tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36164038046097266692024-03-13T17:56:55.899-07:00KatieLoujust some wordsKatie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.comBlogger250125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-5147784812210636292022-02-10T23:51:00.001-08:002022-02-10T23:51:13.397-08:00such happy timesLong time, no see. <div><br /></div><div>I woke up frustratingly early this morning, my body clock wired to the anti-social hours of work, and instead of lying in the dark I opened up my blog. </div><div>It's funny looking back, reading my analysis of my year abroad just one month in. </div><div>Some things haven't changed: I still find the waiting at traffic lights funny, and the lack of card payments frustrating. There's still a lack of small-talk and no free tap water. </div><div><br /></div><div>But other things have changed: now, I could live this blissful fun for years. Not working much, or when I want to, seeing friends, exploring new places, drinking in bars, crocheting, reading. Gosh, it really is idyllic. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've done too much in the four months since I wrote to document it: I went to Berlin, to Paris, home for Christmas. To Cologne, to Munich. Heck, I even graduated with first class fuckin' honours. I secured a lot of tutoring, applied for my masters, made friends, went to Christmas markets, didn't really stop until I was forced into 3pm naps after work. My parents visited, and so did Lizzie – and it was all magical. The weeks before Christmas were very cold and honestly a bit bleak – but naturally, this was the result of Covid – Germany is a staunch fan of Covid rules. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some evidence of it all...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtUyiyr0kpoZxUOJ9k09GJYe0PMplXfvORp-rup_8vFHYXY5FmUwyKbOzRwMA01ioUhev76LRjmqrspTDP2V4Xj78ruANPXiL8t1DQ-Qrix9fl5s2geNb2FAQ3RQss33aJ5UHEbrbAaD6VpbtFQdCoKbgKUJTluTTTNf6NuUoaXtbayMEaHKeCKgeh" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtUyiyr0kpoZxUOJ9k09GJYe0PMplXfvORp-rup_8vFHYXY5FmUwyKbOzRwMA01ioUhev76LRjmqrspTDP2V4Xj78ruANPXiL8t1DQ-Qrix9fl5s2geNb2FAQ3RQss33aJ5UHEbrbAaD6VpbtFQdCoKbgKUJTluTTTNf6NuUoaXtbayMEaHKeCKgeh=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0XDCrGJI8FbNc9JVSHexpBxO9-bPik7JrpjXi9Xm0Eq5xnnPMZ64nl9bJxwdKp1zWXo65XoIXZEkpyNTDC4IH4bSCl34u42G92bMU4SwmfKOGkV2Yy3DjgMGoUW-6g9pOqtvv7ptNAncaDAQzSAbQ-zTobMvLUw1ud0UveYuEiB-6Fkp9dayQG7Ag" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0XDCrGJI8FbNc9JVSHexpBxO9-bPik7JrpjXi9Xm0Eq5xnnPMZ64nl9bJxwdKp1zWXo65XoIXZEkpyNTDC4IH4bSCl34u42G92bMU4SwmfKOGkV2Yy3DjgMGoUW-6g9pOqtvv7ptNAncaDAQzSAbQ-zTobMvLUw1ud0UveYuEiB-6Fkp9dayQG7Ag=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8FAbhobcRMqx1kAje1U29lSRdY_Syxtpe7f2hvOarOpjCzI_MqStyJxfbmOIhLDhDBCI4eTQF_D1Zq2bE2jB_TsI-9co5Z15P9VOLtuTJo1Y4vYp4WvjLk1VBiflMh0rWLjYY7Ry73EppgjVz7ra1GwRPpH4sPwxLvFkYZNzNbJjMVPKmUqlxCKzg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSH_clBQ7a112vGNwdbbmnZtmPTfVfs4WNYBSob43SHFExuCCbfzh-PUoOILlIs7ogWz405Bwl0njhOPpJV4Ewegqb1jleJO7e4-f36HACd_LhYaDVeJw90A0R8ZEXwbDEvNfdjqfGV3FDIBcWMPLdB7Qiq2XUyNgG6o1gCZzA9e1kaVDrj52UegGn" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimXZmdZy6xJnzCCpIGU3A1FApnhPb-PX9NegOiDP2aTTX86fmTRGnNxRjTmo2gRck-urlKphNYkcCQtAzYFZcnH4yeN7C_o3ha849XdUnLLLcXUVOB5BjJZn10cu7W6kKN9s56bMLUWi0_tsXe-glWxBaUkni1jFKAOVdXbAUdBk8ySNoP8wIFqRkY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimXZmdZy6xJnzCCpIGU3A1FApnhPb-PX9NegOiDP2aTTX86fmTRGnNxRjTmo2gRck-urlKphNYkcCQtAzYFZcnH4yeN7C_o3ha849XdUnLLLcXUVOB5BjJZn10cu7W6kKN9s56bMLUWi0_tsXe-glWxBaUkni1jFKAOVdXbAUdBk8ySNoP8wIFqRkY=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvx5uR45Nbz_3GK9n36WVpt8of4A2ohnij7b7dtBzQ7jGqwzVMPcIuAeFDxsHEDSBpCAyAYoyA_-lR_oIN4yEzHboQazIdy9j_eiSI2Cvew0S-6L_Tr5oBHY-v6I_dcR0eKoHlQvv5ECTOdrdA0bcIcd805UtHqqK-ENRflgDREYlql1Ovmf2zA6WC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvx5uR45Nbz_3GK9n36WVpt8of4A2ohnij7b7dtBzQ7jGqwzVMPcIuAeFDxsHEDSBpCAyAYoyA_-lR_oIN4yEzHboQazIdy9j_eiSI2Cvew0S-6L_Tr5oBHY-v6I_dcR0eKoHlQvv5ECTOdrdA0bcIcd805UtHqqK-ENRflgDREYlql1Ovmf2zA6WC=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><u><br /></u></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0000ee;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><u><br /></u></span></span></div><br />But, since coming back, I have felt so happy, so brave, so empowered. Every academic year I think this is the year I have learned the most – but gosh, this might be it. Intellectually, my brain is mush – but in confidence, in independence, in resilience, I feel transformed. How did I make such a happy life out here? I've even (somewhat accidentally) come off sertraline and feel better than I ever did on it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, honestly, life is immense at the mo. Maybe if I could just sleep a little more, but fuck – who needs that?</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-90623752120074458842021-10-12T06:47:00.003-07:002021-10-12T06:47:59.231-07:00life elsewhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDO9jxnQN6zzv31jgjZJFp2thTnna2_w3N2GiwCSkULC5feX4_aV_naTOst9x1NbpHlf53fTy44oc-Oea2uFEL5-_YwewkRcsG3HxCCzAo0kxydJkM3fZzam2Xait6qd3VgyuXP9ok9fR8xhD_EAPJSBHJMdqsJwmB3nCPO2e2jmnaa0wPe5lUmRct=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDO9jxnQN6zzv31jgjZJFp2thTnna2_w3N2GiwCSkULC5feX4_aV_naTOst9x1NbpHlf53fTy44oc-Oea2uFEL5-_YwewkRcsG3HxCCzAo0kxydJkM3fZzam2Xait6qd3VgyuXP9ok9fR8xhD_EAPJSBHJMdqsJwmB3nCPO2e2jmnaa0wPe5lUmRct=s16000" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">It's a grey afternoon in Mannheim, an industrial city that straddles two German states. Its drizzling and, since breaking one of my shutters a few weeks ago, my room has been shroud in a perpetual semi-darkness. There is, however, quite a nice peace found in the quietness of this afternoon. I had a turn this morning about the prospect of time alone and empty in a foreign city and a foreign country. I forged a rash plan of a trip to Frankfurt to see some art in the rain, but stopped myself, aware of the ease of giving into another day of busy-ness, so I again don't have to think. </span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifgjqJRKMSsMQwnLexbAczg5YgwNod-wxcw_zmuXW-D-JWIEM8eVMneiFCfykKLB9WgaSFvWBrW1M_hR0A5E9xQX2XadnynJvw0ErtNzOxBeR9VJWscWjz2XqwU_d5vOmg7Fm6xkiA0mVMMndbzkpSTSnbz4siQiD4ST1oLUCS5fh_laXl7NmeUDTc=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEifgjqJRKMSsMQwnLexbAczg5YgwNod-wxcw_zmuXW-D-JWIEM8eVMneiFCfykKLB9WgaSFvWBrW1M_hR0A5E9xQX2XadnynJvw0ErtNzOxBeR9VJWscWjz2XqwU_d5vOmg7Fm6xkiA0mVMMndbzkpSTSnbz4siQiD4ST1oLUCS5fh_laXl7NmeUDTc=s16000" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Life here is funny: unrecognisable from four months, sometimes I wonder if I am the same person. It's full and busy and social, but also anxious and exhausting and sometimes frustrating. School is a daily challenge of cancelled lessons and somewhat unfulfilling observation, but it is also teaching me so much and creating an acceptance. I have sat in so many funny places, waiting: the right train stations, the wrong train stations, bus stations, forests, on the side of roads. Perhaps its just an oscillation between waiting and busying. Life outside is full of exploration and adventure, chatter and plans. This week has been a little quieter – it is the school holidays and I am trying to catch up on sleep, rest, life – something I am of course not very good at. </span></div></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkaRgc7VRueqVH9D50RNT96QYOyorh16YQ32A3VwBrTP_VOUNJ01b_U16XOPcDN4DcE_D03qHyDLdUfmr0ST4B8WSK3P8HgPW2DNk5yfoci3pUdYytTTdkyLlqvLUvSzz_CuBPeVVkbLTXLrmlrJrBo9BbSdkFBx2dw-eA2r2wSa12Xw9txFtdEuzE=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkaRgc7VRueqVH9D50RNT96QYOyorh16YQ32A3VwBrTP_VOUNJ01b_U16XOPcDN4DcE_D03qHyDLdUfmr0ST4B8WSK3P8HgPW2DNk5yfoci3pUdYytTTdkyLlqvLUvSzz_CuBPeVVkbLTXLrmlrJrBo9BbSdkFBx2dw-eA2r2wSa12Xw9txFtdEuzE=s16000" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Living abroad is also funny: it's made me realise a lot about the UK – often positive (e.g., health care, attitude towards general public health (free tap water, no public smoking), no ridiculous waiting at crossings, a like for the British small talk) but also given me a smugness as I listen to Newscast and hear food shortages and fuel shortages and increased prices back at home. I miss studying a lot and, as the novelty of it all has worn off and mellowed into a stability, perhaps the outlines of a routine, I know I couldn't do this 'year abroad' jaunt for longer than a year. Maybe live abroad, but not in this sort of constant holiday it now seems to be. Wildly delicious for a year, but after that I will be hankering for more stimulation and purpose. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now that I have reached a time in my life with more space, something that again feels so alien from four months ago, I hope to write more and read more, bake more and be still more. I'm sure it'll all appear here. </div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-3336318117869642112021-09-01T06:55:00.005-07:002021-09-02T01:16:34.567-07:00Art and Madonna <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfheQ_xw72bsQl4nddj9I4bkvCH3QCXLKe_S21K0WWUmOIH7n3fSQ0X00J8Co2CBGaTeIGZ7HzkDusz2UkxzDXIBtNTka-8CpJBoeI0w-SdsnUQselB4_TiMg3PsZytQxr2a2LM1Zts6w/s2048/D35AC545-3C19-41D3-AD6B-B181BEDFF36C.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfheQ_xw72bsQl4nddj9I4bkvCH3QCXLKe_S21K0WWUmOIH7n3fSQ0X00J8Co2CBGaTeIGZ7HzkDusz2UkxzDXIBtNTka-8CpJBoeI0w-SdsnUQselB4_TiMg3PsZytQxr2a2LM1Zts6w/s16000/D35AC545-3C19-41D3-AD6B-B181BEDFF36C.heic" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgZrmf1xJ3biY_FlU7Qqqmq0m_8a90YS2hJS32mMxkgW9g-uojIyAo8LX0RLhSdv4Qd2jDGvarR528dcaePYoaOkGGwA3acZNtgUAMnvuMCi9ZoJoQcW1QC7gFKDRnbelyDQpWeHWimc/s2048/EF1AB26F-0091-46AE-B685-D2EB45CD5707.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgZrmf1xJ3biY_FlU7Qqqmq0m_8a90YS2hJS32mMxkgW9g-uojIyAo8LX0RLhSdv4Qd2jDGvarR528dcaePYoaOkGGwA3acZNtgUAMnvuMCi9ZoJoQcW1QC7gFKDRnbelyDQpWeHWimc/s16000/EF1AB26F-0091-46AE-B685-D2EB45CD5707.heic" /></a></div><br /><div>The cliche reads: don't judge a book by its cover but I am in love with this cover and this book. </div><div><br /></div><div>Set in 1920s Berlin, it follows a Turkish man seeking some meaning amongst his loss and loneliness, and the overwhelming and destroying love he feels first for a painting, and then an artist:</div><div><i>'Oh, Maria, why can't we sit by the window and talk? Why can't we open our hearts and souls to each other, as we walk together in silence' on a windy autumn evening? Oh, why aren't you hear with me?'</i></div><div>It has a sense of hope that is crushingly dashed, and the end had me in tears:</div><div><i>'I have no choice but to condemn myself to everlasting solitude. Life is a game that is only played once, and I lost' </i></div><div>I smiled at his description of moving to Germany:</div><div><i>'My plan was to learn a foreign language and read books in that language and, most importantly, discover Europe...drawing on three or four phrases I had memorised from a language guide I studied during the four-day journey' </i>– Is that what my experience is going to be like?</div><div><br /></div><div>And, above all, the way Ali describes the painting of Madonna made me think about art: the way we perceive it, understand it, how it makes us feel:</div><div><i>'What was it about that portrait? I know words alone will not suffice' </i></div><div><i>'She was a swirling blend of all the women I had ever imagined'</i></div><div>I wondered whether you can ever fall in love with a painting the way he does. </div><div>Upon seeing Madonna, Raif says: <i>'I'd lived more during the past two weeks than in all the years of may life put together', </i>that that the painting awoke his soul, <i>'revealing the sublime vista it had kept buried for so long'.</i></div><div>I have spent a lot of time in art galleries lately. The Side Gallery in Newcastle, Somerset House, the National, the Ashmolean, Tate Britain, and tonight the Kunsthalle in my new home. Some of it was pretty bad (namely blank white canvases supposedly evoking spirituality) and much of it neither here nor there. I don't think any of it made me <i>feel </i>in the way Raif feels but I have perhaps found a new favourite – Susanna at her Bath. </div><div><br /></div><div><img alt="" src="https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/media/35034/l-1009-00-000001-hd.jpg?mode=max&width=1820&height=1080" /></div><div><br /></div><div>I find art a funny thing to write about: much of it is so visual, how can it be translated into words? When I was writing my thesis, I felt the words describing the art were superfluous – surely just look at the pictures? – yet it is also intriguing to consider a society, culture or history in terms of aesthetics. So, whilst art history is often (and rightly) dismissed as elitist, I believe much can be learned from looking at a picture and understanding how an artist or a society wanted to represent itself. </div><div><br /></div><div>Gradually, I am trying to establish a greater vocabulary to understand these things, and expand my repertoire of paintings I like. In a room in the National, on a wall just as you enter, Susanna at her Bath is displayed. By Francesco Hayez, something about this painting I just fell in love with. I even made a detour to photograph the caption before I left. </div><div>I know nothing about the artist, nor really the (religious?) context, but I love the light of the background, and the softness of her figure. Her face is elusive but beautiful, and her figure concealing yet suggestive. It oddly combines a biblical story with female nudity. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will never feel the transformation Ali describes, and sometimes when looking at art I feel nothing at all. But slowly, I am learning what I like: in a blend of diverse pieces I suggest are my favourites, I find commonalities: life, colour, movement. </div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-9798561958165557992021-07-27T13:19:00.004-07:002021-07-28T01:47:09.769-07:00by way of an update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8j5m7ZIHYhTVA7Y0fMMeMj1NYOIdvxSoFGB3zdoGMGQHM3DL2tjdXfl2iM0ysXsQn1xz3kCSJY-aB3fj7_luCrlkFW_U2zPv2fbscgvXXt8jLIP7tOLQQ4Es24pgm_0NSXADhRVGYh4/s2048/IMG_1560.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz8j5m7ZIHYhTVA7Y0fMMeMj1NYOIdvxSoFGB3zdoGMGQHM3DL2tjdXfl2iM0ysXsQn1xz3kCSJY-aB3fj7_luCrlkFW_U2zPv2fbscgvXXt8jLIP7tOLQQ4Es24pgm_0NSXADhRVGYh4/s16000/IMG_1560.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Tuesday 1st June. Words cannot explain how much has changed since I somehow found the time to write that post. <div>That, in a post-Covid world, is undoubtedly an exaggeration – but I can't really believe I existed before finishing exams. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div>That my life was scheduled, militarily, as thus:</div><div>Wake up, make coffee, do work, eat breakfast, go to the library, eat lunch, go to a different library, come home, revise more, make dinner, catch up, and sleep. </div><div>Day, after god damn day.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's been a 1.5 months of almost total bliss since; accidentally scrolling through my insta today threw me deep into the nostalgic longing for it all. The warmth, the laughs, the sleeping. </div><div>Gosh, that first taste of Prosecco when I'd submitted my final exam, ran downstairs and into Sara's arms. The shaving foam and the holi paint and the grim water and the exhilaration that came with it. </div><div>And then languid weeks of drinking and lounging and laughing, before being hurried home by corona, and then continuing exactly as we had. </div><div>I spent a blissful week in Cornwall, and another in Northumberland. I opened my results on the side of a road in Corbridge, and cried and drank champagne and checked them again just to be sure. I felt ridiculously overwhelmed that it all paid off, and rang my friends and felt staggering pride. At my diss mark I felt the most elated – 12,000 of my own words on naked women in a seventh century desert castle and some obscure Arabic poems, and, frankly, she smashed it. As my Grandpa said, a first from one of the best uni's in the world – perhaps now is not the time to be humble. Girl is fuckin' proud. </div><div><br /></div><div>And since, I've worked a bit, went pottery painting, ran, watched copious Love Island, went clubbing (!), tried to learn some German, tried to sort out the life I am forging in Germany in T-1 month, and felt a bit liminal and a bit lost and a bit distant. </div><div>Weird but exciting times. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And now I look to some fun trips and birthdays, then moving abroad to scare myself but also to remind myself that this is something of what life is supposed to be about. I've then got graduation, when this crazy and monumental and exhausting process will finally cease, and I suppose then I have to process it all.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't wait to write more and read more now I have time, nd the products of this will undoubtedly be shared here, as always</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-21248905943864831062021-06-01T00:51:00.006-07:002021-06-01T00:51:40.829-07:00sun and showers <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg33pl8Zvw_FJ6TU3QnEfpT4MZBBjXa6DSbBgYusmjSAgRcqSzf-AdJgduTIAmTtOkIX3cb-qu4HvWEeJ-iJQI6njn0gkpdMgRxLD9p2enqNVmUl0VP1tCTvIlMOFvDQO8gEFQYBYeksWY/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1259" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg33pl8Zvw_FJ6TU3QnEfpT4MZBBjXa6DSbBgYusmjSAgRcqSzf-AdJgduTIAmTtOkIX3cb-qu4HvWEeJ-iJQI6njn0gkpdMgRxLD9p2enqNVmUl0VP1tCTvIlMOFvDQO8gEFQYBYeksWY/s16000/Screenshot+2021-06-01+at+08.50.28.png" /></a></div><br /></div>What a time; I have finally found a moment to write – blah blah – you know the score. <div>Let me tell you, finals at Oxford – they are tough man. </div><div><br /></div><div>There has been incessant rain for a month, a broken laptop, tears, exhaustion, happiness at collections marks, hours, and hours and <i>hours </i>in libraries and honestly, not much else. </div><div>The end is near: it's so sunny and I have spent the last two evenings swimming, a very welcome reset. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then, in 8 days, it is <i>all </i>over. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am resolutely terrified about it. Who am I without this painful but utterly adoring degree, and how will I cope not living with my friends, and why the heck am I moving to Germany on my own. </div><div>All scary questions and prospects that I just put off by working hard and taking my sertraline and honestly just not thinking. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I think some of the best weeks of my life are to come. Three 'n and half weeks in Oxford with <i>no </i>work – I haven't even had a day like that. Thus far it is filled with post-exam trashing, bottomless brunch, swimming, bike rides and a visit from Evie.</div><div>I am going to sleep for hours, and will<br /> probably cry because I can't believe how hard this has been, and how amazing this has been. </div><div>Ever grateful, man. </div><div><br /></div><div>Peace and love – now I am off to the library, and to avoid Matt Hancock (who is apparently in college this week for the G7 health summit – I know)</div><div><br /></div><div>xx</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-50430772485432340732021-04-28T01:06:00.003-07:002021-04-28T01:06:24.867-07:00thoughts on nearing the end<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5BTo_mHIfeUwCcxxRLXI6jVtT-GA7-iNmoRCeeiEbvAJZJZ8fRK-wto6Nj1F2cF1p_ftGjiwHWt5ysTg-PD0MC1ateM2wvIq9XfzBkIm7h0YQQFoHmZ7jBM4kOYumbY28oZsTNlykH4/s2048/Screenshot+2021-04-28+at+09.02.50.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1123" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5BTo_mHIfeUwCcxxRLXI6jVtT-GA7-iNmoRCeeiEbvAJZJZ8fRK-wto6Nj1F2cF1p_ftGjiwHWt5ysTg-PD0MC1ateM2wvIq9XfzBkIm7h0YQQFoHmZ7jBM4kOYumbY28oZsTNlykH4/s16000/Screenshot+2021-04-28+at+09.02.50.png" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Finals do be hard, I haven't got much to say to anyone anymore, and there is a nagging fear of 'after'. <div>Alas, there have been some gloriously happy moments; my shower thought this morning was that I can't believe I may never live with these people again, I can't imagine myself a full person without them. </div><div>Let us hope our paths take us in a semi tandem direction next year – although I don't have a single solid plan, and thus have the blissful privilege of being able to ensure this does, in fact, happen. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, the days are sort of monotonous – but in a reassuringly stable way. Library, packed lunch with friends on the Broad Street steps, library, coffee, library, maybe some fun. </div><div>I have relished in the freedom to go to the pub, and have concluded that one of the best revision antidotes is a pint in the evening – so I will be continuing this as frequently as necessary, provided my work is done. It's nice to have an incentive.</div><div>What else?</div><div>I have spent a slightly alarming amount: some gold hoops from <a href="https://www.seolgold.com">Seol + Gold</a>, five 2nd hand pieces from <a href="https://shopkilo.co.uk/collections/womens-t-shirts">Shop Kilo </a>(inc dungarees – see last post), a hoodie from eBay and the cutest orange sweater vest from a Mind charity shop. Orange feels like good revision energy. </div><div>Other things that have been getting me through include by <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4ewkEVcqIBoFAETSnLc7C1?si=VmqBrlsfRXyY6fnLgUWaxg">TT21 revision playlist,</a> runs along the canal, and not really thinking beyond today. </div><div>So honestly, good vibes – if a little stressed. But I did 3 collections last week and they went fine and I think it is going to be okay. </div><div><br /></div><div>And finally, I can't quite believe I only have 8 more weeks in this <i>beautiful </i>city, to which I would give my heart if I could. It's going to take a lot of reflection to make peace with this all being over, and I am not ready to part with the view out of my window onto the quad, and the meadows in the evening, and people punting, and the sandstone, and god, just all of it.</div><div>I'm not quite ready.</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace out luvers x</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-12294877300740661902021-04-04T03:02:00.003-07:002021-04-04T03:02:41.782-07:00purple hues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PAHf56EO7VXp3JMSFaX_0gZgriJHO4ldW-k9sTXn1v3S2CLkgy-qY6q_ksAI6ZhBfz__rx7buoq4YUx-HgP7DUCjb0SGNORu2v_oeMVWsPAvv51PAqHnE8rCbCADZZ-u3S1Hk2mvZ68/s1927/Screenshot+2021-04-04+at+11.00.56.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1388" data-original-width="1927" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5PAHf56EO7VXp3JMSFaX_0gZgriJHO4ldW-k9sTXn1v3S2CLkgy-qY6q_ksAI6ZhBfz__rx7buoq4YUx-HgP7DUCjb0SGNORu2v_oeMVWsPAvv51PAqHnE8rCbCADZZ-u3S1Hk2mvZ68/s16000/Screenshot+2021-04-04+at+11.00.56.png" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Emerging from a two month hiatus; I think this might be the longest drought of writing I have experienced. But its a sunny Easter Sunday, everyone else has gone home and I am too hungover to work. So here we are. <div><br /></div><div>In those two months I have: </div><div>written my dissertation, which was a saga – but a good one, found lots of new places in Oxford, brought my yellow bike back, not written in my diary once, crocheted 2/3 of a sweater vest, ran fast and far, really enjoyed some new tunes, had a lot of delicious dinners with new people, watched the Ru Paul finale on a projector, lost almost <i>all </i>my uni work from the last three years (then got it back), cycled a lot, drank a lot of tinnies, made an excessive amount of sushi, got a girlfriend, ate a lot of packed lunches in the sun, swam in Port Meadow, perpetually felt guilty about not doing enough work, and anxious about not having a job. My instagram saved and pinterest have been, almost exclusively, knitted sweater vests and dishes I want to cook when I have a kitchen. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's been very calm and very fun and also quite stressful, but I wrote 12,000 words on naked early Islamic women, started revision and almost finished another piece of coursework. Can you believe it's nearly all over?</div><div><br /></div><div>Today I am manifesting a sunny walk, a creme egg, perhaps a run if my hungover body can muster the strength, and indulging in the rest of Crazy Rich Asians. Delightful.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't <i>wait </i>for 12th April, mostly to drink a draught cider and to go to a charity shop – I want some garish clothes, and certainly some dungarees. Life has some promise in it at the moment, it feels as if maybe the end is in sight. Thank goodness, what a long nightmare this has been. </div><div><br /></div><div>A pointless and narcissistic update, but a break in the silence nonetheless. </div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-8195619998213757172021-02-03T00:43:00.000-08:002021-02-03T00:43:20.092-08:00reading, watching, listening <div>February is finally here. </div><div>January felt interminable and dark: if lockdown was epitomised in 31 days, that would be it. </div><div>But we made it through – the days are longer, the prospects brighter (?) and I've got some banging recs to make it all a little more bearable.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcegygjuvxjb3rz8HpuxWOVvEURQ6TZm-8jgtGm_p1vkVMtV3kmeqbjbDS9mEzBWiEKKX6jNA9nzEt_6q140OUmtTq8eBUogDprnlXx5k8DGQz77dw7Rbkmg_oDWxmXColcfaQ5nh_qkg/s2048/IMG_8819.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcegygjuvxjb3rz8HpuxWOVvEURQ6TZm-8jgtGm_p1vkVMtV3kmeqbjbDS9mEzBWiEKKX6jNA9nzEt_6q140OUmtTq8eBUogDprnlXx5k8DGQz77dw7Rbkmg_oDWxmXColcfaQ5nh_qkg/s16000/IMG_8819.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Listening:</div><div><br /></div><div>For a left-wing counter to the mainstream media, I have been enjoying <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/3HK3Uw3kX7iHnXfMnoLV6x?si=D8ExdWdyRdetZaLxqUhpOw">TyskySour</a> – it's critical and interrogative, and offers an oft-ignored perspective. When the news is too depressing and I just want to fall asleep, I've been getting back into '<a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/nothing-much-happens-bedtime-stories-to-help-you-sleep/id1378040733">Nothing Much Happens</a>' where, quite literally, nothing much happens. It's pretty calming and I generally manage to drift off before the podcast ends (although if I don't, it induces much angst).</div><div>In terms of music, for work <a href="https://open.spotify.com/artist/0qudezVgvl4Chd9BgNFB83?si=f4OGLBozTFGyZ2rdX1Hg6A">Chilly Gonzales </a>and <a href="https://open.spotify.com/artist/0NSO0g40h9CTj13hKPskeb?si=Iq0f-vezS72zFlEwEFT8zQ">Ibrahim Maalouf </a>have been keeping me going, as has some more electronica-funky kinda stuff evidenced by my <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6iYyow9F8Q0ewwewAubyEM?si=2eOS0jluTH-DZxnhOFIcxA">'fun feisty funk to work to HT21</a>' playlist. I've also been listening to a bizarre selection of 'dark academia' playlists situated in art galleries, baroque french worlds and rainy libraries. Watching what my friends listen to whilst they are working has also been providing entertainment.</div><div>For non-work, I made an upbeat <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21JoVh69qtXUy1C76PUE4F?si=86JqfYwTRhqBX17kCfIgPw">'for how many days am I stuck in this box</a>?' playlist when I was isolating and, surprisingly, it's still providing some bops. I'm also enjoying some <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/325VYiB4epjVUvG0xzZN9w?si=034Di3pyQMW1MwIM38A5zA">mellow evening </a>sounds, featuring a lot of Michael Kiwanuka. </div><div><br /></div><div>Reading:</div><div><br /></div><div>For once, I have manage to complete <i>several </i>books whilst in Oxford. It's been a nice break in longer evenings, and time away from a screen. We have a sick fiction section in the college library, so I have been taking advantage of that. </div><div>I read<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/51788592-magpie-lane"> Magpie Lane</a>, a quasi-creepy inspector story set in Oxford, which I likely wouldn't have read if I didn't live here, but which was quite visceral. <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/38357895-convenience-store-woman">Convenience Store Woman</a> was so odd, but lighthearted and warming, and super quick. It was somewhat reminiscent of Exciting Times/The New Me. I am currently reading <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/43412866-this-brutal-house?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=7zbqFblAsm&rank=1">This Brutal House</a> which is beautiful and wrenching and I am frustrated at myself re how slowly it is being consumed. I don't want to lose the impact or the narrative by only getting through 10 pages a night. It's <i>essentially </i>a written version of Pose – it starts with Mothers of New York's queer scene protesting on the steps of the City Hall. After successive Children going missing, they take a silent stance. It is written in a sombre, poetic tone [I loved the chapter that was <i>exclusively </i>'category is leather queen/founding fathers/fierce/Chanel/spring-summer realness], and I think is the perfect accompaniment to Pose. </div><div><br /></div><div>Watching:</div><div><br /></div><div>This Brutal House is also a good side to It's A Sin (which I haven't finished, but have enjoyed but also critiqued (definitely too harshly) if you want a bit more queer media. I've also been adoring Great Pottery Throwdown, especially the week with the Naked Raku – yikes! It is <i>so </i>impressive and therapeutic.</div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/Gracieface13">Grackle</a> is, as ever, offering immense sanity and stability and whenever I need cheering up, I whack on a vlog and feel content. Her attitude to food is also exemplary and refreshing, but without being a <i>thing </i>and it makes me wanna (allow myself to) consume all da snax.</div><div>On topic of food, I also really liked <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QUi5VHa7fg">this</a> vid from Helena Rose about the 'perfect' diet. I just generally love her content and narrative about eating etc. Good vibes all round. </div><div>And finally for watching, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zYPB5nJV3h8&t=1687s">this</a> video critiquing Bridgerton for race and queer baiting. I hadn't really heard any criticism but had also thought of some quite profound issues (e.g. the unmentioned sexual assault by Daphne), so it was interesting to hear another perspective. </div><div><br /></div><div>Misc:</div><div><br /></div><div>My electric steamer, because we are 00's yummy mummy's who just wanna cook pasta in our rooms; my lack of instagram and minimal desire to return to it; packed lunches in the rain/snow/sun with friends; trying new chocolatey snacks and feeling food freedom; pret chocolate, sea salt and almond butter cookies; tahini + yoghurt + lemon juice; finding the perfect diss reading; wine </div><div><br /></div><div>So there we go! </div><div>Enjoy!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-22260123417314545952021-01-23T13:17:00.004-08:002021-01-23T13:17:44.945-08:00endless emotionsI was going to write about some of the books I have managed to read in this interminable lockdown, but instead I've been feeling so much and thinking so much, so that will have to be written instead. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlrdTl4ZRd3-nqJ09nH5cUo65mccouUUWuIRu8cUpj-JvI7WQOeZj-kQZ-6042XaGc1wOC9RDDY3y22T__mplQfs1AgVvOlJRSUU2N48_1wSg4PlVsXlDBob_-W_6dzwCgxMLBrfgtEE/s2048/Screenshot+2021-01-23+at+21.12.02.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlrdTl4ZRd3-nqJ09nH5cUo65mccouUUWuIRu8cUpj-JvI7WQOeZj-kQZ-6042XaGc1wOC9RDDY3y22T__mplQfs1AgVvOlJRSUU2N48_1wSg4PlVsXlDBob_-W_6dzwCgxMLBrfgtEE/s16000/Screenshot+2021-01-23+at+21.12.02.png" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>This weeks moodboard screams: eclectic emotion, pining for summer and freedom, maybe some craving of love and the perpetual reminder to let it be. Senses include: somewhat earthy pastels, the warm tones of sunlight, and the lethargy that comes with it. Exuding a calmness that I certainly am not feeling. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have been absurdly emotional recently. I sat crying at my desk before a diss supervision yesterday, and had to dry my eyes and make a cup of tea before I could confront my supervisor and the ridiculous project I have embarked on. It was pathetically amusing. I probably took a photo to document it. And today I saw my friends walking across the quad, started crying, sent a rash and heated message, and than thanked Zuckerberg for the unsend function. </div><div>Tiny, unnecessary things are having a monumental chemical influence, and its quite perplexing. It's also a bit exhausting. I learned the other day that our brains think 4,000 words a minute, which is actually quite believable when I think about the rate at which my mind can spiral. </div><div>But no wonder I fall to sleep immediately.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been <i>obsessively</i> fomo-ing recently. The insecurity and expectation it brings can be crushing. Why didn't they knock on me, why wasn't I invited here, were they talking about me etc etc. None of these things are true, rational or evidenced. They also make me sound 13, not 21. </div><div>I then cry, go on a walk, feel okay, and the cycle goes on. Amongst all this retrospection, I've also noticed I remedy myself by investing in friendships that aren't fulfilling, rather than reminding myself that those I live with do love me. It's a lot, and probably pretty toxic for everyone involved. It's perhaps all fuelled by expectation: high and unfulfilled expectations of myself leading to unattainable expectations of others. This is something I want to work on in the coming months of self-exploration. </div><div>Amongst all this, I have deleted instagram, for what might be forever. It's liberating and comforting, although I seek a new source of inspiration. Maybe Pinterest is the answer.</div><div><br /></div><div>This week has been spent in the one library they are cramming us into. I'm no epidemiologist, but that doesn't really seem to add up in my mind. I have, however, had some lovely lunches on the steps of Broad Street or Radcliffe Square, and enjoyed the nostalgia of a making my sandwich in the morning. Maybe the aforementioned emotion was triggered by the inexplicable stress of my diss. There are so many components that make it incomprehensible, but I'd say the fact I am no art historian, no classicist and can't read Arabic are pretty high up there. When I expressed this to my supervisor, he reminded that he 'did warn me' and that the best work is written through suffering. So that's something. </div><div>I have ten tabs open this evening, including: 'Qusayr 'Amra', 'Origins of the Islamic State', 'Al-Baladhuri' and 'The iconoclastic edict of Yazid' – it all frankly means nothing to me, but is supposed to form 12,000 in less than seven weeks (?!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Amongst this emotion there was so much good: painting clay, walking to a new cafe, eating bagels on the steps, drinking wine in the cold, using my steamer to make gyoza, a frosty morning, a note from a friend, Drag Race, a good book, interesting if impenetrable reading. </div><div><br /></div><div>For second week I am manifesting: less ridiculous crying, more progression with my diss, continuing with my <a href="https://notyouraveragejo.world/2020/05/12/30-days-of-journal-prompts/">30-days of journalling</a>, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/325VYiB4epjVUvG0xzZN9w?si=AjbEUgDoTIq5IkRqSk-d9g">this</a> mellow eve playlist and a few runs. All I really want is a massive party and a night dancing, but that isn't gonna happen for a while. </div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-9753960848291227842021-01-15T12:51:00.001-08:002021-01-16T08:31:37.581-08:00quarantine diary #5 - freedomThe 15th January was a sort of hurdle in my mind, a day I had only had to reach, and everything would dissipate. First, this date was consumed by my extended essay, 6,000 words of primary sources and secondary arguments that Oxford relishes in saving for the Christmas vac. <div>Then, it became overwhelmed by the day I could breathe fresh air again. Dramatic, but also quasi-true. </div><div>Being out was nice, and it was freeing, and I got gyoza with a friend, and ate brownies, and did a million errands for others who, in the chaos of my corona, I had also caused to isolate.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipF6ykM7MJv-boyDQHOxUXlTSNK_pooAaVDPFSH_OELNX39PG84dCmg0YyntdrG2WQg1SpZFliORkQohyYES3riHhJ38NZyNMNudYChVQsxprDNTdHGFdfyn8KgrOCVh-Ap0UTr905_SY/s2048/IMG_8584.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipF6ykM7MJv-boyDQHOxUXlTSNK_pooAaVDPFSH_OELNX39PG84dCmg0YyntdrG2WQg1SpZFliORkQohyYES3riHhJ38NZyNMNudYChVQsxprDNTdHGFdfyn8KgrOCVh-Ap0UTr905_SY/s16000/IMG_8584.HEIC" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div>But it was also a bit anti climatic, and still a bit empty, and I wonder will this world ever <i>not </i>feel empty.</div><div>I've done all the silly hobbies I can think of to pass the time, I've thought all the thoughts, done all the yoga, ran, read, slept, thought about applying for British Council next year then abandoned it. I have spent so many hours thinking about expectations: expectations of self, expectations of others, whether too high demands are simply a reflection of the love you deserve, or an inherent disappointment. Whether this contradiction and conflict can ever marry. And half my friends can't come back, the other half are still isolating. It's a silent limbo that no longer feels it has the permission to be.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_FtWrMwTle4cgwDU2b9_XRPJqZ0oGHHSgIfw19ONG_dV_OjUtEWM5qKTQKyIHiPr_GCT5jqReuMCj2lKK16pjyYIinREmKGYmebkeKIUJRm3vpBqyNjBS8BukJwhsRLYWTvBeyJhvsG0/s2048/IMG_8591.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_FtWrMwTle4cgwDU2b9_XRPJqZ0oGHHSgIfw19ONG_dV_OjUtEWM5qKTQKyIHiPr_GCT5jqReuMCj2lKK16pjyYIinREmKGYmebkeKIUJRm3vpBqyNjBS8BukJwhsRLYWTvBeyJhvsG0/s16000/IMG_8591.HEIC" /></a></div></div><div> </div><div>So I am stuck, sort of just waiting for the time to pass until I start my dissertation (for which my tutor kindly reminded us, we could have 'half a day off' after handing in our extended essays, and then we had to get back on it) and until my friends are free, and maybe until this all blows over.</div><div><i>Will </i>it ever blow over?</div><div>It's so hard <i>not </i>to be pessimistic when it's dark and it's cold and it's January; libraries are closing, my working spaces are becoming more confined by the day, the world seems both simultaneously quieter and scarier, and I'm still here, thinking about what I'm doing amongst it all.</div><div><br /></div><div>But hey, come Monday I'll be lost in a blur of 7th century female portraits, and wondering why the <i>fuck</i> I picked such an obscurely niche topic. </div><div>And I'll run, and I'll walk and I'll drink wine, and probably lament on here a little more about lost youth and unstable prospects.</div><div>It'll be okay. </div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-40455867917724894772021-01-13T12:41:00.006-08:002021-01-13T12:41:46.926-08:00quarantine diary #4 - gratitude <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHxHGQmtsncq246uM1-U5lxQ0r1bDEW_famnhsf8jyTCx7ExGg9iTsYV4Qolqoz4BxYsCLpWqcsH-zQ_rCoRa74VEYYQe2sjJxeAJmm09H_oSfZU3zoozylVFYB4178c3CipWI8qZOiM/s2048/IMG_8493+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHxHGQmtsncq246uM1-U5lxQ0r1bDEW_famnhsf8jyTCx7ExGg9iTsYV4Qolqoz4BxYsCLpWqcsH-zQ_rCoRa74VEYYQe2sjJxeAJmm09H_oSfZU3zoozylVFYB4178c3CipWI8qZOiM/s16000/IMG_8493+2.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Shit news, shit prospects. <div><br /></div><div>Ten things I am grateful for:</div><div><br /></div><div>My beautiful, and I mean beautiful, view over the quad.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fortuitously bringing some art things with me, so I can paint in between the work. </div><div><br /></div><div>Finishing my extended essay, enjoying writing my extended essay, feeling semi pleased with said extended essay. </div><div><br /></div><div>Being able to try out new outfit combos in the warmth and seclusion of my room </div><div><br /></div><div>Friends for checking in and reaching out. </div><div><br /></div><div>Doing a different kind of exercise for a week, and feeling my body burn in a different way. </div><div><br /></div><div>Slower mornings and slower breakfasts. </div><div><br /></div><div>Writing letters. </div><div><br /></div><div>Having the mildest corona symptoms in the world. </div><div><br /></div><div>Being able to hear my friends singing riptide obnoxiously loudly, and knowing I'll be there in a matter of days (update: they're onto their 4th rendition and the noise cancelling headphones are going on)</div><div><br /></div><div>Food deliveries, and extra treats people put in amongst the essentials. </div><div><br /></div><div>Having the permission to stop and be.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wrote this in my diary today: </div><div><br /></div><div><i>'Have I ever had this degree of permission to stay inside, and do nothing but paint pointless, random objects covered in lashings of gold paint, and listen to happy music, and feel nothing of the angst or sickness that usually swamps me when I try and do nothing? There is no demand, I have practically finished my essay, and legally am not allowed to leave my room. So I have surrendered to the total permission to do what I want, what makes my mind go empty, what feels so natural and so soothing'</i></div><div><br /></div><div>It was good moment, and there are so many conflicting emotions attached with this isolation. A wanting to get out, but an enjoyment of the pace. A need to see people but a need to retain the seclusion. </div><div>Just another bizarre feeling to contend with in these crazy times. </div><div><br /></div><div>What are you grateful for?</div><div><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-9036078605534568102021-01-11T14:14:00.005-08:002021-01-12T01:49:55.174-08:00quarantine diary #3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1iOiLfG-_Bgw0yGavIXBvR9y3HWEtcIIyLFq-GZJpit5jrYNnWLPxdfnaIhZnllMBuXnVfSoRamCQhAXMztQfFm1jLu_8-LErj2YkFX3FQ50YTu45joP0PKQ2QTB9U3TmKO2e_k7icE/s1833/Screenshot+2021-01-11+at+22.11.07.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1439" data-original-width="1833" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1iOiLfG-_Bgw0yGavIXBvR9y3HWEtcIIyLFq-GZJpit5jrYNnWLPxdfnaIhZnllMBuXnVfSoRamCQhAXMztQfFm1jLu_8-LErj2YkFX3FQ50YTu45joP0PKQ2QTB9U3TmKO2e_k7icE/s16000/Screenshot+2021-01-11+at+22.11.07.png" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a mood board of the kinda energy I've been feeling today.</div><div>Eclectic, agreed. But also sort of apt. I am evidently feeling a lot of passive anger. Yikes.</div><div><br /></div>Today was a bleak one; I couldn't edit enough words out of my essay, had a sad bagel for tea, wanted a g&t but had no t, wanted a run but (of course) couldn't leave my room. It's felt really quite interminable, looking at the same seven thousand words, trying to work out how to rework and reshape and just do anything that will cut it down. I've basically eating the same thing for 6 days, done pretty much the same workout at the same time, taken the same (un)ironic selfies, and listened to the same 'get me out of here' playlist.<div>I will stop whining. </div><div>It's a very informative process, let me tell you that. Having the time to do silly things like make a ring dish or paint a tin can is blissful and wonderfully defiant of the demands of capitalism. My gold paint arrived, and I've wanted to cover everything in my room. I also enjoyed putting up my postcards, taking them down, readjusting them. </div><div>It's just a bit monotonous, which obviously it would be.</div><div><br /></div><div>I haven't had any grand realisations about myself, other than I can go days without going outside, the thought of which used to make me feel sick. So I guess that's good. I also have realised I need constant affirmation, which obviously is hard to receive when your friends are together and you're apart, and the silence makes you think the world hates you. </div><div><br /></div><div>What hit today was the sense that, even when my iso is over, and I can go for walks and see friends and go to libraries, I'm still not free. (from a place of inherent entire privilege) my emotions about this pandemic come and go in waves. Sometimes I feel I have made peace with it. That the change has gone on for so long, I can't remember the world without it. New normal and all that.</div><div>And then sometimes (i.e. today) I feel angry and depressed and it feels <i>relentless. </i>That this has been going on for <i>so </i>long and our liberties have been <i>so </i>radically curtailed. That I might hand in this essay on Friday and I might be able to leave my room, but what does that <i>really </i>mean. I still can't go to the pub or meet with more than one person outside for anything other than exercise, or even buy a copy of Frankie magazine that for some, bizarre reason, I am craving. And, I think, you become desensitised to it. Not desensitised so much to the stats, they are shocking regardless of how often you hear them. But desensitised to the enormity of the <i>other </i>problems going on in the world. How has this all culminated in the most perfect storm? As I got ready this morning, I listened <a href="https://open.spotify.com/episode/1x60U4xRt7Wh2PM8tV0P6v?si=N4UyMsxHRqGS-54SyQCeSw">this</a> episode of TyskySour (a really, really good - non affiliated - news podcast). One of the reporters said 'the apocalypse is multifaceted', and man this sure did hit home. How can we jump from the undermining of democracy in the highest echelons of power, to a virulent pandemic, in a matter of seconds, and keep on doing our daily 'ting? </div><div>Man!</div><div><br /></div><div>So that's where we are at, on day five of solitude. </div><div><br /></div><div>A MHN quote to soothe the soul:</div><div>Let July be July.</div><div>Let August be August. </div><div>And let yourself </div><div>Just be</div><div>even in</div><div>the uncertainty.</div><div>You don't have to fix everything.</div><div>You don't have to solve everything.</div><div>You can still find peace</div><div>and grow</div><div>in the wild of changing things.</div><div><br /></div><div>g'night.</div><div><br /></div><div>(all pics can be found <a href="https://www.pinterest.co.uk/ktxoxox/pins/">here</a>)</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-87467474309316256462021-01-09T14:42:00.006-08:002021-01-10T03:51:43.000-08:00quarantine diary #2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHC5mXeGzxKG_Rzsao3rZ_JjqLnWNixveWxiArOpQW-LkrGpkZZk8NsVjXtz6IPCjU6wff8xJKhaH18RUlISXy1rsK5a_JWkE2q5_73OuwF-sQp97HZHiqKXryDi5snb822nTeZOo-g0k/s8000009/Screenshot+2021-01-09+at+22.25.58.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1390" data-original-width="1929" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHC5mXeGzxKG_Rzsao3rZ_JjqLnWNixveWxiArOpQW-LkrGpkZZk8NsVjXtz6IPCjU6wff8xJKhaH18RUlISXy1rsK5a_JWkE2q5_73OuwF-sQp97HZHiqKXryDi5snb822nTeZOo-g0k/s16000/Screenshot+2021-01-09+at+22.25.58.png" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>I think this is day 3, or maybe it's day 4? <div>All I really know is I haven't seen another person in the flesh since the nice lady who stuck a swab down my throat on Wednesday. </div><div>In a world where there is so much insurrection (see: Trump and the capitol) and crisis (see: state of emergency in London hospitals), my 10 days of iso are so minute. But they are also so alone and quite a feat of resolve, so here I am writing about it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Things I have learned thus far:</div><div>Routine is essential, you can run a fast 10k and still find a 20 minute HIIT impossible, silence is terrifying and addictively avoidable, there's a lot of time and space to dissect yourself and feel alone and feel hated, eating when you can't taste is boring, and the days go by quicker than I thought they would. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight, it all felt a bit interminable and I was acutely aware of my life in this box. I feel stressed about completing my extended essay whilst in this hermetic space, knowing I can't get any separation from this space and this mental state. But I don't have a choice, and it doesn't matter, and for fuck sake Katie, get on with it. I'm also a bit annoyed because my outfits have been popping (see: this hair scarf, my t-shirt/dress combo in the last post) and I've got to wait for their debut. I think perhaps the moments are most hard when I am between working sessions, or can hear my friends together next door, but every second that pasts is a second closer to a run and a glass of wine!</div><div><br /></div><div>Some other things to look forward to: </div><div>Virtual breakfast with my grandparents tomorrow, two separate Tesco deliveries and maybe a chance to wave to someone out the window (!), a parcel for my mum that includes: pillows, running kit (for post-iso), skittles that I left in her bag, a book and all my room decs – all the eclectic things I left at home. I've also got some air dry clay (how did I bring that, but not pillows?) and have ordered some varnish and gold paint, so am going to spend an evening next week avoiding my essay and making a ring dish instead. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thankful for having the mildest symptoms in the world, thankful for a beautiful view, thankful for my own space, thankful for technology and for kindness. </div><div><br /></div><div>Peace and love x</div><div><br /></div><div>(pics: 1)<a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CJ1eUfsHCZW/">@justarthistory</a> 2) <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CJqUAcZgkxH/">here</a> 3) <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CJoUjWiCHeS/">@museelouvre</a> 4) <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CJwhd9zJ_NZ/">@palomawool</a></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-72910644764243415092021-01-08T06:05:00.002-08:002021-01-10T03:52:05.546-08:00quarantine diary #1*This in entirely in the vein of Lexie, even down to the photo, and I am almost shameless in my copying*<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1hjnMSjagDD8H2dhDzQHPCHeqroJynEinsgSmreTRoMwgIq_y740qpBaBO8_rY5tERk5iFtW5p5GFMfH3Gh__705SKkowJtDJ1EeC8j4BSAESzkOMc_rI7HC7P12qcwVPnxiKeuXyg0/s20000/Screenshot+2021-01-08+at+14.01.34.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1329" data-original-width="1363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX1hjnMSjagDD8H2dhDzQHPCHeqroJynEinsgSmreTRoMwgIq_y740qpBaBO8_rY5tERk5iFtW5p5GFMfH3Gh__705SKkowJtDJ1EeC8j4BSAESzkOMc_rI7HC7P12qcwVPnxiKeuXyg0/s16000/Screenshot+2021-01-08+at+14.01.34.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div>Today was a lot, starting with the intentions of a planned walk with a friend, and rapidly concluded with my last breaths of fresh air on my way to the test centre. What a world we live in. What a time to be alive. </div><div><br /></div><div>In some ways it's almost nice having time and reason to do all the silly things you don't usually, when you're cooking tea or walking or with friends. I took advantage of the room below me being empty and did a HIIT work out, I made a plethora of paper stars (pattern found <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CH-5TVVpYL-/">here</a>) that I have now stuck up on my wall – a decision I know I will regret when it comes to removing them. I also listened to Newscast, which I think is becoming my favourite podcast, did my washing up <i>immediately </i>after eating and FaceTimed my mum. </div><div>It's sort of sad hearing my friends around me, but it also feels bizarrely adventurous and secluded in a safe way. I am also blessed with a gorgeous view over the quad and the old college buildings, and this morning I saw a fox run across the path. </div></div><div>My friends cooked me pasta, I wore a nice outfit just for me, and managed to harness a lot of sympathy (for doing absolutely nothing).</div><div>I think tomorrow, on top of my extended essay (due on the day I can break free, conveniently!) which I seem to be getting more and more lost in as the days go by, I'll write a letter or two, to post when I can leave this room, call Libby, and maybe have a nap. Oh the joys.</div><div><br /></div><div>Please send art recs, watching recs, listening recs – anything I can access without leaving my room.</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-30717144203665032322020-12-23T12:37:00.004-08:002021-01-10T03:52:28.678-08:00dreaming of the post-covid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskKh_unV6QX63xYqXoiD2-TFmu8XA_mDusF44GNpcCTq3S5SKUtMcp1pNW2s0YhMRaa3m79DgHLi-A5KrnYHidfZ-EaQq-JWL23qlrdBlJeKhc_mhf9ioL427JldQS8PvMkopl4zOwdc/s2048/Screenshot+2020-12-23+at+20.23.54.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskKh_unV6QX63xYqXoiD2-TFmu8XA_mDusF44GNpcCTq3S5SKUtMcp1pNW2s0YhMRaa3m79DgHLi-A5KrnYHidfZ-EaQq-JWL23qlrdBlJeKhc_mhf9ioL427JldQS8PvMkopl4zOwdc/s16000/Screenshot+2020-12-23+at+20.23.54.png" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>The past few days have been bleak for us all (see: covid restrictions, limited Christmas, Brexit chaos, threatened food shortages), so here I am on Christmas eve-eve, surrounded by wrapping paper, drinking cider and musing about my gap year in Berlin. <div>Yes, a second gap year. It's happening, I know it's ridiculous and privileged and honestly girl put that £30k to good use and get yourself a career.</div><div>But no. I want to mess about for a year, in a ridiculously naive blur of ignorance. And come on, I missed out on almost a year of my 20s!</div><div><br /></div><div>But for reals, I've had a lot of conversations with myself on dark runs where I think about what I <i>should </i>do and what I <i>want </i>to do. </div><div>I <i>should</i> be applying to jobs, or at least masters, and I should be taking my future a bit more seriously. </div><div>I <i>want </i>to spend a year working a bit, and finding my post-degree feet, and mostly just living in Berlin. Entirely unrealistic as I can speak no German, but honestly it is what my heart is dreaming of.</div><div>And I really do think, what is the point of <i>not </i>doing what you want. This degree has been, and probs will be, one of the hardest things I ever do, with a pandemic on top of it, the world needs to catch a break – and that's what I intend to do. </div><div>So, before I justify my break from the capitalist cycle of perpetual labour anymore, here are some muses that have been getting me through the grim Tier 4 news. </div><div>Enjoy my loves!</div><div>What are your plans for next year (if you're graduating) or things you are dreaming of. </div><div><br /></div><div>Firstly – <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/5vmFVIJV9XN1l01YsFuKL3?si=vz8spDuGTpi9E9XlYznUNA">this</a> song. Because it starts with 'it's my first night in Berlin, and I wanna dance', and honestly. That is <i>all </i>I want. Similarly, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/48Wa26EAi58eDeGIyBc3ws?si=iZ1tcRsRRDeIDYagS5K4AA">Ananas</a> by Bleu Toucan transports me immediately to a hot, sweaty club and I've found myself almost dancing on the street numerous times as I listen to it on my walks. And Peggy Gou, mostly <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/5xwzmfxNAxZwMjznQ0eVXL?si=Sr2rjWfiTU2kuTuhRuuXGA">Starry Night.</a> Again, just a vision of me, my friends, pres in an apartment, and hours dancing to make up for all the nights we spent at home. I also saw this quote in my reading yesterday: '...found release by dancing the night away in various gay clubs in East Berlin', and honestly – what a mood. </div><div><br /></div><div>My extended essay for the Christmas vac is all about the revolutions of 1989 and whether they were <i>indeed </i>revolutionary. Debate and semantics aside, if there was one historical event I wish I could experience, I think it would be the fall of the Berlin Wall. Beyond the discourse of <i>what it meant, </i>it just looked a fuckin' sick party, and I'd love to feel that momentary thrill that comes round on such improbable occasions (i.e. what I imagine the first night out post-'rona being). </div><div>But I am also just somewhat fascinated by Germany, historically and transformatively. Man, I wanna be there. I wanna see the history I've read about play out for <i>for real. </i>I wanna see the Plattenbau housing and the remaining Soviet architecture and I wanna drink beer and fancy every person that walks down the street.</div><div>This is all entirely idealistic and existing in no realm of reality, but, in a year that has taken almost everything, a girl can dream, 'eh!</div><div><br /></div><div>I had a lovely, drunken conversation with Vassia last week, over fish and chips (tier 2 vibes, am I right?), where we mused over gap year possibilities. Maybe visit her friend in Paris, or her sister in South Korea, or just live together and make up for 2020. But really – I'll go anywhere. Do anything. </div><div>And then real work will begin, I promise! (I have actually got tangible gap year goals – get NGO experience (esp. try and volunteer with a refugee organisation), apply for a masters, join a netball club, run a half marathon, write as much as possible because I've found that is what makes me happy (even writing essays!).</div><div><br /></div><div>(also I know this is all such a horrible privileged cliche, but today has been v. rough in terms of news (Tier 4 lockdowns, 3rd strain of corona, hospital admissions almost at peak) so I am really just trying to manifest something better for 2021)</div><div>(all pics from <a href="https://www.pinterest.co.uk/ktxoxox/i-like/">here</a>)</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-83059993756592233112020-12-16T12:38:00.003-08:002020-12-16T12:38:35.679-08:00reading, watching, thinking<div>I've been home just over a week and it has been a blissful sort of boredom. Early bedtimes and long runs and a lot of reading and much else. I've consumed a lot of good things, so here we go! Enjoy!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-l2YtiXEUGTUjhn0MDYD8zTXtfuuEzUiuoNzGjltelysgyh1OkJHuy23yMNhHeF614cl9Hd3CbccyOO5HQfGAICge0lyoYbAoMMA9zfvE9pnPNq9mV_1WFWMnilWGQxpXXKZGK1EYLo/s2040008/Screenshot+2020-12-16+at+20.36.50.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-l2YtiXEUGTUjhn0MDYD8zTXtfuuEzUiuoNzGjltelysgyh1OkJHuy23yMNhHeF614cl9Hd3CbccyOO5HQfGAICge0lyoYbAoMMA9zfvE9pnPNq9mV_1WFWMnilWGQxpXXKZGK1EYLo/w640-h360/Screenshot+2020-12-16+at+20.36.50.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Reading:<div>Mid-term I read Such A Fun Age, which was easy but also super interesting exposing a sort of white-feminism-girl-boss-saviour-complex. It felt very current, and was funny in parts, and was just a good side read as I ate breakfast or before I fell asleep. </div><div>I devoured On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous in the first three days of being home. It was shattering and raw, but so beautifully written. It was perhaps occasionally a little dominated by a 'stream of consciousness-esque' narrative, but much of it was just breath taking. It explores the legacies of migration and war, sexuality and the drug epidemic in America. It is written in the form of a letter to the narrators mother, exposing the things he never felt he could. I think I'd like to re-read it just to get a real sense of the language and poetry. </div><div>Now I am reading The Shadow King. It seems to be a modern (and real!) take on the Madeleine Miller feminist re-telling of Greek myths. It focusses on women in the Ethiopian-Italian war of the 1930s. Again, it is beautifully written and the characters have that skilful complexity of being simultaneously good and bad. There is a lot of foreshadowing, which I feel I haven't read in a while, and I love the way the narrative jumps perspective between the chapters. I shall report back. </div><div>Obvs also so much reading for uni, inc. the sequel to Slavenka Drakulic's 'How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed', which I just happened to stumble upon whilst in Amnesty International yesterday. How fortuitous. My brother disdainfully commented this morning, 'god, is reading all you do?', and honestly at the moment, it is. But I suppose that it is the price you gotta pay!</div><div><br /><div>Watching: </div><div>I devoured Emily in Paris, which I hated and loved. Honestly, I'm craving the second series. I also, like everyone else, adored Queen's Gambit, which successfully portrayed chess as <i>the </i>sexiest game ever. Who knew! The Crown was wonderful, even though I only jumped in at the current Diana series. Although I controversially didn't think Gilian Anderson played a very good Thatcher. My heart broke for Diana, which was evidently the intention, and I realised I am partial to a posh man with a signet ring – which is a partiality that needs to quashed <i>quickly. </i></div><div>I've also been watching a ridiculous amount of Grackle, purely for the Christmas cooking content, and Helena Rose for the intuitive eating and positive food energy. Perfect in time for Christmas and all the bullshit insta content that is telling us how to not gain weight. Fuck off. </div><div><br /></div><div>Listening:</div><div>In terms of working entertainment, I am enjoying both <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6ER3XveXodHIj5t6SLWWTn?si=I6baootIQyaT-TDZ_2tHpA">this</a> Christmas carol playlist and <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p07tykyd">this</a> one. My MT20 'body in the library playlist' still seems to kind of slap, and makes me happily nostalgic. </div><div>For non-work, my '<a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6MgLq9JLjsbJFJRN2vY8Kj?si=NRbJ59SMSBmP7Y9JMNZSCA">time in between</a>' playlist brings me a lot of joy – but mostly I am just listening to 'If It Wasn't For the Night' by ABBA on repeat</div><div><br /></div><div>Feeling:</div><div>Honestly, pretty good. I had a very happy evening playing cards with my family and laughing. I perhaps feel a little resentful of the workload over Christmas (who sets an extended essay due January, after a term of relentless work?), but it also keeps me busy and thinking. I am feeling a little anxious about <i>after, </i>and the conflict between what I want to do and what I can realistically do. But I am hoping they will marry up. I am feeling a little challenged by food, but that always seems to happen when I come home, and distanced from and alien to my home friends – but again, what is to be expected?</div><div>Really, I just want to dance until 4am and be sweaty and achey again. Please?!</div><div><br /></div><div>Doing:</div></div><div>Playing a lot of cards, going for a lot of runs listening to <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1W5VJ0oWZvWjWhMkzdriaH?si=7uauddvhQme006I0jEriGQ">this</a> playlist, spending so much time on Ebay looking for clothes (I just want something fun!), and making up for 9 weeks of no kitchen. One of my happiest moments when I got home was 2 hours in the kitchen, alone, with my tunes, making a ridiculously lavish Tuesday lunch. Bliss.</div><div><br /></div><div>I miss my friends, libraries and the pub – but am also happy and blessed to be home. And I am seeing my best friend tomorrow! </div><div>Good vibes yh!</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-25463557739923177062020-12-04T04:32:00.003-08:002020-12-04T04:32:28.588-08:00both terrible and wonderful'This has been both terrible and wonderful. At the end I am so grateful and it will all matter in a way you cannot fathom. You've got this, keep on keeping on'. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7hjbliADiIrCL-XD1YHwKB13gsbkF2os_fn9bftOvv2YJh1rMZiIXpNB-rnoVLUPN73kNDosyqTA362KhMBfcTmPchRr7W6Gx-wJaRpJ5_G8_-4fZ6RJwwaCWEOfYGWkbAu32Qh8Lwk/s20008/IMG_7765.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7hjbliADiIrCL-XD1YHwKB13gsbkF2os_fn9bftOvv2YJh1rMZiIXpNB-rnoVLUPN73kNDosyqTA362KhMBfcTmPchRr7W6Gx-wJaRpJ5_G8_-4fZ6RJwwaCWEOfYGWkbAu32Qh8Lwk/w480-h640/IMG_7765.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This was scrawled on the walls of a toilet cubicle in the Sackler library, along with other sentiments of 'Oxford broke me inside so many times' and 'there is something so beautiful and so terrifying' about this city and this institution. My feelings of this week felt sort of heard. </div><div>It is so deeply impossible to explain the paradox of hatred and adoration I have for this place and how both punitive and exhilarating it is. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love it, and have loved every second of it and what it means and how at home I feel, and know if I had a choice, I would never leave. But so many parts of me just want it to stop, so I can catch a breather. </div><div><br /></div><div>You get so ridiculously caught up in it, and the intoxication to work a little harder, read a little longer, sleep a little less is so palpable. Only when I look beyond this bubble do I see how intense and destructive it is. That most people aren't expected to work 40 hour weeks, and don't feel burdened by the pressure of everyone else seemingly working <i>all the time. </i>That most unis don't place their crippling mental health crises in the hands of students. That it actually isn't healthy to get up at 6, and have 6 hours sleep, and never be able to catch a break because if you do, you'll fall behind. </div><div>But all of this seems so normal and so necessary and so important because it's what everyone else is doing. The entire culture is work harder, push yourself further, because you'll probably still not be enough. </div><div><br /></div><div>And this 'not being enough' was an intense feeling this week. My tutor called me out in my class week, asking whether I had <i>actually </i>done the reading and reminding me that I could 'just pop in at any time with my thoughts'. Yes, I know, I thought – but why would I say <i>anything </i>when these seven boys are all so articulate and intelligent and confident? What would my stuttering hesitation bring to this discussion?</div><div> I've cried quite a lot about feeling stupid this week. Feeling like I'm struggling, when it seems like everyone else is thriving (another problem: stoicism), and not even being able to <i>comprehend </i>half of what they are saying. It's rough, man. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, and here is the real contradiction, I can't even articulate how deeply I love it all, and how really I could just do this forever. And how, even in a pandemic, I am so happy and at peace. And how, finally, I realise the progress I have made and the things I have learned, and how I have academically developed. </div><div>I have <i>never </i>felt the love, or the loneliness, or the happiness, or the pride, or the anger that I feel here. </div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>This was written three weeks ago, what a three weeks its been. Some decisions were made, some very difficult things were dealt with, my tutor was a queen, I cried every day for a week, and now it' the end of term. I still feel stupid and I am unfathomably exhausted but also so content lying in bed hungover knowing I <i>finally</i> can relax. And even if I am stupid, who cares, I'm here – I made it this far. I am excited to go home and eat proper food (not sitting in a perspex box), see my pup and avoid work for at least a day. </div><div><br /></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-41304836934953690102020-11-08T01:20:00.003-08:002020-11-08T01:20:37.955-08:00November And we're here again. <div>What an <i>exhausting</i> week, month, year, am I right?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGtJ1yAcdWpL8wC4ysEbuUAzf9hsAIx4CSF84lxma-zPNOsr6X3M3MvGoftvv69QYHZMF0nhyphenhyphenCYuVC_jd_7skJVwrYYfXyLYThzqMQH4LbmaoYg_LW8RNVmG66Kqg19oT-v_YWBAbpqA/s2048/IMG_7385.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGtJ1yAcdWpL8wC4ysEbuUAzf9hsAIx4CSF84lxma-zPNOsr6X3M3MvGoftvv69QYHZMF0nhyphenhyphenCYuVC_jd_7skJVwrYYfXyLYThzqMQH4LbmaoYg_LW8RNVmG66Kqg19oT-v_YWBAbpqA/w480-h640/IMG_7385.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><br /><br />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. <div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIWKTUuQ_RFQesOnbAvfD2SxAMZCVGgPpuQT7MOsXlZrONogMIzFSR-QmZffIlkggGhn1-wAqlbqic_qoMt-1-5sHmnC12e-ugnAc52yA4aOMkMGW6o8wvoYi4bL7XXXFonFvwCfMbUc/s2048/IMG_7406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIWKTUuQ_RFQesOnbAvfD2SxAMZCVGgPpuQT7MOsXlZrONogMIzFSR-QmZffIlkggGhn1-wAqlbqic_qoMt-1-5sHmnC12e-ugnAc52yA4aOMkMGW6o8wvoYi4bL7XXXFonFvwCfMbUc/w480-h640/IMG_7406.jpg" width="480" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>Man, I really didn't mean to moan <i>this </i>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. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxCcd0rHIa0YaG7Jbc8FPTO2MaY5F50C_BoatiHkiMenQoFga4b3vWqSCXW_shpxHFLyTXotOnm8pbR6uzVuUXHiqeM1-00lxSN8pUcCq1j00BpciJe8bTUTY_FtgWsyra6iAn9zNgtY/s2048/IMG_7456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxCcd0rHIa0YaG7Jbc8FPTO2MaY5F50C_BoatiHkiMenQoFga4b3vWqSCXW_shpxHFLyTXotOnm8pbR6uzVuUXHiqeM1-00lxSN8pUcCq1j00BpciJe8bTUTY_FtgWsyra6iAn9zNgtY/w480-h640/IMG_7456.jpg" width="480" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace out, y'all – send some good vibes, apparently I really need them. </div></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-36920322921468459432020-10-15T09:34:00.005-07:002020-10-15T09:37:23.163-07:00October thoughts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTjoiuB1ejPUMcUUfzVaHK8Hn5oPFZitLnRKKAjwx4sFPw0g-7XsmeKPZ8sW5xtktGAI_f7x7w9D3UDim4R5BuWcAnHg3EvDPHJk7KN5lxHU_iKJvbtiS2AmXJdyax0K3pF3NsihrBMg/s1561/Screenshot+2020-10-15+at+17.30.00.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1421" data-original-width="1561" height="580" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTjoiuB1ejPUMcUUfzVaHK8Hn5oPFZitLnRKKAjwx4sFPw0g-7XsmeKPZ8sW5xtktGAI_f7x7w9D3UDim4R5BuWcAnHg3EvDPHJk7KN5lxHU_iKJvbtiS2AmXJdyax0K3pF3NsihrBMg/w640-h580/Screenshot+2020-10-15+at+17.30.00.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div>Here are some good things</div><div><br /></div><div>Riding my bike - she's beautiful and smooth and so silent </div><div>The incremental reminder, in libraries or classes, of why I love what I do </div><div>Morning walks in the sun </div><div>Having the time to run, listening to Lizzo, and feeling my body process it all</div><div>The college cats I can see from my window </div><div>Hugging my puppy last weekend </div><div>Getting my third replacement university card, and finally getting into the libraries again </div><div>Yoghurt and granola, eaten religiously with a coffee, as I watch the world wake up </div><div>My mum transferring me money for said yoghurt, because despite it only being 1st week, I am skint (thank u student finance!)</div><div>Missing dancing, but being able to drunkenly talk instead</div><div>My friend leaving chocolate outside my room </div><div>Velcro Vejas which, despite their <i>excessive </i>cost, I am in love with </div><div>Oscillating between 10pm and 1am bedtimes, and finding no in between – because it's challenging my excessive need for control </div><div>Philip Glass, especially Facades and 'String Quartet no. 2 'Company', for working music </div><div>A trip to buy pens, which accidentally resulted in lunch out, and of course, no pens</div><div><br /></div><div>So times are good, but they are strange and forever teetering on the unknown precipice. </div><div>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.</div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>How are y'all?</div><div><br /></div><div>(pic sources: 1) view from my window 2) @butterscotch_isle (via @sweetthangzine 3) @metmuseum 4) @ghastlypeak )</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-31836784303489271292020-10-04T01:58:00.004-07:002020-10-04T01:58:24.501-07:00rain and sun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksp9tTSLrMAINRq0mI7dFyl7RO3yhxlDO9ZnxVSBMRKWSWYY9MgNbg_FVObTZJ8cHyf59zeC6bA3GvnmlBHVcqz_JfLYJmyOSCBYPDUlGJmaPHeZ77jG7BhtQ7PhHJEVw92b9mVBb3QE/s204800/120861783_769587853882208_9071823693158729099_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksp9tTSLrMAINRq0mI7dFyl7RO3yhxlDO9ZnxVSBMRKWSWYY9MgNbg_FVObTZJ8cHyf59zeC6bA3GvnmlBHVcqz_JfLYJmyOSCBYPDUlGJmaPHeZ77jG7BhtQ7PhHJEVw92b9mVBb3QE/w480-h640/120861783_769587853882208_9071823693158729099_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>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. <div>Alongside returning to libraries, and pleading my way in as I've lost my university card for the <i>fourth</i> 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.</div><div>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 </div><div>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. </div><div>So all in all, good times, people. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_VYJGMgSHxq1MJREj3Ec8rBlFxMGqOuOrmpkT0G3h6I5W5lv-14itgSeemywBvQMuQFy_nmtrY0xYTGDE_vGW3LieN-uAosytWdDUooa6K4LOG1F7hCP3-LvoApAXGC8YgCnfyUcZhE/s204008/120021446_366753298065896_3427632297943679431_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_VYJGMgSHxq1MJREj3Ec8rBlFxMGqOuOrmpkT0G3h6I5W5lv-14itgSeemywBvQMuQFy_nmtrY0xYTGDE_vGW3LieN-uAosytWdDUooa6K4LOG1F7hCP3-LvoApAXGC8YgCnfyUcZhE/w480-h640/120021446_366753298065896_3427632297943679431_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOyDLlYlar_JQiEJLQz8Kc04b9jSAjNF9bEpPoD7SOyNOFRao9d-8xgk430jQKWsN4R8qGK9hQn6Mwb_fJUsFb3zjJsOdrP7_FNMJGAdDBSELmCDpgmo6agzwfDEjdD6HihCY1CyDcCiU/s204008/120871285_684679778852222_3327681086660774853_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOyDLlYlar_JQiEJLQz8Kc04b9jSAjNF9bEpPoD7SOyNOFRao9d-8xgk430jQKWsN4R8qGK9hQn6Mwb_fJUsFb3zjJsOdrP7_FNMJGAdDBSELmCDpgmo6agzwfDEjdD6HihCY1CyDcCiU/w480-h640/120871285_684679778852222_3327681086660774853_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>Now I must brave the rain to get my washing, and clean my bathroom as I've left it a little too long. </div><div><br /></div><div>How are you all adapting to a new term and a new life? Let's hope for some sun. </div><div><br /></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-34640893197026850692020-09-13T14:17:00.001-07:002020-09-13T14:17:57.133-07:00the beginning of the end <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVdN3FMR7r-xyihnEH9huA3n3-BoWKP2WRjXkfd8Gkl9LvOZ7fk1_FdrLYAt66i9BPuSDOCO5SZIbg94EGAxv8DCM-esO49lPRhKUsFPclp2OtR8O2GrZ4GozQ6rzekvwGcopNc8Dq1g/s20000/pics.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1396" data-original-width="1729" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVdN3FMR7r-xyihnEH9huA3n3-BoWKP2WRjXkfd8Gkl9LvOZ7fk1_FdrLYAt66i9BPuSDOCO5SZIbg94EGAxv8DCM-esO49lPRhKUsFPclp2OtR8O2GrZ4GozQ6rzekvwGcopNc8Dq1g/w625-h504/pics.jpg" width="625" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Thoughts on third year. </div><div>Who can believe it, eh? How quickly this has all disappeared.</div><div>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. </div><div>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 <i>sick, </i>Autumn in Oxford is beautiful and my yellow bike is going to look iconic zipping around the streets. I cannot wait.</div><div>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.</div><div>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 <i>what was, </i>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, of course, there's the inevitable anxiety. Anxiety at exams and pressure. And at <i>the end. </i>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 <i>will end. </i>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?</div><div>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 <i>real. </i>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, for third year, I am feeling both hope and dread. So sad and so hopeful at the same time.</div><div>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, <i>so </i>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. </div><div>And I'll fuckin' stop with the photobooth pics when I really should be reading. </div><div><br /></div><div>Good vibes for back to school, y'all (and hoping beyond hope that a second lockdown isn't on its way!) <3</div><div>(pics are from insta: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CE9XFX0H0OA/" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CDGQlqhH9p0/" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CCpIeGXDG7W/" target="_blank">here</a>)</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-30052357363614692842020-09-01T03:09:00.001-07:002020-09-01T03:09:24.813-07:00the reads and the to-reads #2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzpzxj4xhfEanYRcCWfEeuA3209wHJ3ghFp1s6aGft5EGjHbBY0VjlVchkamkNTzNXbFtKbg4x48tlLkmNmnQAqs86QqAL4AaWF0Kfr10dqRnqmR4Ynf72e5aWgvexmqXBvNMcvJ4lRE/s2040/Screenshot+2020-09-01+at+11.06.04.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="2040" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibzpzxj4xhfEanYRcCWfEeuA3209wHJ3ghFp1s6aGft5EGjHbBY0VjlVchkamkNTzNXbFtKbg4x48tlLkmNmnQAqs86QqAL4AaWF0Kfr10dqRnqmR4Ynf72e5aWgvexmqXBvNMcvJ4lRE/s2000/Screenshot+2020-09-01+at+11.06.04.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>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!<div>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. </div><div>Here are some recs!</div><div><br /></div><div><u>The Parisian Affair and Other Stories, Guy de Maupassant </u></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><i>'Really strange, complex...unfathomable creatures, women', 'one of those treacherous looks that so often appear in women's eyes',</i> you get the gist!</div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><u>Rainbow Milk</u></div><div><u><br /></u></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><u>It's not about the Burqa </u></div><div><u><br /></u></div><div>Another recommended reading of the reading group I mentioned in <a href="http://kaatielouu.blogspot.com/2020/06/some-reading-and-listening.html">this</a> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div><u>Reading Lolita in Tehran </u></div><div><u><br /></u></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>What have you all been reading recently?</div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-43502065900368095082020-08-21T12:57:00.002-07:002020-08-21T12:57:15.623-07:00back to normal but not really normal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cMVt3N5X36NukQ5wY8sEZwkn05j8iw8EBWK2Fb6uZv154DdNPKLfpn5YduBPd_n4_JJPxB3X_V1bZQeGhC8NPdX9PWoHRa7h8Ic-qeYSdSSPNqJiW79o8IOqgsR4gffCzLwID-5csA0/s961/118092273_671202636821843_5605161004843635920_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="961" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cMVt3N5X36NukQ5wY8sEZwkn05j8iw8EBWK2Fb6uZv154DdNPKLfpn5YduBPd_n4_JJPxB3X_V1bZQeGhC8NPdX9PWoHRa7h8Ic-qeYSdSSPNqJiW79o8IOqgsR4gffCzLwID-5csA0/s2000/118092273_671202636821843_5605161004843635920_n.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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. <div>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. </div><div>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. </div><div>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. </div><div>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.</div><div>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 <i>trillion </i>pounds public debt. That the infection rate rises, and still we <i>eat out to help out </i>and travel further and meet up more. But also that my life is <i>busy, </i>that I go outside<i>, </i>and have plans and that so many of the things I said I missed, I can finally evoke in some form or another. </div><div>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. </div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-51519728181055993712020-08-12T04:35:00.003-07:002020-08-12T04:35:37.178-07:00being outside<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYj54bwAES2FSTW5TYJk2fo43G-oivXPRg0pkLv9O1PYyTkZwkm77PnjWEkh4HIvhNGgpmYcjnDBArcB3BpzBGLMK-ymSSCW2bVseIB-dvDZOIb12SmC1EDp0Iff3lHSpWYWNVxties28/s2048/IMG_5536.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2041" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYj54bwAES2FSTW5TYJk2fo43G-oivXPRg0pkLv9O1PYyTkZwkm77PnjWEkh4HIvhNGgpmYcjnDBArcB3BpzBGLMK-ymSSCW2bVseIB-dvDZOIb12SmC1EDp0Iff3lHSpWYWNVxties28/s640/IMG_5536.HEIC" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />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. <br /><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><img border="0" data-original-height="1548" data-original-width="1548" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGIlTCYI1IuWKmRI26Ui5w5Ml_516TfcEXNRKtUjAQht8YDSJPzwpjoWuKsgUCSL7hc71RXb3elG2rlN4hn8aqyh5xEpufyrwUYdnSqMj7hgxJ4QDEyqVjf3tS6ZkbMoqaBTxH95mxYRA/s2000/ce9e0978-ba54-4999-af00-8331f5dce2e2.JPG" /></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>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.</div><div> </div><div><img border="0" data-original-height="1562" data-original-width="1250" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXJ2jUDJZxheBij-3Ib0TEYASOUW_4kzr-pwDWL8KVyTQ1I5r4OJ3l9-Grt54e3Jjj2R291_TAnZ4BFad26C7Vy9k1HI1S0Ob8Mx5W6hYHUMnjT2AEvG5_MbryPancL2X_zH1w7iqiME/s2000/9C8DA221-03F9-4A65-8A7F-F77724501F83.JPG" /></div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>nothing </i>to contribute to the growing of any of it. </div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3616403804609726669.post-79318403851848677312020-08-04T14:35:00.008-07:002020-08-05T02:54:46.424-07:00longing for artI 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. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirazVMTJuyElOUAdz3WLWc5fzKSaDdNu8I9hF9md7kxAObI8j_vPfq9y0QSpsidSSKBJzfnXAHRRmYHHtZzZ4XhVBTBh0VLfVRM8yJ4hK2OBYcqadKUkqfpS8IgG5n8nwJQ-PcpABKb1k/s200000/Screenshot+2020-08-04+at+22.30.34.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="2329" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirazVMTJuyElOUAdz3WLWc5fzKSaDdNu8I9hF9md7kxAObI8j_vPfq9y0QSpsidSSKBJzfnXAHRRmYHHtZzZ4XhVBTBh0VLfVRM8yJ4hK2OBYcqadKUkqfpS8IgG5n8nwJQ-PcpABKb1k/w640-h280/Screenshot+2020-08-04+at+22.30.34.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>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. <a href="https://collections.ashmolean.org/collection/search/per_page/25/offset/0/sort_by/date/object/46928">This</a> 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. </div><div>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. </div><div><div><div><br /></div><div><img border="0" data-original-height="1277" data-original-width="1995" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbLShIYcAgUCipnwnOOqX9vUZe3y6J9PHlg0LPQ98idVjD6szcs9_kKoyzixRhRlQj9H602TdhYMeUXdNxEaJ9JNle-aEqI6p_XrlwqOX5NvRHr8zqiMsDnSMetR7lEYocY2SR5W8OVmo/s2000/Screenshot+2020-08-04+at+22.22.56.png" width="640" /></div><div>Some highlights include (above):</div><div>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'</div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also listened to Simon Schama's '<a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000kw4t">The Great Gallery Tours</a>' which, if you can reconcile yourself to the posh stuffiness that often (in my opinion unnecessarily (because <i>so much good art is free</i>)) 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 <i>solely </i>for <a href="https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/exhibitions/artemisia">this</a> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Some accounts I'd recommend following are:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/amber_sidegallery/">@amber_sidegallery</a> (a gorgeous independent photography gallery in Newcastle – Forever Amber's most iconic series was of poverty in the city, but since they have done <i>so </i>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)</div><div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/vangoghmuseum/">@vangoghmuseum</a></div><div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/museelouvre/">@museelouvre</a></div><div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/charlotte.ager/">@charlotte.ager</a></div><div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/ashmoleanmuseum/">@ashmoleanmuseum</a></div><div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/robertoferri_official/">@robertoferri_official</a> (a modern baroque-esque artist; obsessed)</div><div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/metmuseum/">@metmusuem</a></div><div><a href="https://www.facebook.com/arsgratiartismutatismutandis.25">Ars gratia artis</a> – mutatis mutandis (on fb, such a beautiful and diverse selection and it has really exposed me to some gorgeous new stuff!)</div><div><br /></div></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9c7KUEcJkBpaFskOD01TLi2ypodxaFmDaulydtzAY1j8V04No0NhvpsbVF2e1OynmFUadSEqBff_1j4IL6pUoXt0N63MF_lICwZd7lRvab6POfXwZIML8KxNZ45vFnHIF7bnDFT0jfmw/s2048/D82ZVANXkAAlcvC.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9c7KUEcJkBpaFskOD01TLi2ypodxaFmDaulydtzAY1j8V04No0NhvpsbVF2e1OynmFUadSEqBff_1j4IL6pUoXt0N63MF_lICwZd7lRvab6POfXwZIML8KxNZ45vFnHIF7bnDFT0jfmw/s640/D82ZVANXkAAlcvC.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div><div>What have you been missing most? And any arty recs please send 'em my way xo</div></div>Katie Hunterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03596620883587866592noreply@blogger.com0