I did a shitload of reading today. 100 pages of cognitive film theory and neuroscience theory. This was done with the help of a hearty breakfast (apple sausage, scrambled eggs, and toast with butter), two cups of tea, and some digestive biscuits. Four hours later, and my hand is still cramped and sore from taking notes.

This has also been a week of phenomenal cinema:

1. The White Ribbon
2. Head-On
3. The Passion of Joan of Arc

Sometimes I wonder why people gush over Tarantino when there are directors like Fatih Akin. He's just as sly, if not (dare I say?) even more clever with his style, and he's got things to say. Akin isn't just interested in pop phenomena; he wants to be topical, and he wants you to suffer along with his characters, full well knowing catharsis may or may not come in the end. Much earlier this year (or was it late last year?), I saw The Edge of Heaven, which is a gut-wrenching look at contemporary German-Turkish relations. The least I can say about it is that it blew me away, but the most I could say is how it reminded me of why I love film. Head-On triggered that exact same feeling: I knew I was watching something so much more than what it was. I can't pinpoint it exactly–was it the nuanced performances? the balance between lush and punkish cinematography? the way Akin intertwines love and violence with devastating consequences?–but I know it stands out. The same goes for The Passion of Joan of Arc. How was this film even made in 1928? The techniques Dreyer uses are so modern (especially his use of the extreme close-up), it's mind-boggling. And Maria Falconetti's eyes–the entire film practically hinges on them. Her eyes really are worth the scant 82 minutes the film will take out of your day. Seriously. I just look at her and want to weep in solidarity.  

I've been thinking about this a lot today, and I've decided it's completely fascinating living in a country where your national holiday isn't celebrated. Everyone just goes about their day like it's any other, all while across the ocean, people are waking up from sleeping in and moving themselves into the kitchen, where they will prepare for an evening of (to quote my friend Eleanor) "eating their faces off." Granted, when I did my food shop today, there were several Americans about doing the same exact thing as me, but still. Most people were just in Tesco to buy a sandwich.

Anyway, I'm going to my friend's house to celebrate, and while I don't have the means or the time to roast a turkey (thank god for Marks & Spencer's pre-prepared meals), I shall be making all manner of other food, like mash and stuffing and pumpkin pie! I've also made a super-secret festive dessert that involved smashing candy with a knife, which was pretty fun, if I do say so. Hopefully there will be photos to follow...

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

If you want emotional brutality and devastation at its finest, do yourself a favour and see The White Ribbon. Michael Haneke has really cracked the code of how to make meticulous films about human cruelty, and we, as a cinema-going public, are all the better for it.

I am exhausted. Mentally and physically. Everything is beginning to look particularly grim. I'm going to bed.

So: last night, while I was busy doing my thing in the bathroom, two guys got in a fight. This was a bar fight, mind you, which means two things: alcohol was involved, and so was a glass bottle. Well, the latter wasn't involved for long, because one of the guys threw it at the other. Then they proceeded to have a scrap in the exact area I'd have been sitting if my bladder hadn't succumbed to the five drinks already in my belly. It either didn't last very long, or I lost track of time, because by the time I came back, all I found were two stunned friends and a floor covered in shards of glass.

Moral of the story? Get pissed, avoid fists.

Things I have eaten today:

- 2 eggs
- toast with butter
- a bowl of chicken and leek soup
- coriander and lemon cous-cous
- a grilled cheese sandwich

I also drank a cup of milk and two mugs worth of English breakfast tea with milk and sugar.

Yesterday's Ireland match was upstaged by delicious Dinner Night #5. As I keep noting aloud, how could I remain sour about that unjust call by the ref* when such yummy food was in my belly? Sure, I was just as annoyed as the next person, but you try maintaining anger after eating coley tagliatelle with veg (his contribution) and freshly-made strawberry shortbreads (mine). Unfortunately, no one photographed the main, but my dessert got the paparrazi treatment:

Thanks to Gordon Ramsay and Tesco all-butter shortbreads infused with clotted cream (heart attack in a biscuit?), it seemed to be a success. And while I'm not mad about making most of the recipes in his Fast Food: Recipes From 'The F Word'--they seem to require more storecupboard space and money than I have--Ramsay's desserts appear totally doable, so I reckon more experimenting shall be had.  In any case, I've highly enjoyed the various Dinner Nights. They've created challenges, but not stress, and they've allowed me to explore the cook that, I think, has always lurked beneath the surface. I mean, I need to be good at something other than Scrabble, right?

*For those of you not following European football, France won the World Cup qualifier, despite handling the ball before 'scoring' last night. This has created a lot of noise.

Wanna see what I looked like when I was 10?

Yep, pretty much the same as I do now. Scary, huh?

Regardless of what you think of the actual film, this short grabs:

This is relevant:

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.
-David Foster Wallace

(Another hat tip to Eleanor.)

Anxious about things like:

- not using enough sources
- having enough space to analyze three films and write a conclusion
- overwriting
- being too vague
- not making any sense
- sounding like I don't know what I'm talking about at all
- (and for the first time in years) getting a bad grade as a result of all of these things

Did you know I ate three portions of meatloaf last night? Clearly, a winning act.

Addendum (Mon. 2:30 AM): Paper written. Eyes feel as though blood will pour out at any second. Going to bed. Goodnight.

Top distractions while writing a 10-page essay:

1. Doing my washing.
2. Hanging up my washing.
3. Food.
4. Tea.
5. Blogging.

The thing about essay writing is this: it doesn't really work if you're not interested in the topic.

The thing about parroting ideas your professor has already extensively investigated: it's just flat-out stupid and a waste of time.

Whatever happened to original thought? Why do I feel the only correct way to describe the assignment is by using the term 'masturbatory?'

When I was 10, my mom taught me how to make meatloaf. It's easy, really. You buy two packages of ground beef (or mince, if you're living across the Pond), and you mash it up in a bowl. Then you add 2/3 cups oats, 1/2 cup ketchup, and two eggs, and mix all that until it's all lumped together. Next up, you form it into a loaf shape, put it in a casserole dish, and pop it in the oven at 350ºF (175ºC if you're living across the Pond) for one hour. You might want to check on it, though, in case it starts to burn. While tasty cooked, it becomes less tasty when overcooked. Like most things.

Happy Friday the 13th.

Addendum: Visual aid!



(Hat tip to Eleanor.)

Remember when
we thought we could write poetry
and then
we went
to college
and were proven wrong?

Uneasy night, don't ask me why. Things that are fundamentally bothering me right now:

1. Missing the boat on my application to become an invigilator. Or: EASY and FREE money.
2. The fact that I will never be full or bright enough to become a Fulbright Scholar. (See what I did there?)
3. The fact that I'd planned to do research today, but then someone nicked my book, so all I read was a lousy article on Godard. Had nothing to do with anything.
4. Joblessness.

So much angst! But at least I'm warm.

Finally turned the heating on. It's freezing. I'm an icicle, curled up in bed with my fleece hat on.

Tonight was Dinner Night. Creamy mushroom risotto (by him) and chewy fudge brownies (by me). Guess who was lucky enough to get the leftovers... Then it was three episodes of 30 Rock and a short bus wait. Then a 15-minute walk home from the bus stop, sans music. Tried not to look at the haunted mill that sits across from my building. Failed. Got fairly creeped out when an almost all-black cat crossed my path. Did I mention the full moon? Didn't see any ghosts, thank god, but I suspect it'll happen sooner or later.

Not much else. Saw this earlier. Half poetry, half pretension, but beautiful photography nonetheless:

Should have been Anna Karina for Halloween. Must see The Passion of Joan of Arc. Must learn French.  

And to think: only a year ago, Thanksgiving was fast approaching and I had a million projects on my plate. Well, not really. But enough. I had more than enough to do. I was sweating. I was confined to my room, confined to books, wishing the work would magically disappear, wishing I could just graduate already. And then it happened. Before I even knew it. Whoosh. Graduation came and went. Summer came and went. And now I'm here. Back in Dublin. Happy again.

People ask questions like, 'What adventures have you had?'

I want to respond with enthusiasm and vigor. But my adventures are hardly adventures at all: 

'The other week I opened a bank account! And then I got an ATM card! No more exchange rate bullshit for me!'

Or:

'The other day, I did a shop! And then I did my washing! And then I watched four hours of Channel 4 programming!'

See, life has been full of exclamations, just not the kind you'd expect to hear.

And grad school...grad school is easy. Easier than undergraduate, at least. So far. The reading has been minimal. All of our assignments/projects are adequately spaced out. This isn't a complaint, mind you, but the facts. I went to Sarah Lawrence. At this point last year, I wanted to keel over and die. Now I just worry about important things, like obtaining my PPS number and finding a job in this horrorshow of an economic climate. Now I go to the cinema and spend my nights cooking, because of this glorious thing known as 'free time.'

That's another thing: cooking. I'm trying to make food. Good food. Food other people might be jealous of. Over the summer, the plan was to make a new dish every week. Tried and failed at that. But it seems to be working this time. A friend and I have a new thing we're testing out: make dinner for each other once a week. We switch off, and whoever isn't cooking has to bring dessert or at least alcohol. It's a nice trade. Because of this, I'm pushing my boundaries. Last week, I decided to make chicken parmigiana. The week before, chicken with mushrooms and cream (or Supremes de Volaille aux Champignons, if you want to be all Julia Child about it). I'm on a roll. It feels good. Before the year is over, I want to learn how to roll my own sushi.

Now it's the peak of autumn. The air is getting crisper and the wind more blustery. Leaves are everywhere. The rain continues, as this is Dublin, but there are sunny days, too. And there are days when it just threatens to storm, but never does. I like those days. And I like this cold, because it means sweaters and scarves. It means steaming tea and snuggling under the covers in my big, cozy bed.  Biscuits, hot chocolate, Christmas cheer. 

It's the little things, really. Isn't that what they always say? 

Hello again.