This blog is now officially dead. Closed. Whatever. However, this whole blogging thing must have been good for me, because I now have a new, non-study-abroad-related blog here. It's called A Few More Words, and it's mostly me ranting. And if I ever manage to type up any more of my poems, they'll go here. But then you knew that.
JJ over and out.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Monday, 4 July 2011
Born in the USA
I've been avoiding writing this post. No, really. I have, I think partially out of a misguided belief that if I don't admit it's all over, it won't be.
I've been back over a month now, and things are still weird. English food, English customs, English dress, English attitudes, hell, even the English sense of humour, grate on me far more than they once did. Josh and I have been watching a US/UK colab for one of the games we both recently bought, and I find myself yearning towards the American voice (the accent! The jokes! The little fillers!) with a truly scary sort of desperation.
It's not that I dislike being back, or have instantly switched into 'want what can't have' mode. (Well...). It is amazing to be in the UK once more, to have proper cups of tea, to hang out all night with my closest friends (if I'm honest, I think they make the place more home-like than anything else), to walk and catch the bus and use public transport and to hear beautiful BBC English on the radio. I'm America plus in that respect; I love all accents, provided they're not my own. No, it's more that I want the best of both worlds, the cynicism and the silliness, the space and the public transport, the people, and, well, the people. I want my own little transatlantic island, damnit, and I want it to be packed with American coffee shops.
Would I do it again? Definitely. Would I recommend it? In a heartbeat. There's an awful lot of culture shock and homesickness involved in a year abroad, that I won't deny, but the rewards far outweigh the detriments. You meet amazing, varied, interesting people, and, at the risk of sounding like a very bad movie, you learn an awful lot about yourself, about your culture, and about globalism. You change. You begin to see things in very different ways.
So what of me? I won't be going for our girly reunion in Paris, because I simply can't afford it. That said, I should soon start working as a shelf stacker type grunt in Tescos (fingers crossed). This sucks. Fortunately the school will be holding a more formal reunion in London come October, and this I am determined to go to. On Thursday I will go for my first post-America, post-Laura haircut, and I'm not sure how I will survive. I've been listening to a lot of radio, and gaming a fair bit. Dying mostly, but that's besides the point. I'm keeping in touch with the UConn bunch as much as possible, and I daily miss Pu and her general wonderfulness. I textspam Vaughney whenever I get bored. In just under a month I'll be spending a week in a field at a folk festival with my Exeter bunch. I've been playing a lot of guitar in preparation. I have a bike. A real, live, rusty bike. I didn't get my internship. I'm trying to figure out what to do with my life, and how to fit America into it. I miss people, very much.
I'm happy. I'm always happy. And I'm glad I went.
I've been back over a month now, and things are still weird. English food, English customs, English dress, English attitudes, hell, even the English sense of humour, grate on me far more than they once did. Josh and I have been watching a US/UK colab for one of the games we both recently bought, and I find myself yearning towards the American voice (the accent! The jokes! The little fillers!) with a truly scary sort of desperation.
It's not that I dislike being back, or have instantly switched into 'want what can't have' mode. (Well...). It is amazing to be in the UK once more, to have proper cups of tea, to hang out all night with my closest friends (if I'm honest, I think they make the place more home-like than anything else), to walk and catch the bus and use public transport and to hear beautiful BBC English on the radio. I'm America plus in that respect; I love all accents, provided they're not my own. No, it's more that I want the best of both worlds, the cynicism and the silliness, the space and the public transport, the people, and, well, the people. I want my own little transatlantic island, damnit, and I want it to be packed with American coffee shops.
Would I do it again? Definitely. Would I recommend it? In a heartbeat. There's an awful lot of culture shock and homesickness involved in a year abroad, that I won't deny, but the rewards far outweigh the detriments. You meet amazing, varied, interesting people, and, at the risk of sounding like a very bad movie, you learn an awful lot about yourself, about your culture, and about globalism. You change. You begin to see things in very different ways.
So what of me? I won't be going for our girly reunion in Paris, because I simply can't afford it. That said, I should soon start working as a shelf stacker type grunt in Tescos (fingers crossed). This sucks. Fortunately the school will be holding a more formal reunion in London come October, and this I am determined to go to. On Thursday I will go for my first post-America, post-Laura haircut, and I'm not sure how I will survive. I've been listening to a lot of radio, and gaming a fair bit. Dying mostly, but that's besides the point. I'm keeping in touch with the UConn bunch as much as possible, and I daily miss Pu and her general wonderfulness. I textspam Vaughney whenever I get bored. In just under a month I'll be spending a week in a field at a folk festival with my Exeter bunch. I've been playing a lot of guitar in preparation. I have a bike. A real, live, rusty bike. I didn't get my internship. I'm trying to figure out what to do with my life, and how to fit America into it. I miss people, very much.
I'm happy. I'm always happy. And I'm glad I went.
Monday, 6 June 2011
Musings scribbled down on a train as I travelled South
I wondered, idly, what it was to look American: by the standards of the great mixing bowl. My mother had always said that I looked typically English with by big eyes and light brown hair- although currently bleached to a ruddish gingery frizz- but I was anything but. My genes, I knew, came from Prussia and Scotland and Ireland and Wales and maybe just a little bit of England and France. I looked Russian, and I looked German, and I bore, in my inheritance, a Jewish surname now covered up. My mother's nearest kin were either tall and thin or short and squat and my half-French (half-Irish? No one knew for sure anymore where the Devines had come from) was a true nutbrown English rose. I and my brother took after our father's side: wild hair, huge shoulders, large heads and deepset eyes- big, big, always big. A little European subrace all of our very own, big and heavy and built for the farm. He had a nose and half, though he was growing into it- our mother's length, our father's width, a hook of his own invention. My own was small and short and thick-rigged, shattered as a child and left to make a life of its own.
I had very large hands and short fingers, and a stubby thumb and my mother's curved middle fingers. Large feet and a heart face and a vaguely hour-glass like figure. I put my weight on my hipss and breasts and could eat like a horse and was in all ways large, even when underweight. And sometimes I thought I would go hunt for a man of similar genes, and sometimes I found myself leaning towards the thinner, more delicate end of the spectrum, and I supposed it was all just my body trying to make it all work out. And at the end of it I realised that I still didn't know what it was to look American, but that my body shape seemed to blend in far better in than mixing bowl than in Her Majesty's green and pleasant and slightly overweight land.
I had very large hands and short fingers, and a stubby thumb and my mother's curved middle fingers. Large feet and a heart face and a vaguely hour-glass like figure. I put my weight on my hipss and breasts and could eat like a horse and was in all ways large, even when underweight. And sometimes I thought I would go hunt for a man of similar genes, and sometimes I found myself leaning towards the thinner, more delicate end of the spectrum, and I supposed it was all just my body trying to make it all work out. And at the end of it I realised that I still didn't know what it was to look American, but that my body shape seemed to blend in far better in than mixing bowl than in Her Majesty's green and pleasant and slightly overweight land.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
Packing: Part III
ARGH.
Does that sum it up?
We have four bags (four!), and a guitar, and I haven't finished the carry-ons yet and we leave tomorrow at 17:45.
Also, I don't want to leave, and I will miss America terribly, and the culture shock will be horrible, and blah. But mostly ARGH.
Does that sum it up?
We have four bags (four!), and a guitar, and I haven't finished the carry-ons yet and we leave tomorrow at 17:45.
Also, I don't want to leave, and I will miss America terribly, and the culture shock will be horrible, and blah. But mostly ARGH.
Sunday, 8 May 2011
A nostalgic post
Remember when:
'Come August' meant a time still far in the distant future.
Packing was the most stressful thing ever.
Walking 45 minutes to someone's house was quite normal.
My fangirling was confined to private conversations with consenting adults.
Coffee was a treat, rather than a necessity (no, me neither).
9 months looked more like 3 years and would never be over.
The aspect of America I was most excited about was pickles.
The idea of cooking dinner in the microwave horrified me.
My jeans were still too big. (Ouch- and I swore I wouldn't do the all American morbid obesity thing.)
I was scared about meeting new people because I didn't want to leave them. (Still painfully true.)
Travel was scary.
New York was nothing more than a movie backdrop.
Taking a cab was for RAs and the lazy.
Pepper spray and guns only existed on screen and in jokes.
A five hour flight was a big deal.
Cross-Atlantic travel was a big deal.
The library was for reference only.
Nothing could ever compare to first year / second year / last summer.
Graduating was scary.
I was convinced my options closed when I hit 23.
I couldn't make an F chord (nope, still can't).
Living with strangers scared me.
Worrying about keeping in contact with people stressed me out.
I was convinced my little brother couldn't grow up without me. (Still not entirely sure on this front.)
I was convinced I knew everything there was to know about living on my own.
I was convinced I would somehow prefer US law.
I would put the UK down at every opportunity, while defending the US tooth and nail.
I like the idea of the Constitution and the US Governmental structure.
All I had to worry about in any one day was how many skirts to pack.
I was going to have travelled the entire US by November.
I didn't really think of the Netherlands as anything other than a good example of a flexible marriage structure.
I didn't really think of Germany as anything other than 'where Cora is going.'
I was convinced I'd never see my friends from Exeter ever again ever.
I couldn't get on a plane without crying. (Still true.)
I was excited about American television. (Oh, dear.)
I didn't watch television unless DW was on.
I was going to come back with a thick US accent.
I was going to impress all the little American freshmen with my English accent (hmmm).
I was going to spend all my time outside.
Bloody scary.
'Come August' meant a time still far in the distant future.
Packing was the most stressful thing ever.
Walking 45 minutes to someone's house was quite normal.
My fangirling was confined to private conversations with consenting adults.
Coffee was a treat, rather than a necessity (no, me neither).
9 months looked more like 3 years and would never be over.
The aspect of America I was most excited about was pickles.
The idea of cooking dinner in the microwave horrified me.
My jeans were still too big. (Ouch- and I swore I wouldn't do the all American morbid obesity thing.)
I was scared about meeting new people because I didn't want to leave them. (Still painfully true.)
Travel was scary.
New York was nothing more than a movie backdrop.
Taking a cab was for RAs and the lazy.
Pepper spray and guns only existed on screen and in jokes.
A five hour flight was a big deal.
Cross-Atlantic travel was a big deal.
The library was for reference only.
Nothing could ever compare to first year / second year / last summer.
Graduating was scary.
I was convinced my options closed when I hit 23.
I couldn't make an F chord (nope, still can't).
Living with strangers scared me.
Worrying about keeping in contact with people stressed me out.
I was convinced my little brother couldn't grow up without me. (Still not entirely sure on this front.)
I was convinced I knew everything there was to know about living on my own.
I was convinced I would somehow prefer US law.
I would put the UK down at every opportunity, while defending the US tooth and nail.
I like the idea of the Constitution and the US Governmental structure.
All I had to worry about in any one day was how many skirts to pack.
I was going to have travelled the entire US by November.
I didn't really think of the Netherlands as anything other than a good example of a flexible marriage structure.
I didn't really think of Germany as anything other than 'where Cora is going.'
I was convinced I'd never see my friends from Exeter ever again ever.
I couldn't get on a plane without crying. (Still true.)
I was excited about American television. (Oh, dear.)
I didn't watch television unless DW was on.
I was going to come back with a thick US accent.
I was going to impress all the little American freshmen with my English accent (hmmm).
I was going to spend all my time outside.
Bloody scary.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Scriptwriting- a productive evil?
Emma Zunz is done. Finished. Finalised. Sent off. Many edits, spellchecks, and new characters later, I have handed in a completed 20 page play. (Single spaced, TNR, 12pt.) I actually now have two versions of the play- the stylistically correct, drama-student approved, 'audiences are idiots' version, and the over-punctuated, Borges fangirl, Professor-esque version. No prizes for guessing which one I handed in. At the end it seemed that I was walking a thin line between the demands of the drama students (bloodthirsty creatures, seriously) and the suggestions of my Borges-loving prof. I only broke down once, and that was when Borges original dialogue was struck down by the dramas for being 'too melodramatic.' Ah, well.
I don't honestly know what to do with myself now. On the one hand: woo, 2nd paper handed in and approved and out of my hair. On the other hand- Emma is my baby. The one I turn to when the Westboro Baptist Church and Southern Slave Laws are getting too much; the one I would never get bored of editing. Scriptwriting, it seems, is an addictive drug.
"So what did you do, JJ?" I hear you cry. (Nickname is laid entirely at Siobhan's doorstep, by the way. Bloody Criminal Minds.) Well, to be honest, I would hope that by now you'd know what I did. I started writing other things instead. You know, productive procrastination. Because a half-finished script with an implausible plot is going to get me so much further than a decent degree.
Right now I'm spending my leisure time on 'Stalker, a weird and wonderful concept which was developed during a late-night Facebook session in Doctor Who season. (Speaking of DW, consider this my Gaiman squeeing for the next week. OMG. OMG. OMG.) It's surprisingly fun to write, probably because it doesn't involve referencing homophobes or Nazis or ... anything. Exciting. Doing nothing for my remaining two papers, of course (I fricking hate papers. I somehow seem to think that were I back in Exeter I would concentrate better.), but there is seriously nothing more fun than writing fangirls. I think I may have found my calling. Now I simply need to get Abbi to inject 1) plot, and 2) humour.
Oh, and I short-circuited the power on our floor by trying to make coffee and cook dinner at the same time. Is this an American thing?
I don't honestly know what to do with myself now. On the one hand: woo, 2nd paper handed in and approved and out of my hair. On the other hand- Emma is my baby. The one I turn to when the Westboro Baptist Church and Southern Slave Laws are getting too much; the one I would never get bored of editing. Scriptwriting, it seems, is an addictive drug.
"So what did you do, JJ?" I hear you cry. (Nickname is laid entirely at Siobhan's doorstep, by the way. Bloody Criminal Minds.) Well, to be honest, I would hope that by now you'd know what I did. I started writing other things instead. You know, productive procrastination. Because a half-finished script with an implausible plot is going to get me so much further than a decent degree.
Right now I'm spending my leisure time on 'Stalker, a weird and wonderful concept which was developed during a late-night Facebook session in Doctor Who season. (Speaking of DW, consider this my Gaiman squeeing for the next week. OMG. OMG. OMG.) It's surprisingly fun to write, probably because it doesn't involve referencing homophobes or Nazis or ... anything. Exciting. Doing nothing for my remaining two papers, of course (I fricking hate papers. I somehow seem to think that were I back in Exeter I would concentrate better.), but there is seriously nothing more fun than writing fangirls. I think I may have found my calling. Now I simply need to get Abbi to inject 1) plot, and 2) humour.
Oh, and I short-circuited the power on our floor by trying to make coffee and cook dinner at the same time. Is this an American thing?
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
A listy listy list that doesn't have much to do with anything
Last night on Glee (yes, I'm sorry, stick with me, I promise it will only be for a paragraph at most), they tried to 'cure' the woman with severe OCD by attempting to force feed her unwashed fruit. While this did provide decent build-up to the Gaga cover, which was the sole reason for my watching, it also made me flinch. Just ... ouch.
Later that evening, I found myself standing in the kitchen watching my roommate tidy everything, and it got me thinking. And, as usually happens when I think, it resulted in me taking a dinner break from the final legs of my EHR paper to write a '10 random things about me only acceptable because there's some kind of context and it's not on FB' type post.
Things I'm not OCD about
- Putting everything in its place.
OK, so I like my room to be tidy, and I like my wardrobe to be organised, and I don't like clutter. (I'm pretty sure my home-home room is some kind of weird masochistic joke on my part). On the other hand, I don't usually find myself running around because someone left a pair of scissors on the counter or the lid up on the washing machine. Which I guess is good. Although I do make an exception if someone deliberately moves something out of place. That's just not funny.
- Laundry.
One of the girls tends to come around twice a month or so to use our washing machine. Watching her do her washing (that sounds a lot weirder than it actually is, honest) actually made me realise that in some respects I'm an irresponsible bastion of flexibility. I really wish I had pictures for this, because while she's all "unfold this and turn it inside out and match all my socks together and make sure everything's washing-machine safe - oops, hand-wash only, into the other pile with you!," I'm very much "put it all in! PUT EVERYTHING IN! It's probably colour-fast!"
I don't know if this is actually normality or simply some sort of weird and hampering reverse-OCD.
- Papers
Don't get me wrong, I suffer a lot of anxiety about papers, but I can't help feeling that if I were properly OCD this would be more caused by the fact that I missed my self-imposed, two-week early deadline and less by oh my god it's due in tomorrow morning and I really don't have an argument syndrome.
- Cleaning fruit and veg / Sharing food (unless someone gets saliva on it, in which case NO.)
I don't know why not. Again, possibly maladaptive, but I like to think that this is simply one of the few good by-products of my good old-fashioned mud-pie eating childhood.
- The whole fine-cleaning thing.
A bucketload of bleach and a sponge do me fine, thank you!
- Compulsive habits.
This one I'm not sure about. On the one hand, I thank the lord every day that my distinctly O-inclined personality keeps me free of numbered doorknob turns and the like. Seriously. Out of the two C is clearly the evil twin. But sometimes I imagine it would be nice to develop a permanent habit which saw me finishing my work promptly at 9, making myself a packed lunch for the day, and settling down to an early night's sleep. Although I think my cider-obsessed side might have problems with that.
Next time: last week's currently unpublished post detailing the things I can and cannot do when suffering from finalsitis. It's written by braindead!Jessie, and it makes normal(maybe)!Jessie giggle.
Later that evening, I found myself standing in the kitchen watching my roommate tidy everything, and it got me thinking. And, as usually happens when I think, it resulted in me taking a dinner break from the final legs of my EHR paper to write a '10 random things about me only acceptable because there's some kind of context and it's not on FB' type post.
Things I'm not OCD about
- Putting everything in its place.
OK, so I like my room to be tidy, and I like my wardrobe to be organised, and I don't like clutter. (I'm pretty sure my home-home room is some kind of weird masochistic joke on my part). On the other hand, I don't usually find myself running around because someone left a pair of scissors on the counter or the lid up on the washing machine. Which I guess is good. Although I do make an exception if someone deliberately moves something out of place. That's just not funny.
- Laundry.
One of the girls tends to come around twice a month or so to use our washing machine. Watching her do her washing (that sounds a lot weirder than it actually is, honest) actually made me realise that in some respects I'm an irresponsible bastion of flexibility. I really wish I had pictures for this, because while she's all "unfold this and turn it inside out and match all my socks together and make sure everything's washing-machine safe - oops, hand-wash only, into the other pile with you!," I'm very much "put it all in! PUT EVERYTHING IN! It's probably colour-fast!"
I don't know if this is actually normality or simply some sort of weird and hampering reverse-OCD.
- Papers
Don't get me wrong, I suffer a lot of anxiety about papers, but I can't help feeling that if I were properly OCD this would be more caused by the fact that I missed my self-imposed, two-week early deadline and less by oh my god it's due in tomorrow morning and I really don't have an argument syndrome.
- Cleaning fruit and veg / Sharing food (unless someone gets saliva on it, in which case NO.)
I don't know why not. Again, possibly maladaptive, but I like to think that this is simply one of the few good by-products of my good old-fashioned mud-pie eating childhood.
- The whole fine-cleaning thing.
A bucketload of bleach and a sponge do me fine, thank you!
- Compulsive habits.
This one I'm not sure about. On the one hand, I thank the lord every day that my distinctly O-inclined personality keeps me free of numbered doorknob turns and the like. Seriously. Out of the two C is clearly the evil twin. But sometimes I imagine it would be nice to develop a permanent habit which saw me finishing my work promptly at 9, making myself a packed lunch for the day, and settling down to an early night's sleep. Although I think my cider-obsessed side might have problems with that.
Next time: last week's currently unpublished post detailing the things I can and cannot do when suffering from finalsitis. It's written by braindead!Jessie, and it makes normal(maybe)!Jessie giggle.
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