Heartbreak

Dear B,

I am laying here reading in bed, tyring to read and aching from how much I miss you. I am listening to Lord of the Rings and it made me remember our recent trip to Sunnyside. I don't know how I can be happy without you when I was only ever happy with you. You don't know how much I wish you were here and how I feel choked with tears. I wonder if you are thinking of me at all and what you meant when you said "goodbye."

love,
ig

Arrival in London

So, here I am in London, with the overwhelming urge to write again. And I can only suppose that it's because I've lost B. Or, at least because he's not here for me to talk to, and as far as I can tell, no one here is on exactly the same wavelength as I am, although they all seem very nice.

I am sitting here inside a Starbucks inside a Borders and feeling kind of guilty about it. But, it's not entirely my fault. I needed to find both a bathroom and a place to sit and read Heart of Darkness and I knew this place would offer both.

Class this morning was really so interesting (although I don't feel like repeating the ideas right here) and I think I am going to really enjoy it, except for the part about applying it to our curriculum. I'm not really sure I understand how to write a curriculum still, and that task seems rather daunting.

I feel like I want to and need to spend a lot of time on this trip alone-- wandering and reflecting and exploring the parts of London that I want to see at my own pace, but I don't want to be anti-social. I think it's going to be hard to find the right balance.

I miss B so much that it's like a dull, deep ache in me and I just want to curl up in his arm and let go of these tears. But somehow I doubt that I will ever be able to let go of these tears.

London is the city most like NY that I've ever been to. I think I expected it to more like Paris... more like my own preconceived notions of "European." But we have taken so much from British culture and they from us, that it's quite understandable how the lines blur.

One other interesting point is that I'm not sued to being "othered," whereas here, anything I say gives away the fact that I am not just a foreigner, but specifically an American. It's strange to wear such a tangible and identifiable identity marker. I can't say that I sand out visually though. There are all ethnicities and fashions here...

Anyway, I need to do a little reading and the ice cubes in my coffee are melting, so I will close for now...

Vocal Heat

Later in the day and waiting at my voice lesson. Banished to the kitchen and searching for more clues to figure this place out... It's always so fucking hot in here, too! Maybe that's because heat is more humid and humidity is better for the voice.

I wonder what B will think of the poems I sent him today. I hope he likes them.

I am excited for our "book of the heart of the Sweetie."

TS Eliot

Four Quartets by TS Eliot
East Coker

"The houses are all gone under the sea. The dancers are all gone under the hill."

"We can not think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable like the past, to have no destination."

"There is no end to the withering of withered flowers."

Implants

I have a sudden and pressing urge to get breast implants. I think it would make me feel much better about everything. I think that the whole thing could be done for under $10,000. I'm sure I could save that in five years. I'm going to put away $20 a week. At that rate, how long would it take? Hmmm... I guess that's not enough. How about $50 a week? I think I could make it in 3 years! That's not so bad...

I wonder what I would look like... I just want to look different. I want things to be new again. I want everything to be new and fresh and exciting.

B is making me weary. But I just love him so much...

On the other hand, he just has to learn how to let go. I can't live my life without that feeling of freedom... of breathing... of air! Air! AIR!!!

I want to be young, have friends, go out... Why do I feel so god-damn old?!? Maybe next summer I will go away and do something crazy...

I want to do something crazy.

I want the world to be new again.

On the Bus

We have had such beautiful weather this week... dry and 60-80 degrees.

Last night I had a great voice lesson. I'm actually going to start work on a song and I am so proud of myself.

There is gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. It happened at the bus stop this morning. The air on this bus is cold on my exposed legs and my thighs are sticking to the blue plastic.

I really don't want to go to work today.

The Garden of Proserpine

B and I went to the aquarium in Brooklyn.

The Garden of Proserpine

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.