jokes on you, we still alive...

So I'm going to visit London with my baby dragon who you should meet when I return.

I will be seeing Chelsea. And hopefully I shall see Mollie.

Last week, we had to write a silent scene for an unnamed play in playwriting. This week, we have to write character studies and plot arcs for each one, as well as the overarching plot of our play.

I'm not complaining, it's just rather unbalanced.

One more note on homesickness: I am not really homesick. It is the only way that I can really describe the feeling that I get struck with for a passing moment. It's ephemeral, like the first fizz on a bottle of soda, or perennial flower blooms. Both of those things are rather pleasant too, if you think about it. It isn't a pang, it's something more... well, I'll write about it on the train.

I have a "young person's railcard". I have Revolutionary Road. I have a Cadbury creme bar. I have a wallet full of this next week's budget (hmmm...) and a pocket full of dreams. I would like to see a show! See the rosetta stone! Take pictures wearing ridiculous hats in Harrod's!

I like being a tourist. I like being alive. Don't you?

See you Monday.

And count to three...

I guess it's about that time to post, isn't it?

It's been a long time. Since the last time I posted, I have written a dialogue referencing zombies and Christmas for prose, a scene without dialogue for playwriting, had a night in and two nights out.

Most notable was CSS, featuring the Kabeedies. The Waterfront is an incredible club owned and operated by UEA, and I drank a lemonade and watched as the Kabeedies stole my heart with their enthusiasm and jumping, and then CSS wowed with their excellent stage presence and lots and lots of glitter and confetti.

That was Tuesday. It's funny, but that's how I think, "Okay, Tuesday was the night of glitter, confetti and my ears blown off by electro-pop and teen-punk... and then... last night was Milkbar."

Milkbar, with my american friend Kaitlyn, was a bizarre pastiche of indie-dance and Kubrick visuals. Lots of interesting outfits. Lots of mod, all about. Moptops and thin ties and wingtips. I think, sometimes, the best way to experience this all is with another fish out of water (like Kaitlyn) who can stare - politely - at the tiny dresses and long boots that seem to be in style here and wonder, collectively, a resounding, "What?!"

I think I am finally finding routine here. I read and write in the morning, have a tea with my flat when they return from studies, and then bike about, looking for things that interest me, where I either write some more or just go in, look around and think "I'm in England!" This thought process never tires, either. It's hard to really show exactly what I mean, but I walk on cobblestones and look and observe and then I go back home, to this odd little desk and write or lay on my bed and wait for people to return so that I can ask more questions. I may be belaboring the difference between the US and the UK, but I think the point is important. So I sharpen away.

And then at night, people go out. I go out with these people. It is a symptom of being around roughly 20 clubs and 240 pubs. One of the things they use to sell Norwich to tourists is "A different pub every night of the year!" This is a lie. Many of those pubs have shut. But a good 2/3rds hold strong, full of the same sort of lecherous old people and fun-seeking young folk.

I've danced more in the last month than I have in my entire college years. I have also written a lot of bizarre things. I don't like any of them, but I think it's all a symptom, as said above... it's a symptom of just being completely entranced with the world around me that everything I write seems like a love letter to whatever it is I have decided to write on. Tesco's, for instance. Meeting people at the university bar. Time traveling with the ballroom dance society. It doesn't make much sense, does it? But it's happening, and it's happening to me, and if I got it in my head to update this more perhaps I would be able to explain it a bit better.

It's weird though, writing in this blog is a sort of homesickness. And I try not to indulge that side of me very often but I have been away from everything I know for a month and eight days now and sometimes all I want to do is walk on over to the 7-11, buy a slim jim and a cup of bad coffee, walk back and play wii until Kristan comes out and berates me.

Perhaps one of the best things I did yesterday was go to a fellow creative writing student's house and help them write their dialogue. Working with someone, on their laptop, drinking hot chocolate and talking to their housemates... that felt a lot like home.


Another one of the best things, and a bit like home, was eating chili and talking literature with two guys from my creative writing class as they took me to a couple of their favorite places in Norwich. The best was a pub called the Birdcage, where we finished our Chili and went through their back catalogue of magazines. We debated the merits of The Strokes on the top 100 guitar songs, according to Q in 2005.


They are mod guys. They are cool. I am very happy that they found me cool enough to hang out with.

Sometimes, though, like in this picture, I make chocolate chip cookies and I drink milk and I give warm cookies to everyone and then everyone can pretend like this is home. It isn't though... it's a long term hotel.


Speaking of hotels... off to London tomorrow. Adventure!

C'est la vie!

This is my Dad. I have no idea what is going on in this picture, but he is open-mouth-happy, which is probably the type of happy he will be all day because it is his birthday!

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Not only was my Dad born on an October 6th, but Edith Piaf got married on an October 6th, Jane Eyre was published on October 6th, The Jazz Singer was released on an October 6th, and LSD was declared illegal on one o' them October Sixes as well!

Wild.

If it weren't for my Dad (and Mom, but whose birthday is it?) and his generous contributions to the cause, this blog would not be possible. Nor would this trip. Or my entire college experience really. I like to think that when my Dad celebrates life, he does it by helping other people celebrate life... every one of his birthday's has been a trip to a show, or a trip to Disneyland, or a trip to the aquarium... was that a birthday? I seem to remember that...

Anyway. It's the morning here, but it's an ungodly hour there. Happy Birthday, Dad! I hope the people there surround you with a joyous air and you have a nice day, reminded of how nice it is to be alive.

Colin Meloy was born on an October 6th as well, and this song is called O, Valencia!

Bread has been proven to be addictive.

So far, my favorite thing that I did today was bake apple/cheddar cheese scones and finish a crossword with Abbey, Sam and Alex while drinking tea. Joseph came in from giving tours and sighed and sat down. We poured him a cup of tea and he dipped his face in steam, saying, "I'm tired of the sound of my own voice." He got the last answer. It was "intent".

I also got myself a ukelele because I missed playing a musical instrument. A ukelele, a case, a pitch pipe and a chord book was about 15 quid.

(I'm trying to use the word quid more. I remember reading Indian in the Cupboard and asking Mom what the word quid meant, and now everyone around me says it. I'm living in a book!)

Last night started at the Ballroom Dance society, where a vivacious woman taught 15 guys and 45 girls how to foxtrot effectively. Natalie, who is on the governing board, told me to come to the intermediate class on Wednesday. That's a compliment! Patrick and I then managed to get to a stand-up show for Mark Watson, which was excellent, and then I ran into folks from creative writing, the eap program, and the ballroom dance society in the university pub, drinking "Snake Bites" (1/2 cider, 1/2 beer, blackcurrant syrup) and joking. A guy named Jabis did graphology on me. Apparently I have loving parents because of the way I write my "y"s.

Thursday was Jess' birthday.




(Jess has her hands over her mouth on the right side.) We classed it up at the British institution "Pizza Hut" and then found our way into an empty club with a british elvis impersonator upstairs and a literally empty dance floor downstairs. Woo, 19!

That Goldilocks script I had to write? I did my scene in a German toy company called "Vunderland" where Alice, from marketing, is telling "Goal D. Locks" to go and talk to the investors. Sometimes I like to pretend I am clever.

A pub on campus is a very strange thing to me. It's pretty much always full, and students are drinking beer and reading psychology textbooks. I'm trying to add more british-isms into my vernacular, like "I can't be bothered," as in, "Will you turn the music down in the other room? I can't be bothered." (Make sure you are imagining that in your british accent.) Every day I endeavor to meet new people, or do something different than normal... today, that was making scones. Tomorrow, it is the rowing society.

On Wednesday I went into the castle museum. It is a museum with a taxidermy (like a polar bear!), a teapot collection, a castle keep display, and modern art. Read: that is a weird museum. I went with a friend from ISS who did not know how to hold a conversation, which made the whole experience stilted and strange. I would ask a question and she would answer and then ask, very quickly "and you?" even if it made no sense to be asked that, or if I had been asked already.

Sample:
me: "It's actually been really great to live in the city center. I'm close to everything. How is it on campus?"
her: "It's fine. It's much different than my old house. And you?"
me: "Yes, my room is different than my U.S. home, but I expected it to be."
We look at the last of the modern art exhibit.
me: "Lots of bright colors, don't you think?"
her: "Yeah, and you?"

Difficult. But look at that! I have another thing to turn in for my script writing class.

I am going to try to start a smaller creative writing group than the creative writing society I am already in. I want to have a smaller group of people read things. Erin? Ryan? Chris? Daniel? Want to come to England?

Cash up front, and direct.

Whoops!

I completely forgot about the most important moments of yesterday... I wandered (purposefully) into the Creative Writing Society's first meeting. We did four or five excellent group prompts where we wrote about an opera-loving skateboarder, a cocaine deal made through blackmail, cowboys and space... I am going to enjoy that group.

Notable quotes:
-"I went to Essex, and thus developed a penchant for short skirts."
-"Sort of midgey."
"Midgey?"
"Tiny."
"Ah. Midgey means tiny."
"Are you going to write that into your blog as well?"

When the governing board introduced themselves, they all said, "if you have any questions, you can find me in the pub downstairs."

Think what the future would be with a poor boy like me.

Welcome to Mary Chapman Court. I'm trying to get everyone to lovingly refer to it as "Shawshank". Shall we take a look around?



There's our kitchen! See that washer on the left side? It's a dryer as well! That's what we call a "space saver"!

There's the dining room. There are five of us in here, but only four chairs. The message from UEA is clear: eat quietly alone!


There's my bed! It's probably about 6' long. I'm 6'1" and 3/4s...



And there's the ol' desk. I'm writing at that desk right now.


I covered up the previous British student's graffiti with... all of that junk. Pictures and the like. Those three blue post-it notes have my phone number (it's too long to memorize!), my Pipettes ticket confirmation number, and my Barcelona confirmation number. How exciting!

Patrick says, and I agree, that British graffiti is much nicer than American graffiti. There was a huge sign on someone's garden wall that just said "Hey There!" His postboard had all sorts of encouragement on it. Conversely, Joseph still hasn't put anything on his postboard, and there is a lovely poem urging him to fall into a pit of despair. I don't call it Shawshank for nothing!



This is Patrick and me. We were getting ready to go out. The ties are a big hit, Mom! I'm glad I brought them, despite your raised eyebrows.



This is Joseph. Someone told him he looks like Orlando Bloom. I don't think so.

Life is quieter now that fresher's week is over - on Monday, we had a mildly offensive "French Night" where we drank red wine, ate brie on baguettes, listened to the Amelie soundtrack and drew moustaches on. British accent + french = fun!

And last night, we went to the pub up the road that we are trying to make our own - so far, each night that we are there, we take over one of the rooms and discuss such far ranging topics as CSS, prices at Tesco's, our love of Mary Chapman Court, and the weather.

I don't have class for these first few days of the week, so I have taken to wandering. I have time to write letters finally, and time to cook. The campus has a lovely lake that, I'm almost positive, has mermaids and a giant squid underneath. And every street in Norwich is just too picturesque and quaint to describe in anything other than tired cliches. I'm going to try and explore more of that today with a Belgian girl I met at that awfully loud international students night.

I also have time to go to Barcelona (I bought my tickets yesterday), Cambridge (I bought my tickets last weekend), and Amsterdam (still working on it.) Europe, here I come!

(exclamation mark count for this post: 12)

Emerson, they got you too?

So this is all a grand experiment. There are many working parts to it, but the main hypothesis is that I can cut out an existence for myself in a foreign country that is not only livable but possibly fantastic - in other words, that I and (by slippery slope logic) most of humanity, can live just about anywhere and be happy.

So far, the hypothesis is true. Let's work backwards.

Last night was the penultimate night of Fresher's week - fresher's week is (as one can probably infer) the week where there are many mixers and icebreakers designed at getting the student population to know each other better. The official drink at this sort of event is red bull and vodka, and the official music usually consists of the usual hip hop and r&b, but everyone dances and sings along to Mr. Brightside by the Killers, Banquet by Bloc Party and I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor by the Arctic Monkeys.

I don't know why everyone drinks red bull and voda. Mixing caffeine with alcohol is bad for your heart.

Last night they added to the mix of dancing plus alcohol a bizarre trio of beatboxers that could get the crowd dancing but didn't seem to care to keep them dancing for longer than 30 seconds. Also included were Fairground rides and a hypnotist that I didn't watch. Patrick and I went with my flatmate Grace and her boyfriend, and an OC obsessed girl who goes by the name created by her initials, Cem.

Patrick was my roommate while I roomed in London, by the way. He is hilariously awkward and is enjoying this experience in a similar fashion that I am - big wide eyes and excitement at even the smallest things: "Is that a british library? Let's become members!"

It was the last in a long series of going out and dancing with people I only mildly know, and it was excellent. I think what really strikes me at all of these things is how I end up tirelessly yelling a conversation with someone that I have just met midway between the dancefloor or bar. It proves to me perhaps what I already knew: I love talking, and the people make a place.




The day that preceded night was a birthday celebration seaside trip to Great Yarmouth for Jonny. Fifteen of us went down and had fish and chips at the seaside and wasted a pound or two at the two pence machines - awful gambling games that you literally feed money into in hopes that it will push more money out. I got a keychain. We ate ice cream and made a sandcastle version of our halls of residence.

The night before, the flat two floors above us made curry and invited anyone who answered their door to come up and talk with one another. Abbey, who lives up there, is a kindred spirit. She likes Pushing Daisies and even though she lives in England, seems significantly impressed and excited by everything she comes across. These are the type of people I really strive to keep around, in case my interest lags for some unknown reason.

Okay.

Now a word on classes.

I had my three classes - one of which is in the museum donated to our school by Sainsbury's, which is a chain of supermarkets. Both creative writing classes - drama and prose - are a step backward for me. They are more like the intro and intermediate versions, respectively, that I took back at UCSC... therefore, their use is going to be the same use as everything else occuring here: meet more people! Talk to them! I am expected to turn in at the end of the semester a 2500 word story and a 20 minute play. These are things I can do.

My playwriting class is loads more witty than the one back at UCSC though. Our first assignment is to write a 3 page scene from a reimagining of Goldilocks and the 3 Bears. I hope we get to read them aloud... british accents saying the words I wrote is going to make me smile.

Onward:

Zane Lowe is a dj that is treated like a god, and I saw him and danced with strangers to him. I went to an ISS mixer where I met people from 22 different countries, but ended up talking to a girl upstairs from Brussels for most of the evening. She told me she felt she was betraying her country because she didn't like beer. Every other conversation was the standard five questions - what's your name, where are you from, where are you living now, what are you studying, and then one free for all, usually "what's that you're drinking?"

The days here are filled with all sorts of things - Joseph and I play music for one another and eat sausages and "brown sauce" that we bought at the Tesco's up the way. I talk to Hannah from canada who is in my creative writing class about the relationship of poetry and fiction and why when they are melded, like in Jonathan Safran Foer, it is quite stunning. I have purchased a bike for myself which I am scared to ride because of my unfamiliarity with roundabouts, but I am still alive. We eat bacon rolls and pasta, we read our required reading. I am still exploring Norwich and meeting people - the phone that I bought here is filling with numbers of people that I am texting randomly to meet for a shared candy bar or a walk around the lake.



Societies I joined:
Smoothie society
Cocktail society
Creative Writing society
Archery Society
Rowing society
Ballroom dancing society

I need to not put such a long time between blog posts - things are happening every day that I can't even begin to articulate. I feel very close to my flatmates. They are lovely, interesting people who seem to like me back. I love going out at night with all of these fresh and different people and talking to them about... well... anything. Universality. Obama. French pop music. Guy Ritchie films. Facial hair. Cough syrup.

The hypothesis, revised from above, is that I can live anywhere and be happy. Seems to be true. I am quite happy. I miss the U.S.A. and walks with Anthony and time with Erin and coffee with Audrey and bothering Max and sometimes I even miss selling shoes. But my goodness I love England.