Monday, May 31, 2010

The Virgin Suicides - Jeffrey Eugenides


In The End, The Tortures Tearing The Lisbon Girls Pointed To A Simple Refusal To Accept The World As It Was Handed Down To Them, So Full Of Flaws.
-The Virgin Suicides

mi jessie dulche. ;)

Hola Carmen/Juan!

Que tal estás? Qué te cuentas?

Bueno, pues he decidido (con la ayuda de una amiga ;) de escribir algo en espanol...

Esta entrada no va estar en el 'idioma blog' en lugar de eso voy a hablar en dialecto normal (pero como una carta de Junior Cert!). Yo se que la mayoría de la gente que leen esto sito de web no hablan espanol y tampoco lo aprenden - y por eso OS PIDO UNA DISCULPA. Pero os recommendo quizas Google Translate?
Pues, mucha gente ya sabe que Espana es un país llena de cultura y de cosas de interes, en cuanto al idioma es igual! Quizas ya lo supieras quizas no...pero todavía vamos a explorarlo juntos!

Bueno, pues en primer lugar quiero llamar a vuestra attención algunas expresiones espanolas que me interesan muchiiiiiiiiisimo... porque son bastante raras! Hay un montón pero tengo una vida a viver y por eso os doy solo algunas!

Por ejemplo puedes decir:

"No es moco de pavo!" para espresar que te encanta algo - literalmente en ingles es decir: "It's not turkey snot!"

o quizas:

"¡Vete a freír espárragos!" si no tienes ganas de hablar con alguin.

o tambien (quizas mi favorita!) :

"El horno no está para bollos" es decir "This oven is not ready for buns" or como se dice en ingles (que es muuy aburrido:) "No nonsence now!"

Bueno, pues...ESPERO QUE NOS VEAMOS PRONTISIMO EN ESPANA Y TOMAMOS UN GRANIZADO DE LIMÓN! XD
(Sí, sí, soy la leche - he escrito una entrada en espanol! Pero es mejor que nada - ?no?)

Besitos,
Vuestra amiga....

Gearchéim an Trá Mhór

1. I had my last exam todaaay. En celebrátion, I'm off to watch Going Postal (the-main-guy-is-hot-i-don't-care-what-you-say) and have a few tons of gone-off cake.

2. I was on Tavi Gevinson's blog for the eighth time this minute and her new post basically sums up the brilliancy of fourth year fo' meh. http://www.thestylerookie.com/2010/05/in-which-i-reflect-on-middle-school.html Check thut ouut. Yeah she's fourteen, but I'm mentally seven so..

3. Doctor Who. Holy fucking shit. RORY, THE TARDIS SHRAPNEL, AMY:o and next week is Van Gogh? eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I'll keep the army of Matt Smith gifs i have till that episode, but in the meantime..

4. PAUL MCCARTNEY 6 MONTH ANNIVERSARY PARTAY
THIS FRIIIIDAAAY! Whu-whaat!


Also friday is the last ever day of fifth year aka of any year but the last. *gags* Wowowowow whatta year. To be then followed by an M Weekend, a gay pride march, and i hope to GOD, another miniature M-Getaway. And then another partay. And then my parents are going to see Paul McCartney. Woot. :'(

♥♥♥

Friday, May 28, 2010

Teenage Girl seeks Perfect Photo for coastal walks, movies and long-term relationship

THIS MADE ME CRY. Its too perfect. D:
Egad! Aaaalmost finished exams, today there was THREE so now my hand is cramping/stinging..stringing? I have so so many ideas for posts and so many plans (and almost a list ;)) for summer, so after maths on monday those things WILL begin to materialize.
Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow.

♥♥♥

Thursday, May 27, 2010

We're off to see the Culture...

Well I am sufficiently tangoed, have quite remarkably, though I say so myself, have learned songs in Hungarian, Slovenian, Japanese and that crazy Irish jabbergoggle, and tomorrow I shall leave for Pécs, where the shit is, in fact, happening.

^^ sentence worthy of Máire Mhac an tSaoi, non?

Cheerio then mein lieblings, enjoy exams/being in school after exams/end of nice weather for forseeable future/general misery in my absence.
Yours as always,
€imear
....better keep it European...

Friday, May 21, 2010

"Go Suck A Fuck!"

THIS PHOTO SUMS UP HOW I FEEL RIGHT NOW:

It was not directed at my lovely lovely Tim Walker book behind it which I will post the sheet out of after the next week and two daze of exams. :-S


♥♥♥

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

SUM CHOOON BAH


Your day breaks, your mind aches,
You find that all her words of kindness linger on when she no longer needs you..
She wakes up, she makes up, she takes her time and doesn't feel she has to hurry,
She no longer needs you.
And in her eyes you see nothing; No sign of love behind her tears, Cried for no one.
A love that should have lasted years.
You want her, you need her, And yet you don't believe her when she says her love is dead.
You think she needs you.
And in her eyes you see nothing; No sign of love behind the tears, Cried for no one.
A love that should have lasted years.
You stay home, she goes out, She says that long ago
she knew someone but now he's gone. She doesn't need him.
Your day breaks, your mind aches,
There will be times when all the things she said will fill your head, you won't forget her.
And in her eyes you see nothing; No sign of love behind her tears, Cried for no one.
A love that should have lasted years.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Paris, Je T'Aime


In the much renowned poem “The Lake Isle Of Innisfree”, Yeats depicts the rocky island as his personal pastoral utopia, his ideal world, if you will, to which he wishes to escape to. In this way, the poem has a universal appeal in that everyone at some point shares this desire to escape to a better world, a happier place in which they imagine they’ll feel more at home with it’s sights and sounds

But enough about "Willy Yeats". Paris, as the unquestionable centre-point for culture and what not dans le monde is my own Innisfree, though I feel it’s safe to say I succeed in perhaps being more realistic than Yeats, in that I don't make such bold statements as “I will go now”. No, as much as it pains me to come to terms with the fact that “great things really do come to those who wait”, I’ll wait impatiently for the time to come, bags packed and all, to take utmost advantage of my EU citizenship and be gone without a trace.
You see, Paris possesses particular significance to me in that it is my escape plan, my resolution to all the problems that I face during my angsty teen years and the likes. I take satisfaction in the knowledge that I can start afresh in my move to the European hub of activity.

Growing up, my mother used to eagerly and excitedly recount the years of her life spent living in the city of romance. She’d pull out the scrapbook she kept in her pre-parental days at random, and the hours would pass by as she’d recount her tales from an era in her life long gone, and we’d sit ‘round, grinning and bearing it, knowing, even at such an early age, how much these glory days of her life meant to her. She may have left France over two decades ago now, only to return occasionally as a simple tourist, the ultimate “demotion”, but she never quite moved on. Even to this day, it’s as though a part of her never left Paris
A prime example of this is the fact that, be it here at home, during a holiday in France, or even in a busy Nottingham city square, my mother is notorious for exclaiming “Ah, Merde!” whenever the opportunity to do so arises, much to the amusement of passers by who possess even a basic understanding of the language, and much to our embarrassment

Her influence, her not quite so subtle alternatives to saying the years she spent in Paris as an illegal immigrant were “super bien” and she’d highly recommend such an adventure of sorts to anyone, didn’t stop there either. Oh no, if it came to it, she’d have no shame whatsoever in resorting to gross exaggeration and would even, on occasion, indulge in the glib and oily art of duplicity to get her point across. If ever she thought she could get away with, she’d lead on that she’d spent a significant portion of her life living there, when in actuality, she’d left after two years “and a half”, opting to move on to bigger and better things, in finding employment in a ski lodge in the French Alps.


She still, to this day, mentions in passing, whenever she can, that she starred in a renowned French movie “Marche A L’Ombre alongside a yet more renowned French actor, one “Michel Blanc”, avoiding, of course, mentioning that she appeared in said film as a mere extra, if at all she felt she could get away with doing so. She’d sigh softly whilst recalling with a nostalgic tone how she’d rejected a proposal from a Portuguese man, and take a moment to pensively ponder how her life might be, had she accepted. She’d then proceed to giggle hysterically to herself, without saying why, the woman of secrets she is

Looking back, “Joe Le Taxi” was the first pop song whose lyrics I could recall almost without error and with ease, an interesting enough thought considering not a word of English features in the tune. This I have my mom to thank for, along with my love for the French language, all things French, and ultimately, my love for the French city that sparked her own passion for all of the above, which she passed on to me almost as though it were a genetic matter, a dominant gene in my biological make-up she was responsible for.

Though very much aware that I was very possibly receiving a grossly exaggerated version of the truth, I found myself sub-consciously developing some rather flamboyant connotations with the French capital. With time, I began to perceive it as place where happiness was a given, where one’s wildest dreams could and would come true, and most importantly, where one is almost guaranteed to spend the best years of their life.

The life I have here in Cork, as much as it would be envied be a myriad of peoples of all sorts, including, no doubt, a number of Parisians, I quickly became bored with, as a result of these thoughts and ideas that had filled my head without so much as my contents. I’d been convinced I wanted bigger and better things in life than anything a city as small as Cork has to offer. As much as I’ve come to love the city I grew up in, I find myself restless and itching to leave the “banks of my own lovely Lee” only to start a new life from scratch in some foreign city, on the banks of the Seine. Thanks, Mom.

A miniature Eiffel Tower figurine, bought in a Euro Disney trinket kiosk, stands assertively on my tv, watching over my bedroom. It serves as a juvenile attempt to bring a little bit of Paris into my own home. It is far from the 1000+ feet height of the actual tower, and does not boast a revolving beam of light on its top, but for now anyways, it will have to do. I hope that one day, I will look out my bedroom window only to be met with the sight of Gustave Eiffel’s actual creation, even if only on a temporary basis

On both precious occasions in which I laid eyes upon the structure, I found myself powerless to the euphoria and heightened glee that swept over me, whilst grinning stupidly at it, the amateur tourist I am. The first time it were as if I was being introduced to a stranger I’d heard so many good things about, from a host of reliable sources, the second, it were as though I was being greeted by an old friend. On the latter occasion, it was a much easier task making sense of these overwhelming emotions I was experiencing. The tower, as a symbol and icon of the city of Paris, also served as a symbol for what the city had come to mean to me. The guaranteed happiness, chance encounters, life-changing experiences development of sense of identity and of purpose I almost expected to one day find In the city all summed up in 7,000+ tonnes of metal, and I, as a boy of 16, could hardly take it all in.
-C'estMícheálB*tch

Friday, May 14, 2010

What I Learned On Our Art Trip.

The meaning behind modern art: I knew an epiphany was on it's way since I went to MoMA in New York and yesterday in the National Gallery, I fiiiinally found THE definition. A short film on Jackson Pollack there described his pictures as "expression rather than illustration". And BOOM, realisation burst forth within me as strongly the allegations against Terry Richardson. I really got it. Jackson Pollack's paintings, and I'm just using one specific example here, aren't stories and they aren't decorative objects per se because: its not even about the paintings. Its like they're not exactly meant to be looked at because they themselves are only byproducts. The REAL art is the person behind those paintings in a moment in which they felt something. Its the feeling that IS the art, not the jumble of enamel and slabs of paint thats been flung onto the canvas. To me it's like when on hearing the name of a person you know, you don't think about every individual letter or picture how they look: you hear an overall sound, an expression. You hear how you feel about that person or who they are or what they've been through, not how the name is written or what font it's in.
It reminds me of that quote from Factory Girl, when she says: "You're being a little stupid. I mean, don't you think it's intriguing? You know, it may just be a painting, but it's an idea. And the man behind that idea is what's interesting". That "man", that human, was always there, but it's what happened to have been ejected from experiences or emotions or ideas in the form of something solid** is what brought attention TO his mind and abilities. And that's when it really becomes amazing. Just as that line from a film I've seen forty times has always been there but I just hadn't realised what it exactly meant before now.
Your art grows with you, the reason you explore different materials and styles because you yourself are growing as a person. The art I was doing when I was 15 is totally different from now, but I don't believe its because I've practised really. Because its that every time I turn a corner with shading or painting or making something look 3-D, it comes out of nowhere. Its totally uncontrollable because it's mental, not physical. It's my mind that has grown and opened like a slapped clam, not my hands, which have OFC remained freakishly small and hobbit-like. Just like I wouldn't have been able to write this blog two years ago, not because I'd be too young or that I'd have nothing to say or that I'd be too self-concious but because now my PERCEPTION itself has changed.
Anyway, I felt like I had to write that little epiphany out to express the B0Omp0W that happened in my clam-brain yesterday, before I dive into my Hamlet Question asap!

** NOT THAT. :L

♥♥♥

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

If this doesn't convince michelle..

In light of the news that came out last week about the angels not being statues but being REAL PEOPLE, I feel I need to go on a rant about the last double bill of Doctor Who. BTW, in case you’re living under a nerd-proof rock, you can “Stuff-it-up-your-arse-for-nothing-and-fuck-off-while-you’re-doing-it” OR click here to see a summary of what/who the infamous Weeping Angels are..
These two episodes are on such an unimaginably larger scale than season 3’s Blink. Angels in a house? Sending people back to the 1800s? The lights turn off once? PAHHH how about thousands of them hiding in towers of catacombs, climbing into human EYES, ripping out spinal cords and using dead bodies to speak..and HEY there’s always time for those guys to tumble into an abyss of fucking time energy. The thing about these Doctor Who monsters is that they are genuinely terrifying, actual psychopaths, not just entertaining. They live forever, are unbeatable and look so..subtly ominous - all in all they are testiments to that New-Age-Paranormal-Activity kind of fear. The climax with Amy wandering through a Where The Wild Things Are forest with her eyes closed, sub-conciously counting down her death while the giant light of death consumes everyone around her. I could rant about how gosh darn incredible everything in this season is, how the writing is so perfect, the look is so much more BEAUTIFUL and the acting is spot-on (NOT THAT) and how much this new quintessential modernité adds to every episode..but I've done that a lottt. But there was one thing that has never happened before.
Which brings me smoooothly onto my next point..THE DOCTOR WAS RAPED!! AAAAAAAAOOOOGHHHSAAAAA *whale noise* Holy sheet I was not expecting the line: “You're sweet but I’m not looking for anything so..LONG-TERM”..*lunges* in a show (supposedly) aimed at 12 year olds.
Ohh Amy, light of my life, fire of my loins..you have voiced the wishes of every pulse watching. That’s right, PULSE. And yes, it was mildly awkward watching it with my parents. YES, I am a pervert. But, and now I address certain coffee-looking naysayers directly, what's important is is that clearly I'm Not The Only One. Is that a song lyric? PROBABLY NOT.


♥♥♥

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Monday, May 3, 2010

Where is fancy bred? In the heart or in the head?

In light of le nou blogguer, and of the ridiculous hysterical grin that is still plastered onto my face after reading her virgin post, I’m going to talk about something I experienced yesterday, drowned in sushi and HB Swirls, waylaid by perverts and overcome with waxing creative energy. Well kiddos, do you ever have that moment where you fall a little bit in love with someone you shouldn’t? And I’m not talking about that Edward/Jacob slash..none of that body-and-soul sheeet. I was in a weird mood yesterday, sorta buried with a metaphorical avalanche of petty, petty, petty x 400 frustrations which were making me 400 times even more frustrated because I KNEW how petty they were/are. PETTTYYYYY! Anyfuck, I’m talking about those days you, perhaps consciously, seek solace in a brilliant character or let the creative jizz that’s leaching from your pores proliferate itself in the look one person’s eyes or voice.
Queue that pedestal.
Well today, that person was Gene Wilder. After a mini-DVD fest of my freshly-purchased The Producers and the old golden disc’s Willy Wonka..I fell a little bit in love with him. That bit where he looks at the camera and says “It’s just that...no-one ever called me Leo before”. His deep blue eyes and that lovely voice that sounds like tears mixed with congealed maple syrup along with an undercurrent of emotional instability and those random AMAZING poetic quote-a-thons in Chocolate Factory that I’ve honestly never even registered before: “Is it my soul that calls my name?” or, my favourite, the beaautiful title of this post. Which brings me so-not-smoothly onto a question that has been on my fizzing mind for some time: WHY are vulnerable characters so attractive and endearing? And I don’t mean attractive in a “Dayumm whooza sexayy fiiish” way, I mean when something someone says something that genuinely sunflower’s your heartstrings**. Maybe they touch some kind of vulnerability in all of us or maybe summon up a dormant maternal instinct (VERY dormant for me! NOTHANKS) or do they just innately hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature and show us the vast fragility of every person surrounding us? Somebody explain because I don’t understand this phenomenon - especially in the celebrity world. James Dean, Edie Sedgwick, Marilyn Monroe, Princess Di, Kurt Cobain or the bit in Half Blood Prince where Malfoy sobs in the bathroom..all these people are fundamentally beautiful because of their depressions or issues or tragedies.
I could soliloquy the day away about this but I’ll probably just go re-watch The Producers instead. Well maybe it’s my phantaaaasmagorically strange mood, or the fact that I’ve ‘known’ this actor since I saw Willy Wonka when I was like an embryo and am now noticing all these new wonderful hidden Jokes-For-Adults (MOI? ADULT? gwoyyy..) in his acting today, but anyway, the conclusion is..GENE WILDER IS MY NEW EMPATHIZING BEST FRIEND.

♥♥♥

** Only the sicker (M) members of the audience will get that without the help of urbandictionary..

Sunday, May 2, 2010

ENDORPHINS ALL ROUND!

Waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night feeling that someone’s breathing over your shoulder. Only under Gaisce circumstances would I find this funny. Let me explain.

Even though Christina Aguilera’s revival of 60s music and style was only an excuse to wear red lipstick and dance with sailors, she had the right idea: Back to Basics. No matter how many times I discover the great simplicities of nature; walking along a mountain, swimming on a beach, making a daisy chain, breathing the fresh air, observing the animals, I continue to forget what I’m missing out on here in the heart of the city. This is where Gaisce comes in. ON THA BASIC, the President likes to award people who get their bodies involved in sport, minds involved a hobby, and hearts involved in the community, in return for a medal, a certificate and much, much more.

The next best thing was the company. Sharing this trip with friends who had a mutual want to escape the drama, arguments, awkwardness, competitiveness and immaturity of everyday socialising, and instead, just let go and have fun! (as brochure-worthy as that sounds). After all, is it that weird wanting to escape the messy alcohol-obsessed weekends that never fail to disappoint? Not only this, but in the midst of our disturbingly hilarious sense of humour clash, i managed to even escape myself for a while, enter: Jason. Yes, Gaisce made me discover the player 'shamy feen' within me, irresistible to women, envied by men, you know how it is. Of course, excessive pervy jokes don't go without their downsides. Hence, this Jason character appearing in my dreams only to wake me up at 5am feeling violated and nervous. Needless to say i didn't find this funny 'till the next morning.


So a weekend and miles of laughter later, we return to the run o' the mill, exchanging these 'I get you' looks in the corridors, or an Avatarian, 'I see you'. Thumbs up for hills and good clean fun, THATS WHAT I SAY!




new girl <3