Number 7

Saturday morning, the 20th, we landed in Manchester to awkwardly pile into vans hired to drive us to Liverpool.  All the cars driving on the opposite side and our driver on the opposite side of the car is a head trip.  It feels like my brain has been flipped inside out  or like when I do a left-handed cartwheel (being right-handed).

The lot of us, as they say here, are a very dynamic and gregarious group.  The few quiet ones of the bunch talk plenty when badgered, then there are the perpetual vociferous few—I fear I may be one of them, though those of you who know me well would be quite shocked at how reserved (all things relative) I’ve been here.   Sheik and Curly are more on quiet side out of the women and were in the same van with me.  Curly also plays the guitar so it was fun chatting and strumming The Lovechild on the forty minute drive.  I’m embarrassed to say I can’t remember who else was in the car with us because Chip, sitting next to me, is one of the vociferous bunch and usurped most of my attention haven declared me interesting the previous day at orientation.  God only knows why specifically, I am many things good and bad, though I suppose boring isn’t one of them.

I strummed and sang back up to Chip’s brilliant improvised lyrics.  The reoccurring theme: number 7. This refers to the concept of group imposed rules concocted during orientation, and a proposed method of efficient communication if someone was breaking a rule, a numbering system.  Instead of 1, 2, 3, 4 etc. I’ve declared number 7 to stand for all of them because I think it is so funny.  Someone complaining?  Number 7!  someone use your stuff without asking?  Number 7!  And so on and so forth.

Respect the Bubble

Lingering in the Preparatory State

Nervous.  Anxious. Unprepared.  The English language has a diverse variety and states of being for me to choose from or multitask in performing for my up and coming departure from my homeland.  Technically I have been out of the US of A before, Canada, Tijuana, Mexico, and The Bahamas.  This adventure however, will be largely independent.  Even though my life, my preparation, and factors involved in general, have, in fact, been going well, I feel like something must go wrong.

Luckily, I have proven to myself and I would say to outside observers in general, that I recover quite well from my mistakes regardless of the magnitude.  Mistakes are an interesting part of life.  They are so much of what makes up who we are.  They are unavoidable.  They are, a topic for another day because, I am leaving the country.

Friday evening, June 19, 2009, I will board a plane to Manchester, England.  I will join a group of people who have never met me before.  I will leave behind previously mentioned mistakes.  I cannot and do not wish to deny my mistakes, however, I intend to live without them during my time there.  I will be attending the University of Liverpool.  I am taking with me the lesson learned from a Creative Writing class in highschool, Novemeber 2001-March 2002; be a sponge.  The sights, the sounds, the people, the accents, the mannerisms, the smells, the tendencies, the belief-systems, the colors, the loves, the weather, the everything, are the water to the sponge in your pocket, the sponge you need to be as a writer.   And so it seems perhaps needless to say, more to follow.

Nervous Squirrel With Nut

My First Post

www.Futureworld33.com“Look at me, I’m on the Internets!” she exclaimed.  A true sign of being a child of technology at last.  Though she had played games on her grandmother’s macintosh as young as she could remember, and attempted to conquer Freedom and Oregon Trail on computer lab days in elementary school, in truth she was a mediocre operator of software at best.  Her grandmother, still alive and kickin’ at 83 years old could tell you more about ram, hard drives and the like than she could.

But she, Ms. Edith-Marie Roper, would have to adapt eventually.  And so, on her Macbook attained in such a manner that requires a story for another day, she is learning.

Welcome all and enjoy.  And don’t worry, I generally will not refer to myself in the third person.