Journal Entry, 13 August 2007, "The Day Of"

Today is a shit day. This sentence appeared in various conversations all throughout the morning and afternoon, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard anything with which I have more wholly agreed. For them, it is the end of a program and a social life into which they had poured the entirety of their souls. These last two weeks were their lives, hurried and bashful as they were, and crammed into a seemingly impossibly small crevice of time, and now those lives are over. They are returned to those realities which they have left behind in favor of a better one. I too am now surrendered to a familiar experience that I have recently been made aware is not really an experience at all. Where have all my friends gone? And it is funny when I think about it: I never really noticed how many of them I could in good conscience call friends.

The place, now, is a ghost town (or seemingly so), and everywhere I look, I cannot help but suffer the dim phantasms of memory to crop up. Here, listening to Micky and Tom have a go at American politics; there, myself having a go at the mysteries and misfortunes of life with Jess and Grace. This entire complex is a memorial, the picnic tables iconic. I’ve noticed I can no longer leave the building without expecting to see Eve or Guy popping out of the downstairs flats, and when I saw the lights in both Jess’s and Grace’s rooms turned on late this night, I admit it: I almost cried.

These thoughts all caught up with me about an hour ago, when I opened the door and looked into the hallway of my flat for the first time. It was empty—not unusual—but I was stricken with a much more profound feeling of void than I might have been previously. There is something else missing. At least four of my flat’s tea/coffee mugs, now locked in Jess’s kitchen. The sound of a six-string accompanied by a host of singing voices, perfectly oriented to various people’s sleeping schedules, silenced. Screams of excitement coming from the courtyard, lost to the distance between here and there. Lennon tells me to imagine all the people, and I do. I can’t help it. How else am I supposed to do? The honest truth: I really have no idea.

I mean that in two senses. I am not sure why I am feeling the way I am, nor have I any idea of what to do about it. I tend very often (which is to say always up until now) to utterly fail to internalize things, which most people will often remark is a good thing on account of it making me an objective person. It also makes me both a happy and a miserable person, in a way that only a cynic can be. I feel the pains and loves of the soul as through the sixth sense of an empath: the feelings are never really my own. And now that they are, I can see no good reason at all why they should be. It’s been just a mite bit more than one week since I was first introduced to this charade. Is it really possible that things could have moved that quickly? It must be (because they have), but how?

Jess had a very great lot to do with it, I think, and Grace did too. For the first time ever—that is, again, through all my life up until now—I not only felt inspired but was able to write something to and for another person. That person is Jess, and in spite of the personal nature of the address, I have included it at the end of this indulgence so that you might gain a better understanding of my immersion in this happy accident. It was funny: I acquired the idea for and began writing the poem almost immediately before she arrived at my flat door, beginning what would become a conversation where she would request (jokingly) that I write a poem about her. I find both her and Grace to be remarkable people who have infinitely improved my perspective on this trip (which is far more profound a statement than it sounds because my previous perspective was actually quite good). I’ve carried on many, many, many conversations with them (but Jess particularly) even in the short time that I’ve known them, and this, I think, has allowed me to feel closer to them than to many other people I have known for years. These digressions, irrelevant to the overbearing theme of this composition as they may be, are meant to communicate one simple message: that although I had very much liked London previous to having met them, through them I have learned to love it.

I watched as all of that group packed up to leave this morning. That was painful. They had only been here two weeks, but still tears were flowing from most of their eyes. Interesting: I was well on the verge myself, barely knowing the majority of them, and knowing still that I would be seeing a fair lot of the two that I did know in the days to come. Maybe it was a reminder to me of what I am going to feel when I return to the States, or maybe it was simply an awareness that things were about to change. I wouldn’t be seeing Jess every few hours anymore, and gluttonous as it sounds, that thought bothered me. I liked that experience—no, I loved it a great deal—and now it is over. Unfortunate.

And that is just about the gist of it: unfortunate. There is nothing which can be done, and I am stuck with those memories. I realized after class today just how much of an effect those ghosts will have on me. Everything here—and I mean everything, from the mugs, to the courtyard, to Up the Creek and the Thames path—is tied to some fond recollection involving either Jess particularly or, less often, that group generally. I can’t open my eyes without being subjected to that same rude awakening I had been earlier this morning. Worse still, I know that this disjunction is undue. I should not have been moved in the way that I have, and yet here I am, stuck on some inconvenient impression not even a day old.

My condition, too, is herein portrayed in terms of those thoughts and feelings which are, as usual, most likely to weave their ways onto a page. Forgive me, therefore, for failing to present an alternative perspective, as at the moment it would be quite impossible for me to fairly do so. I should point out that such a perspective does exist—that in spite of this incredibly overwhelming feeling of recently-passed nostalgia, I know full well that there is another side of things to be shown—but at the same time, I am forced into an acute awareness that, where presented, such recollections would at many points serve only as sharp reminders of what happens to be my current condition. I apologize also for the unforgiving quality of this writing. I have constructed this journal entry simply because, for lack of time to process these thoughts, I have yet been unable to deter them, and so I have found myself incapable of writing about anything else. This affliction is temporary, but it is also highly personal. I have permitted its completion on account of its service as a candid record of those experiences these journals are supposed to expose, so please make an effort to avoid taking it for anything more or less. The poem following, too, is of a highly personal nature. It was directed to Jess, and I never developed any intention of showing it to anyone else until this journal entry. Even so, I think you can develop from it a context for the words heretofore written, and since I have no reason to be ashamed of my personal life or the contents of this writing, I see no exterior harm in including it. It, along with the rest of this composition, essentially defines my last two weeks’ experience better than I am otherwise capable, so with that thought, I shall bring this all to a close and bid this journal-writing adieu. It’s been a great experience, and I can honestly say that it has affected me in amazing ways I could never have imagined. Thank you, Jim, for helping us all get through it and for the dinners. The availability of your advice, even in spite of its somewhat impersonal nature (for so must comments on an assignment be, in their own way), has helped a lot of people understand or cope with a variety of situations better, and I imagine that has altered most of our outlooks on those situations in some way. I know it has mine, and I am glad it did, as otherwise I might never have agreed to go to the comedy club at which I met Jess and Grace. Cheers, eh? It’s been a great five and a half weeks—far greater than I could have hoped to hope for.

I beg of my reader at this the beginning
To forgive the harsh rhetoric of poetics,
For I well enough know the pains of distilling
The intended significance of metaphor.
But this, I insist, should be taken to cure
The maladies that often antagonize souls
(As this, I insist, was for you alone writ).
And now, with your leave, I will challenge my wit
To convey what my tongue is not able to share.

The spirits of the blanketed sky once did stare
On a world filled with pain and infused with loathing.
I grew up in that world, when they all called me young,
And since now I'm grown older, I see it's begun
To mature into some vile spawn of Abraxas(1).
The past is constructed of death and of taxes,
And so people are left to incapable task:
To synthesize some sort of cynical meaning
(Which for them quite often is not meant to happen),
And so not quite uncommon is misery here.

But still there are those who will defy all their fare,
Who refuse to surrender, no matter the cost,
And these are the people we most quickly dismiss
On account of their cheery and positive air
(For in truth, it is suspect, an act for the Stage).
And this, I admit it, was the concept which waged
Full on lesser wars against reason and justice
Inside my very mind on a late Friday eve,
And which (almost) inclined my decision to be
To stay far, far away from that fortunate place.

(And this is, I am saddened to say, no disgrace,
For more often than not is the error in right.)

But the truth was not proper at that place that night,
And I swear there would sometimes thorough the place shine
A beacon of some hue unusual to me
(Though for truth, I admit, it was soon recognized),
And my mind was unburdened of its former fee.

But as fate would so have it, my mind overcame
That romantic perception, sublimed and estranged
From reality such as it certainly was.
My fate was then taken and enslaved by the flaws
Of the world in its former despicable state.
The air became leaden, and the hour grew late,
And I, overcome by the world's sinister sleight,
Retreated at once to a refuge of dreamscapes.

And thus in the blink of an eye I was awoken
By an unexpected knock at a distant door,
And ere my mind followed, unwittingly opened,
And suddenly sense was displaced altogether.
And I swear there did sudden thorough the place fly
That very same signal that previous moved me,
Which this time encountered with no opposition,
Directing me to follow you out to the sky.

It was thus I was moved to this nonsense begin
(Because so it must be, in want of good reason,
Which was still quite marooned behind that distant door),
And as we were seated, discussing the season
And all of the various things worth our banter
(Which were seemingly endless, and this no small matter),
I was then overcome by your sensible self.

The pitiful ranks of the world were defeated
By that second great day (which I mean I enjoyed
Quite more than I feel I have properly told you),
And thus (if I may be allowed the confession,
Such as it is, in the world's present condition),
I was happy.

And now, as each day passes by with a flutter
Of that same estranged fancy I twice ere beheld,
I am grateful to say my suspicions were right
(More grateful than these careless lines e'er can tell).

You should know when I leave here, I will not be gone;
Indeed, I was never removed from this place,
And now can imagine no single place better.
You had made this my home in but two days' good time,
And a home well befitting a dreamer like me.
For this I must thank you—impossible wonder
(As any who know me quite well will so ponder),
But more thanks now are owed you for being yourself,
Which is also so challenging this day in age,
And particularly painful more often than not.

But this to me certainly is not a new thought.
In trust, I’m annoyed at the point of departing
Not so much because of those sentiments told you,
But more on account of your cheerful persona.
My skill as a wordsmith is hurt here in parting
From truth in its awkward traditional senses
(For to tell it, I’ve grown quite addicted to you,
And this unforgivable verb in its tenses
Innumerably various, its contexts confused,
Was the bane of Helena and Demetrius too,
And besides many others, the House and the Stage).
I implore your forgiveness at this faulty sage,
Who digressions were herein required he sought,
Though important to have them, at least by the last.

Now something of a finish have I here begot,
And I must, by your leave, bring this all to a close,
Though I hope not an ending, as is fit for prose
And other peculiars of the Muse's design.
There will (I will have it) be a place and a time
For all of the fancies we have yet to declare.
And in the meantime, be good to yourself, and take care,
And please always remember some time and some way
To be happy.

(I must also confess: I began this before you asked me.)

7 August 2007

1. Abraxas is a demon of Gnostic origin, representing an abstract similar to God and Satan combined in a single entity.