For Findingmoxie, the Bell Tolls.

I went out after work with some colleagues--actually, my bosses and yes, that's how far I've come. I no longer mentally play the Imperial Death March when my boss approaches. Don't get me wrong, I still hear her approach and get that reflexive twinge of 'Look Busy!'. Anyway, going out for two drinks soon leads to communal bottles and someone topping up your glass without your knowing and leads to this:

Drunken ramblings on the bus home. I do remember the moment. The clock was lit with the aged yellow of history, the bus windows were open and it was 8pm. I remember hearing the bells for the first time and suddenly wondering how it was possible that I ride past Parliament and Big Ben ('Look kids, it's Parliment and Big Ben!!') twice a day, five days a week, for 14 months and have never heard the bell toll the hour.

Certainly begs the question, for whom the bell tolls? Clearly, it hasn't been for me. Although maybe that's the point. You never know when it tolls for you. Maybe it's been tolling this whole time and I couldn't hear it. Speaking of which, I really need to finish that book.

In that moment, living in London became slightly more concrete. I mean, it's hard to ignore the range of British accents, lilting up and down and dodging consonants, and the absence of my nearest and dearest (except for hubbs). Nothing emphasizes disassociation from everything you used to know more than an 8 hour time difference. I no longer react to my life with my community of peers, but detachedly relate it at a time more suited to their sleep cycle and my own. Removed from my time and until I heard Big Ben tolling the hour, without any time. It was almost like Big Ben restored my gravity and ground me in London--19 months after I arrived.

It also brings to light (pun intended) another issue. Why does having a tipple or two too much stimulate my writing life? Why does the urge to put my thoughts down to paper always froth up when I won't be able to legibly record a damn thing? I speak of the many journal entries from my year in Leeds where journaling usually meant more spilled ink than anything else. I began to wonder if my preoccupations with daily life were stifling my froth? Perhaps the time I spend strategizing the next day's outfit, mentally prioritizing paperwork for tomorrow's to-do list, or dreaming of our next holiday isn't settling my chi. It's coating my chi, the white noise of living. Apparently, hooch sets my chi free, de-clutters my mind and releases the writing life.

Just have to figure out how to have both without becoming a lush and the sort of illegible genius no one can ever understand--including myself.