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.

Some People Really Know How to Have a Good Time

Sometimes my life feels like a Michael Chabon novel— populated by eccentric but loveable characters, filled with bizarre events, riddled with zany adventures, and very, very well written. This week has been a perfect example. These are a few of the things that have happened over the past 9 days or so:

The Black Eye Story:
Open a cabinet into face at work. People disbelieve actual story, so made up various better ones. Hilarity ensues.(it looked much worse IRL, guys)

The Unsolicited Mail Story:
Am handed piece of mail by a perplexed-looking manager at work. It is addressed to me, via my job. Open it. Is DRAWINGS OF SELF, copied creepily from internet photos, sent by one of my various bar regulars. Includes sketchtastic note. Boss gets all masculine about it and calls security and the police. I begin to feel like a troublemaker.

Unsolicited Mail Part II:
Overhear managers having meeting about crazy vindictive email (re: our Finale location) sent by former customer. Overhear that said email was sent on May 20th. Date sounds vaguely familiar, as is two days after broke up with ex. Realize who email must have been sent by: Ex's CRAZY BOSS who made up stories about self and workplace, ostensibly to undermine what limited influence I may have had in ex's limited life. Talk to managers, confirm that this is indeed the case. Inform managers of CRAZINESS. Managers look partially relieved, partially perplexed at my freak-magnet abilities. Did I mention that this was the same day as Unsolicited Mail Part I?

The Wenchcapades:
Eight girls descend upon house, drink lots of rum/orange sherbet smoothies, and break into my wig collection. Several glasses are broken before we remember that it is Friday the 13th.



Swing Dancing With Christina:
Copacetic!

Finale Summer Picnic:
All of the possible hilarity
Gerri: "This is my haaat, from Paaaris."
(...it was not a hat from Paris. It was, in fact, a piñata.)

Dinner Party:
I hereby reclaim some of the possible hilarity and bequeath it to this situation. Buy hundreds of dollars worth of kitchen ware, make 5 different dishes, dress up as Stepford Wife. Send Rowan into work wearing a suit. Enough said, really. Photos forthcoming as soon as they vacate Ashley's camera and occupy my computer.


In Summary, courtesy of Finale Manager:

BJ: So Nora, how's the soap opera life?
EM: Oh, you know. Soapy.
BJ: We should translate you into Spanish and call it "¡Noramundo!"


Well, I mean... fair enough.

Call Me Ishmael

I am tearing apart the room here after less than a year, and moving on to a more feminine and adult abode less than a block away. I have grown to love the neighborhood that I was so reluctant to join at this time last year. Maybe I enjoy it because, like the rest of my life, it occupies a liminal space. Here is the paradoxical territory between high class and subculture, equally populated with the rooted and the rootless.
I am beginning to wonder which I am. I value my independence more highly than most, but (again, in keeping with the grand paradox of life thus far) the need for personal liberty is often complicated by an opposing desire for stability and the depth in friendship that generally is only achieved through consistent company. Herman Melville says that "All deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea, while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore." I have spent too much of my life thinking earnestly at the expense of living earnestly, with that wanderer's fear of finding myself tied to one place, one set of people. I hope that I can keep the best elements of my rootlessness while discarding those that prevent me from living deeply in one place at a time.
I wonder what insights Ireland will add to this train of thought over the next month. At this point, I still have no idea which continent the rest of my life will find roots in— a thought that is both thrilling and somehow melancholy. I am never sure if I am running towards or away. I think possibly the solution is to live on a houseboat. Temporary permanence!

Excessive house cleaning always either makes me restless or content. This time it was both, I think. Typical.

Reilly Marriage Fever: Haiku

Anna says to me
pneumonia I may have but
not this disease

toast by the old man
in the greed plaid tweed trousers:
inappropriate.

uncle's proffered friend:
instead of awkward chatter
shall we just make out?

Grandma says weakly
how nice that you all are hitched
Nora, you are next?

one thing you can say
we know how to procreate
and how to party.