If someone were to ask me if I missed London, I’d have to say no. It seems perfectly natural that that part of my life is over. I had four months, I knew I had four months since the beginning, and now that it’s over, I’ve come back here to Sarasota. What I miss more than anything are the people, the friends I made. Your friends make a place come alive, let you have fun, let you enjoy yourself. Besides that, living in a particular place is about availability. There was stuff to do in London, and there is stuff to do here.

But what the trip did do was give me perspective. Distance of course is the basic element of perspective—with distance comes change, and I’ve seen a lot of that, and now the familiar looks alien. On Saturday, my parents and I were walking through the mall just before it closed at nine o’clock. OK, fine, everything closes early in London as well. But the weird thing was that it was empty. There was no one there. Where were all the people? I was so used to everything being crowded in London. It isn’t that I prefer crowded spaces, it is just the distance gave perspective, let me see the absence of people for the first time. That mall was really fucking empty.

There are other things I’ve noticed. I’ve finally noticed the fact that Florida is a tropical state. I always knew of course, but I never thought about the bugs or the humidity on the same level as I do now. You just don’t see this kind of stuff where I was living. And the keyword is was. I WAS living in London—but I’m not anymore. And I WAS living here before that. And now, finally, I’m all the way back here, and things couldn’t be more different. I’ve returned, but I’m not in the same place exactly. That is the power of studying abroad. It makes the familiar foreign.

Let me clarify. I went for a swim in my pool. You know, a six o’clock in the evening swim. It was still bright as midday outside, and the water on the surface was pretty warm. So I changed into my trunks and walked down the steps into the water. First thing I noticed was the dirt. It was just the leaves or whatever, floating about in the pool. The vegetation in Florida is rampant. I went deeper into the pool, careful to slowly lower my pelvis into the water, because when the cold water first hits your nuts, it hurts a little. Everyone who grew up swimming knows this; it’s just natural. Except when I did it this time, it didn’t seem worth the bother. I stood there, half of my body submerged in water, and I thought, this is supposed to be relaxing? Who submerges themselves in water for fun? I was cold, and I was thinking of course I’m cold, you’re always a little cold when you’re in the water; I mean you’re in the water and water is cold. But I decided to get out of the pool. I hadn’t been in the water for fifteen minutes. But hell, it just wasn’t fun; it wasn’t worth my time.

When I was a kid, I swam like a fish. I’d get into any body of water I could. I begged my parents to build a pool. When they finally did, I was in the ninth grade, and I didn’t care anymore. Fine, so I don’t like swimming as much anymore. People change, sure, that is easy enough to figure out. But if I’m not the same person as I was when I was a kid, I can’t be the same person as I was in high school (obviously). And I can’t be the same person I was before I left for London (ok still with you there). And I can’t even be the same person I was when I was in London; after all, I’m not there anymore. So now that I’m home, and left the immediate past in another country, I’m a little bit freer. The trip has broken my routine, opened my eyes, made my “home” look like a different place.

So what the hell do I want to do now that I’m here? I’m back in Florida on the other side of where I started, like I made the entire trip around the Monopoly board. I spent my whole college career thus far preparing to go to London and then subsequently living there. So what do I do now? Anything I want I guess.

I got some planning to do.

DVD players suck. One little smudge on the DVD I was just watching sent the laser hurtling through five minutes of film. I had to stop, meticulously (ie with the closest available Kleenex) wipe the disc, suffer through the menus, and fast-forward to the correct place. I know it is a small annoyance. I could be starving in Siberia, feeling the full weight of Stalin’s five-year plan back in the twenties and thirties. Things could be worse. But as far as technology goes, there has to be something better than fucking DVDs.

Alright then, a post about movies again, because they are one of my all time favorite things. I rented four films one night, and then last night I rented an extra one while over at Katie’s. Here is what I saw and what I think (because that is why you come here, to hear what I think).

Just finished Igby Goes Down, with Kieran Culkin. The first thing to mention is the poor job that was done by the filmmakers. The script in terms of dialogue and pacing and continuity was terrible—although I suppose some of Igby’s quips had that late nineties zing we’ve come to expect from our intelligent movie characters. You know the type, the excessive culture referencing, the off-hand put-downs, the blasé uninvolved and ultimately completely scared approach to life. Another big downer was the over-direction. The last few minutes were done with a series of crossfades over shots from the same angle. Ugh, it is like bad music video editing. And there were several scenes shot handheld when they could have easily been done with a tripod. Everyone this side of Traffic has decided that a camera obtrusively wobbling in their character’s face must mean intensity and realism.

But despite such technical garbage, the main character of Igby still caught my attention. Don’t thank Culkin. He sucked, as much of the rest of the cast did. The best actor was actually Jeff Goldblum, followed by Claire Danes with usual middling job. But Igby, somehow above his poor dialogue, his routine angst, and his terrible Culkin contrived glances, had something going for him. The writer, and I guess in this case the director because they are the same person, really understood the sort of rage that just builds up over these injustices perpetrated by high society. And it never dissipates. It just builds up forever, this loathing. I totally identified. So I suppose this guy deserves to make another movie—as long as he cleans up the technical side.

Whatever. That was a movie I could have hated a few months ago, but I feel London has mellowed me. My once infinite reservoirs of hate have since dried up. Being wrathful towards movies is unproductive. I have better things to do with my time. You can even have Moulin Rouge (I guess—for now at least).

Ok, next movie. Last night, Katie and I rented The Good Girl. This movie left me really cold, it didn’t manage to move me at all. It did have a few technical successes, a few shots that were memorable, and of course the rest was filled with the usual sort of syrupy nonsense one expects from this kind of existential Midwest angst piece. OK, so this is just a bland movie, fine whatever, but what really bugged me is a contempt I detected on the director’s part for his characters. Jennifer Aniston’s character is so foolish, and stupid, and mired in reality, and the things she says are so intentionally over the top and goofy, I feel like the director is laughing at her behind her back. Of course she is never going to escape, he reveals in about five minutes. She can’t imagine anything beyond this, even if she hates it. Her excuses are so weak it is ridiculous.

But still, I didn’t loathe it. Just thought it sucked.

I saw Welcome to Collinwood with my parents on Saturday night. It was actually the perfect family movie—you know, a few cameo’s by Clooney that kept my father chuckling, a fun, easy to follow but tense plot, lots of slapstick humor, and enough imagination to keep your artier assholes such as myself interested. The best part of the movie is when they sit down on the couch and contemplate what they are going to do with the money, and you reflect on their ingenuity (as well as their incompetence) and appreciate the fact that as hoodlums, they are real dreamers. In walks William H. Macy two scenes later and runs it by spelling it out in a monologue. The end fizzles and dies, but the rest is at least a rowdy distraction.

On Hala’s recommendation, I saw Heathers—you know, the Winona Ryder and Christian Slater film. I really have to thank Hala (hope you are reading and had a safe flight home) because I just love this film. The ending presents the most problems for this being a complete success—Christian Slater steps out of character to blow himself up. But it sets up one of the best moments of the film when Winona takes the red ribbon and it makes the indulgence worth it. This movie obviously influenced Pumpkin, a movie that I was surprised to love when I saw it with Will. Both successfully mix cultural criticism with humor and satire. They don’t have contempt for their characters, but they revel in undercutting any sort of speech they make. Just as Winona Ryder feels like she has said something of profound, her parents prove her wrong—and in doing show, demonstrate how close-minded they are. Just as Christian Slater seeks to demonstrate the moral of the story, we realize that he is insane, and everything he says should be thrown out the window. That doesn’t keep the characters from striving to do their best. The filmmakers just accept that despite their intentions, they are wrong a lot of the time. In fact, in many ways, the filmmakers demonstrate how all of the opinions of the characters are viable. Some of the acting suffers because of the teen factor, but the writing and direction are just great. It is also an excellent eighties artifact—it perfectly captures the time and doesn’t shy away from depicting the decadence that so many other examples of that decade avoid by glossing it over. You owe it to yourself to go watch this film. I mean it, go and watch it right now.

Speaking of my reserves of hate diminishing, I have been listening to some of my old music since I came home. I’ve found that I no longer hate the Strokes. And although I never hated the White Stripes, I have begrudgingly accepted them as more than a mere critics’ band. I was listening to White Blood Cells and Is This It? in the car and was greatly amused and I was even rocked a little. I think White Blood Cells is better, even though it is a more difficult album to listen to. What I mean is, it is indulgent and wanders on when I got bored after about ten or twelve tracks of Jack White’s whining. But at the same time, he demonstrates the depth of his sound and his influences by continuing on past the point of silly distraction. He gets loud and then soft, and then usually loud again. Which is the main problem, that sometimes he substitutes a fuzz pedal for keeping a more mellow groove going. The Strokes on the other hand are a much lighter, breezy affair, and they show all of their cards with the first song; there just isn’t as much depth as with the White Blood Cells, who can do more than one thing. The rest is just a walk in the park, because they’ve already shown you all of their tricks. I think their greatest asset is actually Mr. Julian, their singer. The little angular riffs and metronomic ride cymbal filled rhythm section can’t compete with the sort of drama and apathy he manages to pull of simultaneously. His lyrics seem to indicate he is terminally bored, but at the same time, and with the help of his delivery, compelled and ensnared by his apparently pointless meandering life. And that’s the fun, because aren’t we all caught up in the mundane? I am apparently—this is a three page post about a bunch of movies and records. I’ll write more later about adjusting to America (or the lack of adjustment).

(ed: Some may notice that this post is incoherent. Keep in mind that it was originally written under extreme sleep deprivation, and after much editing, still remains the ramblings of a madman.)

Finally, I’m back in a country where a sign reading “concessions” means food, not discount prices on tickets. While I was walking along in the Dallas terminal, the smells of the gross airport food reached me and I was never happier to have a nose. American food just smells better than all that tasteless British crap. I got me a bunch of BBQ whatever and drippy baked beans. After I finished that, I turned the corner and realized my destiny—a Wendy’s frosty. It is truly great to be home. But while I was consuming a chocolate drink, I realized that I’ll never go to Funland again (I love that place!). That thought made me realize that my life of the past four months vanished in a few hours. I have yet not fully absorbed this fact. It feels like the whole trip was a dream, really—everything is suddenly back to normal. I even had to walk through the same part of Gatwick to leave as I did when I first arrived, as if I were going out the rabbit hole that I came into.

The money situation continues to amuse me. While in London, we used to joke that spending pounds was so easy because it felt like play money and didn’t have any real value. Now the reverse is suddenly true; it is the green money in my wallet that feels fake. They are overtly crisp, and all the prices in the airport are higher here (at least numerically).

Regardless, I never expected to find comfort in such tacky commercialism as the airport’s McDonald luggage car. It is good to be back in America, the height of media saturation—even if it sickens me. But hey! This is the stuff I grew up with. I was so overjoyed to see Wendy’s it was ridiculous. I didn’t know how much I missed it until I saw the sign.

I'm writing this on the first leg of my journey home. For some reason, this flight is ten hours long. I have a layover in Dallas of all places. I need something to pass the time, so I figure I'll "blog" in my physical journal, and type it up later.

I never posted last night about leaving, even though I did stay up all night. As expected, everyone got separation anxiety at the eleventh hour, including me. All my friends and I stayed up late, reveling in the bizareness of late night antics and the curious sense of lightheadness that at least I felt over returning to America. We had fun, and I never got around to posting.

I figured I would write something pretentious/sentimental on the plane, possibly involving Bob Dylan lyrics. But I just don't feel up to it. Instead, I'm gonna write about the in-flight movie, Half Past Dead. I have a strange attraction (possibly magnetic) to schlock Hollywood films. This one is another Steven Seagal plus rapper affair. Seagal still looks like he has a jungle gym up his ass and he's concentrating with all his might not to explode everytime he delivers a line. I swear, they must write these movies by committee (actually, some of them they do!). When this film was first made, it was called the Rock. That's right, this film is basically a run through of the familiar sights of terrorists, hostages, Alcatraz, prisoners turned good, and undercover agents. Except the Rock had Connery, Cage, and Ed Harris. For mindless action, you can't do better than that (certainly not Connery, at least). But this time all we get is Ja Rule.

But see, here's the trick. They don't just rip off the Rock--they also rip off Under Seige, in a much more obvious way than the Rock did (and all these movies owe Die Hard a nod). This sort of formulaic nonsense is demonstrated in the first fifteen minutes. The movie opens with the criminal organization Seagal belongs to giving him a lie detector test to see if he is an FBI agent. He passes, but the tension in the scene "let's us know" that he is actually undercover. Perfect. Then his thug buddy, Ja Rule, randomly accuses him of hanging on to his dead wife. Nothing establishes this random tone shift--the characters apparently associate being held by gun point and asked questions about their loyalty with marriage. There is a flash cut close up of Seagal's marriage ring. But after a short conversation over his dead bride, there is a straight, flat cut to the two of them driving really fucking fast in a car. After Seagal does some stunts (or the stunt man does) they park the car, get out, and then the FBI arrives and everyone dies. True to form, Seagal survives his blasting--just like in Hard to Kill.

But the really funny thing is that it isn't unwatchable, especially on a small screen where the Mtv jump editing doesn't assault the sense. Half Past Dead is much better than Seagal's self-directed vehicle Fire Down Below. It's quick, predictable, and satisfying, always preferring action to drama.

But what is really offensive is the message it sends--all the black characters are either thugs or evil. They walk about posturing and glorifying the gangsta life. Ja rule of course as a gangsta rapper turned actor is the greatest example of this is in the movie. His stupidity, his blind loyalty to Seagal, who betrays him, it all speaks of an ethos that elevates these criminal characters to heroes, who turn to crime because they live a hard life. Bullshit.

And on top of this, all the women are either helpless or evil. The FBI captain is a woman, and that might be seen as an advanced view of femininity. For example, she does have a shoot out at the beginning--she's tough! But on the other hand, every action she does makes her look like a ninny. She fucks up and shoots Seagal in the opening scene. Then she feels guilty, because she knew he was undercover, and lets him do everything. She is powerless through the entire film. The evil seductress is a shallow, insane, stock evil character who is in the film as frat boy eye candy, wearing a tight leather mid-drift and a matrix style trenchcoat. How criminal mastermind of her. Just as much as when she claims to be a "super bitch". Her and FBI woman share a moment of menstruation contemplation (at least I think that was the implication). Go girl power!

Something that always interests me is the impact of video games on movies. First, video games tried to copy movies. Now movies try to copy video games, especially in terms of action sequences. Ja Rule basically plays a Sega Arcade gun game, shooting missiles out of the air inches away from the cockpit of a downed helicopter where he digitally controls with a HUD a gattling gun. They even show a video game type POV shot.

Speaking of Arcade shooters, I spent so much money on arcade games in Funland while in London. I probably could have done something productive with that money, like buy CDs. But the good news is I did beat Time Crisis 2 (sort of). I mean, the huge underground satellite shot me with a laser beam seconds before I delivered the final blow. I saw the whole game, except for the ending, and I don't even watch the cut scenes! Doesn't that count? Ok fine, I didn't beat it. You are so pushy. But then why did I spend all that money? Good times, I guess.

But about the in flight movie again. You are probably thinking, I'd like some nachos. But you should be thinking, they show Half Past Dead on the airplane from the UK? Is Ja Rule popular in Britain? (probably more than Jar Jar Binks, despite their inherent similarities, both being an awful mockery of Africans and African-Americans) Well the real deal is that each seat (and keep in mind this is coach) is equipped with a monitor that pulls out. You can select between the three movies which repeat endlessly, like on pay-per-view, except that this is free. There are also fourteen music channels, which, although fairly unlistenable as most sequenced radio tends to run together, does include such good music as No Doubt, the Rolling Stones, Tori Amos, and that Coldplay song that is starting to grow on me, Clocks. Radio stations are pretty standard on flights, and the songs from the artists generally suck (out of all the U2 singles, why Angel of Harlem) but the fold out monitors are new for me. So here is my question for you. If this is coach, how nice must first class be?

Four hours to go. Sigh. And this is just the first leg. Why do they call it legs anyway?

This is just a quick update to let everyone know that I survived my ten hour flight back to the states, not to mention the layover, the transfer, the lightning storm, the bus ride, and the very insane final night in london. I wrote some stuff on the plane and in Texas that I will post very soon, and by soon I mean I will try very hard to put it up tomorrow (Mrs Janoff: "never use very, it is a meaningless word." I hear her in my head everytime I type that word, even when I say it). The "computer situation" in this house is very odd indeed--my computer was on the blitz before I even went to london and is located in the soulsucking dungeon that is my room, and my parents machines are antiques. I'm on my father's right now, and his browser doesn't even show my page correctly. And my page has nothing on it. There is a lot to write about though, so once I can figure out a solution, expect beaucoup content. In the past twenty four hours, I've rediscovered why I love my parents and Sarasota and also why I can't stand to spend more than twenty four hours with my mother. I've also tried to get four months of guitar playing done in about the same time.

I'll take this moment (a very special moment) to thank everyone for their positive comments, their well-wishing for me on my journey home, and also the feedback about this site. I think this is the second time I've done this, and I haven't even been blogging for a month, but I just love you guys so much, I can't stop thanking you. And speaking of which, let me give a shout out to my "blog mother" who gave horrible painful birth to this site, and then was kind enough to bring it back from the dead (I'm thinking of Sethe from Beloved right now, but I don't think Chris ever cut my throat to keep me from returning to slavery). If you don't know how to get to Chris's site, it is www.doyoufeelloved.com/blog, and when he does update, it is a great read. Chris is more responsible for this site than I am, and also for my sanity while I was in London.

And hey! Andy was nice enough to give me a plug on his site, www.beginningtwenty.com/blog. Thanks for the advertising, and the comments! I hope you keep reading.

Well, I saw Ian McKellen. Dance of Death is playing at the Lyric on Shaftesbury, and for a mere £20 pounds, I saw everyone's favourite British actor (for now).

I was actually surprised at the number of Americans I heard in the audience before the show. I figured it would be a primarily British audience. But maybe he really has established a bond with America with Lord of the Rings. He did almost win an Academy Award for it. I should have called out, "Go Gandalf!" at curtain call. Or better yet, "Magneto!" But who remembers that he played the master of magnetism? No one has any respect, for mutants at least. But the real question remains: who would win in a fight, Magneto or Gandalf? Now, I would lean towards Gandalf initially, but then again he was defeated by Christopher Lee (even Yoda beat him), and Gandalf needed a bunch of walking and talking trees to wage war beat him. Magneto on the other hand often holds his own with Professor Xavier, the greatest mind on the planet. And he nearly killed Wolverine. Wolverine!

So you are wondering about the play, right? Not interested in my comic book lore, right? Well then--the play was good, I guess. The two main actors were great. I actually think I preferred Frances de la Tour to McKellen. It was one of the greatest female performances I've ever seen. The third wheel, Owen Teale, who played Kurt, just wasn't as good as the other two, but then again, look who he has to play against. It is like comparing Mary Kate and Ashley to Meryl Streep. Ok, maybe not that bad, but I just wanted to name drop the Olsen twins. Actually, Teale did have moments where he came off as painfully forced, but overall it wasn't destabilizing to the performance. I think he has progressed since Chris saw it.

I didn't come away from the play feeling enriched in any way. I was entertained for sure. The closing moments of the play were a little too preachy, a little too stageplay. Honestly, it was a good performance, but the source material isn't the absolute best. It's strong, better than most things on in London right now, but it isn't A Doll's House.

I'll take this moment to apologize for the sentimentality of the last post. Unfortunately, you'll have to suffer through it again. Tonight is my last night in London, and I figure I'll write a huge post about my final thoughts in the wee hours of the night before I hop on my plane. But for now, I'm off to the Oxo, for what is hopefully some passable cuisine in this blasted town! And then to the Eyes of London! (Or the London Eye, but wouldn't it be cool if there were actually huge Eyes in the middle of London?)

After coming home from the Opera (see previous post), my roommates sprung on me a surprising proposition. Their friend had two extra Paul McCartney tickets for the next day, Tuesday night. They were normally £34 tickets, but they would easily sell them for £15 a piece. That was a good enough deal for me, and without even thinking about it, I was suddenly on my way to see the most famous living popstar. Words somehow fail.

Let us have a moment of silence in quiet contemplation. Let us try to comprehend the impact Paul McCartney and his sixties group the Beatles have had on my life. I certainly wouldn’t be playing the guitar now (would I?). I certainly wouldn’t have bought forty CDs in London. I might not even be here in London today. Would I want to be a musician? Would I still be acting? Would I be happier, sadder? I do feel he has enriched my life. I love his songs. Who knows where I would be without the Beatles. I remember memorizing the lyrics to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds in elementary school, or dancing in my socks to Good Day Sunshine. I’m pretty sure the first compact disc I ever owned, and therefore the first piece of music I ever owned, was a copy of A Hard Day’s Night (not to be confused with the first CD I purchased, which was of course the Firestarter single by Prodigy. Good times). And the reason I got a guitar and wanted to sing was so I could run through my favourite Beatles songs.

I had to absorb all these thoughts before I went to the show. I bought the tickets in the morning, and suddenly it hit me. I was going to see one of the foremost architects of my life. Not to sound dramatic, but artistic inspiration is what motivates many of my life choices. I was going to go see Paul McCartney. As you might be able to tell, I’m a big fan.

So now to answer the question you are probably all wondering. Does he still have it? And my answer is, yes he does. But it is so much more complicated than that.

First of all, the show itself was a real bummer. It started off with incomprehensibly. There were circus characters running around the floor seats in purple spotlights. This lasted maybe fifteen minutes. Then suddenly, and horribly, the monitors showing quasi-eastern iconography were overcome by a single note and a single image—there, for his adoring fans to see, was a silhouette of his famous Hofner bass, and him standing in front of it, holding a real model triumphantly.

This sort of pandering continued all evening. The spotlight never left him. Sometimes, five or six screens in a row would show his face, all from the same angle. After each and every song, he would stop, hold up his instrument in the air by the neck, and wait for applause, even if it the response wasn’t that intense. He constantly broke the flow of the show.

He was obviously old. He said silly things like, “We are going to rock you!” Or he would say something like, “but most of all, we want to thank you!” He looked old, his face was all saggy, he probably smelled. As my friend Paul pointed out, his band all looked forty years younger than him. At some points, he did tell jokes that were slightly amusing about getting massages or what not, but it all came off as slightly forced. At least he was relaxed. He also pushed sixties iconography down the audiences throat, coating us in psychedelic swirls. He even played clips of the film Hard Day’s Night during Can’t Buy Me Love, and showed clips of a screaming audience during All My Loving. It felt like he wanted to import a young, hip crowd that was still in love with him, still thought he was cute. But he wasn’t.

And you could hear that his voice had changed. He sounded older. Some of the high notes were forced. It wasn’t perfect.

On the other hand, it is a live show, so I accepted some fuck ups. And if you do take into account that he is forty years older, even if he hasn’t, than he was fucking amazing. He still sounds better than most pop stars, and guess what—he is sixty! Sixty! Even Bono can’t hit the high notes on his songs anymore, and he’s only forty. I saw Mike Love perform, and he was total shit. But Paul McCartney can still carry a groove, can still get it done. It may sound a little more Warm FM than it used to, but he still rocked, in his silly Paul McCartney way.

The old joke goes that one day Paul would replace all the Beatles and continue touring as if nothing had happened. Strangely, this is more or less true. He shied away from playing any songs that had Lennon vocal leads, but on songs like We Can Work It Out, he did them with just the slightest amount of emphasis to recall the urgency Lennon puts into all of his vocals. In other words, they came off fine. His guitarist copped all of George Harrison’s riffs effortlessly (and poor old, underrated Denny Laine, but who cares, right). The band didn’t look like the Beatles, or hell, even Wings, but if you closed your eyes, and imagined what they might sound like backing Paul McCartney when they were sixty, the concert was dead on. They sounded like the records. Paul McCartney sounded like Paul McCartney. It was the closest I’ll ever get to seeing the Beatles, even more than the fake Beatles I saw, the actors from the live show Get Back.

Trying to reconstruct a set-list would be impossible. He played everything. The only songs he didn’t play that I expected him to were Penny Lane and She Loves You. The man played for three hours, and even ran through Live and Let Die, with fireworks and onstage pyrotechnics, huge jets of flame. It was preposterous. Also, he did play a few songs off his new record, and they were kinda crap, especially when they were left to compete with stuff like Yesterday or I Saw Her Standing There.

Hearing all those songs back to back did illustrate why Paul McCartney has reason to celebrate his success. He obviously pioneered the sound and feel of FM radio, even if it wasn’t created to play his songs, and even if he isn’t its main feature. The graceful melodies, the constant energy in the vocals, the dramatic, almost hard rock riffs, and of course the balladry, is exactly the standard that popular music has conformed to. The Beatles were not just the first Boy Band. They are the best radio hit makers. Every single they wrote is radio friendly, every song they wrote overall is radio friendly. They put the popular in popular music.

Of course there is always the emotional connection. During I’ve Just Seen a Face, I became a little wistful. I wish that Katie had been there with me. I remember when we would make love and then listen to Beatles records (when was the last time we did that? Or does it just feel like we did that, and it never actually happened?). I remember her singing along to my CDs as we drove in my car. There are a lot of memories attached to the Beatles’ songs, which is probably why they remain popular today.

Because, in the end, taken all together, they can be kind of boring. After three hours, I was desperate for him to stop. The band had to reserve their energy, so some songs got a light-hearted rendition instead of the full magic (what was left of it). Chris asked me later if the boring songs were from Wings. And although that is the quick criticism of his career, it isn’t always the case. A lot of the songs don’t have the same emotional grip as a lot of the music I listen to nowadays. Paul McCartney, being such a good performer, can put the urgency into something like All My Loving. But taken at face value, it is just feel good pop-music, on the other, older side of rock music. At one point, I sort of heard for a few seconds how the songs might sound to someone who hasn’t heard them a billion times. They are fun, a little soft, light, airy, they would fit in on an easy-listening station. The influences of country and blues and full out, Little Richard Chuck Berry Rock and Roll show, but they’ve been watered down. Paul McCartney is less a great thief than a grand distiller. He makes everything palpable to the masses, to the middle class.

The only thing I can compare the Beatles catalogue to is Shakespeare’s plays. Both were extremely popular in their day, both were the major medium in popular entertainment of their day, both ended up epitomizing an art form in its early days, although neither artist worked at the mediums conception, and both are expected to last for eternity as great works of art. But I’ve begun to wonder about the Beatles catalogue. Fifty years from now, are we really going to look back at Hey Jude and say that this was one of the best works of music from the twentieth century? How can this compare to Stravinsky? Or even Robert Johnson? What about the lesser songs? Even Titus Andronicus has more to offer than Lennon’s abysmal Run For Your Life, or Paul McCartney’s stinker All Together Now. What about the George songs? Does anyone really want to remember If I Needed Someone, a mildly pleasant but instantly forgettable song?

The whole point of me picking up a guitar and writing songs was to compete with the Beatles. Everyone remembers Beatles songs, so when I started writing, I figured I had to be at least as good as them. I’ve studied their song craft so much that when McCartney started describing to the audience how he wrote a song, I could tell which one he was talking about immediately. But, I don’t think I want to write Beatles songs anymore. I say this all the time, but I really wish I could just drop it for good. I like the songs, they are nice, they moved me once, but stuff like Let it Be just rings hollow now. I think I’ve Just Seen A Face gets it right, but songs like Eleanor Rigby and She’s Leaving Home have sounded childish to me for years. And now I’m starting to realize that all the songs sound that way. Paul ended the concert with The End. And in the end, “the love you take is equal to the love you make” is a nice sentiment, but it isn’t true. No one needs a big pile of stinking, boring lies anymore, even in a nice pretty package. Music has changed significantly, and this stuff wouldn’t be as popular if released nowadays. Even the freakout guitar solos at the end of the concert sound childish compared to the studio work of Kevin Shields. Loveless sounds like a womb, or fluid.

But I don’t begrudge Paul McCartney his success. He’s great, no question. My argument has always been, besides the songs, the Beatles are the best rock performers ever. They completely sell everyone of their songs by performing with all of their heart. And even at sixty, McCartney is doing the same thing. His voice, although old, is still open, cheerful, inviting, and magic. He had his day heyday, and he can still prove why. But I don’t want what he has. I don’t want to wake up sixty with a handful of cute tunes, and be forced to stumble on to stage in, “where am I? New Orleans? or Tokyo?” or wherever, and chug through my hits with a bunch of young cutthroat kids that sound like they could open for Linkin’ Park (thanks again, Pugliese).

Well, it was interesting to see in person (even if he was a little dot) the only living man who might be considered a hero of mine. But, I don’t really feel like I have any heroes. Nor do I want to feel like I have to live up to McCartney (why I ever did, I don’t know why). So I think I’ll just be his fan. Hell, maybe I’ll stop writing songs. Ha, fat chance. In the end, music is a lot more than just the Beatles for me. And if anything, that is what last night proved to me.

And so my madcap, last week of London so I need to cram everything in continues. My companions seem to be dwindling. I saw the Opera with Hala and Kat, and found Jessica there. I saw McCartney with Chris. And tonight, I’m going alone to Dance of Death. It’s gonna be just me and Ian McKellen, in the last instalment of last minute cultural enrichment. I saw the greatest living popstar. Now I am going to see the greatest living actor (mind you, maybe not best, I dunno). And then my dear friends, it will be time to get out of here.

If I ever get out of here, thought of giving it all away to a registered charity. All I need is a pint a day. If I ever get out of here.
Well the rain exploded with a mighty crash… (and I’m sixteen again, and it’s summer, and I’m driving into the sunrise, and he sings)…As we fell into the sun…

Another quick update--I just finished my exams. The first one went well, and my second exam I wrote seven beautiful pages on. The last exam though, I blanked like a motherfucker. Anyone who has ever done a timed writing, it was just like that, except with a novel I had read, and I had the prompt beforehand. I wanted to give myself flexability, but instead I just completely turned off. And once you do that, you start to feel sick, you can't pay attention, you keep rubbing your head, and there is no hope. So I just banged out four pages of utter nonsense and left the room in awful terrible disgust. It wasn't a good way to end the semester, but at least it is over. Florida, here I come!

A little angel (Chris) pointed out to me that it is not the Jerry Springer Opera, but Jerry Springer The Opera. How this impacts the show has yet to be debated.

Also, Jeremy is indeed in London, but I wasn't sure if he was bothering to read my little droppings on this site. So now that I know he is, I will formally recommend to him Jerry Springer the Opera. It is fabulous. Go see it.

Also, I'd like to recognize the people I don't know who have been visiting my site and leaving comments. Thanks for reading, and don't feel shy about leaving your own blog links, even if you never update. I regularly visit blogs that never update just to see if there is even one tiny notice.

Which reminds me--if anyone is in touch with Brinson, tell her to update her site. If I am lucky (and usually I am not) I see Brinson once a year, but even that one moment is enough for me to realize that she is a great, upbeat, manic person that brings a little ray of sunshine into my life. I usually can pretend that we are friends by reading her website, but alas! she never updates. So somebody who is in touch with her, put the pressure on! It is always fun to read a blog when you know a few dark, dirty secrets about the author.

You people seem to be enjoying this little site, so spread the Good News (okay, not THAT good news). Anyone who cares to learn how things are going in Cameronland (some old-Drama Leaguers come to mind) are welcome, so if anyone is touch with anyone else, and I'm sure someone has to be in touch with someone, pass along this site's address.

More later--but now, I must prepare for my last two exams of the semester. Besides, Chris said I should try to write some short entries to get out of the habit of making blogging a long, taxing exercise. So here! This is short! (sort-of)

As you may have gleaned from the title, I saw the Jerry Springer Opera. I really should have written about it last night when it was fresh in my mind, but a study session for Shakespeare that I promised to lead prevented me from blogging. What a silly word, blogging.

Anyway, for the uninformed, the Jerry Springer Opera is on now at the National Theatre in London. The National is a state a state-funded theatre with the sole purpose of not only preserving the art, but also pushing the envelope by staging progressive shows. The financial backing means they can risk failure and still survive. This all boils down to one point: the new artistic director, who just took over from Trevor Nunn, decided he would push the envelope and put on the Jerry Springer Opera. The premise is simple—take the television show, increase the drama to epic proportions, and add full-blown opera music. The only character who doesn’t sing is Jerry (and the head of security, but he has one line).

I have to say that it is the most challenging piece of theatre I’ve seen here in London. I don’t know if that means much, because most West End shows are fairly pedestrian, and I didn’t make it to any fringe theatre. But the Jerry Springer Opera genuinely pushes the envelope of taste and entertainment in ways that its television counterpart could never hope to compare. The quotes at the top of this post should give a good idea of how far they take it.

Despite the festive nature of the piece (and it is fun, it kept the audience laughing hysterically for two hours straight), the production displayed a real interest in analysing and criticizing its source material, which isn’t just the Jerry Springer show, but American and by extension mass consumer Western culture on the whole. The show is interested in two things—the similarities between the television show and opera, and the responsibility of Jerry Springer and other personalities who are willing to broadcast humiliation as a spectacle. The show becomes a battle of gigantic forces, the struggle between good and evil, and each character is either immediately evil or good. Sometimes these alignments are overturned. The Chick with the Dick (I’m not kidding here) is shown to have a heart of gold, and the tv audience/opera chorus sympathizes and accepts her/him into their hearts (I’m not kidding here, either). The fat man hoping to reveal his infidelity to his wife is first encouraged, and then abandoned by the audience when he proves to have several illicit affairs, not just one. But it all amounts to the same. The audience wants proof of either good or evil, and good must be rewarded, and evil punished.

This relationship is made even more explicit, perhaps redundantly, in the second act when there is a tv episode involving Satan, Jesus, and God. The playwrights are obviously serious here; they want to demonstrate the core of cultural corruption, from television down to questionable core religious values.

In the meantime, Jerry stands by, indifferent, taking no responsibility for the violence or the decadence. And although the forces that drive the characters are ultimately demonstrated to be cultural, it is clear that Jerry is just an extension of the impartial attitude of most of the elite (which may or may not include most of the theatre going audience).

So what does that mean? Is it fun? Well, yeah it is. The great thing about the show being performed at the national is that the producers were able to throw enough money in to give it real clout. All the huge production moments are completely successful, perfectly staged, convincing in their grandiosity. Furthermore, the music and the singing are enjoyable and simultaneously hilarious (I’m no opera fan, but I’m told that it is pretty convincing from a musical prodigy). A ten-minute fuck you is sung operatic style by Satan. This is the substance of comedy.

But as much as they get the production right, the script itself could be stronger. The first act is repetitive; the second act has a weak, confusing opening, and overall the heaven and hell sequence isn’t as funny as the actual television show. Although, it should be kept in mind that it is hard to shock an audience after you’ve seen tap dancing…but I don’t want to give it away for Chris. The script drags in places, and is generally funnier when it doesn’t try to comment directly on the subject material. Some of the script wanders into pandering for sympathy, and Jerry is even allowed a (partial) redemption. On the other hand, the ushers give you free buttons when you leave. Mine says “Jerry Jerry” but my friends got “Crack Whore” and “Three Nipple something or another.” The commercials should also be mentioned—television monitors come down and the chorus encourages you in major key tones to purchase a gun, or warns you in a minor key that if you don’t believe in Jesus, you will suffer a horrible death. They are almost as effective as actual advertising, but certainly more hilarious. (Actually, I would like to add the phrase more funny to the English language. They were more funny.)

I unequivocally recommend this show to anyone in London. But considering that anyone who reads this blog is in America except Chris, and he is already going to go see it, this recommendation “falls upon deaf ears.” (the heart’s filthy lesson…) And trust me, this show is too large and too patently offensive to come to the USA. It would draw too much attention to itself to escape criticism of thing like the end of the first act. Or hell, the entirety of the Jesus humour. But this show, despite its flaws, does what other London theatre rarely does—creates challenging well-crafted popular entertainment for mass consumption and mass consideration.

Speaking of challenging, halfway through the first act, when I was still partially disgusted, I called out “Why!” Hala was sitting next to me and said, “It is just a novelty, it isn’t supposed to be good.” This comment led us into a fight during halftime—oops I mean intermission. I just refuse to believe that theatre going audiences approach entertainment the same way as standard television audiences. And I know that production wanted something more, it just wasn’t there to be laughed at and forgotten. But even if it was, why would Hala want to attend, and indeed ask me to go with her, to a show that she thought was just novelty? Wouldn’t she rather see something challenging? Besides, why not lament the failure of something that is just a novelty? What kind of super philosophy is that, where we can’t evaluate anything just because it is “a novelty,” because it is “just entertainment”? That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t examine it, shouldn’t hold it up against our aesthetic criteria. Otherwise, our universe will be full of shit, meaningless art that does nothing but suffocate us with non-essential information. Isn’t that what the Jerry Springer Opera is crying out against anyway?

OK, I’ll leave a more proper review to the professionals, people who want to do this for a living. That means you Chris—I expect an exacting review. Speaking of which, visit the homepage of this website, doyoufeelloved.com/blog to get a Massive Attack performance review from someone who DOES know the band. It is just in the sidebar on the right at the top, under the photos. Trust me, it is a lot more in depth than my impressionistic, “That was fun! Can I ride it again?” commentary.

Speaking of Chris (this is how I do lead-ins, grow accustomed to it or get out), yesterday we went on a journey to see the parts of London we hadn’t visited yet. We travelled out to Canary Wharf, the site of the tallest building in Britain. Although it was rather under whelming, I’m fairly sure that the journey was a pilgrimage for Chris. The largest building in Britain is the site where Jack and Tom O’Bedlam jump off of in the Invisibles “So You Say You Want a Revolution.”

We also made it to King’s Cross, where apparently they film the Harry Potter train scenes. Some of it was familiar; some of it didn’t look like the movie at all. We missed the boat to Kew Gardens, but we did end up riding the East End tube line. That means I’ve ridden basically every tube line in central London. Huh. Ok.

Now a quick poll for all you readers. Cameron is considering about rejoining the undying legions of out-of-work actors. I’ve re-identified (can’t get anymore tentative that re-identifying) a love for performance, and am considering dabbling/pursuing a professional career. So, do you think Cameron should stir the waters with his big toe and audition? Do you think he should shred his clothes and jump in the lake and try to earn a theatre degree? Or perhaps apply to a conservatory in New York? Because honestly, if one is going to do this sort of thing, doesn’t one need some training?

I think about blogging before blogging. I was thinking about what I would blog while I was watching the Jerry Springer Opera. Does this mean I’m going to be thinking about blogging while I have sex? Where does this stop?

When I hear Massive Attack's name, the first thing that pops into my head is the title of this entry. Which of course makes me think of Heart Attack Man, by the Beastie Boys. Well, maybe not of course...

As you may have guessed, I saw Massive Attack tonight at the Brixton Academy. Chris told me he had a free ticket, so for a cheap £20 (gasp!) I'd decided I'd go see a band that I hardly knew. I’ve only heard one of their songs. That song is Teardrop, and although they played it, I have to say I was under whelmed. The singer they had to do that song was pretty good, she did most of her songs just fine, but that one she just dropped the ball. It almost seemed like the microphone kept going out and losing the melody.

Nevermind. The point is, besides Teardrop, which was the major disappointment of the evening, the show was pretty great. The performers were really laid back—there wasn’t any rock posturing or anything. The songs they played were mostly interesting, and the sound was impressive. My ears aren't ringing at all, but they played loud the entire evening and I was up front. The one thing to complain about is the big screen they had behind them. It had little text messages popping up all over it, some clever, some informative, some terrible. For example, after displaying all of the countries in order of monetary wealth, and ending on the United States ($400 billion! I believe Russia was second with like $60 billion), they lamely flashed skulls and crossbones. Skulls and crossbones! They also did a lot of nonsense with ones and zeros that reminded me of either fifth grade or 1983.

I met some of Chris's blog friends, but I only had minimal contact with during the entire evening. But the show was blast. Overall, I have to say I was impressed by Massive Attack's sound and image. It was a compelling show. On the other hand, I have no idea what songs they played. So don't ask.

One of the reasons I went to this show was to scope out the venue. The Brixton Academy was atmospheric, with statues in little alcoves in the wall, and a sort of neo-classical approach (I guess...I'm no architecture whiz). The floor sloped, which killed my feet--I ended up shifting the entire evening. On the other hand, it probably improved sight lines.

Last night I went to the Astoria, which is just around the corner from my flat--it was another venue scouting journey. I saw the Dropkick Murphy's with Kat, and they were alright, but something just didn’t click while I was watching them. They put on a good show with lots of energy and minimal technical fuck-ups. They played your basic punk rock with bagpipes, and they let the audience storm the stage a couple times—they were nice guys. The whole place was a big party, really, everyone drinking and chanting the lyrics like they were drinking songs. The Astoria is definitely gave a real party environment—black, lots of space, silly lighting that flashed the audience and reminded you of a club, stairwells with bad renderings of dead rock stars (Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, and what may have been a Jim Morrison). I ended up next to a wall of speakers to avoid the slamdancing in the pit. The overdriven guitars ended up making my ears ring well into the night. It was fun overall, but I realized I'm just not the kind of guy who goes to punk shows. I don't drink, I don't slamdance, and I don't scream at the top of my lungs lyrics about social decadence and social redemption. Nor do I have a mohawk.

On top of all this (there's more!) I visited the British museums I hadn’t made it to yet. Because they’re free, I'd figure I'd pop in for at least a look-see. Tate Britain was fantastic, I did that one yesterday. I saw Waterhouse's Lady of Shalott—it was really weird to “witness” the original painting of that one (some of you know what I'm talking about...there are certain people who take their wall hangings way too seriously). There was also a modern art exhibit at the Tate called Days Like These, that had this great video called Miami. Just a reminder of how alien and processed and opulent and just plain futuristic are society is. Actually, what was so effective is they removed all the sound. See, a lot of things in our culture looks like the future, but sometimes it doesn't sound like the future. The world is too noisy, it doesn’t have that processed ring, that empty echo. So the filmmakers just cut out the noise and threw in electronic beats and synth. It did wonders, emphasizing the alien visuals. God, I love movies. Someone remind me why I'm not making more of those?

I went to the V&A and the Science museum today, again with Chris. Chris accurately describes the V&A as being disgustingly opulent. I just think it has a dirty name. But honestly, after seeing so much great art in France, and at the two Tate's and the national gallery, it was hard to tolerate so many objects that were made for no other function than to adorn some royal's lodgings. Chris made another comment that stuck in my mind: This stuff has no soul. And indeed it didn't, and also little function. We were reminded just how this sort of stuff continues to be produced today when we popped into Harrod's for a peak and were confronted with the Room of Luxury. I said if they had a gold bunny with jewel eyes, I'd buy it. Chris only approved the purchase after I suggested that it would be alive, and would have to be fed money arranged into lettuce heads.

The Science Museum was amazing, but it contained a little too much to be confronted in one day. I should have gone earlier in the semester. Again, Chris had a large impact on the viewing--he got all whiny, and wouldn't shut up as I dragged him around looking for this brain. “A brain, you say?” Well yeah, duh, that was the whole point of going to the museum. Brett had told me there was some famous scientist’s brain on display in the museum. I was hoping it would be on a pedestal at the end of some well lit hallway. But, no dice--we didn't find any brains, just a bunch of aerospace technology, and little kid exhibits.

Speaking of Brett, I almost wish I took his advice and went and saw Puss perform with Gameboys. Apparently they also had DJ workshops--I could have learned to be DJ Dr. Cameronstein! Thanks for the tip Brett--it just wasn't meant to be. I had already made the Massive Attack plans. I’ll see you soon in Tally though! I’m looking forward to it!

I'll give a shout out right now to all the people who have made comments. Keep them coming, even the trivial ones. It lets me know you guys are reading. And so far, I've been happy with the people who have commented--I'll let you know if you aren't welcome, so if you haven't been notified, stick around, you’re welcome.

And going back to the title, I'm about to have a massive heart attack about my airline tickets. I fly out on Friday, but my tickets still haven't arrived in the mail. Wish me luck in sorting this mess out--methinks the city doesn't want to let me out of its evil clutches. Awww, isn't that cute. Ok, enough crazy talk for one night. Happy Easter if you do that kinda stuff, and if you don't, Happy 4/20 day. You know what I'm talking 'bout!

Huh. So, I stayed up all night to finish my two papers. Yep. It is 8:30, and I haven't slept a wink. Haven't even touched my bed. Only went into my bedroom to put down my books. Feeling pretty tired, as one might imagine. I have a final exam in about thirty minutes.

Don't know how I feel about my papers. They are ok, they aren't going to get awful marks, but they might not score very high. Kind of a waste, to put my whole evening into them if they aren't perfect.

Actually, I didn't work on papers all night. I took a break to watch Empire Records (what a fun movie!) Also, My friend Jessica cooked me an impromptu cake. She said, I'm bored, what shall I do, and I said, go make me a cake. And lo, she did! It was made of nutella. It was delicious, but I ate too much and it made me want to retch, ralph, barf, puke, vomit, explode, pray to the porcelain god. But anyway, we all went up to her flat to eat it and had a mini-party to U2s hits from the 80s, we being the friends I've made on this program. Yeah, I made friends! So suck it!

Did I mention I know kung-fu?

Feeling kinda tired. Oh well. Had a fun birthday, who cares about school. I only cared about grades when they determined whether I'd be able to come to London or not. Now that I'm here, and pretty much finished with the program, who cares about school? Not me. Nope. I didn't write an extra 2,000 words for my paper. Whoops.

Cameron Stuart Stuart 1
ENL 4273
Professor Gregory
16 April 2003
Division of Self from the Environment in To The Lighthouse and Shadowline
Creativity is tied to feelings of omnipotence. In Roberts essay, “Omnipotence and the Romantic Imagination,” creativity is linked to an inexact recreation of the state experienced first as a baby. For infants, there is no distinction made between the inner and outer world, and so the child’s creative force can be exerted over both realms. When the human mind matures and separates the two, it begins to understand the limited scope of its creative powers. For artists, there is a need to reactivate this creative force. This recreation of the feeling of omnipotence can sometimes mark a shift backwards, a retreat into the inner realm where creativity dominates.
Woolf writes about the inability to separate the inside and the outside worlds, and the inability to sacrifice the feelings of omnipotence in To The Lighthouse. The characters’ voices are completely submerged within their inner worlds. The characters are expressed through stream of consciousness writing that represents their minds assimilating outside stimuli and integrating it into their personal, closed off worlds. The inner world dominates, and prevents the characters from identifying with one another. The characters’ identities tend to run together as they are all completely absorbed in their own thoughts. The world outside, where the characters fail to exert power, diminishes in importance. Mr. Ramsay is more interested in his ability to accomplish his philosophical goals than interacting with his family. He walls himself off from the outside world so that he can exercise his creative powers without fear of failure. Mrs. Ramsay cannot separate herself from the world outside of herself. She
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identifies her personality completely in the outside realm, and expects to exert power over it. When she is unable to shape the world through force of will, she feels like she has lost control of herself. Woolf herself seems unable to detach the characters inner lives from her own identity. The consciousnesses of the characters bleed together, as if they are made of the same substance. Woolf delights in exerting her power over the characters, her own exertion of omnipotence, especially resonant because the characters are representations of her parents, figures from her real life. She has absorbed people into her own mind where she can control them. Woolf herself seems to find it necessary to demonstrate her power on the creative plane.
Conversely, Conrad’s Shadowline is a novel that deals entirely with the recognition of the independence of the outside world from the individual’s powers. The story follows the narrator’s induction into adulthood. His recognition of his lack of power over the outside world results in his maturity. The “shadowline” is not just a reference to the imaginary division between child and man, but also between the inner and outer worlds. At the beginning of the story, the narrator is completely self-absorbed, ignoring outside stimuli like Captain Giles and the steward. As the story opens, the narrator has learned to differentiate between himself and the outside world, and therefore loses interest with the outside world, where he feels he has no control. Roberts describes this as the declaration of “I AM”, a most dangerous event in human development. This seals the developing person off from interacting with the world around him. However, the narrator’s tenure as captain teaches him to recognize and appreciate the outside world. The outside world threatens death, and has control over the fate of the narrator’s life. But the narrator also learns the joy of duty, and the subtle responses he can create in the world through hard work. He develops a
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symbiotic relationship with the outside world and a clear assessment of his powers, rather than the fantasy of omnipotence.
All the characters in To The Lighthouse possess the same power of omnipotence, of a unique and startling active inner world. Much of the action takes place in the characters’ minds; one image has Lily keeping all of the events in the novel dancing “up and down, like a company of gnats, each separate, but all marvellously controlled in an invisible elastic net…in Lily’s mind” (Woolf 30). Although little physical action takes place in the book, the characters are able to constantly exert themselves in their minds. Roberts describes this activity as “an inability to relate to the external world, which we can identify as a retreat into the fantasy of non-separateness, omnipotence” (Roberts 16). The characters exert power by retreating into the creative, imaginary world.
Mr. Ramsay is completely absorbed in his own inner world. He cannot pay attention to events happening outside of his mind. He only responds to Mrs. Ramsay’s observations about the outside world to silence her, saying, “‘Very fine’, to please her, and pretended to admire the flowers,” but, “he did not admire them, or even realise that they were there” (Woolf 78). Mr. Ramsay has cut himself off from the outer world. In his inner space, he remains omnipotent, able to fully control his universe. The events outside him are a mere reminder of the separateness he has from the outside world. He sees “his wife and son in the window…as one raises one’s eyes from a page in an express train and sees a farm,” just a reminder of the other world one is bypassing because of the added speed of the train, or in this case his own thoughts (Woolf 38). Once he has recognized the limitations of this other world, he “returns, fortified, and satisfied…without his distinguishing either his son or his wife”
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(Woolf 38). The outside world isn’t distinguishable as separate objects, but just as the other plane, all lumped together, where he has no power. Mr. Ramsay, in effort to retain his omnipotence, has cut himself off from the rest of his family. Roberts distinguishes that Ramsay’s actions separates himself from the world to fortify power, writing “making ourselves into a whole, as opposed to a collection of fragments, depends on separating ourselves from the environment.” (Roberts 5). Only by excluding the outside environment can Mr. Ramsay utilize his full creative power, and gain a sense of omnipotence.
Mrs. Ramsay, although just as closed off as Mr. Ramsay, develops a feeling of omnipotence in a different fashion. She believes her powers extend beyond herself, for she cannot separate the outside world from herself. The entire world is integrated into her life, but in doing so, she loses her own identity. Staring at the light from the lighthouse, she sees herself, feeling that the beam is “her own eyes meeting her own eyes” (Woolf 71). The repetition of “her own eyes” is divided by the word “meeting.” The inside and outside world are shown to be mediated by a single word, and what is on either side is identical. Only by the division is the outside separated from the inside.
This arbitrary division to create meaning permeates the book. Lily is only able to conclude the painting she works on for most of the novel by drawing “a line there, in the centre” (Woolf 226). Mrs. Ramsay tries to exert control over Lily by convincing her to marry. Lily finds it impossible to escape from this scheme until she removes herself from Mrs. Ramsay. Lily is able to separate herself from Mrs. Ramsay, from marriage, by deciding to “move the tree to the middle, and need never marry anybody” (Woolf 191). The line in her painting is a metaphor for the division
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between herself and the Ramsays, the need to separate herself from the other characters lives.
Woolf herself seems entrenched in the characters lives, as if they are not completely separated from her consciousness. They all posses a godlike power in manipulating their imaginary worlds, the same power Woolf uses to write the book. Nancy, one of the Ramsay’s young daughters, is unable to separate her creative omnipotence from the outside world. She absorbs the outside world into her fantasy realm and manipulates it, changing “the pool into the sea” and becoming “like God himself, to millions of ignorant and innocent creatures” (Woolf 83). This depiction of power seems to be a meditation on Woolf’s own ability to create and destroy worlds.
The separation between characters and author is narrow for any novelist. But Woolf’s self-consciousness about it brings the subject to the forefront of the novel. The characters take on an element of Woolf’s own creative powers, providing commentary about the effect of such a power on people’s identity. Mrs. Ramsay speculates that people in her life do not exist if she does not think about them. She considers it “extraordinary to think that they had been capable of going on living all these years when she had not thought of them more than once all that time” (Woolf 96). Lily has similar thoughts. She creates a story to explain Paul and Minta’s relationship, a substitute for actual personal relations. For Lily, this act of creation “is what we call ‘knowing’ people, ‘thinking’ of them, ‘being fond’ of them! Not a word of it was true; she had made it up; but it was what she knew them by all the same” (Woolf 188). This is similar to a novelist’s conception of their characters, but it is extended to the real outside world. It seems Woolf is implying a difficulty for
creative minds, or for any mind, to leave omnipotence behind and to re-enter the real
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world.
The writing unites all the characters together, relating them all to Woolf’s power over them. The stream of consciousness does not break between characters. The characters thoughts are all linked, if not in the plot, then by the novel itself, a product of Woolf’s own imagination. The characters themselves seem to represent different sides of each other, as if they were all part of a single person. Mr. Ramsay’s complete isolation is the opposite of Mrs. Ramsay complete openness. Woolf claimed the novel was like an exorcism of her parents, writing in her diary, “I used to think of him and mother daily, but writing The Lighthouse aid them in my mind (Woolf, Diary). Woolf’s creative powers absorbed her parents into her own identity, and the act of writing the novel is the same as Lily drawing the line on the canvas to separate herself from the Ramsays. The novel acts as the division between Woolf and her parents. Woolf’s ability to exercise her omnipotence in a self-conscious manner represents a division from her inability to control it as an infant. This ability to turn off the feeling of omnipotence is linked to understanding that the mother is a separate entity from the self. Roberts writes that “the fantasy of omnipotence depends on the fantasy of non-separateness, since it is only when the infant is unable to distinguish between itself and its mother that it can interpret her care as within its own control” (Roberts 10).
Woolf condemns both complete self-absorption, and self-disintegration. Mrs. Ramsay’s loss of identity results in her feelings of failure. Mrs. Ramsay is stuck perpetually in a state of recognizing the outside world, almost excluding her own. Mrs. Ramsay identifies herself outside of her body, thinking that “it was odd…how if one was alone, one leant to things, inanimate things; trees, streams flowers; felt they
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expressed one” (Woolf 71). In infant development, objects are integrated into babies’ identities in an attempt to cope with the separateness of the outside world. At first, this otherness is manifested as blocks of self, when “aspects of others are introjected and become part of ourselves, and part of ourselves are projected onto others and dealt with there” (Roberts 13). Mrs. Ramsay however seems caught in this stage of development, and is almost in a constant state of locating herself outside of her body.
When she is unable to control the world outside, her inside world crumbles. When Mrs. Ramsay sits at the head of the table, a feeling of despair overcomes her, when she wonders silently, “But what have I done with my life?” (Woolf 90). Mrs. Ramsay continues to believe that her “own creativity alone gives the world meaning,” and this results in a world that “when creativity is blocked, when inspiration is lacking, or when spirits fail…threatens to become meaningless” (Roberts 8). Mrs. Ramsay defines her life by her success or failure to control the outside world. She sees herself only in relation to outside objects, believing her own beauty is the same as the beauty of the light, saying, “she praised herself in praising the light…she was beautiful like that light.” (Woolf 71). When she plans the dinner party, its success or failure determines her own inner state, which causes questions of personal achievement. The infant believes that “the world is one,” and in maturity ”we learn to impose on it the illusion of separateness” (Roberts 5). Mrs. Ramsay never puts upon this illusion of separateness, and therefore never locates an identity.
Woolf also condemns isolating oneself in the inner world. The feelings of omnipotence create a feeling of arrogance and power that isn’t ever tested in the real world. Mr. Ramsay is delusion, constantly congratulating himself on his abilities. He believes he posses “qualities that in a desolate expedition across the icy solitudes of
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the Polar region would have made him the leader” (Woolf 40). However, his victories exist only inside his mind, in the abstract, where he never risks a sense of failure. He also ignores the people around him. He is obsessed with achieving a great philosophical advancement, and therefore ignores his family. Woolf demonstrates the lunacy Mr. Ramsay undergoes when he engages his mind, reducing his thoughts to ruminations on the alphabet, his struggle consisting of, “Z is only reached once by one man in a generation. Still, if he could reach R it would be something” (Woolf 38). Mr. Ramsay, by staying inside his own personal world, has bestowed upon himself godlike powers, imagination becoming “a repetition of God’s creative power and an assertion of identity—‘I AM’” (Woolf 7). Mr. Ramsay has achieved a “difference from others”, and therefore has developed a “sense of individuality” (Roberts 4). But Mr. Ramsay never relocates or separates the outside world from simply a big block that he cannot control. All the women he encounter are treated the same, as if separating between them in unimportant.
Conversely, the narrator in Shadowline recognizes the outside world and also its power over the individual. Once the narrator accepts the position of captain, he is forced to exert his powers in the outside world. He learns that failure is possible, and this signals the inevitability of death. When the journey concludes, Ransome retires from his post, afraid that his heart will give and he will die. The narrator has a sudden shock when Ransome says “‘I must go’…life was a boon to him—this precarious hard life—and he was thoroughly alarmed about himself” (Conrad 142). The narrator, through Ramsay’s own vulnerability, understands that in interacting with the outside world, one’s own life is at stake. The narrator’s tenure as captain has established his relationship with the outside world. He has recognized himself as an
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individual, and “knowing that one is a self may mean accepting the reality of death” (Roberts 16). The narrator, by realising his own impotence, comes to grips with his own mortality.
The outside world strips the narrator of all feelings of omnipotence, engraining him with a sense of potential collapse. The narrator is racked by feelings of inadequacy, afraid to face his own crew because “no confessed criminal had ever been so oppressed by his sense of guilt” (Conrad 116). Likewise, he is sure he is a failure as a captain, writing in his journal, “what appals me most of all is that I shrink from going on deck to face it” (Conrad 125). He is afraid to face the challenge, because it is real and he cannot control it. He cannot force the wind into the sails, and his command fails because “the ship is still lying motionless, not under command” (Conrad 125).
By the end of the novel, the narrator has grown to understand the symbiotic relationship between himself and the outside world, the “mutual satisfaction of needs” (Roberts 18). This understanding shows a considerable development from the beginning of the novel. Unlike Woolf’s characters, the narrator reaches equilibrium with the outside world. The narrator’s “abandonment of omnipotence” results in his “attainment of maturity,” an essential step because “in order to live with our own aggression, rage and envy we need to know that our environment is capable of surviving them” (Roberts 19). Without this recognition, there is also “an inability to believe in personal death” (Roberts 16). The narrator witnesses Ransome and his crew’s mortality, something he has no control over.
At the beginning of the novel, the narrator shows no such signs of maturity. He is completely absorbed in his own world. He has recognized his separateness, but
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in doing so has become more insular. He abandons his job, “for no reason on which a sensible person could put a finger I threw up my job” (Conrad 44). Roberts describes the sensation of “being different” accompanied by “a profound ambivalence,” a “general human [experience]” (Roberts 5). The separateness that the narrator feels from the world makes him feel unimportant and detached, and it occurs instantly, moving from “One day I was perfectly right” immediately to “everything was gone—glamour, flavour, interest, contentment—everything” (Conrad 45). The outside world has no connection with him, leaving him feeling “more discontented, disgusted, and dogged than ever. The past eighteen months, so full of new and varied experience, appeared a drear, prosaic waste of days…there was no truth to be got out of them” (Conrad 46). The outside world continues to exist independently of the narrator, “part of the process of development…which can be frustrating” (Roberts 8). But the narrator is distanced from the action at the beginning of the novel. He is writing after all of the events, and can understand the universal scope of his journey. He recognizes this quick passage into ambivalence as being travelled by “all mankind” (Conrad 43).
Once ashore, the narrator demonstrates his disinterest with the outside world in his conversation with Captain Giles. His attitude reflects his profession, as he preserves “the sailor’s consciousness of complete independence from all land affairs” (Conrad 55). Captain Giles’s interest in the narrator’s affairs is returned with “scorn rather than with curiosity” (Conrad 55). He hears in Giles’s speech the note of everything that has proved inconsequential to his inner life. Giles’ voice becomes the “very voice of the universal hollow conceit” (Conrad 58). The narrator is “no longer angry” but simply detached, because “there was nothing original, nothing new,
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startling, informing to expect for the world: no opportunities to find out something about oneself, no wisdom to acquire, no fun to enjoy. Everything was stupid and overrated, even as Captain Giles was. So be it” (Conrad 58). The narrator at this point has reduced the outside world into a single block, just as Mr. Ramsay has.
But with the narrator’s appointment as captain, his attitude changes. He is now in control of a ship, and must take responsibility for some part outside of himself. He begins to differentiate between objects in the outside space. He treats the steward with indifference, but greets the Captain, extending “a hand to him warmly” (Conrad 70). But the narrator’s assumption of control over the outside world is accompanied by, “boredom, weariness, dissatisfaction” (Conrad 43). Much of the narrator’s journey is marked by loneliness. His conversation with Giles after his appointment is brief, because he needs “to be alone for a bit” (Conrad 72). The narrator spends time delineate between himself and the outside world, retreating occasionally to a space where he does have control. The narrator demonstrates his power and separateness through acts of language. He demonstrates creative power through writing, for the first time in life attempting “to keep a diary” (Conrad 124). Language, as a tool of differentiation, is essential to “defining one’s identity” by acts of “referring to oneself, describing oneself, declaring one’s thoughts or feelings” (Roberts 4).
As the narrator develops, and abandons his feelings of omnipotence, he recognizes how he interacts with the world. He begins to assess his abilities through experience, writing in his diary, “I always suspected that I might be no good. And here is proof positive. I am shirking it. I am no good” (Conrad 125). He begins to realize that his imagination is not “properly under control” (Conrad 120). He recognizes the potential for loneliness, because he recognizes objects in the outside
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world. As he watches ship on deck, he is terrified “that the only voice I ever heard was my own” (Conrad 120). By the time he has secured the boat, and through the help of his crew saved the ship, he has changed significantly. He has crossed the “shadowline” so that, “all my life before that momentous day is infinitely remote” (Conrad 125).
Omnipotence then is not only a source of creativity but also of frustration. Woolf finds it necessary to divide herself from her characters through physical means. The novel separates Woolf from her parents, just as Lily’s painting separates her from the Ramsays. The lure of power in the imaginary realm is seen as destructive to human relationships and also to personal identity. But Conrad provides a solution to the seductive power of omnipotence. The “shadowline” stands as a separation, the barrier between the inside and the outside world. The narrator’s journey across it results in his discovery of self in relation to the world. It is the point when the young abandon their private worlds for the dangers of the outside realm. There, death and failure become real threats. But the narrator is able to avoid the pitfalls of the Ramsays and recognize the world outside of him. He develops his own identity, and reaches equilibrium with the world.

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Works Cited

Conrad, Joseph. The Shadow-Line. London: Penguin, 1986.
Roberts, Andrew. “Omnipotence and the Romantic Imagination.” English. Vol 40
(1991), pp 1-21.
Woolf, Virginia. The Diary of Virginia Woolf. Ed. Bell, Vanessa and McNeillie. 5
vols. Hogarth Press, 1977-84.
Woolf, Virginia. To the Lighthouse. London: Penguin, 1992.

Well it's my birthday too yeah.

I just woke up. I was napping in the study lounge. I've had a pretty laid back day. I woke up, and said to myself, "these papers are stressing you out, and they don't matter at all. You so coo, Cammo, you so coo, you can finish this paper in like an hour. Go have fun." So I did. I spent a lot of in the arcade, shooting digital people, but I also saw the film Intacto, had a free dinner (thanks Jeremy and Chris!), and ice cream. The movie was a little strange, but the whole day was relaxing, a lot better than stressing over classes I don't care about.

The last post reminded me why I stopped blogging in the first place. I was trying to just write about whatever I came into mind, but I got really insecure and spent a lot of time carefully changing the syntax. I don't think in novels, short stories, and scholarly articles. I think in a diseased jumble. And for some reason, I don't feel safe posting the sort of freeform nonsense that I seem to stuff my emails full of (dangling participle). For some reason, I feel like on the weblog, everyone is going to catch me with my pants down.

So I'm going to try to relax. That means posting more along the lines of, "I had the same disgusting food today that I've been eating for the past four months. I went to the park. Post comments." I've got about a week left in town, and not much to do once I finish these papers. Hopefully I can see a few more things and write about them.

Oh, and I never saw a movie last night. I got a headache; it felt like there was this huge rabbit in my head chewing my brain like it was one big piece of lettuce.

How do you end these things? I guess like this.

I just went on this long walk, where I thought of all these great things to write about on this blog (well, maybe not great, but at least there were a lot of thoughts. Quantity can always substitute for quality in my book). Then I came back here and I suddenly felt barren. I don't have anything to update about—not really. So it is with thoughts. Actions are memorable, but thoughts just don't stick around for too long. You think this logic would be sufficient motivation for me to do something tonight, but no. Instead, I’ll watch a movie.

As for yesterday's history paper, it was easily dispatched. I actually wrote a huge post right after I finished writing my paper. But it wasn’t about the work I just finished. I was worrying again about the inadequacy of my university education. Chris's post about his paper reminded me just how little is covered in my literature classes. Of course, NYU is a private university. I expected that they would have a more extensive literature program. But that is what frustrates me, that I know that there is something so challenging out there, but I’m stuck in a state university. I have only one year left until I graduate, and I don’t feel like I’ve learned enough. So the post I wrote was this huge rant about how I have no idea why I'm wasting my time as a literature major. But the truth is, I am learning a lot, if not as much as I could be. And if I had to read more books and write more papers, I probably wouldn't have been able to teach myself guitar. So, I guess in the end, an easy degree that engages me when I have the time is better than some rigorous, oppressive course load.

But am I using my time effectively? If having such an easy major affords me increased free time, shouldn’t I bee using my free time to independently pursue intellectual rigor? Am I squandering the one resource I've been given, time?

And now I've descended into rants again. I suppose to sum things up, London has left me very anxious. After feeling less than challenged at FSU in Tallahassee, I figured I would travel abroad to London. I thought university would be more exciting here. Instead, I'm enrolled in the worst classes I've taken since high school. The location is great, no doubt. I'm extremely pleased that I came to London. But university still seems too easy. I feel unproductive. I feel motivated, but not inspired. And of course, as all procrastinators know, inspiration only comes in one form: oppressive deadlines.

Change of subject:

I like walking around in grocery stores. I've got a big body, I’m a tall guy, so I need a lot of food. It’s nice to go to a place that is just draped in food. I have an appetite, and here, decorating the walls in neat lines, is the means to satisfy it. But I also feel a certain amount of revulsion, a disgust at the excess. There is something horribly artificial about packaged food, rows and rows of bottles, freezers, and "fresh fruit". But this same revulsion is what attracts me. It is a great achievement of western civilization, this mass accumulation of food. Whenever I am hungry, there is food right there. What genius. I never fear starvation; I have no means to comprehend it, and probably never will. How middle class of me; how white American of me.

I'll spare you further ruminations, although things like this are what my weblog is about. Just me, showing how painfully pedestrian my everyday thoughts are. Although, I suppose as long as I don't pass them off as revelatory, there shouldn't be a problem. What, are the blog police going to descend upon me? The only people who read this beast anyway are my friends (the few I’ve notified). In fact, the whole point behind this weblog is laziness. The internet is a huge boon to the lazy. You can pretend that you are still in touch with everyone you know, because you email them regularly, or send them a text message. Then you can sink into idleness and convince yourself that you don't need to visit them. But I’ve taken it to the next step. Email has proven to be too much trouble for me. Now, I just post my thoughts on this weblog, and whoever runs across them can do with them what they want. No more chasing after people with letters.

Well, uh, I'm gonna go see a movie now.

I'll try to pop off a quick update before class. Please excuse any errors. I just finished my history paper. I did not write it paragraph by paragraph. Instead, I finished the first paragraph, then found a bunch of quotes, then wrote about those quotes in a semi-coherent pattern, then I reorganized that into a coherent paper, and finally I revised the paper. Just in case anyone was wondering why I find it so easy to pop off a six page paper in four thirty minute sessions. I'm sure you don't. Alright then, go to hell.

I have two papers left. One is a two page paper for theatre class that should take only a few minutes, the other is another six page essay, involving two primary texts and outside research. I'm sure I'll be able to finish it. It may not be great, but it'll be good enough. I hardly care for writing papers in all honesty. But something about Chris' post has bothered me. His paper is very much more involved then mine. Is this because, being Christopher, he is just a more involved guy? I don't think so, because of this discussion of five critical texts. My classes at FSU never challenge me to the degree that Chris' classes do. Sure, I guess you could say that he pays more money than me, I mean I go to college for free, basically; hell, I get paid a thousand dollars a semester. But I just have felt very unsatisfied with my literature department. I am almost finished with my english degree. It only took eleven classes to finish the major. And I don't feel sufficently informed about literature at all.

I had a history class, America in the 1960s, that was a 4000-level. It was taught by a guy named Peter Ripley. Best class I ever took. I was a freshman when I took it, and Ripley warned me that it wouldn't be easy, and that the workload was typically too challenging for freshman. Ripley later went on to write a recommendation for me, for this program in London, saying that out of the entire class, I performed the best. Now, I'm not doing this to brag. I'm just saying, when properly challenged, I rise to the occassion and meet it eagerly. I'm fairly good at academics, very good at academics, when I want to be.

But with literature, I feel that some key concepts have been covered, but that I still don't have a good grasp of the canon. I feel that a literature degree provides two things: 1) The skills necessary to create an argument, and then support that argument with evidence--basically, to argue that your reading of such a text is valid. Texts being what they are, and readers being who they are, there are going to be some differences in reading. That is why it is so enjoyable to talk to people about novels. This is all fairly self-evident, but I'm trying to illustrate I think a lot of people miss with critical theory. The text itself can represent anything. It is really the readers relationship with it that creates critical theory. Literature degrees are about refining that relationship. On this note, I feel that my program has been a fair success. 2) Familiarity with the canon. If you are going to have literature degree, you might as well be able to talk like you have one. Are canonized works always the best? Hell no! But they are important milestones in culture and the development of western thought. If you want to understand the relationship between society and literature, then you probably will want to know what books they have esteemed in the past, and what books seem relevant now.

Ok, this much is all very obvious. The point being, I don't know squat about the canon. I'm going to graduate in a year, and the only thing I have between me and a certificate is three more English department classes. One of those is a creative writing class. One of those is a six week course. Things look pretty abysmal for me soaking up a whole lot of info on the canon.

And it isn't that I care because I feel I need to know the canon. I only care because I feel I wasted my time. I could have been getting an equally useless degree in, say, Theatre, which probably would have taught me only a little as well. But at least that can be used in some vague way--if not to get a job, then to at least meet some important people. I don't know what to do with my literature degree at all. You can't become a professor without a phD, and you can't teach high school without an English teaching degree. I wouldn't mind having a "useless" degree if I felt that it expanded my mind. And although it has helped a little, I feel I'm being swindled. Sure, FSU may just be a state university, but I spend my time, and my money (in theory) to be instructed. I shouldn't have to feel that the NYU program is leagues better, not for want of good instructors (which I have plenty of) but simply on an intellectually challenging level. Is the bar so low at state schools that I can't even have one sufficently challenging literature class?

Ok, that was a long, perhaps incoherent rant. I will draft it now, and post it later.

Well, it is 8:00 at night here in London town. My chances of doing anything today in the city are over. And on the homework front, I've completed one paragraph for my history paper, and read about thirty pages of To the Lighthouse. Basically, nothing has been accomplished.

On the other hand, I did spend twenty quid on CDs. Hala had been dying to go to HMV on Oxford street. We went down at about 4:30 and didn't get back until about 5:30. I had no intention of buying anything when I left. I returned with four CDs. Here is what I got:

Pixies' B-Sides
The Fall's A-Sides
A Magazine Greatest Hits Collection
Velvet Underground's Loaded (Single Disc)

I have a strange addiction. For some reason, since I came to London, I can't stop buying CDs. Maybe it is because there are so many god damn good deals in town. All the CDs I bought today were five pounds apiece, which is like eight US dollars.

But that doesn't help me with my homework. I should be doing something--if not studying, at least sitting in a museum or travelling around England. I don't know why I feel obligated to utilize my time in England to expose myself to "culture". But I do, and having to perform for school is really annoying me. I think what I'm gonna do with this paper is write it one paragraph at a time. Probably not the best stylistic choice, but this is a 1000-level history class. I'm sure the professor will overlook the disjointed style and recognize that I actually read the book. More than some of my classmates can say, I'm sure. Then again, I did read it two years ago...

Why did I start a blog to complain online? Hopefully I will soon be able to create better content for my wilful audience of two. Speaking of which, the more of you who pledge not to bother me on my birthday, the better. I do know Kung-Fu (no joke).

Hi there. It is I, Cameron.

In November 2001, Chris Conroy, owner of the doyoufeelloved.com site, took a chance. He coded an entire blog in blogger, under the title of Guberkov., and gave me the reigns. I posted about thirty crappy entries, and then stopped before the month was over. I failed the challenge, and if I remember, Chris was pretty disappointed.

Well, over a year later, I think I'll start posting again. But don't expect anything from me. It is just as likely that I'll crap out again and stop posting. This is just a way to keep writing, to avoid the email back up that I have been experiencing, and to find a better way to save my thoughts instead of on the floppy disk that just broke, thereby losing all my correspondance for this semester.

The update from the last time I blogged (and I'm sure no one remembers anything I said on that piece of shit site): I'm living in London for the semester. I spent two weeks living in France, right outside of Paris, with a native French family, and no contact with any Americans (except two I spotted in a resteraunt). These two experiences have significantly altered my worldview. However, I return in two weeks, on April 25th, to Sarasota, FL. I start summer school at my native college of FSU, located in Tallahassee, on May 12th. I return to Sarasota after June 20th. It will be a drastic change from living in a foreign city.

The news for today is that I have about four papers to finish for next week. I keep waking up at about 2:00 in the afternoon, so this prevents me from getting a headstart on my work. Speaking of waking up late in the afternoon in London: did you know that everything closes down in this town around 6:00? Or at the latest, 9:00? And on Sunday, it is more like 5:00. Anyway - I'm deeply entrenched in horrible school work for the remainder of the time I have in London. This defeats the purpose of me being here, but I suppose I should justify my existence to this program. I have had an amazing time. And another quick note: my birthday is on April 16th, this Wednesday. I turn twenty. I don't normally celebrate my birthday, so you shouldn't either. Don't email me or talk to me about it at all, thank you. I'd rather stay sixteen, instead of widening the gap between me and my irresponsible days. I am not prepared to do work of any sort.

Hopefully, I will continue to blog in a timely fashion. Hopefully, my writing style will develop past the point where it sounds like I'm typing with a stick up my ass. Hopefully, people will actually come to this site - probably fully dependant on my ability to proliferate information among my friends about it, a task I am too lazy to begin. Hopefully, this site won't be a disaster like the last one, and pretty much everything else I've tried to accomplish in my short twenty (almost) years. Hopefully.