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Me
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| Undone |
[Feb. 22nd, 2008|10:47 am] |
I'm back in Ed now, and even though things are a bit weird, it's excellent in most imaginable ways. I made a return to Faith last night. They had a "popcorn party", which is exactly as ridiculous as it sounds; a guy stood on the club's balcony with a great big tube of a cannon and shot "£600 worth of popcorn" onto the dance floor. Then, everyone was drunk (us on £10 champagne and £1 sambuca, first year style) and dancing with popcorn in their hair and under their shoes and in their bras.
I'm still not sure what I'm doing here, but fuck I don't want to be anywhere else. I'm afraid that this return will damage me, that it will undo all of the positive France love I've been able to muster recently. I always knew I loved Edinburgh a great deal, but I think I had almost forgotten quite how much I love it until I got back here last night. It's so windy the shutters rattle, and so freezing my be-flip-flopped feet turn red, but I kind of can't stop smiling, and I wonder how, when I have to leave in six days, I'm going to be able to think of anything else. |
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| February of Fun France "Facts" Day 3: Reminiscences |
[Feb. 3rd, 2008|03:50 pm] |
This is a Wednesday night in late September. It is the night that we discover "ERASMUS" (i.e.: cheap booze) night at what is now my favourite Montpellier bar, Bar Huit. I like it because it's shiny, it has cute bartenders, and it plays just the brand of English music which makes me smile, and when I'm drunk enough, sing along.
On that first night there, we had the dubious pleasure of meeting "Collins", a long-time Scottish expat. He's that leathery looking fellow behind me on the right in this photo:
"Collins" kept eavesdropping on our conversations and inserting himself into them where he saw fit. He spoke to us only in Franglais, even though he insisted we speak English whenever we slipped in a bit of French. As it turns out, he hailed from Wick, a place which, not a month earlier, while on my Hitchhiker/birthday tour, I had learned first hand is one of the most northerly, industrial, and depressing places in all of Scotland.
( Photographic Evidence )
As a result of the aforementioned student night, my friend Katie and I drank several bottles of wine between two of us and became rather drunk. "Collins" took this opportunity to invite us back to his house to drink whiskey and champagane, an invitation which we refused most vociferously, because even when severely drunk, going home with a strange leather-skinned man does not sound like a good idea, and being drunk, we told him so explicitly. So, he felt the need to clarify his intentions: "I do not want to fuck, I would just like for you to come to my maison." Needless to say, we ran away from "Collins" and Bar Huit that night giggling incessantly, and to this day that phrase is still amoungst the most infamous things that can possibly be said in Franglais, and it is repeated constantly. |
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| F R E E D O M ! |
[May. 18th, 2007|04:09 pm] |
So, second year is now officially over, which means that I am half done Uni. I would probably have quite a bit to say about the significance of this if I weren't slightly tipsy from Pimm's pitchers, espresso martinis, and a church book sale. And yes, I do mean to imply that the discovery of 50p paperbacks made me a little bit drunk. |
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| Dressed to Kill / I am RUBBISH! |
[May. 13th, 2007|12:43 pm] |
When I speak of how weird I was in high school, when I cringe about the crazy things I used to do, or even when I recall high school events with fondness, I usually end up speaking about the strange things I used to do in the name of "fashion". I'll readily admit that there was a time in which I used to carry a roll of duct tape around in my vintage Fendi bag in case of "emergencies". There was a rather dark year during which an outfit was not an outfit unless it included both elements of fishnet and duct tape; during that era, I used to alter a lot of my clothes, "make" accessories, and one time, I even safety pinned a large bolt to the front of my shirt, drawing attention to my tits which, due to their size, usually garner enough attention for themselves. I love to play the self-deprecation card and laugh as I tell people about the time I rolled duct tape up my legs in a criss-cross pattern, creating my infamous duct tape "fishnets". Am I a complete idiot with no common sense? Didn't I realize it was going to hurt to rip them off, especially toward the tops of my legs and on the backs of my knees where the skin is a bit more delicate? No, I'm not a complete idiot, and of course I knew it was going to hurt; I knew before I donned those "stockings" that it was going to hurt like a motherfucker to rip them off; I knew that bending my knees would probably be painful and problematic, but I was proud of the pain I was willing to bear for what I perceived to be fashion and an expression of my own individuality. In many ways, I'm still somewhat (unreasonably) proud. I'm definitely not proud of all the nights I spent sitting alone in my bedroom moping, nor of the rather vile, brooding, intolerant person I sometimes was (and still am, maybe), but there's something about my zaniness, my sheer insanity, my stubborn determination to be "different" in some way (ANY way) that I still admire. Sure, these tendencies are cringeworthy; sure, I'm glad that my fashion icons are no longer fictional drag queens, but that rebellious part of me of which these proclivities were mere manifestations, that part of me still lives (albeit a bit more subdued). As such, I still have a sentimental soft spot for the idea of making clothes out of duct tape or trash bags or trash in general. Recently, I had the opportunity to relive the glory of my duct tape days, and I jumped (maybe a little too) emphatically at that chance.
For her birthday, a friend called Ruth had an "R"-themed party, at which all guests were expected to dress as something beginning with the letter "R". Obviously, my costume of choice was RUBBISH! because dressing as rubbish can reasonably involve wearing a trash bag as a dress (something which has been a personal aspiration of mine since I was about eleven and my cousin Laura wore a trash bag as a skirt on Halloween). Since I was going to wear a trash bag as a dress, I obviously had to wear something underneath to puff it out a bit. What is the fabric of choice used to make clothes puffy? TULLE! Essentially, what is tulle? Netting. What is netting, really? Fishnet on a bolt. How will I hold it all together? How will I accessorize? DUCT TAPE!, of course; duct tape can do ANYTHING, and it serves all functions. The thought of crafting this outfit filled me with an ineffable (and ridiculous) sense of glee. Add to that the fact that I would get to wear this duct tape trash bag confection out drinking to a club with many of my favourite Britons, and in the terms of my own personal symbolism, we have The Best of All Possible Worlds; this outfit would epitomize all my favourite, most ambitious moments of high school, and it was to be worn in a context that, to me, symbolizes how far I've come since then. Still, more exciting, this event was to take place in Faith of all places, adding even more nuance to the significance of this momentous night.
( My Adventures as a Duct Tape Prom Queen ) |
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| Rockin' the Suburbs. |
[May. 12th, 2007|09:55 pm] |
I've been meaning to write this post for about a week, but as has been discussed previously, I am very bad at blogging things in a timely fashion; in fact I'm not particularly gifted at doing anything in a timely fashion. I have, however, been spending an inordinate amount of time in the library reading French novels I should have read months ago, so I shall exploit that as my excuse and ask you all to indulge me in my tardiness as I return to the heady days of the weeks just past:
I think that, in my world, at least, it is officially summer. Sure, I have two [now one] weeks of exams and revision left, and today, at least it's overcast and chilly [still true], but it FEELS like summer. I may have a million things I should be doing, and lots more things I should be learning, but everything just feels so light and spontaneous that I find it difficult to care. This is going to be my first British summer. As such, I'm sure I'm over-romanticizing everything - indeed, Charlotte wonders why I've elected to stay in rainy, muggy Edinburgh when I could be in sunny America - but, I have this irrational belief that the sun's magical rays will candy-coat each summer day in red and white stripes; everyone will be attired in a Barbour jacket to combat the crisp breeze that rolls across the lush green grass as he sips a refreshing glass of Pimm's, idly watching the pages of his book rustle in the wind, or maybe watching some of his friends playing croquet. There will probably also be some lighthearted polo playing and fox hunting (the fact that fox hunting is now illegal is obviously irrelevant). This may be a rather Catherine Morland-esque attitude for me to adopt, but I think that life as a character in a Jane Austen novel would only augment my ridiculous fantasies.
( Beginnings of the British Summer ) |
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| How NOT to Pull |
[May. 12th, 2007|03:16 am] |
(1) Do not wear a Jesus cross necklace.
(2) Do not walk up to a girl in a club and mock the attractive guys with whom she is obviously dancing.
(3) Once rejected, do not chat up her friends.
(4) Once rejected by her friend, do not tell said friend to "look in the mirror" insinuating that, in spite of the fact that you cannot pull, you are more attractive.
(5) Do not show said friend (by whom you have been rejected) your mobile phone wallpaper, which happens to be of your newborn child.
(6) Do not be shocked when said friend denounces you as a motherfucking pikey and lectures you on the virtues of condoms, in spite of the fact that she is wearing a trash bag as a dress. |
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| Expatriation |
[Feb. 22nd, 2007|04:05 pm] |
Sometimes, you don't know why you did it. When the sun sets everyday at three. When your old friends phone you at three am, laughing. When you've only been away two months, but you feel like you haven't been home in years. When you stop giggling "I'm in Scotland" because even in Scotland, nothing feels new. But then one day you're a little bit tipsy with your flatmates - your British family - and you know exactly why. You're dancing, and it finally feels a little bit like spring again, and you love it. You love that moment. It embodies youth, and more importantly, frivolity. And in spite of any ongoing issues, dramas, and concerns, THIS moment feels right. One year later, you're still together, still smiling, still loving living this life.
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| In Which I Embody Both the Stereotype of the Raging Drunk and the OverEmotional Drunk Simultaneously |
[Jan. 23rd, 2007|03:53 pm] |
Last night was a good night. It was just a nice night of drinks and dancing during which none of us did anything about which we are currently cringing, which is nice for a change. Just a few minutes ago, however, my flat mate checked her e-mail and found the following delightful message that I had (apparently) sent her after she had spoken to The Elizabeth on the phone and I had not:
Dear favourite English Person:
I still love you, however, I spoke to Liz and she already spoke to you/is busy and so she will not speak to me. We are, therefore, in a fight. You will not win. Except you probalby will because you are awesome and I love you. But Elizabeth is also awesome and I also love her and I haven't seen her since December while I've seen you nearly every day since Dec. 30th. That isn't bad because I love you and I'm glad I see you and if i didn't i'd probably be bored to death and die. I am, however, too drunk to appreciate this and I need to speak to my ameri-friend who already spoke to you. We are, therefore, in a fight, so top that motherfuker. Oh wait, you can't! I love you/I hate you.
Lovve/Unlove,
Your favourite American whose favourite american you've already spoken to, BITCH
I think that in rediscovering my love of poetry, I have also rediscovered the crazy. The Eliot is, however, going quite well. |
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| A Conversation. |
[Jan. 5th, 2007|06:45 pm] |
"Are you two sisters?" asks a guy at the bar.
"No. I'm American and she's English," I say turning away with disinterest.
[pause]
"Are you shy?" he persists.
"No."
"You seem uneasy."
"I'm not 'uneasy'; I'm just too young for you."
"Too young? How old do you think I am?"
"39?"
"39! I'm 31."
"Still too old."
"Maybe the problem is my jacket," he says taking it off and draping it over the back of my chair.
"I don't think that's quite it." |
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| And All That Jazz |
[Nov. 16th, 2006|01:43 am] |
Living on Cockburn street is excellent and exciting for all sorts of reasons that don't even involve the various possibilities for puns on the word cock. One of these reasons has to do with the fact that, as home to two indie music shops, it is also home to a minuscule little piece of Edinburgh's "music scene." Living one floor above street level, with thin windows, as we do, our ears are often subject to whatever musical goings-on are happening below us. Thus, we are treated to days like the one last month during which we were drinking tea when we heard live music, looked out our window, and saw a full band playing a gig on the street just down the road. So, we grabbed our mugs, shoved on some flip-flops, and ambled downstairs to see what was going on.
 ( Words and words and words and words ) |
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| Joseph and the Amazing Hyperactive Weekend |
[Oct. 23rd, 2006|09:31 pm] |
Well, maybe my weekend wasn't quite so HYPERACTIVE as the title may suggest; I spent a large majority of it on the couch in my pajamas, washing clothes, reading French plays, watching Audrey Hepburn films, and (tragically)breaking my iBook. There was, however, at least one element of my weekend that was undoubtedly hyperactive, and that would be 1990s British pop star, H! from Steps as the title role in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
Let me begin by saying (and perhaps this, more than anything, speaks to my Atheistic frame of mind) that I don't really think I get Joseph. It just doesn't seem to have a point. There isn't any real character development or involvement, and the plot, while based on a biblical story, is minimal. And, I just don't feel like having a mysterious blond woman (or camel, or pyramid as the case may be) and accompanying child-choir singing a repetitive round of "poor, poor, Joseph whatcha gonna do?" constitutes a compelling pre-intermission climax or even a valid basic point of conflict. While generally speaking, I don't really insist that basic literary elements be present in the plays/films/musicals I enjoy most, I need for there to be SOMETHING. Yet, there is nothing much in the way of theme, obvious comedy/satire/humour of any kind, or even any obvious sense drama. On some level, however, Joseph still manages to be entertaining, and I believe that it is down to unabashed C H E E S E. I mean, the pharaoh of Egypt is portrayed as ELVIS.
So, Friday night, after too much wine and a pre-theatre Italian dinner, I found myself sitting second in a row of eight Britons of varying acquaintance, watching a fading pop star parade about in a "dreamcoat" that resembled nothing so much as this pattern, most notably featured on my Cynthia Rowley for Target pajamas:
All the while, I was inundated with memories of my 1998 involvement in Bensalem High School's summerstock production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and that, I think, just compounded the ridiculousness. A mental comparison:
1998: 10. Bored. Awkward. Making papier maché horse heads. Paying for the privilege of sweeping Bensalem High School's crew room. Braiding yarn as older girls talk about their periods.
2006: 19. Tipsy. In Scotland. Sweeping only the floors of my fabulous flat. Giggling. In part, at the musical. In part because everything is finally so right.
Which led me to two conclusions: (1) the only way to really enjoy Joseph is to be both drunk and sentimental. That then reminded me that (2) my life is fantastic, especially in comparison to the way I used to live it which means, essentially that I WIN! And that realization makes all those years of embarrassment and community theatre 100% worthwhile.
- - - - -
Saturday, again, I was drawn into the ever-loathsome world of my high school self. A friend had told us that one of our favorite clubs was hosting a black tie birthday party for The Skinny, a music magazine, and that it would be an awesome night, complete with cake. When we arrived, however, we found ourselves overdressed, drinking horrible £2 cider, in a crowd of mohawked crazies and scenesters who reminded me of nothing so much as myself, aged 14. It was like walking into a wormhole and coming out where I would have found myself if I had never stopped going to "indie" shows in church basements three years ago -- the proverbial "scene" as I had left it, a few years older and a little bit stranger. I was ready to put my past in front of me and keep on drinking, but Steph, never having had THAT phase, was horrified, so we left soon after the on-stage band sang their "hit song" about pedophilia. And though I protested at the time, I think that all in all, leaving was the thing to do. Only having asserted my status as a life-path winner the night before, jumping into my sordid past may have proved a bit too risky. |
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| Now questioning implications, aware of the spelling of "Renaissance" and able to say "no" |
[May. 20th, 2006|07:06 am] |
It's just after seven and I've just returned from what could very well be my last night out as a Fresher. At the 6:00am bar, I was asked by a forty to fifty-something guy "Can you help me prove to my friends that I am not gay and let me kiss you?" And even though I'd been drinking for 13+ hours, the answer was no, there aren't enough drinks in the world. |
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| She Lives! |
[May. 11th, 2006|01:37 pm] |
The Elizabeth (yes, she is preceded by an article) has been here since Monday, and it has been good but there's really not much to report. It's really weird how not weird it is to have her here; it's kind of like my normal Scottish life, just with more pictures and more tourist attractions.
Since I don't have enough brain left to tell you stories with words, the Elizabeth's photos will have to do.
( My Life is in Cameras ) |
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| Fire in the disco |
[May. 1st, 2006|02:06 pm] |
As a conclusion for the most random, disjointed, and fabulous weekend (or collection of three consecutive days) I've had in a long time, I ended up on a hill above the city at a fire festival of whose existence I was not aware twenty minutes prior to my departure for it.
I had meant to revise earlier in the day, and after showering, talking to the blood relatives, and watching my Sunday morning staple of reality TV trash without which I could not live, Steph and I decided that the best location for such an activity would be the couches at her parents' house; we ended up making an impromptu lasagna for lunch/dinner, watching cable, and not opening a single book. When we returned to the flat, Susan and Charlotte were getting ready to go out to a fire festival, apparently, did we want to come? Why not? ( Jackets, flip-flops, back out the door ) |
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| "Are you looking for a REAL man in your life?" |
[Apr. 29th, 2006|09:25 pm] |
These past few weeks have been manic -- the weather, my schedule, and my mood included. It goes from sunny and warm to breezy and overcast; I go from hours of laughter and delight to those of suffocating boredom and restlessness. Overall, however, I feel they've been good. So, here's the rundown -- an emboldened title for each of the individual entries I should have created along the way:
SPRING AT LAST
I spent the beginning of the week directly following Easter with Steph down in Berwick, and again, it was DELIGHTFUL. We read all day and then played Cricket (appallingly, perhaps, but we all know about my sporting skills or lack thereof. I mean, after 11 years of gym class, I never really did catch onto the rules baseball; these cricket efforts were hopeless from the start but it was sunny and the water was so blue and, well, I was in the mood to RUN) on the beach, or drank Jack and watched the shooting stars under blankets in the garden, each of these events giving more depth to that British childhood I'm slowly creating. In some ways, such outdoor activities, such simple fun, make me feel like the complete stereotypical college student I've apparently become -- something along the lines of a person who would say, "like dude, let's get some beers and go down to the beach, man!" And while in some ways, that makes me cringe, cliche or no cliche, I'd LOVE to be lying out on a beach right now, drinking cocktails like there's no better place to be on earth.
Back in Edinburgh, I've been making conscious efforts not to spend money, as in one week and two days' time, the fantastic Elizabeth will be here, and we will be going out every night because, let's face it, she's really only coming to Edinburgh for it's fabulous wealth of bars. I've also been making a conscious effort to revise because, as can be determined by the preceding sentence, once Elizabeth gets here, I'll be doing a lot of drinking, which pretty much kills all chances of my re-reading plays of the Renaissance for common themes. This means a couple of things, namely that (1) I'm very bored 94% of the time and that (2) I watch lots of television shows about the finding/selling/buying of antiques/houses with a look of desolation on my face and volume one of the Norton Anthology of English Literature in my lap. Then, just about when I think I'm going to go stir-crazy, some flat mates and I will go on a wander, usually ending up in an outdoor cafe, drinking coffee in the newly-present relative warmth of the sun; if it's a good day, the coffee will be replaced with a bottle of wine because there is precious little that feels more decadent or delightful than drinking in the sun in the afternoon.
A RETURN OF FAITH
Yesterday was one of the most erratic days I've had in a long time. It started with shopping, and it was meant to end with a cheesy movie mini-marathon (and for the record Get Rich or Die Tryin' -- oh how that lack of 'g' taunts me -- is much more bearable if its watched with hoods up and excessive amounts of gaudy jewelry on). Around midnight, however, when we were in the car park outside the flat after having returning our movies, Steph's brother called and it didn't take much persuasion to get us to break our "not going clubbing until Elizabeth arrives/Steph's exams are finished" oath. Within twenty minutes, we were in Potterow, well on our way to wasted.
During Freshers' Week, Steph and I accidentally established a tradition in which we would, completely unexpectedly end up in our local night club, Faith (which, if you ever go there on purpose, is never very good) and have a fantastic and unforgettable night before stumbling three feet down the road to our flat. It only ever works, however, if five minutes prior to our entry, we have no inkling of the fact that Faith will be our final destination. The first time was the Monday of Freshers' Week, my third day in Edinburgh. We had left whatever event was going on in our union due to its being horrifically boring, and we were getting ready to go to bed when her brother called and said he was in Faith and that we should come down; three minutes later, we were at a beach party, downing the JD and cokes his friends kept handing us, playing games with balloons on the empty dance floor. Another Friday, Steph, Charlotte and I were walking along the Cowgate, and we decided to ask the bouncer whether or not he expected the club to be busy that night, and when he told us that entry was free, we pretty much just walked in; that was another great night. Then, not so long ago, in one of my most random and hilarious nights out to date, there was of course the Faith Foam Party. Last night (for those of you who couldn't guess where I was going with this) was another random Faith night.
After waiting twenty minutes at the bar to get a drink in the union where there were no more than ten people on the dance floor, we decided to go to a real club, and we ended up in Faith. For once, it was crowded, and the music was great (and the DJ was hot), and Steph and I were just so excited to be out of the flat and drinking again. Plus, a group of men (a stag night, probably) were dressed as Monks, which amused me endlessly. Two of them tried to ambush Steph and me on the dance floor, one by nearly strangling Steph with his grasp while the other snuck up behind me; we managed to make a skillful escape to the other side of the room. I see that as multi-faceted rejection on our part. We said no to both mingers AND religion. And as a final instance of hilarity, in response to the title question, posed to me by some other random who thought he was so suave, a resounding "NO" was uttered on my part. "Why not?" he asks. "I only go for the gays." |
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| Four Nights of Drinking or Why I'm Broke Again or My Life is Arbitrary and Wonderful |
[Mar. 23rd, 2006|01:24 am] |
As I may have said before, one of my favorite things about living in Scotland is the fact that I no longer feel like I'm constantly waiting. I no longer have to count the days until Friday, the hours until the end of school, the minutes until the end of German class; I no longer have to scream for the day to come when I will finally go to Germany/leave for Canada/go to New York/pseudo-expatriate to Scotland. I may not be living a supremely intellectual or unique life, but I'm happy with that for now. I'm finally exactly where I want to be at the time during which I feel I need to be there, and it is FABULOUS and I want remember that. So, right now, I'm going to do the boring thing, the self-indulgent thing (and the thing I promised myself I'd try never again to do, after having read my archives, which are more or less cringe-worthy daily summaries of a time in my life I'd rather not remember in such detail) and, I'm going to write a horrifically long post about the delight of my weekend, and that will be ( this ) |
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| As close as I get to jet-setting |
[Mar. 12th, 2006|11:35 pm] |
This morning, at half ten, my cousin calls me:
Phone: rings
Me: asleep
Him: Hey! I'm on my way to Glasgow!
Me: Dude, I'm in Edinburgh...
Him: Come to Glasgow. It's my last day in Scotland
Me: ... Call me back in a bit.
Needless to say, at 12:00, I got on a train to Glasgow and noon, I arrived at one, and I started drinking at 1:15 in the afternoon, didn't stop until I got on the bus an hour and a half ago. Good day. Still a bit tipsy. Will follow up with photos later. But, it was good to see someone to whom I'm related, someone I've known since before September, someone who's called NEGRO too. |
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mythematiclife's journal
drained
tired
