Blast from my past

I knew before he said it, honestly. We hadn't talked since my visit two months ago, save for brief chatter, meaningless. The words were out of his e-mouth and I felt no surprise at being told, that he had felt a need to inform me over the ocean. Sure it was covered by another ass comment, but that is beyond the point. I was going to write about it last night, but got carried away into sleep. What surprised me more was my reaction. Some people get under your skin and never go away. I guess he is one to add to the short-list, and that made me happy in a strange, nostalgic kind of way. Like 'oh muffin if only' and similar thoughts racing through my mind, he cut things short, almost reluctant to get into it, knowing where it would likely go. Perhaps he was remembering, as I was, our summer apart. Regardless, I chattered about my life and we said our goodbyes again. But I can't shake that moment when he told me she was on the way out, and that jump I couldn't help. Some things will always be a surprise.

We walked in the snow. The first time this year, and like that moment with leaves and colder air, my instincts took over. Swayed by seasons. And I missed Montreal, real winter, Gardner Gardens and the smell of snow. The way the air is so cold that snow doesn't fall as flakes, but as glitter. Somehow I missed the sensation of frozen air in my lungs, face, hands numbed from my walk home, kicking the gravel off my boots and tracking it through my entryway and up the stairs regardless. Spending all morning in bed because I couldn't face the day. The glare of sunlight off the resevoir and the crunch of my feet through a layer of ice, down to the powder, blinded on my way to 215, worsened by my habitual beer pong hangover. That morning after Jo's party when we escaped his stalker, fled down the street, and somehow the mild -10 of the previous night had dropped to an ungodly -35, our substandard coats unprepared, and we drove into town, gasped past our usual breakfast place (closed for the holidays) and ran to St. Laurent, screeching, our boots squeaking, bodies protesting. How we couldn't warm up until we reached my apartment more than an hour later and collapsed, blocks of ice slowly thawing, melting out over that orange couch, blue rug, hardwood floor, trickling underneath the door and into the hallway, down the stairs and out once more into the cold, to refreeze in a new shape one last time.

Last night I felt like I had done something wrong, despite the smile on my face. And I guess I just get tired of the merry-go-round, but this time... this time was different, like I wasn't faking or forcing things. And maybe that is all I needed. Tim's comments and all potentially-ruined surprises aside, I'm really curious and somehow excited. So another morning, still feeling pulled and prodded and hoping I can manage not one, but two nights this week in heels without damaging myself further. Today will not be wasted as yesterday was.

Newbies?

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting on the bus and half-asleep, zoned out through the condensation on the window and trying to ignore the ice-blocks that were once my feet. A memory came back to me. And this is nothing new, but suddenly I recalled telling someone 'dreamingspire'. Oops. One thing I have tried to do is keep this from the people here. Unlike onemoreyear, which I gladly shared with my McGilligan friends, to share this one has seemed a bit inappropriate. I can't quite explain why. Now I can't remember who I had this conversation with, and wracking my brains to no avail, I am reduced to asking: who's new around here? C'mon, leave a comment, just let me know when I told you... seriously, the only reason I keep this is so I can remember what happened last week... I am pretty sure that was the context in which it came up anyways. Ugh.

Our game was amazing yesterday, another decisive victory, but not without a price. When I woke up this morning I was in worse shape than I've been since I hurt myself, so I had to take pain pills just to function out of bed. Its going to be a long day. Somehow I want to have an essay topic by this evening. because the rest of the week is looking more and more like an academic wash. On the agenda are two events which require heels, and I'm quite excited about the prospect of this, looking pretty and all. So today I have a mission involving a strapless bra (stuck in somewhere around my essay-topic mission of course) and tonight I feel like I should sleep. Finally the madness has caught up to me, and I'm feeling really worn. Run-down, but the light is shining, and somehow that makes it all okay. I've got hilarious 80s morning-music and a list of books. Gorgeous. Now if only my professors would get back to me about my topics I would be set.

Suddenly this song comes on that I haven't heard in what feels like years. I'm feeling it, so here are lyrics transcribed for my recollecting pleasure. Suffer through them if you will, its worth checking out. The first time I heard it perhaps influences my feelings about the song though, sitting in the first room that was truly mine, dark outside, and him holding my guitar. The first time I had coaxed him into playing for me, and words pouring out over the space between us. It is one of a handful of songs that always brings him back to me in the best of ways.

I can'’t be losing sleep over this, no I can'’t
And now I can not stop pacing
Give me a few hours, I'll have this all sorted out
If my mind would just stop racing

Cause I cannot stand still
I can'’t be this unsturdy
This cannot be happening

This is over my head but underneath my feet
Cause by tomorrow morning
I'’ll have this thing beat
And everything will be back to the way that it was
I wish that it was just that easy

Cause I'm waiting for tonight
Then waiting for tomorrow
And I'm somewhere in between
What is real, and just a dream

Would you catch me if I fall out of what I fell in
Don'’t be surprised if I collapse down at your feet again
I don't want to run away from this
I know that I just don'’t need this

Cause I cannot stand still
I can'’t be this unsturdy
This cannot be happening

Cause I'’m waiting for tonight
Then waiting for tomorrow
And I'm somewhere in between
What is real, and just a dream

- Lifehouse, Somewhere in Between

Suddenly Sunday

As slow as my Friday plodded, Sunday rushed at me from all sides. Swept. And here we are. I'm leaving for a road game in half an hour, and spinning through last night.

8th week. One term almost down, and that is really strange. The Madman last night was my one allowance, and I took it, unsure of whether it was the best idea I had ever had, especially since my comparitively sane other choice turned out to be such a headcase. *sigh* are they all mental? Somehow I'm inclined to think yes, and agree with the Scotsman when he says we are all doomed. Doomed to be lonely and single, and I refused to buy into his cynicism. My poor little muffin. Anyways, rules aside I still had a hard time following them, mostly because crazies do not negate attraction. Good god. This post is not flowing as I would have liked, so I think I'm going to cut it off. I am too aware of who will be reading, never a good sign, so I have to wait until it's worn off. Not to mention that I have to get my hockey stuff together. Jesus, why does gear sound so dirty over here!

Some thoughts

Spontaneous generation of thoughts, and who can blame me, facing the Longest Essay and another without a topic, an awareness of time here exacerbated by ten year old music that I swear I heard just yesterday, sitting upstairs at Jessica's house, in her blue sponge-painted room (remember when sponge painting was all the rage?) poring over Seventeen magazine and her bottomless makeup bag, painting our nails to match the walls, listening to angry post-grunge rock. Wow.

Here I am thinking, how I wish I knew another languague. How I wish I had written this essay last week, even though essays are rolling and some day it will be written, some day soon I hope. A part of me wants to heed the advice and just start. So perhaps in a few minutes I will suck it up, for now I am going to let fear rule a little while longer. Why fear? Because I am afraid of starting this paper, my first proper work in almost a year, and failing. So fear of failure? Yeah? What are you going to do about it. Nothing. Sure, sleep looks really good right about now, a nice afternoon nap. Top it off ladies, top it off. Oh lord I'm incoherent.

Onto the real stuff? Oh there's never anything real. The buzzer goes and my vegetables arrive, more potatoes, and I'm thinking how can I cook more potatoes, and considering substituting the rice today for potatoes, but thinking that the recipe might not hold. I am really enjoying all of this cooking, hoping to find someone else to come for dinner tonight as well. Thinking about the Madman, thinking how inconvenient it would be to fall for him, but secretly wishing I would, knowing I will not. Wondering where I will be next year, whether I will choose to stay, disturbingly hoping that I can find a way to stick around, but feeling too overwhelmed to try. Generally, generally some sort of panicked lethargy has swept over me, the cold in the air and the stagnation of my academic efforts, that I finally fell into routine.

And those, those are the thoughts that sprang to me while I was reading, while I was pondering essays and my lack of thought. Neurons firing out of time.

Friday Routine

By now any loyal reader will know (ha!) that on Friday's my flatmate and I make dinner. Today, sadly, she is out of town, and so I will be holding dinner here on my own. Its a bit sad, we've done dinner now for weeks and its become one of my favourite things here. So I'm still making dinner. Which leads to the Friday Routine. See, I have Fridays off here, and even though I was up at nine, and could have been library-productive, instead I am going to stay home... research can still be done from the warmth of this room (and the comfy-ness of my pjs). But for a quick trip to the store, I'm staying inside. Not the point, and really not all that interesting. But give me a break, I just woke up.

Yesterday I spoke to TT for a while, longer than we've spoken in ages. As we talked, it just reaffirmed what I'd decided several weeks ago, that it isn't malice that creates her actions, just subtle ignorance. And while that doesn't necessarily make it okay, I cannot find fault in her generally-good intentions. And come on, we all have bad intentions sometimes. So much to my dinner-date's chagrin, TT will be joining us (although not for the meal). Regardless, I will have to take tonight easy because I need to rest up for Saturday.

Yesterday morning, while I was posting, my flatmate and I were having a chat about Trouble. My Wednesday evening swung into night, and while my chat with Tuesday's Crazy went unexpectedly well (almost too well, hmmm) and I had to extricate myself before my stance faltered, I cannot help but feel that I was never in it in the first place. Point. Met up with one of my favourite boys for a drink or three, then down to the scene of last week's debauchery with some friends from college. And the Madman, I think I mentioned that. Regardless, the events of the evening will remain in my memory, needless to say some double fisting was involved (the Canadian Kind dammit!) and everyone was drunkity drunk drunk. My extra beer theory was proven, yet again, to be correct. I would link to the post on my old blog which explains Extra Beer Theory, but have realized it is grossly inappropriate. Go figure. Regardless, the events which passed between the double fisting and the end of the night are likely to give me Trouble with a capital T. DPG's housemate did suggest, gently but firmly, that we should stop with the common-sports thing, but alas, I never seem to listen to sense.

So another Friday begins with a blog post, ends with a lovely dinner and somewhere in between I go to the store, do research, clean, hopefully get laundry done (although competition is always fierce on a Friday) and generally stay indoors. Its gonna be Sweet.

Plights unique to Oxford Students...

You know you are an Oxford Student when: you wake up, hungover as sin because you were drinking pound beers and dancing around to cheese all night, and all you want is to crawl into a hole and die, so you go make tea and sit down at your computer to search facebook until your pain dissipates, and you hear a key turn in your door, and suddenly remember that your scout comes on Thursdays. You then have to put all your clothes on your chairs, because your room is such a horrendous mess, and run around trying to make it appear less-so. You then have to rush your morning and step around trying to get out of the door. The worst is that the last thing you want to do is see or talk to anyone.

Crazy crazy crazy... and me without a straight jacket

So as of last night, around eleven, I bundled myself into bed with a glass of wine and some chocolate, looking forward to an early night, glad that he had never gotten back to me and content with my decision to break things off the next time we talked.

About half an hour into my episode of Star Trek (yeah, laugh all you want) my phone beeped. "Where you at?" I made a face at the phone, replied, "at home". "Weak". I was unimpressed. Over 24 hours of ignore had made me edgy. "Oh weak yourself" I said. "Step Up" was his reply. Now I'm pissed. "Excuse me?" Of course his next text was unintelligible. I picked up the phone. Nothing. "Hey there baby" and then noise. I hung up. Waited for him to go outside and call back. Waited a moment longer. Something snapped, and my good will went out the window. I had been played somehow, he had manipulated me into showing my hand when he'd had no intention of showing his. Drunk or no drunk, there was no longer any excuse. Texts are so easy to send, twenty four hours of phone silence is just plain disrespectful, not to mention some lame drunken attempt to get me out to some random club. My body shook as my fingers flew. "Sounds like you are having a good night, thanks for getting back to me. I do not enjoy being jerked around and I'd suggest you stop toying with me. If you're not too hungover you can call me tomorrow." Silence.

I pounded over to my flatmate and yelled, screamed, ranted. What a COCK. My newfound english vocabulary taking over. COCK! My phone beeps. ":p" I put the phone down and rationally decide to go for a walk. Ending up at DPG's, as she knows him, to shed some light, and listen to my rants. Shortly after I arrive it beeps again. ":p" Oh my anger knows no bounds and I turn off the damn thing.

About half an hour and much dissection (not to mention my relief that he had at least made my decision to cut him loose a very easy one) I turned my phone back on. Three messages in half an hour. "I'm coming over" "You suck" "its all good times". No, no, no. I finally cave and reply. "Don't come over, I am not even home and you don't know where I live. Go to bed, Call me tomorrow." Then I ring. I ring again. I ring a third time and this time I pick up, hang up. Text message again. "Where you at? I'm burning bridges and I don't care." And I turn my phone back off.

I head home, an hour or so later, feeling calmer and decidedly amused. I mean, the amount of power that comes from someone realizing what a dick they have been is pretty heady, and I am about to roll into bed when the predicted email rolls around. Some lame attempt at a pre-emptive dump (beating me to it, as it were, since he now knows it is coming) and a lame excuse for it at that. I decide not to reply and wait for the morning, he being clearly angry and crazy. Turning my phone on one last time, one last text, angry and bitter: "have fun wherever you sleep tonight". The remnants of my anger flare again. Breaking my vow to DPG not to respond any longer, I text back furiously. "Don't be silly, I was at a friend's and just got home. I am going to bed and turning off my phone" Silence.

Silence.

I wake up after far too little sleep, and over tea I write him back. Composed, I explain that he knows his reasoning to be false, he knows that I did nothing but give him time and honesty, that he has issues that have nothing to do with me, and that I felt jerked around. Snap. Off to class with a grin on my face, the anger of the late night dissipating in morning fog and '40 Miles From The Sun' and turning into hilarity. Somehow, no matter what I try, the madness follows me wherever I go.

The sheepish text comes soon after I leave class. Politeness regained, he even said please. I debated, but knowing that being the bigger man included all of the trappings, I called back, arranged a time. I am still angry, and I don't plan on pulling any punches, that's what happens when you jerk with a smart girl who won't take your crap.

On my way home, soon after this conversation, I run into the South African. He is leaving town today, by now probably on a bus to the airport, and I agree to meet him for a drink. Yet another moment of 'single-service-friend' wisdom and we exchanged email addresses. Because sometimes single-service isn't in the cards. He was prolonging our goodbye too much to walk away from it, sometimes things fit very quickly into something far too familiar. And you have to wonder if you knew each other in a previous life, or if sometimes the world has a twisted sense of humour. If the past twenty four hours are any indication, it is both.

And so continues my seventh week, began hellishly badly and turned bizarre, hopefully on the upswing with an essay-epiphany this morning through a caffeinated haze, and drinks tonight with my ladies. A bientot!

Sleeplessness in aid of madness

I will post about yesterday/last night/this morning but right now I have to focus on waking up and going to class. Somehow that phrase led me into cleaning up my computer... hmmmm. Focus. Right, well after less than 5 hours of sleep you can't expect coherence. I'm torn between yawns and giggles. Sometimes life is way better than fiction. And here, dear blog readers, life looms large. In class form. And in 20 minutes I must be out the door, this is what I get for hitting snooze not once, not twice, but thrice!

Since I have a pulled ass muscle of unknown origin, I will be skipping my run today (and, luckily for me, that also means I won't be running in the cold rain) and taking a lovely nap instead... after my lunch date with DPG and before my drinks date with the Scotsman. Somewhere in between the two, around my nap, I will write all this down so Ianis and others can read it and giggle too, because really, if I knew any better I would say that not only do my friends (and myself, of course) enjoy drama, but that someone up there is preventing me from stopping just yet. Turns out that telling the girls that my gossip-fodder days were over was totally jumping the gun.

Also, somehow, my blog has reverted to Montreal Time. Wishful thinking blog, but that's not right... add that to my list. That and 'don't be a deadbeat'. Right. On that note, pants.

Wasted morning

I was going to get up early. Do work. Be responsible. As I said last night through a veil of hair, sometimes being irresponsible is much more fun. True. But being irresponsible yesterday just left me with more questions. And the decision to do laundry and maybe go to the grocery store this morning have just made it worse. I am unable to get my act together until my clothes are finished cycling, and unable to get my head together about anything. I am so useless in the mornings.

And laundry cycles take so long that I have time to think, and wonder if I am really in this right. Maybe seventh week has hit me hard, maybe it is just the cold, the fact that I had a second blanket on my bed last night and slept fitfully, not cold, but sore and uneasy. Winter here is just as I remember winter at home. Wet, the weather condensing out of the air onto cobwebs and paving stones, frost every morning holding footprints from the night before.

Yesterday. A lifetime. I was walking home and had an impulsive moment, now wishing I had not. I get nothing from him and yet somehow know that his actions speak. Just not used to it. And already I am thinking that this won't work, he is too quiet, doesn't give enough to match how much I throw. Does this make me misguided? It just feels so strange, the locked doors, the porter, the single bed, the cold staircase... different. My life here has no room for him, much as I try. But does that mean I'm playing games or merely that I am having trouble switching gears? Too many questions for a Monday morning, and I must get dressed so that when my laundry is done I can go to the store and then get down to school.

This week is off on a bad foot.

That Time Again

I suppose it is that time again, when I should be posting of weekends and swinging out the library. And indeed, swing I will, in fact I was meant to be getting there by 11:30, but 11:45 will have to suffice. Making this a short post. Sorry. And I will admit that I have been wasting my morning on thefacebook. That's right, I'm a sorry excuse for a human being. Deal with it.

I spent yesterday at the library, not nearly all day, but enough that I felt justified in going out last night. Who am I kidding, I generally justify some way or another. Not the point. Wow, I'm scattered today.

Okay, Friday went really well, despite my not getting anything accomplished. What did I do Friday? I can't even recall. Strange. Oh yes, I tried to go to the library... or... no... wait... holy hell. Must have brained my damage. Yes. There it is. Had an unsuccessful journey into the bowels of the Bod, down into the sub-basement where they keep official papers, and out again into the light. I am avoiding a second confrontation with those long rows of shelves and flickering lights (no joke!). Made dinner for my ladies, always a pleasure. We decided on a quiet night, none of us feeling the party (and no party to feel!!) so we met up with one of my program friends and my undecided relationship.

So the girls, well he is hard to read, and I suppose when juxstaposed with our resident couple, it is almost impossible to get a feeling for a non-relationship. But they did their best, and approved what they could get, and I really appreciated that, thinking things were probably going well. But then there was some oddities, and I managed to put my foot in my mouth, and even though it seems to have sorted, I find myself this morning wondering why I tried so damn hard. Why I'm still trying so damn hard. Suddenly it all drained out of me and I don't seem to care. Games my foot. I wasn't playing games, but don't want to settle, and he is a catch, but why can't I see that? Wanting what I can't have, when I have it I don't want it anymore. This is all too much, and to be honest if he ended it I would probably feel relieved. But upset, and want him again.

Being a bit mental right now, and needing to eat something substantial before I get to work, I have to sign this train of non-thought off about now. Library. Woot.

6th Week - Descent into Madness

It was beautiful when I walked home, a warm sun cutting through the November chill and my breath in the air obscuring the colours of the buildings at Oxford's heart. Why was I there? Well I had spent the previous two hours trying to leave, but the warmth and persuasion were too much, and I stayed. I was tired, kept dozing, sharing a single bed with anyone is trouble, and he is bigger than most. In a very lovely way.

Last night was mad. Crazy, insane and totally hilarious, I can't wait for tonight's gossip and banter. As we had anticipated, the shit hit the fan early on with a terrible game of I've Never.

But let me backtrack a moment. Tuesday night I went for drinks. Yes, plural drinks. It was really nice. Nicer than I've had in a long time, and we walked back through the cold night, through quads and up stone staircases. His room had an incredible view. As we talked, I wondered why it was so comfortable, he wondered the same aloud. And instead of going home early I stayed until late, generally felt that things went stupidly well.

Now where was I? Oh yes, I've Never. And it began that he and I were suddenly the only one's drinking. I don't quite know how that happened to be honest. Well, clearly, as DPG said later on, we are well-suited. Later I would joke that the game spoiled any chance I had at maintaining the demure innocence that I had been wearing on Tuesday night. And he would then laugh at me, claiming there was never such a thing.

But drinking immense amounts of cheap wine did not go over so well, and when we tottered out onto the street I was buzzing. And I hadn't been as warm as I could have been, not knowing what he expected or what he wanted or what would be appropriate. And when we got to the club, things started happening in high speed. His arms around me from behind, and a shared moment that surely opened everyone's eyes to the situation. And it was so nice. But suddenly my ladies were hooking up and I was hooking up with my ladies. Its what tends to go down. *sigh* And he somehow took offense, and I had put my foot in it, and before you could say "too much to deal with" we were having some talk and I was showing my hand. No matter how convinced I am that I want to keep my cards hidden, there is always something. Not that it mattered, but today DPG confessed that she had told him I really liked him.

And so, even though I would rather have stayed, we left. Left the madness, to be recounted today in fits and bursts, and much more sober than I had arrived, we wandered our way home. On the way, my phone beeped, and the Madman from last Saturday admonished, not to leave with Canadians, despite their relative sanity. I half-grinned. Feeling both good and guilty at the same time. I can barely recall the route, preoccupied with professions of trust and mistrust, life lessons learned the hard way. With age comes maturity sure, but with age comes experience, good and bad, and these may cloud our eyes. Baggage aside, it was all I could do not to tear my hair out in frustration. But all's well that ends well.

And now its almost the weekend, another wasted shift at the library, another training session and its Friday again, time for our now-traditional dinners and spontaneous outings. I am hoping that tomorrow evening goes better than our last attempt, and thinking of extending an invitation to the Man. My friend's opinions being as important as they are, I really would like them to meet him sooner, rather than later, so they can understand the silly smile on my face.

Awash

Currently drowning in a sea of academic papers and too many options, it is too late by far. I'm not even dressed. Hockey practice took longer than usual and my college's insistence that I eat forty quid worth of meals there every term is taking its toll. I figured it out and actually only have time for one meal this week, and that would be today, in twenty minutes, even though I should be here attempting to wade my way through these papers. Well, that's that isn't it? I need to narrow this topic significantly, so off I go to print some articles.

Monday was, well a Monday. Apart from practice which technically falls into Tuesday, my Monday was pretty rotten, spent all day at the library, got a rude cold shoulder from a so-called friend and ended up with weights on my eyelids through our evening lecture. Hopefully today will go better. Happy Tuesday everyone.

St. Lawrence River

Here I miss winter mornings, suddenly lost without chill snow on the air and breath hard in my chest, the tight feeling of dry air. Missing scarves and mornings when it's too cold to get out of bed, but we do anyways, wondering why we live in such a place, and the brightest morning sun blinds our eyes as the first gasp of frozen air hits our lungs, wind whipping our coloured scarves around our shocked bodies, and we jolt into motion to stay warm.

The grey of the city, rushing past downturned eyes, faces without faces, covered in colour. I miss those days when my legs would be cold to the touch for hours afterwards. The city, her tall buildings, guiding lights at night, the cross, the searchlights, the neon of St. Laurent and streetlights through the plateau as I wound my long walks home from work. The beauty of that first snow, the redundancy of countless others. My boots covered in salt, feet shedding gravel up the stairs.

And nights that are so crisp that the snow squeaks beneath frozen feet, but we go out anyways, underdressed, breaking into the dark places, seeking heat from others and alcohol, and we peel off our outside bodies, returning once again to normal in the most abnormal of places. And coaxing our frozen limbs into dance, we cavort through the flashing lights until it is time to go. We return to reality, our frozen city, stopping for pizza among strangers and eating it with gloved fingers, the taste of cheese and the feeling of lint in our mouths. But we eat it anyways, before it too freezes.

Legacy of The Night continues...

Saturday was a write-off, having an earlier than usual game. Saturday was also, hands down, the best day I've had here so far. All-in, it just kept getting better and better and better, spilling over into my Sunday and hopefully into 6th week. Here's to the best one yet.

We had an earlier than usual start time, faceoff at 4:30, so down to the rink for 3:30, we stepped up, laughed, the usual pregame and down to the dressing room. It was our captain's birthday, it was good, and we dressed in the usual fashion, my Doppelganger's bag smelling terrible and jokes about post-game beers. They were number one in the league, and we were in for a challenge. Rising to the challenge.

Took to the ice, eleven seconds ticked, and suddenly that solid thunk of rubber on metal, arms raised, cheers, and we had first blood. One minute later, again, another bite. Snapped in, and we smiled, surprised, but wary. At the end of the first it was 3-2, and we retired to the dressing room with our game faces on, vowing to buck up and come out kicking. We kicked. Hard. Somehow it all just clicked, the work, the time, and our play was as good as it could be. Four more goals in thirty minutes, we shut out their scoring for the rest of the game. I cannot possibly describe here how amazing that game was, how good it felt, how each goal surprised us even more, how wide our smiles were at the end. We undressed so slowly, savouring the moments, and watched the end of the men's team with gameplay falling off our tongues.

I was still a bit worried, my Friday was my first bad night in Oxford, and I wasn't convinced that Saturday was going to live up. Boy was I wrong. I caught a lift home and grabbed my roomie, and the two of us hauled down to the pub, met up with the team and plotted. Rolling out a little later than I had hoped, my mind railed, sure that we had mis-timed things and that our night was going to end before it had began, hitting a line or a cover charge or the cold night air. The square by the Camera was moonlit, starry skies overhead and I tilted my head back and grinned, sure that nothing could ruin my mood, my evening, the fabulous time we were just bound to have. And I was right. That romantic cityscape was a brilliant sign of things to come.

Up to the door and through, not even stopped for our non-Oxford companion, and we grabbed drinks. I was still unsure of the night. Then everything suddenly started rolling, beginning with me spying a 2-time drunken kiss with his back to me. Not again. I rolled my internal eyes and wondered if we'd end up together again. Hoped against it. We went upstairs. That is when our night out became A Night.

I went to buy beer, glancing around, across the bar. My non-date winked at me. I wondered what his game plan might be, wondered about my own, decided that despite our little apology session that I really didn't have the inclination to deal with him tonight, and really, to deal with him much at all. So back with beer. Two sips in, hilarity struck. Three in the same small room, and I panicked slightly as the weight sunk in, spying in the process a couple of my male sports counterparts. McGill. Hi McGill. That was the end of it in my own head, a nod and smile and nothing more.

A while later he beckoned me over. Thinking back, I know now that his friends disappeared quite quickly, as he asked me not about myself, but about my D.P.G. and indeed I obliged, assuming he was crushing her. A flicker of a smile and a joke. I absentmindedly rubbed my shoulder, which was sore from too much hockey. He asked, I told, and before I knew it I was standing so close, his hand on my back, his smell, my hand up against his chest to keep my distance. I paused, exhaled, closed my eyes and stepped back. Too much my friend, too much. He insisted, and I acquiesced. His hand moving up into my hair. And I remembered what she and I had discussed that afternoon before the game, how hair was somehow different. His cheek was warm and pressed to mine, my hand again keeping the distance and my mind racing, knowing who was around me and knowing who he was. He kissed my cheek. And again it stopped, distanced, and that kiss was far too erotic to be safe. His lips pressed mine, for an instant I responded, then placed a foot between us. "I can't kiss you." Explaining hurriedly that it wasn't the place, I offered contact information and made my hasty escape, heart racing.

Then there was Tuesday. Somewhere in there, between McGill and The Madman, Tuesday slipped an arm around me, engaged me in too much serious conversation and bid me adieu. I bid him good riddance. Far too serious and not nearly good looking enough. Fine. And then The Madman appeared in my field of vision, and just enough liquid courage brought my feet to his feet, and as we chatted and introduced ourselves, I found my feet moving, and asked him back to join us. His hand found mine, fingers interlaced, and I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble.

In fact, it didn't go as badly as I'd expected. At one point excusing myself, I found McGill wearing a coat. Promising he'd see me sooner than I thought, we said our goodbyes. And I dove back into the night, as the lights came up I had managed to get through the night relatively unscathed, considering the minefield that enveloped the room, and we sauntered off on our way home, so full of the Night. The Madman couldn't stand, and I propped him down the street. The corner, held his shoulders and asked him if he would get home. He said he would if I came with him, and I declined. Then again, as unexpected as the first time, lips, teeth, TEETH, oh god teeth. I stepped back. Said goodnight. My breath rapid and I told him to get home safely, that I would ring in an hour to make sure.

And so the text went off into the early morning. I went to sleep. Satisfied with my evening, better than anything yet. But it wasn't over. Because with A Night, the Legacy of The Night continues after The Night ends. And Legacy indeed. Bear with me, this won't take long.

After birthday lunch with my Texan friend, I wandered home to check my email before leaving to meet teammates in town. Interesting. Hotmail, hmmmm, and there was the promised 'sooner than I thought'. Before I could fashion a reply I beeped. Amazing. Who'd've thought he'd remember me at all? It was The Madman, asking me to meet him. Suddenly the night snapped into perspective. After texts flew back and forth I put my foot down on coffee, I had to see DPG and reassess my options. Options! Me! Holy Hell.

So the bottom line and end of the story is thus: I'm perhaps in over my head, but all's well that ends well. And things seem to be ending well. I will have a better idea after Tuesday. Now, on that note I have to end this 5th week madness and sleep off my delightful waste of a weekend. My alarm is set for eight sharp and my bags are packed. See you at the library.

Flashback songs...

So I just downloaded this song... and it totally reminds me of a rather debaucherous moment at the bop last Saturday involving me and my favourite teammate. Regardless of this fact, I still had a lot worth reporting this past weekend... and frankly, doesn't that seem obvious considering how long it has been since I last posted?

So. What went down. Well. Wednesday was Beer Pong. Holy hell. Well, the best thing about playing with Scotsmen is their ability to hold their liquor and their complete and utter lack of shame. Just let me say I'm glad that I was not on the receiving end of his attempts to distract his opponents. It was a fabulous time, and I can't wait for us to repeater, hopefully with more of our teammates this time around. It got a little messy after round three, but generally a tame night that ended early, as we hopped a bus home around midnight. I was glad the line at the club was obscene.

BUT, but but and there's always a but. Instead of being sensible and going home I made a drop-in, and generally the drop-in went poorly, and the fact that I was unsure about him became more of an issue, and I left pretty damn sure that I was disinterested. Good, one decision down. And Thursday rolled through into hockey practice, Friday dawning early and uselessly as I spent it with my single-syllable hockey friends drinking tea and my Friday evening, as is becoming a delightful habit, cooking dinner for my girls.

And I had told him we were going out, but when we finally got to the bar it was empty, and no word on my phone, and so we had a drink and debated the next move. I had wanted my ladies' opinions. Unfortunately, before you could say 'chug it', a certain Crazy individual showed up and we had to make a hasty exit. Hasty as sin, and so we wandered up to Green with beer in hand, my good times faltering at every speeding step, wondering why my phone wasn't lighting up. Cock. I know intellectually not to worry, but really, felt rotten and then things were downhill. Green was kinda lame, and I wasn't feeling it, nor were my companions, so we wound home early, past kebab vans, and turned in decently early. Disappointed.

Ultimately, what is going on here in Oxford is quite unbelievable. My time, my life, everything so fleeting and so utterly ingrained in me already. 5th Week, and we are here forever, the air turning slowly cold and reality coalescing around us. This city brings you in, smiles and waves, takes your coat and shoes and tucks them away in a safe place, then leads you by the hand into a room full of waiting faces, warm air, music, as if to say, "welcome to the madness, can I get you a drink?" And you accept, sit down, take a sip, and breathe.

Forced Smitten or Smitten Kitten

Well. I had my first Oxford non-date yesterday. Non- because it was spontaneous and not really date-like... although it was datish enough to end in drinks, pool and a walk home... to his home... because his was en route to mine. Anyways.

Fun Train was right when she said that this was a romantic city. You can't help but feel romantic when you are walking arm in arm with someone (how very English? Even if he had done it to slow down my marching speed) through these streets? Damn straight. And I don't have a lot of time to describe the evening, so suffice to say it was good. Not great, not great yet rather, and good enough that he gets a second night. I said to Nil that maybe he was too English. And I don't quite know what that means, but it was very true. What does that mean? No idea. Too odd, too arrogant, too... English. We'll see what happens. I think its borderline between infuriating and annoying at the moment, and it will just pan out as it pans out.

Which brings me to the real point (isn't' there always a real point?) of whether I even want to date him. Yes, I want to date someone, not adverse to that, despite the time thing, although I think everyone is mutually busy. But its more of a 'to what extent am I fabricating this' question. Do we always fabricate it to a certain extent? I wander back through previous lives and wonder 'did I fabricate those?' And if I did, is that really wrong? Do we always fabricate to a certain extent, especially at the beginning, to convince ourselves to stick around long enough to find someone worthwhile? I know that this is less forced than other instances I have experienced. Too much thinking. I don't have time to write all of it out, but know its where my headspace is right now. Must get ready for class, another full day.

Another hockey disaster is planned for tonight, and I'm so looking forward to it.

The weekend in a nutshell

For the first time I went all-out, Oxford-style. In England they seem to do these sorts of things, and here even moreso. When we went in to buy fabric on Saturday she commented that every weekend there were students doing just that: sequins and ribbon and very little else. Glitter, feathers, fairy wings. Oh it was going to be sweet.

So scantily clad to the sevens, we went in search of a taxi, pausing only briefly so my partner in crime could be propositioned for sex. No really. But we made it with no other incidents, broke in after coaxing a not-so-friendly face to let us in the back, and wandered into the madness. And madness it was, as a cross-dressing party would be expected to be, and we danced and drank and acted inappropriately. At the end of it all we lamented that we weren't interested in girls, which, for an LGBT event, maybe wasn't a bad conclusion to come to.

And my defense partner just happened to be up the road, she and the Captain saved our lives with coats and a walk home. I would not have been able to handle my doppelganger by myself. A detour for toilets and another for Ahmed's, it was 2:30 by the time I got home. To find a message on my computer. Hockey. Game. Canucks. Now. So I went. Up the road, and who could refuse it? But despite bolstering my body with espresso, I only made it through the 1st period. My hangover, hockey game, dehydration, and evening's drinking caught up with me, and I crawled into bed just past 4am. It was a good night.

Sunday was unproductive, except for a lovely visit Sunday night that went far too late and further deprived me of sleep. Ah well. And now I may have my personal body equivalent of the 5th week blues, seeing as how I am too busy (and happy) to get emotional blues right now, I must put up with physical ones. So damn-you body, I am hitting the water bottle as we speak, and if nothing else I am going to poison you with Dayquil and we'll see how you like it.

On an aside, Brett said something hilarious on the topic of sleep being for the weak (and it is!) and I felt it needed to be shared: "I personally hold no delusions of being anything but weak, and value sleep like a hobo values that can of creamed corn he found while searching in the garbage of Alfredos, a nice Italian place across town."

Oh that creamed corn... so elusive, so beautiful, what I wouldn't give right now for some sweet sweet creamed corn.

Its not that we try to be a gong show...

Its just that someone seems to be following us around with a gong... and keeps hitting it... repeatedly. And we just sortof go with it. I mean, who am I to blow against the wind?

Friday night was a NIGHT. Phrase coined at dinner that evening, I had the incredible pleasure of cooking dinner for my three favourite Hildabeasts. Over tea, we plotted the course of our evening. And down to our closest neighbor, we clattered into an empty bar, giggled, and ordered. Flip a coin? Sure, all or nothing, and Reb guessed correctly so our free drinks in hand, we sauntered to a couch. That was only the beginning. It was a cheap night. Montreal cheap. No joke. After a few drinks, the place filled up. We made a friend who would stay with us for the rest of the evening, and were soon joined by a couple people from my program. By this point... well by this point the free drinks were getting ridiculous.

He was cute. Somehow we'd decided he was a cock though... but regardless, even as she pulled me away I reiterated, "you should come with us." He declined.

We arrived promptly, small line, and descended. Finally taking advantage of our membership, we wound through to the dance floor. I realize how dull this account is. So here is the kicker. I have been avoiding a few things on this blog, but no longer. One of them is the nicknames. I used to give people nicks to avoid anybody figuring out who they were. Fair enough, so I will resume, because even in my head things are getting complicated. So let me introduce Gravity. So-dubbed because there is something that draws me in, despite that he is not as attractive as men I usually crush on. We have had a few moments, a kiss, nothing more. And so for the time being we danced and enjoyed the moment (a morning-after text revealed that his previous misgivings have evaporated, and likely so will my interest). He left, and I rejoined my ladies.

About 12:30 I looked up. Cute. It was the same man, who had refused my invitations earlier. Alone, looking for me, his eyes met mine. No nick for him yet, as he may never resurface, but took my telephone number nonetheless. Nil says to wait three days, I think the three-day rule is bullshit. But likely, likely we will end up at his college again in the not too distant future.

Oh man, and Saturday was rough, unproductive and rough. And winding into the evening at the ice rink. The game was a disaster, I earned myself nothing more than frustration and a stick to the neck (unpenalized). Refereeing in this country makes me so angry I could cry. But we had more important(?) things to think about, rushing through our kit and into the showers.

Clinging to life

My poor skates died last night. Finally, after so many years of service, they all-out crapped out on me. Well, not entirely. I won't get into the nitty gritty of the issue, especially since I am really upset/angry about the whole thing. Basically there has been a tongue-related problem invovling a bent, hard, pokey bit that digs into my ankle. Its usually not that bad, sometimes I can't notice it at all, so I've just ignored it. Last night however, last night something snapped, and suddenly my little discomfort became intense, blinding pain. Like someone was taking a hammer to my ankle, I couldn't even put pressure on it. Several dressing-room attempts to remedy the problem failed, and I changed, showered slowly, so angry. I didn't even get tired, had just warmed up, and I had a whole hour and a half of practice left. Not to mention the question of what to do about Saturday's game, not to mention the thought of what to do with my skates.

New skates? Ha! I have been far too attached to these far too long. Then of course there's the fact that I am in the UK. In my mind, this is akin to needing severe surgery in a tiny mountain village in Tibet. Those monks have good intentions, but man oh man I'd probably prefer to get that done at home. I am sure that they have skates here, but mine? Something to replace them? Holy Hell, you've got to be kidding me. Of course there's also the practical issue of even if I replace the damn things, I still have to play Saturday and playing with new skates is no good. Then there's the time problem, ie: although there is luckily a contingent going out to the sports warehouse today (seriously, there is only one, and its only open on Friday... see? welcome to hockey's tibet), I had a solid 5-6 hour library stint planned today. AND if I did get new skates I would have to go down to the rink and break them in at general skate. Ugh. Maybe I should just do it. New skates. Yikes.

I am so upset by this I cannot even describe the feeling. Its like combining the inconvenience of standing in a giant line to do something unpleasant, like, waiting for two hours just to get a government document stamped, with someone squeezing your foot in a vice, all the while knowing that your pet bunny rabbit just died and someone has to own up to burying him. I know that sounds ridiculous... then combine the fact that your car is slowly running out of metre time and you can see the woman coming up the street to ticket you. That's me, right now. But I can't seem to get out of line. This is ridiculous.

On the bright side, I found out yesterday that I magically learned a slap shot. Magically, like, I can lift the puck 1 or 2 times out of 5. Found out right before my little injury took me out, so I didn't get a chance to practice, but man was it exciting.

Luck is believing you're lucky

I can't seem to resist the urge to dance. Okay, so not much new about that, but its worse than usual (better than usual?!) and I find myself fighting the urge to skip down the street, to get up right now and dance to Eddie Rabbit... insane! The stress finally got to me. Finally. My mad, coffee-fueled typing triggered the realization that I was really really stressed. Not in a bad way, just pleasantly insane.

Last night, whew. Wednesdays are rapidly becoming my favourite days. Early mornings mean that I have all day to get work done, and although I tend to be totally ineffective... well its a nice day. Last night we tried to get beer pong going, and I was raring to go, but alas, no venue suggested itself. How much do I miss BDP and its associated shenanigans (evil shenanigans!)? Anyways, we ended up at my Cafe Campus Crutch, and quickly fell apart. Or rather, fell together. The annoyance of a purse prevented me from dancing enough, plus I was with a bunch of guys. Good guys though. It was a refreshing and somewhat bizarre change.

So I woke up in my proverbial clothes, the walk of shame awaiting me, thanking Gods for small blessings that it wasn't raining. Voices in the corridor, the door swinging open. Something akin to hilarity, only it wasn't particularly funny. Okay, now it was funny. His roommates getting in on the non-joke, and me threatening to beat the living piss out of him on the ice. In a few hours. That little prat doesn't know what's coming, although I should pity his hangover and take it easy on him!

Anyways, and the rest of my day was exhaustion. So so tired. And here I am, having had too much coffee (thanks to my new handy dandy stovetop dealy) and buzzing through work, not doing my reading, and writing the blog. So off, one and a half hours left to try to be productive. I have managed to come up with my extensive reading to-do list for tomorrow! Woot.

Morning Music

Some music is morning music. And I have albums, sounds, background noises, that have accompanied my mornings through years.

I remember... Matthew Good's Beautiful Midnight brings me back to Blackcomb, its 2001, and we are huddled around a wood stove in BCIT, eating cereal. I am french braiding my hair into pigtails to fit under my tuque. Then there is Transatlanticism, pulling a few months through my memory back to this summer, the dreary weeks of French Camp, when rain sullied Vancouver to visitors but brought me closer to home than I had been in years. Death Cab's Seattle sound meshing so closely with my West Coast soul, and guiding me through UBC. On and on. This summer it was Left and Leaving on my way to work. My darkest winter was defined by Dave Matthews, especially Satellite and The Space Between, thrown in amongst Crash and Before These Crowded Streets. Thrown in amongst these are memories is The Calling, a random set of words that bring back all that bittersweet. Strange... christ and right now I can't afford to lose myself in those memories, and I know myself that I will drift back into it, much as I do enjoy to do so. Enough to listen to these words and think that in another time and place, another world, all of it would have been enough. Sometimes its not enough.

We talked about most things the other day, ending sadly and sweetly, and my honesty ran away with me, that maybe if he could stand-in, that we could stand-in for each other, and it would all be fine. But knowing so clearly that stand-ins don't do, and that we would both be worse off for it, I have let the matter fall. And as bittersweet as these memories are, I can't help but wish I was back there. Sometimes, just sometimes, and rarely... so rarely that I can't remember the last time I felt this way... something about the mornings, the morning music, the fact that on this side of the world it is light and back there it is dark, my heart tugs in that direction, somewhere that was once home. Now I'm lost in it, and I can remember the last time. It was more immediate. Last February. Staring out the window of the train. Tracy Chapman, The Promise. And you know? Its still true. All of it, every word. Every word I said.

And suddenly I have been typing too long, losing myself in this morning music, forgetting the brightest 7am I have seen in weeks thanks to Daylight Savings, forgetting the caffeine that is coursing through me, the presentation that awaits me in an hour, and the fact that I have to leave my house sooner than I would like.

Slackers, myself included

I am in a bit of a mood right now. I'm out of cereal, and as is typical in group situations, the first hour of my late morning (late because I was at practice until 2:15 last night) has just been spent picking up someone else's slack. And perhaps this is my fault for not explaining properly what we needed, but other group members did a fantastic job, and its too late to say something (not to mention the fact that I had already said something yesterday!). So The Weakerthans console me (btw, if anyone is interested in sending me some cds, I have a few requests...), and frankly, I shouldn't even be writing this. I am currently just as bad, being a slacker, except in this case I pick up my own slack, so its really not so bad.

I am deliciously sore today, my random hockey muscles aching. I am already planning post-run push-ups for Wednesday, having fallen into a nice little exercise schedule. A run between practices during the week, and another on the weekend if I don't play a game. This weekend I am playing at least one, maybe two, so it won't be necessary. Mmm, abdominal muscles.

The point is... well there was no point. This post is meaningless. Still no luck on solving my Saturday Mystery. I am tentatively planning a Christmas trip to the sun. I am thinking that I should maybe get my act together and head out to meet my group, seeing as how getting my act together takes longer and longer these days. Something about Oxford has turned me spastic. Not to mention the fact that I need to get all my stuff together so I can not be a slacker after Stat today... although how much I will actually get done in the two hours between Stat and coming back up here to drop my stuff and turn right back around, including the fact that I want to go to the grocery store as well... well, we'll see how well I do. Off to another long Oxford day, at least the sun is shining at the moment!