August 2011
Met some pretty sweet people on top of a mountain today. Also touched an authentic manuscript of Wordsworth’s from 1798, walked through his house and garden. I sat where he wrote some of the most famous Romantic poetry in the world!!
“that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten’d:—that serene and blessed mood;
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul” —wordsworth, lines
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten’d:—that serene and blessed mood;
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul” —wordsworth, lines
Magic exists only truly within the heart. It honestly doesn’t matter where I am on this earth, the way I see beauty stays the same. It bounces into my retina and zigzags into my brain where it gets shaped and colored and reimagined as something of my own. Traveling, then, can be about something more. Something about relationships, inspiration, and forming a global identity. Although wherever you are, you can be globally aware. It only takes books, and imagination. All anyone needs is imagination.
What I’ve learned from this trip so far? I can and will become who I am meant to be wherever I am in the world.
Chiming church bells, small pebbly streets, hidden footbridges, rose windows. Sharing pints of beer with some friends at the most classic pub in Durham, feeling like it was a scene out of Hemingway or Fitzgerald’s past life. I feel like I belong here.
I met THE Dean Thomas from Harry Potter today on High Street… I’d say this trip is off to a good start ;)
I’m leeavin’
On a jet plaane
Don’t knowwhen I’ll be back again..
Well, I’m embarking on the trip of a lifetime in less than 36 hours, and I’ve never felt luckier or more loved. Friends and family have been surrounding me with affection and encouragement, wishing me well and happy adventures to come. The Moore’s had me over for dinner and they went around the table, each saying things they loved and appreciated about me. My mom wrote me a card of congratulations. Kelsey treated me to lunch, Craig treated me to tea, my grandma sent me a Bon Voyage email. I am so blessed. Most other times of my life, I would have said I don’t deserve these things, but I think, actually, that we all deserve this kind of treatment. We all need to know that we are valuable beyond what we know, that our impact stems past what we can see. It all has felt surreal up until now, and I’ve felt almost like I’m living someone else’s life. Thank God, I’m finally starting to feel like my life is my own, that this is how things are meant to be for ME. I’ve worked so hard, and I’ve accomplished a lot. This is my time to shine!
Going to a party tonight, going to look good, going to FEEL good. I love my life!!!
ONE WEEK
“I suppose what I do in the simplest sense, which is also perhaps the most important sense, is to write clear, interesting sentences. This is where it all starts. One has an idea, and it begins to develop, and I may take notes every so often, write down possible names as characters begin to develop; but it doesn’t really mean much until I put words on paper. Hemingway’s old dictum is still strongly in mind, which is “get black on white”; and that’s what I do. I have an old manual typewriter; I hit the typewriter keys and march the words forward. Words not only have meanings, they even have visual elements. I can see words that connect in a sentence by what they look like, not only by what they mean, and by the sound they have. And that’s what I do, sentence after sentence, day after day. And as I do this, I begin to understand the characters more, I begin to sense the structure of whatever it is I’m writing. Sometimes this takes a long time, other times it’s apparent very soon. And it’s all a mystery. I think of fiction as a mystery, and I wait for answers.”
—Don DeLillo (via ayjay)
I’m so afraid, you guys. I’m afraid of the absence of love. The fear contorts around my bubbling heart and breaks the vessels pumping air and the good things I need for breathing and comfort. I’m afraid of losing the potential that I had, that I felt, that I knew so fiercely at that time. I swore I felt something thicker than this. Something more raw, something red, that you could really bite into and tear out some substance. I swore there were veins in there, and those little white bones. I thought our hands got messier than this, that we had to wash them with sponges, and those bristle-y things you use to get under your nails. I shouldn’t have touched your chest.
When I feel this fear, friends, I shrivel, emaciated to the soul. I run into the back shed, and hide myself under cobwebs and in corners, poked by splintering wood and ages of dust, chipping paint. Spots on the windows are relentless. My skirt dirtied, my legs cut, my hair tangled, you can’t find me here.
