"Let's not talk about the passing time."

Back in London after the few days in Paris. Had a nice time visiting my mom and seeing her for the first time since April (next time, Dad--next time). Thanks largely to the drive of my mother, we visited Victor Hugo's house, Napoleon's tomb, and the Musée Rodin. I requested a trip up to Montmartre (as it is the setting of my favorite noir film), so we went up there on Saturday, wandered around a bit, rode the funicular, bought some creme brulee-type sweets and ate them in the cemetery there. On Sunday we met Caitlin and Heidi (who were in Paris for the weekend themselves) in the Musée de l'Orangerie after seeing the Water Lilies. Overall it was a nice mini-break, and I even got a chance to read some of the planned Orwell and skulk in a couple cafes.

I feel like I should be writing more, telling you about the small snafu that nearly made me miss my train and could have cost me the trip; how I got caught in the pouring rain while trying to find Oscar Wilde's grave; how I saw the most attractive butcher ever (*Insert crude sausage innuendo here*); or how I had "Little Water Song" stuck in my head for most of the trip. But I don't feel like it.

I'm in a bad way right now, and as I've discussed previously, I can't unpack my heart with words here. And lately I have found this forum distracting. I may try tomorrow, or over the next couple days to recalculate a plan of attack for this blog, but at the moment there's just too much going on. What it comes down to is this: I used to know someone who kept a blog, and would on occasion list grievances he had with certain aspects of his life. And that is fine--it is within his right to do so, absolutely. But what began to worry me was that I was finding out more about him from his blog than what he'd share with me in person--we would meet, and I would ask him questions about his life that I knew part of the answers to because of what he posted on the Internet, and he would only half respond. He was my friend, and I didn't understand why it was easier for him to put on the 'net, probably knowing I'd have read it, but wouldn't talk to me about it in person. And in this world, where I seem to in effect be stalking my friends over the Facebook, finding out about babies and marriages and engagements there first instead of from the people themselves--I don't know, it just seems like the wrong order. It doesn't seem right to not turn to the help available to you, to the people available to you when you need them, directly, and instead: opting to hope that they'll follow up on something with you after you've left a huge hint for them laid out in bright, red, flashing neon letters. Not to be too crass about it, but that's just kind of fucked up in my opinion. And I don't want to cut my friends out of my life because I suddenly have a better relationship with them through my blog. That just doesn't seem fair, and isn't how I want to run the business of my life. And of course, it is far distant from the topic of this blog anyway...

...and just what was that again anyway?

I have some things I need to unload somewhere, and I know it can't be here. So I'm going to try to go and do that and come back here when it's settled. Or when I have any news of real note.

And with that: I'm out.

The Road to Madness is paved with Boredom.*

You know that whole saying about idle hands? Well, if the devil's work is watching copious American television on my computer, then somebody better find a priest to save my soul!

Yeah.

It's been a pretty quiet week all in all, mostly on purpose. After nearly a year of soul searching and work, I feel like I've earned some sort of a respite. Despite the odd group dinner here and there (I cooked Cuban again for some friends last Thursday, and another friend had some of us over to her new apartment Saturday night for a meal) or submitting a few online applications for jobs, the majority of my time has been spent lounging in my bed, watching surfthechannel.com, or anything I've downloaded off of iTunes lately: the new Mad Men episodes, both seasons of Extras, and the pilots for both Mercy (which takes place in NJ) and The Good Wife (which stars Julianna Margulies--I have missed you so much, Julianna!!!). The last two titles were free, and the rest was purchased mostly with the iTunes gift cards I received for my birthday--always the greatest and most necessary gift, as iTunes downloads are like my crack. Mom, Dad, Grandma: thank you for feeding my addiction.

I've been reading books lately, another indicator that I'm not up to much. I've been slowly working my way through the copy of The Eaten Heart, a birthday gift from my friend Mauro. The book is a collection of stories from Giovanni Boccaccio's Decameron, and so far has featured of a lot of little humorous, racy stories written in 1300s Italy. Rather predictably, the plot lines usually center around two young people who would like to have sex, but who aren't able to because of whatever obstacle/arcane 1300s-type rule standing in their way, and how they get around it. The translation (and I have a feeling, the original text as well) has a very tongue-in-cheek air about it, which makes it a really engaging, but still light and easy read. I have also started taking another birthday gift to bed with me--a copy of Jamie Oliver's new cookbook, Jamie's America. It is surprisingly nice to read before sleep, like culinary bedtime stories ("Oh, Jamie! Tell me about grilling the perfect ribs again, over a near seven hour process with a rub and marinade! I love that one!").

I also started reading the newspaper again, and that's when I know I really have too much time on my hands: I never read current periodicals with any kind of regularity unless I literally have nothing else to do. A couple years ago I took a trip to Italy with my dear friend Katie (you remember Katie, don't you?), and the most impressive part of the trip to me was not the gorgeous countryside, the hundreds-of-years old architecture, the food, the people, the glaring sun. No, the most impressive part was that the trip afforded me the opportunity to actually read an entire copy of "The Economist" (and understand it!) over the flights/journey. Don't get me wrong, I like all that other stuff, but whoever really takes the time to read "The Economist" who doesn't have a job that vaguely deals with the state of the national ecomony? (Point of fact: all jobs have something to do with the national economy, but let's not get distracted, shall we?) No one.

However, while I've generally become a more entertained, more informed person over the past week or so, I wonder if this is totally a good thing if extended over a long period of time. I'm not good at relaxing, and when I do for a while I become a bit lost and morose. I'm never happier than when I'm busy and just a little stressed. It feeds my soul, because I know things are depending on me, and I can see the repercussions of what I do: there's a value to it, good or bad. But having nothing pressing occupying my time makes me bored, then depressed, then too lazy to ever find anything to occupy myself ever. And that's a frightening thought.

Tomorrow and Thursday I'll be helping present "Organism," and then off to Paris for a few days. Hopefully I'll be able to lay out an active plan of attack on my new life (like some stealth hunter) over that time, and when I emerge from days of croissant eating and beret wearing I'll be ready to take it on, full force. Until then, I will try to do something productive. If only I could figure out what that would be...

*It should be noted I have written a large part of this entry while watching The Bold and the Beautiful on the couch with my flatmates. How I was blessed to live with people who also watch my favourtie childhood soap, I do not know, but I am grateful for it.

"It ends as nothing."

That's the final line of the section I contributed to "Organism," the Festival of piece that I'm involved in. Foreboding, isn't it?

My apologies over the relative silence I've thrown your way past few days. Alongside writing the dissertation, there's been a lot of activity in my personal life (aka: the life I make a conscious effort to keep off this blog), and so while I haven't really had the time to write and reflect what I was doing and what was happening, the material at hand was largely inappropriate to this forum and I just didn't want to write about it--lots and lots of introspection, that would largely be interest and concern only to me. It has always been a strange struggle, attempting to balance a certain reserve here about how I'm doing personally, while still not being totally dishonest about exactly what it is I'm going through. When I don't know how to do that, I go quiet. This is just fact.

Other facts that currently make up my life:

1. I am job seeking. I'm trying to find something essentially full time, because now that I'm out of uni I have to take care of myself, pay my own rent, start paying of my student loan (eventually...I don't actually know when that has to start, but the day approaches like Malcolm's army to Dunsinane--minus the trees), all of this. I also just want to buckle down for the next few months, be a real person, and set up a financial base for myself in this country, which will be necessary for the visa process I've decided to go through. I've done the lot of it before, but as with all new beginnings, the whole thing seems daunting and overwhelming, and I don't like it. To put this reality off a bit longer, I am...
2. ...going to Paris next week. My mother will be there on business, so I'll stay with her and wander the city during the day, reading a copy of Down and Out in Paris and London in different cafes along the boulevard (remember: I am dramatic).
3. I will be staying in the apartment I'm in for one more month, but have no idea where I'll be for November, and this fact (though not quite as harsh as is being interpreted) is vomit inducing to me, in a nerves way. I think about the potential of couch hopping over Thanksgiving and am depressed. (Ah! I've shown you too much sentiment! Quickly, read something here* to distract from the potential of unbridled emotion!)
4. I'm 25 now. Nothing is really different, and I feel the way I have felt since I turned 23. I have continued in my tradition of creating a New Year's Resolution for myself on this day (something I've done since I turned 22, and really needed an active focus/change in my life). This year it's: "Come out of hiding." It's not entirely clear to me what that means, but it seems to make sense on a few levels and I respond to it, so I'll run with it. A few friends took me out to a great NY style martini bar on the day, and then last night a few more who had missed because they were writing their dissertations, met up with me at the Swan (the bar next to the Globe) for a few drinks. It was lovely seeing everyone, and sharing these couple days with people who've become important to me over the past year or so (or in Heidi's case, the past eight+ years). And Jason gave me my coffee for free on the day! Whoo hoo!
   

There must be more things going on that I'm not sharing with you, but they either fall into the category of "too personal for the Internet," or I've clean forgotten them. I'll try to update you in turn, as I remember them, or they become applicable to this arena.

In other news, pertinent to this blog, I've been debating closing it down. I started it so I could talk about going to grad school in England. Now that's over. So what is next? Why bother? Is a reflective blog a good thing to keep going after a certain age, or should one simply stick to creative writing or discussing one's career--subjects that provide release on the part of the blogger, with some veiled sense that that information is being received, that they are being heard. I started these entries as letters to my friends back home, but now I wonder why I don't just do those monthly update e-mails instead (oh, but those bore me to tears--to write, AND to read). I don't know. I'll give it a think, and let you know what happens. Would you bother to keep reading this blog, even after I get my final grade back? And just who are you anyway?

*PS: That blog is amazing. I've been reading it for the past few months and it never fails to make me laugh out loud. My favorite entry shows owls to be the disrespectful creatures that they really are, bastards.