beauiful agony

Procrastinating no longer.

Not really.

I have spent my entire day reading. Woke up at 9, read at Mortonapos;s from 9:30-11:30 over an enormous cafe americano, hit up the Bodleian from about 1-4:00, returned here and have continued reading.


I am seriously going to get my ass kicked by the work here. I donapos;t even mind tons of mindless work, but Iapos;m not quite sure Iapos;m capable of the quality of work they expect here. I have this one tutor who looks (I am entirely serious) exactly my age. He might in fact be. I was too floored by such a young PERSON teaching me that I didnapos;t even ask him to clarify how old he is. And he has assigned me an 8-10 page paper for Sunday. This is, of course, after reading one primary source (an entire book) and 5 or so secondary sources- various chapters.

In addition to reading half of Don Quixote and all of Jane Eyre, accompanying Jane Eyre with a 5-6 page paper for Tuesday. Which means by it must be done Monday evening.

I had to have it down somewhere in writing the volume of work that it looks like I will be completely on a weekly basis for the next few months of my life.

I donapos;t plan on continuing this, but I felt the need to do so in order to set the climate for my further writing.


Honestly, Iapos;m not even frustrated or annoyed or anything about the pure volume of reading and work. I really donapos;t mind spending all day reading and thinking a bit. Somehow itapos;s almost a godsend- having something to do. That I like. That is productive. That I can do almost completely on my own terms (books at the Bodleian, of course, cannot be checked out.) But it is the writing that concerns me, as I have never really been much of a writer, and have gotten used to handing in complete crap papers for years. I donapos;t mind not getting drunk all the time, I donapos;t mind having to spend hours a day reading, I donapos;t mind not really being able to go out at night. I do mind that I am going to have to write well, because I am not sure that I am capable of that.


Regardless. Life is good, to quote G.

I have been soaking up this autumn like no other. Last autumn was skinny dipping this time of year, standing naked in the middle of the river, waving a half empty bottle of rum while shrieking sentiments that had been yelled, cried, whispered and wondered for a long time.

The autumn before that was bittersweet early mornings driving back to school with maple macchiatos and feeling incomprehensibly elated and terrifingly sad and anxious.

Autumns are always potent.

The past two weekends I have spent my Sunday afternoons in an airplane circling over London suburbs before landing at Stansted, and I have watched both times the leaves here changing more and more noticeably. The tree outside C and Aapos;s room is changing bittersweetly. You can only see spires and sky from our window.


The other night I took a most elated walk around the city in the evening. The moon was brilliant and full, the sky sharp and clear, and in a skirt and decisive boots, I walked for at least an hour, exploring back alleys, making turns based on how many leaves ahead looked like they could be crunched, dodging bicycles, feeling the crisp air fully on my face. It has been getting cooler here, and I love love love being cold.


Itapos;s funny. When I was in India two summers ago (and other times since) I have felt such clarity in my thinking. I have found myself thinking whole decisive conclusive thoughts and conclusions about things. Here? Somehow not so much. I rather think it is because while in India, as much as I was doing, I was still mostly observing. Alright, yes, I was hiking 9 miles a day uphill and eating strange food and interacting with group members. However, I did very little of my own planning. I didnapos;t really have to decide anything. And I was limited to people who were from St. Maryapos;s, a few who Iapos;d already known, and all who knew where I was coming from and who I associated with at school.

Here, I am pretty much completely on my own in a new city.

Donapos;t get me wrong. This is pretty much fantastic. And I have been coming to some interesting and strange conclusions about myself here. However, because I have so much to decide on a daily basis, Iapos;m not sure Iapos;m observing as much.

This is difficult to explain, Iapos;ll have to think about it more.


What I canapos;t help but feel good in, though, is how pieces of how things work eventually do work themselves together. I donapos;t think I quite understood the magnitude of going to India until at last a half a year later. You know, I donapos;t like to place too much importance on drugs or how they make a person think, but hereapos;s something: when I tripped on shrooms (over a year ago...jesus), I remember as I was coming down complaining to D how I hadnapos;t come to any big conclusions or ideas or revelations. And he said to me how the thing with tripping, a lot of the time, was just experiencing what you could and picking up the puzzle pieces at the time, and then fitting them together later.

And I think this is absolutely and completely and importantly applicable to big experiences. Or maybe any experiences, for that matter.


Maybe Iapos;ll write more later about Italy, maybe I wonapos;t. Iapos;m not sure I could write about it in a way that is any way near how it was. Politics over prosecco, twisting streets, shouted Italian, steaming espresso, cool mosaic floors, bright hot sun, misty mountains, Brazilian expatriates, faded frescoes, and early morning balcony views.


I would do a lot to run tonight but my back has been hurting and Iapos;m thinking Iapos;ll take a night off, run tomorrow, etc and so forth.



And I would absolutely not die if I could be brand new.

dataentry projects, beauiful agony, beauiful biker diver lover model swimmer, beauiful faces, beauiful lyrics.