DIARY OF A SOMEBODY: A Review

DIARY OF A SOMEBODY: JOHN LAHR 

UNC-Chapel Hill. January 28^th 2012. 8pm – 10pm

If you read his diaries, all will be explained.

Room 102 of Chapel Hill’s Centre for Dramatic Art is a punitive, white-washed room in a very big building. Yet, in the diminutive space, the LAB!Theatre presents a simplistic stage – two walls covered by six heavily postered panels in an ‘L’ shape, a multi-use table covered by a sheet and a single desk with chair in the corner of the ‘L’. The audience enters as the cast face the panels, lightly touching the photos and words plastered there, occasionally shuffling close together and making lascivious faces at one another. Finally, two split away from the wall, one sits at the desk, the other coming forward to the table and opening his mouth to speak. This is Jack Utrata, playing Joe Orton, his first lines taken straight from the diaries of a dead man.

Based on the last few months before Kenneth Halliwell murdered his lover, British playwright Joe Orton, in 1967, the play was directed by Glasgow exchange student, John May, for the UNC-Chapel Hill LAB!Theatre. ‘Diary of a Somebody’ was a controversial performance to choose for the first LAB! show of the year, polarising audience opinions from its opening night.

May admitted that this was one of the things that he aimed to do, ‘North Carolina is terribly conservative, I wanted to force them to face something that would make them uncomfortable.’

As promiscuous as he was promising, Joe Ortan’s life allows the play to confront contemporary issues as well as those from the origins of the 1960s sexual revolution. At UNC, this is particularly poignant with the ever-looming threat of Amendment One. However, May insisted that his desire to put on the play was also to do with the fact that it was the first time the play would be performed in America in thirty years.

Indeed, it is hard to tell how much of the effect of the play is Lahr and how much is direction. With five cast members, three of whom play thirty different roles, the performance accentuates the idea that this play written from the diaries of a playwright does not come from the perspective of the playwright. These ‘thirty others’ are faceless, sometimes nameless and unimportant to the true narrator behind the play, notably suggested by their costumes: half one outfit, half another. The  room, as small as it is, emphasises the intimacy of the two primary characters as well as juxtaposing the privacy of the diary form with the publicity of the stage. As all the elements are drawn together: the setting, the characters, the action – we realise that the play is a murderer’s excuse. Even as Halliwell’s repeated plea becomes a desperate  rage, Lahr’s writing becomes a confession, the audience his jury.

This is comedy at its darkest, character acting at its finest and LAB! living up to their reputation. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

An American Thanksgiving

An American Thanksgiving

A Tale of Games and Turkey and Mountains
Belated.

Thanksgiving, that renown tradition that everyone in Britain's heard of but no one really knows anything about.  It's all about family and, unsurprisingly, about 'giving thanks' for all those things that you might otherwise take for granted. From what I can tell, it's pretty much an early Christmas (or another excuse to eat far too much and gain some turkey weight). It has a strange set of traditions because of the blend of Native American and European influences but as hinted - it focuses on copious amounts of food, especially the bird. 

Having gone home with the Harts to their beautiful house in Hickory (no matter what Mrs Hart says about the place 'falling apart' you really mustn't believe her because it's such a gorgeous home with such a wonderful warmth to it), I found myself not exactly knowing what to expect. For one I know that that Americans, particularly down South have a slightly different sense of politeness and decorum to us Brits, so how to act? to dress? to talk? to address the effervescent Margaret Hart, her affable husband or the charismatic Dr Bob? What about the rest of the Harts and the extended family? Would I impose too much on what films claim as the time of closest family and friends? All these worries when I first left the safety of Chapel Hill... 

..... and what silly worries they were to hold!! 

Perhaps some of the most generous and lovely people I've ever met, none of the concerns that my over-thinking had conjured up were even fleetingly part of my consciousness for the rest of the duration. Well... at least not once Dr Hart revealed the cider in the fridge and we compared the Carolinan to British. The boardgames helped too. And so did the creole spices and the champagne/prosecco/sparkling wine etcetc. 

There are probably three key things other than the EPIC MEAL TIME that stand out. When we went to 'The Farm' (aka Harts Square) which was unbelievable, when we went to that mexican place that no one could agree the name of and of course when we headed up into the mountains-proper and then... attempted to climb one. 

The Farm lies up above Hickory in a place called Plateau (pronounced Plat-ahhh). I don't think there's anything quite like Harts Square and although I utterly failed to take any pictures, forgetting my diana in the car, there's a giant book that I want to bring home although it is about the same weight as Rebecca. 

And yes, this is me in gaol. Don't worry Bex gots my bail.

Bob Hart started back in the late 1960s when he thought that purchasing the land now known as Hart's Square could become a wildlife park. Now it's the home of over 73 log cabins that he painstakingly sought out, bought, took down, rebuilt and restored over the last fifty or so years. There's an original working cotton gin, a pottery kiln, an amazing printing press, a prison, a beautiful bridge, a barge, two exquisite chapels and an 'indian village'. You'd need a little more time than we had to really explore all 73 of them but just wandering around gives you the most amazing sense of history. The place feels removed from the rest of the world, distant as it is from anywhere else, but it's also timeless. It's not actually open to the public most of the time (only once a year in October) but being taken around by Robert, Rebecca and Abby and of course Bob with every fact under the sun and his love of rose-head nails.


And we did try some sneaky moonshine. Lovely lovely stuff.


NB. Did you know that 'sleep tight' refers to the strings that were tightened on a bed?? You'd use this weird contraption that looks like a shoehorn to make the strings taut before sleeping. 


The Mexican... I don't think any of us really knew what it was called. But we did manage to have a seriously strong margaritas and then return home with tubs and tubs of strawberry sorbet which we promptly turned into even stronger margarita/daiquiri type drinks in front of the basketball.


The Moutains are extraordinary.

This is the view from a wee bit down Grandfather Mountain, which we attempted to climb only to be met with insane winds and a face full of cloud.


You can tell why they're call the Blue Ridge Mountains though.


We drove up along the 'most beautiful road in America' (sic Top Gear) the Blue Ridge Parkway, via a quaint little town called Blowing Rock where we attempted to see a parade but decided the crowds were too intimidating. We also went to the nearby outlet stores where I managed to get a ton of my Christmas shopping done which was rather brilliant (albeit constituted a lot of my luggage weight for going home). Oddly enough, a lot of the accents sound scottish and a lot of the buildings remind me of Swiss chalets. The same went for the Hart's house on the golf course. It was incredibly reminiscent of Morzine. We went on a lovely walk around the course, saw a massive bear paw and I discovered just how amazingly well trained Annabelle is as a hunting dog.

Now I probably ought to confess that I am not exactly accustomed to 'hiking'. When people say hiking in the UK I feel we envision pickaxes and snow-covered glaciers... or something along the lines of the DofE ie. steep hills, panoramic views of green fields and grazing sheep, perhaps the odd stile to hop over. We don't generally think of ludicrously tall mountains where people have fallen to their deaths. Nor do we imagine craggy rock surfaces up which one has to scale, minus rope and safety net. Yet this is exactly what we set off to do. I don't know how they put up with me - I promptly fell on my bum and looked bewildered from the top of my bolder.


However, I am quite determined that by the time I next hit up the Blue Ridge Mountains I will have learnt to be less fretful about the whole thing. I will be a confidant post-Tarzan Jane, scrambling up the cracked mountainside without acting like a complete ninny. Maybe I'm being a little harsh, it was howling a gale and slippery as our bedroom floor in Horton because the whole peak was sunk within the clouds. Not exactly prime 'novice' weather. But I stand by what I said: I will go Hiking. And I will enjoy it!!!


If only because next time I'll remember my actual camera and take photos that are 1000% better than these which I took on my phone.


Of course, what is Thanksgiving without a mention of the actual Thanksgiving???

Here I am, surrounded by the Harts girls, feeling exceptionally short and ever so thankful that I didn't wear a tighter dress. Recall that I mentioned that it's like a preemptive Christmas dinner and you'll understand why. The Food:


Turkey with stuffing is a MUST. Succulent and delicious, you can't scrimp on the turkey and Rebecca's grandmother cooked it to perfection.


Sweet Potato Mash with Marshmallow. Now Nigella Lawson has a view tips to making this but the art is in the addition of something a little tangy to offset the inevitable sweetness of the combination. Add orange or lemon juice and a wee sprinkle of nutmeg to bring the mash to a nice rich flavour. Then, in the last five minutes or so, add a layer of marshmallows and bake them. They'll melt on the inside and crisp on the outside, just like roasting them on a stick in a fire. NOM.


Macaroni. Yup, you heard me, macaroni cheese with your turkey and gravy and sweet potato. Not exactly what most of us Brits would commonly put with our roast dinner but a wonderful addition that cannot be missed from the list.


Vegetables - such an array that I think I managed to make up for all the missed greens over the months of Rams and ADPi Fried Fridays (love those adpi fridays mmmmm).


Red Velvet Cake. So moist. So scrumptious. Amazing. And of course that's not the box it came in. Not at all.


As you can imagine was high on our list of priorities. Mrs Hart really was amazing too because she even managed to find me soy-free bread from a health food shop. I didn't have anything with anything I can't eat in for a whole week. Miracle. She also makes a wicked butternut-squash soup. I think I've actually had dreams about it.

The Mile High Bridge.
 Can you see it Swaying in the Wind?

The end of Thanksgiving was less spectacular - I lost my One Card (also my debit card), my driving license and my student card for Edinburgh. They were in this black and white wallet and I can't believe it's survived two years in Edinburgh and now it decides to go missing. It could have been lost at Wendy's although I'm 80% certain that I had it and my phone in my hand when we left or it could be mixed in with everyone's luggage...  I'm giving it until tomorrow to turn up because it might be in Rebecca's car having fallen somewhere obscure... but I'm not keeping my hopes up. I'm not too worried but it is a bit frustrating. Other than that I just wish it was time to go home properly - I'm in the mood for some more friendly faces. I guess I'm a little bit down because I didn't even know my room mate was here until she appeared through the bathroom having been next door.  Oh dear the ups and downs of 'Living With People'.

I suppose now all that's left to say is THREE WEEKS. I can't wait for Christmas, especially now I'm on route with present buying.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

Remember, Remember the 5th of November

Remember, Remember the 5th of November

Fun-powder, Sisters and Stuff

Last time I wrote my sister had just arrived from London for a visit - with her came more Cadburys than I ever hoped, a lot of lovely tea and some wonderful gifts from home. It's been a while now - I should have written about it all sooner but life is so busy and when she was here there was so little time to put anything up. We did do some unforgettable things though - we met Whitney from the Vintage Store, branched out into Carrboro, crashed a wedding party in Topo, danced all night with some very lovely Marines, got shwasted with Maggie, joined the Pritchard girls in the Coffee Shop for $3 LITs and then accidentally ending up in a drag show. 

We also went shopping, spent far too much money, ate the biggest cheesecakes of our lives, forgot where we left half of the holiday dollars and met up with the wonderful Martin's who were there to see Luke and Russell. 

It was great fun - even though she missed out on Halloween and Alex's Birthday and the Homecoming Game. 

There are some crazy things that you don't realise when you're away from home - how people change, how you change, how they change, how having something familiar illuminates certain things that you hadn't noticed or had tried not to notice. So Vicky being here was great - it was brilliant because she was in awe with UNC in a way that I suppose all exchange students grow out of when they go through Stage Two of Culture Shock.  We start to compare, contrast, critique - we miss home and our friends and the familiar places that we didn't appreciate enough before we left them. I was frustrated by her being here because she reminded me of all those things that I miss. I owe her so much for coming because she reminded me that there are so many exciting and different things to explore here.

Initiation - I'm a DELTA internet. I'm officially initiated. And it wasn't THAT weird. Ok yes it was. But other than being told to wear nude underwear really it wasn't as strange as could be expected. Although.... thinking about strange...

Halloween - As some of you fellow beasties probably know - the King of the Ghouls (AKA Alex Woods) turned a terrifying twenty-two on the scariest day of the year. In honour of that most horrifying occasion we called all of his ghoulish friends by blood and bone and storm and crow to the Den of Horrors where the witches of Pritchard and the banshees of Britain had some spooktacular surprises brewing in their cauldrons. We arrived  carved memories into the chamber of doom, gathered a great many demonic friends and completely destroyed the Pritchard House. 

It was so different to anything we have back home. After drinking a bucket load of Zombie Gut Punch/Witches Brew (Vodka, Triple Sec, Black Cherry Liqueur, Blood Orange and Orange and Grenedine) - we headed out onto Franklin which had turned into Freaklin Street for the evening. It was full of some of the creepiest kids in town (or.... every student in Chapel Hill). 

It really was like in the movies where Halloween is a crazily big. It was also hilarious. I was a Dexter victim, happily wrapped up in nearly a whole roll of cling-film; The King of the Ghouls was a Chav decked out in Burberry; John and Andrea were married, siamese hick twins, Keiver was a redneck, wee Jessie was Snow White, Mary-Ellis was an giant blow-up M&M that was vaguely reminiscent of Violet Beauregarde albeit green, the Pritchard ladies were five of the Seven Deadly Sins and Fiona was a Roman Empress.

Strangely enough though in the state of North Carolina it is illegal to  buy or sell fireworks so my favourite day of the year - and the one that I suppose we Brits usually celebrate more - November 5th didn't happen. There were no Guy Fawkes' on bonfires, no fireworks, no climbing up Arthur's Seat to see the bursts of colour drift over the city... So where Halloween was good different, Bonfire Night was sad different - I'll have to make up for it at New Years. 

But I figure that there's no point in lamenting the differences now. Even though I miss my person and the shmoo and the Trinity and stuff, they're not here and they're not going to be for a while but it's five weeks until Christmas and then I'll be home and we can catch up and whatever - it's not that far away and why should I be down when the sun is so bright and the sky so blue and the leaves have turned the trees into yellow and red candles. I love the leaves here - they're crunchy and thick on the ground not mushy and wet and they're bright on the trees, not blown off in a gale. I've taken a load of photos of them. I really want to throw bunches of them into the air and take more but I want people in my photos not just leaves. 

I found yellow leaves in my boots yesterday, they'd slid inside when I'd been kicking them around in the arboretum (please note that I've learnt to spell that word). I'd been frolicking in them all the way from ADPi to class. 

AH! I have to remember to write down my perfect day!! I had a perfecccctttt day the other day. It started in the early am - you know those moments when you're falling asleep and the most profound thoughts slip and slide around in your unconscious mind but suddenly, like the back of sea-turtle, they poke up into your consciousness - just as you're about to sleep. Irksome because you usually forget them right?? Well I suddenly had this epiphany about the French Connection 2010 campaign - This is the man. This is the woman. - you remember it from the front of the Oxford Street store? Well what do you know about Simone de Beauvoir? It was one of those 'Jonathon Moments' (so called for a rather ingenious and eccentric fellow in my philosophy class) where you have an idea and you can't let it go and you sit up in bed, heart racing, face splitting into a grin and explain much to your room-mates chagrin "that's SO cool." And it was so cool. What is a woman? She is a many layered gateau. The woman is bored. Dance or something. Oh it was brilliant - I haven't had a moment like that where dawning realisation spills so easily over an idea. Anyway that was long-winded. So it started there and after shooting an excited email to my teacher at 2am I finally went to sleep and when I woke up I was still ecstatic. The rest of the day was just... lovely. I had a great philosophy class, a chatty lunch with the girls at the house ending up with a bunch of us chilling on the porch, then cooking for the Ron-a-thon pasta dinner - which was great because I really really miss cooking and it was great to chop and stir and make something again - then more classes, more pasta cooking and finally to the UNC's Got Talent thing. There was acapella, solos, dance - including The Kamikazes with two of our beloved Pritchards in it. It was just one of those days where the sun was out, the air was cool, the leaves were yellow and everything was perfect because I had an idea again. Happppppppy dddayyyyyys. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

Washington DC - And we marvelled at some Vague and Mysterious emotion

Washington DC

And we marvelled at some Vague and Mysterious emotion

Despite the fact that I'm sure many of you would probably think that all of the posts about Chapel Hill are 'travel writing', I feel there's some distance between writing about this quintessential American campus-university and the adventures that I'm just setting off on to other parts of the US. Tomorrow we're setting off to DC, the capital of the United States, home of the President and where more rain falls than in the 'Rainy City' of Seattle. 

I'm pretty excited - albeit a little bit nervous since my Milton and Melancholia essay is due the hour that we leave and I'm no where near done - but that's besides the point. By the time I arrive in DC I'm sure Il Penseroso will be far far far from my thoughts. I definitely feel like I need this break though. Recently, with midterms and essays and more midterms and more essays and then presentations heaped up on top and that's before we even consider the compulsory classes - it's been a culture shock period. I even wrote a miserable little blog entry that I didn't dare post because it would have terrified people into probably not wanting to do Study Abroad. The fact is, these last few weeks have been terrifyingly reminiscent of the IB - those long, aching months where your soul was lost in paper and ink and now the blinking cursor of a word document. I do believe that still stands, even with the crest of this wave about to break. However, and this is the reason I never put up that wretched, self-pitying post before: this is also such a challenge, so different and so utterly amazing that it cannot truly be a comparison to that most-hated of times. Where your sense of self was devoured by the Baccalaureate Leviathon, here it's more about re-examining the way you think. I think back home I was beginning to take it for granted that there was a life beyond my apartment, but now I'm appreciating it more.


I still miss the freedom of Edinburgh. But I'm also finally comfortable enough here to start branching out. I just wish I had the safety nets I've built up back home here. I really miss discussing ideas with people who are in the same boat rather than trying to bounce off poor Andrea who really probably doesn't care about why Milton uses the word 'darkling' or why Simone de Beauvoir was compelled to write The Second Sex. But one day at a time, things are becoming easier. Still, I can't wait for the break to come so I can walk through a city and feel that bustle of too many people and breath in its air and become a non-entity in a crowd rather than sticking out like the sore-British thumb on Franklin.


Day One - Taco Bell

Oh my god MANIC day. We've just arrived in the hostel, I'm listening to Hall&Oates and I'm not sure this is best first impression to make of a Washington. The first part of this I wrote in the car - but I think I want to quickly note my impressions of this place. 

I feel exhausted. The hostel is a strange, dingy sort of place. Wrinkling my nose and trying not to scowl, I toed off my shoes whilst the others checked in ahead of me. You're not allowed shoes inside the building except flip flops for the showers. It smells funny though and not just from the damp shoes. Inside I can hear the familiar countdown of 24 that I associate still with Sunday mornings as my dad runs on the treadmill downstairs and turns the volume up so loud that I might as well be watching it with him. There are two men on the sofa, older than I expected them to be. I associate hostels with Choir tour and lots of young people our age. The room is dark, that smell is still in the air and there's 'stuff' just everywhere - linen, towels, chairs, pillows. There's a vague organisation to it, shelves predominated by sheets, tables by piles of dirty slips.  We heard one man saying very loudly that a girl I hadn't previously noticed shouldn't ever lie to herself because:

"If you lie to yourself, you're going straight to hell."

There was something oddly reminiscent of Marmeladov from 'Crime and Punishment' about him.

We're all a bit bedraggled and grumpy because of the journey, which really wasn't so bad, but me and Andrea haven't really been sleeping so well (my fault entirely). Something about that and the darkness of the evening and the continual rain has clouded itself over me and I'm finding it hard to see a shred of anything nice about this place. It's only for three nights - I suppose that's a positive. We were given a tour - the bathrooms are clean and nice and much brighter than the rest of the rooms and the kitchen is airy if a little gloomy. Our room, where I'm now perched, is just plain peculiar - the beds are typical iron-bar bunk beds, the windows all have the shutter blinds pulled, there is one light that flickers like a camera flash and one steady, yellow light. there are filing cabinets that line the wall by my bed and a creep door that leads to nowhere in a corner, completely cut off by our bunks. I think I'd rather have paid the extra $16 a night at the other place but I then I'm not here as long as Alex and Andrea.

That's who I'm here with by the way - the hilarious, hyperactive Alex and my wonderful roomie. It was Alex's idea really - although I always did have Washington on my list to come - and it was so much fun travelling down here with them. We managed to get a lift with Jess and her dad from Chapel Hill, which was pretty perfect since it meant that with a little bit of planning we were all in the car by 1230 and in DC by 530pm. The ride was awesome. At first of course it was small talk and we were a little careful about what we discussed because you can never tell how liberal someone's parents are here. But Jess' dad turned out to be brilliant and so charming. He even joined in somewhat when we blasted Taylor Swift and belted out tuneless harmonies alongside her (or Jess, Andrea and I did). 

We also had a moment when we past Quantico and I couldn't help but be incredibly excited!! Quantico!! It's where the FBI Academy is for those who don't know and driving through just reconfirmed my desire to visit - if it's allowed. I've heard it is... but maybe you have to be American??? 

After that we saw a Taco Bell and of course we went. Andrea and Jess have been talking American fast food for the last half an hour and everything sounds so tasty, albeit like a heart attack. So we stopped at the station, filled up with petrol and skipped over to finally (I say finally because Andrea's been lauding taco bell for a while now) taste the burritos of this renowned joint. It was an experience - I'm not sure if I'd seek it out ever again but then I've pretty much forgotten the taste of it already. It filled the hole though and definitely beat the nasty Rams sandwich I'd stowed in my bag before we left. It was pretty good fun though and I've now ticked off another Americanism that I wanted to experience. 

When we arrived it was raining again. We left in the rain, drove in the dim daylight of Virginia and then re-entered the downpour in DC. I've shed my oversized clammy jumper and slipped into my chiffon shirt because we're planning on going out in a bit and now I'm just procrastinating whilst the others do stuff (I probably ought to be doing something too). I'll let you know about tonight tomorrow though - I'm tired. Snooooze time. 

  

Andrea and Alex beneath The Washington Post

So this is last night. 

As you can see, it had just about stopped raining but it was beautiful the way the light glanced up off the road  from the puddles of the pavement.

You can just about see the figures of Andrea and Alex in that one. 

I relished the fact that we were back in a city though. 

Did you know that there's a height restriction on all buildings in DC? In 1899 the Height of Buildings Act meant that no building could be over 34m tall. Apparently that's because they feared that the European aesthetic would be dwarfed and destroyed by the Skyscraper that was just beginning to emerge at the time in NYC and place. This means that as a city, it's spread outwards rather than upwards and the skyline is much lower than most cities. It's an odd atmosphere because of that law, or at least, it's odd in my oh-so-experienced opinion, because the streets are so much wider than those of London or Edinburgh, yet not even the business district towers above the rest of the city. As we wondered the shimmering streets, it gave me a weird sense of familiarity and defamiliarity.  I did enjoy exploring at night though. I hope we'll see some of the monuments that way too.  I suppose we shall if we're not too tired.

It wasn't too late a night - we just explored a few bars and such. It's much more of a stickler here with the drinking age because Andrea's not 21 so we had to pick and choose where we went. But I can now tell you that:

1. Harry and Harriets Bar and Family Restaurent is awesome - great atmosphere and amazing character. BUT if you're like me don't bother trying to eat there, just enjoy their vodka cokes (horrendously strong) because they cook everything in peanut oil like Chik-Fil-A. Tres annoying - I was looking forward to that calamari too. 

2. The Green Turtle isn't fun - it's incredibly expensive ($8 beers?!) and they're kind of rude. No recommendation there unless you really really like TV - in which case they have an HDTV in every booth so you don't have to try talking to your date there if it becomes too awkward. 

3. Don't try to get into Rocket Bar without and I.D. It may not be obvious but their bouncer is canny. 

Day Two - I need CLOTHES?!

It's freezing. Oh my god it is COLD. We woke up pretty earlier, had a cup of tea, all I really wanted to do was catch up on sleep but that doesn't look like it's going to happen here. And now we're back and we've been out for nearly 12hours and I swear my toes have frozen off. 

When we woke up the sky was really blue and since we were used to the Carolina Blue Days of UNC we expected that it would start of chilly and end up sweltering. We dressed accordingly. 

Bare legged and cardigan clad, we stepped out into the bright light of a DC Day and began the amble across to The Mall. At this point there was a lot of 'ooing and ahing' as we passed interesting buildings, saw sunshine dancing off glass hotels, noticed the bird-cage in a 'historic hotel' and found our way first to the FBI Building. It's an imposing building, bland but in that cruel, soulless way that styles many 1960s designs. It has two key parts, one higher than the other due to the height restrictions on the city and is made of a unique type of cement. All around it are these ugly plant pots that aren't actually decorative but subtly act to stop people driving cars into the building up to it with any ease. Compared to the other buildings it was pretty ugly but imposing. I was thrilled and took a few photos much to Alex's amusement. 

After wondering round we went to the International Spy Museum on Rebecca's suggestion. It was fascinating. Of course it was. They had so much information from the realities to the fictive. I suppose we have to take it all with a pinch of salt because it's giving a face to the secret service. Whilst it's likely all true, I dare say there's so much more to it and my curiosity was peaked rather than assuaged.    

Walking from the Museum was when the cold began to hit - it was the wind that was so chill and I definitely let my inner winy child loose. The Mall is awe inspiring though. A long strip of grass stretching from the Capital to the Washington Memorial, down to the Pools of Reflection (currently the swamp of confusion) and up to the Jefferson Memorial. It was at this point that I'll mention the fact that the cold wind, the cool feeling that Dostoevsky describes so well as that 'vague and mysterious emotion' first hit. I love it when you look at something, both eerily familiar and unfamiliar and lose all words - because it's magnificent and beyond language and yet lifeless and flat because it's imprinted on your mind rather than understood. 

I chased some birds. We went to the Holocaust Museum. That same feeling crept up on me then but for other reasons - it wasn't magnificent what you saw, although it was amazing how they'd created a memorial to that horrific time with so much care. The little leaflets that you're given with the name of a victim, the story that the course of the permanent exhibits weave for you... it's stunning and terrible. By the end both Andrea and I couldn't help but feel the sting of tears as we watched the final film that told the personal story of survivors. At times you couldn't even help but wonder if it would have been easier to be one of those sent to the gas chambers rather than go through the harrowing experiences that these people did. But you also see the greatest desire of all: to live, triumph in them and the fact that they went on to do so much, to marry, have families, hold jobs... it was heart-wrenchingly bitter-sweet. 

On a lighter note we went to Hooters for a late lunch/early dinner.

After that it was time to go back to the hostel, eye some interesting sculptures, admire the view one more time before dashing back to warm up. 

It really was freezing.

Once back we made plans and ended up back in Down Town for another few drinks before we crashed out in the dorms around 1am.

One thing I'll say though is that they really need to improve on their wine lists.Chardonnay just isn't pleasant.

OOPS. I totally forgot to mention that we also went to the WHITE HOUSE - it was sometime between the Mall and Hooters. You couldn't really see it properly which was a real shame but here's the photo I do have:

It's really pretty though. So much reminds me of Haileybury in Washington though - and parts of New Town but mainly Haileybury and Central London. A lot of it is very much like what you see when you walk around Hyde Park and Kensington.

Day Three - Eight Miles and FINALLY a decent glass of wine. 

Today we walked. And walked. And walked. Actually we walked about 8miles according to google maps. pretty impressive huh?

We did ALL the monuments - walking from Capitol Hill down the Mall, past Washington Monument, round past the Holocaust Museum, over the bridge, up to the Jefferson Memorial, along the Tidal Basin to see FDR's Memorial, cut across the embankment to see MLK and the WWII memorials then up the side of the Reflecting Pools (which are currently mere mud and sludge in a vaguely rectangular shape - perhaps a metaphor for the current state of things?) and then finally to the Lincoln Memorial where we sat down for the first time in what seemed an exceptionally long time. But having decided to keep going we then when up to the Albert Einstein Memorial, walked along Constitution Avenue past the Vietnam Veternas Memorial and the 56 Signer's of the Declaration of Independence Memorial, limped up Virginia Avenue towards Foggy Bottom where we ambled until we could amble no more and took refuge in a Starbucks whilst we tried to figure out where to go for an early dinner.

 And whilst on this rather epic journey we stopped by the Newseum ($15 entry as students meant we didn't actually go in which was rather disappointing), The Air and Space Museum (don't bother with the simulators they're boring and expensive - go to the awesome imax experience where you feel like you're floating in space) and Andrea climbed a tree.

Anyway, so here are some photos that highlight  this trek around the strangely symmetrical city. 

Romantic? I just like the bird in the left corner.

Can you try and imagine how huge the Capitol actually is?

Haileybury Chapel moment - just paint it green.

Andrea looking out over the pretty pool towards Capitol

Feeling small yet?

Washington Monument from another angle

WWII Monument

Thomas Jefferson

Lincoln Memorial - doesn't he look important?

Washington Monument from inside Lincoln Memorial.

FDR and his wee dog and us.

Out of the Mountain of Despair: a Stone of Hope

Lincoln from across the Basin

The Quagmire that isn't Reflecting and Washing Memorial
 again.

 When we finally DID have dinner it was an Italian place called Bertuccis. It was marvellous. The food was delicious and the portions weren't over the top like so many places that we've been. But best of all was the glass of Pinot that I ordered. It was the first glass of wine I'd had in so long that didn't taste of piss or Chardonnay. As you can imagine I was pretty content. After that we decided to go straight into Lindy's Red Lion - a pub. In the middle of DC. It wasn't too loud like a bar, it didn't just serve beer like He's Not - it was a PUB. So for all those Brits wandering the continent of America - there IS a proper pub even if its miles away and that's reassuring. It definitely made me pine less for Drouthy's (at least for a little bit). The bar tender was such a gent too and was so chatty - even trying to set me and Andrea up with two guys who were there to drink... Jaeger Bombs. I couldn't take them seriously after that.


All in all (because that was my last night in DC!!!) I've had a great time. I'm now on the megabus back to Durham and then to RDU to PICK UP MY SISTER eeeeeeee!!!!
I think I'm going to make a pros and cons post and put that up so that you guys don't have to read all this stuff again BUT to those of you who have made it through to then end - I Love You and Thank You for Reading.

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

I am Student. Hear Me Type.

I Am Student

How Fiction  Life Works

The most well-thumbed book on my desk is 'How Fiction Works' by James Wood. A rather brilliant teacher gave it to me last year and it's quickly become the most useful text ever suggested. I even agree with the FT that it should find it's way onto 'every novel-lover's shelf' because I've used it for everything since. Even if not directly relevant, there's a little bit of inspiration that just leaks out of the pages. Maybe it's passion. Maybe it's the fact that I can't help but agree with much of what is said. Whatever it is, this book is sort of like my bible. 

Tomorrow, you see, I have a midterm. Balzac, Dickens, Flaubert - these are the great writers that I've somehow to analyse and assess and place into a coherent essay in one hour. The Black Sheep, Hard Times, Madame Bovary - these are the 'realist' texts that must be interpreted, word by word, sentence by sentence, metaphor by metaphor. So I'm reading James Wood and taking inspiration from the dog-eared pages that are almost as tea stained as the inside of my bright yellow mug. Flicking through, I've calmed down, the nerves are settled even though I'm woefully under prepared (having a weeks notice tends to do that to you). But this is no book review. As much as I love lauding the inky fingered answers that Wood gives us to the questionable relation between artifice and verisimilitude, I feel I should save that for another day when perhaps I have more interested readers.

No, this entry is about the fact that I am a student and reading this book whilst my thoughts collect like dregs of tea that's steeped too long, has reminded me again of how much I enjoy this. Thoughts connecting, drawing lines, curling like letters to make words; having nothing to distract you; being carried away by a stray idea and then returning to the original concept with a new perspective, a counter argument; feeling interested and being taken on a wild journey inside your own head. Brilliant. 

Sometimes I can just sit here, books open with their spines broken and pages straining shut but held open by strategically placed odds-and-ends (ie. tweezers, lumps of blu-tack, dry tea sachets), and think that actually, yeah being here in America is stressful in a way that's only just short of the IB, but I'm still doing what I love. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

Living with People

Living with People

My apartment was robbed and everything was replaced with exact replicas...I told my roommate and he said 'Do I know you?' - Steven Wright

When I first started writing this entry I was sitting in the quad curled up under a tree in the shade, the flag pole behind me, the preparations for tomorrows game going up around me and the sound of ten people sitting outside the library playing ukuleles. You may think I'm making this up but I'm not - as I basked with my toes in the midday sun and my face in the shadows - nine boys and one token girl strummed through the chords, singing along together to disney songs, to that inglorious version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow etc. And what's more they were in harmony. This was no mediocre ukulele showdown, it must have been rehearsed.

It was rather wonderful - if I see them again then I'll take a photo. 

I was thinking though (whilst Madame Bovary lay listlessly by my bag, spine cracked on the same page I've been stuck on for the last few days, whilst the ukuleles thrummed in the back of my head and a territorial squirrel began hurling acorns at the girl under the next tree) that having a room mate is probably one of the hardest things that any of us Brits have had to go through since we arrived here. I know that it's certainly one of the hardest things that I've ever done. 

Where this idea came from I suppose is probably the fact that we've all been talking about breaking the contract and trying to find a house for five or something so that we can all live together - with our own rooms, own kitchen etc. It would be such a perfect situation because we'd be able to eat better food, sleep when we need to sleep, stay up when we want to stay up and everyone would have their own space to retreat to at the end of a day when all you really want is to be on your own and mope or something. Because, you all know (if you've read: Tar-Heel Born, Tar-Heel Bred.) that my room mate is Andrea - one of the most hilarious girls I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Yet even if you get along 90% of the time, there are always those moments when you can't help but scowl right?

I mean, mornings. OH those mornings. My family will be smirking to themselves as they remember trying to wake me up for school - it was rather a challenge - and that's not really changed too much with age. Mrs G (my old house mistress from school) definitely saw me at my worst. Andrea has to put up with me - the morning nightmare - everyday. And then she has to put up with me through out it too (at least everyone else was able to push me out the door and off to school). Not only that, I've managed to make it a really bad habit (one that Zoe knows all too well) of being at least 5-10minutes behind so that you have to SPEED walk to class. 

Perhaps I should take this moment to say: ANDREA , I am so so sorry about this terrible ritual I'm in and I promise to try and reduce it to 2-7 minutes from now on!!!

An extended example would probably be music. After  all, I love Andrea's music, I want to steal it (but I have no room on my iPod) because it's all the music that I don't have. But then in the same way that I'm sure mine does  for her, there are times when I'm like URGH TURN IT OFF. 

The good thing is with us, we pretty much can tell each other when that's how we're feeling. If we want quiet, quiet it shall be. But for those brief moments the frustration bubbles and it's because you have a room mate and you just can't help it. Especially for us poor girls. 

So if that's what you're like with your friends then what happens when you're not? I suppose you can just fold into passive roles where it's like a meet-and-greet and you just barely acknowledge each others presence. But that seems so sad. I love coming home and seeing Andrea's face peer up from beneath her lofted bed and to hear her music splash out across the too-quiet-too-white-corridor and then swapping stories about our days. I love our stupidly deep conversations in the middle of the night when we both have 10ams the next day but we feel like arguing about God. I love the fact that we can talk about boys (Guinness eeeehhh) and home and dairy milk and parents and so on. I love that we can be silent and it doesn't feel awkward and that she'll just laugh at my inability to dress myself without procrastinating. I love that I can laugh at her when she wriggles up onto her bed. I love that when we go to boxing we laugh at each other and how incompetent we are (and hopefully later about how incompetent we were). I love our Diet of Love and our Mirror of Happiness. 

How sad would it be not to have any of that? And yet, so many people are sharing with people that drive them more insane than the Crazy Frog song. Alex's room mate couldn't be more of an antithesis for him - where our Limey Abroad  is the guy that'll one day be driving tanks (because that's actually what he wants to do) Keown (aka Gun) is the guy that doesn't leave his chair - in favour of playing the role of a tank in Age of Empires or... Star Quest or whatever it is that he plays 24/7. Poor Fiona, stuck with the 18 year old, binge-drinking tween, has over heard certain gossiping Suite-mates. At least they could have the courtesy of saying things to her face. And John. Well. That's a whole other drama (apparently I should insert a winkie face here). 

So I guess that's all I really have to say - I feel incredibly lucky that I have Andy - even though I know I must drive her insane sometimes. Living in a shared space with someone is HARD, people should bear that in mind when they travel abroad. 

For now though... I suggest we all start looking for a flat though for next semester. Could be massively worth it. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
 SCRIBBLER