Last Evenings on Earth

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.

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:

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...

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.

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.

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.