Distance from the Labyrinth, and Renewed Insight

I have been away since Saturday morning. I needed to think. I took a bus up to Donegal, hitched a ride with an acquaintance out to the beach, pitched my tent and spent a day and a half on my own, with just the rocks and the sea.

It was important to get so far away from the things that plague my everyday mind. It reminded me that once, I had a purpose beyond finding out about my father’s past, beyond piecing together Belfast’s history, and away from the surveillance of others. Not that long ago, I was just making my way along, trying to find my peace. I wasn’t anyone’s Protagonist.

Then I returned late this afternoon, to see the video posted by David. I hadn’t seen his face nor heard his voice in almost a year. Ripe from a day of quiet reflection, of course it has moved me. I must admit, I’m looking forward to finding the end of this labyrinthine tunnel, that seems to endlessly lead us through a world I once considered private … Yet, I continuously appreciate the contributions and talents of those who are involved. We often can’t solve problems alone. David’s interjection is appreciated as well. If he’s reading this, I’m thankful to him.

I think we were very much correct that the labyrinth seems to lead toward Ciaran Carson. You’ve posted plenty of evidence supporting the suggestion that he is involved, and you know I believe it now myself. I’ve tried emailing him and phoning his office, but still no answer. But today after seeing David’s video, I rang my mom again to ask for any information she might have on Arie, Sr. (my dad’s father) and his relationship with Liam Carson.

It seems that Arie, Sr. was actively in touch with many Esperanto speakers via post over his lifetime, and talked about it enthusiastically whenever she remembers meeting him. Apparently Arie, Sr. meant Dad to take over his correspondences when he died, but Dad never learned to speak Esperanto, so he couldn’t do it in the end. Mom also said that occasionally, after his father’s death, Dad would receive random postcards or letters from friends of Arie, Sr., usually in broken English and often from far-flung places—people trying to maintain the links, keep the network alive.

One of these letters, Mom said, was from a man in Belfast named Carson. She found it after Dad’s death, in among the things that were sent to us in Canada. The letter was dated during time before we moved to Belfast, and from the sounds of it this Carson hoped to meet my Dad, claiming that their fathers were lifelong pen friends and even wrote some kind of treatise together by correspondence. But the treatise was a puzzle missing a piece, my mom remembers the letter saying—a piece to be supplied by a future generation. The letter stated that Carson hoped my dad would help him complete the philosophy that their fathers once collaborated to build.

Of course I asked for the letter, but Mom said it’s long gone by now. She doesn’t know anything else; there were no other letters related to this.

All of this links up with what we already know. Knowing my dad, I’m sure that he would have read that letter from Carson, thought it was slightly bonkers, and then tossed it aside … yet he saved it for some reason, even if he never contacted Carson. And if they met again in Belfast, as the suicide note suggests, it may be that Carson never revealed his name. Maybe he was simply looking for the puzzle piece.

Photo of Dad

Aster's Letter

This arrived in the post this morning.

The envelope is empty (I'm guessing there was never a real letter inside). Thoughts?

Ana

Conspiring across boundaries...

I’m tired of letting a stranger, ie. invisible belfast, scare me. The past few weeks have brought up a lot of my own issues with my past, and what I’ve learned so far is that, although I don’t trust invisible belfast’s motives, I can trust the conspirators. Thank you for that.

I think that this person, or group of people, is located at the ‘heart of Belfast’, and when we find that center we will also find out who those people are. I’m not entirely sure that the center is a geographic one, although we have been sent to various places. Invisible belfast is all about playing with the city’s many layers; maybe the center is more than a place. Just a thought.

I know it might seem unexpected to some of you that I contacted invisible belfast about the video task. I thought about it for a few days before I did, considering whether it would seem disloyal, like conspiring with the enemy. But I need you to give us your perspective, your story, of what has happened so far. You see my version in my vlogs and blogs every day … but it’s hard to keep on top of what’s happening when you’re in the middle of things. If we can speak out to each other about what the mystery is from each of our perspectives, maybe it will yeild some progress. I think it will.

And we can use these videos to draw more people in as conspirators. I feel like we might have a limited amount of time to solve the mystery. I feel like time is running out.

Pick up from NoAlibis...

Suicide Note

I received the following from my mom last night. I'll paste her email, and then attach the letter as images. Please treat this with sensitivity; the decision to share it wasn't easy.

Ana


Hello my sweet girl.

From our phone call I can tell that you’re doing a lot of soul searching these days. And I can guess from the questions you asked about your father, that living in Belfast is stirring up the past for you. Just be careful. As you know, analyzing too much can be a dangerous thing.

Anyway. It’s quite interesting, everything you told me about the Pleiades play. Quite a coincidence that it’s the same subject as your dissertation, isn’t it? I have a feeling you may have chosen Messier 45 because of your father. When you were about five or six he used to speak about those stars; do you remember that? It was a difficult time with him, so I do my best to forget it. But maybe it’s relevant now.

In those days, I think his work wasn’t absorbing him enough, and his mind started going. He became obsessed with ancient Talmudic scripture, historically I mean, and apparently the Pleiades has some significance there. Your dad was quite low at the time, a bit off the rails if you want the truth. He was obsessed with the number seven, obsessed with maps. But then, after a while, he found a new job and we moved to Belfast and it turned. We were fine for a short while again.

Oh, Ana. All this has me worried about you. I’m sure you’ll be fine, and yet, sometimes I think you have his nature in certain ways. I think I can spot the signs now, and something in our phone call today reminded me of your father. But maybe I’m just worrying too much.

Still. I’m attaching a letter from your father. Not because I especially want to, but because I think it’s time. I don’t know what you’ll make of it. I hope it helps you through what you’re dealing with right now, gives you some insight. As a protective mother, I admit I hope it turns you away from this mystery. Think of what happened to your father, Ana.

I love you, and please phone me again if you need anything at all.

Love and hugs,
Mom

The Water Clock

As you can imagine, or as you know if you were there, last night was a strange one.

The Water Clock was on at the QFT/Brian Friel Theatre. I was running late due to all the bomb scares around Belfast; does anyone know the significance of these? Why yesterday? Anyway, I got there just before it started.

The show seemed to be a sort of walk through the imaginations of four sisters, five if you count the one who spoke at the opening, that told a story about their past, including the loss of their youngest sister Taygeta. The sisters are named for the Pleiades, which was evident by their names in the program, if not by their nicknames (Ty, Ellie, etc.). One of the sisters was nicknamed Meri, and although I haven’t seen her in person in a few years, looked to be my old friend Meri Cain, and spoke about a boyfriend named David (the name of Meri Cain’s boyfriend). As if she was playing herself on stage.

I knew from her recent blog posts that Meri was coming back to Belfast, and she has been following [in]visible belfast with us, but she said nothing about having any involvement in The Water Clock, which is somehow connected with the mystery … I’m certain she is lying about some things. The question is why. I’ve been ringing Meri’s mobile number since last night after the play, but she's not answering.

I was handed a camera at the start of the play, right when I was seated, and told by the person who handed it to me (a “guide”?) to record everything I saw. I did my best. Then, at the end of the show, the guide took it off me again, and never explained why I was filming. Other people seemed to have been given handheld cameras as well. Were any of you?

I was so focused on watching the play and trying to film it that I completely forgot the task of picking up the letter from Aster’s scene. Did anyone pick it up?

As for the story of the play, my take on it is this. A Narrator introduced us to the story, about seven sisters who have a painful history. He told us that this would be a trial, and that the opinions of the audience would count for something. Then he opened the floor to the sisters.

There were six sisters in the play. In age order I would guess: Maia, Ellie, Alce, Meri, Ty. Each of them had part of a story to tell, and each of them had some sort of residual cross to bear, related to her father. The play really began when the oldest sister Maia wrote a letter inviting the other sisters to her home (their childhood home) to honor the 20th anniversary of the death of the youngest sister. Then you see each of the other sisters, getting a sort of glimpse into her life or her mind, traveling from one backstage space to another, led by the guides.

The second act was more traditional, as we were seated in the Brian Friel Theatre. I sat with a girl from my course who I ran into during the intermission, and afterwards we discussed what we think the father’s crimes were. The father killed the youngest, Ty, by using her as a “human shield” when his paramilitary cronies were after him. There also seemed to be the possibility of the girls being abused somehow, hinted at in a couple of the early scenes and then quite strongly in the second half. The father never showed up, giving it a sort of Godot-esque quality, but there still had to be a trial, according to the Narrator. So he put Maia on trial; it is revealed that the father was never coming.

Maia was made to give a testimony. Then the Narrator stopped the storytelling and demanded that the audience vote Guilty or Innocent, and votes were taken. The majority vote was innocent. The Narrator attempted to overturn this somehow, and the sisters overpowered him. In the final bit of the play, the Narrator seemed to stand in for the father, and pay for his crimes in some sense.

Things that caught my eye, beyond the obvious … Meri had the book Invisible Cities sticking out of her bag; the Faulkner quote in the second act about time; that fact that there was no seventh sister (Celaeno).

I don’t know what else to say right now. I left the theatre feeling very confused; it was all a bit surreal. Any thoughts from any of you?

Finnegans Wake

Because of the Joycean turn that the mystery has taken of late, I’ve started rereading Finnegans Wake before bed.

Some things that catch my interest …

The relationship between brothers Shem and Shaun, penman and postman—the one who writes messages and the one who delivers them. Or. the man of traditional writing and the man of dispersed communications. Which of these is [in]visible belfast more interested in? Or, to put it differently, I keep wondering, why The Star Factory? It’s such a traditional book in so many ways, it’s difficult to know why this group or person is so interested in that book … and why they want us to be interested in it as well.

Ana Livia Plurabelle … who is associated with the river(s), the plurabilities, and so on.

Phoenix Park, in Book 1.

The importance of letters and delivering letters. The whole book seems to fit within the space of time it takes to write, deliver, and receive a letter, and the events seem to form around that central one.

The book as a literary representation of sleep and dreaming. I need to do more research on this.

Page 322

You were right to ask about this. Here you go.

I'm getting pretty psyched for the Water Clock.

Messier 45

I’ve spent the morning doing some research on the mythologies surrounding Messier 45. Some interesting things I’ve found so far, from various sources:

From Greek myth:

The Pleiad(e)s were the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. Plein means `to sail', making Pleione `sailing queen' and her daughters `sailing ones.' The cluster's conjunction with the sun in spring and opposition in fall marked the start and end of the summer sailing season in ancient Greece. Pleos means `full', of which the plural is `many.'

‘Astromorphosis: One day the great hunter Orion saw the Pleiads as they walked through the Boeotian countryside, and fancied them. He pursued them for seven years, until Zeus answered their prayers for delivery and transformed them into birds (doves or pidgeons), placing them among the stars. Later on, when Orion was killed (many conflicting stories as to how), he was placed in the heavens behind the Pleiades, immortalizing the chase.’

‘Lost Pleiad: The `lost Pleiad' legend came about to explain why only six are easily visible to the unaided eye. This sister is variously said to be Electra, who veiled her face at the burning of Troy, appearing to mortals afterwards only as a comet; or Merope, who was shamed for marrying a mortal; or Celæno, who was struck by a thunderbolt. Missing Pleiad myths also appear in other cultures … Celæno is the faintest at present.’ Celæno means `swarthy' – she had sons Lycus (``wolf'') and Chimærus (``he-goat'') by Prometheus. No other data on Celaeno.

From another source: The mythology states that only six of the stars shine brightly in the Pleiades star cluster becuase the seventh, Merope, shines dully because she is shamed for eternity for having an affair with a mortal.

Atlas – The father of the seven sisters, it is said that Atlas worked out the science of astrology and discovered the spherical nature of the stars.


Mythology of the Pirt-Kopan-noot tribe of Australia:

‘A lost Pleiad is the the queen of the remaining six. She is revered by the heavenly Crow (Canopus) and never returns to her home after she is carried away by him.’

‘As the Pleiades cluster is close to the ecliptic (within 4°) in the constellation of Taurus it is a spring and autumnal 'seasonal' object in both the northern and southern hemispheres. Being close to the ecliptic, there are frequent occultations of the cluster with the Moon and planets. To our superstitious ancestors these were, no doubt, portentious events.’

‘The heliacal (near dawn) rising of the Pleiades in spring in the northern hemisphere has from ancient times augured the opening of the seafaring and farming season: while its dawn autumnal setting marked the season's end.’


North American legends:

‘Coincidentally, a similar legend to that of the ancient Greeks is retold by the Kiowa tribe of North America. Seven maidens were transported in to the sky by the Great Spirit to save them from giant bears. The Spirit created the Mateo Tepe (the Devil's Tower National Monument, Wyoming) to place them beyond the bears. Yet the hunt continued, with the bears climbing the sheer cliffs – the vertical striations on the side of the rock formation were ascribed to be the bears' claw marks, gouged as they climbed after their prey. Seeing the bears close in on the maidens, the Spirit then placed them securely in the sky.’

‘To the Blackfoot tribe of south Alberta and north Montana the stars were known as the Orphan Boys. The fatherless boys were rejected by the tribe, but were befriended by a pack of wolves, who became their only companions. Saddened by their lives on earth they asked the Great Spirit to let them play together in the sky, and so he set them there as a group of small stars. As a reminder of their cruelty in contrast to the kindness of animals, every night the tribe were afflicted by the howling of the wolves, who pined after their lost friends.’


Other mythologies:

‘The Pleiades are among the first stars mentioned in literature, appearing in Chinese annals of about 2350 BC. The earliest European references are somewhat later, in a poem by Hesiod in about 1000 BC and in Homer's Odyssey.’

‘The Bible contains three direct references to the Pleiades in Job 9:9 and 38:31, and Amos 5:8, and a single indirect reference in the New Testament. This latter passage (Revelation 1:16) describes a vision of the coming of the Messiah – who holds, in his right hand, seven stars…’


Other names:

‘Mao (昴), the hairy head of the white tiger of the West - alternatively, the Blossom Stars and Flower Stars. (Chinese).’

‘Subaru: 'gathered together'. This was adopted as the trading name of a car manufacturer. (Japanese)’

Hoki Boshi: 'dabs of paint on the sky', literally, the brush stars. (Japanese)

The 'lost' star(s) in Kimah: The Talmud Rosh Hashanah relates that God, angered by mankind's degeneracy, reformed the work of his creation by removing two stars from Kimah and caused the cluster to rise at daybreak, out of season. The biblical flood of Noah was the direct result.

The Moving Staircase of the Beast

I’ve been having more dreams.

This time, I dreamed that I was trapped in a sort of hell, layered like Dante’s Inferno, and my father was leading me through it—just his voice, rather—telling me about my fate, the significance of my past, the dangers in my future. I followed his voice through the maze of pain and suffering, seeing things that were terrible … not a good dream.

“I am alone in space,” I heard my dad say at one point, “with emptiness on every side. I can see nothing but the moving staircase of the beast.”

The spiralling hell seemed to go on and on, until finally we reached the surface of earth, and my father told me, “Grey Belfast dawn illuminates you…” And then he was gone. And I woke up.

It was just a nightmare. But still, I’m left with a feeling that I don’t want to end up like my father; that he was truly alone, in the end, and that he was so sad, having destroyed the things he loved.

This game sometimes feels like a sort of maze. I’m often confused. It’s clear that some people are in their element and discover things quickly, but many like me are usually lost. I have to say, I’m not used to asking for or accepting help. I hate it, in fact, and always have. But in this case, if I’m to be any kind of proper protagonist, I do need help.

For one thing, we need more conspirators. There are just a few of us, and there is a deluge of potentially useful information all the time. Does anyone have any ideas of how to get more conspirators on board?

Maybe I’ll contact @visiblebelfast directly and ask what to do. Although it seems wrong somehow … like giving up.

More Images from the Star Factory

I went through the book some more last night ... there's so much in it and I have no idea what's relevant and what's not. The best I can do is to post things that seem like they might be of interest. Here are some things I found.

The Locket

Sorry this took a couple of hours; I had to search through several boxes of pictures and letters that I hadn’t opened for a while.

When we left Belfast, my dad gave me this locket. I’ve had it with me ever since, always away in a box … I was so angry when he gave me to me—angry at both my parents, really—that I never bothered to wear it or even look at it really. But every time I’ve packed to move somewhere, I’ve taken it with me. I can’t say why, except that when Dad gave it to me he told me to always keep it nearby, that it was good luck.

It occurred to me when I was reading over your tweets today that it might be the significant object I have been carrying with me. I did look at the dolphin, even poked a little hole at the seam to make sure nothing was hidden inside (remember the diamond in the teddybear from The Rescuers?), but nothing is. Anyway, I opened the locket … and I think I was right.

For the first time since all of this started, I feel quite shaken by this experience. Who would know that I had this locket, other than my dad? As for the question of whether to trust @visiblebelfast ... Right now, I don't.

Make what you will of this.

The Star Factory

Anyone who’s following this—and now there seem to be quite a few of you—I guess you’re part of the game. And I seem to be involved in it as well, through no choice of my own.

I was just quietly living my life, and suddenly all this stuff is happened, stuff that shows that someone has been watching me, knows private things about me … I’m being contacted by strangers, online and in person. I’m still not entirely sure what to think of it. Something about it feels slightly sinister.

But, possibly against my better judgment, I did go look to see if the numbers on the book were a library code, and indeed they are, sort of. I’ll post some photos here of what I found; I’m not sure what I found, to be honest, except that it was once a book. It seems to me like it’s now something else as well.

It was The Star Factory, by Ciaran Carson. I found it in the stacks, in between astronomy and physics. It's not either of those things.

The Star Factory is a novel, but someone’s totally changed the book from what it once was ... It’s been written in, not just written in, but drawn all over, with strange diagrams and words blacked out and whole sections changed. Have a look.

The book has been planted. The decimal code is just written onto the spine of the book, not typed onto a sticker like every other library book, and there’s nothing on the inside to indicate it’s a library book.

And I know someone left it for me to find. This was written on the last page.

Appropriately, today is Friday the 13th.

I need to have a think. More later.

And so it begins.

I realized that @visiblebelfast is following me on Twitter and has created a list, following just me, called "The Protagonist," and has been making comments about the ‘start of the journey’ and ‘the mazes of the network’ and a lot of other weird stuff in the past few days.

And now today, an email was sent out, and it seems like this might be the beginning.

The email I received contains a scanned piece of text from inside a book, and some cryptic sentences, including this one:

"the way the city grows: from a single point of human contact, relationships emerge and unravel, and labyrinthine paths spread over hills and valleys, through space and time."

For some reason this got me thinking about a book I read by Mackenzie Wark last year, and something he was saying about a news broadcast on Berlin. Let me go see if I can find it.

Here we go, on page 50:

"The caption ‘Berlin,’ placed underneath by NBC, was not actually referring to the physical space of Berlin itself. It referred to an electronic space constructed in the studio, which mixed images made on the East and West sides of the wall into a single vital center."

This just links in my head to the whole “over hills and valleys, through space and time” thing. Is a city made up of physical space, or of some other kind of space?

The email also said something about the number marking the beginning of Belfast, or the start of the tale … Don’t know what it means.

Already some people are helping me to solve what's happening here--people with more of a sense of mystery than I will admit to having myself. At the moment, all I can say for sure is that someone is definitely setting up an interesting course of events, and these seem to have something to do with me.

More soon.

Must Have Sense of Humor

An update is in order, I think. This is the fastest way:

http://www.youtube.com/user/AnaDanika49

Look at today's video. I wasn't paying attention to what I was listening to when I caught that broadcast; I think it was Radio 4, maybe Radio Ulster. Unfortunately, the truly crap radio signal from my house caused me to lose the rest of whatever it was. But I listened to the video a couple of times and yeah, that was me, and the woman from this morning. That explains the microphone. Sort of. And also, not at all.

So I thought about the envelope, which of course has my name and address on it. (The fact that some random person has my home address is something I don’t even want to think about just yet. Focus.) Well, there’s nothing much worth looking at on the outside of the envelope, so I thought I’d look inside, just to make sure I hadn’t missed a little note for me or something. It seemed like there was actually something written on the inside of the envelope maybe, so I cut it open, and now I’m sitting here with this mutilated envelope in my hands. And there was definitely something written inside.

It says “Linen Hall.” And then some numbers.

Why would some person record me and put me on the radio? And send me cryptic messages and nonsensical plastic maps? And where did she get my postal address??

I can picture her face perfectly; maybe I’ll do a police report. Except that’s ridiculous, because she didn’t actually do anything to me, of course. She just sent me some mail, and delivered a message. A message from who?

Anyway, maybe I should consider myself lucky ... I never get mail. This could be the start of a whole new thing for me. Being chased by the microphone paparazzi and getting free weird gifts in the mail. Awesome.

Trying to have a sense of humor about this.

CONT.

Per your request...

Intrigue...?

This is a weird city.

I don’t get it. Why would a random person come up to me, out of the blue, ask my name, and give me a personal message? On a Monday afternoon in a bookshop?

That is exactly what happened this morning, and I have to say, it kind of freaked me out. I was popping into NoAlibis for a quick look around, when this woman came up to me and politely asked if I was Ana. When I said I was, she told me she had a message for me, something about ‘look carefully at what you receive.’ The whole time, she had a microphone in my face, and there was a dude shadowing her carrying a bunch of audio equipment. When I asked her who she was, she gave me a very odd look and wouldn’t say.

There were some people in the corner who weren’t looking at books, who were just talking to each other really quietly, and they seemed to be watching me. I don’t know, maybe that part was in my head, but I was so thrown off by that point that I didn’t know what to think, and I just left.

‘Look carefully at what you receive.’ Right.

Well, I can’t help connecting this with the thing I got in the mail last week. I haven’t received anything out of the ordinary besides that, and since this is now two very random, anonymous events happening in the space of about five days. I’m guessing they’re connected.

But right now I’m in a café jamming on the free wi-fi, and I have a meeting with my supervisor in a minute, so unfortunately I have run out of time for reflecting on the bizarre-ness that is my life. This evening I’ll have a good look at that thing again, try Googling some things on there maybe.

But seriously … what’s going on? Seriously.

The Reluctant Tourist

I got something ... weird ... in the mail yesterday. I don't know how to describe it so I'm just going to post a video on my YouTube channel. Link at the bottom. Basically I spent half of the day thinking about it, and decided I have no clue what it's about. Anyone with insight, do speak now.

In other news, I went to the walking tour of the Cathedral Quarter today, and was rather disappointed. Something about guide-led tours leaves me totally uninspired. But then I've never enjoyed the tourist track, so there you go. Dad used to encourage me to find my own way when I travel, and he would know. He did a lot of traveling himself, back in the day. "You don't see the city until you see its underbelly," he said to me once. "And no tour guide is going to show you that."

Tours of Belfast are an odd territory, though; there's always a question about what version of history you'll have access to. Which raises a question about history itself: if it's just what one person or one group decides to report, how valid is History proper? And what sort of history is worth listening to? So, in a roundabout way, I suppose the tour did get me thinking after all.

http://www.youtube.com/user/AnaDanika49

Mail, music and McHughs

Got home late this evening, after a full day in the library and then a show, to find something odd hanging in the mail slot. I'm too tired to think about it properly right now ... I almost feel a tad weirded out. I'll post something about it tomorrow.

I just need a short venting session. I miss David. And I miss my friends at home. My one friend from childhood here goes to university in Scotland (thanks, Meri) and I'm stuck in this odd city without a paddle. Not that I'd leave, I just feel a bit meh.

I know. I complain a lot. This is what they don't tell you about Canadians.

I need a cup of something. I should do a yoga DVD to chill out before bed. Probably just eat some ice cream though.

The Cathedral Quarter Fest is cool, by the way. Tonight I saw Curtis Eller play at McHugh's ... interesting stuff. He's from NYC, which of course made me nostalgic for the one time I visited NYC. I'll try to do this walking tour of the Cathedral Quarter they have going on before the festival is over.

More later.

Urban quiet.

I've been exploring Belfast with a bit more gusto, especially since the weather continues to get lovelier and the city has been quiet for Easter/Royal wedding holidays. (I admit I don't get the royal wedding clamor, but fair enough, extra quiet Belfast for me.) I tried beans on toast for the first time: not as bad as expected. Almost good.

I spent a good couple of hours in the Linen Hall library near the center of town today. They have an odd selection of niche and vintage books, and boutique-style books by local writers ... I did a quick survey of the astronomy section and it wasn't too bad, especially for a non-specialist library. The history section, to my delight, had a series of children's books, occult histories, and random real estate pamphlets. And so on. Plus they have great tea ... so, winner.

Last week I got to chatting with a guy at the climbing wall who offered to take me out with his friends into the Mournes, now that the weather's nice. I'm sure I'll be far behind the skill level of most of them (they're amazing, these guys, at least from what I've seen down at the wall) but it will be nice to actually get out a bit in the area. The weather has been good and getting better.

In time for differentiation, I finally narrowed my PhD topic down to focusing on Messier 45 only. Still a massive project area, but more narrowing to go. Dad's favorite part of the sky, that was. Not sure if that's a coincidence.

More soon. I'm doing better.

Sunshine, cherry blossoms, and a lack of art

I should really be more active on here. I can't expect anyone to be interested in my blog if I'm not interested in it myself, right?

Research continues. Belfast is coming into spring now, and there are cherry blossoms everywhere. I'm told this is a brief moment of perfect weather, and it will turn into endless rain before long. It's much nicer than winter, anyway.

Just read through my last post. Maybe because of the sunshine, I'm feeling better these days. I can't help sometimes imagining, though, what life would be like if I was still at home, if David was still around, if Dad was still around. Imagining it may be the worst possible thing I could do.

The Cathedral Quarter Festival is going on in Belfast, and I keep meaning to check out some of what's happening, but I also keep getting wrapped up in various things related to research. It's possible that it's easier to bury myself in the books than it would be to go hang out with folks. Despite a brighter disposition, I never seem to be in the mood to make chitchat with strangers. And none of the other postgrads in my department seem interested in arty things. Shame.

I vow to become more active on Facebook and Twitter &etc, if only to increase the chances of coming upon people with similar interests to me in this city. It's bound to happen eventually!

Cheers,
Ana

15 March

I’ve been in this city for months, and I still feel invisible.

I have never wanted attention before, not really. But these days, I walk from university building to university building, pass the same people in the streets and in the halls, follow the same deadening routine every day … and I just want someone to notice me, remember me, say hello.

I guess it’s a lot to ask.

I’m still wearing my engagement ring sometimes. I know I shouldn’t, and I guess I would be ashamed if anyone in this place knew me. But they don’t, so I’m free to do as I like. I am so lonely for David now. It’s taken me this long to admit that it’s worse now than it was in Canada. There, I was reminded of him everywhere. But here, I am so alone—I am totally alone. And David was my best friend for so many years. It’s hard not to miss him. And my father … who I am reminded of around every corner here. It makes me wonder why I came back. Maybe being here is the only thing I can do to feel close to him. To understand why he chose to do what he did.

I’ve found myself buried in the stacks at the library so often, more than I need to be studying I suppose, just to find something to keep my mind busy. The internet does that too, of course. I’ve been reading some about exoplanets lately, and daydreaming about possible intelligent life in other solar systems. There’s something comforting about imagining life on other planets, out there in what seems like the vast emptiness of space.

I have lost so much in the past two years, I almost don’t know how I’m still functioning every day. Maybe a doctor would say I’m depressed. I do feel depressed sometimes. But I have a strong feeling, deep down, that somehow my life will come to something. Eventually I will be noticed.