking in a basement shower room and listening to Coldplay’s The Hardest Part. Whatever my previous mistakes might have led you to believe, I’m not the owner of a wooden sole, who’s one interest in women whether or not their easy. I can truly say that it was Meredith who proved to me that I didn’t have to seduce a girl for her to become valuable to me. Indeed, Meredith taught me that sometimes a person is too precious to even be considered romantically, that I could have a best friend who was female. Writing this now I know what she’d say if she was proof reading over my shoulder, know she’d coo “chheeesssy” before we both erupted into fits of giggles, and for some reason that thought makes me want to show her the rough draft more urgently than I already did. In a way she’s become my redemption, soon after we first started hanging out I fell asleep and Merri was so cautious of awaking “Angry Tom” that she left me snoring for hours. Realizing things like this, I’ve started to improve, to become more organized and less vigilant, and live for the times when I catch her eye in a party and see she’s giving me a wink and pointing towards a girl, mouthing “Japan 4”, our secret code for attractive people of the opposite sex. Partly to guard against Merri’s disapproving glare I make most of my classes, do large chunks of homework and actually get some sleep.
Where I am Now.
One of the many things I always appreciate about hanging out on the ninth floor with Merri is the view for my own room looks onto a drug infested alley and hers the golden dome of the statehouse, magnificent amid Christmas trees. My life as I write this has changed since I arrived here, I have friends whom I love and who love me, though I still struggle with work I am aided so much by a dozen different people who offer their time without complaint or price. Yes, I still suffer from petty stress and constant forgetfulness and yet I have learned the power of sitting with people I actually care about, listening to Yann Tiersen’s Summer 78 and knowing that I have found something worth keeping. Hopefully next semester I will take a break towards the end, whether it be in the jungles of El Salvador or the snowy streets of Boston and look at my laptop to find out which six songs I’ve listened to most.
