Two weeks late, I think it's only appropriate.

So roughly two weeks ago, I attempted to write something like this in the Heathrow Airport. I couldn't. I wanted to talk about how much I learned, without really knowing it, while I had been abroad. I wanted to share how those 4 months had opened up my horizons and made me more inquisitive and interested, perhaps more interesting too. I wanted to say that I knew who I was better, I was a little closer to that asymptote I'm always grasping for than I was before, but I don't know if that is actually the case.

Now that I've been home for two weeks, I find myself right back into the same swing of things, serving the same burgers and watching the same movies. I went to London thinking that if I could put an ocean in between all things Concord and myself, I could maybe finally severe all the loose strings that the 700 mile difference between New York and North Carolina evidently can't make disappear.

I'm starting to think the increased distance only further strengthened my bonds to home. I appreciate not only my country more, but cannot even begin to express how loving and indebted I am to my wonderful parents (and friends).

And now, bizarrely enough, sitting here at my computer in my room (people know how I feel about sentences with opening structures like this - PLEASE read between the lines), my summer horizons and much less bleaker than I would have imagined them to be.

I miss New York immensely & I could live in London/the greater UK/Europe (*cough*PARIS*cough*) long term. For now, though, I am exactly where I need to be, spending a summer under a Southern sky. ('cause we all know that God made the sky Carolina blue for a reason)


one last cheers & all my love,
D

I may be no Nesta Jones, but I may be a contender for HBIC one day.

3 papers down. 1 to go. The opus looms.

Other things also looming (besides volcanic ash): the return of my two papers from last week, TOMORROW. It'll make or break my day as usual.

Alas, it is WEDNESDAY and THE FINAL Ladies Who Lunch (on NYU budget money since we each got a £5 Pizza Express coupon - thanks Sexton?). It also means a morning crash-course in Microsoft Publisher.

I think I might close down the Senate House Social Club tomorrow night & then after party in camp kitchen. I didn't make it to watching blasted Season 3, Episode 5 of The Tudors today, but I did manage to break the seal on the opus of all things related to war and modern British Drama (and take a solid/much needed 2 hour nap), so I can't complain.

I have a surprise to tell you, but I can't share because then it wouldn't be a surprise when my mom picks me up at the airport Saturday (Tracy knows & if you're in London you know - but none of ya'll will tell or I'll bust a cap on you and it won't be pretty). I will say that it's something I didn't see myself doing when I came here. Who knows, she may not even recognize me. No worries, though, it's not a jarring facial tattoo/piercing (or any tattoo or piecing for that matter). But it's definitely bangin' - at least I think so.

The days keep dwindling down - funny that it feels like its a RETURN TO WINTER HERE. (Seriously, I don't think the temp. got above 50 for more than 15 minutes today.) Guess it's just part of that cyclical hero's journey. If Saturday is The Return, does this mean I'm currently at The Atonement? I'd like to hope that I left The Abyss a long time ago. (:D) I can't get sentimental and retrospective yet, though, there are all those words looming.

Here's to all things shiny, tacky, wonderful and good.

xoxo & cheers,
D

give my guard away when it's loaded

I hope this is my last trip to the 24 hour store to buy writing snacks (I plan to get enough for both tonight and Wednesday night). Tomorrow my third final paper is due, which means that only my opus on modern British drama will remain. I'd rather not acknowledge the fact that it's almost time for me to return to the states and that I only have 3 semesters of undergrad work left.

xoxo & cheers, D

(Burp.) "You're excused."

I know I said that more would come yesterday. Well, it's now tomorrow and the more is here. I'll start with the most recent and work my way backwards. (Last night was our last date with DJ Mark. It was sad. "Eenie Meenie" has made it to the UK, though, so our Bieber Fever only continues to get worse.)

I bought groceries for the last time in London this morning. When I say "groceries," though, I really mean varieties of canned soup. I did buy juice and some fruit. That was a big deal. If you could see the state of my fridge, it would only attest to the fact that I'm in college and it's finals time.

Despite not having any final exams, 5000 more words stand between me, the states, and summer (you wouldn't think it's summerish here, though, it's gray and 50). 2000 devoted to Antony and Cleopatra as a meta-play and 3000 (hopefully perfected words) exploring depictions in war is modern British drama . . . or something along those lines at least. Unlike this past week, they're not both due on the same day (Thank you!), so I won't be quite so strung out on caffeine this Wednesday as I was last week.

Last weekend (forced transition, I'm aware), we went to the lakes. I have to confess we did absolutely no work; rather, we sat on the couch like sloths and watched television (the house we rented had SKY). It was awesome. I did get to see a little nature, though.



When I'm rich and famous, or at just some other point in my life, I really want to live in the English countryside. Looking at it, it makes total sense that it produces so many great writers/novels.



I also think it produces inherently adorable children.



I certainly don't want children yet. At this moment, I just want to be in the sun by the pool, or a beach, or a lake. And as much a I love the Londoners I'm excited to be home where, despite being a much younger country, I really think there's a stronger sense of culture. It's cool that the English are so sponge-like, a curry is now a traditional meal, but they don't have sweet tea and burgers and summer like we do. It'll be nice to return.

Because I'm not only returning to the states, but to that magical land that is the North Carolina Governor's School (West Campus). I think it's the closest thing to a magical English forest there is in NC. :)

Procrastinating is lovely, but alas, words don't just produce themselves, and even when they do spew out in word vomit, my syntax is always desperate for improvement.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Remember that time I went abroad & said I'd blog regularly

A week from today I will be trying to pack my life into 2 suitcases that weigh under 50 lbs., a tote, and a purse. I have 5000 words remaining, though, maybe I'll have more to say later.

xoxo & cheers, D

All I gotta say . .

I have 6000 words due (3000 words for 50% of two separate classes) in roughly 30 hours. I loved the lakes, but no post tonight.

xoxo & cheers,
D

she doesn't even go here

I swear I'm not TOO much of a freak. Dark & twisty definitely, overbearingly morbid, never. I got to tag along with my friend's Gothic Literature class to High Gate Cemetary on Friday morning. I know, I woke up early on a day I didn't have class to go on another classes trip, to a cemetery none the less. What can I say for myself.

It was bangin.



Alas, I have a large novel to read (and a scandalous one to finish . . oh Humbert).

xoxo & cheers,
D

"All I ever wanted" was just time to watch the Tudors!

I have to take a break from synthesizing thoughts & do something besides reading. 25 days left and it's pretty much nose to the grindstone, but I'm really into it.

Today I wore a skirt without tights. It's really spring, I think.

Break over. Back to thinking & being.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Bieber Fever

When I'm in the library and really working, I like to sit with my ankles crossed and streched out in front of me. This normally lets me scoot my chair close to the table, so I can sit upright while also supporting my lower back. Very comfortable. It's a popular position; the problem, however, is that if the person sitting across from me does the same thing, our feet make contact. That's just awkward.

You don't know the person and you suddenly find yourself playing footsies with them. What do you do?

I typically say excuse me, getting dirty looks for those around me because to make any sound (even an apologetic utterance) in the stacks in a cardinal sin, and quickly tuck my feet under my chair in order to continue working. It's funny, though, because the person across from me does the same thing. We both compromise our comfort for each other out of awkwardness. In reality we could just navigate the space better, perhaps each shift our chairs an inch to the right, and avoid the problem all together. Thus all that awkwardness, the disruption of both our concentration/comfort and that of others (due to our rude condolences to each other for invading person space) could easily be avoided.

Except we never think to just move the chair.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Remember that time we went to the club & then took the bus to Chicken?

I promise I have a life.
I promise I have thoughts that extend beyond my color-coded planner and what books I have to have read by Wednesday.
I promise I'm not Paris Hilton, nor will I ever be.
I promise that I was really excited about a nice, long, self-satisfying blog post today . . .

But then I watched the first episode of The Tudors . . .

And then I went to Tesco with friends to get birthday cake, to surprise our friend on her birthday with cake, singing and flowers.
And then we went to grab some dinner.
And then I had to listen to "First Dance" by Justin Bieber again in order to enlighten my roommate to how it is, in fact, not about dancing.
And then I had to finish the reading for Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and suchs.
And then I had to go through some books & do some research.
And then I had to Skype my mom. ♥
And then I had to answer my emails.

Because I still need to write my Shakespeare posting.
Because I still need to plan/outline (rough planning and outlining, mind you) an essay.
Because I still need to finish the novel I've been reading for pleasure this semester (I also need to keep dreaming that that will happen).
Because I still need to respond to a few more emails and such.
Because I still have to check my email constantly (NC Gov. School where you at?!)
Because I still have 4 weeks left.
Because I still need to re-organize my self.
Because I still have to watch an episode (or two) of The Tudors.

But I will share the story related to the title of this list someday, eventually, maybe.
. . . when I get some down time . . .

Here's to volcanic ash clouds NOT disrupting my plans for the upcoming weekend.

xoxo & cheers,
D

And so it is

I'm breathing but not blogging because my love-hate affair with Brecht and Billy continues tonight. Tomorrow, I'll have something to say. I promise.

xoxo & cheers,
D

But I just can't be with you like this anymore, Alejandro.

So I sincerely thought that I would have lots of really cool postings after/during Spring Break. I thought wrong. It just didn't happen. My break wasn't dull, but I just didn't have time nor desire to write anything, mostly time.

Visiting with my mom and Sheldon and Janet and Doris and Janet's friend Rene was lovely. I cannot express how much being abroad has even further increased the love & appreciation I have for my parents.

But I have 34 more days here, and I hope to post lots. I also have 6 papers and a few thousand more pages, so I'm going to be booked. (YET there is also 2 days is Madrid and 3 days in the Lakes District to look forward too, mostly the oppressing weight of papers and books. It's okay - I'm mildly obsessed.)

Anyway . . .
I've been told multiple times (more like all the time) that I'm weird, something is not right with me, I'm strange. I got it. I acknowledge it. I like to think I'm merely awkward, but that I own my awkwardness. (Right Mary Ellen?) I do, however, like to insist that despite all my circus-like childhood experiences, I'm normal. I think I might be wrong. I'm certainly not better off or worse off, but I'm not normal (I don't know if anyone at NYU is). I really just think that it's taken me 20 years to realize that I've done a lot of things that most people don't really do, making my overall demeanor more removed? harder to impress?

Someone said (when I was about 11) that they felt sorry for whoever I married/dated because I would expect a lot, being exposed to so much. I used to brush off the statement, thinking "not really." False. I do & will continue to do so.

On another note . . .
I need sleep so I can be at the library doors when they open tomorrow morning. . . if I get up when my first alarm goes off. Goal for the next 5 weeks: get up on your first alarm, Dorothy! I think this winter is finally over and in anticipation for spring fever I have added notes like "SERIOUSLY" and "FOOL" (in all caps & color-coded highlighter) to my deadlines for getting drafts done and such. I think the adverb and direct address will really help.

That's all I know, aside from a new other perennial surprises that always seem to pop up - no loose strings, though, I'm tired to tripping over united laces.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Back to Paris

You can tell we're American by the way we clonk down the metro stairs. We drag our over-sized suitcases as the wheels thug on the concrete steps and we attempt to figure out which line to take to get from Gare du Nord to Rue du Bac. We don't even have to be speaking loudly. Heck, we could even be dressed in chic suits rather than trainers and sweats. You hear the clonk-clonk-clonk and you know immediately.

I think every American should have to travel to places where he or she becomes immediately self-conscious of the inherent American-ism that are so deeply ingrained in us we often fail to notice their existence.

At home, I have no problem pulling my suitcase down the 12 stairs despite having a modern machine that could do it for me. I know the modern machine is not an option for me in the Paris metro, and the clonk sound is slightly dulled in my house due to carpeting. Standing in the metro rush on a Friday evening, though, I feel the necessity to pick up my suitcase and carry it up and down the many stairs we encounter on our two transfer-three train journey from the train station to the apartment. The disregard I feel towards my luggage at my house becomes something inherently linked to my pride/self presentation to the world in the metro, as if dragging my luggage is a sign of greater lapses in judgement, those of apathy and disregard. Things I do not want to associate myself with.

I want to be caring and passionate. I want to leave a mark that's greater than tire tracks of small rubber wheels.

Then again, though, it's just a suitcase. It's meant to be lugged.

a bientot & cheers,
D

23 days gone by, why can't eagles fly?

There's a SheDaisy song that says, perhaps, the grass isn't greener on the other side when you realize you should be with a certain individual but you aren't. I love you, ladies, but I must disagree because from here:



the grass is always greener. You look at greater Paris and things are put into perspective. The silly and petty ceases to matter. If you can make it here & survive living on the other side of the pond for a few months, you should be able to handle anything old-Concord might throw your way. And if you get the opportunity to eat crepes and sing Tim McGraw from here, well, you're just extra lucky then.

bon soir & cheers.
D

I think I could sit here forever.

Sometimes life is surprising and magical. You find yourself in places that you could only dream about. The things my friends and I are getting to do this semester shouldn't be real. When else will I ever be living in London and have the ability to decide to pop over to Paris to hang out with a friend & be lazy and watch LOST & laugh until my side hurt. Never. When else will we be able to ride the metro to Trocadero to merely stare at the Eiffel Tower in party dresses just because we feel like getting dressed up for no reason. They always say your college years are the ones you remember the most. Maybe they were right after all.



Like looking at Big Ben in Pariliament Square (or just standing on Waterloo Bridge at night) THAT is something I could never get sick of. It is a surreal image, presently at my fingertips; I feel immensely blessed.

a bientot & cheers,
D

Konnichi wa come and move it my way.

I remembered thinking about this the first day I was in Paris, but I forgot by the end of the evening. Sitting in the cool air at a sidewalk cafe on a delightful spring evening (and, more importantly, watching people walk by), I remember. I DEFINITELY remember.

But I must preface this, I like to think that I am not one of those girls obsessed with evaluating the aesthetic value of every guy I see, but I am just another flawed human and Parisian boys are hot! Different than British boys and far removed from anything an American boy could ever be. They all look slightly hipster-chic and very much like Bob Dylan, hair, tight jeans, wayfarers. I support their look entirely. They have a nonchalant swagger (I say swagger, but in no way do they have the slow trudge of dragging feet that American boys do when they pitch their weight backwards over a preferred shoulder and nod their head.) that hints that there just might be a well-worn paperback of Montaigne or Rousseau rolled up in one of their pockets. Like British boys, they naturally exude more intelligence than I have even seen in a boy in America. Theirs, though, is not one of histories and Eton learning, it seems to be inherently more skeptical, investing in the intricacies of language and literature and inherently more romantic.

I should stop myself. I fear my fantasies are merely superimposing themselves on the visions I see. I’m looking at them just like a flaneur or construction worker on lunch break watching women go by. (That, however, is a completely OTHER topic. London construction workers should be in a league of gentlemen all their own. I shall speak of that another day, though.) To simply consider boys aesthetic pieces for my enjoyment is demeaning and sexist, but oh the boy that just bicycled past was cuuuuutttteeeeeeee. :))

If I had more French-esteem I would approach the next one I saw, say “Hi. Your hot. Let’s be friends.” (in perfect French of course) We would get coffee, fall head over heels in love, and I would retire to a lovely chateau in the French countryside as well as spend my winter’s in his family’s beach house in the South of France because OBVIOUSLY he would be the son of French aristocracy, erudite, eloquent, and wealthy with a love of literature and travel - and Bob Dylan; I’m sure he would also paint and play the guitar, and know how to cook and fix things . . . have I gotten ahead of myself again? Never. (Bahah I can’t take myself seriously.) No, I should answer that question truthfully. Always. ♥

au revoir & cheers,
D

Zip your lips like a padlock.

Blois. Blois. Blois. No I have not misspelled Ke$ha lyrics. Before I explain this most recent and most epic fail, let me speak of my first evening in Paris.

We made fondu.

When trying to ask the grocer if he had cheddar (he didn’t) and stick to the recipe, a nice guy from Texas (here working as a chef) pointed us to a better direction, reminding us “it’s fondu, you can thrown whatever you want in it.” It was a quasi-success. We had melted cheese that we spread of bread and ate on Sarah’s balcony.

The only problem was, as the pot of cheese wasn’t sitting in a proper fondu pot in order to sustain the heat, the cheese got chilly as we ate in the breeze. After 15 minutes we had to cut it with a knife and spread it on the bread/apples. A little jank, a lot of entertaining.

Moving on.

The cover of Eyewitness Travel Guide’s Europe book features a picture of Chateau Chambord on the cover (for those of you who aren’t lucky enough to own the page-turner and already know what the cover looks like). Sarah has wanted to see this chateau since getting the book. We decided to do lots of research on the internet and map out a day trip of biking through the Loire Valley, where this and many other wonderfully picturesque chateaus are. Bikerentalsplus.com promised us a place to rent a bike in a town called Blois and it seemed like a great way to spend a Saturday in France, biking to from Blois (which has a chateau of its own) to 2 other nearby chateaus. Sarah and I miraculously made our 7:25am train without any hiccups. We ambled through Blois towards the tourism office (in order to get a biking map/directions to the nearest bike rental) admiring the lovely town.


(I spent forever getting that second picture to not be blurry.)
It was raining, but we had our backpacks and felt like real college travelers. (And Emerson as we were going to spend a day as one with nature. Don’t snicker CT, I say such completely literally.)

WRONG.

All the bike places were closed/out of business. We were told of a bus that would take us to Chambord alone, and leave us with 5 hours to explore . . . . we said no thanks and sought other alternatives. A few phone calls later, we found a bike place in a nearby town. We ask the men in the ticket office the best way to get there and they told us the bus to take. It’s in 2 hours. We meander more.

We wait at the bus stop for 45 minutes. The bus never shows. We compare maps (all with different or no legends) and find an alternative route to this town/elusive bike shop. It’s close and we should be able to walk. It will be a bit of a hike (like an hour or so) but the sun has finally started to shine. Walking commences. We cross a lovely bridge and get even more lovely views of Blois, which is starting to become irksome.

Walking proves to be taking longer than expected, but bus comes that should take us to where we want to go, so we think. After a 15 minute drive through a genuine French subdivision, we find out, however, that it is a Blois-city bus only when we find ourselves at the center of an industrial park beside a gas station and grocery store. The bus driving, pitying us, takes us back across the river to the train station for free.

More time passes. We eat some lunch too (Our 1.5 litre water bottles purchased for our long day of biking never get opened. In fact, I just opened mine upon getting back to Sarah’s apartment a few minutes ago.) Finally we decide to give it one last shot. We’re just going to take the original bus to Chambord. Small problem: the bus we need leave Blois at 14:36. It arrives in Chambord at 17:01. The last return bus from Chambord to Blois departs at 17:10. 9 minutes of a chateau. At this point, we’re okay with it. We just want to see that it is, in fact, possible to leave the city of Blois because our multiple failed attempts had us seriously considering the possibility of magical spells existing around the city limits. Perhaps the town was founded by people just like us, poor souls who found it impossible to leave so they just built houses.

Bus ride success: here is Chateau Chambord:


We get back to both Blois and then Paris without any problems. Ironically, our train back to the real world was at 19:25, exactly 12 hours after our first train of the morning. Sarah’s internet is down, so this will probably (hopefully) not be posted until tomorrow - she and her roommate think that their neighbors found out they were ciphering their internet, though the network still isn’t locked. My body is sore from the obnoxious amount of walking and map reading & my core being is very sad I didn’t get to ride a bike today. At least tomorrow’s Sunday and there is no 7:25a train to catch.

I now make a pretentious allusion to Wilkie Collins.
Nota Bene: The reader should note that all references to interactions with Blois-ians (???) have been roughly translated or summarized for an easier readership experience due to the fact they occurred in FRENCH. Just saying.

xoxo & au revoir (cheers too),
D

PS - We’re thinking of attempting to bike to Versailles Monday afternoon to make up for today’s fail . . .

Goodbye London, Hello Paris.

Half of my life has passed since the last time I was in Paris, but the city is just as magical as I remember. 10 then and 20 now, it's taken me just a few hours to fall back in love with the city of light. I wish I was kidding. I've even managed to spit out a few sentences of broken French.



Every place I go this semester I can see myself living in for a period of time, like I'm destined to be an expat. (Those guys in the 20's were really onto something.) Seriously, maybe eventually I'll find some where I'm just not that into. This place is not it. This is a place of boulangeries and boulevards, a place that reaches my soul unlike New York. It's a planned city that opens itself to the air above it, allowing for sunshine and trees in a way that's possible when someone gets above 14th Street.

au demain & xoxo,
D

CT: I am sorry.

I'm keeping myself up in order to catch my obnoxiously early train. I haven't had a real post for a while, I know. As always I fail and promise to post one soon, but something always happens.

As usual, I'm trying to situation my life within the context of some functional canon and failing. Registration for next semester is coming up . . . bahh. I'm desperately hoping that one day Act I will end and I'll get to Act II, but sometimes I think that will never happen. (Tom Stoppard) I freak out with an attack of "I'm never going to amount to anything more than a cat lady with a poorly managed blog," but then I watch Shakespeare in Love and think that just maybe I'll be able to contribute something worthwhile to the magical world of English literature. I certainly don't equate myself with Judith Shakespeare by any means, and I'm fully aware that I will never touch studs like Emerson and Whitman. But maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to produce something that does not only get printed and bound. If I'm super lucky I might even be able to provide some guidance to another young soul or two.

All I know is that nothing is for sure. Tesco never disappoints me. My iTunes genius is, in fact, genius. And it's finally really actually spring (even though it's still raining in London and is supposed to rain in Paris the entire time I'm there).

Off to pack & hop on the Eurostar to jam to Rascal Flatts en Frace avec mon meillur ami Sarah Digby (excuse my terrible spelling) and try to remember all the French I've forgotten. Next time I attempt to share something, I'll be on the continent.

xoxo & cheers/au revoir,
D

Spring Break is 3 hours away.

Thought you might like some light reading: http://www.themorningnews.org/archives/the_non-expert/is_he_cute_or_is_he_british.php/

I have one Mod. British Drama class standing between myself and spring break. Angels are singing. My postcolonial Indian literature paper turned out to be a success too. Too bad RADA's latest production of Measure for Measure and Judy Dench's performance in A Midsummer's Night's Dream weren't (in case you're concerned, Zac Efron's performance is 17 Again totally is).

Tomorrow I will watch the season premier of Vampire Diaries (party on) and PACK FOR PARIS because Friday at 5am I go there to visit one of my most favorites. Alas, now I must do a little world on Midsummer.

It's not spring break quite yet.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Okay no.

I had something really important to say, but I lost my thought. Similarly, I lost my ticket to the play I'm supposed to see tomorrow night. Hopefully my NYU card and talking-skills will be able to get myself in. (Thank goodness I kissed that Blarney stone many years ago.)

xoxo & cheers,
D

Fastpass is the opium of college students.

I woke up at 4:45am this morning to take the bus with my friend and make sure she got onto the Heathrow Express successfully. Once I was back at Nido at 7am, the sun had come up. All the dryers and washers were empty, and the hallways were still. They didn't smell of the musky cologne used to mask other smells, late night cooking, or empty bottles. There was no loud music playing in the background of a friendly or loverly gathering. It was just quiet. It was nice. After spending some time with both Ghandi and Nehru, I then proceeded to have the seemingly least productive day possible.

I watched the following movies:
*Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief
*Sunshine Cleaning
*Up in the Air
*Adventureland
*The Hurtlocker

It was completely necessary to tune out and watch. 1 day at Senate House and 3 days of class then I'm on Spring Break. :)

xoxo & cheers,
D

London is tiny.

You would think that London would be a huge town, one of those places where when you really really didn't want run into someone you wouldn't. You would think wrong. The one place on my road I hadn't been to, my friends and I went to this evening. Low and behold the boy who was supposed to ask me out and FAILED was there . . . FAIL. Alas, I may just be destined to be a cat lady. I guess I could be okay with that - as long as I write the next best-selling novel.

Whatevskis, cheers & love,
D

Some people just plain suck.

There are some people in the world that fail at life. Though I often say I am one of those people, in the context I am presently talking of, I am not. I'm not dealing with people that fail at life anymore.

That aside aside, the entertainment provided by my friends that came across the pond was immensely wonderful however cramped my room was. We ate lots. It was pretty cool.

Other things going good in my life:
LADIES WHO LUNCH on Wednesdays (after Javeed). It doesn't get any better than that. Furthermore, Thursday evening at 5pm I will be on spring break. 12 hours from that moment, I will be on the Eurostar headed to Paris. :)) It'll be spectacular.

For now . . . . I gotta be productive though.

Oh yeah, my roommate's pretty awesome too.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Hold up - Hold up

Stories to come. ♥
xoxo & cheers, D

Today was a TFL - FAIL.

TFL FAIL. That is all.

Got a picture of her mama in her heels & pearls.

I'm really alive and doing things. Tomorrow night I'm seeing A Midsummer's Night Dream with JUDY DENCH as Titania. Party on. I'll write something worthwhile on Wednesday, I promise.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Don't you just hate it when a girl gets a boyfriend and goes AWOL.

I haven't gotten a boyfriend, but I have two friends from the states eating my life and bank account with very amazing activities. (I love it, I love it, I love it, though I do feel as though I'm cheating on my main man Ghandi.)


xoxo & cheers,
D

Incoming.

Two friends from the states (and my LITTLE! from NYU in Florence) are here this weekend. Hence, I am occupied. Stories to come . . :))

xoxo & cheers,
D

Ask me whether or not I liked it tomorrow.

Sorry for tardiness, a Skype date over extended itself. The paper was turned in this morning, though, success.

Sleep is now required.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Just like dust, I rise.

Today I politely told the Arthur L. Carter Institute of Journalism that I would like to have my soul back. They said no problem; I just have to sign a form when I get back to NYU in the fall. It was a nice feeling. (Bigger fish.)

Not to be brief, but I have 2000 words pertaining to the representation of India through the narrative form of Wilkie Collins' novel The Moonstone due at 9:45 tomorrow. Adieu.

xoxo & cheers,
D

you can walk around with your sexy tank of oxygen

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away I found myself in a magical land called North Carolina Governor's School. (Don't worry, this isn't going to be a GSW ode.) The first Friday there, sitting in the auditorium waiting for our que to start my first dance performance of the summer, my Area II teacher read a poem. Since that singular moment, it has been my favorite poem. I think the reasons why will be self-evident. Enjoy. ♥

I wish I could claim that I’m clumsy
because I’m intelligent,
riptide lightning surging through
my synapses as I correlate & codify
the infinite set of cross-references
the world is to itself,
so that my blood remains in
my swollen brain, leaving
the rest of my body faint,
my fingers chilled & numb,
unable to hold onto the
objects assigned them.

I wish I could claim that I’m clumsy
because I’m innocent,
like the fairytale stepdaughter
whose body continually cooked
rubies, sapphires, & Fabregé eggs,
so that with every word,
jewel showers spewed from her mouth,
no doubt occasionally tripping her,
as loose precious & semi-precious stones
rolling around, by, between, &
in front of one’s feet
tend to do.

I wish I could claim that I’m clumsy
because I’m holy,
like St. Catherine of Sienna
who begged Jesus to exchange
His heart for hers,
& though He did, in fact,
remove her heart,
He waited three days
before replacing it with His own,
during which time she no doubt
bumped into a chair or two as the
fist-sized vacancy pulsed
in her ribcage, throwing her
slightly off-balance.

But I’m neither brilliant, innocent, nor holy.
My clumsiness is not derivative,
which doesn’t mean, of course,
that is serves no purpose;
if that’s true that the main trick
of the highly successful
individual is to make life seem
easy, maybe I’m here to
demonstrate its difficulty－

difficult to get from one room
to another with the floor
pitching & plunging as it does;
difficult to pour a glass of milk
when the very nature of milk
is to spurt away, defying gravity;
difficult to move
from afternoon into evening
when my feet can’t help
entangling each other in the
selves of my former shadows,
bruising them cruelly
through not vindictively.

Maybe I’m here
to dispel the illusion
that life proceeds smoothly
as long as one pays attention;
for the clumsy person,
the closer, the more minute,
the most exacting the concentration,
the more extravagant the disaster,
no only in the physical realm,
but the mental realm as well－
everyone knows that thoughts
possess declivities, gaps, &
edges of their own,
not smooth but jagged,
splintered, serrated,
& not just painful thoughts, but
gratifying ones, too－
it isn’t any easier navigating
the inner life than it is the outer,

though despite all this
complaining, I must in
fairness admit there’s
a kind of pleasure in
any kind of stumbling;
it’s like hitting the gas
in a jeep with no shocks
when you go over
a speed bump－not just the
lift but the delay, not just the
delay but the suspension, not just the
suspension but the vertical drop
as the soul slams back
into the body or
the body slams back
into the soul, the brief,
swift thrill of Honey, I’m home,
like Dick Van Dyke or rather
Rob Petrie simultaneously
waving to Laura & tripping
over the footstool,

which is why I wouldn’t
trade my awkwardness for the gift
of flight belonging to the tabloid baby
born with a pair of wings, or for the
“trick-shot” accuracy demonstrated by
Amy Blackburn of Pigeon Forge, TN,
seven-year-old sharshooter reputed to be
the reincarnation of Annie Oakley
able to “pulverize an aspirin
into powder with the pill standing
sideways on edge.” The flying infant,
still heaven-intoxicated, had simply
forgotten to retract its wings
as previously directed,
& the little Annie Oakley avatar lives in a
rarified state of perpetual hyperclarity,
as drunk on the idea of accuracy
as any Pythagoras or Spinoza－
but to be a klutz, an oaf, a dolt,
forever inept, maladroit, bungling,
blundering, graceless, & lubberly
without becoming apologetic,
sarcastic, recriminatory, or morose－

in other words, to remain
in a state of metaphysically
pure clumsiness, a wholly self-
sustaining clumsiness
without cause or cure, credit or blame,
& to achieve all this while remaining
perfectly sober－
THAT is what our pre-pre-pre-
ancestors must have aspired to when they
crawled out of the oceans onto
the warm sand, &,
over long epochs with largely
unpronounceable names, sprouted
arms & legs, lifting their heads,
moving into a crouch,
a stoop, an alarmingly vertiginous
upright stance as
slowly, ever perhaps sadly,
but with unprecedented determination,
they worked their way up
toward the right to
trip & fall.

It's called "Clumsy," and it's by Claire Bateman.

xoxo & cheers,
D

I like Sunday mornings when video streaming works in Nido.

I find it really strange that you can edit your friends. I went through and deleted connections with about 20 people today. Most of them I should never have became friends with in the first place. Some I had only met once in passing (a cute boy that I wanted to stalk on), some were girls that only heightened my sense of insecurity - girls mutually stalk each other, looking at the failures always makes someone feel better. I don't need that. It's highly immature, so it's deleted. And I would like to think I have too much pride to go back and request to renew a friendship that was only a cyber title.

On a lighter note, The Princess and the Frog is excellent, and it's another sunshine day in Londontown. Even the most ridiculous NYU in London/American University Student in London hang out spot wasn't too bad last night (though I did apparently miss "Blah Blah Blah" each time Mr. DJ Mark played it).

Here's to be not only productive *COMMA* - that's for emphasis, always - BUT ALSO proactive. And here's to Indian Lit. readings/paper I'm about to dive back into.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Yeah, he's been creeping since August.

In one week two of my favorite people will be crossing the pond to see me. Words cannot express my exciting. Looming over this joyous event, though, is a 2000 word postcolonial Indian literature paper. . . that's what I'm dedicating my life to now.

Note: Skype interviews are strange.

xoxo & cheers,
D

So I'm very angry BBC iPlayer won't let me download Becoming Jane.

Today was a successful day. I woke up early to catch up on Greek and finish the first season of the Vampire Diaries (best trash TV out there), got a new Loyalty Card at Coffee-to-Go, and managed and add a comment in class discussion that my professor replied to with "brilliant."

Now I'm boiling Tesco pasta before I do laundry and spend the evening with a man named Wilkie Collins, I'm sure all the usuals will show up too (i.e. Ghandi, Shakespeare, etc.) I haven't checked the weather for tomorrow yet, but I'm sure it's going to be a great day to spend in the Senate House stacks.

Here's to productivity & relaxing juxtaposed, and as one my dearest friends often quoted on Thursday evenings freshman year, "everything in moderate, including moderation."

xoxo, cheers and love,
D

So I sort of know someone in the Royal Shakespeare Company.

My beautiful orientation tour guide was in the play I saw tonight. CHECK IT! Dunsinane was the play - it's a quasi-sequel too/work inspired by MacBeth; it's amazing.

My mailbox also featured NOT ONLY a card from my amazing NY Eta sisters *COMMA* BUT ALSO, (I don't think I need to repeat the negation phrase for emphasis, capslock will do) a box from my even more amazing mom. It featured Cherry Lemon Sundrop, 2 bags of Starburst Jellybeans (aka CRACK!), Rolos, Hersey Kisses with Almonds, ALMOND CLUSTERS (aka heroine), a Scrabble card game, Cheerios, TWIZZLERS (any Schrader/friend of the Schraders know a bag of Twizzlers, once opened, lasts for 10 minutes maximum), 100 Calorie packs, and of course my bank statement! (I love you & miss you mom! Thanks! Thanks! Thanks!)

Looks like my work filled weekend is going to be calorically satisfied as well. :))

xoxo & cheers,
D

It was the perfect day.

The Lady Antebellum album remains in my head.

I have a couple amendments to make regarding my York post.
#1: Casey Talbot has other interests besides LOTR. She is a multifaceted and lovely individual, not a dork.
#2: York features a pub of the same chain as The Angel. Although we were introduced to some lovely knights, we decided not to go in because we didn't want to go to a chain. This was a mistake. Breakfast there (a sure, cheap and easy bet at full English breakfast) proved it to be THE gathering place in York. Basically, while consuming huge plates of food, our small two-person table was surrounded by beautiful 20-something men. Not kidding, the ratio was about 20:2 (1:10 if you simplify it).

Today I got to wear my sunglasses again and only a blazer and scarf. I don't have a paper due for a week (drafting tomorrow). It's another party on-excellent kind of day.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Upside down, bouncing off the ceiling. . .

Today felt like a spring day.

The sun was shining (a rare & special thing) and my coat didn't have to be buttoned. Quite frankly, if I had been returning home before 8pm, I could have gotten away with leaving my dorm at 1 in a blazer and scarf. I even got the opportunity (an even rarer & more special things) of wearing my most favorite sunglasses - circa Blues Brothers, Risky Business, and another of my most favorites, Bob.

I certainly appreciated the sun shining on my back in the stacks. I can't begin to express how much more preferable that is to the sound of wind howling.

Not to mention, I finally got my free coffee latte and croissant from Coffee-to-Go. Talk about a party time-excellent kind of day.

Spent the evening with one of my many men, William Shakespeare, and now its a little after a quarter after one, I'm not all alone, and I need sleep now. (I pushed that pop culture reference, I know. The song's stuck in my head, though.)

xoxo, peace & please,
D

I promise it's not a novella.

I know, I know. It’s been forever and I fail at life. I got behind again, too bad.

Let me recap, though.

The long-anticipated VIKING FESTIVAL in York has come and gone. Last Saturday, Casey and I got ourselves up obnoxiously early. (I may or may not have just decided not to sleep after my homework was finished around 4:30a in order to watch three episodes of The Vampire Diaries. May or may not, you decide.) We had Megabus tickets from London to York - they have Megabus here, but only kind of. Arriving at St. Pancras Station with ample time, neither Casey nor myself can stand being late, we were free to enjoy an apricot tart from the mean people that work at Paul making the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten.


We sit with a view of the doorway that our bus is excepted to arrive at - we both checked things out online, map and all. About 15 minutes before our bus is supposed to leave, we decide we had better ask someone because we haven’t seen it yet. We search for a ticket counter (and a trash can), we finally find the Megabus ticket counter upstairs in front of train platforms, with a sign that says “MegaBus passengers you’re train departs from these platforms”? MegaBUS . . . TRAIN PLATFORMS . . . uhhhhhhh . . . we now have 10 minutes (still haven’t found a trash can, by the way). After speaking to the polite lady behind the desk we learn the truth: in order to take Megabus from St. Pancras, at least in order to take it to York, you have to take a train from St. Pancras to the East-Mid Highlands and get on the bus there. 5 minutes before we’re supposed to leave, thanks for telling us MegaBus.com. So, needless to say, we get on the train.


After much laughter, and a few strange look since it took us 10 minutes to figure out we had jumped onto the quiet coach, our train is speeding through greater England headed towards York, and apparently going through the tundra because - 30 minutes outside of London - it was snowing. East-Mid Higlands (or whatever the place is called) finally arrives, we exit the bus under two smoke stacks that look like nuclear reactors and see 4 buses lined up beside a field.


Our 4 minute layover, or transfer rather, permits us to use the rest room and jump on the bus. We’re stuck in the front seat. Oh well, we’re pretty sure we’re on the right bus to York. More time passes, I sleep mostly, and eventually we’re dropped off in the parking lot of a 24-hour Tesco in York. (Please note that the aspect of this moment that generated the largest response was not that we were in a parking lot in a distant town, but that is was a 24-hour Tesco. Priorities.) Navigating the local bus proves easier than expected, and before we know it, we are in our hotel room. Travel, a success.

Our first Viking activity of the weekend was titled “Boat Burial & Vale Hoard.” We naturally assumed, even after skimming event descriptions, that we had bought tickets to watch a boat be sunk, or something . . . hopefully with flames and then see lots of cool, old treasure. WRONG. Our tickets were to two of the nerdiest lectures I’ve ever attended. “Boat Burial,” concerning an anthropological dig in the Orkney Islands. They discovered a boat with remains of a man, an elderly woman, and a child. The geeky lady was interesting. “Vale Hoard” spotlighted a British Museum employee reading his notes about the cups and saucers they’ve gathered WORD-FOR-WORD (Please, if any one reading this ever speaks in public, even to a room of viking dorks, don’t do it. Just don’t.) I would go into more detail, but I feel asleep.

In the midst of my sleeping, however, I did not miss the best moment of the two or so hours we sat listening. Upon the first slide of the boat popping up, a man in the front with lots of facial piercings exclaiming “AHHHHHHH” in the most sensual voice possible. I had to repeatativly conjure images of Richard Nixon to control my laughter. Sharing with Casey that this was my go-to image when wanted to regain composure, however, generated more laughter. I have to find a new image. I also managed to get a glimpse of a man who was the twin of the dwarf from Lord of the Rings.

I don’t know his name. (Casey does. She also knows the titles and basic melodies to tracks on the soundtrack, which appropriately or not was also the soundtrack chosen by those that run to Jorvick center to provide background music for the weekend’s events.)

Lectures complete. We grabbed pasties (never accidentally call them pastries to a York man, he will glower at you) and strolled through the town - York is adorable, GO! - before our last scheduled event of the evening, a town tour with a viking!



Our viking tour guide was about as far from Eric Northman as you can get. The grungy old man, a self-proclaimed writer shared that when he was giving tours at another festival at another town, he had never been there until he got off the train 2 hours before his premier tour. Sparing unnecessary details, the tour was dull and he was strange. (Though those on it with us were a mixture of even duller and stranger, one boy wearing multiple wounds in true viking festival fashion would appear in random places throughout the rest of the weekend.)

Tour done. We found tables in York’s famous, and supposedly haunted, Golden Fleece pub and ate dinner. Casey made friends with mead.

Dinner done, we were tired and needed snacks. Sainbury’s provided not only Fox’s biscuits, but also a texting buddy for Casey. His name is Tom, he’s very good-looking, and until we learned his last name I seriously suspected it to be Sainbury, for he must obviously be the son of the store’s CEO or CFO, making him Casey’s new, fabulously wealthy England love. (Sad confession, this is false. His last name is Gardner, or something generic like that.)

The second day of the viking festival yielded even more pleasure. We entered the tent to get fake battle wounds, but chickened out and got braids instead.

After the strings were tied, however, we looked at each other, regained our gusto and got battle wounds instead.

More wandering ensued, though we looked a little odd when we got out of the immediate viking areas. Apparently York is a popular shopping destination, and a town full of beautiful men. There were people there not for the festival, imagine that.
(See my Facebook Profile Picture if you desperately need an image of this.)

We watched the vikings prepare to march to the battle field. A lovely site in the nice English sun.



We then went to check out the beard competition and were terribly disappointed. An ice cream come, chips, and Strongbow, however, managed to fill our time as we awaited the final battle of the weekend: a recreation of battle at the York racetrack fields (horses nor cars) completely with boat burning! Our only worry was that we wouldn’t be able to catch it all before we had to jump onto our train.

More Lord of the Rings music and a weakly narrated video, and the first staged battle was done. It was a smaller scirmish really, but it was all right. Fire jugglers performed next. However, time quickly passed - and York quickly became a frozen tundra as we stood still in an open field - and it was time for us to board our train. (Just a train this time, not a MegaBus-train-to-bus.)

The train to London meant sleeping for me, homework/Sookie Stackhouse for Casey. Don’t get us wrong, we have lots of work here and really attempted to be productive while traveling. I can’t help it that most moving vehicles lull me to sleep. Casey can’t help it that tales of Sookie and Bill are inherently more interesting that those of an Irish boy and Buddhist priest roaming through India (No offense Javeed, we still love you.).

We arrived safely back at Nido, spent some time recounting our tales to Erica, and then slept. Traveling for the weekend was not over, because we had the NYU trip to Oxford the next day. Buses were leaving at 8:45am on the dot.

I woke up at 8:40a, though I hadn’t managed to shower the night before, I had luckily managed to wash the fake blood off my face. My reading came with me, but I fell asleep on the bus and woke up in the center of academia - OXFORD.

I had no idea what to think of Oxford before going. I had heard about it, but never seen it. The images in my head were, therefore, rough sketches of buildings with columns, at best. After spending the day there, my only comment was, why do I go to NYU?

The cost of an Oxford education is the same, normally less, than that of NYU. Something is inherently wrong with the world. . . . Good thing I haven’t ruled out getting a PhD yet . . .

With the week resuming, and travels finally over for the weekend. I then proceeded to lock myself up to my books until now - aside from seeing a spectacular production of Measure for Measure and a pretty interesting play called Off the Endz, they were both class performances I had to attend. Now I am on a train, again, headed to Shrewsbury to spend the weekend with strangers through a program called HOST. A freshman, Cindy, and I have been paired with a couple, the Brown’s, to spend the weekend at their home, encouraging culture exchange. I’m excited and nervous. But their town is small, their house is also the town post office, and they have 2 cats, and it’s a real bed and not the tiny Nido dorm, so I think I’ll be okay until Sunday evening.

I apologize for the obnoxious length both of time since my last real post and of this particular novella I’ve spat out on the train. Rest assured my abroad program is not academic BS. I had to papers due this week, one next week, one the next, a week off, and one more before spring break. I have a large stack of books to read too. Though I am caught up on everything right now, rest assured I will be chained again.

(INSERT TIME PASSING, ROUGLY TWO DAYS WORTH)

And now I’m on another train, headed back to London from Shrewsbury. I am stuffed full on homemade bread, cakes, lamb roast, veg, and enough tea to fill the Great Lakes. Cindy and I stayed with the Brown’s. They run the post office and town shop and have two cats.



Saturday we toured the town of Shrewsbury.

It’s a picturesque mid-evil town, with lots of history. Charles Darwin was born there, attending primary school in what is now the public library. Boys have carved their initials into the wood siding, some of the carvings date back to the 1770s. Funny how little boys don’t seem to change.

Today we went to the town of Craven Arms. Don’t let the cool name fool you, though. It’s basically a main street and a tourist/discovery center. The center has a lot of interesting information, though. There are lots legends concerning the hills that make up Shropshire.

Apparently I giant had a bunch of rocks he wanted to throw at the town in his belt and they fell out, creating neat piles. That’s one story at least. Another is that it really is the devil’s chair, and he sits there at night, once a year calling all the local witches together to choose a leader. He always watches people during cloudy days when he’s out of view. I prefer the first story.

Shropshire country side is lovely. It’s Bronte England, with moors and looming hills and clouds that could bring together the likes of Catherine and Heathcliff.


Back to London, though. A paper due Tuesday and one to draft on Wednesday. Ballet on Tuesday, a play on Wednesday, and Advanced Jazz on Thursday. A weekend devoted to Indian literature, Shakespeare, and paragraph structure. 3 weekends until spring break & only 1 more super productive weekend until two friends from the states arrive. Listing it all like that makes it seem regimented. It’s either dutiful school work, a time allotted activity, or playing host. It’s not. There’s time to ramble the streets and just be in there. There always is, otherwise I’d need more than one mid-semester weekend with 2 cats and a large comfy bed to keep my sanity . . . the new Lady Antebellum album certainly helps.

xoxo & cheers,
D

It's a quarter after one . . .

School is ridonkulous. Off to Shrewsbury for HOST weekend. Hopefully I'll get some down time on the train.

xoxo, D

If I had a dollar, or pound rather, for every 1000 words I write . . .

I really have things to say. I have funny anecdotes of awkwardness and acute observations to share, not only in the hopes of making anybody reading this laugh but to preserve my own memories as well.

I turned in my first paper today. Alas, though, I have one to turn in tomorrow as well.

So no words for you tonight.

xoxo, cheers & all my love,
D

I promise one day I will blog again.

I promise I'm still alive & that one day I will blog again. Sleeping for a bit now, though, and getting up early to word & read, run errands, go to class, work & read, see a play and then get home for the evening.

6 weeks in and it is officially crazy times.

xoxo, cheers & love,
D

Sainsbury's equals love.

York and Oxford are amazing. I have comments, but they have to wait because I'm too behind on schoolwork. (I have a chronic disease where I fall asleep in large moving vehicles, regardless of the amount of coffee, Diet Coke, or sugar I intake. It drastically inhibits my productivity.)

More in the AM, ya'll.

xoxo & Cheers, of course,
D

That certainly makes everything else pale is comparison.

I changed my paper today. I was going to write about one thing (even made a draft last night) and completely changed it. Tonight (It's already 10:40p here.) I'm going to try to get a new draft done and a draft of another paper reading and some books read and packed up for tomorrow. At 8:15am tomorrow morning, I will be on a bus (MEGABUS, in fact - They have that here.) to YORK. The anxiously awaiting Viking Festival is here.

They're going to sink/burn a ship in the town river. It's going to be awesome. I will post pictures.

In light of the rest of today, though, both my responsibilities and adventures for the weekend seem petty. I hope every one says "I love you," to the people they love today.

xoxo & cheers,
D

I never had an orchestra.

Sometimes this city is so pretty it's painful.

Like when I'm walking across Waterloo Bridge on my way to the National Theatre.

Like when I'm starting out over East London (Angel particularly & the Gerkin of course) and have pages to read and write looming in the night.

Anytime the sun shines, like it did today.

cheers & lots of love,
D

Some things don't change.

I still can't jetté backwards. It's nice to know matter how long it's been since you've been in a ballet class, and no matter how many more you take during the semester you're abroad, you probably still won't be able to jetté backwards. I could at least do a single turn this week (from fifth too!).

I have an old feeling tonight. Sitting in the communal kitchen, cooking dinner in a leotard and tights. It's a familiar feeling that I haven't felt in a very long time. I'll eat my dinner at a table, half way still in dance clothes half way still in street clothes, just like I was still in high school. . . . Funny how all you need is a little lycra and spandex to take you back.

This is not intentionally nostalgic, I'm not looking forward; I'm looking ahead. Studying abroad, with a strange academic schedule and 5 month residence that doesn't make one an ideal candidate for work and internships, is giving me a chance I don't think I would have ever gotten in New York. I can just do school & dance, a pairing I loved and knew so well for much of my life. (Obviously with some weekend travel thrown in.)

I'm tired of being the girl who "was gonna be" or "who really wanted to be," even the one "who planned on being" a dancer. Whether it's my major or not, it's something that (over the course of 13 or so years) became an integral part of me. I love theatre and I love writing & words more than anything, but there is something that happens when you don't speak and you just move that can never be captured with language. Even the act of going to a beginner ballet class to be re-taught how to tendu and port de bras releases something in me that is otherwise deprived and repressed. Now that I'm recommitting to this (even for the short 5 month period), I don't think I'll be able to give it up again. Not hurt & sad like I did.

Maybe it's taken me this long to get the right perspective on everything that happened: I finally distanced myself from all the drama for (forgive the horrid image) the scab to fall off, leaving new - though not naïve - skin ready to try again under different circumstances.

Maybe I just like the physical release after a long academic day, a short distraction before it's back to books and papers until the early hours of the morning. Because that doesn't change when you go abroad either. For a short while (a.k.a. the first month of being in London), it was a strange occurrence if I didn't sleep more than 8-10 hours a night (BIZARRE, HUH!?). That's long gone now. Pages wait to be read & syntax waits to be perfected.

As for the immediate present, though, pasta waits to be eaten.

Love & cheers,
D

Say you will.

Now that I’m on my 5th week of classes here, I have to say that, for the most part, they are amazing. My biggest class consists of 20 people, all are seminar/discussion based literature classes with amazing professors. There is one professor, however, who I have become obsessed with in recent weeks.

Javed Majeed.

Professor Majeed teaches my Post-Colonial Indian Literature class. (Yeah it’s a mouthful, I know.) Now, when people asked me what classes I was planning on taking abroad, I was very excited to say, “Shakespeare: Text and Performance” (because what English major would be able to say no to a Shakespeare class IN LONON). I was thrilled to mention, “Writing London” (a class about about London-based literature while IN LONDON, how cool?!). I was equally delighted to say, “Modern British Drama and Performance” (seeing, reading, and discussing the most provocative British plays & tickets on NYU’s budget, yes please!). Even the required lecture was mentioned without any unbecoming facial expressions, “Issues in Contemporary British Politics & Culture” (seems appropriate for someone who claims to be intellectually active living in the country for five months). My fourth English class, though, - one that actually gets an English department requirement out of the way (world literature/postcolonial req.) was the one I mentioned with the least pizazz “Postcolonial Indian Literature.”

Maybe if the title wasn’t so hypersyllabic, I would have had an easier time spurting it off at every Christmas/New Year’s gathering. Maybe if I hadn’t known it was a *required* English Department class, I wouldn’t have automatically attached such a harsh and regimented stigma. To give myself some credit, I did acknowledge I would rather take such a class in the country of the ruling colonial power (where small undercurrents of colonialism and still culturally significant) than 3000 miles removed in New York City. I saw the reading list and cringed a little, lots of heavily title books. The syllabus on the first day (and after reading the 3 essays due for the premier class) scared me even more: two papers, one 2000-word worth 40% and one 3000-word worth 50% with a 10% participation grade thrown in for good measure.

Oh boy, what did I get myself into? Both fellow class mates and adults (and myself) asked me that. Isn’t study abroad supposed to be an academic break? (Be Tee Dub: totally false. Study Abroad - at least speaking as an NYU English LIT. major is not a break. The classes are just as hard, if not harder than in NYC.)

Anxieties dwindled as the weeks of the class progressed, though. Simple questions led to brilliant discussions and added context by an even more brilliant professor whose every sentence sounds like a perfectly constructed multi-clause thesis statement (sometimes with added humor). Obscure and hard to read texts become accessible and even . . . dare I say it . . . ENJOYABLE during class. Upon the discovery that Amazon sold half of our class a bootlegged version of one of the texts - consisting of only half of the book, we have all found ourself ordered another, full version so we may read it and finish it.

To spare you more ramblings about how I am obsessed with every sentence I have read for that class (No joke. I feel like a loser & halfway wish I was joking, but this could be the best class ever, some of which may be due to how wrong a light I initially cast it in). So long story short - my postcolonial Indian literature conversion experience only reinforces something life continuously teaches me. What you expect is never what you get. What you often dread often proves to be less horribly terrible that you anticipate.

Cheers & Love,
D

The best day - Part II

(Valentine's Day was cute, I say go see it as long as you don't except a great cinematic feat.)

Valentine's Day was cut in real time, too. I know it's technically over according to UK time (not for those of you still in the US, though), but I'm going to finish discussing it now - distanced a little. (And let's face it guys, ya'll are captive to my narrative direction, so you have to continue along . . . or stop reading.)

I've never really had a *valentine* on valentine's day. I've never really had a problem with that, this year included. This year, however, I did receive flowers twice (one batch from one of my dearest friends), a package all the way from Washington state, Disney princess stickers with pencil & kind words/tidings from two in the tri-ad area of NC.

I cannot complain and say that Valentine's Day sucks because it's all about love, because I know I am loved. (Just not in the huge teddy bear-gifting kind of way. But let's be honest, who wants to lug around and store a huge stuff bear that's just going to leave cheap white fur all over the place.) I have the best friends in the world - I know I say this a lot, but I really do. They and my family are awesome. So one this day of LOVE and all that is red and pink and wonderful and tacky, I want to say I love you all. Very much. :))

And while it may be lovely to have a candle lit dinner at economically friendly Pizza Express with a boy (or even The Angel bahah) on a famed date night like tonight, I'm not going to slow down for any male to get his act together. It may be selfish to say, but I have better things to do than worry about how he feels about his latest exam/any other ego feeding thing necessary to reassure a male that he is, in fact, the smartest and greatest and (as one male once said so eloquently in a 10th grade English class) "God's gift to women." I won't do it. I have bigger things to do, especially this semester, namely balancing my affairs with men named Collins, Kipling, Dickens, Stoppard, and Shakespeare (just to name of a few of those written on the current page of my little back book). Those men never let me down.

Not that all romances lead to dead ends. The core of my hold steadfast to "Love Story" by Taylor Swift. But Juliet can't love Romeo until she has totally and completely had an affair with herself first. Once she's become a version of Juliet (or Jules or Julie . . . even Julia maybe) that she is utterly content with, he can meet her on the outskirts of town. Not before, though.

Silly ramblings need to end. I know nothing & could very well be saying things directly contradicting this next week once my heart becomes viking plunder.

Monday means the stacks. Party on kids.

xoxo, cheers & love,
D

The best day - Part I

I have a hot date tonight with two other Pi Phis, Valentine's Day, and delicious and cheap food at The Angel. Even better, I caught up with ALL my reading last night. Who says Valentine's Day has to suck when you don't have a significant other? I even have some excellent Skype sessions to arise this evening, too.

I can't express how much I love my friends.

..more to come later. :))

I try ya on; I take ya off.

It's been a while. I know. To be perfectly honest, I was in a slight funk this week. No reason in particular, just masses of flowers and hearts and obnoxious teddy bears and such. Upon further reflection, though, I've realized that any jaded feelings or bitter resentment I feel towards those things is ridiculous. There are things so much bigger than an Em-Ar-Ess Degree or a minor change of Facebook Info. A long, long time ago, that was my mantra. I don't know how it got lost along the way (okay well maybe I do. . . dumb text messages, etc.), but I know it's back & more secure than ever.

Oh well. Things are good & when I say that, I mean that.

Other things happening in absence of blogging:
*I had a lovely date at Pizza Express; I hope to repeat it with another & Percy Jackson this weekend. :))
*I attempted to break up with my one favorite man in the world (Ben & Jerry to name merely two of them), it proved impossible no matter how unhealthy the relationship. What can I say, I'm a monogamist.
*I have a double date looming with both a Rudyard and a Kim simultaneously. It will occupy my entire day tomorrow. Oh boyyy.
*I was forced to sit and watch a play (trying to focus on it & not the awkwardness surrounding me) for 2 hours and 45 mins, and I survived.
*I attended a lovely ballet class taught by an even lovelier Italian man.
*I said to the vending machine, twice.
*I also said no to fried chicken.
*I helped a friend figure out life goals. We decided that street pharmacist, male prostitute, and clown are all off limits.
*I got a rejection letter from the "work experience/editorial dept." of UK Vogue. C'est la vie. One day they'll be begging me to write/edit/do SOMETHING for them. :))
*The IF's and Loose-Ends that loom in hindsight and foresight simultaneously disappeared. New plan minus all nasty strings, because every one knows how gross the ends of shoe laces get after a while.

Weeks like this, the crazy ones, always end with smiles. Take the crazy with the good, sometimes its crazy good. (And one day I'll leave how to make creative word play and brilliant puns like Tom Stoppard.)


xoxo & cheers & go for adorable, not ridiculous (it's going out of fashion quick)
D

This was a week of failed blogging. I know. Sorry. Deal with it.

I have made up my mind to invest both my time and money in taking ballet and jazz classes. Every time I watch So You Think You Can Dance (BTW: the UK dancers are nothing compared to those on the show in the US) and every time I actually go to a random class in NYC, I remember how much I love it and miss it. I have no excuse not to take class here. So I am. :))

With regards to schooling, it's still fabulously hard.

Alas, it is almost 3am here. I should reconvene at a later time. :))

xoxo, cheers & sleep,
D

Stretched sideways.

I'm really alive still.
Just spending all my time reading. (Apparently one of the books I read was bootlegged - half the class only read half the book. Oh, Amazon UK.)

xoxo & cheers,
D

non-ode

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express how enjoyable it truly is to spend a day in the stacks. Whatever may be going on in your life outside the safety of the library disappears when you enter though the large doors. There’s something about secluding oneself, up above the world and safe in the fortress that is any good library. You’re secure and comforted, for you know your place in the world, it is to sit and work, to be hyperproductive. The amount of work you would slowly get through working at home the entire day is streamlined into 3 or 4 hours of focused work. Things get accomplished, leaving you the entire evening to catch up on BBC shows.

It’s quiet, despite people moving through trying to find their spot. A communal bond forms among those of you gathered, when someone whispers if he or she can borrow a pen, you gracefully oblige. (I do at least, I was that girl on Saturday.) The sound of the wind whistles by the windows, magnified. It might be howling outside, but here it is safe, warm, and dry.

Time passes at a different rate, simultaneously both slower and faster. You can take all day to read a passage closely because you have all day, except the length of time that feels to be “all day” is more often than not 45 minutes to an hour.

You don’t even have to worry about being fashionable in the stacks. A sweater and a bun here are two of the most appropriate pieces of one’s attire, any other chic boots, glasses, scarves, etc. are just more festivity. (I truly believe that you are only as productive/smart as you look and feel that day.)

When the time does come to leave, you reward yourself with a pastry (preferably a pear puff) and pleasure reading because you’ve been so productive. You can relish the taste and enjoy your espresso in bliss, knowing you only have a little bit of online research left when you get home. (Goodness knows, you won’t trust yourself if you get the key to the wireless up here. If you do, the world of Facebook and Twitter will only bombard you, breaking your tranquility with banal cyber-socializing.)

That’s all I know guys. Sorry for the pretension, the last two texts I worked my way through were both 19th century romantics (DeQuincy and Poe look what you do to me!). True statement: I love the stacks (if you couldn’t tell by the ridiculous language above) & I’m off to eat a pear puff (it’s been a whole week).

xoxo & cheers, happy studying too (if applicable)
D


**NOTE: After this was written, I went to get said pear puff - they had none! Sad day; I had to suffer and eat a jam doughnut instead. Poo. :))

Superbowl Sunday

6 Nations . . . snations. Superbowl Sunday & we're cooking fajitas, nachos, and buffalo wings in our tiny communal apartment.

I was kicked out of the library yesterday because it closes at 5:30 on Saturdays. Unacceptable. As far as great stories/revelations are concerned, I don't think I have any for today - too behind on reading. :))

Don't worry, there's bound to be some fail to log when I try cooking that involves skills beyond boiling water.

xoxo & cheers,
D

Let's talk about audio guides.

Today NYU took us to Stonehenge and Bath. It was one of their optional day trips they provide. Personally, I think anything I can do here on NYU's budget is awesome, so I went. The sun was even out. It was lovely.

For a bunch of meticulously placed rocks, Stonehenge was pretty legit.



Moving on, though, Bath is fabulous. It confirms my suspicions that I should have lived in Georgian times. Oh well. When I become a rich and famous . . . [enter yet-to-be-discovered job title/career path here], I will live there. But that's not what I want to talk about either, I want to talk about audio guides.

Audio guides are weird, and I sincerely feel that they undermine the original idea that encompassed the roman baths anyway. Think about it, a bunch of people milling around a historical site with oversized cell phones attached to their ear. They're not interacting with one another about what they're seeing; they're just walking about listening to choice commentators ramble on, attempting to recreate scenes with poor accents. They tell you to squat down, stand up, turn left, jump on one foot, and pat your head/rub your belly at the same time. (I admit, the last two are lies, but I was told to squat, stand, and turn.)

The baths were created as a space for relaxation and socialization, not a space for technological alienation. (Okay, technological alienation may be going a bit too far.)



Plus - and I don't mean to be racist here - but it just makes you feel like an asian tourist.



I was too distracted by all of this to appreciate the baths themselves, they're gorgeous. The romans knew how to treat themselves.



If given the choice, though, I think I would bathe rather than drink the warm, mineral rich water. It tastes like drinking a glass that has had a rock, a few pennies, and other assorted items sitting in it for a few hours.

cheers & love
D

Bahaha. Only appropriate.

...So do you remember a couple weeks ago? The first time I ever encountered DJ Mark? Maybe not. Well, the same evening, at the same establishment, I met a boy. We exchanged numbers, and he suggested we get coffee or dinner some time together. Vague, but okay. I have a date in my future.

Time passes (I have to get a new SIM card and have no phone for a few days). I don’t get a phone call. Not a big deal. There’s a million other fish in the sea, and plenty of boys in London (especially one’s actually from the UK, Europe at least, any where besides Philly really). My random boy faded away into the background. Cool . . . until he walked into the Londonized Chipotle I was eating in tonight.

Tortilla. It’s like Chipotle but not, and my random boy walked in as I was relishing my naked burrito. Figures. The powers of be just like to put me in awkward situations.

Alas, off to Bath I go.

No sleep till Brooklyn.

Not to be repetitive, but I love London. And plays.
However, it's 11:13pm. I just got home & MUST READ.

xoxo & etc.
D

...no wonder Billy Shake's sonnets are quasi-obsessed with time...

Today in my Shakespeare class we watched a film version of As You Like It set in Japan. Okay, cool, way to be creative and not use traditional paradigms of Elizabethan theatre. Honestly folks, don’t necessarily waste your time on the movie (unless you just really really like Shakespeare and can look past the overabundance of crap in the film). My mind merely used it as a starting point for revelations pertaining to things far from the Forest of Arden.

When you have comedic lines that aren’t funny, you have lameness. I often fail when trying to throw in bad jokes. I take that back. They’re not bad, I am just much more easily amused than the average human. (Exhibit #1: my addiction to WifeSwap or Sookie Stackhouse novels. Not to knock either forms of entertainment . . . however, it’s just crappy fluff I can’t seem to look away from.) I could never be the Fool of a play, even a non-funny one. I’m not a wit. It’s okay. I’ll fall back on my guns. They are obviously made of steel, especially with all the pear puffs I eat over here.

The other thing my mind suddenly realized, pay attention please because this is the real enlightening note of the day, is that I don’t remember the pain of getting my ears pierced. I got my first hole when I was about 4, I remember it was at Merle Norman, that we went the day before and to pick out the studs (gold with dark ruby gems), and that my mom told them to have two girls do it simultaneously - counting to 3, but pulling the trigger on 2 so I wouldn’t be anticipating it. Don’t remember it hurting. I got my second hole (after much pleading) at Claire’s in a mall in Mississippi over Thanksgiving break. I was in 8th grade. This time, I picked the much more trendy silver flowers with light blue stones in the middle just minutes to the big shoot. One girl dotted my ears, and then she proceeded to pierce the right and left. I remember a pop, maybe a pinch, but no pain. Not that I’m amazed I survived and can no longer recount the inhuman pain of getting your ears pierced with a lovely modern gun (none of the heated needle, ice, and apple crap), I just though it was interesting - especially during our class film - to note which details of experience get blurred by time and which stay sharp. Ain’t it funny that I can remember the exact outfit I wore that day in 8th grade (bright green pants from H&M that I had gotten in NYC, a studded belt from HotTopic - yeah, I was in that phase, and a white t-shirt. . . my hair was bobbed, kind of like it is now) but not the little bit of pain I felt.

Maybe time really does “heal all wounds,” or maybe my mind just suppresses them so they can bubble to the surface at untimely moments, uprooting my future life and career. Call my a silly optimist, but I’ll put my faith in the first rather than the later.

Cheer & Love,
D

P.S. Here's a prime photo for the film we watched. You know what to avoid now.

Sunshine continues?

The sun was out again today. I kinda don't know what to do about it.

I met with Jaws - the life ending shark - today, well not really. I did, however, have a java (Nice auditory transition right? Bahah) meeting that could have been much much worse. I doubt that we'll actually be friends, but run-ins should be less awkward? (T, don't fret.)

I also MAILED a cover letter/resume/references to UK Vogue, on the possibly vain hope that they need someone to help out on occasion before May 15th. I'll settle with organizing the closet, even for just one day.
Also in the mail . . . a TAC application. February means that summer planning must commence, obviously.

My list of traveling is increasing; I have a train ticket to/from Paris now too! :))

I sincerely wish I have more meaningful input. I don't think I can express the joys of wandering aimlessly any more fervently. It's equal to the tranquility of walking into a gallery and seeing a large Monet to your left coupled with Jackson Pollack to your right. You get lost in the aesthetics, regardless of whether you "understand" them or not. It's nice to feel little compared to the greatness around you, it reminds you that great forces are still at work.

More reading! Maybe something will happen at some point soon that I can recount with a strong and vibrant narrative voice. Maybe not.


xoxo & all that is Good,
D

To the left, to the left.

So I failed as far as blogging is concerned this weekend. I know, there really isn't any excuse. Oh well. I will try to better from this point onward.

The London Eye was pretty spectacular, despite rain and the fact I'm afraid of ferris wheels. There really isn't a more breathtaking view than looking at any city from a raised height. I'll never get over it. :))



The Tower of London and High Tea at Harrod's were also successes. It's actually rather appropriate for one to follow the other because the thought of wearing the Imperial Crown of India is just as unfathomable as the thought of wearing most clothing items/face creams in Harrod's.

What is imaginable, though, is a weekend in York in a town that is overrun by Vikings. (Yes, Casey and I booked passage this weekend.) There's even a beard competition, guys.

Also fathomable, a weekend in Madrid visiting another very good friend. (And a few other trips to be planned this week as well.)
One more point that my mind actually grasp: living in the Pi Phi House for the 2010-2011 academic year too. :D

I could go on about awkwardness and such, but I won't. January is about to end, and I feel like I'm not making the progress on some of the resolutions I set for myself, namely loose ends of course. They will come up, but I'm not in London to have to continually snap at frayed loose ends. And the pile of books I have looming certainly won't allow such a thing. So dear loose ends, adieu. (again)

As for the next month, February is short and full. Papers, trips, etc. etc.

And as for The Rocket, our relationship is officially over. (Sorry DJ Mark, but I whole heartedly feel you are replaceable.)

xoxo, cheers & love,
D

Oh yeah, I'm still obsessed with Tower Bridge too!