Public Art Project

2010-11-12T02:48:00.000-08:00

Its been so long since I had conversations with Bob, Julia and The Darkness. I don't know what to call this. It wasn't here yesterday. Yesterday my mind was pleased with itself. It thought about things and cared about things and did things. It was brave and passionate and alive. And today its afraid. Its in pain and its is so sad. And the worst part is that my mind has no idea why or what to do about it. I just want it to stop. My bed is the only place the feels safe. There isn't a distraction I can think of strong enough to help me hide from this.

There isn't a fucking thing wrong with my life, so why do I wake up some mornings and feel like I would feel if I'd just lost the love of my life to a horrible illness and my job was awful and civil war was bearing down on my household?

Sometimes

2010-09-26T04:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it just hurts so much to be so angry with myself. For the little things. I can forgive just about anyone else for just about anything if they'll just apologize. But when it comes to myself, the smallest mistakes get no grace. I can see how silly this is. How insignificant things are, but I can't help but blame myself for how much pain I was in for so long. And now, now that I have the most wonderful opportunity. The PhD, the best relationship I could ever possibly fathom, I scare the shit out of myself when I don't get it absolutely perfect every time. I know that is destructive.

I wish I knew how to be nicer to myself sometimes.

I never realized it took so long.

2010-09-25T02:09:00.000-07:00

I heard from Him about a week ago. We sent several one liners back and forth on facebook, but I was bored and found the conversation tiresome and so I politely curtailed it. Wished him well on his travels and went about my business. It didn't occur to me until days later how significant that was. How hard it was for me to get to that point. And, most surprising of all, how many YEARS it took. If I had to pin-point a moment when I finally, fully, got over him, it would probably be in the first few months of my PhD. Somewhere midway through this blog.

I haven't really ever discussed the relationship and what happened with Odin. For the most part, it is in the past and although I'm very pleased with the person I became as a result of those experiences, I don't really feel the need to visit them again. Especially not with Odin. While there are some similarities to the experience of being in love, the experiences have very different qualities to them. Things with Odin are more comfortable, safer. Frequently less stressful, but far far richer. I don't think I could explain that to him without it sounding like a comparison. The truth is, it could never be a comparison, one experience paved the way for the other and now I can't see the first without the marks the second have made on me. I'm not really sure he knows the extent of the relationship, how intense it was. I told some colleagues about it recently. A few women in my academic department I'm trying to get to know. They wanted to know how I ended up in the UK, and I gave them the whole story. They listened with a sort of rapt attention that surprised me. I guess I supposed that the story was primarily interesting to me because of how much it shaped who I am now.

But, I can't help but feel a little satisfied that he still sometimes comes around like and injured bird and I'm the one who can see why it was meant to end.

2010-09-14T02:12:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, it feels nice to write. When I'm sitting at my big desk and its raining outside and I've got the right music. It feels romantic then. Not painful at all.

Marriage

2010-09-03T15:01:00.000-07:00

Actually, the truth is I do want to get married. And, I want it to be romantic. And, actually I kind of want it to happen sooner rather than later. I've always been a little afraid of it. A little worried about all of the things I'd be giving up, but I'm not anymore. I've actually become one of those women who wants to get married and wants to daydream about weddings. There I said it. I finally admitted it to myself. I actually felt relieved when Odin made a point to tell me that when it happened it would be romantic, even if things had to happen on a visa timeline. I'm scared all of my crazy will ruin everything though. I get so upset with myself when I'm being crazy. I like myself so much more when I happy, not when I'm depressed and feel lonely and hopeless. It feels like none of the stuff I've been working on is actually helping. I still don't have friends. I'm still lonely. I still feel dependent upon him. I just really want to be the kind of person he would love, and it is most upsetting right now that I so often feel like I'm not.

Writing

2010-08-31T06:54:00.000-07:00

Writing hurts. Its this excruciating extraction that generally leads to an imperfect product, sets one's soul up for ridicule and releases vulnerable little ideas out of the nest before they're ready.

I worry about everything these days. The fact that at 3pm I still haven't made the bed. That empty jar of peanut butter I haven't finished rinsing. How soon my supervisors will e-mail me for a status update. When I will get time to work on that conference paper. If I bought the wrong jeans. Why my head hurts daily. If silence means an accident. If I'm eating all wrong. If that uti actually started in my kidneys rather than ending up there. If I'm faking out my therapist when I try to be positive in front of her, for practice. That our next session will be our last, even when I'm not ready. That Odin will get fed up with my mood swings. That he won't get fed up, but that he will die first. That the book that never showed on amazon will show with one day to spare and I won't be able to get a refund. That my pirouettes suck and the 40 other people in my adult ballet class will think I'm a clumsy intruder. That I'm ageing prematurly, might have high cholesterol, might never have a baby, might have a baby and regret it, that I might never get married, that I might not have enough money, that I'm bipolar.

I haven't been writing. When I'm like this it hurts too much. It hurt too much then too. I couldn't write without crying. I'm afraid that my life is falling apart because I can't stop worrying. Because of that, everything hurts more. I can't see it in the context of real life, the only context I have is immanent disaster and nothing but constant reassurance works.

I betray myself and my writing holds a mirror up to that. It accuses me, ruthlessly and leaves me crying because I see myself for the self destructive person I can be at times.

Surprises Part II

2009-10-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

I think I mentioned that I've been more than a little under the weather lately. Things are starting to get better, and today was the first time in a couple of weeks that I've been to my yoga class. I happen to be very passionate about yoga, devoting three hours and a nice chunk of money to it every week. It keeps me calm, healthy, happy, and ensures that I spend just a little time moving around thinking about my health each week, which I think is a great trade off. Its also great for joints and bones which I'm guessing I'll appreciate when I get a bit older.

But I digress. I was still feeling pretty terrible at the beginning of this week, but I've got a heavy deadline that I'm struggling to meet on the second of November, so I've been going into the department to do some writing each day. Wednesday, I arrived a bit later in the day, not having slept well the night before and as I approached my desk I could see something beautiful staring back at me. The cover had pictures of animals and flowers twined around the title and in big letters was the name Margaret Atwood. I just discovered Atwood last year (although I'd read Handmaid's Tale before and enjoyed it, I didn't look for anything else by her) and I've been hooked ever since. Not only is she a fantastic fiction writer, but she also makes excellent use of the fairy tale genre in her work meaning that its topically relevant to my PhD. Or that is what I tell myself when I should be working and instead I'm curled up with one of her novels.

As soon as I reached the desk I caressed the gorgeous hardback and peeked in the cover. There was a note from Odin explaining that he'd hoped it would get here earlier as it was meant to console me while I was ill. The note was very sweet, the book was even sweeter. Odin is not particularly a fan of Margaret Atwood, but he knows how much I like her work and had ordered me the newest book. Knowing I was on a deadline, he considered waiting until after the second to give it to me because he is privy to my bad habit of tuning the rest of the world out and allowing myself to be consumed by fiction...but he didn't. I'm having to be a grownup about it and only read it in the evenings, after my word count is met, my teaching duties executed and my dishes washed. Its a hard life.

Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly, I'm having a really hard time processing what to do about having a boyfriend who is so unexpectedly wonderful. I'm not used to being the one who is the last one to express feelings, console the sick or surprise the other in general...and strangely in addition to obviously feeling elated, I feel a little disconcerted. I'm not really sure how to up my game, but I definitely want to.

As promised and more

2009-10-11T12:21:00.001-07:00

Although I'm feeling even more under the weather today than I was last week, Saturday night with Odin deserves to be written about. Of all of the people I've dated, I've never had someone think about things so carefully, arrange things so nicely and yet just do it casually. Usually, when a guy says he is going to surprise me what he actually means is that we are going to do something that he isn't interested in doing and so I'd better act impressed. With Odin it was totally different-I had fun, I felt relaxed and I'm pretty sure he did too.

He phoned me sometime in the early afternoon and suggested that perhaps we meet in a couple of hours to check out an exhibit at an art museum. Since the museum closed at five he suggested we got to his favourite pub for a drink, then for a quick dinner and then on to the surprise. Since I was feeling particularly perky, and I particularly like spending time with him I didn't really have to think about my response. I layered up and headed out about 10 minutes late...which bothers me, but Odin didn't seem troubled.

The exhibit was great, a show of prints from the early American period by various artists. Since I was late, and I'm slow, I didn't actually make it through all of them, but I loved the ones I did see. Afterwards, as we were walking to the pub, Odin matched my stride and we chatted about the exhibit. He also told me about what he'd been doing the night before and the escapades of one of his friends. When we got to his favourite pub, I thought I'd stepped into heaven. It was dimly lit, with lots of small rooms, comfortable upholstery, dark wood doors a gorgeous bar and miles of bottles of exotic things that I'd never bother to try but love looking at. He got our drinks and we settled into a room with a fireplace. About twenty minutes later, just about sunset, someone came in and lit it while we talked. Several times people from the University meandered in, never lingering in the same room as us.

Eventually, we finished our drinks and headed for dinner. We went to a noodle bar that we'd been to before, but that I'm developing quite the affection for. The food is relatively quick, very good and they have a variety of dishes that I haven't really had much of since leaving Big City USA. I had an amazing Thai curry (the restaurant does a variety of south east Asian food) and we both kept our heads down while we were eating, trying not to laugh at the loud and particularly ridiculous conversation next to us. It was nice not to have to articulate anything about it, we both just got that if either of us looked up or made eye contact all sense of decorum would be lost. When the bill came, it was put in front of me and as I was about to pay it, Odin simply did it. Fast, smooth, no fuss no commentary.

I have to go on a bit of an aside here. I've got a thing about bill paying. Its never particularly mattered to me if the guy paid or not. For the most part, I think its nice when a guy pays, but not expected, and I certainly don't mind getting the next one. However, I once offered to buy my own movie ticket on a first date and the guy had a bit of an ego issue and went a bit crazy. Ever since then I've found the whole thing just uncomfortable. I always want to offer, but certainly don't want to offend anyone....Charles, however changed that. Charles, who was gainfully employed and had very expensive taste in restaurants, was fond of leaving the house with no money and "borrowing" from his girlfriend. This got a bit tedious when I was worried about covering my student life, unable to work full time on my visa and didn't particularly want to go to the over priced establishments he chose. So now? With Odin? Jeez, I feel like I'm walking on a bed of coals. I guess at some point I'll just have to bring it up and we'll have to discuss it, but for the most part he pays for everything unless I make a particular effort which I've been increasingly trying to do.

Anyway, back to the incredible date.

It had taken us awhile to be seated at the restaurant, so we were in a bit of a hurry when we left. Despite that, Odin held my hand and asked about my best friends while we rushed along. As we were approaching a corner, he asked me if I had any idea where we were going. Generally not liking to be out of control I would have been harassing him for days to just tell me...but this time was different. I know enough about Odin to know that he wasn't going to surprise me by subjecting me to some horrible ordeal of public humiliation like karoke while meeting his friends for the first time...so I had left it. I honestly confessed that I had no idea as he turned me into a theatre. He explained about the building as he swooped over to pick up the tickets and we found the appropriate door. It was a theatre in the round, and the play was about a local area, which made me feel even closer to Odin.

I managed to get through the play with only one coughing fit, which Odin held my free hand throughout. Afterwards, we talked some more, and he listened and actually engaged with me when I told him what I thought about the play.

Did I mention that a few days ago he borrowed a book by one of my favourite theorists, one that doesn't cross over into Odin's work much at all..and has been reading it?

This guy hasn't just knocked my socks off, he has stolen them...and I don't mind a bit.

Surprises

2009-10-08T11:48:00.000-07:00

I seem to have come down with an awful sore throat the past couple of days, which may or may not indicated that I am coming down with Odin's cold. Last night he came over and we watched a film, ate takeaway pizza which he very sweetly went to two places to procure and did a very good job of cuddling away my shivering, cranky state.

As if all of that wasn't sweet enough, he also asked me yesterday if I'd made plans for Saturday. He had a certain panicked look on his face and I said no, wondering if I'd forgotten to do something. He reassured me that I hadn't but said he had booked something and then realized he should have made sure I was free first. It was endearing to see him concerned that he'd forgotten to ask me first even though we generally hang out on Saturday and the social life of a postgrad is certainly not the busiest. Now, however, he won't tell me what we are doing. He says its a surprise and I'm excited. He has, however, reassured me that I am not meeting anyone. I'll be sure to update early next week about whatever it is!

In the mean time, I've met my students and had my hair cut again. My students are great, one group in particular is very enthusiastic, and another managed to have a debate amongst themselves in the first class! The haircut, on the other hand, leaves a little to be desired. Fortunately, my hair grows quickly.

Just a quick update

2009-10-05T12:12:00.000-07:00

Things with Odin are still wonderful, although its funny how becoming closer to someone makes all of my own faults more apparent to me. Like I'm very bad at graciously accepting simple courtesies. Odin has had a terrible cold and used some of my cold medicine. I always stock up at the beginning of term and he very sweetly got me some more today, he even got the kind without caffeine which I'm partial to and probably took a bit of attention on his part...and yet I didn't accept it. Fortunately, I don't think he is going to let my flaws get in the way of things.

Things are starting to pick up with term, I meet my students for the first time Friday. I always try not to get my hopes up since so many undergraduates don't want to be in University and don't care, and that can be a real let down, but those that do can be so much fun. Seeing them try out being on their own both in life and with ideas in a safe environment for the first time can be a real pleasure.

Just talking

2009-09-23T11:51:00.000-07:00

My silence here is by no means an indication of a lack of time spent with Odin. Its the beginning of term here and between meeting the new PhD students, attending sessions to inform me of all of the things that have not changed about teaching since last year and squeezing in time with Odin, I've been busy.

One thing I've noticed is that my outlook on living in Britian has been slowly changing since Charles and I split up. Doing things with Odin is also helping. Its surprising how much a lack of urbaness (if I may) was contributing to my general lack of enthusiasm. I guess it further reinforces what I said when I was 7-I need to live in a big city, as well as adds on the caveat that I like being around people who enjoy big cities. I think its good to make notes about these things to one's self.

In addition to all of the things I'm busy doing, Odin has taken on some new duties and a new job, so he is busy and I suspect exhausted at the moment as well. We still, however, managed to see each other (outside of a professional environment) last night and we had some excellent just talking time. He told me about memories of his grandmother and about how he is planning out which of his music he wants me to listen to. Throughout all of this, he has maintained a sense of respect that keeps surprising me. He has let me set the boundaries for how our personal relationship is shared in the department, as well as leaving plenty of room for me to respond or reply to the music, books and other interests he has shared with me. I'm a much quieter and reserved person and its nice to have someone not take that as permission to completly override my personality.

Lest it seem as if I'm completely blind to to the inevitable faults that every human posesses, I have to include reference to my first impressions of Odin. I didn't particularly like him at first, and I suspect that I probably initially met him at his worst. In spite of that, he has done something extraordinarily impressive-he has changed. I'm not sure I could be a big enough person to do something like that which makes it all the more intimidating that he has yet to see me at my worst, or even at my slightly less aweful.

Three Kisses

2009-09-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

I'm pleased to say that yesterday's bad mood did eventually make its way off.

Leave it to me to throw on a soft sweater and jeans, traipse off with my hair in unruly waves and realize halfway there that I was going to be unforgivably early and have to sit in the cafe, awkwardly...alone. So I got off the bus early and walked part of the way. The fresh air, the slow pace, the walk did wonders, although I'm not sure the same can be said for the wind and my hair. I'm not exactly a chatterbox, so I indulged myself and just sort of let his conversation wash over me. The film wasn't great. It wasn't bad, but holding hands in the dark was far more memorable.

The talking lasted way into the late hours, me participating more later. At one point, the point when I was least expecting it, especially on this day when I'd gone to the least effort, he wispered you're beautiful. And I was convinced. Odin is not a man of false compliments, nor has he ever given me any reason to doubt that he finds me attractive, but the way he said it...well, if it isn't too trite, I melted.

Later, our conversation continued to ramble and his growing seriousness about this became evident. I'm not sure I'm ready to call him my boyfriend, but then I'm not interested in accepting any dates from anyone else so maybe I'm just being pedantic and cautious.

I'll be lookin' for eight when they pull that gate.

2009-09-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. I'd slept badly and finally gave up at seven because my back hurt for no apparent reason. I got up and indulged myself, listening to my collection of uncool music and scouring the internet for entertainment.

A good friend and I had a moment of awkwardness this weekend when he got drunk and told me he loved me. Its been years since there was any possibility of that sort of thing between us, and I found myself stewing about it this morning, wondering why he would both secret away and spontaneously reveal this information when I've become so comfortable in our friendship.

I stewed for awhile longer and debated doing some work at home. I got out my stuff but couldn't get started. I had some tea and thought about a shower.

I looked up what I will have to do to replace my passport and visa if it doesn't come back from the consulate with new pages. I learned I will have to completely reapply for the visa, a process I swore I would never go through again because it was so terrible.

I wistfully checked for the post despite it being too early and traisped off to the shower. I lolled about grumpy that my softest trousers are a big on me. By 11 I was finally dressed, but for good measure I added my favourite over the top 1940's starlet earrings that always make me feel special and left the house.

I was still in a murderous mood, but things were starting to look up until I stepped off the bus and realized one of my beloved earrings was gone.

The day just continued like that. I finally gave up at 2, came home, crawled into bed and sent a midnight text to my best friend in the states. I knew she wouldn't get it until the morning when she was rushing off to work, but sometimes its just nice to know she will get it. I cried a little, laughed at myself and realized that the only thing that is really wrong is that I forgot.

I always forget. I'm an expat. Being an expat takes energy. Its sort of like the energy a person devotes to caring for a relative who has a long term illness, you adjust, you don't begrudge it..but every so often it sneaks up on you and you just need to stop and act like a child. Now if only I could get over myself before my date with Odin tonight.

Thanks for the ear.

Productivity

2009-09-14T09:01:00.000-07:00

I've been accomplishing what feels like a lot in very short time spans lately. Either I've done a lot more latent thinking that I realized, or my plan for chapter two isn't nearly as well thought out as it appears. Writing should reveal all.

Odin tends to work at the University. I go back and forth, but when I'm really working, I'm at home staring out my window and allowing my books to sprawl all over the room, sometimes the entire flat. After my summer of laziness, however, a change of scene didn't seem amiss and Odin's presence in the department, with the promise of lunch together has lured me out of my nest.

Today, he wandered over to my desk a little after one. After slightly awkward conversation, we walked off, me for coffee since I'd not properly planned things and had brought in my sandwich today, him for lunch. He apologized profusely and despit my inner shudder as I hate that my face turns red at the slightest awkwardness, I was secretly pleased. There is something comforting about his willingness to admit that sometimes this getting to know each other things is hard.

Then, it happened again. I decided to make my way home about three since my work days are notoriously short and erractic. He'd left his desk so i scribbled some imbecilic note and left, heavy bag and armload of books accompanying me. I met him outside, coming back from the library and went through the mental machinations of trying to disguise my smile at not having missed him. We talked. Gossipped some. At one point, he mistakenly mentioned that I might be teaching for a particular member of staff that I've requested to not teach for and then back tracked endlessly, assuring me that he does listen to me. But how does one say, 'I know, its obvious you listen', without it sounding strange?

Then he kissed me goodbye. A small, casual kiss. Completely innocuous except that anyone could have walked by. Apparently he isn't concerned that people might realize; realize what? I have no idea, but most people I've dated have been anxious to keep the situation to themselves. Of course, while I was processing all of this, I was forgetting that his lips are incredibly soft. I had plenty of time to reflect upon that on the bus ride home, my head lolling against the window and that uncontainable smile running free across my face.

Of middle names and holding hands

2009-09-12T04:36:00.000-07:00

The sun was at its brilliant best today, I even went out without a sweater or jacket which is pretty much unheard of in Britain.

Odin has been busy working and moving and writing his PhD. I've been busy writing my PhD and slacking off, which is an odd transition. I've never been the person who worked less. I'll be doing my best to remember what its like to be the exhuasted one in the coming weeks, but I'll also be basking in this new experience.

The other night, Odin had an obligation and wasn't quite sure how long it would take. I could sense him feeling me out when we had lunch together, not wanting me to clear my schedule for him, but also hoping there was a bit of flexibility. That lack of demand was particularly endearing, so I went home and baked cookies and read fairy tales and tried not to get too excited, in case his obligations went too late and he couldn't come. As the sky got darker, my disappointment rose, but I squished it down, thinking that it was nice that he was going to try anyway. And then he phone. And said he was coming. Nevermind being tired and the long day. We talked for a couple of hours, he was clearly tired, but I was thrilled that he'd made the effort to come all the way across town. And his middle name fits perfectly with the rest of him. So does his habit of reaching for my hand at uncanny moments, not the typical walking obligation, but mid conversation on the couch.

It also seems I've located a photography lab that I can access. I've made my shopping list and am already planning my first shoot in my head. It will probably be a month before I can get access...but I'm excited.

The Shipping Forecast

2009-09-08T15:58:00.000-07:00

If you've never heard the shipping forecast as delivered on BBC Radio 4, then I suggest you go here and listen to one. The sound of the shipping forecast on the radio at 12:45 in the morning is generally what lulls me to sleep when I've been tossing and turning for a few hours. Most people smile and nod when I say this. I'm sure there are technical terms to describe the lyrical but nonsensical string of sounds and why this is so soothing, but I don't have to. Anyone who has heard it, gets it.

And today? When I suddenly got up the nerve to send my new intrigue a message to let him know I was thinking about him and that I liked the direction things were going in? I got it all wrong. I couldn't articulate anything. But he got it.

As such, I think I'll go with the fanciful pseudonym Odin for him. Odin was a character in Norse mythology credited with discovering the runes which gave him insight (along with a host of other adventures).

Who was it that said love conquers all? Well he was a fool, 'cause it doesn't at all.

2009-09-08T03:44:00.000-07:00

Its the off time, the time between dates when one's little neuroses have time to take over. The first few dates I couldn't wait for them to be over so I could go home and proccess. Store away little bits of data that might be crucial to deciding if I liked him or not. But now, now that I've decided that I'm having fun, I seem to have a brain with exponential processing power when it comes to the what ifs.

I'm not a terribly patient person. I hate suspense. I will do nothing but read for hours on end just because I can't stand not knowing what happens at the end of a novel. I try to remind myself that this is the fun part. The wondering. When is his birthday? What is his favourite song? Who is that guy he keeps playing on his ipod that I like but can't ask about in case its someone totally huge and I'll just look like an idiot?

Silly. Like a young girl with nothing to fixate on. Except I have plenty to fixate on, that passion, that PhD thing I'm doing? Its withering away in the corner collecting dust while I day dream.

So today, I re-arranged my desk. I put on my favourite forties inspired dress and a silk slip my mother made and embroidered for me. Its cream with a peachy pink embroidery at the top and a couple of randomly placed butterflies. I'll go into the office, have a cup of tea and see if the absence of a window constrains my brain a little better.

Notes on being an expat....

2009-09-07T04:50:00.000-07:00

Advertsing is useful. I know it gets a lot of bad press, much of it well deserved, but its surprising how much we rely on it to know just exactly what it is that a product does or smells like, or tastes like.

My first week in Britain, I remember it taking me hours to go to the grocery store. The typically thoughtless and calming activity was exhausting. I spent long minutes in the detergent aisle, trying to determine which was more environmentally friendly, bio or non-bio laundry detergent? I couldn't figure it out. Then I started trying to find an unscented version. There was nothing. So I resorted to opening bottles and sniffing.

Next, I glided along to the cleaning products. I'd never heard of any of them. I started sniffing again, and reading the backs of bottles. I know, sniffing cleaning products can't be that healthy, but the meagre array left behind in the apartment when I moved in smelled all wrong. They didn't smell like clean.

Yesterday, I went on a chocolate and crisps run to the small marked in my village. Apart from any dietary concerns one might have, it once again hit me, just how much I rely on advertising. I noticed a chocolate bar I'd never heard of. Sunday shoppers in for a pint of milk squeezed past me as I puzzeled over the label. I decided to go with my foreign but trusty m&ms and left it there, still clueless as to how a Cadbury's half and half differs from a dairy milk. I ruefully reconsidered my longstanding decision to forgo a television on my way home as it occurred to me that if I'd only seen the commercial for this chocolate bar I wouldn't be in complete suspense as to what it is.

Then I remembered that one has to pay for the priveledge of wasting time on brain rot called television in this country and I scrapped the new t.v. plan in favour of wanton chocolate tasting.

I'm still trying to think of a name for my new intrigue, but I'll be sure to post an update on our next date....

To get away, maybe I could sell kisses

2009-09-06T07:04:00.000-07:00

I think I've decided to keep up the blog, although on slightly different terms. I miss writing in this venue, my private diary is good but sometimes there is a pressure to out all of my feelings there, ready or not.

I've started seeing someone new, with all of the excitement, fear, nervousness and colour that involes. I was so skeptical about this new guy. In fact, I didn't like him when I first met him. We didn't really get to know each other until he showed up to my birthday celebrations, but I think he'd already decided he was interested.

Once, months ago, he'd struck up a conversation with me and I got the slightest sensation that he might be interested. Exciting, but not particularly relevant since I was still embroiled in my quagmire of emotions surrounding Charles. We didn't see each other for months and then I saw him right before my birthday and extended the group invitation in his direction. In a slip of irony, he was the first person I told about my breakup with Charles. I hadn't wanted to mention it to any mutual friends who would be questioning and supportive. I was ecstatic to be single again and I felt a little guilty about letting anyone know that. Needless to say, a few weeks later, when this almost stranger started asking me out, I was cautious. Give up my new found singledom? Risk getting into another situation like Charles? Risk that he wasn't interested in more and getting myself into some akward situation where I had to articulate that I don't do one-night-stands?

Oh boy. I thought not.

But. Some part of me says that anyone who has the guts to ask another person out deserves a chance, barring a compelling reason otherwise. To start denying chances to the innocent is a kind of jaded and old-beyond-my years attitude that I just can't embrace. So I went.

The first time, we met a group of people for drinks and then headed off for another on our own. The conversation was akward because I'm terribly shy and didn't contribute much...but, surprisingly, I liked what I heard. So, a few days later I said yes to a movie and a drink.

Pretentious arthouse film? Excellent. The fact that he had already gotten tickets (advance planning? Unheard of) and remembered what I'd drunk the week before and ordered that for me before I got there? Yeah. My younger self would have been blown away by that. Smitten. Older self didn't want to admit I was impressed. The conversation was good again. And then he sweetly was too intimidated to kiss me. I still wasn't admitting I was impressed, so I didn't help him out, but when he apologized later, I did admit I thought it was sweet.

Next, we went for a drink in a quiet local place near where I live. I was ready this time. I had things I wanted to know before I made up my mind. I placed some topics into the conversation. We kissed that night and I did a WWII nurse style leg kick when I got home. But I still hadn't made up my mind.

I cooked him dinner. He brought awesome wine, complimented the food and talked to me for hours. Another goodnight kiss.

I went to visit my parents for a week and sent him a couple of texts. He responded. My brain still said 'insufficient data' about him though. When I got back, he confessed to eagerness to see me, so we went to dinner. I spent hours trying to cover up my sunburn and trying to work out what to wear. I got nervous. Really nervous. He walked me home and we had tea and talked some more. The poor guy has since been subjected to several meals and cups of tea where I was far to nervous to make anything fit for human consumption. He has yet to complain.

Now? He's confessed to a soul with stretch marks, recommended some of the best movies I've seen, and books too. Suggested that he likes dating a woman who reads. I can hear him making mental notes of things I say. See him thinking it over. Laughing at my stupid jokes. I no longer feel like I'm shrinking, but instead that I'm growing. I'm sure my closest friends are sick of hearing about this new adventure, about all of the silly things I worry about and the little things I want to share.

That wasn't my chair after all...

2009-08-12T10:13:00.000-07:00

So despite not having any regular readers, I feel as if I should explain my abrubt and prolonged disappearance. If I did any effective communicating through my recounting of my relationship with Him, it should have been clear that I was becoming increasingly aware that however valuable that time of my life was, it just wasn't all I want or need now. Midway through the Hawaii tale, I realized that all of those hopes I'd had of him proposing weren't misguided, so much as a different path that my life never took. Could we have ended up being happy together? I don't doubt it. But is my life great now? Absolutely.

Through all of that, I kept remembering something that a chaplain I saw in the throes of depression told me to tide me over until I get could some therapy; Love. He said, you are in love, and some people go for years never feeling what you feel and the great thing about it is, when it happens again you will know what it is.

It hasn't happened again, but one thing is for sure, I know what my relationship with Charles wasn't. Charles and I finally crumbled away to a fine dust. I tried writing about it a couple of times during the final moments and it just didn't seem fair. It was an easy break for me, leaving me with a sense of relief and hope and excitement. Although we have talked several times in the intervening two months, I haven't asked Charles about his feelings, but I suspect they are similar.

In spite of my best intentions to remain single for awhile and sort myself out I find myself casually dating someone else now. I was VERY sceptical at first, but I find myself very very slowly begining to feel excited to explore and give this a chance. I'm not looking for a relationship like my relationship with Him, but there is a quality that I'm hoping to find one day and if I don't take risks, as I took with Him I won't ever find it.

Oh, I also wrote a chapter, progressed to the next year, entertained my parents on their visit to Britain, moved, visited my parents, went hiking and generally enjoyed myself this summer.

So how did things end with Him?

Hawaii was fantastic. Although his family was into competitive games, hard hiking, snorkeling, airplane rides and the like I survived. It pushed me to try new things and knowing I could at least pretend to survive with a semblance of dignity was good for my confidence. He didn't propose, and we returned to Big City for our last few weeks together. During that time we spent every waking hour with each other as I put off packing and reality until the very last moment. He organized one of the best birthday parties I've had since childhood the day before I left, and packed most of my things for me as I sat in tears for the last three days. I didn't understand why we couldn't get more serious or continue or just try to do open long distance. Anything. It took me years to understand, but never once have I wanted to take back that relationship.

After all, now I know what love feels like.

Hawaii

2009-05-25T10:07:00.000-07:00

Things really picked up speed after I left that cliffhanger. I've got all sorts of benchmark processes in June, I'm helping to host a conference, and I'm busy writing proposals to attend other conferences. Oh, and I'm moving and my parents are visiting in mid June, just to make things fun! I also had a bout with some nasty stomach virus, and Charles and I have begun discussing our future, or lack thereof so I haven't felt much up to writing..until today.

The day we were to leave, I'd slept over at His house with all of my things packed and ready. We headed to the airport where His brother and the girlfriend were already waiting. She had a plastic hibiscus in her hair and was wearing an extravagant wrap dress. The brother had on some overpriced explorer hat and a linen top. His brother and the girlfriend immediately upgraded their tickets to first class, so we didn't end up sitting next to them on the plane. His brother was diabetic, so he automatically got the job of designated driver which suited the girlfriend fine. She got off the plane fairly plastered. I was dissapointed by how cold it was when we landed, but the sun was bright. I slathered on sunscreen while the two present siblings took over negotiating for the car. The girlfriend preened and speculated about all of the Mai Tais she was going to drink. His sister, his mother and her friend were already at the hotel.

Apparently, something horrible had happened and three of the rooms, instead of two, had two beds rather than a king. I was still flabbergasted at the notion of someone's mother paying for a hotel room with his girlfriend. My parents probably didn't object, but it wasn't really the sort of thing we were open about. For some reason, His mom decided to side with Him and we were given the room with the King which meant His brother and the girlfriend had two doubles. I didn't really see what difference it made since we usually slept in a double anyway, but apparently it was just the fuel that the underlying sibling rivelry needed. I stayed far away from that and for the most part it bubbled quietly.

Since I'd never been to Hawaii, I was prepared to take in loads of apparent beauty, and i wasn't disappointed. The first night, we all went to an outdoor restaurant. I tried to follow the girlfriend as closely as I could, until she started ordering drinks. En masse. Up to a point, I was prepared to follow her general greater knowledge of the family, but I couldn't mimick her light, effervesant attitude, nor could I become the party girl she was. I stuck to one drink, at the delicious food and talked mainly to Him. I hoped the next day would be better, once I wasn't quite so tired and overwhelmed. The girlfriend didn't offer to pay for her meal, so I didn't either, however when I thanked his mother, I drew the line at calling her 'mom'.

He, knowing me to be the introvert that I was, spent a little time alone with me that night. We went for a walk and had a talk in the room about something I don't now remember. Later, we joined the rest of the family for card games. They knew lots of them that I didn't, but I loved playing with them. There was good natured ribbing and competitiveness, although He started to take it seriously. At one point, he took me aside for charades coaching. I turned mutinous much to the uproarious pleasure of his mother.

I was going to need that confidence the next day.

2009-05-05T02:33:00.000-07:00

So we have a new PhD student from Mexico. I've only met her once from a semi distance at a crowded pub table, but I did duly note that she has a pink phone with butterflies. Clearly the woman has taste. But I kept my cool. Until last night, at an art/music exhibit when one of my fellow comrades in existential angst informed me that she likes to cook.

At what point in a budding relationship is it approrpriate to ask someone to teach you to cook tamales?

Anyway, I think its time to write a new installment.

About a month before graudation, He mentioned that His mom was organizing a trip to Hawaii. He asked if I wanted to come. For a student barely making ends meet, this presented a problem. I desperately wanted to go. I'd never been before, but even more than that I harboured secret thoughts that if He saw how great I was with His family...or got me in a romantic enough setting, that all of these hints that He was going to end things when we went seperate directions may morph into a spontaneous proposal. Therefore, exhibiting a streak of drama I've rarely found in myself, I decided that my life depended upon finding a way to go on this trip. It was still ambiguous as to how things would work, so in front of Him I kept my cool and said I'd be up for it. In the meantime, I reviewed my finances. I started putting back $20 per week out of my paychecks, even though I coudln't really afford to. My roommate was running low on cash too, so we ate things from the back of our pantry, dried beans and weird boxed mixes a friend had given us. Some of that stuff had probably been through about four different college apartments...but I was determined. Until, suddenly he called me to let me know the flights were booked, the hotel reserved and these were the dates. I tried to inconspicuously ask how much I owed...and kept getting a response that sounded like 'nothing'. I finally got the point. I breathed a sigh of relief and put the $120 I'd saved towards my ever growing credit card bill where I'd charged my cap and gown and moving expenses for my upcoming departure from Big City, cutting it in half. The concept of a family that could afford to take three children and their friends, plus a companion for the mother on a nice vacation was astonishing to me. I was torn between being efferevensently and obnoxiously grateful, and being very subdued. I'm afraid that in the end I probably ran a little to far to the subdued side, in an effort to pretend that I belonged.

Now that the stressful part was over, things started to get exciting. He didn't really have a summer wardrobe, and asked me to help Him find some things. I couldn't really afford to shop, but I did purchase a new pair of sandals. He showed me photos of the hotel online, and we went to visit His brother and his girlfriend a couple of times in preparation. They were quite a bit older in my eyes and the girlfriend was one of those really pretty girls with lots of confidence who rocks the conversation. She had lined up several new outfits and kept talking about all of the MaiTais she would drink. She wore a plastic flower in her hair and did all of the touristy things I'd been taught not to do. I was intimidated, but seeing how well she got on with the family, I thought she might prove a good mentor. During one of these visits, the guys talked about what type of car the mom would rent for the three children to share. They agreed on a convertible, although the girlfriend was suggesting a jeep. I tried not to look mouselike, but I definitely felt it. Never in my life would I have agreed to do something that was going to feel so akward for me, not until I met Him and realized it was all in my head.

And I'm afraid I'll have to leave it now as its time to get to work today..

Teleological

2009-05-04T04:22:00.000-07:00

Teleological is one of those words that means something most of us grasp intuitively. The word? Not so much. One of my biggest personal struggles with my PhD is the tension between writing about things that we understand without using words that we don't. Its not that I don't have faith in my reader's ability to look things up in a dictionary, or even that I suspect I have a larger vocabulary than they do. In fact, for the PhD, my audience is made up of seasoned proffessors who could eat my vocabulary for breakfast and still have room for brunch. For me, however, there is something about writing with jargon laden text that rubs me the wrong way.

There are books I've read that contain thoughts I think are brilliant and fascinating, yet to get through five pages feels like wading through a deep mud bog, boots getting stuck each step of the way. One of the most long standing debates I had with Him, was about the role of language and clarity in disseminating ideas. He was all for precise words with small meanings. That, of course, means that we need lots of specialized words to get our point across. It also means that the more we create, the tighter our meanings (theoretically anyway) become. I can see that argument. But, and this is a big but for me, working that way also means that our thinking vocabulary becomes seperated from our living vocabulary.

This isn't to say that I see clarity as meaning simple. Calls for clarity, so often, are calls for us to strip away what makes something important to us until it is mundane. Claiming that someone's point falls because they cannot make it clearly is just as painful to me. It is ridiculous to put the entire burden of working out the convoluted rules, aberrations and games with play with language all on the shoulders of one. Surely this is a bargain that we mus all navigate.

Although sometimes I'm worried about the implications for burn-out, or simply being consumed by my PhD, for the most part I find it to be a joyful experience when I see fairy tale motifs in my pleasure reading, or when I notice the iterative story-telling strategy being used in a television series. I like not being able to seperate, definitively, where my work begins and my pleasure ends. If it is all constant negotiation, I don't see why we can't enjoy it.

One of my supervisors keeps telling me that all writing is autobiographical writing. This is a quote from someone, but I have yet to remember to write down who. I think she is right.

Thoughts?

So about that echoey sound...

2009-05-01T11:23:00.000-07:00

In very shortened terms...the computer got replaced, I spent two weeks working madly to meet my deadline, met it with something that I felt wasn't great but ok in the circumstances and then just sort of colapsed for a week. I was supposed to spend that week preparing conference proposals...but I didn't. Then, I headed to France. The trip was amazing, although further indication that I need to do something about Charles.

I returned from France three days ago and I've felt much better ever since. I don't know how many times a day, week, month I forget that I live in a foreign country and that its hard. I forget that it takes me twice as much effort and thought to go about daily activities...because this has become my normal. Except, my normal is harder than it used to be and without periodic breaks I end up walking around in a mad daze of survival.

I had a feedback meeting to go over the stuff I wrote earlier. I had no idea what to expect. Would I get a kick in the pants or would they be bowled over? I was pretty much leaning towards that kick in the pants...but it wasn't that bad. In fact, it went well. I am finally starting to get to know my supervisors. They are both interesting and funny women who communicate with me as a woman....which might sound strange to a lot of people. In all honesty, though, its my female friends from Big City that I miss more than anything. Its the way we can talk and laugh and still be serious, give advice gently, pose ideas and make suggestions subtly. Maybe its brain wiring, maybe its social conditioning, maybe its personality similarities...maybe its all three but I genuinely LIKE both of my supervisors and its such a relief to feel that they are interested in me as a person, not just as a student...and that they can do this in a way that is still entirely professional.

All of that said, this project is still digging in to the personal. Its all about my own need to pursue the unasked questions and to find out who I am outside of my location of state origins. Fortunately, it seems that they get that and they can help me do that in a professional and passionate way.

Ok, so I have been emailing Him some recently. First, He sent me one out of the blue. We went back and forth a couple of times, him not really giving me much to go on about what He is up to these days, and me wary that he was using me as a place to bounce ideas off of and would disappear. Honestly, his project sounds...well. um. Lame. I'm sure that there are many people who care passionatly about what He is studying. I've no doubt that it is an ethical issue that mankind needs to continuously grapple with. But truthfully? I just don't care. On top of that, He has basically dismissed all continental philisophical approaches to the question. While I have no problem with Him deciding not to use them, it bugs me when He makes blanket statements, especially when He knows I came here because I wanted a heavier dose of that.

All that said, I had a moment the other day. A moment of clarity. There are so many things that one can learn from ended relationships and so often its easiest to focus on what we do not want in a future partner. But this was a positive thing about Him. Whenever I walk somewhere with Charles, I struggle to keep up. I end up sore the next day from lenthing my stride so that I only need two steps to match his one. Usually I give up and walk behind him, allowing the distance to grow both literally and figuratively. Typically, when he reaches for my hand its because he wants to pull me a long at a faster pace. Up until now, I'd just found this slightly irritating. The other day, when on my morning walk, it dawned on me that I never had sore legs from running to keep up with Him. In fact, He had a method invented to insure he matched my stride. He'd make a little hop somewhere along the way so that we stepped with the same feet, the same length. He wanted to walk next to me.

Charles will never understand why it matters that he doesn't slow down to match my pace. Although He will never understand why I pursue continental philosophy, He still wanted to hear about it. When He reached for my hand it was so that we could have closer contact, not so that he could pull me along in his direction. Maybe its a respect issue, or perhaps its an issue of care, but more than anything its about enjoying the journey with me more than anticipating the destination. I think that, along with not being a reckless and angry driver needs to go down in my mental notebook of things that are important qualities in the people I date.

Quill Pens

2009-04-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

So, there is a reason it has taken me so long to get back to the story. I've had computer problems. If you don't care, you can skip down. I've been a mac user since I was 7. My mother took me to her University to create my leaf project on a mac. We used Apple IIe computers at school, and the first computer we got at home was a Mac. Years later, my parents made us a dual platform family. My mom always preferred macs, but my brother and dad got into techy things and always had an assortment of parts lying around. Sometimes they became computers, sometimes they were just parts. When I left for college, my mom and I got matching ibooks. They were the last of the line and we got a very good deal on them. Her old desktop mac was on its last leg and I was insistent that I didn't want anything else for college. I loved that computer. After almost 5 years, it was pretty outdated. Some of the ports had gone and it didn't have a wireless card...but I wanted it for my masters anyway. Unfortunately, it took it weeks to get to me so long I thought it had been lost. My parents graciously bought me a Macbook as a replacement. I didn't love the macbook. It had new things I liked. The power adaptor was magnetic, it had wireless, it was lighter. But the case was shoddy and within months I started to have problems. The week before last, faced with the possibility of a £400 repair of a laptop widely known on the internet as a lemon, I made a decision. If I needed a new computer, it would not be a mac. I still love the OS. I still love alot of the design features, but the quality control on laptops was terrible and I'm not at a point in my life when I can afford multiple trips to the computer store every month, heart in throat, wondering if they will once again cover this repair.

The macbook still works, although its running very hot. The dell is pink. I don't love it, but until I can afford a desktop, or until I can afford the risk of another mac laptop...its going to be my companion. It took over a week to resolve this, and I'm not very behind on my current writing deadline. I'm trying madly to catch up. Its not the writing that takes so long, but the thinking and my thoughts and emotions have been pretty distracted these past few days.

**************************

So, on to the story. This part of the story is a flash forward. He contacted me today. I haven't quite worked out how to respond. I'd like to maintain a friendship. I'd like to keep in touch professionally, but he's made that an akward, even slightly painful task. For the past year or so, every time he's contacted me, its been with a vague request for research information. I've gone to great lengths to provide it, each time sending a little personal update at the bottom and asking how his life is. Once he's gotten the info, he doesn't bother to respond. Today, he asked for some theoretical banter. He asked how the PhD was, but didn't add anything about his life and I've no doubt he will respond the same way. Alot like with my computer, I think it might be easier to give up than deal with the roller coaster, but it doesn't escape me that I've done a lot of running away from this situation. I'll sleep on my response.

He was the only person at my graduation. Scheduling with my parents was complicated for various reasons, and I hadn't even planned to go until I was told I was receiving a scholarship, three awars and a fellowship that was funding my masters. If I didn't go, they would award the fellowship to someone else. I rolled out of bed 7 minutes before we were supposed to be there. I pulled on a swimsuit, shorts, a t shirt and slid on my flip flops. I grabbed a pair of heels and my black garb and headed out. I stopped on the way for a doughnut and chocolate milk. I skulked up to the line up where all of the suck ups were there holding flags and having their pictures taken. None of them talked to me, so I leaned against a wall and drank my chocolate milk. A couple of people I knew from classes said hi, but it was a huge class. He called me and said he was in the audience and told me where to meet him afterwards. The suck ups found they wanted to talk to me when they realized I'd swung the most awards. That sort of made me feel sick, especially when they started asking what my GPA was. I lied and said it was higher than it was, still lower than theirs but I didn't think it was any of their business and I got the impression they were just a bit skeptical of me. He and I went off to a local mexican restaurant where he bought me an enourmous margherita and a huge pot of melted cheese. We sat there most of the afternoon since my roommates family was in the apartment and I wanted to give them time to hang out. I think it may have been one of the first times they met her boyfriend. It was warm that day, and I wore what it pleased me to wear-raffia platform shoes, shorts, a hat and a t-shirt. I'm pretty sure everyone but me thought it was ridiculous. I kept wishing there was a reason to wear my swimsuit apart from a shortage of clean laundry, but there wasn't.

Donkey's years

2009-03-20T02:32:00.000-07:00

I've started working on a chapter for my dissertation, and for several days there I'd have the odd thought here and there out of the blue. Maybe I'm completely alone in this (although I doubt it), but I have no idea how my mind works. I could give step by step instructions for most things I do, but when it comes to thinking through a problem or a theory, the process escapes me. I have the vague notion that I read, listen to, or see some things, make an effort to think about them, and then go away and cook or clean or make a huge mess with my craft supplies. About three or four days later I look down at the notebook by my side and there will be pages of weird little one line scribblings. A week later, I sit down to write, and it happens.

With that in mind, I decided to stay away from writing other things for awhile. I'd really hate it if my mind was in the process of churning out something I could use to up my word count and instead I wandered off into soul searching exploration about Him. Don't worry, there are still many good times to come, including a week long road trip complete with camping, a trip to hawaii, and a birthday party.

Things with Charles are exactly as I would expect them to be. We finally agreed on a hotel-it looks like it has charm, its very reasonably priced, and its in a good location. He's on his way up again this weekend-it seems he has tickets to a football(soccer) match, as well as plans to go on a training hike next weekend, so I think he wanted to trade weekends with me so as not to interfere with his plans. I had no complaints at all. In the mean time, I decided to put my cooking time to use and have organized a party.

I live in a studio, a studio with four chairs, a two seater sofa and a set of dishes for four. I decided finger foods were probably the way to go-most of my friends don't object to sitting on the floor or bringing their own cutlery so as long as the food could be eaten that way I could invite plenty of people. I've squirreled away cream of carrot and parsley soup, a lentil dip I mixed up yesterday, and some hummous (I've got a couple of vegans coming so some of the food is prepared with that in mind). Today I'm going to embark on a great experiment and attempt to make dolmas. I bought my vine leaves yesterday and I've started examining my kitchen to see if I can find anything to substitute the heat proof plate with. I'm currently trying to decide between covering the dolma's with foil and weighting them with stones, or using a pyrex bowl. Either way, it should be fun. If not, I'll console myself when I make the chocolate covered strawberries.

If I'm not worn out after that, I'll get started on baking the bread and possibly mixing up the cake. The panko chicken, halloumi and veggies have to be done the day of.

I've also been spring cleaning my studio, and I've only got a couple of things left on that list. Living and working in such a compact space is a fairly intense incentive to keep things tidy, and expand my collection of boxes, tins and jars. It also means I frequently stuff things in those boxes, tins, and jars (not to mention the wardrobe and drawers) in an effort to get them out of site. It should make moving easier in a few months... plus it gives me time to think. I love going through my stuff, organizing and arranging it the way I want it, listening to music and mindlessly thinking. Its almost as good as the supermarket for having ideas.

There was a story connected to the title, and now it seems way less amusing, but I'll tell it anyway. When I decided to come to the UK, I had a hugely difficult time interacting with the University I was doing my Master's at. I couldn't seem to get things like student loans and housing sorted out. I was going to a wedding in Belgium before heading to my parents to hangout with free post college rent until my UK visa was ready, so I stopped off in the UK for a week to sort things out after the wedding. It made my flights cheaper anyway, so it was all going well. Until I tried to book a place to stay. Apparently, the week after the wedding coincided with graduation. In this tiny town, that is the busiest week of the year, and every B&B was booked. I phoned my parents in tears the day before, so frustrated and without the faintest idea what I was going to do. They managed to find a place, not being in the middle of playing Maid of Honour in a language they hadn't spoken in five years, not to mention having a much more stable internet connection. What none of us realized was that it was in a village about 2 miles outside the town, on the other side of town to the University.

The B&B was fantastic. It was just what I needed after a whirlwind week of foreign wedding and longlost friend, not to mention having a very soft and tender heart. You see, I left Big City straight before the wedding, and the day I left Big City was the day He and I ended things.

The B&B was run by a lady in her 80s. She had arthritis in both hands and hips and could barely move. Nonetheless, she and her husband insisted on providing me with a full fry up, and even gave me a discount. She'd come in and talk to me while I ate breakfast. Except for two nights, I was the only guest there and she seemed to sense I was lonely and scared. Everymorning, I'd get the bus into town. It was a 10 minute ride into one of the more picturesque places in Britain. Sometime in the afternoon, I'd get myself some snacks for supper and head back. It was all one straight road, so getting the bus back wasn't a big deal...until I missed my stop one night.

I was convinced I hadn't gone far enough, and it was nice out so I set out for a walk. I walked about 2 miles before I finally stopped and knocked on a farmer's door. His wife must have been a bit worried I might ben an axe murderer because she only cracked it. I slipped her the card of where I was staying and asked her if she could tell me where it was. I explained and she gradually opened the door wider. To my former Big City mind, what I was doing was a bit scary, but instinct told me this wasn't the kind of place I needed to worry about. She let me in and said her husband would be back in a minute or two. He came in, smelling like sheep fields and tractors. He looked at the card, looked back at me and roared with laughter. He said "you must have walked about two miles out of your way, you passed it a long time ago. Come on, I'll give you a lift, I've know them donkey's years."

I climbed into his old hatchback. He asked me what I was here for and informed me that British students don't call it a place to live, that what I was looking for was 'digs'. I nodded and made a mental note to remember that. He asked about the old couple, and filled me in about how one of their children't helped them out, but the others ignored them. She had already told me all of this, but he seemed to think it was intimate gossip. He dropped me off around the corner, he said that way I wouldn't have to explain. The couple was waiting for me at the door, they already knew anyway.

For days afterward I would cackle anytime I thought about the phrase "donkey's years." I'd never heard it before. There was something about the mental image of a gray donkey, its backside towards a barn door, flies surrounding it and the knowledge that it was so old time had to be measured differently that made me laugh.

Incidentally, Charles grew up and was living in a house just around the corner from that B&B.

Unbridled Excitement

2009-03-06T02:52:00.000-08:00

Part of this project has been about finally getting over Him. Not just pretending I am, but actually doing it.

But another part of it, has been about recognizing the qualities of my life during my time in Big City that made me feel like I was happy. I realized today, that one of the things I miss most is the unbridled excitement of those around me. He was often gleeful about the little things. My friends were always quick to say "Oh my gosh, that is so exciting."

I realize life isn't always nice and exciting, but the part of that lesson that you don't learn in school is that people can make enthusiasm contagious. People can also squash that feeling in a split second with thoughtless remarks. While it might be true that the weather in my upcoming holiday destination isn't much better than Britain's, I'm going to a new place!

Charles is coming to Big City Britain tonight for the weekend. He'll undoubtedly have a list of complaints starting with how tired he is and how horrible work is. He won't be excited about planning our Holiday, and will probably nitpick every detail I suggest, driving me out of my mind trying to find a hotel that is cheaper, closer, better without bothering to really get involved himself. He'll talk about the bad weather, lack of things to do, and generally be a wet blanket. I can't change that. But I can do my best to remember that I can still be excited, then maybe he'll catch some of it too.

Hot Dogs, Diners, Masala and Book Shops-The Story Continues

2009-03-05T11:11:00.000-08:00

Somewhere along the way, He and I decided to make it a mission to get to know Big City. He explored websites, I consulted a list of things everyone should do. We looked things up, asked people for recommendations, and we explored.

One night, we went to a historic hot-dog stand. They had strange and crazy combinations, and we sat outside in the semi-darkness eating the famous nitrate laden meat product tubes.

Later, we discovered that we had a mutual fascination with greasy spoon style diners. They didn't have to be retro, the didn't have to feature a particular menu item, they just had to have good food and be cheap. We explored a number of establishments and came to favour a particular local chain. I remember once ordering a waffle with whipped cream for dinner. The whipped cream was physically bigger than my mid section, and the waffle was thick and covered in a layer of sliced strawberries. He ordered a pork chop that probably weighed 3 pounds. It had sauce and came with so much food it could have been considered a three course meal. My favourite part of diners, however, was to go out for breakfast. He regularly made sure it happened and I honestly think some of our best conversations happened then.

We went on a mission to find great Indian food, and found a Pakistani places that did takeout and gave excellent lunch discounts. He once spotted Russell Simmons there and it took me ages to understand who he was. It was across from an army navy supply, which came in handy later on.

On day, He told me He had an awesome suprise. We'd be walking around exploring an area and He took me into a bakery where he bought a cookie. It was half black and half white. He raved about how good those cookies were for hours afterward. It was nice. Not great...but later we went back to the deli for a meal with some of His friends-I have fond memories of the place, and in particular His excitment and expression of joy about those cookies. Some part of me wishes I could recapture that experience-of being excited to see someone excited, even if I didn't share their feelings on the topic.

We went to used bookstores all over the City. One was huge and had rows of perfectly categorized books, a number of them textbooks. We browsed and bought. Another was a tiny shop in the middle of the poshest area. We only went there once, and I bought a new book. I still have it, and the receipt. I wanted to remember that shop.

Some days, we just went to costco, eating samples and meandering through the aisles of huge packages. He had a membership and sometimes bought things there. He always bought me a hotdog and a soda before we left, and it became a running joke that if I was feeling a little down He'd offer to buy me a soda. I didn't normally drink soda, and the prospect of such a treat cheered me up without fail. Perhaps not the prospect of the treat so much as knowing that He cared.

During this phase, I became enamoured with gift giving. I loved to buy small things for Him, spend a lot of time figuring out the best way to wrap them and then present them. I gave Him a chinese checker board, wrapped in blue striped paper and left outside his door. I gave Him books, and when He was going for a long drive home, I prepared Him a gourmet lunch and a bag of His favourite marble swirl brownies for the drive. It gave me no end of pleasure to think of what He might like and then execute it. Upon reflection, I suspect it was a creative outlet for me at a time when I was between photography classes and didn't spend much time on other hobbies. He was always grateful, but I suspect He found it disconcerting.

Between all of this, we cooked together, went on long shopping trips to Trader Joes-we'd get into the car and I'd tear into jalepeno cilantro hummus and flat bread before He had the engine started. It became a tradition.

By this time, we rarely spent a night apart. I'd spend days at a time at His apartment, going home only for clothes or to do some smigeon of work. I e-mailed people infrequently and spent most of my time absorbing the heady lazy days of summer. We hardly slowed down when autumn came around. If He wanted to sleep in, I'd get the bus back home or to campus. Most days, though, He'd drive me. It got Him up earlier and onto campus where He was free-lancing on a reasearch project. We didn't coordinate. When I finished, if I hadn't run into Him, or He hadn't called about getting dinner, I jut went home. I'd use that free time to get ahead on work, email, clean, and make plans. And write. I write in my journal constantly. I didn't want to miss recording a moment of what I was feeling and experiencing. He'd usually call around dinner time. Sometimes, he'd get take out and bring it by and we'd eat. Me whatever I'd prepared for my roommate and I, and Him his take out. Other times, we'd go on an adventure. It was less and less frequent for him not to call.

That autumn, He started researching where He wanted to apply to grad school and what He wanted to study. I had some vague ideas of where I was applying, but I'd learned not to get so attached to future plans. I'd learned that with Him, it was nice to have a vague idea and see where life took me. I was writing an honours thesis up, and taking a writing class, but that formed all of my serious courses. I went to the gym regularly-it was during that time that I really became serious about yoga, realizing that it gave me a chance to sort through emotions and take care of myself physically.

Apart from the uncertainty of what the end of that year would bring, I was happy. Between watching a series of classic or indie films late into each night, and getting up early each morning to get to work and class I was sleeping very little. I fell asleep exhausted only halfway through so many films. Me, the girl who'd never managed to sleep through anything, suddenly was content to curl up next to him and sleep my way into night.

Red Finger Nails

2009-03-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

Its been a long time since I'd felt like writing, for a number of reasons. I've had a cold-and for once didn't just ignore it. I made myself work from bed for two days, a giant pitcher of water by my side. It seems to have worked. The cold has been very mild. Things with the PhD have been steadily piling up. I'm very concerned with making sure that I've made myself employable by the end of this, so I've been working on some conference proposals, doing a lot of reading, and becoming increasingly aware that I have no idea if I'm supposed to be writing this month as planned or concentrating on questions that arose in my review board. I'm uncomfortable with not having a concrete idea of what I should be doing, so I'll bring it up with my supervisors tomorrow. Its disconcerting to know that my discomfort is a sign of immaturity. While I should expect some immaturity at this stage, one usually doesn't recognized immaturity in oneself as its happening.

But that isn't really interesting in the context of the story and why I haven't felt like updating it. The truth is, I've been realizing a lot of things about my relationship with Him. I know that was why I started this blog, but I didn't expect the cognitive realizations to connect with my emotional realizations so easily. To be honest, I've stopped missing Him so much. It hasn't escaped my notice that so many of the story posts are peppered with memories of me crying, confused, frustrated, and uncertain about where I stood with him. Although there are a number of exciting events to come in the story, I know that the uncertainty may have gone away at some point, but that didn't improve how I felt.

Additionally, all of this remembering has caused me to really think about my relationship with Charles. There are many things I am grateful to Charles for, and I certainly feel a very deep affection for him and cherish him as a friend. However, I'm beginning to understand why I feel like I hit an emotional brick wall with him. During my relationship with Him, I always knew he had a very strong regard for me. He respected me, loved me, wanted to talk to me and be with me. For some reason, I never feel that way with Charles. I suspect that part of it is that Charles sees relationships very differently than I do. In fact, I suspect Charles sees relationships in a way that I disapprove of. But that isn't all of it. The thing I miss the most about Him is our conversations. Although I didn't agree with Him on a lot of things, and there were several debates we had that were terribly frustrating, I still loved talking to him. We talked about anything and everything, sometimes drawing complex diagrams about things like how ideas should move through populations, other times arriving late to a party because we'd been talking about Mill (I found it hilarious that everyone thought we'd been doing something else). But with Charles that kind of engagement doesn't happen.

It isn't that I wish my relationship with Charles were more like my relationship with Him-but I have come to realize that the way that I understand affection has more to do with conversations, with the time someone spends listening to me and thinking WITH me is part of how I engage with that relationship. When every conversation I have with Charles ends in a competitive debate of the minute details of whatever we were talking about, I just feel rejected.

I tried to explain that to Charles this weekend. I don't know if he doesn't understand the concept, doesn't understand how to do it, or just doesn't think its important...but I have little evidence that he plans to change anything.

It occurred to me, on the way home this morning that a part of me has given up on my relationship with Charles. That part of me is hoping he will come to some of the same realizations about our incompatibility. There is still a small part hoping there won't be an incompatability. But most of me is hoping he will see it, because I really think that trying to survive on the prospect of forthcoming hindsight is a terrible way to end something.

So...I'm trying to plan a few days out of Britain-take advantage of some air sales and get some sun. And honestly, get some perspective. Although I am always aware of just how very un-British I feel, I frequently forget that I am living in a place that is foreign. Having only left the country twice in the three and a half years I've lived here, it sometimes starts to close in. I feel like a bean in a pressure cooker, ready to explode the next time I run up against the smallest problem.

Advertising for friends

2009-02-23T10:35:00.000-08:00

I was very recently given the details of Paris Hilton's most recent (or probably fairly outdated) exploits in the UK. Apparently, she did an American version first, and now is doing a UK version entitled "Paris Hilton's British Best Friend." I had to watch the last time I was around a television. It was the sort of mixture of horror, sorrow, and admiration that I can never work out. I mean, a girl with no apparent skills or training has managed to make loads of money by, well, exploiting the fact that she has no apparent skills or training. And split up with her best friend years ago. I can never decide if I should feel the bile rise as I think about her lack of dignity, or admire her post-modern take on exploiting stereotypes of rich, blond women. Maybe I should stop trying to judge her;)

Anyway, I have to admit that some part of me, probably the pity part, wants to apply to be her best friend. Nevermind that I abhor the thought of reality television, have no desire to turn myself into a Victorian style circus freak, and am generally completely unqualified to be her friend, the truth is I know what it feels like to be lonely, even if I didn't capitallise on it as she did.

All reasons above cited, there is one other reason I could never apply for this show. Paris Hilton's stylist makes you over. One girl? Had a bleach blond mullet. And wore silver leggings. I'm not a fashion icon, or even a fashionista. This year, I realized I'd been using the same lipliner (no literally the same pencil) and getting the same haircut for ten years. However, I do like clothes and hair and makeup. I enjoy playing with them, thinking about colour combinations, learning about cuts and fabrics. There is no way I could sit still while some stylist endowed me with a bleach blond mullet, spangly fake lashes and horrible clothes. That said, sometimes I do wish I had an expert to make suggestions. Sort of like when you go to the paint store and say-I've got these things to work with, and i want something bright-could you show me some things?

I had my hair appointment today. It took 2.5 hours for the cut, since the trainee had to get approval each step of the way. I didn't mind that, although by the end my shoulders were getting pretty tired from the rubber collar. Fortunately, I've got very long hair, so she took it off to do the back. And made me stand up. She did an amazing job styling it, even the instructor was impressed, although when I agreed to a little hairspray (after the three other products she'd used) I wasn't expecting half the can. So, whats the trouble? Its still the same haircut. I even took in pictures. Pictures of the same haircut. And since she was a trainee, she did what almost everyone does when they don't know me and see my long hair. She took my length guidelines to the most conservative edge possible, so you basically can't tell its been cut. However, the upside is she told me how to use my velcro rollers to recreate her style, so It was a reasonably spent afternoon/money, even if it wasn't the earth shaking change I was hoping for.

I still can't find a handbag. I'm too intimidated to go to the makeup counter since I always get ignored there. But! I did find very cheap round trip tickets to Italy. I emailed Charles about it, and he was non-commital. Probably because he doesn't have any leave and was too busy at work today to really think about it. He will probably try to convince me to go to Scandinavia during the summer. Unfortunately, I can't afford to go during the summer, and I don't want to go into the depths of the north. I miss sun, and summer, and people from hot places who sit outside to eat. I miss feeling alive. I just hope I miss it enough to go without him.

Elephant seals

2009-02-19T06:18:00.000-08:00

A few weeks before spring break of my senior year, He asked me if I knew about elephant seals. I'd never even heard of them, so He started to show me photos, explaining how they come up onto the beach in the spring. Then, he suggested that we take a road trip over spring break to see them. We could drive to places where they were notorious for being easily viewed, take our cameras, eat some crazy food in greasy spoons, and possibly visit Josh.

I didn't think He would go through with this, but He continued to plan. He found a cheap hotel deal, arranged for us to stay in a couple of places, planned the route. He made mix cds and told me to pack warm clothes. So I did. I loved being in the car with Him. We listened to all sorts of music-both of our tastes being eclectic in different directions. We listened to talk radio and railed at the presenters, both liberal and conservative. We put the windows down, and turned on the heater in winter, in summer we did the same but he aimed all of the heat at me. The drive wasn't too terribly long. We ate ribs, and my non-carniverous self thoroughly enjoyed them. Josh was busy, so we didn't spend much time with Him. The next day, we headed to the beach. There were hundreds of huge animals, lounging on the sand. We both took loads of pictures, using black and white film, not daring to endow the elephant seals with the competition of colour.

I'd packed lots of layers, leggings under my jeans, undershirts, long sleeved t-shirts, button downs and sweaters. I wrapped a pashmina around as a scarf. My hair was pulled back, but curling around my face in baby curls. The wind was cold and salty, but there was sun beating down at the same time. We stared at their breathing, watched some of the babies move around. I stared out at the ocean, holding my camera poised mid-air, transfixed by this experience. I don't think I'd ever really been to see animals in the wild. As a child, I hated zoos. I'm very sensitive to smell, and I think that, more than anything, ruined them for me.

He had a set of binoculers that had belonged to His grandfather, as had His camera. We passed them back and forth, getting a better view without getting too close. Although I doubt anyone would describe elephant seals as beautiful, they are certainly majestic and awe inspiring.

We sat for awhile, the damp wood of the boardwalk not able to soak through my layers. He wandered down a bit closer, and I joined Him. We gathered stones for His mancala set, to replace the fake looking glass. I thought to myself that perhaps these would even out the number of times either of us one. He was fussy, wanting them to be round and smooth, and all very similar in colour. We stopped after awhile, and I stood facing Him, staring off at the mountains behind Him. I was lost in thought, wondering about something, when He gently reached up, brushing the curls back from my face. His hand lingered on my head. I caught a glimpse of His lingering expression and realized that at that moment He loved me very intensly.

Later, a photo from that day became my facebook photo. It was a rough picture, me smiling genuinely, hair crazing the sky above my head, the contrast of my scarf and dark sweater picking up the dark rims of my glasses. He said I looked like an explorer.

That look on His face, the tenderness He expressed without thinking, without knowing I'd notice-it was to come more frequently after that. We'd ceased to be in a temporary college romance, and moved on to something unspoken but comprehensible. The foundation of mutual respect and care had led us to build depth into our experiences together.

Swirling

2009-02-17T09:07:00.001-08:00

I just tried another chocolate chip cookie recipe. It isn't exactly a fail, but I won't make it again. I've been searching, and although I can bake very good chocolate chip cookies, I have to cheat a little. When I first moved to Britain, I hadn't stocked my kitchen completely. I didn't have access to much money for a few months while things got sorted out, and one day I really wanted something American. I bought a box of cookie mix, and added a few things to spruce it up. Mostly extra vanilla, and I dumped in some extra sour cream I had lying around to make them more moist and rich. Everyone loves those cookies. Charles suggested I add coconut. They are now pretty much the only thing I ever get to bake for people, and I find that disheartening. I've got loads of recipes, many of them much better and some of my own creations-but still, everyone wants those damned cookies. The cookies that are half out of a box. Since then, I've been trying loads of different base recipes, adding things in to see if I can come up with a basic cookie recipe to replace the box stuff. Its not that the box stuff is bad, nor is it particularly expensive-sure more expensive than flour and sugar, but still under a pound. This is a matter of pride.

I've tried different combinations of fats. I've tried different flours, I've tried different liquids, egg and egg free, oven adjustments, rituals with cooling pans and refrigerating dough. I've used hot and cold fats, stirred and hand blended. Nothing works like those cookies. The trouble? The texture. If my cookies rise, they are too hard. If they are soft they spread like there is no tomorrow. I've read the box ingredients. They are actually fairly basic. Flour, sugar, dried egg powder and soy lecithan. I'm pretty sure thats what does it.

You know what the real killer is though? I don't really like chocolate chip cookies. Oh sure, I like the odd one here and there, especially if I'm feeling nostalgic. But for the most part? I prefer other things. Chocolate cake. Brownies. Other cake. Less sweet cookies...

Anyway. Plans are in the works for operation spruce. I've identified a hair training academy that has nothing but good reviews. Don't worry one of my friends has gone twice as a guinea pig. And my hair grows like there is no tomorrow, so that is sorted. I've decided to take the afternoon off tomorrow and go into town. I can book my appointment and then do a little browsing for the other things I want. It is 5:15 and just getting dark, crocuses and snow drops are poking up, and my sleep patterns should return to normal until June. When I will stop sleeping because its only dark for about 4 hours.

I've been thinking about the story. There is a significant gap in my memory at the moment, so instead I'm working on some juicer posts from later on. I'm really interested in writing suspense and intrigue into these posts. I'm also amazing by the things I've realized about myself by writing this. For some reason, I think it is easier to be honest with you than with myself.

Art Museums

2009-02-12T11:32:00.001-08:00

When I met Him, we made a roundabout discovery that we both enjoyed art. Since we had both taken photography, we had several conversations about it. He showed me some projects he'd done, and I showed him the one I was closest to. I continued into more photography classes, and several of my projects featured parts of Him, but I never told him. He was a very private person and would have probably been enraged at the way I portrayed him as a part of my life. I didn't feel the least bit guilty about it-he was a part of my life and my photography was about my life. No one in my class knew that He was the subject of the photographs. It would only be in recognizing himself that he would feel some secret had been given away.

He kept in touch with his first instructor, and formed a sort of loose friendship with her. She invited him to several of her showings, as well as graduate showings closer to the University. We often went. Tripping out in the evening, speculating about the work or if there would be wine and cheese. One of them was particularly memorable. A large, warehouse sized room had been sectioned off. It was completely dark and filled with strategically placed LED lights. It felt like one was walking through space. There was music coming from somewhere. I could have stayed in that room for hours, contemplating everything.

One night, we headed to a large and very famous museum in Big City. We wandered around inside for awhile, taking things in. Later, we met friends on the grounds for a pic nic. We all browsed the gardens together in the dark, fountains illuminated by lights. In the end, we rolled down a hill and headed off to share a bottle of wine in his apartment.

This weekend, Charles and I went to a visiting exhibit of some Da Vinci drawings. There are a number of free museums in my current Big City, and one of my goals is to enjoy them as much as possible.

For a number of reasons, the over all feeling of the weekend wasn't great. I've decided to spend a bit of time doing something nice for myself. Something I've realized writing all of this, is that I used to regularly spend time and money on things that made me feel good. I always considered it a frivolous side that I should quell, and I did away with a lot of it when I moved to Britain. So my goal in the next two weeks? A new haircut, a consultation at the makeup counter, a new handbag that is not an oversized totebag that contains my laptop, current book and notebook....and either a new jacket, new pair of shoes, or some other new accessory. Family and friends often send me small amounts of american cash for birthdays or holidays. Rather than exchanging it, I just keep it-saving it up for when I can afford to visit the states again. I've decided to take some of this and exchange it for the purposes above.

All of that rambling to say that while I think there are many elements that make up strong character and confidence, I think I've made a mistake in underestimating how much confidence comes from taking care of one's appearance and wearing things that feel good. Part of what I would like to recapture about my time with Him is my sense of confidence, well being, and self worth.

Sensitive

2009-02-12T09:07:00.000-08:00

My busyness officially ended today. I woke up at half past seven, the sound of the rubbish truck tipping plastic bins into its gaping jaws welcomed me into my day. There was a hint of sun behind my curtains and the first thing I thought was "Shit. My board is today, what time is it?" Unless I have to be up before 8 or 9, I don't use an alarm. Before moving to Britain, I didn't need one unless i needed to be up before 7:30, but the latitude here does strange things to morning people.

It was, however, only 7:30. I tried to deny reality for about 20 minutes, but was too nervous that I'd really fall asleep to doze. I stumbled to my computer and dehumidifier. Turning the two on and dragging my laptop back to bed with me. Nothing important had happened over night. I had an achey sinus in my cheek, the pain threatening to leak up into my head. My throat was scratchy and I wondered If I was now finished incubating Charles' cold. I got up and got myself ready.

I'd bought some tights with fake seams up the back, and was planning to wear them today. But I didn't--it was too cold and I didn't want to risk it with my head in the state it was. Instead I wore long black wool blend trousers, a white shirt and a dark maroon blazer. Almost a tweed. I knew I was over dressed, but my clothes are usually dictated by mood rather than appropriateness. I did my hair, grabbed my hat and walked to the bus stop. On the bus, I sewed on a button, took some cold medicine exactly 30 minutes before my board was scheduled, and leaned my head against the glass. The commute didn't drag as much as it could have. I played the white stripes over and over again in my head. My headphones have only one working side, a testament to my hastily stuffing them into a bag full of books and other things day after day. Otherwise, I probably would have listened to Chuck Berry.

The board went ok. I'm apparently on target and on the right track. The truth is, I'm terribly passionate about this. More passionate than informed and I'm fairly certain one of my supervisors knows it. She is gentle with me, though, and I think she gets the fact that I don't want to be famous, I just really love this.
My other supervisor is the sort of person I'd probably be friends with in life. She is always ready to listen to my life.
My outside person was the person I taught for last term. He is blunt and doesn't know what to make of me and refuses to be shocked by my outlandish topic.

So much of what was said was an intense relief to me. Nothing was a surprise. Still, my emotions ran high. I've bought myself frozen juice pops for my potential cold, cherry coke because I wanted one, and a second hand pulp fiction novel. My emotions need calming and then tomorrow, I will be ready to pull apart comments, examine my thoughts and start to proceed.

He once told me that I am sensitive. That He had to watch what he said to me, but on the flip side, I was excellent and helping someone work through an interpersonal situation. Charles has used the same word to describe me. I used to think it was an insult. A half derisive way of describing my effeminate emotional side and the way it tends to run me. In my own head, those emotions were a good thing. They guided me in choices, kept me from putting myself in unhappy paths, aided me in caring for the people who are important to me. Although I valued my sensitivity privately, I presumed that most people saw it as a weakness. Then, about a year ago, He told me about someone He had dated-she was clearly attractive and intelligent. She'd grown up with money and confidence. But in his words, she was moody, difficult, and uncaring. He said it was a shock after dating someone so sensitive.

People Pleasing

2009-02-11T10:49:00.000-08:00

****You might notice that I didn't adhere to the use of H in he throughout this post. I've got a big day tomorrow, and don't want to take the time for revisions. Because it doesn't involve much interplay between men, I'm leaving it. It should be fairly clear who is who.****

I said no to presenting in a conference today. The conference is in June, but the proposal is due in a few days. I've wrestled with this decision for weeks now. Although I'm helping to organize the conference, and anything I submit will be accepted with plenty of room to write something different if I change my mind, the whole thing felt wrong. I've had loads of people nagging me about when I'm going to submit, what I'm going to do, and going on about how I need to do it. But, I don't need to do it. There are several opportunities for me to present before the big conference I'm applying for now, and I've simply got other priorities. Rather than continue to beret myself for not coming up with a bullshit proposal, I finally said no.

I talked it over with one of my supervisors, and still hadn't decided until I heard what I was saying today in seminar about time management. That I have trouble saying no to people. And especially to things that seem urgent. In a long term project like this, its nice to have instances of praise and success.

Unfortunately, this isn't the first time I've had to learn this lesson. I doubt it will be the last, I just hope that each time I learn a bit more about how to distinguish between necessity and no.

I had a very good lesson in necessity and no with him. A lesson I will never forget, and that prompted me to take of my rose coloured glasses where he was concerned. Soon after I returned from Japan, he told me we'd been invited to a Fourth of July party at the house of a group of his friends. I'd never met these friends, so I started to get excited. I picked out summery clothes, planned how to do my hair, and questioned him about their personalities so that I should have something to say to them. Rick would be there, but he was the only one I even remotely knew. I was nervous.

The day of, we headed over to an artsy area of big city, to a large house shared by late graduators. Although they started University the same year He did, all of them were still taking classes and less close to the end than I was. They were party kids. The cool kids with alternative clothes, tickets to up and coming indie bands, and huge collections of obscure music which they could rattle off facts about to shock anyone. There was a pool at the house, but it was chilly and no one was swimming. One of the girls, a girl who was having an on and off open affair with Rick helped me to procure a drink that was not from an unchilled box of bud light. I nestled onto an upturned stool next to him and sat around a small barbecue. We talked. Or rather, they talked and I listened, eyeing a very pretty red-haired girl who reportedly had a crush on Him. She seemed nice, although far out of the realm of people I knew how to converse with. She studied drama and managed to make smoking look cool. Three of my five (grandmothr was widowed when mom was a baby) grandparents died of smoking related illnesses, I never think smoking looks cool.

I listened. One of the boys grilled some meat. Big flat steaks. I knew nothing about meat at the time. Although I've never been a vegetarian, I've spent an awefully large amount of my life not bothering to eat meat. I just don't particularly like it. This was amazing. He cut it up for me, flopping it onto a warm tortilla with greasy fingers and handing it to me. I'd slowly re-introduced more meat into my diet with the Grill, but I was still fairly ambivalent about it. But this? Was the best beef I'd ever tasted. I'd never liked steak, and this converted me.

I was out of my drink, but I didn't ask for another one. I was uninitiated in the bring a bottle college tradition and felt guilty piggy backing off of his box of bud light. Not that anyone else seemed to notice. In hindsight, my consumption of alcohol was probably at such a laughably low level that the rest of them would have been shocked if I'd brought some huge container of the stuff. I did eventually collect a second drink, as the sun was setting. It was getting colder, and He was engrossed in conversation on the other side of the house. I meandered my way inside and sat quietly in a dark room, pondering. Although everyone was nice to me, they didn't have much to say and I couldn't blame them for that. I was an odd specimen to turn up at their party and I felt as if I'd intruded on a world I didn't belong in. Nonetheless, it pleased me to be at one of His parties. To see what he did before we'd become so close. He came in later, clearly having drunk far more than I had. I didn't quite know how to respond. He'd never drunk so much when he was out with me and I'd always presumed that he'd either grown out of collegiate binge drinking, or simply thought it would be disrespectful to me. Apparently this night was an exception. He sat next to me on a glider, facing a projection screen. It was semi dark and he made nonsense arguments about why I wasn't outside. It was hard to tell if he meant it or was being playful, trying to draw me out. Eventually, he was called back outside and I stayed for awhile, until the fireworks.

The fireworks were low key, and I was grateful for that. We were never allowed to have them as a child, my parents preferring to take us to public displays rather than spend the money and take the risk. Perhaps its naive of me, but I always thought they had a good point. The residents of the house finished their display and we watched some of the neighbours. A number of people had gone to another party, so the remaining handful of us sat in lawn chairs. I was tired, and the rest were drunk and subdued. He was clearly angry at me, but I was too tired and cold to be mystified by it. I just curled up into my chair, shivering and wondering when the night would end. He must have felt guilty, because he pulled my bare feet into his lap, tucking them under his hand to warm them. I slid back into my chair and let my head rest on the back. He continued talking, sometimes rubbing my feet and smiling at me. I was becoming frustrated and irriated with his mood swings, the fact that we were still there despite the lateness and cold, and wondering how we'd get home. Things went quiet, and the drunk ones stared at each other. Then he idly played with the red cup of gin and lime he was holding, swirling it and looking at it. As if in slow motion, he poured a few drops onto my leg. I screeched at him. He wasn't being malicious, just moving in a drunken trance of amusement, not connecting that the thing he was holding was my leg.

We left shortly after, and he drove. I was so uncomfortable with the situation. I asked millions of times if he was sure he could. I didn't think he should. I weighed my options. None of my friends had cars. I'd brought emergency cab fare with me, a technique I'd learned years ago-but realized that I did not have a number to call one, and that I was much further away than I'd planned to be. I doubted I could cover the the cost even if I could get one. In the end, I acquiesced. My stomach lurched the whole incident free way home. I didn't speak to him. We went upstairs to my apartment, and I silently went to to the bathroom and got ready for bed. By the time I got into bed, he was on his back snoring. I shoved him away from my side and crawled in. It took me hours to find sleep, fighting off anger and emotion.

I was still angry in the morning, and tired. I still didn't speak to him. He awoke hung over and seemed unaware of the dragon of rage building up in the pit of my chest. I spoke to him, sounding shakey but trying to maintain my calm. I was clear, that I didn't ever want to be in that situation again, that I thought the way he'd treated me was horrible and I wouldn't tolerate it.

I think it took him some time to realize how serious I was. He apologized, and went home. Probably to sleep off his hangover. I spent the day thinking. In the end, I decided that my relationship with him warranted another chance. I did, however, find a cab company and put their number into my phone. I withdrew extra emergency cash and put it into the box in my room that I always emptied before going out. It was one thing to give him the chance to never repeat his behaviour, but it was quite anothr to repeat mine.

He never got that drunk around me again. He did, sometimes, have a bit more wine or beer than usual-but only if we were safely at home, enjoying an evening together, playing mancala and cooking-or just eating hummus and cheese and flat bread. I don't know what he thinks of that night. The next morning, he was defensive. I think I would have been as well. It isn't easy to admit reckless behaviour or inconsiderate choices when you are being attacked in a vulnerable state. His actions subsequently, however, tell me that he respected my requests. Although the night in question made me seriously reconsider the status of our relationship, his handling of it later left him more esteemed in my eyes.

Although I changed my behaviour with him, I still can't say no. I still climb into a car with Charles on a regular basis. Charles doesn't drink, at all. However, his reckless driving and fairly serious inability to manage his anger make me equally uncomfortable. The difference, is that Charles doesn't heed my requests.

Before I started dating Him, I had a list of things that I wanted to find in a man. Things like a love of reading. These days? I've revised it, and I think that a sense of respect for life-mine and others-is probably near the top.

The weekend

2009-02-09T13:12:00.000-08:00

This weekend with Charles was pleasant. He was playing in a concert on Saturday night and had rehearsals Friday evening and Saturday afternoon. I arrived between the rehearsals and the concert, we had a quick supper and went to to the concert. Although none of the featured composers are my favourites, it was nice. We had a quiet Sunday, I got some reading done, we watched inordinate amounts of television and had an awesome lunch of Boursin and french bread. I had a glass of red wine. Charles doesn't drink, and I often wish I had someone to share out a bottle of wine over the week with, or comment on a rare treat of abbey ale. He suggested the wine, which was thoughtful of him. Coming back on the train this morning, I spent a good hour staring out the window, watching the crazed snowy fields go by. Changing scenery prevents me from dwelling. For the first time in a very long time, I didn't feel resentment towards this place that I live, towards Charles, and the way I came to be in this complicated situation. In those quiet moments, when there is no one to hear, I can finally acknowledge that I don't mind this place, and I don't mind Charles. What bothers me is the thought that so many people assume that Charles and this place will become attached to me. Staying with Charles means that my life will come to a calm. I'm not ready for that, and I don't know that I ever will be. Not with Charles. Not in this place, as pleasant as it can all be. The trick, is to enjoy the moment and be honest when it is over.

When I met Charles, I was in a very lonely, scared and vulnerable place. He was too. I consider him a great friend. He is level headed, and has a strong ethical code-even if I disagree with his foundations and interpretations of it. He is honest, and extraordinarily sensitive at times. His family has been kind, warm, welcoming, supportive, generous and loving towards me.

There are somethings, however, that Charles can never understand. He lived his life in a small, sleepy sea-side town. His parents know everyone for miles around, and so does he. His time away is always peppered with trips back HOME. He is a part of this place, and it is a part of him. He holds traditions very tightly, and is nostalgic for the traditions he hasn't experienced-some of them romantic figments of his imagination. This isn't a fault, we all have our romantic notions of tradition and we all cling to them it helps us to survive trials. As tempting as it was, for a time, I simply cannot give up my notions and succumb to his.

The thing I struggle with, however, is knowing where the line of justice and fairness is in all of this. Sometimes, I think he knows. I think that deep down he must know that We won't always be. We haven't spoken of the future in a long time, and I suspect each of us has left it unsaid for now. But other times? I think he leaves things unsaid because he isn't aware of them. That I am keeping this horrible secret from him that this, as pleasant as it is, is temporary. That it would not be fair to either of us to expect us to exchange what are plausible dreams, for plausible mediocrity. Charles wants to go into politics and retire on a hobby farm in the area he grew up in. I want to work at a University and travel and write some books. Charles wants to be financially secure and pay off all of his debts. His ideal job is one that provides all of that. A place where 9-5 stability will mean he is set for life in the company. Regular promotions, and a gold watch after 20 years. Charles wants a roast dinner on Sundays follow by leisurely paper reading and maybe a walk.

I want a job that I love. I'd rather take the bus to the job I love than have enough to buy a car. I want to live in a big city and partake of the things it has to offer. I want to travel and change jobs when I get fed up. Even if it isn't a good career move. I want to eat exotic foods and learn how to cook them. I want to set up a dark room in my home. I want to spend my Sundays in anonymous crowds, reading books with the person I love in cafes, strolling in the middle of cities.

Charles feels alone and able to think when he is on top of a deserted mountain. I feel alone and able to think in the middle of a city with strangers surrounding me.

Like I said, it was a pleasant weekend. I'm glad I had the time to think this morning, the time to think without being frustrated by the minutiae of getting along with another person. I don't know where things will go, but I think I will stick with pleasant for awhile longer.

The Grill

2009-02-06T13:31:00.000-08:00

After I returned from Japan, He and I slowly slid into spending almost every day together. If He had to run errands, I'd come along. If not, both of us were free and we'd find some sort of entertainment. It occurs to me now, that I really brought very little to this part of the relationship. I was always conscious of how much He must spend on gas, or the fact that He wouldn't be interested in my girl activities. I went along with what He was doing, and because I was happy, I never suggested anything else.

One of the things we found to do, was to scour the Saturday morning paper, and drive into posh areas of big cities, heading to garage sales. We went to one in particular in a huge mansion. The items for sale were in some sort of garden house, and we wandered around. He bought a spice rack and an incomplete backgammon set. He loved backgammon, and hearkened back to family memories of His Uncles from Iraq playing it. I remember that day vividly. The sky was blue, and it was warm but not hot. The views driving to the posh house were amazing. We took our time, and enjoyed the outing simply because we were out being alive together.

A few weeks before, He'd found a charcoal grill at a garage sale for $5. We hauled it back to His house, He cleaned it up while I watched. He bought a chain to secure it in Big City, and we went and bought charcoal and things to grill. We ended up grilling something almost every day that summer, standing out on His stoop-the second floor apartment caught a nice breeze, and the door entered in to the kitchen. One of us would make salad, He and his roommate would grill and we'd all eat, windows open, smoke clinging to our hair and clothes, and juicy bits running off our fingers. His roomate and I got along well, and we frequently ate together, either cooking for each other, or His roommate making food, and the two of us collaborating on some concoction after a late afternoon foray to the grocery store. I loved it when we cooked together. Although I'm a more experienced cook, He was far more creative and knowledgeable about food than I was. Between the two of us, we made some amazing meals.

Becuase I am not the sort of person fit for humanity if I don't eat breakfast, He usually kept things around and would eat breakfast with me. We'd make egg and pepper skillets, throwing in anything we could imagine, toast bagels, or eat leftovers cold.

His apartment was bigger and nicer than mine, as well as having better ventilation. A lot of times, we'd just lie around on the floor staring at the ceiling and talking. I remember one day He taught me how to punch properly, and I taught Him some yoga stretches once. So many evenings, the sun would start to set and His roommate would come home from work and the gym. It would turn into night in a slow and lazy way. If His roommate wasn't working the next day, we might go to a movie, or out to steal movie posters out of bus stops for their walls. He and I sometimes drove to a museum, taking in their free nights. Other times we all just sat around watching the simpsons, sometimes drinking beer, but usually just refilling each other's water glasses.

It is these memories, that make me miss summer (for those not in the know, there is no summer in Britain). The carefree time, the warmth, the time barefoot sprawled on the floor thinking or reading. This post, probably more than any of the others leaves me nostalgic.

I'm off to see Charles again this weekend. The academic superstar visiting our department answered a question of mine during a masterclass today-and upond hearing my introduction and project description declared my project to be wonderful. I'm hoping the residual glow from that will carry me into the end of next week when I have my supervisory board!

Overgrown existental angst...

2009-02-05T01:12:00.000-08:00

My memories of that first summer are fuzzy right now. They blur into other memories of summer, and I find it a bit upsetting not to be able to pick them apart and organize them neatly. I did not bring my journal from that summer when I moved to Britain. Its in storage, probably being eaten by insects and growing mildew, next to my bed, books and other remnants of life.

Melissa's comment, however, brought home that I haven't really introduced some parts of myself that form the backdrop of this story. They become important later on and will probably make a lot more of it comprehensible.

I was born into a deeply traditional, southern atmosphere. The first seven years of my life I ate crawfish, drank cafe au lait, and went to a catholic girls school. A catholic girls school which was kept from my great grandfather who was a Scottish-Irish protestant immigrant. My churching happened in Baptist churches, and I was taken to all sorts of craft shows and other southern fixtures.

Then my father got out of his architectural firm, for reasons I admire him for but that we don't talk about. My mother decided to pursue a PhD, and we moved. We moved almost as far as the Mason Dixon line, but not quite. There was plenty of country music where we were going, but it was a big city. My first. Being only seven, I remember promising my friends that while it was far away, it was still the same state. As much as any southern state would like to claim country music, I'm afraid it wasn't. I entered a new world of public school, student loans and an unemployed father. Within two years, it was time to move on-my parents had sustained our family as long as they could, but my mother had found a job whilst writing up. So we moved north again. So far north that the swow fell in November and didn't melt until April. I had big ugly snow boots and one of my school mates used to leave in the morning with wet hair and arrive at school with frozen curls. We didn't last long in that tiny, snowy community, filled with corn and pigs and not too far from the land of cheese. My grandparents were getting older, and I think the whole family was sick of snow. We headed back towards cowboys and trucks, and I spent a number of years going to middle school and highschool there. That, however was broken by living in Azerbaijan and Belgium. In the long run, it took me five years to finish highschool because of our forays into the foreign, but I came out with excellent french and the confidence to hold my own in most foreign situations. The summer before I finished High School, I took off to Spain, Hungary, Switzerland and the UK. I was ready for college, but I had three high school credits before I could have a full International Baccalaureate diploma. For once, I'd opted to take my time on life. My last year of highschool was spent mostly volunteering. I didn't have much coursework. I worked that summer, earning money in a resort. That is when I headed off to Big City. My parents put me on a plane with a one way ticket. I arrived in Big City thinking that was normal until all of my roommates showed up with parents who shuttled them about to buy things and Target and figure out how the bus system worked. That may have been my first inkling.

The first summer of University, I spent living in Switzerland, working and studying. A year later, my parents headed off to Japan. Two years later, my mother was in Turkey and my father was awaiting the end of his contract in Japan. The distinctions between Japan summers and Turkey summers blur themselves in time. I've always measured my life by where I was living, that having a bigger impact than numbers on a calendar, but during this time I spent a lot of time floating between international homes, stuff in storage, and two over stuffed suitcases I justified by saying If I didn't use it when I traveled I never would. The summer after University, I lived in Turkey. It was about four months long, as I was awaiting the beginning of my visa and term time in the UK.

The truth is, I can't remember how many times I've been to Japan. Was it twice or three times? If I thought hard enough I could. I could probably organize it all neatly by looking back over visas and passport stamps. But I don't. There are parts of this life I wouldn't trade for anything. I love to travel. I love the fact that after a month almost anywhere, local residents speak to me in their native tongue, unaware that I don't belong. I love the fact that I can order ice cream in any number of languages, sound out the Cyrillic alphabet and guess when needed. As a formerly painfully shy child, I love the fact that I have the confidence to eat dinner with anyone in almost any setting and not loose my cool, even if I do lose my miso soup in my lap (oh yes, I did. And it was a first date).

But there are some things that I will never be able to find and there are frequently times when I don't know how to deal with that. I will never have a place where I can always eat all of my comfort foods. Big City came close. I will never have a place where I can call up all of my friends and loved ones and have them come over for an afternoon birthday party. I doubt they could all come if I got married (not that it is on the cards at the moment). The hardest part, however, is something that is barely tangible.

I don't have a home.

That is sort of an exaggeration. The truth is, wherever I live is home. I make my home, I can decoupage anything, put cloth over boxes, find stuff and buy stuff and make any space instantly reflect me in a matter of days.

But when I'm sick, or sad, or lonely, or so tired of living in this place that I could scream for days. When I'm angry and frustrated because international banking laws are against me. When I'm so tired of trying to track down some paperwork and I can't remember what my address and phone number was in 2003 (apparently that is how they identify people). When I feel like I don't have anyone to understand why it is important to me to wear something pretty to a meeting, when i can't explain why no one can place or understand my hodge podge accent and way of saying things, when I dream in other languages and wake up in a cold sweat, not sure which language to speak today....there is some little girl part of me that wants to go home. There have been so many times when I went away, off, alone, into my room, crawling into bed and cried that very thing. I want to go home. But I don't know where home is.

You see, no matter where I go, there is always some part of me that doesn't fit. In Big City, I always feel a bit un-American. I wear scarves all of the time and have all sorts of notions that are socialist by American standards. I eat strange foods and don't use tumble driers or a car. I carry my own shopping bags places. They are little things. But enough to remind me I don't fit. In Britain, I can never remember if eggplant or aubergine is right, if its cilantro or coriander....when I talk to my grandmother on the phone people stare at this weird southern accent that I barely recognize coming out of my mouth. I'm afraid to take time off work to go to the doctor, expecting my pay to be docked. (My boss laughed at that one until I explained). I still don't understand wall switches on outlets, and sometimes I slip up and forget to say thank you to a shop keeper or accidentally call someone sir or ma'am. In the south? I forget sir and ma'am, my accent glides in and out. I'm not married, don't get my hair done, think fishing, four wheeling and sports are annoying and boring and have no idea what the latest line dance move or casserole recipe is. I don't fit.

Don't get me wrong, it sounds so dramatic like I'm just a few days away from cracking up because I have no idea where that place where I feel comfortable is. The truth is, it is one of those things that only bothers you when everything else does. When you have a cold and can't find the right kind of cold medicine, when you can't get the bank to cooperate, can't find the right adaptor plug, your phone card ran out and the international line is down. It gets better when you get used to a place, but at the same time, it gets worse as you get further away from identifying with a single location. You find coping mechanisms. My recipes? I doubt anyone but me could follow them. They are a hodgepodge of conversions. Milk in ml, flour in cups. I usually have three oven settings written on them. Not to mention using words in the language I first encounter them in. Fountain pens are refilled with cartouches.

Right now, I'm planning to go back to Big City at the end of my programme. (Oh don't even get me started on my spelling!) I don't know if I will stay there forever, but there are a lot of Universities around there. My close friends are there and I miss it more than other places. Part of me is afraid that it will be lonely without undergrad communities and Him. But part of me says I need to give myself a shot at living in one place that I like for awhile. Obviously this doesn't fit in with Charles' plans, he doesn't understand that my moving here for a Master's programme doesn't mean I should automatically decide to stay forever for a relationship. In his eyes, I moved here so I should stay, he didn't agree to move anywhere.

Anyway, I'll get back to the story tomorrow.

Japan

2009-02-03T02:45:00.000-08:00

I'm just coming around on my feelings regarding this weekend. I went to an amazing yoga class right before Charles was due to arrive. On my way home, I made up my mind to enjoy this weekend. Things didn't get off to a good start. He was adamant that I needed to make reservations at a restaurant we've never had trouble getting a table at. I phoned several times in between rushing around to get changed but couldn't get them. I have no clue why he couldn't phone since he was sitting on the train. In the end, the restaurant had closed. The landlord posted notices to the tenant saying they'd reposessed the property and all of its contents due to unpaid rent. I was devastated. It was seriously the BEST Italian food I'd ever tasted, the chef was amazing, it wasn't too expensive and it was close to where I live. We ended up having Nepelese, which was tasty, but not what I'd been dreaming of all week. We came back and he proceeded to cover ever flat surface in my flat with stuff. I won't go into the details of Saturday, it was Charles at his usual. I was tired, had a headache and wasn't in the mood for wandering around, which is what we did. By Sunday, I was so emotionally confused. Its nice having the companionship, but I feel so smothered by him that I can never figure out if I want him to go or not.

Anyway, back to the story. When I got to Japan, I collapsed for about a week, sleeping non-stop, raiding my parents fridge and generally being a college-aged lout. I emerged from myself at the end of the week and started enjoying my trips into Tokyo, stocking up on things I missed and all of the cute house stuff I could carry or ship back to myself. I think I said in my last post that I'd never been to Japan, but I must have gone the year before because I already had stuff in my house from there, so I must be remembering it wrong. He and I emailed almost daily. We sent long e-mails and talked about once or twice a week on the phone. I insisted on phoning Him so that I could phone while my parents were at work and not have to contend with the portable phone and a huge earthquake proof tower block apartment. That summer, I read loads of stuff, including a biography of Aldous Huxley, and Andrew Linklater's dissertation. I later studied under Andrew Linklater and really wished I remembered the things I read that summer.

We e-mailed back and forth about the books, Japanese culture, what I did every day, the politics of visas...everything under the sun EXCEPT how He was settling in. I asked several times, and received only short replies. I later found out that although He was allowed to store His stuff at the new apartment, He wasn't allowed to stay there. Instead of letting me know and living in my flat, while I was gone, He'd crashed on various friends couches and been basically homeless for a month. At any rate, I loved communicating with Him from afar. I wrote Him several proper letters while He visited His mom in San Francisco, and we just generally enjoyed the excellent flow of conversation we had. I missed Him, but my confidence in our relationship blossomed as I began to understand that He wasn't going anywhere.

My visit to Japan only last a month, plus a week I spent with my parents visiting China. We'd gone to Korea the summer before, and I'd loved it. China was also awesome, although it took me weeks to get the smell of Beijing pollution out of my cloths. He was there to greet me when I got back to Big City, dragging to bursting suitcases, two carry ons and wearing a Chinese hat because it was the only way I could get it back with me. He knew me well, taking me home immediately for a shower before taking me out to dinner, and then home to sleep off my summer. That was only the beginning of July. The next month was truly awesome.

Will he stay?

2009-02-02T13:40:00.000-08:00

One of the side benefits of keeping this blog is the freedom and incentive it gives me to experiment with writing styles. I don't consider myself to be a very good writer. Proficient, certainly. But not good. I was an avid fiction reader growing up, and during holidays I still am. However, non-fiction was difficult for me. It still is at times, despite the fact that what I read is filtered through one of the finest sieves of interest possible. The first time I read a non-fiction book that I really, truly enjoyed reading and could not put down, it floored me. Not only did it change what I thought about the topic my author so lovingly wove for me, but it changed my ideas about writing. The biggest struggle I have with the PhD system, is how to get away with writing non-fiction so that it reads like fiction. That is also my biggest struggle in writing. I've been trained in the minutae of academic standards, and now I'm trying to unlearn them.

All that, to say that I haven't quite figured out how to create suspense, and suspense is definitely what I felt concerning His plans for the summer. If you'll recall, He didn't think long distance relationships were an option, and I still had a year of college left in Big City. While His plans when I met Him had been to join his family back in his hometown and work for them, He was still quietly toying with the idea of grad school. It was far too late to apply anywhere for the next year, so I waited to see what He would decide. I hoped that Josh had spoken to Him, using secret best friend language to convince Him to stay in Big City, but I just didn't know.

Although I was planning to see my parents that summer, they'd recently moved to Japan, so I was only planning to "go home" (that sounds ridiculous when I'd never been there) for a month.

A couple of weeks after graduation, He just announced it. He was staying in Big City and was trying to find a place to live with one of His friends. I maintained my composure, although I'm fairly certain that I probably celebrated with some Ben and Jerry's that night. I have no idea what made up His mind in the longrun. He just said that He'd decided to spend the year thinking about where He was going and applying to grad school. I've long suspected that Josh had something to do with it. It wasn't until this point, that I realized He had a substantial amount of money. For someone barely scraping by on her student loans, the concept of someone supporting themselves for a year without working was unheard of. Oddly, this didn't really make me more nervous at the time. I think we had finally settled into enough of a dating groove that I knew most day to day things wouldn't be out of my reach and that He was aware of my financial situation in the bigger things.

The friend he wanted to live with I'll call Mac. I'd never met Mac, but I seriously hoped Mac wasn't interested in living halfway accross Big City. Or that he made a living selling illicit substances. Two days later, my fears were quelled. He and Mac had signed a six month lease on a condo that was a 10 min drive, 25 min bus ride from where I lived. I didn't drive in Big City, but He did. I was, however, becoming more and more proficient on the bus. Plus I knew how to get to where He lived because it was close to Target. For those of you not familiar with college girls, Target=Mecca. (No irreverence intended). Target was probably the first place I learned to get the bus to.

I helped Him to literally move his stuff in (I say literally because we dumped it inside, piece by piece much to my level headed moving experienced brain's shock) before I headed off to Japan for a month. I was queasy about being gone for a month, but He was oddly reassuring. From what I know now, the best was yet to come.

Theme Park

2009-02-01T09:23:00.000-08:00

I'll be vague here, but not obtuse. If you've generally located Big City, that isn't really important. The main thing is that no one from my life reads this.

The day after graduation, He wanted to visit a major theme park with his two friends. I'd never been to this theme park, and apart from a visit to Sea World about a year ago, I'd never been to any theme parks. I'm told this is the theme park to go to, so I was a bit excited. I was also worried. Theme parks are expensive. Theme parks involve rides. These were both things I wasn't equipped to handle the next day. Not only was I low on funds, but even with clever planning ahead, I probably wouldn't have been able to afford such an extravagance.

As far as rides go... my first year of college, it took six months of prodding before it was finally established that some of my fainting spells and anxiety (which I'd experienced since I was 10) may be attributed to panic attacks. Some of it isn't understood and is simply diagnosed as syncope. Which means I faint unexpectedly, sometimes hyper ventilate unexpectedly, and can't really do much about it. One of the things I could do, however was try to establish what sorts of situations put my nervous system in distress and either avoid them or try to find better ways to deal with them, depending on what it was. This worked great for doctors visits and other daily life stresses, but I had no idea how it was going to work if I went on a roller coaster or other such ride. I'd worked with a therapist, and started practicing yoga to learn some techniques for calming my nervous system when it was in distress. As far as the medical community knows, it is simply that some people have an overactive fight/flight response that is triggered when it isn't needed, so learning to relax purposefully in those situations can help control blood pressure, heart rate etc. when it is happening. I'd figured out that situations where I felt I wasn't in control of my body set me off. That could be getting blood drawn, jumping off a high ledge, or being on a theme park ride. Despite a clear understanding of physics, rationality can't help a primitive physical response. Needless to say, the stereo-typical theme park girl grabbing her boyfriends arm and screaming in delight wasn't going to be me.

Anyway, I'm rambling. I woke up the next morning and put my hair into pig tails. I slathered sun screen onto my already pink exposed areas, and waited for them to arrive. They pulled up on time and we headed off. We arrived at the theme park in a little over an hour and headed in. While waiting in line, I saw the prices and panicked. It would have to go on my already precariously balanced credit card, which meant I was leaning on a pay check that wasn't coming. Because my job was work-study, I didn't work in the summer and had already had my final check that year. Although I'd be going home for a month, I'd still have to pay bills and rent. I started worrying, until Josh piped up. He started teasing Him about how expensive it was going to be for all of us. I listened quietly. Could it be that I wasn't expect to pay for this? I cringed at the thought of how much this would cost Him. But I kept my mouth shut. The two of them bantered back and forth, and in the end, He paid for my ticket but not His friends. It seems this is the way everyone expected it to work. I relaxed a bit, but not too much. I knew food would be expensive inside, and I was already trying to ration the bottle of water I had with me.

We headed in. He was aware of the ride issue for me, but sympathy and comprehension are two different things. His two friends were probably a bit more sympathetic in the beginning and compromised. I waited out some of the more trying rides, and we went on some of the tamer ones together. He finally talked me into going on a couple of roller coasters, however. I managed. I climbed on board. Closed my eyes and counted. Counting regulates my breathing, and all of the photos of me, sitting next to screaming ride enjoyers show some sort of zen like face framed by windswept hair. Then we went on one and I just couldn't quite keep it together. By the time we got off I felt dizzy and tired. He took one look at my face and realized it was probably too much. His friends went for another round on it while He sat with me talking quietly. I recovered a bit, but figured that was enough of the difficult rides for that day.

We stopped for a lunch break, eating huge plates of nachos, slushy drinks and churros. The best photo of the two of us was taken at lunch that day. My face is glowing from the slight sunburn and I'm tilting my head onto his shoulder while he smiles widely. You can't tell how hot and sweaty it must have been to be that close. The sun is streaming down in the back corner, out of the shot, but at just the right angle to illuminate our faces. That was the photo that stayed framed on my wall once it was printed.

I went on a few more compromise rides after that, and then we headed out of the park. We stopped for dinner in a safari themed restaurant, and despite being tired I remember laughing throughout the meal. We headed home after that, and I remember being a bit sad that he would be attending his hosting duties and so I wouldn't see him alone until the next day. I remember it as an awesome day, and although I've always suspect he wishes I'd participated more, I had a sense of satisfaction with the way I'd handled it. I think this is one of my earliest experiences of being truly proud of myself even when others didn't understand.

Charles

2009-01-30T02:24:00.000-08:00

If you've read back through the archives, you'll know that my current boyfriend (Charles) and I were living together last year. While not a circumstance I would have chosen, it wasn't one I was willing to fight hard to avoid. Since starting grad school, however, I've been living in Big City UK, which is about three and a half hours away from Big Town UK. Big Town UK is about 3 hours away from Small Town UK, where we met and where he is from. There was a lot of contention when we lived together. He had never really had a place of his own, and was just settling into the house he had bought. I didn't really want to continue living with him, but didn't have any other truly viable option at the time. I became increasingly homesick for a place I couldn't name. I needed some space to sort out those feelings. I also needed some friends who didn't see my relationship with him from his point of view and as inevitably ending in marriage and the fulfillment of his dreams. I didn't get either of those things. I'd been living with him and his dad following the death of his mother, and every attempt I'd made to change that situation had fallen on insulted and near tearful faces. His mother died when we'd been dating less than six months, and while I did my best to be supportive, I suspect I ended up creating more problems than I solved.

Since moving to Big City UK, things have been a lot easier for me. This blog isn't really about the story of Charles and I, but he is coming to visit this weekend. Last term, we visited each other almost every weekend, but I told him I just couldn't do that this term. I went the weekend before last, was marking last weekend, and he is coming here this weekend. He has a concert next weekend, so I'm hoping to get that weekend to work here again before going to see him. Things aren't great from my vantage point, but he doesn't share that opinion.

So today, after a mad dash to get some more work done that I'd normally spread over the weekend, I'll be preparing for what feels like an invasion. When Charles comes to visit, he moves my bedside lamp to his side, he buys packets of biscuits and leaves the wrapper lying around, his clothes are all over the chairs, radiators and floor (he will only allow dirty clothes he isn't going to wear again touch my floor. Even though I clean my floor more than he cleans his, he still doesn't trust mine). He will leave open 13 or more tabs to sports pages etc. on my computer, which he hates using because it is a mac. He will leave toothpaste in the bathroom sink, not bother to help wash up (dishes), and has a habit of piling things on the bed which I keep covered in nice white sheets. Piles of change will adorn almost every free surface, and his shoes will be kept in the middle of my small studio floor space.

Its true, I like things a certain way, and I'm not very good at compromising. He also isn't very good at making an effort to respect my space, however, and that doesn't help matters.

I've still got some things stored at his house, and I'm slowly working on bringing them here. We had some complicated arguments at Christmas when my parents ended up coming and I spent my time in Big City and not with him and his dad. He thought it was horrible of me to leave them alone. I thought it was horrible of him not to respect the fact that I hadn't spent Christmas with my parents in five years and wanted some time alone with them. Nevertheless, his dad gave me loads of very nice presents for Christmas. I feel guilty, thinking that if things continue in the direction they are going, it will seem as if I took advantage of them. As if I was just hanging around him for free housing and presents. Which hurts because I only moved in with them in the first place because they seemed so terrified of being alone together when his mother died and neither he nor I had found a job in London yet. Neither of us ended up going to London, so it did work out for the best. I guess the point is, I made decisions all along that went against my long term interests, thinking that sometimes its best to just do what seems right at the time. The whole time this was happening, I had this growing knot in my stomach saying that I didn't want to stay in the UK long term, and he clearly wasn't in a position to move. I wanted advntures in big cities and he wanted a quiet farm. He was interested in going into UK politics and making a lot of money. I don't want anything to do with mainstream politics and am interested in writing some books and learning to cook new foods. His way of dealing with this is to ignore it all and pretend I'll come around. He still talks about the visa I'll get when I finish my PhD and about the farm we might live on. I've started separating those things. I'm vague about the end of my PhD for him, but I have told him I plan to go back. He just doesn't think I'll do it. It hurts not to be able to share my goals with him, but it hurts more to share them and have it turn into a fight about how selfish I am and about how that isn't what I said I wanted when we met. I know it hurts him too, but a part of me thinks it hurts him because he doesn't want to have to go through the trouble of finding another girlfriend. Not because its me.

Its all just one big bundle of tension now for me. Anyway, the weekend isn't likely to yeild a lot of private writing time, but I do have one post in the works (alluded to yesterday) that I should be able to get up before he wakes up in the morning, if I don't get it up later today and make a start on a weekend post.

Graduation

2009-01-29T03:20:00.000-08:00

I think I mentioned that He was a year ahead of me in University, which meant He was graduating in the spring. We were definitely a couple by then, but He still hadn't decided what He was doing after graduation. He'd made it fairly clear before that He didn't believe in long distance relationships. I was trying to take each day as it came. When He told me that His mother was coming for graduation, my feelings were mixed. I was terrified of meeting her. I'd only ever done the parental meeting thing once, and this time mattered so much more. I was also excited. It seemed pretty clear to me that anyone outside of our relationship could come to only one logical conclusion: We were meant for each other. I sort of hoped this His mother would put some of my fears regarding the summer to come to rest.

The weather started warming up, and the day was fast approaching. And He still hadn't told me what to expect. I fretted about what to wear. At the last minute, I decided on a pale pink cotton suit-unlined with hem stitching. the jacket had sleeves just above the wrist, and I planned to wear it over a silk knit shell. It was conservative, especially for where I was living at the time, but I had no idea what His mother was like. It ended up being a bit much, but I lived. The day was incredibly long, hot and sunny. My extra pale skin was frying despite the sunscreen I was wearing. We sat through the first ceremony, and went to the second, followed by a reception. The strain was giving me a headache. Fortunately, two of His High School friends were there to take some of the pressure off of being alone with his mother and aunt (on his newly divorced dad's side-although mother and aunt were great friends) for hours on end. I'd found out, only at the last minute, that His absolute best friend and aunt were coming. That pretty much put me over the moon. Although He and His best friend later had a falling out, I always quite liked the guy and will always be thankful for the way He helped relieve the tension that day. His aunt is still probably one of His favourite people, and I felt like this was definitely my time to impress.

Later, after several hours with little water and no food, we all drove to a restaurant. Still not knowing the plan, I was tired, headachey, and had no idea how I was getting home, but I just went with it. The meal was amazing. Fresh juice, lots of sandwiches and loads of people. We were outside still, but under a sun cover and the weather was amazing. People took loads of photographs of us, and later when He had wandered off to spend time with His other friends, I sat and talked to His best friend, Josh. Josh got it. He got me, he got us. We talked about some banal things that I don't remember, what I do remember is that this person who'd only spent a few hours with me leaned over and said, simply, you really love him don't you? I gave a non-commital answer and he asked where our relationship was going. I answered that with the truth and Josh just looked at me quietly. I suddenly got the sense that he was rooting for me and that if anyone could make Him make up his mind to stay in Big City for the summer, it was Josh.

Although I have some idea of why their friendship is no longer what it used to be, I sometimes wonder if Josh knew what was to come, or if he believed in us. Needless to say, I loved hearing what he said. In the end, I barely interacted with His mother and His aunt. We were all exhausted that night, Josh having slept on the floor in His apartment while His other high school friend took the bed and He took the sofa. The three of them went back to His house and I went home, but I was told that I was being collected bright and early to somewhere special the next day. His mother and Aunt would be leaving, so it would just be the young people going.

And I've just come to the realization that I will have to do some creative writing to continue to conceal our location, so I will leave that for tomorrow.

Spring Break

2009-01-28T03:24:00.000-08:00

When I say I'm going to be extremely busy with work, it usually means something different to me than it does to other people. I've never pulled an all nighter, turned out lots of social engagements, or spent days on end doing non-stop work. I may reduce some of my outside activities, or spend less time on things like hair..or maybe do only priority loads of laundry, but for the most part my life is still fairly normal. I don't really like upsets in my routine, so I avoid them.

Spring break was coming up, and I planned to spend some time working on my independent study. I planned to work a few hours a day, but also take time to lounge in the spring sunshine and maybe make a few excursions further afield in Big City. I certainly planned on seeing Him. He mentioned something about having some work to get done over spring break, so I thought we'd probably have similar schedules. That is, until the week went by and He didn't call, text, facebook, email, or otherwise contact me. Presuming that He was working, I didn't contact Him. By the end of the week, I was a nervous wreck. Had He met someone else? Had He gone off me? What WAS GOING ON? I panicked. When He finally did call, He asked if he could come over, but didn't say why. I spent about 30 minutes in turmoil, waiting for Him. I put on make up. I tidied my already clean room. I paced. My stomach was in knots, I knew He was coming by to tell me it was over. I sat in the rocking chair in my room. It was an old wooden one, with no arms and a caned seat. It creaked slightly, and didn't really rock because it was so close to my bed. The bed I'd grown up in that my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother had all slept in. It was a double Jenny Lind and I loved it. I peered out the window, a few short feet between it and the chair. I waited. Finally, I saw Him drive up. I didn't dash downstairs to greet Him, but waited for Him to call. I walked down slowly. He kissed me, but otherwise seemed quiet. Finally, it became clear to me that He wasn't going to make this quick. I edged around the topic, asking about His week, and finally getting to the point. "What is going on? Is something wrong?" He looked incredulous. Nothing was wrong. He was just busy working this week.

The relief that washed over me wasn't huge. I still didn't really understand it, and I was convinced there was something He wasn't telling me. Now, although I understand a bit better, part of me still thinks there must have been something about that week, some reason why He didn't want to talk to me. After that, things were about to change for the better. Later in the evening, He broached the subject of graduation. His mom would be coming, along with a high school friend who lived in another big city, and He wanted me to be there.

Making friends, of a dangerous sort

2009-01-27T10:13:00.000-08:00

I've decided not to elaborate the stories I alluded to in yesterday's post. Although they are very important to this story, I don't think there is a way do deal with them properly here. However, today is fairly shocking!

My life continues to be busy-I'm about halfway finished with the complete marking process, more than halfway finished reading the exams. I am not, however, finished preparing for my board, nor have I finished some administrative tasks set for this week. Sigh.

Anyway, today's installment. Sometime around April, He finally decided to introduce me to a few of His friends. I'd casually met some here and there, but we'd definitely never hung out. He'd ended up living with a group of people He didn't know terribly well after the housing He'd set up that year fell through. Apparently, one of His housemates slept with another housemate's girlfriend two weeks before the semester started. The people He ended up living with were fascinating to my well traveled, but nonetheless sheltered existence. One of them was Rick, who was your typical slick but relatively loutish wanna be Marxist college student. He spent a bit too much time drinking and smoking various things and not quite enough time going to class. He wanted to be an actor. Rick was always very polite to me, and often engaged me in conversation. He had fairly good people skills, and probably recognized that I felt out of my element any time I went over to His house. I liked Rick, even though I partially disapproved of him. It wasn't my business anyway. His other housemate, the one who was terribly fascinating to me, was an international student doing the same degree that I was. The three of them had signed up for the MUN class together, but all except Him had been kicked out for non-attendance. This third one, who we will call Genghis was also in another class of mine, I think he only showed up to that once despite a mandatory attendance clause to pass. Genghis rarely spoke to me, and we never spent any time with him directly that year. There were a couple of barbecue parties we went to later that he happened to be at, but He didn't want me to be around Genghis.

You see, Genghis had a lot of very nice things that he managed to pay for by peddling a very hot commodity to both skinny college girls (to help them stay skinny) and two local and rival gangs. He didn't particularly like living with Genghis, but we all felt it was better to tolerate Genghis from a distance than upset anything that was far bigger than we were. Needless to say, the setting for meeting some of His other friends was not His house, at least not that first year.

Earlier, back around the time we'd had the conversation about His future, He'd told me that He didn't spend much time with most of His friends these days because they still smoked a lot and He wasn't in to that anymore. I think He felt torn between being loyal to friends, taking a new life direction, and possibly being lonely. I didn't question why I didn't meet more of His friends. Instead, I thought it was something He needed to work out for Himself.

One of His friends, I believe it was the one who had the illicit relationship that broke up His housing plans, invited us over one night. Apparently, he'd invited us over several times before, but this was the first time He'd agreed to it. I was thrilled. I thought it meant we were probably getting somewhere as a couple if I was going over to His friend's house. His friend, who I'll refer to as Andrew was charming. He talked to me, asked me questions, offered me drinks, offered to cook for us and did everything he could to make me comfortable. He lived fairly far away, but I hoped we'd be going back to his house frequently. The night we went over, the guys mostly played video games and Andrew played loads of music for us. He explained lyrics to a couple of rap songs to me, and I suddenly felt very in the know. During the evening, He went to the bathroom, and Andrew confided to me that He really liked me. He also asked about why I called Him by His full name and not his nickname, a nickname I didn't know about. I was thrilled to my toes that His friends thought He liked me so much. Apparently, He talked about me all of the time.

And then Andrew brought out a pipe.

In case you haven't gathered by now, I hadn't really ever been exposed to drugs. Andrew very casually loaded up the pipe and asked if I wanted some. I explained the situation, knowing full well that He used to smoke frequently but had stopped about a year ago after deciding to take his life in a new direction. I vaguely approved of this, but was also curious. Andrew offered to let me try, but said over and over again that there was no pressure; meanwhile, He was fixated on the game. I decided to try. However, before I ever even got the pipe close to my face I realized it was what was producing that awful smell. There was NO WAY I was putting that anywhere near my mouth. I coughed just from having it near my face, and handed it back to Andrew. Andrew was sympathetic and generally nice about it. I didn't feel stupid, although I easily could have.

Later, we left to go home. I had a sore throat and couldn't get the stench of that horrible pipe out of my nose. He brought it up first. "Why did you say you wanted to try it?" He sounded angry. I responded by explaining that I'd never been in a position to and hadn't really considered it. It sort of upset me that He thought it was any of His business. After all, He'd told me before that He used to do that sort of thing frequently. Who was He to judge me? I told him my throat hurt, and he seemed to get less angry. He said "I'm not surprised. Andrew usually only has cheap stuff and for someone who has never even smoked a cigarette, it must have been pretty terrible. Normally, you have to smoke it to be affected though." He laughed at me, and I laughed with him. I figured it was probably just as well that I hadn't managed to even make a pretense of smoking. At least I'd learned my lesson, although I doubt Nancy Regan would have been very proud.

Photography Class

2009-01-26T13:51:00.000-08:00

For various personal reasons, I'd decided to postpone my final writing class until my senior year. Instead, I wanted to take photography. I'd won an award for the best use of photography in my 8th grade science fair competition. I'd also won the regional science fair, but this had less of an impact on me long term. In seventh grade, I'd taken art at school. We made pin-hole cameras and turned the art classroom into a dark room for a week. I loved it. In high school, I took my first trip to Europe with some of my classmates. I took the camera I'd won in the science fair-one of the first Kodak Advantix cameras, and loads of film. Due, primarily, to awesome scenery and glorious weather, I came back with some decent post-card style photos. And then I stopped taking pictures. When I moved to Beligium, I took a grand total of two rolls. Back packing trip to Spain, subsequent course at Oxford, trip to Hungary? I didn't even take a camera. However, my mom knew me better than I knew myself. When I was born, my parents had saved up and bought a Canon AE-Program to take baby photos of me. The flash didn't work anymore, and my parents had long since converted to digital. For my 18th birthday, my mom got me a new flash, a camera bag, and gave me the camera.

In University, I didn't use it until I signed up for this photo class. I dug it out. I muddled through f-stops and exposure times in the beginning. I endured the lab assignments to work out how the enlarger and chemistry worked. And then we had our first project. I was alive. I did this project around the second month that He and I were really dating. I spent hours on it, not just shooting, but also in the lab. I carefully chose my captions and the medium to present them. On the day of our crit, I was more excited about that than I think I've ever been about anything I've ever created. The crit was amazing. I got some sort of thrill from having people understand what I'd created and respond to it. I also got a 98. More important than the crit or the grade or th confidence boost, I'd discovered something.

The class meant so much in terms of how I could suddenly express myself, that I gave Him my first project when we first started dating. That project was about all of the other men I'd dated, had a crush on, or endured their crushes on me. Instead of featuring those men, I featured what I had become in my relationship with them. I was trying to tell Him something. I don't know if He really ever understood that. I know He understood that it was important, but photography wasn't His language. He was also taking the same class, but I suspect it was less of an epiphany for Him, and more about getting some easy credits and maybe picking up a social skill along the way.

The reason I started Public Art Project, is that I don't have access to a lab now.

The story that I was trying to tell Him, is very important. I shaped several aspects of who I was during our relationship, and definitely caused some confusing moments. I've been trying to decide how to communicate those things in written form, without offending anyone or violating my own privacy.

Long Term Goals

2009-01-24T06:42:00.000-08:00

When I met Him, He was one semester away from graduation. We had carefully avoided the topic of what He would do after that, and I generally tried to keep it stuffed in the back of my brain along with things like "file taxes" and "clean toilets." I have a healthy relationship with my mind like that. He'd told me that His family was in "real-estate" and "owned some buildings" but I didn't know much else about it. At some other point, He'd told me that other parts of His family owned convenience stores, but that no one in His family worked in a typical job. His dad's side of the family was made up of middle eastern immigrants, His dad had immigrated, through Germany, from Iraq before marrying His mother, and we occiassionally joked about the stereo-types.

One day, on our way across Big City, we were in the car for awhile. He brought up what He wanted to do with His life. I mostly listened, gathering that this was a fairly emotional topic for Him, and aware that the delicate state of our newly forming relationship might hang in the balance. He told me about how His brother hadn't really done very well in college and had mostly partied. Then He told me how He'd wanted to go somewhere out of state for school, but felt that His family didn't really think it was important. His sister, being a girl and in his opinion being a bit of the spoiled baby of the family, had gone across the country. He both admired and envied her, and this was my first glimpse that His childhood relationship with His sister wasn't what it used to be. All of this conversational meandering eventually turned to the fact that He'd realized that He didn't want to just go back home and go into the family business, living out His days working with His dad and His brother. He'd started reading a lot of philosophy after taking a philosophy elective, and even befriended the librarian of the small philosophy library at Major University. His confidence was a big issue, however.

This is where I suddenly came to life and entered the conversation. My complaints at University ranged from "why do we have to read this stupid textbook, why can't we just read the actual text" to things like "I wish we got better feedback on our essays so that I knew if I was on the right track with this philosopher." My friends rolled their eyes and smiled. I knew I wanted to go to grad school, I was just biding my time until I could get there. It had nothing to do with being cleverer or better educated that anyone else, I'd just come to University wanting something different. In a society that deemed University to be a crucial step in middle classdom, most of my peers wanted a degree and some sort of internship/work experience to get them a job. Part of what I liked about Him was that, unlike my peers, he had plenty of time to talk about theories and things that didn't really matter to my colleagues. So, I was amazed that it had never occurred to Him that he could and should go to grad school. And I told him that. I also probably waxed poetic about bookgroups and afternoon seminars to discuss the impact of Foucault. He got so excited.

The conversation wavered on and off for a long time. He wouldn't make a decision about what He was going to do until much later, so I was left to hang in the balance about what He would do at the end of term, but this sparked a whole new dimension in our relationship. He started phoning and texting and emailing me about seminars on campus. I'd rush out of work, eager to see him and mingle with junior professors critiquing the latest book. I railed about Francis Fukyama and gushed about my latest Foucault reading. He always made it a point to ask a question in these seminars. I usually just felt a little shell shocked and worried about looking stupid, so I kept my mouth shut except to consume the inevitable cheese plates. I started to figure out what it was that made this relationship so awesome. When I'd come out of my previous relationship, I had the vague notion that I wanted to the next guy I dated to read. I learned, however, that it wasn't about reading as much as it was about having the same passion I have. If I'd been a snow boarder or a sailor or a runner, I think it would have been the same thing. I wanted someone who challenged me to nudge my laziness aside and pluck up the courage to really go for what I wanted in more than a mediocre way. I wanted a companion, and that was what I was getting.

The Tie Party

2009-01-22T15:25:00.000-08:00

Shortly after we'd exchanged gifts, He had to go. He'd been invited to a Tie Party at a friend's house. I hadn't really met many of this friends then, and wasn't going with Him. I probably had a nice night of room organizing (no, I actually enjoy that) or possibly work to do. In any case, although I remember feeling a little sad that He had to leave, I don't remember being particularly upset or sad that we weren't spending the evening together. I got on with what I was doing, and headed to bed at a reasonable hour.

During the night, I got a phone call. I always slept with my phone next to my bed, and I'm a reasonably light sleeper. I awoke almost instantly and put on my brightest voice. It was, of course, Him. He apologized for possibly having woken me, and I assured Him that I wasn't sleeping (LIE!). He asked if I minded if He came over. I leaped out of bed while saying I'd love for Him to come over, trying to establish what I should wear. He then said "Great, I'm outside!" He may have added something about knowing I was asleep. Before you get all up in arms, I'd told him earlier that I didn't mind being awoken. Probably when He'd phone before one of my insanely early bedtimes.

Living in Big City, there was a gate downstairs that had to be opened before someone could come up and knock on the door. There was some sort of buzzer apparatus, but none of my cell-phone minded colleagues had ever used it. The post-man had a key, but honestly? The lock was usually stuffed with paper. I think one of us must have complained about the safety hazard, because the lock was working that night. I had to work fast. I told Him I'd be right down as I was pulling off pyjamas and getting into some yoga pants. Being skinny, I just pulled a sweatshirt on over my tank top and checked to make sure I didn't have any huge lines across my face. I slid into my flip flops and ran down the stairs to greet Him.

I threw my arms around His neck, balancing on the toes of my left foot as I hugged Him. He was always warm in the night air, and had a broad torso that contrasted with my narrow one, but He wasn't much taller than me. He kissed me, and I suddenly realized His eyes were a little funny looking, and He tasted of alcohol. He apologized and said "I've been drinking, and I didn't think I should drive. I could have crashed on Curly Headed Guy No2's (henceforth Rick) couch, but I wanted to see you instead. Do mind? I didn't. He wasn't particularly drunk, but it made me happy to know that He took driving seriously. We went upstairs. It was probably only a little after midnight, but I don't remember. We sat on the floor in my room whispering for hours. Around two or three in the morning, we were lying flat on our backs, sideways on the bed, staring at the map I had on my ceiling. It was written in Russian. I had these filmy curtains forming a wall around the two sides of my bed that weren't in the corner. Yellow light from the streetlight filtered in through similar curtains on the window. He told me about a set of bowls He'd had growing up. They were brown and fit His hands perfectly. He loved eating out of them, because his mom would let him take them outside and sit on a ring of stumps, pretending to be a bear. He told me about his relationship with His younger sister growing up, and about how close they'd been. We talked about the school He'd gone too, and about how His dad used to drive Him and His brother to school. His dad would make up quiz questions for them. Until He was fairly old, He thought His dad had a magical ability to predict when the traffic lights would change colour. We must have talked about my childhood as well, but my memory of the drift of our conversation is fuzzy, it is only the feelings and topics about Him that are clear.

We drifted off to sleep at some point. I think we may have woken each other up and crawled under the covers. I woke up first in the morning, soft light filtering through the layers of white curtains. I stared at the patterns on the ceiling and thought about how this was an amazing time in my life and even if we didn't last as a couple, I always wanted to remember it like this.

I love that memory.

Happy Endings

2009-01-21T14:53:00.000-08:00

So the post I was working on for today seems a little heavy...and is a very drastic flashback in The Story, so I'll leave it until I'm ready to give it proper attention. This is a slight anachronism-we didn't go to San Francisco until April, clearly February came first!

I'll tell you about my first Valentines day with Him. I got a card from my grandmother today, and it prompted me to remember. My whole PhD topic, and passion for Fairy Tales in general, started with Him. Somehow, one of the phone conversations we'd had over Christmas had turned to talk of the Brother's Grimm Household Tales, a version published before the tales were really cleaned up for children (although this version is pretty clean anyway). Both of us were fascinated by the history of fairy tales, and He was particularly interested in German tales.

When February rolled around, I opened my calender and saw those little pink heart stickers decorating the 14th. And I panicked. Which shouldn't surprise anyone by now. I had no idea what to do about Valentines day. I decided to find him a gift, and then if it seemed appropriate, I'd give it to him. If not, I'd just pick a random day later and give it to him then. I thought about a gift for a long time. Later, spontaneous gifts, beautifully wrapped and chosen to surprise him became a passion of mine, but at this point I was terrified. What if he made a big deal about it and I didn't? How much should I spend? I finally decided to get him a copy of Grimm's. I did a lot of research online about translations, and finally decided which one I wanted. Although there was a new edition out in paperback, I knew how much he loved old hardback books, especially with handcut pages and binding that made that distinctive sound when you closed it. I finally found a hardback copy on a used book site and ordered it. It came a few days before Valentines day and I was so excited about it I could barely contain myself. Then, he asked me if I minded if we didn't make a big deal about Valentines day. We'd only been dating around a month then, so I agreed. But I wrapped the book up anyway. He loved simple things, things that a sailor would have, or things a hermit would have in a log cabin. I made a special trip to acquire brown paper and twine and wrapped the book up in that. I didn't know when I would give it to him, but I'd planned it all out and I couldn't just throw it in the back of my closet. I'd decided not to write an inscription in the book. Instead, I wrote a note on a piece of washi paper and put it inside. I didn't want the book to have a message from a former girlfriend, years from now when He was married to someone else. Oh, how optimistic I was.

On Valentines day, I hadn't heard from Him all day. I was sitting around the living room, moping, and watching my roommate's television. I rarely watch television. We didn't have one at home until I was in High School and it was so infrequent that I watched it that my mother knew I had mono when I spent three consecutive days parked in front of it after school. The only time I watched it in College was when I was ill, or moping about Him. My roommate and I had a big, low coffee table, and I'd brought back cushions from Japan that we sat on, with lots of small pillows for leaning and lounging. The only actual chairs in the flat were a rocking chair in my room that belonged to my grandmother, and a desk chair in my roommate's room. She liked the floor, but not that much. My phone was close at hand, just in case. And He called. He asked if He could come over for just a bit. I said of course. When He arrived, He was holding a bear with balloons on it. You know the type. No, seriously, you know. The white bear with the red heart thing? I was over the moon. He'd done something about valentines day anyway! And I finally had one of those heart bears! I dashed into my room to get the book and gave it to Him.

He loved it.

Later, in our relationship, I took a class in political philosophy where we read loads of fascinating things. I'd mainly taken it because He was always talking about philosophy and I thought it was really interesting. It ended up being one of the most formative courses I took in college. During that course, I encountered a political tract that J.S. Mill had written. Mill admonished people not to have children until they could afford it, and the way it was written reminded me distinctly of Hansel and Gretel. I played with that idea throughout the rest of our relationship, and although it bears little resemblance to what it was then, it is a seed sowed by interaction with Him that resulted in a big part of who I am and what I do today.

Not long ago, He sent me an email to say that while He was in the process of moving, some things had been stolen from His car, including the box with the book in it. He wanted to know which translation and edition it was so that He could replace it in function, if not sentiment.

Tomorrow, I'll finish the story of Valentine's Day.

Only in San Francisco

2009-01-20T04:59:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned earlier, I've got a very nerve wracking few weeks ahead. Part of what is coming up is my first supervisory board for my Ph.D. In Britian, a Ph.D. is a lonlier affair than it is in the states. One is generally expected to propose an entire project before being accepted to the programme. Although there may be a few research skills that one takes a class to refine, this is considered independent work. There aren't two years of research methods, various courses to teach you how to write etc. to contend with. Instead, one's proposal is expected to be a good indication that the student knows how to construct a research project and write it up. And so one does. Starting from day one, that is your task. While I have no doubt in my mind that I am capable of this task (although I did have doubts this time last year), it is a terrifying process and one that has few tangible milestones along the way. Frequently, the process is compared to swimming across the ocean, with neither shore in sight and no way to judge how far one has gone, or if one is actually swimming in circles. The upshot, however, is that the degree only takes three years here. With that in mind, I'm a bit of a nervous wreck about trying to show, honestly, what I have done for the past six months and what I plan to do for the next six months. Although I'm a bit unusual in this aspect, I tend to think it would be a waste of my time to pretend to have done things I haven't. Although that isn't the topic of this blog, this is my life and recounting the past doesn't happen without the influence of the present.

Anyway, a post you have come here for and a post you shall get.

I mentioned earlier that we met in a model UN class. The course was to last a year and only met once a week. In the spring semester, we divided ourselves up into the countries our class had bid for and started researching and gathering information. He was on the Venezuela delegation, and I was on the Ghanian. We did have on Security Council country, but I'd already figured out that my political interests weren't centred on that sort of thing. The class spent several months preparing, researching, drafting resolutions, establishing voting patterns and giving presentations. I'm an extremely introverted person, but for some reason in High School, I allowed myself to be talked into joining the debate team. I was never very good at the actual debating, nor was I ever very good at any kind of public speaking, and this was no exception. At some point, I'd gotten vaguely used to it, but being in a room with Him watching made it so much harder. The few times I did have to present I managed to get through it. He was, of course, very good at it. He had excellent eye contact, a voice that carried well, and engaging use of mannerisms. Or perhaps I was just in love.

In general, I enjoyed the class. It was taught by flaky independent study professor and he was fairly laid back. Despite his tendency to miss meetings, I learned a lot from him because he would give us interesting tidbits and then stand back. Those who were really interested would eventually stop talking about last weekend and really get involved.

After all of this work, we were headed to San Francisco to participate in the conference. He happened to be from a suburb of San Francisco, and I'd only been once. I was so excited about the whole trip, but also a little nervous. Things got off to an odd start. I finished packing the night before, and He'd suggested we hang out at some point. He never materialized, so I called him (I'm not sure what spurred this aberration, perhaps He'd said to call after I finished packing thinking I'd be like Him and do it the morning of). He casually said I should come over, so I braved the dark and dangerous night to walk the few blocks to his house. A few minutes later, one of his housemates opened the door and led me into a room where they were all sitting around drinking and playing cards. No one payed much attention to me, and I later ended up just going home. I was a little irritated, not only that He didn't seem to care that I'd come over, but also because He'd let me walk around one of the worst areas of Big City fairly late at night. I'm not much of a delicate flower when it comes to these things, but without his invitation I probably wouldn't normally have done that, and I was a bit peeved he hadn't offered to drive me home.

The next day, we ended up car pooling separately to the airport. I was also a little upset by this as I'd presumed we'd go together, but He seemed to prefer going with His team and talking about the awesome car His team mate had. She had a huge crush on Him and I was more than just a little threatened by her. She was well off and had curves and nice hair. Although I've changed quite a bit physically in the past few years, I'm nowhere near what anyone would call curvaceous. Then I was just plain underweight.

We didn't even sit next to each other on the plane, and I was starting to feel pretty neglected. No one in the class knew we were dating and I started to suspect that perhaps He was embarrased to be dating the skinny nerdy girl. Apparently, my fears were unfounded, because as soon as we arrived and realized we didn't have to do anything official, He whisked me over to his house where He picked up His sister's car she'd abandoned while away at college. He drove me to some of His favourite places in the city and we ended up at the Stinking Rose (a garlic restaurant for dinner). At this point, my delicate ego was a little repaired. We'd ordered our food and were waiting for it to come. And waiting. And waiting. It was a bit busy that night, but we were getting impatient. There were painted ceramic jugs of water on the tables and we'd both had a glass. We started speculating that they probably didn't change the water in the jugs between customers and just topped them off. And then He did it. He dared me to spit in the water in the jug. Maybe you are thinking that seems like such a 12 year old thing to do. Maybe it is, but when I was 12 I would have been horrified at this situation and all of the potential etiquette blunders to be made. However, since meeting Him, I'd changed. I was starting to admire the fact that not everyone listed out their entire life in the most efficient order possible and timed it all perfectly. Sometimes, people did things at the last minute and it was fun. The concept of taking an imprudent and rude dare appealed to me.

And I did it. I spit into my glass and poured the water back into the water jug. That is probably the most blatently rude and disgusting thing I've ever done, but I remember it fondly. It was just one of many times when He got me to lighten up a little. I think He was surprised I'd taken the dare, and probably a little disgusted. But He also found it funny.

Later, He suggested we meet up with some of His friends from high school. I hadn't really gotten to know any of His friends back in Big City, so I agreed. We met one of them at a bar with good music and interesting decor. Although the me of now laughs at this (after living in Britain with pub culture its shocking) It was one of only a few bars I'd been in. Oh sure, there was the one with the mechanical bull and...well. That was it. I'd been in a few beer gardens and cafes in Europe, but I'd only once sat on a bar stool at a bar and I was at a loss. He ordered us all a first round and I drank while they talked and drank. Perhaps we had a second drink, although at that point in my life I almost always declined a second drink (don't worry, I don't become an alcoholic later, I still don't drink much). Later, His friend offered to buy us a round of Irish Car Bombs. I didn't hear everything that was said, and I had no idea what an Irish Car Bomb was, but before I knew it there was one in front of me and I felt I had to drink it. For the uninitiated amongst you, an Irish Car Bomb is a pint of Guiness with a shot of Bailey's dropped into it. You have to drink it fast or the Bailey's curdles. I finally managed to get it down, or most of it and I was then...well I won't use a euphemism. I was drunk.

I suddenly became extremely hot, took off several layers and started dancing. They both found it amusing. Don't worry, I didn't strip or anything, although before Little Red Riding Hood was published for children (at which point the story takes on its moralizing role and looses its bawdieness) she actually performed a strip tease for the wolf and climbs into bed with him. When she realizes this has certain implications, she uses the excuse that she has to relieve herself and runs away. I think there might be a lesson in the older version somewhere.

Anway, we left shortly thereafter, His friend having to work in the morning and both of us needing to be up for MUN.

After that night, everyone on the trip knew we'd gone out for dinner and drinks together and had suddenly realized we were a couple. This pleased me. At some point, we snuck off to have a few hours alone to talk and we ended up having a fight. It was the first fight we'd ever had and I had no idea what it was about. I still don't know what it was about. He stayed angry for the rest of the trip (all of one day) and it was so horrible that I wrote out a long apology and gave it to Him on the plane. There was something a little childish about writing out a note to the guy you liked on notebook paper that bothered me, but whatever I said must have worked because He shortly forgave me. At that point I'd honestly never experienced that sort of emotional pain. The sense that I'd really done something to hurt or upset Him.

The fair

2009-01-19T19:35:00.000-08:00

I'll confess, many times I'd walk the long way around campus thinking I'd run into Him and then we could "spontaneously" spend the afternoon or evening together. It never seemed to work out that way when I intentionally walked the long way around, but sometimes it did when I wasn't expecting it. In case you haven't gathered, I'm a big fan of warm weather. I love sundresses, linen trousers and skirts, sandals and the feel of warm summer air. It takes fairly warm temperatures for me to get my summer gear out, but this was just such a day.

At the time, I had this awesome linen sun dress. It was a light greyish blue with a purplish satin bias binding around the neckline and sleeves. The dress was bias cut, and although it was technically several sizes too big, it really suited me. Or so I was told. I wore that dress with a pair of wedge sandals to campus. It must have been one of my study days as I only had a meeting with flaky independent study professor before having an afternoon off. I suppose it isn't technically an afternoon off if you are supposed to spend it in the library or writing, but on a spring day like that, I wasn't about to pass up the outdoors. After my meeting, I was headed over to work to pick up my pay check and then back home. Somewhere en route, I ran into Him.

Our campus had a thoroughfare through the middle that was pedestrianized, with several large lawns with fountains surrounding it. That day, there was a small fair going on. There were games, popcorn stands and booths handing out candy and small toys. He suggested that we check it out. It was one of those old fashioned movie moments. Not only was I going to a fair with Him spontaneously, but I was wearing a cute sun dress and the weather was perfect. It could only get better if I'd brought my wide brimmed straw hat and a tiny butterfly had perched on my shoulder. Neither of us had eaten lunch yet, and I still had to pick up my check, and He had some other errands to do. We both agreed to do our errands and grab something in the union for lunch and meet outside for a pic-nic. We sat on the ground, my feet were bare and I wiggled my toes in the grass. It didn't take us long to eat, and we were soon wandering around.

That afternoon, I went home with my loot. A tiny plastic yo yo, one of those 90s slap bracelets and some other plastic paraphernalia. I put the stuff up on my huge bulletin board hanging above my 'desk'. (It was a 'desk' because one used it sitting on the floor. I still love the sit on the floor). I affixed the stuff by balancing it on plastic push pins, above various cards and the blue cloud wrapping paper back ground I'd added earlier that year. I remember being so happy to wander around with Him in the sun, holding hands and talking.

On a slightly less interesting note, I've got a supervisory board coming up, and my undergrads are taking their exams this week (meaning I get to start marking them next week). Public Art Project is actually a great way for me to turn off academic brain, but I may be a bit more sporadic for a few weeks. I've got several posts in draft, so all two of you reading won't be left totally high and dry!

Cinderella

2009-01-19T10:14:00.000-08:00

Part of what I study may seem like it has nothing to do with International Politics, despite the fact that in my honest opinion it has everything to do with International Politics. Part of the reason I've stayed in Britain for my PhD, I mean apart from the stellar weather and fantastic cuisine, is that I'm interested in how fairy tales help to form our ideas of the international, foreign, etc. Several months ago, I was seeking refuge in a cafe to do a bit of work. I was actually reading for a reading group I'm in when a woman asked if she could sit on the sofa that shared my table. Gradually, she embarked on a conversation with me where we talked about all sorts of things, one of which was what I study. I still needed to get to some reading for my teaching that afternoon, but she seemed like she needed to talk, and I sort of like to let people talk when they need to. Although she had no particular reason to be interested, he eyes lit up when I gave her the short explanation of what I study, and let me tell you-friends and family get sick of hearing about your topic, so there is nothing that makes a lonely PhD student's heart sing like seeing someones eyes light up with enthusiasm for your topic. I mean besides your supervisor. They actually care. Or get paid to care. Either way. At some point, I asked her what her favourite fairy tale was, and she instantly said Cinderella. She said that sometimes, she really felt like Cinderella. After a lot of waiting, she'd fallen in love, had a wonderful wedding, and after fertility problems had conceived and given birth to a little girl. She said something that made me think-she said that sometimes, we all like to feel a little like Cinderella.

Interestingly, the first time the lost slipper motif appeared was in China during the time of footbinding. Ok, maybe I'm the only one who finds that interesting-so maybe its just an edifying fact. Oh, how annoying is that? I'm now being edifying.

Right, I'll get on with it. If there is one thing I've found to be universal about every man I've dated, it is that they HATE to pay for parking. They will drive around, wasting gas, park in fields, walk miles...all just to save whatever the cost of official parking is. For the most part, I agree that if its a matter of walking a few blocks, its pointless to waste money on having your car...sit somewhere. While you aren't even in it. However, being a girl with a fondness for silly shoes, a propensity to always be cold, and the occasional desire to get dressed up just because I CAN, there are times when I think this whole parking thing goes a bit too far. Not to mention the fact that I am usually happy to hand over my change for the purpose. One night, He decided that we should make a foray into the posh area of Big City. We'd gone somewhere for dinner, but the night was young, as they say, so we drove over. We didn't park terribly far from where we were going, but it was near a grassy area, and the night was chilly. I'd opted to wear a pair of sparkly flat slide shoes. It wasn't that cold, otherwise I'd have been booted up, probably with two pairs of socks and undershirt and possibly jeans over leggings. I am a layering maestro. So we wander into posh area where He takes me to a cookie stand that is not only famous for fresh baked cookies, but also for putting ice cream BETWEEN the cookies. I was skeptical but kept my mouth shut. I tend to be a bit of a snob about baked goods. Although I'll make exceptions at times, I tend to not really like it unless, well, I made it. Or someone I know who can cook made it. It doesn't have to be from scratch, although I've got some great recipes, but I at least want you to mix ingredients with the box stuff. These cookies weren't half bad, although normally I wouldn't bother waiting in line for them. Unfortunately, we ended up going there a couple more times, instead of my beloved falafel place. But, I digress. By the end of our ice cream cookie eating foray, I was shivering outside the shop, surrounded by young people still waiting in line to get their cookies and ice cream. He then suggested a drink, but like I said, I'm not a night person and I was cold, so I demurred. As we walked back to the car, He put his arm around me to keep me from shivering too audibly. He unlocked my door and then went to get in on His side, at which point I stepped into a very muddy hole in the grass. Mud squelched up, into my shoe and between my toes. Not only was it cold and wet, but it was slimy. He must have seen the shock on my face through the window and illuminated by the street light, because He was around to my side before I could make ANY attempt to cover up something so embarrassing. I was standing on one foot as He quickly opened the door and told me to sit down. With one foot inside, He gently lifted my foot, removed my very soiled shoe and put it down. He then rummaged around and found some tissues, cleaning my foot first and then moving on to my shoe. I have no idea if I protested or not. I was in complete and utter shock. He was a sweet guy, but He was a bit more on the gruff side than all of this gentle foot cleaning. A few minutes later He returned my shoe to me, putting the tissues into a plastic bag. The shoe was in perfect condition-in fact, I still have the shoes today and can't remember which shoe it was. He asked me several times on the ride home if I was ok, which left me even more incredulous. While I am a bit of a girly girl, I can actually tolerate a bit of mud here and there-particularly if it isn't staining anything I like.

I guess remembering that incident makes me feel a bit like Cinderella. There is certainly a lot more to Cinderella than just the lost slipper that makes us all want to feel that way from time to time. It wasn't necessarily the fact that it was my shoe, but rather the care and attention He paid resulting in a sweet memory for something that could otherwise have been very embarrassing. There are times when I can't work out why he did it. Is it because His sister or mother would have been horrified and cried? Did He really just want to show He cared? Had I underestimated Him? Or was He just worried about the shrieking harpie He thought I'd turn into if He didn't fix the situation fast? Maybe it was just that He'd just cleaned His interior and didn't want me tracking mud on it. I never asked him, so I suppose I'll never know.

Shimmering Nights

2009-01-18T06:42:00.000-08:00

We had one class a week together, and no one there knew we were dating. I found this slightly disappointing, but thought it was probably a prudent measure. This was a model UN class and in the spring the whole class would be going to the conference. It would be particularly awkward if we ended up on the same team and had some rift.

Since this class finished after dark, He inevetibaly drove, and then would give me a lift home. One night, after this class, He suggested that we get a drink. I didn't actually feel like drinking that night, but I agreed anyway because there was no way I wanted to turn down time with Him. He stopped and thought for a minute-He had this way of posing when He thought, keys slightly raised, head cocked to the side. He said "I know where we will go. You've probably been there before, but its nice anyway." He always seemed to want to go places I'd never gone before, and truthfully it wasn't hard. Not driving in Big City and being a very cautious person, I'd only ventured out a few times with my friends, and that was usually for shopping excursions or as a way of getting to know the city on our various "tourist days." So, despite the fact that this fairly famous hotel and bar wasn't far from where I lived, I'd never been.

It only took us a few minutes to get there, and I remember feeling a bit like a small child being taken into a strange and wonderful house museum. There were gorgeous antique carpets, dark and heavy braziers and lamps, and curtains everywhere. I'd been to turkey about six years before that and it was my favourite place on earth-this place felt the same. Someone greeted us near the door and led us out to a table in the garden. There were huge trees and plants surrounding us. They sat us at a wrought iron table with a drinks menu and left. I was enchanted. It was dark, but fairy lights twinkled from the greenery giving the garden a mid-summer night's dream look. Being a fairly small person, I tend to get cold very easily. I wrapped myself in my coat, until He stood up and turned on a heat lamp.

I don't remember what we talked about that night. I do remember that He was a bit surprised when I ordered a coke. It took Him awhile to get used to the fact that I rarely drank and almost never when I was tired. A the time I was in the process of doing an independent study with a flaky old professor, taking a more than full course load, working half time and seeing Him. I was always tired, and generally just a little bit more than stressed. He asked if I would have rather done something else, and I vaguely got the impression that He didn't understand what the point in getting a drink was if one didn't get a drink. I was a bit frustrated that He didn't understand that, not only was I happy to just spend time with Him, but I was amazed and enchanted by this place. We probably settled into some philosophical discussion. He was always dabbling in philosophy and had read quite a bit. Although it took me awhile to really gain the confidence to debate with Him, I was already set on the path of becoming what I am today and had a much broader understanding of the topics we chose than I gave myself credit for. It took me almost a year to realize that He gave me more credit than ever I gave myself.

About a month later, I'd had a very difficult day. The professor I was doing my independent research with had stood me up. As it was the spring, my job in admissions was probably busy as well, and I would have been in the process of proposing an honours thesis at the same time. But really, that day, it was my flake of a mentor who was really getting to me. I was incredibly frustrated. After having worked up the courage to ask for a meeting with this professor, getting my work and questions together, making time to meet him, taking off work and getting over there, he hadn't bothered to show up. I later learned that he did this frequently. He was only a year away from retirement and had some health problems, but at the time I just wondered if I was one of several students he'd decided weren't worthy of his time. There were rumours that if you got on the wrong side of him it could be the end of your project.

On my way home after the non-meeting, I got a call from Him. He suggested we get dinner at a little falafel place he knew of. I explained the situation and said I didn't think I'd be very good company, but He said not to worry about it-this place was very low key. I acquiesced and went home to get ready. A few hours later found me, sitting tensly in another garden. The falafel place was, indeed, very low key. A window where one went up to order/collect food, and a garden with potted plants, a trellis over head, more fairy lights and a fountain. I was so tired and stressed that night, but after I told Him about what had happened, our conversation wandered to other things. Halfway through the meal I suddenly realized that I not only felt relaxed, but that I felt happy. Ever since, that was the place that I wanted to be our restaurant. It wasn't anything fancy, but it felt like it to me. The garden and spicy eggplant had magical properties in my mind. We only went back once, and even on my subsequent visits to Big City, I've never gone back. It wouldn't be the same in the day time, and I don't know that I could bear it at night.

Tampering with perfection

2009-01-17T17:26:00.000-08:00

Charles has been sweet lately. Making an effort to phone more regularly and send more e-mails. Usually this turns into an empty promise, but its nice to see the effort. There is one fundamental problem that overrides anything he could possibly do, however and its probably what will end up rounding the whole thing out. When I came to Britain, I was only coming for a one year masters programme at a University where my discipline was founded. For various reasons that will become apparent later in The Story, I planned to go back to the states after the 12 month course. I wasn't sure if I'd be going back to Big City to be near my three good friend, or to another big city to be with Him, but I was planning to go back. Always a wanderer, I'd promised myself the chance to settle down with people I felt connected to. I wanted to stay put for a few years and really find out what it was like to call somewhere home. Instead, I met Charles in the masters programme, my reasons ended up disappearing and I had no idea what to do with myself, so I stayed for a year on an extended visa that allowed me to work. Two months in, I was so miserable without my academic interests that I said to hell with the fact that I hadn't gotten a first (sort of like a high A in the states) in my masters and I went to see a professor to ask him if he thought there was any way I could do a PhD. The wildly varying marks of my Masters had not just lowered my confidence, they'd convinced me that I was mediocre at best and had no business anywhere near academia. This professor, one who disagreed with me on most theoretical aspects looked at me incredulously when I expressed my fears about doing a PhD. I'd had a course with him with only two other students. They had sporadic attendance and never did the reading which meant I got plenty of one on one time. I figured that since my grade was two points away from a first he would tell me that I worked hard, but wasn't really anything special. Instead, he told me he was surprised I wasn't in a PhD programme that year. I went for it, spending hours after work and on weekends in the library refining a proposal. I'd been thinking about this topic during my undergrad degree, but its had proven too large and risky for the masters, and so here I am. My third year in Britain half way over and two more to go.

Despite having moved frequently to varying continents, I've never been able to really feel at home here. Perhaps it has to do with my intentions and state of mind when I arrived, maybe it is a deep-seated character flaw that manifests as a prejudice against many thing British (seriously? Cadbury's, freeze dried coffee, and potatoes at every meal? And what is with this stiff upper lip and denying that humans have emotions?) Either way, I've expressed to Charles my desire to leave after my PhD programme, and although he is amendable to the idea in the short term, he considers his part of Britain to be his home and wouldn't want to leave it permanently. I have no desire to ever return as anything more than a tourist, but I can understand his desire to stay. Unfortunately, I don't think Charles has processed the implications of this. I'm not the sort of girl who has relationships with short term intentions, and part of why I liked him was that he wasn't the sort of guy who indulged in that sort of relationship either. Either way, it will be a pretty pickle to sort out. One day.

But, that isn't why we are here. I've become acutely aware that the picture I'm painting of Him is unblemished, and while there is a reason for that it isn't that He was without faults. While we were together, I came to understand that love wasn't blind to faults. Love could be trampled on and irritated by and overwhelmed by faults....but love still carries on with that unstoppable depth of feeling.

His faults were incredibly painful to me. He stood me up so many times that I'd even begun to associate a certain shirt with Him not showing up. Sometimes, He was just several hours late. Other times, He just got distracted. I'd have spent over an hour getting ready, at first relieved that He wasn't on time (eventually I learned to plan to be ready about 20 minutes after He said He'd be there) and then I'd start to get worried. I never called Him when this happened, I waited in silent anguish. Weather it was a desire to not be a nag, or a sense of dignity and self-respect, there was some part of me that said I would never show disappointment in this instance. My roommate disapproved, and I understood that. If the situation had been reversed I would have disapproved of anyone treating any of my three best friends that way. I'd generally end up crying, hours later when I realized He really wasn't coming. I could see His car park out front out my bedroom window, and those nights I'd leave the window and curtains open, crying until I fell asleep-fully dressed, tissue crumpled under the pillow. Eventually I'd wake up and go to bed properly, cold with swollen eyes and crumpled clothes.

Much later in our relationship this dynamic changed somewhat. Although there was the odd night where this would happen, usually He'd eventually turn up. Often, He'd planned to go out with me after stopping by a party or event with friends He didn't think I'd care for (or that He didn't approve of me being around, but that is a story for another post). He'd end up getting lost in time, sometimes drink too much. Later He'd phone me very late and ask if He could stay over instead of driving home. I loved that. The fact that He drank too much when He was with certain friends bothered me. It worried me to no end and made me very seriously question the relationship, but the fact that He didn't want me around those friends, the fact that I was who He turned to...I liked that.

He was also a very private person about odd things, and terrified of commitment.

I kept tabs on Him. I'd been through a hellish relationship before Him with pressure, platonic relationships with other girls that went too far, frenzied confessions from my boyfriend and just general drama. I could handle being stood up three or five times a year, and even His abominable lateness-a trait I tolerate in no one else. But, one mis-step in the drama direction and I doubt our relationship would have lasted the hour. After a few months I learned to trust Him in this aspect. I realized that He really did care about me and took our relationship seriously and that his privacy had more to do with maintaining an identity that was independent of the relationship than it did with keeping secrets. His fear of commitment came from this, and from watching His parents divorce the first couple of months we were dating, and from seeing His father control His mother for years before that. Its a hard place to come from, and I often suspected that His tardiness and absence at times were a way of asserting that He wasn't in a relationship like they had. Or perhaps He was just inconsiderate.

So lest you get the idea that everything was picturesque, remind yourself of the above. I frequently did, and the me of today would probably have walked out of this relationship very quickly. Although I now understand the faults that love embraces, I've come to realize that no matter how much of a reason there may be, a person who isn't ready to commit to showing up for a date and mean it probably isn't ready for me. That said, I wouldn't trade falling in love with Him for anything. As I'll explain later, there were many reasons I had to reflect upon why this probably wouldn't last, but I always maintained that I would never regret this. And I haven't.

Is this getting serious? The divorce talk.

2009-01-16T07:47:00.000-08:00

Before He went home for Christmas, He'd mentioned that He had some family things going on, but that was all He said. I didn't read too much into it, being far too preoccupied with falling in love and whatnot. About a month after He came back, when we'd been seeing each other regularly two or three times a week, I presumed we were basically a couple. It was a bit of a revelation to me that these things sort of developed on their own, rather than being forced or planned. He, however, must have been worried that there was ambiguity, or perhaps He was trying to make His feelings clear. For whatever reason, He suggested that we take a walk together. I agreed, slightly curious. We ended up sitting on a wall not far from where we'd started, when He said He wanted to talk to me.

He started by awkwardly telling me that He didn't know if I'd realized it, but His parents were going through a divorce and He wasn't quite sure how He felt about it. I was shocked by this, flattered that He'd shared something so obviously private, and a bit disappointed that He hadn't had enough confidence to tell me before that. We'd had a number of conversations while He was at home, about our relationships with our fathers. About how we rarely knew what to say to them, and how they were always in the living room or kitchen waiting for us in the morning when we went home, and asking us questions they'd asked thousands of times. We shared the same bafflement about how to relate to them, frustration with the questions and a touch of sadness that we didn't know how to dig a bit deeper into these relationships. Neither of us felt our fathers had any hobbies that would facilitate conversation, so I was surprised that He hadn't shared the fact his mother had suddenly announced she was leaving his father with me. To my 21 year old mind, the two were on the same level. Whatever I said, however, must have been something close to the right thing, because as our relationship progressed, He started asking me for advice in similar situations.

The divorce, however, wasn't the only thing He wanted to talk about. He also embarked on a very awkward "status of our relationship" conversation. In the end, He concluded by asking if it was ok if we continued to take things slowly, and indicating that even though He had no intention of making an issue of it, He'd really like it if we decided not to see other people. I tried to keep my cool and not exclaim about this development with glee. In all truth, I'd not contemplated seeing other people since He'd returned to Big City after the holidays. There had been the possibility of something with someone who is a good friend now, but for various reasons, that fell through.

I was ecstatic about the 'officialness' of this development, but a bit concerned about the way it had to be articulated. Did that mean all of the things I presumed had just evolved weren't true until they were articulated? I, of course, analysed the whole thing to death. Fortunately for my roommate, I kept most of these musings between my journal and I. After that conversation, I don't think I ever really relaxed about the relationship. There was something in me that always wanted a bit more clarity and definition, and something in Him that wasn't quite ready to give it. In all honesty, I was prepared to wait until He was ready, and so that was what I did.

Cucumbers in the park and bubbles in the dark

2009-01-13T17:04:00.000-08:00

I've been working on this post for awhile now and somehow, nothing seems right.

He got in touch a few days ago, leaving a comment on some photos I'd posted to my food album on facebook. I replied, suggesting we finally get around to that conversation that He suggested several months ago when I was moving. I haven't had a response. I had a big deadline on Monday, I've been in full hermit mode. I'm not a normal hermit, but what I prefer to call an urban hermit. I wake up slowly, have a leisurely breakfast. Check my e-mails and contemplate doing some work. Then I have a shower and put on a stupendous outfit, even though there is at least a 60% chance I won't leave the house that day. And contemplate doing work. Eventually I work my way out of the house to wander around. I go to one of the 3 villages scattered between mine and Big City Britain and lose myself in anonymity. At some point, I meander my way into a cafe, usually after I've explored the charity shops. Then I work; in a cafe full of strangers I generally find that groove I need and I'll look up two hours later and realize I should probably vacate the table. Now that the deadline has passed, I've got a lot of reading to do, but various meetings indicate that the term is about to get into full swing...but before that....a few of my early dates with Him that have been haunting me.

I don't remember exactly when this date happened. It must have been just after the First Kiss. Anyway, at some point He asked me if there was anything I'd like to do. As I mentioned, I was very self-conscious about the discrepancy in our pocket books, and I felt the pressure of this request acutely. There are times when one's older self wishes it could gently stroke the hair of younger self and offer wise counsel, but I doubt anything anyone could have said would calm me. After a few days, I came up with an idea. I have a full fledged adoring love of cucumbers. I'll eat ordinary supermarket ones happily, but cucumbers grown in Georgia (the country) are the best I've ever had. They are small with dark skin that sometimes has small round blemishes...but the taste is amazing. Fortunately in Big City there was a Russian district where one could procure a number of interesting things. Amongst the seedy bootleg video shops there were several excellent bakeries, a couple of Russian groceries and a shop selling these cucumbers. It must have taken me close to 5 hours to get there, get the cucumbers and get back. I didn't drive in Big City and the bus system there still leaves a lot to be desired. When I had my cucumbers I proudly called Him up and invited Him to go for a cucumber pic-nic. I'm pretty sure He thought the idea was incredibly lame, if not completely nuts, but He played along anyway and picked me up, driving me to a park with roses growing in it near our campus. It was a gorgeous day and I was wearing a skirt and sandals, my favourite combination. He very chivalrously declared that they were the best cucumbers He'd eaten as we perched on a rock making awkward conversation...and then He suggested He drive me home and that we do something later in the week. I told Him I'd walk home (I'd done this the day of the Denny's date as well, and its something He eventually got used to) and agreed to a date later on. Sometimes, I think I just needed the time on the way home to daydream and package up the memories.

Later that week, I'd just spent a day when I should have been studying and money that should have gone to something practical, shopping for 'date' clothes with my flatmate. You see, I tend to wear nice little cotton tunics, skirts, sandals/tights and boots and cardigans. I'm your classic little librarian. Of course, I've also got knee high black boots...but I didn't have any of the clothes that fit into that 'date' category. You know, casual, sort of sexy but in a way that isn't trying too hard...not to mention cute and feminine. After an odd day of trying things on I had a whole pile of new date clothes. He called and said He'd MADE RESERVATIONS at a sushi place and was 7:30 ok? I was already getting ready before we finished the conversation. No one had ever taken me anywhere that required reservations and in my mind it was hugely romantic. Not only that, be I was pretty sure He'd picked sushi because my parents were living in Japan at the time and He knew I missed it. When He arrived He suggested He should go and change because He felt under-dressed next to my pink trousered and black shirted self. He wasn't. We headed to the sushi restaurant where we drew pictures on our napkins and talked a little nervously while waiting for our food. It was suddenly so apparent that this was becoming real. Later on, He watched, aghast as I loaded wasabi into my soy sauce, eating it like candy. It took Him about 10 minutes of me giggling and saying go on to build up His courage before he realised this place had really weak wasabi.

That was the first night He took me back to where He lived. Don't worry, this isn't about to get seedy. We listened to music, He showed me where His plant lived and I admired His M.C. Escher posters. We hid under His comforter listening to Thievery Corporation and I got home very late that night.

Several months later, we were talking on the phone at night. He lived several blocks away and I was feeling a bit down that I hadn't seen Him that night. I'd gone outside to blow bubbles, despite the fact that one didn't venture out in the dark in Big City. I mentioned what I was doing and He asked me if I was crazy...and I said "No, you should come over bubbles look amazing in the dark." I was a bit surprised when He showed up ten minutes later and watched, mesmerized as I blew bubbles barefoot. At night, they reflect the light differently, like tiny iridescent fairies against a black velvet background. I doubt He recalls that night now, but at the time I remember thinking that I'd shown Him something He'd never seen before. It was a big confidence boost for a girl who was worried she wasn't clever enough or cool enough for this Man who had taken an interest in her. I think He showed me something I'd never seen before that night, that one of the most impressive things a man can do is let you see that you can be amazing too.

Its a funny pain

2009-01-05T10:14:00.000-08:00

I think I'll jump ahead a bit in the story. You see, at some point during January I suddenly realizd that He was happening and I started writing in my journal maniacally. Three or four times a day. I would even sneak off to the library for more peaceful time to write. When things eventually ended writing was so painful. I'd end up in those non-stop body wracking sobs, unable to stop until sleep took over. I've yet to get back into writing the way I did before Him. Maybe I never will, but I hope its just something that needs more time.

Anyway, fast forward a few months. Things were going well when one night we had a long talk (not unusual for us) and he confessed he was worried I wouldn't get along with his friends. You'll recall the party I didn't go to, and that he was friends with the unnamed guy who got kicked out of our class. Don't get me wrong, his friends were interesting, entertaining, polite people-but He displayed the same snobbishness I had and worried I wouldn't get along with them. I never did feel quite comfortable with them. I always felt a bit like a little girl, invited to play with the older bad-ass kids, but many of them were nice to me, often making an effort to come over during parties and talk to me individually. Several of them raved about my food and would turn up if He and I were hosting a dinner party. I love to cook, and this kind of shy praise suited me. On numerous occasions one of them pulled me aside to tell me how much He liked me, how I was great for Him, how much He'd changed since we met. I glowed.

Don't get me wrong, taking a shy, anti-social goody two shoes and mixing her up with the cool kids was never seamless or straightforward, but I always felt respected by his friends, and I almost began to think of myself as one of them.

I guess what has moved me to reflect on this is the week I spent with Charles, at his dad's house, seeing his school friends and visiting their old haunts. There is something about this that always manages to jar me into a shaking screaming, terrified, ashamed mess. I'm rarely spoken to and when I am, its usually some unflattering comparison between Brits and Americans, sometimes its questions about what I do. All to frequently its a lecture or reprimand. Just thinking about it makes my heart beat faster. I'm not cut out for small towns, I've known that since I was seven, but I never realized just how much it all got to me. The most terrible thing is that when I try to talk to Charles about it he springs into action, defending is friends, claiming I'm reading too much into it all, that its in my imagination, I'm paranoid, mean-spirited or a snob. Maybe I am, but no one else has ever made me feel so small and maybe, just maybe it wouldn't hurt so much if he didn't take their side.

Needless to say, I'm relieved to be back in my little flat in Big City UK, but I must confess to missing Big City USA. I've resolved to bury myself in work for two weeks, but in the back of my mind I'm contemplating how I can get away for awhile. Or maybe just find my own friends.

Christmas Conversations

2008-12-22T13:28:00.000-08:00

Finally, a new installment.

While He was gone over the break, we talked daily. Sometimes He didn't call until late, forcing me with my morning habits to stay up until the wee hour of 10:30. Sometimes he called in the afternoon-but everyday was the same. We talked. For hourse. I'd never been a phone person. I tend to form relationships slowly, in person over long leisurely cups of tea or slow cooked meals. I don't have a lot of friendships, but the ones I do have are deep, complicated webs of love. These conversations, however, were different. He asked-about what I thought about religion, politics (hey, I study politics!) the course we took together, my childhood. Everything. He asked and he shared. I learned about his childhood past time of carrying bowls of food into his back garden to eat on a ring of stumps and pretend he was a bear. I heard about the experience of groing up in a family that wasn't religion but with a father who came from a family of devout Muslims. I told him about moving around the world, about the friends I made, the strange things I'd eaten and the way I'd kept journals. I told him what it was like living in the Bible Belt, abut my favourite southern foods and my cajun heritage. He told me about eating huge middle eastern meals during holidays when his dad's huge extended family gathered and about visits to Mexico to visit his mother's sister who'd married a Mexican man.

How could He not want to pursue a relationship when He came back? We had some in common, we had some not in common, but we meshed. I got flutters when my phone rang, dashing downstairs out of my apartment building into the dangerous night of big city to talk where I had reception. By the end of the second week I'd dropped so many calls, phoned him back so many times and gone so completely over my minutes that something had to change. I earnestly kept e-mailing him, waking up halfway through the night to type long philosophical e-mails and then going back to bed, hardly remembering what I'd typed the next morning.

I'd thought we'd have nothing in common, that at most this was an intrigue that would last two weeks. I was too scared to even think of falling in love. Because, there was a before. A very dark and painful before. As we talked, it became increasingly clear that I needed to tidy up before if I wanted to allow this fever to invade me. At some point over the holiday, I got a box in the mail from before. Before had been gone for a year and a half-but he'd mailed me a box including a scrap book I'd made of before, letters I'd written, journals I'd kept and allowed before to read. I sorted. I read the journals and wrapped them carefully in tissue paper, tying them with ribbons. I arranged everything neatly in a box. I didn't need to destroy before, but I need to confront it and put it away and that is exactly what I did during my long days alone over that holiday. I spent sleepless nights composing emails and holding heated conversations, but my days were calm reflections with two or three songs on repeat. Before is a long subject and one that isn't the topic of this project, but before wasn't wrapped up as neatly as I'd hoped-something I wouldn't discovr until a few months later, but for now-I calmly wrapped up before in the day and was restless at night-watering the plant, talking, writing and waiting.

The love that friends teach

2008-12-15T02:40:00.000-08:00

I shouldn't be blogging right now, not writing on this little back corner blog that isn't read and that I don't have time to properly propel into have an audience. I should be doing any number of things; going to the library to stock up on books, working my way through the last of the essay marking, getting myself dressed, tidying the flat. But I'm writing this.

I'm afraid this isn't another chapter in the story about Him. Well, not a chronological chapter. At the moment he is dating a girl who seems reminiscent of me. She isn't terribly sexy or overwhelmingly outgoing-but she is clearly intelligent and stimulating. She looks fun and nice. I try not to let that get to me.

I think it would be a lot easier for it to not get to me if things were going well with Charles. Instead it seems like I'm the only one with spectator status to the train wreck that is our relationship. Every time I scream in horror and cover my eyes, he speeds up. Its even more frightening that he is comfortable enough with the relationship to articulate his inappropriate expectations. Yesterday he said he thought he needed a live in girlfriend to make him get dressed and do something. Then his dad increased the pressure for me to bring my parents to stay at their house for the holidays. The parents I'm trying to build a closer relationship with who I'm going to be able to be with over the holidays for the first time in five years.

Throughout the madness of their expectations, I find myself relieved. For once, I know that this is unreasonable. I know that it doesn't mean I'm doomed to spend my life as a cat lady if I don't want to be the fulcrum that hauls a lazy ass out of bed or because after under two years of dating I still want time alone with my family. Its such a relief to know that its ok, even if I don't always manage to assert it.

The almost surrreal thing, however, is that I didn't learn any of these things from Him, or Charles or any other guy. I learned them from my friends. The ones who really taught me about love. The friends who move in and out of my life as I need them, but I still know are there. Throughout all sorts of illness and familial challenges, not to mention financial hardship, these friends expect nothing of me but that I love them and show them that when they need it. And that, is exactly what they give me back. Nothing more and over the top overwhelming bullshit. Nothing less with its flakey irritating habits.

Sometimes, when I want to procrastinate, or when I'm feeling a bit lonely, because lets face it one boyfriend and his father isn't enough to keep you from drowning in lonliness in a foreign country-sometimes I read True Wife Confessions. I am truly always left with a sense of wonder, because those that are happy have the same love that my friends have for me and those that are sad don't.

That fateful Christmas break

2008-11-26T09:11:00.000-08:00

Right, so back to the chronological part of this Public Art Project.

A few days after The Kiss, our University ended its fall term for an almost month-long holiday. Although I'm not Christian, I'll succumb to popular nomenclature and go with Christmas break. At this point, my family was living in Japan and the three and a half weeks making up this break just didn't really justify the cost and jet lag of 'going home' so I'd be in Big City for the break. My emotions regarding this issue are complicated but I'll summarize by saying that I wasn't particularly dejected since Christmas had never been of particular importance to me and while I certainly miss my family, we tend to connect well despite distance.

He would, of course, be going home for Christmas. He lived about a 7 hour's drive away and I now know He had mixed feelings about that return. Although He hadn't told me yet, his parents were going through a divorce and He was uncertain about how His extended family would deal with the upheaval. Unlike me, His family made a huge deal of Christmas and He had fond memories of lots of food, aunts, uncles and cousins all gathering at his house. I didn't know any of this at the time and my thoughts were primarily concerned with how our relationship (was it even a relationship? I had no idea!) would either pick up or take off after He returned.

A couple of days later, He called me (inner shriek of joy!) and asked if He could stop by. He'd told me about a plant that He was incredibly proud of having kept alive for several months now. It was probably the first time He commented on his belief that it was the sort of things 'real people' did. He brought the plant over, and asked if I'd look after it while He was away. He stayed for awhile that day, sprawled on my Japanese cushions on the floor that we (roommate and I) used instead of the sofa. And then He left.

I danced around elated. The plant meant He would see me after the holidays, that we would talk and that this wasn't just some three date fling. I was terrified of killing it and determined to make sure it looked healthier and greener by the time He was back. I even dusted the leaves. And He called every night He was gone-we talked for vast tracts of time, much to the detriment of my cell-phone plan. That is He called every day until one day, I lost signal (this happened daily), started to phone him back and couldn't. I got so frustrated and angry that I threw the phone at the bed...and changed my cell phone company with huge expense for breaking contract. Because I was out of minutes I lied to him and said I'd broken the phone by throwing it at the wall and therefore couldn't talk until my new one arrived. I didn't want Him to know I was out of minutes and couldn't really afford the extra cost of going over. I was still ashamed of how little money I had at that point in my life and was never sure how money should figure into dating relationships. The prospect of paying for anything at the end of a date terrified me lest I offend the chivalrous types. Not paying made me feel like a horrible free loader, although, most of the time, I couldn't afford it anyway.

Those phone conversations? They sealed the deal on everything that was important.

The Oxford Universities in my life

2008-11-25T08:59:00.000-08:00

A lot of people in the blogosphere (I'm not sure I like that word) write posts about how they are so thankful for the things in their life that didn't work out. At the risk of messing up my hairdo whilst riding that bandwagon, I think its time for a new installment.

I'm a real bona-fide Ph.D. student now. I suppose it is everything I expected. Stacks of books, lots of ideas and more than a few overly-long lunch breaks spent discussing things with my fellow PhDers (I do like that word). Today, while discussing an impending conference we are organizing, one student mentioned a friend of his doing a Ph.D. at Oxford. I refrained for spewing forth the bitter hatred that sometimes creep up when I think of Oxford, and I listened. Small aside: I love the city of Oxford. I like many books published by OUP, I'm not particularly offended by the existence of the University or the fact that one might attend it. Its the Oxford attitude, in a single and neat nutshell that upsets me. To attribute this attitude solely to the University would be unfair-it is an attitude that has been cultivated by years of class division, elitism, misconceptions about education, nepotism, the media and partial mis-understandings of pride and confidence. Aside over. The young man studying at Oxford attended the same Master's programme I did and has a similar meta-theoretical and ontological viewpoint to me. Those are big fancy ways of saying he is radical, unorthodox and unconvinced by the application of Science to the social world.

Since I didn't start on my tirade, I was able to listen as my colleague explained his friend's misery. Although he managed to win a place at Oxford, he had now come to regret the decision because of the utter derisiveness that escaped the lips of anyone who heard of his project. He was personally insulted for choosing to work with certain theorists, and the form that the insults took were juvenile-he was called a 'wanker' and asked why he didn't just 'fuck off with his Foucault.' This isn't the first I've heard of such treatment. Another friend also has a colleague doing something similar at Oxford. While she hasn't been called names, she does feel isolated, lonely and unable to engage critically with any of her peers.

I suppose the reason this is relevant to this story has to do with the fact that I even applied to Oxford. Even though, I'd known how terrible it was for cutting edge IR for years. But I wanted to go there, all because of the Oxford attitude. Since moving to the UK, I've grappled with newfound pulls to be persuaded of my intelligence based on my marks. I've suddenly felt the need to impress people with the name of my institution, rather than quietly go about my interests. This all came to a head with Charles. Charles did his undergraduate degree at Oxford. Granted, he went on to perform less well in the same Master's programme that I did. He is miserable in his current job and has no idea what to do about it. But for some reason, I felt myself increasingly being drawn into his Oxford Attitude. Everything-from why he got hired to why people should want to hire him seemed tied to the fact the he 'went to Oxford'. I suddenly felt my confidence undermined-it didn't help that he spoke to me regarding my ideas and most of the things I was passionately engaged in with disdain. Somehow, in this PhD application process the advice given to me by genuinely interested professors faded away. I wanted Oxford-not so that I could go there...to be perfectly honest, I couldn't really imagine myself enjoying a D.Phil, but I wanted it to prove I could go. To prove that I was good enough for Charles.

That was the first letter that came. It was a small envelope, and I knew what that meant. I'd gotten my first small envelope from Berkeley. For reasons I won't go into now, I've always been thankful that I spent an afternoon crying over that first small envelope rather than four years crying at the wrong University. I cried about the Oxford small envelope too. Great big dramatic sobs. I sat on the floor of the new house, downstairs in the cold front room and cried. "What about when he comes home and I have to tell him?" I sobbed to myself, and instantly the sobbing stopped. I'd heard what my head said to me. When he came home I quietly told him. Not because I was sad anymore. I was suddenly thankful that I wouldn't have to make the choice between the big name that would get me a job and happiness and integrity. I was quiet because I was afraid he'd take out his Oxford Attitude and my new-found reassurance that I needed to be somewhere more cutting edge would disappear. He didn't say much that night.

A few weeks later, when I'd been accepted to two schools and was trying to decide between them, the attitude came out again. I asked what he'd decide, and he said "I'd go to Oxford." It felt like a punch in the stomach. I tried to inhale. I think we fought. But it really didn't matter anymore. He'd finally shown me what it meant to go to Oxford. I was so shocked by the fact that he'd say something like that to someone who'd just been rejected. I understood. Going to Oxford meant the big name, but it didn't mean compassion, understanding, creativity, intelligence or anything else. Those came with the person, and if I'd chosen to give a little in the area of my passion, if I'd been accepted and in return accepted the Oxford Attitude, I wouldn't be me. A few weeks later I took a trip to America and happened to stop in and see a former professor. I was planning to make a decision after talking to him about the other two schools. I mentioned the Oxford thing and said "you know, I didn't get in and I realized I wasn't that upset about it, but I don't know what I'm doing really." He smiled at me and said "you know more about it than you realize."

I've had my doubts before. About Berkeley, about Oxford, and even about Him. I've been thinking about Him a lot lately, and I keep hoping, that one day, I'll understand that he is just another Oxford University in my life.

The Kiss

2008-09-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

It feels dangerous. Working on this while Charles is in the next room. He isn't likely to stop playing whatever computer game it is at the moment. Not without the promise of food, and I've already fed him. But it still feels dangerous. I'm not sure any more what we should be doing on a Friday night. I just know that worrying about laundry and sitting in separate rooms of a messy house aren't what I'd choose to do with my semi-free 25 year old Friday nights. Don't get me wrong, telling this story is not a way of saying its what I'd like for my life to return to. It was a wonderful time, but I'd hardly like to stay there forever.

Back to the date. Yes, I thought it was over too. We finished our beers and left, but he didn't take me home. Instead he suggested we walk. Considering we did not live in the nicest area of Big City, he decided we should walk on campus. So we wandered. I twirled. We didn't hold hands. We walked and talked. I don't remember being cold, but it was December, so I must have been. That is probably the first time he said, sympathetically, "don't be cold". He asked me if I had any gum. I went on and on about how I'd had some earlier that week but didn't have it with me. Once again, I completely missed the clue. Eventually, we ended up sitting in the stadium seats surrounding the baseball field. It had started to rain, and a couple of people were batting in the rain. The lights were on and the rain shimmered down through the lights, down into the darkness. Eventually, the two people left. He put his arm around me-the first real physical contact we'd had. And then he kissed me. I know, it sounds cheesy. All of that magic with the rain and the darkness. Honestly, I was torn when he'd taken me up there. I didn't know if he was trying to find a way to break off this casual dating thing we had going, or if he was going to kiss me. I figured if he didn't kiss me it meant the thing was over and I could forget about that whole love thing that must have been half a bottle of beer talking.

But he kissed me. My mind stopped. And then it started again. He waited three dates, almost three weeks. He made it special. He was good. Love. Danger. The whole thing left my mind racing and I can't remember most of my thoughts. He walked me home and I think I giggled and screamed to my roommate as soon as he was out of earshot.

That date was shortly before Christmas break, and I knew he'd be going home for several weeks. To say the next morning held a lot of apprehension for me would be an understatement.

A mechanical bull?

2008-09-05T05:50:00.001-07:00

Despite the fact that breakfast went amazingly well (we talked non-stop for about three hours), I was sceptical. He had been late. And he had house parties. And, well he just didn't seem like my type. Whatever that was. I knew he would call me again, but I figured we would have three dates, at the most, and then I'd be back to enjoying my nice, neat, single life. Our second date escapes me at this point. I know that it did not involve drinking or kissing, mainly because I remember the third date in vivid detail, because it was the first for both of those, with him. He'd phoned me to suggest that we go for a beer to discuss books. Somewhere along the way, I'd told him that I liked Belgian style ales after my stint as an exchange student there was I was 15. He'd been impressed and relayed his fascination with the idea of sitting around, drinking nice beer, and discussing philosophy. This was before I'd gotten into reading much philosophy, so I was pretty intimidated-but things were going well so I figured what the hell?

I wore a shirt that was completely out of character for me. I'd found it in this odd little clothing store, full of China's less than finest for about $5. It was a rainbow fade design with puffed sleeves with bows and had a pink and blue beaded pattern on the front. All of that was very me the fact that it was synthetic, however, had me wearing a tank top under it to keep a distance between my fragile skin and the icky feel of polyester. We drove to an area of town I hadn't spent much time in and He started looking for parking. Supposedly. I later found out that he'd been looking for a sports bar and drove around in circles for about 15 minutes before giving up and taking me to a bar/club with a mechanical bull. Please remember, this is in Big City American, not the mid-west or the deep south. While there weren't any cowboys to be found, there were plenty of girls, sipping cosmos at the height of Sex In the City, wearing short frilly skirts and pink or red cowboy boots. Periodically, one of them would make sure her boobs were tucked securely into her tank top, hand her drink to her friend and go for a free ride on the bull. Guys would surround the bull-ring, enjoying her drunken exploits.

I sat with Him at a table on the other side of the bar. The music was too loud, and I had no idea what was expected of me in this place. We somehow managed to get drinks from a waiter and started talking. About halfway through the first beer, I suddenly realized that I might be falling in love with Him. I didn't really want it to be true-it just seemed so inconvenient. I had no idea where I was going after graduation, but it probably wasn't back to his small town while he sold real-estate with his family. I didn't want anymore messy break-ups, I didn't want to have to decide between love and career and most importantly, I wasn't sure I had ever completely and fully recovered from the breakup with my first boyfriend. Oh sure, I'd dated...but was I ready to actually feel something other than painful embarrassment, boredom and the desire to be elsewhere?

Inevitably, sometime after the first beer, I got up to go to the bathroom. At which point, He, not knowing me-ordered me a second. When I came back the look in my face must have said it all because he rather endearingly asked if it wasn't too presumptuous of him. I tried to be graceful in my already semi-tipsy state and figured what the hell. I drank the second beer.

The Beginning

2008-09-05T01:33:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to the sound of the gunshot in my dream. Several friends and I were at a party hosted by people from a foreign place. We wore colourful clothes to blend in with our hosts, and did our bests to stay on the good side of their ultra-conservative beliefs. Unfortunately, one of the guys mistakenly accepted the offer of a homosexual liaison behind the toilets. It didn't matter that the offer was made in a language he didn't understand, or that he wasn't homosexual, or even that we were in a country where homosexuality is not punishable by death. Un-recognizable faces, surrounded by colourful clothes-hot pink, bright green and gold pulled him away from us and shot him in the forehead. I woke up sweating, horrified at the blatant disregard for human life, choice, sexual freedom, or even cross cultural understanding. I rolled over to see what time it was. I could hear my alarm in the back-ground. I thought it must have just gone off. It hadn't it was already 5 minutes past the time I normally walk out the door. I frantically yelled at Charles that we'd overslept. His alarm is much louder and goes off about 15 minutes after mine. I keep mine quiet to allow him to sleep, but apparently he hadn't set his. He lingered in bed, lateness couldn't shake him from his routine of dozing for as long as he pleased. I got dressed frantically.

In the end I was only 20 minutes late for work. Not that it mattered. No one but the receptionist saw me come in, and she has no idea what time I'm supposed to be at work. One the bus, I thought about Public-Art-Project. Would I tell this story from the past? Or would I weave it in with the hair-raising fodder that is my life? I know myself though. I can never keep the day-to-day out of my writing. Its just too integral to my mood and how I compose. And really, this day-to-day that I'm living now? It all started with the story I'm telling.

I went to a major university in big city America for my undergrad degree. The big city was glamorous and dirty, full of wealth and freaks. I loved it. I made the three most fantastic friends a girl could want my first year. We were assigned to the same campus housing apartment and we really hit it off. I went through ups and downs the first two years-a strange non-health problem, thought to be cancer but then diagnosed as panic attacks, breaking up with an abusive, much older boyfriend, competing for and getting a slot in a summer internship programme in Geneva. By the end of my second year, I was doing well. I'd moved into private housing with just one of the girls. My parents were living in Japan, so I had an awesome summer vacation two years in a row. The first semester of my Junior year, I was single, doing well in classes and enjoying life. There were a few possibilities for boyfriends. Yes, possibilities as in they'd made the shortlist and only needed interviewing. One was an incredibly angelic looking boy who was visiting from a foreign school. The school I ended up doing my masters at. He had thick curly locks, long eyelashes and gorgeous eyes. At least I think he did. He was only in my class for a few weeks until he dropped. We spent most classes in semi-darkness staring at a projection screen and he didn't seem to notice the day I turned up in short white shorts and a man's button down with decidedly rumpled hair. I thought of it as my sexy woke up in someone else's bed look. I figured he might think it made me look cute?
My other two possibilities were in the same class. It met once a week for several hours in the evenings and was to be a year long course. One of them had great curly dark hair (seeing a pattern here?) He had awesome eyes and sometimes looked at me in class. (I know!) He was also semi-rebellious and wore band t-shirts. By mid-year he'd been kicked out of the class for failing to attend. I had perfect attendance, so that probably should have been a clue.
My third option? Well, he wasn't really an option. He was friends with curly guy number 2, but he came to class more often. He kept staring at me, and I'd later find out that he'd made a lame attempt at flirting with me by asking about my fountain pen. I probably gave my typically verbose response about left-handedness, a trip with my parents to Prague and quick drying ink and left my reading of the situation as him being interested in my pen. Because, really, who isn't interested in why someone else uses a fountain pen? A few weeks before Christmas break, he started poking me on facebook. Facebook was pretty new then, so while it was probable that he was flirting, it was not the hard and fast rule that its become today. Days later, he invited me to a house party he was having. I was not the sort of girl who went to that sort of party, and it still had not crossed my mind that he wanted to get to know me. I wasn't so experienced in this whole flirting thing, seeing as my first relationship had gone on for four years and mainly evolved via distance. Fortunately, He was persistent. He called me the morning after the party to ask why I hadn't come. Unusually enough, I'd decided to sleep in that day and he woke me up. I was a bit embarrassed. I never slept late. I also didn't have any good excuses for why I'd avoided his party. Somehow "I'm not that kind of girl" sounded a little rude to my groggy, just awoken brain.
He asked me to breakfast. I started to clue in on the fact that something apart from odd staring in class and a mass party invitation might be at work here. I said yes, not quite realizing why and begged a bit more time to get myself dressed. Probably lying about still being in bed. The friend I was living with frantically consulted on clothes. I wore a light blue polo shirt I'd bought in Geneva. It was tight and didn't have buttons. I pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and sandals. I think my hair must have been straight, because I remember him asking about it being so long, and I doubt I would have worn it down if it wasn't at that point. I wasn't used to this direct method. I didn't expect anyone to a) like me or b) actually do something about it. He was a few minutes late, but breakfast? It lasted several hours.

Denny's would never be the same, and neither would I.

The Middle

2008-09-04T02:03:00.000-07:00

It hit me. I've let it all happen. Mountains and molehills, dreaming about what never will be, believing, deep down. With all of the others, I knew they weren't right. I know him better than he knows himself, and it was obvious nothing before would last. The sexy girl with the glamorous taste who made him feel as if he'd finally become a cool kid? She wasn't sensitive enough. The one he easily found his evening groove with, cooking-discussing-being relaxed? Her religion would keep a distance between them. Or maybe it was his absence of religion. All of the internet finds? Well, he wasn't serious was he? And neither were they. This one? It has that same urgency as us. The passion, thrill and excitement. She writes well-and obviously reads. She is honest but not overbearing. She knows how to keep distance but draw him in. I knew it as soon as I read his email. The chronicle of his life that he kept so carefully guarded from me when we were together but that he hasn't changed the password for in three years. It isn't me he has been slowly trying to re-capture with those lengthy philosophical e-mails. Its her. He isn't free to finally converse with me because he is wondering about lingering feelings for me. Its because he has convinced himself that the end of our relationship was not a mistake. It took him two and a half years, but he has done it.

So what about me? A woman who digs herself into a relationship she doesn't believe in and lets it continue because she doesn't have to courage to say it isn't right. A woman who still reads his e-mails even though its been over for two years now. A woman who should have everything right now but still struggles daily to make sense of how to find that elusive place I never wanted to leave. A woman who hides from life by reading about lives she scorns. What about me?

I am my project. I can never be more honest with myself than when in an anonymous public forum. I can't tell this story in pictures, so I'll tell it in words. I will judge myself and the people I surround myself, I will examine my life.

Charles left the laundry everywhere again. He pulled me closer this morning, trying to get me to linger in bed but I turned it down. I got up and just as soon as he was awake I let him know I didn't like the way he'd stuffed the towel behind the radiator. I hate being a grumpy bitch. But I also hate feeling like he thinks the situation we live with is ok. I'm not sure if I regret the relationship or not. I knew going in that I probably wasn't being honest with myself. That who was I kidding-a man who wanted a farm and the quiet of the countryside probably was a bad idea. No matter what the sexual chemistry was like. But it was easy. He was comfortable. And he was easy. When I'm really rational about it, I know that we have needed each other this past year and a half. That I needed stability and support, that he needed whatever it is I've given him. There's been so much of it, I guess I should know what I've given him. It feels like most of my soul, but I know that isn't true. I know that when I have a little distance my soul will spring back to life like some sort of dry sponge, suddenly given water that causes it to grow, expand, become flexible and regain its vibrant colour. That's right. When I get some sponge water I won't mind so much about the towels.