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.

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?

I was taken by a photograph of you... PART II

Picture update time, my lovelies.

The [February] winds lament around the castle of [Edinburgh]

Disclaimer: Camera's battery is dead. Will be stealing pictures soon.

So Roberto and I went to the castle yesterday. Oh, hey, America, that's all you're really lacking. Castles! Barack should build castles. That would stimulate the economy, and offer us fortifications should the Canadians ever decide to invade. We could employ all sorts of masons and architects to build the castles, and if we went back to the huge guns -- like Mon Megs -- then we would employ carpenters to follow the troops around, building and repairing the wagons for said huge guns. Plus, just imagine -- we'd be able to say, "Check out our huge guns!" Caleb would love that, I think.

So I love Robert. He's hilarious. (He's such a cross between Wisconsin and DC and I don't even know what to do with him.) We took pictures of each other in front of the castle, including in front of the big guns that I mentioned. I took his picture with some swords and he took my picture with a man dressed for living history. The castle is cool, but the weather wasn't ideal. Not really drizzly, but threatening, and cold. We waited in line -- oh, about that.

Robert wanted to leave early so we wouldn't have to wait in long lines. Nine AM. Fine by me. I even went to bed early! And set my alarm! I woke up at ten, horrified. My alarm had not gone off, because my phone was still on silent. I was ready by 10:18 and went down to his flat and apologized. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked... well, I interpreted it as irritated, but apparently, it was "sleepy." He muttered "That's okay," and began shutting the door. I got really confused and didn't know if he meant "That's okay, too late now, though," or "That's okay; hold on a second." I waited for a minute before I felt like a creep and went back to my flat. I figured if he still wanted to go, he'd come up and knock. Well! I forgot that I can't hear the door from my room when my door is shut. So at quarter past eleven I got a text from him asking where I was.

And we finally headed out.

Good advice: there is a "one o'clock gun." If you want to see them fire it, be near the entrance at one o'clock. Wear argyle. You'll be so glad you did when you stumble upon Argyle Tower. Susannah knows what I'm talking about. Will would love Argyle Tower, I know, as would J. Crew. The crown jewels were a delight, and an unexpected delight. Moving through the exhibit felt a bit like moving through one of the Salem witch museums, with the figures frozen in a moment and piped-in audio dialogue. There is a nifty family tree, but if you're going to look at the family tree please understand that James V was the father of Mary, Queen of Scots. And her son was James VI, I -- aka the best king ever, besides Bonnie Prince Charlie. The crown jewels gift shop was awesome. They had plastic crowns and tiaras that would have made sixteen year old Ashley freak right out. Margaret's Chapel, built in the 12th century, was tiny and beautiful. The prisons were... unsettling. Though there was a bit of an American Pride moment, when we read about Washington and the most glorious war ever fought. (American Revolution, what?)

It was trippy being in the room where James VI, I was born. I had just done a presentation on him and everything, so it was overwhelming, historically speaking.

This castle is a bit more expensive than you might expect -- if all the museums, or "galleries," are free, the castles are not. It's about ten pounds (not bucks) to get in. If you want a self-guided audio tour, it's another 3.50, and for a guide book in addition to the audio guide, it's even more. They have an extensive gift shop, I'll give them that. The array of Scotch is impressive for a gift shop, as is the selection of whiskey armor they offer. Robert the Bruce not your type? Go for William Wallace. Oh, still too noble for you? Choose the piper! Coming from a place where alcohol is not sold within two feet of children's foam swords, it was, let's say, a revelation.



I went to mass today, at the University's Chaplaincy. Nine AM. I had imagined that it would be entirely older people, but also, that it might be three students and no one else. Well, it was a pretty full mass, for an early morning mass in a city whose official religion is "not Catholic." I guess that just means that all the Catholics go to the same couple of churches. It was such a small room, without pews or kneelers. You decide beforehand if you want to accept the host or not -- someone actually confronted me about this today.

"Excuse me," he said, meaning well. "You forgot your communion."
"Oh, I'm not taking communion," I replied. "I haven't been to confession."

I didn't add "in seven and a half years." Though, the idea of accepting communion without having gone to confession didn't seem to bother him too much. But the mass was quick, without singing. I missed Father Mark's booming "How are you, my children?" and his glorious "Through him, with him, in him." Does it occur to anyone else that he has the perfect voice for being a priest?

Anyway, no kneeling, no singing, no procession. It's the ritual of Catholicism stripped of its pretty. I think, for the most part, I loved it. Except for not understanding most of what they were saying during the prayers. Every time I thought I had figured out what part we were at, they tossed in something new or there was a collective mumble and I lost it. Alas.

The chapel is an old drawing room, and sparse. There was an iron crucifix over the altar, done in avant garde style, and no other decorations at all. Large windows, lots of light, sunny yellow walls. And aside from missing Father Mark (and Father Paul, for that matter...) it was a really lovely ceremony. It was a ceremony without the ritual, I guess. Without the fetishism a more well-funded Catholic church, like Saint Joe's, can afford. The pretty embossed wafers -- though they did have simple wafers, at least, and not pita bread -- and crystal chalices of my youth were nowhere to be found. It actually sort of felt like Catholicism wasn't a huge denomination throughout the world -- which, compared to its prevalence in eastern Massachusetts, especially the South Shore (or, the Irish Riviera), it's really not.




Here's a fun fact: my classes end MARCH 26TH. Yes, you read that correctly. My classes are over March 26th. And then I come home in the first week of June. Chyeah. Three finals spread out over that time, of course, but, really now. What on Earth will I do with myself? Having all that time to write, and to read, and to explore. If you want to come visit me in April or May, please do!

I still prefer Vincent...

Today, I watched The Passion of the Christ. I feel, now, that I owe him something. Not Mel Gibson (though I'd give him some things for free if he ever came knocking) but Jesus. Which I think was the intent. And for the most part, despite a few hokey moments and a bit too much gore, I though the film was a visual success. The opening scenes in Gethsemane were especially captivating. Though, the end had a sort Saturday morning CCD feel. I was also glad he included "My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?" because that's my single favorite line in the entire Bible. Was that a very weird thing to say? I don't really know. (Alan Hodder might.) But I do know that the entire time I was watching I was also thinking, "I met the man with the thorny crown; I helped him carry his cross through town." Especially when that man actually helped him carry his cross through town! One more: "Blinding me, his song remains, reminding me: he's a bandit and a heartbreaker. My Jesus was a cross-maker."

Anyway, the past week and a half have been busybusy. That's not even true. I've just been hanging out. Saturday, I got my hot chocolate to-go and hit the National Galleries of Modern Art. Exhibits featured "Blind Hollywood," which Sara might appreciate for its irony. The artist took very famous promotional material and cut out the film stars' eyes, replacing them -- or not -- with mirrored paper, black paper, or nothing. Both more and less creepy than carrying Sean Biggerstaff's eyes in your pocket, right S? I wandered through "The Islands" by Charles Avery. Wandered, well, that's a stretch. Stopped and read it all, and there was a lot to read. Curiouser and curiouser. (Does that make anyone else think of Mrs. Lewis? And poor Mr. Lewis, for whom death was surely a glad release?) Avery really thought it all out; it's exceptionally detailed. I stood in awe. No grinding up chalk and calling it art for him, nosir. No throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what sticks. I liked it, really, much more than Jackson Pollock. I'm not buying the print of it -- not even if that were possible -- but I liked it. Made more sense to me than a plain white canvas or some of the stuff Punky and I saw back in Dublin in tenth grade. But van Gogh, well, he's just how I roll, son. Him and Cezanne. Post-impressionism is what's good, children. Remember that.

Then I got to Steve McQueen.

I have a rule. It's a simple rule, and one I had, until recently, never had to enforce. Well, Steve McQueen, congratulations! You've won. Here I was thinking, "I didn't know Steve McQueen made art other than movies!" Which was terribly naive of me, I'm aware. But it's where my mind went. There, and to Harrison Ford, but I miss someone's bright baby blues, I guess.

Anyway, my rule: as soon as a museum makes me cry, I'm done.

Drawer upon drawer of faces the size of postage stamps. Name, age, rank. "If you ask them, they'll tell you." The exhibit is called "For Queen and Country." You're smart; do the 'rithmetic yo'self.

And obviously, the only thing that cures a broken heart is chocolate. So I got some. By which I mean three. I think if Vincent had hot chocolate available to him, he might have been happier.

But I forgot about the three men in kilts. And the bead shop. Oh, dear.

The bead shops. I've found... both of them. Which is to say, the two tiny bead shops that, area-wise, are about 75% of Gemstar, Gemstone -- together. Severely disappointed. And their nicer beads look like cast-offs from America's bargain bins. Which is rough, let me tell you. I'm a bit let down, but now I know why no one on Etsy responded to my pleas for the names of good bead shops in Edinburgh. They don't exist.



Kilts? Yes, please.

Walking toward Stockbridge down a turnpike covered in snow -- and the 'burgh seemed dreamlike on account of the frosting -- I encountered three young, fairly attractive men in kilts. Being rather unashamed of who I am, the girl who takes pictures with Freedom Trail guides for kicks, I asked one of them if I could take his picture.

"Guys, guys! A tourist wants to take a picture!"

He must have said it four or five times. And my question is, why should I be ashamed of being a tourist? I mean, have you seen what they consider to be American culture? Navajo Indians and the Blues Brothers. If I was walking down Boylston Street in full Red Sox super-fan regalia and some Scottish guy asked to take my picture, I'd totally understand. And it wasn't even the kilts, so much as it was the people wearing them. Because I had seen loads of old-timers wearing them. (Old-timers, you know, my fan club?) But young guys with styled hair? Now that's exciting!

Anyway, I took the picture as quickly as possible because, despite being kinda judgmental, they were kinda nice, too. And they stopped despite being late for a bus. So I leaned in close as I walked by -- and I swear to God this is the coolest I have ever been and will ever be -- said, "The kilts aren't even in the picture."

And away I walked, the American Tourist.




Kevin-from-New-York and I went to see The Double Life of Veronique, which was a little too deliberately provocative for my tastes. And it took the first idea -- of Veronique's double-life in Poland -- and dropped it completely halfway through in favor of something entirely new. Arbitrary shots of Veronique pining over pine trees and her father pausing as he works on something made of pine. Creepy marionettes. Gratuitous nudity. Eh. Interesting concept, disappointing film.

I went to the Elephant House for the first time. Uh, yeah. That one. Where that book, about the boy, with the scar, was written.

I gave a presentation in my class today on Alexander Montgomerie and James VI. Apparently, James VI was a great poet. That makes one of us. Truthfully, though, he was pretty rad.

Robert and I got dollhouse sushi today, but we paid people-sized prices. Koi -- be aware. They also don't have any koi at all. Afterwards, we ate ice cream. Robert also informed me that it is very weird that I have a crush on certain doctors. By which I mean Lloyd Lewellyn Jones, our Hollywood epic professor. It's not a real crush, like others I might have. It's like the kind of crush unnamed friends have developed on lit professors. It happens.

Apparently, you can ski indoors in Glasgow. This is upsetting on so many levels, I hardly know where to begin. So instead I just.... sputter.

I went for a one-pound pint on Monday with Susannah and her friends. Nice people. I had fun. Really dislike beer. And pretension. Just throwing that out there. I wish she wasn't going to London for a week.

Oh, and Kristin: Reel Big Fish is playing out here.

Since my written account caused such a scandal

I'm only posting a few pictures here.

Cocaine's for roadies, not for men

I have shamed Michael Lesy and for this I must repent.

The blog that once stood in this place was the emotional equivalent of packaging all the letters and emails Jacob ever wrote me and sending them with a nice little bow to that girl who is not me.

Fun to scheme with friends, but I don't actually want to hurt anyone. Which this might have done. And can you imagine if RICHARD had read it? Oh, dear! I ought to have left it at this:

I love the Young Dubliners and Friday night was an adventure that reminded me just how much I love Bren, that goofball bassist.

So you can beg and plead, but no, I won't tell anyone who hasn't already read it what was here once. Except for this:

The boy who works at Juice Monkeys is named Paul. And if he finds this blog via google, well, I'm sure that will make Monday morning awkward.