This gorgeous antique print from the 19th century is of the Spathiphyllum, otherwise known as The Peace Lily. A common house plant, it's quite resilient and tough to kill and constantly reminds me of one of the many fond memories of English gent before he became MY English gent. I make sure always to have this cheap and cheerful plant in ANY residence I occupy.

Dear Ether, 

I ran into him at the vegetable section at Sainsbury’s in New Cross Gate.  I was 21 years old and he was 19.  He was carrying one of those dainty ferns that have delicate, petal like leaves that sadly die unless you have a masterful green thumb.  He didn’t have a basket and was carrying too much in his arms.  His face was slight obstructed by the plant.  “You might want to try a Spathiphyllum instead.  They’re almost impossible to kill and they let you know when they’re desperate for a drink—their leaves totally droop and look depressed.”  He looked past the greenery to see who the voice was coming from and grinned when he saw me.  “Hiya.  I don’t know what the hell a Spathiphyllum is but if you know a plant with a fucking name like that, I better take your word for it and put this one back.”  He was so damned good-looking and that accent then was still so novel.  So classy!  I felt like I was chatting with someone Bertie Wooster might know. 

I was doing my midnight shopping as usual because I was a night owl and the store was dead.  I still found UK supermarkets a marvel.  They were so different than the large American ones and I loved strolling down the aisles and buying things I’d never heard of before to taste (though Mr. Brains Frozen Faggots never did make the tick-list).  English gent was wearing a very hip beanie covering his hair so I didn’t see his normally trendy blonde hair cut.  All I could see were his beautifully sculpted features and his dark eyebrows and lashes with his rare peridot green eyes.  I noticed he had a bottle of Jack Daniels as part of his shopping along with writing paper, some pens and oddly a prayer candle.  “What are you up to tonight?” I asked him nonchalantly.  I had been hanging out with him along with a few of my flatmates recently.  He went to boarding school with one of the guys I was living with and was particularly friendly with him and came over to our halls a lot.  The three of us often stayed up talking, drinking, smoking weed and listening to chill music.  I only bothered with this banter because of him.  I felt when we argued over a political point or some other runaway discussion there was some sort of sexual tension.  But then he would just act as mates when we would run into each other.  

“Tonight.  Fuck me.  I have a paper to write.  The whiskey always inspires me,” he chuckled. “And is the prayer candle lit to give you a hope from god to help you finish the thing?” I asked.  He laughed.  “No, I love to write poetry by candlelight and these last forever.” He writes poetry too….oh man……! “Well, I’m not up to anything, so if you finish your paper and you wanna pop on over when you’re done it’d be cool to hang out.”  He nodded his head negatively. “This one is gonna be an all nighter.  But thanks anyway.  I better get that plant—the—Spatha—that whatever you recommended and get going.  Cheers!”  I was gutted.  I just didn’t get it.  I guess he knew I liked him and wasn’t interested.  I meandered around Sainsbury’s a bit more, no longer keen on the novelty of the place and saw him, well, the tall leaves of his plant, in the check-out line, and watched him go.  Sauntering home with, I think that night, Marmite flavored crisps (a nasty surprise) I was bored stiff and cozied up with a book and passed out.  But at 2:30am my mobile rang.  It was English gent.  I was excited, but had to sound calm and cool.  “Hey, what’s up?  How’s your work going?”  He sounded relaxed and relieved.  “I’m done, actually and have a full bottle of whiskey and not a friend in the world tonight.  Mind if I come over?”  MIND?  Of course not!  But, as we Americans say, this was NOT going to be a “booty call.” 

I feverishly threw on something cute, but not trying “too hard cute,” stashed away my candy wrappers and waited with my heart in my chest.  He didn’t knock–he just texted saying he was about to come in the flat.  I jolted up from my bed, opened the door and there he stood.  Diesel jeans (perfect cut), vintage top with a fantastic toggle coat, chic boots (rugged and manly, yet still on trend) the bottle of booze and that damned dashing grin.  Two kisses on each cheek he was in the door, 3 hours later we were drunk, and an hour later I was ready to pass out.  “Can I sleep here tonight?  I can’t be asked to head back to my flat.” Okay.  Remember. NO BOOTY CALL.  SINGLE BED.  SO…WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?  “Sure, do you mind sleeping on the floor, I have a spare duvet and a pillow—it’ll be padded and comfy.”  He looked taken aback, but not too shocked.  I think he thought I was going to invite him to sleep with me.  

By the time I came back from the bathroom where I changed and brushed my teeth, he was passed out.  He was like one of my English novelties I had brought back from the supermarket.  Except I hadn’t tried him—yet.  No, this one I was going to savor, because I didn’t know if it had a day old expiry date.  I stared at him.  His lashes spread out like fans almost touching his cheeks, a slight squint as if he was thinking in a dream, his lips slightly parted blowing air out making a feather from the duvet flicker.  I knew he couldn’t hear me.  He was way too drunk and way too deep in sleep.  So I whispered, “I think I love you.  And I have a feeling we’re going to be together.  You’ll see.  When I want something and I try hard enough, I get it.”  Oh if only the two of us knew how right I was to be that night.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I feel utter despair. This post is ironic. I start out lighthearted, but as I write and I begin to spill my guts, I end distraught.

Dear Ethers, 

***The beginning part about “Fashion Fridays” was written before I began delving into my somewhat stream-of-consciousness “rant” about the state of English gent and I…therefore it starts very lightheartedly.  I apologize for it turning into something far less amusing.

Shock! Gasp! “Fashion Fridays” is not going to happen today!!!!!!!!! I know, I know.  Grab the tissues, I’ll wait for you to stop tearing your hair out.  Done?  Okay, I’ll explain.  My photographer is ill and my replacements are A: serving jury duty B: on vacation.  So, since there is no one to snap the photo, the shoot cannot be.  But, that means there is one extra outfit in the wardrobe waiting for you next week that will be very special and I promise I’ll make it ultra-fab to make up for this terrible loss.  Are we cool?  Thanks for understanding Ethers. 

So, I suppose I should update you on what’s going on with English gent and myself…yes, the saga does continue.  He’s fading fast guys.  He’s truly miserable.  He sleeps for hours and drinks tons of coffee and energy drinks to keep his depressed eyes open to even do any work.  He’s proclaimed that he doesn’t even know if he’s in love with me anymore and that he thinks I might have ruined his life.  He doesn’t believe in Dr. W anymore and won’t attend sessions.  He and I are monosyllabic at best and don’t find anything that either of us do of interest any longer.  He does not sleep in the same bed as me—he has taken over the spare room/office and made it his.  I hate to get graphic, but we haven’t been sexual for months.  And I mean, we haven’t even grazed fingertips or lips either.  He is very angry towards me and I am very resentful towards him.  

Ok. 

I know what you’re going to say. 

It’s time to move on. 

It’s not that easy. 

English gent and I sent in visa paperwork which detains him in the USA for 6 months.  Yes, he can leave, but this would cost $2,000 and destroy his application.  

Who cares, you say?  He doesn’t want to be there anyway. 

Well, we don’t know after 8 years if this is just a rough patch because of our life situation or if we are DONE.  You have to remember it wasn’t very long ago that we were madly in love and living together in bliss in London strong as ever.  I used to look at him and thank my lucky stars.  I was always terrified that the States was going to ruin that.  That maybe there was something magical about us in England.  But that taking him out of context and putting him in America where he had to depend on me would kill us.  I was right.  

I feel bad for him.  I feel sorry for myself.  I know the right thing to do would be to rip off the plaster and send him away.  He’s be in agony, as would I, but probably in the end we’d both find our feet…….slowly……..and have better lives for it.  Ethers, he is a Londoner through and through.  He is a fish out of water here and he is never going to learn to swim.  The problem is neither of us know what to do.  It’s like we are Siamese twins.  We’ve been attached for so long that even though the option of separation would be best, it’s too scary to think about cutting us apart.  I really can’t imagine my life without him in it.  

Right now I’m scared.  Terrified.  This is the guy who I thought I’d be with forever.  I thought I got lucky young.  And now, on the brink of 30, my whole world is upside down.  When he told me that he didn’t know that he was in love with me anymore—the truth is—the world didn’t freeze—it sort of thawed.  He was on to something. 

But you know what happens if we aren’t lovers…..he’s gone forever.

He’ll never speak to me or see me again.  8 years and he’ll never speak my name again.  And I have never really dated.  Will I, after one horrible date after the other, dream of him and what a fool I was to let him fly away?  Will I spend the rest of my life running after him?  Will I become the ultimate bolter?  

I’ve never experienced anyone dying, or had major surgery.  But I think this is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me.  I live with the ghost of English gent—his body and face are the same.  His clothes are familiar.  But his eyes are slightly different and his soul has completely morphed.  He probably thinks the same of me.  

I know I still love him because while I’m writing this my heart doesn’t hurt for me, but for him.  For everything he might lose.  For his pain.  If you don’t love someone, those feelings don’t exist.  

Once he goes back to England—my life in England is singed at the tips.  I’ll have nothing left but some photos and an expired Oyster card.  He was supposed to be my London.  My own piece of my fantasy that I loved for 8 years.  And when he leaves, all I’ll have are faded memories.  I can’t help but feel this is all my fault.  If I could have just wanted for nothing and been quiet and content.  What does one do with a really broken heart shattering with every beat in ones chest?  I feel like a 50 year old woman who is in the middle of a divorce.  But I’m only 29.  And he’s only 27.  I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs HELP. But I can’t because it is a dirty secret he and I have to keep from our families.  We have no one.  We really only had each other and now we are each other’s worst enemy.  

I can’t write anymore.  Wow…and this started off as a lighthearted post.  And I am so sorry to be repetitive.  You have all given me your best and most thought out advice.  I know we should break up.  I know. I know. I know.  But can you see it from my point of view Ethers?  Please?  Try and remember when you were in relationship binds.  It isn’t so cut and dry.  You don’t need to bother leaving me a comment.  Thanks for letting me vent.  Whoever you are out there reading this—-thank you for listening.  If I had 1 wish it would be to do it all over again.  I really fucked up my life.  How do you live with that?  I guess you do….I’m still breathing……but all I want to do is just go to sleep. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

I never gently fall to sleep. I try and set my mind to conjure happy memories. I reckon this is what I might look like whilst I dream. Hair tousled, lips slightly opened. I see myself slightly grainy. I am between two universes--one where I wish I could remain and one where my body lies. Some would say it would be hell to live in a memory. But what happens if your present is far more painful? Would YOU sleep, perchance to dream?

Dear Ethers, 

Have you ever had that empty feeling in your chest?  You know it.  The one where you breathe in and there feels like a huge hole and then a slight shiver of anxiety and pain.  This is exactly what I’ve been experiencing lately.  And I’ve looked at my last posts and realized that they have been so negative and I’m scared that they’re depressing you.  This is what always happens to me.  I make friends because I seem effusive and happy.  But as time roles on and life happens, I start to reveal myself and people get turned off by the real me.  The me that is a depressive.  A glass half-empty girl.  The scared, nail-biting to cover her face for protection, sleep all day, cry at night, girl who might look good on the outside but is crumbling on the inside.  See, I’ve never written a journal—especially a public one.  So, I don’t know what’s going to happen.  Will you all go away?  Or, in some sad, miserable way, does this bring you closer to me because either misery loves company or you feel sorry for me?   

Every night before I go to bed, I close my eyes and I try to conjure happy moments to try and calm myself.  I dream about things like the first time I met English gent and bought him a giant topiary (about 5 feet tall) I schlepped home from Columbia Road Market (on the tube) to surprise him.  He still gave me butterflies then.  I visualize me buttoning up my dad’s white shirt under his tux before he went to the Emmy’s.  He swore he wouldn’t win but I bought him a “No Fear” brand shirt that said “If you can’t win don’t play” that he wore underneath his fancy button down.  And all I hear is the booming sound when they announced his name while my brother and I were sitting in the audience that evening.  He let me carry the statue all night.  I dream of when I was a ballerina and got a lead part.  We were poor but my mom saved every penny and bought me the expensive pink tulle dress that I needed to perform and I swore to myself that I would dance my heart out that night and prove to her it was worth every cent. I still have that little pink dress in my closet—I never stored it because it reminded me to be humble.  I remember not wanting to read the last pages of “Gone With The Wind” because I didn’t want to lose Scarlett.  And that I left that damned book with 3 pages in it for a year before I had the heart to finish it.  And when I did, boy did I cry.  

Life is full of memories.  We all have them don’t we?  But that’s my point.  We are all so complicated.  Everyone has a story.  And we all love to hear the good ones.  But it’s when they turn ugly—we flee.  So when I lay in bed at night, I imagine being that girl with all the good stories to tell.  I dream of being only in the good moments and cutting away all of the ugly patches in my life.   Yes, I do take anti-anxiety medication to help lull me away.  To take away the ache.  How very sad.  I’m a broken machine that needs pills to fix it.  You know, I know so many people who are so happy with their lives.  And they never wanted for much.  They are in normal jobs, making normal money married to an everyday Joe.  Why couldn’t I want that?  Why did I have to want the world?  Why did I have to be a dreamer? What comes with dreams are risks, pain and loss.  

Ethers.  I want to run.  Bolt. Hide. Fade away.  Because then nothing new could hurt me and I could just cut away the shit and close my eyes everyday and I wouldn’t have to live in my dreams.  I relate to Scarlett when she said to Rhett “Where shall I go, what shall I do?” Because I don’t have anywhere to go AND I don’t know what to do.  And we all know what he answers….the famous line, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”  And then he walks in the fog.  But do you remember what she says?  “I’ll think of it all tomorrow….after all, tomorrow is another day.”  Yes, tomorrow IS another day…………but the nightmare is a perpetual tomorrow, AND tomorrow AND tomorrow…and the the fear of nobody left TO genuinely give a damn.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

As the world spins around and people live their lives, I wonder, where do I fit in? Where do I belong? I've been a nomad--a bit of a gypsy my whole life. So tell me Ethers, where AM I from?

Dear Ether,

People often ask me where I’m from. It’s so hard to say. If I say London, they’ll cock an eyebrow, wonder why I don’t have an accent, and when I explain I only lived there 8 years, think I’m affected. If I say I’m from Los Angeles, I almost have to cough it out. I find it difficult to believe. Half my life I don’t even remember spending in California, and the last 8 were when I was a teenager and didn’t really have freedom to see the city. I spent 3 years in CT and 1 year in NYC. So I guess I have to technically say I was BORN in Los Angeles….but really, where am I from?

When I close my eyes and ask this question, I picture myself with my face plastered against the grimy plexiglass of the last row on the tube being jerked to sleep by its stops and lurches on my way home from an exhausting days work. I see myself in a magnificent coat with a full scarf and a sugar-free vanilla skinny venti latte from Starbucks. I imagine great jeans, my All Saints boots and a fag in Camden heading to a freelance job walking to the beat of my own heart amongst the throng of other colorful people, all while seeing the florist set up her hut diagonal from the tube station. I visualize English gent and I on a night bus when we first met laughing before we cared about money and being adults, heading into the depths of ugly New Cross. The feeling of a cup of tea to soothe you after a bitter day and watching the rain pour down and just being so grateful to be indoors. And what about fingering the wares at a market stall and being called ”love,” or walking through the Sussex countryside and passing the same river Virgina Woolf drowned herself in all those years ago?

And what of Los Angeles? Again, I slam my eyes shut, feeling my lashes against the tips off my cheekbones, and I see memories too—just in different hues. Bright blue skies with sun that warmed your skin and made you golden after a day at the beach. Nights when my brother and I would be bundled into the back of our old station wagon and my mom and dad would take us to drive-in move theaters (relics now) in our pajamas. Every year on my birthday being taken to the same Mexican restaurant that had been around since 1927 and having mariachi’s sing to me and have my picture taking wearing a sombrero so big that it covered my whole face. Looking down at my feet and seeing the heavy tan line my flip-flops left on my feet. The smell of the gardeners laying down fertilizer in October for seed to grow for fresh grass. Pumpkin pie and gravy for Thanksgiving and catching my dog on the table while we were all in the other room having hour d’oeuvres. The overwhelming beauty of fuchsia bougainvillea growing wildly all over neighbor’s gardens. My darling standard poodle whom I used to lay out in the backyard with and talk to for hours until it got too chilly and then we’d go inside and we’d talk for even longer debating issues of the heart!

I now reside in Los Angeles, but in my soul I know it is temporary. I know I am bound for somewhere else. This place and I, it never had a connection. And being here, I remember that now. And I pine for London. But boy did she and I have our problems too. Where’s next? Where will I end up being from? I don’t know. I feel just because you’re born somewhere doesn’t make you from there. It just makes that the place you were issued your birth certificate. Like I’ve said before, I feel like more of a Londoner than a Los Angelino—but not according to my records or when I’m issued jury duty.

I always thought it was so funny that I was considered an immigrant. Me. A white, upper-middle class girl, with a Master’s degree and some cash in her pocket. Terrible. I know. That I should feel like I shouldn’t be looked at as the same as someone from Africa or Mexico. I’ll never forget sitting in East Croydon in the Home Office waiting for my papers. I was very nervous. I didn’t know if my visa was going to get reissued. A guy about my age from Nigeria spoke to me. He saw my passport in its clear folder. “You’ll have no problems” he smiled. “I don’t know, I’m really worried this time. I’m applying for residency.” He grinned and said, “You are white, American and a woman. Me, I’m black, a man and from Nigeria. I have been here 6 times. If I get rejected this time, I am out of chances.” I looked down to the floor and didn’t know what to say. He said cheerfully, “Don’t feel bad. Remember, you have a good home to go back to. I have a good family too. I just want a better life. Just remember, it’s all about where you’re from.” We chatted a bit more and his number was called. I wished him well. Then it was my turn to go to the desk.  I was shaky but determined. Within ten seconds I was approved. They were most concerned about how I was going to pay. I still wonder if 7 was that man’s lucky number and if he really meant what he said about remembering where you were from—that no matter where you are in the world—you can always go home again—wherever that may be.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

A braid is made of a sequence of ties and twists--sort of like life. The hairstyle has lasted generation after generation, just like our families and their stories. Funny how something so seemingly simple as hair can be so very complicated.

Dear Ether, 

I have incredibly long chestnut brown hair.  It hits my shoulders and is styled in a simple blunt cut with a few layers in the front (a few hairdressers have begged me to snip more but I’m one tough cookie in that chair). It’s not dyed and I’ve been told it has a lovely reddish hue.  I’m not a slave to any particular product. I use what I’ve been given for free.  My hair is in healthy condition and falls in very lustrous waves when I brush it (though I usually wear it in a loose bun because I can’t be bothered to tame my mane).  

Why write about my hair? Well, I just saw my great-grandmother’s chopped off braid that my mother has gently kept and cherished for almost 90 years.  What shocked me was that a woman, whose lineage I share but never met, had the exact color and radiant locks that I do now when shears took that braid from the nape of her neck almost a century ago.  Everyone else in my family has black hair.  She and I are the only ones who have the reddish chestnut shade (so I’m told).  It was mind-blowing to look at an actual piece of what makes who I am and that was passed down from my gene pool.  My mom said that her grandmother, when she finally chopped the braid off, cried for hours and when her husband came home, turned over a table, and left the house fuming!  I asked my mom why she cut it off and she said she felt that she was too told to have such long hair.  

So, when is there a “cut-off” for having long hair?  When I was in high school I saw the film “Sliding-Doors” with Gwyneth Paltrow and HAD to have her boyish style.  I went for it, and I looked damned good.  But, I found short hair to be a nuisance and more maintenance and after 2 long years, grew it out.  I’ve had long tresses ever since.  I want to hold on to my length for as long as possible.  I love the way it looks, but it also gives me a certain air of youth.  I know that people would disagree and say that hair length has no age. But the hairdressers I’ve worked with have said that it does come to a certain point where you just get a bit too old to have long hair like mine.  Sometimes I do see older ladies with gray hair who have uber long braids swaying back and forth against their waists (usually tied with a scrunchie…hmmmm….) and that’s fine….but I will admit, an older grandmother type with a sleek, short, layered coif looks a helluva lot better than one with wiry granny coils. 

For now, I will enjoy the extra ten minutes it takes to shampoo and condition.  To do a hot oil treatment once a week to combat split ends and dry spells.  Because eventually I won’t be able to have my Rapunzel-do, and I wanna enjoy it while it lasts. The day will come when I take a final inhale, braid my hair, tie it with a band, snip it off and delicately wrap it for the next generation.  If hers holds up, maybe mine will have the honor of sitting next to that of my great-grandmother.  And who knows, long after I’m gone, a little girl with chestnut hair will unwrap our parcel and touch her own head and realize that she comes from souls who once existed that have given her the radiant locks she twirls every day.  And through our braids, our stories will be told and memories will be “brushed” through too.    

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365