The money. The money. The money.
As I sit here in my room, Drew to my back and Steve to my left, you’d think the last thing I’d want to do is write, write, write. Write until my nails bleed dry and I have nothing left to say. Even after two papers, I feel like I have not yet exhausted what’s going inside this little, bitty head. Maybe that’s just it? Maybe it never ends? What happens when there is nothing left inside your head to put onto a page? I feel schizophrenic, blog.
The whole weekend has been a whirlwind.
Once, I went on a walk around the Thames and I saw a small boat passing through. I thought for sure that it was some illegal vessel, too small to compete with the barges and carriers passing through. It looked unreal, cartooned? Animated. It was moving along slower than I was, and I wasn’t walking particularly fast. I was taking pictures of birds digging through litter and watching a boy dance with his mother on a bench. I snapped a shot of the boat, but the strangest things in person cannot be captured on film; it didn’t turn out great. Perhaps it was just a moment for me. A moment to watch the boat go by and think about the weight of its choice to travel down the River Thames and into a larger, more frightening body of water. I wonder if the boat and its passengers felt the gravity of their choice to move down through London at such a molasses pace. Would moving so slowly serve any purpose? Maybe I move to fast; maybe I cannot live without motion?
I went to a wine tasting this afternoon with Matt. It wasn’t really on the agenda, especially with so much work to get done, but it sounded a lot more entertaining than a day in the lounge, writing til the cows came home. By cows, I of course mean my friends in Belgium. It sounds like they had fun. The tasting was delightful; it was the perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon in London. The samplers were so educated on their craft and the nuances of their product; it was inspirational.
River Rock Coffee. Come to me. I miss you. When I return to St. Peter, I want to spend J-Term learning everything I can about tea and what makes it so perfect. I know coffee. I get it. I understand it. I want to understand tea. It’s not just about beans and cherries and harvest; it’s about extraction and delectability and intricacy. Genmaicha: green tea and brown rice. I want to know why cornflowers taste different in hot water and so much better when slapped with dried pomegranate and apple. Education.
I watched the sunset this evening from my room. Orange and pink spilled across the sky in ways that you don’t see in Minnesota. Sure, it’s pretty every once and a while, but this was sensual almost. Impressive. It makes you want to believe in something: god, maybe?
I am not ready to go home.
Last night I watched the film I Love You, Phillip Morris. I cried, but Jim Carey is a crafty devil. He wasn’t actually unwell, the sneak. When it comes out in the states, I suggest to anyone: go and see it. You will not regret it. It’s about a guy who can’t help but lie, can’t help but always be better than he really is. I get that. I used to get that. I don’t really understand it now, but he was trying to be happy and I suppose there is nothing wrong with that? Oh, the main characters are gay too. It’s not the focus of the film though, which was nice to see. It was like Scott Pilgrim VS. the World in that respect. I don’t understand the need to either have epic gay movies or stereotypical gay characters in feature films; it was refreshing to see something like that on the back burner. It was like saying, why focus on this? It’s normal.
Thursday was Izzy’s 20th birthday and I really believe that she had a great time. At least, I hope she did. She deserved to, that girl. She’s warmth, manifested. We went dancing and I didn’t go to sleep until the sun was pouring out of the clouds. It felt so good.
Tonight, I listen to that playlist that makes you reflect. Songs like Jay Brannen’s Beautifully and The Fray’s Enough for Now. I often tear up for no reason when listening to this playlist: it’s not uncommon for that to just…happen. Ha. Life. I waltz inside my little head with myself and contemplate how it would feel to go sleep on the sidewalk and feel the cold pavement and smell the cigarettes that burn away the smells of German Pancakes and Indian cuisine. Wouldn’t that be nice?
She’ll burn that bridge and build a house and swallow the smoke in her mouth. And she’ll feel the burn and then make the choice to put the fire in her voice: decisions, decisions, decisions. And what happens when you can’t set the fire free? You start to wonder if you ever built the house or even burnt the bridge in the first place.
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