By the time I awaken, the notifications have already started rolling in. Though it’s more accurate to say that they awakened me. Each jingling tone from my phone feigning flattery; inveigling into my unconscious until it too is forced to awaken. “Your input is crucial,” they say. Or “without you, I cannot form an opinion.” These are, of course, the interpretations from my unconscious who cannot actually read and whose intellectual meanderings are consistently either suspect or spot-on. 

Today, it is the former. 

I know my opinions don’t matter. I’m nothing more than a lowly assistant. I have no chops. No street cred. Not yet, at least. The notifications remind me of such. Because what they really say is REMINDER! BE AT THE SITE NO LATER THAN 6AM and YOU WILL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE INSTRUMENTS AND TAKING OF COPIOUS NOTES, YOU WORM. Okay, they don’t call me a worm. The subtext is there though. 

I realize I have to pay my dues. We all do. It’s part of the deal. And I’m aware that I won’t always have to idly stand by and pretend to care when one of my least favorite post-docs waxes poetic about something like how a sequoia can withstand a thousand years of earthquakes, fires, and wind, to finally just one day fall. He states these observations in such a way that they come across as less a lamentation and more a sociopathic rant.

“Yeah, it’s a real shame,” I typically respond shaking my head and, in the case of tree at least, thinking that at 1000 years, the tree had a good run. My grandmother is not even a tenth that age and isn’t faring nearly as well. 

My phone chimes again. It’s mocking me. I’m sure of it.

REMEMBER TO BRING THE THERMOS

I roll my eyes. As if I’d forget the thermos. I know full well that the scientists can’t make any sweeping discoveries without coffee and that what the message is actually conveying is to remember to make coffee. I sigh. Again, paying my dues. 

I didn’t sleep well last night. It was all the excitement, I suppose, of being party to some of yesterday’s discoveries. Even so, I’ve never slept well the first night in an unfamiliar place. My sensory organs thrive on routine and are priggish about change. Particularly at night. My ears find solace in the muffled sounds of cars, people’s voices, and music fading in and out as the evening slowly stretches its long bony fingers across the city. Meanwhile, my nose is accustomed to the scent of exhaust from the aforementioned cars, the twinge of mustiness from my couch’s throw pillow, and the red and orange smells of warm Indian spices from my neighbor’s apartment by 7pm every day. (4:30 on those dusky winter afternoons). 

Last night, however, my ears were accosted by some rather ghostlike and inchoate owl calls as I pressed a stiff, white, science lab-issued pillow over my nose in an attempt to conceal the odor of wild rosemary and thyme growing just outside the tent. It wasn’t that it was a bad scent. Just strong. And unfamiliar. And it was making me hungry, if I’m honest. 

Then there were the negative hands. I hadn’t expected to be so taken by those ancient prints on the cave walls that had been there for thousands and thousands of years. There were so many hands in so many different sizes. There were large handprints stamped steadfastly at the entrance of the cave as if to say either ‘welcome’ or ‘stop.’ (The handprint was as unreadable as my unconscious.) Then there were somewhat smaller hands going along the side walls. Were they placed in celebration? In bondage? Did it matter?

What stayed with me the most were the tiny handprints on the ceiling of the cave. Clearly, an adult had hoisted a small child high up onto his or her shoulders, then slowly spit a warm mixture of water and pigment over the little hands to create those images. Many of my colleagues were atwitter by the notion that there is probably DNA in that ancient spit that begs analysis. I, on the other hand, was curious about how the child might have felt about that ancient spray paint spit on his or her hand. And would he or she have any notion that these prints would last well into antiquity? (The answer is: of course not.)

I sit up in my cot rather swiftly and three magpies picking at something outside my tent take immediate flight. I think of my mother and her love for magpies. She adored how they are drawn to shiny and sparkly things. My mother in her beautiful cashmere dresses; rhinestone-rimmed sunglasses embedded in her auburn hair. My mother who encouraged me to go into something – anything – more glamorous than science. Fashion perhaps. Even interior design would have sufficed. 

Glancing at the sky, I see the sun is on the horizon. It’s a brand new day. A chance to start over. In theory, at least. And there will be no A-line dresses or recessed lighting plans for me to consider. I’ll probably have mud on my shoes by 9am. Hell, I’ll probably have mud IN my shoes by 9am. And I wonder how feasible it is to strive for a blank slate each day. To start from zero. Tabula rasa. Because, yeah. Yearning for a blank slate crosses the ideological spectrum. But the truth is, sooner or later, even the newest places will face the same old problems. 

I stretch and yawn as I roll off my cot. 

Time to start making the coffee. 

*(modified excerpts from The Atlantic)