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Aches and Pains
Sep. 12th, 2006 12:02 amYesterday (Sunday), around 6 pm Boston time, waiting for a flight to board:
I am tired of being told, when I complain about absurd and perhaps malicious systems, to look on it all as a grand adventure, and that if I fail it will be due to my negative outlook, and not the ludicrous impossibility of simple but necessary tasks. This is a house of cards, my friends; if any part of it doesn't stick, it all comes down. I am moving to a country where I have three friends, one of whom is in the hospital after childbirth complications, one of whom is caring for her critically ill mother, and one of whom is committed to writing three novels in the next few months (on top of being the mother of young children).
While in this country, clerical fuckups which were not mine will prevent me from accessing any of the money I have (except the cash amounts secreted about my person), and institutional fuckups which are not mine have thus far prevented me from getting my student loans, although I unquestionably qualify for them and have excellent credit. Despite possessing a visa, I can be kicked out of the country at any time, with no explanation. While this visa allows me to work, the work must be approved (by whom?) and may not be work as an entertainer, which is not only vague but a fun requirement for an actor/musician/performance artist. I have already been flagged by airport security for being a young intellectual traveling alone on a one-way ticket.
Perhaps I could view this all as an adventure, this possibility - likelihood? - that I will be stranded in a foreign country, alone and impoverished, unable to enroll in school. Perhaps if what I wanted was to mount an arctic expedition, I would relish these sorts of challenges. But I'm not working on a social experiment, and I don't give a damn about being in London. I want to be in school, not, you understand, to prove myself in the face of challenges, but because I want help. I already know how to do things the hard way; there's not much of a trick to it.
I do not appreciate the constant suggestions that things are easy and I am making mountains out of molehills, that all I need to do is wait and keep smiling. That I will not remember this in a month. Perhaps systems genuinely work for the people who suggest these things, most of whom have regular jobs and keep the same addresses for years at a time. The only two useful things anyone has said is that I have made smart decisions so far and there is no reason to think I will not continue to make smart decisions (Ciro, who understands better than anyone that smart isn't always enough, but that smart and charming are all the two of us have to work with), and that it's amazing I even managed to get a visa (Dad, an experienced international traveler. He was surprised by the bank account freeze, though. I knew it would happen, because risk assessment programs don't like me.)
The trouble with being larger than life is that life doesn't fit too well.
Later, noonish London time:
Have successfully arrived in London and - vitally - had a nice cup of tea and a sit down. Have thus far found residents of Covent Garden friendly and approachable - even helpful and sympathetic. Located London Film School, but have not worked out how to get inside. Perhaps staff are still on vacation. Alternatively, this is a final Chinese-puzzle-box admissions test.
Covent Garden is very obviously the hip part of town, since all of the boutiques are American and all the restaurants are French or Italian. There is a Starbucks every half block or so, for which I have decided it is fair to blame Patrick, despite his total lack of involvement. Oh, my capricious wrath, my sudden decisions to turn on people. It was you all along, Patrick, who built the Starbucks empire store by store. The others may not know, but I have found you out.
I am presently sitting in a lovely little park, having secreted my luggage deep within the jewel-box windings of Freemason's Hall, where Emily works. I'm a little strung out, it being something like six a.m. Dallas time, which will mean more to you if you have any sense of my usual (highly nocturnal) sleep schedule. I've only been up for about seventeen hours, and had a nap somewhere during that time, so it's not exhaustion so much as weariness after a long day of work.
I don't know whether any of this is interesting to anybody. I suspect it mostly isn't. I worry that I'm going to be one of those people who writes compulsively, with an excess of banal detail, in a futile attempt to share the solitary experiences I wish were communal. I'm used to having at least two brains, at least four hands. I feel only half here. Maybe it's just the tiredness.
In any case, the day is a pretty one, and since it is London instead of Dallas, everything is green instead of yellow. Beautiful leaf shapes everywhere, and softly lit buildings in every shade of stone. People on every street, in every seat. The whole area feels like a college campus. It seems like a pleasant place to live, at least for a pair of years.
Still have not worked up the courage to eat British food.
Past two:
Ate sandwich. Was adequate, but uninspiring.
My tiredness, cowboy boots, and subdued grief have somehow combined to form an overall gravitas which makes it hard for me to convince people I am not on official business. Am hiding out in top-secret publicly accessible Masonic drawing room with tea machine. Have hit upon paradigm-shifting theory that the Masons' main draw for members is neither secrets nor ritual, but the excuse to wear jewelry. This is why the organization is men only - women don't need the excuse. The number of gaudy (manly) medals I have seen.... I am covetous.
Five-ish:
Woke up after falling asleep in hidden corner of drawing room. Hoped I would wake up in the middle of a secret meeting, but alas. Emily says that falling asleep in one's chair is the room's main use, which means I have behaved in properly Masonic way. Was not awarded a sparkly medal for doing so. Or in fact any medal. Despondent.
Past midnight:
Have drunk several glasses of cava and had a lovely evening with Emily and Gareth. Will probably spend much of tomorrow at the flat, recovering from the strains of travel. Tired. Teeth are fuzzy. I miss Ciro.
Addendum:
Emily notes that I forgot to mention the Masonic dinner roll which was metal plated and turned into an inkwell. It is perhaps the most unattractive object I have ever seen, and certainly a highlight of the day.
I am tired of being told, when I complain about absurd and perhaps malicious systems, to look on it all as a grand adventure, and that if I fail it will be due to my negative outlook, and not the ludicrous impossibility of simple but necessary tasks. This is a house of cards, my friends; if any part of it doesn't stick, it all comes down. I am moving to a country where I have three friends, one of whom is in the hospital after childbirth complications, one of whom is caring for her critically ill mother, and one of whom is committed to writing three novels in the next few months (on top of being the mother of young children).
While in this country, clerical fuckups which were not mine will prevent me from accessing any of the money I have (except the cash amounts secreted about my person), and institutional fuckups which are not mine have thus far prevented me from getting my student loans, although I unquestionably qualify for them and have excellent credit. Despite possessing a visa, I can be kicked out of the country at any time, with no explanation. While this visa allows me to work, the work must be approved (by whom?) and may not be work as an entertainer, which is not only vague but a fun requirement for an actor/musician/performance artist. I have already been flagged by airport security for being a young intellectual traveling alone on a one-way ticket.
Perhaps I could view this all as an adventure, this possibility - likelihood? - that I will be stranded in a foreign country, alone and impoverished, unable to enroll in school. Perhaps if what I wanted was to mount an arctic expedition, I would relish these sorts of challenges. But I'm not working on a social experiment, and I don't give a damn about being in London. I want to be in school, not, you understand, to prove myself in the face of challenges, but because I want help. I already know how to do things the hard way; there's not much of a trick to it.
I do not appreciate the constant suggestions that things are easy and I am making mountains out of molehills, that all I need to do is wait and keep smiling. That I will not remember this in a month. Perhaps systems genuinely work for the people who suggest these things, most of whom have regular jobs and keep the same addresses for years at a time. The only two useful things anyone has said is that I have made smart decisions so far and there is no reason to think I will not continue to make smart decisions (Ciro, who understands better than anyone that smart isn't always enough, but that smart and charming are all the two of us have to work with), and that it's amazing I even managed to get a visa (Dad, an experienced international traveler. He was surprised by the bank account freeze, though. I knew it would happen, because risk assessment programs don't like me.)
The trouble with being larger than life is that life doesn't fit too well.
Later, noonish London time:
Have successfully arrived in London and - vitally - had a nice cup of tea and a sit down. Have thus far found residents of Covent Garden friendly and approachable - even helpful and sympathetic. Located London Film School, but have not worked out how to get inside. Perhaps staff are still on vacation. Alternatively, this is a final Chinese-puzzle-box admissions test.
Covent Garden is very obviously the hip part of town, since all of the boutiques are American and all the restaurants are French or Italian. There is a Starbucks every half block or so, for which I have decided it is fair to blame Patrick, despite his total lack of involvement. Oh, my capricious wrath, my sudden decisions to turn on people. It was you all along, Patrick, who built the Starbucks empire store by store. The others may not know, but I have found you out.
I am presently sitting in a lovely little park, having secreted my luggage deep within the jewel-box windings of Freemason's Hall, where Emily works. I'm a little strung out, it being something like six a.m. Dallas time, which will mean more to you if you have any sense of my usual (highly nocturnal) sleep schedule. I've only been up for about seventeen hours, and had a nap somewhere during that time, so it's not exhaustion so much as weariness after a long day of work.
I don't know whether any of this is interesting to anybody. I suspect it mostly isn't. I worry that I'm going to be one of those people who writes compulsively, with an excess of banal detail, in a futile attempt to share the solitary experiences I wish were communal. I'm used to having at least two brains, at least four hands. I feel only half here. Maybe it's just the tiredness.
In any case, the day is a pretty one, and since it is London instead of Dallas, everything is green instead of yellow. Beautiful leaf shapes everywhere, and softly lit buildings in every shade of stone. People on every street, in every seat. The whole area feels like a college campus. It seems like a pleasant place to live, at least for a pair of years.
Still have not worked up the courage to eat British food.
Past two:
Ate sandwich. Was adequate, but uninspiring.
My tiredness, cowboy boots, and subdued grief have somehow combined to form an overall gravitas which makes it hard for me to convince people I am not on official business. Am hiding out in top-secret publicly accessible Masonic drawing room with tea machine. Have hit upon paradigm-shifting theory that the Masons' main draw for members is neither secrets nor ritual, but the excuse to wear jewelry. This is why the organization is men only - women don't need the excuse. The number of gaudy (manly) medals I have seen.... I am covetous.
Five-ish:
Woke up after falling asleep in hidden corner of drawing room. Hoped I would wake up in the middle of a secret meeting, but alas. Emily says that falling asleep in one's chair is the room's main use, which means I have behaved in properly Masonic way. Was not awarded a sparkly medal for doing so. Or in fact any medal. Despondent.
Past midnight:
Have drunk several glasses of cava and had a lovely evening with Emily and Gareth. Will probably spend much of tomorrow at the flat, recovering from the strains of travel. Tired. Teeth are fuzzy. I miss Ciro.
Addendum:
Emily notes that I forgot to mention the Masonic dinner roll which was metal plated and turned into an inkwell. It is perhaps the most unattractive object I have ever seen, and certainly a highlight of the day.
