The day of the decade

What do you want to leave behind in 2009?

3 Meat Lasagna

My great-grandma was well-known for her 3 cheese lasagna. With Alex and her family, it is 3 meat lasagna. Loving it.

For Tuesday -- Annabelle

On the Wednesday before Christmas, my mum-in-law bought the three of us sock creatures to make. She picked out a reindeer, Alex an owl, me a cow. I originally wanted an octopus, but they were all out, and a little bit of cow-country was calling deep from my soul. A cow made out of pink and black striped socks.

On Monday night, the three of us sat in the living room, the fire blazing, watching Top Gear and starting our respective sock creatures. It was delightful to have a needle and thread in my hands again. I made the body, with stumpy legs, and stuffed it. Cut, stuffed and attached the short arms. Cut out the black heel of one sock, sewed and stuffed it impeccably as its snout; stiched a wry mouth in lime green thread; and attached two buttons for nostrils. Its tail sported a white felt tip to whack away the imaginary sock flies. Ears and smaller horns were attached to the top of her sock-toe head. All that was left were the eyes and the udders. My cow was a girl.

On Tuesday night, we sat round the fire again, with a movie on the television and only be picking up my sock creature. My cow was taking shape and I felt the udders should come next, before the eyes. Carefully a large circle was cut in white felt, along with four smaller circles, all attached in the same lime green thread. The button that came with my sock cow were four of the same shape, with one slightly more orangey than the other pink ones. I sewed the orangey-pink button as her left eye; the last pink one as her right--and there was Annabelle.

With each sock creature, there comes a birth certificate. Annabelle was born on just after midnight on the 30th of December 2009 to Erica Marie. She likes to curl up at night with her tail stuck under her nose, models her style after The Nightmare Before Christmas, and appreciates snuggles and hugs.

Monday Monday

• Finish editing Chapter 2
• Finish COA application, so I can get married and stay here
• Eat something
• NOT stress out
• Smile once in a while
  

For Sunday - Game Day

Uno Extreme rocks my socks.

For Boxing Day - A Day Around

I am a Christmas Pie convert.

For Christmas -- An Unknown Box

For Christmas this year, Alex and I are with her parents and brother. The day is filled with food, tea and the opening of the presents. Many presents filled in the space below, around, and extending beyond the gorgeously decorated Christmas tree! This year, I didn't ask for much, and what I did was useful or random or just plain fun: new clothes, make-up, books. From my own parents, I wanted them to focus on saving up money to come to our wedding in England in April. From Alex, anything she fancied. From her family, anything that made them think of me really. So, I was expecting eccentric, electic gifts--which is what I got, and then there was an unknown box.

There was a box without a tag. It was large, heavy, very box shaped. When I unwrapped it, I let out a cry of joy and lept up to hug Alex's parents: they had gotten me a sewing machine.

Since I moved to England in January, I have wanted a sewing machine. I probably would have purchased one before I left and brought it with me, but the power conversion is different. I said I would save up my wages from my first bar job here, and there were bills to pay instead. Before I left, I learned to quilt, started to make more things of my own. All year I've been dreaming of things to make, finding the perfect fabrics. And now I can put all the dreams into action.

For Wednesday - Mistletoe

At the Christmas Fair, Margaret and Harriet walk along the stalls, eyeing food and trinkets for sale. A girl selling mistletoe tied with red ribbons speaks to them.

Girl: 'Need some mistletoe?'
Margaret: 'We have some already. Thank you.'

Harriet and Margaret walk on to another stall. Margaret begins to ponder.

Margaret: 'Can I have your change?'
Harriet: 'What for?'
Margaret: 'A suprise.'
Harriet: 'I'm paying for a suprise.'
Margaret: 'You'll see.'
Harriet: 'Ok.'
Margaret: 'Now don't turn around.'

Margaret scurries back to the girl, who has a lovely smile and dark hair.

Margaret: 'Excuse. How much is the mistletoe?'
Girl: '1 pound.'
Margaret: 'I'd like one please. I said we have some, but it's at home and we're not there for Christmas.'
Girl: 'Here you go.'

Girl hands mistletoe to Margaret. Margaret pays and smiles.

Margaret: 'Thank you... Happy Christmas!'

Margaret wiggles the mistletoe into her pocket so that her hands cover any trace of it. She spots Harriet on her own walking up ahead on the cobbled streets with her back turned. Margaret scurries up silently and taps Harriet on the shoulder. As Harriet turns around, Margaret pulls the mistletoe out of her pocket and holds it up just above their heads, off kilter a little.

Margaret: 'Happy Christmas.'

Harriet smiles, softly giggling once or twice. She looks up at Margaret and gives her little quick kisses in the cool December air.

The Story of Love

So, I have a friend. A friend I think a lot about, and I worry for. I have a friend I think about a lot and worry for a lot. I also have a lot of love for this friend that I think about and worry for. I like to believe that when I'm thinking about my friend, they know I'm thinking about them, and they can feel my love. You might think that sounds a bit silly, a bit like a song on the radio, that they can feel my love, but I really believe it. I believe that we can send and receive love, especially miles and miles and miles apart kind of love, without even trying to send it or knowing in our logical minds that we are receiving it. Believing that I can send such love, especially miles and miles and miles apart kind of love, comforts me and so I worry a little bit less, silently loving a little bit more. I have no idea if it is working--OK, maybe the 'odd' instance now and again when simultaneous 'thinking of you' happens--and I wonder what would happen if the whole world believed that you could go on sending love to someone, without being with them or near them or spending any money or communicating directly via all our technologies. What if the whole population of the world sat down or carried on working or went for a walk, thinking of people they knew, believing the other people could feel their love? What if you did, too?

For Monday - A Holiday Town

When we roll our suitcases down the high street in London, we hear them, but we don't really hear them. The decible level on the street is to the point where having a conversation requires 'loud voices:' buses, cars, motorbikes, shopping bags on wheels, school kids laughing/fighting, mobile phone and mobile phone conversations, people handing out papers and advertizements.

When we arrived in Fowey tonight, we stepped of the garage to utter silence of the night. Then we rolled our suitcase down the road. The noise was almost deafening in comparison. I felt like we were disturbing the night, the peace. It was a coming home. And then we went in the house.

Yo Birthday

Birthdays are a funny thing. There's all the anticipation of it arriving, and then the pressure to the day. Given that Christmas celebrations tend to overshadow any glimpse of birthdays in December (gifts arriving on time, availability to attend parties, etc) I've taken to just celebrating the whole month. Whenever a package arrives, I'll open it.

This year we celebrated the day before my birthday this year, December 19th. We went out into central London for the day--brunch at Rick's, Clapham Common, Somerset House Super Christmas Market, lunch at Wahaca (oh, Wahaca, I love thee), Where the Wild Things Are at the Cinema, ending with the Brighton Gay Men's Chorus (with sister-in-law, Erica, performing too!) at the Barbican theatre. A fantastically long day.

Then I woke up Sunday to get ready for work and Alex ill over the toilet. For as much as I wanted to feel differently, for a slight moment, it was an anticlimax. And the day was still beautiful. After work, we went for drinks with two of my closest friends in London. Twenty-Five, 25. A quarter of a century.

It's My Birthday Weekend...

Feeling so loved.

A Snowflake Baby

Alex's mum just told me that on the day she was born, April 1, it snowed. The doctor didn't believe her when she told him it was snowing outside, patting her hand, but it snowed. Her little snowflake.

I think it's a sign.

Winter Song

To follow up from the snow yesterday, the radio played a cover of Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michelson's Winter Song. I very much like theirs better, and Alex put it on the first mix she made me for my birthday, when she was moving so far away across the ocean.

The song with background photage of the making of:

If you just want the song without a bit of commentary (but with random photos):

Happy winter...

For Wednesday - Snow

It snowed in London today. I was sat at a long computer desk upstairs in a high-ceiled, big windowed office in Belsize Park--a beautiful, quiet part of North London--when I looked up and saw the snow lightly falling through the small window, over the rooftops. I spun my chair around to face the wall of windows behind me and watched as the snowflakes fell larger and larger and the wind moved them in swirls to the black pavement. The snow did not stick to the ground, but melted. My heart, though, was floating and I breathed deeply as I smiled...

The first time I saw snowflakes that large before--the size of a quarter or a 50p coin--it was my birthday and I was turning 12. My friends from 6th grade were all arriving via their parents' cars, pulled up in the middle of the road, the snow quickly accumulating on the ground, parked under the yellow street lamp to unload overnight stuff, sleeping bags, pillows and presents. From that year on, it snowed on my birthday every year until I left home. And even then, there has been at least a light dusting on the ground when I've woken, if not more.

Sure, my birthday is in December and the likelyhood of it snowing is greater than say, if I was born in August, and yet, that first year of snow, heavy snow, on my birthday was the first time it'd snowed all season. Like magic.

I was so happy to see it snow yesterday that it could have very well been my birthday yesterday anyway.

Working 9 to 5

I'm volunteering this week at a non-profit org that would be really kick-ass to work for, and I'm volunteering basically 9 to 5 every day this week to get a feel for the place. Let me tell you, I'm already exhausted. I don't know how people do it--9 to 5, trying to make a living--but graduation is coming soon and I think I need a little more Dolly Parton in my life to easy the road.

For Monday -- Reading a Picturebook

Last night I read one of my new favorite picturebooks to Alex and our friend, J: Queen Munch and Queen Nibble. It went fantastically well, seeing as we're all in our mid-twenties, huddled around in our friends apartment. Their reactions were wonderful, and I also enjoyed the storytelling. It takes multiple readings and the accumulation of time to get the voices down just so. At a few points in the stories, the voices started to take shape: a little husky and boisterous for Queen Munch, hushed and a bit uptight for Queen Nibble, proud for the Important Reader, casual and laidback for Goodnurse Scrubadub. More readings are needed, but they are on their way.

Customer Service

I am really good at my job. Tonight I took deep breaths to take in the acknowledgement I was receiving from my boss: customers comment on how great I am, even when I'm not there. It's good to know I'm good.

Now if I could remember it.

Yesterday's Fortune

Yesterday's Chinese Fortune stick said all the stresses in my life would come to pass soon and I just had to hold tight and be gentle with myself. Damn if I ain't gonna try.

Friday the 11th of December

I love you because you love every part of me, even the ones I think no one should love.

One day, I hope I'll love me like that, too.

Bach

My friend Emily took piano lessons and horse riding lessons growing up. I was fascinated by this; either possibility had never really crossed my mind for myself. Emily would compete in Bach Piano competitions as we got older. I went to one, piled in the suburban with the rest of her family. Emily wore a black dress, I think.

For her 20th birthday, I got us tickets to go hear a Bach concerto at the San Francisco Symphony Hall. We sat in the highest balcony, leaning over the curved marble edge to peer down at the musicians, the vocalists, the harpsicord.

All throughout the concerto, I got lost within the music, wandered in the music, scribbling on my arm with a black ink pen: I had forgotten to bring any paper at all, did not know I would need paper to record--record...--the thoughts that came to me, the lines of poetry.

Lately, I have wanted to find myself in a symphony hall once more. I don't think I would have ever listened to Bach before without Emily. I miss both of them.

For Wednesday- Text

Let's just have a snugglefest.

Best Christmas Card Yet

Merry Christmas
and a Happy New Year
is what I should be saying.

However, I for one think that
"shibbang
bim bam
yeehaa"
sounds much better.

What do you reckon?

shibbang bim bam yeehaa it is!

For Tuesday - Before Me

orange gerber daisy
bowl of apples and oranges
one mini pumpkin

A Declaration

I want to be the boots to your rodeo.

Wasteside - Regina Spektor

In 2005 & 2006, I used to carry this chorus around with me in my head all day, singing it through the redwoods, pruning back plants while gardening, generally wandering about. Tonight, I am going to see Regina Spektor live. Wow.

---

I was sleeping by the wasteside of tomorrow
But its better than sleeping by the wasteside of today
All the barbershops and funeral-homes were open
And the customers were coming and the business was doing great

I was sleeping by the wasteside of tomorrow
Just dreaming dreams and drooling on my bed
All the people in my town would be born
Then they'd get themselves a little hair cut
And then promptly after they'd be dead

I was sleeping by the wasteside of tomorrow
When a drunk girl awoke me on the train
But I did not see her stumbling and I did not hear her mumbling
As I dubbed myself a passenger
And kindly stepped away

I was sleeping by the wasteside of tomorrow I was sleeping
I was sleeping I was sleeping by the wasteside of tomorrow
I was sleeping by the wasteside of tomorrow of tomorrow
Ladies and gentlemen
I was just sleeeeee-ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I was sleeping by the wasteside of tomorrow
But it's better than sleeping by the wasteside of today
All the barbershops and funeral-homes were open
And the customers were coming and the business
Was
Doing
Great...

My Mind

At 10:40 PM, I published "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." to my blog. At 10:41 PM, I was chastising myself for only writing "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." That's not the point of this blog, my mind says. That's not the point of this assignment, my mind echoes.

What is the point of this assignment then? To write something, one a day, and have it have a time-stamp so I can't cheat or fib or forget? It is to get me to write. I think maybe the moderns' would have quite liked my "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." It kinda reminds me of e.e.cummings (was he a modern?). It also reminds me of Holes. The sound effects in that book are great. (Yes, I do believe books have sound effects.)

You see, "squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy." it sounds in my brain right now. All the celebration and acheivement, the finality and question, the fatigue and countless tasks. You see, today I had my final class for my Master's programme. (Yes, programme, not program.) Today was the final class and, well, that is my final seminar/lecture class until an undefined moment, an unpredictable moment from which point I will return to the classroom. And to be honest, I hope it is when I am leading the class, not taking it.

Today I spoke with my dissertation advisor about continuing at my university to complete a PhD. A PhD. Never in my life, before 8 months ago, 12 months ago, 6 months ago, did I seriously consider that I, Erica Marie, would want/get/desire such a degree, programme, length of research. And yet, I do. I really do.

You see, I'm not done yet. I'm not done yet with this subject of books and words and love. I'm not finished reading about books and words and love. And, more to the point, I'm not fed up yet with writing about books and words and love. I may never be done. I may never want to be done. And this is a chance to continue that love, that investigation of the production, the creation, the telling of love. Of love, it's what I want to do.

Onomono-mind

squishy wishy wishy washy splishy splashy sploshy.

You asked me once...

You asked me once what it was like in my head. This is the first line of a poem I started heading up I-5 home again. Birds in the trees. Low sun over the valley's hills. You asked me once what it was like in my head, and this isn't the poem, but this is what's it's like.

I drum the edge of the laptop to Coldplay that has randomly come onto iTunes. My love sings along next to me, absent-mindley. She is doing her own work, too. I like the acoustic guitar.

I also like you. I've been thinking of you all day, off and on, around and about. Fingernails tapping on the laptop again. It seemed somehow appropriate today: the dark grey, the rain pouring down without warning.

I still haven't checked my bank balance. I don't have job prospects for January. I ignore these facts-falsities-facts and imagine other houses, other days, other conversations.

I think I'm starting to censor myself.

Photo & One-Liner

'If we have marriage and career plans, does that mean we're becoming power lesbians?'

and...

My pre-Thanksgiving left-overs fridge

Where I've Been

Wow. That is the first word that comes to mind in reflecting upon the last four days: wow. As you may have noticed, I've been gone from one a day for more than a day with Thanksgiving festivities. At home in California, there are three days of traditions. For my first year in England for Thanksgiving, there ended up being three days of festivities.

The actual day of Thanksgiving my mum-in-love brought out all the surprises after she joined us in London for the holiday so I could be with family. First, it was a bowl of Jelly Bellies and a plate of vegetarian sushi. Then, I was banished to the bedroom while her and Alex decked out the living room/dining room with fabrics, candles, potpourri, flowers and food. After that, while all the yummy food a la Marks & Spencers was being heated and the cava flowing, our front buzzer rang with surprise guests of J&E (Alex's sister & her wife) with their dog, Foxy, to top off all the surprises!! Warm, loved: such a relaxing evening with my second family on this side of the ocean.

Friday brought the baking: family recipes of sugar cookies and pumpkin pies. Attempted home-made hummus and planning for our first turkey roast the next day. I even got to talk to the family and all the cousins in California via the delightful possibilities of the internet (thank you, Skype!)

Thanksgivin' a la Tooting! happened on the Saturday with 16 of us (16!) filling out the 3 tables + chairs spread Last Supper style down the center of our living space: decorating cookies'; enjoying devilled eggs, wine and champagne; feasting on the intense amount of food provided; conducting the most stellar clean-up job I've ever seen from a collective group of people at a party; and playing games and chatting until the clock struck twelve.

Endless moments to be thankful for, countless people to feel loved by near and far, epic proportions of food to be relished over.

Mmm, the food. A one a day list to be drooled over:

• Delia's style turkey with butter, bacon, salt, Tony's Creole seasoning (not Delia style) and lemon
• Mashed potatoes with spring onions, butter, sour cream and milk
• Sweet potato souffle with pecans
• Southern Green Bean Casserole with home-made fried onions
• Cornbread
• Devilled Eggs
• Home-made hummus with carrots & celery
• Champagne, wine and sweet tea
• Nut-Vegetable Loaf
• Brie & Goats Cheese
• Cranberry sauce a la Britian
• Cranberry sauce a la Washington
• Hawaiian style stuffing
• Paxo stuffing
• Home-made sugar cookies
• Home-made pumpkin pies
• Ice cream, Double Cream, Cornish Cream
• New York Cheesecake
• Mini Mince Pies
• Chocolate Tart
• Bakewell Tart
• Tarte aux Pommes (Apple Tart)
• Citron Tart!
  

Accident & Emergency

'If we are A&E, then I think you are kinda more accident prone and I have more emergencies.'

(Don't worry--we're fine. More than fine, actually, we're celebrating Thanksgiving!!!!)one

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

Where I Go

I hear a voice say, 'You asked me once, where I go.' The voice, she continues. 'This is where I go.'

The hill slopes down from a ring of oak trees where cloth tents are nestled on the even ground. A natural patch of trees upon a hilltop, overlooking a field, overlooking a lake (it is hidden from my sight by the tall grass, and eclisped by the great red-brown boulder I am heading towards), overlooking the valley which slopes back up into hills covered in oak trees. This is the place where my soul is truly happy.

This place is a neverland, a meditative happy place, but this place is neither of those things. This field with its trees looking over, its boulder my home in the center, this is where I was truly happy. This place is a memory of where I once was as I planned to be in my happiest days, and it is where I return to when I am my most lonely.

The contrast between the joy of the wind across the tops of the grasses and the breathlessness of my being inside. They are interconnected. They are never without one another. I am never without the other in the reflection of tears, of water droplets, of rainy puddle days.

Dude, One a Day

Today, I'm just gonna go uncatergorized. I can't even remember which day it is with all the buzzing going on in my head.

When In Doubt

New Thanksgiving/Work mantra:

"Yams! Turkey! Pumpkin pies! Oh my! Yams! Turkey! Pumpkin pies! Oh my!"

Thanks for the inspiration, DS.

Hereditary Laughter

My g'ma has narcalepsy and it gets triggered by laughter: when something strikes her as really funny, she passes out. Some would consider this an unfortunate turn of events, given that her four children have an uncanny ability to tell a funny story and put her to sleep.

My memories of the family gathered as a young child (the oldest girl granddaughter I was usually alone and hanging out with the adults) was of someone telling a story that was obviously so funny they could barely contain their own laughter and then someone saying 'Oh, catch Mom!' or 'Catch, Grandma, quick!' as she tried to fight off the sleep and, ultimately, slumped in her chair. That said, she does wake up pretty quick and the laughter doesn't miss a beat.

Remembering just makes me miss her more. Thanksgiving is this week and ever year she hosts the epic feast in her living room turned restuarant come Turkey Day. When I missed Thanksgiving one year because I was living abroad before, she said she'd kill me if I ever missed it again. Thankfully, she's understanding this year, and as an honor to her, my living room too will become a banquet hall and, who knows, maybe it'll be a night where we all fall over in laughter.

Silly Little Girl

A week or so ago, someone I care about called me 'a doll.' It was a compliment of my figure and fashion. A phrase said in a loving tone. It ruffled all my bad feathers.

A few days ago, multiple people in one evening called me 'beautiful,' specifically or a variation of it. I brushed it off on good looks, decided it was the shallowness of people that drove them to such pithy comments. This was despite being told that it was not just my looks to which they were referring.

A few hours ago, I called myself 'a silly little girl.' How awful is that to say of my gorgeous, strong, intelligent 24 & 11 month year old self.

I've made these connections, drawn the line between believing in myself as more than a pretty face, a shallow object, and I want to cross to the other side.

For Friday - Trends

After a while, you start to notice trends about yourself, or other people start to point them out to you and make the connections. Or, rather, after a while, I've started to notice trends in my thinking and suddenly, as they're forming, other people are starting to point them out to me and make connections.

My reaction to other people feels a dichotomy of either/or: either it is an epiphany moment where "ah" I am making sense to myself again (through someone else's notice) or I reject their connections made as below me. Kind of a crappy either/or system.

What trends I have noticed, and others have pointed out to me, is that I am intensely interested in love. I am interested in love and I am interested in love relations to sexuality--and, as a subset, desire for as a result of that human sexuality. I am increasingly and intensely interested in love and sexuality. And it's seeping in, popping up, infiltrating all facets of my daily interactions.

It's fascinating. I love it. (See, it comes in everywhere.) Love, as a describable and indescribable being/feeling/thing, is something I wholeheartedly believe in, rally for, and consider and re-consider over and over. It is powerful and I don't ever want to stop thinking about it, feeling it, ruminating on it. Why would I?

At the Restaurant

"I love older lesbians...they give me hope."

Today & Yesterday

• I found a purple flower earring on the street I think would make a good pendant.
• I remembered someone wrote about me (positively) in an online review of the restaurant I work in, and that rocked.
• I slept when I needed to.
• I made a breakfast burrito for the second day in a row, this time not only with cheese but with potatoes, red onion and garlic as well.
• My neck hurts when I look down at my laptop or read too much; and I think I want to get a massage on Friday.
• I think I deserve a massage.
• Yesterday, I checked everything off my to-do list.
• I can't seem to help telling people that I'm getting hitched next year, or that my lover is going to be a Physician's Assistant.
• I'm proud of my lover.
• I found a motorcycle shop near my house yesterday on a walk, but I haven't told my dad about it yet.
  
• I found pick ribbon in my drawer today and I really like the color of.
• I keep wanting to spell 'color' as 'colour.'
• I figured out that if I pronounce words like 'address,' 'literature,' and 'weekend' differently, people who live in this country understand me more easily.
• When my father in law lived in America, he found this out too, and triumphed the day the waitresses understood when he said 'water.'
• Posy is my favorite sister in Ballet Shoes and Titty is my favorite in Swallows & Amazons.
  
• It's time for bed.
  

Because I've Been Writing All Day

"Try...peeling some basics carrots and slice each in half lengthways. Place in a large baking tray with whole basics garlic blubs, and mix in the zest and juice of a basics orange, placing the squeezed orange halves in the tray. Drizzle with olive oil and season with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Bake in a preheated oven at 200C, fan 180C, gas 6 for 45 minutes, turning the carrots halfway through. Serve immediately for a warming side dish with an autumnal twist."

- "Basics Garlicky Carrots," Sainsbury's

Clotheslines in Autumn

It is late autumn in London and storms have been blowing over the British Isles for days now. Weather being weather in ways I have never seen before. Today and yesterday came with a few sprinkles, but mostly sunshine and wind--and it is the wind that fascinates me. There is so much energy in the wind; potential, hope.

When the sun shone with the wind this morning one of my first thoughts was the ability to efficiently dry cleaning washed sheets on the line; sheets of cotton soft flannel, a delicate brocade pattern of white on ivory. Sheets for loved and visitors to snuggle into, wrap up in. I could dry the sheets in the house, on a stand or the radiator, but the smell is different, the texture of the fabric, the softness.

The image that never fails me is the clothesline of a house on the Irish bus I passed each day to university. Freshly cleaned family washes strung out for any kind of weather, relying on the wind. The property around the house went on for as far as I could see, a stone wall at the front separating the land from the road. My garden would have fit in their driveway by comparison, but I got a sense of the openness--the potential--as I struggled to pin the sheets to the line today, the wind dancing around me.

I Don't Know What to Write

I am sitting at my computer and I don't know what I to write. As I type I recognize that I'm hunched over enough to be stuck in a bell tower and pull myself up straight--imagine a string going from the bottom your spine through the top of your head--and watch my shadow rise on the wall. In my next incarnation of an office, I will have a desk lamp that doesn't blind me (so I can turn it on), the ceiling light will be bright and my desk will face a window so that most of all I can utilize natural light. That is, when the sun up. Although I wouldn't say that it necessarily bothers me that the sun starts to set around 4 PM when you live on any island just before Europe meets the Atlantic. Rather, it's just nice to have natural light for writing--the kind that lights with a gentle touch.

I guess what I want to write about is that in my lifetime, I have experimented with kissing first, and waiting to be kissed. (Reader: I don't know who you are anymore so please forgive any over-share you weren't expecting.) I'd say more times than not, I went for it. I dove in cause there were the signs: I was hot, they were hot, and there was probably dancing. And dancing just becomes more fun when you make-out on the dance floor. (Catholic grandmothers are all too good at predicting this; even when you're dancing the least sexily you've ever danced for your cousin's wedding.) I liked the cheeky nature of it all, the wanting.

Having written that, I don't know how true any of that is, having kissed first many a time. (Except that last part, that last part is definitely true. The cheekiness, the wanting.) I also don't know if it is true whether or not I've actually ever waited to be kissed. In truth, I'm not very good at waiting, for kisses or for anything. Which is maybe why it's more true to say that I have (and continue to) experiment with wanting kisses. (There's that want, again.) A game of patience, but not of waiting. Perception and a bit of sass are key; make 'em laugh, watch them walk away.

It sounds like I'm dispensing game advice, but you should never trust a narrator you're not sure of, maybe they should discuss more of kisses in Literature class than of narrators. But what I can tell you is that you should never trust the narrators you're not sure of, especially when they can't tell you what they want to write--or don't know what it is they want to tell you.

So I Won't Forget

• "I came to the conference for your workshop. There are not many people doing this research."
• "You had nothing to worry about!"
• "You are a novice compared to them, technically, but you did better than half the key note speakers."
• "I just wanted to give you a hug. Don't be nervous."
• "It was funny after my coming out looking back at all the books I read as I child and thinking 'Oh, that makes sense!'"
• "I heard it went brilliantly!"
• "Judy and I did some PR work for you."
• "I'd like to talk to you about your paper, and your poetry."

Yes's. BIG yes's.

Shift

Like a hand, wrist, elbow, shoulder switching gears, at a table. This, the sound effect I imagine in montage, looking back. The shifts in conversation: overlapping, seemingly mutually exclusive, perfect sense, deeper.

"Don't even think about the film 2012."

Instead, I laughed to myself and figured it's a good thing I'm getting married next year.

Shift.

Breathing. Consciously taking breaths so I can take in what you're saying. I've done well today; I took a risk and had everything to gain.

Shift.

"Are you catching the bus?"

"I only got as far as 'shoulders' really..."

Shift.

A child who follows you and an imaginary one who followed me; reminding me what self-worth does for a person (it's wonderful); blue eyes, brown eyes, blue whales.

Shift. Shift. Shift.

Occassionally, I try to make sense of the shifts and become overwhelmed with how to make meaning. Then I think about the connection deepening, without need of explanation. It makes sense, and I look forward to the shifting.

Old Message

'you're amazing
i never told you that
but now i am
and it's too late
g'night'


and then you were not online anymore...

Strawberries II

Part of the reason I like the scene with the strawberry so much is because of Alex. Our code word for "I really want to kiss you right now" is "strawberry."

In case you were wondering, we have a code word for kissing, but some people aren't down with two ladies exchanging kisses in public. I know, uncool.

Shh, don't tell!

Strawberries

I'm starting to write my dissertation and it's been a hard process to even start writing. I kept forgetting how incredible, insightful and subversive these texts are. I'll leave you with this "taster:"

"Queen Nibble chewed [the strawberry]. Her mouth filled with juice, the juice of summer and sunshine and silliness, a pink tingling juice that put pictures into her mind of balloons and wobbling red jellies and a best friend with a big daft laugh. The juice trickled down her chin and onto her palest dress, staining it forever in a shape exactly like a heart."

- Queen Munch and Queen Nibble, Carol Ann Duffy

Before Sleep

"And the angel said to her...
you shall call his name Jesus.
He will be great...
and of his kingdom there will be no end."
--from Luke 1

And my dream spoke to me...
you shall know her by her name "Love."
She will be great...
and of your love there will be no end.


----

another poem started...

Compassion

sometimes, you just gotta take it as it comes.

the brain, it's on overtime right now.

Tired

It's that tired that has you melt all over a chair. I mean, the tired where you don't even realize your shoes are still on after you've been sat down for more minutes than you can remember since you got home. Or the tired that when you do realize your shoes are still on, you aren't bothered to remove them for the effort it will expend.

Working on a Paper

"What I particularly love about the term 'graphic memoir' is that it not only refers to the coupling of pictures and words in the comic book form, but it also lends itself rather nicely as a double entendre for the graphic content of some graphic memoirs..."

I can't help but use the word "love" in my academic writing. I am also sensing a pattern.

Feeling Sick

'What do you want?'

'I want my girlfriend to say home and take care of me.'

Two cups of tea and an authority process later, she did.

List of Food I'm Not Proud Of

This is what I ate on Thursday:

• 1 bowl of Chocolate Wheatibix Minis
• 1 cup of tea with 1 and 1/2 spoons of sugar and milk
• 2/3 a medium KFC popcorn chicken
• 2/3 a medium KFC chips
• 1 regular size Pepsi
• 1 caramel chocolate
• 1 can of ginger beer
• 1 Snickers bar
• 1 Grande Gingerbread Latte from Starbucks
  
• 1/2 a dodgy hot-dog from Clapham Common
• 1/2 can of Scrumpy Jack
• 1 bowl of home-made, oh-s-good spaghetti bolognese a la Alex

No wonder I woke up feeling sick on Friday.

Looking at Myself in the Mirror

Less than a year ago, I was usually surprised by my reflection, imagining someone eight years younger. It was not a desire to look younger or a critique of my age, but an internal image I had of myself that wasn't quite up to scratch what she had to do in life.

Today I saw my 24 years, 10 months and 16 day old face. It was lovely.

You, Again

You, again. There are more than one of you. More than one of you that whispers in the wriggles of my brain, softly, as I carry out each day. You whisper, 'Look there, it's me.' You whisper, 'Click here, I'm saying hello.' You say, 'Read me. Notice Me. Smile at me. I'm here.'

You are always here, with me.

You say, 'Remember when? Isn't that connection neat?'

And you are not often speaking to me directly. Sometimes it is through a news story: a country, a topic, an opinion, a telling connected to you. Sometimes it is a smell, like ginger lotion as I get onto the underground train six thousand miles away from you. Other times it is speaking a word of you--that is not you--but something you taught me, something you told me, something I thought, so lovingly, of you.

I overflow with love for you. And if I was to tell each of you of my gratitude for each moment with you--even the times when we fought or struggled or didn't make sense, even those moments--if I was to tell you what each moment meant to me, that act, well, it might be far out of context, far from where we are and have been, and it would be my life's work.

In some ways, it is my life's work: the expression of a love for each of you that is so incomprehensible to my human brain that I can only imagine it. And when I do imagine it, it is first a love that encompasses our blue-green earth, then it rises as the warmth inside of me and finally the two dissipate and reform as one, my molecules here touching yours there and here and there at once.

You may not think I am speaking of you and I can not name all of you who whisper in the wriggles of my brain, but your words are there. Your words. You.

Why Drag

I have been thinking a lot recently about drag, gender, and performance--singularly and in varied combination. Trained academically to believe that gender is constructed, I am pretty comfortable with the notion, theoretically, that all gender is performance. What I put on the morning, how I react in conversation, my likes and dislikes are related to a constructed gender in which I have become socially accustomed to and which on some level I choose to participate in--or, rather, to perform.

Up until a few months ago, I felt that just choosing "how girlie" to be was my choice in the daily performance of my gender. In other words, how much pink or sparkles, how many dresses or tights I chose to wore was part of that performance. I also felt that the level at which I was engaging with this "socially acceptable girlie-ness" (pink, dresses, make-up, etc.) was attributed to how much "I wanted to play along" that day (i.e. if I wasn't "playing along," I was just in jeans and a t-shirt that fit me) or how much "I was displaying the performativity of gender" (i.e. if I decided to do my hair, make-up, nails, wear heels and multiple accessories with my skirt or dress than I was obviously "performing gender" if someone really knew me at all.) These beliefs are shifting.

Segueway to London Fashion. I have become increasingly aware of the fashion industry--what's in, what's out, who's wearing what--upon moving to London. Part of this is because London is a major fashion capital and it's around. Another part of it, I think, has to do with a comment from someone I met on London Fashion. They said "London doesn't have a look. Here, anything goes." That can be said of any city really to some extent, but I have yet to pin down a specific look--other than "anything goes." Yes, there are fashion trends that are ubiquitous (huge belts, leather, demin, purple is so the fall color), but in London you can walk onto the tube, down the high street, or into a bar if you've got the confidence to pull off "your look," no one bats an eye.

This freedom of "anything goes" has been infectous when all I have to do with walk with confidence to pull it off. Fluttering, I have attempted to dabble, fashion wise, in every "genre" you can think of (and much to my amusement in getting dressed each morning).

At the same time, my interest drag king performance has heightened considerably. I became interested in performing in drag a few years ago, but lived in Santa Cruz and then LA and never felt comfortable trying to seek out a scene to try it out in. London, on the other hand, appears to have all sorts of thriving performance communities--from burlesque to drag to dance/choirs/bands/you name it. I will admit the drag queen venues far out number the drag king ones (and by that I mean there isn't a "drag king venue" I can find) but I don't feel discouraged. Another shift.

What I am realizing is that these shifts in my beliefs about my daily performance of gender (female) and my desire to perform a performance to gender (male) are becoming more and more about choice and purpose and desire. Every day, I choose how to present "who I am" to the world I interact with, and that is not a static act. When that performance is a (conscious) choice (and it isn't always), I have a purpose to explore the creativity of that performance--the textures, the colors, the styles, the walk, the feelings. And, I have a desire to explore the performance of a gender other than my daily (performed, dyanmic) one: a desire which is not solely linked to gender or sexuality; a desire to unpick automatic reactions, learned behaviour, clothing.

Le Drag

Why Drag?

Because I can. And will explain tomorrow. But right now, I gotta get dressed for HALLOWEEN!!

You

(Is this the start of a Peter Pan series...? I guess my studies have seeped into my poetry)

Peter Pan had the kiss, a kiss all your own.

And maybe I was a Lost Boy, a lost boy.

Maybe it's not so surprising Peter Pan

was often played by a woman

on the stage; he needed her kiss.

Budding Mint

My mint plants got attacked by caterpillars this summer. Once I realized what was happening, it felt too late to stop it. And then I left home for 6 weeks and my plants in the care of a friend desperate for a green thumb. The Spearmint withered but held onto a few green leaves; the Pineapple turned brown and I put it in the corner of the garden, its pot and soil to be used again in the spring.

Sometime last week, though, I noticed the Spearmint had sprung new leaves--not my expectation as autumn is fast descending on the city of London. And yet, the little leaves are budding out wherever they can, including new shoots from the soil. It's as if fresh mint green is the must-have fashionable color of the season will all the work that plant is doing.

And then this morning, taking out the compost as you do, I stopped by my mint (and rose, for it's standing taller these days as well) and looked over into the soil of the Pineapple mint: little fuzzy two-toned leaves are climbing from the soil up. The entire plant previously resting above the soil is brown and dry, but somewhere, deep in the root system, something persisted. Something said, let's grow.

Ecofeminism What?!

"I believe...that creative, complex ecofeminist interpretations of literary texts should be able to enhance the growth of ecofeminist theory rather than wait for its development. In order for the project of ecofeminist literary criticism to flourish, though, it must become more responsive to its position at the intersection of two broad fields--ecofeminism and literary theory and criticism--and simultaneously draw from and contribute to both of these fields."

- Karla Amrbruster, "A Poststructuralist Approach to Ecofeminist Criticism"

Mrs. Darling's Kiss

beginnings of a poem:

You are not always a Mrs.
nor have you ever been
my Darling, it's just that I want
that kiss. Mr. Darling doesn't get
it. The children can't name it.
I only imagine it.

Daylight Savings Time

I got to work an hour early this morning. Not an unusual story for a daylight savings time morning, but I am glad I live close enough to where I work to come home for that hour and snuggle back into bed with my love. Which is what I did.

But damn, the day was long. And by 3 o'clock, I mean 2 o'clock, I was pooped. Plus, the sun was going down already. It's the early sunset that gets me. The walking home and it's already dark. The cool evening air moving in more quickly than my body has adjusted for. Just wait one more week, just wait one more hour sun, I'm just not done yet.

I've Missed

Saturday, but for very good reason. I was on the Jack the Ripper tour of East London in Doc Martens. I mean, how more London can you get?

An American Poem

...I hopped
on an Amtrak to New
York in the early
'70s and I guess
you could say
my hidden years
began. I thought
Well, I'll be a poet.
What could be more
foolish and obscure.
I became a lesbian.
Every woman in my
family looks like
a dyke but it's really
stepping off the flag
when you become one.
...

- Eileen Myles

Tonight

Tonight I was going to write about the children's novel I just read, Swallows and Amazons, that has me completely enthralled. I was going to write about the booby traps and forts my cousin and I made one warm autumn afternoon on the hillside down the ravine behind his house in the Sierra Nevadas. I was going to tell you about my adventures. But instead, I am going to turn off the computer and the desk lamp. Instead I am going to reach over and kiss my love's forehead as I shut off her side light. I am going to crawl in bed beside her and in turn put the room into darkness so that I can breathe deeply, feeling her warmth and knowing that right now that is more important.

Lullaby of My Childhood -- From a Cassette

Tell me why the stars do shine
Tell me why the ivy twines
Tell me why the sky's so blue
And then I'll tell you
Just why I love you

Because God made the start to shine
Because God made the ivy twine
Because God made the sky so blue
Because God made you
that's what I love you.

Singing

I feel there are two times of each day when it is not only appropriate to sing to your lover, but actually perfect in the scheme of the day: in the morning as they wake and in the evening as their eyelids fall drowsily. This isn't to say you can't sing to your lover all day long, but that those times are particularly intimate and besides, the rest of the day you can actually sing together if you like.

My repertoire of songs, however, feels sorely lacking for such romantic occasions. The only lullaby I feel comfortable singing in my range is "Tell Me Why" and while it is lovely, it is more for the little ones. After that, my mind goes to "Good night, sweetheart, though I hate to go...ba da-da da bump..." or the song they sing in "It's a Wonderful Life" as they stand before the old house with broken windows. I'm obviously not doing so great on that last tune particularly since I even had to look up the name of the movie...

The morning, though, I think I've got it. The right pace, the right tune, the right range, the right sweetness:

Good morning, good morning,
the sun is shining bright for you
Good morning, good morning,
to you!

Sometimes I'll just sing it a few times over, long enough to get a little smile out of my lover and a little wiggle in my step. And that's all you really need I think in those moments. Well, and the sun shining maybe...

Hair Clippings

Draft #1

Snip, snip went the scissors,
her brown short locks
falling to the floor.

Snip, snip went the scissors
next on my blond hair long
joining hers on the linoleum.

Standing side by side,
we watched the hairdresser
sweep up the pieces of our hair
to mingle together for all eternity
in the floor vacuum of her salon.

Fish, Fish

Working at a resturant every Sunday, there is a potential to serve a lot of fish--about 1/3 of the menu on offer comes from the sea. I, myself, have never been a fish fan, but I love me some shrimp it has to be said--although many people look at me in disbelief when I clarify my sea-meat likings. They just seem puzzled.

On my break today, at the restuarant, I read this article in The Times: Chefs grilled over fish menus.

Some 'Fish for Thought' really, and now maybe I'll have a response next time I get those puzzled looks. What's on your plate tonight?

Fruit, Fruit

James Bond

I think I really like James Bond for what I remember the movies to be. And can't decide if I want to be James Bond, M, or the girls.

For Thursday - The Wind in the Willows

"Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."

Ruby

Seriously, Ruby is staring to lilt, and look really pale. I think I have let my first (and favorite) cactus die.

I don't know what to do. Universe?

List of Joys

• Walking home from the shop, clutching the 12 pack of recycled paper toilet roll to my chest, and crossing the street, repeatedly, just to walk in the sunshine.
• Putting cinnamon in my afternoon hot chocolate to give it a little kick.
• An email exchange with a friend all morning.
• The warmth of the sunshine through the window in my work space.
• Figuring out that I could sit on the floor in my bean bag, positioning myself in the sun, and maybe warm up too.
• Breathing.
  

Out & Proud

On the bus this morning, I remembered that yesterday, October 11th, was National Coming Out Day in the U.S. and I thought, 'Hey, I should change my Facebook status to "Out and Proud" when I get home." Thinking, yeah, I'm out and proud and I'd like to say it out loud!

The afternoon carried on quite nicely out of the house and away from computer, tucked in a cafe and wandering the streets of a posh area of the city. I felt much different on the bus ride home, unlocking the door, plopping down on my sofa to wet laundry in the wash and the fading light.

Out and proud, I am, but I had forgotten what a privilege it is. To be young, have accepting families and friends, inhabit a privileged body with a girlie sense of fashion, fallen in love with someone of the same sex (and be able to be with them), to be out AND proud, or proud AND out.

So what am I exactly out and proud about? Four years ago I made the decision to come out to people I met: in passing conversation, an intimate chat, a budding friendship. My decision to come out--as a bisexual, a queer woman, a fluid human being--was based on a few decisions: a) I had just moved to a new country and was living in a totally new environment and I felt b) due to my feminine appearance (a conscious performance on my part) that I would not be read as 'not-straight' unless I told people and c) I had finally figured it out and I wasn't going to back track now. I was 20 then, and it was a year for learning, a lot of learning, much of which wasn't exactly pleasant.

The decision, though, became grounded in me and I have stuck to it, almost to a fault sometimes (i.e. conversations across a pub counter), in another new country which I now inhabit. In all understandable definitions then, I am out.

Which, in turn, makes me proud of myself, for my own journey. But it is a pride in which I do not feel 'better than.' 'Out and Proud' echoes other rally cries of joining together for the cause of equality or visibility or justice. All valiant causes to be pursued vigilantly.

I do believe that if everyone everywhere who was queer stood up and was counted, without effect to their current position or family or status, it would be something to be proud about--a truth told. But it isn't always that easy--or queer-forward, if you will. Coming out is an individual decision with its own story and its own journey, and this is part of mine.

Ruby, Milligan, Big Ben and Santa Maria

My cacti are dying.

Well, three of my cacti are dying: Ruby went pale and dry, first; then Milligan caught a bad case of vitiligo at his base; finally I noticed, Santa Maria, in all her squat, radiant glory, browning up one side. I can't say they are dying for sure--I am a new cactus mama--but there is definitely something amiss.

A friend says it is probably rot. She suggests cactus food and replanting them. I am to check the root in the replanting process, though, to ensure that it hasn't rotted. If it has, there is not much to be done, like lung cancer apparently.

I would more than happily go out and buy my cactus family whatever it needs, and indeed I have wanted to be the provider of such wonders as cactus food, but I have stopped myself from even looking. "Where in England am I going to find cactus food!?" my mind inquires while I let it get away with it.

I live in a city, a very large city, in fact, and one can get about almost anything here. Plus, I bought the cactus IN ENGLAND, after all. It was just a few days before New Years, a few days before my new life in London and I wanted a little piece of California to come home with me.

We named them in the car park: Ruby for her bulbous red head; Milligan after Spike: tall, skinny and wiry; Big Ben for being just the right height with a little extra on top; and Santa Maria, the spines are so dense on top that one sees brown instead of the body of green--basically, I always liked the name of the city as a child and somehow it just fit.

And now they are dying. Ironic somehow that the only one seemingly making it in our damp, English flat is the one named after an iconic piece of London. Maybe Big Ben liked the chilly air and the keeping moist after March. I hoped the desk lamp would warm the rest, revive them. I don't know how to have a cactus funeral.

Good Morning

'So did you sleep like a Chevrolet truck? . . . Like a rock?'

My Kind of Friday Night

Sitting with an old friend made new again. Sitting with her and my love, old beats and new beats from the laptop, the stereo, our voices in laughter. I wouldn't trade it for a pretty pub, a rich meal out, a walk in the rain. Just existing. Breathing. Dancing. Laughing. An old friend made new.

Gotta do...

'I was all excited right now cause I thought we could go brush our teeth and be in bed by a quarter to twelve.'

...what the missus says. I don't mind at all.

Two Sides of the Track

I'll walk one side.
You walk the other.
Reaching toward the center,
We'll find our way forward.

Spiders on the Rise

The Saturday newspaper the other week talked about spider numbers on the rise. I was going to write today about how I've become obsessed with the spiders living in my backyard, their intricate webs, the large bodies, and the simple co-existence of them and me. It is true, we do exist quite peacefully--me in the house, them in my bushes--however, I just looked at a few photos from the newspaper website of common spiders and, well, I've lost my nerve to write about them. Until tomorrow (if I don't have any nightmares).

What a Night

What a night: It has been two years since I had the where-with-all to slide into the dining room seat next to my love over a few dying candles and lean in just so. It was her that actually kissed me though. Which was perfect in my books.

Intoxicated from the wine tasting evening which we just attended at our favorite cafe around the corner, Ricks of Tooting, we are a merry pair. And one quick to turn off the computer in favor of more celebratory delights. The likes of which I will leave you to imagine. Good night and que suenos con los angelitos.

Writing Assignment

Dear One A Day,

Hello friend. I would begin by saying 'Hello Old Friend,' but I feel that would be a falsity. In fact, in the scheme of my 24 year old life, you are still a new friend having made a committment to writing to you every day just shy of five months ago on Wednesday May the 6th, 2009. Really, you are a new friend and yet I feel close to you. But today, I am owning that my committment to you has waivered in recent weeks.

It would almost be easier if you were a real-life person where the amount of unreturned phone calls or text messages were unrecorded and could slip past the scruntiness eye. But no, that was part of the cleverness of this committment: the blog itself would track when and how often I blogged. There is no fudging the deadlines online, where a computer controls your time stamps and the internet is your watchdog.

I do give myself some credit that the only time I dropped to 3 posts a week was during the final moments of my university coursework this summer, but those weeks of (7) during June and July just make my heart hum. And I want it back.

So, today, One A Day, I recommit to posting to you your dedicated daily dose of durges, your loving litany of lists, your horribly hokey haikus and especially your random rantings once within a 24 hour period, 7 days a week. Seven is our lucky number and Vegas is next, baby, you know it.

Love your faithful writer once more,
Erica

Back to School

Three ladies: one subject. It all takes place on a bus. With Keanu Reeves. But, it's not what you're thinking: University has not become a lame version of Speed. Long bus rides and a female voice keeps telling us where we are.

'Nowhere,' she says.

'You don't want to start from there. You want to start from somewhere else.'

'What kind of bus are we on?'

'One driven by Keanu Reeves.'

'Really? I thought he'd hit rock bottom after he and Diane Keaton split up, but damn.'

'Ewwww!! What?!?!'

'Dude, seriously. But I'd do her.'

'Yeah. Totally. Without the glasses...'

'Does anyone know which one of these quotations marks each of us is?'

'Does it matter? Maybe there's three people here. Maybe there's two.

Maybe there's just one.'

'No, no. There's definitely more than one.'

'Um, yeah, and the second one is struggling to think of anything to say.'

'That's OK. She doesn't determine the plot.'

'There's a plot?'

'You didn't bring it with you?'

'"I thought you had it." Cheesy movie joke.'

END SCENE

Fall, Autumn

I don't know how I know it's autumn in England, but I do. At noon time, on a Tuesday afternoon in my garden as I eat my lunch outside. I am here because it is sunny, not too chilly, and I know that it is autumn. There is the light, a certain mixture of smells, a calm.

This is new to me, never experiencing autumn here before, but I imagine it is the same sensory inputs that let me know it's fall in California. It is usually at dusk one early evening when I have happened to set out for walk and there is always wood smoke in the air. The smell of it permeates drifts above the streets and the light is lower through the trees. Their colors are changing too, but they alone are not the indication.

In my first literature class in college, I read a poem about an evening football game at a Texas high school, the fervor of the action, the setting of the scene. There were those in my section who had no idea what the poem was talking about. I said, to me, this poem is fall back home. The full moon rising orange over the eastern mountains, visible from the high school bleachers painted red and gold. The players and cheerleaders on the field below, the spectators bundled, chatting, distracted, the high school band playing.

A Work Day Complete

It was well past 9:00 PM before Alex walked into the guest bedroom where my office is and I realized we hadn't really sat down together yet. Been in the house together, yes, but not enjoyed each others' company and connected.

When she came into the bedroom though I wrapped my arms around her waist from where I was sitting and asked for time. I got it, although it's not for giving. I think is what it might be like; I like it.

To Do Tonight

• Exit Counselling for Student Loans
• Iron shirts and trousers
• Dishes/Recycling/Bin
• Unpack 1 suitcase
• Make a plan for tomorrow
• Check uni email
• Check gmail
• Eat pie
  

For Saturday - SoHo

'I'd spot you 20 quid for a taxi. I know you'd be good for it. Or you could write a few lines about me!'

London Home

The duvet is set,
lover snuggled in sweetly--
time for bed for me!

Traveling Haiku

I wait for the plane.
It takes me where I want to
snuggle back in bed.

Just

one more sleep for you now, and I'll be back in your arms.

Thirsty

My eyes ache and I have a thirst I can't locate. I wish the last part of that was mine, but I stole it from a poem. I'm tired and there are only so many things I can do in my limited time left in California. Like sit with my mom. Find time to talk to my dad. Pack. Enjoy the sunshine and heat. (I'm not expecting any of these things to magically appear in London when I return.) I'm ready, but, man, I'm thirsty. And there are dishes to do.

A Weekend of Joy and Tears

Without telling anyone in the blogging world that I exist in and around, I disappeared for the weekend, or that is to say, been erratic in my posting. Really, this is only me that I am accountable to since it was me that I assigned the daily task of writing. Partly, it was a lack of internet access. The other part was that I was damn busy, mostly getting rather teary eyed as one of my childhood best friend's got married to the man of her dreams. In a gorgeous dress. On a beautiful mountain. In the most joyous ceremony I've ever seen. I got to stand up there with her in a blue dress as one of her bridesmaids and boogie on the dance floor with her later. I also cried instantly with my first glimpse of her all done up.

Grateful. That is how I feel after witnessing everything. I also want to go buy a copy of The Holy Man.

For Wednesday--Tattoos

For a tree that grew out of a often scribbled drawing, a pair marked it down. A third joined the ranks in design, an iteration. The fourth with the mother tree. A fairy ring of tattoos.

Three of Us

There is something about hearing our laughter together again that sealed the deal. We haven't been in the same location, all three of us, since a time we can't pin point. Maybe Easter of last year, maybe Memorial Day. I swear there was a time in July you both came into the shop I worked in, but that would have only been for a few minutes (and free frozen yogurt) so does that really count at all?

I can't describe the feeling yet, but it's coming back. The familiarity, the rhythms, the knitting.

Tomorrow

I get to see my ladies. Two women who inspire me, laugh with me, understand me to a depth rare in this world. Words are not enough.

Grandma & Grandson

I hope he remembers this moment. Tan faced toddler in shorts a t-shirt, arm fully extended from reaching up to grasp the hand of his grandmother. I know her town, palest skin, white curly hair, wearing a pink house gown, staring up at the sky as if she is staring down the heat, concentrating. The little boy knows nothing of the heat, the street, shows only joy on his face. His fingers playing in his mouth, watching my ruby car as I drive by; me, thinking, I hope he remembers this moment.

Family

A bowl of fruits...

Wake Up!

• Seeing the strips of fabric sewn the wrong way.
• Cutting 9" instead of 3"
• The volume of the sewing machine at 11:15 PM.

Quilt or Sleep? Quilt or Sleep?

26NNW

Last night my father and I sat at the bottom of our driveway in Northern California looking south, waiting for the orbiting US space station and space shuttle to appear like comets in the 9:19 PM sky. My dad had gotten out his telescope that is as old as I am. We once tracked the orbit of the four visible moons of Jupiter with it one summer.

Last night we were staring at Jupiter again, in the summer sky, wondering if suddenly it would split into to two orbiting masses and not be Jupiter at all, but rather a station and a shuttle orbiting the earth. It showed no signs of movement. Our watches read 9:19 PM. We were beginning to wonder if we had gotten gipped.

Last night my mom came out of the house, said "Oh, you're both out here." She said, "The NASA website says it is 9:21 PM for our location. 26 something. NNW." North North West. 26 degress off the horizon line? We bolted off our concrete seats to our feet, made for the center of the deserted street (no longer staring into the street lamp in the South East) and Mom asked if that was the Big Dipper; it's so big, so close to the Earth.

Last night the space station and shuttle appeared above our front yard's aging plum tree as if birthed from the bright star it left behind in its orbital path around the Earth . The first was duller than the latter, but still we weren't sure we believed it was the shuttle, the station: so bright, so fast, so close. We waited to see if the latter, bright object orbiting the Earth followed the same trajectory we made note of as the first made its path across the stars.

Last night Dad said "Look, the second one is going over the same star." That must be them. Those must be them. Mom said "The website said we would only be able to see them for a minute. Other nights they will be visible for longer." Then the first one started to fade, as if going behind clouds said Dad, as if being beamed across the sky, Scotty, I thought.

Last night the latter object orbiting the Earth (The station? The shuttle?) faded just as the first had done, just at the same spot in the North North Western sky at 9:22 PM. All those employees of the US Government floating by, orbiting. Me, on the Earth, wondering how it is they don't get motion sick.

Monologue

What I am saying is I can feel the shifting in my head. Shifting. Like the driver who has been lying dormant in the passenger seat caught his cue and is pushing it into overdrive. No, overdrive is overused. No one thinks in car metaphors anymore. Oh, OK, I do, but that's because I miss my manual, stick, manual. Gah, too many languages all the same language.

Sometimes I don't know which would be easier, keeping my tongue or changing it out. It seems a rather painful process when I think about it that way--the tongue being the strongest muscle in the body after all--other times it just makes things so easy.

Don't get started on how many hours I spend on the computer. I don't have the patience. OK, you want to know the worst part? I like it. Not all the time, of course, sometimes I loathe it. But the speed at which you can work. It's invigorating. Like driving down a river road, the light through the leaves making it hard to see.

30 years

If there is an average of 100 kisses per day, that's 366,500 kisses per year. That means a million kisses would take 30 years. Cool.

What It's Like to be Home

As you can probably tell, One a Day has not been 'one a day' lately. There are a number of reasons. Not excuses mind you, but observations I've had.

First, way back in May when I started this assignment I changed the time zone setting on my account from PST to GMT. After all, I am now living in London full-time and not the West Coast of the States. However, since coming back to California I had forgotten all about switching time zones and was astonished to realize that as I was making my one a day deadline, it published as the next day, 8 hours ahead, as if I were in London. Lifeshock #1.

Second, I have no routine here. No empty house to myself, no set aside time to check my email, write, and blog. And can I just say, I miss my laptop. Ok, I not necessarily my laptop in particular as a midnight discussion with my love the other night proved I desperately need one that works, but the IDEA of a laptop. Freedom. Mobility. No back aches sitting at a not-computer-desk desk. (Which, I may also take the time to note, I don't have in either country.)

Thirds, it's busy here. People's works schedules. Family. Friends. All good, don't get me wrong, but not much time to walk in the park--or write on the computer. It'll be sporadic for a week or two, but I think I'll start by changing the time zone temporarily.

Books to Read on this Holiday

• A Death in the Family, James Agee
• Coraline, Neil Gaiman (Next--Finished 7 Sept)
  
• In Praise of Falling, Cheryl Dumesnil (Started! And now available fresh off the press!)
  
• Balzac and the Little Chinese Mistress, Dai Sijie and Ina Rilke (Finished)
  
• Oranges Aren't the Only Fruit, Jeanette Winterson

Update:

• Cradle to Cradle,William McDonough
  
• Holes, Louis Sachar (Again)
  
• The Cellist of Sarajevo, Steven Galloway
• Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt
  

Observation

Nothing beats a good cup of tea, but I think the scenery changes the flavor.

Designer Prints

Fabric makes me giggle. Have I already told you that? It makes me giggle, and wiggle and want to clap my hands. Over fabric. Just bolts of fabric. Have I already written that?

Not in the children's morning programming kind of way though. Or the Made for TV movie motif. Just really excited.

I spent an hour and a half in a fabric store this afternoon. I'm still giggling.

Birds in the Trees

The start of a poem...

You asked me once
what it was like in my head.

Do you remember the grove of trees
along the highway at dusk?
The birds we saw first in the air?

Donuts

"OK, what do you want?" my dad would ask at the donut shop.

"A chocolate old fashion. And a apple juice."

I liked to eat the old fashioned donut in pieces, breaking off the side parts and eating them in a series of bites. Methodical, but not obsessive. I liked how to see how the frosting would crack, fissure, break from its center.

Imagined

I imagined your blue button up against the rust of the train cars, the horizon line of dry fields, telephone poles and hills stretching out beside you.

For Thursday - Slacking

I'm a wee bit distracted.

First of all, I'm on holiday: no rules, no time lines, no have-to's.

Second, I'm in California, the land of my birth. There is sunshine here. And warmth. And my family. They are hard to resist.

Also, I'm at the beginning of planning two weddings with my love and just so excited about the whole damn thing that I can hardly sleep in.

Lastly, related to the prior comment, all I want to do is curl up and snuggle with my love. She's got no exams, no studying, no classes to attend. We get to just hang out, eat whatever we want, go anywhere, no pressure or appointments.

Life's pretty darn good.

Fowey Royal Regatta, Floral Dance

There is an old song in the southwest of England, heralding back to Pagan times, that somebody or someone at one time wrote the words to that no one seems to remember. This song is known by all who have heard it once in the form of dun-dun-na-dun-na-na-na-na-na-na and so on or, alternatively, 1, 2, 3, Skip! 1, 2, 3, Skip! It is the Floral Dance.

On the Monday evening of Fowey Royal Regatta, after the working boats and racing boats arrive from Flushing into the old port town of Fowey, the children and women, and sometimes the men too, dress all in white with wreathes of flowers on their heads to parade through the town. They gather at the top of the town on the property of the family who owns have of Fowey and whom open their gates for just this occassion only once a year. The Regatta Queen and Attendants are announced. The procession forms a large queue. And then, the drums begin.

Monday, Tuesday

As you can probably tell by the sparatic nature of the blog this week, Fowey Royal Regatta was a busy week! And now I'm back 'home' to California in less than 12 hours. More time to write then, which I am looking forward to. For now, pictures from Regatta:

Diaries of a Carpenter's Daughter

May 8, 2008

When you spend most the hours of your work day on the ground of a roofing project, you're bound to inhale a few things. Working on a hundred year old shingle roof, however, you're certain to inhale a lot of crap.

I think my favorite moment was when I blew my nose one morning into my yellow paisley hanky and saw black boogers. Sorry, I mean snot. No boogers--they were sticky. That's when you know you've been cleaning up debris from a shingle roof. Or getting it dumped on your head.

For Saturday - Ben's Surprise

• Two parts vodka
• One part white rum
• One part dark rum
• Orange Juice
• Cranberry Juice
• Grenadine

Afternoon Tea

Fowey Royal Regatta

Let me breakdown Fowey Royal Regatta for you, from a new arrival's perspective: for one week a year the sleepy, seaside, quaint, upscale, holiday village in Cornwall called Fowey turns into a raging dawn-to-dusk party. As The Galleon's staff shirt's say: 'Fowey is a drinking port...with a sailing problem.'

On the Sunday of Regatta Week, all the boats that will race throughout the week sail down to Flushing, cleaning their ships and drinking upon arrival to return back to Fowey the following morning--the working boats from Flushing following behind to join in the racing. At about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, walk up to the headlands or St. Catherine's castle and watch the fleet arrive in style--their spinnakers and spankers (sails) colorful in the wind. What ensues is sailing, drinking and debauchery.

But, I'll save that for tomorrow...

Table for 3

Tea

Cups of tea: Late last night. After Moscow Mule, rose wine and Dritos. This morning. With toast, cheese and jam; the computer on my lap, my love at my side.

For Monday - Floral Dance

Dressed in white, we danced through the streets of Fowey. Onto the Esplanade, the little girl who'd joined us tired out. So I picked her up and carried her on my back as we danced.

Films

'There is no such thing as free titties.'

Yep. Movies 2009.

Holiday

I'm going on vacation and I'm calling it a holiday; I think I'm becoming anglosized.

Friday Haiku

I dreamt of you and
didn't recognize my home,
or me, when I woke.

The blades of grass look
soft in the photograph on
your desk; camera's lie.

The light through bedroom
window breaks, I am alone.
I feel the clouds pass.

Magnetic Poles

Scientists can read the number of times the "North" and "South" poles have switched over the thousands and thousands of years since the Earth was born. I forget how often it has happened, but it does, and they can tell.

Today the poles have shifted between my head and my toes so many times I'm scared to name them all. I wonder what the records will show.

Brighton

Sing It

Sometimes you're the clothes line,
Sometimes you're the clothes.
Sometimes it all dries together, baby,
Sometimes you're just a fool in love...

Sweet Home California

It is 15 days until I fly home to California. It is strange to count the days, to think I've been away almost 8 months. My longest stretch before was 10 months abroad, but this time it's different: I'll go back home across the Atlantic this time.

A friend asked about my month-long visit, about how I was adjusting to living in London and how glad I was to be seeing family and friends again.

'Ah,' she said, 'but you still call California "home."'

'I call home wherever where I'm not,' was my reply. 'I have homes all over the world.'

Truth is, I was startled by her question. I was unsure how to respond, without knowing just then what I thought about home. I do have homes all over the world, places I feel loved and welcome--Yreka, Santa Cruz, the Bay Area, Galway, Los Angeles--but right now I can't imagine living anywhere but London.

In the Bar

The DJ moved between decks
in glasses and a sweater.

Oldies, newbies, everything
toe-tappingly gorgeous.
I wanted to dance.

She took my hands
and we butt-bumped
across the hardwood floor.

For Saturday - The Train

The train left the platform at 08:12:00. The board read 08:12:00 after we ran through the corridor and up the stairs, the train nowhere in sight.

We caught the 8:42:00 train instead.

Orange Peel

In your story,
you pressed your hands flat
against the table--
a demonstration of an orange peel
laid out the way map-makers
outline the continents and oceans.

The impossible possible,
I wanted to know
what it felt like to be drawn--
a demonstration of how
to make sense of the world,
skin beneath your palms.

From Left-overs for a Queen(s)

- Homemade hummus from curried chickpeas
- Tuna in salt water with mayo, lime juice, green onion, red onion, salt and pepper
- Grilled corguettes, peppers and baby corn
- Pomodoro tomatoes & broccoli, raw
- Boiled broad beans with salt and soy
- Baguette and Ryvlia crackers
- Chenin Blanc

* Hot chocolate with evaporated milk OR Chocolate Eclair OR Gu Brownies OR Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies for dessert

That'll do.

Paris in Tooting

We couldn't afford to go to Paris this weekend--EuroStar sold out--so Paris came to Tooting. The clothesline is strung with fairy lights, clothing and clothespins in the order of the French flag and postcards from the Musee d'Orsay. We are 'Marie,' 'Claudette,' and 'Evelyn' enjoying rose champagne (read: cava) with camebert, croissant and Potomayo's French cafe music coming from 'the parlor.' We even have fresh flowers: red Gerber daises, white stalks, and a purple-blue variety that stops me in my tracks. We speak to our kindly neighbors in broken French--bonjour, petit pois, oui--and plan bolognese for dinner. We make our own lives.

For Tuesday - The Recovery

The adrenaline
from writing is the most in-
tense experience.

And...I'm back!!

Man, I've missed this placed. I'm back a day early, technically speaking, since I did leave you a video for Monday, but I've finished my essays this evening and was bursting to write something non-university related!

Honestly, I think I've surprised myself with how much I missed having the daily 5-10-30-60 mins to reflect, write, and take time for myself. Writing here has become part of my routine, but more than that it has become a practice, a commitment I cherish and intend to keep.

So in considering about my upcoming official holiday from all things mandatory (work, university, dishes--OK, maybe not that last one), I have decided not to go on holiday again from writing once a day. Instead I think I'll give myself some extra time each day to put fingertips to keyboard...and maybe make some really good cups of tea.


Happy August, y'all!

One Week

And as it is one week until my papers are due (and I still have much writing to finish) I'm giving myself a holiday from blogging...but not before leaving you with some entertainment, first: 7 versions of "One Week" by The Barenaked Ladies (lyrics below)...I love the internet.

Tuesday - the Original Music Video

Wednesday - Stick Figure Drawings

Thursday - Live


Friday - Pretty Good Cover


Saturday - Not So Good Cover


Sunday - Anime (but I don't really recommend it)


Monday - Morgan Freeman Perfection

Have a good week, y'all! See you next Tuesday!

For Monday - One Week

"One Week"

It's been one week since you looked at me
Cocked your head to the side and said "I'm angry"
Five days since you laughed at me saying
"Get that together come back and see me"
Three days since the living room
I realized it's all my fault, but couldn't tell you
Yesterday you'd forgiven me
but it'll still be two days till I say I'm sorry

Hold it now and watch the hoodwink
As I make you stop, think
You'll think you're looking at Aquaman
I summon fish to the dish, although I like the Chalet Swiss
I like the sushi
'cause it's never touched a frying pan
Hot like wasabe when I bust rhymes
Big like LeAnn Rimes
Because I'm all about value
Bert Kaempfert's got the mad hits
You try to match wits, you try to hold me but I bust through
Gonna make a break and take a fake
I'd like a stinkin achin shake
I like vanilla, it's the finest of the flavours
Gotta see the show, cause then you'll know
The vertigo is gonna grow
Cause it's so dangerous,
you'll have to sign a waiver

How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad
Trying hard not to smile though I feel bad
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Can't understand what I mean?
Well, you soon will
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve
I have a history of taking off my shirt

It's been one week since you looked at me
Threw your arms in the air
and said "You're crazy"
Five days since you tackled me
I've still got the rug burns on both my knees
It's been three days since the afternoon
You realized it's not my fault
not a moment too soon
Yesterday you'd forgiven me
And now I sit back and wait til you say you're sorry

Chickity China the Chinese chicken
You have a drumstick and your brain stops tickin'
Watchin' X-Files with no lights on
We're dans la maison
I hope the Smoking Man's in this one
Like Harrison Ford I'm getting frantic
Like Sting I'm tantric
Like Snickers, guaranteed to satisfy

Like Kurasawa I make mad films
Okay, I don't make films
But if I did they'd have a Samurai
Gonna get a set a' better clubs
Gonna find the kind with tiny nubs
Just so my irons aren't always flying off the back-swing
Gotta get in tune with Sailor Moon
'Cause the cartoon has got the boom anime babes
That make me think the wrong thing

How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad
Tryin' hard not to smile though I feel bad
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral
Can't understand what I mean?
Well, you soon will
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve
I have a history of losing my shirt

It's been one week since you looked at me
Dropped your arms to your sides
and said "I'm sorry"
Five days since I laughed at you and said
"You just did just what I thought you were gonna do"
Three days since the living room
We realized we're both to blame,
but what could we do?
Yesterday you just smiled at me
Cause it'll still be two days till we say we're sorry

It'll still be two days till we say we're sorry
It'll still be two days till we say we're sorry
Birchmount Stadium, home of the Robbie

Also known as one week until papers are due...