belated return

my mind has turned to travel writing, although i have officially finished my travels and i am here in the city to stay, it would seem. well, i see no problem in posthumous travel writings. the travel is dead, that is, though it hopes to one day be revived.

Field


Historic train tracks run adjacent to the small town of Field. The houses are quaint, simple, livable. There is a small school, not many cars. Everything is walkable. The center of town is also the end of town – a small bakery and café, and a mid-sized inn make up the liveliest square in the area. A neon red light reads “INN” though the town is too far from the road for the drifting tourists to be readily attracted as they drive past the town of Field on their way to pre-packaged wonders of the world. Picnic tables and wood benches look out on the train tracks. At sunset, a long trans-continental train stops to refuel, or just to pause before its dark mountain journey, on through the endless prairie, on a distant Atlantic beach. Perhaps the crew steps out for a moment, pausing to admire the dying light on the mountain peak. Or perhaps to stop in for a quick bite at the inn, or the small bakery and café. A couple on the bench look down at the valley, and softly discus the old days of the Canadian railroad. Although the town is quiet, sleepy, as the train pauses in the valley, the town of Field reveals its subtle and unique qualities. A moment passes, you pause to recognize it, the train still does not move as the door slams and you drive on.


Carmona

White, light and shadow bring the town of Carmona to vibrant life in the heat of Andalucian summer. Names of the churches and squares are of less significance in the town of Carmona. We only say that the names of her churches and squares are of little importance because her unique qualities do not derive from these mundane sites. The drifting, careless tourist only seeks these named sites, searching with his head in a map from the small tourist office under the medieval wall, believing there are other Carmonas to see on brief trips through Spain and Europe. Carmona is singular in its beauty, as are all the towns this tourist washes together. It is easier that way, you see, to seek the monuments, and move on. We implore you, please avoid this tendency at all costs. The visitor to Carmona does not need a map - only a sense of light and shadow. The playfulness of these two forces reminds one of Henri-Cartier Bresson, and a girl running up the whitewashed steps of the Greek town.

new york public library, september 24 2005

it is time to write.
but the words are not here
they have once again disappeared
listening to that author today
I felt uninspired
everything is buried far too deep
kate it cannot be that hard
either you have it or you don’t
I know what you are thinking
there is nothing, there are simple words
and simple sentences
and nothing filled with inspiration
only empty thoughts
god this is all an empty thought
only pictures of places on your wall
where you once were, but are not now
only intimations of understanding, never a full grasp
never the ability
god dammit here she goes again
john updike
it was as though words could not help but flow from his fingers
what was it he said
Remnick’s interview was probing, excessively praising and somewhat poor. But it did not matter – Updike took each question to its utmost level of depth. With grace and agility he fell into poetic reveries about his experiences as a writer with an overwelming track record. He was the embodiment of the unsuppressable need to write, to mold these words together on a page so that it could bring some momentary glory, some joy. But no, it was not worded so poorly when he said it, and he would most certainly correct this young writer’s precocious and secretly ambitious words. Updike was clear in communicating that rash ambition involved in his passion to make his living through writing, but what came out more ostensibly in this interview was his inherent love for his art. It was the purity, that sincerity that drives so many in literary society up the wall – because it cannot be explained in long extravagent words. Yet Updike did it so very well.

What was most striking for me at this stage in my very fragile life, was when he spoke about the power the byline can have on a young and elderly soul alike. I may have written earlier that he did not care too much for ambition. This would not be true—it is clear that young and old Updike has a rabid thirst for fame through his words, of validation through the power of his sentences. How could one not? I again fear that this is simply the ferocious reading that Kate, age 20, is taking away from his inspiring little talk, given my slightly frantic state of mind visas-vis my paralyzing inability to string words together. But what did he say? Ah, something that reminded me of Andrew Delbanco, the professor (who actually deserves the far more distiguished name of ‘teacher’). He talked about the miracle, the “magic” of Melville’s scribbled words (unlike like these) being transformed from etchings into neat and tidy print, ready to be bestowed upon millions of readers. God, I wish I could express that better. But that’s just it, he just loves it so much because he can communicate it all perfectly, because he can take what is stirring in his head and put it out in that scrawl and then bam, give it up to the public forever. God. Stop it Kate. Get your grip.





got drunk on september 24 2005 and wrote this down. time to stop this nonesense and snap out of it, i say. hello again streethaunter.

printemps

right after wren street ends, there is a great expanse of nothing. a big parking lot, a holiday inn, a post office. for over four months, i have pretended that london ended past that road, at least as far as walking went. very bad form street haunter, very bad form. naturally when i walked just a little bit further, overcoming my fear of grey parking lots, i found adorable streets, little cafes, lights strung up, and a nero that was about two minutes from my room (most upsetting/fantastic discovery, perhaps). exmouth market it is called, filled with smiling people chatting as they sip coffees and smoke cigarettes on sunny weekend afternoons. why is it that just when i am about to leave london transforms into the city pictured in so very many "four weddings and a funeral" type scenes? (think, when hugh grant is squinting and running in shorts and short sleeves and tells her that he loves her david cassidy style...worst part of the movie, but notice the warmth and the happiness that seems to abound in the city....it is now here.)

spring glory: last saturday i went to a concert in trafalgar square, entitled "love music, hate racism." very innovative/ridiculous title, somewhat difficult to argue with, especially the latter half. reason for attendance - belle and sebastian. should have known full well that any concert in trafalgar square would prove not so great for b&s, but it was free and why the hell not. the entire place was swarming with 14 year olds with braces, an odd fashion sense, and a hell of a lot of beer in their bellies. the message from the organization holding the concert was kept quite simple: "fuck the BNP!" over and over. that was basically the entire argument. needless to say the only way to deal with the british rappers and the shrill shrieking was to get some beer of our own and join the teeny boppers in their revelry. sadly, by the time belle played this meant we were all in desperate need of the toilet and were running around trafalgar square in acute pain and suffering. but the glory was afterwards, when we wandered to st. james park. this was one of the first places my dad brought me to when i came to london when i was 10. since that first introduction, i have only known london as a cold, grey place that was very pretty, but VERY COLD. to see the park in bloom, and people play frisbee, and one pound reclining chairs that when sat in are near heaven, ah lord. and after beer four i peed in the bushes, and i say that now i have gone their so often that i can call it "st. jim."

while i have been watching london blossom, and i have begun to appreciate the city more by urinating in its famed landmarks, my ipod has been playing johnny cash songs on basically constant repeat (especially, folsom prison blues, hurt, flesh and blood). i started my obsession with the country star in germany, when one of lucie's roommates had a friend over who went on and on about his love for johnny cash. sadly, he seemed to be more in love with joaquin phoenix and reese witherspoon singing in harmony than j.r. and june, but it was still amusing to see his enthusiam for the american idol. very enthusiastic -- every morning when i woke up he would be singing "walk the line" in a strange german accent that made the song that much better. he also kept on asking me questions about his malcom x and mlk jr. paper, since i stupidly said that i wrote a paper on them (in 11th grade, i was very proud...on the cover was a picture that i took of the street signs at the intersection of martin luther king boulevard and malcolm x boulevard. sadly, this may have been the highlight of the paper). all in all he was insane, although lucie told me he was quite normal when he spoke in german. BUT he got my love for johnny cash back in my head, as well as the desire to see "walk the line" despite the fact that i scorned it as an idiotic biopic. when i finally did see the film, it was indeed along the lines of an idiotic biopic, but that really didn't matter. the music scenes in the film were so fucking well done, that i didn't mind the fact that i was slightly disturbed (and very bored) by mr. cash's complete obsession with june carter. also, i think ms. witherspoon has a better voice than ms. carter, who in my opinion sounds like an old lady, especially when she attempts to hit the high notes. i understood just a bit why the german was in love with the film's soundtrack; the harmonies are almost too perfect - you just wan't to listen to "it ain't me babe" endlessly. sadly the entire suite and most of london has had to listen to me singing the harmony for the past week. but the film as a whole was irritating, i got sick of seeing mr. phoenix dismantle sinks, pine over someone who didn't want him, sweat as he inhaled white dust, and feel angry at his father (although i did remember that poor jaquoin also had a brother who died, he even called in the o.d.ing river. sucks). also, mr. phoenix was particularly dashing/gorgeous as mr. cash...i stopped thinking of him as the sniveling and terrifying man who sleeps with his sister and stabs russell crowe in a certain ridiculous hollywood film.

anyway. last week i also saw "the crucible," which is being put on by the RSC at the guilgud theater. absolutely stunning. i saw laura linney and liam neesen a few years ago on broadway, so i was inevitably comparing performances. i have a feeling they were much better than the mr. and mrs. proctor of this production, but the entirety of this production was probably far better. perhaps it was the impact of the set, which consisted of two dauntingly sparse white walls, with little openings that looked out on eerie new england woods. perhaps it was the aptly placed light that poured in through the small windows, illuminating or masking the action of the scene. perhaps it was the strength of the entire ensemble, especially in the second half of the play. this production highlighted the fascinating way in which each scene builds from quiet solemnity to incredible climaxes of action and passion. this was especially vibrant in the third scene when the children start going apeshit in the courtroom, turning against their own, finally accusing mr. proctor of wizardry. abigail is such a heinous BITCH, oh it is so good. and the last act, god almighty. proctor and his wife battling out what is right and what is wrong. my friend and i inevitably talked about elia kazan after the film was over. i know he was a coward for not going out to hang like the rest, but god his movies are good. arthur miller was right, and his representation of the 1950s witchhunt is searing, but no matter what i do i still unequivocally love elia kazan and his films. i would have cheered for him at the oscars, i would have stood up with all those people he influenced, dear martin and robert and al and marlon (don't think he was there). but still, when john proctor goes out to the gallows, unable to bear the shame of succumbing to the evil of the supposedly righteous puritans, i cannot help but hate the cowards who succumbed to the mccarthys. and so, at the end of this production, as it seems to be with every other play i see in london, i cried. new york theater, can you make me cry when i return? please do, please do.

starting tomorrow at 5pm, when i hand in my last paper, i plan to wander streets with extreme vigor until my return home in two weeks. i have to get the most out of this city - i plan to see as many plays as possible, go to hampstead heath and have a picnic, discover at least three new wonderful neighborhoods. then i can go back to the good ole usa feeling happy and fulfilled and maybe i will just go ahead and shoot a man in reno. i've just been itching to watch him die.

one moment.

traveling around europe at age twenty. does anything beat it? yes, as i traveled from one extraordinary place to another, i knew that were probably many things that beat did..but i let my glory last while it did. a month of travel, on my own and with friends, and as i moved about spain france germany (and czech repub!) filled with awe, ansgt, lightness, heaviness, hope (and lots of worry) for the future, i knew it was a time to be cherished. precariously poised at every moment, terrified and excited, knowing that you are so lucky to be seeing everything before your eyes, and mostly, praying that you will be able to come back to these places with the people you love the most. my month of travel in europe is not something to be covered in a blog in minute, let me just suffice it to say that i loved (almost) every minute of it.

let me go through a few of the best moments. in rome. anyone who i have spoken to for more than ten minutes since this moment has heard me gush. but let the kitsch kate continue. so i missed my friend running the marathon (daylight savings and her confusion with the difference between a km and a mile). but i did stand at the entrance to piazza navona as the runners came around the bend. the italian marathon is not the new york marathon. people wander through the streets, blowing smoke into the faces of passing runners, the majority of the athletes are old italian men, the aura of BE HEALTHY simply does not enter the picture. this was most clear when one italian man turned the corner and beheld the expansive piazza navona before him. he stopped in his tracks, held up his hands, and exclaimed "que bella piazza!" oh kitsch kate strikes again, as she watched him slowly pace into the beloved square, while germans and americans wizzed by on either side. sadly, the strange band playing in the center near bernini then started playing "living on a prayer" and the moment was over. i had another similar experience when i was at the finish line (again missing my friend), and after playing some very beautiful inspirational italian music, "the final countdown" (a la job from arrested development) finally fully snapped me out of my sentimental desire to run 26 miles on the cobblestones of rome. i put my sunglasses down and lit a gauloise, i mean, come on.

that is all for now. i have to post once, because i havent posted in years. i cant fit everything in, so maybe ill do it in chunks. thats a joke, i'll never do it in chunks. suffice it to say, trainrides, great friends, good food, great art, and everything in between (minus a camera in the sand) made my trip a wonder. i'd love to go back, but as it turns out london has become beautiful, and i can't wait to spend my last month here. i plan to go to brighton (for graham greene), dover (for gloucester), jane austen country (not sure where this is yet, but one of those shires, obviously for mr. darcy), and windermere (with sean, he will have a tweed jacket and a cane, i will wear a wooly cardigan and a floppy hat. we will stay at a quaint b&b, hopefully run by john cleese). and london, oh london - it is green and pink and white and yellow, and there are people OUTSIDE in the STREETS, yes people live in this grey city and it is a very exciting discovery to make.

ah, but there is nothing of my trip. i feel i have let this blog go to a bit of a i will post again! next time with lots of fragmentary thoughts from all over, prague here, berlin (oh! berlin!) there, and none of this inner discussion about whether or not i am going to post. no no none of that you silly little kate. i have lost my mind. good night.

the giddy

it is absolutely certain that i should not be writing a posting right now. i should be reading up on kitsch and starting my paper on the difference between deliberate and naïve kitsch, which is, inevitably, quite intriguing, but no. the giddiness is too high. there will be no work done tonight, and i do not foresee much sleep either.

i suppose i have not updated this in a long while...i thought i might do so briefly just to check in with the people who may or may not remember/acknowledge that i am alive. london is continuing to be both wonderful and puzzling, and i am both enjoying it and being imbittered by it. so odd, just today i took the same walk twice. you see, i had to get some piece of paper at home that said which books i needed, so i had to walk back to wren street THEN go to the library. wonderful fascist building the library is -- hitler did not bomb it because he was so pleased with it. sigh. ANYWAY, my first walk home for the paper, it was a little drizzly, but i took a new route. it was this tiny cobblestoned road named "collonade" that i could have easily taken for the past two months, but i had never seen it! right in front of my eyes. i loved it. didn't mind the drizzle, peeked inside the windows of the tiny flats, listened to my boots clack along the cobblestones, loved not having an umbrella. anyway, then i went to the brary, got the books on kitsch (including an article by rosalind krauss), and the walk home, the exact same one was absolutely awful. the gray had increased, my boots were sopping, i tripped, the blinds were closed in all the flats, i got home miserable. but that is london for me. a street make you want to fly at one moment, and give the city twenty minutes and you are tearing out your hair. ah me.

last week i went to the tate britian gallery. it was quite wonderful...although i do prefer the tate modern simply because of the overwhelming impact of the place. tate britian probably does have a better collection however -- the TURNERS -- ah i am in love with turner it appears. ignorant kate knew not a thing about him and then oh lala there i am realising all that i was missing. i think i like him more than the impressionists, especially when he paints at sea. there was one painting where they had a little comment that said "turner said that the boat tossed and turned and nearly heaved him overboard, but records show this is a complete fabrication. it was a lovely day" or something along those lines. very wonderful.

but cultural experience more extrodinaire of the past few weeks was probably as you like it with ms joyce hau. we got first row center tickets for five pounds, and saw the beauty of the royal shakespeare company. these people know how to act. it was also great to see the play after one of the fast-talking brilliant ucl professors had discussed the play a few weeks ago. surprisingly, the best part of this rendition was celia. she was incredible. and orlando was fucking hot, god almighty. like, a hotter version of kiefer sutherland. but yes, it was interesting to think about the literary connotations...of...

the boat party was also fun. incidentally, the tate saved me on this party. actually, the boat party was not particularly fun, as i threw up not OFF the boat, but in its toilet. which is very boring. if you go on a boat on the thames, at least throw up your cork-ridden cheap wine from sean's job OFF THE SIDE of the boat, not within its bowels. well, after missing the prime meridian and what not, roberto took me outside and i saw the tate from the river. this changed sickly kate to kate who must dance dance dance. and so i danced on the boat, and that was nice. but really i think the only important part of the boat story is that the tate saved me. it is a story that attests to the glory of the tate. if you want to see photographs of this disaster i have posted some london photography ici. but ironically, i missed the tate. this is because you cannot capture the most perfect moments with the camera. even if you do, it is only a pale shadow. also, i spoke french with the french girls, finally. and they did not laugh at me...very much. they said i had a good accent! i think they were being nice and/or were drunk. this will be tested in a few hours time.

oh. and i bought boots. and i love these boots. too much. they are the pale shadow of NO boot.

clearly the facts are that i am too giddy and excited to think straight, write straight, sleep straight. i want to jump up and down, i want to scream your name, i want to dance in the street. but i will have to save that for tomorrow morning. i have to just sleep, i suppose. good morning, good evening and good night, my darling.

lightness

there is really too much to be said, and i find it almost silly to attempt to say it all in a little post. but these are not meant to say everything, they are meant to give tiny glimpses of good and bad, sweet and sour, remarkable and ordinary.

or, if you would have it, lightness and weight. now about two weeks ago i fell into a pit of february depression, and the london landscape could do nothing to help me crawl out of it. everything was bleak, nothing could be fixed. i walked galore, drank galore, yet something was amiss. and then came vienna, and remarkably those days of dark were gone within an instant. and lucky me, the lightness that pervaded my travels has returned with me to london.

vienna. it began with bratislava, and a day in a post-communist city that was shockingly beautiful. well, at least the old city center. but once you exited the small walls of the fairy-tale town, you returned to the bare buildings with broken windows and sullen faces. but the food was cheap (ridiculous) and the slovaks were kind. but after a few hours, i was ready for the regal city of vienna. immediately after i arrived, dominik - a pure viennese that joyce met at some schmooze fest in shanghai - picked me up and brought me to his perfect home. a complete stranger, and he took me in for three days. remarkable. dominik is writing his thesis on free trade, he has already worked in singapore, bangkok and los angeles, and he is bound for america next year on a fulbright. he showed us the vienna that we would have never seen. on the last night, we happened to meet up with his old friend heinz, who is working for lomo. with him were the president and one of the founders of lomography. as i sat amongst these fascinating people, i felt out of place, like an observer who is not willing to expose anything about themselves, and therefore sits back, not part of that world but endlessly fascinated by it. and there was the language barrier - but it made it even more perfect. there was also the frightening bald middle age man, with the communist hat and the leopard scarf, who would have been fascinating if he hadn't been so terrifying. only interesting in retrospect, my stomach couldn't really handle his odd comments after drink five in the converted viennese brothel.

the next day we went to lomo headquarters. the office was laid back, filled with light, high ceilings, comfortable sofas, studios, and happy workers. heinz showed us the office, and made me understand more clearly the philosophy of the lomographers. there are these spectacular walls of photographs, or rather lomographs - just rows upon rows of photos, creating a collages that are impressive just because of their sheer magnitude. and the idea is that each little picture in these massive walls is taken by anyone, randomly, at the spur of any moment. natural. they have these four exposure cameras, that sort of allow for a bit of a cinematic effect through photography, with four images (obviously) that can catch a few movements etc. all i know, is the visit to "lomoland" and heinz and amira and all these people, made me want to know as much as humanly possible about this phenomemon of lomography. before we left they gave joyce and i a camera - i died of shock. it is a "fisheye" and it has a 170 degree high quality lens, but no real viewfinder. the idea is that you should not be looking at the viewfinder, but just taking what you see, spontaneously.

but even without the lomo experience, vienna was not the city of frightening nazis that my childhood fears expected it to be. oh silly american films. the highlight for me was first and foremost the coffee shops. in these shops, you sit all day reading and writing...they have newspapers on hand for customers, and comfortable chairs, and good lighting. there are modern ones and traditional ones -- all are the perfect place to read "the unbearable lightness of being," write postcards, or scribble in your travel journal. sort of dreamlike i must say. joyce and i sat in those cafes for hours, catching up on the past two months of our lives, furiously writing, occasionally taking the dramatically posed picture.

the other part of vienna that suprised me, were the museums. i was not quite aware of how much incredible art there is in that city. a mere english major, i cannot recite the specific wonders of the schieles and klimts that i saw, suffice it to say that i have still not quite recovered from such an inundation of great art. sadly, i was unable to attend the third man tour. this made me very upset, but i had a cafe at the cafe mozart. it was the most expensive double expresso of my life, and i cannot say it was worth it. but i sat there and dreamed of orson welles and harry lime. joyce and i also went to the opera, and again my movie fantasies were a bit hurt, as this viennese opera house was clearly not where amadeus was shot. and sadly we saw a highly salieri-esque opera, oh horrid.

i thought returning to london would be depressing, but instead i found that i had missed the city after my dreamlike week. i had truly snapped out of my melancholy state. as i walked the familiar road back to wren street and langton close i quickened my pace, excited to return to my familiar suite. london welcomed me with a bit of rain and a bit of fog, but this time such trivialities as weather would not drag me back to the february blues. today, as i walked home with groceries and other purchases in arm, i decided to go down a narrow mews instead of the industrial grays inn. the sun was setting, and all of the sudden nothing in london looked grey and old. it looked beautiful in its own way - no, not vienna - no, certainly not new york - but a subtle, brick beauty that i finally appreciated after weeks of bitterness.

who's afraid of virginia woolf?

well i am, for one. dear god. it has clearly become my pastime to sit in theaters and talk to old men when i am exhilirated by those players on the stage. old men and kate, sharing together in the delight. tonight it was the same, as i sat in my seat and floated above, filled with shock, horror, enjoyment, confusion. between the acts, the elderly man next to me seemed to know exactly how i felt, once again, and off we went bantering about this and that when really what we just wanted to get up and shout thank god it is so good. kathleen turner is a god.

but on the topic of virginia woolf, slightly, i suppose i should briefly explain the name of my blog. i don't know why i put it so idiotically, after all i have wanted to explain the silly name since i started the bloody thing, but yes. here i will unsubtley do a brief number.

dear ms. woolf wrote a short essay which i greatly adore about a london walk. in "street haunting" (read it, read it now -- it is much more worth reading than any of the words to follow), woolf chronicles her quest through the london streets to find a pencil, her perfect pencil. i will not be a silly twit and relay the details of the walk, because that is just boring. but after being here for a month, i can't tell you how true her opening sentence is: "No one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a lead pencil. But there are circumstances in which it can become supremely desirable to possess one; moments when we are set upon having an object, an excuse for walking half across London between tea and dinner." now for me, recently, it has been more between my anguished addiction to lost and a pathetic piece of chicken that i attempt to cook myself around 8, but truly. it is as though during those hours i feel compelled to rush out my door and just go walking, god knows where. yes, i hate the early darkness, but there is something comforting about it in this city, knowing that you will come back home to warmth and familiarity after rushing about going absolutely nowhere for a few hours. the rushing about is clearly better than the coming home, but that's another story.

anyway, i have been haunting the streets of london, perhaps not as well as ms. woolf, but perhaps with as much enjoyment. i was lucky enough to have a familiar wanderer join me this past tuesday, when ms. libby mooers arrived in london on route to uganda, a much different locale indeed. after a quick runaround of the wagamamas and the big ben, libster and i sat down in green park next to the buckingham palace for a glorious joint, in the glorious sun, and she exclaimed : "KATE. do you realize, we are walking in a park in LONDON." and her face was beaming, and i said shit. yes, this is pretty remarkable, when you step back to think about it. as we searched for the tate in a hazed state, we asked a businessman for directions, and he whipped out a map from his briefcase. we found this absurd, and then came the tate, and it was difficult to take it all in. libby made me write down in her book the explination i had for the two pictures that "i" (iggy) put up on "my" (iggy's) facebook group: "the first one is the glory, the second is the scandal." i write it here so that it can be written in two books. this is not a book.

later that day i visited moses at oxford, and was somewhat shocked to see 20 year olds served food in a magnificent hall. a candlelit dinner, with a waitstaff to boot. i was reminded of my silly little catering job, and thought wow, but if i were serving these kids i would attempt to accidentally spill on their laps as much as humanly possible. of course i wanted to this for my catering job as well, but i have anger management problems. but also, rich british people are simply insufferable. no connection possible. oxford made me slightly confused, simply because in my mind it was the place where auden, where names of greatness sprouted everywhere, but everything seemed so dead. like, dead - stuck in the past. obviously there was a grotesque fascination mingled with the horror. and yet, it was utterly beautiful. but oxford was wonderful because moses was wonderful and concluded my day of intoxications with four shots of tequila and god knows what else, and then a long drunken conversation about how, well god knows what i can't remember a damned thing. but as "only connect" seems to be my thesis for everything in life these days, it was probably about missed connections and how much i love successful ones.

ah yes. i do hope that "who's afraid of virginia woolf" will actually snap me out of my lost daze. for the past week my brain has snapped in two as i have succumbed to my need to fall into a pit of obsession with bad television. the suitemates suggested it, the life fell apart, oh lost. oh lost. but no, i must get back on track, and i will. no more lost. well perhaps one more episode, but afterwards i will continue to see plays, intoxicate myself in parks, read anything and everything, destroy my lungs, understand british people, and haunt streets after dark.