piste 7

What better way, may I ask, to lift one's spirit up than to spend one's birthday enjoying the pretentious decadence of High Tea, seeing three exhibitions (one of which reignited childhood glees while another reminded why art can kick so much arses), getting giddily tipsy with el vino while a wonderful man prepares one's dinner, gorging oneself silly with said wonderous cookery goods, engaging in lively discussions and shagging 'til the wee hours of the morning, hm?

(Oh. And there was chocolate cake. Obviously.)

I know. Suddenly, turning A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD doesn't sound so daunting.

(Much.)

better

It’s friday night and I’m on my own. For the first time since I’ve been here.

A sign that I am finally settling in?

A cup of tea, dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a good thick book.
And my laptop.

I have been here for nearly two months and I still haven’t a clue of what I am doing.

I don’t remember what happened. I can piece together some parts of the day, from lunch to dinner. And then, I vaguely remember flashes of whites and yellows. And pinks. My pink shirt in red blood. How unfashionable. And all these voices... My vain efforts to spell out my name, remembering to see if my jeans were still on, relief that they were. I remember nothing in between. Just wiping my tears away the next day. Trying not to cry. Thinking ‘what the fuck…' . Over and over. And wishing my mother was there. To hold me and make it all better.

...What. The. Fuck?

What am I still doing here? So much money and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Literally. For what exactly? Could I not draw and paint and read and soak myself in the life I need back in the comfort of my own bed, my own friends, my own family? In my own home? I am confused.

It is eight. He hasn’t called yet.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I seem to have found myself in strange territories.

He is a good man. He is kind and gentle and warm. And so gifted... But I don’t know what to do of him. And I'm lousy at this because I foresee the end. How, why and when. And I am unable to filter these thoughts. Through my mouth. With every kiss.

Such a terrible way to begin. Or live.

I have been listening to that Regina Spektor song in hoops. The one that goes ‘...uh-oh’. Or ‘ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah-aaaahhh’. And/or. Repeat and shuffle. She’s got great hair. I need a haircut. I can’t stand my fringe anymore. And my skin is acting out. It’s allergic to him. His budding beard.

It’s so silly, I keep saying to myself...

It’s too soon. Unusual circumstances.
It can never sustain itself in my natural context.
It doesn’t mean anything. Whatever that means.
Stop worrying about it. Planning its doom.




...And when I’ll go home, will I miss him?




Such useless questions when there is really only one to ask...

our faces split the coast in half

For the few weeks that I have been in Britain, I have (in chronological order):

• Bathed with centipedes;
  
  
• Moved five times;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been stung by a wasp – twice, in the same day;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been punched in the face in front of my flat, woke up in the hospital with a concussion, memory loss, smashed sinuses and a broken cheekbone, wondering why people here say ‘hospital’ without putting an article before and impressed that I was able to text on my mobile without any spelling mistakes;
  
  
• Spent two nights in [the] hospital with a polite little senile woman pleadingly crying to go home and a lady who wants to get in contact with Whitney Houston’s aunt who was going to tell her where Heaven is;
  
  
• Moved again. For reasons unnecessarily undisclosed;
  
  
• Met The Sweetest of Men;
  
  
• Been hit by a car and sent flying to the ground with a scratch on my elbow and a sore bum, incredulously;
  
  
• Understood the comfort of this whole Tea-And-Biscuits-In-The-Afternoon Thing;
  
  
• Actually liked a cat;
  
  
• Requestioned my entire self-concept [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Shagged so much my abs ache and legs can barely hold themselves up;
  
  
• Become comfortably accepting in deluding and ignoring my Fear of Relationships;
  
  
• Had a panic attack [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Quit two jobs;
  
  
• Been wondering for the 472nd time what the fuck I am doing here;
  
  
• And really hoping that all my bad karma has been paid for...
  

... And how have you been?