Well friends, the holiday season- in Cambodia, that is- is now over until the excitement of Pchum Benh builds in September. We’ve gotten to enjoy 5 day weekends, 2 day work weeks, and a few random days off thrown in for the past few months and I had definitely gotten used to it with days full of cat naps, ordering in, and writing to my hearts content both publicly and privately, for work and for pleasure. Continue reading
From the beginning of last Monday, September 30th, until today- it has felt like a constant and unending celebration, understated- yet remarkable, extravagant. From the moment I fell asleep on the eve of my birthday, New Order’s “Ceremony” kept ringing through my head- faintly, softly- but a gentle reminder of the dazzling commemoration of life that comes yearly, if you’re so blessed. The words softly padding through my consciousness every so often:
“This is why events unnerve me,
They find it all, a different story,
Notice whom for wheels are turning,
Turn again and turn towards this time,
All she ask’s the strength to hold me,
Then again the same old story,
World will travel, oh so quickly; travel first and lean towards this time.”
Rather, the onset of the birthday jitters that I so eagerly try to offset, began slightly earlier that night on the 29th when I watched “The Kings of Summer“, a film which onset such nostalgia that I felt like I had drunk a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc (I hadn’t, for the record) to bring the onset of emotions I felt as I watched the lead character and his best friend encounter the anxieties, excitements, and downfalls of adolescence in all it’s meticulously planned chaos. It reminded me much of that exact time of me life- the pulling , itching, primal desire to be free, to be a woman of my own, to push forth into territory unknown and make it mine- even if I wasn’t truly ready to in any way. I think back to lounging about with Brooke Miller in her second to oldest brother’s room, sneakily listening to his music and talking about our futures. The men who would eventually sweep up off our feet and take us to Paris and Rome, the dark hair they would brush from their eyes, and the songs we would marry to. She, to Sigur Ros’ “Staralfur” and I, Explosions in the Sky “First Breath After a Coma”.
The heavy, unrelenting rain accompanied by the low rumble of thunder reminded me of a time not that long ago, but feels like years past.
My first week in Cambodia in the lush hills of Mondolkiri, I fell asleep reading, swathed in mosquito net in bungalows to the same constant growl and the familiar staccato sound of raindrops against the rooftop. Last night I listened to the rain, somewhat masked by the hum of my floor fan from inside my apartment and bundled in soft cotton. As I lay quietly listening to the nostalgic lullaby I thought of my closest friend, Brooke Miller.