Nothing Gold Can Last (or how a beautiful moment is a sad soliloquy in the works)

I took a break this afternoon from my slowly and poorly evolving dissertation to glance through some old family photo albums.  The past is amazing and beautiful and so tinged with a faint-but-ever-present sadness.  But it's a beautiful, sweet, poetic kind of sadness; people's frozen fearless smiles hide a myriad of dreams that would never come true, and dated outfits conceal wounds and insecurities that you will never know about the people you thought you knew completely.

Nostalgia is about remembering, but in a way, it is also about knowing.  Knowing better now, in the present.  And knowing that you know nothing, still, like then, when you thought you knew everything.

Awesome haircuts, too.

A Saturday night alone with my dissertation (and three love songs, that really aren't love songs, but are kind of about love in some way)

I've been sitting here all night, trying to find the discipline to finish transcribing the last of  my dissertation interviews, but not able to turn off my music and give my full attention to a recording of someone talking about Mountain Pine Beetle policy failure.  The music has won tonight, like it usually does.

And it has won because I currently feel like Joni Mitchell in "Both Sides Now"

"I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all"

..and sometimes like Karen Carpenter in "Goodbye To Love," the most brutal song ever.

"...and all I know of love is how to live without it"

But it's songs like this that keep me going; songs that meditate on the little slices of magic in the world; in the moments that, however brief, however fleeting, make us marvel at how beautiful the world is, and how sometimes, everything can change in a moment. 

"I met a girl on Halloween
When she was lost, and I was drunk
And it was dark and cold out 

When we left

And as we walked the rain started
The leaves softened with every step
And all around us people slept 

Alone with their dreams"

On layovers, long and short...

I've been in Vancouver for a few weeks now, after a weekend in Toronto and a quick stop in San Francisco on my way back over.  I've been plugging away slowly at my dissertation (ahhh!!! two weeks to go!!!) and trying to keep my chin up in the face of a heavy heart and a tired mind.  

The last month has been pretty rough-and-tumble.  But I'm putting the pieces back together.  Or life is, anyway.  It's good to be home.  It's good to be with family I love, and friends I love, in a place that I love.  

I'm going to be just fine, I'm sure.  Until I'm not again.  And the journey continues...

Vancouver

Keats Island

Keats Island

San Francisco

Toronto

The End; The Beginning

What a miserable week. Starting to say goodbyes to friends that are leaving London, many of which I will not be seeing again for a very long time. I myself am moving flats tomorrow, leaving my beloved Southbank behind to stay with friends in West Hampstead before returning to Canada in a couple weeks. I still haven't booked a flight, which is ridiculous, and adds so much stress to an already stressful enough chapter. My last dissertation meeting with my supervisor is tomorrow. I'm not prepared. I'm overwhelmed. And just trying to get packed is too much for me. How did I accumulate so much stuff? And how can I pack myself neatly into two suitcases?

The icing on the cake this week has been the break-up. Our two-month was (uncelebrated) about a week and a half ago. Things haven't been as good lately, nor have they been bad, I've just assumed that the problem was the typical British emotional unavailability, and that once that was overcome things would be better, like they were in the start. But I think I secretly knew that wasn't the problem; it just wasn't meant to be. I can tell myself that, but that hasn't changed the fact that I've been shocked twice now to find myself in tears, both times when talking to my sister on the phone. I'm not sure whether I'm crying over the break-up, even, or just the disappointment. This year in London has been so amazing, and simultaneously so laden with disappointment. I think part of the reason I was hoping this relationship would last over the summer until I returned to London in September, was just to finish the year with a blazing victory. To return home triumphantly in love. But there's no triumph in a love that isn't meant to be, and I know my heart will catch up with my head soon enough in that regard. I know I'll get over the ache, as I always do. It's always just so sad saying goodbye to people. Because yes, you say goodbye to all their bullshit and their ridiculousness and the things that piss you off and drive you crazy, but you also say goodbye to the qualities that captured your heart in the first place, and the ones that redeemed them in your eyes for so long, and the things you know are specific to them, specific to your time together, and untouchably special despite the way things turned out.

Sorting through all my junk and papers yesterday, while listening to a break-up mix CD I made for a friend in the spring, I came across a ticket stub for Breathless at the BFI from our second date, when we first held hands, a ticket for High Gate Cemetery, the day we had our first kiss, and a pamphlet from the Wetlands Centre, the date that confirmed things for me. It's been a great fling. And I think thinking of the beginning yesterday made me so much sadder about it all, but also so much more aware that things are no longer as they were.

And so begins another transitionary period. Yet another one.

The Emotional Journey of an Academic Year

It's June. I remember the shock of June 1st, of finally realizing that summer was arriving, that the year was finishing; that my time at LSE was rapidly approaching the end. And now, amazingly, it's June 11th. Already. Another 10 days evaporated away into the ether. But in that time, three exams have been done (hard exams!), and just one left to go. Things continue moving forward. I get kicked out of my residence in less than a month, and I'll be heading to Canada for the summer just a few weeks after that.

I was scanning through some of my blog postings from the past year in London, and paging through some of my journal entries, trying to make some sense of the year behind me. I've been thinking about how fast it has all flown by, about how much fun I've had, and how it's been such an amazing, fun, easy-going year. But retrospectively, after looking through my entries, it's been a LONG and hard year in London. It hasn't been easy. Not at all.

Part of coming to London was the opportunity of LSE; another part of it was the need to get away from home again; to have some space; to find myself on my own terms, away from the pressures and constraints and routines of home. And I think I've done that. It's been a rough road, getting to a place where I feel comfortable with who I am and where I fit into this world. Even then, I have days were nothing makes sense and I see a heavy fog descend upon the path ahead.

The winter was particularly challenging for me in that regard. I felt strange and awkward and lonely and misunderstood. Disappointment after disappointment, coupled with the grayness of London and the snowy lull of Christmas in Canada, locked me in a weird state of restless surreality. Nothing felt real or tangible. I felt really, really lost.

All the while, London was my salvation. Falling in love with its dark winding streets, green parks, and warm pubs was what held me through with my chin held high. There was so much anger and frustration and dissatisfaction in me, it sometimes caught me off guard. I never realized how much baggage I have. But the load is getting lighter. Or maybe I'm just getting stronger, and more capable of carrying it?

It's been an amazing year, however, and while it's been emotionally challenging, and very low at times, the highs have been VERY high. I've had a ton of fun, met very interesting people, and have had exciting adventures in new lands. What's more, my spring fling appears to be continuing on into the summer. It's been seven weeks now, and it's getting better, not worse. A nice way to end this chapter at LSE.

Damascus

Few places on earth have enchanted me as much as Syria.

Spring Fling

Well, it's spring in London: the days are warm and long, the air is filled with pollen and cotton, and smiling people are coming out of hibernation to fill green leafy parks and bustling streets. In short, lovely.

I've been seeing someone new recently, enjoying somewhat of a spring fling, which is making the season all the more enjoyable. It's only been a few weeks, but it's been surprising and interesting and a lot of fun. There's nothing quite like falling for someone in the spring. There's so much optimism.