November

And we're here again. 

What an exhausting week, month, year, am I right?

I have been wanting to write in order to process the chaos in my mind and my life, but every night has either been 'library then fall into bed' or 'get drunk for one last time then fall into bed', so almost no self-care has been going on in-between.  

Some nice winter views. The sunlight in these pictures makes me feel calm. One of my favourite things about Oxford is the afternoon light reflecting on the sandstone. 

It's an odd Sunday. Sunday's are always strange here, the days when I pine for a walk on the beach, or a morning to lie in bed. But instead, here is a brain dump – because I am still yet to find time to write in my journal. 

Honestly, I feel depleted by people who require emotional labour, but don't give it back. Depleted by a degree that makes me work for eight hours a day, but still isn't enough. Depleted by a world that seems to not catch a break. It. is. relentless. 

Man, I really didn't mean to moan this much. I guess I've been dealing a lot of other people's moaning without a space for my own, and I've finally found it. 

Really, this is all a bit too bitter. There have been some blissfully happy things, amongst the exhaustion and the chaos. An hour on a bench in the Botanic gardens with my best friend, mostly in silence. Nights of wine and a lot of laughter. The same cafe every day before lockdown. A 10k run that cleared my head. A Sri Lankan meal with a friend I really love. This bowl of cereal I eat whilst I write this, which I am going to refill because no one can stop this bad! bitch! The pink carnations my mum sent me money for. A night with my sister before lockdown. 

I just feel a little defeated by the world. By our government, and their appalling crisis management. By this university, which puts all the emphasis on students to solve 3am mental health crises, a product of them working us way too hard. By my lost youth, because I don't care how privileged it is. Let me have just this moment.

Anyway, back on the wheel we get. To defeat this never-ending reading list, and give too much of myself, and feel a little sad and a little lost, but mostly just perplexed.

Peace out, y'all – send some good vibes, apparently I really need them.  

October thoughts

I am finding this new routine a little confusing, and I feel out of sync with it all. I don't have bi-weekly essays to structure my week, instead just an excessive amount of reading. So much feels scheduled, and I think perhaps that triggered the melancholy sense of monotony that got me down yesterday. 

But, as my friend soothed yesterday, we have had some beautifully fun times, and there have been too many good days to count. Its just a different rhythm and a different world.

Here are some good things

Riding my bike - she's beautiful and smooth and so silent 

The incremental reminder, in libraries or classes, of why I love what I do 

Morning walks in the sun 

Having the time to run, listening to Lizzo, and feeling my body process it all

The college cats I can see from my window 

Hugging my puppy last weekend 

Getting my third replacement university card, and finally getting into the libraries again 

Yoghurt and granola, eaten religiously with a coffee, as I watch the world wake up 

My mum transferring me money for said yoghurt, because despite it only being 1st week, I am skint (thank u student finance!)

Missing dancing, but being able to drunkenly talk instead

My friend leaving chocolate outside my room 

Velcro Vejas which, despite their excessive cost, I am in love with 

Oscillating between 10pm and 1am bedtimes, and finding no in between – because it's challenging my excessive need for control 

Philip Glass, especially Facades and 'String Quartet no. 2 'Company', for working music 

A trip to buy pens, which accidentally resulted in lunch out, and of course, no pens

So times are good, but they are strange and forever teetering on the unknown precipice. 

Since being here, I've noticed the magic Sertraline has endowed, and how dulled and tame my anxiety feels. Which is a wonder, but the lack of tears is perhaps a little disconcerting, especially when I can feel how much I want them. Odd.

Tonight I am going for drinks, and tomorrow a meal, and after that I can't really think. Just plough through my reading on 1989, try and find a little more rhythm, and continue to excessively worry about what's next. 

How are y'all?

(pic sources: 1) view from my window 2) @butterscotch_isle (via @sweetthangzine 3) @metmuseum 4) @ghastlypeak )

rain and sun

The sky is a perpetual grey, and it hasn't stopped raining in four days. Spirits are a little brighter than the pathetic fallacy suggests, though. Third year has started differently to others, with restrictions reminiscent of a boarding school (being told off for being in a boys room, scandalous!), but its been fun and chaotic, and we're making it work. 

Alongside returning to libraries, and pleading my way in as I've lost my university card for the fourth time, I've drank a lot of wine, been to a lot of cafes, been dragged on a very muddy and very fast run, illicitly hugged a lot of people, kept my crying to a minimum, and felt a strange sort of stability.

These days are odd and uncertain, but my room, with the view over the quad and my friends next door, feels safe and permanent in an idyllic sort of way 

I've learned how to make posh pot noodles with just a kettle, that broccoli doesn't steam in an egg boiler, that I really do miss my puppy and that rain can feel interminable. I have some insanely wonderful friends in this bizarre city, and am trying to fight the irrational thoughts that tell me I am alone. 

So all in all, good times, people. 

After a week of (10pm) nights out, I forced myself to sit with the discomfort of silence and calm last night, but quickly ran next door to Vassia's to paint instead. Something about this place makes being alone so hard. To recenter, I've booked a solo slot at the modern art gallery, to remind myself that my head is my own, and that this is an important and valuable thing to do. 

A new routine is gradually being adapted to, which happens every year but this more than any. Factoring in 10pm closing times, 6pm dinners, and having to clean my own room (shock! horror!). It's strange and a little uncertain, but isn't everything in this mad year.

So this year, my third, might be a little quieter than most. Maybe more evenings reading and chatting, painting or sleeping – but I am trying to remind myself that this is good. Different, but good. 

Now I must brave the rain to get my washing, and clean my bathroom as I've left it a little too long. 

How are you all adapting to a new term and a new life? Let's hope for some sun. 

the beginning of the end

Thoughts on third year. 

Who can believe it, eh? How quickly this has all disappeared.

Six months ago, I got on the train home, in state of quasi-evacuation, and then the weeks and months passed, and now we are here, in mid-September. I've even got a back to school playlist to mark the occasion. 

I feel distinctly mixed about it all. I can't contain my excitement at being back in my libraries and immersed in it all; at living with my best friends, working in cafes, running in the parks, just being away from home. Michaelmas' paper is sick, Autumn in Oxford is beautiful and my yellow bike is going to look iconic zipping around the streets. I cannot wait.

But I almost can't accept it's going to happen. Maybe it won't, who knows in this post-certainty world. But regardless, the prospect of it is idyllic.

And then, there's the apprehension. The hoped idyll that simply won't be fulfilled, because corona and necessary rules mean what feel like the best parts can't happen. Can't go to formals, can't have balls, can't even have face-to-face tutorials. Oh, and I can't cook for myself. Too often I think 'what's the point', and toy at the threads of rustication, suspension, a year out. I just can't shake this profound nostalgia of what was, and I know it won't be like that anymore. And it's like March's grief all over again. So that hurts, in a privileged sort of way.

And then, of course, there's the inevitable anxiety. Anxiety at exams and pressure. And at the end. That cruel creature that caused so much pain in 2017. But it sort of doesn't hurt as much this time. It feels as though there is a little more hope and prospect and opportunity once this is done, and maybe even some excitement (Berlin, please?!). But I also struggle to process that it will end. At the speed with which these three beautiful years have melted and slipped and are suddenly almost concluding. And then who am I? What does my identity consist of? Do I have to get a job? Can I not just read books forever?

And I just can't imagine my world not consisting of these people of whom I am in awe, who are so ridiculously intelligent and caring and driven it is hard to believe they are really real. I want them to be my world forever and to just stop time so I can drink up the hours with them. Really, I'd like to hold on to this eternally, and never let go.

So, for third year, I am feeling both hope and dread. So sad and so hopeful at the same time.

I know it will be hard and too many early mornings and late nights will be spent in the library (I've already had the necessary pre-warning) and in so many ways it will be different, and some of that I won't know until it happens. I refuse to let myself be consumed by the grief I did last time, and instead want to try so, so hard to breathe it in. Enjoy my window looking onto the quad, and the sandstone streets, and the coffees, and the cold mornings, and the laughs and the pubs, and even the hungover working. 

And I'll fuckin' stop with the photobooth pics when I really should be reading. 

Good vibes for back to school, y'all (and hoping beyond hope that a second lockdown isn't on its way!) <3

(pics are from insta: here, here and here)

the reads and the to-reads #2

I seem to have books everywhere: a permanent pile downstairs as remnants of days working, a tower next to my bed of 'to-reads', a shelf above my bed of my favourites, and a collection of history books to feign intellect. Despite not needing another for at least a year, I can't! stop! buying! them!

I've read a wonderful array of things this summer: it's been quite an inspiring few months, literature-wise and I have definitely explored things I wouldn't have otherwise. 

Here are some recs!

The Parisian Affair and Other Stories, Guy de Maupassant 

I have only read half of these, but as they are short stories I feel it is more justified to take a break halfway through. This is a collection of over thirty short-stories, with some just a couple of pages long. They are set in different areas and worlds of France, in the late nineteenth century. They are debauche and scandalous, and some are profanely ridiculous, but they are madly entertaining. Some of the comments he makes about women are so blatant they just make me laugh – how terrifying men used to find us. 

'Really strange, complex...unfathomable creatures, women', 'one of those treacherous looks that so often appear in women's eyes', you get the gist!

I'd highly recommend for a dip-in-and-dip-out book, with some astutely of-the-time comments and some crude humour, alongside a beautiful translation. 'A Parisian Affair', 'Monsieur Jocaste', 'Two Friends' and 'Regret' are some favourites. 

Rainbow Milk

As a debut, this novel was, for me, groundbreaking. I know some people found it a little too explicit, and perhaps buying too overtly into gay stereotypes, but I found it's representation and commentary madly eye opening. It's an intertwining of stories of the Windrush generation, alongside the life of a gay, black Jehovah Witness. The two narratives seem entirely unrelated, until the very end, but it concludes in almost perfect harmony. I found it visceral and raw and very harrowing, but also warm and loving. It made me think a lot about the intersectionality of identity, and as a book that breaks all the conventions, I thought it was just wonderful. 

It's not about the Burqa 

Another recommended reading of the reading group I mentioned in this post. My perception of this book was a little tainted by a conversation I'd had with a friend who said it was rather repetitive and superficial. I can see what she means by this, but for a white-woman entry into the feminism of Muslim women and the intersection between Islam and feminist theory, I thought it was excellent. It's main premise is to reclaim the voice of Muslim women on their identities as feminists, and explain what it means to them, through a collection of essays. The difference it highlights between religion and culture is, I believe, a pretty essential thing to understand, and perhaps offers a starting point for white women questioning the relationship between Islam and feminism. I do agree it is perhaps a little surface-level and repeats its fundamental point, but that I believe is not a bad thing, and maybe White Feminists will finally begin to listen. 

Reading Lolita in Tehran 

This was a slow and long read for me, but enjoyable and eye opening nonetheless. A memoir by Azar Nafisi, it explores life under the Iranian Revolution, as a woman, an academic and a reader. It taught me a lot about Iran that I didn't know, and shocked me at so many points. I adored her analysis of the different texts read in the subversive book group, and I often got lost in the novel itself, rather than her description. Whilst it did seem to take me far longer than most other books to get through, it was worth it as some of her lyricism is just beautiful, and the theme so important. 

So there are a few, perhaps more unusual, suggestions. I've also read The Family Upstairs (a little predictable but very quick paced), Exciting Times, and Women Don't Owe You Pretty – all of them good, but maybe ones you've heard of before. 

In terms of to-reads, I've got a considerable pile to work my way through before October. They include a Virginia Woolf 'Flush', a retelling of a Greek myth ('Thousand Ships', the David Nicholls I've been pining after ('Sweet Sorrow') and one set in the Qing dynasty to ease me back into history. 

What have you all been reading recently?

back to normal but not really normal

I was in the co-op buying snacks for a blissful afternoon on the beach, when my dearest friend asked me 'what would you think if you saw yourself now, six months ago?'.  I question this a lot. How normal signs of 'keep your distance' or wearing a mask or queuing outside a shop have become. How quickly we've adapted. 

I am in the penultimate hour of a very long coach journey, something that seems to have become a seminal feature of my summers. Unfortunately, this one is not preceding a flight to somewhere hot, but instead to a twenty first, with friends I haven't seen since March. 

I've spent this journey working, napping, reading, and eating a soggy pitta that just did not satisfy my evening hunger. I also got lost in the depths of my blog, circa. March, reading the intricacies of lockdown life. I can't stop thinking about how terrifying and horrible it was, and have had numerous conversations about a quasi-trauma I experience when thinking back to it all. My experience wasn't bad, and of course was not unusual, but the anxiety and the claustrophobia feels almost more intense and almost more unbearable in hindsight. 

It's resulted in a lot of reflection, about life now, life five months ago and life a year ago. And I suppose, in response to Evie's musing, my life feels more similar to how it manifested in 2019 than it did in May. Likely, in the midst of a pandemic, that is not a good thing. But, it also feels somewhat safe and reassuring and relieving to have got lost in this semblance of normal. To have forgotten what it was like to be stuck inside, not able to even see my friends for a walk. 

In so many of my posts I wrote about how I longed for a pub and a walk and to see a face other than my mum's, and now I have all these things and have absorbed them until I am exhausted with over-stimulation, I've almost forgotten we couldn't have them.

It's such a strange and liminal space and world, right now. It's all so normal and also so abnormal. That sitting on this coach with a mask, and relentless hand sanitising is assumed as a rite of travel. That life goes on despite two trillion pounds public debt. That the infection rate rises, and still we eat out to help out and travel further and meet up more. But also that my life is busy, that I go outside, and have plans and that so many of the things I said I missed, I can finally evoke in some form or another. 

I suppose I want to write this to remember, that on a dark day in April, when I thought I had throat cancer but really was just reacting to the stress, I would have never have dreamed I'd be on this coach to see my friends, or that Libby would be coming to stay, or that I'd be able to drink cider on the beach and go out for meals and work in a cafe. 

But also how quickly I slip back into taking these things as a given, and for granted, and not recognising how profoundly blissful it is to have them back.

being outside

Much about the last 5 months has been dark, empty and endless. But there has been light and opportunity and time that wouldn't have other wise come about. 

One pleasure I have indulged more than ever is the beauty of being outside, in the warm sun, on the beach, on a hill or just sitting in the cloudy grey in a park. I've discovered a new found adoration for simply being outside, in nature, in the fresh air. When you're time outside is so severely curtailed and when all other possibilities are no longer viable, there is something so freeing about being able to simply walk on a field or read in the garden. 

At every opportunity, I have held my breath and jumped into the depths of a cold and probably somewhat dirty river and swum until I could no longer feel my legs. I've swam in the Exeter canal, in the north sea at sunset, in Port Meadow, and in a valley after a breakfast cooked on a fire. 

I've enjoyed having skin smelling of wood smoke and clothes marked with mud and grass stains, or disappearing on my bike to walk amongst white flowers in an abandoned field. Sandy meals and drinks consumed in a park, as though we were replicating the summers of our teenage years. I've even found odd pleasure in the necessity of hedge weeing that arose out of lockdown. Its all been magically freeing and fresh.

 

And now, as summer rolls into the languorous days of August, I am finding beauty in picking blackberries to cook and eat with mountains of granola, and in picking the veg my dad has tirelessly tended to. Last night, I made an entire meal from harvested foods and it was hugely satisfying and nourishing, despite doing nothing to contribute to the growing of any of it. 

So, although our opportunities and experiences have been clipped and summer did not consist of the baked mediterranean paths and sparkling seas we may have dreamed of, the focus has been adjusted. Just the green spaces around me have a new found worth and beauty, and its been a delight to embrace them come rain or shine. 

longing for art

I am longing to see some art. I don't think I realised, prior to corona, just how much I love galleries, and how peaceful I find room after room of sometimes beautiful, but mostly mediocre paintings. Embarrassingly, I used to rubbish history of art as 'pointless' and vacuous, and now not only do I find myself doing a dissertation on early Islamic art but also frequently dream of sitting in a tutorial in the Ashmolean discussing paintings. I guess I've realised its a lot more than just pretty pictures, and has immense cultural and historic value. 

Recently, I've felt a real affinity with some of my favourites, and can't stop thinking about their spot hidden away waiting just for me to stop and stare. This Constable, of clouds, in a backroom in the Ashmolean which I can never direct myself to, but which I always seem to fall upon. Monet's Antibes in the Courtald, magically warm and rich in soft pinks and turquoises. I think you can find good art anywhere, these just happen to be a few whose delicacy play in my mind. 

Over lockdown, I found a lot of good art online, much of which was shared by my friend Sophie. It felt such an escape to still be able to explore new works and see some of my favourites, even when I was locked inside. 

Some highlights include (above):

Pierre-Auguste Renoir 'Buste de Femme Nue', Claude Monet 'Marine', Edvard Munch 'Standing Nude', Konen Uehara 'Hatō zu', Lucian Freud 'Man's Head (Self Portrait I)', Paul Cézanne 'Les Grandes Baigneuses'

I suppose there is some sort of theme: blues and greens, soft female forms, a lot of sea. And that Lucian Freud. I cannot stop thinking about that self-portrait. 

I also listened to Simon Schama's 'The Great Gallery Tours' which, if you can reconcile yourself to the posh stuffiness that often (in my opinion unnecessarily (because so much good art is free)) comes with art critics, is so lovely. He virtually visits 4 of his favourite galleries (I've only listened to the Courtald one) and describes three of the paintings. It feels just like you're in the gallery with him, and I would very much recommend for a gentle half hour relax. And as soon as I can, I am making a trip to the National solely for this Artemisia exhibition. After sending magazine cut outs to my best friend during lockdown, we've decided we need to go and see it as soon as it opens. 

Much of this is formal, 'traditional' art, But really, art can mean anything. For all its flaws, and all the times I have frantically deleted the app from my homescreen, Instagram is the perfect place to share and diversify creative works. Having just scrolled through my saved, I realised so much of it is art and brings creativity and colour and inspiration virtually. 

Some accounts I'd recommend following are:

@amber_sidegallery (a gorgeous independent photography gallery in Newcastle – Forever Amber's most iconic series was of poverty in the city, but since they have done so much; one of pictures across Syria during the conflict was just breath taking – I can't wait to take myself on a date here soon)

@vangoghmuseum

@museelouvre

@charlotte.ager

@ashmoleanmuseum

@robertoferri_official (a modern baroque-esque artist; obsessed)

@metmusuem

Ars gratia artis – mutatis mutandis (on fb, such a beautiful and diverse selection and it has really exposed me to some gorgeous new stuff!)

And finally, this. Which I think about almost on a daily basis. God, what i'd do for an americano, a croissant, some art and a nap. 

What have you been missing most? And any arty recs please send 'em my way xo