I am in a nearly state with regards to many things. I have almost left London, and have almost returned to America.
This journey across the Atlantic feels like more of a decision, more significant. Doing a thing once can be treated as a trial; doing it twice is a habit, something true about oneself. After this summer at home, I feel more deeply connected to London than ever before, but also feel / know that my career is in America, that my publishing, writing, teaching, and the majority of writing friends are over there.
My first novel is nearly finished; I am nearly starting a PhD. And Edinburgh, this sot-stained antique city, ornate and grey, its city centre of tunnels and steps, its outskirts of meadows and church spires, the summer sun setting brilliantly after ten p.m.–it is sort of like still being at home, sort of like having already left. Listening to live performances of “Fulsom Prison” in various famous pubs. Walking alongside canals as the sun sets, as pigeons retire to the underbeams of bridges, and ducks line up, heads tucked into wings, on the canal’s far ledge. I walk listening to Michel Thomas’s French language course, stringing together under his tetchy instruction longer and longer sentences, preparing for the language requirement of my PhD.
One more week in England.