"Fiction is like a spider's web"

Things have been so crazy hectic here, I've ended up writing in this not nearly as often as I promised myself I would. Hopefully that will be remedied in the future. And I have to get around to posting pictures this weekend. It is going in the schedule. You know how I do. So, a quick recap: Saturday was London. As I've never been anywhere in Europe, with the recent exception of parts of Spain, I pretty much wandered around with Amy, and later on, Jeff, completely agape, taking in as much as we could in an afternoon and evening. The wonderful thing is London is only about an hour away from Oxford and buses run all day and all night, for the relatively decent sum of 10 pounds. The Programme took us to the Tower of London--full of bloody history, some interesting buildings, and hilarious tour guides. The place where such notables as Anne Boleyn and Guy Fawkes were executed. From there we were left to explore on our own. Amy & I headed to Westminster Abbey, St. James Park, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park (by which point the fog was rolling in and I couldn't help feeling like I was wandering through a moor ala Wuthering Heights), and Herrods. Which was five floors of pretty things I will never be able to afford, but Amy & I did buy some excellent tea & split an amazing strawberry tart. On our way to finding the bus station--which became an adventure in and of itself--we ended up having dinner in this cute little pub. I've had so many people refer to me as "love" or sweetheart." It's kind of refreshing change from New York. We crashed on the bus, and came back to our flat for a low-key nightcap before wandering off to bed. Sunday...I don't even remember what we did. It feels like I've been here far longer than a week & everything is beginning to blur. There has been lots of exploring the city centre--chock full of useful department stores and amazing bookshops (Blackwells = heaven) and cute clothing stores, and oh god, the architecture. The Radcliffe Camera, the undergraduate reading room in the Bodleian, is this impressive, gorgeous building that tourists aren't even allowed into. And I can saunter into whatever I want, and actually do work there. It's so surreal. I can't imagine having to go back. The States seem a million miles away right now. We went to the College Bar again last night (each Oxford College has one) and stayed for a few hours meeting other Wadham students, most of whom have been lovely & congenial & eager to talk. One somewhat geeky Wadham fresher who I've bumped into half a dozen times but can't recall his name definitely has developed a crush on me. Which is cute. Though at 17 & 18 they're rather young for us. However, attractive men are a dime a dozen here. Also refreshing. I can't remember the last time I've been surrounded by a group of intelligent, attractive, polite guys who actually seem to care about what you're saying. So far, it's been a frequent occurrence.

Tonight the Sarah Lawrence girls in the flat next door to ours had a bunch of us over for dinner & drinks. We reminisced about Sarah Lawrence, talked about the election, told summer housing horror stories. It was a lot of fun & exactly what I needed tonight, as the combination of sleeping too little & running around every day has hinted at signs of possible sickness. And tomorrow will be more than enough debauchery I am sure, as it's the official Fresher's Week Pub Crawl--10 pubs, and then a Club night. As last night I was fairly sloshed on a pint of cider, I'm not so sure how well I'll do..

I met my fiction tutor yesterday--this older woman who lives in this tiny house literally across the street from a meadow, and has all these cats, and her study was chock full of books. I think it's going to be so good. She gave me my first assignment--to pick four or five places in Oxford--a mix of the monumental and the slightly dodgy--and stay there for fifteen minutes each, jotting down my impressions, leaving myself out of it. A lot like what I used to do for Rachel in my first year studies. Then I go back and write half page descriptions of each. Rather interesting, and it will give me a perfect excuse to wander around Oxford--and also an opportunity to get over my fears of being lost. She also assigned me a book which I really meant to start reading tonight, but that may not happen as I'm fairly exhausted & have to be up early tomorrow for Wadham's club fair. The Art of Fiction by John Gardner. I also have weekly "creative reading" assignments, where I go to the town library in Oxford, pick five or six books at random, open to a chapter, and see how they talk about character or scene. I'm expected to turn in roughly 10 pages a week, which seems manageable. I'm excited. Though I have no idea what places I should write about. I've been taking suggestions: Cornmarket Street on a Saturday morning; the Christ Church meadows, Magdalen grave yard, the shops near Cowley--there's so much to choose. Tomorrow I meet my literature tutor, who is the head of the department at Wadham. Hopefully he won't be too intimidating. I've heard wonderful things about him. It's also a double tutorial, with Matt, so that might relieve some of the anxiety.

I plan on signing up for loads of literary magazines while I'm here. If I could get on the staff of the Isis that would be absolutely amazing, not to mention looking pretty damn good on my resume. And I want to do Call & Response, the zine that goes back and forth between Wadham & Sarah Lawrence. I also should head over to the gym right near our flats, even though its rather pricey, and see about yoga classes. I'm going to have to find some way to zen out when my stress level rockets.

The weird dreams have continued. I've partially resigned myself to thinking I might be stuck with them for awhile. And most of them I can't remember upon waking. I'm just left with fleeting impressions.

I've been too busy to have been anything but happy. Everything else feels so far away. In some strange way, I'm having the Orientation I never did have. All the experience of two years of college work behind me but without the baggage I dragged along. It all feels so irrelevant here. A clean slate. Most of the Sarah Lawrence people don't even know that much about me. A perfect balance. For the first time in such a fucking long time, I don't feel that profound sense of longing. It might still be there, momentarily buried, but for now, anxieties & anticipation aside, I'm starting to settle. Which is good, yes? I'm trying not to look for anything or anyone. The next time I'm chased, I need it to be right. Or at the very least, more right than it's been.

I couldn't sleep a few nights ago & started re-reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. I had never finished reading it back in high school, but had underlined all these passages I found particularly relevant. It was interesting seeing what still (and more importantly, what no longer) seemed to strike me. "Writing can be a pretty desperate endeavor," she writes. "because it is about some of our deepest needs: our need to be visible, to be heard, our need to make sense of our lives, to wake up and grow and belong..."

I imagine I'll go back to her as the trimester progresses.

I have no idea what I want to write about for my fiction tutorial. I need inspiration, which, amazingly, I feel I'm lacking. Maybe I'm just rusty. Or maybe my wanderings will be just what I need.