I think this is awesome.

A whiskey-drinker I used to know swirled his glass around and, listening to the sounds of the ice, called this one of the 'great sounds of the Earth'. Hearing him say that was one of the great sounds of the Earth for me. I've always loved sensual people. People who often remark on the sensation of colour, smell, texture, touch. The first Kiss may have drawn me to the Man, but hearing him remark, 'Look at all the wonderfulness of all the colours in there', in the middle of a supermarket vegetable aisle, welded me to him.

Some sensations that I have always loved:

The sight of young, green leaves. Especially when the sun shines through them.

The lace of bare winter branches against the horizon. Beautiful.

The scent of the bread aisle. When you're hungry, especially, but even when you're not.

Beautifully cut, drapey, stark-white tee-shirts. There is no look you can't accomplish against the canvas of a deadwhite jersey tee-shirt and jeans. You can go maharani, or Parisian, cute, sexy, both. You can go balletesque, or geeky, vampy, trashy, goth, whatever.

Silk blouses, silk dresses. The feel, the scent, the drape.

Epaulettes make me feel something... But I can't say what.

The golden light that fills the room at different times of the day, in different rooms. Every house I've ever lived in has had a different room that lights up at a different time. Walking into a room and stopping short to realise - this is the room, this is the time, this is the light - is one of the great joys of a new house.

Conversely, I'm often horrified by people who pass beautiful sights and sounds by without a second thought. One of the most beautiful sights in the town centre where I am right now is that of the full moon rising above the crazy-angled rooftops. A few times a year, the moon appears huge as it rises. A pale swathe on the horizon that slowly takes shape. And in a few hours, a beautiful silver globe hangs just out of reach. I walk down the road and stare and stare and stare. And crowds walk by me, in the direction of this beautiful, glittering thing, and their gaze never seems to lift for a single second.

Why?

How?

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing: Only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Three of the many things I wondered about, randomly:

1. What's the grue in gruesome?

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2. Why is it easier to ask than to look it up?

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3. Note the following exchange:

Me: Will I be okay?

M: Yes.

Me: How do you know?

M: Because you have to be.

Which brings me to No. 3.

Why does hearing that I have to be okay immediately negate all the positive feelings I have about the process of getting there?

This takes too long to say sometimes.

We Bought A Zoo

Notes to myself

Twice in the past two days, I've lost my temper with people who've asked me to make my mind up between two alternatives 'and then just be happy'.

Here's what I don't understand: Why is it so hard to comprehend that both alternatives may be equally desirable, both may be impossible, and therefore my final decision will always involve a little ambivalence?

Surely accepting that is the first step to choosing either way?

Still alive, still kicking, still screaming.

6 months to 30.

Where's the equanimity I was promised?

Where's the serenity?

Does it not come to some people?

Or is something horrifying going to happen in the next six months that's going to flatline my insides?!

So I'm back from my travels home.
Physically, at least.
My head? Not so much. It's home, and on campus, and in the past, and several different futures. My thoughts are awhirr. Plenty of spewing to come on this blog over the next couple of days.

Random notes from my travels:
The taxi driver who drove me to the airport maintained that he was shy and introverted and useless and crap at learning, but maintained a three hour conversation with me from house to Heathrow, recounted the basic rules of Thai grammar, which he is learning, and became so absorbed in the finer points of the conversation that he missed the exit to the terminal and drove us into Surrey before realising. Somehow, I can - and always do - only maintain interesting and deeply personal conversations with people who profess to hating conversation. Why is that? With gregarious people, I morph into these other silent types. With the silent types, I become gregarious and somehow they do too.
Why?

My sister (note to self: Must do a seperate post about my sister one day) came to collect me at the airport. The first thing I saw upon arrival was a row of taxi drivers standing with placcards scribbled with the names of their charges held up against their chests, and all eyes - yes, ALL EYES - turned sideways towards my sister. I was tempted to take a photo, but she broke the spelling by breaking into a loud and breathless squeal of welcome. Much to the delight of said taxi drivers. I made sure I bumped my suitcase into their legs.

We climbed into a cab and I'd just started telling her how I got lost on the way to the airport, when the taxi driver muttered, half to us and half to his steering wheel - umm.... I don't know the way...
My sister gave him cheerful directions which he followed to the letter.
I growled at him and barked everytime we past a road sign, which he ignored.

A week at home, a fight with Mum, an anniversary celebrated, a research proposal submitted, and now I'm back in England. Outside, the sky is blue and beautiful, but it's cold and windy, and the cat who's been lolling on the road outside our house has been inching (without uprighting itself) towards the relative comfort underneath the cars in the parking lot.