Whirled World, Part I: End of the Beginning

I don't even know where to begin. I've been back in the USA for just over a week. And in the few weeks since I blogged last, so much has happened to me. And parts of it don't truly feel like they happened. Coming back to Connecticut makes it feel like all of my time abroad was some sort of crazy dream.

Honestly, this is way too much for one blog post. So I'll make it as many posts as I need to make it. As I've said before, I'm not writing for an audience... I'm writing for me. So I'm just going to write in a way that helps me organize my thoughts and archive my inner monologue. I'm sorry if it alienates or disappoints you. But then, I've never been a very conventional blogger, so maybe you'll be happy to be along for the ride.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The events of June 16 & June 17, 2010

The night that I wrote Falling into Place, I did indeed meet P from *Insert My Blog Name Here*.

(Me & P, in Cyberdog)

She let me lead her around the madness that is called Camdentown Market. I took her inside a crazy cyber-punk store called Cyberdog. We ate crepes while sitting on motorcycles next to a river. She convinced me to buy a dress as one last London present to myself, and it was a great decision. She allowed me to tell her all about my love life in greater detail than I generally allow myself to go into online, and it was nice to vent. For the record, she's completely delightful (and speaks with a seriously awesome dialect). I wish that we'd been able to spend more time together. If we lived in closer proximity, I know we'd be great friends. :)

Then I went to see a show with my classmate Wifey. It was a 3+ hour production of As You Like It directed by Sam Mendes at the Old Vic. It was the same theatre where I met Phil. And it was easily the best production of that play I've ever seen. Actually, it ranks high on my list of Shakespeare productions of all time. Splendid production.

After the show got out, I discovered that Phil had been desperately trying to text me during it. He was trying to figure out where I was and how we could meet up. I was supposed to go back to my flat and crack open a bottle of champagne with Wifey that we had purchased together at duty-free on our way back from Paris... But instead I separated from her. And Phil met me by the theatre, looking handsome as usual.

I don't know if I've mentioned this, but he makes himself all handsome before he comes to see me. I mean, I've seen him in casual gear. But for when we have our dates? He's nicely dressed. And he smells good. And it just makes me want to melt. And grab onto him and never let go.

But anyway.

He knew that it had been a pipe dream of mine to go to karaoke at some point while I was in London, so he did research into places that would have karaoke on a Tuesday night. We walked there, under the stars. We walked along the South Bank of the river, which I'd never done at night before. And we talked. And I got to learn even more about this fascinating human being who had (at that point) only entered my life a couple of weeks before. I remember not caring if we ever made it to karaoke or anywhere else that night. I just wanted to absorb as much of him as I could.

As we walked, he admitted that he had been upset when he discovered I had gone to As You Like It. He was frustrated that I would be spending three hours watching a play instead of spending those three hours with him. He was jealous that the play was getting my attention. But he said that once he saw me and we were walking together, that frustration went away. He was so happy to be around me for whatever time he could.

We did end up making it to karaoke, in the dive-iest dive karaoke bar I've ever seen. We took up residence at a table in the dark back corner of the room. I drank a couple of Coronas, which, for me, is enough to get certifiably intoxicated (Side Note: I love being a light-weight. It saves so much time and money.) We sang "Use Somebody" by the Kings of Leon, and the 8 middle-aged drunk people in the bar sang along with us. And then we did a fantastic job on "Love Shack" by The B-52s. No seriously, we rocked that karaoke dive. Phil did his best Fred Schneider impression, and I sang all the girls' parts. The other people in the bar were impressed and complimenting us. We left on a high note.

By the time we got back to the party my classmates were having at my flat, the alcohol was gone (including the Parisian champagne), and everyone had gone to bed.

So Phil and I sat talking on my couch. And he expressed interest in my blog.

Now, I've learned some lessons about this blog and men:
- Michael had access to it, but never read it. It made me feel horribly unimportant to him (which, ultimately, I was... but still, it hurt to feel that way).
- Brian had access to it from the first post, and read it before, during, and after the time we were dating (and might end up reading this very post. *waves to Brian*). After Brian dumped me, he was hurt by the comments left by people supporting me who looked at him some sort of villain (and since I am the heroine of my own story, at that point it was exactly how one would expect them to interpret my writing).
- Daniel didn't read it while we were dating, but he knew the title of it. He found it after we broke up and tortured himself by reading about my life without him. I noticed his IP address (which I had tracked from my other blog), and sent him an e-mail. I wrote that I couldn't make him stop reading it, but that I didn't think it was the best way to get information from me, and I thought he'd end up hurting himself by reading it. He did hurt himself, and then stopped.

Learning from the pain that this blog has caused me and others in the past, I decided it best to not let Phil see it. And I recommended to him that he not attempt to seek it out, for his own emotional safety. He agreed.

But somehow, it felt like it made sense in our extremely honest courtship for him to know what was in it.

Also, I'd been drinking.

So I sat on the couch facing him with Lady MacBook on my lap. And I read to him in a strange sort of narcissistic story-time. He sat there, interested, as I read him a story about himself. Reading my own words was somehow not as uncomfortable as I thought it might be, which perhaps was a result of having just done it for weeks in my playwriting class. I read Discovering Magic, the post about the night I met him. I felt vulnerable, and a bit self-conscious, but like it was the right thing to do.

He sat there listening intently, and I'm sure that his mind was working actively. Mine would have been if the roles had been reversed. I would have been connecting the dots. Attempting reconcile information from the night to see if my memory and his matched. Observing what moments he found important enough to mention. Noticing which other moments were left out. Trying to find out what he found so great about me. And doing my best to determine if he liked me as much as I liked him. I can only speculate that he was doing the same.

When I finished that post, he asked if there were more. So I read him Afraid to Fall. And he still seemed really fascinated by the whole thing. So I read him Falling into Place, which I had written only hours before. I read to him about Alessandro and Blake.

I don't remember ever feeling so exposed. All of my cards were on the table. All the intensity of my feelings for him. All that talk of me rooting for things with him to work out. All of my talk about the other men in my life that proceeded him by a matter of days.

And after it was over, he thanked me. He seemed grateful, realizing that I'd just given him a piece of myself. He said it was a little weird, hearing his own words quoted back to him. But he loved remembering the moments along with me. And he loved knowing that some of the seemingly innocuous things that he said and did in my presence meant enough to me that I remembered them and wrote about them. He said he was in disbelief that I think he's as great as I do.

We spent a little time together the next morning, and left each other with the idea that we'd meet up again in the evening.

I saw Blake only briefly when I got my ticket to the London Eye, and he was with several of his coworkers. We didn't really get to talk, or to get any sort of proper goodbye. I sensed that he wanted to say more to me than he could as we stopped to chat on the bridge. He never again mentioned the fancy restaurant he had promised to take me to so that I could wear my new white dress. It's just as well, as I never mentioned to him that I wore my new white dress on a date with Phil.

(Me, Two-Shots-Up, and our friend on the London Eye. I'm wearing the dress that I bought with P the day before.)

I went on the London Eye without any sort of height-induced panic attack. It was an enclosed space, so I wasn't afraid of falling. Then I went out to dinner and drinks with my classmates and a couple of my professors. Even then, I couldn't stop talking about the guy who had so enchanted me.

But while I was out at the bar, I got a text from Phil, canceling on me for the evening. He was stressed with work and had a deadline to meet. Valid as that may have been, I knew it was an excuse. He then admitted that it was because he didn't want to go through a tearful goodbye.

To be honest, I remember thinking that was stupid. After all, I would be seeing him again in two weeks, and the truly upsetting goodbye would be the one before I flew back to the USA. This one was just a soft goodbye. A practice run. A "Be Back Soon". A short vacation, with the knowledge that I would return to him (at this moment, that's what I hope all of our goodbyes will be).

I hated not seeing him that night. For him, it was easier that way. He liked that our goodbye didn't feel final. In fact, it was easier that morning than most of the times we parted after a night together, simply because there was the hope that we'd see each other soon. But I loathed that my expectation of getting to see him again before leaving wasn't going to be met.



There are few chores, errands, and other acts of responsibility that I truly hate in life. Here's the closest I can come to an exhaustive list right now:
- Putting clothing on hangers
- Planning anything involving travel
- Packing
- Moving



Attempting to pack up all of my stuff into two small suitcases in order to move? Not fun. Attempting to do it while thinking about Phil? Not easy. I ended up sitting in my living room and drinking with my classmates until about 3 hours before my early morning trip to the airport.

I didn't want to leave London. Any other sane person would have been excited for adventures in Greece and Italy. But me? I just wanted to stay.

I wanted to have more time in London. I wanted to have time to finally go to the Tate. Or to spend a proper day in the British Museum (which was literally a block away from where I lived, but I only took a 20-minute walk through it during the entirety of my 6-week stay). Or to take a lesson at The Make-Up Store on Carnaby Street, which I had promised myself (and the sales staff) that I would. Or to get my haircut at Brooks + Brooks, as I'd been saying I would since the week I arrived. Or to go to the Greenwich Market (which Phil and I attempted to go to, but ended up in the wrong part of Greenwich). I wanted to see The Tempest, which was directed by Sam Mendes as a companion piece to that spectacular production of As You Like It and had all the same actors in it (it's part of The Bridge Project).

And, almost separately from my desire to stay in the city I love so well, was my desire to stay with Phil.

I wanted more time to experience the city. I wanted more time to experience the person. And although I knew I'd be coming back and would have another full day in London, I knew that the two things I had fallen for would be competing for my attention... and no matter how I spent that last day, I wouldn't have great closure with either.





To be continued...
(as I suppose could be said about any blog post that is to be followed eventually by another blog post)


May you be safe in your vulnerability.

~A~