the whole world is moving, but i'm standing still

In this whole unpacking and repacking debacle that has taken over the living room, I managed to find my travel journal from the last time I ventured across the pond. The first entry was an observation of my flight experience. Here it is, redundancies, non sequiturs, and general fluffy formal language included:

July 28, 2008 Atlantic Ocean

I'm wondering if I can trick my body into rest if I just close my eyes and pretend to sleep. but my mind will not sleep; it remains aware of the engine hum and the little girl behind me whose periodic burst of upset are a a constant reminder that it is not the middle of the night to my inner clock. I cannot force the cluster of thoughts in my brain that bounce off its imagined walls waiting for attention to be paid them to settle until the sun pokes up its bright head. They win my hand and here I am, up with the people contentedly watching their in-flight movies, unbothered by the fact that in a few hours their inner clocks will go haywaire with frantic confusion because it is not the time it is supposed to be. Maybe we should all take a note from the Mad Hatter and smash the clocks to pieces and serve them to each other with jam and butter.

the plane windows are cold with the breath of night. The wings are flashing red light beams into the sky, silent signals to the stars, which will never receive our communication because millions of years is too long and the light is too feeble to be of much consequence. It is a weird thing, to be at an even level with the sky, to have something substantial miles beneath you. I used to think heaven was in the clouds, where God and His angels frolicked joyfully, but now I see that he has hidden His kingdom well beyond the reach of man. Heaven will never be a most-desired vacation resort for the well-travelled journeyman.

Restlessness, and nothing else to write of. Maybe now I can force my mind to be still and conform the the ever-changing time zones. Good night.

Expect a longer, more personal entry soon. There has been a lot to reflect upon these past two weeks.

day 4, oxford

Tonight I find myself in Oxford with some down time to actually update on my British excursion, so you’re welcome. I’m staying in a charming little cottage on one of the main thoroughfares, far from the center of the city (a good 30/40 minute walk) but quiet enough that I feel immersed in the stereotypical small-town England that so charms us on the west side of the Atlantic.

So I guess I’ll work backward, shall I?

The voice in my head is currently sporting a British accent, so forgive me if my writing at the moment seems incredibly formal. Also, the television is on some talking head program, so that might be the culprit.

So, today.

We left London on a charter bus at 9 this morning, arrived in Oxford around 11:30. After we moved in and killed the various spiders inhabiting the corners of our house, we made the walk back to the group’s meeting place and did a walking tour of Oxford. I love the quiet of the colleges; we went inside Corpus Christi and Trinity Colleges and they remind me of the quiet little bubble that is Oglethorpe. Coincidentally, Corpus Christi is the birthplace of Oglethorpe, a fact which I already knew, but was amazing to witness in person.

Dinner was at a seafood restaurant. I had some of the most delicious salmon and cous cous; the Brits really know how to do seafood right. After that, a bunch of us popped over to the pub next door to the restaurant, but I only stayed for a bit before walking home with Hillary through some of the neighborhoods around where we’re staying. It was so quaint.

And now I’m sitting in the common room watching The Inbetweeners, which is a very amusing show, to my surprise. It’s an early night; I’m exhausted.

I must admit before I sign off that it’s strange, writing this way. I feel as if it’s not nearly as interesting recounting my daily experience in writing. Please don’t hold it against me, I’m tired.

beyond the daylight, who knew what it could feel like?

"What do you think of James Spader?"
"He needs to call me."

That's the best of what I've gleaned from watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer today, viewed in the midst of washing dishes and folding clothes and general room/apartment cleaning. Or, what I had originally claimed as reading and relaxing on Saturday. Either way, I found the show to be mildly amusing, but I don't think I can find myself obsessing over it as some of my friends who love it. I watched three episodes. Maybe I'll give it another try later. For now, I'll do as my mother does and watch Star Trek while I take care of the laundry. How thoroughly domestic of me.

In other news, I finished A Single Man last night. I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially Isherwood's well-crafted style. There are very few books I feel I could extract more than a few lines from, and this is an exception. I know I've subjected you already to one of my favorite passages, but please bear with me as I share another:

"And now, an hour maybe, has passed. And they are both drunk: Kenny fairly, George very. But George is drunk in a good way, and one that he seldom achieves. He tries to describe to himself what this kind of drunkenness is like. Well - to put it very crudely - it's like Plato; it's a dialogue. A dialogue between two people. Yes, but not a Platonic dialogue in the hair-splitting, word-twisting, one-up-to-me sense; not a mock-humble bitching match; not a debate on some dreary set theme. You can talk about anything and change the subject as often as you like. In fact, what really matters is not what you talk about, but the being together in this particular relationship. George can't imagine having a dialogue of this kind with a woman, because women can only talk in terms of the personal. A man of his own age would do, if there was some sort of polarity; for instance, if he was a Negro. You and your dialogue-partner have to be somehow opposites. Why? Because you have to be symbolic figures - like, in this case, Youth and Age. Why do you have to be symbolic? Because the dialogue is by its nature impersonal. It's a symbolic encounter. It doesn't involve either party personally. That's why, in a dialogue, you can say absolutely anything. Even the closest confidence the deadliest secret, comes out objectively as a mere metaphor or illustration which could never be used against you."

And now onto a third book. I have plenty to choose from, but first, I must get through two books and evaluations for work on Monday. Scratch that, three. My life these days is full of books and manuscripts. I've developed the ability to absorb 300 pages in 4 hours. Such is the projects I've been getting from work lately: not merely slush and mediocre writing taken from the mailroom, but full manuscripts given to me by the editors who act as my supervisors. It's nice, the responsibility. But it's also a lot of pressure. The good kind of pressure, not the Queen + David Bowie kind.

it's 3am, i must be lonely

"A performer at the circus has no theatre curtain to down and hide him and thus preserve the magic spell of his act unbroken. Poised high on the trapeze under the blazing arcs, he has flashed and pulsed like a star indeed. But now, grounded, unsparkling, unfollowed by spotlights, yet plainly visible to anyone who cares to look at him - they are all watching the clowns - he hurries past the tiers of seats toward the exit. Nobody applauds him any more. Very few spare him a single glance.

Together with this anonymity, George feels a fatigue come over him which is not disagreeable. The tide of his vitality is ebbing fast, and he ebbs with it, content. This is a way of resting. All of a sudden he is much, much older. On his way out of the parking lot he walks differently, with less elasticity, moving his arms and his shoulders stiffly. He slows down. Now and then his steps actually shuffle. His head is bowed. His mouth loosens and the muscles of his cheeks sag, His face takes on a dull dreamy placid look. He hums queerly to himself, with a sound like bees around a hive. From time to time, as he walks, he emits quite loud, prolonged farts."

It's been good to do some reading beyond what is required for class and work. This snippet comes from A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. It's the second novel in my summer-long odyssey to finish the books on top of my dresser - I forget how many there are in total. I'll take a picture of it tomorrow. I find books to be so attractive; each one is unique, and when aligned together they make a very attractive picture. But back to my odyssey...I'm excited to be reading for leisure again. It's the curse of the student, reading academic literature and writing academic papers and at the end of the day too exhausted to even read another book.

Perhaps in the effort to keep myself writing I'll talk about the books I read; I think it'll be a nice direction for the blog, you think?

you, i cannot judge

I'm back in Birmingham for the night, and after a nice hot bath I'm feeling refreshed and in a better mood. And though at 10:30 at night this is probably a bad thing, I'm feeling more alert too. It's been gloomy weather for the past few days; I was so tired at work, it was hard to keep awake even with my Dr. Pepper pick-me-up around noon. Alas, at certain moments even my addiction to caffeinated beverages cannot rouse me from the clutches of lingering sleep.

Other things have gotten me in a better mood since that somber post yesterday. A surprise phone call and the promise of a future dinner from an old friend lifted my spirits significantly. It's nice to start things over, get things off my chest, and be honest with someone again. I look forward to reestablishing a friendship I once thought lost completely.

One of the reasons I love driving to Birmingham and back is that I get to really listen to my music. There's not a lot of moments in my life that I have the opportunity to listen to my music library uninterrupted, but the two and a half hour commute from home to second home is one of those times where I can let it run as the soundtrack to some imaginary movie in which I am the star, driving down the interstate to some unknown destination. Silly, perhaps. I'm not ashamed.

This song in particular, struck me. I rediscovered my love for R.E.M. today:



Tomorrow brings a big change.

and so i tell myself that i'll be strong

Disappointments.

I've had a couple of those lately. People have disappointed me. I've disappointed other people. I've disappointed myself.

It's been a strange couple of months for me. And while that is no excuse, it's true. I still don't think I've quite recovered from February. You know when people talk about digging a hole you can't get out of? I think February did it for me; it dug an emotional hole that I can't seem to crawl completely out of even now. And it's one of those things that seems to have affected other aspects of my life. Bad things happen. And I'm usually one to get over them. But sometimes, I think, blows like the ones February dealt me can manifest as something unexpected. I feel somewhat shut down. In March and April I felt like I was constantly overcoming some unknown distance between people and school and while it got better, I think I could have done more. And in not doing more, I think I suffered disappointment. I let someone down; I didn't live up to their expectations. I didn't do. And that's not who I am. Now I have to suffer the consequences and lose something that I once took a lot of pride in having.

I'm disappointed in myself. But I guess it's something I'll have to accept.

And it's not just myself that's disappointed me. Other people have too.

I remember writing a post a while back where I expounded on how a change in the nature of a relationship inexplicably changed the way someone behaved. It was a perplexing thing to me. I understand that things change, I never question that. But unless something really significant happened to change things, I don't understand why communication between two people has to completely break down into passive-aggressiveness, sporadic meaningless conversation, and the occasional emotional outburst that yields real talk. Maybe I just need to learn not to hope so much on other people? I don't want to do that, but perhaps it's time for me to really accept that not everything works out the way I would like it to. People can't be controlled, people won't always act as they should. And yes, changing the intimacy of a relationship invariably changes the way people treat each other. I wish this was not the case. However, I know that the way a person treats their friends should not be inconsistent from one person to another. If I did nothing to deserve rudeness, I feel like I shouldn't receive it. My patience can only last so long when taken advantage of.

One specific incident spurred that last rant, but it's a frustration of mine that can be universally applied to every lost friendship I've ever had. It's a disappointing thing.


Last night's exercise in breaking free of writer's block seems to have worked. Also, it's an overcast day and my hopes of spending Sunday in the park were dashed by cold weather. And gloomy days tend to my affect my mood to the point where I cannot be content unless I'm listening to sad music and doing nothing with my day. Maybe it's stir-craziness; I just have to make it through the week, and then I will once more be reunited with my Ogle-family for the summer.

Also, a new haircut is in the future. Something different. I'm nervous and excited at the same time. So my life is not all disappointments and bad moods. It just always seems to be pertinent to talk about on the blog. I'll do better, I promise.

if it were up to me, i would leave it up to you

It's a Saturday night. I just enjoyed a day full of writing and reading Young Adult novels for work followed by an evening double feature at the drive-in: Bridesmaids and The Adjustment Bureau. Despite my incessant need to converse about The Adjustment Bureau's commentary on the concept of predestination and its implications on free will and the human race, the boy and I agreed that getting out of the apartment was necessary; our Friday night consisted of me curled up on the couch watching a Star Wars "making of" documentary while he played World of Warcraft...how delightfully nerdy of us.

To be fair though, I've needed to just relax. After exams ended I was only allowed a few days of break before I started my internship at Peachtree Publishers. As of Monday, I am their editorial intern, sequestered in a back office with pen in hand and eyes at the ready, poised to tackle the thousands of unsolicited manuscripts would-be children's authors send in every day.my surprise, some manuscripts have been sitting in kitty litter smell for almost a year now. Reading (and most of the time, rejecting) this "slush" has been the bulk of my job so far. However, I do get a lot of time on and off duty to read what the company has published before, which has been very enjoyable, even if most of the titles are not my usual reads. This first week, however, has been eye-opening as an aspiring writer - I, the lowly intern doing the job for free, wields the power of judgment in deciding whether or not you are even worthy of possible consideration as a published author. Woah. That sucks for the hopeful writers out there.

But leaving that rather bleak note there, I have been slowly adjusting to apartment living. It's nice to have a real kitchen for once; I think I'll be sad to leave it once school starts again and I move back into the dorms. Cooking for myself has been a challenge in buying grocery in bulk and at reasonable prices. I think the summer, however, will be a good lesson for me in money management. I definitely need it.

I'm not sure what the purpose of this post was. I've had the itch to write for a few days now, and I'm hoping that maybe this will help get me through the writing dry spell.

Maybe that's a point in itself.