I had hoped that simply pressing the "New Post" button might trigger something deep within my currently dazed mind, urging me forward into a new and deliriously eloquent world of blog-writing, but apparently that plan has turned out to be a complete and utter failure.
So, I turn to the familiar realm of anecdote. As soon as I figure out what I'm thinking in the present, I'll try to slot that in as well. But for now, let's pretend it's the Sunday before Christmas, and the Collective Consumer Oragnism is out in force, and it's been a long day of toil and surprisingly good vegan chocolate cheesecake, and come 5 pm when the doors are shut, the employees cavort about the shop floor, singing terrible 80's hits over the paging system or, more practically: "Those of you needing to be coralled, meet me on 1st." To which myriad sheepish cries respond and the thock of uneven footfalls on the silenced escalator increases. It is honestly like a cattle yard some mornings. But enough. That's the past, and what comes next is still the past, but at least marginally closer to the present.
After books had been scooped from their unlikely resting places and returned from whence they came, and the schedule for the following day had been appropriately relabelled with a variety of literary characters and Star Wars robots, I was tempted into a drink with some colleagues before I caught my bus home. The drink(s) in question were highly enjoyable, more on the merit of intelligent conversation than inebriation -- although I'm sure it played some part in the proceedings. The fact of the matter is this: however many lovely people I meet throughout my worldly travels, only a small percentage of them are brainy -- at least to the point of geekdom in which I have been raised and have grown accustomed to.
France, for all it's charms, could only offer apologetic smiles and vague hand gestures compared to the haven of discourse I now find myself in. There, it was mostly stilted exchanges in which I violently accosted passers-by in the Place de la Republique and demanded to know the way to the beach in a very loud voice. Whilst thrilling in it's own way, this cannot, I am afraid, comapre to my current environment -- which actually allows me to make terrible puns about Sylvia Plath's designer range of ovens.
So, at the ripe hour of 7:15, I sallied forth to the bus station in the bitter Cambridge cold, convinced that I could catch something headed for Haverhill by 8 pm at the latest. It is important to note, before I go on, that I recieved a lift into town that morning -- and consequently recall the very moment I decided not to put on extra layers and return to my room for a pair of gloves. So I found myself at the bus stop, 20 minutes past seven, slightly tipsy, and saw that my bus had left ten minutes prior. No trouble. Another 10 minutes, another bus. And yet...Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Land of interminable bus-waiting and inconvenience. The next bus came at 9:10. I was going to have to improvise.
Having had the forethought to charge my mobile -- an action I very rarely accomplish successfully as I'm just so unused to having one -- I rang home. I figured at least speaking to someone in a country where Christmas is synonymous with 86 degrees of sunshine and glee might keep me warm. This proved true only for a limited time. I chatted happily enough to my mother, attempting to avert the numbing cold of the metal seat beneath me by sitting on my uniform -- which is not of the most robust material in the world -- and occasionally smacking the palm of my hand against my thigh in a desperate bid to raise warmer blood to the surface. I imagine I must've appeared quite mad -- though considering my final situation perhaps this might be classified as a rare moment of lucid sanity by comparison.
News of home only kept me safe for 25 minutes or so, after which I started to seriously fear for my health. Suspecting shock and hypothermia were not far away, I left the embrace of the bus "shelter" and backtracked down Christ's Lane to a nondescript vent in an otherwise featureless brick wall. Indeed, the only thing of note relating to the vent itself was that it happened to be issuing forth a certain amount of tepid air. And this is how, in a desperate attemtpt to save my life, I could've been discovered in downtown Cambridge of a Sunday evening -- pressed face-first against a mid-wall grille, discussing citrus on a cell phone and pausing occasionally to utter a violent stream of expletives about my personal body temperature.
Of course, when the bus did finally arrive, the heating was broken. And when I finally disembarked in Horseheath, the mist had frozen across the pavement into a treacherous patina of icy death -- which very nearly sent me ass-over-teakettle when I attempted to start running for the safety of home. Finally, after goosestepping my way quickly (though cautiously) through the centre of the village, I made a final desperate sprint across the gravel of the drive and through the back door to the kitchen. Hardly pausing to fling down my belongings or greet the other members of the household, I began rapidly shedding articles of clothing whist powering up the stairs until I arrived before the shower, devoid of garments, and flung myself into its heavenly mercy with abandon.
And yet, relief was not that easily attained. I am sure you are all familiar with the sensation of pins and needles, but I really and truly hope none of you have had cause to find a name for the sensation of having gone through pins and needles and out the other side. As my hands and feet burned with the fire of a thousand plasticine suns (Forgive my absurd imagery, but that really is the best I can do to describe the sensation) I managaed to execute a delicate tango of temperature adjustment which eventually left me relatively stable. At this point I ran a very hot bath and proceeded to lurk in it for the next 20 minutes, occasionally surfacing for air and feeling rather like one of Squornshellous Zeta's self-satisfied mattresses. I might even have taken pause to globber gently, but I can't be quite sure. To be honest, it's all a bit of a blur after that.
But at least I can assure you that I did survive, and now, back in the land of the Present, which will soon be filled with the presence of presents (Forgive me), I have just about reached the end of my rambling capacity for this evening. Or morning. Take your pick. Which I suppose means I should wish you all a very happy Christmas indeed and bugger off to bed like a sensible human being. For the first time in a long while, I won't be working tomorrow -- and what's more, there will be cake.
Oh, and wink murder. That's good too.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Thanks For The Cheer
This Blog arrives courtesy of: My mother, for reminding me that it exists, and Philip Hansel, for bolstering my ego and persuading me that it might be a good idea to update once in a while.
So: Cambridge says "Hello," as do I.
The wind keeps blowing from across the Atlantic, the sky keeps trying to put on a good display when the sun hits the horizon around 3:45pm, the rest of the time it rains, and the chickens instinctively cruise the yard in separate factions, black and white, and I write more letters than I know what to do with, sometimes I eat crumpets for breakfast, most days it's tea and nothing more, I think about sailing, I jump on the trampoline and get very wet, I get sick, and then get better, I play Scrabble with my Godfather, I remember that somewhere in the world it's still sunny, I think of how quickly the last few years have flown by, I knit, I knit some more, I open the drapes, I close the drapes, I take the bus and read coffeetable tomes on tall ships and oceanic navigation, I dream about trying to moor longboats around luxury yachts with prehistoric alligators who are supposedly no longer hungry for the taste of sailors as my Captain spontaneously combusts for no apparent reason and doesn't seem too concerned.
See, it wasn't too wierd until that last one. I swaer it seemed perfectly logical while I was asleep. My dreams have been vivid and hectic these last few weeks, leaving me strangely satisfied when I wake up, knowing that I've seen my shipmates and my friends and the children I learned my ABC's with in some capacity at least. It staves off the feeling of being cut off. Some days are fabulous because I hear from someone on break in Ojai, someone traveling to the mountains in Australia, someone weathering the winter in France, dealing with potential in-laws in Washington, navigating the 5 down to Los Angeles, waiting for the weather to clear, studying for finals, taking a photo a day, heading off on a New Year retreat...Anything beyond the fire in the grate and the the rain relentlessly flowing down the gutters outside. Anything that reminds me of the family I've built up over the years. They're an amazing crowd of beautiful, lively, intelligent, silly people and I love them all dearly, perhaps I don't tell them enough. Driving me to write and tell them now from 8,000 miles away.
Alysia wins first prize for writing back to me on this leg of the journey. Her postcard and letter arrived today, carefully forwarded from home, full of sunny Australian news, making me dream of Sespe backpacking and Mount Brewer in the snow. But now is the time for some practicality. I begin work on Tuesday at Borders bookstore, earning minimum wage here, which sneakily translates to $10 an hour at home. Thank you, failing economy. With the money I earn I'll be able to finish my trip with cash to spare for a ticket North when the time comes to rejoin my precious sailorly contingent and live it up away from the hard for a change. I get to wear a shiny red Borders shirt and spend eight hours a day in the company of books. Lots of books. I should mention that the particular Borders I am employed at is the largest in Europe. Oh yes. Lots of books for me.
This is probably all the sensical writing I can manage for today. Slacking off on journaling for the sake of letter-writing leads to a surplus of nostalgic rambling, which unfortunately must be emptied before I reach critical mass and go super nova.
Other things, like holly and the distinctive smell of tinsel and London and trains and dresses and just remembering to breathe every day. Taking anew the farmhouse I remember from age 6, sitting in a vortex of bubble bath and giggling, hot water bottles, a little more tar off the Turk's Head each day, playing with calligraphic pens, helping to decorate the village hall in tatty cellophane, stringing ornaments 25 feet up a ladder, flashbacks to countless light hangs in countless spaces, Shakespearean Festival nights and where are they now? All of those power tools, interns, flats, crusted rollers, wads of gaff tape, baseball caps, memorized lines, bad Italian accents, tambourines, innocent crushes. Standing still as the world flows on around me. It gives one a strange sort of perspective.
Haircut here, frostbite there, new top, old pants, replacing shoelaces, knitting handwarmers, new handwriting, same news, remembering to wash my hands, forgetting what sort of cake I had for my eighth birthday, listening to the same music, superimposing different connotations, running home in the five pm darkness, could be any time of night for all anyone can tell, understanding the meaning of perpetual summer, resisting the temptation to run home and jump on the Lady and sail away, to book the next flight to South Africa and regain feeling in my fingers again, knowing I should head to the kitchen and defrost, but deciding just a few more words, just a little more thought, saying goodbye and hello to all these different parts of myself.
This is what the world is all about: Hello and goodbye. Goodbye and hello.
Just keep breathing.
So: Cambridge says "Hello," as do I.
The wind keeps blowing from across the Atlantic, the sky keeps trying to put on a good display when the sun hits the horizon around 3:45pm, the rest of the time it rains, and the chickens instinctively cruise the yard in separate factions, black and white, and I write more letters than I know what to do with, sometimes I eat crumpets for breakfast, most days it's tea and nothing more, I think about sailing, I jump on the trampoline and get very wet, I get sick, and then get better, I play Scrabble with my Godfather, I remember that somewhere in the world it's still sunny, I think of how quickly the last few years have flown by, I knit, I knit some more, I open the drapes, I close the drapes, I take the bus and read coffeetable tomes on tall ships and oceanic navigation, I dream about trying to moor longboats around luxury yachts with prehistoric alligators who are supposedly no longer hungry for the taste of sailors as my Captain spontaneously combusts for no apparent reason and doesn't seem too concerned.
See, it wasn't too wierd until that last one. I swaer it seemed perfectly logical while I was asleep. My dreams have been vivid and hectic these last few weeks, leaving me strangely satisfied when I wake up, knowing that I've seen my shipmates and my friends and the children I learned my ABC's with in some capacity at least. It staves off the feeling of being cut off. Some days are fabulous because I hear from someone on break in Ojai, someone traveling to the mountains in Australia, someone weathering the winter in France, dealing with potential in-laws in Washington, navigating the 5 down to Los Angeles, waiting for the weather to clear, studying for finals, taking a photo a day, heading off on a New Year retreat...Anything beyond the fire in the grate and the the rain relentlessly flowing down the gutters outside. Anything that reminds me of the family I've built up over the years. They're an amazing crowd of beautiful, lively, intelligent, silly people and I love them all dearly, perhaps I don't tell them enough. Driving me to write and tell them now from 8,000 miles away.
Alysia wins first prize for writing back to me on this leg of the journey. Her postcard and letter arrived today, carefully forwarded from home, full of sunny Australian news, making me dream of Sespe backpacking and Mount Brewer in the snow. But now is the time for some practicality. I begin work on Tuesday at Borders bookstore, earning minimum wage here, which sneakily translates to $10 an hour at home. Thank you, failing economy. With the money I earn I'll be able to finish my trip with cash to spare for a ticket North when the time comes to rejoin my precious sailorly contingent and live it up away from the hard for a change. I get to wear a shiny red Borders shirt and spend eight hours a day in the company of books. Lots of books. I should mention that the particular Borders I am employed at is the largest in Europe. Oh yes. Lots of books for me.
This is probably all the sensical writing I can manage for today. Slacking off on journaling for the sake of letter-writing leads to a surplus of nostalgic rambling, which unfortunately must be emptied before I reach critical mass and go super nova.
Other things, like holly and the distinctive smell of tinsel and London and trains and dresses and just remembering to breathe every day. Taking anew the farmhouse I remember from age 6, sitting in a vortex of bubble bath and giggling, hot water bottles, a little more tar off the Turk's Head each day, playing with calligraphic pens, helping to decorate the village hall in tatty cellophane, stringing ornaments 25 feet up a ladder, flashbacks to countless light hangs in countless spaces, Shakespearean Festival nights and where are they now? All of those power tools, interns, flats, crusted rollers, wads of gaff tape, baseball caps, memorized lines, bad Italian accents, tambourines, innocent crushes. Standing still as the world flows on around me. It gives one a strange sort of perspective.
Haircut here, frostbite there, new top, old pants, replacing shoelaces, knitting handwarmers, new handwriting, same news, remembering to wash my hands, forgetting what sort of cake I had for my eighth birthday, listening to the same music, superimposing different connotations, running home in the five pm darkness, could be any time of night for all anyone can tell, understanding the meaning of perpetual summer, resisting the temptation to run home and jump on the Lady and sail away, to book the next flight to South Africa and regain feeling in my fingers again, knowing I should head to the kitchen and defrost, but deciding just a few more words, just a little more thought, saying goodbye and hello to all these different parts of myself.
This is what the world is all about: Hello and goodbye. Goodbye and hello.
Just keep breathing.
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