This is it. The last 24 hours. The end.
Last night, a lot of people asked me how I felt. To this I replied, "Not good. But I'm trying not to think about it."
It's like having a bad taste in my mouth, knowing this is the last day. I want to wash it out. And never leave.
August 22, 2008
August 17, 2008
We're Getting Older
All my life, I've wanted to grow up. Which is funny, because when I was younger, I also wanted to be Peter Pan. Conflicting interests, no? Anyway, I'm finally at the stage where I'm considered an "adult" and now, all I want to do is crawl beneath the covers and lock all the responsibility away behind some closed, heavy, and extremely bolted door. Everything I do from here on out matters. And not even in a small way. In incredible and big and irreversible ways. It's all coming to a point. I can feel it closing in on me. There's this voice in my head, and it's telling me I need to "take action" and "do this" and "do that" and "make everything tangible" and it's getting stronger. Every day. And I'm freaking out. I'm actually, genuinely shaking from the inside out, because I am so damn terrified. Tonight, on the phone, my dad broached the subject of graduation, and what I thought my immediate plans might be, and that was really the only answer I could give: the immediate plans. Because I can't project what's going to happen within the next few months. For the first time ever, I'm actually walking the tightrope without a net. Things like grad school, leaving the country, staying in the country, chancing our failing economy and getting a shit job, getting an internship and hoping for a better job stemming from that, finding an apartment where the heat works and the water pressure's good and the ceiling isn't about to collapse and the landlord isn't about to up and fuck off to god knows where, obtaining health insurance...these things are so close I can touch them. Being happy. That's another one. That's the thing most on my mind: how can I maneuver everything so that "happiness" is not just another thing I put in quotations--not just another concept left to the imagination--but an actual living, breathing thing I can hold and call my own?
Here's a photo I took my first year of college that I rather like, even though it has no real personal significance to me. I used to like the café it's set in, but crowdedness and bad music has kind of put a damper on that whole bit. Ah well:
Here's a photo I took my first year of college that I rather like, even though it has no real personal significance to me. I used to like the café it's set in, but crowdedness and bad music has kind of put a damper on that whole bit. Ah well:
August 13, 2008
Scatterbrained
So here's the thing: it's cold in here. Literally. But I don't want to wear socks. And I don't want to get underneath the covers. Because doing that is giving in. I don't want to give in. I will persevere. I am always persevering. More than you know. When I last tipped my hat to the blogosphere, I said I'd persevere (against the weather, remember?), but that didn't happen, I was too lazy to find my own way to a house party I wasn't invited to in the first place. Instead, I made myself a cup of tea and watched three films (yes!) and sent a lot of text messages and went to sleep way too late, but what the hell, it was Saturday and I am young. This coming weekend is going to be insane, because we're finally filming and I'm acting the triple threat as producer, camera assistant, and actor. Speaking of which, I'm thinking of getting back into acting. Is this a good idea? Yes? No? I hate the politics behind acting communities, and I hate the idea of doing it for money even more (money is a perk when you're doing something you love), so I don't know how that would work exactly. Maybe it wouldn't? I could always be an actor in Chicago (the love! the support!), but I don't know about New York. The avant-garde, maybe? I'd need to find my niche, but part of me is too ambivalent to care. Things are on the up and up, though. I'm still trying to enjoy my last breaths here. The weather's been shit, but other than that, everything's fairly dandy. Life's still cinematic, but I guess that's only appropriate. This is one big adventure after all.
Perhaps this is merely the beginning...
Perhaps this is merely the beginning...
August 9, 2008
The Change-Over
Time flies.
Summer is rapidly coming to a close, which means my time in Dublin is dwindling. I can't even talk about it. Haven't been sleeping well. Been going to bed at six in the morning, then spending most of the day under the covers, waking and falling back into nightmares. It's the separation anxiety. Haven't had the stamina to go out, do much of anything. The only thing I've been doing for myself is cooking. Last night, I made falafel and wild mushroom risotto and warmed some pita (or, as they call it here, pitta). Tonight, I plan on making pasta with pesto, fresh tomatoes, and bits of rosemary and sun-dried tomato sausage. Emotional distraction through eating? This was meant to be my second Weekend of Film. There's a big pile of DVDs just lying there, on my night stand, begging to be watched. But I can't even do that. The other day, after lunch, I was asked if I was okay. There was something in my face, something in the way I was silent and pensive and obvious. And I smiled and nodded and said, "Yeah," even though I was clearly lying--through my teeth, through that fake, sad smile of mine--because I can't even talk about it. Can't put it into words. The linguistic equivalent of this is failing me. How do you describe what leaving does? How do you describe the physical attributes of impending loss? Choking. That's part of it. Feeling like I can't swallow. Crying uncontrollably. Being a mess, in general. It's not even poetic. Just shit, shit, and more shit.
I'm trying to enjoy it, though. Despite everything, I'm trying to enjoy my last days here. What else is there to do? Last weekend, for my birthday, my roommate's boyfriend cooked everyone dinner. I was under the impression he was only making quesadillas and homemade guacamole, but then he announced the main course: penne alla vodka. One of my all-time favorite dishes, so imagine the happiness. Now multiply that happiness by a million when you throw in a chocolate cake covered in flakes of milk, dark, and white chocolate, a Cadbury double chocolate bar, and chocolate truffles. Sometimes, people surprise you with their ability to be wonderful. Afterwards, I met up with some like-minded fun fiends, and we managed to make the best out of a bad DJ at Whelans. And even though social law proclaims all 21-year-olds must get fall-down-on-your-ass-silly drunk on their birthdays, I drank responsibly. Blame it on thirst, but in between all the J&Cs, I somehow managed to down a pint-and-a-half of water. By the time we got to Charlie's (greasy, overpriced Chinese food joint no one in their right mind would ever walk into sober), whatever inebriated state I'd been in had turned to one of immense exhaustion.
The rest of the weekend was great. I'm not going to divulge, so you'll just have to take my word for it: pretty damn great.
Right now, it's raining like the sky's life depends on it. This would be all fine and dandy if I'd planned a night in. But I haven't. I know I should just gather up my shabby umbrella, grin, and bear it, but damn if I'm not considering spending a night glued to my computer screen. It's not going to happen (I will persevere!), but if only today wasn't a constant reminder of having a mere two weeks left to socialize and party and do all things brilliant in Dublin...
And we've come full-circle.
Summer is rapidly coming to a close, which means my time in Dublin is dwindling. I can't even talk about it. Haven't been sleeping well. Been going to bed at six in the morning, then spending most of the day under the covers, waking and falling back into nightmares. It's the separation anxiety. Haven't had the stamina to go out, do much of anything. The only thing I've been doing for myself is cooking. Last night, I made falafel and wild mushroom risotto and warmed some pita (or, as they call it here, pitta). Tonight, I plan on making pasta with pesto, fresh tomatoes, and bits of rosemary and sun-dried tomato sausage. Emotional distraction through eating? This was meant to be my second Weekend of Film. There's a big pile of DVDs just lying there, on my night stand, begging to be watched. But I can't even do that. The other day, after lunch, I was asked if I was okay. There was something in my face, something in the way I was silent and pensive and obvious. And I smiled and nodded and said, "Yeah," even though I was clearly lying--through my teeth, through that fake, sad smile of mine--because I can't even talk about it. Can't put it into words. The linguistic equivalent of this is failing me. How do you describe what leaving does? How do you describe the physical attributes of impending loss? Choking. That's part of it. Feeling like I can't swallow. Crying uncontrollably. Being a mess, in general. It's not even poetic. Just shit, shit, and more shit.
I'm trying to enjoy it, though. Despite everything, I'm trying to enjoy my last days here. What else is there to do? Last weekend, for my birthday, my roommate's boyfriend cooked everyone dinner. I was under the impression he was only making quesadillas and homemade guacamole, but then he announced the main course: penne alla vodka. One of my all-time favorite dishes, so imagine the happiness. Now multiply that happiness by a million when you throw in a chocolate cake covered in flakes of milk, dark, and white chocolate, a Cadbury double chocolate bar, and chocolate truffles. Sometimes, people surprise you with their ability to be wonderful. Afterwards, I met up with some like-minded fun fiends, and we managed to make the best out of a bad DJ at Whelans. And even though social law proclaims all 21-year-olds must get fall-down-on-your-ass-silly drunk on their birthdays, I drank responsibly. Blame it on thirst, but in between all the J&Cs, I somehow managed to down a pint-and-a-half of water. By the time we got to Charlie's (greasy, overpriced Chinese food joint no one in their right mind would ever walk into sober), whatever inebriated state I'd been in had turned to one of immense exhaustion.
The rest of the weekend was great. I'm not going to divulge, so you'll just have to take my word for it: pretty damn great.
Right now, it's raining like the sky's life depends on it. This would be all fine and dandy if I'd planned a night in. But I haven't. I know I should just gather up my shabby umbrella, grin, and bear it, but damn if I'm not considering spending a night glued to my computer screen. It's not going to happen (I will persevere!), but if only today wasn't a constant reminder of having a mere two weeks left to socialize and party and do all things brilliant in Dublin...
And we've come full-circle.
August 1, 2008
The Final Coming-of-Age
Today is my birthday. I have now been 21 for two hours.
Tonight, my roommate's boyfriend is going to cook everyone dinner. Then, I am off to Whelans for dancing and what I'm told will be free drinks all night, because that's what friends do. Hopefully, the people in the Village (the bar next door) will keep their cool and not start any fires. This happened once, on a very rainy and cold night in March, and led to adventure, intrigue, and a broken staircase. As much as I enjoyed that, however, it will be nice to not have to traverse the freezing streets of Dublin right before the sun rises. Tonight, I am going to try very hard not to get shitfaced like every other newly-minted 21-year-old, but since my tolerance is next to non-existent, my plan may be foiled. I'm anticipating doing things that will continue to add fuel to the fire that is my cinematic life, a big burning heap of moral ambiguity, but, more importantly, an exercise in "looking out for number one" and furthering my own personal happiness. And I'm anticipating having fun, because when planning these shenanigans, people asked what I wanted to do, and that was the only thing I could decide on: to have fun. So it shall be.
It's surreal, to "come of age" in another country. I can't explain it, but I'm sure it'll feel even more surreal later on. It's also strange to think that once I return to the States, I will finally be able to do things I've been waiting at least eleven years to do. As someone who's always had older friends (we're talking ten to twenty to even thirty years older), being unable to go to bars and such has put a bit of a damper on my social life. Imagine not being able to participate in wedding festivities simply because of your age. Imagine not being able to attend theatre fundraisers, ones of indescribable importance to you. Imagine having to turn down invitations to go to club nights because you knew you'd get carded. Last summer, when I lived in New York, the idea of getting a fake ID was a constant temptation. It meant freedom. It meant fun. But places have started cracking down. There's new technology to detect fakes. To put down my hard-earned money, only to have the thing taken away from me within a week (like a girl I knew)--it didn't seem like a great risk to take. I'd gotten so far. I'd wait it out. And now here I am, completely free of a driver's license that identifies me as a 23-year-old from Kansas. In Ireland, of course, it makes little difference, but I can guarantee it'll feel so good once I'm back in the land of my people.
To kick off my day of days, I played two games of Scrabble. I've been playing like mad, persevering despite constant losses (this is probably indicative of why I shouldn't gamble), and while I lost the first game, I won the second, bumping my user rating up exponentially. Also, I played a 7-letter word on a triple-word score and finished the game with 458 points (leading by nearly 200). Some people play pool, some people play Monopoly, and me...well, me, I play Scrabble. Once a geek, always a geek. Happy birthday to me.
Tonight, my roommate's boyfriend is going to cook everyone dinner. Then, I am off to Whelans for dancing and what I'm told will be free drinks all night, because that's what friends do. Hopefully, the people in the Village (the bar next door) will keep their cool and not start any fires. This happened once, on a very rainy and cold night in March, and led to adventure, intrigue, and a broken staircase. As much as I enjoyed that, however, it will be nice to not have to traverse the freezing streets of Dublin right before the sun rises. Tonight, I am going to try very hard not to get shitfaced like every other newly-minted 21-year-old, but since my tolerance is next to non-existent, my plan may be foiled. I'm anticipating doing things that will continue to add fuel to the fire that is my cinematic life, a big burning heap of moral ambiguity, but, more importantly, an exercise in "looking out for number one" and furthering my own personal happiness. And I'm anticipating having fun, because when planning these shenanigans, people asked what I wanted to do, and that was the only thing I could decide on: to have fun. So it shall be.
It's surreal, to "come of age" in another country. I can't explain it, but I'm sure it'll feel even more surreal later on. It's also strange to think that once I return to the States, I will finally be able to do things I've been waiting at least eleven years to do. As someone who's always had older friends (we're talking ten to twenty to even thirty years older), being unable to go to bars and such has put a bit of a damper on my social life. Imagine not being able to participate in wedding festivities simply because of your age. Imagine not being able to attend theatre fundraisers, ones of indescribable importance to you. Imagine having to turn down invitations to go to club nights because you knew you'd get carded. Last summer, when I lived in New York, the idea of getting a fake ID was a constant temptation. It meant freedom. It meant fun. But places have started cracking down. There's new technology to detect fakes. To put down my hard-earned money, only to have the thing taken away from me within a week (like a girl I knew)--it didn't seem like a great risk to take. I'd gotten so far. I'd wait it out. And now here I am, completely free of a driver's license that identifies me as a 23-year-old from Kansas. In Ireland, of course, it makes little difference, but I can guarantee it'll feel so good once I'm back in the land of my people.
To kick off my day of days, I played two games of Scrabble. I've been playing like mad, persevering despite constant losses (this is probably indicative of why I shouldn't gamble), and while I lost the first game, I won the second, bumping my user rating up exponentially. Also, I played a 7-letter word on a triple-word score and finished the game with 458 points (leading by nearly 200). Some people play pool, some people play Monopoly, and me...well, me, I play Scrabble. Once a geek, always a geek. Happy birthday to me.
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