When I said I needed life to go on, I meant I needed to go back to work. Unfortunately, for now there’s nothing on the supply front cause the kids are not back to school until tomorrow. But what I really want is my own classroom and being around people who do doesn’t help being philosophical about it.
Fortunately I have translations to keep me busy and also the PhD that I have to edit for print and the deadline’s dreadfully close now. I was supposed to have the whole summer to work on it, needless to say, I haven’t touched it, or almost.
Life going on mainly takes the form of house improvements – I have a functioning land line now, a desk (inherited from Paul) and a chair (that I skilfully assembled myself) and a bookcase – finally, after a year of keeping books in boxes and on piles. The problem with the bookcase however is that I can not assemble it on my own, so for now it is just lying there in its box, like a mean reminder of life actually not going on.
On the other hand, life seems to want to be going on rather quicker than I’m ready for it to. I’m fine with short-term plans and organising my life for the months to come, but I’m not sure I’m quite ready to make Christmas plans, and I am making Christmas plans, and there’s still almost 4 months until Christmas, why the hell would I be thinking about Christmas now? I mean, planning Aix for the half-term was far from being obvious and I’m still not 100% sure I made the right decisions, so Christmas?!
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Monday, 1 September 2008
Summer is gone
It is September 1st and the summer is officially over, although technically it will still be summer for a few days. Yet, the school year is starting, Paul is in Milton Keynes and I’m sorting out my paper work, meeting my agent, working and setting back into my single routines while trying to get used to sleeping alone again.
It was the best summer ever and I am a little sad that it is over, but I think I have been ready for it to end for a little while now. I think I need life to go on and life doesn’t really go on when you’re on holiday, regardless of how many exciting things you do.
It was the best summer ever and I am a little sad that it is over, but I think I have been ready for it to end for a little while now. I think I need life to go on and life doesn’t really go on when you’re on holiday, regardless of how many exciting things you do.
Monday, 25 August 2008
Ah, nostalgia…
A few weeks ago I received a letter from the University of Provence saying that if I wanted them to send me my PhD diploma, I had to provide the university office with a self addressed envelope with a 5,60 € stamp on it. They have of course not thought about the simple fact that getting stamps in euros in the UK might be slightly complicated if not impossible. Once again, James came to my rescue and offered to provide them with what they needed. The office was closed for the summer so he set on the mission only today. Here’s the e-mail he sent me afterwards:
“Hi Anna,
Well, unfortunately I wasn't able to drop your diploma envelope at doctoral studies office today. You no doubt remember how the university has a habit of loosing paperwork, but this time they outdid themselves. They lost the office. Depending on who you ask, Bureau 10 has moved, is moving, or will be moving, but no one knows when or to where. All anyone can agree on is that it's not open, if it's even still there at all. Some say it's destined to stay at the Schuman campus, other say it will re-open at the MMSH. We shall see. They said to call in a week or two, so I'll give them a ring in a while.
--James”
What can I say – there are some things I definitely do not miss about France.
“Hi Anna,
Well, unfortunately I wasn't able to drop your diploma envelope at doctoral studies office today. You no doubt remember how the university has a habit of loosing paperwork, but this time they outdid themselves. They lost the office. Depending on who you ask, Bureau 10 has moved, is moving, or will be moving, but no one knows when or to where. All anyone can agree on is that it's not open, if it's even still there at all. Some say it's destined to stay at the Schuman campus, other say it will re-open at the MMSH. We shall see. They said to call in a week or two, so I'll give them a ring in a while.
--James”
What can I say – there are some things I definitely do not miss about France.
Saturday, 16 August 2008
On public toilets and roller coasters of a completely different kind
There’s nothing like going to the mountainside when you’re low. There’s nothing like a good hike up to shed all your weary thoughts and feel in control again. There’s nothing more overwhelming than going to the mountainside when you’re happy. Especially when you go down to the local pub after a solid hike, feeling the effort in your thighs, get a perfect pint of Guinness and the night air is fresh and even the toilets smell like mountainside toilets should. I felt as if all the happiness was about to burst me open and the only thing I could find to do about it was cry. Who would think that public toilets could trigger such reactions… (funnily enough, a few more memorable moments of this trip involved standing outside public toilets in the night).
Anyway, I am not a religious person, but I stood outside those toilets for good five minutes crying and praying to The One Up There that s/he would not take this away from me. Cause all this feels as if s/he had finally decided that I had been through enough now and it was time to give me a break.
But highs like that exhaust you too. And then the vile little voice of the messed up person you used to be makes itself heard and tells you that all this is wrong and you’re just winding yourself up but we’ve been there before and we know how it is going to end. And you listen even if you don’t want to, cause it just makes sense – indeed, we’ve been there before and there’s no reason why this should be any different. I suppose that sleepless nights caused by a deflating air-bed did not help there.
But then someone makes you coffee and your rational thinking kicks in and you realise that what really is the matter is that being that happy is a scary feeling, cause you just can’t help looking over your shoulder as if someone or something was going to steal it away from you or make you pay for it. And that you’ve been single for far too long and enjoyed it far too much, and that mainly is all there is to it.
Anyway, I am not a religious person, but I stood outside those toilets for good five minutes crying and praying to The One Up There that s/he would not take this away from me. Cause all this feels as if s/he had finally decided that I had been through enough now and it was time to give me a break.
But highs like that exhaust you too. And then the vile little voice of the messed up person you used to be makes itself heard and tells you that all this is wrong and you’re just winding yourself up but we’ve been there before and we know how it is going to end. And you listen even if you don’t want to, cause it just makes sense – indeed, we’ve been there before and there’s no reason why this should be any different. I suppose that sleepless nights caused by a deflating air-bed did not help there.
But then someone makes you coffee and your rational thinking kicks in and you realise that what really is the matter is that being that happy is a scary feeling, cause you just can’t help looking over your shoulder as if someone or something was going to steal it away from you or make you pay for it. And that you’ve been single for far too long and enjoyed it far too much, and that mainly is all there is to it.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
On squashed organs and near death experiences
The big plan for my 30th birthday was for me to go on a roller coaster. I had never done that before, and I found it quite pathetic to be 30 and not had made that experience. However, with the move to England and the PGCE and all, it just didn’t happen. When I told Paul about it, he agreed that it was definitely wrong and a few days ago we went to Alton Towers, which is a big amusement park not far from here.
And so I lost my roller coaster virginity on Oblivion, which mainly consists of you dropping from 60 meters into a black hole. It felt like I was about to die. It felt like if all of my organs were squashed inside of me and I would never be able to use them again. Talk about easing me in!
I survived. But I still do not understand why one would do something like that to themselves.
Maybe I’m weird, but I somehow preferred the rides when you could giggle and scream to the ones where the air was compressed back into your lungs or where all you could think of was stabilising your head so that it would not rattle all over bumping off the sides of your seat. Even if the former do not give you an adrenaline rush like the latter ones do. Although I’m starting to suspect that it is a little bit like with child birth – with time, you forget how painful it was but you can still remember how exhilarated you felt after it was all over. So I might do it again, you never know.
And so I lost my roller coaster virginity on Oblivion, which mainly consists of you dropping from 60 meters into a black hole. It felt like I was about to die. It felt like if all of my organs were squashed inside of me and I would never be able to use them again. Talk about easing me in!
I survived. But I still do not understand why one would do something like that to themselves.
Maybe I’m weird, but I somehow preferred the rides when you could giggle and scream to the ones where the air was compressed back into your lungs or where all you could think of was stabilising your head so that it would not rattle all over bumping off the sides of your seat. Even if the former do not give you an adrenaline rush like the latter ones do. Although I’m starting to suspect that it is a little bit like with child birth – with time, you forget how painful it was but you can still remember how exhilarated you felt after it was all over. So I might do it again, you never know.
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
On modern art and deluge
Last weekend we went to London to see Carina, or at least that was the plan, cause the trip expanded as we went and so we also went to Milton Keynes to water plants and to Oxford to have Mexican food and see Cate. You know me, stick me in a car, put the music on and I’m happy – in other words, I love road trips, and this one definitely lived up to my expectations.
Saturday was eating, drinking and talking in Carina’s garden and nursing a sunburn I’ve miraculously acquired between Birmingham and London. An uneventful yet blissful summer evening.
On Sunday we went to Modern Tate and I liked it, in spite of my general disdain for modern art - at least for the kind where they put a huge red dot on yellow canvas and call it ‘Pain’, or something similar. I really liked the sculptures, especially the ones Paul said I wouldn’t want in my bedroom (I feel quite daft for having forgotten the artist’s name) and that looked as if someone had dripped hot iron into silhouettes.
I was however not spared a painting made up of squares of different colours entitled ‘Mediterranean’. I stared at it and stared at it, and the more I stared, the more it remained just a random selection of colours that did not evoke any associations, which I found frustrating as I had spent four years living in the very region that inspired the artist, so I should be able to see it. I know that it was the same region, cause I read the label – I thought it would help me understand as it did with some of the sculptures, but no luck. Squares remained squares.
There was also a mandatory set of paintings picturing female private parts from weird angles and a video installation featuring a naked guy jumping up and down, which made me giggle but which failed to inspire any art-worthy reactions. Oh well. Maybe I’m just too insensitive to comprehend the depth of those artists’ talent and inspiration, but I think I will live in spite of it.
As we were driving back on Monday, the sky fell. It was already grunting when we were leaving Oxford, and Cate had warned us about thunderstorms coming up from Cornwall, but I was not prepared for driving through a wall of water. I was quite relived when we got back to Brum in one piece, but then we were confronted with a huge lake on one of the main roads and had to go around it through the grass, which was exciting and scary as Paul’s car is not an SUV, so we could easily get stuck in the watered mud that the surrounding ground had turned into or slide with it down the slope and into the lake. Other options were staying in the car forever or taking a run for it and getting soaking wet while abandoning the car behind, none of which seemed appealing to either of us. But we didn’t get stuck or slide in the mud and got home safe and I could joyfully run around barefoot in the back garden getting soaking wet, knowing that the warm shower and hot tea were just seconds away.
Saturday was eating, drinking and talking in Carina’s garden and nursing a sunburn I’ve miraculously acquired between Birmingham and London. An uneventful yet blissful summer evening.
On Sunday we went to Modern Tate and I liked it, in spite of my general disdain for modern art - at least for the kind where they put a huge red dot on yellow canvas and call it ‘Pain’, or something similar. I really liked the sculptures, especially the ones Paul said I wouldn’t want in my bedroom (I feel quite daft for having forgotten the artist’s name) and that looked as if someone had dripped hot iron into silhouettes.
I was however not spared a painting made up of squares of different colours entitled ‘Mediterranean’. I stared at it and stared at it, and the more I stared, the more it remained just a random selection of colours that did not evoke any associations, which I found frustrating as I had spent four years living in the very region that inspired the artist, so I should be able to see it. I know that it was the same region, cause I read the label – I thought it would help me understand as it did with some of the sculptures, but no luck. Squares remained squares.
There was also a mandatory set of paintings picturing female private parts from weird angles and a video installation featuring a naked guy jumping up and down, which made me giggle but which failed to inspire any art-worthy reactions. Oh well. Maybe I’m just too insensitive to comprehend the depth of those artists’ talent and inspiration, but I think I will live in spite of it.
As we were driving back on Monday, the sky fell. It was already grunting when we were leaving Oxford, and Cate had warned us about thunderstorms coming up from Cornwall, but I was not prepared for driving through a wall of water. I was quite relived when we got back to Brum in one piece, but then we were confronted with a huge lake on one of the main roads and had to go around it through the grass, which was exciting and scary as Paul’s car is not an SUV, so we could easily get stuck in the watered mud that the surrounding ground had turned into or slide with it down the slope and into the lake. Other options were staying in the car forever or taking a run for it and getting soaking wet while abandoning the car behind, none of which seemed appealing to either of us. But we didn’t get stuck or slide in the mud and got home safe and I could joyfully run around barefoot in the back garden getting soaking wet, knowing that the warm shower and hot tea were just seconds away.
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Sad stuff
Every death in a car crash is stupid. Yet this one is particularly wrong. I will not go into detail about how much this man meant to Poland, although we definitely wouldn’t be where we are if it wasn’t for him. You can read more here if you want.
I can however remember Bronisław Geremek as a teacher. In my University of Warsaw years I managed to get into his medieval history class even if I was officially studying at a different faculty and so I wasn’t really entitled to be there. But he said ‘Just come around’ and so I did. He would open the door and start talking while making his way to his desk. This was the only time in my academic career where I witnessed students being perfectly silent before the professor even entered the room. We just didn’t want to miss one word. And dear God he took you places.
Another sad thing, although of much lesser importance on the global scale, is the closing of the Mercer’s cafés in Warsaw. I used to live there. I wrote my masters’ there. I will never have Orange Latte Grande again. I will need to find a new place to meet up with people when I go and visit. Warsaw just became even less mine and that saddens me, although I do feel kind of silly feeling sad for a coffee shop when a great man has died.
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