Check and check

I was walking out of the Piccadilly tunnel at South Ken station (yes, I'm alive and in London), when I heard music. Not an odd occurence. I usually try to toss a few coins into their stained guitar cases. But then I realized that it was something akin to karoke music being played. And the song was "New York, New York." I admit I laughed, but refused to pay for a cheesy rendition of a cheesy song. I stepped onto the escalator as the music came to a close. I waited for the lounge singer's next offering. "New York, New York."

The past three weeks have, to be blatantly honest, been some of the most difficult of my life. There have been some high points--Irish theatre, the Thames at night, the French bakery one street over, teaching a writing class--but it has been an exhausting balance of work and play, which all too often results in all work and no play. My life is consumed by petty squabbles and things that just have to be done. I've yet to make my way to the Tate Modern or Westminster, both high on my list. Instead I hang out with my 40-year-old mentor and his 16-year-old son, who is actually one of the most intelligent people on this trip. Were we idiots when we were 20?

I have started writing again. Maybe I'll post some later tonight. I miss April. K's cupcakes and poetry printed on funky paper and HMP's (ahem) dancing and AA's sincerity and Kapka's meditations and oh!resolution's. . . what did he contribute? (Kidding. I believe the correct answer is sanity.) I'm planning on bringing you back London-y things, but you have to come find me. I'll be in Provo in my new house in July, I think. But before then, all you have to do is call. After the 14 of June, of course. Before then and you'll get my 14-year-old brother who is using my cell to collect the numbers of many, many lady friends.