(late) gratitude/(early) stress

I stayed up until four o'clock this morning, working on a short story for class.

...and then, when I woke up properly, I scrapped pretty much every word on the page. Or I altered it, somehow. (And so it turns out, 5000 word short stories really aren't my thing).

Tonight, in the shower, I convinced myself I'd missed a deadline.

...and then I double-checked. I hadn't. (And so it turns out, these early morning stresses really aren't my thing).

I have never stressed this much about work and so I can't figure out if I am totally over this whole university thing or deeply, deeply in love with it. But I think having the opportunity at all is a pretty wonderful thing. (I know it is).

As stressful and as frustrating as the last few weeks' have been, they have also been lovely. There has been a lot to write home about, you know. Like the warmest of snuggles and watching Elf with my sister, and last night, having the nicest conversation with a new, dear friend.

It's these things, these little things, that I'm holding pretty close right now.

a thought

I can't quite put my finger on it; can't quite find it's placing, but something about today was bittersweet.

Was it--is it?--because I see the end so clearly, now? Less than six months and this little run of academia will be over. It will be turned on its head; stored away; preserved in the pocket of my early, early twenties. And I still haven't ascertained how I feel about that. About whether or not I'll continue or whether this time will--first--freeze, then melt into the remaining phases of my life. But it's there. This want to catch every comfortable moment I can. This want to store and treasure and preserve those snatched conversations in seminar rooms and a (mostly) shared, and gripping, passion for a subject.

Just a thought.

the first of many

My first big (scary) batch of assignments are this close to being finished for the semester. There are two to follow a little before Christmas but I am so, so relieved these ones are over. I made the tasks more difficult for myself by choosing ridiculous topics (wordless picture books) or opting for the creative over the critical (I've pretty much trained my critical brain, and the creative one, the one that wants to prosper and thrive in this life, becomes terrified in the face of a numerical mark).

So. To round off the rest of the week, I'm looking forward to...

...tidying my large, large mess of a room...

...making caramel apples...

...riding a steam train!...

...doing a little vintage/antique shopping...

...baking pumpkin cupcakes...

...sewing (so many presents left to make!)...

and

...taking time to breathe and savour the season...

What is everyone else up to this week?

mo--wednesday

I know it isn't Monday.

But after the last few, awkward days, I could really do with taking stock of a few things. You know? (I'm mostly being melodramatic, here. Nothing big has happened. But if one more person asks me what I want to do with my life--what my calling just might be--what experience I have--well, I just might scream).

So.

Things that have made me happy, lately:

...smiles from strangers...

...tortoise-rim glasses...

...photography training...

...braiding my hair...

...moments of clarity...

...autumn leaves...

...puppy cuddles (thanks, Grace!)...

...recipe books...

...blankets...

...and cups of tea (lots and lots of cups of tea).

And I'm hoping tomorrow is a whole lot better. (I base this on the fact that I'm not at uni. And I'll get up, untired, and achieve some work. And--most importantly of all--I get to see my love).

x

other people's words (again, again)

"It's such an amazing privilege that for a few years of your life your job is to be a student." ~ Regina Spektor.

I kind of really hope my whole life has that job, in one way or another. It's a pretty amazing thing, isn't it? To learn.

It is--absolutely--the greatest form of self-improvement I ever did know.

(I found the quotation in this little interview, here).

on education and staying in it

Things feel a little different, this year. They feel much more poignant and appreciated--in many ways, much more settled and real.

This walk back into school--this metaphorical walk back into school--is important, and it'll take place next week. (We start late, here. So very, very late). It may very well be my last and that, that thought, is frightening. I don't want to leave education. I feel at my best here. I feel grounded and secure and focused. That back-to-school feeling, for me, is energising and invigorating. It makes me produce with a renewed mentality. It makes me soak up and savour detail. (So it is not a bad security at all.)

For a long, long time, I wanted to teach--and no, not just because it was a way to stay in this educational frame. It was all I really practised as a child. Standing in front of my mirror with a white-board marker, I'd write chunks of text on my reflection. My invisible, quiet class would listen--and sometimes, when they wouldn't, I would shout. This want carried on throughout high-school and college (though the physical practise of acting it out, did not) and, until my first few semesters were over, it was there. But then I realised that it was pretty much every student's response when asked what they wanted to do with an English degree. And it was an arbitrary response, at that. It was something they said to fill a gap in conversation and something they would no doubt pursue because they didn't quite know what they wanted to do. And so a faculty of lacklustre teachers begins. How does a generation teach a following generation without passion? (No, really, how does that work?). If I was to become a teacher, I would have passion. I already do in the conversations I propose with friends and family about just what this system needs. (It needs a lot). I want to teach. Some day, but not this day. Right now--this year and next and, probably, next--I do not want to go into that profession. I do not want to become part of a faculty that does not love its act. I don't know how the teachers that do--the teachers that really, really stimulate and inspire--do it. And for that, for every good teacher that there is, I have my admiration.

So for the last couple of months--perhaps a year--I have known this. And I have mulled it over again and again. I have looked at my career options and I have wondered just where this place I am meant to go, goes. The truth is--I don't have the answers. I don't know where, exactly, I am supposed to go next summer. Where, once this undergraduate degree has released me from its grasp, I turn for the next challenge and pursuit. I have my thoughts--my hopes--my wishes. But I cannot say them, out loud, without a nervousness.

But this year--and a year I count from September to the following September, so ingrained in me it is--there are a few things I want to work on. Like getting that degree--and safely. (There is a benchmark of numbers that I aim for: a framework; a border). Like finding a job and earning enough and stumbling across a space of my own--or rather: ours. A space to breathe and flex and stretch in our own way on our own time. Like falling in love with writing, again. Not the idea of it--not the theory or the planning or the thinking of it--but the doing. (That novel is still sitting on my desktop. It has a breath of potential, perhaps, but it needs flesh. A good meal and a good hydration of beauty). Like learning skills, transferable, life skills--but skills I do enjoy. (I want to make dresses--I want to learn how). Like learning a language--and practising it. Like deciding on whether or not an MA is possible, logistically. (And right now: right now the compulsion to do it is wild and fighting and strong).

So September means a little more to me, this year. And I am trying to relish every single one of its little falling leaves--the real ones and, I suppose, the ones of opportunity: the ones of thought.

when you're an english student...

...you go to Alice In Wonderland balls...

...where there are cupcakes and bunting and drinks served in (very) ugly teapots...

...and after plucking up enough courage to make those tentative steps towards the dance floor, you realise it's the very last song.

And then--well, then you go to a friend's and have midnight baking sessions, simply because you cannot, and will not, sleep.

And you talk and you talk and you talk.

And it makes you grateful--so very, very grateful--so have a friend like that.

have i told you lately what's been on my shelf?

Last semester, I took a module in Contemporary Writing and it quickly became my favourite class by far. It was nice to read writing that wasn't so heavily scrutinised or led in some way---writing that you didn't read around or know so much about before you delved beneath its cover. And d'you know what? Some of it was really very good.

"The murdered couple, in the weeks ahead, in the newspapers, even at the funeral, would have to shoulder some of the blame themselves. Their bodies were too compliant, unprotesting, over-dramatised. Their deaths---though ugly and gratuitous---seemed even to the policemen gathered in the dunes, partly deserved."

"But surely it is the gist that matters; I am, after all, telling you a history, and in a history, as I expect you---an American---will agree, it is the thrust of one's narrative that counts, not the accuracy of one's details."

"There are so few people given us to love. I want to tell my daughters this, each time you fall in love it is important, even at nineteen. Especially at nineteen. And if you can, at nineteen, count the people you love on one hand, you will not, at forty, have run out of fingers on the other. There are so few people given us to love and they all stick."

"The fantasy never got beyond that---I didn't let it---and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn't sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be."

"The taste of it is always on her fingers, always lurking at the back of her throat. Or maybe the taste of money, or love, is just the same as the taste of catarrh."

And some of them, well, I liked some a lot more than I liked others. The Gathering and Being Dead were written with a sensitivity---a beautiful roll of thoughtful sentences; sound and emotion placed just so---that I couldn't always put my finger on quite how it was done (but it made them my favourites by quite a long way). And The Reluctant Fundamentalist certainly, most certainly, induced a lot of thought.

I just thought it would be fun to give a snippet into my bookshelf, as of late.

What have you been reading? (And if you have, indeed, read any of these---do tell? I am always, always up for literary (and not so) discussion!)

[Just in case the covers aren't clear---which I hope they are!---here's a roundup: Being Dead (Jim Crace), The Reluctant Fundamentalist (Mohsin Hamid), The Gathering (Anne Enright), Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro), Hotel World (Ali Smith)]

inarticulate...

With no university and no day job to attend to, this week has felt a little alienating. I can't lie---for a lot of it, I've enjoyed the freedom: the baking, the sleeping in, the mental rest. But I suppose what I have loved the most is the absolute opposite: the feeling of being at a loose-end; of not quite knowing what to do with myself. Because if nothing directly productive has come from this week, it's been the affirmation that I am doing the right thing---despite me doubting it so often. I haven't opened a book in seven days and I am missing it---missing it isn't even the right word, it's more of a craving, really. Because as much as I don't like the deadlines and the rush and the over-whelming sense of being behind, of only just catching up, I can't live without it. Studying---academic or not---has become a second nature, a reflex, a switched-on mentality.

So tomorrow, tomorrow I will pick up a book and I will get back to studying---even if it's a snatched moment on the train. And next week, next week I will get back to preparing for exams. And after that, after that I will start reading again but---and this is perhaps the greatest revelation of all---it will be for me.

Does that make sense?

spring

It was good, today.

I walked to the seaside in a spring coat and warm-weather brogues.

I listened to the birds sing---oh, how they sung!---and saw the floating movement of their velveteen wings.

I watched the tide ebb with like-minded friends, knowing that this year is over---apart from a few scribbled exam papers and an essay or two.

It was good---it was relaxing. But most of all? Most of all it was needed---so absolutely needed.

mantra

I am trying hard to make this my new mantra.

(You can find the print here).

And in related news (in the sense that I wish I'd realised the above, sooner)---tomorrow is my last seminar of the year!

friday finds (and a little opening up)

This week was the penultimate teaching week of my second year---and I have really, really felt it. I will spend the next two days with another essay---on art and romance in Madame Bovary---and then I am pretty much done. (There are essays over the spring break and exams to prepare for, but teaching ultimately ceases). And I probably should be savouring it all---all the really bright academics I rub shoulders with, all the time I can devote to books and to words and to composition. But I guess I am a little bit tired---a little bit tired of jumping through the hoops I didn't expect there to be and the moments of uncertainty---of not really knowing what to do and not seeing the passion---real and heart-felt---in others.* And I don't mean to sound pessimistic or ungrateful (for this chance, this really, really wonderful chance of education), but I have just been feeling down this week as the questions of future and of next year have loomed.

As a result, I haven't spent that much time scouring the internet for very many things, but here are a few links that I have lately favourite-d.

Really, really beautiful things people do with books (other than write them)...

...and I cannot get over just how astonishing these tapestry book-covers are!

Sesame Street does Mad Men---I got quite a giggle out of "Don".

Ten possible meanings to Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

I love some of this art.

I hope you have a wonderful weekend---I will probably be posting a little more regularly next week. (In the hope that I have things to say).

*And maybe this little bit of a rant comes off as passionless in itself---because feeling this way, this apathy and fatigue of university, sometimes makes me wonder whether or not I'm in the right place; whether or not I am one of those very students I frustrate over. But then I open up a book or I start writing about the things that excite me---or write in a way that I am proud of---and it comes back, that feeling of being where I need to be. And then it's a little bit of a vicious circle---a revolution of questioning the self and simply not having the answers.

baking in march

The other day I missed my train and to remedy the hour extra I spent waiting in the cold---train stations are so cold---I bought a lemon and poppy seed muffin. It seemed the only choice that wasn't chocolate and I was trying, desperately, to be at least a little better with my choices.

Pleased with the taste, the texture, the little refreshment, tonight I tried to whip up a batch of my own.

There's only one photo, taken in horrifically yellow light (I need to start baking in the afternoon, not the evening), but I just wanted to keep chronicling the new recipes I try. This is probably my least favourite, so far, because the sponge was a little too heavy and a little too dense. But the flavour? I like the lemon-zing a lot. (Which is funny because I am not big on my lemon desserts despite loving lemons themselves---I will pull faces when I eat them, though. That's a given).

The down-side to baking, still, is my relentless belief that I have to be the judge of its success.

...

In other news, I am hopeful for a productive, yet loving, weekend---for you and for me. I have Twelfth Night to read in its entirety before entertaining a little bit of Flaubert (hello, Madame Bovary)...

...and on the topic of literature, I really, really wish I could be a part of Meg's book-club.

Take care!

weekend

Sunday evenings are always the days I really, really understand why I am still living at home. A Sunday roast---followed by fruit crumble, really really good fruit crumble---is one of the best essay distractions around. I sometimes feel sorry for my future-children, though. I will never be able to perfect a roast like my mum can.

Nor will I ever get over the hilarity of power-cuts---especially when your father is using a walking-frame, you are puppy-sitting and the only really useful thing you can find in the dark is a glow-stick.

...

But the essay is done.

this is what...

...a little light procrastination looks like: beautiful dresses I will never afford.

But my, isn't it beautiful?

(Found at Kate Spade).

(Essay count so far? 97 words. But a whole heap of research).

friday finds...

Today ended with me bumping into someone I have not seen for a very long time and with a few too many garbled sentences. And yet it was comfortable and it was refreshing (refreshing to see he has grown up well) and it made a boring afternoon a little bit better.

Here are some things I think worth sharing. (Although it's been quite a week of that...)

Some alternative movie posters which I think are very, very clever.

I have been thinking a lot about him lately, and I think this is an interesting way for him to be re-invented.

Was Nabokov right about butterflies?

What a lovely idea!

I am so sad that I only just uncovered this. I wish I could have taken part.

What are you doing this weekend?

I am writing an essay---although "trying" is probably a better verb to describe my attempts.* Staying in will also give me a chance to spend time with family---with my brother (and girlfriend, and puppy) who I did not get to see last weekend and my dad who is slowly recovering---it is wonderful to have him home!

Whatever you are doing, I hope it's lovely.

*My inability to turn off my wireless will probably result in a few more posts over Saturday and Sunday---I hope you don't mind.

timing out

I roughly get to this time of year and almost long for the summer-time. And here I really do emphasise the almost. Because as much as I long for much sunnier, grassier days, I also long for essays* and exams to have been undertaken and marked already, lulled into the excitement, then the freshness, of a new academic year. But at the very same time, I long for time to go slowly---as soon as those things are here, I am yearning for the next little pack of events and seasons, for the next adventures and the next breath of tasks. I guess this is what they call wishing your life away and I am guilty of it, every-time. But it isn't that, not really---it isn't so much as wishing as it is to looking forward---it is quietly anticipating the next few challenges.

This dress makes me think of summer-time.

(Courtesy of Topshop).

*I have an essay to write for next Wednesday and I cannot find its source or spark anywhere---I suppose it is that, more than the dress, that got me thinking.

to realise

Today I realised how much I am learning to love my Friday afternoon seminar. It is with a rarely occurring tutor---one that asks if we enjoyed the book before we communally rip it apart. (Today, today it was Jane Eyre---and just so you know, my high opinion of it still stands and my heart still skips a beat at the end, at the moment of hands finding hands).

And today I also realised that the train I missed and the infuriation I felt at a friend's clumsy organisation filtered out as soon as I saw her. Because she is that special to me---even if it isn't mutual and doesn't always feel like we are a part of eachother's lives (despite living thirty minutes away from eachother---and that's walking distance). She is an actress---and she sports the very same passion I was talking about the other day---and it sometimes feels like I am not completely sure what face she is wearing---the one of independence or fear or nonchalance. But d'you know what? She is wonderful. And determined. And creative. And because of these things, she is one of the very few people I have ever, ever felt safe enough to run a big, scary writing project past---one that she still remembers and asks about and makes me feel a little silly about not having worked on. I could not have been happier, today, when she told me that she feels like she is happy, creatively---and I see it. I was with her for an hour and a half and I saw its change---I saw the passion, and then the resolve that she has made to fulfil it. She will, my beautiful, beautiful friend, will be an actress. And she should, you know. I realised that as frustrated as I do get at her---at our inability to arrange meetings that actually work, at our too-often-too-sporadic texts, at the fleeting, fleeting presence---I realise that I haven't ever stopped loving her and that time after time after time when these things have gotten in our way, I always cling onto the hope that we haven't yet fallen out of eachother's lives---even if it is a thought I don't properly acknowledge. I hope we never do.

friday finds

I cannot work out the pace of weeks; I cannot work out if in removing certain things from my days, they are getting longer or shorter...

...does anyone else have this weird, tilting feeling, during the week? As though you are racing yourself to a finish line, or a goal, that doesn't really exist? Two day rest-breaks in a marathon of life.

I like to read Stephen Fry's Twitter feed, especially when he posts pictures like this. What a cool alumni of people!

Few things have stunned me more than these photographs of Iceland.

What a good idea!

Interesting article about what deems a book a classic/the idea of personal classics.

A necklace that I have more than fallen in love with.

I hope you have a lovely weekend.

I will be reading A Comedy Of Errors - before seeing it, live, next week - and then trying to make sense of it. If Shakespeare has taught me anything, it is how wide the chasm between reading and understanding dilates...

And on Monday it will hopefully, hopefully be time for a little Valentine's Day date! (Even though I don't really believe in it - a statement which seems to be such a cliché in itself nowadays - I don't think I will ever, ever give up the opportunity to spend time with my love).

have a little tenderness

In a lecture today (on a book I haven't yet read) it was suggested that we read literature only to aid us in reading the rest of the world. I am not sure I entirely agree - I think there is more to it than that, as with any art - but I certainly lean towards the understanding that it may, indeed, help. Because our readings are not merely fictitious---they are, when character-driven, highly sociable. Our feelings of empathy, of sadness---even of boredom---are driven by our reading of people. We meet characters not in their physicality, but most vividly in their mentality---and a connection, sometimes as strong as the bonds we make with friends, is formed.

Perhaps with all the reading I have been doing, it isn't terribly surprising that lately I have also felt myself reading people more acutely. I am seeing, more and more, a tenderness in their faces, in their actions, in the tones of their voice---in the renewed smiles of the love-lorn and the concern of doctors.

Word goes around that you can do little with a literature degree--- but if it is true - if my social and emotive awareness is heightened because of my reading - I am grateful, already. And in the moments that I do not quite get it - in the moments that I hear the wrong things or feel the hinge of pressure closing - I will search for it more.

Tenderness renews.