My love for Lady GaGa grows day by day.

      I love her.  From her oddly shaped and/or oversized sunglasses down to her outrageously feathered and colored stilettos, Lady GaGa is, to me, all that is wonderful.  I mean really, who else is that unapologetically weird and inappropriate?  Marilyn Manson was, but he's just a terrifying individual.  Lady GaGa is just kookily confident and out to entertain.

First let us consider her attire.  Take futuristic punk rock and mix it with cabaret, add a sprinkle of early Madonna, and you've got something resembling Lady GaGa's closet.  Sometimes she basically clothes herself in a bird.  It's like a high fashion catwalk for a perpetual halloween party.

Next, her lyrics.  Are they inspiring us to lead better lives?  Baby when it's love, if it's not rough, it isn't fun...so decidedly not.  Or to question our reality?  I wanna take a ride on your disco stick...no.  Or spark a revolution?  I'm a free bitch, baby...nothing.  But that, friends, isn't the point.  If you're looking for lyrics to live by, or tattoo under your ribs, you may want to avoid the teachings of the GaGa.  But if you're looking for catchy rhymes laced with sexual innuendo and set to an addictive techno beat, go ahead, hold up your glass, and sing along.

Furthermore, entertainment value.  If you say you can't stand Lady GaGa's music, I will believe you to be lying.  Come on.  Because no matter what you say, when GaGa tells you to dance, you will do just that.

13 minutes of paid internet

I'm writing this from a computer in the oh-so-lovely city of London. I paid 1 pound (aka 2 American dollars due to the fact that our economy, for lack of better terminology, fucking sucks) for half an hour of internet use, and after checking my empty email accounts and reading my facebook posts, I have 13 minutes left, and I decided to describe to you why I've decided that my life should be a musical including puppets.

1. Life would be furrier, and ipso facto, cuddlier.
2. Puppets can say any number of innapropriate / rude things and get away with it...because they are puppets.
3. Everything said is infinitely more important and memorable if sung.
4. I would like a walking bass line to accompany my actions, and a violin to harmonize my thoughts.
5. Even a terrible day couldn't be SO bad if I could still dance...with puppets.
6. Avenue Q already managed to document my life and put it on stage in the form of a musical show starring...puppets.

Aside from that London is great. Overwhelming, as many great things often are, London's the equivalent of an unbelievably delicous 7 course meal that is laid before you on an enormous table and you're told you've got one hour to enjoy. I guess I'll be back, Londonown, ready or not, and I haven't even left yet.

a poem inspired by amsterdam

untitled

stab a canvas with a knife 

and what do you find?

behind the paint and texture

is nothing

but torn canvas.

behind the perfect symmetry

centuries of figure study

symbolism and chiaroscuro

is nothing

but blank canvas.

but beauty is so powerful,

the façade so convincing,

the image captivates the eye

and the mind won't admit

the canvas could be bare.

painting is subjective,

a matter of perspective,

so from what artist

do we derive 

our reality?

"doesn't God exist?" you may ask me,

a question meant to function as an answer,

and i'll spare you insincerity.

i'll espouse no set belief

until i've cut the world open and know what's underneath.

is life another Rembrant?

or is it something more?

if i rip apart the sky,

carve off a mountain's peak,

perform a vivisection on an oak,

do I find a vacant canvas,

or another work of art?

There’s something about being awake really late at night or really early in the morning.  Something about the stillness, the darkness, the tranquility.  It leaves you contemplative, makes you take stock of your life, consider what the hell you’re doing.  I wonder why.  There are certain thoughts that you’ll only stumble across when you’re alone, when the rest of the people around you are either asleep or just in another zone of consciousness.  There are some things that cross your mind when you’re sitting by yourself, when the moon and stars are complimented by the light of a candle’s flame.

I think about a lot of things.  Maybe too many.  I think about myself, about the way I fit into the world, the way I fit into the lives of my family and friends.  About people I love, about people I've hurt.  Maybe the darkness makes this easier, you know?  Maybe since the sun isn’t shining, since daylight doesn’t illuminate the scenery, focusing on yourself becomes a bit easier; there are no distractions.  Even if you want them.

  Self reflection is a difficult task, I think.  Its like looking at a funhouse mirror sometimes – you don’t really know what is the real image of yourself.  You see the good, you see the bad, but what does it mean?  I just think that an accurate visual of yourself is hard to find.  I think we all look at ourselves in a skewed fashion so often.  We’re tough on ourselves – I’m too fat, I’m to thin, I need a better tan, I’m not charming enough – or we don’t see our situations clearly – she’s being such a bitch these days, I can’t believe he said that – we’ve got a lot of steam to wipe away before we really see ourselves.  And even when all the bullshit is out of the way, even then it is hard to see ourselves, because sometimes the clear image isn’t what we expected, what we’d been thinking all along.  So maybe when we look and see the truth, it’s different than what we built up and created as reality.  Or maybe it’s just a trick of the moonlight. 

In other news, I went to Norway over the weekend.  Oslo was cold, dark and expensive.  The trip was fun, I saw some pretty scenery, and spent time with quality people.  But I'll admit, I'm happy to be back in a land with sunlight and cheap beer.

Laundrolamentations

Laundry is always an issue.  Murphy must've been washing his clothes when he proclaimed that whatever can go wrong, will.  I cannot tell you the amount of times I've screwed up while doing laundry.  For a brief moment it is comical experience, like when you pluck a sweater out of the dryer and it is now suitable for the wardrobe of  a Chiuaua, or when your white tanks tops are suddenly appropriate for February 14th and only February 14th.  But then you realize... shit.  The sweater I sprung for at J. Crew may now be adorably tiny, but it sure as hell won't fit me, I don't have a puppy, and I hate wearing the color pink.

Laundry plagues me.  Here in Europe it costs me 4 euro every time I want to use a washing machine, and 50 cents for every 8 minutes of hot air I want to use.  So basically I pay 5 euro for 45 minutes to an hour of anxiety, wondering what item of clothing I'll never wear again.  And then there's the socks.  The god damn socks.  Why, for the love of God, do I always lose a sock?  They're not that small, and most of mine are pretty and argyle, so you'd think they'd be clearly visible to me when I go to empty out the machines.  But no, it isn't so simple.  Perhaps the laundromat fairy has it out for me.  Yes, that must be it.  A tiny winged creature, the keeper of suds, must have a penchant for single socks.  She probably gets a big chuckle every time I sort through my clean laundry and am left with a few lonely socks.  I don't mind mismatching them, but I feel so bad when a sock is left without its mate.  I wonder if it's sad when I put it back in my closet, left violently separated from its twin.  Poor little things.

You know what else?  Public displays of undergarments.  When emptying machines, it is inevitable that I will drop something.  Furthermore, said item will in fact be a 'delicate.'  Most likely an item purchased at Victoria's Secret.  No longer a secret, all fellow laundry doers now receive a glimpse into my life.  A glimpse unwillingly given by yours truly.  Then I'll try and pick it up.  3 more will fall out.  I'll chuckle, but really I'm dying inside.  A slow and embarrassing demise I'll endure, and then I'll sit in the presence of those who have just seen my underwear for another 20 minutes while they dry.

Honestly.  Will this ever get easier?  At least a girl can dream - some day, I'll have my own washer and dryer, and my clothes will come out fresh, dry, and not seen by the public eye, and what a glorious day that will be. 

I kissed an Irish...pony

Wins in Ireland:

 

1. While wandering disoriented after a bus-ride from the airport, the hostel appeared on my left side after 1 block.
2. When I asked a man if I could please ask him a question, he responded with, “Oohh why yes, deary, what can I help ya with?” and gave me directions.
3. A tour guide told us to watch the low ceilings by exclaiming, “Now I don’t want anyone to be hittin’ their noggin,” but assured the crowd that, “this one,” meaning me, “hasn’t a thing to worry about.”
4. My first pub experience in Ireland included a Smithwicks and a live Irish band, in which the violin player was such an adorable old man that I wanted to take him home.
5. Perfect Guinness at the Gravity Bar in the Guinness Storehouse, complete with a shamrock in the foam – and the glass made its way home with me.
6. The Guinness Storehouse provided us with shelter from a raging rainstorm.
7. The greatest day of my life*
8. My first taste of Shepherd’s pie...paradise with potatoes on top.
9. Watching a friend get a tattoo she’s wanted for years.
10. Free shots of Jameson during a pub-crawl on Halloween.

 

Losses in Ireland:

1. South American man whom I had to elbow in the ribs to get away from me.
2. The terrible pizza that preceded the event of loss 1.
3. Bad fish and chips**

  So I the luck of the Irish rubbed off of me while in Dublin.  Isn’t that clever?  But really; by far my favorite city so far, Dublin has a special place in my heart.

* I bet you’re wondering about the best day of my life.  Alright, well I’ll tell you.  Now when I say that this was the best day of my life, I don’t think that I’m lying.  I mean, people say that all the time, don’t they?  “This is the GREATEST sandwich of all time.”  “That was the most epic night EVER.”  And it isn’t always true.  Sometimes it’s just a well-constructed tuna sub or dollar beers.  However, I assure you in my case I’m being as honest as possible, because by the “best day of my life” I mean that the feeling I experienced during the day was such a pure happiness that I have to claim the day as such.

On the recommendation of a former English teacher, some friends and I decided to take a train to the seaside city of Bray and hike up Bray Head.  Granted, when I awoke at 7 am to the sound of pouring rain and was nursing a slight headache from the pub crawl, there were moments when my thoughts were...uh-oh...but my friends, upon arriving at Bray, the clouds did literally part, and the sun came out to create the most beautiful rainbow I have ever seen.  It was a full rainbow, stretching from the town to the sea, with every Roy G. Biv stripe visible, and I’m in Ireland at this point right, so I am still convinced there was a pot of gold somewhere. 

We took a walk around the cliff walk first, and the higher we walked, the closer we seemed to get to the rainbow.  I’ve always wondered what it would be like to stand in a rainbow.  It’s simply the air, tricks of light, photons and the like, but there is a certain magical quality to the arches, and I was certainly fascinated.  Looking out over the cliffs, the colors in the sky only added to the surreality that is hovering over my life these days.

Have you ever ended up with a landscape that literally takes your breath away?  I’ll admit, I was out of breath from ascending up rocks, but the view hit me square in the chest.  On the top of Bray Head, I felt the way little kids’ smiles look.  Genuine, content and amazed.  We wandered over to a herd of ponies and one let me touch its soft nose, and I decided to admit to being the luckiest girl in the world.

The trek back down was interesting, but no matter how wet and cold my feet were, or how many times thorns scratched my hands and arms...well, I wish I could’ve bottled up the feeling I had and kept it.  Hell, I could market it. 

Heaven must be filled with Irish fresh air.

 

**Easily avoided.  Do not purchase fish and chips at 3 am from a bagel shop.