a 17 year old goes to England, thinks herself poet, cries a lot.
Soap everywhere
Were you even ever 17 if you didn’t wear a puka shell necklace?
Ok, friends, this week’s journal entry is getting commentary because I just can’t handle my 17 year old self. If you have a mouthguard, pop it in… teeth guaranteed to clench.
Just as a catch-up for any new subscribers, this month I am writing out journal entries from my past so I can concentrate on a submission due at the end of the month.
For context: The summer before 12th grade I went to the UK for a month. Across four sweeping locations, I studied “Writer’s Craft” with other well-to-do kids who felt under-stimulated in sweaty suburbia. As if we needed yet another raised standard in life.
Rich kid privilege aside (and definitely a topic I’ll save for another day), this trip did change my life. I’d do it all over again and I can’t wait to help my kid see the benefits of learning abroad. We visited the pub where Tolkien wrote, we took finals in ancient royal libraries, we stood atop soap boxes in Hyde Park and ranted about whatever we figured made us look smart.
Being overseas for my first time alone, mingling with the locals was out of the question. The kids on the trip with me were as familiar to me as my left arm, and I felt comforted that we all were raised within a 2 hour drive. Still, my galavants around London, Oxford, Lake District and Edinburgh managed to provide some novelty firsts my hometown hadn’t managed to surface in me yet.
First time getting drunk (Dear aunties and uncles, this is considered pretty late in life and if you’re thinking nah, not my kid, think again). First time I’d ever heard of Jack Kerouac and David Sedaris. First time I felt like writing could be a career. First time I had teachers outside the Catholic school system and they were effing marvelous. First time I felt completely unchained from who I was at home. It was the first time I realized I could leave my house anytime I wanted if I had enough cash saved. This big wide world had so many lovely little corners to get lost in.
Let’s get to it shall we? Please indulge my commentary in bold…
Reading Irvine Welsh for the first time with views like this ruined reading on subways for me.
July 16th, 2003 (my 17th birthday)
Some meadow between Oxford and Stratford-Upon-Avon
I have mixed feelings about Shakespeare. I must admit, he was truly a brilliant man. I have enjoyed most of his books (lol), especially a Midsummer’s Night Dream and Hamlet. Romeo and Juliet of course, (I used and abused “of course” like the know-it-all I was) was a pinnacle in all things love. In a way it teaches us about finding a perfect love, but in others that perfect love is probably deadly. (Makes sense I came to that conclusion, I had barely held hands with the opposite sex yet)
To be honest I haven’t read much Shakespeare as I would like to have read, but I am sure I will get around to it (I don’t). His style of writing is beautiful, but really hard to get into. But once you do, you really appreciate his work (my teacher grades these entries). Even sitting here under a breathtaking willow tree by a flowing river, even though it’s corrupted by poisonous leaves and construction, it’s hard not to enjoy Shakespeare’s work right now (false, I’m staring at the back of the head of the boy I am obsessed with and thinking how many of Shakespeare’s “books” I need to read before he likes me).
(I shit you not, the very next page continues with…)
“Cool expressions”
fo shizi
shibby
stellar
nice
(And finally, a poem to “regain” myself:)
Alone. In solitude, waiting patiently for cloth to dry
Only the odd wanderer passes by
Just to speak briefly then off to their own
hurried agenda
Warm bland water from the spurting tap
robs my tongue of sweet taste
waiting.
Emerald pine beneath my tired corpse
is rough
to the touch.
The scent of steel lemons
leaks
through cracks in the door,
Intoxicating hallway.
Dim lights pull hard on my winks,
Repetitive music of metal buttons clashing
on the grater’s spin,
spinning around like the whirls of time.
Time leaks from the side of what contains it,
Soap everywhere.
This week’s journal entry was written under the above willow tree. It’s where I discovered how much I hated Shakespeare but didn’t dare ever to write it in ink. Above right, feeling proud to have ordered wine in a bar without getting carded and wearing a tank top that says, LONDON, as you do.
Thanks for reading this week! Hit the button below if you’d care to share with friends:
SO GOOD.