Updates coming soon, I promise.
But you have no idea how busy (and happy) I've been lately.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Every girl should get daisies
Today, I cleaned my room, did my laundry, vacuumed, and bought a wallet. [Yes, K, truly. I know, right?] And some Gerbera daisies. And I think I figured out how to put my pictures into my blog so that you can see the whole thing... For dinner, I made myself a delicious Monte Cristo sandwich, and decided that I want to write more about food here.
Like how I sometimes go online and look at Bartley's menu and daydream.
But really, tomorrow night is a Flat 13 dinner -- I'm making macaroni and cheese and already the "But it's not orange" and "You use extra sharp? I use mild" comments are pouring in from all sides. And then I'm told that it's a traditional Scottish dish, but I'm pretty sure that it's American. Unless it's American the way Harry Potter is American, which I doubt.
Like how I sometimes go online and look at Bartley's menu and daydream.
But really, tomorrow night is a Flat 13 dinner -- I'm making macaroni and cheese and already the "But it's not orange" and "You use extra sharp? I use mild" comments are pouring in from all sides. And then I'm told that it's a traditional Scottish dish, but I'm pretty sure that it's American. Unless it's American the way Harry Potter is American, which I doubt.
Sometimes it's hard to tell the wishing from the well.
Podcasts were pretty clearly invented by the devil. Podcasts, blogs, facebook, email, all of it. Invented by the creepy androgynous floating creature in The Passion of the Christ.
Star lyrics I'm dying over:
"The rain fell hard on the roof that day.
You telephone from far away.
I see the ocean from my room.
All I could say was,
'Are you coming home soon?'
The static whispered in my ear
But in a moment your voice was clear.
'I need some time,' you said to me.
That's when I knew you were gonna make me lonely.
You were gonna make me wish for the time
Right before I was born, when every living breath
Was another new dawn.
Or the time I was five at the top of Peak Hill
And the wind almost took me away."
Seriously, them intrepid Canucks be crazy. And am I intentionally avoiding the subject? Am I stalling like a kid trying to write fifteen pages on a book he hasn't read? Probably, but my best papers have been about books I never read; let's be honest. Or, books I only half-read. (And because some of those papers were apparently pretty memorable, I won't name them. Because it would suck to disappoint certain high school teachers.) It's just that, where Clyde is concerned, there's a whole lot of "bursting into tears" involved. And I think I scared the guy working box at Festival Theater.
He deserved it.
"Do you have any Jackson Browne tickets left?"
"Yes, plenty!"
"Really? Wow, awesome. I'll be back this afternoon!"
"Wait -- I thought you said Ry Cooder. Jackson Browne is sold out."
It didn't even take thirty seconds. I was down then UP then crashed into the hard, cold earth like a Russian space shuttle. In what universe does "Jackson Browne" sound like "Ry Cooder"? I get it; they both cover Warren Zevon songs. That's not acceptable. So yes, my knees gave out and I instantly started crying. I could barely get out, "Oh-kay." He started to tell me that I could check back, but I'm pretty sure I had my "Other Ashley" face on by that point, and I looked murderous. Jesus Christ, I don't even remember the last time I had that face on. The one I don't control, that looks like someone who isn't me, the one that almost made me believe that I maybe had an evil twin. The face that my mother explained to Heidi as, "I can just see the moment of the change and I can't describe it. It's like Ashley is completely replaced by someone else. Someone evil."
I cried the entire walk back to my flat. I'm checking every day from now on.
At least I saw Lloyd before the news. Am I ashamed of my reaction? No, but he doesn't need to see that. I saw him as I walked TOWARD the theater, and there was a super-awkward "Not quite sure how to handle this and acknowledge you... I know I should, but, uh... Hi." moment. I'm just saying, my walks are always awkward, tears or no.
Josh Ritter is about the coolest cat around. I was listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered" interview with him and they ask him about looking audience members in the eye, and he just went off on a three minute ramble about Edward Hopper. Seriously, boy, why are you doing this to me? One of the best living songwriters, easy, and then you gotta go and bring it all back to art and windows and "Don't you want to know her story?" Not as much as I want to give you my ovaries? And then, later, he says, "When a baby smiles at you, it's proof that you exist," as a means of explaining what good music makes you feel.
Father. My. Children.
Aside from that, he's just very affable and sincere and I liked his story about potatoes that then led into "Temptation of Adam." ("What five letters spell apocalypse, she asked me./I won her over singing W-W-I-I-I and she smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me." So good, ferrilz.) And he's one of only two men I've ever listened to who can write songs about telling women to take off their clothing and not have it sound completely grimey. "You were naked as a window/But I'll take all that nothing/Over nothing at all."
Decidedly less charming? Jens Lekman. But is that really fair of me? Oh, who cares? I'm not his biggest fan and never would be. Though, he had one thing right. It sure was the opposite of hallelujah. (I'm assuming that was the message you wanted me to take away from Night Falls Over Kortedala, yeah?)
Now, Jakob -- Dylan, children, please, the only one that matters -- is sort of a rad little pistol. He played the Folk Festival this past August and I'm listening to the podcast of it (seriously, who needs to actually GO to shows anymore?) and how on Earth can you not laugh? First of all, Dylan. Newport. Legen -- wait for it, and I hope you're not lactose-intolerant because the second part of this word is -- dairy. [In desperate need of a new How I Met Your Mother.] And then he says, "I thought I'd do us all a favor and just begin with the acoustic guitar. And for those who are wondering, I couldn't make up my mind, so it is acoustic, but it does plug in." Trouble-makkar, I see what you did there. Clever boy.
"I was born in the summer of Sam, smaller and sooner than planned/In the spitting image of a man raised by wolves."
Daddy Dylan? I think my favorite Dylan song is pretty obviously "My Back Pages." The Joan Osbourne/Clyde cover version of that song for the "Steal My Movie" album is stellar.
Do you think that if I pull a "strategic hover" near the load-out things will just fall into place for me? If I stand at the load-out, where the trucks roll in? If I sniff all around it, like a half-grown female pup? If I'm not hard to talk to and look like I have no where to go, do you think they'll give me a pass so I can get in to see the show? What if I wear a badge saying, "Hello, my name is Rosie"? I do think that I would be obligated, then, to leave with the drummer. And we all know how I feel about drummers... (Wait, scratch that, Susannah -- exception to every rule, don't forget.) Saddest song he ever wrote, by his own admission.
Back to Scotland. Exam schedule is out and all my exams are the second week of May. Because we all know how well Ashley can multitask. After that, what will I do? Probably write, right? Adventure all over? Climb Arthur's Seat? Every. Single. Day. Work on pulling together my Div II, most likely, and getting myself organized for Div III. Working on my PC app, because apparently, April 1st is just the deadline if you want an on-campus interview before you leave for the summer. Maybe this was the wrong semester to go to Scotland. But you know what? There was never going to be a perfect time and this seems as good as any other, really.
Anyway, tonight Ashley and I went for fish and chips and got deep-fried Mars Bars. Because if I went to Alabama, I'd eat a deep-fried Twinkie. And I've decided that deep-fried Mars Bars are my new favorite food. Because it's chocolate. And grease. What part of that is a fail? Oh, hey, there's a Canoli Season type picture of me with my delicious treat, and it's probably the grossest picture ever taken of me. Needless to say, I love it. So here you go, some pictures of Mars Bars, and because I never got them up, the pictures of the imported snow from ages ago.
By the way, blame D for all the new updates. :)
Star lyrics I'm dying over:
"The rain fell hard on the roof that day.
You telephone from far away.
I see the ocean from my room.
All I could say was,
'Are you coming home soon?'
The static whispered in my ear
But in a moment your voice was clear.
'I need some time,' you said to me.
That's when I knew you were gonna make me lonely.
You were gonna make me wish for the time
Right before I was born, when every living breath
Was another new dawn.
Or the time I was five at the top of Peak Hill
And the wind almost took me away."
Seriously, them intrepid Canucks be crazy. And am I intentionally avoiding the subject? Am I stalling like a kid trying to write fifteen pages on a book he hasn't read? Probably, but my best papers have been about books I never read; let's be honest. Or, books I only half-read. (And because some of those papers were apparently pretty memorable, I won't name them. Because it would suck to disappoint certain high school teachers.) It's just that, where Clyde is concerned, there's a whole lot of "bursting into tears" involved. And I think I scared the guy working box at Festival Theater.
He deserved it.
"Do you have any Jackson Browne tickets left?"
"Yes, plenty!"
"Really? Wow, awesome. I'll be back this afternoon!"
"Wait -- I thought you said Ry Cooder. Jackson Browne is sold out."
It didn't even take thirty seconds. I was down then UP then crashed into the hard, cold earth like a Russian space shuttle. In what universe does "Jackson Browne" sound like "Ry Cooder"? I get it; they both cover Warren Zevon songs. That's not acceptable. So yes, my knees gave out and I instantly started crying. I could barely get out, "Oh-kay." He started to tell me that I could check back, but I'm pretty sure I had my "Other Ashley" face on by that point, and I looked murderous. Jesus Christ, I don't even remember the last time I had that face on. The one I don't control, that looks like someone who isn't me, the one that almost made me believe that I maybe had an evil twin. The face that my mother explained to Heidi as, "I can just see the moment of the change and I can't describe it. It's like Ashley is completely replaced by someone else. Someone evil."
I cried the entire walk back to my flat. I'm checking every day from now on.
At least I saw Lloyd before the news. Am I ashamed of my reaction? No, but he doesn't need to see that. I saw him as I walked TOWARD the theater, and there was a super-awkward "Not quite sure how to handle this and acknowledge you... I know I should, but, uh... Hi." moment. I'm just saying, my walks are always awkward, tears or no.
Josh Ritter is about the coolest cat around. I was listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered" interview with him and they ask him about looking audience members in the eye, and he just went off on a three minute ramble about Edward Hopper. Seriously, boy, why are you doing this to me? One of the best living songwriters, easy, and then you gotta go and bring it all back to art and windows and "Don't you want to know her story?" Not as much as I want to give you my ovaries? And then, later, he says, "When a baby smiles at you, it's proof that you exist," as a means of explaining what good music makes you feel.
Father. My. Children.
Aside from that, he's just very affable and sincere and I liked his story about potatoes that then led into "Temptation of Adam." ("What five letters spell apocalypse, she asked me./I won her over singing W-W-I-I-I and she smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me." So good, ferrilz.) And he's one of only two men I've ever listened to who can write songs about telling women to take off their clothing and not have it sound completely grimey. "You were naked as a window/But I'll take all that nothing/Over nothing at all."
Decidedly less charming? Jens Lekman. But is that really fair of me? Oh, who cares? I'm not his biggest fan and never would be. Though, he had one thing right. It sure was the opposite of hallelujah. (I'm assuming that was the message you wanted me to take away from Night Falls Over Kortedala, yeah?)
Now, Jakob -- Dylan, children, please, the only one that matters -- is sort of a rad little pistol. He played the Folk Festival this past August and I'm listening to the podcast of it (seriously, who needs to actually GO to shows anymore?) and how on Earth can you not laugh? First of all, Dylan. Newport. Legen -- wait for it, and I hope you're not lactose-intolerant because the second part of this word is -- dairy. [In desperate need of a new How I Met Your Mother.] And then he says, "I thought I'd do us all a favor and just begin with the acoustic guitar. And for those who are wondering, I couldn't make up my mind, so it is acoustic, but it does plug in." Trouble-makkar, I see what you did there. Clever boy.
"I was born in the summer of Sam, smaller and sooner than planned/In the spitting image of a man raised by wolves."
Daddy Dylan? I think my favorite Dylan song is pretty obviously "My Back Pages." The Joan Osbourne/Clyde cover version of that song for the "Steal My Movie" album is stellar.
Do you think that if I pull a "strategic hover" near the load-out things will just fall into place for me? If I stand at the load-out, where the trucks roll in? If I sniff all around it, like a half-grown female pup? If I'm not hard to talk to and look like I have no where to go, do you think they'll give me a pass so I can get in to see the show? What if I wear a badge saying, "Hello, my name is Rosie"? I do think that I would be obligated, then, to leave with the drummer. And we all know how I feel about drummers... (Wait, scratch that, Susannah -- exception to every rule, don't forget.) Saddest song he ever wrote, by his own admission.
Back to Scotland. Exam schedule is out and all my exams are the second week of May. Because we all know how well Ashley can multitask. After that, what will I do? Probably write, right? Adventure all over? Climb Arthur's Seat? Every. Single. Day. Work on pulling together my Div II, most likely, and getting myself organized for Div III. Working on my PC app, because apparently, April 1st is just the deadline if you want an on-campus interview before you leave for the summer. Maybe this was the wrong semester to go to Scotland. But you know what? There was never going to be a perfect time and this seems as good as any other, really.
Anyway, tonight Ashley and I went for fish and chips and got deep-fried Mars Bars. Because if I went to Alabama, I'd eat a deep-fried Twinkie. And I've decided that deep-fried Mars Bars are my new favorite food. Because it's chocolate. And grease. What part of that is a fail? Oh, hey, there's a Canoli Season type picture of me with my delicious treat, and it's probably the grossest picture ever taken of me. Needless to say, I love it. So here you go, some pictures of Mars Bars, and because I never got them up, the pictures of the imported snow from ages ago.
By the way, blame D for all the new updates. :)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
"What a coincidence! I happen to love beautiful twenty year old girls."
So Mom emails me yesterday:
Yes.Yes.Yes. I'll try again. Which means I'll be seeing Jackson Browne April 3rd, happy birthday James, and April 15th, presumably. If I go to visit Athena. So that means three Jackson Browne shows by the end of July.
And the Young Dubliners are playing Foxboro on August 14. Which means I'll be having that pint with YOU, sir. So basically, I'm geeking, right? Kristin and I are scheduled for a beautiful night with Bren, and I've got three evenings with Clyde lined up.
"But, Ashley," you say, "what on Earth does that have to do with the man who happens to love beautiful twenty year old girls?" Oh, so you've been paying attention and remember last spring when Todd Snider left me a touching voicemail about my mother's drinking habits! When Todd Snider made working on finals seem not-so-rotten. And you're saying, "Surely, he can't be hitting the big city again so soon, could he?"
And remember, children, how I feared that he would play NoHo while I was in Scotland?
PARADISE. JUNE 12.
And then you have Paste Magazine, reporting on the fact that Snider just went through ANOTHER label. (He better change the lyrics to "Age Like Wine" accordingly.) They quoted Yep Roc, the label he just signed with. (Isn't J.Prine on Yep Roc? Or was it my dear Keb'?) Anyway, the announcement reads:
Good things, that's what it means.
Peace. Love. Anarchy.
He's here July 19......at the Pavillion. Remember last time? I'll try again if you will. Love, Mom
Yes.Yes.Yes. I'll try again. Which means I'll be seeing Jackson Browne April 3rd, happy birthday James, and April 15th, presumably. If I go to visit Athena. So that means three Jackson Browne shows by the end of July.
And the Young Dubliners are playing Foxboro on August 14. Which means I'll be having that pint with YOU, sir. So basically, I'm geeking, right? Kristin and I are scheduled for a beautiful night with Bren, and I've got three evenings with Clyde lined up.
"But, Ashley," you say, "what on Earth does that have to do with the man who happens to love beautiful twenty year old girls?" Oh, so you've been paying attention and remember last spring when Todd Snider left me a touching voicemail about my mother's drinking habits! When Todd Snider made working on finals seem not-so-rotten. And you're saying, "Surely, he can't be hitting the big city again so soon, could he?"
And remember, children, how I feared that he would play NoHo while I was in Scotland?
PARADISE. JUNE 12.
And then you have Paste Magazine, reporting on the fact that Snider just went through ANOTHER label. (He better change the lyrics to "Age Like Wine" accordingly.) They quoted Yep Roc, the label he just signed with. (Isn't J.Prine on Yep Roc? Or was it my dear Keb'?) Anyway, the announcement reads:
While Todd could not be reached for comment as he doesn't do technology or wear shoes, his road manager Elvis was overhead saying to, 'leave the unmarked money in a paper bag by the phone booth...Someone named Ashley is geeking all over the place. Do you realize what this means?
Good things, that's what it means.
Peace. Love. Anarchy.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Stay up all night with me.
Some song lyrics that are sort of blowing my mind right now:
"Summer leaves you like the girl that gets away."
"See, I miss you most days in kaleidoscope ways./Calling you up keeps me normal."
"She don't have her momma's hips yet so she stole her momma's lipstick."
[The Alternate Routes]
"In a town where you could sum up every girl with just one sentence/Give or take the subject or the verb,/She shows up like the devil said penance --/Won't nothing ever be clear no more?"
"My love put the deep in the ocean/My love talked the sky into going with the blue."
"Lilly, I guess the best trick is to see the magic/Once you've seen the wires."
[Cory Branan]
"You left some stars in my belly."
[Jeff Buckley]
"As I recall, your eyes were bluer than robins' eggs./My poetry was lousy, you said./Where are you calling from?"
[Joan Baez]
"How many times have you heard someone say,/'If I had money, I would do things my way'?/But little they know, that it's so hard to find/One rich man in ten with a satisfied mind."
[This one is a bit sketchy -- The Band? Bob Dylan? Who was it, Mom?)
Today [being Tuesday] I woke up at 9:30. Slogged my way out of bed and into a shower, more like. Practically passed out when the steam took over. Anyway, smiled at some cute construction workers in yellow vests on my way to the library, where I failed to discover that Emma was not coming to our creative writing workshop, but did become a follower of my mother's blog. I kept checking my email, hoping she'd sent her story so I could work on it over hot chocolate. I gave up after, er, fifteen minutes, and went for hot chocolate.
"I need to leave by quarter of twelve," I told myself, thinking I could do some of the writing for my project in the time between noon and 2 PM, when I was heading to the fabric shop with Robert. (I needed a second opinion on some swatches.)
That's funny. You'd think that an hour at the coffee shop would be enough time to drink all the hot chocolate I could want. But then you'd be neglecting that fact that Paddy O'Furniture says to me, almost as soon as I walk in, "Any music requests? Or is too much to ask you to make a decision today?" I pulled Cory Branan from somewhere beneath my ribcage, in the vicinity of my liver, I would say, but that music was, surprise, unavailable to him.
"JACKSON BROWNE!" I exclaimed.
And there you have it. I stayed for an hour and a half. 12:30. Only forty-five minutes off schedule. I contemplated leaving after my second hot chocolate, but "The Road" came on, and I hadn't heard it in, like, a month, which in Jackson-days is practically a lifetime. "A whole month?" he teased. Then "You Love The Thunder'' played and it was just a big mess of Ashley-geek everywhere. Oh, and "Late For The Sky" led to a discussion of how my all-time favorite song is actually "Jewel Box" by Jeff Buckley. Off Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk, of course, but second to last on the second disc. He hadn't heard it because he never ventured too deeply into that particular disc. Can't say I blame him. In fact, I think I jealousy said, "Lucky!" (I'd give back "Satisfied Mind" if you'd take back "Your Flesh Is So Nice.")
But I saw him digging "Doctor, My Eyes." Everyone enjoys that song. (By the way, "digging" is directly lifted from Erich, my ping-pong buddy.) Then I apologized for making him listen to music from the 1970s, as something off Running on Empty played. And he said, "It's okay; this album came out the year I was born." Touche, sir.
Anyway, Edinburgh Fabrics is sort of... I don't want to say unhelpful because he did help me, and he bent the rules, but they're not gracious about anything, really. Beautiful fabrics, but they don't sell any pieces of fabric under 25 centimeters, which is legit, I think. Unless your idea of a swatch is less than a square inch off the corner. But I explained I needed about ten unique samples and I needed two of each -- and that it was for a school project -- at which point, he was like, "I can sell you ten centimeter pieces." So that was lucky, I guess. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. So, helpful, yes, but not gracious. Oh, Fabric Place, you will be sorely miss.
Swatches, people. Swatches.
Sometimes, when I'm walking through Edinburgh and I'm just minding my own business, with my iPod on my "Adventuring Shuffle," I am taken by surprise. For instance, the other day, I was feeling sort of dreary. Not miserable, just a bit lost and confused and "Why do I have to make life decisions NOW?" And then, ohohoh, you hear that intro?
It stopped me in my tracks, those snares and that bass. You can't be unhappy when you're working on a steak and run into Waddy at the Rattlesnake Cafe.
Sometimes, John Hiatt does it, too. "She has the wind as a witness; she has feelings that fly by night./She believes in forgiveness, but it's not love if it holds too tight./You can fly beside her, but you gotta go where your heart says go./She lets the bright lights guide her, through the wind and the driving snow./Where it comes from, she don't know."
Speaking of snow, I hear the folks back in my fair city got absolutely dumped on. Who's jealous? Ashley's jealous. I don't WANT to be done with snow for the winter. Flowers are pretty, but petals don't fall in quite the same way. It's like how pine burns steady and all that, but nothing burns with quite the passion of birch bark.
Oh, and I also had my workshop for my ten-pager for creative writing. There is something deeply wrong and unsettling about it and I can't touch on what, precisely, it is. Will and Beth thought it was fantastic; Will was especially fond of the first two pages and the ending. I like to think that the first two pages constitute some of my most lyrical writing to date, but who knows. Will actually said he got choked up at one part, but I think that was hyperbole, Big W style.
Either way, there's something off -- I'm counting on either Sara or Stace to identify it for me so I can fix it before submission.
So when did "equal" begin meaning "the exact same"? Forgive me for not being totally enlightened, and Sara would kill me if she was reading this but I know lots of girls who would do secret fist pumps and "Hell yeah"s. "Equal" does not actually mean "the exact same." I guess, yeah, technically, that would fall under the jurisdiction of "equal," but what about this: evenly proportioned or balanced? There needs to be balance, not sameness.
There are rules and roles.
And if I have to be the one who gives birth, I think you can muster the strength to be the one to do the asking. And facebook-asking does not count. Especially not when you see me multiple times a week, anyway. I'll cook your dinner, but you have to buy me dinner first.
Long day tomorrow. (Today by the time this gets posted.)
10:30 - meeting with Professor Wormald to discuss an independent project, those damn Hampshire students
11:10-1 - Class
1-whenever: SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS
Then finishing my project in a likely all-nighter, Michael Lesy style. I think the night I completed work on my first Lesy final remains the single greatest night of my college career. I can't even tell you how in love with that project I was, how much it meant to me.
Maybe, maybe, maybe hot chocolate in between Spartacus and my project.
More lyrics? Yes, I think you want them. You think so, too.
"Yes, you're sensitive, quite expensive your life's become./Yes, you're beautiful, indisputable, in place of fun."
"Isabel, she treads so lightly/Floating in her gypsy dresses./Even as her words cut deep/I can't deny the truth in them./On the phone, she talks a lot/And me, I listen hopelessly/So directionless, I head into oblivion."
[Ben Jelen]
"Feeling better since I surrendered;/You can't climb until you're ready to fall./You're not a land mine/You're not a gold mine./No, you're not mine at all."
"I remember all the little things you said/Quesadillas made with cheese/And a rock band who were Japanese./So for once, in my life/I saw what I wanted/And took a bite."
[Ben Lee]
"Can you love me like crosses love the nape of the neck?"
"He's stolen hearts like they're horses and horses when hearts can't be found."
"Sometimes I've been corrupted, but I've never been in love."
[Josh Ritter]
"People will tell you what to do/Where your head should be./They don't tell me anything/I haven't already heard before, only better said./We all want focus/We crave company/But we're cross-eyed and punch-drunk from too much scenery."
"You know, I learned how to kiss you/Watching a movie starring James Dean."
[The Judybats]
"Summer leaves you like the girl that gets away."
"See, I miss you most days in kaleidoscope ways./Calling you up keeps me normal."
"She don't have her momma's hips yet so she stole her momma's lipstick."
[The Alternate Routes]
"In a town where you could sum up every girl with just one sentence/Give or take the subject or the verb,/She shows up like the devil said penance --/Won't nothing ever be clear no more?"
"My love put the deep in the ocean/My love talked the sky into going with the blue."
"Lilly, I guess the best trick is to see the magic/Once you've seen the wires."
[Cory Branan]
"You left some stars in my belly."
[Jeff Buckley]
"As I recall, your eyes were bluer than robins' eggs./My poetry was lousy, you said./Where are you calling from?"
[Joan Baez]
"How many times have you heard someone say,/'If I had money, I would do things my way'?/But little they know, that it's so hard to find/One rich man in ten with a satisfied mind."
[This one is a bit sketchy -- The Band? Bob Dylan? Who was it, Mom?)
Today [being Tuesday] I woke up at 9:30. Slogged my way out of bed and into a shower, more like. Practically passed out when the steam took over. Anyway, smiled at some cute construction workers in yellow vests on my way to the library, where I failed to discover that Emma was not coming to our creative writing workshop, but did become a follower of my mother's blog. I kept checking my email, hoping she'd sent her story so I could work on it over hot chocolate. I gave up after, er, fifteen minutes, and went for hot chocolate.
"I need to leave by quarter of twelve," I told myself, thinking I could do some of the writing for my project in the time between noon and 2 PM, when I was heading to the fabric shop with Robert. (I needed a second opinion on some swatches.)
That's funny. You'd think that an hour at the coffee shop would be enough time to drink all the hot chocolate I could want. But then you'd be neglecting that fact that Paddy O'Furniture says to me, almost as soon as I walk in, "Any music requests? Or is too much to ask you to make a decision today?" I pulled Cory Branan from somewhere beneath my ribcage, in the vicinity of my liver, I would say, but that music was, surprise, unavailable to him.
"JACKSON BROWNE!" I exclaimed.
And there you have it. I stayed for an hour and a half. 12:30. Only forty-five minutes off schedule. I contemplated leaving after my second hot chocolate, but "The Road" came on, and I hadn't heard it in, like, a month, which in Jackson-days is practically a lifetime. "A whole month?" he teased. Then "You Love The Thunder'' played and it was just a big mess of Ashley-geek everywhere. Oh, and "Late For The Sky" led to a discussion of how my all-time favorite song is actually "Jewel Box" by Jeff Buckley. Off Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk, of course, but second to last on the second disc. He hadn't heard it because he never ventured too deeply into that particular disc. Can't say I blame him. In fact, I think I jealousy said, "Lucky!" (I'd give back "Satisfied Mind" if you'd take back "Your Flesh Is So Nice.")
But I saw him digging "Doctor, My Eyes." Everyone enjoys that song. (By the way, "digging" is directly lifted from Erich, my ping-pong buddy.) Then I apologized for making him listen to music from the 1970s, as something off Running on Empty played. And he said, "It's okay; this album came out the year I was born." Touche, sir.
Anyway, Edinburgh Fabrics is sort of... I don't want to say unhelpful because he did help me, and he bent the rules, but they're not gracious about anything, really. Beautiful fabrics, but they don't sell any pieces of fabric under 25 centimeters, which is legit, I think. Unless your idea of a swatch is less than a square inch off the corner. But I explained I needed about ten unique samples and I needed two of each -- and that it was for a school project -- at which point, he was like, "I can sell you ten centimeter pieces." So that was lucky, I guess. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. So, helpful, yes, but not gracious. Oh, Fabric Place, you will be sorely miss.
Swatches, people. Swatches.
Sometimes, when I'm walking through Edinburgh and I'm just minding my own business, with my iPod on my "Adventuring Shuffle," I am taken by surprise. For instance, the other day, I was feeling sort of dreary. Not miserable, just a bit lost and confused and "Why do I have to make life decisions NOW?" And then, ohohoh, you hear that intro?
It stopped me in my tracks, those snares and that bass. You can't be unhappy when you're working on a steak and run into Waddy at the Rattlesnake Cafe.
Sometimes, John Hiatt does it, too. "She has the wind as a witness; she has feelings that fly by night./She believes in forgiveness, but it's not love if it holds too tight./You can fly beside her, but you gotta go where your heart says go./She lets the bright lights guide her, through the wind and the driving snow./Where it comes from, she don't know."
Speaking of snow, I hear the folks back in my fair city got absolutely dumped on. Who's jealous? Ashley's jealous. I don't WANT to be done with snow for the winter. Flowers are pretty, but petals don't fall in quite the same way. It's like how pine burns steady and all that, but nothing burns with quite the passion of birch bark.
Oh, and I also had my workshop for my ten-pager for creative writing. There is something deeply wrong and unsettling about it and I can't touch on what, precisely, it is. Will and Beth thought it was fantastic; Will was especially fond of the first two pages and the ending. I like to think that the first two pages constitute some of my most lyrical writing to date, but who knows. Will actually said he got choked up at one part, but I think that was hyperbole, Big W style.
Either way, there's something off -- I'm counting on either Sara or Stace to identify it for me so I can fix it before submission.
So when did "equal" begin meaning "the exact same"? Forgive me for not being totally enlightened, and Sara would kill me if she was reading this but I know lots of girls who would do secret fist pumps and "Hell yeah"s. "Equal" does not actually mean "the exact same." I guess, yeah, technically, that would fall under the jurisdiction of "equal," but what about this: evenly proportioned or balanced? There needs to be balance, not sameness.
There are rules and roles.
And if I have to be the one who gives birth, I think you can muster the strength to be the one to do the asking. And facebook-asking does not count. Especially not when you see me multiple times a week, anyway. I'll cook your dinner, but you have to buy me dinner first.
Long day tomorrow. (Today by the time this gets posted.)
10:30 - meeting with Professor Wormald to discuss an independent project, those damn Hampshire students
11:10-1 - Class
1-whenever: SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS
Then finishing my project in a likely all-nighter, Michael Lesy style. I think the night I completed work on my first Lesy final remains the single greatest night of my college career. I can't even tell you how in love with that project I was, how much it meant to me.
Maybe, maybe, maybe hot chocolate in between Spartacus and my project.
More lyrics? Yes, I think you want them. You think so, too.
"Yes, you're sensitive, quite expensive your life's become./Yes, you're beautiful, indisputable, in place of fun."
"Isabel, she treads so lightly/Floating in her gypsy dresses./Even as her words cut deep/I can't deny the truth in them./On the phone, she talks a lot/And me, I listen hopelessly/So directionless, I head into oblivion."
[Ben Jelen]
"Feeling better since I surrendered;/You can't climb until you're ready to fall./You're not a land mine/You're not a gold mine./No, you're not mine at all."
"I remember all the little things you said/Quesadillas made with cheese/And a rock band who were Japanese./So for once, in my life/I saw what I wanted/And took a bite."
[Ben Lee]
"Can you love me like crosses love the nape of the neck?"
"He's stolen hearts like they're horses and horses when hearts can't be found."
"Sometimes I've been corrupted, but I've never been in love."
[Josh Ritter]
"People will tell you what to do/Where your head should be./They don't tell me anything/I haven't already heard before, only better said./We all want focus/We crave company/But we're cross-eyed and punch-drunk from too much scenery."
"You know, I learned how to kiss you/Watching a movie starring James Dean."
[The Judybats]
Monday, March 2, 2009
How long have I been sleeping?
Or: for when "Late For The Sky" catches your breath in your throat
Hello, children. I hope you're feeling positively spoiled (spoilt? how do I know?) with updates from me lately. (You know I have lots of work to do when...)
I have been having very bizarre dreams lately. For instance, Mr. Stifler worked for Apple, but Apple was really just a front for a utilities company that was corrupt, and I found out so they decided to kill me. And Mike, obviously. Anyway, I thought Mr. Stifler might have intervened, since he was pretty high-ranking in the scheme of things, to save me. I am his all-time favorite student, after all. But he didn't. So Mrs. Brown -- Doug's mom, not Jackson's -- offered to hide me in her basement but eventually, I had to give up the ghost. It wasn't fair of us to get her involved in this nonsense. It had a very "High Tension" feel, which is to say a bad-French-horror-lesbian-split-personality feel. I was hiding under cars and in vans and all that and I think at one point I actually became the main character from the film.
In all seriousness, Mr. Stifler, I do hope in real life you would never let the Woz kill me simply for finding his secret lair. (Oh yeah, because this all began when Mike, in the form of a well-dressed businessman, discovered the Woz's secret lair!!!)
This dream was still not as weird as the one where I was Harry Potter, Hitler was Voldemort, and my parents were kindly Danishfolk hiding me in the rafters of our basement amongst the skis and skates. Or when Hogwarts was actually just Ragged Mountain's ski school? Dumbledore in a parka was a sight for sore eyes.
And of Becca I can only ask, "Does J.Crew want a cookie or something?" And I think we all know the only appropriate answer to that is this: "You know what this means? There are tree dwellers in Britain!"
I have not, as yet, seen these tree dwellers, but I am quite certain they exist since Dream-Darcy promised me they did. He even had 3-D population maps to prove it.
Can you blame me for never sleeping?
I've developed, in recent days, a rather unhealthy addiction to This American Life. Now, to be sure, I enjoyed a radio show here and there, the occasional "Halloween" episode and whatnot. But recently, well, it's gotten well out of hand. Which is to say that I sit in class thinking, "I wish David Sedaris was teaching this class," and my ears just automatically translate everything to Ira Glass's voice. Which is pleasant, right? WRONG. Because I do it inadequately. Plus, I stay up super-late at night listening to the podcast and I'm wicked excited about the next episode. I even tried the other podcasts he recommends. Well, I tried "Too Beautiful To Live," which is based out of Seattle. I am unmoved. I think Ira, and codeine, just makes everyone and everything funnier. Though David Berkeley is officially one of my new favorites.
Also, I had to create a rule -- I'm not allowed to listen to it in public because I talk back. Big time. And it's one thing to sit in my room screaming, "YOU DUMBASS! You think people should live BEYOND their means?! That's the most retarded thing I've ever heard!" and "David, you're so funny! Banana nut muffins! Where do you get this stuff?"
It's entirely another to do this while walking through George Square.
Another rule: no more watching adorable Scottish families together. I feel creepy.
I'm making a movie starring Leonardo Dicaprio, Kate Winslet, and Gerard Depardieu. This thing will practically sell itself, son. Mr. Davidson would show it in AP Euro and we all know it.
Today I ate a Kit Kat Chunky. It's basically a single Kit Kat the size of a candy bar, which would have been enough of a revelation. But there was also another element: peanut butter. It tastes sort of like a butterfinger, but it isn't quite as crumbly and it doesn't get stuck in your teeth.
In a couple weeks, Ashley and I are going to get deep-fried Mars Bars. Or, as they say, "battered." And I'm going to make real, white-cheddar American mac-and-cheese for my flatmates, because there's nothing more delicious. I need to find some Ritz crackers.Do you think they have a specialty shop for American crackers?
Today, we discussed how much American food we eat with out hands.
-Burgers
-Fries
-Hot dogs
-Jell-o
-pizza
-pick an American food
Though, nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger bee-bees. I had forgotten about those until today. Hey guys, remember Charleston Chews? Clearly Dad had nothing to do with my package -- because if he had his way, he'd have stuffed it full of chocolate and marshmallow.
Not, of course, the chocolate marshmallow or the strawberry marshmallow. He knows what's up. (Vanilla. That's what's up.)
Um, I heard there was a bonfire. With S'mores. And without me. Can I at least hear about it, please?
And I just listened to "Late For The Sky" for the first time in over a month. I'd been on a Criterion Demos kick lately and it came up on the Jackson-Shuffle. It sort of takes your breath away when you're not expecting it. I read in Paste Magazine a pretty awesome article about that album, actually. About how it was absolutely transcendent. Another question:
Why is everyone who's anyone putting out a new CD right now?
-The Fray (yes, god, okay, I like them)
-Kelly Clarkson (Ok, I'm not making the BEST arguments here)
-The Alternate Routes
-My Irish boys, alternatively the Young Dubs (Which includes the "Knickers"-worthy line, "Before too long they be dancing horizontal/Because you know God loves a trier." KJax knows where I'm coming from with this one.)
-U2
-Ari Hest
-Tupac (I'm pretty sure he just releases a CD a month, so I don't actually know if he's releasing something or not...)
-Leonard Cohen is touring!?!?!?!
Why don't the Low Millions come back?
Anyway, it's six in the morning (as I write this, not as I post it).
Hold on, hold-out. Hold on strong.
AJoan
PS. Hypothetically, if there was someone who had recently fallen out of my good graces, for instance a tall blonde fellow who looks remarkably like me, and this person was wondering how he could ever regain my favor, there's a simple solution. Saint Patrick's Day approaches and I do not own "Saints and Sinners," the new Young Dubliners' album. Hypothetically speaking, if this person who had fallen out of my good graces -- and not for minor offenses, I might add -- would need only ensure that I *did* own the CD by Evacuation Day for forgiveness to be forthcoming.
That's all I'm getting at.
Hello, children. I hope you're feeling positively spoiled (spoilt? how do I know?) with updates from me lately. (You know I have lots of work to do when...)
I have been having very bizarre dreams lately. For instance, Mr. Stifler worked for Apple, but Apple was really just a front for a utilities company that was corrupt, and I found out so they decided to kill me. And Mike, obviously. Anyway, I thought Mr. Stifler might have intervened, since he was pretty high-ranking in the scheme of things, to save me. I am his all-time favorite student, after all. But he didn't. So Mrs. Brown -- Doug's mom, not Jackson's -- offered to hide me in her basement but eventually, I had to give up the ghost. It wasn't fair of us to get her involved in this nonsense. It had a very "High Tension" feel, which is to say a bad-French-horror-lesbian-split-personality feel. I was hiding under cars and in vans and all that and I think at one point I actually became the main character from the film.
In all seriousness, Mr. Stifler, I do hope in real life you would never let the Woz kill me simply for finding his secret lair. (Oh yeah, because this all began when Mike, in the form of a well-dressed businessman, discovered the Woz's secret lair!!!)
This dream was still not as weird as the one where I was Harry Potter, Hitler was Voldemort, and my parents were kindly Danishfolk hiding me in the rafters of our basement amongst the skis and skates. Or when Hogwarts was actually just Ragged Mountain's ski school? Dumbledore in a parka was a sight for sore eyes.
And of Becca I can only ask, "Does J.Crew want a cookie or something?" And I think we all know the only appropriate answer to that is this: "You know what this means? There are tree dwellers in Britain!"
I have not, as yet, seen these tree dwellers, but I am quite certain they exist since Dream-Darcy promised me they did. He even had 3-D population maps to prove it.
Can you blame me for never sleeping?
I've developed, in recent days, a rather unhealthy addiction to This American Life. Now, to be sure, I enjoyed a radio show here and there, the occasional "Halloween" episode and whatnot. But recently, well, it's gotten well out of hand. Which is to say that I sit in class thinking, "I wish David Sedaris was teaching this class," and my ears just automatically translate everything to Ira Glass's voice. Which is pleasant, right? WRONG. Because I do it inadequately. Plus, I stay up super-late at night listening to the podcast and I'm wicked excited about the next episode. I even tried the other podcasts he recommends. Well, I tried "Too Beautiful To Live," which is based out of Seattle. I am unmoved. I think Ira, and codeine, just makes everyone and everything funnier. Though David Berkeley is officially one of my new favorites.
Also, I had to create a rule -- I'm not allowed to listen to it in public because I talk back. Big time. And it's one thing to sit in my room screaming, "YOU DUMBASS! You think people should live BEYOND their means?! That's the most retarded thing I've ever heard!" and "David, you're so funny! Banana nut muffins! Where do you get this stuff?"
It's entirely another to do this while walking through George Square.
Another rule: no more watching adorable Scottish families together. I feel creepy.
I'm making a movie starring Leonardo Dicaprio, Kate Winslet, and Gerard Depardieu. This thing will practically sell itself, son. Mr. Davidson would show it in AP Euro and we all know it.
Today I ate a Kit Kat Chunky. It's basically a single Kit Kat the size of a candy bar, which would have been enough of a revelation. But there was also another element: peanut butter. It tastes sort of like a butterfinger, but it isn't quite as crumbly and it doesn't get stuck in your teeth.
In a couple weeks, Ashley and I are going to get deep-fried Mars Bars. Or, as they say, "battered." And I'm going to make real, white-cheddar American mac-and-cheese for my flatmates, because there's nothing more delicious. I need to find some Ritz crackers.Do you think they have a specialty shop for American crackers?
Today, we discussed how much American food we eat with out hands.
-Burgers
-Fries
-Hot dogs
-Jell-o
-pizza
-pick an American food
Though, nobody better lay a finger on my Butterfinger bee-bees. I had forgotten about those until today. Hey guys, remember Charleston Chews? Clearly Dad had nothing to do with my package -- because if he had his way, he'd have stuffed it full of chocolate and marshmallow.
Not, of course, the chocolate marshmallow or the strawberry marshmallow. He knows what's up. (Vanilla. That's what's up.)
Um, I heard there was a bonfire. With S'mores. And without me. Can I at least hear about it, please?
And I just listened to "Late For The Sky" for the first time in over a month. I'd been on a Criterion Demos kick lately and it came up on the Jackson-Shuffle. It sort of takes your breath away when you're not expecting it. I read in Paste Magazine a pretty awesome article about that album, actually. About how it was absolutely transcendent. Another question:
Why is everyone who's anyone putting out a new CD right now?
-The Fray (yes, god, okay, I like them)
-Kelly Clarkson (Ok, I'm not making the BEST arguments here)
-The Alternate Routes
-My Irish boys, alternatively the Young Dubs (Which includes the "Knickers"-worthy line, "Before too long they be dancing horizontal/Because you know God loves a trier." KJax knows where I'm coming from with this one.)
-U2
-Ari Hest
-Tupac (I'm pretty sure he just releases a CD a month, so I don't actually know if he's releasing something or not...)
-Leonard Cohen is touring!?!?!?!
Why don't the Low Millions come back?
Anyway, it's six in the morning (as I write this, not as I post it).
Hold on, hold-out. Hold on strong.
AJoan
PS. Hypothetically, if there was someone who had recently fallen out of my good graces, for instance a tall blonde fellow who looks remarkably like me, and this person was wondering how he could ever regain my favor, there's a simple solution. Saint Patrick's Day approaches and I do not own "Saints and Sinners," the new Young Dubliners' album. Hypothetically speaking, if this person who had fallen out of my good graces -- and not for minor offenses, I might add -- would need only ensure that I *did* own the CD by Evacuation Day for forgiveness to be forthcoming.
That's all I'm getting at.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
What rock have I been under?
So there are three types of birds in Edinburgh that I see everywhere:
Gulls
Pigeons
Crows
But there is a fourth that I have occasionally seen. I can only describe them as pigeongulls. They look like exactly half of each. Very strange.
The other night, I took a walk down to Princes Street to see the city at night. I really like North Bridge and everything looks lovely in blues and golds. Drunk guys, couples holding hands, the shadow of the castle over everything -- this city breathes at night. Anyway, I was coming back and I was freezing because it was colder than I anticipated and I was just wearing my sweatshirt. Tom Petty pulsing loudly in my ears, singing about falling free. I was just in front of Hunter Square and, as a result, Hotel Ibis. (That's where Teddy stayed while he was in town.) And this guy catches my eye as I walk past him -- wicked German, wicked fast. He's cute, I think. Then I do a Scooby-doo double-take. Of course he's cute, hand-rolled cigarette and all.
It's the guy from the coffee shop.
So, so, so good. I didn't say anything and he didn't see me, but I was sort of shell-shocked. I stared for a second, shook my head to clear it, and thought, "Really?" Then I walked back and listened to Jackson Browne. "Pretty little girl running up and down the street with no shoes on." Anyway, it basically made my walk worth it. And then I went past the darkened Festival Theater and thought, April 3rd, mi amor.
We read Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl" in creative writing the other day and I totally got geek all over the place. Stace had us read that when we looked at flash fiction and all I could think was, "This story smacks me in the face old-school style with a blistering edge." It's a pretty fantastic example of what you can do with short fiction, and with a single sentence, and punctuation.
Yellow flower, nine letters, third letter 'T.'
Buttercup. (He laughed and I felt like I had won...)
I'm trying to figure out what to write my story for Raj about. Sara's argument is, "When in doubt, stick to the bogs." Which, yeah, okay. That's fair. Write what you know, and all that jazz. I'm just angsting all over lately.
Gauguin has fewer questions than I do.
But then in the morning, I walk outside and it's sunny and warm and just slightly breezy. The flowers have popped, purple and white covering the ground. And this afternoon there was a real hailstorm. Little hail, not golf-ball sized hail. But hail. And this city is so charming and pretty -- I'm very fond of it. There are a good number of Scottish people here.
But there's still this nagging uncertainty under everything. And I think it's just the imminent due date for my Div III proposal. But I can't decide what kind of tea or hot chocolate I want, what I want to write about, where I want to do, who I want to be when I grow up, and I for sure cannot decide how I feel about specific people and events. I'm not qualified to decide if it's safe to cross the street; how can I decide anything else?
I just don't trust my judgment when people leave me alone with it.
Anyway, the new Kelly Clarkson is hilariously eerie. I enjoy Kelly Clarkson music to no end. And I'm not ashamed. Why should I be?
Gulls
Pigeons
Crows
But there is a fourth that I have occasionally seen. I can only describe them as pigeongulls. They look like exactly half of each. Very strange.
The other night, I took a walk down to Princes Street to see the city at night. I really like North Bridge and everything looks lovely in blues and golds. Drunk guys, couples holding hands, the shadow of the castle over everything -- this city breathes at night. Anyway, I was coming back and I was freezing because it was colder than I anticipated and I was just wearing my sweatshirt. Tom Petty pulsing loudly in my ears, singing about falling free. I was just in front of Hunter Square and, as a result, Hotel Ibis. (That's where Teddy stayed while he was in town.) And this guy catches my eye as I walk past him -- wicked German, wicked fast. He's cute, I think. Then I do a Scooby-doo double-take. Of course he's cute, hand-rolled cigarette and all.
It's the guy from the coffee shop.
So, so, so good. I didn't say anything and he didn't see me, but I was sort of shell-shocked. I stared for a second, shook my head to clear it, and thought, "Really?" Then I walked back and listened to Jackson Browne. "Pretty little girl running up and down the street with no shoes on." Anyway, it basically made my walk worth it. And then I went past the darkened Festival Theater and thought, April 3rd, mi amor.
We read Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl" in creative writing the other day and I totally got geek all over the place. Stace had us read that when we looked at flash fiction and all I could think was, "This story smacks me in the face old-school style with a blistering edge." It's a pretty fantastic example of what you can do with short fiction, and with a single sentence, and punctuation.
Yellow flower, nine letters, third letter 'T.'
Buttercup. (He laughed and I felt like I had won...)
I'm trying to figure out what to write my story for Raj about. Sara's argument is, "When in doubt, stick to the bogs." Which, yeah, okay. That's fair. Write what you know, and all that jazz. I'm just angsting all over lately.
Gauguin has fewer questions than I do.
But then in the morning, I walk outside and it's sunny and warm and just slightly breezy. The flowers have popped, purple and white covering the ground. And this afternoon there was a real hailstorm. Little hail, not golf-ball sized hail. But hail. And this city is so charming and pretty -- I'm very fond of it. There are a good number of Scottish people here.
But there's still this nagging uncertainty under everything. And I think it's just the imminent due date for my Div III proposal. But I can't decide what kind of tea or hot chocolate I want, what I want to write about, where I want to do, who I want to be when I grow up, and I for sure cannot decide how I feel about specific people and events. I'm not qualified to decide if it's safe to cross the street; how can I decide anything else?
I just don't trust my judgment when people leave me alone with it.
Anyway, the new Kelly Clarkson is hilariously eerie. I enjoy Kelly Clarkson music to no end. And I'm not ashamed. Why should I be?
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