stars go blue

When I got on the bus Thursday morning, from Oxford to Heathrow, I thought this was going to be a bad idea, that I was going to get all mired down in memories and writing this paper and wish I was back in Oxford. It's easy to be in Oxford--it's safe. But I'm so glad to have come back.


I'm staying with my academic mother Fran, whose flat is like a home away from home. The door is never locked; people are always coming in and out. May Dip was amazing (what I remember). Fran has this group of friends--it's hard to describe, but it's like this Portia-sized space simply opens up every time I come visit.

My love for Scotland is unabated. It's like the mountains, like this part of me that never relaxes simply eases here. Scotland is wild and raw, cold and wet and dramatic. I spent today in the cafe where I used to study, finishing a paper on Anglo-Saxon kings. I wish I could stay. I wish I had an apartment in St Andrews, spent the weekends seeing plays in Edinburgh and reading in Princes Gardens. More and more, I think I want to live here for a few years, put off teaching, and figure out a way to stay.


I've started making my stranger a mix. I'm not sure though, how to go about it. The last mix, the one I made for Darren right before I left, that was a good-bye mix. My stranger and I have a little over a month left, and I don't know if I should wait, to make a mix for what was, or make one now, for what might be.

I really really like this guy. It's kind of freaking me out. Somehow being sad seems easier, simpler. There's nowhere to fall.