The stair case in the hall way looks like an old Abby that creaks with each step. It makes me walk a little faster up the stair to get to my lighted room from the lavatory. I've been reading Northanger Abbey for the last three hours which has certain influenced my opinion of the staircase. Catherine's room in the Abbey is described very similar to mine with a sitting room and an ancient wardrobe. The gothic feel is increased by my wardrobes tendency to creak open by itself...I think it's just from age, I am going to ignore the fact that trinity college has a ghost tours sign right out front...I need stop reading Northanger or I'll end up like Catherine!

Went on a country walk today through meadows and wild places in Oxfordshire. While we were walking we stumbled up the ruins of an old abbey. It was interesting because it was untended and open, apparently that is where King Henry 2 met his mistress. I love just stumbling on something so old. Eventually we came to a little village with only two shops, but one was sold out of sandwiches. We ended up eating in the place with no sandwiches and had cake for lunch in a garden. Afterward I went grocery shopping I felt like a local for a few minutes until the woman asked me if I were a tourist...I said I was a student it sounds much more official. In fact we have tourist at my school who pay to walk on the grounds and take picture of my quad.

Went out to buy coffee with Anne Caroll so we could study in a coffee shop, but all the coffee shops were closed except one which of corse over charged us and the woman was extremely rude. When we asked her about all the left over goods and if the prices went down 5 mins before closing she said "DO you have a problem?" Also was charged 3pounds for a coffee! They are not getting my business. After this I got us pretty lost trying to find the boat yard but it is nice because it stays light until 10 so we could see where we were even if we didn't know. We eventually found our way back and ever since it has been Northanger Abbey reading. I start class tomorrow my class is at queens college which is exciting because it means i get to explore a new college (not New college just a new college). I should go to sleep it is past 12 here and we have another 8am breakfast! Well at the meeting they said it would now open at 730 if we were so inclined..yikes no I'm good with 8. Write tomorrow!

In Oxford!

England looks like a giant quilt. When you fly over the countryside all you see is the patch works of green fields seperated by the thread of hedges. Each field is a different shade of green, some yellow green other dark forest green, but they all blend making a quilt of England. Oxford is neither city nor country, or maybe I should say Oxford is city and country, the main streets are bussling with tourist and workers, but a ten minute walk will take you to open fields and rivers.

I'm all settled in my dorm in Oxford, but it's more than a dorm it looks like a palace room. I get my own sitting room with two bay windows and the celings are about twelve feet tall.

I went exploring Oxford with some people I met today. We had lunch in a little cafe that looked quaint; I don't think our waitress enjoyed our presents as much as we enjoyed our lunch. After lunch we went exploring and got lost to find things. Eventually we ended up on the river and watched people go punting. We sat on the docks and I cleaned my feet in the dirty water. All the families seem to be so close here doing outdoors activities together. I love hearing the children with their accents, they sound so proper.

Tonight my group is going out to a pub in town, which is good because there is a wedding going on in the dinning hall, which also happens to be my building. I can hear the guest laughing and making speeches. My room over looks the quad so I have been watching all the guest come in with their elaborate hats. I have to go but I'll leave you with an image the view from my room.

It's like the closer I get to doing what i want the further i get from knowing what i want to do. I feel like one of those lost people...like a nomad with no idea where they are going. I wish i could be a nomad, except i wouldn't like having hairy legs. I don't understand those people with it all figured out, sometimes i think people think i'm one of them but i'm not.
I'm listening to Sufjan Stevens and I'm wondering if it is because I'm homesick for college and oddly enough Phoebe's play list, or is it the fact I'm one of them now, one of those nomad Indie people. Maybe a combination of both. I miss college and having my friends around all the time. There are people here, but it's different.
England in a month, I don't know why i always felt like England was home, maybe it isn't, I'm just searching for a place. I'm not even that English. I guess i fit in better in the stories i make up about England than here, but that's because they are my stories, but maybe i wouldn't even fit in there.
My mom said strawberries are the best medicine when you get stressed out. I don't know if that's true. It sounds like Mary Poppins. I use to love Mary Poppins, when i was in high school i tried out for the play with supercal, and the director told me to stop and sing silent night. I think he really just wanted me to sing the silent bit, but hey i tried. I wonder if strawberries would be good medicine for the oil spill, our ocean is pretty sick. That's all I have today, write tomorrow possibly...

My experiment in minimalism--bet it's not about you

You say my body is closed standoffish--not yet ripe for the taking. Your fingers work quickly trying to find an entrance a place to force your thoughts into me.
"I had a dream about you last night, do you remember? You were right over there by the fire escape." I ask you.
"Of corse I don't remember it was your dream."
"I guess I just think about things like that." My skin prickled with embarrasement, i guess you don't think about things like that.
"I had a dream last night too. I was on a boat and I fell off and then i woke up and was late for calc."
"That wasn't like my dream," I tell you.
"Your arm feels warm."
"You shouldn't know how warm my arm is, she wouldn't like that very much."
"Your cheeks are warm."
"My cheeks are sore." I tell you.
"Why are they sore?"
"I talk too much you know I do."
"I don't think so."
"You don't listen real well."
"That isn't true."
"Do you listen to her?"
"Stop can't we talk about something else there are lots of things we could talk about."
I try to give you something you want...anything, "I'm afraid of pigeons."
"Pigeon?," you laugh, "I' afraid of a lot of things but i don't like to think about it."
We were quite for a minute I don't think you want to talk.
"I saw her at the grocery store today, I couldn't see her face, I never get to see her face well."
"Stop."
"Do you ever think about her face? Or do you try not to?"
"Stop!"
"Do you ever think about my face? It's unpleasant most of the time, but you probably don't think about it."
"Stop."
I'm quite again, you don't like listening to me talk.
"I herd you were failing calc, it made me happy."
"It made you happy?"
"I know it's horrible isn't it?" I say.
"It's pretty horrible."
"I'm just trying to be honest."
"Stop your harder to figure out when your honest." You laugh, I don't at first, but then I follow, it's funny, right, we should be laughing.
"I have some whisky in my room, why don't we go back and have some."
"Will that make us feel better?"
"Tonight."
"Well then let's have some tonight."

I Am the Flames

In the Indian culture fire is very important, we celebrate with fire, when we die we are burned in the flames, and I grew from the ashes. I met Amon in the seasons of lights, in Diwali. I often contemplate the night we met and wonder weather a curse can come with such ecstasy? I wonder if those months of absolute joy were worth the destruction that followed. This I can never answer, but it does not matter any more tonight I am here to burn my story in your soul.

I remember the spicy air trickling down my throat, playing with my appetite. The noise of the convoluted streets juggling a game of adult bumper cars still lingers in my ears. My sari burned bright against the velvet purple sky. I felt superior to my sisters, whom trailed behind me. I knew in the daylight they were the beauties, but here in the festival of Diwali, in the confusion of darkness and light I was the beauty. I felt the villagers eyes burn with envy. The withered old woman that sat by her self on the side of the road peered up at me. I took in her disfigured body, and turned away from her, I did not want to connect with such ugliness when I felt so elevated. I believed this night to be the climax of my existence.

There in the middle of the market filled with dust and poverty the silk flames of my sari beckoned him fourth. I saw the green glisten in my sisters as my prince approached. His name was Amon, his voice was cultured, his eyes were bright, and they charmed me like a snake. I thought I knew my desires, and I thought he fulfilled my every wish. Amongst all things in this world worth a mans’ affections, he choose me, and I was flattered.

The next month was an array of mirages. I fell into an easy engagement that I thought could last eternity. My parents and sisters were impressed with this man and encouraged my affections. We married quickly, before I realized I knew nothing of this man or his family.

It is customary in India that the son and his bride move in with the son’s parents. I had not met Amon’s most respected parents before the wedding. In my imagination I expected their disposition to be a warm bubbling kettle eager and friendly. I had fallen into a fairytale and I thought everything was going to be to my liking. His mother was as far from a child’s tale as possible. Her glare burned threw my eyes. I had known little of hate, before meeting this woman. I knew my dowry was smaller than anything she had expected for her beloved son, I knew my tounge did not speak in the same class, and my skin was a shade too dark.

My first month was painful; I did not expect to be treated lower than the servants in my new home. My mother in law was brutal my chores never ended and her opinion of me never improved. Every morning I began the painful ritual of a day, my fingers became tough and my soul empty. Often I could not help but picture myself as a princess in exile, waiting for my prince to take me from this witch he called mother. My prince did not seem to notice me after the wedding, he worked, and when he came home he was a loving and deserving son before husband. The only place he gave me attention was the bedroom. My fire began to cry.

His mother was a cobra and I was a rodent she knew she controlled my every thought, every movement. My small life was consumed with fear of her. I had good reason to fear, that cobra was ready to strike.

Every day before the men came home we prepared their dinner. One night when she began to stir the cooking oils. The spicy aroma spoke to my nose, it told it to run, to fear, but my mind could not fear this smell, my mind wanted to be patient to wait for my prince to save me. Before the debate in my mind was finished the venom of the cobra lunged at me with toxic oil. She pored the stifling cooking oil on my sari. Before my feet could carry me from the room. Her hands lit a match and ignited the oils that lingered on my body. I ran to the street. My hands and feet were melting as the fire ignited my soul.

I flung myself to the ground and tassled in the dirt putting my flames to ashes. An elderly man carried the live ashes of my body to a hospital.

I sat in the dark congested hospital. I did not want to face the looking glass, the memory of my beauty linger. It was difficult to face what little my future held. I wanted to burn in the flames, to give myself over to death. I resembled a cripple, but my soul was a tiger, and that thought pulled me through the ashes.

There was a woman staying close to me in the hospital that was withered and crippled, but that woman laughed, and loved. When my soul was in such torment she lifted them and reminded me that I could fight. That beauty that meant so much to me the months before was nothing now, I saw people for their souls and I saw my soul. The judgment that those bestowed upon me was nothing to the knowledge I held dear to me.

The next year at the festive of lights Diwali, I came down to the market to celebrate. The villagers stared at me with disgust. Rain fell hard upon the festival of fire. I laughed at the rain for it knew nothing of me, nothing of fire.

The woman with the withered hand and body that one year ago I had so shyly turned from now sat alone once again. I took my place next to the woman and gently tugged at her hand with mine. We had a secret the two of us; we were not so different from those staring. Perhaps we shinned brighter than them for we were of the fire.

I smiled as I watched a young girl frolicking by us. She walked with such pride, her sari burned like flames against the night sky. I smile at the flames of her dress and for a moment I wanted to stop the girl to warn her of the world, but then I remember nothing ever changes in India.

The Bishops Mistress

   "What our society has fallen to is debauchery! Christ our Lord did not die for his people to fall into this crude practice!" The Bishop's face was wet with the sweat passion.

"Do you not thank the Lord for all the gifts he has bestowed upon you as Christians?" The Bishop looked down at the crowd, his words were taken to be the grave truth by all but one parishioner.

  Marie looked up at her lover with a cruel smile. When the Bishop finally caught her eye , his face changed drastically as though he had been reminded of his own shortcomings.

" Let us all seek repentance for there is not one soul out there who has not sinned. This we must remember as we travel on." The Bishops message softened.

    He quickly turned away from the scene of his impurity and began again on another topic. Marie held her head high , proud of her new missions' sincerity and guilt. His traits were perfect, his position even more ideal. In a months time the Bishop was expected to be named the Archbishop of Florence, a position the Bishop had been pensively awaiting for years.

   Marie quickly exited the cathedral before the sermon ended. She was careful in her movement, in  the last year she had learned to become a ghost, a figment of the imagination. 

Outside she skulked behind the woodcutter shop sure the owner was at mass right now.

Two dark figures slunk against the side of the building, their holy attire obviously unnatural for the pair. One stood tall and ghoulish, the other bald and round. A third character emerged out of the shadows, though this one was grubby looking and commonly dressed. They stood up straight when Marie approached them with a cruel civility.

"Tonight" She said with lips of frost.

"Tonight?You do not think it is too soon, that perhaps we are rushing?" The ghoulish figure asked.

"If you would like to wait you may, but I am leaving tonight."

"As you wish Miss, when the clock chimes in the eleventh hour?"

"Yes, as it was always to be?" She walked away braggadocio.

Her entrance to the villa was through the west gate. The Bishop had made sure her door was private. No one would see her enter her own home. The Bishop entered the house not an hour after Marie.

  "My love," She began with intent in her demonic eyes,"there is a matter I need to speak to you about."

"Tell me what is plaguing you ?" He questioned her.

"It is the matter of our son."

The Bishop's shoulders tightened and his face clenched at the vexing words, "What of the boy?"

" I have received word from his keeper , she needs more money."

"More? I have given that child all a little one could possibly wish for."

"Hmmm, yes, but I thought you wanted the best for your son, for the line of Perrico, I told his keeper to give him nothing but the best in everything, I could tell her otherwise, to treat him like a peasant, to treat him with little regard."

" No, no, I suppose we must do something for the boy. You are correct. If I send  her the ring with my family's crest , perhaps that will suffice?"

"Do let me see it. Where do you keep it my Lord?"

The aging Bishop stood up and went to his chest. He took out an ancient looking ring.

"Let me see." She commanded, "Yes, this will do nicely, our son will have nothing but the best care."

The Bishop placed the gem back into the chest as he began to speak , "One day I would like to see the boy."

"Oh I don;t think that would be a very good idea. You would not even allow me to stay in Florence when my stomach was swollen with him. How could you think of going to see him, especially when the pope is considering you for Archbishop?"

" Perhaps you are correct my love." He smiles the smile of a pained father never able to see his heir.

  " I am going into town my love but I will see you tonight."

She left the same way she entered.

    Night fell soon over Florence. The Bishop lay in bed with his love.

Marie carefully caressed his hair as she began to speak, "I must admit my love, I heard some rather disturbing things today while I was in town."

"What sort of things?"

" The Magistrate is suspicious of you having a mistress there is talk they may come to the villa to see for themselves."

"But when?"

"Some say tonight... " She allowed the words to seep under his skin.

" We must do something. You must leave immediately!"

"Where shall I go?"

He looked about the room as though the curtains held the answer, "I have a brilliant idea, you should go and stay with our son then you can give the gem to the keeper."

"If I am to go as well we will need more than the gem!"

He took out his chest and began pulling out priceless jewels to keep his lover and son satisfied. Marie began to pack her own bags forcing her previous gifts from the Bishop inside the sack.

The grand clock of the town struck eleven. The chime echoed through the windows. A pound was heard on the front door.

"They're here!" Cried the Bishop, "The Magistrate is here!"

Two religious looking men burst into the main foyer. One was tall and ghoulish looking and the other was small, bald and plump. Marie and the Bishop saw the men from the stairs.

"Quick come the back door!" Cried the Bishop.

Marie followed him out of the magistrate's sight and into the back courtyard. The bishop called for a carriage. Marie stepped into the carriage. 

"I will come and see you in Pergua." He called after her.

"Yes there I will see you . I will give our son you love." The carriage drove away.

Marie tapped the driver, "I told you it would work!"

She smiled into the darkness. She was driving towards the child she never bore and the woman who never kept him. The Bishop would never see her again, the mother of his imaginary child. She neatly tucked the jewels inside her bodice and let a cruel laugh escape into the night air.

Brain Drain

                   Brains Bound for Broadway

    All the teachers at Rhomloda High fled to New York, except of course Mr. Hucklebee. Like many, he dreamed of leaving his post and following the other teachers to Broadway. Ever since the new musical 'The Truth Behind the Chalk" premiered, teachers began to flock to the Big Apple. They related to the whimsical educators portrayed on the big stage. Finally a show about us they thought.

     Mr. Hucklebee, a tired teacher, was fed up with his pupil's complaints about the fine points of the geometric diameter of a line. He dreamt of the glitz , glamour and fame that Broadway offered. One day he took the initiative and set out to pursue his visions of grandeur. The last Friday of October he approached the large glum Principal with a brilliant new idea.

   "Mrs. Winthrop I'm leaving Rhomolda High. I'm going to Broadway!" He beamed.

She gave him a long hard stare as though staring down at a student with the wrong uniform shoes, "Oh God not you too."

"Yes me too. I believe I can land a part, I've got the brains, talent, and I've just completed my first tap dancing class!" His enthusiastic voice carried throughout her office.

"Boy your crazy! You're a geometry teacher, you've got dorky black rimmed glasses, and you can' t walk down the halls without tripping on your own two feet or worse a students feet. What makes you think you can dance on Broadway?" She questioned.

"My charisma and perseverance?"

"Miss Crystle just came back from Broadway, she couldn't land a part and look at her she's beautiful, balanced ad brainy. Look at yourself your just plain scrawny."

"I will not take such negative criticism,. I'm going to Broadway and I'm going to reach stardom and play a teacher instead of teaching."

The principal sighed and waved him away form her office.

The next morning little Mr. Huklebee road the Fung Waa bus to the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. He was greeted by hundreds of teachers all waiting in line to audition for "The Truth Behind The Chalk". While waiting in line , the teachers occupied themselves in many ways. Some taking poetry apart for pleasure others figuring out algebraic expressions. Then there were those who were the true actors looking divine and unfazed by the multitudes of teachers surrounding them.

     As Mr. Hucklebee waited in line, he awkwardly prepared his tap dance. Mrs. Whintrop was correct he thought .  Mr. Hucklebee was gravely unbalanced and stumbled straight into a producer instead of scolding him she said, "Boy, you've got something , you look exactly like the dorky teacher we've been trying to cast."

He looked up at her with a smile, "And I've got that charisma too."