Homework-shmomework

I should be writing one of seven papers due next week, but I’m instead, so very wisely and productively, playing online. One of my favorite ways to waste time is to order free samples of random stuff that I’ll never need. I can always rationalize ordering it and risking the physical and electronic spam because I get free stuff and I never get mail anyway. If Unilever wants to send me a flyer with their latest product, it gives me a feeling of inclusion in this big world if only briefly and that can be nice every once in awhile. 

I’m usually not this much of a procrastinator when it comes to writing papers, but I’m having to re-write my rhetoric paper and I am completely over the process and formatting in APA style to be quite frank. My old subject was the tongue-lashing philosophical nuisance, Peter Ramus. He was incredibly interesting simply because he was so full of himself. All he did was dissect the imperfections of the theories of others and pedantically redefine the bounds of rhetoric until it no longer made sense to him as to what he was doing so he ended with a cute little quip much in the way that Augustine Burroughs does and called it a day. My new subject, Saint Augustine, however is a bit of a prissy suck-up. He lived in the Middle Ages and thus made contributions to philosophy without forwarding the field of philosophy - a daunting but dull task if you think about it. All he did was reconfirm the beliefs of the church but incorporate various population and dogmatic sects into the various justifications which he outlined, making it seem as though as long  a man prays, it doesn’t matter who he is, he must being doing what is moral. Why? Because God would never smite the good-at-heart, right? Of course not. Only bad people die or are cursed with fatal diseases. I’ve never met a good person to whom bad things happen and neither have you. Augustine, you were dead on.

Perhaps this is why I’m not thrilled about writing this analysis. 

Or I’m just bitter because I’d rather be reading Jen Lancaster than rewriting this dastardly paper. 

On Beauty

I’m currently taking a creative nonfiction course and it’s been the most eye-opening and philosophical English course I’ve taken thus far-and I wouldn’t be stretching to say that it is truly my favorite course out of 3+ years of college. We’ve been discussing the point of defining the genre and why people should care about what we write. The only reason I can come up with for the former is that people should define a writing genre in a manner that will allow them to be most inspiring to others while allowing them to demonstrate the beauty of written language. If you want to use the term creative nonfiction, use your pen as a creative blossom that will fill the air with the fragrance of your stories. If you choose to use the term narrative nonfiction, write stories that fill your readers lives with a sense of what humanity really is through our eyes. For the latter, I revisit authors because they speak to me in a way in which I wish I could speak to myself or others. I read their work to be influenced to no longer be afraid of what I don’t know or don’t know how to feel. I read them to forget about who I think I am or potentially may one day be. I love to be inspired in a way that makes one breath taste different than the previous. I’ve been listening to a lot of music and looking at bunches of art as of late because of these sudden lights of musings. I have been so wrapped up in various things hat I had forgotten the simple inspiring beauty that I find in life.  

Jeremy Larson has been singing his sweet, melancholic tones in my ear on repeat for the past three days without cease, and I feel more alive than I ever had. His music reminds me of a more complex time, but one that I truly cherished. It was a time of realization and a few tears, but it was one of the times in my life I could truly say that I felt alive. I’ve been a tremendous fan of his for quite awhile, but each time I listen to his music I learn something new about myself and the way that I view the world.

The first of his songs to entrance me completely was When Morning Comes. Melissa and I stumbled upon his music when it was used in Brandon Goodwin’s amazing film My Boss is an Idiot, and I have been under its spell ever since. I was listening to that song yesterday as I laid in the grass outside of Pummill Hall awaiting the beginning of my English class as the autumn breeze ran its fingers through my hair and the summer sun awakened my fading freckles. The lawn was cool and fragrant and my senses were heightened, but I felt as though I was watching life before me on a television screen. For those four minutes and thirty-eight seconds, the world didn’t exist outside of my line of vision; no words could substitute the sweet lyrics filling my head; I didn’t want life to exist in any other way for me at that particular moment. For that moment I was sad, happy, tense, relaxed, frozen and febrile. It was perfect. 

I was looking at Jeremy’s website his evening and I stumbled to a site with someone’s personal artistic photography-each picture with numerous comments attached to the hind-end. As I flipped though the pictures, I couldn’t help but get mildly angry with the lack of depth of the comments that people had left. The pictures included original artwork and also photos of the artist. It was all breathtaking yet the alleged peers of the artist could do nothing more than leave shallow comments or smiley faces in commendation of the pictures. It felt as though they thought the artist would rather receive a bull shit comment so he/she knew that they had labored through the pictures than actually appreciating them for the meaning that they may potentially bring to the artist or anyone else and giving insight that might bring artistic feedback. 

These feelings immediately brought me back to an aesthetics class I took a couple of years ago. Most of the class was based upon what constitutes art and how it should be interpreted. I can’t say I’m a critic-nor am I critical of many art forms, picky in my personal taste, but not really critical-but I think that people need to start making better judgement calls while interpreting art of the caliber of this particular artist-as should we all when we walk around and make judgments about anything. We should ask ourselves “where is the place for this ‘piece’? “Should I shallowly analyze it like another one of Seth Rogen’s movies or should I realize that this is a part of someone’s personality, experience, being, and personal philosophy and possibly not just an inspiration they had while getting high and perhaps leave a more meaningful message than ‘I like the one on the left’?” 

I’m not saying I’m the deepest well in the literary flow of artistic judgement, but as I see my artist’s, Jeremy’s (and Brandon’s) work, I think that it deserves to be seen as a piece of someone that they allowed us to see, use and inhale as our own. It should be admired for the weight that it holds in our lives and not for it’s ability to draw our attention to the left. 

Read a book: learn it all

This afternoon I attended a symposium regarding the traits of four generations: Traditionals, Baby Boomers, Generation X, and Millennials.  Although all three were discussed, Millennials were dissected, and although it was quite informative and made the attempt to be reassuring insofar as the phrase “these are ‘cultural trends’ not stereotypes” was thrown into the speech every other sentence, I can’t help but feel as though perhaps these generalizations were delivered one-sidedly and received one-sidedly without the realization truly sinking in that the behavior of a generation is molded by its parent generation.  Thusly, Traditionals can, by proxy blame the behavioral outcome of their grandchildren based upon the parenting example/model/extreme one way or another that they set for their own children.  If it is to be said that “my generation” lacks respect, tradition, and concern for the way things are “supposed to be,” perhaps it isn’t a product of our own rebellion or desire to piss of the masses but instead the hybrid of two generations of parenting mixed together.  

Nowadays, there is a new phenomena, the Helicopter Parent.  Thank heavens I didn’t have to deal with this blasphemy.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term, “Helicopter Parent” refers to the overprotective, coddling, in-everyone’s-business-because-this-is-my-child, I’ll-hit-you-with-a-lawsuit-if-you-cross-me-or-my-honor-student parent.  It’s now become an understanding that the mother is driving the helicopter of socioeconomic demise, but I’m sure that there are a few dads who rack up their fair share of air-miles. These Helicopter Parents have spawned this generation that so many look down upon,  and it is unfortunate that as a matter of social convention that a generation’s actions and behaviors defines a time period, for we are the ones writing history. Because of this unfortunate reality, a few clarifications must be made about the labels given to “my generation,” Millennials, a brand that I resent accepting because of the simple fact of my existence through a time should not mean that I am filed away in a box of modern generalizations.  Alas, I will proceed nonetheless.

SHELTERED

Many say that my generation is sheltered, and it is said in such a way that implies (or at least begs the inference) that we have sheltered ourselves, a feat which, no matter how clever we claim to be, is impossible on a primordial level.  If we are sheltered, it is because that was the Baby Boomer’s parenting style of choice.  It seems a double standard to berate a crop of which you have sown, analogous to scolding a loaf of bread for burning if left in an oven that was set a the incorrect temperature.  Not only is it illogical, but it is malproductive.  Instead of stating that we are sheltered, the necessary measures should be taken to ween us out of this alleged status.

SELFISH

Many also claim that the Millennial generation is self-centered.  I don’t disagree.  I do, however, challenge those who may be labeling to suggest a way of life that is conducive to success in the society which we have been dealt, a society that looks down upon employment without four plus years of education and makes it damn-near impossible to obtain; a society that is currently creating an economy in which people are overworked and undervalued and completely misunderstood; where people are swindled, cheated, and robbed of their humanity.  No one looks after you.  You have to do it yourself.  That’s survival.

EXPECT REWARDS FOR EVERYTHING

Gold stars, happy-face stickers, and prize-based encouragement have been a part of our lives since we uttered our first syllables, took our first steps and were potty trained, and then our parents and teachers kept that up.  It became a familial responsibility to tell your children that you were proud of them.  My dad still says he’s proud of me when I tell him the dentist says I have no cavities.  Not really necessary, but it’s what he’s always done.

This generation has been largely alienated from other generations because of both the breakaway from tradition in family life and the technological gap that lies between Gen X and Y (another name for Millennials).  Our parents grew up in the ’60’s, rebelled like crazy and then grew up leaving a lot of their pasts in the darkness for many of us.  That’s one of the reasons that many Millennials (myself halfway included) are so close to their parents now.  They have known the grown-up version all of their lives and things are finally fitting into place.  

I may have a bit of a skewed vision of “my generation,” but I don’t think that someone from any other generation necessarily has a view any less intrinsically corrupt than mine, it’s simply corrupt in varying ways.  I know that I’m not just another case study in a generational cross-section, nor is anyone else.  Everything is situational, subjective, and largely individualistic when it comes to observing people as a whole, and generalizations will always be made if a behavior is seen as repetitious, it’s a fact of life.  But I think that we all need to be a little less hasty in labeling what we don’t understand and on a greater level than simply age.  Hastiness is becoming the downfall of our socioeconomic communities, and we are the ones who have to do something about it.

What It Says On the Tin

Sometimes I wonder what people expect out of life.  I would love to sit down and talk to the woman with the saddest eyes I've ever seen or the man whose face is glowing because he sees the sight of the person whom he loves the most off in the distance or behind his eyelids.  I just think that it's interesting to hear the tales that are woven in the minds of others.  It's even better when those tales are told by person A but in the style and with the outlook of person B.  It's like a massive game of telephone with a bitter and/or sweet twist of the first person's perception which is usually idealized.  

Ideology is a mysterious thing.  Everyone seeks it.  Dreamers live their life by it, religious people live day to day with the belief that they can always be better for a certain end, even pessimists seek a form of it; they just don't necessarily believe that it will ever come true.  Or they have a dark and twisty sense of idealism - either way it's there.  

It's such a shame, though, when you think about it, that we all have to be so different and secretive in the ways that we choose to pursue these ideologies.  We all think that we can each personally contribute to a better something in someway, and we all want this better something to come about for our own good.  There are no selfless deeds, after all, since even when we do something for the collective "all," we are in fact part of the "all" which is affected.  We each stroll down our own little paths, searching for a glimmer that we can reflect off of cloud and mirror to illuminate the world around us.  The world that selfishly revolves around us as individuals, as entities.  

But our solitary worlds collide with the worlds of those around us, worlds in which we are foreign, lost, perhaps not trusted or welcome, and not the center of attention.  Everyone has his/her own agenda which isn't a bad thing in the slightest.  Without said selfishness, the world would not be inhabited; populations would not thrive.  No, the true struggle lies in the fact that people deny that they themselves are the only person who will always be there for themselves.  They rely upon others to harbor happiness, cultivate hatred or blame and project feelings and problems which ultimately don't or normally wouldn't affect the other people in surrounding worlds.  

Life is so complicated in that way, and it's really hard to realize that you only experience a fraction of another person's world, no matter how well you think you know them.  There's always small print, mumbled words, whispers under the proverbial breath, and thoughts that aren't and will never be worn upon a sleeve.  Existence comes with no instruction manual or box in which you can return it.  There are no guarantees.  Tomorrow isn't promised to anyone.  Yet, somehow, we're supposed to seek our own happiness and remember that we have bearing only over what we do.  We can change the world as long as that world revolves around us, our beliefs and our convictions.  We can weep passionate tears that will cultivate the emotive future as long as those streams from our cheeks fall into our own valleys.  

How our world affects the worlds of others is where relationships form.  That's how change is made in between people and civilizations.  Change is a result, thus there is a stimulus that breeds a reaction.  Change doesn't just happen.  We're all pegs in this ecosystem of constant mutation and thus we each make existence a little harder for someone else being that to them, we are wild cards.  They have little bearing over what we do and which decisions we make.  

That being said, I'm still optimistic that there is a box somewhere that will at least have a customer service hotline which we can each call and get a little bit of manufacture's insight as to how this whole "life" thin g really works.  I could have everything all wrong.  I get a lot of things wrong.  I consider those mistakes to be recalled, though, at least from here on out.  Philosophy is the identity of my idealism.  It is logical and revealing of my world.  It breathes empathy for others, and it lessens the ridiculousness of the chaos that is my existence.  The answers that are sought but never found allow me to grow and explore the worlds of those around me without even knowing their owners' names.  

It's a shame that most of my friends are older than I am.  I still have so much growing up to do and it seems as though I'm trailing behind.  At least I can stand on a firm foundation.  For now.  Until our worlds collide.

Ye be warned. Passion afoot.

Let me begin this by saying that further reading of this blog will only incur subjects to mindless mindfulness of an observant young female who is struggling to find her place in this mixed up world.  From here on out, the dated posts will have no substance worth the lint in a child’s jean pocket, but instead the interpretations of life as they pass by before me.  If you are uninterested, I caution thee to turn back, delete your subscription, and call when/if you ever feel it necessary. That said, it is not my fault if you read something below or in the future that tarnishes your opinion of me.  I can no longer be bothered to censor my writing behind the ghost name of a Russian girl on the brink of humanity, and will thus not take that path.  Instead, I am making the more vulnerable move, not seeking feedback or consultation, but merely to put words - the life and breath of my existence - out in the ether.  Do with them what you will or won’t, it makes no difference to me, but know you have been warned.  I also apologize in advance for my Virginia Woolfe sentence structure.  It’s long, wordy, and by the time you reach the ending punctuation, you’ve forgotten where the whole endeavor was going initially.  Perhaps I’m Victorian and mildly insane at heart.  You can be the judge, I can’t hold that privilege from your grasp.

It occurred to me this evening that not very many people know me, who I truly am - myself included - and that I am sick of hiding behind a hazy screen of falsification and acts.  If more people were simply straight-forward with their intentions and desires, we would all be able to move on with our lives in more positive or negative directions more quickly.  If I were more vocal about many things, perhaps many things would be different in my life and I would be a bit happier, and if not happier, at least I would know that the potential for happiness did not exist in a particular area and could take action accordingly.  For instance, I could possibly date the guy who is in my eyes and on this side of paradise considerably perfect instead of waiting for a miracle for us to run into each other.  I would know if he’s even available instead of allowing ridiculously absurd dreams to fill my sleeping eyes at night, when I should at least have the sense to tell myself to get a life, even if it’s an increasingly realistic imaginary one.  I could also be spending less time doing the tawdry things that get me through each day and pursue the things for which I hold true passion.   Alternatively, I allow my cowardice to speak louder than my personality, a trait that has developed over the past few years and will be the death of my social and romantic life unless I have a say in it.  

I went to a fourth of July get together that brought many people from my past readily into my present.  Many of them I could have gone without seeing for the next 30 years.  They made my life a living hell in high school and can offer far less to me now.  I have done a pristine job of avoiding them, and all of that work has paid off in the way that I feel about myself.  I no longer am surrounded my people who pose as friendly faces but ignore my every word but for some reason, I hung around for those faces to find their way back into my view tonight, leaving me staring into a fire that was DOA and getting worse.  It was a harsh reminder of the shoes which I still don’t feel are mine and of the years of outward silence from which I have attempted to grow up.  Eerily, I have made little progress in their eyes and much in my own, I suppose some people never change, I only hope that I am not one of them.

While I sat and watched the flames crawl unhurriedly up the drying logs, I realized that I have miles to go in my self discovery.  I wish I could be one of those people who knows where they stand with others or simply doesn’t care, but it’s not who I am.  I am aware of myself and the people around me.  I don’t like discomfort and don’t think that others should have to put up with it, so I attempt to lessen the potential burden of my presence on those around me.  Call it blending into the furniture, call it being occasionally invisible, call it what you will, it has become my nature.  I’ve moved around my whole life and can call no place my home, thus I can’t say frankly that I belong anywhere.  I can fit in almost any place, but I have a difficult time seeing myself being so sure of myself there that I let down my defenses which I have mentally (perhaps not rationally, but that’s another tale) built up to be so necessary over the years.  

This afternoon, I ran into a... skeleton in my closet... if you will.  We used to be friends but then he simply cut off contact with me without a hint or explanation.  Saying that it was awkward is to say that the Pacific is damp, but I don’t know why I felt like the awkward one.  He was the one to dismiss me, I should have been a skeleton in his closet, not the other way around, yet I couldn’t help wishing that I had chosen another bookstore to chase my longing for the prose of Vonnegut and Dostoevsky.  I was so flustered my the situation that I was almost tempted to return each of the books to its original resting place, which, if you know me, putting a new book that I spy down is likened to telling Indiana Jones to consider a sound stock market investment a new adventure, not in the cards, mate.  I ended up lugging my eight book purchase up to the register and blushing for no foreseeable reason until I exited Barnes and Nobel, ever so happy to finally leave the room which had been so oxygen deprived.  Don’t worry, I at least know that I’m pathetic and avidly use the excuse that I’m human.  In psychology, they call it a defense mechanism.  Here in the real world, we call it being an idiot.  The glamour is attractive, but the reality shines through.

One of the main reasons I came back to this God forsaken city was to find a little more piece of mind.  The kind that can only come from dismissing that with which you are finished and acquiring that which you need for tomorrow.  I doubt that my search for this missing piece of me will end with a pot of gold, but at least I am mature and aware enough to know that I need to seek what I hope to soon find.  The dizziness has been so real, but the colors look familiar, as though I have the words to describe them but not a name to attribute.  Names will come.  After all, as they say, a rose even by any other name would still smell as sweet.

A Place Other Than Home

I’m still not used to being back in the land of hick accents and atrocious driving - I’m not sure that I’ll ever be used to it, as a matter of fact.  It’s strange how even the most familiar of places can seem so foreign after a long enough absence.  Honestly, I could drive around Springfield with my eyes closed, make it to my destination in pristine condition, and not violate any traffic laws, yet I know that I’m far less at home here that I’m far less at home here than I was in the most alien of places, leading me to suspect that ideology, philosophy, energy, and outlook have everything to do with my happiness and comfort level - a very interesting discovery to be able to vocalize and pin-point.  

The biggest realization of this came about during our wanderings through Washington DC.  The District is a really amazing place, admittedly, but it really did noting for me in the sense of longing to be there for the excess of a week.  We saw the sights, read the history, strolled the museums, yet I couldn’t wait to leave at the end of our stay, and no, I was not wishing that I was back in good old O-town.  If anything, I was wishing to be back in New York, rushing town the streets, sitting near the fountains, watching mild thunderstorms build and subside quickly.  

To a certain extent, most cities are the same.  They all have people; their problems; their perfections; the tragedies, dramas and comedies of humanity, but in the same vein, they are also all completely different.  Whether it be the presence of someone you love, something you love, or the sway of the city in general.  It’s so beautiful how a mass of concrete, metal and people can take on such a life of its own, an allure that is unmatchable by any other place by any other name.  

Maybe I’m just one to fantasize and romanticize, but I’m beginning to think that there may in fact be a place out there - somewhere - where I feel as though I belong.  Maybe not forever, maybe until the day I take my last breath, that remains to be seen. 

Back to the U-S-of-A

You forget how much personality certain cities have, and I suppose you also forget how much affect certain cities have on your personality.  I made it back to the States, safe and sound, and had the most beautiful ‘Love Actually’ airport moment with Melissa in the recorded tomes of history.  It was the most wonderful thing to see a face so familiar after the equivalent of six estranged months and two endless days of travel.  

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Jenny travel day without a story, though.

So I went out with my CIEE ‘firm’ the night before I was scheduled to fly to New York, and everyone decided that I should plow through a bottle of wine, so I, expecting to be up all night anyway, gave it the old college try with great success.  We laughed, we sighed, we danced to awkward ‘80s music with a rap back-beat in a naff little bar in Clapham.  It was a modern-day Dickens beginning if I’d ever seen one.

Around half eleven, I jumped the last tube with Carrie’s brother, Jeff, and we headed back to mine so he could help me with my 4 tons of luggage in the morning.  I dozed off in the twilight, but Jeff made sure that I awoke on time and helped me out to the tube at half five.  He rode with me down to Green Park, where we parted on opposing Picadilly line tubes.  I took that tube all the way out to Heathrow, but not without panic.  You, see, I was coming in from Zone 4 and going out to Zone 5 on the opposite side of the City, so it took a bit.  Two hours to be exact.  Time that I really didn’t have a my disposal ticked by on my watch’s face and there was nothing I could do to slow it or quicken the train, thus I sat on my massive suitcases in a hyperventilating ball until I finally arrived at Terminal stop 123 where I sprinted (as much as it’s humanly possible for me to sprint whilst carrying 200 lbs of luggage) and informed the guy manning the queue that I was scheduled to leave on my flight in less than 20 minutes.  He looked at me scornfully at first, but then turned a sympathetic eye and zoomed me to the nearest open check-in point.  He didn’t even bother to weigh my luggage, which was quite lucky for me since I’m positive that both bags were over the limit, and then escorted me to Security where they jetted me through since I still had a 10 minute hike to the gate - 80 lbs of luggage still in tow.  

Superfluous story short(er), I barely made my flight, but managed to have two seats to myself after the guy next to me moved to sit next to his mates.  Of course, the one time a semi-attractive guy sits next to me on a flight he decides to go sit next to his friends instead.  Typical.  Oh well, I wanted the window anyway, and was completely beat.

I barely got any sleep on the plane and was pretty dehydrated from the night before, but I made it into Chicago without any other obstacles.  My flight was a bit delayed out of Chicago, but I made it into Newark at a decent hour, which is all I could ask since I knew Mel and I would be up for hours talking about anything, everything, and nothing at all.  I’d forgotten how nice it is to have a friend around who knows you well enough to finish your sentences and as a result have kept her up until the wee hours of morning chatting or doing NYT crossword puzzles like a really good friend should.  I’m surprised she hasn’t kicked me out yet.

Saturday she and I went into the city for a stroll, some NY style pizza on Lexington, sushi on Bleeker, and a wonderful surprise of music in the park while a thunderstorm inched flashily closer.  It was just what I needed, and one of the best nights I’ve had in as long as I can remember.  I love New York city with all of my heart, and I love the person I become as I stare at the skyline taking in the summer air around me.  It's the first place in which I've been able to not think about the past or worry about the future and just live in the wonderful moment in which I'm basking.  Breathtaking.  The only other city with that effect is Paris, but it's still not the same.

This coming Saturday I’m heading out to Virginia with my mom - she’s picking me up in DC - and I’ll be back in Springfield the weekend after (so on the 20th?).  I can’t say that I’ve missed Springfield itself, but I miss the faces of my wonderful friends, and it will be so nice to sleep on a bed that can’t double as a coffee table.  

Geeks have all the fun

Despite working all weekend, I've had a pretty great time.  "Why" you may ask.  Simple:  I got to see Melissa!!

For those of you who may not have read about it, there is a telectroscope, a glorified Web cam, set up between Brooklyn and London.  It's open 24 hours a day until 15 June and allows people on either side to see on another in almost real time. Spectacular, isn't it?!?!

On Saturday afternoon, Melissa and I decided to meet up (thanks to her finding the article seemingly hours after it had been posted) at 2 pm my time and 9 am her time.  I have to admit that when she sent me an email entitled “So when are we doing this?” tears filled my eyes and it took me about 5 minutes to read the second half of the article subsequently.  

When I arrived at the site, the queue was hovering consistently around a 30 minute wait, so I kept jumping to the back since I had about an hour to kill, but at about half one, the line surged to a staggering hour wait, so when I h=made it to the front I relinquished my place in line to the people behind me and sat at the front of the queue until Mel made it “there.”

It was so wonderful to see a face that was familiar on the other side of the glass, and even better that it was Mel.  Sure I’ve had occasional visitors, and I have friends here, but there’s something about someone you’ve known and loved for the past 7-8 years when you’ve been apart for a while.  It’s just refreshing and inspiring.  Plus, the fact that she’s near NY and I’m in London while this exhibit is running has to be a sign of something.

I also got my first DSRL camera on Saturday, and now I can hardly be bothered to come up for air.  I’ve spent the past 48 hours playing with the settings and walking around Harrow finding random things to snap.  I’m like a kid in a candy store, only more pathetic.  But it’s so much fun!!!  

Now I just have to figure out how to strategically pack all of this stuff so I can lug it all back home.  I started packing last week and have since made disgustingly little progress.  Yikes.

Conscious behaviour is a bitch

This past week has been rough.  I know that my holiday is swiftly approaching, I’ve been handed information and faced with difficult decisions, and quite frankly I still have the headache that crept into my skull last Tuesday.  It’s official.  I’m a mess.

Everything was going swimmingly until Monday when I had a chat with my boss about going forward with the company.  We had a very positive conversation about what he sees me doing in/with the company in its future which would have been fine except for the FOC (fear of commitment) in me immediately started to resurface.  You see, my boss asked me to come on board a while ago, and all systems were go in my mind with the understanding that I would be doing pretty much the same thing that I do now, only more of it and with less menial responsibility for we’ll have interns to take my place, this making my job a nice transition period in which I get paid while a figure out what it is that I am really passionate about.  I planned to stay for six months then go travel and teach English for a bit and see the corners of the world that I would hardly have the opportunity to see if I were one of those people who actually knew what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives.  However, these plans were foiled when my boss told me that he wanted me to come on board when I get back as the Assistant Director of Online PR and Marketing and also the head of our internal graphic design department.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m honored by the offer and I know that it would be an amazing opportunity, but the problem is, if I take the position, I’m leaving loose ends in my life that I’d rather not leave. I am one year away form getting my degree, I want to travel the world in real time - not just weekends at a time, and I want to not tie myself to London for the next X years simply because it’s not the city where I can live for more than another year max.  When it comes down to it, I’m a flake.  Don’t know myself well enough to pin point what I truly excel at, but I do know myself well enough to know that I constantly change my mind and interests if I’m not being challenged enough and if I don’t have the opportunity to grow in all of the directions in which I yearn to grow.  I wish this weren’t the case.

With the above being said, I’m coming back to Springfield and finishing my degree.  I know that I have the whole rest of my life to work, and I might even be able to come back to London someday in the future to pursue whichever dream is floating about in my head, but now isn’t the time for it, I don’t believe.  

Vegas, European Style

Anyone who’s ever taken a trip with me knows that I hate being a tourist. I don’t like appearing as though I’m an outsider no matter how foreign I actually am, obvious or not, and my recent trip to Amsterdam was no different.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t believe that I’m getting to experience the wonderful things that I’ve always wanted to experience, so my mind defaults to seeing the cities and wondrous places through someone else’s eyes, through the eyes of someone who’s seen it all before and still has a pristine appreciation for what is all around them. By allowing myself to do this, I think I appreciate everything on a much more personally meaningful level than if I were to try to cram every tourist activity into an amount of time that will never be able to do justice to any city, except for a little hick town of which I have no interest in visiting in the first place.

My trip to Amsterdam consisted of walking the city streets until my feet began to curse at me, picnicking alongside a lovely canal on a beautiful spring day, strolling through the red light district as the playmates posed in their windows, dinner with a few Belgian guys, perching on a park bench to watch the sun set, a couple local indulgences, and of course, shopping.

All of the sights I took in were breath taking, all of the people I met were fascinating, and all of the places I went were magnificent. I’ve never been anywhere more fit for the spring season, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find anywhere so inclined to glimmer so beautifully in the sun, creating expectations for the city that I didn’t even know that I had. Granted the food was a bit heavy and flavorless, but I’m certain the locals don’t mind and the visitors are distracted by the lure of the Vegas of Europe to complain. I myself found that I could be kept quite happy on ice-ream and stroopwaffles alone.

The Netherlands have not seen the last of me.

Enchanté

I’m in love with Paris. No it’s not some juvenile affair, some lusty hypnotism, or indigestion. It’s true passion and adoration for a magnificent city. Actually being in Paris rekindled all of the reeling daydreams in which I used to indulge even before the days of French language study three times a week. The clothes, the food, the smells, and of course, the architecture. For all of my creativities, architecture is among my most persuasive of muses. Somehow it breathes new life into me and re-awakens my senses. One glance at the Eiffel tower glittering then glowing on the brink of morning and I was a puddle of romance on the pebble laden path below me, but I suppose I’m jumping ahead of myself.

Cait and I met at Kings cross three hours before our 20:05 train was scheduled to depart. We quickly rushed by the longest Champaign bar in Europe; grabbed a disgustingly British sandwich, a cookie and a blossomy beverage that seemed to be supersaturated in sucrose and headed down to wait for our security queue to open. When it opened, we shuffled through and waited below the platforms for our train to arrive. We boarded and departed on time – me with a childish giddiness that was a bit bigger than my organic shell. Unbeknownst to me, I would have a long, strenuous 10 additional hours on the train for that excitement to build, die, and be reborn several times over.

Yes, the chunnel, approximated to take 2 hours and some change took a gruelling 12 hours due to numerous complications, delays, and train changes in the middle of the night, wee hours, and proper morning. I’m not sure if I had more fun contorting my body in attempt to coax it to sleep in a 2^nd class coach seat or tripping over people’s feet and luggage at five in the morning as we trudged down the carriages, baggage and all toward the forward end of the train only to board yet another Eurostar for an exciting complimentary item-free journey through countryside nowhere France.

9 AM, we arrive, crumpled, sore, and starving. We are greeted by a mob of Parisian press who interviewed me as though I had just witnessed a plane crash, and then we were off. We found the hotel, dropped off our things and set out on a walking venture to find French perfume, ballet slippers, timeless pieces of clothing with Parisian flair, and a patisserie where we could eat our weight in French carbohydrates which are less pretentious than American carbohydrates though far superior indeed. We found an adorable little café where we spent a fraction of our disintegrating afternoon outside watching people pass on their bikes and in their awkward black European shoes. We made it over to the shopping area in time for the soles of our feet to be worn off completely, and thought it best to catch a 17:00 metro back, and fall asleep promptly at 18:00 after grabbing a lovely tuna baguette which ever so graciously gave me food poisoning that set in around 23:00.

Treading carefully so as to recover from my weakness, we decided to go to Disneyland Paris as the morning escaped us completely. We jumped on the RER and set out for a lovely day among characters, patrons, attractions, and children (all which are more attractive through a Francophone filter).

As the crowd filed out of the closing park, I decided that I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t see the Eiffel tower lit in all of its glory, nor could I sleep at night without at least strolling by the Louvre, so we walked from God knows where to the Louvre and then the Eiffel tower in the pouring rain, and then, also in the pouring rain, three kilometres back to our hotel plus an additional kilometre in the wrong direction for good measure. Believe it or not, I had an amazing time on our glorious trek, in fact I was halfway skipping and halfway floating on a cloud, even if it had to be a rain cloud.

The next day we packed our belongings and made it to the front desk as the clock struck “check-out.” We boarded the metro, set off for city centre to snap a few shots of the sights in daylight, and set off for the Champs Elysees where we indulged in photo ops and a lovely French lunch that lasted all afternoon before heading back to the train station. We found that we had arrived three hours early once again and waltzed across the street to a lovely establishment whose signs promised café au lait. We sat there for a couple of hours as the maitre di attempted to persuade me to marry him and kept speaking to me in French, aggravating the already annoying Cait who has many bits and pieces of language under her belt, but unfortunately, French is not among them. As the hour aged on, we decided to make waves over to the train station once again to buy some Bordeaux and find our seats. As we boarded the train I couldn’t help but feel extremely sad that we were leaving.

I know, poor Jenny having to return to London, please don’t bruise her emotional frame with sarcastic slurs of sympathy hurled across the sea. I won’t complain, but I know that the city that holds my heart is out there, ringing with melodies of accordions and chimes, and I know that I have not had my fill.

Here I find myself

News, news, news.  I’ve officially been offered a position at the PR firm where I’m currently situated for the autumn season at least, and I’ve decided to take it.  I’m going to work it out to accumulate internship credit at MSU so I’ll still be enrolled while I figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life, but I’ll be getting paid in pounds and working in an amazing environment.  

I’m coming back for about a month or so over the summer to work out my visa situation, but them I’m high-tailing it back over here to work on my accounts and do the career thing for a bit.  I know that putting off school for another semester will in a way be excruciatingly frustrating, but I can’t hide the fact that I’m going to school to get a job exactly like the one that’s been placed in my lap, and I’m going to be getting paid more than I would in an entry level position with a degree simply because I’m apparently proving to be quite an asset.

I don’t know if I’m going to continue on over here after the six months expires, but I know that I’m not ready to leave at the present and that I would be incredibly bored, annoyed, and not motivated back at MSU, especially with all I have experienced over the past few months.  

My summer plans are to fly back to NYC on the 7th, spend about a week with my dearest Melissa, take a train down to either DC or PA, meet up with my mom while she’s on holiday, drive back with her, spend a couple-few weeks basking in the Missouri sun compliments of my backyard, and then once again zip through the aeronautical flotsam and jetsam of the Atlantic.  

It wasn’t easy - deciding whether to stay in London or play my hand with my previous plans, but in the end, I’ve been given no reason to invest much more time in Springfield.  I miss my family and friends greatly, my adorable little brother most of all, but I have more to learn about the world and myself and I’m not ready to end this lesson.

Country hopping like a March hare

Between travel, school, work, essays, and presentation, March has been an extraordinarily  busy month.  I have been the most horrible daughter/friend/niece/etc. and I must apologize to all.  So much has been going on, and I’m finally finished will ALL of my coursework for the semester and have an opportunity to breathe and write as much as I have been meaning to. A few of you are probably curious as to what I’ve been up to for he past month and a half, so I’ll do my best to fill you in....

I spent the opening of March in Edinburgh, Scotland amidst the wind, rain, and cold temperatures.  It was absolutely beautiful.  We visited the castle, several pubs and cafés, and a few museums.  I quite enjoyed merely walking around the city taking in all of the glorious views, though, which if you haven’t checked already, are captured and posted on flickr for your viewing pleasure.

The middle of March, chiefly my birthday through to St. Patrick’s Day was spent in Dublin, again amidst the wind, rain, and cold temperatures, but this time with a lot more alcohol consumption.  Travel to Dublin was a bit of a fiasco, unsurprisingly considering the fact that European transportation hates me, so my birthday was horrid until about 23:00.  I awoke that morning, got ready for work, grabbed my backpack and headed to work.  My bag was searched in the Baker Street tube station, making me late for the gloriously generous birthday breakfast that everyone in the office put together for me.  I was hoping that would be the worst of it, but no, it gets better.  Cait and I had communication difficulties and missed our first bus to the airport, so we jumped on the next one trying to look as though we were supposed to be there.  On the bus ride, Cait realized that she forgot her passport, so I, being the problem solver that I am told her to call someone and get them to bring it to her.  She called her friend and he jumped on a train to London Luton.  Long story short, he arrived 120 seconds after the check-in desk closed, and Cait had to pay 50 quid for a new ticket.  I was making sure that she was going to make it do Dublin that day, was assured she got a ticket and then joined the queue in security.  Another long story short, I missed my flight, so I had to go get another ticket, but the flight was booked, so I went on stand-by.  As we were eating loads of chocolate to erase the feelings of frustration and waiting for the flight to begin check-in to determine our so far grim-looking fate, the fire alarm sounded and we all had to evacuate and stand in the rain for 20 minutes while emergency vehicles flooded the scene. We finally made it back inside, found that we’d both make it to Dublin, and boarded the plane.  

We flew Ryanair, a cheap, internally caution-yellow airline that boasts low prices form offering no frills and no leg, arm, body, or luggage space.  And they don’t mess around when I comes to landing.  Whiplash all around, no extra charge.  On the flight we sat next to an annoyingly talkative American girl who’s studying in Italy, I was lucky enough to have my headphones to alleviate my pre-existing migraine, poor Cait was not so fortunate, but talking to strangers is her forte.

When we arrived in Dublin Cait’s debit card wouldn’t work, and our cabbie couldn’t find our hotel.  We finally arrived and everything turned around instantly.  The lad at the front desk was a darling Polish fellow who brought us free drinks for my birthday.  He ran the hotel’s 24 hour bar during the late hours, and he gave us loads of free drinks and made us the most wonderful sandwiches.  

The rest of the weekend was spent with more of the hotel staff, locals, and even a few Americans, two from our CIEE program and two from Florida who were in our hotel.  It was the most wonderful unproductive weekend that I’ve had in a long time, and it was spectacular.  There were two six nations rugby matches on Saturday, so upon my request we stayed in a pub for most of the afternoon watching England battle Ireland and France battle Wales among people from each country in a lovely Irish pub, me with an Irish coffee in my hand.  I think that was my favorite part of the entire weekend.  

Aside from traveling the world. I just been working hard, playing hard, and studying hard.  I’m working on building the Web site for my company, and doing heaps of new business stuff in preparation of it separating from it’s big corporate umbrella, but aside from that, nothing else too exciting.

There is an exhibit at the Imperial War Museum entitled “Weapons of Mass Communication” that looks amazing, so I’m going to try to indulge in the free museums over the next couple of months and I also hope to see Avenue Q soon.  I’m so glad that I’ll finally have a bit more time to take in the British pleasures that London is affording.

Presently, the future

The past couple weeks have all seemed to blur together in a swirl.  I’m not sure if it’s because I have more of a weekly routine than I did before or because I’ve done so much.  Either way, I would greatly appreciate if time would slow down and give me an opportunity to take everything in.  

Cait and I have planned a few trips for the up coming months, each will be quite exciting and will undoubtedly yield postcards for numerous parties.  CIEE is sponsoring our first trip two weekends from now.  We’ll be in Edinburgh, Scotland for the premier weekend in March, which I trust will be green, lovely and still bitterly cold as it is here, although mother nature is extremely deceptive in presentation - you can look out of your window, see sunlight, think to yourself that it’s a marvelously wonderful day, walk outside in a winter coat and regret not putting on about six layers more.  I’ve been keeping an eye on temperatures in the states, and although I’m comparatively lucky, the wind is bitter enough to be mentioned nonetheless.  

We’ll be given the entire weekend to roam about Edinburgh, so I’ll hopefully have dozens of pictures, etc.  On the 13th, Cait and I will be off to Dublin and will be staying until St. Patrick’s Day, when we unfortunately have to leave to return to work the following morning.  We plan to partake in the festivities regardless of the hour, though, so our flight and my tube ride home should be quite interesting to say the least.

The middle of April has the promise of Parisian sights and wonderful food with a hint of touristy indulgence and romantic language.  I’m rather looking forward to our long weekend in Paris since I have only seen the airport, the train station, and the inside of an unimpressive hotel.  I know that the lovely French city has far more to offer me, and I intend on not missing a beat.

 

Upon the arrival of May, we’ll be jet-setting off to Amsterdam to take in a bit of the Netherlands and once again be immersed in foreign atmosphere.  We’re trying to work a trip to Prague into the mix, but coordination is quite difficult since I don’t know when my final exams will be taking place; I only know that over the course of two months, I’ll be in class for two days, so I definitely need to plan an excursion of sorts.

Lately I’ve been taking in the museums; venturing out on tours; spending time with the boys on the Westminster rugby team; and hanging out with my absolutely fabulous Canadian flatmate, Meghan, and a few of her friends, so all in all it’s been quite the February.  I’m going up in the London Eye with a CIEE group on Tuesday, I might attend the rugby match on Wednesday, and I have the Jack the Ripper tour on Friday, so this week will unquestionably fly by just as the last few seem to have done.  It’s a same that the good times must fly by so quickly.

We learn to live, we live to die

I've just received word that my beloved cat with whom I had the pleasure of spending 19 glorious years, Mugsey, passed away on Thursday night.  

Although it rips my heart out, I know that he was loved immensely by many, myself above all, and has been and will forever continue to be greatly missed.

My darling, Mugsey, 1989 - 7 February 2008