The rain arrived today, with a skulking sigh. It didn't stay long, but it left greyness in the sky.
I had a hefty day of work today. If reading was muscle-exercise, I would be a ninja by now. I went to the Senate House Library to do some of the work, and it was beautiful and silent and reminiscent of Sterling at Yale! I got hungry though, and you can't eat in there, so I had to depart. Now I always face some sort of moral dilemma when I leave a workplace: should I go straight away and find a new one, or should I just wander for a while. Now I know that if I wander, I probably won't do anymore work for the afternoon, but I also know that if I go somewhere else straight away, it is highly likely that I will be incredibly unproductive. Also, I frequently make one plan, and then a millionth of the way there (which usually equates to a few steps), I realise that I don't particularly feel like doing something planned, that my heart is longing for some spontaneity after what seems like a millennia of white page after white page, eternal letter after eternal letter. So I stop in my tracks. I realise that my phone can't work out directions if it isn't connected to wifi. I weigh up the pros and cons of going back to the wifi spot I just left. I decide that I have escaped once, I do not want to return, if I do return, I will make myself stay. I do not return. I decide to wander in the general direction of the road I know takes me home. I walk past a coffee shop. Spontaneity 1. Plan 0.
Today I found Waterstones, which is actually a place I have seen and wanted to go to before. It's sort of hipsterish, with an eclectic mix of old bicycle posters, and white utilitarian furniture, and blue and brown coffee cups, and dainty treats, and a chalk board menu, and not too much else. I had packed a flask of tea and a cheese sandwich and some grapes, so I didn't really need to go into the shop, but I wanted to sit at the high table by the window, and what sort of person doesn't allow their self such an innocent form of satisfaction? That's what I told myself anyway.
And plus, Waterstones is actually a glorious three-storey book store! So I had my mocha, bought with the exact change, in coins. The lady at the til counted them in french, and I said "Ah, vous parlez le français!" "Yes", she said, very unforthcomingly, and so the potentially trying but interesting conversation stopped proceeded no further. I took my mocha and spent the next ten minutes trying to get my chair not to wobble, until I realised that actually it was the floor that was uneven, and it wasn;t the chair's fault at all.
I wrote the following while I sat at the window, watching the street. It is not particularly coherent because I was trying to read a nineteenth century photography text at the same time as I watched events unfurl around me, like the words do as you turn a page.
I had a hefty day of work today. If reading was muscle-exercise, I would be a ninja by now. I went to the Senate House Library to do some of the work, and it was beautiful and silent and reminiscent of Sterling at Yale! I got hungry though, and you can't eat in there, so I had to depart. Now I always face some sort of moral dilemma when I leave a workplace: should I go straight away and find a new one, or should I just wander for a while. Now I know that if I wander, I probably won't do anymore work for the afternoon, but I also know that if I go somewhere else straight away, it is highly likely that I will be incredibly unproductive. Also, I frequently make one plan, and then a millionth of the way there (which usually equates to a few steps), I realise that I don't particularly feel like doing something planned, that my heart is longing for some spontaneity after what seems like a millennia of white page after white page, eternal letter after eternal letter. So I stop in my tracks. I realise that my phone can't work out directions if it isn't connected to wifi. I weigh up the pros and cons of going back to the wifi spot I just left. I decide that I have escaped once, I do not want to return, if I do return, I will make myself stay. I do not return. I decide to wander in the general direction of the road I know takes me home. I walk past a coffee shop. Spontaneity 1. Plan 0.
Today I found Waterstones, which is actually a place I have seen and wanted to go to before. It's sort of hipsterish, with an eclectic mix of old bicycle posters, and white utilitarian furniture, and blue and brown coffee cups, and dainty treats, and a chalk board menu, and not too much else. I had packed a flask of tea and a cheese sandwich and some grapes, so I didn't really need to go into the shop, but I wanted to sit at the high table by the window, and what sort of person doesn't allow their self such an innocent form of satisfaction? That's what I told myself anyway.
And plus, Waterstones is actually a glorious three-storey book store! So I had my mocha, bought with the exact change, in coins. The lady at the til counted them in french, and I said "Ah, vous parlez le français!" "Yes", she said, very unforthcomingly, and so the potentially trying but interesting conversation stopped proceeded no further. I took my mocha and spent the next ten minutes trying to get my chair not to wobble, until I realised that actually it was the floor that was uneven, and it wasn;t the chair's fault at all.
I wrote the following while I sat at the window, watching the street. It is not particularly coherent because I was trying to read a nineteenth century photography text at the same time as I watched events unfurl around me, like the words do as you turn a page.
"A man sat down and suffered as I had, pushing the chair around and changing chairs and generally succumbing to the same frustrated spirit that I had. I wonder if there is a lesson to learn from that? Maybe sometimes we are made so upset by something which we needn't be. Maybe sometimes the problem is not what we think it is, and we will get nowhere by trying to change something that isn't even wrong."
And then I sat and watched the world go by, and I almost cried quite a few times, just because it was all so lovely. People are strange beings, when you don't know them (and sometimes when you do!) They walk and talk like humans should, but if you can't hear them, can only see them through a slab of glass, they morph into ethereal beings, who fit into the screen of your life only for the moment that it takes them to walk by, and then you never see them again. The only record that you have of them, the only proof that they are existing somewhere in the world at this moment, is that you saw them. They become creatures of memory the moment they vanish off the canvas your mind paints as you watch through the window.
I wrote this, as I watched, and it doesn't make complete sense, because watching someone real and realising that they are a figment of your mind, that you are witnessing a few seconds of their existence in a way that no one else ever will, is a rather strange experience, and not something which can, I think, ever be accurately conveyed.
And then I sat and watched the world go by, and I almost cried quite a few times, just because it was all so lovely. People are strange beings, when you don't know them (and sometimes when you do!) They walk and talk like humans should, but if you can't hear them, can only see them through a slab of glass, they morph into ethereal beings, who fit into the screen of your life only for the moment that it takes them to walk by, and then you never see them again. The only record that you have of them, the only proof that they are existing somewhere in the world at this moment, is that you saw them. They become creatures of memory the moment they vanish off the canvas your mind paints as you watch through the window.
I wrote this, as I watched, and it doesn't make complete sense, because watching someone real and realising that they are a figment of your mind, that you are witnessing a few seconds of their existence in a way that no one else ever will, is a rather strange experience, and not something which can, I think, ever be accurately conveyed.
"Sometimes when I sit and watch people go by, I want to cry. Not because I'm sad, but because there is such beauty in every face, and I'm almost certain that not everyone I see sees themselves as beautiful. Just think, no one puts clothes on in the morning without thinking, even minimally, about what they're wearing. Maybe the jeans are the first pair of jeans to fit properly in years, maybe the blue satin jacket dazzled with pink flowers was a spur of the moment buy, maybe the grey t-shirt is a practical move, so that the baby doesn't get the nice clothes dirty. The pink shoes don't match that pink shirt by mistake. That lady in the black clothes, with her head bent over, hobbling slowly: did you notice her purple scarf? I haven't even got to the faces, the make up, the eyebrows, the nose, the lines, and I have already realised how much I miss when I walk past someone. Just their clothes are enough. Now I can see that this could become something ugly if you twist it into a way of judging someone by their attire. I don't mean it like that at all. I mean that in every person's dress lies evidence of the person's expression of their self, conscious or not. And I mean that every time I see a person, I am experiencing something that transcends what we can say to each other; I have the privilege of seeing some object, some evidence of soul, bared out in the open.
People and dogs
People and bags
People with cameras
People with sad faces
People grinning
People with babies
Souls
Souls
Souls crossing through time and finding ways to see themselves
as they grow old
Her dark-dyed hair and the bangs
the red dress with frills and white spots
the red hair with porcelain skin and a white dress
the little girl, white long sleeved top and a monster-plant patterned pinafore,
paired with sandals, practical, sweet
the parents, stupid for their baby, giggling
no sadness, delight
pure joy exploding into the world
paired with sandals, practical, sweet
the parents, stupid for their baby, giggling
no sadness, delight
pure joy exploding into the world
sensory overload of expressions of soul
That lady with the pink shirt walked past the young couple holding hands, and then looked back and watched them as they walked away - marveling at the innocence of love? Reminiscing about her own younger days? She smiled a few moments later, then carried on walking."
And then back to reality as I reached to sip my coffee and noted that the cup (board ahaha) was bare. But then I remembered that my flask was not bare. Is it scandalous to pour tea into an empty cup of coffee? Oh well, when you read how it made me feel, I don't think you will be able to find it in yourself to reprimand me:
"The joy opening my flask gives me is indescribable. Elation rides out on a volcanic eruption of steam, excitement flowing from my soul to meet it in a delicious embrace of tea and mouth."
And then I fed my soul some more, as I walked into Heaven (again! So many places on this earth are heaven!) The bookstore. The glorious, glorious bookstore. Once more, Wordsworth comes to the rescue and puts into words my heart and soul in a way I never could, simply because he already has, better than anyone else ever could:
Though he speaks of London, I apply it to the bookstore:
And then back to reality as I reached to sip my coffee and noted that the cup (board ahaha) was bare. But then I remembered that my flask was not bare. Is it scandalous to pour tea into an empty cup of coffee? Oh well, when you read how it made me feel, I don't think you will be able to find it in yourself to reprimand me:
"The joy opening my flask gives me is indescribable. Elation rides out on a volcanic eruption of steam, excitement flowing from my soul to meet it in a delicious embrace of tea and mouth."
And then I fed my soul some more, as I walked into Heaven (again! So many places on this earth are heaven!) The bookstore. The glorious, glorious bookstore. Once more, Wordsworth comes to the rescue and puts into words my heart and soul in a way I never could, simply because he already has, better than anyone else ever could:
Though he speaks of London, I apply it to the bookstore:
"Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty"
Book upon book rise to the clouds in priceless towers. Precious thoughts and words and work and soul sit stacked, waiting, waiting ever so patiently for a wandering soul to be curious. Do you know how much fun life is if you're curious? I sometimes think that maybe if people weren't so focused on knowing wholly the whole time, if they weren't obsessed with perfect facts and figures, and if they just let their minds be free, they would be so much happier. I know it sounds counter intuitive to talk about knowing and being curious as opposites, because in one sense they're basically the same thing. but the way I mean it, knowing is an end, and curiosity is a gentle journey. You can know something completely, or be sure of something, or feel convinced that something is true. Socrates says that knowledge is justified true belief. So you believe something, you work something out, and you think you know it. But curiosity is not at all about reaching that end. Well, at least not for me. Maybe it's what you're curious about? Do you want to know, or do you want to experience? For me, curiosity is about learning. I don't want to know completely, because once you know, you know. And once you know what you know, you can't unknow, and where is the excitement, the serendipity, the exploration in that? I just want to experience, to see, to taste, to touch, to feel, to observe.
Actually, I think that the difference between knowing and curiosity is that you can reach the end when you know something, but there is the infinite whole world to be curious about.
I don't know (hah know) what I'm talking about! It's like being back in Directed Studies Philosophy class, where you'll write an entire essay and then read it and just think "what on earth am I talking about?!" I guess I'm just trying to say that I wish people could experience the joy of exploring the world without any goals, no intention to know something until you realise you don't know, and you'd actually like to know.
Life is a strange strange things mes amis. I am so glad I am alive! I bought a book and two diaries today, though if I had enough money, and enough time to read them, I would have bought the whole store. A noble thought comes to mind: I wouldn't buy the whole store, because that would deprive the rest of the world from infinite titles to spark their curiosity, to light up a little corner in their closed in, cavernous minds. I won't tell you what the diaries looked like, because they're mine and they're special and part of their beauty lies in their covers, reminders of things someone I know loves, something only I know that that someone loves. Or at least, I may be the only person who remembers that that person loves that thing. The beauty of it lies in the sweet connection that is mine, which no one else is privy to, and which, really, I might be the only one to even value.
So I bought a book and two diaries and then I went on an adventure up two flights of stairs to find a bathroom. Along the way I met three different ladies, all seeking what I was. The toilet was hidden next to the Mathematics and Science section of the store, and I was highly amused, because I had to invoke my marvelously useful Zimbabwean survival skills, and work out how to get the toilet to flush. Apparently people hadn't been using it because "it wasn't working".
Let me tell you something right now: "it wasn't working" is not an excuse. If it "isn't working", then make it work. Why else do you have a brain? An infamous history teacher used to respond to the excuse "we had no electricity at home, so I couldn't do my homework" with the phrase "neither did I, but I kept the midnight lamp burning". Quite literally, she did her work by candlelight. She made a plan. That is what Zimbabweans do. We make a plan. It's not always the best solution, because it means that something that's broken is never really fixed; we just keep discovering more (complex) ways to stop it from breaking completely, and in all honesty the thing eventually falls into a state of annihilation and is confined to the pile of things-we-should-get-rid-of-or-do-something-about. But anyway. I am proud of my response to the situation today.
"Not working?" said I, with a burgeoning grin. I leapt into action and took the lid off the cistern.
"Right," said I, "what have we here." I examined the innards of the cistern intently.
"Ah hah," said I. My audience gasped, "she's found the solution! She's found it at last!"
"Well, no," said I, "I'm afraid not quite yet. But I'll have it soon. Just you wait there. I'll bet!"
And I pulled and I pushed and I plucked and I prodded,
and when they'd almost despaired, I looked up, and I nodded,
"By Jove, I've got it!" said I, with a smile,
"I'll have it all up and running, just give me a while."
In the meantime the line had grown awfully long,
and though I refrained from breaking into song,
I did reassure them that it was almost done.
"Hand me the watering can," said I, loud and strong.
The feeble, rich Englishwoman gaped, "no that's wrong!"
But I had a plan.
Yes a plan, I could see
the entire construction spread out before me.
"The cistern is old," said I, with a sigh,
"and it isn't quite strong enough, being so way up high,
to pump in the water at a rate which will please,
so pass me the watering can. I'm down on my knees!"
So she passed me the can, which was plastic of course,
and I filled it up from the tap with full force,
and then I did deposit that volume of life
and the silence that ensued could have been cut with a knife.
I tentatively reached to the handle, and flushed.
Then into the bowl, the fine water, it gushed.
"Eureka, she's done it!" "By golly it's done!"
and that is why sometimes being Zimbabwean's quite fun!
So I fixed the toilet, sort of.
Then I found out that you can sit upstairs, so I sat and did some work, and made some conversation with a girl who sat next to me, and discovered that she's a real live writer (as in she is publishing a real book, and she is live because she isn't dead... unless she was a ghost.) Then I left and ventured over to Oxford Street, which is a terrible place, simply because there are SO MANY PEOPLE. One cannot move for fear of elbowing someone who has no fear of elbowing anyone.
Anyway, I went into some shops and left rather promptly because I felt claustrophobic, and then I got onto the tube and got home and made a successful dinner and then read some more and wrote a reading response and now it's late and this sentence is far too long but I will continue because I am curious to see if anyone has read this far and has noticed how long this sentence is. Phew.
Good night!
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