London: Daily life & creativity

Hello beautiful friends!! It once again has been months since my last post --- life abroad as been such a whirlwind that I am beyond thankful for. Since January, I have been living in London and continuing my studies. This semester took a 180 turn from last: as I have a large group of friends here; I'm living in a dorm; I have a beautiful, ivy-ridden campus; and I am in an English speaking environment, again. London has provided an abundance of deep friendships and the feeling of true university life that I had never experienced before (living on a city campus most of my college history). Despite London's rainy, gray weather that often has my spirits in the dumps (lol), I find solace in the rich flowered fields of the park that surrounds my uni, of willow trees and ponds filled with nonchalant ducks and swans, of wooden benches for reading amongst purple flowers, of vibrant lawns to lay upon when the sun peaks its head out from behind the clouds. It has all been an utter blessing, and I still am an awe that I have the opportunity to live here.

University has brought lovely outlets for my creativity, as well. Being apart of a wonderful gallery exhibition on feminism, attending a really cool jazz poetry event, and creating pieces of writing that I hadn't dared to explore: I have fallen more in love with writing and publishing and all it gifts us, as the reader and the author. I wanted to share a couple of short excerpts I wrote (for potential longer creative non-fiction stories) that allowed my creativity to blossom with Spring. They are drafts and not complete, but still show the change in direction of my writing that is exciting and new to me!

Varenna, Italy:

A drop of rain in my espresso. A lively spider in my truffle pasta. I'm sure I swallowed many more curious crawlers in my slumber. Nature crept its way into my soles and wrinkles (even though I am only 21, I do have wrinkles from furrowed brows and deep, cheeky grins) and seeped through my thin, pale winter skin. I was transported back centuries.

The wind blew me back a few steps up the hill to the castle. The birds sang songs of my crushed, yet childlike spirit. Each vine throughout the boardwalk tied me to the sea like a gentle monster creates apologetic waves that still unleash destruction. I felt the path of the sun on the water leading up to the thick brush-worked sky (very Impressionist of Mother). The lady at the butcher told me to get the soft cheese and fatty pig’s meat and that I might find peace here in this town if I follow the light. Was this the light she was referring to?

I sat on a cool branch, its arms twisting around to hold me steady. My imagination had stilled in the brisk weather and over-consuming beauty of the lake before me. Again, I transported to centuries before where nothing but my senses would serve me. The cold air felt of nothing but a blown kiss from Above.

A man came over to ask, 'Ciao, buongiorno, va tutto bene?' I returned with a toothy smile and slight nod. As he lifted his hands and walked away, pebbles hugged his shoes with a crunch. Minutes before, the same Italian man - dark hair and mysterious warm eyes worn from long stories at the dinner table - had found me from within the restaurant and tapped the window gently to get my attention. I glanced up from the outside to be greeted with an even toothier smile. If the light led me to the sky and the wind kissed me from Above, the mystery man must have had wings under his coat and direct message line with Mother.

The Southwest Dust Devil:

It was 1964, and the sparkles from the Ford truck, just cleaned and glittering in the Arizona sun, made Dee's eyes catch, almost as much as the cowboy in it. Lou walked out with little notice to Dee or her goo--goo-eyed friends on the bleachers. He grabbed his baseball bag, locked his car, and went out to the field, shaking his teammates hands as he walked up. Dee could barely see as the mixing of the sun and heat and dust created a dust devil whirring up inside her, but she knew already what she wanted. The spring air felt mysteriously like the freedom of summer. The dry heat raised young high school cravings of cherry snow cones, Big League bubblegum, and sex. Dee wanted far more. Lou, tanned skin and nasty armed, warmed up his pitching game. The Yuma Daily Sun reported he was going places. The New York Yankees, even. In every game the stats would come in, showing he was for the major leagues. He was only missing the chewing tobacco vice. Dee walked confidently in, only what I could imagine, as denim shorts and a tank with some white sneakers, showing off her tiny bod (she was nearly under 5 feet tall). As she watched Lou with diligence, she slid onto the top of his diamond truck, just washed and prepped. A diamond in the rough of the desert, she sat patiently. She sat pretty watching the game, hollering at the right plays and whistling toward only one, the sun and dirt and sweat making a melting potion of deliriousness that would last their lifetime. Lou won the game with his major league pitching, but did not realize the diamond dust devil the heat had brought in, settling like a cowboy standoff in a saloon, outlaws willing and ready to stay. As he came out of the field, sweaty and glistening, he saw Dee sitting on the top of his newly washed truck. His forehead wrinkled and he breathed deep with annoyance, "Get off my truck, please."

"No."

"Please get off my truck, darling."

"Huh, fine then. But do you know what?"

"What do I know?"

"You are going to marry me, someday."

The Yuma Daily Sun was almost right, Lou made it about as far as he could get. New York was dangling from his lips like a dog dripping from thirst on a hot desert day. But he injured his shoulder, and the dust devil spun the cowboy into staying.

Dee was spot on, though. Less than a year later, they were taking vows in a courtroom, tying the lasso to one another. The dust devil and cowboy are still dancing in the saloon with the dust and sweat and sun, nearly 60 years later.

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My grandmother, Delia, has the softest, worn hands, and my grandfather's, Louie, are sturdy and warm. I always knew this growing up, as I found myself at their yellow a-frame house nearly every weekend, and multiple days throughout the week. I would find myself sipping French vanilla creamer with drips of coffee, chatting till 2 or 3 AM talking with Grandma Dee and Tia Lupe, and hearing my grandpa's snoring every couple minutes, as he took slumber outside in the patio. He had a room to his own, but he preferred the open night sky, the countless stars gently tucking him to sleep with his cowboy hat atop his face.

One late night, my grandmother had topped my coffee and squeezed my hand, soft as the butter she used every morning for the toast and warm as the pumpkin empanadas she always made just for me. Pressed each end of the masa like she told each story with such dedication, passion, and love. Everyone else knew her as a desert force, blowing the sand dunes any way she wished, but with me, she was a soft summer thunderstorm.

"Nina, did I every tell you how your grandpa and I met?"

I smiled, knowingly, "Of course, grandma."

"How about that time this dumbass ran his car into me and flipped me off, so I stopped the car, went up to his window, and punched him senseless?"

I could hear my grandpa snore, a deep in and out, a cowboy lassoing his stars, knowing his best catch was inside making weak coffee and empanadas.

The Hues:

Make sure to color in the lines with a sharpened orange colored pencil; I’ll press the ends of the empanadas if you make the filling; wash the dishes with stinging hot water from the well; pretend to glance away when he locks eyes with you; lace your shoes with two bunny ears like Miss Beth taught you; go into the country club across the pond, but make sure your shoulders aren’t showing — temptation!; I’ll teach you those Spanish curse words so you can slash others with your tongue without repercussion; find a ring by spring; make sure you only do drugs and drink behind the veil; if the veil is torn, expect exclusion; swim in Colorado river and jump off the rope — slash! break your bones fitting in the Southwest mold; love Sunday service and children gospel songs; praise the sunset and curse the devil; ride the sand dunes above the mountain to the coast; don’t come back, all you need is to remember home; sip the tortilla soup and spiced tea laced with gossip and Jesus; pretend you know why, but never ask questions; apply sunscreen at least twice a day; arrive at the airport one hour early (even though it is 5 mins away and only has one gate); cry as the engine of the airplane roars, but only because you are scared, not because you will tiptoe back; if you do come back, it best be with blood dripping from your nose to curse the sky with those Spanish words I taught you.

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Orange, orange, orange hues that tapped into my skull through my green eyes. They placed themselves in a file in my brain, a loose envelope that I licked close. One step, two steps, three steps up the creaky ladder we went in the middle of the dense grove. He was with me, and the night was our new friend, hiding our missteps like an accomplice. My sneakers were full of goat heads from the sunflowers we walked through, but on top of the windmill, I felt relief. A kiss, a moan, a hitch in breath, we had never done anything like this before. He told me it was wrong and, oh it was, but for all the reasons he would never admit. He felt his guilt and laid it upon me, like his body was minutes before. I took this guilt as my own and wore it long after he was gone. It was my burial these days, where he heavily pressed his expectation, his religion atop my stomach. It was these days atop the windmill where I broke the envelope and saw Your brushstrokes of orange, a bird's eye view. Warm hues, where shame was lost amidst the sunflowers, and I was the burning sun.

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I have been circling this snow globe. I have been running after my own shadow. Someone let me know if I ever stop to see the rainbow because all these shades of blue have me losing feeling in my fingers and toes and even though I see frost on my eyelashes, I don’t feel a thing. I see the light blue of the sky, the dark blue of the night, I see the colors coming into darkness, but I only feel the navy. Someone let me know when I’ll see the golden lining. I have been sleepwalking through the desert storm. The bright lightning breaks the sapphire sky, leading my core to feel gut-punched and melancholy melodies churn. I have been sleeping walking through the rain. I have been closing my eyes and seeing my childhood. My old treehouse falling to the ground, as the indigo starts to surface over the branches. I crave to feel the storm in my bones, but all I feel is the numbness of ice. I have been circling this snow globe, hues of cobalt, midnight, royal blue, stuck in the shame of my Southwest storm.

These are just a few of my excepts from this semester, but I hope you find laughter, joy, and reflection in reading them<3 This is my final week in London before heading to NYC!!! This year abroad has been something I could have never imagined in my wildest dreams, but it's time to go home.

Deep love,

Nina Lee