All Smiles

Incredibly happy right now. It's just one of those nights.

Part of it has to do with a really good mix a certain someone made me, part of it has to do with finally having seen The Dark Knight (near-perfect, for innumerable reasons), part of it has to do with re-reading the play I wrote last semester and realizing how much of it I'd changed and how the work itself isn't a complete and utter failure and maybe I kind of like it, even though it still has a long way to go. I'm trying not to think about the fact that I'm leaving in less than a month, because it makes me melancholy and then it's all downhill from there. It's not even that I don't want to return to New York (because I do), but I wish I could split my body in two and keep a part of myself here and send a part of myself there, and enjoy the best of both worlds. I feel like this upcoming school year is going to be great, even if everything doesn't go according to plan, and I still feel like anything could happen post-graduation, so there's optimism on both ends. I'll be 21 (finally) on Saturday, so that helps. A better social life Stateside is most certainly in the works. It sounds stupid and cliché, but I'm looking forward to things like getting into bars, acquiring cans of Guinness, and never again having to deal with casino security yelling at me. Plus, I can finally set foot inside Bowlmor, the East Village bowling alley, which I've previously been turned away from for being underage and which just shows you how much of a geek I am. (Three things I can't live without: tea, Scrabble, and bowling. Nerd indeed.)

Last week, I had a bad night, and my roommate made me stir-fry and I realized how much I will miss him and my Italian flatmate. My apartment may be shit (though I've learned how to take comfortable showers and scam the man by getting free loads of washing!), but my flatmates (with the exception of the American, who doesn't understand how to live communally with people) are ace, and I'm quite lucky. With more ups than downs, this summer's been a good one, and it'll definitely go down in the books as one of the best.

List #2

Note-Worthy Things I've Done In The Recent Past:

1. Discovered the wonder that is Lukas Moodysson. Lilya 4-Ever and Together are two of the best films I've seen in a long time. Hands down. If held at gunpoint and forced to make a list of Top 5 Favorite Films (an almost impossible feat, if I do say so), Lilya would be on it, zero hesitation. It is devastating, brutal, and unapologetically confrontational, but at the same time, beautiful, poetic, and fierce in its loveliness. It is completely exemplary of why I love cinema. Together, on the other hand, is just a joy to behold. Who knew you could turn the act of blowing bubbles, or swinging on a swing in Paris in a park outside Notre Dame, or grazing in the park during a summer's day into a piece of celluloid? Who knew such an organically happy film could be made? I cannot recommend both of these enough.

2. Curated my own Weekend of Film. This past weekend, my big plan was to watch something like ten films, but due to some unexpected emotional turbulence on Saturday, I only watched six. C'est la vie. At least I finally saw Michael Clayton, which was fantastic. I could watch both Tilda Swinton and Tom Wilkinson eat sandwiches, though, and I'd be happy. The final confrontation between Swinton and George Clooney's characters all on its own is worth spending your two hours glued to a TV screen (or a computer screen, in my case).

3. Helped scout locations for the film I'm co-producing. This resulted in my hanging out in a crypt for a bit, which, after gushing over the Catacombs in Paris, was excellent. We're going to be filming in a theatre space on the outskirts of Temple Bar. The space, incidentally enough, just so happens to be the oldest theatre settlement in Dublin (and perhaps in Western Europe?), which also means that it's quite haunted. So, after seeing the hollowed-out performance areas, complete with untouched, original brick walls (it's historical, so no tampering or rebuilding allowed), we were led down to the crypt, where a tomb lies and everything. Scary stuff, but perfect for a zombie film, no?

4. Began a list of all the feature-length films I'd ever seen. So far I'm at 1,218, though I'm certain there's a bunch I'm forgetting. They will come to me in my sleep.

5. Graced the cinema. My life, really, has become an excess of film. Are any of the numbers above about the books I'm reading? No. (Though if you really want to know the answer to that question, I'm currently still at the beginning of Down and Dirty Pictures: Miramax, Sundance, and The Rise of Independent Film.)

Speaking of film, I just learned the IFC Center in New York now has year-long student memberships, purchasable at only $35 a pop! This means I can now see a wealth of indie, foreign, and art house films for only $8.50, which is really the next best thing to paying nothing to go to the cinema in Manhattan. I can't really express my excitement here, except to say imagine someone jumping up and down on a bed...you'll get the picture.

In Its Right Place

I’ve been thinking a lot about the future.

During my first year of college (and probably into my second), I had a friend who became increasingly annoyed by my anxiety over whether or not I’d be able to do what I wanted after graduation. Why a freshman would even contemplate these things in such a serious manner is now beyond me, but at the time, it seemed like a good thing to worry about. My impending future: the minutes ticking away and so ominous! At some point during first semester of this past year, though, I realized I’ll be okay. I might have to take a job that doesn’t altogether please me for a little bit, and I might have to settle for living in some shitty apartment if I have my eye on a Manhattan or Brooklyn home base, but in the end, everything will work itself out. I won’t be out on the street, living in some cardboard duplex. I won’t be struggling to pay for bills or food. I’ll be all right. (Part of me wishes I could tell that friend, who's since, and unfortunately, become former.)

It’s been nice to know a bunch of graduates I'm friends with are living comfortably. Their apartments may not be adorned with thousand-dollar furniture and they may be sharing rent (and kitchen space) with three other people, but they’re also fairly happy, and that’s what counts most. Some of them have real world jobs, while others are still looking for positions that will get them health insurance and relinquish them of boredom. It’s a day-to-day process, but it seems to be going smoothly, and it’s comforting to know no one’s suffering and probably won’t ever be.

My cousin called earlier today, which was nice, because we haven’t spoken extensively for a while. I saw her in May (I was actually at her apartment when my week-long illness set in, so she got to watch my health rapidly decline firsthand!), and she called me earlier this week, but couldn’t talk much because of writing class priorities (a book of hers is being published, how cool is that?). Anyway, we talked a lot about the current political state in our country and the U.S. higher education system vs. the higher education systems in Ireland and the UK, and I told her how I'm seriously toying with the idea of applying to grad school at Trinity, and she said that was good. I went abroad for a lot of reasons, but mostly I needed a change of scenery, and I think considering how happy I’ve been here and how clear-headed it’s made me, and considering how I've always envisioned myself working some kind of administrative or writing job having to do with film (not screenwriting, per se, but journalistic, critical, and/or essay writing), this might be the direction I should go. Plus the film theory/history program, which is the degree I’d apply for, is taught by excellent people like Ruth Barton and Kevin Rockett, and studying film here is unique, in that the country’s had a long and interesting relationship with the medium, both in terms of production and in terms of censorship. It’s also only a year long, which would give me just enough time to figure out if I’d like to remain in Ireland (possibly go for a higher degree? is there a professor beneath my bones just waiting to get out?), knock around Europe, or return to the States. Once college starts up again, I have at about seven months to let it stew (applications are due in March), but the thought of it really does sound appealing. Every time I think about it, I get the sort of butterflies I used to get whenever I thought about applying to Sarah Lawrence. And look where I am now.

So. The future. It’s impending and immense and wide open. Right-o.

Bravo, U.S.A...I salute you!

Admittedly, I’m a little behind on the news. Even though The New York Times pops up every time I open Firefox, I usually do a quick skim of the headlines and then go straight to checking my e-mail. It’s better this way, reason says, it won’t result in a day of depression. Well, ignorance is bliss some of the time. The rest of the time, it just leads to finding out about things like this two days late.

I’m angry. No, wait: I’m infuriated. How did this happen? How could this happen? About two weeks ago, a stubborn but well-read friend of mine harangued me for making harsh comments about our country’s legal policies. He wasn’t defending the Supreme Court, per se, but he was defending their upholding of the Constitution and my apparent inability to understand that if you take away one Amendment, you give clearance to take away all of them. We were talking about gun control, and the Supreme Court’s decision to strike down a law that would have banned citizen possession of handguns in Washington D.C. I don’t like handguns, and I probably never will. Anyone who is even slightly educated will probably say the same thing: they exist solely to kill people. (After all, no one’s going to shoot an elk with a 9 mm.) So to me, fudging with the 2nd Amendment and making handgun possession illegal in a city with one, if not the highest murder rate per capita in the nation seemed okay to me. When the Supreme Court didn’t agree, I understood their reasoning, but didn’t like the decision. The Times report I read aptly pointed out how context is everything, and because the 2nd Amendment was written at a time when things like gangs and homicide didn’t exist in the same way as they do today, it needs to undergo thorough reexamination. I agree with this. But again, my friend said, imagine what would happen if they did away with the 2nd Amendment. Imagine what else they could change. True, but in my mind, various rulers of our country (and the Justices who follow them) could make attempts to alter the Constitution at any time. I really do believe, despite everything, that our freedoms can be taken away as easily as they’ve been given. Sure, it’s great to live in the States. But when you’ve got Supreme Court Justices who need reminding of the existence of Constitutional Amendments (as indicated a week before the gun control case, when the Court barely ruled that Guantanamo Bay detainees deserved fair trials), it’s a little easier to see how faulty the whole system has become.

This whole wire-tapping bill is just icing on the cake. Yes, it’s being done for precautionary measures, to fight terror, to stop what can be stopped and save what can be saved, etc. etc. But wire-tapping without warrants? You say the wrong thing on the phone—maybe you make a joke that someone happens to be listening in on and happens to misinterpret—and suddenly, you find yourself detained without cause, a victim of rendition. I dunno, man. The whole thing sounds a little too 1984 for my liking. I think the worst part is that it keeps phone companies off the hook. Let’s save the big corporations! Guess who can’t sue when the government doesn’t need a warrant to eavesdrop?

Keeping the people down. That’s really what America’s always been about. How to make itself look good, while oppressing those who really help hold it together.

because true love has no conditions

I used to blog every day. Now I blog every few days. Or once a week. It depends on how good I feel and whether or not I have anything to say.

Lately, I’ve come to realize two things: I don’t know what to do with myself when I don’t have a job, and I’m lazy. The second thing is mostly a product of the first, but sometimes it’s not. Like today. I went to Tesco and spent nearly ten minutes trying to decide whether or not I was up for cooking dinner long-term. By which I mean, I stared at a microwaveable shepherd’s pie and debated the pro’s and con’s of waiting out the six minutes required cooking time versus actually preparing chicken-flavored noodles, scrambling eggs, and heating baked beans for ten minutes. I opted for the latter, but just barely. These are the types of decisions I’ve been making over the past two months. Like I said: lazy.

But! Two slightly redemptive things done today: I finally posted here, and I did a load of laundry, which—wait for it—was FREE! Yes, I of the washing blues managed to snag a machine that either already had money in it, or was broken enough to work without payment, but work all the same. It may have taken nearly two-and-half hours to completely cycle through, but who am I to complain when it was not only free, it also left my clothes slightly damp rather than soaking? My last washing adventure (or should I say nightmare?) took six hours and resulted in drenched clothing that had to undergo a thorough rinse by hand, three to four days of drying time, and, in the case of my black hoodie and underwear, a half hour of assault by hair dryer. Not to mention buying a can of Febreeze to make everything smell a little less rancid. After that episode, what happened today was something of a miracle. The sun even came out after it’d been raining all day.

Last night, I went to see Operator Please at Crawdaddy, a bar/music venue/club with an arched, unfinished brick ceiling and semi-swank décor. It marked the first time I ever drank at a concert. There’s a first time for everything, I guess. The band was good—they did a pretty awesome rock cover of “Push It” by Salt-n-Pepa—but their support act was better. Whenever I try to describe Vlad, my hair stylist in Chicago, I usually tell of his love affair with David Lynch (figurative, not literal) and how he once walked out on a date because she fell asleep during Mulholland Drive. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked me the first time he recounted this story. “David Lynch is my childhood!” If Vlad were to form his own band, Robotnik would probably be it. I’m not even going to bother to name the sole player in Robotnik, because his name is beyond the point. All you need to know is this: he gave gummies to audience members before he played, proceeded to throw them at audience members while he played, stole a girl’s camera, squirted the audience with a super soaker, dragged a male member of the audience to the front and danced with him, danced with other members of the audience, performed from behind the bar (which was, of course, all the way in the back), and sang songs about jail cells and finding Jesus. He reminded me a lot of this guy I used to go to college with, who, incidentally enough, also has his own band. Everyone has their own band. I want one.

Tomorrow, I’m going to be productive. Really. Honest. I need to make important phone calls and go to lunch and maybe meet up with people at night. Or maybe see/listen to/hear Charles Mee speak. He is my new playwriting hero. I saw Big Love at the Abbey the other night, and it completely made up for all the terrible theatre I’ve seen here. It was indescribably beautiful. And immensely poetic. I cried. I vowed I would fall into fits of writing like his. One of these days, I’m going to start working on my play again. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or Friday. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First things first. Like showers. And dish washing. And producing films about Bob Dylan and zombies.

Humdrum

Back from Wales.

Actually got back a week ago.

It's been one of those weeks, though, where things are better left unsaid. You know?

Yesterday was the 4th of July. Strange to spend your country's biggest national holiday in another country. There were plenty of Americans walking around. Some wore American flag bandannas around their necks. Some walked in big groups and blocked up the path. As tourists are wont to do. The Pembroke, a pub down the street from where I live, had a special deal where one could buy an American beer and get a hot dog for free. Everyone in my flat kept joking about going there. "Mmmm...hot dogs." I had shepherd's pie and soy milk for dinner.

Not much else. My old and good friend Eleanor is in town today. Very exciting. Dunnes is having a 1/2 price sale, so yesterday I bought jeans and a nice shirt. Also very exciting. It's rare to find jeans that fit me well.

So it goes.

Excitement

Tomorrow, I'm going to Wales for a football match!

That's pretty much it.

Anatomy of Worry

Let’s be honest: if my anxiety levels fought someone else’s anxiety levels in a cage match, mine would probably win. This isn’t bragging. This is fact. There isn’t a person who (personally) knows me who hasn’t, at some point, told me to “shut up” or “chill out” or “calm down” or, simply, lately, “relax.” It’s understandable. Sometimes, I am like Woody Allen on steroids. My voice goes up an octave and I start speaking quickly and flailing my arms and hands, and, on really good days, I might even start crying, if my brain feels up to transmitting those kinds of emotional and physical signals. During my first year of college, my roommate told me I had to be the most neurotic person she’d ever met. She also had a habit of saying calmaté when things got really strenuous; I have yet to determine if this is a proper usage of Spanish.

I’d like to think my anxiety is often prompted by things worth worrying about, that my neuroses is just. As of late, it’s become easier to convince myself of this. First, there was finding housing for the summer. The thing about real estate—or at least Dublin City Centre real estate—is that it’s very in-the-moment, very blink-and-you-miss-it. Due to the country’s fairly recent economic boom, people are moving here in droves, which means competition on all levels. The fact that I’d only be needing a home base for four months, and the fact that I’m not yet a working professional, and the fact that some places I looked at wanted people who could move in immediately put me at a disadvantage. In the middle of April, faced with the prospect of living in a hostel or homelessness, I panicked. I took the first option that presented itself as feasible. In doing this, I failed to ask the right questions. I failed to make the right inspections. And while my flatmates are awesome and things could be much worse, I’ve since learned how unfortunate impulsivity can be (see: my recent list).

Next, there was immigration business. Knowing I’d only been given an allowance of thirty days in Ireland, the thought of having to choose between leaving the country and living here illegally/risking deportation was a lot to swallow. I’m not built for those kinds of decisions. It’s difficult enough answering the question, “Where do you want to eat dinner?” Fortunately, the proper paperwork was accumulated and my passport is now stamped through the end of August. Problem solved.

Now, it’s medical. Let me preface this by saying: I’m fine. It’s not serious. Don’t worry. Really. I just have anxiety because…well, because I almost never get sick, and suddenly I’m in another country and damn if karma hasn’t come to kick my ass. Some stuff’s been up. Some recurrent stuff. Some stuff that’s been checked out, but needs to get checked out again. Really, though. I’m fine. No worries. Believe me. I’m not a walking zombie, nor am I in danger of becoming one. The anxiety’s just popped up because…well, because shit happens, you know? One day you’re fine, and the next, you find yourself in a waiting room tapping your foot at a million miles a minute, nervously awaiting test results for a disease you never even knew existed. This is life. People get sick all the time. Our bodies aren’t foolproof. You can take vitamins and pills and sufficiently exercise and look both ways before crossing the street and still find yourself damned. Someone very close to me went to bed and woke up with cancer. One of my best friends nearly died our first year of college because he abruptly developed some rare illness with some long scientific name I don’t remember, and the long scientific name I don’t remember caused his heart to palpitate until it stopped and he flatlined and had to be resuscitated. I’ve heard myriad stories about aneurysms. Anything is possible. I’ve just been trying to breathe and hope for the best, even though relatively bad news may be in order. Not death. I’m not going to “meet my maker” or anything like that. But I may have to hear a few things I’d rather not hear, some things I’ve been told I might have to hear sooner or later, some things that will force me to alter my lifestyle in ways that’ll displease me, though they’ll be necessary.

But again: this is me working through my anxiety. I am fine. Or I will be, and this will all blow over, one way or another.

Choices

Sometimes I think about the things I gave up this summer (the Middlebury Spanish Language School, a potential internship in New York, the chance to make money by working legally), but then I remember I'm in Ireland, and everything's okay.

Good Weekend

Today, it rained. Water came down, slanted, alternately heavy and light, and splashed itself across my window, drenching it. Little droplets, then big, then little, then big again. In random bursts. Like a carwash. The sun eventually came out. Then it disappeared and reappeared. In between, there was more diagonal rainfall, and a rainbow arching its way across a backdrop of apocalyptic gray clouds. Now the sky is darkening in slow motion.

I've done nothing all day.

Last night was brilliant. I don’t remember much. I remember buying Coca-Cola and discovering I had almost no money left and thinking that was probably a bad thing and continuing on to the tiki party and downing a Jameson & Coke and reading a copy of the latest issue of Playboy (for no particular reason) and arguing with people about film (specifically Juno, that beast of beasts) and downing another Jameson & Coke and meeting Brendan, who I incorrectly assumed was heterosexual (slap on the wrist!), and talking about New York and attempting to down another Jameson & Coke and talking about Buffy and Firefly and realizing everything was starting to spin and eating lots of garlic bread and time passing and somehow ending up in my friend, the host’s room and talking with a bunch of people and lying on my friend’s bed for a very long time and nearly locking myself in a bathroom without a door handle and more time passing and eventually making it downstairs and time passing and not being a good friend because of an aversion to vomit and sitting in the bathroom/nodding off in the bathroom for what I was told was a half hour and time passing and more time passing and talking about how food was probably a good idea and slagging Irish accents and pseudo-threatening people with an empty beer bottle and making up a story about how I killed a bunch of Amish kids on a train once (the Rumspringa part was true, though!) and watching the sun come up and nearly falling asleep on my friend’s floor but instead taking a very bumpy and nauseating taxi back into town at half five so I could go to sleep in my own bed and wake up at one in the afternoon. I also went to a very entertaining football match before all this even happened.

Madness. I’d do it all over again if given the chance.

Today, I woke up to breakfast cooked by my roommate and his boyfriend: vegetarian sausage, scrambled eggs, toasted brown bread and soft butter, baked beans, sautéed mushrooms and onions and tomatoes, English Breakfast tea, orange juice. Mouth-watering and delicious. The perfect solution to nursing the hangovers we either had or, in my case, should have had.