purpose

I miss the unwavering sense of purpose that came with middle and high school. At any given time, determined - to go on that camping trip with your friends, not lose arguments against your parents, not be caught dead in skinny jeans. The distaste I had for my lack of freedom provided a constant enemy to battle, and everyday brought certain small victories of escapement from the despised and unyielding system. I could just barely skim books for english class and still rack up perfect scores on reading quizzes. Cram european history the night before and still break the curve. I felt like I was working hard - but most of the time I was working hard trying to figure out just how much work I needed to do, delighted whenever my calculations yielded that I needed exactly 12 out of 20 on the final quiz of the quarter.

Not surprisingly, I don’t remember what happened during the french revolution, though certain names, Richelieu, jacobins, still float around my head. I have no recollection of the product rule, or even how to take an integral. I have no idea what happened during the guilded age. Its really a shame, I now realize, as I walk through museums and galleries with all this history on display, that we are doomed to forget so much of what we are given, and necessarily so. Not just dates of important historical events or the lineages of the royal family in England, but people, places, experiences, moments, states of mind. Only able to retain so much, life must be a careful balance of imports and exports.

I’ve traded in my certainty and sense of rebellion for freedom, curiosity, and a permanent ceasefire with my parents. This older version is more willing to learn, more willing to love, more apt to give people the benefit of the doubt, and in no sense do I want to return to the tumult that comes with being sixteen, but in moments like this when I wake up early, sit and look out my 7th floor window at london, I’m nostalgic for my militant, indignant younger self. In a way, nothing actually changes as you grow older - its more of a gradual application of a stronger eyeglass prescription. You begin to see more detail, more nuance, and realize that nothing is simple, nothing is ever really certain. Life doesn’t get harder, there is just more to consider. A blessing, certainly, that as we age we are able to perceive a more detailed and brilliantly colored world. But there is something to be said for those who can see in black and white - those who can discard the extraneous and focus on the problem at hand. The decisive, it seems, are merely those who have retained the ability to view the world from the eyes of a child.

its a birthday party downstairs, seven flights
into the intersection of cartwright with the tennis courts and hotel lobbies gleaming
with polished marble and crystal chandeliers.
seven floors, and I can still hear the clattering of metal against porcelain
I can pick out your voice, and singing
the tune of happy birthday washed against recognition,
but in our minds still clear.
a pocket of laughter, as to its origin you’re unaware, I’m sure
you tilt your head back and swallow a healthy sip of stella
then lean against her to whisper you love her.
a birthday you’re celebrating, this passage of time
mired in constant progress.
ahead, for all the world to see and judge
and for me to hear, from seven floors above your heads

plan

.tomorrow Harrods, Buckingham Palace

.thursday Hampstead Heath, Parliament Hill

.friday Tate Britain

.6.29 Brugge, Belgium

.7.4 Oxford, proceed to read massive quantities of philosophy

.read camus, heidegger

.finish War and Peace

.at some point in july/august - go to Ireland and Paris

.compose plan for junior year and find witnesses who will make sure I follow through - exercise a healthy amount of ambition

.try out a british accent for a day

.try out irish/scottish accents

.pretend to be jane austen

.find a quill pen and ink

.consume tea and crumpets

.try milk in my tea

.get my hands on one of those bikes with massive baskets, pile bread, cheese, and wine into said basket, ride bike while wearing a ridiculous summer dress, preferably frilly and floral (those of you who know me understand how unlikely I am to wear something like this) and have a picnic somewhere.

.8.15 Home, veg, eat moms food, play my steinway endlessly, paint, print out photos from trip, unpack, repack, leave again

Connect

Its a bit odd that I actually get more consistent internet while wandering random tiny Greek islands that I almost never know the names of (Kea currently, I believe) than I did in the cities. It also makes me painfully aware of how hopelessly addicted I am to staying connected - to people, to news, to blogs, gmail, facebook…etc.

At every island we dock at, I sheepishly sit at the farthest corner of the deck, hoping to pick up some kind of wireless signal. I will sit patiently, staring at the crawling blue bar, excitedly waiting for gmail to load. And then I will open as many NYT pages as I can, saving them for times when my wireless thievery is unsuccessful. Hm. This doesn’t sound very healthy - but I’m not really inclined to do anything about it. 

I’m ready for London. After 3 weeks of beach sitting and philosophizing and contemplating, sunset counting, dolphin watching and salt water up your nostrils swimming, hopefully the English will offer a nice change of pace.