cherries

yesterday was an interesting day.

my boss and the head of our company, Anne and Simon, were heading to the grocery store. “Walk with us”, Simon said. and so I did.

I was craving cherries anyway.

But, as we were walking, I got more than ciggie smoke and sunshine. “Rach…” Simon cooed… They were incredibly pleased with my work… <”Best intern EVER” says Anne> … of course they knew I still had two years of school left… but even now, I would probably ready to do the work of an account manager…

they offered me a job.

working at Essence Communications. doing PR and Event Planning. Night Clubs, Hotels, Parties. “the scene”. in bloody London.

It was open ended, and more of a future proposition for summer or after school, or whatever would fit in with my life.

then we went to the grocery store. Anne bought olives, falafel, and fake tan lotion. Simon bought me cherries.

* * * * *

this one time, there were two of us studying, and she started to laugh. she read to me from her Psychology book…
“The only way we can properly judge where we are is relative to where we want to be.”

yours.Rachel

I know it’s time when…

when the dreaming starts.

maybe I should rephrase that. The dreaming never really stops I suppose… it just seems to ebb and flow.

Sometimes its more of a trickling stream that bubbles up on my commute, or on one of those rare lunches where I actually sit at a table and eat without a phone in one hand and a sandwich in the other. They are little dreams – Realities painted rosey round the edges, the same sunny senarios over and over again, or fuzzy future fantasies – sweet like icing but usually no more than that and a good amount of chantilly lace.

those dreams fit nicely swirled into noodles, or in between the faces and suits.

Then there are times like these,

times when the tide comes and dreams crash over my head almost every minute of the day, driving everything I feel and everything I do. Maybe a defense against the lows, or maybe my biological clock (which seems to have an uncanny sense of impending endings) Daydreams become journal entries. feeling scribbled, lists made. plans, or possibilities at the very least. When I get back to America… back to School… and then…
… New York. eating out, a hair appointment, baseball, idiot dogs and crazy dog people – all things home. sisters… junior year. resumes, stillettos, ambition. Rome…or maybe Cypress? <Morocco, Istanbul, Ibiza?> then full circle? …

I know it’s time when I’m already there.

“There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, so tonic so powerful as expectation of something tomorrow.” -Orison Marden

yours.Rachel

…

…

in 18 days I’ll be back in America.

10 weeks have passed…and I can’t decide if its been 2 minutes or two years.

in other news, I had fish and chips for the first time (on this trip) yesterday. With a big tall Strongbow… it was strangely delicious.

OMG LMAO is appropriate, I think

Today, my grandma and my mom got into London.  After feeling sick (which has now escalated to a fabulous fever and possibly the plague), I cut out of work early and went to see them at their hotel.  We had a lovely lunch, stroll through the park and Kensington Palace, and afternoon tea/dinner in a cute cafe.  I spent lots of time spilling stories, trying to explain to a pastor and a 70-some-odd-year-old woman what it is like working fashion, music, and nightclub PR.  Needless to say that was interesting.

My mother was cutting our cucumber tea sandwiches when my grandmother noted “You know, your father won’t have to be worried about your virginity in an office full of gay men.”

…

my mother almost choked on something (a delicious blend of shock and hysterical laughter I believe), and I responded.  “I think you’re right about that one.”

Yes, Grandma, I feel its pretty safe to say that there is no chance of a gay co-worker taking my virginity this summer.

brilliant.

:)

:)

little things that make me smile:

meetings that lead to meandering mornings in the sunshine….. mail in little green envelopes from people I love…. felt-tip markers….. comments and wall posts….. panties with popsicles on them….. pomengranate seeds…. the breeze when you stand in the front of a tube car….. when terms like “sensory overload plastic bondage” lead people to find my blog….

holiday

somehow, it was exactly like you would expect it to be.

vibrant, but calm and mello. Dodging omnipresent bikers and hopping on canal buses, we laundry listed our version of the “top 5 attractions”, and headed off. Respectful observance and the enernally unanswerable questions how? and why? as we climbed behind a bookcase and up steep squeaking stairs. followed by art — still lifes and dark 17th century Dutch works – I nodded my head, read, and moved on – and Van Gough. Color. passion. I could have stayed forever.

And the park, filled with people sitting on green grass sharing moments and stories while others skate-boarded and still others climed on/under/over/between the casted letters ‘I AMsterdam’. The wind blew my red hair and hers in front of her camera as she stood behind it soaking everything in. Touristic rock memorabilia at it’s finest – drinks on the river and off our feet finally.

Then as the sun set, streaking petal pink over the whispy clouds that spotted the sky, we were off again. Cobblestones and heels – exploring the streets – bars, coffeeshops. past the women in plexi-glass boxes, near naked bodies and impatient faces lit by the cold pink tubelighting encasing them. How much is that girl in the window?

We tried a few places on for size, but finally settled down some steps beneath the number “36″. To the past the bar, as a muscular tattooed man with a buzz cut eyed us – Charlotte Yorks in our own right, her in her turquoise tunic and me with bright eyes that never seem to fade – quizically. “Slowly” he warned, with a sly smile. Peppermint tea, past the pool table, wrap around booths, and card games, to two white chairs in a corner near the window.

And there we stayed. two redheads in a window, feet resting on the frame with toes over the canal — good as gods walking on water. The flourescent lights of hotels and restaraunts throwing colors into the softly rippling waves as lit windows sparkled brighter than stars. words flowing like the water and the warm tea slipping down my throat as we grabbed the camera, laughing. and, of course, I returned to watch the city -I always do. An ongoing love-affair with bright lights, but always through window frames.

shitty chinese food without chopsticks and waffels with strawberry icing, and a stop at the monument in Dam Square. and Sunday morning…coffee in enormous mugs with saucers that didn’t match next to candy pieces in a bowl on the table. the only thing in the world that make Sundays tolerable are brunch, good company, and strong coffee in big mugs. The rain came down, but it didn’t matter much as we ducked into a gay sex shop to buy umbrellas. Then diamonds, dreams, and a long trip home.

and by home I mean this place that will be gone in 3 and a half weeks. The only thing more fleeting than the time left in this place is the weekends.

“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen all at once.” – Albert Einstien

yours.Rachel

thinking of you

if you were here, you would know.

I wouldn’t have to write it. type it.  try to find the words to fill the sentances to paint the pictures of the beautifully intricate details that saturate my life.

If I was there, you would know.

We would sit on your couch under that fleece that I hope to God someone has washed at some point in history, talking until 4 in the morning. or we would drive to Tbell in my car, singing along to a song that was someone elses until it became our own. or we would lay down on green carpet running our hands through our hair, staring up at the ceiling like its speckled styrofoam was a tapestry of stars.

If you were here, I’d take you to Amsterdam with me.  or We’d go out to pubs and drink snakebites until we could hardly walk home, at which point we’d crash on my kitchen sofas and spend the night laughing and the morning hung over.  or I’d take you to the park, and we could take a picnic and cameras.  Or we could stay in with a couple bottles of wine; you could make me dinner and I could make you dessert.

If I was there we could take your boat out on the lake and watch the sun sparkle off the sapphire blue water.  or we could sit at the house and watch TV marathons or take road trips to see our friends.  Or we could wander the streets or hang out at your apartment. You could show me your summer.  or your city.  or your soul. And you could still make me dinner, and I could still make you dessert.

But, if you were here or I was there, then you would be here.  or I would be there.

.love.

yours.Rachel

you know you’re getting old when…

…when you go to bed early because you know you have to get up early the next morning, and you’re actually tired by midnight.

…when you do get up – you shower, eat breakfast, drink a mug of something hot, read/watch the news, and check the weather forecast.

…the morning commute. You shove earbuds into your ears, blasting your Ipod as your eyes glaze over. You make eye contact with no one on the tube, and you generally do everything you can to avoid feeling like you’re partaking in said “morning commute”

…when you do glance around the tube to observe your fellow commuters, you find yourself draw not to the boys with long hair, but to the men in suits.

…when you crave things like water, salads, and men in suits, apparently.

…when you ‘go have a drink’ after work.

…you come home, and then you do it all again.

Lately, I feel even more like I’m 30 than I always have.

“People grow through exprience if they meet life honestly and corageously. This is how character is built.” -Eleanor Roosevelt

yours.Rachel

how do I even begin?

7:30am <alarm> shower. lavendar towel wrapped around wet hair as I stand in my underwear lathered in mango body butter infront of an open closet making critical decisions. cheerios, tea, and email. check up on everyones blogs, and catch some fruitcake awake at 3am on aim occasionally.

Piccadilly line to the Northern line. Oxford Circus. past Topshop and other flag-ships, up an alley filled with media and PR companies, smokers and delivery men giving me the up and down. 8 Berniers Mews. buzzed in through bright white doors to an intentionally unfinished minimalist flat. Greeted by a pout – 6 feet and platforms, long blonde hair as stick-straight-skinny as she is. Behind her chic mac white drapes hung from a valted ceiling concealing racks of clothes and a table covered with look-books. the collections of our designers. Down the creaky wooden stairs is a kitchenette containing almost entirely hommus (and assorted low fat/sugar/carb/calorie dipping alternatives) and tea. And our desks – one large table quiet with the morning hangover but alive by the afternoon with talk of sexual drama and celebrity gossip. Bob, the office dog darts under the table between legs as Daisy squeels with girlish delight at her latest facebook friend request. Simon laughs and gestures with his hands which are somehow not invloved in either of his two current phone conversation, as Anne coos “sweetheart” with a scottish accent thick like honey. Anna sings along to her ipod and regales tales of gorgeous blokes as Michelle’s dark hair and dark voice sweep over her face.

Everyday I arrive freshfaced and bright-eyed. I thumb through the red pages, listing the agents/producers/labels/publicists of every celebrity from Al Gore to Boy George, and make phone calls. … …the Launch of Island Club in London and Ibiza…founding membership…opening event…kissing your ass… … I frequent the post office, sending out invoices and “thank you booze” to journalists, stopping for sweeties and fags on the way back to the office. I edit reports and research press on our clients. I sit in on meetings like I sit in on this life – watching, listening, absorbing, analysing – trying desperately to soak up everything that happens inside this incestuous hyper-world. knowing full well that this is the closest I’ll ever be without anorexia, alcoholism, or a very white nose. contemplating how far competence, dedication, and cleverness will get me… and how far it won’t. Treading water. wondering how deep I can dive without having to swallow.

“A million girls would kill for this job.” – Emily, from the Devil Wears Prada
yours.Rachel

update?

ok not really.

now that i’m like a real person, i don’t have time to blog everyday.  i’ve started work, and as we speak i’m dressed up and headed to some members only club for my boss’ birthday.  i’ve been too exausted and/or generally over-saturated to write, but let me tell you… i have a lot to tell you.  i’m learning all the time, about all sorts of things, and i promise a comprehensive week in review when i get to the weekend…and have time to breathe.

for now – happy 4th of july!  enjoy your beaches and bbqs as i’m here, working and playing(?) in cold and rainy london.

much love.

yours.rachel