A Birthday Poem

We rode the train from Brighton to London yesterday through hills and fields covered in snow. It was beautiful. Breathtaking. And I decided to write a poem as we went, a poem about the different shapes of the day of my birth. Later on, at the party in Balham Bowls Club, I read it to the friends of mine who had gathered for the red balloon bash.

Here it is for you:

On the Day of My Birth

There was a pond kept neat for winter revelers

and we skated in seven degree weather,

four of us teens tucked away in a mountain secret.

Before that, the snow fell on Turre St.

in flakes the size of cotton balls on my birthday

as my friends took their sleeping bags

and backpacks from their parents' cars

and giggled their way into the house.

For the next three years, it snowed on the day of my birth

and we piled into Mom's peach mobile, drove

around the town looking at Christmas lights and singing carols.

Later, on the day of my birth,

my lover got on a place and moved home.

A year after, she came back to collect me

but first snuggled into the white duvet,

our room the third floor of an art deco hotel.

On the day I was born, I've been ill, my partner's been sick,

and I've worked a Sunday shift. My dad's given me an opal

necklace, to keep the fire of his love close to my heart.

My mom sends a book of poetry each year.

When I turned three, I'd celebrated in so many house,

I asked if I was now four. And once, we had a party in June

when I was five and a half and it wasn't the day of my birth at all.

Twenty-six years on, I've seen a quarter century,

made new homes and new friends, and ice skated

more time than I can remember.

A snowflake drifting on the day of my birth.

The Christmas Spirit

I survey the scene of my home from my white plush robe and armchair: the berry lights are lit, the tree decorated, the presents wrapped under the tree. The carpet is vacuumed, the plants are water, the dishes left undone (but I'm not too worried about them). The Winter Songs album is playing with the latest rendition of Frosty the Snowman. I am ready.

And waiting.

On a train travelling through the depths of the London streets, which have just received a dusty of snow, is my brother and his girlfriend. They are headed my direction, my brother just off a transatlantic flight. I can't bring myself to do anything but wait in anticipation. The excitement almost tangible that I don't know how to react to daily life it seems. The last time I was this nervous/excited/dazed was my first wedding day in April: I woke up before the sunrise and needed to laugh to relieve the tension.

But now, now, I cradle the laptop as a distraction device, write to you, and think, well, this is part of the Christmas Spirit isn't: waiting for your loved ones to arrive through whatever the weather, the kitchen a little dirty, and your home warm and open. Sigh.

Dreaming of Warm Sunshine

Travelling home on the tube on Tuesday evening something reminded me of a back yard I used to play in as an older kid: nine or ten years old, playing with my friend Bree while her mom 'babysat' us. Bree was always a lot of fun and we made the back yard our playground even though it was mostly dust and fallen plums in the shadow of eucalyptus trees.

Catching Flies

Being with Bree, even catching flies was fun.

More than fun, it became an afternoon's mission:

holding her plastic atrium poised, we waited

for the right moment to strike, the other of us grasping

the purple lid that would ultimately secure the flies

in their new four-walled, see-through world.

The fact that her back yard--a softly sloping hill,

dust we kicked up and hundreds of fallen plums--

vibrated with little winged creatures didn't really bother us.

My memory, even then, tinted the scene in sepia--

tones of eucalyptus trees and childhood--

and her hair glinted gold down the length of her back.

She held me in wonder, even catching flies.

Grams

Today, my great-grandmother would have been 101.

For the last four days or so, I have been thinking of Grams, missing her, wearing the cross she bequeathed me--a cross she received on her 50th wedding anniversary from my great-grandfather, Gramps. I was one month old at their party and there is a square, tinted photograph of me swaddled in her arms and my great-grandfather looking on: their first great-granddaughter.

The necklace is a gold cross with inlay black onyx and a tiny pearl set just in the middle. I've worn it to special occasions since she passed in January 2009--weddings, rehearsal dinners, nice dinners out--but the last few weeks I've been wearing it when I thought of her, to work, during the day. I find it difficult, intellectually, to wear a religious symbol with so much weight to it--that's how I hold it in my mind anyway--but I find comfort in the closeness of her spirit.

Grams was also a Sagittarius and there are certain things during the holiday season that inevitably remind me of her: singing in the choir; wrapping presents with neat corners (she taught me the right way to wrap them in 6th grade when I used to come over and wrap her grab bag gifts...); and her wise tip of the "Deary-to-Deary" present, a necessary shopping purchase in the run-up to Christmas.

I had the extreme fortune of knowing 5 great-grandparents in my life, all on my father's side. Almost none was more complex or familiar than my relationship with Grams: I was the little girl who didn't want to be a "little girl" and the one who came after-school to help her around the house in junior high. While we weren't explicit in my relationship with Alex, her approval that she liked her meant very much.

The last time I saw her, she was asleep in bed and I woke her to say goodbye: I was leaving to move to England. She smiled at me, at Alex, and I knew she would be done with this world soon enough. She had had her run and now it was time to be reunited with all those that had gone before her. She was ready.

Happy Birthday, Grams. We're thinking of you.

Oh, the snow....

Hello, again.

I know what you might be thinking, 'Did she write a poem today?'

No, I didn't write a poem, but it did snow in London. Quite a lot for the city, in fact, over the last two days and moments of my day have been quite poetic enough for this, the 1st December.

The holidays really are here--and when I say the holidays, I really mean my birthday, the countdown begun. I can't help but think of my birthday and snow as two peas in a pod. Sure, when I was little I yearned for the pool party, the popsicles, the summers running around in the sun (credit to my parents, I did get an un-birthday party in June once. It was a blast!).

But then, I wouldn't have the snow. Or ice skating. Or memories of hot chocolate and piling into the peach mobile to go look at all the Christmas lights around little ol' Yreka with all my pre-teen friends.

I can't help it, I was giddy today that it was December. Hello, birthday month. Hello, holidays. Hello, snow and hot chocolate and the end-of-the-year reflections. Another season has passed, another year older. And, another white winter in London Town.

Poem #30 - A Sonnet

Well, today is the final day of November. A full month of poetry and as I looked back through the blog archive over the last 29 poems, I've realized how quickly and slowly the month has gone. So much has happened: newlywed poems, a friend's wedding, my cousin's birthday, writer's block, dirty haiku, and untranslatable words.

My poetry partner in crime, sasqi, also messaged me tonight to mark this eve of departure into the rest of our poetic lives. With it, she sent today's poem, a beautiful moving sestina.

Tonight, I took her cue again with a form poem. I found myself struggling to sit down and actually write (a month of poems is HARD, my mind said, and the dishes had been waiting for days...), but then realized, again, what to write about?

One of my message over this month with sasqi checking in on our poetic adventure was about how I was grateful for its timing. For me, it's been a year of celebrating my love and commitment for and to another person. Our second and final (?) wedding was in October and by the time the first of November came around, I found myself wanting only to write of her and my love for her.... *sigh*

Of course, as you know, I didn't write sappy love poems all month. But it did feel appropriate to end this project with a form poem historically dedicated to love: the sonnet.

Without much more ado then, I give you a love sonnet. First though, one more thing: I don't know yet if I'll keep writing a poem a day from December 1st onward, but I'm sure glad I did in November. And, I like writing to you again so check back here tomorrow.

Sonnet #30

Waking up beside you looks like all this:

your sweet face hidden by a quilt cover;

eyelids closed in absolute blissfulness;

a kiss waiting on your lips, my lover.

Rising in the morning with you brings such

joy for the day's possibilities that I

can hardly contain songs from my lips much

or from snuggling back into you beside.

But this is only the briefest of times.

Then the day stretches out before us--

away from the lands of duvets the clock chimes

and the hours become our heard chorus.

Still, my love, my sweetheart, my one darling,

there is always the song of the starlings.*

*Poetic inspiration to ee cummings and Josh Ritter

Late Night Writing (Monday)

I won't lie, given how I make my schedule, I do a lot of my writing in the evenings, sometimes from bed. And when inspiration gets tight and I'm without a prompt, sometimes it's the nearest object to me that makes it onto the page (just the first stanza).

I want to tell you about my bed:

the pine frame and mattress came with the flat,

the pillows were airmailed express

having been selected for perfection

a few years prior. But the bedding, it's new.

Writer's Block

or, otherwise, how to split my time:

How do I

split my time

between you, dear reader,

my first love,

and the one with whom

I share my bed,

our home,

the dreams and

silly things,

my her?

Decorating for a Birthday Party

On Saturday, my love and I baked cupcakes for a friend's birthday and traversed south London by bus and by train with a dozen birthday balloons to decorate the flat for the party.

The very shape of balloons is tantalizing.

The way the light reflects and bounces

as the orb responds to the currents

of conversations, the draft of the door.

After the Vintage Shops

On Friday, while malls across the US were ensconced in Black Friday mayhem, my sis-in-law and I hit up the vintage shops in Covent Garden. I very nearly bought an XL blue and yellow plaid men's shirt because it reminded my dad, and stealing his shirts to wear when I was little.

There are certain days

when I just want to throw on

a blue plaid shirt or a white

tank top and call it good.

Thanksgiving

A day of baking and eating

I took the day off from writing

and reflected upon

where the years have gone

since I was home last...

Shoe Observations

Shoes to the Londoner are like

jeans to the American:

at least that's how it appears on the tube.

Each pair is distinct to style, comfort,

pay rise or shopping ethic. The weather

seems to play a role in the number

of boots and brogues of leather worn,

but canvas is also a preferred option

despite the forecast or the colour.

What'll It Be for the Next Generation

In a discussion with Alex about the increasing instantification of our culture and that effect on kids born post-1995 who have never known differently led me to remember the day my dad brought home our first stereo with a CD player.

A big box labelled stero

with a built-in CD player, and

Sheryl Crow's new album.

I danced around the dining room table

to All I Wanna Do, delighted.

Baking Without You

In preparation for Thanksgiving, and the three-day cookies:

In my memory, I know exactly how I assist you,

the kitchen warm and me adding the flour slowly.

In my home, when I only have your recipe,

I struggle to remember which order to add

the egg, butter, sugar, making it up as I go.

I Dreamt of Purple Flowers

Collaborative art rocks. And even more so when it's unintentional, inspirational, serendipitous. Hat tip, Chesney.

You've never been to London

and yet you've entered here into my brain,

seen what I've seen through my words,

reproduced it back to me in purple and hues...

To Do List (Saturday)

It seems now that married life has officially begun without any secondary wedding on the horizon, the nesting has begun. And my nesting I mean a deep urge to paint the walls, frame and mount prints and photographs, and finally find covers for our ugly, red couches. Here's part of our To Do List:

A broken down ranch house,

poster from the free blugrass festival

in the city's park, an anchor in the sky,

your college diploma, and clever photographs

I brought back from Canada for you

that spell out our initials in architecture

...

these are all the pieces

I want to frame for our home,

find the perfect spot just so

build our sanctuary together...

Wedding Quilt (Friday)

Detailed in the fabrics

are berries, shamrocks for luck,

leaves of growth, English roses,

gentle swirls my love loves best.

The Way You See Things (Thursday)

Howdy, folks. I've been MIA the last few days, carrying out and recuperating from a hectic week at work. But, I have been writing poems nonetheless.

A few stanzas from another one about Alex. I can't seem to help myself.

How many love poems I could write in a day
when surrounded by thoughts of you.
I could write about your soft eyes,

indeed I've already have,
or how I simply melt

in the presence of your smile.

But mostly, I want to write about

the things you say that have me in stitches,

the observations I never would have come to,

the pun so funny I keep repeating it to others.

My Toska & Cafuné

Admittedly, I struggled to write poetry today. Every time I had a thought of "Oh yeah, I've got time now to write a poem," undoubtedly Twitter or Soduko or wedding blogs looked more appealing. Thus, I turned to a prompt to get the writing going (20 Awesomely Untranslatable Words from Around the World -- hat tip, sasqi, once more) and drafted a few somethings in the shapes of poems. I kept to the form and the challenge, and some days that is enough.

I also don't think what I've written is terrible either. Just, well, lack-luster on its first arrival that's all.

Some lines from:

My Toska

you are the unwanted ache,
the direct line dredging in my gut,
the smile that left too soon

and

Cafuné

You didn't run your fingers
through my long blond hair
but you did traces lines
down my bare back,
your fingers adorned with
dollar-store fake nails
we'd received from a party goody bag

Before I Met You

I sat on a beach and declared
I would do what I wanted.

Then I looked out at a lighthouse
and imagined two people in love,
one on shore, one at sea.

They drifted together.

My wanting came from wanting
to find out what it was like
to stay,
anchored to another,
a person I didn't want
to take my eyes from.

By whom in doing right by me,
I would do best for both of us.

I wanted something more.




(...and that's copyright, fools.)

For my cousin's birthday

Happy Birthday, Kay! This one's for you.

My Cousin

When the man you loved
took you to The Great White North,
I refused to call him anything but
The Man Who Took Kay Kay Away...

Then he turned out
to be quite alright after all
and you incredibly happy.

So when it came time
and I fell head over heels
for a woman from The Great British Isles,
I took your lead and followed her here.

Because, all my memories of you,
the many photographs through the years,
are of you beside me,
letting me know it's OK,
telling me you're proud of who I am,
confirming that so much is possible
when you go for what you want, with love.

Dirty Haikus or Magnetic Poetry Passion

On this the 14th of November, I decided to write dirty haikus. (Sorry, Dad.)

Why? Well, I blame it on poet Cheryl Dumesnil (go buy her book, In Praise of Falling!). You see, she gave Alex and I a "little box of Passion word magnets" as a wedding present, and well with 72 words to choose from, this is what I came* up with:

like tender sweet love
she licks wanton chocolate
to tingle my breast


make me moan all night
linger with your caress or
come body and slow


warm naked passion
do I forever desire
I am always hot


our beautiful night
pleasuring together as
you tremble for touch


feel us give and share
someone is in the heart but
we are of a kiss

The remaining words? have, be, it, he, er, a**

*Out of all the words available, Alex's mum decided 'come' was the worst offender of our microwave. We disagree.

**Editor's addition: After posting the link on Facebook, a family friend, Chris Eaton, solved the mystery of the remaining words (in a 'non-dirty' way): He have it, a beer.

Literary Woman

On Saturday, I went to a children's literature conference and what do you know, I didn't write a new poem, but returned to an old one--inspired by the description of Mrs. Darling's 'kiss' in Peter Pan--and added to it--this time inspired by other the characters secretly crushed over or are dying to re-write their Sapphic sub-plots. Still not sure about the cross-over from child to adult fiction, but hey, poetic license.

So, a second draft. Tweaking to follow I'm sure, but for now Poem #13:

Literary Woman

You were 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.

"What does the brain matter
compared with the heart,"
said the party-goer in the evening.
But not to Clarrisa, for whom
it could have been helpful, nor
Sally who wouldn't have listened.

Nor did Anne or Vita or one Miss Alexa,
all pining exactly to describe
the contours, the textures, the shape
of one Mrs Darling's kiss
all for whom's affection we did strive.



**Editor's note: This is my 365th post. If I had been writing for a year consecutively, this anniversary might have been more evident. As it is, I want to mark it all the same.

It was yours, always

For Friday 12th November:

As I'd gotten a few prompts this week, I thought I'd look one up for myself and found this one online: write about a very small object. I chose the necklace my father gave me for my wedding.

Here's the first draft of a few of the stanzas (correct for accuracy if needed):

In the pockets of his wedding suit
he'd found grains of rice and
pieces of bird seed that had been thrown.
Together with the broken amethyst

he enclosed them all in a glass locket,
hung from a braided chain of gold.

Poem #11

Another prompt I got from sasqi was to 'steal a language fragment you see somewhere today.' Just having claimed A's desk as my own, reorganized it with my stuff, and hung bright bunting from the curtain rods, I sat down beneath the desk lamp with a new notebook (Clairefontaine, gorgeous) and wrote a poem. Two actually, but I'm only sharing a stanza or two from one of 'em.

Poem #11

...

My friend once took an airmail envelope,
the ones with the red, white & blue border
from some lawyer's office--I don't know where--
she wrote I MISS YOU in pink watercolor
beneath the airmail printing, drew
three stick-figure redwood trees:
one for each of us, in the corner just so.

Every time I send a letter home,
I think of her.

The Smell of Rooibos

I didn't post yesterday, Wednesday, but I did write a poem (I love the Notebook iPhone app!) and couldn't get to the computer before midnight (believe me it was a looonnnnggg day, but I did see The Kids Are All Right in the end so that was alright).

So after the scrambled eggs poem, I decided the inspiration bucket was getting a little weak so I emailed sasqi for a prompt. Luckily, she'd just hit a bump herself in the Poem in November strategy and sent over a few prompts she'd been using, one of which was to write about a smell of something. No sooner had a thought about smelling things did someone sit down at my desk with a cup of Rooibos tea and later out popped this poem.

Then, once I'd finished this draft, I swear I smelled something else: The Tea House in Santa Cruz. Lovely.


The Smell of Rooibos

I could smell he mug of ruby-colored tea
as she sat down at my desk.
That earthy, sickening rooibos tea of my childhood

nanny who had a daughter, Breeze,
and a terrible history of back injury
and illness that I didn't understand
at aged 9 and 1/2.

What that meant for me was a spoon
of horrible, spasm inducing cough syrup
if I did anything as much as wheeze,
standing in the kitchen over her cups
of red bush tea.

The smells spurred an unknown panic
whenever my nose caught their scent.

That is, until, I met the lovely, álainn
glass artist with the cutest blonde pixie cut
and a penchant for red herbal cuppas.

That St. Patty's Day, I'd have likened the smell
of almost anything with loving her,
if only I had the chance.

And now, smelling this old woman's tea
in front of me, I remember the horror,
and then the fun.

Scrambled Eggs

The whole thing this time. Written over dinner. Go figure.

I stare at my plate

of scrambled eggs and toast,

wondering if my would-be kids

will one day think my scrambled eggs

are the best.

I certainly thought my g'ma's

'eggy-poo sandwiches' were:

two scrambled eggs, squished

between toasted wheat bread

and lathered in mayo.

I think of a best friend

on the westside of LA

for whom I make the best

scrambled eggs whenever

she is sick or under the weather;

I miss her tonight in my flat,

alone with my eggs and toast.

The Northern Line

On the way home from work today, another excerpt, with a little nod to Peter Gizzi's "Plain Song:"

Old Street, Moorgate, Elephant & Castle.

Sometimes there's Poetry on the Underground.

Sometimes it is approved by the Mayor.

Sometimes I envy the dead or young poet.

Sometimes both.

Other times I forget to record what I've seen.

Just Us, Travelling

In the Travelodge Blyth A1(M)

Through the crack in the curtain,

the morning light hits the bedside lampshade,

as if it were lit from within.

And you, you are bathed in its golden hues,

still asleep.

I woke to a panic of bank accounts, unplanned

overdraft fees, a text from your mother, and

a need to pee.

The walls thin, the motor traffic stands in

for our Sunday Morning Love Songs,

the janitor's keys in the hallway

the sleep button on the alarm.

Our Best Friend's Wedding

Saturday 6th November 2010 was the wedding of our dearest friends in London: Julie & Anthony. An adventure 'up North' to see a Lancaster man marry a Yorkshire woman was just the beginning of the joy--steak & ale pie with chips, French Fancies (just look 'em up, they're like Hostess), and 5 hours of dancing made for an incredible evening.

For my daily poem, we wrote in their guest book. Seeing as I wrote it in their book, and not on the Notebook app on my phone where the rest of them currently are, this is by memory (in a nod to the limerick):

On this day you are wed

and with that you have said

you will love each other forever.

Now that that's done

let's go have us some fun

and never let go of each other!

Love Apple Alley

As I spent Wednesday morning pulling up out beautiful-but-dying tomato plants--no longer able to withstand the encroaching London winter--I thought it would be appropriate to write about them this week. I am already missing their leafy tops peaking over the bathroom window sill.

Also, as I've embarked as this poetry month long adventure with one particular, tomato-growing sasqitoon, this is also in honor of her inspiration.

An excerpt from today's rambling:

Then May, you came into view.

Slava peaked its head first, followed by
Black Prince and his brother, Krim.
Young Flamme came with an
unpronounceable Christian name, and
the German we nicknamed Blondie.

Sebastopol was the most surprising,
offering little to start other than a reminder
of home, but when the summer months blew in
and you each received your own room--
boy, did you blossom a plenty!

Haiku

I can still remember learning to count syllables in primary school, and then being taught to write haiku. I loved the challenge of getting the 5-7-5 just right.

Today, I am quiet, reflective, noticing the changing season and the changes around me--taking them in with their emotional weight, letting them wash through. And so, haiku felt oddly appropriate.

To share:

Daily, the dustman sweeps.
Wrappers receipts, sweets and butts.
And now, also, leaves.

After you have cried,
your face looks as if it's washed
with rose water, pink.

She asks me to list
the feelings I hold within:
sadness, despair, fear.

Your Big Big Heart

'Underdeveloped organs'
is the phrase that stuck
as your mum recounted
the story of your miraculous birth.

Chasing Leaves

"She's chasing leaves," says the man

next to me with the white Yorkie

and the purple cravat.

Today I thought of you, Pumpkin Queen!

If Only - A Poem a Day in November

Hello, there. I've missed you.

It's been three months, maybe more. I've gotten married--twice. Gotten a promotion and a raise. Been in three different countries. And the writing, well, the writing has gone by the wayside for a bit.

And that's OK. Sometimes the creative outlets go by the wayside, life gets in the way. But, well, November seems the perfect month to re-kindle it.

At least that sort of appears to be the idea behind 'A Novel in November'--a national project to write a novel in a month. But I don't write novels. I write poems. And, thankfully, I was inspired by a poet friend who is joining her husband in writing a novel in November by writing a poem a day in November. So, with the clocks 'fallen back' now and the skies dark before I leave my office at 5:15 in the evening I, too, will be writing a poem a day and publishing a stanza--or two, or three--of it here, as my record. These are first drafts, like the novel. No more than the editing that happens in the instance of writing, set down to be reviewed later, but first endeavored to be written.

Thus, without further ado, 'If Only:'

I'd be your knight in shining amour;
your handsome, pro-bono lawyer; your short-skirted Girl Friday. If only.

Only then you'd be the helpless princess, the thrice-tried convict,
the lecherous boss who grabbed my ass and called me Billy Jean.


I think I'd rather just be me, and you be you, thanks. If only.

June

A hectic month. Projects. Exams. Surfacing from the underground to sunshine and no coat and finding out the coffee stall at the market makes one of the best mochas I've ever had. There's a park behind the theatre? Next to the Tube station, and I never knew? Hello, lunch in the park with my home-made ham sandwiches and sun tanning on my hour break. Tomatoes growing up up up, buds clustering in the branches. My love snuggling here, my love showering her with kisses, two months, so soon. 'This must be what bliss feels like.'

A Gay Thursday

Sometimes a girl just needs to see a little bit of her world reflected back at her. Today, with a day off from work, I purposefully slept in and when I finally woke up the first thought I had was to curl up on the couch with a movie. The movie selection lacking in sufficient gayness, I decided The L Word was the best place to start. Then it was Callie & Arizona recaps on youtube, followed by visits to So You're EnGAYged and Dorothy Surrenders. I didn't make it AfterEllen, but, hey, you can't have everything all the time, right?

For Wednesday - Windowboxes

Just in the last few weeks, the windowboxes at my first floor office have been dug out and replaced with a gorgeous variety of flowers. I don't know the names of any of them except the largest one in the centre box--a chinese poppy. It's June though, and the flowers, well, they keep flowering and flowering. Each morning I arrive at the office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows full of light, and more blooms, more color full the window ledge. I pull up the window pane and lean out onto the ledge just to peek into the newest buds, the bumble bees gathering their nectar, the leaves proud and green.

Just Before Bed

It's the smell of the Rastafarian hand lotion purchased from the Tuesday farmer's market, and the mantra 'people that brush together, stay together.' Teeth, that is. It's asking someone if they meant to post a letter, and knowing both of you are stretching to connect, with yourselves. It's text messages, and craawling into bed early. It's the scenic route and the giggle in my belly. It's adding dill to my potatoes and thinking of you.

Reading Poetry

I've been considering spending the next year reading only queer women writers (can I make those identity categories mesh?) but, like I said, I'm only considering it still. To test the water, though, I've been reading quite a lot of Carol Ann Duffy. It's a hard job, let me tell you.

A favorite so far:

Text

I tend the mobile now
like an injured bird.

We text, text, text
our significant words.

I re-read your first,
your second, your third,

looking for your small xx,
feeling absurd.

The codes we send
arrive in a broken chord.

I try to picture your hands,
their image is blurred.

Nothing my thumbs press
will ever be heard.

---------------------------

Safe to say, my texting experiences lately have not been as anxiety-producing as hers...

Hello from the UK - It's Official Again

Hello lovely people out there in the internet--I'm back today. I took an unannounced departure to go get hitched (the lead-up here, the recaps here) and am finding my way back to a routine...It's lovely. There are plants to water, a quilt to sew, summer veggies to cook, and poems to be written. It's sweetness.

That sweetness has been building up while I've been away--the fingers tap to write again--and yet there was paper work to be done, a job to get back to. Still, last Thursday I gained permission to stick around the UK for another two years--and well that was something to celebrate. Today, my ID card came in the post and I was about to delete the celebratory texts from friends upon hearing the news of my new official status, and well, there words are what I'll begin my one a day, again, today:

Yeah!! congrats

Awesome! Great news. Congrats. Excuse for a celebration!? X

Of course you did! X

YEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHH!!! That's brilliant news, so happy! Welcome to dual citizenship and a lifetime of happiness! xxxxxxx

YYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAYY! So happy for u! I think it's going to be champagne picnic on Sat! Xxx

Wow! What does that mean, exactly?

That b double + good

Darling, that's fabulous news! Well done! x

Nothing like a cheering squad to get you back in the game...

For Tuesday - Lifesavers

Lifesavers. Now that's a candy I'd forgotten about. I did, upon my last trip home to California, get really excited when I found Butter Rum lifesavers at the grocery store and snapped them up to bring home to my love who loves rum. Turns out, she doesn't love Butter Rum.

I had forgotten the joy of lifesavers. How as a kid I knew I couldn't choke on one because they had a hole in the middle. My favorite vacillated between the red ones (cherry? strawberry? red?) and the pineapple flavors. But there always seemed to be, in my memory anyway, less pineapple ones that red one (or orange ones for that matter). Somehow the pineapple seemed more rare, precious.

I officially miss those little ring candies.

Spring is Here!

Trying to Break in My Shoes

For the last hour, I've been sitting in a bean bag. I've been reclining--and wearing my wedding shoes. I need to break them in because they've got leather bits and their stiff, and I really don't want blisters on my wedding day. Hopefully, they'll get there.

Sometimes

Sometimes you do things. Sometimes you don't. Sometimes it's not just a definite.

For Tuesday - A Miss

I still want to write once a day. And sometimes I get tired.

Dinner with Friends

She said to me, 'You think like a poet, of course. You make sense.'

'We need to talk poetry,' she said.

We can talk like poets...

The Hag Do

Only Once

There are some things you can only do once. Well, I guess in some ways you only do everything you do once because nothing you repeat is actually the same, it's an iteration of what came before....but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the ability to rationalize calling for a Chinese banquet delivered to your house, picking coins from the sofa cushions to pay for it, because last night you had your Hen Party and tonight you're hungover and hungry. Chinese food by delivery is not something you ever do and, to be frank, you'd never eat it in bed. But tonight, tonight you are hurtin' and could possibly eat your fiancee's arm off if you don't have some white rice--not from a bag, not from home, from a Chinese restaurant, OK!--and you've already changed into your pyjamas and you have just enough coins in the jar. That's when you can only do something once. That one glorious moment of relishing in the fact that you are so in love--and last night you were totally wasted.

Times When I Remember I Live in England

Overheard conversation walking to work today:

"It was a fence. This is Britian--EMPIRE."

Best thing I heard all morning.

Wedding Blogga'

Ok, so maybe blogga' is a totally made up word, and mis-spelled at that, but seriously I have been on a roll when it comes to write about the details for my legal hitchin' ceremony. I don't know what it is, but maybe because the big day is one-month away (officially) from today that I am start to get a bit relaxed and have a bit more fun in writing about it. Plans are a bit more solid too, and it's less of a "I think this would be a good idea" and more of "This is what we've decided and doesn't it rock?" kind of thing.

I seem to be able to blog all about it, and still make my fiancee laugh (thank goodness). The writing there though, one a day, it's not coming so easily.

Although, today as I walked to work on the first spring morning I really felt I could call spring, I was thinking, under the pitter-patter of mind-chatter, I was thinking in poetry.

A Pink & Purple Zig-Zag Quilt

Today I finished a beautiful quilt. The quilt top was first, then sandwiching the fabrics together--patterned top, batting, a white backing with pink hearts. It took shape before my eyes, suddenly became a tangible object with a function and a purpose. My lover said, 'Think of all the moments that will happen with that quilt.' I tried to smile.

Poetry

We took a train...

Then, we went by car to see

where we ate scones with jam and drank glasses of sparkling wine

for anything her heart desired

For Sunday - Mother's

for anything her heart desired

For Saturday - On the balcony

where we ate scones with jam and drank glasses of sparkling wine

For Friday - A Means

Then, we went by car to see

For Thursday - En Route

We took a train...

A Record of an Event

Ani DiFranco has a line 'a record, as in a record of an event, of people making music in a room...' But I wasn't in a room or making music and it wasn't Ani singing into my ear. This record sounded like The Dixie Chicks and after two hours I couldn't have told you what song it was--until, hours later, I looked, dialled the wheel on the iPod to the exact spot I knew it would be on the play list I made so many years ago out of love. This record took place on the Underground and I was standing up, holding onto the yellow pole with my left hand, nodding along to the song in the early morning commute.

They say that we wear our wedding bands on our left hand, on our second finger from the end because people used to believe that the largest vein from your heart ran straight to that finger. My lover tells me that your veins bulge from your skin when you are warm. This morning I felt something brush against my left hand and looked to see my hands undisturbed and warm, the heart-ring-vein bulging back at me. Something--someone?--gently nudged by left foot, but it, too, was undisturbed by any bags, brolly or shoes.

The same song was playing, the same record of an event of people playing music in a room, and I envisioned a tall man behind me, our molecules seamlessly combining without matter or consequence. A tall man above, younger than my dad, but reminiscent of the wizard--'subtle and quick to anger'--that he often speaks of. I smiled as I thought to myself, how lucky to have someone like watching over me.

On the journey home, the playlist found again to name the song: 'Baby Hold On' and a gentle firm kiss to my right forehead. A message to pass on.

Writing about Accessories

For Monday - No Excuses

I just didn't feel like writing.

For Sunday - A Sunday

I worked, and made a few pounds in tips.

I stayed late at the restaurant, had a few beers with the owners & their friends, and knew I had a home in Tooting.

I still missed California.

For Saturday - The Post Box

For Friday - Picking out Fabrics

For Thursday - Addressing Invites

The Land of Nod

Just finishing up a last minute email, I paused to wait for the website to load; my head nodded down to my chin. Bobbing back up to an 'awake' state, I recollected a favorite poem from when I was little: 'The Land of Nod' by Robert Louis Stevenson:

From Breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.

All by myself I have to go, 
With none to tell me what to do--
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain-sides of dreams.

The strangest things are there for me, 
Both things to eat and things to see, 
And many frightening sights abroad 
Till morning in the land of Nod.

Try as I like to find the way, 
I never can get back by day,
Nor can remember plain and clear
The curious music that I hear.

A few thoughts:

I didn't know Robert Louis Stevenson was Scottish.
The poem did seem longer a kid.
When I searched the poem, it wasn't the one I thought it was.
I still like the illustration with the quilt as a sea of waves. 

Henry & Patrick

For Monday - Henry's Tentacles

From a Punny Family

I hail from a punny family, with a family name written out over maps of England. Living thus in England, the place where from my ancestors fled, the pun-o-rific opportunities are endless. The fact that the area I live in vaguely (or rather directly, depending on whom you're talking to) sounds like passing gas is just unfortunate and absolutely hilariously bonding.

xoxo

For Saturday - Wedding Shoes

A big posh shopping mall, where we could send off a Tiffany necklace to be polished for the first time in too long to mention to anyone but the saleslady, and even her was a stretch. Not much to be on the mission for, but so in fashion we were. Wing-tips were sought after and found. 'Elegant' was the word: black leather, crinkled with a slight shine, boots with heels, skinny laces. The perfect wedding shoes for the 3-piece suit for the lady o' mine. Mission accomplished, and we got Mexican food.

Peanut Butter M&M's

Guess how much I paid for an American sized (literally) pack of Peanut Butter M&M's: £1.45.

For those of you who haven't done the math yet, the conversion rate on that is £1.45 x 1.5 = $2.18. For a small, rectangular pack of Peanut Butter M&M's. This decision, however, was made before I knew the price.

You see, it's cold here in London tonight. Almost done with February, the rains are kicking in and the winds was frigid. Late off from work, I thought of a Snickers for the Tube ride home. But, no. I had seen the deli in the square had a special basket with special imports from America, and the Peanut Butter M&M's had my name on it.

I paid the man, walked out the door, ripped open the package and popped 2 or 3, I can't remember, into my mouth. The sensational was wonderful. And as I chewed, I thought: Hmm, the chocolate's not as good. It doesn't really taste like Peanut Butter much. Man, how long have these been sitting there?

But my purchase was not in vain. I remembered a friend's birthday party from junior high or early high school, myself gorging on Peanut Butter M&M's and another friend eating way too many Hot Tamales. We felt so ill. And as I walked down the street tonight, finishing my bag of American sweets, I smiled. To be 13 again.

Bud

I miss my brother.

For Wednesday - Yesterday

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be
There's a shadow hanging over me.
Oh, I yesterday came suddenly

Why she had to go I don't know she wouldn't say
I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday

Why she had to go I don't know she wouldn't say
I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play
Now I need a place to hide away
Oh, I believe in yesterday
Mm mm mm mm mm mm mm

It's One of Those Days

I made myself greek yogurt & honey with a cup of tea and sat down to check my email. Blissful.

The boiler guys came by today to replace a valve so we don't have to keep topping up the pressure or lighting the pilot light. Their tools strewn about the kitchen floor reminded me of home and I chatted to the older one about his one trip to America: Vegas & Hoover Dam.

The laundry smells so good just out of the wash and miraculously (read: cleverly) fit on every space we had available for drying.

My love's placement got done early and suddenly she was home before I left, to answer wedding questions, make choices with me, and watching a few episodes of Glee.

Which, by the way, if you're not watch Glee, you are seriously missing out on some of the best television programming of my LIFETIME.

I got off track, and then I had help getting back on track.

My watch shows the age of year and makes me smile.

I got home tonight, made myself some carrots, peanut butter and sultanas with a cup of tea, and sat down to check my email. Blissful.

Listening to the Stars

Dad, the guitarist is wearing a Triumph of London shirt.

For Sunday - Have You Ever?

Brandi Carlile...

Money Note

Check it:



The music video is even better.

Phone Call

I learned their phone number by heart in the months after we first met. Partly, it was because I got their answering machine about as often as I caught them at home, and her voice repeated the phone number as she invited you to leave a message. Tonight, years later, I looked it up in my address book, just in case. Half way through dialing, I no longer needed the reference.

When he picked up the phone after the third ring, I instantly said, "Hi P! It's Erica." A wave of panic washed over me: Does he recognize my voice? Will I need to clarify by giving my last name? "Erica from America" is not going to work--they are IN America.

"Erica! Erica!" came his reply. A smile the color of the sunshine in the Santa Cruz sky washed over my face as we caught up on the latest writing projects, travel plans, and good health to be grateful for.

Hearing both of their voices over the course of the hour conversation was like hearing my own again, and hearing theirs for the first time once more. Being apart for so long and living abroad, the tones and rhythms and shapes were new, and familiar. So familiar I can hardly name the qualities of their voices, so resonate are they in my body. Now, I am sitting back and basking in the sunshine of the smile.

Good Morning

"Sent me a text message."

"When?"

"In my dream. Before I woke up. You sent me a text message. You said, "Don"t let it own you.""

She pats my shoulder as she walks by.

"Huh. I like it when I am wise."

What acknowlegements are for

I washed the dishes, cleaned the countertops. I even swept the floor. I took in the laundry, and the made my lunch break on time. I even made a few people smile.

I laughed.

Proud

I really like it when I've kept to my word. Tonight I turned on my computer and had a sense of dread that not only had I not written today, but that I'd forgotten to post yesterday as well--and well, it was a sad feeling. But then, I had written yesterday--and written a lengthy post I was proud of!--AND caught up from a weekend away/holiday AND I've been on top of writing something for every day of the week for almost the whole year already! Damn, new year's resolutions, this project started last May and it's still kickin'.

I got stressed today on multiple occasions with wanting to do a whole heap of things and not really having the daylight-awake hours. And still, I had breakfast at home with our lovely house guest/dear friend; worked for 3 1/2 hours at the restaurant; got my butt across London just barely on time for said friend's storytelling gig; had tea with my love along the Thames; went grocery shopping; made dinner; watched an episode of GLEE (SOO GOOD!); and blogged. Seriously, not a bad day.

A New Name

I can't tell you how many years I've wanted a nickname. There are distinct memories from second grade when I realized I couldn't really shorten 'Erica' down to anything 'cool.' My best friend couldn't really either, but it didn't matter: I wanted a nickname. 'Air' was a bit awkward, and a bit too blonde. 'Rica' was just stupid. Friend did start to call me 'E' and in college I started signing this 'e.' (Yes, that is a distinctive lower case 'e'.)

When I lived in Ireland, I became known as 'Erica from America.' My dearest friend there coined the name and it stuck in explanatory terms. In other words, everyone called me 'Erica' but to clarify in situations where I wasn't there (or in people's mobile phones) I was 'Erica from America.'

Then I fell in love with a Brit who's sister had also fallen in love with a woman called 'Erica.' Given that 'Erica from America' popped up again for clarifications sake, and after stilted attempts to use the other Erica's home as a signifier, we gave up: she's 'Erica NOT from America;' it still rhymes.

In England, the name started back up again about two years ago, sometime around my first visit to my lover's home for Valentine's 2008. Here, I am occasionally called 'Erica from America' in family gatherings, and on Christmas tags from holidays past. It was until a week ago though, that the true potential of the nickname really came to fruition. Let me tell you how it went:

I sent a text to my soon-to-be sister in law, and to clarify, just in case, that it wasn't in fact her wife text her, and without taking up all those text letters, I signed my message 'efa.' The following day, Alex and I received a letter from her dad in Cornwall addressed: Ms. A & EfA. Holy moly, Batman--how'd that happen?!

THEN, my friend from Ireland, the one who coined the name in the first place, shows up to stay with us for a week (well planned in advance, mind you) and we start talking about my mouthful of a nickname. Then I tell her about the text message/letter co-incidence and she looks at me and says 'That's a great name!' From that point on this morning, she called me 'Efa.' My eyes have gone starry with excitement: a new name.

For Sunday - My Valentines

'Just mixed your tea. Will add sunshine to it. I love you incredibly.'

That's what I call friends...

For Saturday - If These Walls Could Talk 2

On Saturday night, Alex and I were at a friends' house, snuggling up against the February wind with a spread of yummy food, wine, tea and a film: If These Walls Could Talk 2. A TV film about three different lesbian relationships in one house over 3 decades, we all could relate. At times, I was in shock at how little may be really different since the 1960s, legally speaking, in the US. Sometimes I wondered just where the directors were going with certain dialogue. And other times still, all I could do was giggle and sigh. Which is exactly what Sharon Stone and Ellen DeGeneres are doing in the above screen capture: after a scene where they were 'getting amorous,' as friend S might have said, all they could do was giggle and sigh. It was the most relatable moment of the whole film.

Thanks A, N & S.

Sitting 'Round

It's so good to sit 'round with people who just get you. Even if you've not known them that long, sometimes, it just makes sense. It's comfortable, familiar. Thank goodness for being in the family.

You see...

You see, throughout the day different events capture my imagination and a little switch in my brain goes 'Ooh, that would make a good blog post.' Funny, witty, heart-wrenching, evoking, dull: it all has potential. And then the day carries on, as it does. There is work to be done, a train to catch, dinner to make or dishes to do. By the time I sit down to write as part of my daily committment to my writing practice my eyelids are already heavy, my wrist sore, and my lover falling asleep. I am not complaining. This is my life. In this moment. Beautiful things happening all the time. Things that fill out the shape and provide contrast.

This morning as I was awoken by my lover to say goodbye. She said to me: 'Remember: there will be only one 11th of February 2010.'

A...

A girl...
A girl walks in...
A girl walks into a bar...
A girl walks into a bar, and sits down...

So begins the storyteller...

One little sentence...

'Oh, I found your Valentine's gift tonight...'

Makes a girl giddy...

Mt. Shasta....

I miss my mountain. I know it's a half hour's drive away from my hometown. I know it's not always visible from every vista of Yreka. And yet, Mt. Shasta has always signaled home. Driving around those bends in the canyon where the mountain just peeks through after the long drive through the Northern California valley and hot hot Redding. Its towering facade from the actual city itself nestled at its base, the snow ever glowing in the moonlight. Over fields and football stadiums, Mt. Shasta is a symbol of home. I about fell out of my computer chair tonight when I saw it online in the most random of places. There were tears in my eyes.

List of Poetry

The Times published an article/interview on Carol Ann Duffy today in which she said that all poetry is love poetry and she is infinitely interested in love because desire and possibility are everywhere. Part of my being was called forth as my breath caught: 'Why am I not writing more poetry?'

I entered a poetry contest last month with about my love and the Natural History Museum. I didn't win, and I didn't expect I would. It was a Queer London contest, and the title of my piece was 'Whale Poems.' Still, how do I begin to write again, to write again like I know what I am doing across the page. Because I do.

For Saturday - Poem a Day

For Christmas, my mom bought both of us a book we could read simultaenously, transtlatically: Poem a Day. I thought it was a brilliant idea; she thought it was kinda cheesy. As New Year's things go, I did alright for the first few weeks of January, but found my bookmark somewhere around January 21st last night when I opened it up again. As a I read from January 21st onwards, these are the things I learned:

• not all poetry before 1900 is terrible
• Keats was pretty cool
• Robert Burns kicked ass
  
• and part of me really wants 'My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose' read at my wedding.
  

For Friday - Erika Meitner

From 'Elegy'

...I was at the Museum
of Natural History today--

dinosaur bones set carefully, dioramas
of Neanderthals in cases reenacting hunts, and an exhibit

on body art entitled "Marks
of Identity" this is what I learned:

that in the afterlife, where all things are reversed,
dark tattoos shine brightly

to illuminate a path
for the dead. I learned

that women shamans
painted their bodies

with vicious snakes and jaguars
to protect them in journeys

to the spirit world. I learned
that the female body

must be marked
before it can serve

as a vehicle for the spirit.

Sicky

I'm almost too tired-plugged up-fuzzy headed to blog. How'd I get a cold again?

When the bee stings...

I was upset this morning, and wrapping a package in brown paper wrapping to send off from work. Suddenly, under my breath, I started singing songs from the Sound of Music: girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes, silver white winters that melt into spring, these are a few of my favorite things...

Needless to say, I felt better.

Sometimes

I can't even tear myself away from the computer.

Wind Instruments

I picked up my clarinet again tonight for the first time in over a year. More like a year and a half. The last time I played it was a warm, cloud-free summer evening Culver City, the porch light, a few flying insects and an aluminum trailer to keep me company.

For the past few days, my fingers have started to itch to play. Family has been visiting, I've had to work, emails and to-do lists have been beckoning me. But tonight as I got off the phone with a dear (and musically talented) friend eight time zones away, I saw the clocked ticked 15 mins until a reasonable bed time--just enough for a few goes on the clarinet.

Like the QWERTY keyboard is to me now, my fingers knew their respective positions on my wind instrument. Of all the items in my possession, my clarinet may be one of the oldest: we bought it for my second year of band in school and it's been with me ever since. I was probably an intermediate clarinetist when I stopped, and the beginners book is really what I'd prefer at the moment, and there is some sense of freedom and history in just playing a few notes, running a few scale patterns together--like picking up a conversation with a long lost friend and remembering it the same as ever with refreshing nuances and changes since you last spoke.

Mary Chapin Carpenter

I don't remember how old I was. It could have been when I was under 5 and 1/2--cause I don't remember where my brother was--or I could have been about 8 or 9. Either way, I loved everything about the concert. My parents got three tickets to see Mary Chapin Carpenter live at some theatre in the East Bay and I knew every word to every one of her songs. My parents commented later on how amazing her back-up band was, how fantastic her performance of 'Shut Up and Kiss Me' worked the crowd.

I couldn't have cared less about the former, but I remember her descending the stage and strutting her way through the center aisle, finding an appropriate lap to sit on at the opportune chorus moment. I was mesmorized by her perfomance, and sang right along with her. It was less that I wanted to be down there with her, an aisle seat on the path she walked, but more that I wanted to be her. To have that guts--and the glory--that raw talent.

A child under ten sitting next to her parents, singing along to every song was probably a sight to be seen. I remembered the guy behind me making some remark part way through the show, he had noticed my talent for lyrics, if you want to call it that. Me, I couldn't have been happier. It remains one of my favorite concerts of all time.

Random Facts

• I know that Vladimir Propp has dilstilled the fairy tale down to 39 functions.
• I once dated a guy who smoked a lot of dope AND worked in a heart valve factory.
• My favorite roses as a teenager were yellow with red tips; they mean 'friendship.'
  
• Now, I find orange roses most beautiful; they mean 'desire.'
• My love bites her fingernails and around the edges.
• And sometimes her peering at me over her knuckles makes me melt.
  

Nikki Giovanni, Bicycles

'Bicycles: because love requires trust and balance.'

For Thursday - Phone Call

'You have such genorisity... not just of your heart, but also your courage.'

Hump Day

Winding down from a day at work (More to Life Centre) and work (Rick's Cafe), my mind is floating along. 'This is us, at the Mardi Gras, This is us...' by Emmylou Harris and Mark Knofler. Something about Alexander and his terrible, horrible, no good very bad day (even though my day, while stressful, was definitely not like Alexander's). Then there's the cowboys & the cowgirls: picturebooks, key chains, tea mugs. My hair even feels like it hurts. Oh man, my hair can't feel. Maybe this is a sign of how tired I am.

Today

Today I breathed a lot. Today I cried a lot. Today I started to think again about what was important to me: my committment to my partner, the love of my family, my freshness for life, and staying present in my body. Nothing like life throwing you some hefty curve balls to get your priorities straight.

For Monday - Orange Roses

Last Thursday I bought Alex 10 orange roses. I bought them because we have been pretty stressed lately, busy lives and all, and she was completing her first placement at a hospital in North London. She was already at home, starting dinner of pesto pasta, when I got to our Tube stop. I realized I had £5 on me; a bunch of orange roses it was.

For Sunday--Wowzer!

I just had the most amazing Sunday Roast of beef, roast potatoes, parsnips, carrots, onions and gravy that I have ever had in my entire life. I seriously thought I had died and gone to beef-parsnip heaven. Oh, and the gravy. Did I mention the gravy? I could have licked the gravy off the plate, but the customers were watching me...

Writings from the Day

"I have the strongest feeling that what seem to be 'airplanes' now will, in fact, turn out to be start of the wishing variety sooner than you think."

"Every day now I'm feeling more and more alive and myself again, sort of pre-dissertation ish/post-/there's more to life than writing a paper. All these things I'd forgotten I was doing for a while: writing poetry, sewing, blogging, breathing. It's almost like a thaw: tingles & shoots of green enticing the imagination. Feeling awake; I'm so thankful."

"... the perfect dissertation hangover cure..."

Friday Night

On the tube home this evening after a dinner/fro yo/drinks out with a good friend, Alex started to fall asleep on the tube. When we got to the station before ours, I started singing 'Wake up, Little Susy, wake up.' She smiled and then kissed me.

Cleaning Spree

It's almost as if Spring Cleaning is already here, except that I've been on a kick to reorganize the house since the new year. I think the new year/new decade was part of it, but also the fact that Alex and I have now lived in our flat for an entire year now--and some things are still shoved in corners and are in need of dusting.

Well, the number of things shoved in corners are definitely dwindling. Dusting is another story, but a more perpetual task rather than something really not having a home at all. It was a complete revelation tonight that I could push the books on our shelves all the way to the BACK of the shelf. For some reason both of us had it stuck that the books should be all the way the front. Now: more space, better energy, brighter room. Somehow magnificently.

It is off to bed after a full week's work so far (still getting used to this) and I am a happy girl with clean dishes and organized bookshelves. It doesn't take much.

not politics, not religion

'Is this just gonna start a war?'

For Tuesday - Gone Midnight

So I forgot to write on Monday. And then I just got home tonight, gone midnight. I wanted to write today, and I got busy. I got busy with life.

And that's ok.

For Monday - Well

I forgot it was Monday, and I forgot to write.

Comparisons

Something I loved before I moved to England: Frozen Yogurt with mixed chips.

Something I love after I moved to England: Cheese and Pickle sandwiches. By which I mean 'pickle' as in a fruit chutney that has been 'pickled,' English style. (I haven't figured out how to describe it yet.)

Sometimes I Forget...

Sometimes I forget how easy it is to pick up the phone and hear an old friend's voice again. Sometimes I forget that sometimes each of us just wants to speak, and be understood.
Sometimes I forget how hard that can be.

Sometimes I forget how that the place I live doesn't matter, because I am me regardless.
Sometimes I forget that the place I live defines who I am, mattering indefinitely.
Sometimes I forget that I matter.

Sometimes I forget how curling up on the couch can be the one thing that saves you.
Sometimes I forget that curling up on the couch can keep you locked in.
Sometimes I forget how much others matter to me.

Sexism & 'My Breasts'

Two things that really irk me:

• A radio commercial for http://www.mybreast.org/--no joke, the jingle is 'my face, my body, my breast, my choice!'
• Adds on the Tube escalators for plastic surgery which promote 'being just you.'

What make me feel better:

• A sticker of the breasts of the Tube escalator ad with a handwritten message: 'Don't buy this sexist shit.'
  

Hell yes, sister.

For Wednesday - My Birthday

Yes, it is way past my birthday. And, I'm still thinking about it. It relates to the momentum taking place in my life, the changes, the building of energy I am trying to create.

Somewhere out in the world, and on the coffee table at Stewart Springs, there is a birthday book which tells you what kind of person you are based on what day you were born. December 20th is apparently the day of The Generator. As such a person, one is very good at short term bursts of energy, starting up projects, etc. with skill and enthusiasm to lift them off the ground. People of my birth, well, we generate anything from creative endeavors to technical projects. When I read that description, it really made sense: I love starting up a new project, getting it off the ground. And I am damn good at it. I'd also like to stick around a bit longer to see how it pans out.

For Tuesday - English Degrees

A good friend of mine related the story of how her and her boss were talking about people who have English degrees. He does; and, on the surface of his job description, you would not necessarily assume he'd studied the great novels of the last 500 years for his undergrad degree. But, you see, it made perfect sense to me. Mock us all you want, but English majors, Literature majors around the world, we are the writers, the meaning-makers, the interpreters of our daily lives.

Sometimes I Forget

Sometimes I forget that for some people my loving a woman presents a reality which they have trouble comprehending. Not that they disagree necessarily, or wish ill of me and my love, it's just that, for whatever reason, the synapses that would connect me to Alex haven't ever formed (or been exercised) recently in their brains and they're slow to adapt. I find people like this the most difficult; sometimes it would almost be easier if just outright thought I was an abomination (as long as they didn't want to throw me in jail, keep me from getting married, or kill me). I guess, it's more about my reaction really. More that I have trouble understanding how someone can really like who I am, be happy to be in my company and then suddenly...its the facial expression that changes, without words being said. The disapproval, confusion, something. It's the something I can't read. That's the hardest.

Highways & Anchors

On this day when I have turned in the final assessment + dissertation for my MA degree (and drunk a few glasses of cava), I find myself reflecting on the url I've chosen for this blog. Now titled 'One a Day,' the blog reflects my continued commitment to my writing practice and constant observance of my own life and surroundings. When I first started this blog, however, I was interested in what grounded me, and where I was going.

For me, the highways were my pathways through the unknown paths of my life in California. I-5 connecting my home to my future in Los Angeles, the coastal highways connecting to my university life in Santa Cruz as well. The anchors were people: my family, my friends, my lover. I knew which roads I would be travelling by but I was unsure of my destinations.

A year and a half later, I no longer travel by highway, but by bus route and underground train lines. The pathways that connect my homestate and my home-sweet-homes are most easily navigable by airways. My destinations thus far have been largely unseen, unknown--and at the same time, completely expected and make so much sense. My anchors have been, well, anchors: a community of people who unflinchly support and love me.

Highways & Anchors. One a Day. Where I've come from, where I'm going. And who's coming with me on the journey, I am ever-grateful.

School Girl Crush

As I've been researching over the last months into all things queer with regards to picturebooks, how love is constructed has resonated with me the most. And, like my community theatre director said during a rehearsal, once you start thinking of something that has real creative potential life starts bringing you all sorts of examples to play with, study, and relate. Tonight, this thread inspired me to Google the term 'school girl crush.' I know why I did: I've been using Urban Dictionary a lot lately in my papers and I was wondering if there was a definition for it. The answer is, well, I love the internet.

Firstly, a website called everything2.com defines 'School Girl Crush' as:

A crush is defined informally in the dictionary as:

• a. usually temporary infatuation.
• b. The object of such an infatuation.

I think that there are a variety of crushes that one might have over the course of their lives, but they all kind of boil down to being a school girl crush. One that makes you feel juvenile and powerless under the one that you adore. One that makes you feel silly and hopeful for all the wrong reasons.

These are the kind of crushes that create pipe dreams that, never fulfilled, will be mourned over for weeks if not months. School girl crushes are wishes never granted that consistantly give the promise of a broken heart.

Nice. Hopeful. Tidy. Yeah, right.

The second link to pop up is wikihow.com. But it's a variation of my question: "How to Tell if a Girl Likes You in School." And, it's a 30 step process PLUS a huge list of tips. All I can say is 'Thank goodness I'm not in school still.' (Cause this definitely only applies to school...right? Yeah, anyway.)

The third link, the THIRD, is an even more specific situation on a question forum: "I don't think it is just another schoolgirl crush, so what can I do about my feelings for my teacher?"

My first reaction: I laughed, 'Yeah, hello, of course it's a schoolgirl crush.' Like I instantly, culturally new how wrong (read: dumb) she was for even think the question.

My second reaction: I laughed again. A) because who the hell am I to judge, I'm the one WRITING about school girl crushes, and B) I totally wasn't think about boys when I did my Google search. In my head, the word 'girl' simultaneously melted into one and became both me as the girl with the crush and the object of a crush.

End result from Google: school girl crushes are lame. Wouldn't it be nice to change that?

In other news, I've just finished the drafts of all my university papers. Erica Marie = MA'd OUT.

Swallows and Amazons

If I were ever going to join a literary group to be a part of, I'd seriously consider the Arthur Ransome Society. Swallows and Amazons = awesome.

Boy Scout Camp

"However, before he published [Scouting for Boys, Baden-Powell] tested out his methods with a small experimental camp on Brownsea Island.... Wild and well wooded, with sandy shores, it was good Scouting country and, more importantly perhaps, from B.-P.'s point of view, it was remote and unobserved. To this island, then, came men, boys and gear, and on 29th July, 1907, the historic camp began."

-- B.-P.'s Scouts: An Official History of The Boys Scouts Association (1961), by Henry Collis, Fred Hurll, and Rex Hazlewood

Bus Inspiration

I am a PREACHER of the WORD, the WRITTEN WORD.

For anyone who knows me, I hope you find that as funny as I do.

Whoa Wednesday

Whoa, Wednesday, as in, 'Whoa, Wednesday, where did you go?!'

To my dissertation, that's where. Time spent on the final piece edits and proof-reads of my MA 20,000 word analysis/argument/total fun. Yes, I did just write total fun because even if deadlines make the nerves rattle, I loved every minute of crafting my argument, doing the research, even getting feedback. I was up until 2 am last night putting in the gorgeously edited photos of picturebook double page spreads my lady love photoshopped up for me, woke this morning to finish off the bibliography and abstract; I'm off the printers on Friday. Wham, bam, done.

Whoa, Wednesday, I missed you here, but it was so good over in Word.

Alexander Doty, Making Things Perfectly Queer

"While we acknowledge that homosexuals as well as heterosexuals can operate or mediate from within straight cultural spaces and positions--after all, most of us grew up learning the rules of straight culture--we have paid less attention to the proposition that basically heterocentrist texts can contain queer elements, and basically heterosexual, straight-identified people can experience queer moments. And these people should be encouraged to examine and express those moments as queer, not as moments of "homosexual panic," or temporary confusion, or as unfortunate, shameful, or sinful lapses in judgement or taste to be ignored, repressed, condemned, or somehow explained away within and by straight cultural politics--or even within and by gay or lesbian discourses" (Doty, Making Thing Perfectly Queer: 3).

Drugs are Bad

Apparently mixing one head cold + two Day Nurse tablets (like Tylenol) + one chocolate croissant + one hour long Tube ride = puking next to the Bingo Hall in public.

Darts

I have learned this evening that watching darts on television is actually more exciting than a lot of sports. Sure, it's a one-man show. Sure, there's no pitch or outdoor scenery. But the game never stops progressing. Every throw moves it. It may be similar to tennis, but even easier. Perfect for a Sunday sofa leisure time.

Saturday after New Years

The New Year is wonderful, changing up all that you take as 'normal' in your life. I woke up New Year's morning feeling grounded, fresh, and at peace. The 2nd of January, I found myself wondering about the 'high' of New Years, and what you do when it's no longer the 1st of January and the world may not be so fresh.

A New Year of a New Decade

On the 1st of January of 2010, the first day of a new decade, I woke feeling fresh at 12:30 pm in the afternoon, next to a beautiful woman who wants to marry me. Not a shabby start.