Breckenridge, August 2019

It’s an overcast day, but shards of sunlight still break through patches in the clouds, illuminating the 10 mile range. There are a few patches of snow up towards the tops of the peaks, clinging to the memory of winter. The aspen leaves rustle gently, but it’s calm and quiet. I haven’t seen this view for three months, but it’s still the same. Perhaps a bit less snow on the mountains as there was in April, but that’s about it.

I’ve been back in Colorado for less than a week. In my last 3 days in London, I performed in a show which I produced and directed myself, saw a stunning performance of Midsummer Night’s Dream, teared up while walking across Tower Bridge at nighttime, had a lot of goodbye coffees, made a cherry pie, and tried and failed to not cry on the train to Heathrow. In my last 5 days in Colorado, I’ve seen 2 concerts, played with Legos with a dear friend I haven’t seen properly in ages, started an application to bring my show back to London, felt inconsolably sad, cried rather a lot, gotten a new drivers license, and (as of 10 minutes ago) eaten a slice of my mom’s amazing chocolate chip banana bread. I’m staying busy, to be sure, but it’s been a very difficult adjustment coming back this time. I think it’s a mixture of things, but not having a return flight booked makes London feel more distant than ever.

I’m not good at leaving places where I’ve made myself at home, even if I am returning to the place where I grew up. I think a lot of that has to do with the people I surround myself with. I grow so accustomed to their company that I feel empty when it’s no longer there. I believe I made an Instagram post with the following quote the day before I moved to London in 2017:

“You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of knowing and loving people in more than one place.” -Miriam Adeney.

I don’t think I realized at that moment exactly how much more that quote would mean to me as time has gone on. Some friendships have faded, others have reignited in later years. Some are constant, even if the communication is not. And a few are still quite new, but I already struggle to imagine my future without them in it. These friends are spread all over the globe. Currently, I’m missing the ones I just left in London. But there are so many right here in Colorado who I was devastated to leave back in May. My school friends in LA and New York, my family scattered all over the country, and the people who have drifted to far off places on the globe: they’ve each changed my life and brought me such happiness, and I know when the day comes that I get to see them again, it will have been worth the wait.

I’m crying again while I’m writing this. I’m just rather sappy this week, I suppose. It’s not sadness. Maybe a bit, but more than anything it’s gratitude. It’s hard to say goodbye to people, and it’s hard to think about going months, possibly years before I see them again. But I have been so blessed with the people who have come into my life. My family, cousins, aunts and uncles, my friends from elementary school, high school, and college, from my masters and from work and from various connections and chance encounters. Leaving hurts, but it hurts because of the love, support and kindness I have felt from the people I have known there.

The clouds around the mountains have separated a bit, and now they float lazily in the bright blue sky. When I was growing up, my dad would always tell me to live in the present moment. I’ve always struggled with that, particularly upon reaching transitions in my life. I ponder back to the beautiful memories I’ve had with the people I miss the most, and pry into my imagination to envision future memories to make happen. This never makes time go any faster or slower. It makes me hopeful and fleetingly happy, but it also makes me sad and impatient. So I think I’ll just watch the leaves dance in the wind for a while. And we’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Gurl Bi

I came out to my diary as “bi-curious” in the spring of 2014. I’d always thought women were attractive, but for the first time I actually was crushing on a girl. For me, that was a game changer. I’d convinced myself that sexual attraction didn’t have the same weight as romantic attraction. Really, being merely attracted to women would be enough to for me to call myself “bisexual”. But at that point, I’d been through two years of college in which any girl who referred to herself as bi was slut shamed by both men and women, and was assumed to only be sharing this information to become more attractive to men. The idea that bi girls are really just straight girls that are open to threesomes is a depressing idea that continues the narrative that women are only on earth for the pleasure of men (It doesn’t help that bi men are assumed to be denying their full gayness, so in both bi scenarios, it’s assumed that everyone’s just trying to get with men). It also makes women who are attracted to both men and women feel extremely self conscious about sharing their sexuality with others.

I had a scattered coming out, from the autumn of 2015. By then I’d established that the bicuriosity was in fact a very steady state of bisexuality, but I was afraid to tell people. What I really feared was someone telling me it was just a phase, and not taking me seriously. So I waited, thinking that I only needed to tell people if I got into a relationship with a woman. Because otherwise, it was irrelevant information, right? Wrong. Even if you’re bi and you’re in a heterosexual relationship, you’re still bi. In a gay relationship? Still bi! That sexuality is still part of your identity, even if you’re married, or in no relationship at all. And I realized that, after about a year of trying to pretend it was just a small, hideable part of who I was. I told my closest friends. I told my family. My dad’s response made me cry, because of how sweet it was. He told me he’d read some articles to understand a bit more about bisexuality, and it made perfect sense to him, and he loved me very much. And that’s all I ever needed to hear. I never came out on social media, not explicitly anyway. There was a time where I thought I would, but after several years of going to Pride, obsessing over drag queens, and lots of doing theatre, I suppose I assumed people could take a hint. I tell people who I meet, when it is relevant or if it arises. I no longer fear sharing it. It is a part of who I am, and I want the people I care about to know that part of me too.

Being bi is difficult. Being anywhere on the LGBTQIA spectrum is hard, but let’s just focus on the bi experience for a bit. I’ve dated primarily men. That’s not to say I’m more interested in men than women, I’ve just had a vast quantity more opportunities to date in the hetero department. In my late college years in Colorado, and even in London, the queer scene is very much catered to the gay male. The big clubs you go to are never filled with stunning Ruby Rose lookalikes, but gay men of all shapes and sizes, and occasionally their heterosexual girl friends. The queer club nights I’m used to attending are filled with people who have no interest in me sexually, so it is a rather limited dating scene. There aren’t many club spaces aimed at women in Colorado or in London. There’s a few, but they’re not usually the clubs that the entire friend group wants to go to on a Saturday night, nor would I want to go alone. So it wasn’t until fairly recently that I was introduced to these types of spaces. About a year ago, I went to an event called Aphrodykie with a few girl friends of mine. It’s a club night which is put on every few months, aimed at lesbian women. It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The girl to guy ratio was 8-1, maybe more. Everyone was dancing like no one was watching, but still being respectful of other people’s space. The tunes were completely lit, and so very queer. I was surrounded by women who were also interested in women. And that was a sensation I’d never felt before. It was a bit intimidating. But I did enjoy it.

It’s a little difficult for me to gauge women, in a romantic sense, as I’m already quite friendly, flirtatious and cuddly with my platonic girlfriends. And many women are as well. So I worry that trying those same methods on a female crush will simply result in a close friendship, and my actual feelings won’t be translated through my actions. I definitely am not a master of the flirting game, for either teams, but I can read men better. Which is why I have much more dating experience on that side. Not that I’m opposed to that. I love men. A lot of them are quite great. But I’ve also been hurt by many of them. By their ignorance, their lack of empathy, their desire for something better than me, and their nonchalance at my pain. I suppose good and bad will both come in any type of relationship, but sometimes I think I would be so happy with a relationship where I could communicate as clearly and express myself as freely as I can with so many of my female friends.

Threesome requests. Now, this topic must be addressed. There is many a young, hopeful, and depressingly ignorant and unsympathetic young man who has requested a bisexual girl for a threesome. I’ve had several. I’ve also seen many sexual implications or jokes made by men when I exchange flirty banter with another female, even if it’s just as friends. It’s difficult, when the porn industry puts into young men’s heads that bisexual women must also be into group sex, specifically that with another girl. It’s a fantasy for many men, and encountering a woman who’s interested in both sexes might seem like an unmissable opportunity to get something they’ve always wanted. But boys, stop making it about you. There is a very very strong chance she is not currently pondering which of her hot friends to call and invite to your house. When girls imagine intimate time with another woman, it may involve some sex. But it also might include eating pasta while binge watching Sherlock, then talking about our feelings for an hour while cuddling, then falling asleep to the sweet sounds of Norah Jones (that’s what I envision anyway, but don’t let me speak for the masses). And that vision most likely does not include you, valiantly ticking “have a threesome with two girls because no homo” off your bucket list. It’s unfortunate that men have been taught by society that they have a right to expect sexual favors from a woman, simply because of her sexual orientation. So boys, cut that shit out.

London Pride is a few days away, and I plan on celebrating with some close friends, wearing something obnoxious and colorful, and dancing for at least 90% of the day. I’ve been to quite a few Prides now, most of them being in London. It’s always an amazing party, usually resulting in a bad sunburn and a raging hangover, but plenty of great memories and fabulous photos. It’s a different experience wherever in the world you celebrate it. I love Pride, and I love what it means to our entire community. We wear what we want and dance and smile and feel the joy that happens when we are our most authentic selves. It’s about more than that though. True, we are out here dressed in our most gag-worthy attire, feeling like absolute queens. But Pride is also a time to remember what LGBTQIA people all over the world have fought against in the past, and the rights we are still fighting for today. We can celebrate, sure, but we also must keep fighting against the prejudices that still exist, some even within the queer community itself. Be kind, be understanding, and don’t assume someone’s story based on what they look like, how passable they are, or what you think they believe. Everyone’s story deserves to be heard. Though I must say, people are often more inclined to listen when that story is presented in every color of the rainbow (and backed by Whitney Houston’s ‘So Emotional.’)

Well, I’m out. Bi.

Russell Square

I’ve fallen behind on these. Life just got ahold of me the last two weeks, and I haven’t written. If you’re upset, I’m very sorry.

I can’t say that I have anything particularly great to say right now. But I felt I should check in, scribble something down. I do have several stories which I’ve been working on a bit, they’re just not finished.

So here we are. It’s a lush Thursday afternoon, and I’m sat on a bench in Russell Square eating some rice and biryani from a market nearby. It’s a tad spicy, but the guy who sold it to me said I should try a bit of the spicy sauce because it’s very good. He’s not wrong, but my mouth is on fire. The sun is so bright and heavy, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. This is the summer day that Londoners we’re waiting for. It’s been a lot of humidity, a lot of heat, spurts of rain, but this is the first day of beautiful unrestricted sunshine we’ve had in a while. People are lying in every spot of available grass. Several people blow clouds of vape smoke into the soft breeze. Ah, heavenly.

This is a beautiful park, with massive trees stretching their branches wide over the plots of perfect grass below. In the center is a bubbling fountain, encircled by benches and small hedges. A tree tunnel curves over one of the sidewalks, and an Italian cafe pours delicious smells into the air.

That cafe was where I had breakfast with my parents for the last time before the start of my MA. They flew home to Colorado that afternoon, but we wanted one more little hangout beforehand. I got a cappuccino and a little almond pastry. We chatted about mundane things. Then they walked me down the road, I gave them both a hug and said goodbye. It wasn’t particularly heavy, I saw them a few months later for Christmas. But it still was a big moment. Moving to the other side of the world is a massive step to take as a 22 year old, especially when you don’t know anyone there. I don’t think the weight of that step ever resonated with me as much as it should have. It was hard sometimes, but then I’d walk through another park, have another pint with new friends, see the lights glittering on the river, and those worries were suddenly so small.

That was almost two years ago. Since then I’ve spent a large amount of time in this area of London, going to classes, going to the pub, wandering around the British museum, falling asleep in the library, and rehearsing shows which weren’t all great, but were occasionally legendary.

My time spent in London has been some of the busiest of my life. Not all of it has been school. I’ve traveled to other cities and countries, ate at amazing restaurants, walked the south bank a hundred times over, blasted 80’s pop tunes into my ears for many a tube ride, and dragged my friends out dancing more times than I can count. It was so full of life, memories, and days which at the time I said I would never forget. Now they’re a blur of photos on my Instagram, but sometimes those moments slip back into my mind and make me smile.

On top of all these things that I did, there’s an equally long list of things I didn’t do. Places I didn’t visit, bars I never made it to, people I failed to message back, shows I didn’t have time to see and projects that didn’t hold my attention long enough to get the creative momentum they deserved. And I could beat myself up about that. But I won’t, because I am proud of the things I did accomplish, and am so happy with the memories I did make.

This may just be a drawn out excuse for why I haven’t written in two weeks. I shall try to do better. But when life happens, I make time for the things that I deem deserve my time, in that moment. In this case, my writing had to be put on hold so I could direct, act, hike with my mom, and spent time with people who I care about. Maybe one day I’ll get better at balancing it all.

Anyway. After writing this, I fell asleep for an hour on the grass, and got a rather bad sunburn. So that can be my punishment for being negligent of my blog. Hope we’re even now.

For Emma

It was a hot summer day, and I’d been hiding in the humid basement of the London Palladium all morning. I had been wrapping gifts for press night of the Frank Sinatra tribute show, and had decided this was the coolest thing I’d gotten to do for my internship so far. Not that wrapping presents is particularly thrilling (though they were some very nice custom engraved whiskey glasses), but getting to wander around this old and beautiful theatre was absolute magic. I think it was also influenced by the fact that my friend Emma was coming to visit me that day, so I was in a very happy place. She had been doing an archeological dig in France, and decided to visit London for a week before heading back home. I had been in London for about a month, and was longing for a familiar face from home.

She was coming to the theatre around 2pm, and I said I’d meet her by the front entrance at that time. I was standing outside on time, realizing that this may have not been the best meeting place. The palladium faces a walking street, and on this particular day it was swarming with people. I waited, but no sign of Emma. I kept telling myself it would be fine, but panicking is a fun hobby of mine, so I pondered if she had gone to the other entrance, if she was lost in a sea of double decker busses, or if she’d just been kidnapped by the Queen. Anyone’s guess was as good as mine. I was out of range from the palladium’s Wi-Fi, so I had to hope that somehow, she would find me (in the exact place I told her to meet me, yes I know, this story isn’t really meant to be written as a suspenseful one, but just work with me, ok?).

Then I heard someone singing. A bit odd, singing on the middle of a busy city street. Normally I’d assume someone had been to a particularly good Happy Hour and just ignore it. But Emma is a singer. Not just a person who is good at singing, but a person who will burst into song at any given time. Mention the name of your latest favorite tune, she will sing you through to the first chorus. Unabashedly, soulfully, usually in the middle of a public place. So as the lyrics to the “At Last I See The Light” rose above the crowd, I whipped around to see a mass of brown hair running towards me. We threw our arms around each other and held on tight and laughed and cried, as people wove around our very unashamed display of affection.

It’s easy to get caught up with life and lose track of people. You may not reach out to your closest friends while you’re off traveling the world because they’re not in the forefront of your mind. And that’s ok, it’s hardly a critique on your friendship, but more a compliment to your mind’s ability to focus on what’s right in front of your eyes. Also, there is a level of faith we have in our close friends, whether we acknowledge it or not, to be there for us when we return, the same as we left them. I enjoy spending time with friends in places where we didn’t get to know each other. We get to learn about a new place, and hopefully learn a bit more about each other. It’s enlightening and strange.

I saw Emma again last night. Since we graduated from our undergrad, it’s become harder to see each other often, with her living in New York, and me living between London and Colorado. I walked into her house last night and she was standing there in her wedding dress, her hair and makeup done up like a dream. She’s not getting married for a few months yet, but she wanted to try it all out. It’s moments like these that force me to realize how quickly the time has flown. Those two girls hugging in the middle of London aren’t lost, but they’ve grown and changed, and want different things now.

Time doesn’t change who we are to each other though. A support system, a shoulder to cry on, a girls night out, and a laugh for your worst joke. Even as we flesh out our careers, make new friends, and go on new adventures with new people, we know we can always depend on one another. And I can’t wait to see her walk down the aisle, and witness all of the beautiful adventures that await her after that.

We were walking along the Southbank in London that summer way back when, holding hands and talking about how much we loved this city. Some guy passed us and asked, “Are you in love?”

We both replied, without hesitation, “Yes!”

And I always will be in love with her. And I know she will too, with me. The love of a dear friend has the power to last thorough anything. It can bolster you in times of need and shine on you through your success. Lovers come and go, family is constant, but friends, true friends, are the family we choose. They are the ones who define your life, and the greatest ones will always return to your orbit. The more people I meet and the wider my contact list spreads across the globe, the more I begin to recognize the humans who would cross oceans for me. The ones who would make me burst into song at the sight of them, regardless of the odd looks it might cause.

(I love you Emma. Happy Birthday. I’m so endlessly proud of you and grateful to have you in my life.)

February 14, 2019. London.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I just spent a lovely evening with a few friends, having wine and cheese and chocolate. We had plans to go out, but they fell through in the end. The party’s over. Which is fine. But I have on this gorgeous green dress with slits up the legs and my tallest stilettos, and I sure as hell didn’t put on this outfit to call it an early evening. Instead of heading down to the tube and retreating home, I’m sitting at The Booking Office bar in the St Pancras hotel, having a nightcap.

It’s a little odd, being alone in a bar, very dressed up, particularly on Valentine’s Day. But being alone doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable. Being idle does, which is why I’m writing about this in the notes section of my phone. There is live music; a singer and a guitarist, playing some jazzy versions of pop hits. I’ve ordered a martini. It’s gin, with hints of lemon and lavender. The waiter presented me an empty glass with a twirl of lemon, then poured the liquid from a corked bottle. As a final flourish, he sprayed a lavender mist onto the surface.

I didn’t need to come to a bar at 11pm and spend £14 on a stiff drink. But if I’m my own valentine, I guess that entitles me to treat myself to something a bit fancy. Also, it’s setting in that I leave London in one week. And I won’t be able to wander through St Pancras station when I’m looking to kill an hour and see some beautiful architecture. It’s just two months until I come back to the UK. But I’m starting to realize the next time I leave, it’ll likely be for much longer.

“The world is your oyster”. That’s a good phrase to describe where I’m currently at. It’s normally a positive phrase, implying there is anywhere you can go and anything you can do with your life. But it also can mean, and currently means for me, I have nowhere that is pulling me, nothing to focus on. I’m in the unfortunate situation in which, the place where I’ve established a career and a life for myself, is not available to me as a home. I mean, it is, but I can’t legally work, there’s no visa I can get, lots of formalities and what not, basically meaning no London for Paige. Not long term, anyway.

If I think about it too hard, it makes me more melancholy than I can bear. This city gives me energy, it breathes life into my mind. I find myself smiling while walking down the street, like a character in a sappy film strolling into the end credits. I don’t know if I’ll find another place that will make me feel so elated, and I’ll be doomed to exist in a mere state of contentment wherever I next settle down. I’m probably just being melodramatic. I am alone in a bar on Valentine’s Day after all, it comes with the territory.

When I was younger, I would set goals for myself. Nothing too complicated, just a silly promise that by next Valentine’s Day, there would be someone special in my life. And February 14 came and went, year after year. I seem to greatly enjoy the anticipation for something, even after being faced with disappointment again and again. This is a trait that has plagued me often. At the slightest glimmer of attention or affection, I let the anticipation consume me. I’m not sure what I hope for. It’s not always a relationship, or love, but simply human connection, kindness, intimacy. So in the frequent occurrence that said person loses interest, ghosts me, finds someone more interesting, or just turns out to be a dick bag, it hits a lot heavier than it might for someone who keeps their guard up. But it never deters me, I go back with the same amount of hope every time. I think by now I just know that I can handle the heartache.

I am fortunate to have so many people in my life who love and support me. As the years of singlehood grow in number, so does the number of amazing humans I am lucky to call friends. London has blessed me with so many, and honestly that’s the real reason I can’t walk through this city without smiling. These streets and buildings mean more to me than just their architecture. They remind me of people I’ve walked bridges with, toasted outside of bars with, sat in parks with and stumbled into the tube with. The memories burst from every corner, like a scrapbook I can stand in the middle of.

It’s harder to face rejection from a place than from a person. Because the only one leaving is you. The place will move on, and the people in it will continue their lives, unfazed by your absence. You pack your bags and buy the plane ticket willingly, but you still press your face to the window as you rise into the sky, trying to catch one more glimpse before it disappears into the clouds.

I’ve finished my drink. People still linger at tables around me, but it’s quieted down. I should probably head out soon, so I don’t miss the last train.

I’m setting a goal for myself. For next Valentine’s Day, a year from today. I want to be somewhere that I love. Even if I don’t love it as much as London, I want to find something to love about wherever I find myself, and whoever I’m there with.

And if I find myself alone in another bar, spending too much money on a drink, at least I’ll know that wherever I am is too magical to call it an early night, even when the party’s over.