Last week was the close for my 8th semester at the Cleveland Institute of Art. For most college students, it’d be their last, but being in the 5 year program means it won’t be until #10 that I’m actually done. It’s not too often that classes and assignments are through before May even hits the calendar, a daydream of my high-school years, but for all the work I had to cram in it’s given me these next couple weeks to really plan what’s left of my Spring, and soon Summer.
The suspected danger the last couple years of my life housed was not breaking up larger chunks of time into smaller more digestible ones. Often I found comfort in witnessing time as nothing smaller than months or seasons, but never larger than a year. I gue These things could be as common as colors representing a month, the scents of a holiday, or a change in weather patterns shifting a palette of the atmosphere from our perspective. And, in turn, I became increasingly curious about how these things dictate our time spent indoors or out – how we work out our more stagnant problems while the rest of the world was in motion. Following the seasons was somewhat of a given for my childhood – I didn’t have to think about it, yet I thought about it all the time. It became ritual to me as much as anything else. Like clockwork, I’d get chills up my spine to see a row of the same local trees light up with color, as if I was watching suburbia’s only remaining foliage catch on fire. I knew how to process the same thing everyday, that was easy. But when I had to process my outdoor environment dramatically changing, that provided a challenge for me, which was also aesthetically stimulating. Just this past week, the smell of a neighborly bonfire began permeating its way into my backyard at night: a good argument for me to stay outside.
So, I did.
A good friend stopped by, we got some food to cook, and off we went to the grill to catch up over some Sam Adam’s Blackberry Witbier. It was standard fare of a Spring evening for me, given my past breaks, but compared to the last few months a simple cookout (and really the week in general) felt anything but standard. The past few semesters I learned the value in scheduling my time into weeks, because weeks give you time and yet take it from you in a flash. Weeks go by fastest for me, and resonate very loudly with my process and issues with previous time management. If motivation was any point of contention, it had mostly been resolved by last Fall. My point in writing this nostalgic ramble is that in an effort to be more conscious of time via this week-to-week scheduling, I’ve come to feel less in control of time than I initially imagined. When seeing time in those larger portions, perhaps it wasn’t as efficient as it could have been, but it felt sufficient. I could walk away thinking, “Yea…that felt like a good amount of time. I can move on.” Now I feel as though my week doesn’t close with the weekend, and that I’m always begging myself for more time to wrap things up, while the weekend itself is busy convincing me I’ve done enough work and need that breather to catch up with myself.
I’m left in a bit of a weakened state when I get to the weekend. I’m still trying to find out if I’m OK with this.