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...

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!
  

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.

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.

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.

Mastery

J: 'I was threatened.'

E: 'She was encouraged.'

A: 'Ah, those empowering words.'