Rain on tram tracks and buses trailed by a hook and eye link. 44 hours and 20 pages to go; goodbyes have been missed and promised to be deferred as if leaving it unsaid means it won't be true.
Friday, 6 May 2016
Wednesday, 4 May 2016
At 2:30am on Saturday morning, early in the term, I was in a frat boy's bedroom, letting the sounds of the party downstairs be drowned out by the Latin music my flatmate and he were dancing to as they showed us the dips and spins that puts our English lack of rhythm to shame.
Forty five minutes later, we were bundled into a car speeding down the highway.
Friday, 29 April 2016
There's a kind of gorgeous innocence to living here. A place where there's snowball fights and snow angels outside my building in winter, and slack lines, hammocks, and picnic blankets in summer. There's always at least three frat boys jumping out of line in the dual carriageway of Locust Walk to noogie one of their brothers who's heading in the opposite direction. Always someone from class mouthing hello at you as you both rush to opposite ends of campus.
Tuesday, 26 April 2016
Friday, 22 April 2016
I left my Shakespeare class on The Tempest to news of Prince's death.
Prince singing Purple Rain to a sold out O2 was my first introduction to live music. I'll never be able to fathom how blessed I was to just be in the same space as the literal personification of music for a couple of hours of his life. How does music go in your life when your guide is gone on their next journey, a quest to make the celestial heavens just a lil bit weirder?
I sat in my Dante class afterwards, shellshocked, trying to figure out how to write my way through this. The acronym RIP seems too solid, too formal, too cold for a soul who is music itself, colour itself, life itself. Like Bowie, I can't reconcile their lives with three letters, capitalised. There's too much vibrancy to be contained within an earthly plain - and the world is a little bit colder without them. I wish we could've kept you for longer but obvs life's just a party and parties weren't meant to last.
For now, I have only this to say:
Sometimes a thousand twangling instrumentsWill hum about mine ears, and sometime voicesThat, if I then had waked after long sleep,Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,The clouds methought would open and show richesReady to drop upon me that, when I waked,I cried to dream again. (The Tempest 3.2)
Friday, 8 April 2016
Sat in a diner in center city just a few weeks into living here, I heard the first two bars of a song I loved start playing over the loudspeaker and promptly lost it. That song was Hall and Oates by Satchmode, admittedly first listened to because of my love for You Make My Dreams Come True, but earning a place on every party playlist I ever make because of its uncanny ability to spark the urge to dance like an audience member of Top of the Pops.
I often find myself stuck at an intersection; I love pop but it's so difficult to find something so truly good in this genre that I tend to stick to 80s music. But there's only so many times that your parents can dig out the vinyl of the song you're streaming and recount their tales of seeing it live before you start to feel like a traitor to your generation.
Sunday, 20 March 2016
I've long joked that I must've been a homing pigeon in a previous life. Whilst my mom's version of reading a map includes the phrase "we're about a fingernail's length away", put me down in the middle of any city and I'll find my way back to home base. My internal navigation system is inbuilt, so strong that every place I've visited leaves an imprint on my heart, paths I've walked eternally traced through my soul and tangled with my sense of what 'home' is.