About once a year or so I seem to always be reminded of the existence of Super Nintendo. Yet it always seems that these remembrances come when I'm not physically able to play the thing. It sits in my room at home (or somewhere around my house, I'm never quite sure where) gathering dust with no young people in the house to play it.
But years ago, the old school video game console was one of the only things I had in my possession to occupy my time in the evenings. Before the years of the internet - of my own personal laptop that allowed me to waste hours online looking through pictures of dresses and watching videos of babies laughing on YouTube - I had to resort to less nebulous pastimes. These were the games that could become monotonous, but somehow never did. Instead they were mind-numbing and repetitive, enjoyable because they forced me to become methodical. I became actively involved in the path to greater wins, greater power in the hands of Mario and Luigi. They were great times.
Nowadays I feel I rot my brain even more despite the plethora of intellectual stimulants that lie at my finger tips in the form of a keyboard attached to a computer. I could go on the Ted Talks website and just sit for hours listening to lectures. Or I could head over to the New York Times online to read articles and catch up on the most important news of the day. But instead, I do these things in conjunction with modes of entertainment that don't incite much mental activity.
Some might say you could equate surfing on Facebook and other mindless activities of the internet with the actions involved in video games. Maybe they're both equally soul-deadening and intelligence-failing. But hours spent in the evenings staring at a little man running across the screen, I believe, have a much profounder effect than half paying attention to a recorded lecture or reading an article and also trying to keep track of the goings-on in the lives of dozens of friends.
When I go back and play those games, however unsophisticated they may be by today's video gaming standards, I feel my mind being exercised. I sit statically, but my eyes flit back and forth across the screen as I try to work out how best to make my next move, to use my past knowledge to improve upon my performance in the games.
And while they may seem like casual wastes of time, the enthusiasm I muster up for them and the dexterity that develops as a result, is something I forget is even present in me.
It reminds me of another hobby that I let die with age (though I wish I could bring it back as easily as I do the playing of games on my Super Nintendo).
Years ago I used to create lots of fan sites for various television shows, musicians, actors, etc. that I enjoyed. When I didn't have much homework to do, I would find photos online of celebrities I enjoyed and put them into Paint Shop Pro (the alternative version of Photoshop that I deigned to use back in the day). Using fairly basic functions, I'd create beautiful little works of cheesy digital art. I'd make blends and icons and avatars, little things that I could distribute via the internet but that seemed ultimately frivolous.
Looking back, though, I wish I still had those abilities. They'd probably serve me well trying to enter a job market where being multi-talented is extremely important. As of now I can claim proficiency in Photoshop, but certainly not personal successes in the programming. But it's something I want.
These stand-alone abilities (using Paint Shop Pro and playing games on Super Nintendo) aren't indicative of any genius. They aren't even necessarily along the path to self-betterment or fulfillment. But they're certainly better than the kind of abilities that I create for myself now because they teach me something about myself that I couldn't understand otherwise.
You may wonder how I can make this claim of video games. The truth is that I never thought of myself as a kinesthetic learner. I'm the type of likes to be entertained audibly and visually. I learn best from television, as I always say. But the way that gaming allows you to become more self-aware, more confident with your hands, your fingers and their movements, teaches you to be more spatially and intellectually aware as a person.
This could be just an unwarranted and unsubstantiated claim. I certainly don't have evidence to back it up, but I know in my heart that I feel somehow more accomplished after sitting for hours playing Super Mario World than I do after going on Facebook sporadically while also searching through pages and pages of Modcloth merchandise.
So I want to extend a thank you to Timothy, who probably doesn't care to be mentioned here but oh well, with whom the conversation of Super Nintendo was brought up once again. And to my dad who, after I mentioned my desire to know whether he'd kept the game console or perhaps thrown it out in the past few months, went through all the trouble of trying to find the thing, perhaps throwing out his back in the process of box-searching.
There's a lot that's great about my life, but one thing that I always forget are the hobbies and abilities I had years ago that I neglect now. I shouldn't neglect them because every experience serves its purpose. Super Nintendo, however seemingly insignificant, serves a very definitive purpose. And I'm ready to live that purpose again. Soon.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Is there anybody out there?
Is it weird that I sometimes dwell on the possibility of life after humanity? When I'm feeling particularly morbid, I imagine myself living alone in a post-apocalyptic world, kind of like that guy in The Twilight Zone episode who wants to have enough time to himself to read all the books he can possibly get his hands on. Then in a cruel twist of fate, he breaks his glasses after finding himself alone in a devastated post-nuclear-attack world. He is stranded without a companion and without the ability to read the books he so covets.
Today when I was having my dinner, I started thinking about how all the food I have in my room (and in the refrigerator that I share with my flatmates) is perishable. How if by some freak occurrence I became the last person on Earth, not only would I have to hope I don't break my glasses and my vision prescription doesn't get worse, keeping me from being entertained by books and old DVDs, but I'd have to pray I could consistently find food that was not destroyed or spoiled.
I'm probably the only person I know who occupies her time with such strange thoughts. It seems almost a waste to think about things like this unless you plan to become a science fiction or fantasy novelist. If the entire population of the world were to cease to exist, I most certainly would not be the last person alive to tell the tale. So there's nothing to worry about, really.
Yet I still see specks of neuroses in my past and my present indicative of the disturbed yet persistent belief that I need to prepare should something like that happen.
When I was little I had this little bomb shelter under the desk in my room. I put several of my favorite books underneath the desk, along with my diary and a few stuffed animals. Just above my desk was a little locked box with about 15 dollars in cash stashed inside it. That could certainly keep me alive for a few days at least after an apocalyptic attack. I was sure of it.
In the early days of my bunker, I used to spend time sitting under it, preparing for when it would stand as my one survival tactic in the event of some great disaster. It was ridiculous - just like putting up a wall of pillows and labeling it a fort, necessary for protection against ghosts and monsters. But the comfort it provided made it a quirk worth having.
Why was I dwelling on something so terrible when I was so young and innocent, though? To be honest, the only thing I can think to trace it back to is the plethora of scary films I saw as a child. All of these things begin to prepare you for the worst, giving you expectations that may never match your actual experience, but always have you ready for the worst kind of reality.
One of the more sinister (and hilarious, in retrospect) parts of my bunker was a little container I had filled with rocks and twigs. I stored it alongside my books in the bunker. It stayed there for a long time and gathered dust along with the rest of my supplies.
Sometimes I'd take the container of rocks and twigs with me if I was going to be running around the neighborhood with my friends. It felt stupid having a big pile of stones in my backpack, but at least I was prepared for any forthcoming stonings or zombie attacks. Perfectly reasonable explanations if you asked the younger me (even though the actual usage might have been against the boys in the neighborhood should they try to sneak into our little neighborhood clubhouse/hideaway).
Over time the bunker became less and less often used. When I took over my sister's bedroom after she moved out, it became entirely obsolete. I'm not even sure what happened to all the supplies contained in it. They probably required a good dusting. Or maybe my dad threw them out.
Regardless, though the accoutrements of my under-desk safehouse were disposed of, my fear of the unknown never was. To this day I still think about what life would be like all on my own. Occasionally I have to remind myself that it is just a thought and not actual reality. Looking outside my window or even just getting on the internet are little pieces of proof that the world is still a world. I can read all the books I want even if I do break my glasses. There's always an optometrist somewhere, working in his office.
Maybe this has become a topic of extra concern to me what with the December 21st blasphemous hypotheses. Even though I don't believe it, just as in that fateful day in seventh grade when I heard that an asteroid was headed towards Earth and there was some miniscule chance that it might hit us and cause a natural disaster over night, I like to brace myself for the worst.
That night when I was 12 I went to bed crying even if I knew I had no reason to. And maybe now I'm just being reminded once again why it's so great to be alive and not be aware of any true end of the world, any real possibility of post-apocalyptic chaos. Because we can make up all that we want to about the world ending, but the truth is we have no idea. Any divine predictions to the contrary are not true. But it can be fun to think they are despite logic.
Yet now more than ever I just want to stop pretending I'm in a horror film. Because it would be pretty hard for me to hide everything I want to keep under my bunker now. Especially because those things have nothing to do with books or journals anymore. They're people. And memories. And intangible things that I simply can't store under a desk.
So I don't think there's much of a moral to this story. Only that as we grow, our priorities may change. And while physical objects may seem very important (and admittedly they continue to be that way for me), there's nothing saying your glasses will hold out in the event of a nuclear catastrophe. So enjoy them while you can, and be happy for the things in your life that don't require you to own something. Like comfort, friendship, happiness, safety. And love.
Today when I was having my dinner, I started thinking about how all the food I have in my room (and in the refrigerator that I share with my flatmates) is perishable. How if by some freak occurrence I became the last person on Earth, not only would I have to hope I don't break my glasses and my vision prescription doesn't get worse, keeping me from being entertained by books and old DVDs, but I'd have to pray I could consistently find food that was not destroyed or spoiled.
I'm probably the only person I know who occupies her time with such strange thoughts. It seems almost a waste to think about things like this unless you plan to become a science fiction or fantasy novelist. If the entire population of the world were to cease to exist, I most certainly would not be the last person alive to tell the tale. So there's nothing to worry about, really.
Yet I still see specks of neuroses in my past and my present indicative of the disturbed yet persistent belief that I need to prepare should something like that happen.
When I was little I had this little bomb shelter under the desk in my room. I put several of my favorite books underneath the desk, along with my diary and a few stuffed animals. Just above my desk was a little locked box with about 15 dollars in cash stashed inside it. That could certainly keep me alive for a few days at least after an apocalyptic attack. I was sure of it.
In the early days of my bunker, I used to spend time sitting under it, preparing for when it would stand as my one survival tactic in the event of some great disaster. It was ridiculous - just like putting up a wall of pillows and labeling it a fort, necessary for protection against ghosts and monsters. But the comfort it provided made it a quirk worth having.
Why was I dwelling on something so terrible when I was so young and innocent, though? To be honest, the only thing I can think to trace it back to is the plethora of scary films I saw as a child. All of these things begin to prepare you for the worst, giving you expectations that may never match your actual experience, but always have you ready for the worst kind of reality.
One of the more sinister (and hilarious, in retrospect) parts of my bunker was a little container I had filled with rocks and twigs. I stored it alongside my books in the bunker. It stayed there for a long time and gathered dust along with the rest of my supplies.
Sometimes I'd take the container of rocks and twigs with me if I was going to be running around the neighborhood with my friends. It felt stupid having a big pile of stones in my backpack, but at least I was prepared for any forthcoming stonings or zombie attacks. Perfectly reasonable explanations if you asked the younger me (even though the actual usage might have been against the boys in the neighborhood should they try to sneak into our little neighborhood clubhouse/hideaway).
Over time the bunker became less and less often used. When I took over my sister's bedroom after she moved out, it became entirely obsolete. I'm not even sure what happened to all the supplies contained in it. They probably required a good dusting. Or maybe my dad threw them out.
Regardless, though the accoutrements of my under-desk safehouse were disposed of, my fear of the unknown never was. To this day I still think about what life would be like all on my own. Occasionally I have to remind myself that it is just a thought and not actual reality. Looking outside my window or even just getting on the internet are little pieces of proof that the world is still a world. I can read all the books I want even if I do break my glasses. There's always an optometrist somewhere, working in his office.
Maybe this has become a topic of extra concern to me what with the December 21st blasphemous hypotheses. Even though I don't believe it, just as in that fateful day in seventh grade when I heard that an asteroid was headed towards Earth and there was some miniscule chance that it might hit us and cause a natural disaster over night, I like to brace myself for the worst.
That night when I was 12 I went to bed crying even if I knew I had no reason to. And maybe now I'm just being reminded once again why it's so great to be alive and not be aware of any true end of the world, any real possibility of post-apocalyptic chaos. Because we can make up all that we want to about the world ending, but the truth is we have no idea. Any divine predictions to the contrary are not true. But it can be fun to think they are despite logic.
Yet now more than ever I just want to stop pretending I'm in a horror film. Because it would be pretty hard for me to hide everything I want to keep under my bunker now. Especially because those things have nothing to do with books or journals anymore. They're people. And memories. And intangible things that I simply can't store under a desk.
So I don't think there's much of a moral to this story. Only that as we grow, our priorities may change. And while physical objects may seem very important (and admittedly they continue to be that way for me), there's nothing saying your glasses will hold out in the event of a nuclear catastrophe. So enjoy them while you can, and be happy for the things in your life that don't require you to own something. Like comfort, friendship, happiness, safety. And love.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Journalism highs
Since arriving in the UK, I've virtually forgotten I'm a journalism student. Back at home I am in clubs and classes dedicated to the craft. I always have an assignment to turn in, it seems. Journalism waits for no man. There are no breaks in the art of reporting. Storytelling must be done by deadline.
This aspect of my collegiate and personal life has shaped me a great deal, forcing me to work under pressure and take notes in my head even when it's not necessary. When I see plays for pleasure now, I end up compiling commentary in my head as if it's necessary for a subsequent review of the production. I would call this a terrible, overly methodical fate... except I love it so much.
Yet since leaving my journalism major behind for a quarter, I've experienced a relative peace. Fewer deadlines, my work less reliant on receiving phone calls and emails back from strangers. It's a whole new world here in traditional academics.
So when I can do some punchy, hard-hitting writing again, I jump at it.
I'm going to a screening tonight and a press conference in a couple of days. I can't divulge details because much of it is top secret and because I want to maintain some mystery, I feel it is necessary to hold back. But I'm infinitely excited at the prospect.
Over the years, some of my greatest experiences as a writer and reporter have not been part of the process ordinarily associated with journalism. I don't love going on-scene and finding out the details of a story under pressure. It's not the pressure that I dislike, though. It's the boredom and monotony.
I sound like a terrible journalist saying these things, but I long for excitement in what I report. By that, I don't mean that I have to ride rollercoasters or interview serial killers for my scoop. I simply want to be intellectually stimulated by my subject.
It's something I've realized even in writing academic papers. There's something about the experiencing of feeling interested in your topic. If you don't have that excitement, you don't want to go on researching. And without the will, there is no way.
So I like to find will and make my way.
Many moons ago I was an impressionable young middle schooler planning out my future according to the wisdom of Gilmore Girls. Rory Gilmore was a journalist, therefore I would be a journalist. I already enjoyed writing. It was a subject I excelled in. I wasn't sure what journalism actually entailed, but I wanted to find out.
I wrote sample articles and joined a journalism class in my freshman year of high school even though it was recommended I take a science class with that extra slot of time.
Four years later, I was entering one of the most prestigious journalism schools in the United States. But did I really want to be a journalist?
I still don't totally know the answer to that. But only because the definition of journalism has become so nebulous. Is a critic a journalist? Is an arts and entertainment reporter a journalist? If the answer to these questions is "no," then maybe I don't want to be one. But I still think I do.
The reason for this is that the type of writing that gives me a journalism high isn't about that new education policy or a crash on a freeway. I am thrilled by the mundane and the exciting happenings of theater and film and art and music. Does it make me any less of a writer to consider these my greatest joy in reporting?
Tonight I'm re-entering the realm of journalism. It's been a while and while I've possibly lost my chops a bit, I'm ready to test my enthusiasm once again. This time it will be within a subject that is entirely my raison d'être.
There's nothing wrong with molding a profession into the path that fits you best. That's what I'm doing. Let's see where it goes. But first let's have a journalism high tonight.
This aspect of my collegiate and personal life has shaped me a great deal, forcing me to work under pressure and take notes in my head even when it's not necessary. When I see plays for pleasure now, I end up compiling commentary in my head as if it's necessary for a subsequent review of the production. I would call this a terrible, overly methodical fate... except I love it so much.
Yet since leaving my journalism major behind for a quarter, I've experienced a relative peace. Fewer deadlines, my work less reliant on receiving phone calls and emails back from strangers. It's a whole new world here in traditional academics.
So when I can do some punchy, hard-hitting writing again, I jump at it.
I'm going to a screening tonight and a press conference in a couple of days. I can't divulge details because much of it is top secret and because I want to maintain some mystery, I feel it is necessary to hold back. But I'm infinitely excited at the prospect.
Over the years, some of my greatest experiences as a writer and reporter have not been part of the process ordinarily associated with journalism. I don't love going on-scene and finding out the details of a story under pressure. It's not the pressure that I dislike, though. It's the boredom and monotony.
I sound like a terrible journalist saying these things, but I long for excitement in what I report. By that, I don't mean that I have to ride rollercoasters or interview serial killers for my scoop. I simply want to be intellectually stimulated by my subject.
It's something I've realized even in writing academic papers. There's something about the experiencing of feeling interested in your topic. If you don't have that excitement, you don't want to go on researching. And without the will, there is no way.
So I like to find will and make my way.
Many moons ago I was an impressionable young middle schooler planning out my future according to the wisdom of Gilmore Girls. Rory Gilmore was a journalist, therefore I would be a journalist. I already enjoyed writing. It was a subject I excelled in. I wasn't sure what journalism actually entailed, but I wanted to find out.
I wrote sample articles and joined a journalism class in my freshman year of high school even though it was recommended I take a science class with that extra slot of time.
Four years later, I was entering one of the most prestigious journalism schools in the United States. But did I really want to be a journalist?
I still don't totally know the answer to that. But only because the definition of journalism has become so nebulous. Is a critic a journalist? Is an arts and entertainment reporter a journalist? If the answer to these questions is "no," then maybe I don't want to be one. But I still think I do.
The reason for this is that the type of writing that gives me a journalism high isn't about that new education policy or a crash on a freeway. I am thrilled by the mundane and the exciting happenings of theater and film and art and music. Does it make me any less of a writer to consider these my greatest joy in reporting?
Tonight I'm re-entering the realm of journalism. It's been a while and while I've possibly lost my chops a bit, I'm ready to test my enthusiasm once again. This time it will be within a subject that is entirely my raison d'être.
There's nothing wrong with molding a profession into the path that fits you best. That's what I'm doing. Let's see where it goes. But first let's have a journalism high tonight.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Happy to be me
Do you ever fear that you, or most of humankind for that matter, tend to live life with a little too much hesitance and pessimism? Now, I know that as a first line that comes off almost like the beginning of an infomercial, but it's an idea I've been considering a lot lately, even outside the realm of trite questions and overused phrasings. I'm not just posing this question so that we can come together as a sort of self-help group.
It's more because for the first time in my life, I don't feel quite as paranoid. Maybe it's a character flaw for me specifically, that so much of my life has been spent wondering if what I believe is too good to be true. I keep all of my enthusiasm in check for fear of it getting out of hand, getting my hopes up and drawing me down to terrible depths when things go awry.
Maybe it's being in London or maybe it's just life in general that has taught me otherwise lately. I feel like recently I've begun to treasure every little moment with the people I love. I don't particularly enjoy being alone, yet in moments of solitude I also appreciate the feeling of owing attention to no one but myself. London gives me both of these options. Study abroad in general has done this for me.
In my time in England, I haven't made many friends at all. I've dated and I've met new people, I've tried to participate in clubs and societies, but become overwhelmed by commitments and decide my priority and devotion was to the enjoyment of my time in my favorite city.
It's left me feeling quite cut off. When I don't have people to call upon to go out with on certain occasions, I sometimes wonder if I didn't set my priorities quite as well as I had hoped I would. Back at my home institution, I have a great group of friends whom I can ask to do activities with. I can always expect to have some accompaniment no matter what I'm doing. It's a luxury.
Then again, having people to call on all the time means not having much time to myself. Or feeling like time to myself is wasted time. And that's not true.
I've discovered how much I adore spending time with myself alone since I started living in this room stranded on the seventh floor of a building, looking out over a nondescript London landscape and planning my tube travel for the next day.
These are the quiet moments that, despite seeming mundane and unexciting, are going to make up the wonderful remembrances that I'll conjure up every time I miss this silly old city.
Even though I love spending time on my own here, though, I do recognize the faults in living a life that is solely my own in this city. At times I long for companionship when attending events or wanting to go to plays or shopping or anything else. But in the few people I've met while here, and the people I've kept in touch with, I make up for the lack of a wide array of friendships that I have back at home. And it's worked out.
Plus, every night when I arrive back in my room, I know that I have one person to talk to about my day whom I can consistently count on. That's my dad. Somehow, he's been here every day since the beginning of my study abroad experience. Heck, he's been with me since my first day of college. And I don't know what these experiences would've been like without him.
He's like a racquetball court, echoing with my complaints and showtunes (Dana and I like to sing musical theater songs while we play racquetball) but never fighting back (except maybe to throw a ball back at me, effectively reminding me to get back into the game when I feel anxiety or complacence about my schoolwork or what have you). This is a weird metaphor, but I like it.
Every day I've spent time FaceTiming with my dad. It's been an irreplaceable experience, inextricable from my London study abroad time in general.
And it's his presence in my life each day that proves to me that the best part of being me right now is that I can be surrounded by family and friends without being bombarded by them. Just because people aren't right outside your door step or in the next room over, doesn't mean they're not present in your life.
If you can maintain contact with someone, they will always be there. Hopefully when you need them.
So I have the pleasure of being alone and surrounded at all times. But the thing to take away from all of this isn't the pleasure of having a dichotomous existence, not a hermit but not a social butterfly. What's most valuable to me, and what I've realized in these past few months, is that it's great to just be happy with when and where and who you are. That's what I am right now, and for the first time I can feel myself moving forward.
It's more because for the first time in my life, I don't feel quite as paranoid. Maybe it's a character flaw for me specifically, that so much of my life has been spent wondering if what I believe is too good to be true. I keep all of my enthusiasm in check for fear of it getting out of hand, getting my hopes up and drawing me down to terrible depths when things go awry.
Maybe it's being in London or maybe it's just life in general that has taught me otherwise lately. I feel like recently I've begun to treasure every little moment with the people I love. I don't particularly enjoy being alone, yet in moments of solitude I also appreciate the feeling of owing attention to no one but myself. London gives me both of these options. Study abroad in general has done this for me.
In my time in England, I haven't made many friends at all. I've dated and I've met new people, I've tried to participate in clubs and societies, but become overwhelmed by commitments and decide my priority and devotion was to the enjoyment of my time in my favorite city.
It's left me feeling quite cut off. When I don't have people to call upon to go out with on certain occasions, I sometimes wonder if I didn't set my priorities quite as well as I had hoped I would. Back at my home institution, I have a great group of friends whom I can ask to do activities with. I can always expect to have some accompaniment no matter what I'm doing. It's a luxury.
Then again, having people to call on all the time means not having much time to myself. Or feeling like time to myself is wasted time. And that's not true.
I've discovered how much I adore spending time with myself alone since I started living in this room stranded on the seventh floor of a building, looking out over a nondescript London landscape and planning my tube travel for the next day.
These are the quiet moments that, despite seeming mundane and unexciting, are going to make up the wonderful remembrances that I'll conjure up every time I miss this silly old city.
Even though I love spending time on my own here, though, I do recognize the faults in living a life that is solely my own in this city. At times I long for companionship when attending events or wanting to go to plays or shopping or anything else. But in the few people I've met while here, and the people I've kept in touch with, I make up for the lack of a wide array of friendships that I have back at home. And it's worked out.
Plus, every night when I arrive back in my room, I know that I have one person to talk to about my day whom I can consistently count on. That's my dad. Somehow, he's been here every day since the beginning of my study abroad experience. Heck, he's been with me since my first day of college. And I don't know what these experiences would've been like without him.
He's like a racquetball court, echoing with my complaints and showtunes (Dana and I like to sing musical theater songs while we play racquetball) but never fighting back (except maybe to throw a ball back at me, effectively reminding me to get back into the game when I feel anxiety or complacence about my schoolwork or what have you). This is a weird metaphor, but I like it.
Every day I've spent time FaceTiming with my dad. It's been an irreplaceable experience, inextricable from my London study abroad time in general.
And it's his presence in my life each day that proves to me that the best part of being me right now is that I can be surrounded by family and friends without being bombarded by them. Just because people aren't right outside your door step or in the next room over, doesn't mean they're not present in your life.
If you can maintain contact with someone, they will always be there. Hopefully when you need them.
So I have the pleasure of being alone and surrounded at all times. But the thing to take away from all of this isn't the pleasure of having a dichotomous existence, not a hermit but not a social butterfly. What's most valuable to me, and what I've realized in these past few months, is that it's great to just be happy with when and where and who you are. That's what I am right now, and for the first time I can feel myself moving forward.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Approaching endings
A lot is coming to an end for me in the next few weeks. While I've tried to avoid thinking about it, many climactic moments will soon be seeing their resolutions. These were things that I built up in my head, moments I wanted to savor. How could I possibly be ready to reach them? They always seemed so nebulous, as if they never were actually going to arrive.
This is how I feel whenever something ends. In the beginning and even earlier, I spend so much time planning and considering possibilities. When I first came to London in 2007 on a vacation, I spent hours printing out Wikipedia articles about various places I wanted to visit. I endeavored to read through them all bit by bit and highlight important facts so when I got to the city I would be like my own (and my dad's) little tour guide.
Though I didn't manage to read through every article, and admittedly I am a terrible tour guide (I try to remember little tidbits and facts and then I end up forgetting all of them), the act of preparation for the trip only increased my enthusiasm for going to London. When I got there, the place seemed more magical because it had been built up so much in my thoughts.
I've been to London five times now. This last time was has marked the most important, since it required me to essentially become my own navigator and feel like a resident within this city that I love. In actuality, I didn't spend as much time preparing for this individual trip. In the final days before I left for England, I was still reeling over the loss of my free time and summer. I think my excitement was checked by my anxiety at leaving the country by myself.
But no, that's not wholly true. Because even though I didn't have to spend hours preparing for London (having known the city in the past, it didn't feel entirely necessary), I've actually spent the better half of several years preparing for this experience. The time that I got to live in England. If you have ever encountered me in reality, then you know what an important part of my life that this country plays.
Yet faster than you can imagine, I'll be on my way out. There are only two weeks left, during which I'll be writing four papers and hopefully not dying under pressure, whilst also getting a chance to experience the last vestiges of my very special time in the very special city that holds a very special place in my heart.
That's not all that is ending, though. Oh no.
In several weeks, I'll also have done a year with this blog.
When I set out to write a blog a day - and initially that wasn't the plan, but over time it developed into a daily chore (and by that I mean blessing and privilege) that I couldn't let go of. On days when I knew it was nonsensical to stay up an extra hour just to pour some random thoughts onto the internet, I realized how awful I'd feel if I missed a day, and I simply resolved to do the whole 365.
After 365, though, what am I going to do? Do I extend the privilege on? Am I going to keep testing my strengths each night, forcing myself to reopen my laptop even when I don't have the will to do so?
I haven't decided yet.
Unlike London, The Songs of Spring doesn't actually beg for an end. In fact, if anything, it's crying out for more. If I were to leave it as a 365 day project, it would be like cheating this page and myself from the many ramblings that will inevitably come after I've stopped publishing.
And while I know that I will continue to be prolific in other ways - that I will always find an outlet for my thoughts in one way or another - losing this incredibly valuable part of my life would be like losing touch with a best friend. Empty.
London will be leaving me empty enough, thank you very much.
So in January, I'll make my final decision. Whether I can handle the stress of continuing with this responsibility, or if it just becomes too much to handle. But knowing me, and looking back at the last year of my life, clearly I can spare an hour or less a day. Out of 24, I guess I owe myself that.
Not once has anything over the past few months felt like a waste of time. Even moments sitting in my room when I know my time would be better spent outside exploring the city, I feel pleased to just be in this place where a short walk could take me to Regent's Park or Covent Garden. I don't know that I'll ever have that luxury again. Even if (when) I move to London for the long haul, I doubt that my situation will ever be perfectly emulated. And I appreciate all the luxuries that have been afforded to me since mid-September.
One thing I know is that I will never give up my love for what I've experienced. I will never feel less desire to experience these things again - my time in London and my blog.
Moving forward, then, I guess I'm going to keep experiencing them. It would be a waste not to, right? In whatever way possible, the world will see me living the same repetitive dream that I have these past few months. However it plays out is still up in the air, but I have no doubt it will be fulfilling.
This is how I feel whenever something ends. In the beginning and even earlier, I spend so much time planning and considering possibilities. When I first came to London in 2007 on a vacation, I spent hours printing out Wikipedia articles about various places I wanted to visit. I endeavored to read through them all bit by bit and highlight important facts so when I got to the city I would be like my own (and my dad's) little tour guide.
Though I didn't manage to read through every article, and admittedly I am a terrible tour guide (I try to remember little tidbits and facts and then I end up forgetting all of them), the act of preparation for the trip only increased my enthusiasm for going to London. When I got there, the place seemed more magical because it had been built up so much in my thoughts.
I've been to London five times now. This last time was has marked the most important, since it required me to essentially become my own navigator and feel like a resident within this city that I love. In actuality, I didn't spend as much time preparing for this individual trip. In the final days before I left for England, I was still reeling over the loss of my free time and summer. I think my excitement was checked by my anxiety at leaving the country by myself.
But no, that's not wholly true. Because even though I didn't have to spend hours preparing for London (having known the city in the past, it didn't feel entirely necessary), I've actually spent the better half of several years preparing for this experience. The time that I got to live in England. If you have ever encountered me in reality, then you know what an important part of my life that this country plays.
Yet faster than you can imagine, I'll be on my way out. There are only two weeks left, during which I'll be writing four papers and hopefully not dying under pressure, whilst also getting a chance to experience the last vestiges of my very special time in the very special city that holds a very special place in my heart.
That's not all that is ending, though. Oh no.
In several weeks, I'll also have done a year with this blog.
When I set out to write a blog a day - and initially that wasn't the plan, but over time it developed into a daily chore (and by that I mean blessing and privilege) that I couldn't let go of. On days when I knew it was nonsensical to stay up an extra hour just to pour some random thoughts onto the internet, I realized how awful I'd feel if I missed a day, and I simply resolved to do the whole 365.
After 365, though, what am I going to do? Do I extend the privilege on? Am I going to keep testing my strengths each night, forcing myself to reopen my laptop even when I don't have the will to do so?
I haven't decided yet.
Unlike London, The Songs of Spring doesn't actually beg for an end. In fact, if anything, it's crying out for more. If I were to leave it as a 365 day project, it would be like cheating this page and myself from the many ramblings that will inevitably come after I've stopped publishing.
And while I know that I will continue to be prolific in other ways - that I will always find an outlet for my thoughts in one way or another - losing this incredibly valuable part of my life would be like losing touch with a best friend. Empty.
London will be leaving me empty enough, thank you very much.
So in January, I'll make my final decision. Whether I can handle the stress of continuing with this responsibility, or if it just becomes too much to handle. But knowing me, and looking back at the last year of my life, clearly I can spare an hour or less a day. Out of 24, I guess I owe myself that.
Not once has anything over the past few months felt like a waste of time. Even moments sitting in my room when I know my time would be better spent outside exploring the city, I feel pleased to just be in this place where a short walk could take me to Regent's Park or Covent Garden. I don't know that I'll ever have that luxury again. Even if (when) I move to London for the long haul, I doubt that my situation will ever be perfectly emulated. And I appreciate all the luxuries that have been afforded to me since mid-September.
One thing I know is that I will never give up my love for what I've experienced. I will never feel less desire to experience these things again - my time in London and my blog.
Moving forward, then, I guess I'm going to keep experiencing them. It would be a waste not to, right? In whatever way possible, the world will see me living the same repetitive dream that I have these past few months. However it plays out is still up in the air, but I have no doubt it will be fulfilling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)