Returning

CALIBAN

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

I have always suspected this speech was written about good old Blighty, not just the Mediterranean island on which Shakespeare's Tempest takes place.  I reread it before I left for London, and am only now reading it again upon my return. This semester has been one of rereading and rethinking. I have reread my journals from last winter break, anticipating everything possible; and my journals from the semester too, sometimes obsessively tracking details of my days; I have reread this blog again and again, for the purposes of proofreading and contemplation alike (I think of it as 'returning to the source'). As you might notice, I have been thinking a lot about the books and poems I have read in the past, trying to find some nexus with my own lived experience.

All of this makes me wonder about the experience of reading as an experience of living. Think of yourself, reader. Only a few of you accompanied me in person, but we have still shared these moments together. I am new to blogging, so I have to consider the actual function of a blog. It is something intended to be read, but I hope that the reading has not stopped here, that perhaps you have found yourselves curious to know more about some of the places I described or the people whose words I have referenced - or even the words themselves. More importantly, this all seems like an exercise in imagination; though you are not with me in this place, how do you imagine it? How do you see these words?

I have just reread my first post on the blog. I was hesitant to post it or share it with anyone. In retrospect, I can now look for the patterns that emerged, the many changes this blog underwent in a few months - for instance, there was a stint of sharing photos of the meals I cooked; I tried my hand at cliffhangers for a while; I always tried to cite works of writing that I had been thinking about - and it makes me think more broadly about the function of actually going somewhere new. There will always be these exasperating, and still exciting elements of chance and change.

Despite all the paperwork and the boarding passes and whatnot, there really was not much else I felt in control of during the semester. I am thinking about my first post on the blog, when I established the fleeting Dickens motif, the idea of forming a chain of memories link by link; I always found them by accident, unintentionally, or without expectation. I did not often share them on this blog, but I promise you, there were many.

Another crucial element of surprise was my readership; I never knew who was reading unless people told me about it, asked me to tell them more, or commented. One of the glories of blogger is that you can keep track of where your readers are: USA, Canada, many European countries, China, India, Russia, Australia, Brazil, South Africa, it goes on. This morning I ordered a coffee at a local shop and the barista told me he really liked reading my post about Paris. This all seems to suggest to me that we are perhaps a bit more connected to each other than I usually think. Thank you.

I am building up to the real substance of this final post, the events of my last week in London. I saw three shows - "Everyman," "The Merchant of Venice," and "Woolf Works" - all of which shook me to the core. I took a few exams, took a daytrip to York, said goodbyes to a few favorite people and places, pierced my ear, cleaned the entire flat (the joy of staying the longest also means the pain of cleaning up after everyone else), found a rainbow, had a last pint, took a last long night walk.

That walk was actually almost identical to the very first walk I took in the city a year ago. I found myself again beguiled by the birds in St. James's Park and the flocks of pub-goers spilling onto the sidewalks; by accident, I happened to find the same Charlie Chaplin impersonator in the same place I had found him last June. This particular incident comforts me; it reminds me that places don't change all that much. I threw out a pair of shoes that took me just about everywhere.

On the trip back to Boston, I thought about all the places I still have yet to see in the UK and Europe and the entire world. Even on my way home, the most stable, honest, true thing I could think of was that I will return soon.

I will resist the temptation to close out with someone else's words. I will keep on walking, writing, thinking - to what end? I would not want to know just now.