On May 18, I’m driving to St. Petersburg, Fla., and I’ll be there the rest of the summer. I’ve already spent an hour on Google Earth finding the quickest path to the Gulf of Mexico and created wildly overzealous lists featuring all the places I’ll be eating. Don’t worry.

On May 18, I’m driving to St. Petersburg, Fla., and I’ll be there the rest of the summer. I’ve already spent an hour on Google Earth finding the quickest path to the Gulf of Mexico and created wildly overzealous lists featuring all the places I’ll be eating. Don’t worry.

Rereading my final thoughts on London is making me miss its thrum and pulse and lights.

(Source: brain-food, via thissecond)

My essay was published in Carolina Passport. Here it is, if you’d like to read it. London, Abridged, by Claire McNeill There was a moment on my flight into London when the plane curved hard to the right and hung in the air. Then it rotated, slow, and in the windows the city grid appeared and slid past beneath us, panning over the Tower Bridge, the Eye, Parliament. The Thames wound a silky green ribbon through the roads and spires below, brown rooftops peppering the gaps. It was a whole minute of held breath. Enthralled with the view, I was still, absorbing the city that would soon be mine, already feeling things changing. The plane turned up to face the hazy sky, horizon indistinguishable, the city quiet beneath us, and we landed.  It feels like a thousand times I’ve paused now, unsure how to answer the simple, “How was it?” The tacit, “Great, I loved it,” usually suffices, but there are oceans beneath that answer. There is no full response I can give — no summary or cute quip — that conveys the entirety of the experience of spending four months abroad.  I loved London. I really, really loved it. It almost came as a surprise. People talk about Paris like stepping off the metro platform is a transformative experience. What I knew about London was far less. But I fell in love with the city instantly, with its low-lying streets and cloudy days. There’s a sense of wildness in the unrefined parks and millions of brown homes, dusted with an old charm. It lacks the flashiness of American sharp lines and model homes but instead possesses a sense of age to it. And with that age comes a sense of comfort. I felt like myself there, like all my various parts were at ease. London is a city of richness and history, and it’s one of layers. It’s easiest to remember the city by the tube map, the multicolored cross-stitch of sorts that I memorized on what felt like a thousand sweaty, crowded, fluorescently-lit rides. I see the city by the map – disparate zones and colors and rhythms somehow linked together, fitting together, even when the differences are wild.  Consider the contrasts: the grit and glitter of Camden Market, against the artisan cheeses and cakes of Borough Market, against the wild beauty of the sprawling heaths to the north. There are the clubs — from bluesy and intimate to pulsing, bright and hot — and the jewel-toned National Gallery, the pastels of Portobello Road, and the regal façade of Buckingham Palace. It goes on: weathered roofs in Fulham, opulent storefronts in Kensington, tourists in Trafalgar Square, and sleek lines at the Tate Modern, which faces the ethereal dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. All these pieces should be fragments but instead they’re sewn together, fluid, forming one London.  At first, I was constantly looking around me, weighing how things felt, slipping into a new mode of attentiveness. I had a heightened awareness of even the smallest differences. Soon, though, the city became home. American accents made me do a double-take. My hour-long commute became normal. British tabloids, fuchsia lipstick, “mind the gap,” red buses: all of it became my everyday. Still, though, certain moments struck me. I especially savored the cold days in December, my last ones in London. I’d take the long way to class so I could walk across the Waterloo Bridge in the bitter, thin air, absolutely alone and so very alive. From the middle I could see it all, the whole city, and there was always a shift inside me, some heavy weight in my lungs as the wind sliced hard across the bridge. It was a feeling of total autonomy, of disjointedness and belonging all in one, of understanding and, most of all, gratitude. And that feeling of gratitude, as I finished my classes and travels in a blur, said my goodbyes and took three flights home, is what remains. Gratitude for being able to go, gratitude for having gone, and gratitude for coming home.

My essay was published in Carolina Passport. Here it is, if you’d like to read it.

London, Abridged, by Claire McNeill

There was a moment on my flight into London when the plane curved hard to the right and hung in the air. Then it rotated, slow, and in the windows the city grid appeared and slid past beneath us, panning over the Tower Bridge, the Eye, Parliament. The Thames wound a silky green ribbon through the roads and spires below, brown rooftops peppering the gaps. It was a whole minute of held breath. Enthralled with the view, I was still, absorbing the city that would soon be mine, already feeling things changing. The plane turned up to face the hazy sky, horizon indistinguishable, the city quiet beneath us, and we landed. 

It feels like a thousand times I’ve paused now, unsure how to answer the simple, “How was it?” The tacit, “Great, I loved it,” usually suffices, but there are oceans beneath that answer.

There is no full response I can give — no summary or cute quip — that conveys the entirety of the experience of spending four months abroad. 

I loved London. I really, really loved it. It almost came as a surprise. People talk about Paris like stepping off the metro platform is a transformative experience. What I knew about London was far less. But I fell in love with the city instantly, with its low-lying streets and cloudy days. There’s a sense of wildness in the unrefined parks and millions of brown homes, dusted with an old charm. It lacks the flashiness of American sharp lines and model homes but instead possesses a sense of age to it. And with that age comes a sense of comfort. I felt like myself there, like all my various parts were at ease.

London is a city of richness and history, and it’s one of layers. It’s easiest to remember the city by the tube map, the multicolored cross-stitch of sorts that I memorized on what felt like a thousand sweaty, crowded, fluorescently-lit rides. I see the city by the map – disparate zones and colors and rhythms somehow linked together, fitting together, even when the differences are wild. 

Consider the contrasts: the grit and glitter of Camden Market, against the artisan cheeses and cakes of Borough Market, against the wild beauty of the sprawling heaths to the north. There are the clubs — from bluesy and intimate to pulsing, bright and hot — and the jewel-toned National Gallery, the pastels of Portobello Road, and the regal façade of Buckingham Palace. It goes on: weathered roofs in Fulham, opulent storefronts in Kensington, tourists in Trafalgar Square, and sleek lines at the Tate Modern, which faces the ethereal dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. All these pieces should be fragments but instead they’re sewn together, fluid, forming one London. 

At first, I was constantly looking around me, weighing how things felt, slipping into a new mode of attentiveness. I had a heightened awareness of even the smallest differences. Soon, though, the city became home. American accents made me do a double-take. My hour-long commute became normal. British tabloids, fuchsia lipstick, “mind the gap,” red buses: all of it became my everyday.

Still, though, certain moments struck me. I especially savored the cold days in December, my last ones in London. I’d take the long way to class so I could walk across the Waterloo Bridge in the bitter, thin air, absolutely alone and so very alive. From the middle I could see it all, the whole city, and there was always a shift inside me, some heavy weight in my lungs as the wind sliced hard across the bridge. It was a feeling of total autonomy, of disjointedness and belonging all in one, of understanding and, most of all, gratitude.

And that feeling of gratitude, as I finished my classes and travels in a blur, said my goodbyes and took three flights home, is what remains. Gratitude for being able to go, gratitude for having gone, and gratitude for coming home.

It’s important for the next generation of introspective little girls to know that they don’t need loud personalities to be strong people. It’s a shame that many children’s films, even ones determined to present a tough, modern heroine, end up equating confidence with extroversion.

Children’s literature, on the other hand, is filled with quiet, clever heroines. Roald Dahl’s Matilda, Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, and Meg Murry from Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time come to mind. These beloved characters are not extroverts, but they are also not wallflowers; each girl draws upon her wits, imagination, and quiet inner confidence to overcome immense obstacles.

Enough Fiesty Princesses: Disney Needs an Introverted Heroine | The Atlantic

For a while, I was just loosely following the webcomic Nimona, but today I read the entire series so far and GOD, it’s so awesome. The reckless, fearless, pierced, tough and eager Nimona is a shapeshifter sidekick to the not-so-evil evil guy Blackheart. The whole thing is a really cool blend of medieval scenes and science and TVs and futurism, coupled with smart lines and incredible artwork. It’s just fun and smart and fresh and surprising. Go take five minutes and start reading the comics from the beginning, and familiarize yourself with the artist Noelle Stevenson (gingerhaze). She’s pretty cool.

For a while, I was just loosely following the webcomic Nimona, but today I read the entire series so far and GOD, it’s so awesome. The reckless, fearless, pierced, tough and eager Nimona is a shapeshifter sidekick to the not-so-evil evil guy Blackheart. The whole thing is a really cool blend of medieval scenes and science and TVs and futurism, coupled with smart lines and incredible artwork. It’s just fun and smart and fresh and surprising.

Go take five minutes and start reading the comics from the beginning, and familiarize yourself with the artist Noelle Stevenson (gingerhaze). She’s pretty cool.

I think I started having more success when I stopped feeling like there was a narrative to my life. I think once you let go of that idea, then first off you stop seeing yourself as the most important thing in your narrative, you see yourself as more of a component. There’s no art to my story. There’s no like, climax or anticlimax… so trying to find where things connected or what’s ‘in my arc’ didn’t make a lot of sense. And once I let go of that — cause that was a big thing for me in high school and college — I think I started having more success or became happier.

Justin McElroy in the little documentary The Verge made about Paul Miller’s year without the internet (via christinefriar)

Rather than take me up on it, my father would either storm out or push me aside to do the dishes himself, instilling in me the early lesson that the discord over discrimination will almost never be attributed to the inequality that exists therein, but to the ones who insist on making a problem out of it.

Clementine Ford consistently, consistently verbalizes the things I’d love to say but struggle to word.  

‘Finding a way of being a girl that doesn’t hurt’ | Daily Life

55,566 plays

melouize:

Get Lucky (Daft Punk Cover) | Daughter

I love everything I hear by Daughter.

On repeat as I study for my 8 a.m. final for the class I attended three times this semester (including the first class and the midterm).

(Source: foxmouth)

Illustration by Rafaela Kucunic

Illustration by Rafaela Kucunic

lindsaur-gor:

There needs to be a code word or something that means “my brain is fighting me every step of the way today and I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin, so I need you to forgive everything and go slowly and speak softly and lower your expectations.” And then we could all just be like, “I know I said we could go to a movie tonight but… tangerines.” And the other person would nod and squeeze your elbow or rub your head and you wouldn’t feel like a failure.

(Source: mr-lindsey, via luellaloves)

Caught in a cycle as follows: try to fit all the pieces in place, realize the pieces have nowhere to be placed, feel a sense of freedom, panic, start over. I like road trips, reading everything, making lists and drinking beer on front porches.

Writer, reader, journalist. 20.

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All these things I lived through—the strange and fugitive beauty of the desert and the mountains, the primitive realities, the sky and the sand, so easily dissolving in mysteries and visions. All the quiet common things of the earth I came to love, and the simple and useful human beings—life going on, going on.

— Ray Stannard Baker, American Chronicle