mmm free candy

(baby me)
It’s the tail end of Halloween and I have not dressed up, partied hard, or stuff my face full of candy. In fact it feels like any other day. No pumpkin carving, no horror film night, not even a small bit of face paint. The worst part is I didn’t even get an apple from a friendly stranger with a razor stuck in it. Disappointed to say the least.

Well, as always I’m behind in my assignments at school, so all my writing effort is being put into my homework. But I can’t miss out on Halloween completely. That would just be unusually cruel. Here to salute my once favorite holiday is a bit of online trick or treating… raise your carmel candy and twinky bar up for a toast.. here is to dressing up like an arse for no reason at all
(the good pics taken by Cynthia and Jaimie their site links can be found on the side of my page.)

Red, White and Who?

What is it to be an American? Since hopping over the pond, I have become the unofficial spokeswoman for all things red, white, and blue. Me, who refuses to watch the news, never reads the paper, hates all things bush and thinks McDonalds, is a national food? In an ironic way, I guess that would make me the perfect choice to speak on my people’s behalf.

People, not of my nation, moan to me about our capitalistic ways and how stupid we are for voting for Bush (not once but twice). I assure the angry cab driver or sales person that ‘no he was not voted into office but in fact stole it’, and that this vast conspiracy theory spans several generations and oil fields. That’s when they realize they are speaking to the wrong person and change the subject because either their theories of American’s being violent crack heads are true (in which case they must hide all umbrellas) or that arguing with me will get them nowhere.

This unofficial position does not stop there; it carries over to the classroom. As I am the only one of my kind in class, all questions regarding American life are posed to me. One such question “What is that needle thing called in the capital?” I’m dumb founded. For a moment I think he’s talking about the Seattle Needle and in which case how stupid is he for thinking Seattle was the capital of America. Of course it was me that’s the idiot. “The tall building by the reflecting pool” I say in a way I hope will not be followed with “Yea, what’s it called?” Crap. Put on the spot. I had no clue. I could picture all the angry mobs below it in my old history books but hell if I could name it. He was talking about the Washington Monument, people and I still had to look it up. Another question, “How do you pronounce Potomac River?” After making fun of all American’s dialect, he goes one further “How do you spell it?” I didn’t know getting my masters in Script Writing would require a pop quiz of my country? Clearly, if that is what my MA is based on, I’m flunking, hard core.

The sad truth is in high school I won an award for being one of the best students in American History Class and I couldn’t name a famous national monument? I can't tell you who is the head of any major department (or what that is even called) in the US government system, anything about the constitution or where half the states are located on a map. Is it to late to hand the award back? “Six years ago I might have deserved this but not now. Here, thanks for the thought though. And here’s a twenty, go buy yourself something pretty, I know how much you teachers get paid.” That’s probably why I can’t name any capitals or spell mississippi?


The part that really scares me, if I may say, is what if crazy old Bush, in his twang, says ‘anyone outside of the country, at this moment, is now not American(izied) and to get back in, you have to pass them those there tests that the other new immigrants take, to become a citizen.’ My dears, I would be left out in the cold, knocking on lady liberty’s huge sandals and doing my best Orphan Annie impersonation. Something tells me I’d just get the boot. Well, I hear Amsterdam is nice… and they're too high to ask me anything except ‘want a brownie?’ I know the answer to that one. ‘Yes. Yes I do.’

A Ghost

It’s like watching what should be your life flash on the screen before you but you’re on the wrong side. Halloween is my favorite holiday. GT is going to what sounds like a blast of a party with our friends. I watched him get ready on our video chat, while dutifully continuing on my homework. Now and then he sent me pictures from his gig the other night, all the bands dressed up, and he promised to take more pictures of tonight’s party. When he finally had to say good-bye in his vampire attire and the screen went blank, I was left with the strong impression that I was missing out

I do my homework and then what? No party to go to, no snoging, no drinking (Unless it's just me and my duty free Bailey’s bottle I bought on the boat ride over.) So what is the point of work when you have no play?

I shouldn’t be too hard about it, in three weeks GT comes here and in four I go there for a total of six weeks, which will be all play, I assure you. Right. The more work I do now the less I will have to do over vacation, which will involve a special surprise that is over flowing with fun. (More on that after the fact. Wouldn't want to give anything away.)

There is something poetical about watching life and dreaming of what ifs, as I am a writer, I suppose that's what I'm meant to do? As Robert McKee says “ You must love to write and bear the loneliness.” Since his book “Story” is required reading, I suppose I must do my homework, and obey.

Shoo Bug Don't Bother Me!

The procrastination bug strikes again. I have three short screenplays due and all I can think about is the play I have been working on for a year and a half. I finally figured out how to fix it. Problem is I don’t know if I am hurting it more then helping it. Luckily, I save every draft, so when my reads say “What the hell is this crap?” I can say.. “Oh that… uh a joke. Yeah. April fools.” And they would reply, “Hollie, it’s January.” Right double fools?

I think the real problem is I have been working on this play for so long, it’s so personal to me, that I’m at a point where I want to finish it, right now. The bad thing about this is my term is ending in less then four weeks. All drafts are do of the three short screenplays we must write. It’s hard bouncing back within hours of writing a script for stage and then for film. Different rules apply, different tricks and different traps to watch out for. But once I get going it’s the greatest feeling in the world.

And then I think, how silly to fret and complain about having to write and that being my only task at moment (besides getting my butt out of this dorm room and into a gym or library. I woke at 3pm today. It’s getting worse!).

I think of this year as a writers colony. I’ve been shipped far from home to write and read and learn. So why the procrastination? It only leaves me frustrated when I do it. When I force myself to write I’m on a natural high. It’s a sickness. I must love torturing myself. All well. Coffee (which is three feet from my computer) is about done. No more little buggy, off I go to the gym and back to type, type, type.

Aviophobia

Aviophobia

I got this one bad. So bad I cannot even make my plane tickets. So bad I’ve become an insomniac just thinking about it. So bad I’m convinced this fear is my ability to tell the future and I am trying to warn myself from making the journey. You know what? I’m tired of being scared.

Ironically the fear developed in my early twenties, about the time when I realized I am not invincible. I actually remember looking at the world one day and seeing that the topics on every ones lips did in fact involve me and was not something that affected only people on TV. Diet routine, health problems and death. It will happen one day. So becoming aware of the world around me translated into a fear of flying.

What is ironic about this is, when I was ignorant I was a great flyer. I loved it. The landing was my favorite part. Then knowledge brought fear. Now is the double reversal. I’m using knowledge to gain back my love of flying and perhaps instill a little bit of that ignorant fearless wonder I used to be.

Things I have learned that are making the idea of flying easier for me:

1.Planes are gliders in the sense that it is hard to make them go down. I read this and that visual helps a lot.

2. Turbulence is common and cannot cause a plane to crash. They are like speed bumps on the road. Though to me it may feel we are plummeting, I just think of number 1 and breathe!

3. Night time flying is better for pilots because they can see oncoming planes sooner and the runway is lit like a marquee. Also the air is calmer which equals less turbulence.

4. When flying over the Atlantic we are actually always an hour away from land in case of any emergency landing. But when you look at a flat map you do not see it.

5. Xanax may just become my new best friend.

6. “Que sera, sera whatever will be, will be;
the future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera

EVERYONE

Que sera, sera
What will be, will be
Que sera, sera!”

Now breathe and look at pretty pictures… well if some one knows I am wrong about these helpful steps please keep it to yourself! Flying is not easy for everyone, especially not for me. GT can attest to this. I sit with my hands clenched on the armrest, panic written all over, staring out the window. (My seat center right by the wing.) If I am flying with someone I normally don’t let him or her go to the bathroom as movement really freaks me out. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, and I stare like a wild beast. So I really feel bad for whoever sits next to me on my upcoming journey because they’re in for quiet a ride.

ONE MORE TIME!

“Que sera, sera whatever will be, will be;
the future’s not ours to see. Que sera, sera
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be
Que sera, sera!”

Break it Down Now

Walking along I am lost in my world, as if I were a contestant on some talent show like X-factor or American Idol. I stand in front of Simon, who I may or may not have shagged, depending on what paper you read, and sing my little heart out to the delight of the studio crowd. More importantly I'm dancing up a storm, kicks, jumps, flips and suddenly as Simon is about to give me his world famous cheer or jeer, he slowly stands and just looks at me with awe but then he fades away. Suddenly, I realize I don’t know how I got this far down the street. I wonder if that awesome dance I did in my head was showing to the outside world because now I look around and see people staring at me. More importantly I wonder, was I any good? By the looks on their faces I’m afraid I know the answer. So I smile, ignore them and turn back to Simon in the studio. He applauds with tears in his eyes. Then I think I may have confused him with the person who passed me by, who was laughing so hard he cried.

Who is that Doggy in the Window??

Adding to the list of people who annoy me are (drum roll please… ) self-absorbed blondes on cell phones. The crowd goes wild. A few boo's but they’re from LA so they don’t count.

Café. A man waited for his coffee for several minutes. I’m a few people behind him in line. Actually I’m at the cash register ordering and this person, this blonde girl, pops up behind me online, on top of me, at the register, not waiting the standard two feet behind me. Worst of all she is shrieking into a mobile. I think ‘wow that’s rude’.

I hate when people do that, especially if your paying with a debit card and need privacy to type in your code. Luckily I was paying cash. So I shrugged her off, even making sure to bump into her after I paid, on my way to the counter to wait for my coffee with the other bloke. (Just to make the point to her that what she did made her a bad dog. I should have stopped and rubbed her nose into the ground but I got the impression she was of a lesser breed.)

She comes hopping along. This time standing between the Bloke and me, in front of the counter, with her tongue hanging about her phone. The coffee or latte, I should say, is done. She goes to grab for it and the coffee worker holds it back. “I think he was first miss.” The annoyed guy glares at the blonde, grabs his drink and heads off. She shrugs dopey eyed. I think maybe a swat with a rolled up news paper might do the trick?

My drink comes. I grab it fast. The sandwich I noticed is still cooking, she ordered the same one. I head to a table and sit down, she does as well. Different tables, of course. Eyeing the progress to my food I stood ready to pounce. I’m on to you. I might have even growled. Not too sure.

It’s ready. I walk to it. She jumps up into the workers face. "Oh that’s mine’. Whoosh she grabs it up. I look at the guy. “No it was mine. I was first in line!” I say foaming at the mouth.
“Sorry I didn’t know” he says with a shrug as if it were not important.
Sure you didn’t. Once again I just came from the gym and looked like arse and suddenly I’m vermin compared to the perky smiley little bimbo?

“She’s too self absorbed to notice but I was in front of her.” I say starring at her the whole time.
She passes on the phone, looks at the sandwich and then at me, all smiles. “Oh was this yours?” she says. Laughs and continues to open the sandwich and eat while still on the phone. I was surprised her breed was cable of doing so many things at once. I imagined her choking and blocking anyone who tried to do the Heimlich on her. But no luck. So I mumble 'I hate stupid self absorbed bitches.' The café guy clearly heard me as he nervously wrapped my sandwich up.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window, a crazy disheveled bitter woman glared back. My worst fear realized. I have become my mother. I looked twenty years older and if you can believe it, ugly as sin. So I realized in that moment something that really made me think, not just that I hate blondes, that’s a given but that maybe my behavior was resulting the service I was getting?

The solution for future reference: I should have laughed along with her dopy little face and know that all the calories are going straight to her hips and soon when she looks into the mirror all she will see is a self centered puggy little cell phone holder starring back. Though I ordered the same sandwich, I could afford the calories having just come from the gym, though walking and talking is a work out for her, it's not enough to erase the on coming surge of bad karma and thunder thighs that are most defiantly headed her way.

Something New

No idea what time it is. Morning. The sun is not too far down. Eight or Nine am maybe? Seven even? Perhaps. I’m on a train, which I hope will lead to Victoria Station. Which I hope is where I catch the bus.

Last night I took the tube for the first time, since I got here, to the London Bridge Station. I got off and took the train for again the first time to East Corydon. It was a bit on the dodgy side but after having to ask the police how I get on and pay for the train I made it to my destination, with an obnoxiously affectionate couple sitting on top of me the whole way there. I was like do I need this PDA? No. No I don’t.

Off. Now on to the 119 bus. Just missed it. Freezing out. No coat on. Just a sweater and vest. Once again I didn’t get the weather memo. The bus comes every 15 min. I freeze. Every other bus pulls up two times or more. Finally, mine comes and I get on. I ask the driver where Hailing Park Road was. “D'know” he says not making eye contact, (no he didn’t start driving yet) “I look at the road. It’s not one of my stop.” Panicked. No. Breathe Hollie. “Ok well I don’t know where to go. So you need to know. Here.” My map. I show him a small crude drawing I made of the area before leaving the dorms. He actually understood it. “Oh yea. You have to get off at the round about.” “Ok. How will I know?” “It’s the only one.” Blank stare. “I’ll tell you.” There we go. “Thanks” and I head a few feet back so as not to glare at him until my stop.

It’s a double decker. The locals are eyeing me funny. Because I’m acting like a dog in the front seat, looking in all directions with her tongue out and then looking back at the driver as if to say “Is this it? Is this it? Is this it?”

We trudged along, a horde of teenyboppers enter. I almost feared for my life. What are all these kids doing out on a Saturday night unescorted? So I knew I must have been in a safe area. Restaurants and shop passed outside the window by the dozens. My stop. He gives the word. I abandon ship.

I noticed a sketch-ball that was eyeing me on the bus gets out too. This street I see is not well lit. Just dark houses looming. I make like I am checking my cell and walk slow so he walks further in front. He stops and turns. Looks at me shifty eyed. I glare at him as if to say 'I can ID you in a line up, you prick, so keep your arse moving.' He stops dead cold and turns as if too look “behind me” for some one. So I stop and wait. Making it known I’m no fool. He gives up of course, no mysterious person pops out to join him. He walks ahead of me. Good. I turned the corner, he’s gone.

I continue down the long empty road muttering a few fucks to myself. Must locate the txt for the last bit of directions. Stupid new London phone. I bought the cheapest one so it means it’s the hardest to operate. I turned it off by accident. When I turned it back on it wanted a code. Factory pin code. Hell if I remember. Clearly I didn’t. Three wrong tries. The phone was blocked. Double fucked. Ok No problem. Breathe. We have the paper with the description I copied from the email. Nope. Not in bag. Ok, how about the crude drawing? Yes, but hell if I could make it out. OK I remember something about a blue gate and I know the address of the house. Also, I knew I was on the right road. So process of elimination. I walked in the direction I thought it might be in. House numbers went down. Good. But which side of the street? An empty park or the side with the houses? Right. Cross over. Walk along, hardly any lights and most houses had no numbers. A nursing home. No lets hope we live that long. End of block and the houses stop. Damn, back to other side of the street. Houses appear. Numbers really close. Oh look a blue gate! Now what? Before or after. Must be after. Walking. Numbers skip. Where is mine? Two house, more processe of elimination. One has lights on, one doesn’t. I approach the lights. Look up over the door, correct. Hurray.

None of my other classmates came, which didn’t make any difference to me, as I don’t know them that well either. She had her roommate, his boyfriend, her boyfriend and a few other friends. Rugby was on the telly. England vs. South Africa, I think? She pointed out no one in the room is actually English, all Irish, Italian and Japanese. I guess that makes sense, yet they pouted when the English lost. A neighbor, her face painted in the South African flag came over to do a victory lap and left. B-day girl and roommate went into the kitchen. Asian, he has a strong affinity to salsa music. He was actually really good but it still made me laugh. We found ourselves bored, well not me, them. Lets build a fire declares the roomie. Ok. Cold out, we look in the dark for branches. We only found a few. It made for a small fire. It amused us for a few seconds. No marshmallows what’s the point?

Rugby was over so we watched the result show of X-factor. Wow these people suck. What’s the point of these shows anyway? That’s over. Everyone left but the roomie bf and me. I wanted to head home but it’s over 2 and half hours, not too safe for a girl with a non-working cell phone. So they tell me to stay over. We played pictionary, which I learned I sucked at and then watched The Simpsons. Nighttime. She had me sleep in her bed and she slept on the couch. I told her I would be fine there but she insisted. Ok. So I lay awake, read and watched the ceiling. Dozed off for two hours. Sun was out. Hopped up and said goodbye. Off I went into the morning (yes me awake in the morning) and found my way home, yes I was on the right train and it lead to the right bus. At home I made two cups of coffee. No use. I passed out for four hours. Now it’s 5pm and I’m just rising. Blast almost made it. Well cheers, to a change in the program. =)

Extra Extra I don't care all about it!

4am and life is normal for me here. I’ve developed a schedule, I suppose is working for me, for the time being. I bought groceries and cooked food for the week, shoving it into the tiny mini frig we have in the kitchen. They give us (5 people) two huge ovens and sinks, individual cabinet spaces but only two mini fridges? It doesn’t make much sense does it? Who plans these things? Seriously. However I make it work. It’s like playing Tetris with my food.

Walking to the bus from the gym a drunken man threw his paper at me. I don’t think he meant to hit me. But it did and a list of swearwords hit him! I understand why he threw the paper though. At the hub of my neighborhood, where the trains and buses all collide, is an army of free paper handlers. They thrust there London Light and London Paper at you and if you don’t grab the paper from their hand you get the sense there are others handlers waiting to jump you around the next bend. Every block has two standing back to back. Enough. If I want your free paper I will grab it myself but I don’t like being accosted with every step I take from morning until night. It gets old. So having another one thrusted at him, old drunky threw it as hard as he could. I happen to be there. Lucky that way.

Then entering onto the bus some kid with grocery’s nearly clawed over me to get on. “Sorry” he says as he rushes by. No you’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you would not have done it. I get a seat and a woman with a screaming baby in her lap sits next to me. She couldn’t stick the brat in the rolly that sat empty? She also smelled like a weeks worth of not bathing. With that child I’m surprised she has time to eat, I know she does because she nearly took up my seat as well.

I notice fat people have no respect for others when jumping for an empty seat. A tiny space open and they insist on squeezing in, even if it pushes you off. Maybe if they stood they wouldn’t have to try so hard to fit, if you get my drift. It’s not that I hate fat people, I just don’t like them sitting next to me on the small bus seats. Having just run a marathon on the treadmill I normally am on the verge of collapse so yes I have to sit.
Bitter party of one. GT in four weeks. Hurray for conjugal visits y’all!

Discipline Writer without the whips and chains

I’m not the type of person who has writer's block. Even though I am usually stressed out, I always have a large amount of ideas which I catalogue (in case one day I do dry up) but rather my problem is in discipline (this is where most people who have known me roll their eyes as if to say ‘that’s an understatement’.) Having had issues as a child with adults and ‘behavior problems’ (I believe is the PC term) I was never able to focus and do as I was told. Now being an adult myself how do I listen to me?

I’m thinking Virginia Woolf’s doctors were right in having her keep to a schedule. Whether you suffer from a mental condition or not (lets face it, most writers have to be a little bit crazy to choose this profession, where we constantly have hallucinations of the mind) keeping a strict schedule for when to write is a good idea. Not just for keeping the nervous system in check but to make sure you use your time to get work done.

If you get into this habit it forces you to get out of the ‘I’m just not ready mode’ i.e. procrastination and self-destruction. For myself, I am in the long run a very disciplined person. However, in the day-to-day world I am a child who is easily distracted and hates to do her homework. So if I can put myself on a writing schedule I hope to slowly get out of the later stage. Even if I’m not in the mood to write at some specific time in the day I must sit myself down for a certain amount of time (1 hour? 2 hours? Baby steps 3 min?) and write. It can be a free write; it can be a rant, it can be a hallucination, a shopping list, just something to get me in the habit, I guess. Because I feel very angry with myself when I keep getting all these ideas and illusions of grander but no stacks of paper to back them up. I have the sneaking suspicion other writer’s do as well.

Right! (As all the Brits say here after every thought.) I shall my darling’s put myself on a writing curfew. Phew. Thanks for hearing me out. Um hmmm now how to choose a time? And to discipline myself when I do not follow through? Note to self invent nanny /tutor/boss robot that makes you eat your veggies and get deadlines done, any editors dream I suppose. I think that would do. Until then what? Crap. Suggestions welcomed!

How Rude!

I’m back from the other side…

Current Annoyances. Difference between US and THEM:
Why are the keyboards different in the UK? I had to of course, as the whole world, knows get a new computer but since I’m on this side of the pound clearly it had to be different.

It’s not a huge change but small enough to annoy me. I can type normally with out looking at the keyboard (Jealous? I know) but with this keyboard I get my tabs and back slashes in the way. Then I have to go back every other word and fix it. Why can’t we have a universal board? Is that so hard? We both speak English right? So where's the problem?

Also no three ring binder? Come on! Dose something like that really need to be an issue? When I went on my search for them the guy in the office store laughed at me! I was like ‘I didn’t make that up, they do exist’. He rolled his eyes. Crazy American he thought always with the lies. Oy.

The rudeness at the dorm. After the gym I look like a bum. We all do. It’s a fact. So when I walked up to the front door of the dorms there was a guy and a girl, not together, in front of me. The guy rushes in front of the girl (mildly attractive) swiped his card and held the door open for her to enter first. I come trudging over he looks me up and down. Enters, closing the door in my face. Um excuse me? Gentlemen are officially extinct. (PS nerdy boy, she ain't gonna give you any for holding the door open!) Also the girls have done this to me to. I come home, my hands full of whatever, they rush pass me with their little purses and large doses of make up splatter over their ugly little faces and let the door slam on my shoulder. Enough kids. I hold the door open for you. You need to hold it for me!

More dorm nonsense, invading a floors kitchen and then being rude about it. We have separate floors that house five people and a kitchen. Now this particular clique has a running of dinner exchange and have taken to holding up in my kitchen. (Of course.) I enter, they glare at me then go back to their own language. More rudeness. Smile. You’re my guest Bitches. Also side note lots of foreign students at the dorms. Seeing a trend in the rudeness from one group in particular… to you folks be polite to the American we are both guest of the Brits.

Ah 1:30 am and I'm still wide awake, last annoyance, to myself, Go to sleep!

I think I'll leave it to the Professionals

This is what I did when I had no TV over the weekend.. enough said..

Lock Down

I feel like I am in prison. My small cell (dorm room) has bare white walls and harden cot for a bed. My toilet and shower are one. The only way I can communicate to people on the other side is through devices and soon conjugal visits but only after several months of solitary confinement. It is true I can wonder outside the gates as long and often as I like but every night I return for lock down.

I have books, TV, computer, Internet for entertainment. Once upon a time I thought that would be all I would need in this world and I’d be a happy girl. Oh to be so wrong and to live through it. The solitude is the worst of it. Having daily conversations in my head, I’m sick of my rambles and myself. I don’t care how my day went or if I look fat in that outfit or what the weather will be like. Enough small talk. The girl is annoying. She won’t shut up.

It would be nice to have actual face time with GT and friends. Not via the computer screen either. A jaunt out to the pub for some late night suds or even a random trip to a lesser film would be nice.

To make matters worse 2,000 dollars was lost with the slip of my clumsy hands. Groggy I went to grab my coffee (in a top heavy thermos) and the whole thing tipped over, right onto my two month old laptop. It died silently. With it several days of sanity. Panicked I went straight to what seems to be my other prison, the Apple store. No help. They wouldn’t even look at it until Friday (it was only Wednesday.) I cried like a crazy person to no avail. I cried all the way to class and all the way from class. Until Friday I sat staring at the black screen willing it back to life. NO luck.

Friday came at last. The chap helping me was awesome. He said the computer was dead but my hard drive was fine. Brilliant news. But the only thing I could do was buy another computer. 2,000 more dollars. I had to buy it quickly because a huge assignment was/is due Monday. I took out the new credit card and charged. The chap was so amazing that he stayed after his shift to transfer my work from my old computer to my new computer. He went above and beyond, so I hope Karma repays him nicely.

The project got done but now I am even more into the whole. Grad school is costly, London is costly, and mistakes I have learned are costly as well. I wonder how long until something beneficial begins to happen? Was the jump into the big house really worth it? Am I going to be rehabilitated and sent back into the world a working writer or remain the hopeless dreamer committing the crime of “what if.”

Happy Place

This is my online happy place. Desire to inspire. At 3am I’m frustrated because I tried so hard to go to sleep at a normal time and even managed to stay asleep for two whole hours. But that’s long gone. I’m wide-awake. The worst part was I was tired all day so I didn’t do much. I’m one of those people that give her self a mental bashing if I don’t DO. For some reason I feel the need to constantly be productive. But I think I’m crashing. That’s all I have done since I got here and it’s endless. You never realize how just going out and having a drink with friends or catching a movie is so beneficial to our mental health.

I came here to peruse my masters and get several scripts done with the goal of signing with an agent a year from now, with bodies of work ready to sell, or push into people’s faces. But that’s all I have here. A constant endless amount of time to work. At first this felt so good. Then slowly I started realizing since I have all the time why do it right now? Why not nap, browse the Internet, and check my myspace page for the hundredth time today. That’s when the mental beatings start to get fuzzy. Frustration is the only thing left. So not able to continue working at the moment because I pretty much hate my play and have no desire to do my homework assignment: write the screenplay adaptation to a short story I decide to cleanse my mind. Hence the online happy place. Searching through random pictures of rooms hypnotizes me, allowing me to dream again. To get the angry person out of my mind and just look, be the observer and imagine what life would be like in those rooms, or how do I make that myself, or what if I did have money one day I would get that wood too! That silly as it may be is why I am a writer this need to dream.

I feel like there is something right out of reach and if I only turn in the right direction at the right angle I can grab it and all my problems will go away. But every time I thing I’m close it moves two inches. I think some one is playing a practical joke. I know it’s attacked to string attached to a stick attached to my head so I’ll never be able to grab it.

RAINY DAY BLUES

Must get into clothes and out of dorm room. Must make coffee. Must go to the library and do homework. Must go to the gym and get my 20 pounds a month worth. Must get some groceries. Must work on play. Must find a job and finally must stop complaining.

Strange how even when you have what you asked for you still cannot enjoy it. I get bursts of excitement and begin to be productive but then I psych myself out and twiddle my thumbs thinking of all the things I should be doing. I get angry and I eat or sleep instead to spite myself. Now that it is raining I’m using that as an excuse. Must get out of slump!

The Cost of Living

I came here with very little money. I knew the exchange rate would be horrible. I knew life would be expensive but I didn’t really know. That is to say, I didn’t really think about it.

I knew it all right but shrugged it off. If I was able to survive in LA, Chicago and New York City on my own, how could I not in London? The difference is, no exchange rate and I had jobs in all three cities. Here I have no job in sight. My UK bank is tapped out. All gone. Not even a month on soil and I’m spent.

I’m not giving up though. That’s for sure. I’m just cutting my costs. I can’t live as comfortably here as I had at home. No Starbucks every day. (Only in emergency situation’s.) I bought coffee to make in the dorm. I already have a mug for it. No more eating out. Bread, some meat and frozen meals. No more late night binging, that’s taken up my supplies. Must cut out constant grocery shopping. Little bottles of wine to drink myself to sleep. Out. Candy bar and soda from the snack machine when I get the munchies at 3 am also out. Buying episodes of South Park from Itunes. Defiantly out. Why buy when I can borrow? And I have that awesome TV device for my computer (hence the running out of money really quickly. But I should be proud of myself, if I had to buy a TV and the TV license I’d be in debt. Luckily Mac had a toy for me so the only hefty cost beside the 84 pounds eye TV was the 130 something TV license. Stupid guilty consciences always making me do things the legal way. Well, I hope your happy conscious because we are broke now and without munchies in which to enjoy TV with.)

Now aside from the material cost this venture has also cost me a social life. With no job in sight, I suppose it’s a good thing I have no friend here. That would equal money to hang out, which I do not have. I’ve never been good at making friends mainly because I never had too. I’ve had the same people in my life since the third grade. Others have been added, yes, but usually via theater life (which is home where ever I am) or through the friends I already had. But coming to a country were I know not a soul is apparently a little more difficult to navigate my through then I thought. Well, lets be honest here. I didn’t think about that aspect of it either. Did I?

Tally up. No money, no job, no friends and as GT is in another country, clearly no sex!
It has been four weeks since the deed was done. For the past two years I have been getting laid on a regular basis. I must admit this is a shock to the system and might account for my angry actions. I feel myself growing bitter as every day passes. Maybe that’s why I’m getting into so many fights on the bus and in the grocery store? Why I binge eat and need little bottles of wine. (Who me?) The stud visits in six weeks and two days… (Pray for me.)

Sometimes I… ok scratch that… all of the time I jump into situations not really thinking too hard about them. Some people would find that impulsive and just plan stupid. But those are the people who don’t do anything because they over think (or so I tell myself to feel better.)

If I really stopped to ponder what life would be like here I probably would not have done it. But then where would I be? In the same crummy situation as before. Having friends, maybe not having GT, and certainly having a job that I hated with just a BA degree in Film (which I haven’t used in years) and no time to write. No one to help my skills as a playwright and with out a sign of things changing anytime soon.

So in a way I suppose I did make a choice. It’s only for a year here, two years all together. In giving up everything I am gaining the freedom to pursue my life’s ambition. In the end, when I get my life back, it will include some of the same from before: friends, sex, money but most importantly, the new addition; a job I love and a future.

If I have to give everything up to get those added on, well, then I guess that’s just the price I have to pay. (Hey, my ancestors had it worse. They came on a boat from here to America and had no TV toy. I don’t think I could have survived that.)

Adrift into the Abyss

My current obsessions:
Eyetv diversity
MTV Europe – watching hours of Fabulous Life Of… and Cribs
Croissants
Staying up until 5am and sleeping until 2pm
Running after the bus
Febrezeing my dorm room
And checking my email every two minutes

Gym and library. Those are my days when I am not in class. Just to give you an idea, I’m only in class two nights a week, for three hours. Time is moving but frustration is growing.
I emailed my CV to several theater companies but no word. Of course. No job in sight, not even an internship. Hell! I applied at the Old Vic to stuff envelopes, for free, and they turned me down. They said they had an overwhelming response. You mean there are more people like me here that have way too much free time? I’m sorry but really?
I’m trying to be productive. Not by doing my homework, of course. No. That would make sense (I mean that is why I am here.) But rather work on my other projects that I could have done at home in NYC.
For some reason I can’t read a play on the computer, I have to print it out. Only now I don’t have an office job to do it at for free, so I have to actually pay for it. But without the office job I can’t afford too. Just another one of life’s little “fuck yous”. So I dished out the 5p per page at school. (Grrrrr!)
My current full-length play is coming along. A month ago I was ready to toss the whole thing but I let it sit untouched. Today, I came back to it. It’s eighty-seven pages. I should cut ten. The characters need some clearing up. Some fantastical elements should be added but so far so good. Which is saying much.
Then my submission research addiction kicked in. For me submitting my work is the thrill part. I suppose that’s a bit strange. Most people hate that part. I love organizing the little envelopes, matching all the different requirements for each Theater Company or festival. It’s like a mystery puzzle. You put all the pieces together but you still don’t know what the full picture will look like until they send you a notice back. However, most the time they don’t. That’s the worst. It’s like I just dumped my play, that I labored over for a year, into the abyss. But I haven’t gotten to that point yet, only the research part.
More re-write, get some feed back from peers, then re-write, then maybe some more feedback, re-write and off that script goes like Little Baby Mosses on the river, usually he gets lost in a waterfall and dies but I’m hoping a nice literary agent will snag my little bastard child and raise him on their stage. Ah to dream. It’s 5:33 am (I have not been to bed yet.) I clearly must be delusional.

THIRD TIMES A CHARM or is it what's the harm?

Again! The damn little bastard froze. Again. All knowing, this time, I remove the little bugger from it’s mother teet (ignoring the bright sign that says do not disconnect) and trot back down to the apple store. I feel ready, to really deal with the problem, since I actually have the little guy with me. I’m in no mood either to be told I have to wait or make an appointment at the “Genius Bar” (they call it that, though I saw no signs of any Genius at work when I visited the one in NYC the first time I had a problem with my computer. But I digress.)

Already I am annoyed, not at the fact that I had to come back to the store but because no one was leaping forward offering me any assistance. Don’t they know who I am?

Ten minutes pass. I put on my pouty 'I’m gonna call a lawyer' attitude we New Yorkers are so found of. Hands on hips. Check. Pouty lips. Check. Determined look in eye. Check. Foot bouncing up and down and check. It worked. It always does.
A boy, I say boy because he did not look to be a man, approaches me slowly as if I am a wild animal he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with.

“Do you have an appointment?” he says never taking his eyes off his laptop he carried with him, smart lad. But I see through you.

“No, I was here last week – (good give the illusion something went horribly wrong and how dare they not fix it before) and I was never told to re-make an appoint. Further..” –He stops my prepared speech! Oh your good apple man, but I’m better.
He says, as if I am high priority yet never makes eye contact, to wait by the counter and he will return shortly.
Shortly was another ten minutes. Damn. (Not that I had anywhere to be mind you, it’s the principle of the matter.) He returns after sorting through the entire crowd to find ones with real appointments. But the look on my face shows I mean business. This time I make him look me in the eye.

He takes a deep breath and approaches. I can see him counting the steps in his head. There we are. Nice boy. Come on. A little closer. Don’t worry. I won’t bite.

I immediately take control. “I do not need to speak to any person at the Genius Bar to be told my device is faulty. I know it is broken because it has happened twice.” I say all knowing.

He asks to see it. I hand it to him as if it’s a crown jewel, in turn he treats it as such and as a I blabber in circles of how smart I am and how dumb this machine is he unfreezes it and holds it up to me showing it indeed is not broken.
Checkmate. The brat got me. I really did believe I knew what I was talking about. ‘How dare you embarrass me like that?’ I shouted at the ipod, in my head as if it were a sullen child who made me look a fool in front of his Principal. Blast!
I shake my fist. The tension eases, he spots my shirt peeking under my sweater, Millhouses face and the logo 'I heart Nerds'. My cover is blown. I am not the savvy, high rate customer but a poor little shlub who has not a clue in the world. Slowly he pity’s me. I see it all in one look.

I let him. “Make an appointment to come back with your computer. That’s probably what the problem is,” he says. I obey. “Besides these are British men,” he says about the staff in the Genius Bar, after I told him about my failings to get help at the one back in the states. “Yes, you are right, they are probably way smarter then the NYC guys.” And we share a laugh. That’s how I always get these blokes on my side, in the end, by making fun of my country men (I.e. me.) and I’m ok with that. It beats telling everyone I’m from Canada, which I find much more embarrassing. Eh



Well Tues 4 pm. Third times a charm right lads?
Engrossed in Simons “A Life of One’s Own” on my usual bus (Yes, Ilana I would love to talk about it with you when I finish. I had to put it down when classes began.) I sit trapped in my head (what else is new) vaguely conscious of the people who revolve in and out of the seat next to me. (Yes. I actually got a seat this time!) Lost in Simons / Woolf's world, being inspired, new play ideas, character research and general mental health, I see my stop approaching.
Seeing that the person next to me is older, with a cane, I decide to get up early in case they are slow to let me out. Thinking myself most polite I smile at the old gal (who by the way was eerily singing what sounded like opera in a low voice now and then) and say “Sorry.” As in I need to get out so move your crippled self from my path, sorry for the inconvenience.

“Don’t you have a voice?” She spits at me through her bright smile. I wasn’t sure if she was asking me if I could sing or maybe I misheard her?

“What?” I say as sweetly as I can.

“Don’t you have a voice to say excuse me?” She says as she (I knew it) took her sweet time moving.

“Yes.” I reply still keeping my cool. Past bus experiences flooding my mind. “I said I was sorry.” Sorry your crazy ass had to sit next to my fabulousness!

She retorts, “You don’t have to apologize just say excuse me. It’s rude not too!” Rude! You are telling me about rude, Lady?
Why do I have to say excuse me instead of a polite smile and a sorry? Who are you to make up such bus laws? You knew what I wanted. So what's the problem? I was not rude about it. In fact I was the most pleasant I have ever been.
Sorry, you Old Bat, that I was in my reading mood which you broke! And yes, I have a voice and you’re gonna hear it, you Old Cow!

She continued to lecture me from her seat as I stood waiting for the stop. In my angry voice I shouted, “Why do I always have to deal with the crazy people on the bus!” Silence. Clearly everyone on board thought because I am her.
Not entirely surprised at what had just accrued I exit.

Off I went to see my new boyfriend Mr. Apple Man and talk about our bastard lovechild little ipod. The prick made me wait for an hour. Saw me, gave our child the one look over, and then began to prod and poke him with various products, making sure not to leave out his older sister MacBooky and declaring of course ‘Well nothing is wrong. Just a small glitch.’
Embarrassing kids! Oh well. Can’t say I never took them to the doctor. Since I schlepped all the way there I search around and found the most amazing new toy!

Eyetv! It’s a little doohickey that you plug into a USB port with two little antennas and it allows you to watch, record and edit live TV on you computer.
Buying myself some happiness, I splurge. This just means no more then one small meal a day for a while but that’s cool, I wanted to lose a few pounds anyway. (Get it?)

Then as I am about to leave some Joe - Shmoe smacks into me and my baby’s with out a second glance! I glare at him “You could have said excuse me” Well deary’s who says I don’t listen when people talk.

Lost at Sea... a Journey to England on QM2

Parts of my letters to GT while on the QM2: Back in time we go to a month prior when I had stars in my eyes and the promise of fish and chips in my belly. I set sail on the Queen Mary 2 from Brooklyn Harbor, NY to Southampton, England. (Please read as if I wrote it in an English Accent from the early 1900’s. In that you will find my meaning… of a sarcastic brat. Enjoy)


September 5, 2007

Dear Mr. GT,
My journey aboard the Queen Mary 2 has been most uneventful. Upon arrival we were escorted past the large line, not because of my VIP status, though I assure you that is still intact, but because grandma is handicap, and by that I mean old. So wheelchair bound we were issued an attendant to see her and our party through.
Once we found our cabin Grandma and I became most astonished to see our luggage had already arrived. It sat waiting for us outside the door. Though there were doubts at first about the comfort of our room, once I hid my five large suitcases in various closets and cupboards, we found the room very much to our liking.
Also, it should be noted a complimentary bottle of champagne sat most obediently in a bucket of ice (we have yet to drink it) but Mother however found no objection to consuming half a bottle of hers before the boat even set sail. She went around drunk as a skunk, so they say... and made quite an impression on the staff. She proceeded to talk too everyone in a baby voice, as if she herself were merely 4 years old and not the 50 something year old she clearly is. In fact when making purchases tonight the man at the counter said, “I remember you.”
Mother was taken aback and assumed he remembered her because she was with me and lets face it my beauty is most memorable. However, he then so politely replied “No madam. I remember you specifically... because you told me you had already had a bottle of champagne the last time you were in here. You kept laughing.” He said with a bright friendly grin. This amused me greatly, as you can imagine.
So, the service on board is up to par. The only issue I may have (as you could well guess my dear Mr. T) is in regards to the on board entertainment, which if I may say is lacking quality. The dancers are sloppy, not keeping in the proper pace and numerous occasions I saw them push each other to get to the end spot. The singers have a very good male tenor but one of the females sings either a large pop belt with a country twang and then goes right into a legit voice when the notes reach a certain height. Not only that, this singer in question, also sang in a tribute to Judy Garland Show “Some Where Over The Rainbow” in a pop manner. The very nerve!
Other then that the food is overwhelmingly delightful. The planetarium and movie theater are quaint. The gym, however, does not have windows to see the ocean as you jog like the last cruise ship I was on. NO bother, the lack of children on board this ship makes up for that. I dare say, I have never seen so many old white people in one spot in all my life. As you know, I spent a good amount of time in South Florida, so that is saying a lot. I mean, even as I write this my Gram lies snoring in her bed. In a way it makes one almost miss the little buggers running around. Although, I must add the absence was not missed when I sat in the Jacuzzi as we bobbed along the Atlantic. Weightless, I sat towards the back of the boat. It felt as if I was indeed floating directly in the Ocean herself. That was certainly a sensation I hope you will one day feel. So as I cannot impart the full experience of this magnificent vessel onto you in one short letter I must bid you adieu.



September 6, 2007

Dear Mr. GT,

The captain has announced that at 2pm today we will be sailing 35 miles west of where the Titanic sank. Why he felt we would want to know this is beyond my comprehension. Of all the things to even mention aboard a luxury liner! Well, I shall forgive him as long as he promises to stay clear of any icebergs. Though, I hardly say that is a fear of mine. The only real fear I have on board such a modern cruise is of those ragged bunch of international monsters, no not French people, but pirates.

On a lighter less paranoid note (being in the middle of nowhere will do that too you) I must say one has never really known what it is to write unless they have done so on the bow of a magnificent vessel, with the wind blowing and the sound of the ocean speaking sweet nothings in my ear.
My dear Mr. T. if you can find a more relaxing environment, I dare say you are better off than I.
This morning John Cleese, one of our celebrities on board, held a Q and A about his life in theater and such. Unfortunately, for me I over slept, as I have neither clock, nor any windows in the room, I cannot tell when I am to wake. So I keep sleeping because my whole bed is like a cradle. Snuggled in its warmth, I am rocked by the waves.
After realizing I missed the talk I decided a little bit of exercise was in order, after such a lavish three course meal I had last night at the private restaurant “Todd English”. So I ran for ten minutes but my knee’s were not holding me up (please do not be so crude as to insert a fat joke. Thank you. Now wipe that smile from your face and continue with my letter) and though the sway of the vessel is relaxing it is not conducive to jogging on a treadmill. Three times I almost fell.
With all this food and little exercise, I have taken to using the stairs only. No elevators. I think that should help balance things out. Also, no dessert, well that’s a lie, only dessert if my mother shares it with me and only if it is truly so delicious it is worth the calories.
Oh dear me, it seems to have gotten too windy to continue this letter. I shall pick up again tomorrow, until then, adieu.



September 7, 2007

Mr. GT,
We have reached our half waypoint but nonetheless I am ready to disembark. I have lost the wonder and 'ah' I held for this bulky beauty. The movie on board yesterday was The Holiday. Since I was not up for Karaoke I sat in my PJ's with Mother and Bob. I realized something about myself. Both Bob and Mother sobbed in the “I love you” bits of the film and the only time I got teary eyed was when the little old man entered the room to receive his life time achievement award and the place exploded with clamor. I thought 'yes! I want that'. I feel I may be too cynical for this world. Regardless, I am here and must chug a long.
The rest of the onboard entertainment was most interesting. Alumni of RADA performed their version of “A Midnight Summer’s Dream”. It was only half good. By that I mean the second half. It did give me some ideas if I direct another Shakespeare play. More humor I think is needed. Slapstick works well, if done properly. Then for the evening show, Mark O’Malley sang all my favorite Barbra, Groban and Buble standards. He was very good. I dare say you should Google him. His resume will impress you.
Having woken up at 12:30 today I would like to say I was up late but every night they tell us to move our clocks an hour a head so we lose one. That means when I went to bed last night at 2:30 or something it was really 11:30pm. No bother. Nice to slowly adjust to time. I feel I am rambling for I cannot think of anything memorable to say. Oh well. Then let me make this brief and save us both time. Adieu.


September 8, 2007
1 or 2am

Dear Mr. T
I am afraid I have become somewhat of a night owl aboard this ship. I sleep until 12:30 pm and then rise slowly. I remain in a state of relaxation going from so full I cannot stand it, to so hungry I will eat anything you put in front of me. (Mental note: After rising slowly take a jaunt to the gym old gal, you have two more days to go. All that cake won’t eat itself.)
Today was a slow day. So much so that I have taken to the Internet more than normal. Let me assure you, it is quite expensive too. 50 cents per minute. A small part of me felt bad about this until I realized I’m not paying for it. My card is on Gram’s credit card and she just wily nilly gambled away over $500 dollars. So I shall help her problem by spending it on at least something of substance, so she won’t feel the need to unburden herself of it later.
The show tonight was again the RADA alumni. They performed a one-hour version of Great Expectations. It was amusing. Several of the actors are quite good. One of the woman, however has taken to yelling every single one of her lines. Most dreadful, I must say. This is a representative of the school? I should think she should want her money back; it clearly did her no good.
Gram has taken to putting the air up to what feels to be 80 degrees and with no window for ventilation it feels as though I am suffocating. Also, if that was not bad enough, she blast the TV because clearly she is deaf, though I see no signs of it outside of the telly being at full volume. So to escape her bitter comments and verbal abuse she bashes onto the people in the telly, my heart cannot bring itself to tell her they cannot hear her in there, I run around the ship finding any excuse to vacate.
In my wonderings I bought a little necklace at the store and the attendant greeted me. “Hello Hollie. Where is your mother? Sleeping?” He says with a knowing smirk.
Of course I cannot help myself. “Yes, she is nursing a hang-over.”
He laughs loud, “I like to see your mother when she drinks. She is always smiling and laughing.” He manages to say in his broken accent. “Tell her I say hello.”
Of course I will. Nothing would give me more pleasure. Oh Mother!
Mother is not embarrassed about the impression she left on the ship’s staff her first night on board. I just like that I have found more people I can make fun of her with.
The journey is peaceful. At 2am I sit in an empty pub at sea level. The window, though darkened, reveals hints of oceanic life just beyond my reach. That’s right where I like it. Even as I write this my family is near as well. Gram is putting a hundred dollar bill, one after another, into those blasted machines. Even my Mother, gambling on a 1-cent slot is happy because it shows you a cartoon when you win. Bob sits at the black jack table and I am here bobbing along with the likes of them rambling away my life to a machine, that I cannot bear to tell myself will not talk back. The sea is lonely but somehow I find comfort in that. A certain amount of excitement rest inside me. Letting out small waves to let me know they exist among the larger.

monster in the bedroom

GT thought his work was not evil enough and so he responded to my last blog with this... I said something about a keeper? I don't recall that anymore... grrrrr... to mean well grrrr...