So, I feel bad about how haphazardly I produced my post on Amsterdam. It was written in between two things (a shower and a movie) and seemed really transitory. So I apologize. I will try to be more direct and precise with this one, which is about my wonderful time at the London Film Festival.
I suppose I should discuss the feeling of it, before getting down to the movies themselves. This was the first of my lone adventures (to come are solo trips to Brussels, Prague and Rome) and as such, was a learning experience, a lithmus test, if you will, for how well I do on my own. And I must say, if such determinations mattered, it was a success. The feeling of riding on a train by oneself, having no one expecting you, it's exhilirating. It goes the same for wandering the streets of London. When I arrived, I had the idea that I could get to Leicester Square from Liverpool Station by foot. I had directions, but they only got me as far as a couple of blocks from the station (I swear to you, if I didn't run into it much later in my trip I would be convinced that Shaftsbury Lane did not exist). Anyway, rather than becoming perturbed, I walked on. I knew vaguely the direction I was heading in, so I went that way. I realized that had I been with someone there would have been quite a hubub of "Where are we? Where are we going? What are we doing?" But I had two hours to kill before my first screening and it didn't matter. Walking was better than sitting around, idly. I have the legs for it. I could withstand a little exercise. And it became fun. Stressful, sure. But a sense of adventure coursed through me and a little adrenaline I'm sure. I perservered.
Now, I wish I could say that I got there all on my own, but that would be an exaggeration. As the hour of the film neared, I imagined that I was heading in the complete wrong direction and that all was lost and that I must, I simply must track down a taxi. I did, and after mispronouncing Leicester (Lie-chester versus Lester) and apologizing for my sheer Americanness, I found that it was only a 3 pound 50 cabfare away. I was that close. But I got there, and that's what's key.
At first, it wasn't much glitz or pomp or frills (that would start in the evening). My screening of 'Up in the Air" was a mellow affair and comforting and low-key. Same goes for my screening of 'Bright Star' right afterward. However, there was that feeling that I was surrounded by people who really and genuinely loved film. The conversations to be overheard before the hush-hush of the dimmed lights was alluring. People had strong opinions. I found that, unlike most of the film students at USC I hear discussing movies, there was no battle to be won, it was no pissing contest. It was simple, frank conversation. There were no big phrases like mise-en-scene or name dropping like, "This is obviously an homage to Godard." It was simple...and heartening for someone who very much loves the medium but hates the rigamarole. So maybe it's just you USC film students. Maybe it's all your fault. But I digress.
That night was the premiere of An Education, which is a really wonderful little film. So I got to see the much-buzzed-about Carey Mulligan. And hey, if she becomes an Oscar-winner this year, that's going to be something to say down the road. She is stunning and adorable and affable. But I was only on the sidelines, unfortunately. I wouldn't see An Education until the next day.
Also, I should probably mention that I wasn't entirely alone in my trip. The wonderful Prith housed and entertained me in the late evening hours. We wandered, tried to find Trafalgar Square, had a drink at a pub and went home. It was cool and a nice little reminder of home.
My second day I had a lot of time to myself, so I took in another movie: Zombieland, which was a nice change of pace from the other fare. Entertaining and not half-bad. Jesse Eisenberg's such a nice guy. I feel like other people (not me, because that would be weird) should start comparing him to me.
After my real London BMI Film Festival movies screened, I tried once more to navigate the three or four miles between Leicester Square and Liverpool Street Station. It was damn near impossible, I tell you, but I had even more time, so this go was successful. Score one for Ian!
Now to the movies:
Up in the Air - a really great simple film. It had been hyped so much and maybe I was expecting something different, but when it started I was a little disappointed. I think I was expecting something heavier or more profound. But don't be fooled. The film is as light as its title would suggest, and that's what is so damn good about it. It's got pluck. And I enjoyed the hell out of it. Oh, Anna Kendrick. If you get an Oscar nomination for this, I'm going to be so happy. She kicks the hell out of her role and is brilliant in that Anna Kendrick way. I wish it ended a little earlier than it did. It seemed to ramble on in its last twenty minutes or so. The end revelation seemed almost like a tacked on gimmick to me. But otherwise, it's fucking delightful.
Bright Star - So, here is the heavy stuff. It's quite long and sometimes dull, but it often alights on profundity and is visually stunning. It was sort of a tug-of-war with me on this one. I think some of it was a little bit overdone - almost too self-conscious. Also, I'm not a fan of the romance - not the typical romance at least. This one was just so well done that I can't much complain. It was beautiful and didn't fall into unnecessary cliches. There is a moment toward the end when there is a hug between the two protagonists on a bed which is shot from above and it is just a powerful combination of the performances, the placement of the camera, the art direction, everything. It was lovely.
An Education - I really really loved this one. Again, very simple, very precise. Nothing dressy or gaudy. It was just a small story and a couple of stunning performances. And quite a few laughs. Nick Hornby was the writer on this one, and I've got to say that the script is a powerhouse. I would have had the same "this was so built up, what's the big deal?" moment as in Up in the Air but I was prepared for it. You just have to decide to like it for what it is, not what people say about it. And it was just a great movie-going experience.
The Scouting Book for Boys - So this was the obscure one that I picked, and I got to go to the premiere, because the obscure premieres aren't sold out. For a bit of the story: the relationship between two very close friends who live in a trailer park is compromised when the girl (Emily) is told that she must go live with her father. The boy (David) helps her run away and brings food and clothes to the cave she takes shelter in. Outside, she is presumed kidnapped and revelations occur which rock the relationship between David and Emily (namely, that Emily has been sleeping with the much older security guard, Steve). This was a very dark film, but again, very subtle. For the most part, I think that it was a success. It was believable and despite the climax hinging on an act very close to the climax from Misery I felt it was very original. And it wasn't unwatchable as many tiny indies are. Many people could like this, which is why I say it is a success. I was not a huge fan, and it was all for one reason: the main character's acting. I really wanted to like it, and I don't know if this was a choice of the director of the actor, but all that the David character does is react to things with this deadpan "I'm disturbed" expression. There is so little of a change in his features throughout the entire film, that I was just tired of it by he end. I'm sure others hardly noticed it, but to me it was just like...if this character is just looking at things with a screwed-up face as though he doesn't understand what's going on, what is the point?
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Amsterdam
It's an odd experience to be met with the reality of something that you've imagined so acutely before. Romantic notions are overcome by concrete truths. Amsterdam is a small city - it isn't boundless. It isn't an idea either. It's a real place. And it operates like a smooth machine. The mental map that you carry from all of those dreams is overcome by a real working-knowledge of the place. Wandering is key. Getting lost is key. This will become a real city for you. I've never been able to find my way around New York City, but after just a couple of days, there occurs to the Amsterdam tourist a kind of fluid sense of the place. Perhaps it takes a little longer to find and perhaps any sense of schedule need be thrown out the window, but when something falls into place and you find yourself exactly where you want to be, it is nothing short of serendipitous.
That sounds a little wishy-washy. I'll become more concrete. The flight over to Amsterdam was an interesting one. Norwich airport is a complete sham. There is the idea that it operates internationally but really it's a podunk little wisp of an airport that fools itself into believing it's important. I mean, a five pound "airport development" fee? Come on. That's just sad. Accompanying me on the flight was this rather jovial group of middle-aged women who, I believe, were heading to Rome or some other such place to celebrate some landmark in their lives. I love easy-going middle-aged women. They're really cool. Sure, they've only got a couple of jokes up their sleeve (fat jokes and old jokes) but they're charming drunkards that's for sure. I mean, if you're asking the waitress for cocktails on a 30-minute flight at 10 in the morning, it just screams "classy!"
Arriving at Schiphol was a breeze, a delight. Where a month ago (in a journey that I didn't recount because my computer broke) I was lost, confused and pissed off a Schiphol airport, now I understood it. I was in and out in ten minutes tops and on a train to Centraal Station (isn't the extra A so badass?). I guess those four hours of wandering the airport during my layover paid off.
My first glimpse of Amsterdam - like real glimpse, like not a torn view from the window of a high-speed train - was outside of Centraal station, once I had gathered Emily, or she had gathered me (she did seem more in touch with the surroundings than I) and we set out to find the hostel. This brief and overpowering view was not indicative of what I would come to see over the next three days: it was hurried, bustling, trains, people, loud, loud, loud. What I spent most of my time in was a slow-moving live-and-let-live cobble-stoned laid-back wonderland. Hyphenates rock.
Anyway, god this post is seeming more and more like the hazy memory I have of Amsterdam. So we found our hostel (Emily found our hostel), got settled (got yelled at by some very douchey guy who should've just booked a hotel), and were off for adventure. Emily gave me a brief synopsis of the tour that she had received two summers ago ("Do you see those hooks at the tops of the houses? It's to get furniture in because it doesn't fit in the door because here rent is based on how much actual space on the ground your house takes up."). It was awesome, though our main concern wasn't touring. No, Emily and I, unique intrepid travellers that we are, had something far more daring and elaborate in mind. And there it was; we just ran into it: The Bulldog, advertized as Amsterdam's very first coffee-shop. Who were we to argue? Plus, it was on the list....
Brief bee-line. The lovely, fantastic, beautiful Claire Santoro, who spent the last summer in L'Europe, and has, I believe, yet to be mentioned in this travel blog, gave me a wonderful guide. It was two pages, but just plain perfect. It was so Claire too. Like, if this list was given to me anonymously in the post, I would've read it, thought for a second, and then said to myself, aloud, like in a play, "It's got to be Claire!" It would be really dramatic. The curtain would fall. End of Act II (this is a V act play; and yes, I used the roman numeral; suck it!). Anyway, because I'm discreet I won't enumerate the ins and outs of the guide, but suffice it to say that the Bulldog was on there which was justification enough for Emily and I to go inside.
Now, Emily and I spent a lot of our time in coffee shops, so I'm thinking that I'm going to use this first experience as a synecdoche for the rest (I just wanted to say synecdoche there because it's a cool word, but it fits right?). Anyway, if I deign it appropriate to discuss another, I will, but otherwise, this is it, all twelve(?) coffeeshops we went to in one. We walked in and were met by that smell. Now Emily and I - to appropriate a phrase - haven't been snorkeling in a while. For whatever reason, opportunity has not presented itself to us. So for me - and all of you who know me can attest to this - this was like my Mecca. This was like the feeling of coming home in a place that was completely unfamiliar. We walked up to the bar, asked for the menu, were told to go downstairs (by the way, this isn't an uncommon occurance but sometimes you get the menu at the bar so it's not a stupid American thing either). So we went downstairs, where a rather glib man directed us to a menu that you had to press a button to light up. We scanned it. Claire had suggested the supersilverhaze, but we were in kind of a rush so we got pre-rolled (I've abandoned my attempt at discretion) reefers and sat in a booth by the front. Now, all of the coffeeshops have different vibes - some of them awesome, like Hillstreet Blues (or the Blues Brothers, I can't remember which), some of them stilting and oppressive like Blues Brothers (or Hillstreet Blues, I can't remember which). I found that what would become my favorite environment was one where the music wasn't too poppy and I could sit by the window and feel the breeze. I like open places. I don't like coffins. By the way, the bathrooms in most of these places were like tile coffins, but I'll stop my digressions. Anyway, the Bulldog was kind of cool. I think we got white widow (Emily, help me out here) or something to that effect. We had the booth right by the front and the glib man seemed to be staring at us, which felt kinda uncool (oh, new digression - not all of the guys were as glib and unhelpful as guy 1; most were actually friendly and accomodating; some were even warm and inviting). So we took out two of the reefers, lit up, and ahhhhhhhhhh, what a feeling. Actually, comparatively, it wasn't the best feeling. It wasn't as talky as I would've desired and a little ridiculous, but in a bad way - like I can't control this crazy laughter but it's not funny anymore. But it was also my first time in a while so maybe it was mostly settling that I needed. Also, there were these crazy music videos (I don't watch music videos that often so maybe they're all crazy) and it was a little bit too loud and confining and overwhelming. But the great thing about Amsterdam is that if you ever get that feeling you can just get up and go somewhere else, which we did.
After spending a good hour in the Bulldog, we moved on. We did more touristy things, we went to more coffee shops, we had a really awesome time. At some point later in the day we saw this giant boat...that turned out to be a building, but we walked like all the way up it (at this point we knew it was a building posing as a boat). Anyway, from there we saw another boat, and Emily didn't know if it was real or not so we went down to check it out. It was there that we came across weird giant implements (like a giant sewing needle, etc. etc. etc.). Was it also during this excursion that we found the tiny car on the island? Well, there was a tiny car on an island. And the island had three spaces for cars but just the one car and we wondered how the car got on and off and whether or not there were two other cars but they were at work or something. <---This paragraph is pretty indicative of how I remember most of our journey.
At some point, I discovered chocolate waffles....mmmmm chocolate waffles. They're waffles with...wait for it...chocolate drizzled on them and....wait for it....sometimes sprinkles and sometimes the chocolate isn't chocolate at all but strawberry or vanilla frosting, which is also delicious. I think I must have had like eight of them. They were just soooo good and they are sold everywhere so you're never too far from a CHOCOLATE WAFFLE.
At some point, we tried to go on one of the tours, but it was our brilliant idea to snorkel before hand so I was feeling a little dizzy and frightened. There was this great twenty minutes where we stood around the fountain next to a bunch of other people standing by the fountain not knowing whether or not they were on the tour or not on the tour or on another tour or something similarly ridiculous. Anyway, we eventually found a tour guide. He was a Kiwi and was really awesome (as I'm sure they all were). I remember at the beginning Emily pointing out an attractive woman also leading a tour but we decided that it would be rude to totally snub this nice New Zealander for a hot chick. So we went on. It was after about ten minutes that I realized that the combination of like eighty people on this tour and the confined alleys of Amsterdam and the fact that things were moving more than they should've been was not a hospitable one. We didn't finish the tour, though I'm sure it was awesome and went off to chill in another coffee shop.
I feel like I'm rambling too much, and barely saying anything at all, so I'll wrap it up. Whoops! I forgot to talk about the prostitutes. There were prostitutes...everywhere, behind windows, of every shape and size. Also, my hostel was awesome. The bed was more comfortable than my one here in Norwich and after like 130 you could smoke in the lobby which was nice and comfortable. Ahhhhhhhh...Amsterdam. I'll be back soon.
That sounds a little wishy-washy. I'll become more concrete. The flight over to Amsterdam was an interesting one. Norwich airport is a complete sham. There is the idea that it operates internationally but really it's a podunk little wisp of an airport that fools itself into believing it's important. I mean, a five pound "airport development" fee? Come on. That's just sad. Accompanying me on the flight was this rather jovial group of middle-aged women who, I believe, were heading to Rome or some other such place to celebrate some landmark in their lives. I love easy-going middle-aged women. They're really cool. Sure, they've only got a couple of jokes up their sleeve (fat jokes and old jokes) but they're charming drunkards that's for sure. I mean, if you're asking the waitress for cocktails on a 30-minute flight at 10 in the morning, it just screams "classy!"
Arriving at Schiphol was a breeze, a delight. Where a month ago (in a journey that I didn't recount because my computer broke) I was lost, confused and pissed off a Schiphol airport, now I understood it. I was in and out in ten minutes tops and on a train to Centraal Station (isn't the extra A so badass?). I guess those four hours of wandering the airport during my layover paid off.
My first glimpse of Amsterdam - like real glimpse, like not a torn view from the window of a high-speed train - was outside of Centraal station, once I had gathered Emily, or she had gathered me (she did seem more in touch with the surroundings than I) and we set out to find the hostel. This brief and overpowering view was not indicative of what I would come to see over the next three days: it was hurried, bustling, trains, people, loud, loud, loud. What I spent most of my time in was a slow-moving live-and-let-live cobble-stoned laid-back wonderland. Hyphenates rock.
Anyway, god this post is seeming more and more like the hazy memory I have of Amsterdam. So we found our hostel (Emily found our hostel), got settled (got yelled at by some very douchey guy who should've just booked a hotel), and were off for adventure. Emily gave me a brief synopsis of the tour that she had received two summers ago ("Do you see those hooks at the tops of the houses? It's to get furniture in because it doesn't fit in the door because here rent is based on how much actual space on the ground your house takes up."). It was awesome, though our main concern wasn't touring. No, Emily and I, unique intrepid travellers that we are, had something far more daring and elaborate in mind. And there it was; we just ran into it: The Bulldog, advertized as Amsterdam's very first coffee-shop. Who were we to argue? Plus, it was on the list....
Brief bee-line. The lovely, fantastic, beautiful Claire Santoro, who spent the last summer in L'Europe, and has, I believe, yet to be mentioned in this travel blog, gave me a wonderful guide. It was two pages, but just plain perfect. It was so Claire too. Like, if this list was given to me anonymously in the post, I would've read it, thought for a second, and then said to myself, aloud, like in a play, "It's got to be Claire!" It would be really dramatic. The curtain would fall. End of Act II (this is a V act play; and yes, I used the roman numeral; suck it!). Anyway, because I'm discreet I won't enumerate the ins and outs of the guide, but suffice it to say that the Bulldog was on there which was justification enough for Emily and I to go inside.
Now, Emily and I spent a lot of our time in coffee shops, so I'm thinking that I'm going to use this first experience as a synecdoche for the rest (I just wanted to say synecdoche there because it's a cool word, but it fits right?). Anyway, if I deign it appropriate to discuss another, I will, but otherwise, this is it, all twelve(?) coffeeshops we went to in one. We walked in and were met by that smell. Now Emily and I - to appropriate a phrase - haven't been snorkeling in a while. For whatever reason, opportunity has not presented itself to us. So for me - and all of you who know me can attest to this - this was like my Mecca. This was like the feeling of coming home in a place that was completely unfamiliar. We walked up to the bar, asked for the menu, were told to go downstairs (by the way, this isn't an uncommon occurance but sometimes you get the menu at the bar so it's not a stupid American thing either). So we went downstairs, where a rather glib man directed us to a menu that you had to press a button to light up. We scanned it. Claire had suggested the supersilverhaze, but we were in kind of a rush so we got pre-rolled (I've abandoned my attempt at discretion) reefers and sat in a booth by the front. Now, all of the coffeeshops have different vibes - some of them awesome, like Hillstreet Blues (or the Blues Brothers, I can't remember which), some of them stilting and oppressive like Blues Brothers (or Hillstreet Blues, I can't remember which). I found that what would become my favorite environment was one where the music wasn't too poppy and I could sit by the window and feel the breeze. I like open places. I don't like coffins. By the way, the bathrooms in most of these places were like tile coffins, but I'll stop my digressions. Anyway, the Bulldog was kind of cool. I think we got white widow (Emily, help me out here) or something to that effect. We had the booth right by the front and the glib man seemed to be staring at us, which felt kinda uncool (oh, new digression - not all of the guys were as glib and unhelpful as guy 1; most were actually friendly and accomodating; some were even warm and inviting). So we took out two of the reefers, lit up, and ahhhhhhhhhh, what a feeling. Actually, comparatively, it wasn't the best feeling. It wasn't as talky as I would've desired and a little ridiculous, but in a bad way - like I can't control this crazy laughter but it's not funny anymore. But it was also my first time in a while so maybe it was mostly settling that I needed. Also, there were these crazy music videos (I don't watch music videos that often so maybe they're all crazy) and it was a little bit too loud and confining and overwhelming. But the great thing about Amsterdam is that if you ever get that feeling you can just get up and go somewhere else, which we did.
After spending a good hour in the Bulldog, we moved on. We did more touristy things, we went to more coffee shops, we had a really awesome time. At some point later in the day we saw this giant boat...that turned out to be a building, but we walked like all the way up it (at this point we knew it was a building posing as a boat). Anyway, from there we saw another boat, and Emily didn't know if it was real or not so we went down to check it out. It was there that we came across weird giant implements (like a giant sewing needle, etc. etc. etc.). Was it also during this excursion that we found the tiny car on the island? Well, there was a tiny car on an island. And the island had three spaces for cars but just the one car and we wondered how the car got on and off and whether or not there were two other cars but they were at work or something. <---This paragraph is pretty indicative of how I remember most of our journey.
At some point, I discovered chocolate waffles....mmmmm chocolate waffles. They're waffles with...wait for it...chocolate drizzled on them and....wait for it....sometimes sprinkles and sometimes the chocolate isn't chocolate at all but strawberry or vanilla frosting, which is also delicious. I think I must have had like eight of them. They were just soooo good and they are sold everywhere so you're never too far from a CHOCOLATE WAFFLE.
At some point, we tried to go on one of the tours, but it was our brilliant idea to snorkel before hand so I was feeling a little dizzy and frightened. There was this great twenty minutes where we stood around the fountain next to a bunch of other people standing by the fountain not knowing whether or not they were on the tour or not on the tour or on another tour or something similarly ridiculous. Anyway, we eventually found a tour guide. He was a Kiwi and was really awesome (as I'm sure they all were). I remember at the beginning Emily pointing out an attractive woman also leading a tour but we decided that it would be rude to totally snub this nice New Zealander for a hot chick. So we went on. It was after about ten minutes that I realized that the combination of like eighty people on this tour and the confined alleys of Amsterdam and the fact that things were moving more than they should've been was not a hospitable one. We didn't finish the tour, though I'm sure it was awesome and went off to chill in another coffee shop.
I feel like I'm rambling too much, and barely saying anything at all, so I'll wrap it up. Whoops! I forgot to talk about the prostitutes. There were prostitutes...everywhere, behind windows, of every shape and size. Also, my hostel was awesome. The bed was more comfortable than my one here in Norwich and after like 130 you could smoke in the lobby which was nice and comfortable. Ahhhhhhhh...Amsterdam. I'll be back soon.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Ruminations on Balance
There is nothing much to report, unfortunately, and yet I'm desiring an update here anyway. Such are the pitfalls of egocentrism (oooo, what a word). I found myself, after a terrifying night out two days ago, needing a little rest and comfort. I settled in to catch up on some American television and eat some Doritos. As I write that, I cringe a little, and yet it was satisfying and wonderful and oddly fulfilling. I spent the first half or so worrying that I was somehow doing myself a disservice(sp?). I imagined all else that I could be doing, should be doing, would be doing if I had a more refined taste for adventure. How little I've seen. What little I've done. These were the thoughts racing through my mind. So I gave myself a small pep-talk. I told myself to relax. I told myself not to overthink things too much. It was like trying to trick my brain into slowing down. But it worked, in a fashion. The thought was not gone, only sequestered. And I kept a kind of bank of justifications up there in case it made a resurgence. And I relaxed.
There is this notion that I'm trying to fight or rationalize that everything I'm doing now has to be important. As I plan my various trips (Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Paris, Rome), I create this virtual map and imagine all that I'm going to experience, or might, should it fall within my range. This expectation fills me both with anticipation and regret. For Norwich, however interesting (and I really haven't been out enough in the city to say) cannot hold a candle to the imagined ideal of all of these different places. So I exist here almost as a spectre, convinced that experience will hand me something new and fantastic tomorrow. I don't know if this directly affects my behavior exactly. I believe I'm a rather standoffish person to begin with, but it definitely affects my perception. All around, as I'm surrounded by freshman here, I see people indulging in every whim. I remember that feeling. I remember that excitement. I can't be bothered to muster it again, though. And so I at once feel as though I am missing out on something and feel that I am somehow past it. And fuck if my mind doesn't whir at the prospect of such conflicting emotions, grinding them out till they're empty and dry. I liked my night in. I needed it. It was soothing. But is it a result of a passed judgment of this place, or of a desire to be removed from it in some way? I'm unsure.
I talk in circles. I make little sense. I apologize. I think, only, that I need to strike up some kind of balance. I need to both find roots here and not lose the magic of the notion of being a "lone traveller." This proves itself difficult, a challenge for me.
Anyway, I'll leave you with the first paragraph of "The Drifter," so far. I don't know about it, whether it seems too obvious or even too clunky, but it opens up a lot of possibility:
This had been a long time coming.
As the man sat in the small, blue floral kitchen and the smoke from his first cigarette in eight months curled lifelessly in indistinct spirals above him, the room appeared to him, suddenly, without doors or windows. He looked across to the far corner where he was sure there had been an entry to the living room only moments ago, but the lilacs of the wallpaper stretched, with apparent life and ill-intention, over a full block of wall. Above the sink, where once there had been windows, still more of these flowers bunched in on one another, first lightly and then with distinct violence. All around, the flowers seemed to carelessly expand and multiply, their pale green stems grappling with one another, as thin spindly arms, struggling to retain what little space they held. The walls moaned and bent under the apparent weight of the growing blue mass. As the lilacs blotted out the remaining inches of the paper’s dull yellow background, a pall of silence fell on the scene. Even the man’s own sharp, nervous gasps were left voiceless in his throat. There was a palpable tension, an anticipation of what was to come now that the lilacs had won their war with the walls, stretching them to the bursting point of a helium-filled balloon. Only when this tension was fully exhausted, could a small pop be heard as a single lilac sprouted and bloomed forth from the center point of the straining wall opposite him.
There is this notion that I'm trying to fight or rationalize that everything I'm doing now has to be important. As I plan my various trips (Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Paris, Rome), I create this virtual map and imagine all that I'm going to experience, or might, should it fall within my range. This expectation fills me both with anticipation and regret. For Norwich, however interesting (and I really haven't been out enough in the city to say) cannot hold a candle to the imagined ideal of all of these different places. So I exist here almost as a spectre, convinced that experience will hand me something new and fantastic tomorrow. I don't know if this directly affects my behavior exactly. I believe I'm a rather standoffish person to begin with, but it definitely affects my perception. All around, as I'm surrounded by freshman here, I see people indulging in every whim. I remember that feeling. I remember that excitement. I can't be bothered to muster it again, though. And so I at once feel as though I am missing out on something and feel that I am somehow past it. And fuck if my mind doesn't whir at the prospect of such conflicting emotions, grinding them out till they're empty and dry. I liked my night in. I needed it. It was soothing. But is it a result of a passed judgment of this place, or of a desire to be removed from it in some way? I'm unsure.
I talk in circles. I make little sense. I apologize. I think, only, that I need to strike up some kind of balance. I need to both find roots here and not lose the magic of the notion of being a "lone traveller." This proves itself difficult, a challenge for me.
Anyway, I'll leave you with the first paragraph of "The Drifter," so far. I don't know about it, whether it seems too obvious or even too clunky, but it opens up a lot of possibility:
This had been a long time coming.
As the man sat in the small, blue floral kitchen and the smoke from his first cigarette in eight months curled lifelessly in indistinct spirals above him, the room appeared to him, suddenly, without doors or windows. He looked across to the far corner where he was sure there had been an entry to the living room only moments ago, but the lilacs of the wallpaper stretched, with apparent life and ill-intention, over a full block of wall. Above the sink, where once there had been windows, still more of these flowers bunched in on one another, first lightly and then with distinct violence. All around, the flowers seemed to carelessly expand and multiply, their pale green stems grappling with one another, as thin spindly arms, struggling to retain what little space they held. The walls moaned and bent under the apparent weight of the growing blue mass. As the lilacs blotted out the remaining inches of the paper’s dull yellow background, a pall of silence fell on the scene. Even the man’s own sharp, nervous gasps were left voiceless in his throat. There was a palpable tension, an anticipation of what was to come now that the lilacs had won their war with the walls, stretching them to the bursting point of a helium-filled balloon. Only when this tension was fully exhausted, could a small pop be heard as a single lilac sprouted and bloomed forth from the center point of the straining wall opposite him.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Passing through Dis(s)
This is a travel blog, right? (I like the idea of starting a piece of writing with a disconnected, unexplained sentence before moving swiftly to a new paragraph. My new piece of writing starts with "This was a long time coming" and then begins to describe lilac wallpaper).
So I boarded my first UK train after a rather stressful bus/ticket-office experience. Despite leaving nearly an hour and a half early, circumstances led to me dashing down the platform as the doors to my train were closed one by one. I screamed to the man as he closed the door to last coach (this being the first time I have been openly rude to a local) to stop and let me on. He did, explaining to me as I entered that I could have opened one of the other doors, entered, and closed it after myself. My face was a little more than red. I settled on the train as it departed for London. I couldn't miss it because? Well this happened to be Anna Kolesnikov visit number one - and I wasn't giving up on that for any reason short of a ruptured appendix or brain hemhorrage.
The train ride was long. Norwich is pretty disconnected, apparently. I turned on Kelsey's "Open Road" playlist and intermittently read an awesome book about hippies crashing in Torremolinos and stared out the window at the passing countryside. I remembered why I was a vegetarian. Cows are fucking cute. There was this mother and her calf curled into one another, covered by a smal thicket of brush on the side of the road. All open land and space to roam - hills, valleys and grass. I love cows. Who among you meat-eaters could kill a beautiful baby calf? That's not preaching. Just a thought.
Anyway, there was little else of interest except for a short stop outside the town of Dis(s). And for those of you (shout "here" if your there) who are Dante fans, my God was this place a good facsimile for its second-"s"-absent literary counterpoint. Abandoned, half-gutted buildings and mounds and mounds of industrial waste. I thought to myself, does this mean that my final destination (London) is a Hell facsimile or that of Dante's ultimate destination of Paradise? Yes, I overthink weak metaphors.
When I arrived at Great Portland Street station, I found myself stunned speechless at the sight of Anna. It had been three years. It had been too long. After a few minutes' struggle to regain the shared language of our ten-year-old friendship, we fell into an easy rapport. Three words: Anna is awesome. Not just that. She had three more years of awesome under her belt and yet with these years of mutual but separate growth, we still shared some of that enigmatic stuff at the heart of our friendship of three years ago. Three more words; London is beautiful. Emily Hella still often recalls a drug-addled request of Mother Nature to bring on "MORE OVERCAST! MORE WINDY!" Well she succeeded in London. It was the perfect day. Anna was the perfect guide. We wandered up and down streets, got lost repeatedly, having to reference the GPS on her phone. She apologized, repeatedly. I assured her, as it did, that this only added to the charm of the experience. We talked and talked and talked as we wandered through London's streets. We even reminisced a little bit, creating nostalgia for a place that we had earlier agreed held little for us now.
Things we happened upon: Trafalgar Square (where two intense antisocial people huddled over computers and dictated moves to two helpers who then picked up the pieces to a gigantic chessboard and followed instructions, drawing quite the crowd; where Anna forced me to take a begrudging picture with the famous lions), Big Ben (which always reminds me of my father), Parliament (where we realized we could not walk in the "out" doors; where we proceeded to trespass on the Parliament carpark to ask a question; where several tourists followed our example, greatly annoying the guard), a real, dank English pub (where, to my surprise, I was able to order a falafel burger; where we did not order any alcoholic beverages; where I realized that I am not, in fact, an alcoholic; where Anna was sorely disappointed by the quality of the food; where she continued to mention how wonderful Notting Hill is; where I giggled to myself as all I could imagine was engaging in a troubled romance with Julia Roberts); the real Soho (where, suspiciously, nothing was happening; where, I assume, all of London's hipsters were gathering in some basement plotting a sinister, but eco-friendly, plot to destroy the earth).
Things we could not find: Anna's university (at which I laughed, seeing as she was currently living in the university's housing)
Best moment: leaning on the railing of the bridge over Thames as the wind bandied us about and we watched the passing driftwood/garbage and discussed Che Guevara and life and beauty and wind and tourists and how Parliament made absolutely no sense at all but was really pretty and ornate.
So I boarded my first UK train after a rather stressful bus/ticket-office experience. Despite leaving nearly an hour and a half early, circumstances led to me dashing down the platform as the doors to my train were closed one by one. I screamed to the man as he closed the door to last coach (this being the first time I have been openly rude to a local) to stop and let me on. He did, explaining to me as I entered that I could have opened one of the other doors, entered, and closed it after myself. My face was a little more than red. I settled on the train as it departed for London. I couldn't miss it because? Well this happened to be Anna Kolesnikov visit number one - and I wasn't giving up on that for any reason short of a ruptured appendix or brain hemhorrage.
The train ride was long. Norwich is pretty disconnected, apparently. I turned on Kelsey's "Open Road" playlist and intermittently read an awesome book about hippies crashing in Torremolinos and stared out the window at the passing countryside. I remembered why I was a vegetarian. Cows are fucking cute. There was this mother and her calf curled into one another, covered by a smal thicket of brush on the side of the road. All open land and space to roam - hills, valleys and grass. I love cows. Who among you meat-eaters could kill a beautiful baby calf? That's not preaching. Just a thought.
Anyway, there was little else of interest except for a short stop outside the town of Dis(s). And for those of you (shout "here" if your there) who are Dante fans, my God was this place a good facsimile for its second-"s"-absent literary counterpoint. Abandoned, half-gutted buildings and mounds and mounds of industrial waste. I thought to myself, does this mean that my final destination (London) is a Hell facsimile or that of Dante's ultimate destination of Paradise? Yes, I overthink weak metaphors.
When I arrived at Great Portland Street station, I found myself stunned speechless at the sight of Anna. It had been three years. It had been too long. After a few minutes' struggle to regain the shared language of our ten-year-old friendship, we fell into an easy rapport. Three words: Anna is awesome. Not just that. She had three more years of awesome under her belt and yet with these years of mutual but separate growth, we still shared some of that enigmatic stuff at the heart of our friendship of three years ago. Three more words; London is beautiful. Emily Hella still often recalls a drug-addled request of Mother Nature to bring on "MORE OVERCAST! MORE WINDY!" Well she succeeded in London. It was the perfect day. Anna was the perfect guide. We wandered up and down streets, got lost repeatedly, having to reference the GPS on her phone. She apologized, repeatedly. I assured her, as it did, that this only added to the charm of the experience. We talked and talked and talked as we wandered through London's streets. We even reminisced a little bit, creating nostalgia for a place that we had earlier agreed held little for us now.
Things we happened upon: Trafalgar Square (where two intense antisocial people huddled over computers and dictated moves to two helpers who then picked up the pieces to a gigantic chessboard and followed instructions, drawing quite the crowd; where Anna forced me to take a begrudging picture with the famous lions), Big Ben (which always reminds me of my father), Parliament (where we realized we could not walk in the "out" doors; where we proceeded to trespass on the Parliament carpark to ask a question; where several tourists followed our example, greatly annoying the guard), a real, dank English pub (where, to my surprise, I was able to order a falafel burger; where we did not order any alcoholic beverages; where I realized that I am not, in fact, an alcoholic; where Anna was sorely disappointed by the quality of the food; where she continued to mention how wonderful Notting Hill is; where I giggled to myself as all I could imagine was engaging in a troubled romance with Julia Roberts); the real Soho (where, suspiciously, nothing was happening; where, I assume, all of London's hipsters were gathering in some basement plotting a sinister, but eco-friendly, plot to destroy the earth).
Things we could not find: Anna's university (at which I laughed, seeing as she was currently living in the university's housing)
Best moment: leaning on the railing of the bridge over Thames as the wind bandied us about and we watched the passing driftwood/garbage and discussed Che Guevara and life and beauty and wind and tourists and how Parliament made absolutely no sense at all but was really pretty and ornate.
After a While, You Forget to be Complete
I am not a very lucky person, but my God if this day didn't just turn that on its head. Maybe it's Great Britain. Maybe it's the brisk Norwich air. But whatever it was that was making me feel like shit the last couple of days isn't from here, doesn't belong here and is hopefully gone forever. Background is needed here. I have yet to write in this travelogue(-blog?) because on my first night here, I accidentally trashed my computer - soaked it in liquid. It shorted out, it fried (an ammendmment should be put on my "not lucky" proclamation as I managed to break my computer the very same day I purchased five hundred pounds of accidental damage insurance on it - caching!) I was feeling lost, alone. I was equal parts self-loathing and self-pitying. I kept on a brave face. On top of being a damn yankee, I didn't want to appear to be a whiny, baby bitch. If I were a melodramatic person here is where I would loudly declare, "Kelsey McLane saved my very life!" I don't have a single furnishing in this room - no pictures, trinkets or anything of nostalgic value, save for Kelsey's Ipod. And what an Ipod it is! It is the Willy Wonka chocolate factory of ipods. Everywhere you turn, there is something more spectacular and enlightening than all that came before could possibly prepare you for. I took refuge in this Ipod. There was the astounding ferry ride video in which Kelsey's car seems to float above tumultuous waters, carving a Moses-inspired path into the sea. There was The Royal Tenenbaums for those hours when all I needed was the whispering of sweet oddities into my ear by facsimiles for Salinger characters. There was the massive and inspired Citizen Kane playlist to wile away the hours. I was still toiling in my self-inflicted turmoil, but this ipod was the equivalent of a giant hug from everyone I love.
But it only got worse - today my bathroom flooded after I took a short, five-minute shower. The water began to spill out and pool on my carpet. I didn't have time to do anything about it as my registration appointment was looming. I rushed off, dissapointed, upset. In registration, I then discovered that I was signed up for two classes in the same time slot -- and there was nothing I could do about it. I paused for a "WHAT THE FUCK?!" moment. But then it all became too much. I was exhausted, dejected. I needed to pass out. I needed human contact - the familiar kind. I called my dad. I had an inane question that took a while to ask. I made it longer. It was a technical question, about computers. I usually grow tired of my father's ranting and gushing quickly, but in this moment, more than any other, I saw how much love was in it, how truly genuine my father's emotions were and how this was the best and only way he knew to express them. He eventually handed the phone to my mother and after all that build-up, I completely broke down. I started recounting my simple, fixable problems and couldn't hold on. Me crying (or showing much emotion at all) is a biannual thing at best (biannual, in this case, meaning once every two years) and my mother hadn't been in audience for such an occurance since I was eight or nine and realized in the middle of the night that God didn't exist. I've spent the last five or six years of my life trying to convince my mom to suppress her motherly urges as I was an "adult." But sometimes you just need to let a mom be a mom.
I hung up and curled up and let it wash over me - the full weight of all that had occured. And then I drank a BOOST that was provided in my student survival kit. BAM. Life in a can, I swear to you. I walked to the bus stop with a shopping list - comforter, pillows, plates, utensils, furnishings. I was meant to take the bus to a giant Costco-like superstore at the end of the line. When the bus came, I got on, got my ticket punched, sat and listened to moody music, acted moody, glared moodily. I was still having a pretty crappy day. I was just energized, so I could put real oomph into my moping.
On my way to the end of the line, the bus stopped in the city centre, which was hustling, bustling and full of life. The bus drained and I followed the life. There were stores of every shape and size. It was a simple adventure of massive importance. The city centre is like Diagon Alley without all that superfluous magic. Twists and turns, brick corridors, buildings that look old and buildings that are trying to look old. There are two Tescos, a department store called "The Department Store" and the familiar signs for Subway and Pizza Hut. If Kelsey liked showtunes I would have put on "Nowadays" from Chicago. I walked and walked and walked. I don't think the Britons (sp?) quite knew how to take the thick, toothy grin that kept spreading, receding, expanding and settling. Things suddenly opened up. I barely got anything - paper plates, plastic forks, deodorant - but it all seemed worth it.
If this comes across as anticlimactic, I apologize. There was nothing to it but being there. When I was done, my years of practice with LA public transit told me to cross the street and grab the same numbered bus back to the school -- but the 35 didn't pick up there. The 25 didn't either. I was confused, but not perturbed. I just went looking for the stop. I must have curled two or three miles in, out and around the city centre, but there was no frustration. The endorphines built up a perfect high. There was finally an outlet for my desire for adventure. I started walking in the direction I assumed the campus was in. I was bound to find a bus stop eventually, and if I didn't, the 5-7 mile walk home (or deeper into the city, as dusk approached, if I picked the wrong direction) would be some story. Now here's where the luck of the first sentence creeps in. I am not the guy who finds that bus stop. I am the guy who gets horribly lost, winds up in a bad neighborhood, and suffers the tragic cold open of a CSI episode. But there it was - a little podunk 25 bus stop - and only after a mile and a half or so of walking. The bus rolls along five minutes later and I go to the top floor and sit at the very front, and it is as though I am floating above the raucous scene below, carving a Moses-inspired path through the wrong side of the road. I got off the bus too early, mastaking one side of the enormous campus for the other. I walked another mile and when I got to my room, the water had receded and it all didn't seem as large and impossible as it did before. And I suddenly had a huge window that looked out on a million things that were all brand new. And now that I'm finishing this post (handwriting, I'll type it when I get the computer. UPDATE: typing, on the computer, that I've received) and think of rest for my limp cheeks and sore feet, I know that everything is as it should be.
But it only got worse - today my bathroom flooded after I took a short, five-minute shower. The water began to spill out and pool on my carpet. I didn't have time to do anything about it as my registration appointment was looming. I rushed off, dissapointed, upset. In registration, I then discovered that I was signed up for two classes in the same time slot -- and there was nothing I could do about it. I paused for a "WHAT THE FUCK?!" moment. But then it all became too much. I was exhausted, dejected. I needed to pass out. I needed human contact - the familiar kind. I called my dad. I had an inane question that took a while to ask. I made it longer. It was a technical question, about computers. I usually grow tired of my father's ranting and gushing quickly, but in this moment, more than any other, I saw how much love was in it, how truly genuine my father's emotions were and how this was the best and only way he knew to express them. He eventually handed the phone to my mother and after all that build-up, I completely broke down. I started recounting my simple, fixable problems and couldn't hold on. Me crying (or showing much emotion at all) is a biannual thing at best (biannual, in this case, meaning once every two years) and my mother hadn't been in audience for such an occurance since I was eight or nine and realized in the middle of the night that God didn't exist. I've spent the last five or six years of my life trying to convince my mom to suppress her motherly urges as I was an "adult." But sometimes you just need to let a mom be a mom.
I hung up and curled up and let it wash over me - the full weight of all that had occured. And then I drank a BOOST that was provided in my student survival kit. BAM. Life in a can, I swear to you. I walked to the bus stop with a shopping list - comforter, pillows, plates, utensils, furnishings. I was meant to take the bus to a giant Costco-like superstore at the end of the line. When the bus came, I got on, got my ticket punched, sat and listened to moody music, acted moody, glared moodily. I was still having a pretty crappy day. I was just energized, so I could put real oomph into my moping.
On my way to the end of the line, the bus stopped in the city centre, which was hustling, bustling and full of life. The bus drained and I followed the life. There were stores of every shape and size. It was a simple adventure of massive importance. The city centre is like Diagon Alley without all that superfluous magic. Twists and turns, brick corridors, buildings that look old and buildings that are trying to look old. There are two Tescos, a department store called "The Department Store" and the familiar signs for Subway and Pizza Hut. If Kelsey liked showtunes I would have put on "Nowadays" from Chicago. I walked and walked and walked. I don't think the Britons (sp?) quite knew how to take the thick, toothy grin that kept spreading, receding, expanding and settling. Things suddenly opened up. I barely got anything - paper plates, plastic forks, deodorant - but it all seemed worth it.
If this comes across as anticlimactic, I apologize. There was nothing to it but being there. When I was done, my years of practice with LA public transit told me to cross the street and grab the same numbered bus back to the school -- but the 35 didn't pick up there. The 25 didn't either. I was confused, but not perturbed. I just went looking for the stop. I must have curled two or three miles in, out and around the city centre, but there was no frustration. The endorphines built up a perfect high. There was finally an outlet for my desire for adventure. I started walking in the direction I assumed the campus was in. I was bound to find a bus stop eventually, and if I didn't, the 5-7 mile walk home (or deeper into the city, as dusk approached, if I picked the wrong direction) would be some story. Now here's where the luck of the first sentence creeps in. I am not the guy who finds that bus stop. I am the guy who gets horribly lost, winds up in a bad neighborhood, and suffers the tragic cold open of a CSI episode. But there it was - a little podunk 25 bus stop - and only after a mile and a half or so of walking. The bus rolls along five minutes later and I go to the top floor and sit at the very front, and it is as though I am floating above the raucous scene below, carving a Moses-inspired path through the wrong side of the road. I got off the bus too early, mastaking one side of the enormous campus for the other. I walked another mile and when I got to my room, the water had receded and it all didn't seem as large and impossible as it did before. And I suddenly had a huge window that looked out on a million things that were all brand new. And now that I'm finishing this post (handwriting, I'll type it when I get the computer. UPDATE: typing, on the computer, that I've received) and think of rest for my limp cheeks and sore feet, I know that everything is as it should be.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Explaining myself, this, everything...
WHY? oh, WHY?
So it has been a firm belief of mine - and by 'has been' I mean to say 'has just, upon consideration, become' - that should a person thrust what is, essentially, a personally diary into the very public sphere that is the internet, he or she or it should first properly justify him/her/it-self. This being said, no one - and by 'no one' I mean 'me' - says that such justification can't be convoluted, deranged or just plain stupid. So, in simple terms: yes, I'm going abroad. If you've found yourself here, this is something that you should already know. I will be leaving on September 16th for Norwich, England (North-east of London) by way of New Jersey (an unfortunate one month layover) and Amsterdam (a hopefully productive 5 hour layover). Now, I've never really understood travel blogs until I reached here, this point, where I am now, currently, in work, at exactly noon on a Thursday, the day before moving day - and by 'moving day' I mean 'freedom.' And why this point? Because I've been sitting here, staring at my facebook, an amenity which I have yet to and probably never will master, and thinking about a similar scene of me staring at the same facebook a month and a half from now in a tiny ensuite room in the UV-equivalent of UEA and thinking to myself, FUCK IT! FUCK THESE PEOPLE! Leave me ALONE! I'm in FUCKING EUROPE! Now, seeing as there are several if not tens of people who I don't want to flip the transcontinental bird to just because I'm not prone to communication (just ask my parents), I've decided to make this blog. This is for you, dear friends. Yes, it's also to give my fragile ego space to express itself. I don't deny this. I don't deny an astounding urge to just, you know, let things out. And I realize that this communication is kind of one way and self-absorbed. What about you? Don't I want to know how you are? But here, I've got an idea. You can all start your own "Ian's Traveling" blogs and fill me in. I'll be sure to follow them religiously. Anyway, that's my justification, however convoluted, deranged or just plain stupid.
'Travel' Blog?
So, I'll be honest. I'm a pretty poor guy. I've been scrimping and saving, but with my usually lavish lifestyle of daily fast food runs and alcohol binges, I'm left asking myself, "Where in the hell did it all go?" But I will be traveling. I will be a fiscally conservative traveller, yes. But who's to say that I won't have amazing euro-lite adventures? However, should this devolve into me bitching about how lonely and socially-inept I am, I invite you all to abandon it, me, everything and jump off a cliff.
What's with the fucking title?
Fuck you! It's just a fucking title...or, to be a nice guy who likes to explain things, the two titles of the blog are intended (by me) to be contradictory. Let's face it. I have no clue how this is going to turn out. I could have an awful time. I could have a great time. It's exciting. It's depressing. It's terrifying. Anyway, if anyone from New Jersey is reading this you'll remember how much I idealized Los Angeles, as if being there would fix me and all my problems. If anyone from Los Angeles is reading this, you'll know how that turned out and how I just turned around and approached abroad with the same optimistic idealism. I perhaps tend to think of elsewhere as being better than where I am. And yet, because of this, I never understand the simple joys of just being there. Clever, huh? Anyway, I was stressing out too much about the title and it really fucked with my mind, so I just picked something. And as for the 'fishbowl' of the web address? Well, it's the little ditty that I'm hoping to write while abroad. If nothing else, you'll get some dark, moody passages from it.
Why is your alterego so fucking crude and antagonistic?
I don't fucking know! Get off my back!
So it has been a firm belief of mine - and by 'has been' I mean to say 'has just, upon consideration, become' - that should a person thrust what is, essentially, a personally diary into the very public sphere that is the internet, he or she or it should first properly justify him/her/it-self. This being said, no one - and by 'no one' I mean 'me' - says that such justification can't be convoluted, deranged or just plain stupid. So, in simple terms: yes, I'm going abroad. If you've found yourself here, this is something that you should already know. I will be leaving on September 16th for Norwich, England (North-east of London) by way of New Jersey (an unfortunate one month layover) and Amsterdam (a hopefully productive 5 hour layover). Now, I've never really understood travel blogs until I reached here, this point, where I am now, currently, in work, at exactly noon on a Thursday, the day before moving day - and by 'moving day' I mean 'freedom.' And why this point? Because I've been sitting here, staring at my facebook, an amenity which I have yet to and probably never will master, and thinking about a similar scene of me staring at the same facebook a month and a half from now in a tiny ensuite room in the UV-equivalent of UEA and thinking to myself, FUCK IT! FUCK THESE PEOPLE! Leave me ALONE! I'm in FUCKING EUROPE! Now, seeing as there are several if not tens of people who I don't want to flip the transcontinental bird to just because I'm not prone to communication (just ask my parents), I've decided to make this blog. This is for you, dear friends. Yes, it's also to give my fragile ego space to express itself. I don't deny this. I don't deny an astounding urge to just, you know, let things out. And I realize that this communication is kind of one way and self-absorbed. What about you? Don't I want to know how you are? But here, I've got an idea. You can all start your own "Ian's Traveling" blogs and fill me in. I'll be sure to follow them religiously. Anyway, that's my justification, however convoluted, deranged or just plain stupid.
'Travel' Blog?
So, I'll be honest. I'm a pretty poor guy. I've been scrimping and saving, but with my usually lavish lifestyle of daily fast food runs and alcohol binges, I'm left asking myself, "Where in the hell did it all go?" But I will be traveling. I will be a fiscally conservative traveller, yes. But who's to say that I won't have amazing euro-lite adventures? However, should this devolve into me bitching about how lonely and socially-inept I am, I invite you all to abandon it, me, everything and jump off a cliff.
What's with the fucking title?
Fuck you! It's just a fucking title...or, to be a nice guy who likes to explain things, the two titles of the blog are intended (by me) to be contradictory. Let's face it. I have no clue how this is going to turn out. I could have an awful time. I could have a great time. It's exciting. It's depressing. It's terrifying. Anyway, if anyone from New Jersey is reading this you'll remember how much I idealized Los Angeles, as if being there would fix me and all my problems. If anyone from Los Angeles is reading this, you'll know how that turned out and how I just turned around and approached abroad with the same optimistic idealism. I perhaps tend to think of elsewhere as being better than where I am. And yet, because of this, I never understand the simple joys of just being there. Clever, huh? Anyway, I was stressing out too much about the title and it really fucked with my mind, so I just picked something. And as for the 'fishbowl' of the web address? Well, it's the little ditty that I'm hoping to write while abroad. If nothing else, you'll get some dark, moody passages from it.
Why is your alterego so fucking crude and antagonistic?
I don't fucking know! Get off my back!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)