Opening Night

Theatre gives me back to myself. The strange stillness between “places” and “curtain” is still a moment of grace; possibilities still whisper like ghosts across the dark stage. I feel like a ghost myself. I forget fear. It is a kind of death, to walk onstage without the weight of my own shape. It is a kind of birth, to reclaim the raw and uncomplicated right to be the bright, solid center of the universe, even if it is just for a moment, or a minute, or an hour and a half. I want to be the woman whose voice came out of me tonight. I want to walk in the world with the flame of spirit flicking above me. I want that moment of grace to descend upon my entire life, turning everything to that silence, and then—

the lights, the exhalation, and the first echoing fall of my heel on the black boards.

Observation:

Why is it so difficult to get work done at home? I have taken to making the 2 hour communte from my apartment to Limerick's city centre for the sole purpose of sitting in a cafe for a couple of hours, refreshing my pot of mint tea on occasion, and writing up a backlog of continuous assessment journals for my classes that could have been written just as easily at the table in my living room back home. I could have saved myself the commute, and I wouldn't have had to change out of my pajamas and into these pesky high heeled boots... what's wrong with me?
I suppose being out in public and looking like a person puts on the necessary pressure to be as productive as I look... while at home, I will more often than not waste entire evenings reading "extracurricular" library books, listening to podcasts, taking bubble baths, "renting" mediocre movies from itunes, and checking my email inbox at regular intervals for no reason.
I need to start doing things more suitable to my status as expat-in-training, like "making weekend jaunts to the continent," and "drinking." Friends tell wild tales of their year abroad, and seem to view it in the light of the Grand Tour of bygone days... a chance to sow some wild oats and get all of the ungentlemanly/unladylike behavior out of one's system as far from the restrictions and repercussions of home as possible. Alas, my adventures thus far read more like Bridget Jones than Anais Nin. I will just have to start making things up.

A Home for the Rootless

"This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever." (Sigmund Freud on the Irish)

I have been living here for more than two months now, and can't say that I have settled in. If I were living in Spain, perhaps, or Azerbaijan, I might have more cause to fully adjust to my new surroundings. Instead, I am in a country where they speak what passes for my native language (or what my native language passes for, depending on how you look at it) and where the weather and the greenery and the economically depressed small-scale city nearby are all remarkably remeniscent of home. They have no root beer here, and no real peanut butter-- but I am a hardy young individual and believe that I will survive those hardships without too much undue stress. My apartment is far enough from campus (about an hour's walk) to prevent my mixing too much with the locals... and even if I had the time to do so around my class schedule it would be difficult to meet them, since my program seems to keep us fairly isolated from the rest of the University. I am on campus more than I ever was at Emerson, and our classes tend to shift and change by the week, making free time a tentative prospect. It is a relief, though, to not have a job for the first time in many, many years... being "just a student" still seems like cheating, but I expect I will get over it and enjoy my freedom one of these days. I have worked a bit more on the novel now and then to try to make up for my laziness in other quarters, but have mostly resigned myself to lying fallow and allowing the Great Potato Famine of My Soul to consume itself and blow away.

My one recreational activity thus far has been playing Brenda in the UL production of Smokey Joe's Cafe. It is really very odd to participate in such an... American art form while living so far from home. Like the weather and the dirty city and the smell of Fall, musical theatre is something that I had previously associated with Home that has a different context and meaning here. It's fun, and laid back... everything here is fairly laid back, in fact. There is a very unique feeling to the free and easy Irish attitude, however... time is fluid here, and days and appointments and assignments and what have you are all subject to interpretation. There are many smiles and not to worrys and "are ye allrights," but there's a kind of sword of Damocles feeling to it all... as though beneath the surface of all this laissez faire are wills and expectations that are absolutely intractable, and you are guided almost supernaturally into the correct action with a nod and a smile that are somehow terrifying.

I have to sign off as musical rehearsal starts in a few minutes, but I am trying to overcome my reluctance to tackle the backlog of events and adventures of the past many months... so hopefully there will be more to follow soon.

On Cleaning Slates

Ah, the new school year. Crisp new notebooks, freshly sharpened pencils, and lithe young ladies in Catholic School Uniforms. This feeling of a fresh start hasn't changed much since I first donned a little navy blue skirt, slipped on my saddle shoes, and scampered off to kindergarten toting my mother's old tin lunchbox. Although the scenery has changed (disappointingly, Catholic Schoolgirls in Ireland wear ankle length skirts) there is still a deceptively optimistic thrill in the air that seems to say "this year, we will write down every inspiring word. This time, every textbook will be read cover to cover... and every term paper will be written and revised a full 24 hours before it's due date. This year!"
Of course I am now too old and wise and postgraduate to really believe any of it, but it's a nice thought. I have made my own attempts at cleaning my slate, after all— trying to distance myself from the messiness of my former life by walking across Spain with nothing but 15lbs in a backpack to my name. Then, for good measure, I parted ways with the young man who had been pretty much omnipresent in my work, school and social life for the past 14 months... choosing instead an absolutely brand new squeaky clean start here in Limerick.
Alas! Almost the minute I arrived on campus, I was reminded that no matter how we try to erase our mistakes, there is No Wite-Out in the Great Essay Question Of Life.
"Hi, you must be Nora."
"Yes?"
"You know T***."
"er... what did he tell you about me?"
That's right, my friends. In an obscure master's program thousands of miles from home, not only is one of the FOUR PEOPLE in my program also from upstate NY, but he already knows me by reputation, courtesy of my first high school boyfriend.
It's not that this person actually knows much... aforementioned boyfriend is nothing if not a gentleman. It's more the principle of the thing. Here I am, imagining that I can start over in Ireland, when the truth is that pieces of my heart (ew, gross) are strewn up and down the eastern seaboard... and there's not a whole heck of a lot I can do about that. It's also autumn here, and there's no way that the smell of chimney smoke and damp, cooling earth can remind me of anything but CNY in apple season. All of my new memories must always be built on the foundation of the old ones.
That foundation sometimes feels too much like an unfinished game of Jenga for me to feel entirely comfortable... too much built up on top of pieces that despite time and distance still feel like they're missing.