Squalor Victoria: London and back again.

After Cardiff it was London time with (definitely) old friends and the odd (relatively) new one. From the age of 13-21 I was in a young writers critique group/collective/gang of hooligans called, ahem "Inducers of Insanity." Largely for the reactions we provoked from Katherine, who was the real-life grown-up that hosted/led/cat-herded us in and out if productivity. Lots to write about those years I guess,
but the important part is that now grown, Eva Z is married to David and they live in Brussels. Shane and Becca live in Dublin. I live in Wales. Kim lives in Amsterdam and is moving to London come fall. This leaves out a few (notably James, Betsy, Deb and Arlo) but was critical enough mass for a legit IOI reunion, complete with writing exercises and everything.

After a quick coffee with Katie (swansea, then london, then back to swansea and wherever else, half the people I meet are travelers) met the crew at Hyde Park.

Hadn't seen Eva or Kim for about 8 years. People do change, but they also don't. It was strange for about a half hour, all of us riding the bus to Willesden Green where we spent the days, but then felt completely natural.

Look me up next time we're in the same city. . .
Or even on the same continent, really.

and it felt like we will.
also sort of makes me want to get a job where I'm never anywhere too long. thoughts you have on a bumpy coach when you can't sleep or write crossing over to the other side of the Severn.

the last few days have been pretty rough and tumble on all counts. i'd be lying if i said i wasn't a bit worse for wear and worn out. i think i've at least got better perspective on it than last time i left a place, probably not as good as the next time.

that hardly helps in the moment, though.

Earl Grey

Mounting the snowcapped summit, muscles aching
from cold and effort, he unwrapped his face of wool,
let the scarf drop, brushed icicles from his beard.
His companion pulled a thermos from the pack,
then teacups and saucers.
Soon steaming liquid, stirred by spoon
while overhead, a mountain goat scuffs
at a cliff edge.
The two sit cross-legged, pinkies aloft.

camera zoom out.
In a distinctly American British Accent, the voiceover:

"Earl Grey. Bold. Beautiful. British."

Ridiculous.

My friend Betsy considers herself a bit of a tea expert;
I used to accompany herself and her fiance to Capitol Hill
tea dens where they would always order for me,
at least after the time I scratched my head and asked:

"Do you have any rasberry?"

Ridiculous.

Over brit-side, you needn't be an expert to know good tea from bad,
the important thing is that there be tea, period.
The offer requires no occasion— rather, occasions require IT,
celebration or consolation, "pour you a cuppa?"
being the universal comforter;
healthier than
"want a cigarrette"

but perhaps more indulgent than
"What you need to do is go for a run."

Its new to me.
Coming from coffee-capitol where we run fast and refuel faster,
it can't be coincidence that I'm now finally learning the
importance of calm, sip by sip, each afternoon, the therapy
inherent to stirring sugar in the face of a crisis.

This may be the one thing I take with me, whether or not
I scale any mountains or ever become an expert.
The moments while you wait for the bag to steep.
The way the milk swirls in. I may never be an expert
but perhaps that, too is something I’ll take from this.

And at least now I know not to ask for rasberry.
_______________________________________________

So I finished a draft of a story today. The story's called "My Ugly Twin" and it rose out of a prompt Becca gave while her, Shane and I were writing at the St. George Pub (yes, I'm already nostalgic for their visit) and it's a first-person account of two brothers falling out.

The above poem/spoken word was originally written sometime late Spring and I'd intended to clean it up a bit and see how it flies. May still suffer some tweaking.
In the interest of catching up, I'll post more stuff on Friday or Saturday.