Hej, Min svävare är full med ålar

So I went to see "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" last week. Not only is it a brilliant film, better than the Swedish version in my opinion, but it has kicked in my desire to runaway to Sweden, if only for a weekend, into overdrive. I don't know if it is that David Fincher just picked beautiful visuals for the film, or Sweden is really that beautiful, but I have to find out.

The aerial views of Stockholm were unreal, somehow managing to catch both the modernity of the city coupled with the beautiful older architecture which seems to be everywhere. Then couple this with the amazing and compromised, pristine landscape and it looks a bit like how I imagine heaven to be (and it doesn't hurt that there are tall blondes there too).

So.... looks like I am planning a trip to Sweden after I get back from London next weekend.    

It is a Gillian Welch kinda day

It feels like it has been grey for weeks here and in truth it has. Grey and cold. That kind of cold which feels colder than it is (and seems to be an coastal phenomena), piercing you, chilling you to the bone, making you feel like you will never be warm again, no matter how hard you try, which is invigorating during drunken walks home, but kind of a pain in the ass any other time. Needless to say, I have loved it..... for the most part and I still smile every time I walk outside and feel that freezing air infiltrate my lungs.

As I hard as I try to deny it or get rid of it, there is still a part of me which longs for sunshine in January and temperatures so mild I can simply throw on a cardi, capris, and some ballet flats and fly out the door for my day. However, here, getting dressed can be a production. It can be a series of trials and errors, trying to stay warm without looking as if you are wearing every article of clothing you own. I often feel as if I am in an elaborately choreographed dance routine, missing only Jazz hands or spirit fingers.

So I don't know if it the sort of melancholic happiness or an attempt to balance out the feeling Bob Fosse is in charge of morning dressing ritual, but the only music which seems to make any sort of sense to today is Gillian Welch, Neko Case, and Allison Krauss. They remind me of home, all of my windows open during the last few days in January, baking, reading or just listening. It warms up the ice water in my veins, even if only for a moment.

Writing everything but my paper

Dublin is getting colder, and by colder I mean, that lovely icy cold which cuts in, hurts a little with the first few breaths outside, and brings a rosy healthy colour to your cheeks. In other words it is practically perfect. The only thing which would make it better would be snow.

While the upcoming holiday of mas-consumption hasn't really made it down to my neighborhood yet, the city centre and Grafton street areas have been taken over with white lights everywhere and some of the most spectacular window displays I have seen in a very long time, my favorite being Brown Thomas, which whimsically depicts my favorite ballets, including the most magical and inspired vision of Swan Lake ever. I can't wait for the Christmas markets to start showing up and adding fantastic smells to the already scrumptious feast for the eyes.

Getting better....

There really is something about the small things in life. Today it is burritos and really good coffee, both within a decent walk of my house. I haven't felt too terribly creative recently, which is always hard for me to deal with. I have a million ideas trying to get out, but none of them want to come. I also have a feeling this is going to change soon. It really needs to change. I have papers I need to be working on and a play which needs finishing and two short stories in the works. So send me creative thoughts.

Started a while ago while I was still in the CR and even more true now.....

An old friend recently told me I am one of the most fiercely independent people he knows and went on to talk about what an amazing quality it is. He was right. I hate being cosseted, taken care of, allowing anyone into to the inner-workings of my brain. I stand strongly alone, making my own choices, living with the consequences, and walking my own path, by myself. Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with my terminal wanderlust? I'll get to that.

This year has been a lonely one for me. Not that it has been bad. It hasn't, in many ways it has been an amazing experience and one I will treasure always. Just lonely. I have spent a lot of time in my head, as if that was even more possible, trying to figure shit out, what I really want out of life, all that typical bullshit I tend to stay away from talking about, because I think it is trite (next week join me for my blog on how I plan to become less judgmental). This has all be compounded by the recent passing of two friends and a lot of time on trains. I have worked hard to get where I am, a CAL graduate, getting ready to pursue her MA and PHD in Ireland, always putting my academic career first and figuring the rest would just somehow sort itself out. I have spent years flip-flopping on the idea of marriage, usually flopping, thinking I am not that kind of girl, viewing it more as a financial/friendship thing than anything else, not even really sure about the whole Scandinavian idea of partnership forever. Call it the cynic in me. It isn't that I didn't like the idea of love and real partnership, I just am not all that sure I believed in it. I mean after all, look at the types of men I tended to fall for (when I actually liked someone rather than just feeling bored). Guys as emotionally unavailable and commitment phobic as I am. I mean these guys were safe. I never really had to let my guard down and worry about getting hurt. In many of them I saw kindred spirits and it was an easy(ish) way to go through life. Never really open yourself up, never really get hurt. God, how sad.

Anyway fast forward to these last few months. Instead of feeling the amazing liberation I normally feel at being able to pack my life up and move to where ever it is I am moving this year, I had been feeling this strange sort of emptiness, like something is missing from my life. At first I thought it might be a dog. I mean after all I am totally obsessed with little white fluffy dogs and haven't really gotten to spend any real canine time in a while. Then I went to St. Malo. Walking on the beach late at night always tends to clear my head. Then again, so does encountering someone who makes my soul shake. There I got both. It isn't like I hadn't felt stomach churning, heart pounding lust here. I mean I had, pretty much every time I go out I see that special Gillian type of guy. This was different. This was that thing I have only felt twice before. That strange sensation when you feel like someone, whom you have never met before, truly sees you, not just the physical aspects of you, but looks in your eyes, and sees you, the real you and still finds you desirable. It is always a scary and intense moment, whether it is real or not, whether anything comes of that moment or not (in this case it didn't). And that is when it hit me. I am tired of walking this world alone. I am tired of being strong and capable. I want to be vulnerable. I want to take care of and be taken care of by someone. I want to be a partner. I want to share my life and build a life with someone. For the first time in my life, I actually want to fall in love. (Needless to say, sharing these insights with my mother, was an experience. I wish I had captured on film. It was the most priceless look ever).

Fast forward again to Dublin. I think when I wrote the above piece I was sure those feelings would go away, like somehow being here, this magical place I have dreamed about for so long would wipe the desires stated above from my mind and soul. Yeah.... that hasn't happened. It is almost the reverse. It is almost as if being in a place which feels like home has intensified it. Not that I am going to settle for the first guy that comes along. I have done that for too much of my life. But I am not going to shut myself off anymore either. I have a feeling this is going to be a process. I mean you can't unlearn 35 years of behavior in a few months.

Just wandering and babbling today

I think Halloween may be the end of tourist season here, or the rainy weather kept them all inside. The streets were delightfully empty today as I ran a few errands down in the Grafton street/Temple Bar area earlier and enjoyed the Irish weather. I swear rain here is different than anywhere else in the world. It is soft, like a dense fog, which leaves you damp more than wet. And while this dampening kept those on holiday either in their native countries or safe inside their hotle rooms, the locals seemed to take this reprieve to take to the streets and get stuff done with out having to stop every four seconds for people taking photos or listening to the buskers. It was perfectly efficient.

It is little strange for me to be in a place which doesn't have Thanksgiving to break up things between the end of October and the holiday season (not that there is much of a break in America either). The lights have gone up on Grafton street and almost every store I went into today had the smell of Christmas, that spicey heaviness floating everywhere. I love it. I am looking forward to watching the holiday season unfold over the next month before I head back to the States for a visit.

I am still in complete wonder everytime I walk around here. I always seem to find something wonderful down a street I never knew existed. Today it was an amazing indoor market place and a great little baking supply shop just off the Grafton insanity. A few days ago it was a brilliant farmers market just off Henry street. Who knows what it will be tomorrow. I am looking forward to finding out... that is if this cold I feel coming doesn't kick my ass first. Oh well. Maybe I'll just head down to the National Library and listen to Yeats' fairy tales being read out loud. Maybe there will be tea there too. I like tea.

Oh yeah.... get those creative impulses flowing

For years I have joked about having the worst personallity for a writer of all time, as I cannot write when drunk or depressed. Really, it's true. When in either, or both, of those states of being I stare at my computer, or pad of paper blankly, willing the words to come. They never do. This frustrates me and often times leads to a deeper depression and the vicious circle continues. (Thankfully though, if trying to write when drrunk, I sober up and am off like a firecracker.)

Then I moved to Ireland. I swear to what ever deity you believe in I can't stop the words from coming. It is like being here kicked my creative whatever in to mad overdrive. In the past few weeks I have started three essays, two short stories and a one act play. That is more than I have done in the last year and a half. It is insane.

Now I am sure you all are thinking to yourselves, "Well of course you are in frenzy of productivity. You are in your happy place" and yes I am sure that has something to do with it, but I have also been a little glum reccently. Life has been a little interesting since I arrived in this magical land of banter, beer, and bullshit. Nothing anyone needs to worry about, but still.... anywhere else and I would have been blocked for months. Here and I am writing up a storm. It is almost as if the 8 million year long love affair between the Irish and words has effected me too, like now that I am here, all of the words and ideas which have been lying dormant in my brain for years feel the need to come bursting forth. It is heavenly, if not a bit exhausting.

So look for some interesting things to come.... I may actually let people read some of them. HOLY SHIT!!!!! Wonders never cease.

Finally some good old fashionned Irish weather

It was hot earlier this month..... not Sacramento in the summer hot, but hot enough to make me believe the mythic weather of rainy damp Ireland was much like the constantly sunny California, a fabracation to sell movies. And then Monday of this week hit and I couldn't be happier.

It has been cold, finally. That kinda cold where the first few breaths outside hurt a little and your cheeks actually burn from the touch of it. The cold which makes walking feel invigorating and people hurry a little more to get from point a to point b. The type of cold where you need gloves in case you shatter you hands. I have loved it.

Now believe it or not kids there are two types of cold, much the same way there are two types of hot..... and strangely, they are the same for both, dry and damp and there is a similar effect... sort of. Dry cold is much easier deal with, put on a long sleaved shirt, a sweater, a coat and you're good to go. You can stay warmish.... a damp cold, like the one by any huge body of water, is a totally different. It pierces the skin, goes straight to the bone and if you aren't prepared for it before it happens, I am convinced it will steal your warmth and maybe your soul. This is the cold I like. This extreme cold. I don't know why. Perhaps I am mad? But I love it.

So as I lay in my room, watching the wind and the rain play outside, it is taking all of myself control to not go out and join them. Instead I am listening to them banter with each other as I, rather impatiently I might add, wait for their friend snow to show up.

Epic night of drinking song and dance

Last night I had one of those nights you only see in movies about Ireland. I mean seriously. Random impromptu band playing traditional Irish music, little old ladies singing and handing out sandwhiches, everyone in love with the cheeky American girl. It was amazing

Tired of sitting home alone, I decided to head to one of the pubs down the way. I started at the meatmarket place, never a good idea. After an hour of sitting alone, no one really talking to me, I decided to head to the old man pub closer to my house. BEST IDEA EVER!!!!!! When I walked in I was greeted by the sounds of traditonal Irish music being played by a lovely, yet motely, group of musicians. It took all of about four seconds for the little old Irish men at the table right by the door to start flirting with me, offering their seats for me, and buying my cider for the rest of the night. Everyone was warm and genuine, laughing, having a great time, waltzing and doing the two step and periodically bursting into song when the band decided it was time to stop for a drink or four. There was even the tiniest little old Irish Mammy I have ever seen, carrying around a tray of sandwhiches making sure everyone ate periodically whose only response to me when I told her I wanted to be her when I grew up was "Ah bless, but you are full of it." As the night progressed and the beer flowed freer the party just got better until I finally couldn't dance, sing or drink anymore and headed home.

Needless to say.... I am going back next Friday. 

Theatre review of Drunkard at the Bus stop

The Irish are known for great theatre... from Synge, to O'Casey, to Beckett, to Friel... whatever you are in the mood for they've got it. From world famous theatres, like the Abbey, to small independent run ones there is something for every person on every budget. Today was free comedy day at UC Dublin's 17 bus stop.

I arrived a little late to the production.... there was a line at the WC,  so I missed the beginning, thankfully the author of the play made it easy to catch up. The cast consisted of two drunk men, ages early to mid 20's, three sober co-eds early 20's and finally an annoyed American, who bore a striking resemblence to myself. The main character, the Drunkard Paul, had most of the dialogue consisting of three or four lines "Money doesn't buy you everything" "Did your daddy buy you that scarf" "Why won't you shake my hand?" and "Why are you such a group of stuck up bitches?", repeted to any of the three young women who stuck his fancy at that particular moment, spewed in random order and sometimes the same line repeted three or eight million times in a row. Sometimes the actor would feel the need to ad-lib a few lines in order to liven up his performance... but these were often mumbled and damn near impossible to understand. Periodically he would hold his hand out to the young lady who seemed to be the main object of his desire for her to either shake or fist bump.

The three co-eds were brilliant in their portrayal of annoyed intellectuals, desperate for the bus to arrive. The object of attraction would periodically roll her eyes and tell the drunkard Paul to "Fuck off" in the most convincing tone I have ever seen on the stage. You could really feel her disgust and growing aggitation at the unwanted attention of the male lead. Randomly to add to the comedic value of the action unfolding on stage, Drunkard Paul's friend would say his name and attempt to pull Paul off stage..... but to no avail.

After a good ten minutes of this inccohertent brilliance on the part of the playwrite and millionth plea for a fist bump on the part of Drunkard Paul, the American piped in with "She isn't going to touch you, fist bump you, talk to you or anything else. She has told you to fuck off at least twice and now I am too. SO FUCK OFF!!!!!" At which time the stage direction apparently called for Drunkard Paul to hit the bus stop, turn his attentions to the American who, in a stroke of genius direction, looked as cold and calm as any ice statue and ignored him until he exited stage right and the curtain closed.

It is a shame if you missed it, as it was only running for one performance. Each of the actors seemed to really understand their characters and I have rarely seen such amazingly convincing performances from an amature company. I look forward to more from this writer.