Life on Queen Street

I'm in Dublin, sitting on my bed, contemplating the vaguely penitential decor of my residence room and thinking that I've made a huge mistake...

Lady J told me that the first few days were going to suck and they do/it does. I'm lonely and nervous and feeling dislocated and undone. I'm also exhausted but I don't so much have jet lag as jet malaise: I feel like some languid fading French film star, reclining in her chair, a cigarette smoking fitfully between two long, attenuated fingers as she contemplates the remains of her days... Not literally obviously, but I think I can see the end of my tether from here and, as the end of all the running around trying to get myself organized and here nears (tomorrow - Registration!), the reality of what I've committed to is sinking in - and I think maybe I'm fucking insane.

Anyway, I'm here. I have stuff for my kitchen and the makings for toast and tea tomorrow morning (and M&S chocie biccies because there was a need for something familiar). My bed is made, there's a curtain in the shower (there wasn't this morning, so this is an awesome thing) and, although hot water appears to be something that happens elsewhere, I will be able to shower tomorrow and have a cup and some toast in my own (shared) kitchen before I head to school. There are worse things.

Also, Atonement will be showing at the cinema down the road, which has got to be a sign, right?

Speaking of - Keira Knightley wore a ripped bedsheet to the London premiere of Atonement and the Fug Girls are off at New York's Fashion Week, forcing me to imagine what Jessica and Heather would have to say about Knightley's decision to go out in public dressed like The Princess Bride meets The Mummy.

And really, my imagination fails: fashion is so not my bag - reading Vogue offends my socialist principles and brings me over all strident and didactic - and to critique something well (as opposed to merely criticizing) you need to love it, or at least the idea of it.

That said, although I look at that dress and cringe ever so slightly - that one-shouldered, Olympian goddess look is always hard to pull off even when the designer doesn't drink an entire bottle of Stoli after discovering her new husband cavorting with one of the male models from her spring show naked except for a kitchen apron, a choker and her favourite pair of Jimmy Choo's and go on a booze, diet-pills and rage-fuelled rampage through her studio, screaming 'how could you fuck him when Andre Leon Talley called me a "true original" when he saw my collection in Paris' while stabbing her dress-maker's dummy repeatedly in the chest with a pair of shears only to wake up hung-over and spent the next morning to realize that Knightley was due for her last fitting in 15 minutes, leaving her just enough time to cut away the worst of the rents and figure out that if she wrapped the tatters around Knightley's chest she could say that she was going for a 'Winged Victory meets Punk' and no one would ever have to know about Jonathan and Gaspard and the goat - I like Knightley's "fuck you and fuck off" attitude to the tabs who've made a small fortune the last year staking out her home with photographers and scrutinizing her appearance with much pharisaical hand-wringing and minatory prognostications about her health. I mean, if you know your appearance is gonna be raked over the coals no matter what you do, why not go all out, eh?

I just spent five minutes looking up "minatory" (going 'min, min, min... it means bad and vaugely hectoring... min, min, minimim, mina, miniature, miniatory, minatory! Oh, thank Christ'). I can't decide if this means I'm in the right place after all or merely that I'm a geek with a shoddy memory - or if those things are even mutually exclusive.

Things I've Learned About Ireland:

the phone cards are not actually cards... they're pieces of paper and you have to call one number, dial in your pin and then dial the number, if you can still remember who you wanted to call by that point

beer is surprisingly expensive and that seems wrong on so many levels (and apparently is, as I understand that the gov't is jacking up the prices to get people to drink less - because that's ever worked before)

they know not from KD (that's Kraft Dinner to you Europeans, Americans and other heathens), in fact, they know not from maccaroni! O_o o_O I have no idea what I'm going to eat for the next year

it's humid. I hate that

I'll be in Detroit but most of my comics, DVDs, books, bookcases and one slightly wonky but functional coffee table will be available for purchase at electricland's garage sale on Saturday, August 11th in the East End of Toronto.

Click the link for more info but if you ever wanted to pick up a close to complete run of Marvel's "New Mutants" cheap, here's your chance.

And now Purolator seems to have lost my residence documents. Or at the very least, they don't appear to be in Ireland at the moment. And somehow I'm missing a tracking number on my reciept.

*eyeroll*

It's Canada Day. Go us, we rock.

Off to watch the Canada-Chile match with friends tonight. They're playing at BMO Field (the Big Shake by the Lake), which has proven exceedingly good ground for the home side. Can we hope for a little Canada Day love for our boys? Yes, I think we can.

Hearing "Flower of Scotland" played before the Scotland-Japan match made me cry.

I'm planning to leave my country for a year. I need a Toronto FC scarf. These things are related.

Today, I read two studies of childbirth from the 16th century to the early 20th. I now know that every birth scene in every historical romance I read in high school was done wrong. I'm also nearly through Piracy: Fact and Fiction by Cordingly and Falconer. I'm pretty sure this book represents the sum total of Ted Elliot and Terry Rossio's pre-Pirates of the Caribbean-writing research.

I watched King Arthur Friday night before bed. I tried telling myself that the movie took place in a fictional universe where the Pope actually ruled the Roman Empire (NO!) but that didn't really help with the fact that all the "Sarmatian Knights" - who were probably Irano-Persians - had Medieval French names or screamed Rus as their battle cry some 500 years before Norse and Danish vikings colonized inward from the Baltic and Barents seas. And it really didn't help the agonizing little dagger of blatant ignorance that stabbed my soul every time someone called them "knights," which comes from the Anglo-Saxon word "cnecht" (servant or page reflecting the "knightly" class' rise from the armed servants of local lord, chief or king). There is only so much 'No, WRONG!' a girl can take before her head explodes.

*headdesk* X infinity

Still, Kiera Knightley, Clive Owen, Stellan Skarsgard and Ray Winstone - I've watched worse movies for far less reason. And red wine helps.

Went to see Ocean's 13 with Lady J last night. A very enjoyable film, frothy, light and insubstantial as cotton candy.

Then I came home and watched Doctor Who, "The Last of the Time Lords". The short version: I cried. Then there was cringing (glowy-floaty? No) and finally cheering for Martha Jones, who proves herself a hero in all senses of the word.

Finally, the Scottish under 20 side needs a better goalie.

So, at what point today do I stop refreshing my Bruce Wayne persona's e-mail, looking for an e-mail from the program coordinator at UCD? The Graduate Board meeting was today so, one way or another, my fate has been decided. In the immortal words of Carrie Fisher, "instant gratification takes too long" and this waiting is not, nor never has been my strong suit - I have other virtues, I suppose, but none so useful right in this very moment. Alas...

So, Ausiello on TVguide.com is reporting that Veronica Mars isn't on The CW's fall sched, which surprises no one even as it sucks. But neither has it been officially canceled, which sucks more because, dude: pull the bandage off already.

My gut is telling me that The CW is playing coy to avoid coverage of their upfront presentation on Thursday being about VM's cancellation. The chances that they're holding back news of a retooled FBI-centric VM as a mid-season replacement are slim to non-existent, IMO. At the same time, until I hear that final word, I'm finding it very hard to kill all hope.

Sometimes hope can be a real nasty bugger, which also tells you how I feel about my grad school applications.

eta: FWIW, Variety.com is now reporting that the word is that VM has been canceled.

It's two in the morning and I'm up to my ass in grad school shit - OMGWTFMUSTBECOURIEDTOMORROW - grad school shit.

But I did watch Grey's Anatomy because it's my happy place. And I have this to say... well played, Shondra, well played. You may just make it off my list this season. Four hours of sweeps television to go but, conditionally, I'm prepared to let you off the hook for last season's LVAD madness.

Don't disappoint me, Shondra. Crush is perilously close to coma-baby. And nobody likes a coma-baby in the middle of their sexy medical drama.

Nothing quite like starting the day with your computer tracking system doing the funky chicken followed by a two-hour evacuation to put paid to your determination to end the day absolutely caught-up on work. Oi.

I feel very much like there's a message in all of this somehow but I'm damned if I can tell what it is.

Yet another weekend passed without accomplishing any significant work on my novel, my diary, my laundry or calling my dad. I did dust and vacuum the living room but that was more in the manner of self-defence than anything else. I also returned the library books to the library (which I find more effective than returning them anywhere else) and finished going through the two England tour books I've had out since January. The rest of my trip planning can be accomplished via the Internet, I think. And my finances are currently on track for ticket buying come May (at the latest - also, I'm experimenting with paying cash for these things!) and train of bus passes in June. At the moment, the plan is to buy a cheap return flight to Dublin in England but I shall set the Stepsis and hubby to investigating this. All in all, trip planning is the one thing I feel I got accomplished this weekend (although dinner with two sets of friends I haven't seen nearly enough lately is not nothing), even though I need to get the Dublin guide back and copy down a few walking tours.

The week ahead: Tai Chi and laundry tonight (throw the stuff in before I go to TC and dry it after), dinner with Mumsy and the last three episodes of Slings and Arrows Tuesday. I also have to order my transcripts today and call Prof Bob about a reference tomorrow (eek). And write. Always more writing.

Why must writing be so difficult?

Theoretically, I'm transcribing the pages I wrote in longhand last month. In reality, I'm trying to kill the tedium of the first scene and introduce some of the protagonist's motivations. It's turning really tell-y instead of show-y - is this any better than tedious? And I'm pages and pages behind on my page count for this week as switching my goal from writing every day to writing 20 pages a week (I write longhand in a composition book so 20 pages a week is a quite reasonable goal) caused a bit of a hiccup in my production. In other words, I need to write 18 pages today to make my goal (although I think I may give myself credit for the pages I type into Veronica Mac). For the coming week (which starts on Monday, not Sunday, in Cranky-land) is to write every day for a total of at least 20 pages a week. My ultimate goal is to write a novel this year: writing everyday, at least 20 pages a week, for the next 47 weeks.

I feel that this is a very reasonable goal, one completely within my grasp - even if actually committing that goal to 'paper' still makes me anxious. But I'm trying not to let the panic and the anxiety and the fearful 'ohmygodihavenotalent/imagination/abilityandnoonewilleverwanttopublishme' thoughts to drive me to throw away my pens and hide under my bed. This, unfortunately, is the hard part, harder than writing everyday or writing 20 pages a week - harder even than thinking up a plot or the right name for a character. For me, following my gut and finding the self-confidence to keep moving forward is the hardest part of writing.

Wish me luck.

If I had a year to write a story, what story would I want to write?

ETA, As I'm asking questions of the universe anyway, can anyone point me towards some icon-worthy images from Aliens? I need a better Ripley icon.