number 62
on list “101 things to do before i die”
#62 – see red sox win world series
how unbelievably good does *that* feel?!?!!!!
exciting, informative, snarky, and very likely fabricated tales of life as an american expat in london
Like this postthe meaning of it all
if there is one thing uniting sox fans today, it’s incredulous awe.
a full day later, and i have to say, i still am not sure i’ve fully got my head around it. what does it all mean? is the rivalry with the yanks over? do we have nothing bigger and better to look forward to from here on out? have we become a fad phenomenon? will we win again, or go back to our well-worn losing ways?
and the biggest: without a curse to gripe about, what does it mean to be a sox fan now?
i guess my answer is this. it doesn’t really matter. red sox fans will remain red sox fans, because we love them.
red sox nation was never truly defined by our martyrdom or long suffering misery. that was how others defined us.
we defined ourselves very simply, as fans of the greatest sports team ever. the red sox were never a cause or a charity we signed on for. they were just a team of men, playing a game we loved, for fans who were truly passionate about baseball. a team which we sometimes lauded, sometimes cursed, but always stood by. it’s always been a marriage, for better or for worse – not because of the success, or lack thereof, but rather because we just love the team. marriages change, but true love remains always. we loved them when they were ugly, we loved them when they were poor, and we loved them when they were sick and sad and downtrodden. we did not love them *because* of these things. we loved them in spite of them.
winning and losing are transitory states of being, much like ice to water to vapor. and tomorrow or the day after, there will be more winning and losing. but the essence remains the same. they are ours and we are theirs, forever and ever, amen.
the only thing which has changed in all of this, is the acknowledgement by others, of what we have always known. The definition by others, of what we have always seen before our very eyes.
Greatness.
Champions.
spillover
Seven hours ago, one of my lifelong dreams came true.
You ask me how I feel? The answer right now, is I don’t know. How do you feel when something you never thought you’d live to see, happens before your very eyes? How do you feel, when the deep ache of a lifetime of grief, is suddenly, instantaneously released, evaporating into the universe? How do you feel when such a huge burden is lifted? When expectations of heartache are suddenly replaced with glee?
It’s surreal. In a moment, the whole landscape has changed, and everything is different. You’ve been so often to the depths of despair, it’s unfathomable that you’re suddenly on top of the world. It’s overwhelming, and draining, and blessedly disconcerting. I’m not complaining.
In the final innings, I was suspended in a state of disbelief. I couldn’t comprehend that it was actually happening. If you’d asked me how I would react with the final out, I would’ve told you insane screaming, jumping, uncontainable exuberance.
Instead, I cried. I cried for all the times I’d been reduced to tears before. I cried for all the fans who never got to witness their dream. I cried in sweet release of years of frustration, sadness, and confusion. I cried decades of pent up emotion. I cried for the fulfilment of inconceivable hopes and silent prayers. I cried because it felt good, and I cried because it felt right.
For once, in my years of fandom, I cried because I was happy.
the easy way
Manny Ramirez: “We always knew who we were. We never doubted who we were.
“Baseball is supposed to be fun. When you play that way, the game is easy. We found a way to make baseball easy.”
what i remember
This is what I remember:
- Learning to throw a baseball at age 7 with my dad and brother in the backyard, in the sweltering heat of summer. Always overhand – I didn’t know girls weren’t supposed to throw. Catching pop-ups and fielding bouncing grounders in the uneven grass, learning not to be afraid of the ball coming at your face hard and fast, even after taking a few in the teeth. Swinging for the fences, choking up on the bat, and following through to make it soar. Oiling my glove, wrapping it around a ball with rubber bands, and sleeping with it under my mattress.
- Taking my glove to Fenway with my family at 9. We sat it the nosebleed bleachers, and packed our own peanuts and popcorn in a sack. The little transistor radio we brought sending out tinny updates to describe the plays we were seated too far away to see. Every foul ball seemed like it could be headed our way, and we wore our gloves for the entire game, with pure childlike optimism.
- My brother collected baseball cards. He pored over them and memorised them and organised them with the intensity of an ancient texts scholar. He could quote statistics at will, even if he couldn’t do long division. The Holy Grail was a Carl Yazstremski rookie card, and he tore open every new pack with the whispered prayer of finding one. He never did.
- Carl Yazstremski retired from the Red Sox in 1983, after 22 years in Fenway’s left field. I was 11. I watched him jog slowly and reluctantly around the field, shaking fans hands, waving his cap, tears in his eyes, to the thunderous adoration of 35,000 fans, who didn’t want to let him leave. It remains the classiest baseball moment i’ve ever been privileged enough to witness. He remains my all-time baseball hero.
- Yaz, Dwight Evans, Jim Rice, Jerry Remy, Carlton Fisk, and Dennis Eckersley. These are the men who inspired my lifelong love for the game.
- Listening to the games in the summer on the radio, on the porch, laying in the sun. I learned more about baseball with my ears than with my eyes. I learned to imagine the heroics being acted out in high drama on the grassy stage. I learned to appreciate the artistry and beauty of the game inside my head.
- A trip to Yankee Stadium with my aunt, uncle, cousins, to watch the Sox play New York. My dad bet my Long Island uncle that Boston would win, and we did. I was 12.
- In my first year of high school, the Sox made it to the World Series against the NY Mets. It was 1986, and I was 13. I stayed up late to watch, and the whole of New England was glued to the television. We were one out away from winning the title in Game Six. Champagne corks were popped. A routine groundball headed up the first base line to Bill Buckner. It should’ve been over with in seconds. Instead, the groundball hopped through his legs, into the outfield, into history, into infamy. Runs scored and we lost Game 6, and went on to lose Game 7. I’ve felt sorry for Bill Buckner ever since.
- In my early 20s, all five of us siblings got together and took Mum to Fenway for Mother’s Day in May. It was freezing and drizzling and our seats were terrible, and she loved every second of it. This became our annual Mother’s Day tradition.
- The Sox won the American League East in 1988 and 1990. I remember them getting swept by the Oakland A’s both times. I remember hating Jose Canseco.
- In 1999, we were in the ALDS against the Cleveland Indians. We had clawed our way back from being two games down to tie the series. I remember Game 5, where Pedro Martinez came in as a complete surprise from the bullpen with an injured back, and threw six no-hit innings which took your breath away. Pedro would become a Boston legend from that day forward.
- Following the 2003 ALCS over the internet, from my little room in my little flat in Peckham, London. The series was tied 3-3. The day of Game 7, I was in Paris, trying to sort out my work permit, which was slipping through my fingers. On my way back to London, I was detained at Immigration for 3 hours, stripped of my passport, and informed I would have to leave the UK immediately, possibly never to return. I was finally allowed back to my flat, shattered and distraught, at 1 am. I tuned into the internet feed of the ballgame, praying for some sort of redemption on what was arguably the worst day of my life. Pedro Martinez and Roger Clemens were pitching, but by the top of the 8th inning, the Sox had a 5-2 lead. Everyone expected Pedro’s work was done. But he came back to pitch in the bottom of the inning, and before you knew it, the Yankees had tied the game. It was 5 am. I’d been awake for 24 hours straight, and suddenly realised I could not stand to listen to the rest of the game. I was scared and alone and exhausted, and drained of every emotion possible, and the possibility of facing another devastating blow was just too much. I remember switching off my computer, knowing that if the Sox managed to pull off a win, my family would call and wake me up to celebrate, and that if the Sox lost, I would deal with the heartache and disappointment in the morning. I did not get a call from my family that night, and awoke in the morning to the sad news of yet another bitter defeat. No one understood my grief, and I never felt more alone.
- On our second date, Jonno and I broached the weighty topic of baseball. I remember thinking right then, that I had found a soulmate. I’ve found a partner for the other love of my life, and he and I will follow the Sox together, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health. No matter what happens, I will have someone to celebrate or commiserate with. No matter what happens, I will have someone who understands. No matter what happens, I have someone by my side for the ride.
I will remember tonight. Tonight, when dreams everywhere came true. When my team became the champions they were always meant to be. Fulfilling a destiny, inexorably bound to be theirs. Performing their craft with a joy and bumbling grace I’ve never before seen them exude. Playing for the love of the game. This is why I love baseball. This is why I love the Red Sox.
I will remember this.
field of dreams
Red Sox fandom is a lot like a religion. Most people are fans by birth or family tradition, but as adults, they must choose to make the difficult commitment for themselves. Because it is downright hard to be a Sox fan. The moments of gratification are few and far between. There’s no reward, no glory. There’s not much history of success or achievement to sustain you during the interminable droughts. There are many, many moments where the painful disappointment is sharply acute. There are many, many moments when your faith is sorely tested, your patience reaches its limits, and you decide it is no longer worth it.
For some, this spells the end of their love affair with the sox. For the rest, this is just the beginning.
To be a Sox fan means to live much of your life on the edge – poised at the brink of both success and failure. The gleaming brass ring always tantalisingly just out of reach as you ride the carousel, year after year, battered and bruised from the tumbles off the horse.
But we get back on, again and again. The whole while, asking ourselves why. Questioning our own obvious lack of sanity. Wondering when our steadfastness, our unwavering devotion, will be rewarded. Wondering when it will all make sense, in the grand scheme of the universe. Believing that there is some higher purpose, there is a reason for it all, even if it remains a mystery to us.
Our faith is a faith of mysteries. There are mysteries in our lore, and legends which are passed down through our history. Family stories which are instrumental in building generational legacies. Over the years, our experiences will only serve to futher illustrate the questions we cannot answer, the uncertainties we grapple with in heart and mind. Over time, if we cannot make our peace with them, we at least learn to live with them.
And eventually, we no longer remember a time when we questioned. We believe, simply because we have always believed.
The Red sox are not a team for the faint of heart. And perhaps, that is as it should be. If being a sox fan were easy, there would be no appreciation for the moments which do come.
And there are moments. Moments which sear themselves in your memory, all the sweeter for their rarity. Moments which become indelibly inked in your heart, and appear like manna from heaven when you least expect it. Moments which unite us in joy, in bright and shining contrast to a backdrop of companionable misery. Moments which are sparkling and precious and of incomparable value, of indescribable happiness – their worth cannot be measured.
Our belief is founded in moments like these. We *live* for moments like these.
And the biggest and brightest moment of all could happen tonight.
one game at a time
tonight, I will once again take my 10 pm nap, wake up in time to turn on the television at 1 am with a red bull in hand, try mightily to put away all notion of superstition and jinxes, try to breathe normally, not scream, and urge my beloved red sox on to one more victory with every ounce of my being.
i’m still taking it one game at a time. I haven’t bought a bottle of champagne just yet. i’m trying to stay focussed, and suppress any unbridled optimism from bubbling over.
but every once in a while, a rogue thought will burst through to the front of my brain. it’s the same thought every time, and i try to dismiss it as quickly as it surfaces.
“what if…” are some dangerous words.
don’t get me wrong. i *know* we can win this thing. i think this just might be the year.
but the “what ifs” are just too overwhelming to contemplate. just thinking about the possibility, or imagining the moment, can bring me to the verge of tears. the immense joy of victory finally attained, combined with the flood of sweet relief at freedom from “the curse”… it’s too much. right now, the idea of it all is just too much.
i’ll try (ineffectually) to put it all into words, when the time finally comes.
for now, it’s just game 3.
for now, it’s just too much.
red sox reading pleasure: why this is so important to so many – generations of fans hold their collective breath
sleep in november
this is where the full on insanity starts.
it takes a special kind of crazy to be a sox fan abroad, in london. it means drastically altered sleep patterns, so you can stay up til 5 am every evening. it means hour upon hour of internet research, to try to stay on top of what’s happening, and attempt to be a part of the larger community. it means transatlantic phone calls to rehash the events with family and friends. it means adjusting to the fact that no one here will *truly* understand your passion for this game, this team. you try to draw analogies… but can they really comprehend the idea of being an arsenal or man united fan in the face of 86 years of disappointment?
it’s nothing they can relate to, and there’s nothing worse than being completely overjoyed… and being alone in your elation. it’s even worse knowing you are missing out on the festivities and fervor back home.
but when they win it all, it will all be worth it. this is what you keep telling yourself. you tell yourself you can sleep in november, knowing that if you miss out, you’ll be kicking yourself for another 86 years.
game 2 tonight, and I’m off to take a nap.
the beginning
Redemption. Retribution. Karma. Payback. Call it what you will.
I call it an affirmation of faith, a just vindication that the years of unwavering support through heartache after heartache, were not in vain. Victory would be ours, in the end.
The nerd finally got the homecoming queen. Charlie Brown finally kicked the football. The frog was kissed into a prince.
The only thing which could possibly be more emotionally satisfying would be if it were possible to beat the Yankees in the world Series. To come back after what happened last year in Game 7 (I don’t know of a single sox fan who didn’t shed a tear that night), to come back after what happened in the first three games of this playoff run (i don’t know of a single fan who didn’t cringe in abject humiliation at the 19-8 score) … this is definitely the single most satisfying moment in my 30+ years of Sox fandom, and I wager most other fans would say the exact same thing.
I call it the most important Boston Sporting Moment of my lifetime (Of course, when we win the Series, I might retract that statement…)
Call it what you will. I call it the beginning.
the heroes of our own story
ever meet a born and bred bostonian? then you’l know that there are few fans more passionately die hard, than those of red sox nation.
sox fans are all about history. long memories of bitter defeat, legendary myths of fame and curse, deep seated rivalry which is passed down through the generations, inherited by blood and birth.
the rivalry with the yankees? well, it’s hard to understand unless you’ve lived it all your life. statistically, it makes no sense. emotionally, it’s an albatross to suffer year after year. and so we explain it through ghost stories and superstition. we rationalise it through baseball gods and fate. it’s part religion, part mental disorder, wholly defying any logic.
we are truly schizophrenic that way, being always of two minds: pure blind faith, and a sense of doom.
i admit to having been among the worst of them. i have sat stonelike, hour after hour during games, convinced that to even breathe or blink defferently would jinx my beloved team. and when my hypotheses held true, the rituals and rites became even further ingrained. and when they didn’t hold true, i chalked it up to luck or ju-ju or mysticism.
but a strange and unfamiliar belief has begun to take hold of me recently, in fact, only over the last three games. it’s as foreign to me as an alien language, or perhaps the rules of cricket.
it’s the small, but steadily growing belief that we make our own fate, the novel concept that we create our own luck, and even the shocking thought that we are as good as anyone else.
sox fans everywhere would gasp at these blasphemous words, and scream at me that I am tempting fate, much the way pedro martinez did when he scoffingly said he would drill babe ruth in the ass. (and as proof, look what happened *then*!)
but here’s the truth, in sum:
all streaks, both good and bad, must end sometime.
all games have a loser *and* a winner.
all history is past tense.
and so, with the series on the line tonight, playing one game against our hated enemies for a shot at all the marbles, i dare to believe that we can win.
not because we’ve reversed a curse – but because we are red sox nation. and we can be the heroes of our own story, if we only let ourselves.
flying in the face of logic, history… and some would say fate
I’ve been here before.
The swarms of butterflies in the stomach, the inability to sit still, nerves worn close to the skin. Many might say it was foolish to get so worked up over a game – but as children, we spend some formative years, watching those players who would be our giants. And they are special. Attachments develop (it would not be too strong to say bonds) with the heroes on the field, in whose place, you imagine yourself.
They do what we wish we could, and they excel in ways we can’t. They act out epic dramas in worlds circumscribed by known rules, where achievement is measured through hard work and dedication to honing one’s skill. They wear our passions on their sleeve, in good games and bad.
They are our surrogates for our own dreams, in ways both big and small.
And when they stand on the edge of achieving history, of becoming, for a moment which will be frozen for all of time, recognised as the greatest champions of the sport, *we are right there with them*. breath for breath, swing for swing. it’s not overstating the case. They are playing for us, and we are playing with them.
Tying your emotions to the fate of hometown team is risky, no doubt. Inevitably, we try to protect ourselves from the possibility of heartbreak. After all, games are defined by both winners and losers. But doing so only dampens the experience of what sport is all about. Dreams, passions, dramas, and heroes.
After all, only when you know where the bottom of the mountain lies, can you truly experience the thrill of the most dizzying heights. And the heights are there to be scaled.
In the end, one team has to win it all. And it could very well be yours.
You gotta believe.
tipple, cripple, crumble
so then –
wish i had more exciting news to relate about this weekend, but all in all it mostly consisted of drinking, hobbling, and baking.
friday night, ja nd i met up w/ andy to exchange musical memorabilia. andy brought me back a jealous sound t-shirt and a signed cd, as he got to rub noses with the band whilst out in cali. nice to know they haven’t been tainted by stardom. perhaps I’ll even get a chance to see them when i am home for holiday in august (did i mention that? j and i are headed to nyc/boston to visit the folk and peeps. it’ll be his first visit, so should be fun to show him the old ‘hoods). here’s a pic of a and blair shehan:
the pixies fairy brought him a t-shirt and a downloaded copy of the gig he missed.
spent much of the evening discoursing on the sad state of the american government, world politics, and how to make a bomb out of matchstick heads and a needle. aided, of course, by plenty of liquid refreshment.
saturday morning, i was feeling quite brave and suggestes j and i go for a run down to the river and back (nearly 8 miles). this went rather well – plenty of sweat and fresh air and sunshine. until my knee gave out – again. rather than take the prudent course of action and baby my recurrent injury, i (being rather chilly) decided to try and keep running. bad idea, capital b, capital i. upon reaching home, it was quickly ascertained that i could no longer ascend even the most measly starcase, as anything requiring bending my knee whilst putting my weight on it, brought on a severe case of the “owies”. (need i point out that my flat is two flights up, and two floors?). managed to limp heavily to go see “harry potter” that night, but moaning with every step is not the most joyous of sounds.
sunday, rock climbing was out of the question, so spent the day baking loads of carbohydrate confections instead, and watched a bunch of dvds in the evening.
not all that exciting, but there you have it.
broccoli, boulders, baking
ahhh, the end of a three day weekend.
friday night was blah. jonno had a work gig, and everyone else was gone for the weekend, so i went to the gym, then vegged at home and just lay like broccoli.
saturday was chilled – breakfast in bed, did a few errands (took the ring in to be re-sized) wandered around the south bank, walked across to embankment, bought some saffa goodies and a wallet for j, headed up to covent garden and had a few beers, bought donnie darko dvd, and came home and watched movies.
sunday was a gloriously sunny day, so kerryn came over and cooked breakfast (two days in a row i had men making me breakfast! a girl could get used to that!) and then we picked up tonya and chris and headed to kent for some outdoor rock climbing. took ages to find the place (we took a brief detour through the local production of robin hood!), but we finally stumbled into it, had a picnic lunch and after much dithering about, and setting up, re-setting up…we finally climbed some frikken rocks! amazing rush, particularly outdoors, where if you fall or slamm into the wall, the stakes are just a teensy bit higher. i left some skin on the rocks, and the rocks left some imprints on my skin. after a nice long day in the sun, we headed home, and watched another dvd.
monday was pissing rain. went to the gym, went to my old flat and cleared out some more stuff. went shopping and bought some cake ingredients, came home and baked a big ole chocolate cake. mmmm.
c’mon, be a sport
lots of sporting news. and some not-so-sporting news.
the red sox are back on track. we like curt. we likey him a lot. kate and mitzi head down on a road trip tomorrow to baltimore to see tim wakefield kick some oriole ass. i’m very jealous.
my other b-boyz (yayyyyyy!!!!) start their stanley cup playoffs against montreal (boooooo!!!), and i’ll be listening over the internet.
in the not-so-sporting news…
iraq has turned into a bloody nightmare, saddam has been ferried out in secret, and yet georgie is being his usual blustering intractable self… at the expense of human lives. the *only* positive to come out of this insane disaster, is that people may finally be starting to wake up.
in the meantime, back at home, amnesty puts facts to what we already knew: america’s judicial system is in the same class as those of iran, china, and vietnam.
and because we now live in this kind of world, it is seemingly not enough that we all have national insurance numbers (the brit equivalent of the social security #). not enough that we are constantly under surveillance by cctv. not enough that we have to have tv licenses, and driver’s licenses and (soon) biometric passports. now they want a national identity card. mark my words, the u.s. will not be far behind.
only one more sleep til the long weekend. i daren’t look at the weather forecast, since a) it will be wrong and b) even if it’s good, it’ll be wrong.
i need a break. the state of the world is getting me down, and while it won’t make anything better, rainy or sunny, a weekend away from news of bombings and bloodshed and fear will do wonders for my sanity…
have i mentioned i can’t wait?
homeplate hypocrisy
the hypocrisy of the witchhunt for steroids in baseball just kills me.
is there a baseball fan out there, who, seeing the jose canseco’s and mark mcgwire’s of the past 2 decades, has not known, somewhere deep down, that steriods have been prevalent since at least the 80s? it may have gone unsaid, but it certainly did not go unnoticed.
for years, mlb declined to test players, primarily because they were afraid of the results. if you don’t want to know the answer, don’t ask the question, right? and now that someone has dared to put into words, baseball’s dirty little secret, you would think the mlb has been finally forced into dealing with it, and grappling with all the sticky questions which are bound to ensue: what about records which may have been felled, and stats rung up, by players “under the influence”? how does a sport which has marketed itself on the image of being largely “family friendly” deal with the fallout of the mixed messages being sent to children, and spin the sordid stories which will be spun? and most uncomfortable of all: who knew what, when? and did the league deliberately turn a blind eye in the hopes that the homerun heroics of recent years would help shore up the sport’s flagging fan base?
mlb’s attempt to sidestep these and avoid having the magnifying glass turned back on itself, by dealing with steriods as if they were in the same category as alcohol and drugs, is patently laughable, and completely incongruent with the nature of the transgression. “treatment” for the first offense, and graduated suspensions for subsequent offenses. Only after the 5th offense is a player suspended for a year. no mention of a lifetime ban, or disqualification from the hall of fame.
two points need to be made here:
a)a steriod user is not an alcoholic.
b)cocaine or vodka do not help you to belt a homerun.
barry bonds is only the tip of the iceberg, and accusations will start flying fast and furious the minute one idol of any real stature falls. mlb needs to give this matter the attention something of this gravity deserves, and stop pussyfooting around, hoping it will all blow over.
fans may worship at the altar of the home plate, but that doesn’t make baseball a sacrosanct religion.
keeps you on your toes
if I ever get arthritis, i’ll have to shoot myself.
after last night’s rock-climbing, i have no manual dexterity whatsoever. my hands have become weak misshapen claws. attempts to plait my hair this morning were a cruel joke. and i could really do with one of those sticks you attach to your forehead to type. but i love it. iloveitiloveitiloveit. we went up one climb using only our feet, no hands, and even though you’re tethered, being 30 feet up and hanging on to a wall with just your toes is heartstopping and exhilarating. everything about it challenges you to conquer that nagging voice in the back of your head that says “are you insane?!? a) you’ll never be able to do that and b) get down!!!”. and somehow you do it anyway, and the sense of accomplishment is indescribable. but by the end of the evening, i couldn’t have tied my shoes if my life depended on it.
so, i have a new layout, thanks to the (theoretically) simple beauty of css. i still have some tweaking to do to make it pretty, but i think it’s a huge improvement overall. and i still have to do the photo pages.
i am finally going to get to do glassblowing! a six week course starts 24th feb at city of westminster college. unfortunately my firewalk has been postponed for a month. which means that from 18th-22nd march i’m goggling over italian men in rome, 26th i walk on hot coals, and 27th-29th i celebrate by overindulging in illicit substances and mass quantities of liquorice. busy busy busy two weeks.
I seem to have somehow agreed to sign up for the tough guy challenge in july. 8 miles of obstacles and mud. recommended training includes jumping into cold lakes. should be fun.
oh, and I am going to see the pixies! only 16 weeks, one day!
adam vinatieris foot is a weapon of mass destruction
Okay, just a little more gloating…
(photo courtesy of boston.com)
didn’t get to see the million-dollar adverts.
didn’t get to see the shot of janet’s bare boob.
didn’t get to celebrate with the crazy bostonians.
won’t get to go to the victory parade.
still, it’s all good.
countdown
been wanting to catch up on my movies, so this weekend was all about dedicating myself to partaking of the best of cinematic offerings and killing time until the superbowl
yesterday’s doublefeature was supposed to “american splendor” followed by “lost in translation”, however due to a cockup in the newspaper, “american splendor” was not being shown at its advertised time. so instead went to see “lost in translation” and “big fish”.
“lost in transation” was… well, close to home. 72 hours in the lives of two disenchanted americans trapped in tokyo, drawn to each other by isolation and the commonality of being two strangers in a strange land, they find solace and escapism in running away from the mundane mediocrity of their lives and the alienation of being alone in the middle of a frenetic city, and when they have to part and return with a bump to the humdrum everyday of disintegrating marriages and terrifyingly unformed futures, it is all the more wrenching for its unexpected depth of emotion.
watching it, i couldn’t help identifying. for all my desire to go places and do things, it often feels like running. escapism in the hope that something better lies ahead, but terrified that i’m leaving the best behind. needing to move because i’m afraid of standing still. leaving before i get left.
no matter how much i may like living here, being an american is britain is both alien and alienating at times. there are surface similarities, but they don’t keep you afloat. in the end, i have few friends here, and no family or partner to be my touchstones, my familiars in a sea of unfamiliarity. being alone over here, i’m really *alone*, and it’s when things become scary or overwhelming that that feeling is most acute. when i was getting kicked out, interrogated by immigration, facing the prospect of never coming back, i’ve never felt more entirely alone in my life. luckily, most of it is not like that. but it’s hard to explain the experience.
today was all about “lord of the rings”, which was simply incredible. mythos of biblical proportions played out in the grandest fashion on screen. for me, the most powerful theme running through it is not “good prevailing in the face of insurmountable evil” (obvious) or even “enduring friendship overcoming all obstacles” (trite), but rather that of “greatness thrust upon the shoulders of the everyman”. because when it comes right down to it, and it feels as though you are beset with turmoil and strife and hardship on all sides, and there is no way to win the fight but you must face it head on with nothing but the courage of your convictions, doesn’t everybody hope that it’s all for the end of some greater purpose, some higher good, like saving the world from destruction?
and now, ladies and gentlemen, it is finally superbowl time. no beer or crisps in the house, so i shall have to make do with vodka and the last of my luckycharms cereal whilst i watch my favorite team wreak havoc and bloodshed upon the pansy asses of the carolina panthers.
as ever, go pats!
I love the smell of chalk in the morning…
>ooof. my ribs ache.
i am well an truly pissed with the city. last night I was late to rock climbing because there were delays on the tube, and this morning, a full 36 hours later, there were still delays on the trains. it’s beyond ridiculous. c’mon, get your act together! (hint: there’s a new miracle invention called “salt”.)
so rock-climbing did not get off to the most auspicious start. i was late, one of the hottie instructors was out. we learned a technique called “bouldering”, and there was one particular problem in the cavern that i *wanted* to solve (involving hanging kinda upside-down and swinging and catching a hold just out of reach), just because no one could get it. i must’ve tried it ten times. which was stoopid, because i wore myself out, so that by the time we went back to the vertical walls at the end of the night, i was knackered. my shoulders were trembling, and my hands were like spaghetti. i had no strength. i got halfway up and felt myself getting ready to fall, and knew i wasn’t going to make it.
i had to come down. i was so mad with myself. i’m used to being able to make my body do what i want, and i just couldn’t. and i *know*, i’ve had the flu and should cut myself some slack, but it was not the note i wanted to end the evening on.
so this week i go back to doing pushups. blech.
and despite my best efforts, there is still chalk under my fingernails this morning.
but i kinda like it.
