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Interests
Discovering cultures through books, magazines, galleries, museums and meeting people from around the world. Capturing my life and experiences by writing daily in a blog. Musing over the many differences between life in England and America. Tea. Discovering new music. Exploring London, raining or not. Human rights. Scouring charity shops for cheap books. Buffalo Sabres NHL hockey. Collecting sarongs from around the world to hang on my walls. Currently, I have 34. Writing snail mail to my penpals around the world and friends and family in America. Going to indie rock gigs and muddy festivals. Travelling. So far I've been to 28 states and 14 countries. Scrapbooking and photography. Toasting marshmallows over bonfires on a warm summer evening. Chocolate. Occasionally helping out with guestlists, flyering, marketing and creating a website for The Stayaways, a Camden-based band. Creativity. Pencil drawing - mainly people - faces that have character. Puddle-jumping in the rain on a warm summer day. Love. Life.
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A Story
There are a million ways to tell any story, versions of the truth spilled from different voices, angles, depths. This version of mine is about the sense of smell, a sense strongly linked to memory. My grandparent’s house, where I spent quite a bit of time as a child, smelled of freshly baked bread. The cellar smelled of wine and fresh laundry. The field behind their house, which later became my house, smelled of freshly cut grass. Christmas, which also meant my birthday three days later, was my favorite time at my own house. It smelled of pine needles and sugar cookies. This was also my favorite time of year because it snows a lot where I grew up, just outside of Buffalo, New York. In the summertime, the aroma of fresh flowers filled the house. Autumn brought the scent of decay with its collage of colored leaves. When my mom came home from her job at the gift shop and hugged my brother and I, the folds of her coat smelled like candles. After hours working hard in his shed, my dad smelled like wood at night and came inside covered in sawdust or PVC shavings. My first serious boyfriend wore CK One cologne. Don’t ask me how I remember that. High school days, like the days before them, smelled of sweaty shin guards and soccer cleats, dirt, mud, grass and fresh air. When I started making scrapbooks, it added the scent of hot glue and markers. University brought the scent of grapes that hung from vines filling field after field on the drive from home. It smelled of printer ink and newspapers when I worked at The Leader. London came in and out of my life as my dad was born here and we took holidays every so often. I studied in London in 2004 and, after graduating from Fredonia, I moved back to London in January 2007 where I currently live with dual citizenship. That smells a bit like freedom and adventure. More often than not, London smells like rain. But what I love about the city is that the smells constantly change. Brick Lane smells of Indian spices. Hyde Park smells of horses. There’s the smell of book shops on Charing Cross Road, which is one of my favorites. My grandpa always said, “Life is like a bowl of cherries; you just have to watch out for the pits.” I love the smell of cherries and I love to savor the sweetness that life has to offer. Each cherry in the bowl is like a new moment in life waiting to be devoured. Each moment either carries the sweetness of success or smells like the tangy allure of a new challenge. |
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