In Which It Suddenly Occurs to Cinna That She Is Living the Life

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself."
--- Neil Gaiman


As an Exciting Science Researcher, I got pretty used to waking up in the morning - or, rather, abruptly re-animating from a near-death state, pouring water on myself in a semblance of hygiene, assembling myself into clothes like an undead alien visitor from another planet with only a vague idea of how human fashions work, hauling my steaming corpse into work fifteen minutes late, plugging myself into an IV of coffee, and abruptly rejoining the land of the living, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a universe of work ahead of me to do. I then did about 35% of the work, which was 30% more than was really expected of most human beings but only 50% of what I'd hoped to do that day, and then went home happy and fell into a deep coma next to my fiance, my hyperdrive metabolism turning the little world under our blankets into a baking-hot oven full of vivid, lovely, creative dreams. I would emerge from my cocoon the next day and start over, stressed and happy.

See, I almost said "I got pretty used to waking up, going to work and accomplishing things" but I thought that would be such an insult to the gods of Truth and Justice that lightning would probably leap through my power cable and erase the hard-drive of my faithful computer, Gwydion.

But in truth, I really liked the sense of accomplishing things and then going home. I liked my routine. I liked the fact that I could be a sedentary, sleep-obsessed creature with a faithful metabolism that kept off the pounds by burning them off constantly in the form of sorcerous heat. It kept me warm in the fickle climate of New England, ensured that I never had to put much thought into my diet, and saved on the heating bills.

Then I got married, got a visa, left my job and moved to England - all within the span of about five minutes. Baaaaah!

I am not adapted to this climate. I'm always too hot on the street, stripping down to t-shirts and skirts. Then I'm too cold in the houses, wearing silly amounts of sweaters (jumpers) and clutching mugs of tea just to keep the feeling in my fingers. My Faithful Metabolism just doesn't work here; I'm walking everywhere, miles at a time, and its response is to turn off the heat, so that I'm quite literally steaming in the rain in the minimum possible amount of clothing as the British hustle around me, dramatically bundled up in coats and scarves. Then the damn FM insists that what with all this exercise must be starving. I haven't consumed as many calories per diem since my fantastically awkward teenager stage. It's ridiculous.

I have no job! So I'm writing this romance-type novel, perching in coffee shops for hours as I do "research," i.e. reading other romance novels and looking at pictures of steampunk fashion.

And I have no money of my own! I bought my tickets and visa, paid off my credit card and showed up. That did me in for cash, and now Darling Husband has to hand me an allowance of snack-money!

In short, I am living the fucking dream.

Now I just need to convince myself to be grateful for it.

I think I'll start now.

Love,
Cinna

alone amongst the wild brits

Huzzah, I have finally landed in Bristol, England, where the weather is delightfully described as "Brizzle Drizzle" and the population consists of 12,340,000 tiny female undergraduates with spectacularly teased bleach-blonde hair, who scurry about at a million dance moves per minute, reminding me of highly animated dandelions in the process of exploding. Their tiny, high-pitched voices would grate on the ears if they ever said anything comprehensible, but thankfully, they only converse in vowels, like little baby sparrows with their wee beaks full of scrambled eggs and marmalade. It is a pleasant background sound, one that can be easily ignored.

Like the wild undergraduates of my beloved Dartmouth College, they are completely incapable of crossing a road like adults, instead employing a splendid series of familiar techniques, such as:

1. Run Across the Road in Heavy Traffic, then Stop Halfway and Look Surprised (The Deer in the Headlights Remix)
2. The Throw-Yourself-in-Front-of-a-Car Game (Regional Variation: shout "Wanker!" Bonus points: lunge suddenly from behind a parked car.)
3. The Luna Lovegood (Apparate suddenly in the middle of traffic with a dreamy expression, swat vaguely at the cloud of invisible Barking Nargles swarming around your head, and slowly wander about the road in a cryptic, non-linear fashion, appearing not to notice the hysterical drivers and bicyclists risking their lives in attempts to avoid you)
4. The Gathering Bee (Similar to #3, but instead of communicating with fictional magical creatures, describe a series of strange dance-like moves as you wander through traffic, as if you are a beautiful honeybee who is detailing the location of a delicious source of nectar to the rest of your hive. iPod entirely optional; ripped tights a must.)
5. Hark! A Phone Call! (Variation of #3 and #4, with cell phone [aka: mobile] used as prop to create narrative drama.)
6. Zebra Crossing (Cross as if at an actual zebra crossing*, using blinkers and headphones to completely isolate yourself from all perception of actual traffic patterns and, indeed, all reality. Wear a loudly patterned zebra-striped coat, black-and-white tights and Converse.)
7. The Polite Lost Waif (Run out into traffic as per normal, but suddenly realize that you are both inconveniencing people and endangering yourself and others. Mime a terribly guilt-stricken face, bobbing and waving to attract attention and apologize. Dance with oncoming traffic, miming "You go first! No, you go first! Oh, I couldn't possibly go first! I'm but a poor lost waif! I don't know what cars are! Please go first!" Take about ten minutes to actually cross the road, immobilizing the entire city center. For bonus points, drop things and dither about, retrieving them.)
8. Every Undergraduate in the World Ever. (Classic. Simple. International. Step obliviously in front of a moving car. At the squeal of brakes, arouse yourself from your dream and favor the drivers of the cars with a splendidly filthy look.)

IT'S JUST LIKE BEING HOME. But I love them, really; they're terribly sweet, and they do my doddering 23-year-old heart good to see them drinking in public at eleven in the morning. I overheard one of them talking about Derrida, and it brought a misty tear of recollection to my eye before I realized that she was actually just trying to order a coffee. Bless.


* Zebra Crossings are highly decorative British crosswalks where motorists HAVE to stop for pedestrians. Everywhere else, whether you're at the odd little Suggested Crossing Zones or simply jaywalking, cars have the right of way and must be taken into account.



We are currently staying with friends, so I am accomplishing nothing whatsoever, as I huddle in a corner and obsessively update Tumblr.

BUT I WILL WRITE. I am going to finish this novel if it kills me.

Hopefully, the novel will get to me before the pedestrians do.