To shamelessly quote Gossip Girl:

"When I was young, Bukowski put a shot glass on my head and blew it off with a pistol. Find your Bukowski."

Hah.


I think I just thought this would be easier than it actually is. The fantasy & the reality haven't quite conflated, that's all. Give it time, right? Maybe. Maybe it is still early.

Besides, even with the fantasy there are problems. I want to be so in love with this place & these people that leaving in June will break my heart. I want long-standing friendships and trans-atlantic packages, inside jokes & cute boy love-affairs. I want what I idealized, and maybe some of that I will get and maybe some of it I won't, and maybe some of it I already have.

These last few weeks have turned me into an insomniac. Re-visiting a normal sleeping schedule. Add that to the list of things to do over break.

Maybe, as Amy would say, I'm just being fussy.

But there's only so much time, you know?

Maybe my problem is that I'm always looking for something.

And that's enough introspection for now.

"they say time changes things, but actually you have to change them yourself"

Switched my flight from the 12th of December to the 8th; as much as I love Oxford, I'm ready to go home for a while. I'm at that point in the year where you start to burn out, the exhaustion alternately making everything seem a lot worse--or, and this is always the preferred result--you can't seem to care about much at all. I'm dragging myself through these last few assignments. It is definitely time for a break.

The notebook came today, which was a wonderful post-Thanksgiving surprise, though it wasn't a surprise so much, since I knew it was coming, but still. I had this idea this past summer to start a scrapbook/journal to keep the Gilbert Girls (the Sarah Lawrence loves of my life, plus a few equally treasured honorary members) consistently in touch over the coming school year, since Amy & I would be in Oxford, Marty was up at Smith, Eunice & Joanna still at Sarah Lawrence. Over these almost six months we've filled it with postcards & photographs & bits of writing, bookmarks & magazine clippings & favorite quotes. It's become a record of our lives, together when apart. The last time I wrote in it was August 26th. My brother had just left for school, leaving me to wile away almost a month at home. I was worrying about my mother, how she would do on her own, me in Oxford, Justin in Beijing. My internship was almost over & it was my last day at Children's Place, a fact I was celebrating. Things with Alan & Kira had just imploded, Joanna Ferrell's 21st birthday party had been a week or so before, and I was ready to take Oxford as it came. And now it's six months later. I'm living--and thriving--in a new country, more or less on my own. I've met wonderful new people & gotten closer to the old. I'm learning how to think differently & how to write differently. On the surface, perhaps not much has changed. But I can't help but think, at the end of this experience, I will only be the better for it.

"I am learning to be happy."--Eunice.

Aren't we all.

"I can't remember the last thing you said as you were leaving, now the days go by so fast."

Thanksgiving was rather eventful, with Amy getting sick & Emma's wallet getting stolen & Katie maybe leaving, but all's well that end's well, right? We had our flat, and the flat next door, as well as Alex's friend Holly, Fayyaz & Manaka, more than enough food & wine, and a generally good evening. I missed being at home with my mother & brother, more so after I got off the phone with them, but I'm glad I was able to spend the day with a large group of my nearest & dearest.

Now, I just have to finish reading critical theory on D.H. Lawrence's The Rainbow, write essay on said novel & do all of my fiction assignments, and then I am done for this term, thank god. I don't think I could manage another week. I am ready for Christmas & home. I just need to dig up some motivation. All I really want to do is sleep. And watch The Royal Tennebaums / Best In Show. Soon enough, I suppose.

"If everything I meant to you you can lick & seal & fold in two then I've been so blind"

It is almost 3 in the morning & I am entirely awake. Why, I do not know.

It is never me. You'll go for anyone else, and I know, because you'll tell me about it later. But I can't figure out why you won't go for me. Or how you can possibly be so oblivious. It shouldn't matter, in any event. It really shouldn't matter. There's no more time left even if it did.

File under things not to care about when you're on the other side of the Atlantic.


Jeff wins major brownie points for killing the daddy long legs crawling up my wall as I hid my face in my robe and squeaked.

That is all.

The entanglement of the present with the past.

I think the inherent problem is that I'm writing a story I no longer want to be writing. It's not the story I'm still interested in telling, but rather, the one I was interested in telling at seventeen. True, the themes are ones which I probably will always be preoccupied with--familial relationships; rebellion vs. convention; what it means to be an artist/how you achieve that. Responsibility, sexuality, various emotional traumas. But the plot is veering off in two different directions, I don't feel particuarly connected to any of the main characters, and Aria, the protagonist, has become some odd version of who I used to be, and who I thought I wanted to be.

And yet my fiction tutor insists it is dangerous to just drop a piece. Advice which I foresee myself ignoring. If I am not in love with my story I've already given it a death sentence.

So tomorrow will be spent perusing photographs for inspiration, and just generally writing, since I did not get around to it today, what with sleeping later than I thought I would, thanks to a rather heartbreaking middle of the night conversation with my mother, then spending three hours searching through various city centre shops for an appropriate Queer Bop costume, then finishing Mrs. Dalloway & plowing through some critical theory. Of course, after the whole search, the only thing I ended up buying in town for my costume was a tiara. I have decided to be some version of a doll, making use of a pink silk /black lace slip I own from Victoria's Secret, nylons, and heels. Hair will be in pigtails, with doll-appropriate make up. I am envisioning something along the lines of Victorian plaything meets Lolita fantasy. Though perhaps the two are not that different.

I feel like it may have been a mistake to try a longer piece right off the bat. I want to play around with different characters instead. In any case, I desperately need to redeem myself this week.

"Take it all back, take your first, your last, your only. Take it back, take it all back, everything you showed me."

Dizzy by Jimmy Eat World has been running through my head all day. It's my get up & go song. Reminds me of things I need to let go.

I should a) be reading Mrs. Dalloway or b) sleeping. Instead, I am writing in here. Go figure. However, I am quite happy to be reading Virginia Woolf this week. I adore her & if I had the time, would read as much criticism and biographical essays on her & Bloomsbury & the writer's life, not to mention delve into her letters & journals. There are some writers I just get carried away with, like that. The same goes for Sylvia Plath. And for the whole American expatriate scene of the Left Bank in the '20's. I am completely enamored with that particular moment in literary history.

Moving on.

So I was expecting to get ripped to shreds in my literature tutorial today, after writing what I thought was a totally shit essay on Eliot & The Waste Land. Surprisingly, that did not happen. I crunched all my work into one less day, knowing I'd be in London all day Saturday. Which was excellent & a very much needed outing. Amy, Alex & I took the train in, hit up Camden Market, where I purchased two cute scarves and another newsboy cap, and Amy got to haggle for me, which she enjoyed. Met Alex's friend Anna for lunch, who was incredibly sweet, and the four of us wiled away an hour at a hole in the wall coffee shop. Let me just say, rose-flavored hot chocolate only makes your day better. Afterwards, Anna said goodbye & the three of us proceeded to walk to Bloomsbury. Alex & I had decided we wanted a literary day, perusing used book stores, and Dicken's house & the like. We ended up wandering through a few bookshops & a comic book store, and I picked up a lovely black beret from a shop Amy remembered having gone to with her sister a few years ago. Alex informed me I looked like a little French schoolgirl, with my red trench coat, dark hair & black beret. We didn't make it to Dicken's house, but we did spend an hour wandering through the British Museum, mainly checking out the mummy exhibits. I kept waiting for Rachel Weisz to pop out from behind a corner. I definitely will be spending more time in Bloomsbury. We left London earlier than initially planned, to make it back for the Sarah Lawrence/Wadham potluck, which was exactly what it promised to be--low key, friends, food, wine. A good weekend, all around.

Got torn apart in my fiction tutorial Monday; that was decidedly less good. Had hit the wall as far as work went last week, and have yet to figure out the balance I need to. Had an hour long phone conversation with my mother about this last night, after recovering from my initial panic attack that went something along the lines of, "Clearly, I suck, and if I don't figure out this balance now, I never will, and I will never write as well as I'm capable of writing, and I will never get into a good MFA program, and I will never have the career that I want." This is how I think. Those of you that know me, are probably more than acquainted with my particular brand of logic. It is a problem though. Balancing the academic & the creative, the disicplined & the introspective. Especially on the tutorial system, where there just isn't any time. I would love to sit in parks & wander in museums & go through photography books for inspiration. I am in complete agreement that those are activities which are vital for any writer's development. I mean, the one thing Rachel had to criticise me on freshman year, was I worked too much, and should spend more time just wandering and exploring and developing my tastes. I did more of that last year, and was happier for it. I had to let some things slide to manage it, but I worked out overall. Here, I don't see how I can do that. Over winter break, I have every intention of writing all the time, and salvaging the last two terms from the wreckage of this one. I will have large spans of days in which to accomplish this, and, god willing, no other pressing concerns. How do you find a balance here though? I don't know. I've never been good at that in general. I want that arty, free-spirited, introspective existence. I really do. But, I am divided because I also love literature, thinking critically, certain aspects of academia. Obviously, this is not an issue that is going to be resolved over night. But it is something that has been on my mind definitely for the past two years, and even more so at Oxford.

I don't want to be "flat & stereotypical;" I don't want to write pieces that are rushed, just because I don't have the time to linger over them. I feel horrible about myself when I do; like I'm just wasting time. It's bad enough I feel that way about at least two or three weeks of my fiction tutorial. I guess I have to think of this as a learning experience, and let it go. I'm trying.

However, in an ironic little contrast to my "I will never be a writer" crisis of faith, I had a poem published in the latest issue of Isis & I was selected to be the Editorial Assistant to the Fiction Department of the Oxonian Review of Books. Both good things; both will look good on a resume, and both were unexpected. Things to be happy about.

I love my flatmates; I really do feel like we're a little family now. I love my friends. On good days, I enjoy my tutorials. At the very least, I'm happy about reading Virginia Woolf & D.H. Lawrence, and once I get my head screwed on straight about this fiction thing, I'll enjoy that as well again. And if Fayyaz & Fern are successful in their hunt for me, that would be the icing on the cake. Things to look forward to on the horizon: Blenheim Palace/Christmas Fair on Friday; Queer Bop on Saturday (a Wadham-hosted dance, one of the craziest of whole year, apparently. For you Sarah Lawrence people, think Coming Out Ball times ten). I think I will make use of my pink corset. Perhaps a sexy faerie costume is in order? Come hither corset juxtaposed with pretty, frilly, lacy skirt? Wild hair & lots of lipgloss? Not to mention, total inebriation? I had better be, if I'm going to be frolicking around Wadham Garden in next to nothing, in sub zero temperatures. Ideally, I will have a bottle of Pinot Grigio & a cute boy to warm me.

Also: Amy's dinner party; Sarah Lawrence Thanksgiving dinner in Hall; our own Thanksgiving dinner with flat across the hall; the end of term in two weeks; planning exciting day trips for ninth week. London for Christmas-y things is a given; Scotland might also be in order.

Saw Shimon Peres lecture at the Sheldonian tonight. Nothing spectacular, though he had some lovely rhetoric about peace. He also, unsurprisingly, dodged direct, more unflattering questions. Also, had trouble understanding what he was saying, his accent was so thick & the protestors were screaming outside, Amy along with them. Outside protests, totally in order. People disrupting the lecture itself, inside the theater, a little less appropriate. I just enjoyed watching the insane amount of Secret Service & Mossad agents have a connipition everytime someone moved.

Mrs. Dalloway, I feel, will be finished tomorrow morning. My schedule is already off track. Ah, well. What can you do?

"When I count there are only you and I together"

It is one of those weeks. But this will pass.

As it is Oxford, there are always things to brighten the day. Tea with friends, leisurely & ridiculous conversations, poetry readings, planning future excursions.

Mainly it is rainy & I am tired & have a cold & Eliot, despite the reading of innumerable essays, is still rather incomprehensible to me. Or, more to the point, I just don't have the wherewithal at the moment to care as much as I should. Fifth week blues. The constant writing is getting to me. It's like running a marathon, they say. You just keep going.

Today all I wanted to do was nap. I didn't of course; contented myself with large cups of chai tea (I miss my chai mix from home; things to bring back with me) and looking cute. Looking cute helps when it is miserable out, I have found. Also, took shortcuts on my fiction writing, as I was crunched for time. Not good, not good. I'm turning the best parts of my old work into an odd fictional mosaic. It sounds ok but doesn't feel right. Maybe Sunday I will fix this. Saturday is London all day. Maybe I just need a change of scenery.

I am beginning to formulate lofty goals for winter break, aside from the lounging in front of my Christmas tree & reading & baking & visiting friends. I will write, write, write (fiction) all the time, so I will actually have a cohesive sense of what I want to do when I come back in January. I will consider this term an excercise in disiciplined writing & leave it at that. I need more of a balance. Literature cannot dominate my academic life. I'll be screwed for my senior thesis; for graduate school. I've got to churn out something good. And soon. Winter break then. Every day, I'll write.

I am itching for a change again. Wasted time browsing vintage clothing websites--a favorite pasttime of mine. Arty fashion blogs, arty sex blogs, I'm enamored of things of those sort. There's a woman who sells gorgeous fifties style polka dot dresses with wide, swinging skirts and narrow waists; halter dresses & satin concoctions. I am determined to own one in the foreseeable future. I like pretty, fanciful things. Lace slips & suede boots. Party dresses & fishnet. I need to get my hair trimmed, and then either chop it off or grow it out long, long, long again. Shorter would make me look older, but I miss the down-to-my-waist hair. Maybe. I am undecided. These are the things I think about when I can't possibly stand to read any more Eliot. I dreamt last night he was trying to kill me, Eliot, and even though I knew this, I was still hoping he might explain his poetry to me. Make of that what you will.

Hair dye. It's time for it to be dark red again.


Home is close & yet it seems a long way away. The past infuriatingly reared its ugly little head & there was nothing for me to do but walk away. Too late. It's always too late for these kinds of things. There I go waxing vague again. Sometimes I can't remember myself at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, even if I try. There were too many incomprehensible decisions made. What did I know? Not enough, that's for sure. No, people don't change. Not like that. You don't get more chances after things like that.

Bed. Tomorrow: essay writing (I am going to take the stance of 'it is what it is' and move on); London-planning, Quantum of Solace seeing. Oh Daniel Craig. I do love men with an edge.

"Those people are speaking Welsh and I want to listen!"

It's been a while since I last updated, as Jeff has informed me. Lame, I know. But this is what has happened in the interim:

Gabe came down from London last Sunday to visit me, which was lovely. I hadn't seen him since his Harlem rooftop going-away party in August, so we spent some time catching up whilst wandering around Oxford. I met him at the train station, we grabbed a bite to eat on Broad Street, then I gave him a quick tour of Wadham, before using his presence as an excuse to explore a few of the sites I have yet to see, namely Magdalen College, with a quick stopover at New, so I could show him the cloisters where Harry Potter was filmed. Because, I mean, some things you just have to do.

Magdalen deer park was beautiful. The foilage has changed as much as it ever will over here, it was cloudy but had stopped raining, and wasn't terribly cold either--all somewhat rare occurrences as it heads into the English winter--so it was perfect for a long walk. And so we did, for about two hours, until the cold finally set in, and I took Gabe home to meet my flatmates. The six of us went out to dinner in Summertown, and then I called Gabe a cab, since we both had work to finish. He promised to give me a tour of London sometime soon--take me to this covered marketplace which is supposed to be massive and bohemian and gothy--all the things I love, right? In any case it was wonderful to see him. He mentioned that he was having trouble adjusting, or at the very least, meeting other British students (he's the youngest at his school, which contributes to the problem, since the art students are at least five years older) and that he was glad to see a familiar face. In that same vein, I'm thankful that the transition has been much easier for us, in no small part, I think, because of where we're living and our efforts at being pro-active about going out & meeting people.

Monday was Lottie's birthday tea-party, which was adorable. I brought flowers for her, we wore cute dresses, and drank tea on her dorm room floor. We also met a girl who lives in the flat above us, as well as a boy, James, who lives across the street from us on Banbury Road, with 6 other Oxford students, and a number of Williams students here on exchange. Hopefully there will be ample opportunity for hanging out, then.

Tuesday was, as mentioned in my last blog post, the election. Sheer marvelous chaos. Lots of hugging, screaming, crying, laughing, and a few drunken Americans singing the Star Spangled Banner ad nauseum. Got asked out for drinks by a Georgetown boy admist all the craziness, and got my ass grabbed--twice--by a guy who was a little too exuberant and/or drunk. Amy stared him down. I stood there like a moron. After he went for me again, Amy lost it on him, then lost it on me. "Have I taught you nothing in the past three years?" she asked. "You need to learn to speak up." And she was right, of course. You'd think I would have gotten that by now.

Slept until 3 Wednesday afternoon, after staying up until 630, and everything felt a bit surreal--but happily so. Like after a particuarly good dream. Sarah Lawrence went nuts, of course, and so did New York City. I would have liked to have been there to see it, as memorable as being at the Union was. Also jealous Rahm Emmaunel will be SLC's commencement speaker, which I will miss. But that is neither here nor there.

Thursday we (Amy, Alex, Jeff and I) went to the student production of A Few Good Men at the Oxford Playhouse, which was well done, though Jeff has insisted I need to see the film to truly compare. Friday the Sarah Lawrence Programme took us to Wales for the day, to the ruins of a medieval abbey, and an open air museum (think a combination between Williamsburg and an furniture gallery exhibit at the Met). The weather was perfect for it, we romped around through a decidely Tolkien-esque forest, took loads of pictures, and fell asleep on the bus. Our flat and the Sarah Lawrence flat next door made dinner together, and then I set about reading Ezra Pound's 30 Cantos in, oh, an hour and a half. Which is just not at all what you are supposed to do, but I didn't have the time to do it any other way. The actual criticism took long enough, being as it was all economic theory, which I understood almost none of. Nonetheless, I banged out a paper which is hopefully halfway decent, and at least this week I have The Wasteland to look forward to. Nothing can be as bad as Pound.

Next term I want to continue studying Modernism, but really hand pick the authors I read. I should probably branch out from the American Expatriate scene of the Left Bank in the 20's of which I'm so enamored, but there are so many of them I haven't read.

Went to chapel with Amy and Alex yesterday for Remembrance Sunday; the first time I've been to any kind of service since my grandparents passed away, and before that, it was years. The chapel was packed, the service was typically Wadhamesque--an interesting female pastor who rather upended the way one might traditionally think about the day--and the music was beautiful. You could hear the wind outside, and the rain was coming down furiously. You could almost forget the reason you were actually supposed to be there, it was so cinematic. Afterwards we went out for mulled wine at the Turf with some students in the choir. Looking around, I could only think, "this is exactly what I thought coming here would be like."

This week promises to be a little less insane. Saturday will be London--we're planning on having a literary day. Hitting Bloomsbury and all that.

The next entry will not be quite so prosaic. Promise.

History.

It is now 5:30 in the morning, and I have stayed up all night watching history get made. I will never forget this moment. The Oxford Union was packed, people were hugging each other and weeping and laughing and cheering and singing. I cried too. I will never forget this moment. The beginning of something. It feels like the beginning of everything.