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.

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...

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.

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.

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 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.

For Monday - No Excuses

I just didn't feel like writing.

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..."

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 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.

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.

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.

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 - 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.

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.

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.

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!
  

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.