You know those days when you really want to get things done, but somehow never actually get off your ass and do 'em? Yep. I couldn't even convince myself to get out of bed until almost one p.m. today. And even then, it was only because I couldn't get back to sleep. I've been tired a lot lately. I could worry about having the flu or mono or something, but in all honesty I'm just lazy.
I spent a good part of the time I was awake arranging my trip to Ireland, and the rest reading comics to try to stop myself from thinking. (Shortpacked! is pretty good, actually. It's a sequel to It's Walky!, but it's not especially confusing to read them out of order as I have.) It wasn't an especially successful attempt, mostly because when my mind decides it wants to go in circles, it's nigh-impossible to stop. Anyone who's had to listen to me whine about the same issue multiple times (and that's most of my friends at this point) is well aware of this. Just smile, pat me on the back, and -- if it gets really bad -- stuff something chocolatey in my mouth to make me shut up for a minute.
Though, if you're Disser, you're probably more likely to do the mental equivalent of kicking me in the balls until I realize I'm acting like a certain whiny teenager again.*
Oh. Right. I'm supposed to be keeping a travelogue.
Erm. I'm joining the juggling society at the uni, which means I get to spend Monday evenings throwing balls at people and playing with fire. Good thing I've already cut my hair short -- singeing happens rather frequently, especially with the fire staves. It's not an especially useful skill, but the people are awesome...and it's fun. Also, the girls in the society like looking at videos of kittens as much as I do. (Some of the boys do, too. They just don't admit it because they're hanging tenuously onto their last shreds of masculinity as is.)
Wednesday night I went clubbing again. The university venues were having a theme night: "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." They advertised chocolate cocktails at the SU bar, a chocolate fountain, and free sweets, all going until three in the morning. All at the low, low price of eight pounds.
That last bit is to be read in a sarcastic tone of voice, by the way. Mostly because they closed the bar over an hour earlier than advertised, and the fountain and sweets were put away two-and-a-half hours in. Also, they were playing Katy Perry, and my shirt was damp because one of my flatmates and his friend dumped half a beer on me while he was dancing.
So I rounded up Becky and Ed, who I'd been hanging out with for a good chunk of the evening, and we went back to my flat and had hot chocolate. I prefer to make my own fun, anyway.
Mona and I made another excursion into the sweet shoppe. Aniseed balls ftw. We've also had a Star Trek: TNG marathon, punctuated with frequent cries of "DatyDatyDatyDatyKITTY!"
It has been decided that a robot kitty would be the best pet of all, but only if it had patches of fluff upon it.
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*I mean Anakin Skywalker in Episodes II and III. Frakkin' wanker. Seriously. I can't watch 20 minutes of either of those movies without wanting to punch him in the face.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."
I make my own souvenirs. Most of them aren't even real things. When I'm in a new place, I both love and hate my camera; I know it will help me remember later, but I end up feeling obligated to try to capture everything. It's a distraction, but perhaps a good one. It forces me to stop and look both ways. Not necessarily because I have to cross a street, but because I'm suddenly very aware how much there is to miss. Even other people are a distraction, which sounds harsh but anyone who has tried to interrupt me at the piano or halfway through a book or while I'm writing is likely painfully aware of this. I wanted to give Edinburgh my full attention while I could.
So I spent Sunday morning wandering around by myself. As it turns out, I'd been staying only a few blocks away from the Elephant House, a cafe where J.K. Rowling -- other writers too, but Rowling was the only one they were advertising -- used to sit and write. I was given Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for my tenth birthday. I grew up with Rowling's books (and Roald Dahl's, Edward Eager's, and honestly anything I could keep hold of long enough to get through before someone realized I was supposed to be doing something else). I'm too biased to attempt to make any grand statements about the quality of Rowling's writing. But, think as you will of it, she turned many children into readers. And a few of these she has turned into writers.
Rowling wasn't solely responsible for me picking up the habit. Pretty much everyone I've ever read holds at least some credit for that, and boredom holds a good deal more. But I don't think I feel like hashing out my adolescence just yet. Back to Rowling. I read her books growing up. I re-read her books growing up. I can't deny that she has had some type of effect on me -- I burst into tears when Sirius and Dumbledore died, and if those were spoilers to you, go read an actual book instead of a twenty-year-old's self-indulgence. Christ.
But I was a bit awed at being where she had been. The cafe itself is warm and buzzes faintly. I can't describe it any other way. Like it was full, even though most of the tables were empty. A type of pressure. I ordered tea and sat down, then quickly moved to a window table. Edinburgh Castle, a ruin atop a cliff, loomed in the background, and below the window was a graveyard. Edinburgh is a city built on multiple levels.
I'll say this about the Elephant House: their napkins make good writing paper. I couldn't sit there and not write, even though usually I don't like to write where people can see me (inevitably, someone asks what I'm doing, which actually means, "I want to read it." Obviously I'm writing, you twit). And an hour later I had a napkin fulla words -- and I figured I'd be in there for half an hour, tops. I still have the napkin. The first panel is even something relevant:
I wonder if this graveyard is the one where Cedric died, if Edinburgh Castle is Rowling's Hogwarts. It's fourteen pounds to get in, and she was on welfare at the time, so perhaps it too was unreachable.
I'm here by accident.
I stayed hoping, perhaps, that some of her magic would pass on to me. There is an illumined frame of several photos of her here. She's not smiling in any of them. I wonder when she had to switch from writing in cafes to writing somewhere hidden. (Did she switch?)
I would have had to the moment people began to take photographs, attaching respect to what in all likelihood would be no more than a grocery list.
Okay, so it's not Great Expectations. The rest of it isn't either, and I won't bother putting it here.
When I'd finished writing, I went into the bathroom. There were two stalls, one with a toilet decked out collage-style with stills from the movies. Thanks, but I don't really want to piss with Dumbledore watching my arse. Especially since in Rowling's world, portraits are fully sentient. The other stall was coated in graffiti, most of it more or less grateful (one reader was apparently irritated that Harry and Ginny made a couple). Someone had started a list called "Dumbledore's Army." Others left simple messages. "Thank you" cropped up a lot. I hope the person who eventually has to paint over all that isn't a fan. As it was, I felt a little odd doing the extremely unpoetic things I needed to do in there.
The napkin's still sitting on my desk, though. I guess there's room for a little more superstition in my life.
So I spent Sunday morning wandering around by myself. As it turns out, I'd been staying only a few blocks away from the Elephant House, a cafe where J.K. Rowling -- other writers too, but Rowling was the only one they were advertising -- used to sit and write. I was given Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for my tenth birthday. I grew up with Rowling's books (and Roald Dahl's, Edward Eager's, and honestly anything I could keep hold of long enough to get through before someone realized I was supposed to be doing something else). I'm too biased to attempt to make any grand statements about the quality of Rowling's writing. But, think as you will of it, she turned many children into readers. And a few of these she has turned into writers.
Rowling wasn't solely responsible for me picking up the habit. Pretty much everyone I've ever read holds at least some credit for that, and boredom holds a good deal more. But I don't think I feel like hashing out my adolescence just yet. Back to Rowling. I read her books growing up. I re-read her books growing up. I can't deny that she has had some type of effect on me -- I burst into tears when Sirius and Dumbledore died, and if those were spoilers to you, go read an actual book instead of a twenty-year-old's self-indulgence. Christ.
But I was a bit awed at being where she had been. The cafe itself is warm and buzzes faintly. I can't describe it any other way. Like it was full, even though most of the tables were empty. A type of pressure. I ordered tea and sat down, then quickly moved to a window table. Edinburgh Castle, a ruin atop a cliff, loomed in the background, and below the window was a graveyard. Edinburgh is a city built on multiple levels.
I'll say this about the Elephant House: their napkins make good writing paper. I couldn't sit there and not write, even though usually I don't like to write where people can see me (inevitably, someone asks what I'm doing, which actually means, "I want to read it." Obviously I'm writing, you twit). And an hour later I had a napkin fulla words -- and I figured I'd be in there for half an hour, tops. I still have the napkin. The first panel is even something relevant:
I wonder if this graveyard is the one where Cedric died, if Edinburgh Castle is Rowling's Hogwarts. It's fourteen pounds to get in, and she was on welfare at the time, so perhaps it too was unreachable.
I'm here by accident.
I stayed hoping, perhaps, that some of her magic would pass on to me. There is an illumined frame of several photos of her here. She's not smiling in any of them. I wonder when she had to switch from writing in cafes to writing somewhere hidden. (Did she switch?)
I would have had to the moment people began to take photographs, attaching respect to what in all likelihood would be no more than a grocery list.
Okay, so it's not Great Expectations. The rest of it isn't either, and I won't bother putting it here.
When I'd finished writing, I went into the bathroom. There were two stalls, one with a toilet decked out collage-style with stills from the movies. Thanks, but I don't really want to piss with Dumbledore watching my arse. Especially since in Rowling's world, portraits are fully sentient. The other stall was coated in graffiti, most of it more or less grateful (one reader was apparently irritated that Harry and Ginny made a couple). Someone had started a list called "Dumbledore's Army." Others left simple messages. "Thank you" cropped up a lot. I hope the person who eventually has to paint over all that isn't a fan. As it was, I felt a little odd doing the extremely unpoetic things I needed to do in there.
The napkin's still sitting on my desk, though. I guess there's room for a little more superstition in my life.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
HOMEROW MASH
At some point, I went into Brighton -- a free trip sponsored by classes on romanticism and modernism. It was cold but really cool and there is a pavilion that is "Oriental" in every sense of the word.
Meaning, of course, that it is an utterly ridiculous mishmash of Indian, Chinese, and god-knows-what-else put together by an English ruler. It's beautiful, though. There is a chandelier with a dragon holding it up.
Brighton also has a huge street market, or whatever you call those things where the shops spill out into the alleys for a square mile or two.
That was March 5th, anyway.
Today, I just got back from a weekend in Edinburgh, Scotland. My head is so full of everything I've seen that I don't know where to start.
The bus tour, I suppose. Paula and I took a 12-hour trip around Glencoe, the Highlands, and Loch Ness. Unfortunately, it was very cold and wet out that day, and snowed more often than not. Paula had never seen snow before and was visibly enchanted at first, but then disappointed by the timing of it. The snow made it difficult to see very far, meaning that our tour guide was often reduced to saying things like "And now on the far right is [insert awesome memorial/landmark/Nessie], which. . .you may not be able to see." I opted for the optional "tour" of Urquhart Castle and "cruise" of Loch Ness. The "tour" was self-guided, which I actually liked, since Urquhart is a ruin and fun to explore on your own. The "cruise" was a bit grand of a label, though, considering that the boat was too small to allow all guests to remain in the saloon, where it was warm and dry. They sold tea, though, so I stood out on deck with a cup and watched. Not for anything in particular. Remember how I mentioned the snow? It was still coming down at that point. And it was extremely windy. At one point, I swear I saw snow going upwards.
More on Scotland later -- for now, it's one a.m. and I have class in the morning.
Meaning, of course, that it is an utterly ridiculous mishmash of Indian, Chinese, and god-knows-what-else put together by an English ruler. It's beautiful, though. There is a chandelier with a dragon holding it up.
Brighton also has a huge street market, or whatever you call those things where the shops spill out into the alleys for a square mile or two.
That was March 5th, anyway.
Today, I just got back from a weekend in Edinburgh, Scotland. My head is so full of everything I've seen that I don't know where to start.
The bus tour, I suppose. Paula and I took a 12-hour trip around Glencoe, the Highlands, and Loch Ness. Unfortunately, it was very cold and wet out that day, and snowed more often than not. Paula had never seen snow before and was visibly enchanted at first, but then disappointed by the timing of it. The snow made it difficult to see very far, meaning that our tour guide was often reduced to saying things like "And now on the far right is [insert awesome memorial/landmark/Nessie], which. . .you may not be able to see." I opted for the optional "tour" of Urquhart Castle and "cruise" of Loch Ness. The "tour" was self-guided, which I actually liked, since Urquhart is a ruin and fun to explore on your own. The "cruise" was a bit grand of a label, though, considering that the boat was too small to allow all guests to remain in the saloon, where it was warm and dry. They sold tea, though, so I stood out on deck with a cup and watched. Not for anything in particular. Remember how I mentioned the snow? It was still coming down at that point. And it was extremely windy. At one point, I swear I saw snow going upwards.
More on Scotland later -- for now, it's one a.m. and I have class in the morning.
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