Looking For London

[looking-for-london]

faces.

wherever i go wherever i stay i'll never be the same now that I know all your names this hasn't gone as planned i wasn't supposed to feel i wasn't supposed to care about what i'd be leaving behind 

the less you have the less you lose but now i have you and it's too late to refuse

I'm not saying that it was a mistake these bonds that i never meant to make but before i leave just promise me please that the future will bring us back 

i'm minding the gap that will be inbetween us when i leave this land underneath the clouds we'll be in different places thinking about all the faces that we waved farewell to before we were ready 

the less you try the less you gain thanks for reminding me of the beauty in the rain 

I'm not saying that it was a mistake these bonds that i never meant to make but before i leave just promise me please that the future will bring us back 

the future will bring us back for now just keep your dreams intact our future is brighter than these skies but for now, i guess that this is goodbye

goodbye my friends goodbye my friends it's hard to leave but we all knew that this would come to end  goodbye my friends goodbye my friends don't you worry because we'll never be alone again

  11/12/13 - 1:05am

[looking-for-london]

pov exercise: diary entry.

         I sat in the park all day today. I sat there waiting for donations, unwanted food, anything anyone would care to give. Most people walk by without paying any attention to me whatsoever. A little boy looked at me today, but then quickly turned away. I can't say I blame him. No one sat at any of the benches around me all day. But, that's usually how it goes. It's probably because of my smell. It's not my fault, though. I'd clean myself up if I could. I wish I could. I never wanted to be like this. I feel no better than the rubbish I sleep with, the half eaten sandwiches that I'm given. I spend my days in a park. I spend my nights in a park. I live in a park. But what else can you expect from a rubbish bin? 

[looking-for-london]

word count.

I DID IT! I HIT THE WORD COUNT! That's usually the hardest part for me, but after a night of vigorous working fueled by the spirit of Christmas, I hit the word count for my short story assessment. Granted, it's the minimum of the range, but STILL. I'm gonna let it sit and read it tomorrow after I get some sleep. Goodnight, London. Stay classy. 

[looking-for-london]

in time.

         Saying that time has flown by would be an understatement and also a cliche. So, in an attempt to avoid both, I will just simply say that it's hard to believe that my term in this spectacular city is almost over. A few months ago, I stepped off of a plane with a lot of hopes and expectations. One of the most important things for me was that I didn't want to just live in London, but be a Londoner. I wanted to be able to use the Tube without checking the map. I wanted to know which streets to walk on to avoid the crowds of tourists. I wanted to know the best places to eat and the best places to shop. I wanted to feel like I was at home. The sad truth is, I'm not quite there yet. As much as I try not to act like it, I'm only a visitor. I've experienced so much and met so many wonderful people, but I don't live here. I'm an American student, studying in London for one semester. Four months isn't long enough to make a place your home. I believe that it takes a while. You have to establish relationships with people, make mistakes and grow as a person. And I think that there's no shortcut for things like that. To have genuine experiences of those kind, it takes time. A lot of time. I wish I had more time here, but also, I'm glad to be going back. I miss my family, and I miss my friends. I miss my home in Virgina, and I miss my home at Butler. I've spent a good amount of time in both and built a lot of strong bonds. After a while, you just kinda get a feeling, that you know that you're home. Living in London, I've come to realize that home isn't a place, but a feeling, and that feeling can't be forced. It can't be created artificially and you can't really control when it comes. In time, you just feel it. You feel safe. You feel accepted. You feel like you belong. I wanted to make London a home so badly, but as much as I hate to admit it, I don't feel all of those things here, not yet. Maybe, in time, some day I will.

8/12/13 - 1:57am

[looking-for-london]

the day I ran away.

*disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. a creative writing exercise*

They were screaming again. Fighting again. Cursing again. There was no place to hide in our tiny flat, no place where I could pretend that things between my parents were alright. Even our neighbors would leave their flats to get away from the noise. I had to get away. But where would I go? A 14 year old with no money, in the middle of Shoreditch. The abrupt sound of a door slamming broke my thought process. I made for the door, grabbed a coat without minding if it was mine or not, and stepped out into the cold, crisp air. I started walking. It was cold, even for November. The Sun floated in the Sunday afternoon sky, trying in vain to heat up east London. I shivered violently and wrapped the large, brown coat around me as I made my way through the area, not bothering to look at the street names.  The coat belonged to my brother, who was attending a university in America. "I won't need this where I'm going," he told me while he packed. I missed my brother. He used to take me to the best places in the city. There was one place in particular...but there's no way I'd be able to find my way to it. I continued to wander aimlessly. No way at all, I didn't have the faintest idea where- I looked up, astounded. It was as if my life had been hijacked by some lazy writer who used unexplainable strokes of luck to move their plot along. "This...this is it." I said aloud to myself. The colorful and crowded Brick Lane stood before me, it's sights and sounds inviting me in. I oblige, and begin to slowly stroll down the busy street, gazing around at the novelty merchants and unique restaurants. Every few blocks there was a street performer surrounded by a crowd of people, tossing coins into hats and instrument cases to show their support. Many of the walls were covered by graffiti of every sort of color, bringing the bricks to life. It wasn't vandalism, it was art. The police must have felt the same way, because from the look of it, the paint had been there for a while. I began to think of my brother and grew jealous of him, of how he had escaped. I used to be angry that he left me, but I couldn't blame him. One day, I'd get out too. 

[looking-for-london]

the creative struggle.

         Whenever I think about writing, painting or any form of creating, I always imagine the process as being easy and cathartic. You see it all the time in films. An artist is feeling some sort of mixture of emotions and he or she uses these emotions to drive their creative engine. The result is a masterpiece through which the artist is able to express themselves. But what about the part you don't see in films? The part where the artist doesn't feel an overwhelming sense of inspirational emotion, or even worse, when they feel these emotions but don't quite know how to use them creatively. The latter is where I find myself much of the time. An aspiring songwriter, full of post-teenage angst and not quite sure how to use it. Inspiration has always been so illusive to me. I'd lay on my bedroom floor for hours, pen in hand, notebook over my eyes, waiting for some kind of spark to ignite a creative fire. A large part of my decision to study abroad in London was the hope that the city would be a source of inspiration to unleash the floodgates that seem to be holding me back. But what if inspiration isn't the driving force of creativity? What if it's just merely something that gives artists a boost? Maybe the driving force of creativity is simply ourselves, our imagination, our skills. This is the stance that I have now accepted. I haven't been able to write quality songs because I am not a quality song writer. Not yet anyway. Being creative is something that you have to work towards, something that you need to practice, like playing a sport. Some people are naturally better than others, but hard work will yield results. If I want to be a better writer, then I have to practice it. Creativity isn't a superpower, it's a muscle, and I need to hit the gym. 

18/11 - 10:15pm

[looking-for-london]

this is halloween?

         I’ve been living in London for almost two months now. The initial thrill of being in another country has worn off, and I’ve settled into a nice, comfortable routine. Don’t get me wrong, being in London is still exciting and I’m still experiencing and discovering new things to do and see frequently, but I just mean that the reality of being here has really set in. That being said, I’ve begun to see something that I’ve really come to take for granted back home/at Butler: Fall. When asked what my favorite season is, it’s my answer without hesitation. Among many other things about Fall, I love the comfy clothes, the chilly weather, Halloween, my second favorite holiday (after Christmas, of course), and probably most (cliche) of all, I love the way the leaves change. When I was a kid, I used to think that the whole world would simply change color overnight during this cozy season. Now that I’ve experienced it abroad, I know that this is certainly not the case (even if you discount the hyperbole). I don’t know if it’s just because I’m in the heart of the city, but today simply doesn’t feel like Halloween to me. Regent’s Park, as beautiful as it is, it still almost entirely green and I haven’t seen any Halloween decorations on the residential buildings near my dorm. London is lovely, but right now I kinda wish that I could be home or at Butler, just at least for today. I miss my family and friends, I miss my bandmates, and I miss my bulldawgs. I’m extremely lucky to be where I am, I know that, and I don’t regret studying abroad at all; I just miss my homes. I think that this will be good for me, though. I was always one to complain about being stuck in a place and wanting to get out. This should teach me to be more appreciative of where I come from, definitely a good lesson to learn.

         Don’t forget about me, everyone, I’ll be back soon. 

31/10 - 9:41pm

[looking-for-london]

dialogue exercise: comic-con.

         “Wow..” said Patrick, as he gazed around the crowded convention center.          The normally plain main hall of ExCel London was swarming with a mass of excited attendees of the London Comic-con. Many of these attendees wearing with wigs, cloaks, weapons and whatever else they could find to add to their cosplay outfits.          “I think I’m in heaven."          “Yeah, this is awesome. And thanks again for giving me your second ticket!” said Jennifer, as they both began to walk through the crowd, passing by a group dressed as members of the X-men.           “No problem at all,” replied Patrick still looking around in every direction, trying to take the whole scene in. “Well I originally bought two because-”          “I’ve aaaaalllways wanted to go to one of these,” blurted Jennifer, cutting of Patrick. “But I didn’t realize that London had one.”          “I didn’t know either, I saw an ad while riding the Tube last week,” responded Patrick.          “This is a bit smaller then I imagined. Probably because I’m so use to watching the San Diego comic-con on TV, and that one is huuuge,” said Jennifer.          “This con may be smaller, but it seems to have a bit of everything. Look, there are even vendors over there pretending to sell authentic Japanese food,” said Patrick, pointing as the two walked by a line of tables occupied by trays of steaming fried meat, the oily aroma beginning to fill the air around them.          “That’s it, I don’t care if it’s fake real Japanese cuisine, it smells good and I’m hungry,” said Patrick, as he marched toward one of the tables. “Are you hungry too?”          “Yeah, I could eat,” replied Jennifer.          “Alright, I can pay, it’s only 5 pounds and I’ve already got a 10 out,” said Patrick, as he ordered the food.          “Oh..thanks,” said Jennifer, blushing, trying to hide a smile.           “Yeah, what are pals for?” said Patrick, unaware of what he had just done.          “Wait….WHAT,” yelled Jennifer, “pals?!!” She turned and stormed away, knocking over a 6 foot tall Hello Kitty in the process.          “Jennifer! Come back!” shouted Patrick, as he went after her, a plate of noodles in each hand. When he caught up with her, he had to run and get in front of her because he couldn’t grab her shoulder.          “What is going on?” he said, looking at her, very confused.          “Pals!? I thought we were on a date!” answered Jennifer, emphasizing the last word.          “A…a date…what…but…I”           “You paid for my ticket. You’ve been opening all of the doors for me. You just bought me food,” said Jennifer, again emphasizing words on purpose.          “What? I original bought the ticket for my brother, but he couldn’t come. All of the doors we’ve been walking through have been automatic. And the food…I was just being nice,” responded Patrick, but it seemed to be making Jennifer even more mad.          Realizing that he needed to actually apologize, Patrick tried again.          “I’m sorry if I made this seem like a date. I just thought that coming here with you would be a whole lot more fun then coming alone.”          He didn’t know how, or why, but it worked.          “Awww, you mean it?” said Jennifer, in complete contrast to 25 seconds earlier.          “Yeah, of course.” answered Patrick, still confused about the whole situation.          “Alrighty. Oh look! Out of print Marvel comics!” shouted Jennifer as she sped off.          Patrick sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand girls,” he said aloud.          “Me neither,” said a deep voice.          Patrick turned to his right to see someone standing right next to him dressed up in a full Darth Vader costume, with two Stormtroopers close behind him. He nodded at them and then began to walk towards the comic section. 

[looking-for-london]

sick.

         ugh. Thursday night/Friday was probably the worst time I've had in London so far. I wasn't mugged, and no, I didn't cause an international incident, I was sick. You may be thinking that I'm being overdramatic right now, but hey, I was sick and it was terrible. I had had a sore throat for almost a week and I thought I was getting over it. My throat no longer hurt and all I had to deal with was a cough and an extreme excess of phlegm (gross, I know). My flatmates are all probably mortified due to the sounds I had been making all week, but they were necessary for me to try and win the battle I was having with my own body. On Thursday, I felt pretty good, but come nightfall, things got worst...so much worst. I went to bed feeling unusually cold. I kept getting intense chills that vibrated through my whole body, similar to when you hear a really nice sounding piece or music, only these were almost painful. I turned on the heat in my cruise ship sized room and went to bed early. I curled up under my blanket and attempted to sleep, but it wasn't coming. I kept getting the chills even though I was wrapped like a burrito (not like one of those cheap, fast food join burritos, but like a real gourmet mexican cuisine burrito) and there didn't seem to be anything I could do about it. To make things worst, my flatmates were taking part in their usual 'Thirsty Thursday' night antics (I guess it makes us even for all of my hacking noises). So, I laid in bed, questioning everything I had learned in middle school about the science of insulation, hours passed, and I eventually stumbled to sleep.          I awoke the next morning in a sticky cold sweat. The chills were still present and now more frequent, and I still felt annoyingly tired. I managed to get myself to the shower, but couldn't do much more. I lounged around, watching old episodes of Modern Family, wearing sweats, but somehow still felt cold. Amazingly, I found the strength and power of will to do laundry. It was probably due to how disgusting I felt when waking up. I washed my bed linens and made a tasty bowl of ramen afterwards, which was my only meal of the day.           I always get sick around this time of year, but somehow, it always takes me by surprise. You think I would've learned that I need to take better care of myself when our part of the world cools down, but I guess I just think that I'm invincible. I suppose it's part of being young, that feeling that nothing can touch you. But, is this a good mindset to have? They say this kind of thinking is what makes young people believe that they can drive while drunk and look where that gets them. But what about the other side of it? If we believe that nothing can bring us down, then couldn't that make us ambitious and driven? Believe that we can make whatever kind of life we want by going out and taking it. Even if this is a false sense of confidence, what is the difference between false confidence and the real thing? I'd go as far as to say there is no difference. The only exception, of course, is if you're confident that you'll never get sick. Because you will. It'll happen. Trust me. But you'll be okay. Time for tea. 

28/10/13 - 1:23am

[looking-for-london]

walking with Gran.

When I was 6 Gran took me on a walk I loved to listen and she loved to talk I held her hand as we crossed the street and she bought something warm for me to eat

When I was 12 Gran took me on a stroll we went to the garden just across the knoll She held my arm as we followed the path and fed the birds that gathered at the bath

When I was 16 Gran took me out with her to amble I tuned her out because she liked to ramble I held onto my phone  checked it at every red light thinking only of my plans for later that night

Today, I turned 20 I left my flat at dawn These morning walks are so much more lonely now that she's gone I was busy growing up and forgot that Gran was growing old I place flowers at her grave wondering when East London ever felt this cold

21/10/13 - 11:43pm

[looking-for-london]

night at the emirates.

         Finally. That's all I could say. After being a supporter of Arsenal FC ever since I saw them battle to an emphatic win over Manchester United at Old Trafford in 2006, I was finally going to a match. I'm not ashamed to say that going to Arsenal matches was the main reason why I chose to study abroad in London. While other students plan to spend their money traveling around Europe, I am perfectly happy spending mine traveling to Emirates Stadium as many times as I can.           Tuesday was a bit chilly, nothing unusual for early October in London. I took the tube to the game, aware of the crowd that I was sure to encounter. But I wanted that. I wanted to be squished inbetween strangers wearing the same red jersey as me. I wanted to hear the excited conversations about where the boss would put Aaron Ramsey in the line up tonight. And most of all, I wanted to finally be surrounded by others who felt the same way about my football club as me. I was finally there.          Emirates was spectacular. I had been there once over the summer, but it was nothing like tonight. The horde of fans around and inside the stadium induced an atmosphere that really brought the stadium to life. We were playing Napoli, current leaders of the Serie A, the top league in Italy. No one expected the match to be a pushover, but I guess no one expected the Gunners to play the way they did either. They were skaters, gliding across the pitch with ease. The opposition couldn't get near them, or the ball. When Ozil, our newly signed player, netted his first goal for the club, home supporters all erupted into an enormous roar. The team didn't look like they'd let up any time soon, and they didn't. Shortly after, Giroud, the towering striker scored once more. Every Arsenal fan in unison sang Giroud's song (Hey, Jude, but with Giroud's name stuck in). I stood and joined in, happy that I wasn't singing it alone in my basement like usual. Those two goals proved to be the difference as Arsenal earned another win and further cemented their place atop their Champions League group.           After the match, everyone slowly filed out of the stadium and even more slowly, onto the tube. And just like that, the magic was over. All the people I was cheering with and singing with just an hour or so earlier were on their separate ways. Most of us didn't know each other and never will, but that's the interesting thing about football, and sports in general. A group of men or women get together and kick, throw or hit a ball around and millions of people gather to watch. People we don't know at all become our allies simply because they like the same team as us. Fans spend so much money on merchandise and tickets to cheer on athletes who've never even seen our faces. Why does it matter so much to us? At the end of the day, sports don't really mean anything. So, why do we get so much pleasure in supporting sports teams? Is it simply the entertainment factor that drives our fascination? Perhaps it's because people like the feeling of being apart of something much bigger than them. Or maybe it's because professional athletes strive towards a level of greatness that many people both find amazing and wish they themselves could reach. What's the answer? I don't know. I just know I had a great time. Come on you Gunners!

5/10/13 - 11:55pm 

[looking-for-london]

bus 27.

         "Bus 27, that's the one!"           Cal pointed at a red double-decker bus as it made its way down the street, coming to a very abrupt stop just centimeters away from the curb.           "This'll take us all the way to Morrison's, it's at the end of the line," said Cal, as the bus's doors opened to let us on.          I stepped onto the bus and although the bottom level was empty, made my way up the stairs behind Cal’s tall, slender figure. We both wanted the same thing, to sit in the front row on the top level. Besides from having the best view of the city streets, the view from those seats amplified the thrill of a London bus driver’s tenacious maneuvering.          We got to the top level to find only two other passengers. One was a woman. She was average height and looked to be in her early 30s. She wore blue jeans and a light grey jacket. Her wavy, blonde hair went down to her shoulders and she was holding a young baby that was awake and looking around with very wide eyes. The other passenger was a man who looked to be in his 50s. He was a little taller than 6 foot, with grey hair mostly covered by a tan flat cap. He wore a black jacket and jeans and was reading the sports section of the day’s newspaper.          These strangers had nothing in common besides the fact that they were both in the front row of the bus. The bus began moving again before we sat, but Cal and I sat down two rows behind the other passengers. They were each only taking up one seat in the row of four, but we decided to obey the unwritten code of personal space.           Once we were comfortably in our seats, Cal reached inside his black coat, took out his iPod and put in his ear buds. He does this a lot when we ride public transportation together. I knew him before coming to London. We both went to the same university in America and although we shared a lot of the same friends, we didn’t exactly call up each other on weekends. I know that Cal’s very friendly, but also very enigmatic. When he doesn’t talk, it’s not because he’s being mean, it’s just the way he is. I don’t mind the silence. I push up the sleeves to my burgundy sweater and turn my attention to the window.          I begin thinking about how much more fun I’d be having if I were in the front row. I cast my eyes toward the two people I am envying and find something peculiar developing. The man lets out a loud sigh, folds up his newspaper and stuffs it inside his jacket. He begins to look around the bus until his eyes land on the woman, across the aisle to his left. His eyes narrow as his nose crinkles. He seemed to be thinking very hard about something. The woman hadn’t yet noticed the man’s fascination with her as she rocked her baby in her arms, humming a tune that I didn’t know.          “AH!” exclaimed the man.          The woman and I flinched simultaneously. Cal’s music must have been quite loud because he didn’t seem to notice.          “Are you from Turkey?” asked the man.          It was a question, but his confidence almost made it seem like a statement. The woman turned to meet his stare.          “Yes. Yes I am,” She replied, her disbelief shining in her eyes.          The man laughed. He then began to speak to her in what I assumed to be Turkish. At first, the woman was very reserved. She was trying to be polite, but the spontaneity of the conversation obviously caught her off guard. Gradually, she began to respond to the man’s friendly tone and become more comfortable. By the time the bus reached Morrison’s at the end of the line, a new friendship had formed. At least I think so. From what I could gather, they talked about Istanbul and the woman’s baby. The four of us stood up and exited the bus. The woman walked into Morrison’s ahead of us and after waving goodbye to the baby, the man made his way across the street.          While shopping for the cheap meat that we heard rumors about in Morrison’s, I kept thinking about what I had witnessed: the power of conversation. There have been numerous times when I have held my tongue when I had something to say to a stranger. Whether it is a comment or compliment, for some reason, I usually stay silent. I’m not insulting anyone or anything, so what am I so afraid of? Still unsure of whether or not the answer was as simple “nothing,” I got back on the bus 27. Cal and I scanned our Oyster cards and ran to the top level to find an empty bus. Joyfully, we raced to the front row and plopped ourselves down. Cal pulled out his iPod, but before he could put in his ear buds, I turned to him and started a conversation. With a smile on his face, my friend tucked his iPod back into his pocket and talked back. 

  30/9/13 - 11:11pm

[looking-for-london]

first.

I can't believe it hasn't even been two weeks yet. Last Wednesday, I stumbled onto a plane and crossed the world while it slept. I awoke to find myself across the pond, and on the verge of entering an amazing city. Whenever people asked me where the place I most wanted to visit, my answer would always be England's fine capital. It seems to bring all of the things I love together: overcast skies, classic fashion, a thriving music scene and of course, football (or soccer). London for me is like that really cool kid in school that you want to be friends with. You know you have lots in common and that your friendship would be great, but you just haven't found the right moment to introduce yourself yet. Well, I finally found the moment. Studying abroad seems like something that most people say they want to do but never actually go through with. I didn't want to be like them. I didn't want to miss this chance. I was never one to take big risks because I always over think decisions and most of the time, go with the safer option, which is frequently the choice to do nothing. I've often found myself missing out on such great opportunities simply because I did not act. This personal flaw is something that I am very much aware of and I'm working on it. Slowly but certainly, I'm trying. I'm trying to take a step, raise my hand, try out for the team, talk to that girl. Sure shit's gonna happen, but that's okay. It'll be okay. The good will outweigh the bad. At least that's what I'm hoping. Booking a seat to London was a giant leap for me, but I'm glad that I took the leap. I'll let you know if I ever stop falling. 

  24/9/13 - 10:35pm