Posts will be few and far between for the next week as computer access is limited and expensive in the area I'm staying and although I'm feeling a little non-journalistic, posts will occur when and where I have an opportunity; recording more by principle than by whim or feeling.

Driving on the left-hand side of the street took a little getting used to, but I'm slowly coming into a comfort zone. I rented a Silver Golf GTI with standard transmission; it's strange to be shifting on the left side of the steering wheel. The expanse of space to your left that includes the passenger side of the car is endless and it's difficult to judge where you are in relation to the left side of the road.

Everything here is smaller. I had pictured England as an older America, but it's more like Europe than the U.S. It appears that the only commonalities between the two countries are pop culture and the language. The majority of people here are cool and impersonal unlike the saccharine friendliness you encounter at most places in the States.

There's so much I want to cover, but don't have the time. I know it will be difficult to recall everything. Hopefully one or two points here will rekindle some memories.

All things flow freely, as the fish swims in the water.

I'm trying to envision myself moving through life with as little friciton as possible, going with the flow, working with what's given to me. The week has flowed quite smoothly, in fact. Getting back on my feet from Monday has been a lot easier than I'd anticipated and now the trip to London looms over me, filling my field of view. Packing for the big move has been put on hold while I pack for the trip and I feel a little anxious, knowing it will be here awaiting my return.

Chris and I spent a few days together this week. In response to TV Turnoff Week, we went to dinner at Sencha and a showing of Annie Get Your Gun on Tuesday that was a riot. Somehow, we also ended up with tickets to I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change! on Thursday (a fluke of planning, but we weren't complaining). Dinner at Bang! before the show, where one of the gay waiters bought us dessert for "making his night" after he caught me stealing a kiss from Chris across the table. Never knew being gay could be so fun and profitable!

Would it be too early to say I'm in love? It's been almost a month and I'm smitten, for sure. I'm no maven of relationships but I often wonder if I'm falling into my old habit of pushing things too fast. Then again, who's to say what's fast or slow or just the right pace? Here's another example of where I'm working on being a fish in water, allowing all things to flow freely.

I had an immense outpouring of support during the past few days as a result of the burglary, most from people I didn't know. Like the reaction after the September incident, I am amazed at the level of concern and support people are ready to offer strangers and am warmed thoroughly by the kind words, thoughtful gestures, and sympathy. I only hope my words were enough to express my thanks in return.

Poor times create a vacuum that friends scramble to fill. It finally makes sense to me how so many are attracted to disaster, drama, and chaos in life; not necessarily to attract attention but to build relationships with people because bonds built out of the trials of life form quickly and harden with the steely resolve to overcome.

My relationship with Chris has solidified in such. The weekend was a blur of color and events, parties and downtime, sleeping and waking in each other's arms. He had planned to come down on Tuesday, regardless, but after the bad Monday I sensed that he felt needed more than usual. He brought down roses and a supportive smile. I carried both into the evening that I will continue recording later tonight.

Nothing like this has happened to me before. I had always sympathized with those who've gone through this ordeal, nodding my head when they describe the incident as deeply disturbing, knowing that someone has been through your house without your knowledge, going through your things, leaving nothing sacred. Now I empathize fully, knowing that disturbance deep within my own chest like nervousness, seeing everything in the house as tainted by the hands of some unwashed stranger.

I feel violated.

Clothes and books and tapes and niknacks in boxes, haphazardly; my apartment is so small, I'll sort it out later. I'm listening to the same few songs over and over again (Flawless by The Ones, Murder on the Dancefloor by Sophie Ellis Baxtor, and Lady by Modjo). Can't stop thinking about Chris who cycles through my head like my limited playlist.

I'm jumping from day to day like the week is a hopscotch field, throwing my dates with Chris in front of me. I can finally smell summer.

In other news, my brother has a website now.

"I have a hickey!"

It took me a minute to work this out in my head and I did a few retakes of the message, reading it over and over again, my mind conjuring a million different images of him at the bar with someone all over him. The first question that came to mind was why he was telling me in the first place. Did he feel guilty? Was he preparing me for the next time we'd see each other? Was he trying to hint at something?

I reflected back on yesterday's notes regarding backing off and letting things cool down a bit because we had rushed on rather fiercely and decided I would let this issue slide. After all, why shouldn't we be free to date or spend time with other people? I was the one advocating casual dating. I decided not to be a hypocrite and wrote him back a short note saying it sounded like he was having fun and that I'd talk to him in the morning.

Sleeping on it, however, did not prove a panacea to my reservations and I set off for work with a heavy mind and a twisted, sour feeling in my gut. I really liked Chris, and this seemed to make it pretty clear in my head that he didn't feel the same way or at least not as strongly. I worked through the day in a half-daze, and chatted briefly on the phone with Chris to solidify our rendezvous plans later on that evening.

When we met at the agreed-upon greasy-spoon diner in the northern part of the city, I regarded him cooly although it was difficult to cover up my elation at seeing him again. He was his usual cheerful self and acted no differently than he had been the past week, which I found rather odd considering the events of the past night that I'd been simmering in all day.

He proceeded to detail the night and when he came to the part about his friends asking about the hickey on his neck (which was barely visible, denoted by a definite area of pinkness under his left ear), I listened with a feigned sense of mild amusement and disinterest to indicate my casualness about the situation, but I suddenly grew very nervous. There was something in the way he was telling me about it, however, that confused me. It was almost as though he were bringing up a private joke between us. And that's when it hit me.

The hickey was from me. Shocked by this epiphany, I didn't really know what to say and Chris continued without noticing my expression. When I finally explained what I had been thinking, he apologized profusely and said I must have been thinking he was a total asshole. The cloud over my head dissipated. We shared a few awkward laughs and joked about it for a while, but eventually the converstaion steered back to normal course and that warm affection I had been feeling for him all week returned.

I've been getting in the way of myself lately. I'm glad I didn't react badly to the situation but at the same time I wonder what insecurities and past experiences have led me to this course of thinking. I had always wanted to be the sort of person who can give someone the benefit of the doubt before judging or making rash decisions. I hope that writing it down here is a first step.

It was date three and those doubts are creeping into my head, whispering of how long distance relationships don't work and how he's too this or too that or doesn't do this or that right. I should be used to it because it happens to every single guy I date but recently I've started to become pretty convinced that the problem isn't with the guys I'm dating but a problem with me. Perfectionist? Elitist? Whatever. I've pretty much made up my mind to just go with the flow and not let my doubts get in the way of letting the dating play out.

Chris and I talked about some of these things last night and the fact that we'll be separated for over a month while I'm out of the country and he's in another state, but I think we're both in agreement that we'd like to see where things go by giving it a little more time and not making a breaking decision right now.

I had always complained about how gay men have forgotten how to casually date. No commitment, no expectations, just friendly, casual dating. Getting to know one another. And here I am worrying about when I'll get to see him next, telling him it would bother me if we started seeing other people, and really just pushing this beyond a casual dating scenario into a more serious dating relationship despite our brief, three weeks of getting to know one another. I keep thinking I ought to back off a bit, but I'm afraid he'll take that as a sign of waning interest.

Speaking of dating other people, Mike, an acquaintance that I had been interested in for over a year, showed up at the Wave last night and asked if I was single and proceeded to give me his contact information. I told him I was dating someone else at the moment but that he should give it to me anyway and we'd talk. I suppose I did it partially to prove to myself that I need to back off with Chris and feel free to date other people, but another part of me really wanted to contemplate the implications of going on a date with this guy.

Sometimes I wonder if we sometimes set ourselves up for failure despite our best efforts to steer things towards the best possible outcome. In this case, I'd like simply to do nothing about my situation with Chris and with my job and with dating and that way I wouldn't fuck things up, but I know growth or progress would never occur without the occasional failure. Therefore, I suppose I ought to prepare myself for either outcome.

Instead of slowing down with the passage of the night, however, my schedule managed to grow even more raddled. Talking to my manager, I received approval for a two-week business trip to London, contingent upon the timely renewal of my passport that required a stifling, three-hour tarry in a stuffy room and two trips to and from work to the downtown post office. Had this been the sole excitement for the day, I probably would be less frazzled but read on to see the insanity mount.

A visit to my school to drop yesterday's aforementioned class proved my commitment skills to be in extreme want as I proceeded to drop the class only to sign up for another in order to maintain my full-time student status and avoid a hefty fine. (Okay, so not necessarily the most ardent of banes on my ability to effectuate, but it was nonetheless discouraging after having decided, concretely, that I was done, period.) Bills in disarray, schedules in a further muddle, and running out of money, I was forced to make several arrangements to finish this process online and over fax.

I'd continue on about the several problem logs that arose at work afterwards, and how I'm worried about moving and car payments and taxes (who isn't?), and how I'm working fervently to keep myself from feeling depressed and overworked, but I really don't feel like it because I tend to ramble when I do and that simply doesn't make for interesting reading later on down the line. Not that I'm doing this for high interest level but my life really is more interesting than all of the things I write about, I just never seem to be able to convey that in my writing.

Chris invited me to a birthday get-together tomorrow at JR's and a "Would You Like to Stay the Night?" proposition that I tentatively turned down in light of the "Let's Take This Slow" conversation. I'm kicking myself over and over again after realizing that I'll need to work the morning after. And the morning after that. Note to self: Never take on another secondary, part-time job.

I walk in and the entire classroom is grey: grey chairs, grey walls, grey carpet, grey lights. Even the instructor is wearing a grey striped shirt and grey pants and as I look down I realize that I am too, except for my jeans, which are blue. He drones on about operating systems and I rub my eyes fervently, trying to get the blur out of my eyes.

I slowly talk myself out of it as I sit there in a simmering frustration at having to take the class a second time around, only this time as a graduate course, and the conclusion crescendoes until it is a pounding pressure behind my eyes: I'm not going to do this.

It was all I could do to sit through the rest of the session as not to seem rude or flippant of the instructor's efforts and, after my mind had been made up, I thought about my options should I drop out. After all, graduate school is the sole reason I'm still in my hometown and I have no problem using that as an excuse when people ask me what I'm still doing here, or when I ask myself the same question.

But now the frustration mounts, as I contemplate the implications of this decision. Where am I and why am I here? What am I doing with my life and what do I want all of this to mean? Core questions that bombard my brain at every turn.

I feel relieved now that I've made the decision final in my head, and as this seems to be a common theme lately, I'm going to stick to my guns and see it through. I only hope Mason wasn't right in writing, "When God punishes you, he gives you what you want."

It's amazing what a crush can do for your energy levels. Sloughing my way through the front door with an armload of boxes for moving, I settled in with a heavy sigh and picked up my phone to check messages. The first was from Dave, the second from Dad, and the third from none other than the crush.

(I have this really bad habit of conditionalizing everything by making mental bets against the outcomes of events in my life. For instance, after listening to my dad's message, my mind decided in the split second before the final message played, that if it was from Chris, he was a good catch. The message was from Chris.)

My breath caught somewhere between the back of my throat and my stomach as I listened, languorously, to each syllable exhaled somewhere on the other end of the line between those lips that I had been kissing not 48 hours ago. Dialing his number without a moment's hesitation, I tried to push aside the mental anguish over not thinking of something clever to say when he answered the phone. Fortunately, I didn't need to.

He's an easy conversationalist, witty and down-to-earth. Did I mention he's got a British accent? We chatted about weekend activities: I saw Kissing Jessica Stein; he spent time with friends at the bars. We chatted about future activities: Wednesday night for burgers at Red Top and dessert at Michelle's. Monday and Tuesday are cruelly long. I can't wait.

My house is being taken over by evil cardboard boxes from outer space, waiting to be filled with books and clothes and sundries and miscellanea. The move is to take place in T-minus 24 days. But who's counting?

Earlier in the evening, Mason and I went to see Lucinda Williams at the Paramount. Not a regular on my playlist, she certainly earned a spot with her slightly-raspy, soulful voice and hit-the-spot guitar skills. She threw the melody out over the audience like a stone into water, her voice trailing behind like a ribbon that had been tied on, and I resisted the urge to stand up and move my body to the rhythm, to catch each stone that was skillfully juggled and precisely tossed.

A really awkward, obese woman with a brightly colored scarf wandered up towards the front a few times, twirling her hands in the air and waving them around as though she were witnessing a Southern Baptist baptism in the river. It was really a great scene. Each time, a white-shirted security guard would escort her nervously off to the side, and each time, she'd somehow wander back up again. I suppose no one's allowed to dance at these venues, and it reminded me of the "No Dancing" signs in clubs without a cabaret license in the south.

My thoughts always wander at concerts and I simply couldn't shake Chris from my head. I kept comparing our meeting and these upwelling of feelings to previous meetings with previous boyfriends and marveling at how each one felt so right in the beginning but turned out to be not so right in the end. It really kind of bothered me to think that if I feel this strongly for guys who are wrong, how would I feel about the right guy? Would I be able to handle it? I tuned out those jaded thoughts and attempted to lose myself in the music, which merely served as a pool of color in my head for Chris' face to bob around in.

Lunch was a relatively off-the-cuff plan that ended up working out surprisingly well. Brandie and I met Linds and Leif at Jun for sushi, fortunate to make it before the noon rush that oozed in after we sat down. Pen in hand, three heads bowed over the long, paper menu, we ticked off phonetically-translated Japanese names for fish, one-by-one, occasionally stopping to question the translation. I remember feeling rather daring the first time I ever ordered sushi, years ago. Now, I only ever order the same thing.

Brandie and I stopped by Pier One?also known as the Gay Man's Wal-Mart?to do a little post-lunch shopping and take advantage of the mellow, languid state that a full stomach produces, being very conducive to leisurely perusal. My horoscope says to avoid letting my creative side take over purchasing decisions, and I made a point to shop austerely since the urge to buy new furniture and decorations for the apartment is overwhelming, especially when eucalyptus bunches are on sale.

This is probably the greatest thing I have seen on the Internet in a while: Hi-Ho (Japanese Flash advertisement). Does anyone know what they're singing about?

Of course, this is after a weekend of inundating hyperactivity so I'm a little spin-crazy at the moment anyway, attempting to recover from clubbing, drinking, and lack of sleep. The second job started on Saturday, too, and through this haze of activity and blur of change, I still feel a distinct tinge of buyer's (or would that be "renter's"?) remose. Could I argue that my decision to move was influenced by a temporary lack of judgement?

After the months of debate over this issue, I'm settling it once and for all, and saying that: no, this is in fact what I need and wanted. Point made. Time to run with it.

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