Planned Obsolescence.

I'm learning a lot while I'm in Provo. Someone came back to Ender's place for a date and said, "I really need to DTR with that girl." Puzzled, I asked the obvious: What's DTR?

Determine The Relationship.

The next day I asked my friend Emma for some other choice acronyms, and she pointed out EC, which stands for Eternal Companion and NCMO (pronounced Nic-Mo), which is Non-Comittal Makeout. As in, we're making out, but it doesn't mean anything. As in, "I think we need a DTR, that was our third NCMO."

Everyone in Provo has their own language for dating, and dating is all about looking for who you will marry. Marriage is on everyone's mind. Dating and the church, as evidenced by this:

The world of Provo is something I only dip into on the weekends, though - all I get to see is the whirlwind of frozen yogurt trips, viewings of Legally Blonde and bike rides to nowhere. I sleep in my terrible cave on the weekends, where my housemates play their instruments loudly into the AM, editing their covers of popular songs to get rid of the sex and swearing.

It's hard for me to explain Provo, except that there is more space than I am used to - space between houses, space on the road, space in restaurants. It makes me feel like I am always early to the party after the constant crowd of San Francisco.

I think I like the road quite a bit more, where road trip songs are taking on new meanings, and we blast This American Life, stand-up comedians, rock and hip hop as we drive from oil well to oil well, conquering the nearly bare ground with our blue dye.

Ender's brother Shawn has joined us, intent on making money for both his grad trip to the Czech Republic and his new baby Phoebe:

There he is with a horny toad we found and named Rocky while we were spraying a vicious little bit of Utah wild called "The Right of Way," or "the Pipeline." It's a gorgeous bit of backwoods Utah cut right into the hills and mountains, but it's a pain - we fill up uncomfortable, thin-strapped backpacks with our broad-leaf killer and hike with an eye out for thistle and tiny yellow flowers; noxious plants that threaten the gas (I assume its gas) pipeline. When we're empty, we trek back to fill our packs, then hike back to where we were.The pumps are hand powered and vaguely like the Ghostbuster proton packs.

Luckily, for the next week, we are truck bound in and around the wild sage of Vernal, amongst mosquito-ridden oil wells. Here's a full view of our truck:

That truck got us into trouble yesterday, when I was driving us home for the weekend and the accelerator pedal decided to suddenly go into cruise control. This is a feature not actually included on this particular Dodge, so I fought the acceleration in a scary bit of downhill valley, looking in vain for a shoulder to pull off on. When we did, we could only get down to the 10 mph in the shuddering car, both my feet on the brake while Ender turned the key to off. The brakes smoked and our hearts returned to normal just outside Heber City, a happening place with an Arby's and not much else. The car is still there, to be fixed on the weekend, ready for our return this coming Monday.

There is no such thing as a normal day in this new life that I've chosen. Every week is something new and strange, be it the extended stay hotel in Vernal where Shawn, Ender and I watch Arrested Development and Hey Arnold, the wild pipeline with its lizards and Subway sandwich breaks, or the oil wells where a bad wind could make us quit for the day:

That's Ender with a neat little gadget, measuring the wind, trying to determine whether it is safe to spray chemical from the back of the trucks. The only thing that's constant is our plaid shirts and sunscreen, a constant question of where we are going to eat (we've got to look forward to something) and sleeping like a stone.

Next post: San Francisco, I Miss You.

I can't watch that one, I don't know where to skip.

So here we are. I have moved in. I have maps of the world and the fifty states up on opposite walls, I have my magnetic poetry calendar next to me with the nonsense: "summer light is never magic it is a ghostly memory of an apple" still in position. I wrote that in San Francisco one morning, with the idea that I could do one every morning and put them on Twitter. I can't really do that here, since during the week I am in places like these:

That is an oil well. We also spent three days at gas compression sites. The job is like this: Ender and I drive around in a giant Dodge truck with a 300 gallon tank in the back that can spray twenty feet left to right off the back. We drive around as much as we can, spraying where we have been, marking the territory with blue dye and ground sterilization chemical. The reason? Places like this can't have weeds. They are a fire hazard. So we come, with our hard hats and our safety goggles and our workman's boots and we spray. When we can't get to it with the truck (in between equipment, too close to other Dodge trucks) we go at it with spray units that are also attached to the back of the truck with fifty foot hoses.

It's a weird job. But you can do it with iPod earbuds in, so it's not a bad one. Even with my hands lightly blue and my clothes sticking to my body from the heat, and hunger pangs from bad planning, a lot of it is listening to music in an air conditioned car with one of my oldest and best friends, talking about life and seeing country that I have never seen before.

There are unexpected perks too, like spending the last week in a giant cabin with six rooms and a cannon downstairs. My room had a spa bath, and the stairs leading there had a taxidermy pheasant. It was a mixture of bizarre and homey, and they walked the line like pros.

When I'm not doing that, I live in this house. Please do not look too closely at it.

Honestly though, I'm glad I'm here. I have serious homesickness for San Francisco and the life I used to lead, one without restrictions and such, but in the mean time I am getting used to the idea that not all space between buildings have to be filled, and the view from the cab of a truck can be mighty pretty.

That's Ender, in case you didn't know. Look closely at his shirt. He's missing a lot of buttons.

Next on this blog: what I miss about San Francisco, Provo is weird, and maybe the first chapter of the book that I'll never write about this.

chiquitita.

Ender and I listened to some Abba in the truck today, but not enough.

We drove three hours or so to find safety goggles, a hard hat, and coveralls for me. Oh! And we bought workman's boots, which feel weird on my feet. I guess that's because I am not used to real work. And then we got super lost for a while, and then it turns out it was too windy to spray anyway.

So. Nine hours of work, and most of it (all of it?) was spent catching up, eating Subway sandwiches, and listening to a mix of Abba, Spoon, The Faint, and Chuck Klosterman talking about Abba. Not too bad. Apparently, next week, we will be driving that same truck, doing the same thing, but in Wyoming probably.

Utah is strange, but not in a bad way. I feel like a foreigner. People ride their motorcycles without helmets here, because it's legal.

they sell hearts in provo.

I am sitting in a mound of detritus, trying to decide how many t-shirts I am going to allow myself, hoping that I am going to be able to fit books somewhere into this sad picture of packing me into a suitcase. When did I acquire so much stuff? Why is it so hard for me to pack without getting super, super distracted?

I have a feeling I am going to be packing early tomorrow morning, hoping that the frenzy of having to be done will make some of these decisions easier. But I also have to get rid of a futon bed and a black side table, and get to Oakland with this monolith of a suitcase, so that would constitute incredibly poor planning.

Blah. I hate packing. I'm looking forward to being done, though, because it means that I will have simplified, and isn't that what Thoreau wanted?

The last time I traveled with this suitcase, it was through the London underground, and I had way more strapped to my back and another bag on top of the suitcase. This is going to be way easier. That's going to have to be my mantra.

Okay, back to the grind.

Good evening.

How good of you to join me.

I am jet-setting again soon. I am going to Provo, Utah, to work at killing unwanted weeds in the hot sun with Ender. We are also, presumably, going to write music and hang out.

So I think it might be time to resurrect this space.

I'll miss San Francisco, and I think I'll devote my next post to that.

See you all soon.

indecision brings no joy.

Hi there!

I am no longer updating this blog, at least, not until I travel again. I know I left it with the cliffhanger that I WOULD update it, but I won't.

Readers rejoice, though! I have a new blog.

somethingsyoucouldknow.blogspot.com

There are five new posts for you to read over there. Enjoy!

the day you move, I'm probably gonna explode.

I'm in Brighton.

I realized I promised many things in my last post, promises I will not be able to keep. My computer is packed away, the computer cords are packed away in another place, my computer charger is packed in still one other place. So... Pictures will have to appear when I return to the states. Many apologies, darlings.

The last couple days at UEA and MCC and Norwich were lovely. We reminisced, we partied. We danced, we cooked. We took pictures and went out to dinner and out to breakfast. We turned flat one into a dance floor, flat four into a mess hall. I had a final cocktail at the Birdcage, my favorite pub. Joseph and I had a filling meal together at the Bell Hotel. I had planned to see a movie at Cinema City, a wonderful movie theater, but it fell through. We shopped. We had hot chocolate. I watched folks ice skate. I turned in my final assignments.

One final night at the UEA club was spent watching the Vengaboys, bumping cars on the dodge 'ems, getting twisted on the Twister. I had a vodka red bull, which happened to be just as bad idea as I imagined. Almost everyone from MCC went together, and I saw people from my courses and my clubs and we danced, and we shook, and we stomped. We sang along and clapped.

I kind of felt like it was the end of days, like we were dancing and eating and looking and hugging and crying as though this was it, the world was ending, goodbye earth, goodbye moon, goodbye stars. Of course it's a much nicer reality than that - as I was packing things haphazardly into my suitcase, saying goodbye to people and feeling a tightness in my stomach and in my throat, people were coming in to say goodbye, to gasp at my barren walls, to take final pictures... but it never felt final. At first I imagined it was because I didn't want to leave, didn't want to deal with the reality that everything was ending... but to be truthful, it's because I know I will see these people again. Patrick is easy, he's in San Diego. Jack and Joe have a year abroad, both of them near northern California. Alice loves traveling, I'm sure we could backpack someplace together. Hannah promised she'll teach me how she dances. Joseph is a SoCal kid at heart, he just has to come and visit me to realize how much he needs the sand and sun to live. All these lovely folks are not relegated to this period in my life. I am a good letter writer, a good facebook messager, a good email-er.

I am going to keep in touch.

But now I'm in Brighton with Joseph, spending our time walking through the shops but not buying anything, drinking mulled wine, being cooked for by his parents who are incredibly nice to me. It's making me very homesick. I want my parents. I want my home. I want mulled wine in my city... although I think I will have to make it somehow.

Home soon, and I doubt I will post before then. But good news... I'm going to keep this blog.

as you turn while wandering...

This is my last full day at Mary Chapman Court, and, in the larger sense, Norwich. I'm packing and going to some of my favorite places in the town, buying chocolate, trying to enjoy it.

But I'm really sad. I just said goodbye to Abbey, and Kaitlyn. More goodbyes to come.

I'm going to do a much more fulfilling post tomorrow, complete with pictures of me in a Santa beard, and me with a moustache. Lots of strange facial hair to look forward to.

I have not actually packed anything yet. It's all in the planning stages.

Why do I do this?

radio heart.

I have been doing nothing all day. Lethargy has used its limp, clammy grip and managed to wrap my brain in its disgusting, effortless grasp. I am not sick. I am just nothing.

Last night was fantastic and epic, cathartic and just plain ol' good fun. I was a paper boat floating in the atlantic ocean, or, in less poetic terms, a tall skinny kid in the middle of a Futureheads mosh pit. I think most of the time I just yelled what parts of the chorus I knew and danced and tried not to let anyone fall around me. Joseph and I emerged with our shirts a darker, sweat-stained color, smiling and pleased with the amount of pushing, pulling, and yelling we had accomplished.

I noticed that the parents of one of the opening bands was there. It was refreshing to see a 50 year old, bald man singing along, and then the singer giving his dad (this is all assumption by the way. for some reason, I just think that people of a more advanced age at concerts simply must be there because they are the parents of either the band or a fan) a smile.

I should get back to the nothing. I'm proud I blogged at all.

Is your bed made? Is your sweater on?

I have had a pretty wonderful past couple of days. They have been laid back but festive, settled mostly but a bit frantic as well. I've written a story that I am proud of, first of all. That always puts me in a good mood. It needs a better ending, but overall I think it is a good one. Wanna read it? Let me know.

Secondarily, I have been going out again. I realize my last post was a bit doom and gloom. I am fully aware that I will keep in touch with everyone via e-mail, facebook, and in some cases, letters. I'm excited about that as well. It's just... I don't know. I know ties aren't severed, the rope is just getting a bit longer. Which is fine. I just know I'm going to miss here, just like I miss there. My goodness though, I'm back in less than two weeks! My heart pitter patters at the thought! Familiarity! Family! Friends! Festivity!

One of the nights out I've had recently was an indie dance night. I flailed and shook and all of the things that are (sort of) accepted as dance these days... I even got up to sing with one group called "the Little Ones." I learned a new dance as well. It's called "The New Jumper." I will show it to interested parties... the dance should be an international sensation, sweeping the world by 2009. Jack and Joe provided some music, and I must say, throwing my hands up and shouting to "Shout" along with Kaitlyn, Rachael, Sam, and Grace is one of my favorite memories. I have lots from Norwich.


The attire on the invitation said "Christmas Jumpers." Do you like mine? It's from Gap!

Last night, Hannah and I took a walk down to one of my new favorite places - the Fat Cat. Over 80 different choices of beer, all of them described in loving detail. I don't really know what "full-bodied" means for a beer. I also don't know what a "nice, hop-filled finish" means, exactly. I just know that Hannah had one that tasted of chocoalte, and I had one that tasted of a fruit bowl at first, ending in a nice, beer-y flavor.

Also, I had an absolutely miserable snack, called Pork Scratchings. Basically, it's pork grisle (grisel? griscle? grizel?) that has been fried up in salt and oil, and then put into a sealed bag and kept behind a bar for any number of years. There is no expiration date on the bag. That is suspect. I ate an entire bag. During this snacking, my sense of self worth took a nose dive. I was lucky to have a full-bodied, hop-filled finishing beer with hints of fruit and pine, really. Quite refreshing.

And somewhere in there was a cider with flatmates Harry, Sam and Alex. They wasted their pocket change on this horribly addicting trivia machine that will ask you which continent the United States are on at first, and then ends by asking you obscure bits of Malaysian political history. Sometimes, it lets you win a couple pounds, sending you into a frenzy of hope. But alas, the hope is for naught. Your sense of self-worth takes a nose dive. You walk home and the only thing to lift your spirits is a box of Mark and Spencer's chocolate cereal. I want to bring a box of this home.

And finally, it's glove weather in Norwich. Biting, bitter cold. I rode my bike to school in what I believe was sleet. But I only have to manage it for a week, so I'm grinning through the whole thing. Oh, Winter. I have never experienced you to this degree before.

I hope it snows.

I got time to hold my own.

I would like to wish you all a happy December. I thought I would miss the suburban lights almost immediately - one thing I love about USA Christmas (TM) is the "Gotta Beat the Johnsons" mentality of Christmas lights. But insead of that good ol' American display of I-care-less-about-my-electricity-bills-than-you-do, we have this:


This too (that color being projected actually changes. Not unlike the Disneyland castle.):


And this lovely string of lights as well:


Yessir, Christmas is coming. I miss my family and I have been spending the last couple of days doing little to nothing. I'm chipping away my play but it is nowhere near as fast a writing as when I wrote my play about superheroes. I wrote that play with super-speed. Ha! Honestly though, every year since I can remember... at least since I have been away at school... I have had a bit of winter ennui. I thought, perhaps, being in the United Kingdom would change that, but alas, no. I have to fight it to make myself get out of the house, to participate in things that I used to welcome with open arms. I don't know why, or how this happened, this particular form of seasonal social disorder, but it's happened and I'm fighting it. I'm going out when I can and I'm hanging out with folks. Poker is big right now, with cookies taking the place of money. Joseph is still ill, so sometimes we just converse in my room about things like television, musicals, and (as usual) the difference between the US and the UK.

I'm still happy, though. Happy with a bit of sadness on the edges. It's kind of like present-wrapping, actually, to make a seasonal metaphor. Packages look absolutely incredible - they have appeared as if by magic, wrapped in boxes, with magic inside. A lovely seasonal guessing game. But there is a bit of sadness because eventually, that package will be ruined, the gift inside revealed, the glitzy paper off to the trash can. That's how I feel. I feel like every day is one of those packages. Happy but a bit futile.

The futility is from the fact that these people that I am with, who I have come to care about quite a bit, who I live with and share hot cocoa with, whose papers I help edit and distract from, who I walk to university with and get pints with in the evening... I will probably never see a large fraction of them ever again. Our futures all lie elsewhere. New Zealand, Germany, Serbia, Scotland, Canada. So while I love doing all these things, it feels impermanent and sad at the same time. Like the wrapped package.

Sigh. It's a complext emotion. Have I described it adequately enough? I think so.

Let's talk about Harry Potter! Tomorrow, the Harry Potter collection of fables comes out. I am incredibly excited! As far as I know, there is absolutely no plans for midnight parties or anything (as far as I know. I'm going to the bookstores today to find out.) But that's fine. I'm just excited to read something new from this universe. When I can't get to sleep in my little dorm room, I put on Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter 6 and eventually get lifted into a fantasy dreamworld and then sleep.

And, I'm sorry, but the UK version has a much better cover. Observe:

Totally vintage, as though it was on the shelf of a wizard. Compared to this thing:

I can't wait!

they made a wreck of you.

Happy December! Joseph and I are going to go buy an advent calendar. Chocolate helps count down days, were you aware of it?


Ready for this? Thanksgiving, England style. Patrick and I managed to have 18-20 people over, which was more than we bargained for. Both apartments contributed chairs from rooms and dining rooms, their dining room tables, and our tiny ovens, to concoct wonderful Thanksgiving staples like sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, cauliflower smothered in cheese, roasted vegetables, fried parsnip, and two giant roast chickens. It was cheaper than Turkey.


It was incredibly heartwarming to be surrounded by so many loving, wonderful people, brought together to stuff themselves silly. Our table was fantastically multi-cultural, with only four people out of the 20 or so ever having experienced a Thanksgiving before. Sam insisted it was much more British because 53 pint cans of Strongbow Hard Cider were consumed. For some reason, Sam measures British-ness in drunkenness. This is not a universal measurement.


My favorite bit was saying what we were thankful for. So many people thanked us for their first thanksgiving, others thanked families that could probably hear them with heartstring connections, (I partook in that. Did you, family, hear it?) I also tthanked everyone for coming together and being like family - Patrick and Joseph like brothers of mine. Alice like a mom. That's about where the family metaphor ends, but the family connection is a lot stronger. We are a fantastic group.

Oh yes. My contribution was coconut tea cake, which was like pound cake. I don't understand why, in these autumn/winter months, you can buy coconuts in every single market, but pumpkin is completely scarce. Still though. It was delicious. I took this picture in the middle of dessert, remembering I didn't take a picture before this.


I called the family on Thanksgiving. It was a lovely conversation, and bittersweetly, it was the last time that I talked to Bill Foster. Bill Foster passed away on Sunday, and he will be missed. Losing family is one of the most surreal and terribly sad things that can happen when you are away - or at any time, really. He was a wonderful man and my best wishes and thoughts are with Aunt Annette and my cousins. My thoughts are always with my family at any given time, but even more so now.

You'll be one of us when the night comes.

So, Barcelona.

There's a song... hold on, I'll post it at the end of this post. I don't know why I told you to hold on... I guess this is what they call "live blogging". The blogosphere is totally lame. Do you realize how many cute cat blogs there are out there? Have you any clue?

What was I talking about?

Oh right, Barcelona.

I think Barcelona, as a city, singlehandedly caused the unraveling of what I call reality. Ever since my trip to this warm Spanish city, I have had trouble connecting the already disparate events of my life. Now I'm on ice floes, jumping from island to island, curious about where I'm going, where I came from and if the ice will hold.

If I look angry in that picture in Barcelona, I wasn't. Not at all. In fact, even though I think the unsewing of the quilted patches of my life is a direct result of the eight hours I spent getting to the country, I found Barcelona to be a gorgeous, if confusing, city.

First of all, I don't speak Spanish, which everyone in Barcelona speaks. I also don't speak (much) French, which was the principal language that Ariane, Caroline and Fabien spoke. So the first night there, we drank these lovely drinks to get the whole situation a bit more lubricated:
It is called a Guarapita (I believe) and it is made from freshly squeezed passionfruit, rum, vodka, and another type of Spanish rum that I never think I heard properly. We drank those and we went from mildly talking and eating snails and calamari and squid and mussels to this:


Ha! See the good times? It was just odd, because they all spoke in French. So a lot of the time I spent in my head, describing the techno music mixing with the old architecture, and the seemingly endless amount of lovely squares hidden in the side streets there. The strange and interesting cultural difference of Barcelona to London is that London insists on planting grass and lovely plants and putting statues in the center, and Barcelona is content to put large slabs of concrete and let people skateboard. Also, there were many dog drinking fountains.

Here is the other interesting thing about Barcelona: Gaudi. The further segmenting of my reality can be blamed totally on the architecture of this man. Randomly strewn throughout the city are his works, like buildings amongst other buildings and park benches with his style of mosaic and then this monstrosity:

The Segrada Familia. Absolutely terrifying and amazing, and it was started in 1884. And it will be under construction forever, I think. It's just... never wanting to be finished. It's better that way, actually, if you ask me, because it's this strange and beautiful work and it stands as a testament to this man who was basically a little bit or a lot insane. That first picture, where I look perturbed (I'm not, by the way) I was in the park that he designed, and it's similarly deranged and beautiful. Let me see if I have a picture to illustrate that.


See that? Bizarre.

The other thing about Barcelona is they put all of their food in lots of butter, or chocolate. This is something I can get behind. Here are churros and chocolate, which was fantastic and went together quite well, if you ask me.



And then here is the best paella I think I will ever have. It's certainly the best paella I have ever had in my young life. There were crayfish, and mussels, and every bite of saffron rice had tiny shrimp. I had two helpings. This was gotten from the restaurant below Fabien's place, and we sat around the table talking (they talked a bit more than I did) and drank delicious red wine and I just wondered if suddenly, like a movie, I would understand french implicitly and then I could join in. I also wondered about other things, and I came to the conclusion that Barcelona is the way it is because it is basically a very international city, a concentration of lost souls, trying to party away their problems, eating collage foods in a city of mad construction projects and chasing pleasure and fruit.



Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, it's just... strange. My last night and day there I spent by myself because Ariane and Caroline got a plane for the day before. I don't really know how that happened, but Fabien and I went out to a couple different bars drinking pretty bad beer that night, and we tried to communicate why we both felt a little bit at a loss for words. Have you ever tried to communicate a loss for words? It doesn't work.

And on that Monday, I just sort of wandered around with my clothes on my back and tried to figure out how to best amuse myself before I spent another day on planes, trains and automobiles. I ate fruit and drank a mango coconut smoothie in an incredible market where people shouted fast Spanish about their various fresh wares. And I went to that park where I took the lizard picture and I just felt completely lost in the world, too small and too insignificant and I tried to find people who were speaking English and failed, so I just sat and looked out at the whole city and wished for companionship. I felt oddly free and happy though, at the same time. So it was a happy loneliness, which is bittersweet. Popsicles were appropriate though, so I bought one of those and a cheese sandwich and eventually made my way home, via a taxi, a train, a subway, an airport van, a plane, another three connecting metros, and one final train. And my feet. You can't forget your feet.

Quite the winding path.

Barcelona is basically just a product of collages - putting things together and hoping it all works. That's why the band below works - they are 26 people and they are called I'm From Barcelona even though they are from Sweden. After a couple of those Guarapitas, me and Fabien sang this song as we walked the avenues and side streets.



I'm glad Ariane invited me. I hope I get to see her one more time before I head back to the states.

down to the ground.

Tomorrow: off to Barcelona.

Today: wrote some of my play, watched Wall-e. Twice, maybe. I absolutely love this movie. Maybe I can relate... the traveler, in a new place, trying to tie himself to something he knows.

Wall-E had Eve on the Axiom. I guess I have... well. I used to have an iPod, which was a lot like Eve. Oh iPod! I miss you so! You were a lovely, lovely iPod, and now I have nothing to listen to.


That's like me, dreaming of my iPod.

Now all I have to listen to is the dreary, cold world.

I feel loads better. Today was what I needed. Wall-e, water, excedrin, soup, and salami sandwiches are great healers. But my mouth is all burnt from all the hot soup. I need some sort of spoon that has a heat senser that tells me if my mouth will be happy with the heat. Does such a spoon exist?

Christmas is coming. They finally turned on the lights around town. I'll take pictures when I get back and wow you all. It's like a Christmas card, but real life!

(oh, and no comments on the last post? have I lost you all with my long vacation betwen posts?)

this is outrageous, this is contagious.

It becomes harder and harder to sum up ones days as things happen and more things occur and this person says this or that to another person and blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda... and then one day, you have this terrible thought (I call this 'Blogger's Blight) that none of the things you write really matter, and isn't this all a lot like bragging? As in, "oh look at me, I just went to London, and Paris, and London again, and had one of my favorite people in the world visit me in my strange medieval town, and school is awesome and I'm having the best time?"

I mean, isn't that bragging? I don't want to be a braggart, no one does. But I do want to tell everyone what has been happening in my life. So... let's see. About a week and a half ago I saw Vampire Weekend play their songs at La Cigale in Paris:




I told a friend that I was seeing them and she said, "Wow, you are just making all of your dreams come true, aren't you?" And I thought to myself... yes. Yes I am. Seeing Vampire Weekend was a dream come true. I love their music and they are such charismatic gentlemen.

Paris was strange. It was like coming home in some weird way... walking the streets of Paris with Ariane was a return to form, back to basics. I did that my first two weeks away, and it was lovely to do it again.

I also managed to create a moment, in Montmartre, near Le Sacre Couer (I think that's what it's called). It's the park where Amelie gave her blue arrow clues to give the photo album back and Ariane and I sat on the footpath and I got out my iPod and we listened to Yann Tiersen as all of Paris laid out below us. Perfect.


On a perfect day, too. Check that blue sky! Ariane is such an incredible person. She's not just a distant cousin, she's a friend for life. I can't wait for Barcelona this weekend...



Anywho... then I came back from Paris and met Erin in London. We spent a whirlwind day having high tea at Fortnum and Mason, checking out the wares, drinking hot chocolate, pricing old stones and puppies at Harrods, exploring Hyde Park and examining it's barking squirrel population, and staring up from the second row in awe of a strangely british rendition of a very spanish hero... Zorro. Zorro the musical is fantastic. It's even better when it's a mix of spanish to posh british accents.

Then we trained to Norwich, which, I believe, is where I lost my iPod. Sigh. Norwich with Erin was fantastic. I took her to all of my favorite spots, and basically got the chance to renew my eyes for Norwich - it really is a lovely little city and it's sometimes difficult to remember that when you have things looming over your head like playwriting deadlines and books to return. Sometimes it's dangerously close to being just... like... a city, and not an experience. And it's most certainly an experience.

Here is Erin and me, dressed like... me. We both dressed as me for a fancy dress party. Hilarious!

And then we went for a pint with Joseph and Fuchsia at one of my favorite pubs, the Playhouse. I think we spent the entire evening making fun of each other's accents.



And... now I'm just sick. Sick as a dog. I've been watching loads of british comedy television with Joseph, who is also as sick as a dog. I'm trying to rest up for Barcelona this weekend, because I would hate to be sick for that.

I promise to post tomorrow. Even if nothing happens.

sure you're weedy, and kind of shy.

Erin came to England and we had a wonderful time.

But now I'm sick and I can't find my iPod. My limbs hurt and lights are not my friend. My head is stuffed with cotton balls and I couldn't sleep last night, because I was either too hot and sweating, or too cold and in danger of being too hot again.

Everyone is sick too. What do you do when you're sick but you don't have insurance? Complain, I guess.

More on everything later. I'm here, I'm alive. But barely.

i wouldnt like death if death was good.

What am I doing here?

Perhaps the point in travel isn't to ask that question.

Or, if you do ask it, to answer in a paraphrase of Edmund Hillary.

"Because it's here."

under new management.

Would you read a story about a energetic traveler and a Lewis Carrol character cavorting through Cambridge, punting on canals and seeking out first editions, fiendish for Parsnip soup? The same characters would then catch a girl group time traveled from the sixties, and the energetic traveler's heart would grow four sizes as they hugged him. The next day would then be All Hallow's Eve, and the energetic traveler would transform into a silver and blue tinseled moon monster, ready to go scare-mongering with a red tinseled ghoul. They would scare their way through the evening, until the moon monster, transmogrified, would leave with four mismatched friends to visit the sin drenched city of Amsterdam. Transfixed with crooked buildings, misty bike rides, chocolate covered waffles, the tragedy of Anne Frank, the beauty of Van Gogh, and a pink tinged red light district, he would reconsider how he feels about life and his place in the universe. Oh, and the zealousness for parsnip soup would be replaced with pumpkin flavor. The energetic traveler, now weary, would have a leisurely boat ride back, sleeping through synchronized girl group dreams, ready for a day of rest before another rocketspeed adventure to London, and Paris.

Would you read that story?

I'm trying to live it, if at all possible.

don't go out tonight.

Yesterday I wrote a short story and debuted it to laughter at Workshop, my favorite pub in the world I think. Good thing: the laughter was intended.

Today, Alice and I are going to Cambridge, to see these people sing.


I hope they aren't actually that large, that would be terrifying.

And I'm taking Pierre. Y'all only comment on entries about Pierre, even when I address you specifically. Here he is turning a lion into a statue with his mind.


If it were up to me, this whole entry would be in exclamation marks. I am so darn excited to see the Pipettes. It's not up to me though, exclamation points are boring to read over and over.

A sob story: Once, the Pipettes were going to play a free show in San Francisco. I left three hours beforehand, thinking I would get there two hours early and get a spot up front, because I tend to idolize and idealize bands. The traffic had different plans though. I got there four hours after I left, right as riotBecki said, "Thank you!" and they disappeared.

Tonight, I get my heart mended.

we want the new temptations.

Last night I saw Alphabeat, and words fail me for the moment so I'm going to watch this...



Mama, I thought you would like them. And Dad, is that changey color effect something you would do in post production? Or are they just doing fun editing tricks?

I didn't have my camera so I can't post the usual tried-and-true blurry photo with light streaks that I enjoy so much. But you should watch that and you can have a mild understanding of the sheer pop ecstasy that they are.

And the bands before, Pandering and the Golddiggers and Das Pop were gleefully poppy as well. PATGD was something to look at, I will say that much. And Das Pop were really nice guys.

Other than that, business as usual. Well, I mean... I don't think I have a "business as usual" but I am trying to lead a relatively quiet life because the rest of this week is absolute madness. Joseph and I ate a "pub lunch," which consisted of roasted potatoes, broccoli and carrots, and roast beef slow simmered in gravy. Our repast was at a 750 year-old pub called Adam and Eve, . And we drank "true norfolk ale." Which was good, but only because it came with the meal. I would not drink "true norfolk ale" on its own. Give me cold, on tap cider anyday.

Sunday was a pub quiz and fireworks. Watch the british Office episode called "The Quiz" if you want to know what a pub quiz is... it's exactly like that. I think Aqua Teen Hunger Force has an episode with a pub quiz as well... and now that I have thought about that show, my mind is spiralling out of sanity. We didn't win, by the way. But I realized I know a lot about water, which is handy.

The next couple of weeks go like this:
Wednesday - Cambridge to see the Pipettes (more of that pop ecstasy I so enjoy)
Thursday - Traveling Circus in Norfolk
Friday - Halloween
Saturday - Monday - Amsterdam
Thursday, Friday - London
Saturday - Tuesday - Paris for Ariane and Vampire Weekend
Tuesday Night - Sunday - Erin visits!

Oh and I go to school too. Promise.

This is to answer the healthy eating question. Look at that! I'm eating an apple.

And as far as literary allusions, Father, Harry Potter was set in the late nineties, early zeroes, which is the England I'm experiencing. The literary allusions are indicative of a book based on a culture that embraces its past as well as its present. Also, just last post I referenced A.A. Milne and Kenneth Grahame. ALSO, shouldn't I take my audience into account? When was the last time you picked up James Joyce, Mr. I-Hate-James-Joyce's-The-Dead? ALSO, Jane Austen is spelled with an E.

BAM!

I spent all of yesterday discussing whether or not Joseph was being a cad as defined by Jane Austen over a cup of earl grey. Verdict: no.