tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9179563338481682512024-03-04T22:00:52.237-08:00Little Cottage on the EstateAdventures and musings of a formerly expatriate freelance writer....Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-60451470498719897812012-12-26T00:04:00.001-08:002012-12-26T00:39:59.298-08:00Loved Ones Far and Near....<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">So this blog has been quiet for the last
few months, purposefully so, as a grand decision was made to move back to the States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The main reasons primarily being family - aside from parents and siblings living here and feeling far from them, one sister recently had baby number two when I
had only seen baby number one once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
then there were the finances. And…more importantly…housing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _MailAutoSig;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">I’m buying
a house.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _MailAutoSig;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">No tiny shack, though equally no McMansion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All 1,068
square feet of modern architect-built rambler on an island in the middle of the
Puget Sound that’s a haven for writers and artists…and all for $195K. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _MailAutoSig;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;">I’ve kept mum a bit on the house and only still barely talking about
it and won’t write too much more at this point until the deed is done, the ink
is dry and the keys are in my hand, but in the end for a house I’ll own I will
be paying $350 to $400 a month less than I was paying in Bath for a one bedroom flat rental.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _MailAutoSig;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;"><br />
It was a no brainer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _MailAutoSig;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-no-proof: yes;">But what it meant was leaving a life behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A life I wasn’t completely ready to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A life full of friends and laughter and wine
and intelligence and trading that in for a house and being closer to family.</span></span><br />
<br />
But the tradeoff meant an estimated two months living at my
parents’ house.</div>
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I love my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They’re interesting, quirky, intelligent, lively, opinionated people
whose said opinion I value highly and the opportunity to be close to more often was
a primary motivating factor in returning to the Pacific Northwest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it also meant, as a woman who just turned
40 in October, who hadn’t lived in the same city as my family for over 12
years, I would be now living with my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In a small room. With </span>my dog. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Another sibling had moved home to finish her
degree and was in the active grind of job searching, so the house would definitely be
full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And to say that the whole scenario
filled me with trepidation would be a bit of an understatement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not for how they'd do...but I’m used to my own ways, my own
time, my own schedule, my own life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
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And so I moved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Crated up the dog, boxed up my belongings, said my farewells and took
another leap of faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Which as we all know, I’m big on leaps of
faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I didn’t offer on the house I thought I would, the small
blue one with the trees growing through the deck that looked like a fairytale
writer’s retreat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its beautiful pictures
belied a weary house in need of more TLC than I wanted to muster and a
lackluster interior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I did offer,
the day after I arrived, on another house, a little green cottage with slightly Scandinavian exterior and an almost modern Craftsman-style interior with a
high ceilinged living room and a huge bank of windows that looked out into a
ravine of pine trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The house I’d thought would be
mine didn’t call to me, but this one did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I do believe houses choose people…. and so this one chose me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyh7awdm-DKIzp6qPbkIDRRXs3qy9sRDm8241hFyfRfZWOGAEoqmDAgqCyWMNdrtwoCfnXEehBfjk02Dcipb7FPyhvXUYFJoeiqdF0aPd-URKz8G0X4Q1LpKyZjgtu_5ovyGivcg3bJ60/s1600/416828_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyh7awdm-DKIzp6qPbkIDRRXs3qy9sRDm8241hFyfRfZWOGAEoqmDAgqCyWMNdrtwoCfnXEehBfjk02Dcipb7FPyhvXUYFJoeiqdF0aPd-URKz8G0X4Q1LpKyZjgtu_5ovyGivcg3bJ60/s320/416828_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And then the waiting game began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dealing with finances and mortgages
and earnest money and inspections, agreement extensions and banks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a house hunting purgatory,
waiting for the paperwork to be approved and for the boxes to be unpacked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>
</div>
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But in the last week or so as Christmas has arrived the
limbo of my life has started to wear me down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Again, so grateful and thankful to be with family for the first time in
ages, but realizing also that this holiday season was passing me by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my friends posted cheerful holiday
pictures on Facebook, friends literally worldwide, I
sat in my room working or walking Otis on the beach, occasionally watching TV,
trekking off a meager few times down to the city to see a couple
friends or sneaking an extra glass of wine after the parents had gone to bed, feeling like a naughty child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t
that the company wasn’t good or I wasn’t happy to be here…but I’ve been stuck
at the starting line of a race I’m eager to take, waiting impatiently for
the flag to be dropped. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not choosing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just waiting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve never been good at waiting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so as my friends were busy, flitting here and there, I’ve
felt time just ticking, watching the second hand turning, hoping it turned faster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know in my
head it’s temporary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it’s only a
week or so to go before I can get going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And in the next few days I know I’ll again begin to feel a sense of momentum as I can
once again start to plan and organize and dream with a feeling of reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know these moments at home are actually
things I’ll cherish, precious time spent with people I love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at the same time feeling greatly a loss of all
the things, and all the people, I’d left behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the sacrifice felt like it was becoming
hourly more acute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thinking of my
friends merrily together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thinking even
of siblings near and far with their children and their families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling spread and torn apart and wishing there
were <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>many of me that could be everywhere
and always. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then they called me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A group of merry revilers in Bath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Santa hats and paper crowns and sparkling
antlers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who had been slightly
overserved but were all ever so charming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And who wished I was there as much as I wished I could have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They cheered me with their joy and their
silliness and, especially, their rousing rendition of the Pogues Fairytale of
New York, which they said to have been dedicated to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve decided to choose which lyrics they meant most
heartfelt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in that moment I was loved by my friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And missed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And not forgotten. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I move a week from Friday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, again, the waiting more or less is ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And starting tomorrow the limbo also more or less ends and the doing begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">But I needed that. I needed them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So thank you Santa, you two sparkly reindeer and you two crowned
fairies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For caring about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For remembering me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for my soliloquy and for, as I
said, the best Christmas gift… for being my friends and for sharing with me
your Christmas cheer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in the end….it was a very merry day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-uId9mkTYRJ3vqE9c2Eil4JKIy3VeMDTIVb6b2Vq16HW6pf4e36b_l_-0c9O7HE33W_iqmKsasZy_-z_DLYQdmNAL4_qzc0fM0lG-cDim3s8eTOAOrpsYtHHxy4I90OdxBITUJ__7FsnR/s1600/184420_10151158340385633_814516860_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-uId9mkTYRJ3vqE9c2Eil4JKIy3VeMDTIVb6b2Vq16HW6pf4e36b_l_-0c9O7HE33W_iqmKsasZy_-z_DLYQdmNAL4_qzc0fM0lG-cDim3s8eTOAOrpsYtHHxy4I90OdxBITUJ__7FsnR/s400/184420_10151158340385633_814516860_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-21348020969379794882012-08-11T10:09:00.001-07:002012-08-12T04:18:45.949-07:00People Watching<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a painter that goes out into the streets and cafes to capture
the pictures of the people around him, so I as a writer find that often I am most
inspired when out in the world among
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watching their detailed
interactions, the nuances of the relationships, trying to capture the moment
and the thoughts from their expressions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People watching is something I've always loved but I think years as a script supervisor have honed my ability after spending all day watching
actors live or on a monitor, seeing one person's ability
to state a line clearly and communicate a specific emotion or other actor's
inability to emote a most basic line in a way that seemed remotely natural, let
alone believable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps that's inspired me or shaped me to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watching for so long people in false
situations, I find it now so much more interesting to see the real life dramas
that take place on a minute scale in the real world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman sitting with a laptop at a table outside a cafe, her
dog tied at her feet, drinking tea, watching the world and writing at the same
time would probably be something I would find fascinating to watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If that person wasn't me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so today I'm writing what I'm seeing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>--------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A cow stands on the corner of the square, greeting
pedestrians as they go by, handing out something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mascot seems familiar, as if for a local
ice cream or dairy company, but the cow seems less than comfortable with her
job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not ill pleased, exactly, but a
little self conscious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> As perhaps one would be as a relatively small person in a cow suit on the sidewalk in a square full of people. </span>Though I've never
seen a self conscious cow before. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man sits at the foot of a tree, leaning against his bike
which leans against the tree trunk, his dog at his feet, rolling a cigarette
and talking to a fellow biker, a female dreadlocked bohemian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man cracks his beer as they chat and she
opens a letter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.richardburelart.com/bath-paintings.html" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5RAwzgILXCloWXwlAol-ucbEQVMHFaIRkKjP1gb8_doF2uxYHdzkqa4DvZzO0gssXZgQuEWKXzmJP1lPr3cwy6gCTVioJ1sdA6acm9BJEQUx0hHRkVySIzUaI8GAL7N0aaK35HhfE_uzF/s320/1504949_orig%5B1%5D.jpg" title="Early Start, Kingsmead Square" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.richardburelart.com/bath-paintings.html" target="_blank">Early Start by Richard Burel</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tourist and locals alike pick over the fruit and vegetables
at the farmer's market. Comparing the
nectarines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that one? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does it have a bruise?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girlfriend checks inside the paper bag to
see if she approves with the boyfriend's selections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He puts one back and she selects another one
and they move on down the line, reviewing other options.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few teenagers sit on a bench, chatting and looking at
their iPhones. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>They smile but not laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The three girls sit together sharing one phone as the boy gets up with his and stands in front to better chat with all of
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man sits on a bench, his backpack next to him, enjoying an
alfresco sandwich and soda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Comfortable
in his skin...he people watches even as he is being watched. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two young blonde women sit at the cafe drinking
coffees, gabbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One has sunglasses on
her head, artfully placed as to not mess up her hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gesticulates as if telling a story and
the friend seems rapt. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's not funny,
but engrossing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it the end of the
story or an update to a previous one?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two guys join alfresco man on his solitary bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He moves his backpack over, but keeping it on
the seat to separate him from the other two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It's a small bench for three good sized men and momentarily awkward, but
they settle in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alfresco man stops
people watching and pulls out his iPhone as if to define that he's definitely on his own and not with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A young mother with magenta hair wearing an ill fitting, mismatched
track suit pushes a pram through the square, trailing after
her even younger looking, head shaven, t-shirt wearing partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She seems
to be on the verge of yelling at him and he knows it, walking faster ahead,
turning back to answer her only when he has to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stops halfway through the
park to hike up her sweat pants and continues on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://adebanjialade.blogspot.co.uk/2011/01/bath-revisited-competition-winner.html" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzc4pxGFX-AYeto7oh9HWQU7RlJoMt1t8oBUY-_Yfs7h3zyDYxDDVeS2ouWVzmr6YfEYcEwo_10qXz2t-78k8VehKBdbLIXLZnpaPsCCohiQQasZ23egI5H2ZJ0cYIiw_99FPBxhAs0qoY/s400/AA%252B10%252B-%252Btree%252Bshadows%252Bkingsmead%252Bsquare%5B1%5D.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://adebanjialade.blogspot.co.uk/2011/01/bath-revisited-competition-winner.html" target="_blank">Tree Shadows by Adebanji Alade</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A young couple stops in the middle of the square, carrying overnight
baggage and a camera and appear to not exactly know where they are going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
turn and head to the cafe, seemingly having made their choice for an afternoon snack. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A young girl in a floaty floral spring dress cools herself
with a princess shaped electric fan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An elderly couple walk arm in arm slowly through the edge of
the park, observing the people at the produce stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He in a blue and white striped oxford and she
in a red and white striped t-shirt with matching white caps; they seem ready
for a visit to the seaside, dressed in summer nautical colors, t<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">hough the seaside is miles away. </span>He is mildly stooped, seemingly too much so for
what doesn't seem a truly advanced age. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A double decker local bus carefully threads through the street
around the park, momentarily interrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A woman in a medical uniform gets up from a bench, reaching
behind for the hand of her companion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They walk off casually, hand in hand, chatting and smiling, enjoying each
other's company. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man glides his bicycle deftly into the rack amongst the
others chained up and parked. He locks
it efficiently and walks off down the road. To the pub?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the store?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is determined and purposeful, a goal in mind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A small terrier puppy yips at the corner of the cafe, realizing
he had been momentarily ignored and hopeful not to miss his scrap of leftover
cake. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A young woman in hen party bride gear, complete with sash
and veil and fancy embellished sunglasses, walks into the square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is tall, elegant and blonde, thin and prettily
dressed, surrounded by friends, most at least 3 inches shorter, each wearing light
summer dresses and plastic leis around their necks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They stand in the corner chatting as if deciding
where to go next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What to do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many options.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's early, only 3:00, so too early yet to hit the bars, but, then again, you only get married once. Hopefully. They slowly wander a few feet off to the corner, not
quite yet decided, still on a lumbering exploration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A friend points down one street, but no decision
is made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they lost?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly another girl comes down the corner
street, wearing a similar lei and waves at them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They recognize her and wave back and immediately
the group strides off purposefully toward her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She knows where they're going and they follow her off out of the
square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the hen party officially begins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The puppy whines again, tail wagging, looking at the people
walking in and out of the cafe door, hopeful a piece of cake will drop and he
will be gifted with a treat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://shirleytoogood.wordpress.com/page/2/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyP5Yo10p-SBaPFs1uEu5P9UWAoJuDCN6jhuQPW4F4qtNvJuzY7eGwk_7ZORmJbXH0TysnlBkU8D4T1fBabDyUSsSmkMVey5VtU9-3b-yRbbUeXE7wq6EitnOpPrrPpWcIqW4dUUzdJg8D/s400/kingsmead005.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://shirleytoogood.wordpress.com/page/2/" target="_blank">Kingsmeade by Shirley Toogood</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two young men, one heavyset with silver earrings and
carrying a large bag, the other tall and lean, wander through
the square, chatting amicably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Along with their bags they carry the easy air of student life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The teenagers on the bench have been joined by even more
teenagers. They have multiplied like rabbits in only a few minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They laugh, showing each other their
shopping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are they telling adventures of
their day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don't seem to be
in a hurry to go anywhere and instead are working on perfecting their skills at
the age old teenager pasttime:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>loitering. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time a large group of teenage tourists,
accompanied by an occasional harried looking chaperone, walk en masse down the corner of the
square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man sits with his sons on a bench, having a snack, observing
the brave pigeons coming towards them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The older son, standing up, stamps at a pigeon to scare it away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mother comes and sits next to her
husband, sharing the seat companionably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As the father speaks, she laughs naturally and gaily, a wide open smile,
her head thrown back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The younger son throws a treat to the pigeons
who rush in and attack the lone potato chip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is entertained and throws another one until the flock becomes
overwhelming and the the big brother steps in again to shoo the birds
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The snack done, they get up and wander
off, the younger brother dawdling behind as he finishes the last of his
chips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He throws the bag responsibly in the bin as he walks away, hurrying to catch up to the rest of his family. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An elegantly middle aged Asian woman takes the bench they were
sitting on and calmly waits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is dressed in all black and everything mid-sized: a 3/4
length light cotton shirt, mid-length black trousers and gold shoes with a medium
sized brown leather purse slung over her shoulder and her moderate length hair
casually pulled back in a clipped ponytail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She observes the birds for a moment out of the corner of her eye, then
looks back up and stares off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is she
waiting for someone or just waiting for time to pass?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is calm, unhurried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hands rest patiently on her lap, her
legs crossed casually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
sits quietly and still. Not observing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>hinking? Occasionally she seems to focus outward but then her
gaze turns off again and she is lost in her thoughts once more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly she sees something, or someone, and
gets up with purpose and walks off. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A middle aged man in a white and blue striped oxford shirt and well pressed salmon
colored shorts shops with a basket at the farmer's market.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He scans the vegetables, thinking, then picks
a large cucumber off the rack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
continues to look around, as if creating a menu in his head, filtering,
choosing, selecting, eliminating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hands his basket to the seller, then
stands, his right hand resting on the top of his head and yawns, waiting
patiently for the total and his bag of completed purchases.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man with the bike has returned. He unlocks it and sets off across the park in the opposite direction from
whence he had come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where has he
been?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And where is he going?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> C</span>ontinuing his journey or ending it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His glasses, balding head, beard, shorts and
golf shirt make him an unlikely candidate for a cross country trek; more likely
a environmentalist professor biking home, running errands while saving the
planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A maitre'd comes up from the stairs of a subterranean
restaurant at the far end of the square to rearrange the placard board outside advertising
the restaurant's existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks
around at the people momentarily as he adjusts the sign, angling it for the best
view from the entire square, as if wishing he could stay in the sun just a moment longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reluctantly turns and heads back
down into the caverns of the restaurant, a unenthusiastic nocturnal creature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man in the salmon shorts takes his purchases to a bike, wanders
with it to the corner, starts to mount it but then reconsiders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walks the bike across the street, over the
pedestrian-heavy corner and onto another road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally, he gets on his bike and slowly starts to creep his way up the
hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A muscled man in his 30s with a backpack, laptop bag and shopping tote from
a clothing store strides quickly and purposefully across the square.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> His sunglasses hide his eyes. </span>The faded eagle tattoo on his arm is in stark
contrast to the bright blue of his striped polo shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A community worker enters the square in his neon yellow vest with a new garbage bag to replace one in an
overflowing bin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He moves slowly, as if happy
to do his job today outside in the nice weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A car going around the square stops and asks
directions, which he happily obliges, pointing the driver around the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walks around the square,
carrying three large bags of rubbish, using his metal claw to pick up the bits
that lazy people have dropped here and there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He is thorough and efficient, unhurried but not lazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His movements are of habit and routine, but
without the impression of any sense of shame or resentment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
focuses on what he is doing but also at the same time manages to take in his
surroundings and observe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Watching the garbage and watching the people. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A group of helmeted lady bikers stand on the corner next to
the coffee shop, deciding what to do next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
tangle of wheels and spokes, chains and people take up a section of the corner,
but they are oblivious to the pedestrians trying to make their way around them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A elderly black man with a can of beer in his hand wanders
around talking loudly to unwilling strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some acknowledge him, some ignore him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He asks a middle aged woman for the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asks several times, each time more loudly. She looks over her shoulder
and doesn't respond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He moves on to a
group near the bikers who seem to know him as if he's a local and a regular, as
are they, though they come to the square with different intentions...and
beverages...in mind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.peterbrownneac.com/exhibitionpicture-b.asp?cGFnZT0yJmV4PTIx" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5H-fZD11f8w8Z3vEm_LvKflhHWzSNR0oryyylil2c9Onip0SMdEBMEaKJe7NeuDqo3jExUUVxjlTOyMFz0EMI1cPb0tCpn4PHBQZAO9lHkfvp9tCfgFKgSUR57RkYXWSZFmZrq_uDSmi/s400/image_resize%5B1%5D.asp_aXM9MiZpZD02NzUmd2lkdGg9NTAwJmhlaWdodD0zOTkmc2hhcnBlbj0" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.peterbrownneac.com/exhibitionpicture-b.asp?cGFnZT0yJmV4PTIx" target="_blank">11am Kingsmead Square by Peter Brown</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>--------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just when I think there are no more people to watch, to
observe, to notate, to write about, another interesting character comes along. Someone else whose body language
and actions are curious, compelling and distinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
reminds me that there is beauty and fascination in the normal, in the everyday,
in the plebian as much as there is in the extraordinary and unique.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, as I walk away from <a href="http://www.society-cafe.com/" target="_blank">The Society Cafe</a> in Kingsmead
Square in Bath, somehow I feel as if I've met all of these people, if for only the briefest of moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That by watching them I've gotten to
know some tiny, interesting fragment of who they are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And at
the same time I wonder who was watching me? And what, watching the woman sitting in the corner with the laptop, a now empty pot of tea and an obviously hungry dog, would they be thinking? </div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-24251443652983173052012-06-07T19:50:00.002-07:002012-06-08T04:30:45.723-07:00Words, Glorious Words<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
T<span style="font-family: inherit;">his afternoon, while at a tea party with my lovely
neighbors, one of them mentioned how he had purloined the word
"kismet" from me.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">He had had
someone look at him strangely as it popped out of his mouth as easily as it has,
on many occasions, popped out of mine.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">And it made me think about language and words.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Specifically favorite words.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
We all have our favorite words. For some they may be more succinct and
steeped in cultural symbolism.
"Fuck" or "shit", for instance. Some people's favorite words have lost their
meaning, words of a different time.
Words like "gay" that once simply meant lighthearted and
cheerful, something completely different than the nebulous, socio-conscious
word that it has become now. But for me I
love best the words that either sound like what they mean or what they mean is
represented in how sound. In a way I
suppose a theoretical <i><span style="font-style: normal;">onomatopoeia but that's not a really accurate description. The words I like best are the ones that
somehow, somewhere deep inside you resonate so that they make you feel, as you
are saying them, exactly what they mean. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">And, truthfully, for me there really are only two that stand out: "Pathetic" and "Kismet." </span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">There's something so joyously derisive
to call someone pathetic. Just the way
it rolls off your tongue...."You are pa-THE-tic." The emphasis behind the word matches the
desired intention. The true definition
of the word could mean, "You are cheese curds," but yet somehow it
would have still the same desired intention of insult, derogation and
disdain. While there are few in my world
who deserve being called so or described as such, when the time comes, as inevitably
it occasionally will given the feeble nature of the human race, there is such
satisfaction in delivering those syllables that it's hard not to crow with glee
as they are uttered.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">Which leads me to my second, and perhaps optimistically more favorite word:
"Kismet". While in essence it
means "fate" or "fortune" its Persian/Turkish/Arabic origin
gives it just that little bit of...spice.
It's fate with a little bit of magic carpet thrown in. Over the years, in all my adventures, I've
come more to embrace, even revel in, the idea of fate. Not predestination....I think we all choose
our own lives. But the idea that the world
is yours if you're brave enough to take it. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">For example, last year in July I posted a blog post titled, "I Am
For Bath." At the end of the post talked
about how funny it was that two years prior I had been driving through Bath
with my sister and brother-in-law after being at my brother's wedding in
Porlock, here in the U.K. I had a lovely
boyfriend in L.A. and was not planning to move anywhere at the time, but my
sister, in reference to my newly acquired dual U.S./Finnish citizenship , at that
moment said, "Just think...anytime you wanted to you could live
here." And in that blog post I wrote, "How ironic that here
I am, planning to move to Bath."</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">Two months after that post, after an exhaustive search across the entire town I carefully selected and then moved into a
flat here in Bath. A couple weeks after
that my then-boyfriend pointed out that the house at the end of that street on
the right, the front door that, while far away, is centered in the picture, was
the house that I had just moved into.
The flat that I am writing this post from now. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">So two years and change prior to moving to Bath I took a picture of my
current front door. When I had no idea that
I was even considering moving here, I took a picture in a city I didn't live
in, in a country I didn't live in, of a house that I would, in future, live. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">That is kismet. Leaps of faith
and imagination topped with a sprinkling of fairy dust. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">I love the idea of being where the universe thinks you're supposed to
be. I'm not religious. When people ask, I say I believe in Carl Sagan
and The Force. And while I abhor the
idea of predestination... I dislike the idea of some supernatural being saying,
"You will be here," as much as I hate the idea of any mortal telling
me where and when I should be...I do love the idea that if you're smart enough,
if you're willing and crazy enough, you will end up were you're "supposed"
to be. Perhaps I think in my head that
there are many "supposed to be" options and that it's a matter of
choosing your own ending in the Choose Your Own Adventure book of your
life. But I do like those strange
coincidences the world throws at you makes you think about...just for that
second longer. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">And so kismet. While fate seems
to pragmatic and fortune seems so capitalistic, I love the magic of the word. It implies to me, as I've said, a bit of
spice and sand and flying carpets. To
say, "It was fate that I moved here," or "It was fate that we
met," seems so bland and pedestrian.
But kismet....kismet is the stuff of legends. It's the stuff of heroes. It is the stuff of magic. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit;">
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">And while we know, at best, it's just a pretty illusion, deep down we
all want to believe in magic. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-83594654280265419642012-05-21T17:16:00.000-07:002012-05-22T08:51:24.422-07:00A Little Quiet...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Talking to a friend this evening about writers and artists, and our natures, there came a moment in the conversation where he suggested that creative people in general are lonely. I argued that while I think there's an element of truth to that it's not actually that they're lonely. They're solitary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Solitary is a choice. Lonely is not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am someone who most people who meet me would consider quite sociable. Gregarious even. The life of the party. Someone who loves being a hostess and being hosted. I talk a lot, I laugh loud and often and I enjoy the company of both people I know and people I don't. Strangers to me are just people I haven't met yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But at the same time I am a person who needs their alone time. Years ago as a member of a touring theatre company I would dream of and prize the 15 minutes of solitude I would get every few days. I craved it. I needed it. Achieving a quiet moment alone in my own space, albeit a hotel room, became almost an obsession. And without that solitude I became crabby and shrewish. Not a pretty sight.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6UlBygCH0Z33JVd-8XpQt9fwhXBCfs9VCBu60rRwDU16inNFfAne2JZODQ_ilA8sMZOMLeEugFj4MHzwP4cxDtfDYvcZiJG-3Qzcu90bv_9CjmQZ7pxPTiCxrOssh-M4S7vyWirdsduJ/s1600/Binghams+with+Tom+&+Ethel+on+BI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig6UlBygCH0Z33JVd-8XpQt9fwhXBCfs9VCBu60rRwDU16inNFfAne2JZODQ_ilA8sMZOMLeEugFj4MHzwP4cxDtfDYvcZiJG-3Qzcu90bv_9CjmQZ7pxPTiCxrOssh-M4S7vyWirdsduJ/s320/Binghams+with+Tom+&+Ethel+on+BI.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Family with Uncle Tom and Grandma...1986ish. <br />
I'm in the back in my favorite red and white checked Esprit shirt </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder if that is a result of growing up in a loud, boisterous, exuberant household. It was a rare moment to come home from school and find the house empty, so those moments became greatly prized. Until my early teens I can think of maybe only two or three times where there was not someone else in the house with me. We were, and I think still are, a rambunctious family, full of laughter. Family dinners were held every night and still are some of the best memories of my childhood. Random evenings where we were all in tears of laughter as my dad explained to my middle sister that the best way to make sure her swimming goggles weren't stolen was to etch her initials into the lenses. Taking a break from the table saying "I'm going to take a walk" holds special meaning in our family...let's just say it's in regards to hated non-Oscar Meyer hot dogs, a wood pile and a really good throwing arm. Not mine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I need a place to retreat to. From the chaos. From the color. From the energy of other people...that they take, that they need, that I want to give them. To a quiet and a solitude where...yes...I like the sound of only my own voice. Lucky for me Otis seems to like it when I have long, philosophical, sometimes wine-induced conversations with him....he's a very good listener, though he occasionally does tend to fall asleep in the middle of a very good oration. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've never been one for background noise. My hip and cool college roommate Julie used to like to turn the radio on the moment she got up until the moment we went to bed. But for me I needed quiet. Constant background noise is to me the same as the buzzing of a fly. Irritating, incessant and...did I say irritating? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do have two theories on my lack of interest in background noise. Both of which sound bonkers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, I have a dog ear. One of my ears hears high pitched sounds. I've heard a computer monitor whining that others couldn't hear. People didn't believe me when I switched it off because it was too annoying....until the day it went up in smoke. Literally.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second, when it's really loud I can't smell well. Again, seriously. It's not actually that uncommon, to have your sense of hearing be a more dominant sense than the sense of smell, but not something people general are able to put a finger on. Once, watching TV alone in my apartment in New York I smelled smoke. I muted the TV. Sniffed. Decided it was cigarette smoke. Then unmuted the TV. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then realized what I had just done. I had muted the TV so that I could accurately determine what kind of smoke it was. True story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find myself now as an adult who's lived primarily on her own, other than my rarely-barking, non-English speaking dog, for a number of years and find there are times when specific amounts of vocal volume bother me. Something that would have been natural to me as a kid in that energetic family and childhood now is foreign. I can be overwhelmed by a person of loud pitch, overt vocal aggression or grating tone. To the point of wincing. To the point of snapping. Don't get me wrong....again, I talk loud, I laugh loud, and I can, at moments, gesticulate wildly, so the words calm, quiet and reserved do not even remotely apply to me. But those times, those people can be so overwhelming to me that sometimes I wonder if it's just, in essence, I'm out of practice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But...I'm probably out of practice by choice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a nearby bar that I jokingly refer to as my writing office. It's a place I go to escape from the carpet that needs vacuuming, the dishes that need cleaning, the work that actually pays me money to have a glass of wine and write. And I've had some people ask me how I can write with all the bar noise. How can I focus. But bar noise isn't personal noise. The sharp edges of the various accents and verbs and melodies blend into one constant white noise background. One shrilly harping shrewish voice can make my skin crawl, but 200 of them in one giant cacophony becomes a symphony of life around me that I can tune out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do wonder what it is about artists and writers that makes us...different. Through history we're often jokingly referred to as drunks or lunatics or eccentrics. The best, truthfully, are often all three. We live our lives by our own choices, not by what society dictates. We may like a little too much wine. Or dress in alternate clothing. Or cut off our own ears. But if that's what is necessary to open the floodgates to the creative process, is that really too much? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, I'll give you the thing about the ear. That's a little weird. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose in the end as a writer I need to be able to hear the voices in my head. In the quiet of my solitary living room or in the loud din of society. Perhaps that's why people think we're nuts...we listen to those voices, we feed off them, we are obsessed with them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the funny thing is.... the moment those voices are down on "paper," suddenly they're considered sane. They're still the voices in my head.....</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
...but, because you've read them, they're now a voice in your head as well. </div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-46716147263640149252012-03-27T14:41:00.009-07:002012-03-27T17:55:27.643-07:00A Fine Line Between Bravery or Insanity<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Bravery. We use the word so casually but yet what does it really mean? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">To me bravery is a fireman who leaps into the flames to save a human being. A soldier on the battlefield facing dangerous situations but carrying on nonetheless. My older sister who was near the front lines of the first Gulf War. That's brave. Hell, to me someone is brave if they're willing to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower or stand on the deck of the Empire State Building..</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I'm terrified of heights. Completely, absolutely and to a state of crippling panic. I turn into a whimpering, shaking ninny. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">No. Not at all what I'd consider brave.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Yet, on regular basis people tell me how brave I was to have moved here to England. Where I knew only my aunt, uncle and cousin. To just plop down and begin a new life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">But to me I can't help by think: really, how scary are strangers? They're just people you haven't met yet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I've always been the one in my life to walk up to the stranger at the bar. I'll think about it for a second, come up with something witty to say and just plow on. I've never understood the trepidation. Really, the worst that can happen is they will be dumb, rude or....worse...boring.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Well, truthfully, we all live in a little bit of fear of being cornered by somebody who's cringetastically boring. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">But it's not going to kill us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Though if there's no immediate escape we may feel like killing ourselves. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And so I suppose for me physical bravery is true bravery. But it's an interesting thing to contemplate. In some ways there are many types of bravery. There're people who are brave with their physical being - the soldiers, the firefighters, the policemen. There are people who are brave with their hearts - they jump easily and willingly where many of us would be reticent and cautious, worried of being hurt. And there are those who are brave with their lives - willing to try something, someplace new. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">In my case it wasn't to escape a life or change who I was. Quite the contrary, I would say that the life leaps I've taken have been to believe more strongly in myself and who I was and, in some ways, find the place where I am supposed to be. Perhaps, like the heart leaper's quest to find "the one", the life leaper's quest to find "the place" is just as transient, as much a fairy tale and yet...still as much a possibility. Like winning the lottery, if you don't buy the ticket, you won't win. And people sometimes do win. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I am not a nomad or an aimless traveler. When I left Seattle years ago I said I'd go to New York and if I hated New York I'd go to L.A. and if I hated L.A. I'd go to London. I neither hated nor loved either New York or L.A. but I realized 3 years ago that London was simply New York with better accents. But I was reminded that I loved England. And so...here I am. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKFz9Y7y1QwhJuh_bHAZuLIbUg4tcDV-m7BFhn86rLnUtLlRj9YmDiROrSy83AgIj50DAjuz7rcRACR0ruI5516NkrOtA4OUsV-BHOy54o7aoNBA-9y62nLPRlvIsqX49PuyvvXx6ANHCL/s1600/gutsglory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKFz9Y7y1QwhJuh_bHAZuLIbUg4tcDV-m7BFhn86rLnUtLlRj9YmDiROrSy83AgIj50DAjuz7rcRACR0ruI5516NkrOtA4OUsV-BHOy54o7aoNBA-9y62nLPRlvIsqX49PuyvvXx6ANHCL/s400/gutsglory.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">When people ask, "Weren't you scared?" I say, "You can always go back." Again, unlike the love leaper or the physical leaper, the life leaper isn't burning bridges...or being burnt. I could always move back to New York or Los Angeles or even Seattle. While some friends have moved away, they're still friends and there would be more friends to be had in those places. Though, as I get older, the uprooting does become tougher. While you know you'll stay in touch and visit the important people, if you're not in the immediate vicinity it is never the same and relationships inevitably change. I sometimes long for a cottage on Bainbridge Island, taking the ferryboat over to downtown Seattle. I recognize though that much of that is love and nostalgia, for the lovely childhood that I had and the home that it will always be. But for me now, to go back is to go backward. For now. </span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB">And for now, at least, I want to continue to move forward. There's so much of the world I haven't yet seen, I haven't yet smelled, I haven't yet tasted. But I've been lucky, not as lucky as some but luckier than many, and I continue to be grateful for that little bit of gumption, guts, bravery or just plain insanity that has led me to where I am. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Which is sitting in a bar in Bath writing and drinking a gin and tonic. Living the life of a writer in England. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And right now, life definitely could be worse. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-44465183845116309082012-02-02T12:14:00.000-08:002012-02-02T17:26:57.687-08:00Little House, Little Cottage....<div class="MsoNormal">When I first arrived in the U.K. and reality hit and my grand vision of a "Little Cottage on the Estate" ended up as a lovely but quite scruffy and uninhabitable dud, I toyed with the idea of changing the name of my blog. I was no longer going to be living on an estate, but instead in a lovely, 250 year old stone house. Sadly, though, "Little Cottage on a Brook in a Small Village...With A Castle" somehow didn't quite have the same ring to me.<br />
<br />
The idea of changing the name has popped up here and there ever since, most recently on my move to my now "High Ceilinged Georgian Flat in the City (of Bath)", but for two reasons I have resisted. First, the title connects to the motivation and sparking idea for the move in the first place - the estate cottage - so although the journey changed, it still was a journey. And, second of all, the inspiration for the title stayed the same. Which is, quite obviously, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little House on the Prairie</i> and Laura Ingalls Wilder. But it made me think...as I never lived in the "Little Cottage on the Estate", how would Laura feel about my inaccurate misappropriation of her book title? Would she be shamed? But then I thought...her books are referred to as the "Little House" series but really only one of her books -- the second, by the way, not the first -- was set on the actual prairie, so really, was the use of my imprecise blog title any different? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because it represents the start of an idea....not necessarily the finish.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7PKALpKSScS_t8-Bd-X1A5pHJyUdXi6l8NODxkniJn8VpAWjMa55Z5f_m8kyAD-nNB_JKlSrJ5K88JAStbI-KSRl5CiucdQ41kHatrTMDpxsG0cHhAe9D8yaA-7lbCqCmOxgponnN2pQ/s1600/51nZPrFXvnL._SS500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb7PKALpKSScS_t8-Bd-X1A5pHJyUdXi6l8NODxkniJn8VpAWjMa55Z5f_m8kyAD-nNB_JKlSrJ5K88JAStbI-KSRl5CiucdQ41kHatrTMDpxsG0cHhAe9D8yaA-7lbCqCmOxgponnN2pQ/s320/51nZPrFXvnL._SS500_.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many covers exist, but this was <br />
the cover of my first copy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little House</i> series of books were a strong influence on my childhood and I find as an adult now an association, empathy and appreciation for the kind of pioneering spirit that those books, and the people of those times, experienced. True, I just moved from one modern civilization to another, escaping the brutal rusticity the Plains pioneers endured. But there is a shared sense of stepping into the unknown, to a place where you know no one, and just jumping in and see where you land. Though at least where I landed there was a pub already in existence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think if I had to choose, no single book, or even book series, affected my childhood as much as the <i>Little House</i> books. I loved Frances Hodgson Burnett's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Little Princess</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Secret Garden</i>, the latter still being somewhat of an adult fascination. But I look back and of all the books I read – everything from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mrs. Piggle Wiggle</i> to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ramona The Pest </i>– none stands out as a childhood memory more.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiERiNZYUlcikq88bKIxs6h51deYuvdeqSasgyxH23dmBWn-JaQS7UH7_4x2yu3mFhX_RpwFHffIsKaqWOVjOj4PxxzPwzNyrnNRIZURGyDVC4Kdrd-za02S20SVvnUkoU9N1MfzYq6u9oz/s1600/Laura_Ingalls_Wilder.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiERiNZYUlcikq88bKIxs6h51deYuvdeqSasgyxH23dmBWn-JaQS7UH7_4x2yu3mFhX_RpwFHffIsKaqWOVjOj4PxxzPwzNyrnNRIZURGyDVC4Kdrd-za02S20SVvnUkoU9N1MfzYq6u9oz/s320/Laura_Ingalls_Wilder.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Laura Ingalls Wilder (from Wikipedia.com)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">It's hard to separate the imagined story characters from the real image of who Laura Ingalls Wilder was, and also then even harder to separate her from the pigtailed, buck toothed version played by Melissa Gilbert. But I think in some ways in my head as I was reading them as a child I became Laura. That little girl in the books was written in a way that I felt it, I experienced it. I remember reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little House in the Big Woods</i>, the first of the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>series, when I was about nine and being enthralled. The stories of Pa playing his fiddle while people danced, watching Ma put her hair up with tortoiseshell combs, the joy of Laura's corncob doll, and tapping trees for maple syrup. They were mesmerizing and addicting and I devoured them all. Thank god for the '80s and the plethora of "prairie-style" dresses, Holly Hobbie and sunbonnets. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Laura's tomboyish nature appealed to me as well. I spent hours as a child out with my dad in his workshop, sanding blocks of wood and nailing together treasures. I love the smell of sawdust and shellac as those are the smells that take me back to the days in his shop in the garage, chilly in the winter while my dad, dressed only in his white t-shirt and down vest, worked handily at his extensive, self-built, highly organized workbench and made fantastic things out of a two by four, some nails and a bit of glue. We still eat as a family at the large dining table that he made when I was 7 and the addition of "baby" Megan meant we needed a larger than normal table to seat our seven person household. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfl9XqWJBnqfWJb-NaTpD8GF6d0Z5EGGNOeiSJOvpcX3KIF0g0_-CirXovpNALgyrzOVZR9MCE0BLkI2kYMx2B0Xz7fkis6ScHHILrBLlplIOBPjiRqUUXMCl_L_wJzY0qY-0qjheJiG6e/s1600/AlmanzoLrg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfl9XqWJBnqfWJb-NaTpD8GF6d0Z5EGGNOeiSJOvpcX3KIF0g0_-CirXovpNALgyrzOVZR9MCE0BLkI2kYMx2B0Xz7fkis6ScHHILrBLlplIOBPjiRqUUXMCl_L_wJzY0qY-0qjheJiG6e/s320/AlmanzoLrg.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almanzo Wilder (from Wikipedia)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I still can recite the entire list of books by heart. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie, By The Banks of Plum Creek, On the Shores of Silver Lake, The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie</i>, <i>These Happy Golden Years </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The First Four Years</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Farmer Boy,</i> the official second novel in the "set", was actually about Laura's future husband, Almanzo Wilder....and set nowhere near the prairie, so even she was guilty of narrative digressions. So I suppose I can be forgiven.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I look as an adult now at Laura's life and wonder would we have liked each other? Would we have been friends? Would we have identified with each other over an adventurous spirit and a imaginative bent? Would she be a hopeless romantic? Would she find my modern brashness off putting? Or were she, and her daughter, writer Rose Wilder Lane, kindred spirits in creativity, narrative interest, and bold, brave personality? Their lives as women were on the cusp of many changes in the world, where female writers often changed their names to make their work considered respectable. While our lives are so different in so many ways, fundamentally we are people that comment on the world around us, so whether by a computer or an ink pen, and so there is a basis somewhere there of commonality. Ah, what we would give to have an hour's conversation with the people in history who have shaped us....if only to have that moment to let them know what an incredible influence they have had.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My goddaughter and niece is now currently 6 years old and I think that soon she will be old enough herself to discover Laura Ingalls Wilder and her Little House. I wonder if it will affect her already creative fashion sense as it did mine. Right now she's obsessed with sparkly jewelry and hair bows but I have a feeling it's only a matter of time before it's sunbonnets, button shoes and petticoats for her too.... </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-81445266269042913122011-12-30T17:35:00.000-08:002011-12-30T18:24:21.193-08:00Leap Into a New Year....<div class="MsoNormal">On the eve of another new year I can't help but look back in wonderment at what a difference a couple of years can make. Two years ago this time I sat at my parents' house on the couch and asked them if they would look after Otis for 6 months so that I could sell all my worldly possessions, leave my entertainment career in L.A. behind and move into a house in the middle of nowhere in England, a little cottage on the estate that I'd never seen before. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am a huge fan of leaps of faith. The bigger the better. But even for me this one was a doozy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To be fair, it wasn't exactly the first time I'd done this. I'd dropped a job at Microsoft to move to New York and be an actor. A few years later, I listened to my heart and pitched the acting career and followed a short, slightly twisted path into script supervising and a life in L.A. But each of those leaps had been, in my view at least, wildly successful. Not necessarily the outcomes I'd dreamed of on embarking <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">–</span> I didn't win the Oscar I set out thinking I wanted <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">–</span> but they were life changing and made me stronger and self sufficient and shaped me for the better in more ways, significant and subtle, than I think I could ever really name. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I do think that taking the leap becomes easier the more you do it. You become braver. You see that there's something to be earned, and something to be learned, whatever the outcome might be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I jokingly say that my parents were supportive of everything we did as kids as long as it wasn't illegal, but there's a huge kernel of truth in that. As the child of two adventurers, a sailor who has been around the world at least twice and a former nanny who crossed the ocean from a small island in Finland to live in New York City, following your dreams and being willing to make huge, albeit calculated and educated, life changes was somewhat the backbone I think of what you could call a family life philosophy. Perhaps even family lore. So it never occurred to me not to go or that they wouldn't want me to go. You can always go back. You can always return to the status quo. But if you don't take the risk, you don't get the reward. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you never buy a lottery ticket, you'll never win the lottery. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the things that I've had to learn to rely on and to trust, most importantly of all, is my own intuition. Female intuition or just, perhaps, human intuition. Whatever its source, through the years I've learned to believe in my own instincts. To have faith in myself. In my intelligence. In my own abilities. In my stamina and resourcefulness, to deal with what comes at me and to look for new opportunities to grow and prosper. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade </i>there's a moment where Indy realizes that one of the tests to get to the grail is to take a leap of faith. Step onto a bridge that he can't see but he is sure that is there. In his case, there's both a mental and physical leap to be undertaken, but any leap of faith is a decision to believe in your own judgment, that what you believe to be true is true and what you are doing is the right choice. </div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
And having faith in yourself and taking big risks are what dreams are made of.</div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText">Here, now, it's both fascinating and revealing for me to look back and see how right that choice was. Two years on, I'm challenged, interested, enthralled, curious, motivated and excited about where my life is, on both a personal and professional level. As if all the experiences of my life before this point have been a set up to get me to where I am at this moment, eager to move forward and see what the next adventure will be. </div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText">So, as my friend Molly recently said, let 2012 be the year of doing. </div><div class="MsoPlainText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoPlainText">Let's see what we can achieve when we take a little leap and have a little faith...in ourselves. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-9610669422870532232011-12-14T14:33:00.000-08:002011-12-14T18:24:50.874-08:00Who needs an umbrella?<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLDndNLEIoHGm60LseEH1-EAoHIMYCDDhv5i-skh47vkLKw-R8eTXU-mhdLSt6bBMauF7dj7uqa6YWC-2Fhxx27-uWGsNPdz16VDZ9olj6rxJSZYY6KzJEShyw-F_ohpPI_k8a7SgRx-w/s1600/photo.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLDndNLEIoHGm60LseEH1-EAoHIMYCDDhv5i-skh47vkLKw-R8eTXU-mhdLSt6bBMauF7dj7uqa6YWC-2Fhxx27-uWGsNPdz16VDZ9olj6rxJSZYY6KzJEShyw-F_ohpPI_k8a7SgRx-w/s320/photo.JPG" width="262" /></a>The weather this last week in England has been a chaotic, ridiculous, glorious mess. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First it's windy, then it's hailing, then it's beautifully sunny, then it's a torrential downpour, then sunny again with a chance of rainbow. It's warm enough to walk outside in just a sweatshirt but an hour later you freeze in your winter coat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I love it. Every second of it. My only wish is that we could get a little thunder in there to complete the package presentation. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love the changeability on a moment's notice. The unpredictability of what will be next. I sit inside at my desk and laugh, watching the dark clouds roll across the sky, dropping the afternoon sunlight to a dusky blackness, unleashing their havoc and then disappearing again in another breath. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwbjDkWY8O3P9OsrPnvnzNTnCGUGfj2hV9qz8I7E-MDoR-lFDhy5wcF4d_2L-89nDHDq1s8hO5KhG5a3C6EPEJR5MlQanKzq4rfTLdt3WigQG-gA4VGzkKlWoh_FvBvg-puGBqYPLYdXs/s1600/001+%25288%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWwbjDkWY8O3P9OsrPnvnzNTnCGUGfj2hV9qz8I7E-MDoR-lFDhy5wcF4d_2L-89nDHDq1s8hO5KhG5a3C6EPEJR5MlQanKzq4rfTLdt3WigQG-gA4VGzkKlWoh_FvBvg-puGBqYPLYdXs/s320/001+%25288%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a>Four and half years of living in Los Angeles was four and half years of living without any variation in the weather. Every day was like a scene from the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Groundhog Day</i> - the same sunny blue skies with wispy white puffs of overly cheerful clouds floating through. The last year I lived there it didn't rain from February to August. Not a drop. There were four days in June that were slightly overcast and hinted at a potential drizzle, which those of us from out of town anticipated eagerly, only to be bitterly disappointed by the return once more of those boring blue skies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During that last year I heard and became obsessed with the song <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWfnQyivbRE" target="_blank">"Grey in L.A."</a> by Loudon Wainwright. As he so eloquently put it, "When it's grey in L.A. I sure like it that way 'cause there's way too much sunshine 'round here. I don't know about you, I get so sick of blue skies wherever they always appear. " </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't like sunny days. They have their time and their place like everything else. I like sunny days when there's a flea market or a wedding or a festival. I like lovely warm, cloudless days picnicking in the park. But as much as I don't want rain every day, sun every day is not just boring. To me it's soul crushing and uninspiring, and drains away my energy and ability to think and create and dream. Without variations in the weather what do we have to look forward to, to talk about, to wonder about? If every day is predictable on such a basic level, the rest of your life takes on a monotonous color, like a series of paintings only painted in yellow and blue. Much as you might like those colors, you occasionally want to look at something else. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">There's a Ray Bradbury short story called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_Summer_in_a_Day" target="_blank"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All Summer in a Day</i></a> about a group of kids in a classroom who live on Venus where it rains all the time except for one hour every seven years. Most of the children have never seen sunlight except for the one girl, a recent transplant, who remembers living on Earth and seeing the sun. The kids tease her, taunt her and lock her in a closet...and then the sun comes out for an hour and they play outside...forgetting they'd shut her away. They remember her only after the sun has gone and the rain has once again returned. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My days in L.A. I often felt like that girl, except the opposite. Surrounded by days of neverending sun, barely remembering what rain smelled like, tasted like, felt like. With the lyrics of the song <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G4-7iHtuZ-o" target="_blank">"MyTime of Day"</a> from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guys and Dolls</i> ringing in my head, "And the smell of the rainwashed pavement comes up clean and fresh and cold," I dreamt of that scent, that metallic, minerally smell of the sidewalk as the warm summer rain begins to sprinkle the dirt away. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love rainy days. Misty grey to a torrential downpours. Perhaps it's growing up in Seattle, but I know many native Washingtonians that think sun every day would be fantastic. I admit I prefer to be inside when it's raining or in a car or in a tent, listening to the rhythmic pinging on the window or roof. But give me a booming, window-rattling thunderstorm and I'm a happy girl. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Otis, on the other hand, isn't too thrilled. As he really doesn't like getting wet, he's not too fond of the rain, even in his bright yellow raincoat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, can't please 'em all.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLDndNLEIoHGm60LseEH1-EAoHIMYCDDhv5i-skh47vkLKw-R8eTXU-mhdLSt6bBMauF7dj7uqa6YWC-2Fhxx27-uWGsNPdz16VDZ9olj6rxJSZYY6KzJEShyw-F_ohpPI_k8a7SgRx-w/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOfeaDHbQMbqdLK3kn0ouFBlj6oDCxNP63ryN7yYrL8cKhxhyphenhyphenLrSrn8j2lTYwiQe44_oA1Hr_P0KPmfrjkYQputEz0CT9JMKX1HZFOVZQYSPaQaW_CBzQRcj0N6cV8bgNvuu1p0bdHJ11/s1600/and_the_rain_came_down_x_b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHOfeaDHbQMbqdLK3kn0ouFBlj6oDCxNP63ryN7yYrL8cKhxhyphenhyphenLrSrn8j2lTYwiQe44_oA1Hr_P0KPmfrjkYQputEz0CT9JMKX1HZFOVZQYSPaQaW_CBzQRcj0N6cV8bgNvuu1p0bdHJ11/s320/and_the_rain_came_down_x_b.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLDndNLEIoHGm60LseEH1-EAoHIMYCDDhv5i-skh47vkLKw-R8eTXU-mhdLSt6bBMauF7dj7uqa6YWC-2Fhxx27-uWGsNPdz16VDZ9olj6rxJSZYY6KzJEShyw-F_ohpPI_k8a7SgRx-w/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><br />
</div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-83621996821115124722011-07-11T14:37:00.000-07:002011-07-11T15:42:17.318-07:00I Am...For Bath.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusIc9VnpYNzrDg1PzwR-aWDUbTFZHYO2lqiNc2EZrrdxfib_urnTLN3Pw8xGkcG2ZPqJ_4PuFuztT2jlwMQTzeGCynHBoKe-f0QhkeOSIKMoGLLGQu0vhF_8MDHsYzvWR032Vu86g85ZF/s1600/083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgusIc9VnpYNzrDg1PzwR-aWDUbTFZHYO2lqiNc2EZrrdxfib_urnTLN3Pw8xGkcG2ZPqJ_4PuFuztT2jlwMQTzeGCynHBoKe-f0QhkeOSIKMoGLLGQu0vhF_8MDHsYzvWR032Vu86g85ZF/s320/083.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"> I love my little village. My own little Brigadoon, I've called it in the past. I have fantastic neighbors. A great pub with colorful souls. A sparkling brook that trickles behind my house. And a castle just down the street and around the corner.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VKFi44-v9WvTz05R2Zxel5m5lEnoxU3btI8sEn_umT4dXsQLULMATI3DziXREh3FqjK6sPPeaXZlLXE336p1a4Kta6nDQrTwx7Y9olaToJIeoWdOPXdVHdB3LpyzLjh1bgdwCfKGcfGA/s1600/082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VKFi44-v9WvTz05R2Zxel5m5lEnoxU3btI8sEn_umT4dXsQLULMATI3DziXREh3FqjK6sPPeaXZlLXE336p1a4Kta6nDQrTwx7Y9olaToJIeoWdOPXdVHdB3LpyzLjh1bgdwCfKGcfGA/s320/082.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Did I mention there's A CASTLE.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3S9fF7ZTtWqaMB4-dkkHh4UPlv0_Dq8XbbFwfL9YrvVl6bUonXxwrZT5D7KdsCpCz8eCGo-v2woS3f1-Il1u7SscZ7r3bIl02nfVqj3TpK3U4KTtulcwvFcT01wDlYF4rukGwF6hy8Fx6/s1600/IMG_0164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3S9fF7ZTtWqaMB4-dkkHh4UPlv0_Dq8XbbFwfL9YrvVl6bUonXxwrZT5D7KdsCpCz8eCGo-v2woS3f1-Il1u7SscZ7r3bIl02nfVqj3TpK3U4KTtulcwvFcT01wDlYF4rukGwF6hy8Fx6/s320/IMG_0164.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">As a kid I definitely thought about living in a castle. I mean who doesn't? I think most little girls think about it at some point. Living in the castle with their handsome prince wearing a big pink pretty, pretty princess dress and the world is perfect. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When you're nine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My adventure in England has taken a wide variety of twists and turns. I started out in The Little Cottage on the Estate. I currently live in The Little Cottage in the Village. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I plan to move to....The Little Georgian Flat in the City. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm like Laura Ingalls Wilder's modern day English ex-patriot equivalent. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The reality of a being single woman in her late 30s in a small village has been impressed on me more and more lately as people who have been important in my life this past year have slipped away, only to expose the holes in the theory that life in a village is perfect. It is perfect. If you're retired. Or raising kids. Or a poet. Or someone looking to hermit away from life and be a cat lady. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am none of those things. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVXci0Q_8E0-CD_8dvBrWDLhzS0QDQgO-x5WWoflhX6jiBsR2TCZ6-4B-SsAnd5i5Gkt5_zkHCyKS6XcYjZXKSbgguOs4XUbIlKURA4ZoV9csDldod7L9SO-QpCZhVVtI7USW5pUbkzCvf/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVXci0Q_8E0-CD_8dvBrWDLhzS0QDQgO-x5WWoflhX6jiBsR2TCZ6-4B-SsAnd5i5Gkt5_zkHCyKS6XcYjZXKSbgguOs4XUbIlKURA4ZoV9csDldod7L9SO-QpCZhVVtI7USW5pUbkzCvf/s320/021.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I fell in love with Bath the first time my friend Les took me there last year. He took me to all his former drunken haunts in the city, meeting up with a great group of his friends, and within seconds I wanted to live there. But the idea of leaving my little haven, the place of respite I'd found after the craziness of first arriving here and having everything thrown into chaos, was a difficult one to stomach. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But as the days have moved on, I've realized that life in Nunney doesn't change. It's lovely. As always. It's friendly. As always. There are always people to chat to on the street, always friends in the pub to share the day's events with, always company for a cheerful supper. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, like Brigadoon....not many other people come here. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To be fair, we do have a good amount of visitors. Walkers who come to explore the trails of the Mendips. Parents who bring their young children for an educational day out for the 20 minute walk around the castle. People from neighboring villages venturing "out" for the evening. Men who work for the quarries that come and stay at the pub for a night. Some even become semi-monthly regulars. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But the village, the core, the people you meet daily, the people who you know and who know you, stay the same. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I grew up in a small town, an island, and thought I would embrace small town life easily as it was something I'd known and loved. But nostalgia is a different thing from reality. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The reality is Nunney has become my British home town. The place I can go to and know in my heart that I'm welcome. Step into the gossip should I choose, step out of should I not. I know the people and the dogs, the houses, the roads and the trees. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But it's time to fly the coop.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love my hometown of Bainbridge Island, Washington. Like Nunney, it's an idyllic place, perched just across the water, a 30 minute ferryboat ride away from downtown Seattle. In the twisted turmoil of trying to figure out where I belonged, knowing I didn't belong in Nunney but not really knowing where I was supposed to be, I thought, "Bainbridge." </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But that would be the end of the story. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm not ready for the story to end. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the reality, as I said recently in a conversation with my mother, was that after the magic wore off of being "back home" again, what would I be doing there? Where would I be?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have lived in New York. I have lived in LA. And there were reasons I left both. In some ways both were too big for me. Too much. Nothing you could get your head around and embrace. Nothing tangible. I want to know when there's a new restaurant opening in town...I don't want it to be one of 200 new restaurants opening that day....but I don't want it to be the only one that opened that year either. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since I first went to Bath last summer I've spent a fair amount of time there. I've introduced old friends to it. I've met new friends. I've fell in love with restaurants and shops and parks and I think I found that place, that singular place, that I've been searching for.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's not Bainbridge. But like Bainbridge, or Nunney, I could walk across it in a day. It's not New York or LA, but like those cities there's something new, something happening every night. Restaurants and theatre and music and people. And life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so I've notified my landlords, who optimistically are putting my current house on the market to see who else wants to buy this little gem on the brook with the ancient walled garden. My cottage that is older than the United States. That has sheltered me. And protected me. And now needs to let me go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm looking forward to moving and feel as if I almost belong to Bath already, in a way that I don't think that I've felt I belonged to any city since I left Seattle 12 years ago. I wonder sometimes if this is what I've been looking for in all the travels and all the years of adventuring. Stay tuned. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What's funny is two years ago my brother got married in beautiful house in the village of Porlock, a really, REALLY little but lovely place on the Exmoor coast, looking out over the bay to Wales. On the way back to London, driving with my sister Megan and her family, who live in Sweden, we detoured for my first ever view of Bath. As we drove away, remarking on my newly acquired Finnish citizenship, Megan said, "Just think....anytime you wanted to you could live here."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7gC8SxDf-SM-dIoz51UJHvmM-XPTAB3Fmbg_oDNBHJN_hEwRDamvc-SMUkEB8czjDAaTDP_ehmFzxcNFjAj4zAtKn3RRwWNTqjuvakv0BWRSVIAaiZYsnVQLqHApfmNdGWiDZ_7mZnDd/s1600/113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7gC8SxDf-SM-dIoz51UJHvmM-XPTAB3Fmbg_oDNBHJN_hEwRDamvc-SMUkEB8czjDAaTDP_ehmFzxcNFjAj4zAtKn3RRwWNTqjuvakv0BWRSVIAaiZYsnVQLqHApfmNdGWiDZ_7mZnDd/s320/113.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now...I will. </div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-49441251250562442682011-05-20T20:28:00.000-07:002013-04-05T21:51:42.382-07:00Dog Years....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNFl3g1Yu0Yezr_vEkiQ542Odt9IAMfI_YcuVZUj9Yd2v-crqZ0sjSOLS4LeBcmjfufwKL-D5aLsYYRl9iVbgqWdBWMYOXBelgquBVvAjqucQN5ep6azoOAd_yE5YXGmO8cDWW2vwy9h8/s1600/DSC02885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNFl3g1Yu0Yezr_vEkiQ542Odt9IAMfI_YcuVZUj9Yd2v-crqZ0sjSOLS4LeBcmjfufwKL-D5aLsYYRl9iVbgqWdBWMYOXBelgquBVvAjqucQN5ep6azoOAd_yE5YXGmO8cDWW2vwy9h8/s320/DSC02885.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Being the owner of an older dog, a dog that was older when I got him, I think I'm much more aware of time slipping by. More so than friends, family, even parents, though now that I'm farther away I feel even that more acutely. But for a pet, it's not a gradual change over years, decades. Sometimes it's months. I look at Otis and I see, what seems suddenly, salt and pepper coloring trickling into the jet black of his coat and realize that in the best of times I might have 4-5 years left with him. If I'm lucky. Talking to his vet today I asked him his opinion of Otis' age and he seemed skeptical about the 9-year-old guestimate. When I got Otis I was told he was probably between 6 and 8, so three and a half years later I know he's probably between 9 and 11...and while I like to err on the 9 I'm aware that day by day he's getting older. I hear that ticking clock more loudly and heart-wrenchingly than any proverbial biological one.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG47fkLoYj4oa_gxQTDAo_r8jpCbxcZz7L9D325l6m6RunaA0dyOOCtShvAMFMMNwsZo-993iwb3dqK3mu-eHoj7prdsubgSYh2JCDM182qx89q-PI_vnYhpv_La1k7FuMJ4g-J0IgpecD/s1600/001+%252826%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG47fkLoYj4oa_gxQTDAo_r8jpCbxcZz7L9D325l6m6RunaA0dyOOCtShvAMFMMNwsZo-993iwb3dqK3mu-eHoj7prdsubgSYh2JCDM182qx89q-PI_vnYhpv_La1k7FuMJ4g-J0IgpecD/s320/001+%252826%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Like a parent with a newborn child, if he's not snoring loudly enough underneath the desk I look to make sure he's still breathing. Unlike a newborn, fragile, optimistic child, this is an elderly animal, well loved, well cherished and, while healthy and nowhere near his last legs, I'm aware that he's gotten to the age where he can just slip away. My first, and only, family dog, Captain, a beloved Springer Spaniel, passed away in his sleep when he was only nine. I, however, was only four and a half and only generally realized the implications of what was happening, outside of the immediate sorrow of my parents. Now, as an adult who's already had to put to sleep two cherished pets, I love the ease of that, the way that Captain slipped away and we mourned him but didn't have to make an anguished decision. I look at my little Schmo and recognize that when that time comes this would probably be the hardest decision I would ever make as this little dude has been my constant companion, my friend, my worry when he was ill, my heartache when he was lost. He's been my partner in crime, the boyfriend when I was in between, and when there was a man, the girlfriend to talk to in the dark of night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZWobyeiJLk5q2iPwmBIZXOybCvRP_d2Fuwv-mJvrFllhtB8ONjEusTUrKn2USLAInlDGljIHhwl9AQrmelphrKzMobTYYF68M0mUYpffNekY3FgWaqMsrhWERBGZ8ie8-ynQt7rIpegL/s1600/250302592645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZWobyeiJLk5q2iPwmBIZXOybCvRP_d2Fuwv-mJvrFllhtB8ONjEusTUrKn2USLAInlDGljIHhwl9AQrmelphrKzMobTYYF68M0mUYpffNekY3FgWaqMsrhWERBGZ8ie8-ynQt7rIpegL/s320/250302592645.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Vets are a funny thing. I think I'm less picky about human doctors and car salesmen than I am vets. Because a vet has to understand animal behavior as well as the science. I've been lucky to find some really good vets along the way, in Seattle, in New York, in Los Angeles and finally now in England. But it's someone you just instinctively trust to protect your furry pal. Our new vet, part energetic idealist, part mad scientist, is my new hero as he still believes in fairy tales...</span><span style="font-size: small;">well, of the veterinary medicine sort....</span><span style="font-size: small;">specifically that we can cure Otis' ear infection. The ear infection Otis has had for all the time I've had him, despite years of antibiotic therapy. This vet thinks we can cure it...and that's quite nice after having basically given up. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3c5UjgktQxdzVdMthnuy4_Yj3bsOXSmIcb_NISBjHXxpRTGKDpqg1t_fEmwb7SU8ry_ODegKA0pVW-RC0_6bf-nbDKoeAh6fxr006Jk0RnLGII5zMGYWhtYspDbTA519-x-tkhW-rvHGP/s1600/004+%252818%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3c5UjgktQxdzVdMthnuy4_Yj3bsOXSmIcb_NISBjHXxpRTGKDpqg1t_fEmwb7SU8ry_ODegKA0pVW-RC0_6bf-nbDKoeAh6fxr006Jk0RnLGII5zMGYWhtYspDbTA519-x-tkhW-rvHGP/s320/004+%252818%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a>I still have days where I look at Otis and I wonder where he came from. Where was he before me? Did have have any babies with some foxy Spaniel? How did he get lost? How long really was he a stray? And, most importantly, why did they not come looking for him? Maybe they did and gave up before he actually came to the shelter. Who knows. I'm only grateful that, in the end, they either gave up or didn't care so that I could find him. And he could find me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">So I sit here tonight, about to go to bed and expect I'll have a little furry body sleeping with me. And while I know he likes being near me I'm also honest enough to admit that I know he also just really likes the heat of the electric blanket. But aware that each moment is precious....I'll take what I can get. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY9Kh4zrqpGIapH0GZeoGpd4qF-dVqNbRWfa7tlE_3QFdfCIMQTG0j3Y5c63UD4oqX1Dvr91NraDfRrW5z8Uo4MTReQ9FB20RcM1XoKRyQnvtLHUjFDymoCMY9Dg27h96MvTOsLTMiA8ZZ/s1600/008+%25285%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY9Kh4zrqpGIapH0GZeoGpd4qF-dVqNbRWfa7tlE_3QFdfCIMQTG0j3Y5c63UD4oqX1Dvr91NraDfRrW5z8Uo4MTReQ9FB20RcM1XoKRyQnvtLHUjFDymoCMY9Dg27h96MvTOsLTMiA8ZZ/s320/008+%25285%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-62936414573933641532011-03-29T05:48:00.000-07:002011-03-31T02:18:26.686-07:00Let There Be Light....<div class="MsoNormal">I just recently spent a weekend in Finland, the country of my mother's birth and, luckily for me, the place that has given me dual citizenship and a passport which allows me to live in England. I saw family and friends and had a lovely time and enjoyed being in the city, but what impressed me most of all, strangely enough in a country that is dark and snowed in for half the year, was the light.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, light. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Living in England, people love their gardens. They love their fireplaces. They love their pubs. They love their wine. But the one thing they have forgotten to appreciate, in a way, is light.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6vnQPmz4jUsEFYl7GhWzDloqlH4XkQ64PN6XtBpg0rKxQKCFBeeH7VyOa4jA6XsbGgBLoW7ippQ3yFbFLZgAC_g8_UgHz2XsuadVcSDAplPnJ8XLxPHfPrk59I4nx0kveLLJygVbRVGI/s1600/Finnish+cottage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6vnQPmz4jUsEFYl7GhWzDloqlH4XkQ64PN6XtBpg0rKxQKCFBeeH7VyOa4jA6XsbGgBLoW7ippQ3yFbFLZgAC_g8_UgHz2XsuadVcSDAplPnJ8XLxPHfPrk59I4nx0kveLLJygVbRVGI/s200/Finnish+cottage.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Scandinavian architecture, or at least the Swedish and Finnish architecture that I've been exposed to, is specifically directed to take advantage of as much light as possible that they can bring into their houses. In countries where there is approximately 5 hours of light a day in the deep winter months, that makes sense. There is a great book called <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Living-Light-Gail-Abbott/dp/1907030344/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1301401745&sr=8-1">Living With Light</a> all about how Scandinavian design is intended to use every available moment of light and welcome light into a house. Be it an old house or a new one, the essential style is the same. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzrKLM-GRay7uMw-k8hWaklpTLFNLX4YV8g5pBIXh7oY_NSI4kVnRA4Vpv_MO3ZidieaEzEAU2mKEpnMZhpboVCUZRm1NWN-635UQeOa1lZONQc5k7KUJQC2SGHuFYwNk89jfUzqJy9nZ/s1600/001+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzrKLM-GRay7uMw-k8hWaklpTLFNLX4YV8g5pBIXh7oY_NSI4kVnRA4Vpv_MO3ZidieaEzEAU2mKEpnMZhpboVCUZRm1NWN-635UQeOa1lZONQc5k7KUJQC2SGHuFYwNk89jfUzqJy9nZ/s200/001+%25282%2529.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">But in England, with old stone cottages and small windows, it's almost as if the light is something like the cold that needs to be fought against and braced for. The theory being in a way if you keep the light out, you keep out the cold as well. While Georgian buildings welcome and rejoice in the light with large, multi-pane windows, they're sadly not in the majority of the houses I can afford to live in. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To be fair, most houses in Finland are made of wood. And, as my architect cousin Hanna reminded me, wood houses burn. Apparently the city of Turku, one of Finland's largest cities after Helsinki, almost complete burned in the late 1800's. My cottage in England, built in the 1750's of Somerset quarried stone, is of a different era entirely. So it's unfair to put even relatively modern 1900's standards of architecture and house building as a comparison to that. But even so, standing in the bright living room of my cousin's 80 year old house or looking through the large panels of glass in my aunt's mid-century home that invites nature in, I had waves of window envy.<br />
<br />
Years ago in the States I fell in love with Craftsman style architecture. A product of the American Arts and Crafts movement propagated by Frank Lloyd Wright and William Morris, its ideals were about a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPBADt4Vpd3XFrgppKQnWtdq6CO35WUUrG4-h1TMR0_KXr_9X894hnoXGYiSxpO3xNrbrEzXv-vjsvzKZbEr79TqVpT23u5_UvEfX428zSFsCt-gvPCOWLJgIZOpx_KPain-kImTpF9bls/s1600/bung_541ogden-int.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPBADt4Vpd3XFrgppKQnWtdq6CO35WUUrG4-h1TMR0_KXr_9X894hnoXGYiSxpO3xNrbrEzXv-vjsvzKZbEr79TqVpT23u5_UvEfX428zSFsCt-gvPCOWLJgIZOpx_KPain-kImTpF9bls/s200/bung_541ogden-int.jpg" width="200" /></a>combination of beauty and functionality. No space was wasted....built in cupboards, sideboards, closets. The themes of nature...and being one with nature in the space you lived in...are fundamental. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">And so I find myself in an architecture quandry. My ideal house would be a Craftsman-style cottage with Scandinavian-style windows and light usage in the middle of bright green England. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I somehow doubt many of those exist I better start saving up so I can build it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And....might as well save up to build a sauna in it as well. </div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-66724912289376549442011-03-19T12:59:00.000-07:002011-03-31T02:19:42.814-07:00That Time Of Year....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivzRn-fBuSuwBhiV_A5W-BGhPdKj5kpg-HwcnnwDTVgI6A7l3A-q3z4ICF1ugAh_OzSeumfhsMq2ezxoeE72r23NvB9F52Dv8l96eI5lmsuOQOE-Z6VAzqpxrTsC7qKcn27LIAP2hB887/s1600/081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiivzRn-fBuSuwBhiV_A5W-BGhPdKj5kpg-HwcnnwDTVgI6A7l3A-q3z4ICF1ugAh_OzSeumfhsMq2ezxoeE72r23NvB9F52Dv8l96eI5lmsuOQOE-Z6VAzqpxrTsC7qKcn27LIAP2hB887/s320/081.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Today was a beautiful day in England. Sunny, warm, clear blue skies, a light spring day teasing you, making you eager for the coming of summer. As I sat in the backyard beginning to weed away the winter's brown overgrowth, I took a sip of wine and listened for a moment to the sound of the brook tinkling by and thought, for the first time since I've been here...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Ah, this is familiar."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have now been in Nunney a year. A year and two weeks, to be exact, and it's exceeded my expectations and surprised me, as well as challenged me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This year has been an interesting journey of learning. Of who I am and who England is. But also interesting now to look back after a year and see all the things I've taken in, absorbed and made my own, while still remaining who I am and thinking of what is yet to come. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AuRHQBrTBKWOUGQSIHw3xgKm9nenqpKasYFtgerhDUb_xPR372PrcBa9GimTvIwcqu5GJBfBh1NjqfXH9-KopXG1uEerhyphenhyphenFvSi0m7bBNvN4GWGjgTLiOayCicn4j02ajDfvVx-nOaz91/s1600/049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4AuRHQBrTBKWOUGQSIHw3xgKm9nenqpKasYFtgerhDUb_xPR372PrcBa9GimTvIwcqu5GJBfBh1NjqfXH9-KopXG1uEerhyphenhyphenFvSi0m7bBNvN4GWGjgTLiOayCicn4j02ajDfvVx-nOaz91/s320/049.JPG" width="240" /></a>I now know if I don't want to get harassed I should say "bah-sil" instead of "bay-sil." I know where Cheltenham and Swindon and Plymouth are on the map, though I still tend to confuse Westbury and Weymouth. I've had a shandy and a wiskey mac and mulled wine. I've learned about the curious tradition of British pantomime. I've learned all about the rules of DEFRA in the U.K. and the USDA in the States. I've negotiated the bureaucratic hoops of the National Health Service, HM Revenue and Customs, Mendip Council Tax, and the DVLA (driver's licensing)... I've had to learn to drive again...I never forgot but according to the U.K. 21 years of driving doesn't count. I've weeded and wined and whined...or whinged as they would say here. I learned it actually doesn't rain all the time in England. I've had Santa drive by my house on a fire truck and bet on which rubber duck would win the Easter race down the brook. I know the difference between naff and tatt. Well, actually, I'm not sure I do exactly but I know the gist. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Personally I've gained friends, gained a niece, lost a godmother, gained a few pounds, regained a dog, and am in the process of finally buying a car. I've sat as friends far away have gone through major life trials, unable to physically be there, but reveling in their recovery. Love and laughter, tears and torment. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5AL-waGoZLMGpxNZSAZS86EbrExteBy7nXitPP8pTmAum4O436aBUbB6SEl9mrmk4r9MMfu-nRUoyv5AtsNK_2_Y98Mf_yIdYrpU8nbi5yJQGk4uDpQX3VQEMALuDBdN5jF7PBfEKv9P/s1600/012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5AL-waGoZLMGpxNZSAZS86EbrExteBy7nXitPP8pTmAum4O436aBUbB6SEl9mrmk4r9MMfu-nRUoyv5AtsNK_2_Y98Mf_yIdYrpU8nbi5yJQGk4uDpQX3VQEMALuDBdN5jF7PBfEKv9P/s320/012.JPG" width="240" /></a>I think if how lucky I have been that the fates brought me here to this village, instead of where all my grand plans were going to take me. I imagine the isolated year I would have experienced, the sad, poor, lonely soul I would have been in my original little cottage on the estate. It was an exceptionally lovely setting. With friends and visitors and a knowledge of the area it would be an amazing place to live. But my life, my year, my adventure would have been lonely and miserable. How lucky was I to find that place derelict. And then how much luckier still to stumble into this charming, quirky, lively little village full of diverse and interesting personalities. In a way, it's like my own Brigadoon. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I miss my friends in the States, but those of you who matter to me...and whom I matter to...make sure I know that you are still there, even though you're miles away. And I do my best to do the same....though admittedly I do make many telephone calls after a few too many glasses of wine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But after a year, there's still much to explore. A car will give me the ability see beyond my immediate village walls, beyond the bus rides, beyond where the train will take me. As any 17-year-old will tell you a car means freedom. It means that I can go where I want, see what I want, experience what I want, when I want. That thought is amazingly exciting. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I get closer each day to figuring out what I want to do when I grow up. Someday I'll have to make a decision but until then, I'm enjoying each adventure, each challenge, each curiosity. There's still so much to see, so much to experience, so much to learn, that who knows where the journey will take me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But still, after a year, I walk Otis down the street, around the corner and still, after a year, I look up in wonderment and think...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">...."It's a castle!" </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-74867995084669061672010-09-01T17:59:00.000-07:002016-08-28T15:14:45.637-07:00Wait, you speak English?One of the strangest things I've learned about living in England is that there really is an American English and an English English. And that yes, once in a while you need a translator.<br />
<br />
People travel to England because they think, "Well, I could go to France or Italy but I don't have any foreign language skills, so I guess I'll go to England. At least there we speak the same language."<br />
<br />
They couldn't be more wrong.<br />
<br />
True overall, yes, 90 percent of the language is the same. We conjugate the same (basically). We use the same syntax (again, basically). We even, for the most part, use the same verbs.<br />
<br />
But damn, those nouns will get us.<br />
<br />
Take, for example, the casual American phrase, "I had to change my pants 'cause I got them dirty while working in the garden." Fairly inauspicious.<br />
<br />
Until you remember that "pants" in England means "underwear."<br />
<br />
Suddenly, having to change your underwear because you were working a wee bit too hard in the garden takes on a fairly different, slightly nastier tone.<br />
<br />
The other day I was wearing a vest. A brown, knitted vest. "Vest" by American standards. And, according the Scotsman I was asking, that would be called a tank top. And the American "tank top?", I asked. "A wife beater?" "That's a vest."<br />
<br />
British folk casually throw about words that I think archaic in some cases. Including, in particular, "waistcoat." Waistcoat to me inspires images of Regency-era dandies in brocade fancy vests dancing minuettes. But to my British friend, my exterior-wear down vest would be referred to as a waistcoat. Or, well, another French name that I can't remember. But definitely not a vest.<br />
<br />
Vest, tank top, waistcoat.<br />
<br />
That's not even getting to the difference between puddings, biscuits, crisps and chips.<br />
<br />
Food translation has been one of the hardest ones. Without getting into the grams versus cups issue with cooking, I've found more than once that I don't need "equivalents" for something...I literally need the British name for the ingredient. Any dessert is called a pudding. A cookie is a biscuit but crackers are just crackers. French fries are chips. Potato chips are crisps. Ground beef is minced beef. Cilantro is fresh coriander. Molasses is black treacle. Some reverse translations were needed too. Gammon steak is some sort of thick slice of ham. Not to mention sub-categorizing of food: back bacon vs. middle bacon vs. streaky bacon vs. bacon lardons, for example. They have more versions of regular wheat flour here than I've seen in my life....and what exactly is "strong" flour anyway? Flour fit for superheroes?! And don't even get me started with how many different types of potatoes I can buy in a bag for under a pound. Not a pound in weight. A pound in money.<br />
<br />
I will say that I am in love with the dessert called an Eton Mess, but you also could just describe it as berries and whipped cream mixed up with bits of crumbled meringue. In this case, I would say Eton Mess sounds more fun to eat, but only because the nine-year-old in me wants to eat anything with the word "mess" in it.<br />
<br />
The funny thing to me is everyone will say, "Oh, you said it our way. Bah-sil, instead of Bay-sil." And if you argue that the "American" way of saying something is correct, it's not just the English who will get on you. Ironically, the Scots, the Welsh, the Irish will all say, "You're not saying it correctly." I try to bite my tongue on that one, but apparently it seems a need for adherence to pronunciation only applies when you're from a different continent. Get a British computer nerd in the same room with an American computer nerd and ask whether the correct pronunciation for a computer relay device is a "roo-ter" or a "row-ter" and you'll be at risk of starting World War III.<br />
<br />
Well, maybe World of Warcraft III.<br />
<br />
I'm not complaining. But it's been one of the most unexpected and sometimes most intriguing things about living here. Is how much our language has evolved culturally. While most Americans have had fish and chips at some point and understand that fries means chips, we still expect that vest means vest and ground beef is ground beef. Things that are generic and commonplace in our daily vocabulary can still, even in this global landscape, be foreign here in Great Britain. Well, not foreign exactly. But the words have been twisted over time and geography and cultural divides to the point where even if they're recognizable, their meanings are significantly changed.<br />
<br />
At least the important things are the same. When I ask for "Cabernet", everyone knows what I mean.<br />
<br />
Cabernet Sauvignon.<br />
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But I suppose that's 'cause it's French.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-75721569956930830722010-08-16T19:17:00.000-07:002010-08-16T19:46:01.857-07:00Yeast and Flour and Water = HeavenTonight my house smells of cinnamon and cardamom....and for me that smells like Christmas.<br /><br />This evening, for the first time ever, I attempted to make pulla, a Finnish sweet bread full of, you guessed it, cardamom and cinnamon along with raisins and sugar. And while this is something that is second nature to me, as familiar to some people as bologna sandwiches, I realized that in a strange way my perception of it has changed. Instead of being the constant of my youth, the sweet baking aroma of the rolls rising in the oven has taken on the adult perception of a holiday.<br /><br />Because that's the only time I have been home to smell it.<br /><br />I've never been a good bread maker. My mother baked all our bread for as long as I can remember, to the point where as 10 year old a loaf of store-bought bread was a highly prized birthday present. Even now dozens of frozen loaves of home made bread litter the large freezer downstairs in the garage in my parents' house.<br /><br />But all I could bake were hockey pucks.<br /><br />I'd tried. Maybe I wasn't patient enough. Maybe the water was too warm for the yeast. Maybe I just didn't have the skill, the baking magic that I watched my mother do for, literally, my lifetime. The swirl of the yeast in the water, the salty-sweet-sour smell of the liquid before the flour was added. And the beautiful, crusty, tasty perfection of a over-buttered slice of a freshly cut, hot-out-of the-oven loaf of bread. Nothing, not even sushi or lasagna, can come close.<br /><br />But last week I took a course on baking. Rosie, who runs a professional cookery school up the street, took pity on a couple of locals and gave us a quick 6 hour session on baking pies and bread. While I can make a pie....and have since I was 9, begging my mom to let me make a mess of her kitchen in pursuit of the perfect cherry pie...bread has always escaped me. But somehow that day I got it. I could see all the little things I had done wrong before. As fragile as an orchid, the wrong temperature can kill the yeast, not enough yeast can kill the bread....but, like an orchid, if you know how much to mist it, it turns shiny and golden and fantastically delicious.<br /><br />So today, I made a loaf. On my own. Unsupervised. And it was lovely and crusty and tasty and glorious.<br /><br />Otis even agreed.<br /><br />And then I got cocky.<br /><br />I really have wanted to make pulla. The favorite offering of Finnish tea parties...or, well, coffee parties...everywhere...well, at least everywhere in Finland...it was something that I could not consider myself a Finn until I made. With one loaf of regular bread behind me, I decided to take the plunge and crossed the world of cross-cultural cooking equivalents...how many cups in a gram, how many pounds in a cup, how many degrees Fahrenheit in Celsius. And the pulla came out golden brown and beautiful and tasty. If not perfect, at least it tasted right, it looked right and it smelled right.<br /><br />And the smell...<br /><br />As I sat in the living room, drinking my chef's...sorry, baker's glass of wine (or two) waiting for the pulla to cool off I kept feeling like suddenly as if it was Christmas. There was no pine smell, even from the little black dog on my lap (who often smells like the tea tree oil used to combat a stubborn ear infection). No candles or trees or elves or candy canes. No jolly red men in suits.<br /><br />But instead, I realized, I'd unintentionally created Christmas in my house.<br /><br />I haven't lived at home for about 20 years. I haven't lived in the same state as my parents for over 10. While I might have gone home for the occasional week in July or August, those are times of barbecues and outdoor living. But Christmas, in its cold midwinter, with everyone focused around home and hearth, the cardamom and cinnamony sweet scent of pulla pervades the house and has become, for me, solely associated with Christmas. My home. My family.<br /><br />And I realize that the ability to recreate that is a bigger achievement than all the biscuits or bread loaves or focaccia I could have baked in my lifetime. I can recreate the smell of my home. My family. Whenever I want to.<br /><br />I'm no Christmas fanatic who puts up their Christmas lights at Halloween and keeps them up 'til Easter. But the idea that I can make my own house smell like Christmas at my parents' a huge achievement.<br /><br />It'll never be as good as actually being there....but, if push comes to shove, it'll be a damn good second best.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-5275469258490269182010-08-05T19:29:00.001-07:002011-03-31T04:53:04.663-07:00Today My Prince Arrives...Though He'll Probably Smell BadThis afternoon I will have a dog again.<br />
<br />
It might sound strange to some of you who aren't pet owners, but as someone who's had, for the last decade at least, a menagerie surrounding her, the lack of pet life in the house for the last six months has been a strange, sometimes lonely existence. I've had loaner pets like Lily the tabby cat, Docker the whippet and Murphy the black lab, but occasional pats and walks are not the same as the strange affection you get for an animal that will trample on you in the middle of the night.<br />
<br />
But after six months of waiting, Otis arrives. Today.<br />
<br />
As I write this, he's on the plane, waiting for takeoff. It won't be fun for him but 12 hours from now it will all be over, fingers crossed, including the vet and customs clearance. And, once again, I will have a dog.<br />
<br />
In a weird way, Otis has become a figment of my imagination. So to have him arrive again is as if Prince Charming has popped out of Sleeping Beauty and landed at my feet. Strange and surreal, but hey, it's Prince Charming. Well, maybe Tramp from Lady and the Tramp is a better Disney analogy, but still in many ways it's as if the dog that I received under the Christmas tree when I was four is suddenly coming alive and once again Otis is a real being, like Pinocchio becoming a real boy.<br />
<br />
Augh. Enough Disney already.<br />
<br />
It's been a long road to get him here, and a financial outlay equal to the worst vet bill, but thanks to some hard working and loving sisters and generous, helpful parents, Otis is on his way.<br />
<br />
But those who were around in the last 2.5 years know how much I've fought for this particular dog. As he was attacked in the park by a pitt bull I (insanely) stepped into the fray and helped to beat off his mangy attacker. When he went missing after the gardener didn't lock the gate right and Otis decided to go on walkabout, I didn't give up on him - 3 weeks on I was still putting up posters in Sherman Oaks and posting notices on Craigslist. Sleepless nights and buckets of tears - and after all that I was lucky for the chance to ransom him back. I've paid for two tumors to be removed, attempts to cure stubborn ear infections, haircuts, vitamins...he didn't sleep on satin sheets but I think that's the only thing I didn't pay for.<br />
<br />
People can say, "But he's a dog. Rehome him." Which, actually, my mother actually did say when we first heard the original price of shipping him - which, luckily for me, that estimate was $1,000 over the actual $1,500 to ship him. To be fair, I had sticker shock as much as my parents did. But there's something about the magic of Otis that everyone who meets him, who lives with him, who spends time with him seems to understand why he's a special little dog and worth all the expense.<br />
<br />
And if they don't understand, they're smart enough to keep their trap(s) shut. At least around me.<br />
<br />
Otis arrives tomorrow. Well, today. This afternoon. 12 hours from this moment I'll have my dog again. Not A dog. MY dog.<br />
<br />
And what a lovely, lovely thing that is.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-5984997706676017102010-07-11T08:56:00.001-07:002010-07-11T15:36:40.078-07:00A writer writing once again....I have returned.<br /><br />And, once again, I have something to write about. And not just in blog format.<br /><br />I took a seminar today for all of £5 on writing for Newspapers and Women's Magazines through the Frome Arts Festival. It was only an hour, the speaker was funny and great and, more importantly, I was once again inspired to write. Throughout the session I started and kept adding to my list of articles that I would like to write for various magazines. I'd already had two ideas recently - one about the experience of moving to a small village in England after LA and NYC and then the other about the challenges of my experience of getting Otis here.<br /><br />The most important thing was that I found a writing inspiration again. When I first moved here I had ideas of writing a book on estate cottages but that quickly, and obviously, lost its momentum when my own estate cottage turned out to be such a nightmare. While I'm thrilled things worked out as they did and I am now where I am, I in some ways lost my writing voice when things no longer were chaotic and I settled into the house here. I have kept up the idea of writing, but not clear what I was going to be writing or how and where to start.<br /><br />I never wanted to be a grand novelist, though maybe if when I become a writer that actually gets paid for writing instead of just jotting my brainwaves down in a blog for free, I might then find the motivation for a book. But for now, small, short and sweet newspaper and magazine articles is the perfect beginning.<br /><br />Well, it will be once I actually write something. So starting....now.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-65587132833283702112010-04-21T16:40:00.000-07:002010-04-21T16:51:15.248-07:00My Own Little World...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYgalhRrhBvcer0vehREcf51soFTKQ2piCWgQy-p_jsUR1E303ZIRDDv3-HnMVeKTMmKlscjAwmgLKzgVjdzWoTV6XtpsVnsadPs9mi2YLeUvad-3ryL6nV3a7-4GCI4DSbMus77UajTr/s1600/IMG_0192.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRYgalhRrhBvcer0vehREcf51soFTKQ2piCWgQy-p_jsUR1E303ZIRDDv3-HnMVeKTMmKlscjAwmgLKzgVjdzWoTV6XtpsVnsadPs9mi2YLeUvad-3ryL6nV3a7-4GCI4DSbMus77UajTr/s320/IMG_0192.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462741812811775266" border="0" /></a><br />I made the move to England with an open ended plan, with no timelines for a return or deadlines for some specific goal to be accomplished. I've always wanted to live here, really as far back as I can remember. So I was surprised after first after arriving that I questioned the move. Did I make the right choice? Was this really what I wanted? Am I completely insane? The chaos of the first home and all the drama that went with it weren't helpful, but even once everything settled, a sense of impermanence remained. I signed on for a year here in Nunney, but I found myself already thinking of where would I go next. Would I go back to the States? Maybe Maine. Maybe South Carolina. Or maybe Europe. Maybe France or Tuscany. 'Cause though I moved with an intention to stay, I felt disconnected, a long term visitor almost, even as I was building a new world. I couldn't quite shake this feeling of not being in the right place, even though at the same time I felt that I was. A weird internal conflict that had no clear resolution. It wasn't homesickness, exactly, but just a sense of being transient.<br /><br />Then my friend Dara came to Somerset. She was here for her sister's wedding last weekend in Maiden Bradley, coincidently 10 miles from Nunney. I went, excited to see her, having not seen her for five years, and looked forward to an evening outside of the village.<br /><br />But what surprised me is that after seeing her, talking and laughing with her, my world, in a way I didn't expect, simply gelled. The life in the States had been connected now to the life here in England. And I realized how detached I'd actually been feeling. Even though I've been welcomed, warmly and generously, and feel many good, close friendships growing, getting to know everyone and everything, from your neighbors to the personality of your house, takes emotion and energy and is subtly, constantly wearing.<br /><br />When I left the States I realized that while this wouldn't be the first time I'd be packing up and leaving a life behind, this would be the first time that anyone would not be making the move with me. When I moved to New York from Seattle, Julian, Kenny, Natalie and many others moved with me. When I moved to LA, Dan was already here, Tami had just moved and Heather would follow soon after. And while I expected the lack of traveling companions, per se, to affect me, I think I actually forgot how important that was. But, suddenly, seeing someone who spanned both worlds, both lives, made all of it feel...normal.<br /><br />And now I look at my cottage and look at options. Think of buying it, though that would be a long time down the road. Think of what I'd do to it to make it mine. The long term planning, the setting down of roots, has finally begun to happen. I'm still getting to know the house, learning which floorboard creaks on its own, still putting bits away, just as there are people still to meet and footpaths to explore. It's just somehow not as tiring as it was.<br /><br />I can't say that I'll live here forever. Who knows where the next adventure will take me. But I am no longer looking for a future away from here either. And so this cottage, and this village, has finally become, simply:<br /><br />Home.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-20924508993909410582010-03-30T16:50:00.000-07:002010-03-30T17:20:14.310-07:00If I Had a Hammer....There are moments when it feels like this whole venture is doomed.<br /><br />And I say this on a day when lots of good things have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">happend</span>. One sister asked if she could drive my car and sell hers, my car that's just sitting in my parents' driveway collecting dust (they already have two cars). Fantastic idea. Rather she used it and saved money than me paying money to Volkswagen and it sitting unused. Check! I made plans with another sister to come visit her in June and take care of her kids while she takes off for a well deserved Paris vacation with her husband after a very hard Swedish winter. Check! Check! And I finally got live, actual working Internet in my house after a month of retarded, ridiculous, almost comical calls to British <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Telecom</span>, my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">internet</span> provider. Check! Check! Check!<br /><br />And then....I got a $775 ticket from the city of LA for a running a red light in West Hollywood after the chaos of an ambulance running through the intersection. The ticket was $445 in November, but never actually received the citation. I remember running the light and seeing the flash so actually thought I'd get a smacked and made a verbal note of it on my phone....but never got a ticket so thought I got off. Until yesterday when a collections notice arrives at my dad's, forwarded from LA, and now with fees totaling a whopping $775. And to petition the fees I'd have to be there in person or hire a lawyer to represent me. Both of which will cost more than the $300 difference between the actual ticket and the current charge. Sneaky LA.<br /><br />There are moments when I just feel like I'm constantly being beaten down. I'm not someone who goes into a decision like this lightly...or, I should say more accurately, after making the wild and crazy decision does not plan appropriately. Research was done, history checked, questions asked. And yet this whole move I feel like every time something should be settled I end up being smacked in the head with a sledgehammer. From the cottage-that-under-all-circumstances-should-have-been-beautiful-but-ended-up-being-derelict to the complications of getting a bank account with an actual working debit card, I feel like everything else has gone ass backwards.<br /><br />The only miraculous thing is that I ended up in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Nunney</span> with a bunch of lovely people, amazingly kindred spirits. And I mean that sincerely, honestly and am at times surprised at my luck and good fortune at landing here.<br /><br />Other than that there feels like a cloud of doom over the whole endeavor.<br /><br />I pay my taxes. I pay my parking tickets. And I damn sure would have paid a red light ticket, even if it was an exorbitant $445.<br /><br />But the worst part is that money was for Otis. $1000 was budgeted to be set aside next paycheck, two weeks from Friday, for the pets. It was about a third of what I needed, worst case scenario, to bring Freebie and Otis here to England. And now $745 of it is going to go the Beverly Hills traffic court, leaving $345 for Otis. I will still be able to put the money away before I need to fly him here, but the stress and worry associated with the paperwork and the travel for them is so overwhelming at times that just knowing that the money would be put aside would have been a huge relief....hope the Beverly Hills traffic court appreciates it as much as I would have. He's having a fantastic time with my parents, going to Costco, garage sales and birthday parties and helping my dad in the wood shop so at least it won't bother him too much.<br /><br />But for me, crappy days like today, where a bunch of good things happen but they get overwritten by the one overwhelmingly, majorly shitty thing that smacks you in the head out of the blue....those are exactly the days that you want your dog with you.<br /><br />And he's now $745 dollars farther away than he was yesterday.<br /><br />And that's heartbreaking.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-66873272047599650992010-03-29T13:55:00.002-07:002010-03-29T15:34:25.560-07:00To Script or Not To Script....So this weekend I have been invited to go up to Derbyshire, about 100 miles from Nunney and, apparently, quite remote and cold, to visit the set of Jane Eyre. A script supervisor who I've never met in person but have known for a few years from an script supervisor's Yahoo! group, is welcoming me onto their set for the day. She's never met me, but knowing I've worked on network television is taking a leap of faith that A) I'm not a complete nutcase and B) that I know how to behave on a professional film set. The B in this equation being I think the more important question than the A.<br /><br />So Jane Eyre. One of my favorite books of all time. The wilds of England. Beautiful. Men in frock coats. Do I need to say more?<br /><br />But what I think is interesting is that in my head, as burnt out and tired of the entertainment industry as I am, the idea of being on this film set is exciting. True, the best part is that I'll be like the producers, sitting in the background, getting to read my magazine and enjoy the takes instead of trying to figure out which hand Rochester used to pick up the candlestick.<br /><br />But this is good writing. Well, starting with a classically well written book anyway as I haven't read their script. But my last year in the industry I was reading the trite, often silly dialogue of 90210 while working at a network television ridiculous pace with no prep time and a lot of behind-the-scenes production drama.<br /><br />So it makes me wonder...am I sick of the industry, sick of network television, sick of production bullshit or really just sick of silly, badly written teenage dramas?<br /><br />There was a huge part of leaving the industry that was about not having a life. But that's part of network television. On a film set, you shoot for two months and then can be off until you take the next job. In LA, I hadn't done a feature film for now almost three years, the last being Stiletto that I did with Stana Katic a year before she took off in Castle (yay Stana!). But I love the puzzle building of a feature film. In TV, the pace is constantly relentless, the puzzle changes regularly and you don't get time to accurately prep and everything feels, well, almost slapdash. A film set is just that tiny bit more civilized.<br /><br />We'll have to see what happens when I get up there. There is a magic of a film set that's like no other. And I probably could work here if I wanted to as a script supervisor (after joining the union and all that). I expect I'll have a lovely time and enjoy being there. But the curiousity, at least on my part, is if I will feel that spark again, that joy and excitement of building something as a team. And that I think is what has been lacking in TV. The bond with the director (in TV they change every episode) and the additional burdens of dealing with writers and producers and egos that suddenly become the script supervisor's responsibility. I haven't been on a set since November (a Sarah Silverman commercial for Comedy Central) and haven't been on a narrative project (TV or film) since 90210 last March. But I'm intrigued. So while I feel that I'm done with the industry...maybe I'm not quite as burned out as I thought.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-82719758442795414822010-03-20T13:58:00.000-07:002010-03-20T14:17:45.906-07:00And a couch makes all the difference...I got my couch on Tuesday. Sounds like nothing special but when you've had nowhere to sit in the house other than the kitchen table, suddenly a home starts to take shape. It's a lovely, green velvety type couch, 1940's, extremely comfortable but it's more about it just being a piece of furniture. Suddenly, because it feels like a living room, I want to actually use it as a living room. I cleared away clutter, put things into a cabinet, took the books out, put the suitcase upstairs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjL-3qffXebdnOzc1YK1A5OECutcJ6500iklDW7ACZFT1-GxQgWJ9mQO4T2daljzZhyphenhyphenMFkHUyyEFiO1oSdgpD5He7EW1foYzPuMup8dNZ7I-8t2nq9Vp683LaGtR9xEALUFKOtj3wMr0Wt/s1600-h/IMG_0002%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjL-3qffXebdnOzc1YK1A5OECutcJ6500iklDW7ACZFT1-GxQgWJ9mQO4T2daljzZhyphenhyphenMFkHUyyEFiO1oSdgpD5He7EW1foYzPuMup8dNZ7I-8t2nq9Vp683LaGtR9xEALUFKOtj3wMr0Wt/s320/IMG_0002%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450824652495075042" border="0" /></a><br />Today I even was motivated to put my clothes into the closet. Now that's progress.<br /><br />I've been focused very much on working and getting to know people the last 2 weeks - yes, yesterday was my two week anniversary in Nunney! - and so in many ways the house organization has been low on the totem pole of priorities. But at the same time the fact that things were not organized has been difficult and draining...I definitely have had "what the hell have I done" thoughts over the last month and a half at the same time that I'm embracing and exploring my new neighborhood. Thoughts of running back to Seattle or Maine or North Carolina where people drive on the correct side of the road and things are familiar definitely has its appeal at the weak moments. And where it won't cost over $2500 plus headaches of paperwork and additional administrative fees just to have Otis and Freebie with me. But then I look out and see the castle again or drink at the pub with new friends or just think of all there is still to explore and things come back into focus. Where I've landed is indeed about as perfect a location as it can be to see if this is where I'm supposed to be. Having a car will make things easier in the exploring sense....opening up more social opportunities than just Nunney, but at the same time it's still foreign. But I've been here 1.5 months, 2 weeks in this house, so really even if this was Maine I think I'd be feeling just about as fish out of water as I sometimes do here.<br /><br />It's been different than I expected. Harder but not in a way I think can be described. I don't feel lonely exactly. Nor do I really feel alone. I lived alone in LA. I spent nights without going out or meeting people in LA. But I think it's the knowledge that I had a wide breadth of friends, in LA or in New York or in Seattle, to call upon for entertainment, and that there was a wide variety of entertainment available should I have wanted it, that makes now not having that deep support system difficult. I'm meeting friends here, many people in the village who I luckily like a great deal, and love so much of being in a village....when in LA would I have hung out with an octogenarian who used to be a casting director for the National Theatre and gave Colin Firth his big break? Those are the moments that seem straight out of The Holiday...but moments that in LA would never have occurred because your social circle in a way was just too vast. Here everyone interacts, rich, poor, young, old, and that's fascinating and interesting and different. And fantastic.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-38714359624597620102010-03-10T09:13:00.000-08:002010-03-20T14:35:39.345-07:00The First Night in an Old House<span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Hey all! This was written on Friday but now that I've figured out how to get internet inside the house wanted to post this up. Took pictures today and when I have a second I'll upload them to Flickr so you can see not only the town but Lillybatch and all the rest.<br /><br />BTW....I found out that this house was built in 1750 and the original tenants for some time were a family of bakers. There's a weird alcove in one of the walls and it turns out it used to be a baker's oven. Nice.</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><div style="text-align: center; font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">--------------------------<br /></span></div><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br />There's nothing quite as strange as spending the night in a new house. It's almost as if you and the house are in a sort of dance trying to figure out who is the leader, who dances the tango better or, in my case, who has the dodgy back. The creaks aren't familiar. The smell of the house is like meeting a perfumed stranger on the train. Their perfume is exotic and lovely but overwhelming in its lack of familiarity.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I pulled out my favorite stuffed dog tonight. The one I got under the Christmas tree when I was four and who has, since then, made the trips to college, New York, Los Angeles and, now, England. I realized that tonight is the first night in years that I haven't spend the night with another living being in my house. True, I have neighbors across the way (about 25 feet) and next door, but in the house technically I am alone. And that is a very bizarre feeling. Unsettling even. So while this stuffed dog is no Otis, he will, for the time being, do the trick. It's about comfort, familiarity at its most basic level. </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >Finally today the adventure I started on begins. In some ways the excitement of the move has been tempered with the reality now of 30 days in England - I moved in today, March 5th, exactly 4 weeks to the day that I arrived. And during that time I've gotten a different view of England than I expected. Moldy, dirty cottages that should be sparking and brilliant, hours spent looking for the perfect house to find most of them are not well kept and that heating in general, not just central heating, is in many ways a luxury here. But at the same time I've learned to love sunny days again, because after a couple days of enjoying the rain the sun peeking through is a present instead of monotony. </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I've also learned that sheep are fascinating creatures. From my room at my aunt and uncle's house you could see the pasture and I found myself watching them for ages. There's something incredibly intriguing about them. Cows are fine, birds have their charm but there's something about sheep that's mesmerizing. Unexpected and fascinating.</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:100%;" >I haven't been writing because there hasn't been much to write about. The thrilling excitement of dealing with the complications of setting up an international bank account or spending hours on the Internet looking at various decrepit cottages really didn't seem to inspire much imparted introspection. But now, in a cottage overlooking a river, in a village full of it seems extremely friendly locals, with a ruin of a castle with a moat in the center, with my trusty stuffed dog at my side and much to look forward to, now, again, it seems I am motivated to write. And, I hope, there will be much to write about. </span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-17818923875599868252010-02-11T22:17:00.000-08:002010-02-11T22:23:22.150-08:00Better late than never....So forgot to post this...was written about a week ago on the plane (2/5/10), before we found out that the cottage was in an almost derelict state (filthy and pretty much uninhabitable)...getting a refund though still mulling over offering them a few months' rent for me to make it habitable as it is pretty special. That's probably news to some of you, but stay tuned...waiting to write about that until I know where I'll actually be living. Extremely grateful for my aunt and uncle who are letting me stay with them in Salisbury...ah the adventure continues.<br />---------------------------<br />I no longer live in Los Angeles.<br /><br />After 4.5 years that sounds strange to me but as I watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean and the lights of LA fade into the distance, I realize that where I live, at this very moment, for all intents an purposes, is in this airplane seat.<br /><br />I have a home I am going to, a cottage in the English countryside. In Somerset. A cottage I've paid my months rent and deposit for...but one I've never yet seen except for the romantic, idyllic pictures posted online by the estate agent and the aerial view from Google earth. I don't know what the interior looks like...and my aunt who lives in Salisbury is convinced there is no running water in the 200+ year old cottage. Tomorrow I find out.<br /><br />I leave behind a life in the film industry as a script supervisor, the last few years in network television. Where 15 hour days, 65+ hour weeks meant no social life. To go live in the middle of nowhere where it's going to be hard to find a social life. Interesting trade.<br /><br />A series of flukes led me to the website listing my cottage for rent. A cottage on an estate with the prosaic name of Lillybatch Cottage. And all of a sudden it became WILL I do to live here instead of what COULD I do if I lived here. The wheels started turning, the plans set in motion and today I find myself on a plane to a new house in a new country and a new life.<br /><br />And no fear. Strange but true. So for the next 10 hours I live on American Airlines, but when I step on the plane, I am not visiting England. I live in England. I will be a resident of England.<br />And that sounds magical.Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-39034114470533174842010-01-31T01:20:00.000-08:002010-01-31T01:37:13.665-08:00The Adventure Begins<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XGvmqvumXmL1lyFGQChGqa1MT0qxcyQiCzd8eQv_-gLwcM-bd1eapsM5LWta3_gsboNmk39mLp3cDarbJHmPEq3qa2-2jC8-CuLDDT6NX8GIA0VvEB9gdA31LuhAh-wmi6LIM_dMGE2N/s1600-h/TheOpenRoad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XGvmqvumXmL1lyFGQChGqa1MT0qxcyQiCzd8eQv_-gLwcM-bd1eapsM5LWta3_gsboNmk39mLp3cDarbJHmPEq3qa2-2jC8-CuLDDT6NX8GIA0VvEB9gdA31LuhAh-wmi6LIM_dMGE2N/s320/TheOpenRoad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432832622032303186" border="0" /></a>I sit here in my almost empty house waiting for the hard part to be over.<span style=""> </span>The contracts are signed, the deposits are paid and all that remains is the final vacuum and a full house moppage and then we will be on our way.<span style=""> </span>The car is packed, the luggage stowed and once morning comes, the travels begin. <p class="MsoNormal">The response to this adventure, only in its first stages of infancy, has been incredibly, overwhelmingly positive and I am immensely thankful for that as it's the only thing that has guaranteed I won't tuck my tail between my legs and run like a chicken to a bungalow in Pasadena instead of a cottage in the English countryside.<span style=""> </span>People have told me they think I'm brave, but truthfully I'm just purposely trying not to acknowledge the terrifying reality of what I'm about to do.<span style=""> </span>Don't get me wrong...I'm ecstatically excited with the potential that lays before me.<span style=""> </span>But leaving everything I know behind, from friends to currency to systems of measurement, inspires occasional moments of incredible panic.<span style=""> </span>And so I must say huge thank you to all my friends.<span style=""> </span>To everyone who has drank with me, ate with me, emailed me, trekked to the Valley to see me, voluntarily cleaned my oven or just held my hand, literally and figuratively, as I've stressed and organized through the last few weeks, I could not have made it here without you and therefore, in so many ways, this adventure is yours as well as mine.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of the biggest surprises for me is that along with anticipation and elation has also come extreme fatigue and a fair amount of depression, the latter of which I attempted to conquer by letting myself sit on the couch on a rainy day and read a trashy romance novel.<span style=""> </span>It helped.<span style=""> </span>But acknowledging the negatives I think is as important as looking forward to the opportunities.<span style=""> </span>As I choked back surprise tears I explained to one close friend that it wasn't that I didn't want to go, but that I wanted everyone to go with me.<span style=""> </span>Having no one close to me there to share in the adventure makes the obviously solitary experience that much more lonely, even while acknowledging that the solitary nature of the experience is what makes it such an adventure. And so I must say thank you to Tami for setting a date to visit...9 months hence, but <span style=""> </span>there ahead is a date that at some point I'll be able to share the life and adventure with those I care most about.<span style=""> </span>I hope and expect she will be only one of many to come and visit.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow, Otis, Freebie, Fredo and I set out to Seattle via San Francisco.<span style=""> </span>A day late...there was just too much to do and so our departure was pushed 24 hours. A great, and I think perfect, new home awaits the jittery Fredo, while Freebie and Otis will wait in quarantine purgatory until I can fly them to be with me.<span style=""> </span>The moment we hit the freeway, the adventure will have begun....no more luggage to pack, no more houses to clean.<span style=""> </span>Just an open road...and who knows where we'll end up.<span style=""> </span></p>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-65858222221251507362010-01-19T09:43:00.001-08:002010-01-19T10:42:01.136-08:00And The Winner Is....Just a brief note to say....I got the cottage! Yay!Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-917956333848168251.post-72528044195637286782010-01-17T21:40:00.000-08:002010-01-17T22:06:08.860-08:00English Country Time - Part I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuYhiXYeDIgI7L49wxCcQl_DoUARj64jHbDpoYDs6TOD_kTH-tYMmwNrhsPQac8-oNvjEF_kdmLgmRM_gnxrb5LwaoR-TTYXgVuS7W-p4FRPrD00ghil8uL8XjKjz7cAJW2m9S8uLKrYd/s1600-h/sheep+road.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 169px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuYhiXYeDIgI7L49wxCcQl_DoUARj64jHbDpoYDs6TOD_kTH-tYMmwNrhsPQac8-oNvjEF_kdmLgmRM_gnxrb5LwaoR-TTYXgVuS7W-p4FRPrD00ghil8uL8XjKjz7cAJW2m9S8uLKrYd/s320/sheep+road.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427956925347822866" border="0" /></a>Since the idea of moving to England began I have been prepared, mentally at least, for the imminent arrival of "English country time." To me that conjures up images of sitting in your car as herds of sheep mull about in the middle of a one lane road surrounded on both sides by hedgerows preventing any quick escape. Or an ancient shopkeeper slowly counting out my change, penny by penny, only to start over again when he can't remember if he was at 87 or 88 pence. Or going to post a priority mail letter only to find the post office, part of the local butcher shop, is closed for the afternoon for the postmaster's daughter's school play.<br /><br />But what I didn't expect was that I would start to experience English country time before I even left the United States.<br /><br />I am selling all my personal items and moving to a new continent for a cottage I haven't seen in person, haven't seen the interior of, and, with two weeks to go, do not actually know they are going to let me rent. I think so. I believe so. And I see no reason that they wouldn't. But until I have a lease in my hand and keys in the mail, it's the only thing about the entire plan that makes me apprehensive. If, for some reason, the house rental goes awry at least I can stay with my aunt in Salisbury for a bit, but my whole vision of the adventure would be changed. And so, I wait for English country time to catch up to my current LA mentality.<br /><br />I started asking for an application for this house in mid-December. I received the application on December 30th. Submitted it right after New Year's and then after 2 days of pestering finally got the bank information for where to wire the application fee. Three days after the wire was sent, finally got confirmation that they received said wire. Then, about a week later, checked on the status and the agent asked for a confirmation of employment from my boss. My boss, not realizing this was holding up the application process, took a couple days to send the confirmation letter. So now, with two and a half weeks to go before I leave LA for England I have no confirmation that this house I'm planning a huge life move around is even mine.<br /><br />Whoo. Deep breath.<br /><br />Now, to be fair, there's this small little holiday called Christmas that sort of slowed down the initial process. But as all the holidays were over and done with before I put the application in, unless they have really, REALLY bad hangovers in England, the holidays can no longer be the case. So all I'm left with is English country time. Doing things whenever they get done.<br /><br />English real estate time is very different from my experience with New York real estate time. In New York, you see a freshly posted ad on Craigslist or hear a tip from a friend about an apartment for rent. "In the neighborhood I want to be in? Really? And at a price range I can afford? Oh my god." You literally drop whatever you're doing and call the broker while you're in a cab on the way to the apartment. And if you like it you fill out an application before you leave the premises, then rush to the ATM to get the cash for the deposit while they're running your credit. Literally you know in 24 hours, or less sometimes, if the apartment is yours. No sheep blocking the road here.<br /><br />Los Angeles is a little mellower, but only by a day or two. I found my house here in Sherman Oaks on Craigslist, made an appointment for a couple days later, took an application after seeing it, sent it in that night and knew in a couple days that it was mine. No real sheep here either.<br /><br />In both cases, from hearing about the house to signing a lease was at most two weeks. Definitely no sheep.<br /><br />At this point, I'm going with the assumption that there is actually a sheep blocking the door to the estate agent's office, preventing them from getting inside and being able to process my application.<br /><br />We all know that once in a while the dog actually does eat our homework. So maybe, in the English countryside, the sheep occasionally really is the culprit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Dg54VDaCnolIIjkg3lcMEMFo-wtaxIsypTd-rfXETCCEwyoYI9Kf2o6PdZuhnb5e7SMURxWyZzmu9RyPeDu-_UtAP48AsoIRORu_lOW7W5D8WiBYvr2t0GY95NMy0yBsqJPx9236KMbJ/s1600-h/3228928596_7216b52bbd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Dg54VDaCnolIIjkg3lcMEMFo-wtaxIsypTd-rfXETCCEwyoYI9Kf2o6PdZuhnb5e7SMURxWyZzmu9RyPeDu-_UtAP48AsoIRORu_lOW7W5D8WiBYvr2t0GY95NMy0yBsqJPx9236KMbJ/s320/3228928596_7216b52bbd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427956519834634386" border="0" /></a>Kirstiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09679543459242750381noreply@blogger.com0