Little Child

Alone on Christmas. I'm like Kevin McCallister only slightly less cute and all I have to arm myself against intruding loneliness is a can of baked beans and a chocolate orange-- half a chocolate orange. As it turns out, if you spend Christmas Eve drinking all the alcohol Sainsbury's will legally sell you, you are still left waking up solo but with a headache that could be easily confused for a brain aneurism. That being said, spending Christmas in the hospital would make for a much more entertaining blog entry. I've never been without family on Christmas, and I'll be honest, it ain't easy. Leading up to this family filled day, I'd convinced myself that I'm a big, tough girl who moved herself all the way across the world all on her own so a measly little holiday for one should be peanuts. And yet I still woke up on the morning of and cried for my Mommy and Daddy. So what, I cried. I cried and sat alone in a bar drinking more booze and reading a book about a Nigerian girl who moved across the world and wrote a blog with the theory that anyone else's story is a better place to be than in my own-- even if her story is almost identical to mine. The Nigerian girl got her hair braided and I sank deeper into my cider and pooling self pity.
I am making my situation out to be way worse than it actually is. I have a flair for such. I have amazing friends who've spent time with me over the past few days and I am eternally grateful. But there's something about it that just isn't quite the same. Doesn't fill the hole that your Mom in her fluffy slippers and pink house coat coasting zombie-like through the living room, eyes squinting at the distance between her and her first cup of coffee does. Or sharing a caesar with your dad while he explains to you the ins and outs of turkey cooking knowing full well it's gone completely over your head. Or spending Christmas Eve wrapped up on your brother's couch falling asleep in front of a Meryl Streep film feeling completely content, cherishing the fact that the two of you could be together, an ocean away from home. I stuff that last slice of chocolate orange into my mouth and sigh. Alright baked beans, it's just you and me now. Perhaps everyone needs to go through a Christmas alone in order to really appreciate how much their family really means to them. I even nearly cried while skyping my grandmother as she showed me that the patterns on her sweater weren't only polka dots but also stripes! So maybe this is a lesson learned. A lesson in financial responsibility-- start saving my dollars, pounds, euros, rupees, whatever currency I will deal in by this time next year so that I can finally be home for Christmas, and not have to drink alone, but in the comfort and company of my family, every fluffy pink and polka dot clad one of them. So here's to 2016. No matter where it leads me, may it find me at home on Christmas day.

Strawberry Fields Forever

    I wrote this almost a year ago. It's still one of my favourite things to read, and I do so often. Sometimes broken hearts never fully heal. It's comforting to recall a moment of calm. Where love is still avidly present, even if a happy ending isn't.


    He stood, perched by the window, hands planted on the sill, as they usually did. And me, still lying naked in bed, watching, as I usually did. I had always observed him with such fascination, the way he seemed so fixated and yet so far away at the same time. But content. It was rare to ever find him in such a state, and if you did, it was fleeting.
    This morning he was singing-- he was always singing-- but never this song. I sat, my eyes locked on the profile of a face I had memorized ages ago, listening.
Realizations hit you at different speeds, various weights. This one was swift and left me winded, but upright. As if I had seen it coming, and had time to plant my feet, breathe deeply, and swallow. The truth fell on me like the sun, warming it's way through the open window and spreading itself across our wrinkled sheets. Blinding at first, but strangely settling.
And there it was. I wasn't going to spend my life waking up to that face; the sound of his song, his body framed by the light of our bedroom window. And despite it's current rays casting his shadow at my feet, the sun had finally set on us.
But he continued to sing, and I continued to watch his lips move, holding tightly to his words…

Go away from my window,
Leave at your own chosen speed.
I'm not the one you want babe,
I'm not the one you need.

From Me to You

     Last night was one of the worst sleeps that I can recall in ages. But mid way through the night, through my tossing and turning-- and apparent moaning-- I managed to unwrap the first 4 lines of this poem from my restless mind, have the sense to write them down, then fall uncomfortably back to sleep.
When I woke hours later, while on the tube headed to a nine hour teaching day, I decided to add some conscious additions.

I like this poem. I think it feels honest.

 



So let's sleep on our sides
Skin kissed to skin
Where you stop
I will to begin.

Come to me
I'm far too sleepy

To find you between sheet and pillow
The dusk, our blanket
The moon as our sun.

And we'll sleep on our sides
My warm to yours
By the shape of your curves
My body will pour.

Find me here
It's far too early

To say goodbye, as sun would to sky
The mountain, its curtain
The moon draws it shut.

Please, sleep on your side
Let yours look to mine
And see us as one
Or eyes should they blind.

Closed may they be
May they never see

They'll find you near
And you'll come to me.

And Your Bird Can Sing

I recently returned from a Jazz festival in Ireland; an experience that has made me realize that up until now, I had never noticed just how much of an influence my parent's taste in music has had on mine. So in honour of that, my pride in their varied and extraordinary ear for a solid tune, and simply an expression of how much I love and miss them, I wrote a little something for them. This is that something:


She loved a ballad, and he loved the blues.
His words, they sang:
Wherever I go, I'll go with you.

With you, I'll go, her voice returned.
With every beat, for you I'll yearn.

There ain't no rhythm I'll play,
That you can't follow,
If with every morning
You promise me tomorrow.

Tomorrow's a promise no heart can keep.
But I will always hum
While you tap your feet.

There will always be love songs,
The blues will play forever.
If we don't have tomorrow
Let's sing this last song together.

And promise me this, if nothing other:
So long as there's love--
And love lives forever,
You will be mine,
My darling,
My lover.

If love lives forever, as blues does not die,
My darling, I'll love you.
My lover, you're mine.

  

Watching Rainbows

Less than twenty weeks remain of me inhabiting London as my home. Professing England, my country. And I vow to spend these coming weeks the best I possibly can. Not with fear, or sadness. Without grief, or unshakeable depression. But with hope. Hope that tomorrow can only bring what yesterday couldn't. That whatever lies ahead has the potential to be greater than anything I leave behind. And who knows, what is left behind, may one day find me again, in a far better place, at a far better time. A more permanent time.
London is still mine, for now. And instead of writing about it, I'm going to just live it. Embrace it. Force it to remember me, just as I will always remember it. For I truly believe this place has inspired me more than anything else. So I will let it write for me. Whatever streams through my pen will land on this page, whether created months ago or merely hours. Be it bad, or good. True or trite. Here lies my outlet. For better or worse.

See you on the other side, my friends.




Some months ago:

    Have you ever sat in a moment and felt yourself whispering, remember this? Wishing yourself a life long recollection of a mere five minutes.
Twice, I watched a man make his way toward me. The first, his figure was as dark as the early morning sky by which he seemed to float through on his way to me. His image reminded me of one from a book: A slender, black silhouette, slanted slightly from the weight of a sack, swung haphazardly to one side. The figure sauntered, cooly, but with purpose. And I swear I could feel his smile resonate through miles of darkness.
The second was in the light of day, a sea of green grass and overgrown trees framing him perfectly. He was running to me, his hair flopping dramatically on and off his face in time with his rhythmic canter. Here, his smile was as clear as the blue, cloudless sky, that hovered above. A background in abstract, meant only to intensify the beautiful figure, coming for me.

Remember this, I whispered.

I wrapped his shirt tighter around me, the breeze had cooled off the day, or was it his parting? This time, I watched him walk away. I fixed my gaze, thinking I could capture the way he seemed to bounce, with his feet never leaving the ground, but merely skimming it. I don't know why I tried so hard to remember. If any, this would be the moment I would never forget. My eyes rested on his back as he became smaller and smaller. Further and further away. Until he disappeared completely.


I looked at his empty tea cup next to mine. I took a sip, wiped my cheek, and placed them both closer together, nestled in the dewy grass. I shifted my gaze from the empty glasses to the open field that lay drenched in a setting sun.
    The days may be fading, but we still have time. There is always time for tea.

I will always have time for you.
With you, I am constantly reminded of time, and yet it alludes me completely.
All at once.






 

Take The Night Off

Sept 15/2015


    Autumn in London finds me here, wrapped in a light sweater, sipping an overpriced latte at the British Library, seeming more interested in people watching than actually writing anything of consequence. Fiona Apple rings through my earphones, muddling out the already muddled sounds of people discussing what I hope to be opposing opinions on profound literature, but what is more likely a moaning of the mundane lives they don't appreciate leading in this beautiful country. It seems bitterness finds me even in my most heavenly sanctuary. Before I have a chance to dwell in my resentment towards every British passport holding knobhead in this massive building, youtube suddenly decides that this is not the time for Fiona Apple, but for Zurdok-- a Mexican rock band based in Monterrey and formed in 1993 under the name Zurdok Movimento. Somehow, a classically trained American singer-songwriter genius transitions seamlessly with Zurdok's full album, Hombre Sintetizador (which translates to "Man Synthesizer"). Naturally. To be honest, it's not half bad. So I leave it playing.
    Perhaps this is some bizarre sign from God--I just spent five days in Rome, I am incredibly religious now-- that when life throws random Mexican Avanzada Regia at you when you think you just want to hear something you know and love, you should just accept it, and listen. Subtle metaphor or not, I have now just spent twenty minutes researching what I have discovered to be one of the most famous rock bands of it's genre in the 1990's. I was listening to their second album, which I will soon find out, is much different than their first, "losing their previous heavy sounds" to more "experimental tunes, adding classical instruments and folk inspirations" (the twine that binds Fiona and Zurdok, discovered at last). I gave it another nine minutes of my attention span before I began to feel way too substance free to be handling the "experimental sounds" that the album had now solely morphed in to. Any more amount of time and I'd surely begin to seizure, or leave the library in search of acid.
So maybe signs from God are bullshit, or just a glitch in youtube's recommendations.

Thus, I digress.

Coming to terms with the nearing death sentence to my English life, wouldn't exactly be the way I'd describe my mind set as of current, but it has finally sunken in that there's nothing I can do to stop it. I haven't come to terms with anything. I have begrudgingly devised a potential "next step", the chapter beginning 2016AD, but that doesn't mean I've accepted it. Acceptance would mean I am ready to move on, invite what lies ahead to take precedence over the futile fantasy that somewhere, somehow there's still a chance. 

I fell in love. I didn't mention it, I adored the idea of keeping this feeling to myself. Selfishly indulging in what could easily be the best thing that's ever come out of no where. I fell in love and now I sit, waiting to be pulled out of it. I think I may have found that person. The person that fifty years from now I'd look at and see more love radiating out of him, out of me, than ever before. At present, that idea leaves me baffled when every day spent is a day spent thinking I couldn't possibly love him any more. And yet I do. Every day his eyes get brighter, the curve of his smile, bigger, and the sound of his voice more permanently etched into my heart.
I lay awake at night beside him, willing the sun never to come. For that is the time when I get him all to myself. The time I can dream about having him forever, and almost believe it.

I find myself dreaming a lot. Fading in and out of two worlds, not being able to focus on my reality at hand, unable to remain present. Perhaps a world where love concurs immigration limitations, and fantasy triumphs over reality, is a world I am much better suited to. I prefer it.  And the few moments where I can manage to keep myself in the fleeting reality I call home, I find myself writing. More than I ever have. Writing about fifty years of love that will never even see a finish to the first.
I wrote once that I believe heartache, by definition, to be a pivotal ingredient to any successful artist. How could one ever truly know life, write about life, sing about life, paint life, if they hadn't first experienced genuine heartache. This was when I first felt myself loving him. I then wrote that I often wondered if he'd be the inspiration to my revolutionary heartbreak.
It looks as though that might just be the case.


And so it is…

And so I write…




She sat and saw it all.
She saw six months,
She saw a year.
She saw him,
But he wasn't there.

The small of his back,
the wave of his hair,
She saw her heart in his city,
then both were bare.

The lights paled by blue,
They will always be there.

Her heart,
He held too.
Go on, keep it
She dared.

It belongs to you.

Don't Ever Change

Thursday Aug 27.2015



    I hate change. Yet it seems to just adore me. Can't get enough of me. Do I hate change? I say I hate change, but I seem to invite it in with open arms on a regular basis. If I'm not constantly being challenged I begin to hate everyone and everything. I become the devil. Whiny, discontent, utterly miserable. I feel like you can only be complacent for so long, before you long for more and begin to resent your own happiness, turning it into some close relative of disdain. So then why, when we should most accept it, are we so thrown aback by a shift in life? We get stuck in our happiness, and worry that it can't get any better than this, regardless of the fact that we've become stagnant, and our happiness, uninspiring. But it's safe. We feel secure in our settled happiness. And then comes change to challenge whether we believe we can find that happiness again. We are so afraid to take a chance on chance that we would rather be mediocrely happy than risk discovering a happiness far greater and more promising. Because what if we lose out on both? But if one were to look at their life, does any loss not eventually find some kind of consolation? There will always be periods of time when life feels the need to remind you that you're not invincible, but it usually comes around to assure you you're still just as prone to happiness as you are to heartache. Life has shown me this enough times to know better. To know to embrace change and not fear it. To know that whatever can't be helped is that way for a reason. And even if it isn't, decide that it is, and go with it. I can stomp my foot, aggressively fold my arms, and cry out in a mad temper all I want, but the night is still going to come, and I'm still going to have to go to bed. And you always feel so much better once you're under the covers. Change is as certain as bedtime. Embrace change, Chelsea. I have to keep telling myself. Allow life to show you what it has to offer, even if it's not what you think you need. A friend once told me that people often get confused with what they want and what they need. We often think we need something when we really just want it, and vice versa. Once you discover which is which, life will unfold with such ease. I want to stay in London. I don't need to. Maybe, I need to learn to let go, and go with it-- whatever 'it' may be. Perhaps I need to resign myself to the idea that this really was just an experience, a chapter of my life, a page with a puppy eared corner to allow for a reread one day, ages from now, or even sooner. I mentally flip through the haphazard, metaphorical book that is my life, and see so many moments of happiness similar to this. Where I truly believed life couldn't show me a more perfect existence. Yet, I currently claim to be the absolute happiest I've ever been. So who's to say that years from now I won't look back at this folded corner and think to myself, you really had no idea.

Three months ago, I thought my life was amazing. And now I'm sitting here thinking to myself, you really had no idea. I moved out of my miniature Turkish flat, mostly out of fear that I was unknowingly, and against my will, being thrown into an arranged Turkish marriage by my flatmate's mother, who (plot twist) also became my flatmate shortly after I had moved in. Apparently your mother visiting translates to something completely different in Turkish. Something along the lines of, "My mother is actually moving in with us but I'm not going to tell you because it's more fun that way, and you have such an adorable confused face. No, instead I'm just going to try to sleep with you, and then get mad at you when you're never home and jack up your bills out of spite and embarrassment that you turned down my advances." (I have no evidence to prove the last statement, but I still believe it.) So I moved out. And after several discouraging flat viewings, I found a home to put my heart. A real home. With a back garden, and a piano, and the quaintest little kitchen that I have actually used on more than one occasion-- and for more than just finding a spoon to dip into my peanut butter. I felt like this generation's foreign Goldilocks. Though it took me five tries instead of three (I'm a bit slower than the average bear), I finally found a place that is just right. (Yes, I have lived here for a year and a half and have moved five times. How on Earth can I still say I'm afraid of change…). The man of my dreams has moved in with me from Canada, my gusband (gay husband) and soulmate, Jan. We share a room on the top floor of our cosy house in Clapham South with six other flatmates-- none of which are Turkish, nor want to get in my panties. At least not to my knowledge. I got a job at a cake shop, despite everyone's concern that I'd be fired almost instantly for devouring all the stock. I have yet to do so, but my quest for diabetes and life long obesity has upped it's game. I glaze tarts, whip decorative cream, sprinkle sugar snow, while still pouring pints, and refraining from killing small children-- or like, teaching. Whatever.
Why did you get another job, do you ask? Well, you see, I am currently trying to find any and every way possible to stay in this country. I've become that psycho ex-girlfriend who keeps showing up at your door even though you broke up with her months ago and started seeing a woman named Alice. I still refer to you as my boyfriend and constantly brag to strangers about all the amazing things we have planned together, while you're on the phone to the police requesting my third restraining order. I got the job at the cake shop with the hope that they would potentially sponsor me, and therefor allow me to stay in the UK (this would be the equivalent of sending said non-boyfriend a surprise anniversary singing telegram while watching, gleefully from the bushes a "legal" hundred yards away). They won't sponsor me, so now I just work there to drown my sorrows in Lemon Chiffon cake and Curly Whirly brownies (this is the equivalent to seeing Alice open the door to your romantic gesture instead of your beloved, thus causing your left eye to start twitching uncontrollably and without even realizing you suddenly have a handful of your own hair clenched in your white knuckled fist). And I'm back to square one. No notable, nor viable options on the horizon. Just me, and another five and a half excruciatingly fast moving months, and half a lime cheesecake, alone with my thoughts. Thoughts of change. Do I keep fighting or do I take the hint? Will someone please marry me? I looked into that, it's impossible. Everything feels impossible. Except Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe doesn't seem impossible. I hear they have great weather. And copious amounts of chickens. I like chickens. Fuck. I don't want to live in Zimbabwe. I have the cardio capacity of a sloth. If a lion were to even look at me I'd be done. Plus I've got a lot to offer, this ass could easily feed a herd, perhaps even a neighbouring one as well. They could partake in some kind of white girl BBQ party. Get to know each other over the sharing of my left quadricep.

I don't want to leave.

Change or no change. Fuck change.

I don't want to leave.

With a Little Help From my Friends

Sunday May 10/2015

    My city is in bloom. And strangely, I find, so am I. My friend, Louise, always tells me I haven't yet so much as even scratched the surface of who I am, or who I am to become. But I feel like I'm inching there, bit by bit. Facing in the right direction, or somewhat close to, at least. It's a start, "Sometimes a start is all we ever get" (that's a quote from a book. A good book. Read more books), and I can feel it more with every flower that sprouts from the branches of newly reawakened trees. The road leading to my house is a constant reminder that with the dead of winter always comes the hope of spring, promising the heat of summer; all the hard work leading to effortless contentment. A possible metaphor for my most recent life?
If I continue to literally stop to smell the roses, and pick the daisies pushing their way through the cement, I will end up writing about how I was fired a second time for inexcusable tardiness. But it can't be helped, and I can't be bothered to chose work over lilacs. Leave it to me to selfishly love a flower who's entire life span revolves around my birthday. I've always loved lilacs, ever since I was little and chubby. The smell would begin to fill the air in late April, they would blossom at the start of May, and by my birthday be at their fullest and most vibrant. And always, like clockwork, the tiny flowers would begin to fade and fall almost immediately after Chelsea turned another year older. My childhood home was bordered with lilac trees. My Dad would always have stems of them in the house. I never saw them wilt, either. Back ups were in constant supply, and for weeks the house never went a moment without the flooding smell of my birthday flowers. I remember coming home from school, my Father cutting grass, topless in his sporty short shorts, calf high socks and green stained sneakers, and I'd stand watching him from the back of the yard,  bathing in the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, gasoline, and ripe lilacs thinking, this is what love is supposed to smell like. I'd be completely wrapped up in the idea that I'd get to feel this way every year for the rest of my life, no matter where I was, so long as the lilacs found me. And now I'm grown up and chubby and their perfume still makes me feel the very same way. Twenty years later, and the flowers have found me here, in London; content as I have ever been, as happy as the days of freshly cut grass and vases of overflowing purple bouquets, maybe even more.





…This was almost three months ago. Three months ago I sat in the quaint, yet slightly sketchy park behind my house (one which I can almost guarantee is home to many a drug transaction) and began to write another addition to my now sparse collection of blog entries. While pleased with my pleasant, floral inspired first paragraph, I must have deleted at least ten attempts at anything further. So much I had to write about, so many happenings to choose from. I tried writing about my 26th birthday. About how funny the change a year can make. Last year I was overwhelmed with how many people came out to party with me after only having lived in London for a few months. This year I couldn't feel more blessed and loved being surrounded by a mere 7 people over an intimate dinner, serenaded by opera singers and a string quartet. I considered writing about Valencia, and Paris. But what everything seemed to boil down to was just the people. I would try to put into words my time in both places, or the way I felt during my birthday week (It's me. I get a week) but all that seemed to resonate were the people I got to share each experience with. My friends. What a word. Friends. Used so loosely all too often. Yet not mentioned enough among those worthy of it. If I've learned anything over the past few months, it's that I finally understand the true meaning of the word. I have found friends. Real ones. Ones that put on a dress shirt, and set aside their mass resentment, to attend your posh, operatic birthday dinner. Or watch you, without judgement, consume an entire pot of french cheese fondu while sucking on a milk bottle full of red wine, and say nothing when you're later bent over sideways cursing your decision to do so. Friends that refuse to let you go house viewing alone knowing full well your lack of logical decision making, and tendency to be distracted and sold by bright red doors and the promise of a large fridge. Or the one that when you're out on the town, hides half your chocolate bar in their purse without you knowing because they know that hours from then, when you're drunk and suddenly starving, those two Reece cups will be the greatest thing to have ever come out of a woman's hand bag, thus leaving you absolutely elated. And finally, the mother that can better be described as your best friend, every morning without fail, managing to steal a variety of delicious treats from the hotel buffet to leave for you to wake up while you're visiting her in Spain. Friends. Sadly, to me, an even greater description are those that will always be there for you, that will check in, keep in touch, even when you've left the country.

Six months. The end is looming. So many have said how much time that still is. But it's not. Not when it's you who stands with an expiration date stamped to your forehead. Not when you're the one who's created exactly the kind of life you've always imagined you'd have and know there's little, if anything you can do to sustain it. Six months is not a lot of time. It's not enough. I am constantly swept up in a whirlwind of emotions. So often I find myself sitting in the smallest moments and feeling so completely happy, while tears well up in my eyes; in awe of how beautiful my life is, terrified of losing it.

The beginning of this month found me in Brighton, one of the most breathtaking places I've ever been to. Known as the "London by the sea", it was it's simplicity that made me fall in love. The fresh air, the quaint small town feel, the ocean. Oh, the ocean. That smell, man. The crashing of the waves, the hovering seagulls, the taste of salt on your lips. I don't know if it's because it reminded me of Vancouver, but this place was everything I needed and more. I had managed to gather three of my absolute favourite people with me to attend the Love Supreme Jazz festival-- a gift I had given to one of them on an incredibly selfish agenda revolving around the fact that Van Morrison would be headlining. We decided to make a weekend of it, experience Brighton, then immerse ourselves in the magic of jazz, and the sweet serenade of my lover, my soulmate, Van the Man. The weekend was just, yes. So much yes. So much everything. So much fun, so much love, (so much recreational influence), so much of everything good. It was one of those trips that you know you'll talk about with your grandchildren when you're senile and saggy and want to relive the best parts of your life. I remember finding myself in a park outside a random bar, needing fresh air and a moment to compose myself. I somehow managed to find my Joni playlist, and her and I just laid there, beneath the stars (stars! They still exist, the magical things). Within minutes, I was joined by Louise (Mama Bear always keeping an eye on me), our heads next to each other,  cradled by the sweet smelling grass. I looked at her. I looked at the sky. I listened to Joni. And this was it. This was what love smells like, sounds like, looks like. This is lilacs in May, grass stained fathers, and believing the guarantee that all these things will follow you. These things will follow me. This moment will stay with me.

A good friend recently said to me,
"Chelsea, this is not your home. This is your experience."
At the time, my tear ducts despised that statement, as did my stomach as it instantly tied itself into the tightest of knots. But I knew he was right. And maybe that's not a bad thing. Perhaps it's an amazing thing. As much as I fear the imminent end to my fairytale, I know that it comes down to this: I can do my best to find some crazy, elaborate way to stay in this marvellous country, and if it happens, well fuck. I'm a god damn horse shoe. And if it doesn't, well, I'm a ten times better Chelsea with every day that I got to call this place my experience. And with me, along with memories, and a mild alcohol dependency, I will have my friends.
The real ones.

And that is what's worth writing about.

All I've Got to Do/ You Know What to Do

Saturday April 11th/2015

Break ups are hard. Some are near impossible. Mine was catastrophic. But I survived. We both did, I think. Maybe just barely, and definitely with pieces left behind-- abandoned carnage-- but what great war doesn't result in casualties? And it was just that; a great war. We fought for something only we could understand. And we put up a good fight. But regardless of how hard we try, some things are just made to end. I've accepted loss, admitted defeat, and now I stand amidst the empty battlefield, ready to rebuild. 

STEP ONE: We begin, as anyone would, with the foundation. 

A new home. As much as I thoroughly enjoyed occupying ninety percent of my brother's flat with my life, over flowing from bin bags piled in every corner of every room, it was time.

And as most things tend to happen in the majestic city, finding a place was as simple as deciding I wanted one. Nothing more, nothing less. I saw one post, I viewed it, I wanted it, I got it. Mine. Just like that. Well, mine and my charismatic, live in Turkish landlord's, to be specific. 

It's quaint. It's Chelsea sized. It's perfect. Hidden among numerous, out of place high rises and nestled beside a quiet park, in an area that feels mildly industrial, my humble brick building houses only a handful of flats, one of which inhabits my teeny, tiny bedroom. My teeny, tiny bedroom filled with teeny tiny furniture, and a teeny, tiny single bed. Which brings me to my new outlook on life… 

After finding myself, once again, floating aimlessly through single life, to avoid boredom-- and irrevocable poor life choices-- I have decided to take a different approach to Single Status 2.0. Be less slutty. Be more selective. Which is why I've implemented a "no boys allowed" policy in my teeny, tiny bedroom and why the convenient limitations that come with a single bed are sincerely welcomed. It's a reflection of life really. At this time, in this moment, there is only room for one in the bed of life that which cradles a one, Chelsea Beamish. 

Whoa. 

(Unless you're Jude Law. There is always room for Jude.)

It sounds so grown up, I know. Now if only this kind of basic wisdom didn't allude me when it came to standard adult behaviour and daily execution of activities. Like productively and effectively organizing a move, for instance. It was a Sunday. I had packed (the night/early morning previous-- and done so relatively sober). I had arrived (two hours late, and only a little bit hung over). And I was there. In my empty room, that looked eager to be possessed and personalized. It took a good 5-7 minutes of admiring my intimately sized bed before dumbly realizing, "Hey Chels, there's no bedding on that bed."

"Nope, there most certainly is not."

I had two options: immediately tube the mere 3 stations to Tooting for a quick and painless Primark fix-- cheap sheets, a girly duvet, maybe a candle or two to set the ambience-- OR pretend that none of this is at all a priority and meet Louise at The Merchant in Clapham Junction (only one station on the overground) to watch England and Ireland challenge each other in an ever so tense Six Nations match. I couldn't care less about rugby-- I'm Canadian, and well, me-- but there would be cider. And regardless of a win or defeat, the mass eruption of Irish emotions would be worth it alone. 

I mean, sheets are more of a luxury anyway, or at least I've always found that to be the case. 

I returned to my flat, hours later, not even entirely sure who won the game, but buzzed enough to be slightly disappointed that the linen fairy neglected to rectify my situation-- God, I miss my mom. After staring longer than necessary at the predicament I had put myself in, I managed to tuck myself between layers of unpacked clothing strewn across the mattress, and a makeshift duvet comprised of copious amounts of oversized jumpers and hoodies. As one would expect, the responsibility Gods took full advantage of my poor choice of priorities, and made sure the first night in my new flat was the coldest night in 2015. Lesson learned, Karma. Thanks for that. The next morning I awoke to my own convulsive shivering. No bother. Nothing a long, hot, steamy shower can't fix. 

"Hey Chels, you don't own a towel."

For fuck sakes. 

*Note: It will take an additional two nights before I decide to act my age and purchase some bloody sheets for my bed. Key words being "decide to". I will not actually execute this decision for three more days, but instead steal some from Louise (along with a towel). I can now say I have pink striped, and florally bedding, a furry decorative pillow, a stuffed cat pillow, and little dignity. 

STEP TWO: Retail Therapy (aka: replacing booze with material items that temporarily make you feel better about yourself, but more permanently burn a hole in your already minimally sized pocket book)

It took approximately two months-- and one very emotional St. Paddy's Day-- for me to sober up and (somewhat) bounce back from the depths of my tumultuous relationship termination. (I'm not about to paint some illusion of a now perfectly put together and melt down free Chelsea all because I mentioned the words, bounce back. I may be on the mend, but I am also currently sat with a bag of 70p donuts from Sainsbury's and a Joni Mitchell album set on repeat as a means of solace.) But it's a start. And with that, I began to see the world again, sans beer goggles, or rather without the frame of the front two windows of the unnamed bar, which had basically become my sanctuary. My hermit shack. My alcoholic haven. Alas, I slowly came back to life through the gift of London culture; plays, musicals, and Harrod's. If a pair of brightly coloured Manolo Blahnik slingbacks can't convince you to get your shit together, you're basically a lost cause. The magical department store even resurrected my nearly extinct love of food-- the only upside to a breakup is the lack of appetite and inevitable loss of weight. Sad Chelsea equals Skinny Chelsea. Happy Chelsea equals Fat Chelsea. Life's a bitch.-- But when you find a pair of shoes that restore your will to live and yet never in your life could you possibly dream of being able to afford them, you eat cake. Harrod's cake. The best cake you will ever burry your feelings in. Then you run to Notting Hill and (FINALLY) purchase your first affordable pair of vintage, gold, strappy, Prada heels from your heaven on earth, Retro Woman.

STEP THREE: Make one last, and final irresponsible decision before settling into your new life, and role as a career driven, taking-herself-seriously, mid-twenties female…. Amsterdam. 

I will say very little about this trip. If you have half a brain, which I now probably do (if that), you'll know exactly why details are not necessary. Amsterdam is the Vegas of Europe. Enough said. 

STEP FOUR: Regain control of finances (still a work in progress), then sit and wait for the universe to do what it does best and surprise the living shit out of you. 

It was a Tuesday. A tuesday in which I happen to be working at the unnamed bar. I never work Tuesdays. I also never answer my archaic UK phone, which is only ever in my line of vision when I happen to be working at said unnamed bar (it sits next to the mixer, out of habit from a time when Stupid Ginger Beard would make my day bearable with endless texts, often beginning with the words, "What's the craic, Fat Head?"). I happen to glance in the way of the mixer just as an unknown number causes my phone to light up, and for some strange reason I decide to answer. I listen to the voice on the other end of my hundred year old cell phone as I stare blankly at Louise, and then I hang up. 

"Uh, Chels?"

"Louise. I have an interview with a talent agency on Thursday…"

I'll Be On My Way/ The Ballad of John and Yoko

Sunday February 22/2015


One year later…

I sit at the Alex, pint in hand, Tommy by my side, and my computer in front of me. (The irony of me writing my blog in the very place I was canned for writing it in the first place is not lost on me). I sit here, trying my best to wrap my brain around the fact that an entire year has passed since I stepped foot in this country, confident beyond any doubt that this was where I was meant to be. I try to collect my thoughts, sort my memories, and articulate some sort of definition of my life over the last 365 days. And I am at a loss. How do you put into words one of the most (insert every adjective in the english language here) experiences of your life?

My lack of thoughts are interrupted by Australian Ted, commenting on my efficient typing skills. As talented of a guitar player as he may be, he has never been able to master the art of finger typing. In the background, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers start to serenade us and my attention shifts as he trails off about his flexible thumbs. It isn't until I hear him mention Chris that the Chilli Peppers take a back seat, and he regains my focus.

As he praises Chris for his ability to "see everything", and describes him as a sensible man (apart from when a row is upon him, for what man ever remains sensible in times such as that), I can feel myself physically retract from the conversation. Ted, stop talking.

And that's when my thoughts cleared, except for one: In this very moment, right now, how can I define the past year, when as it stands, my life has become the complete opposite of everything leading up to this point.

"I really do love your old man, Chelsea. He's a great guy. He loves to fist pump."

"He is, Ted. And I'm sure he does. But he's not my old man anymore."

Perfectly timed, Tommy comes back from a fag, offers me a shot. No, tommy. I'm writing. Should probably try to keep a level head. He mentions Hemingway, and points out that my writing may improve with a Jameson or two. I recall reading somewhere that, although Ernest was notorious for his love of alcohol, he never actually drank while writing. He had said that was more Faulkner's bag, and he could always tell right in the middle of the page when he'd had his first drink. Regardless, I now wanted a dry martini. Well, dry and dirty.

A year ago, I arrived in london, and as it does in London, my life unfolded quickly. Everything just kind of fell into place. And then it didn't for a moment. And then it did again. My life became a compilation of consistent partying, making the strangest but best of friends, exploring the city, and playing house with my Irish equivalent. My days would consist of working at the unnamed bar, or teaching midget demons, a pint or two here and there and then finishing with a homemade meal in the company of the stupid ginger beard and his annoyingly endearing qualities. Weekends would always find me in some bar, or some market and then some bar, or some theatre show and then some bar, but always back in bed with that stupid ginger beard, and his annoyingly endearing jokes, quirks, and the biggest arms that always held me the tightest.

In a place where everything has changed, I find myself. I still party consistently, market occasionally, and duck into whichever bar I stumble upon in between. But I do it alone. Sans Beard. Sans big arms.

I take Tommy's shot.

It's almost serendipitous, the fact that I celebrate my one year anniversary at a point where I've basically returned to the place at which I started. (Well I literally am, I'm living back at Josh's). I have one year left on my visa and I have found myself beginning it, the very same way in which I did when I arrived. A reboot, if you will. A fresh start. A second beginning. It's strange. It sucks. But it doesn't. But then it does again. But I am hopeful. I'd like to think that I am hopeful, and open to whatever the universe brings my way. The universe. What a strange concept. Made even stranger with the third pint I accept and ingest. Perhaps Faulkner was onto something.

I try to leave those thoughts behind me and reflect on other accomplishments, life lessons, personal growths, and the notable fails that have brought me from February 2014 to February 2015. I still don't know which way to look when crossing the street. I can honestly say I most likely never will. I just walk, with the assumption that I'm too pretty to die young. I still become giddy when a stranger asks for directions and I actually know where to point them to. I love that I can complain about overground delays, and obnoxious Oxford Street pedestrians, but also still be baffled by the fact that it costs more to eat in a restaurant or cafe than it does to take away. (And relish in the fact that I say 'take away' and not 'take out'.) Or still feel shameful whenever I catch myself saying "You alright?" when a customer approaches the bar, instead of a classic Canadian, "Oh hey there! How are ya? How's it going, eh?"
I can rely on the immense strength of the friendships I've created, and allowed to blossom into relationships that I never expected to find, let alone depend on. But most importantly, I can find comfort in myself, knowing that whatever comes my way, I have the ability to face it, with confidence and a prideful independence. I brought myself here one year ago. And if this year has brought me anything, it's the strength and courage to embrace another year with an open heart, an eager mind, and the mentality to welcome any and every new adventure that is sure to come my way.

So cheers to you, London. To one more year and all it has to offer. May we indulge in every experience we share, laugh at every downfall, smile, grit, and bare the rest and hope to God when the year is up, it will not be the end. But instead a start to something even better.

Christmas Time (Is Here Again) (Christmas: Part 2)

Tuesday January 6/2015

Cut to me, sitting in front of Christmas Eve dinner take two: yet another traditional holiday meal composed of bangers, maple bacon brussel sprouts, and a variety of cheeses. Josh and I had set up camp for an evening of Christmas cinema at its finest, Adaptation. Ok, so nothing about this evening in any way related to the holidays, but at least I was with family and not Mr Bean, soaking in a puddle of my own tears. Plus, Meryl Streep is really quite a lot like a mother figure to me, so it was nice to have her a part of our evening. I actually can't even say that much. I was passed the hell out seconds after the opening credits. I woke at 2:00am, frantic, immediately stating I had to go home. That whole, "How will Santa find me if I'm not in my house?!" thing really sticks with you over time. The crisp, early morning winter air, had me wide awake as I walked past silent neighbourhoods, imagining Mr. Claus delivering his Christmas cheer all over the slumbering city of London. I smiled as I thought of home. Right now, my family would be nestled around a couple of Hot Rocks at our dinner table (a strange Christmas Eve Dinner tradition that we have committed to for more years than I can remember). My Mom would be on her second glass of merlot, and giggling every time my Dad stole a readily cooked garlic sausage from her designated cooking area. She would have baked more than enough homemade bread for the evening, but would also make sure to compensate by eating the majority of it. My Dad, at this point, would resign to the couch, switching seamlessly to his Forty-Creek whisky (my parents aren't alcoholics, despite my contradictory description. However, it would explain my booze prone tendencies. That shit is hereditary). My Papa Joe would be telling long tales of his time spent in the war, while his wife sits patiently beside him, verbally editing his stories as he went, and reminding him softly that he'd already told us that one. 

By the time I reached my English flat, it was half two. My Canadian family would be saying their goodbyes, and wishing each other a Merry Christmas. Once her guests had left, my Mom would pull out the "back up" baking from the downstairs freezer. If I were home, we'd all cozy around the FAKE Christmas tree my parents invested in the moment I moved out, despite my aggressive protest, and watch White Christmas. My Dad's snoring would soon harmonize Bing's angelic voice, and the two of us girls would be left to bask in the cheesiness we love so dear. 

As I curled up next to Bah Jangles, and Clambato in my big, empty bed, I set up my computer, wished my parents a Merry Christmas from afar, and fell asleep to the sound of Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas, as I dreamed of my Dad's snoring, and my mom's childish giggle. 

The next morning I awoke to Elvis Presley and his Blue, blue blue blue Christmas. How I had managed to set a festive alarm for Christmas morning, both surprised and impressed me. Louise was set to arrive in half an hour, which meant I had another fifteen minutes to snooze, and the remainder to frantically make my flat look liveable. Dressed in her finest Christmas Jumper, and me in mine, we welcomed Christmas morning with an abundance of mimosas, an array of holiday cheeses (I have to stop eating so much cheese; New Years resolution No. 1), a classic viewing of Horrible Bosses 2, and a mini-mani (for how on Earth can you celebrate Christmas without Christmas inspired nail polish?). Once our nails had dried, and our first bottle of champagne had emptied, it was off to spread Holly Jolly jolliness to one and all! We were a li'l bit buzzed at this point (accent on the li'l bit, for when I'm buzzed I tend to don a cockney inspired accent. Ok, I don't need to be buzzed to do this. I do this all the time. I have no shame). First stop, The Alexandra, where we most certainly did NOT smuggle Baileys into the pub. It was clearly hot chocolate. God, we're not animals. Next stop was Casa del Brother Beamish for Christmas brunch. Now, here is where I believe my inability to get holiday hammered initiated. I had every intention to get absolutely ass backwards smashed on Christmas day, so much so that I made sure to make zero boxing day plans as a means of a heavy recuperation period. Alas, I did not get so much as ass forwards drunk. (Although a dear, British friend of mine would, days later, tell me he begged to differ). And this is, I believe, why: Our brunch menu consisted of two courses. To begin, Joshua created three, full sized omelettes equipped with all the fixings, and accompanied with bacon and mushrooms. In between courses we sipped on more Baileys and uncorked our second bottle of bubbly. At this point I was content, and pleasantly full. But who could turn down french toast with fried bananas, roasted hazelnuts, and fresh blackberries, all drizzled in authentic Canadian maple syrup? No one. The answer is no one. And so, as I previously mentioned, my fault for the day was choosing food over booze. If I had not stuffed my face all day, I would have sailed on a perfect buzz which would lead to an entire night of festive drunkenness. But, I love food. Hashtag no regrets. 

It was late afternoon at this point, and time to force ourselves to move on, regardless of our bodies' desire to slip into a permanent food coma. Another pit(y) stop at the Falcon, to visit our friend Harry, and remind ourselves of how blessed we are that the Unnamed bar chose to close over the holidays, preventing us from having to pull pints on Jesus's special day. There, we met up with a couple of bar wenches from the Alex after they closed the infamous bar. Australian Brad (who somewhat resembles a younger Tom Hardy, if Tom showered less, drank more, and grew a handle bar moustache) and this other British guy, I believe his name is Kieran, but I'm not certain. We were merely passing time, and trying to digest, before arriving at our final destination for the evening, The Railway. Being our neighbouring bar, Louise and I know the managers quite well (perhaps too well) and were therefore extended an invite to their after hours Christmas dinner lock in. With Brad and the other one as our plus one's, we were greeted with shots of Jaegermeister (which happens to be a digestif; quite fitting for my current state, and necessary considering the ridiculous amount of food I was surely soon to devour). And ridiculous it most certainly was! My plate could have easily fed an entire village of emaciated African children. But instead it fed only me. As did Bradley's brussel sprouts. And that British guy's brussel sprouts. Needless to say, by the end of the meal we were zombies. Gluttonous, carnivorous (what zombies aren't?), sluggish, less than jolly zombies. The Brit actually managed to fall asleep on the pub's couch. Out cold for hours, despite various people's cruel tactics to wake him. The rest of the evening was fairly tame, and felt quite a lot like a typical Christmas at home. Bellies full, eyelids heavy, bodies sprawled over furniture, mild and sporadic conversation to be had, but always a constant flow of alcohol. For we are not quitters, and the night was still young. Potential was a mere arms length (and litre bottle of grass infused vodka) away. By around 1:00am, Josh's incessant demands that Christmas is not Christmas without after dinner pie (he's right, to be fair) were finally taken seriously and forty-five minutes later Santa (Josh) appeared with his sack (two styrofoam take away boxes) filled with presents for everyone (an endless amount of individual apple pies). How he managed to find a chipper open at 1:00am on Christmas stumps me to this day. 'Tis the magic of Christmas! Two magical pies, and a few too many scoops of maple ice-cream that him and his accomplice had found at the back of the pub's freezer, and it was official. In the fight between boozy fun and consuming my weight in food, food had won. And it was time for me to put down the vodka I'd been milking for the past hour and a half, and surrender to it's victory. After acknowledging the fact that Santa wasn't the only one who could jiggle his belly like a bowl full of jelly, I dragged my fat ass home and into bed. Despite having my family, my Irishman, and myself all in different countries, I couldn't have thought of a better way to have spent my orphan Christmas. Jesus was good to me. Thank you Jesus. And Happy Birthday.