Expo: Cultural Learnings of China for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Ireland

So, Expo is over. Well really it'll be going on until October, attracting approx 400,000 visitors a day, so for a good few million people, Expo is not over. Of all those millions, a few thousand saw Irish International Youth in Chorus. Of those thousands, about 12 were Irish, I'd wager. And those were probably the only Irish people in the world who knew what the hell was going on. For something arguably bigger than the Olympics (I kid you not-this thing was more expensive for China), quite disappointingly few people seemed to know what it was about at home. But whether it's a good thing or not, that sort of unawareness is kind of our choir's thing. Our mascot really ought to be a question mark.

As some of you may know, I have spent the last 3 months of my life preparing for this trip with the other 18 girls, as well as one we made to Hungary in late May. This type of thing does not really faze us, at least those who have been to Japan, Lithuania and Liverpool. What's been a little saddening is that our work and the work of our amazing directors and creative team hasn't always been recognised. Japanese people funded one of our trips because the Irish government wouldn't. We couldn't even get funding to keep up rehearsals, even after representing our country and its young people abroad. When we were told in 2008 that Cork Children's Chorus was no more, I was inconsolable. Our conductor had once told us before going on stage to a half-full Opera House that art was about putting time, energy and love into something continuously only to exhibit it for mere hours, potentially in front of a handful of people. My favourite performance of ours was in a beautiful concert hall in Liverpool, where I could count the people in the seats, most of whom were parents of the Liverpudlian brass band kids or Japanese executives (most significantly, a certain Mr. Mistubishi ), but that didn't matter. It was unforgettable; a life-affirming moment for me. Call me romantic, but that's when I knew I needed this feeling, this community, to be a part of the rest of my life. Feel free to throw that in my sell-out face if I become a lawyer or something...

Anyroad, this time things were a little different. The Nameless Homeless Choir (formerly known as Cork International Girls Choir, formerly known as Cork Children's Chorus) were actually getting quite a bit of attention. For people who'd only ever graced a corner of a page in the Echo (no offence intended!), it looked like we were going somewhere. At least, that's how the kick-ass citizens of Shanghai would have us think. Walking through Expo, streets and markets, handing out flyers for our shows, they were all so eager to take them from us! Being asked for leaflets certainly made a nice change from begging people to take half-price opera tickets. In four days, we made the Shanghai newspapers, international TV, featured in the official Expo 2010 3D movie, and, how could I forget, did a shoot for TG4 *big whoooop!*

But enough about fame, and lack thereof.
Shanghai, eh? Don't quite know where to start...China is not somewhere I would ever go if it were not for choir, but I don't think I'd go back there any time soon. Obviously it's freaking amazing, super high-tech, skyscrapers and bright lights galore; in a word: surreal. Chinese people are not as conservative as I was led to believe. They were not in the least bit afraid to come right up to us and take a picture of our shiny red little faces in the manky heat. One woman tried to steal our stylist's baby...but that's another story. We were lucky to get to see both end of the age spectrum in China - we did Tai Chi in a park at 6am with some incredibly nimble and totally zen old folk, and also went to the Shanghai 'Experimental School'...where we were delighted with performances by a flute duet, guitar ballad....and somewhat inappropriate choreography to Britney's classic 'Doo sum'iiinn'. Intriguing. Shanghai is a lot more Westernised than I expected. Being a sucker for culture, I'm on the fence on that one.

My most important lesson from Shanghai was to appreciate Irish tradition. Is that unbearably sappy? I've never been one for the sean-nós, or turf, or rain. But seriously, stepping into the Irish Pavilion from the hot air and the smog was the most relieving sensation ever. There's such a sweet smell in the air in Shanghai, and for once in my life I longed for the smell of a damp Irish day. In the National Conservatory of Music, an internationally acclaimed female voice choir sang a programme of really interesting modern music by American composers, art songs, Hungarian songs, and even a piece based on an Irish poem. And then we had to get up and perform our 20 minute traditional set, full of grief, hardship, womanhood, joy, hope, love. At first, we were nervous. Then we remembered, 'we've got something they haven't got'. Not slightly nerve-wracking movements, not different coloured hair and skin, not even the only male in the room! We had Irishness, as our ole pal Yeats mighta said. We had pride, and humour. Even if this was to be our last ever concert, and even if no one else heard of us at home, we wanted to tell as many people as we could what it's really like being from Ireland; to act on their behalf to change their views of abandoned castles, and fields, and leprechauns and sheep. And looking into our audiences, we could see on their faces that we did have something worthwhile to show. Looked a little like this

£££

FML - truly a "Midsummer Must-See"

Flashback to my pre-FML days, an era in my life whose memories grow murkier and more distant to me with every passing day…and yet, I remember this much. Even before I saw for myself why the Everyman saw fit to give the performance in question an 11 day slot, I felt a longing in my belly…like a swallow who just somehow knows to get the fuck out of Ireland come winter time, and get his ass in sunny Africa, despite the trials and tribulations he may face on his way, I knew I had to see the spectacle that is FML for myself, no matter what. How was it I knew the show was undeniably “unmissable”? Who knows, it’s a mystery really. Sure, I’d seen the impressive rehearsal clips on youtube, was of the knowledge that it had been declared a “MidSummer Must-See" by the Irish Times, and had heard of the performer’s profound progress during the year…but yeah, mystery

Only last night, whilst engaging in the glib and oily art of conversation on the medium of correspondence that is Facebook, I felt the urge to state boldy, and out of the blue to one friend in particular: “oh, i'd highly recommend seeing FML before it goes btw! it act really appeals to the emotions, i'd think you'd like it like!”, to which he replied: “really? in what manner?”. “Indeed” I said, “in a concoction of manners”.

It didn’t stop at that, either. I knew that if I were to convince anyone the spectacle was actually worth the hefty €11 entrance fee, I’d have to show, not just tell how ever so wondrous it was. So I set out to do just that.
“come the end of the show,” I recounted, “you can pretty much expect your lungs to ache from laughter, and if the audience were to be anything like the one present last night, you can expect a number of spectators to have fled the room in a state of heightened emotion, unable to bear the subject matter at hand, never to return, particularly when the topics of depression and suicide are covered, too”

The friend in question, he daringly interjects my thoughtful on-the-spot review with “lol is it that controversial” I opted not to dignify such a stupid question with a direct response…how could one be so blatantly oblivious to the fact that the performance in question was directed by none other than Pol Heyvaert himself, a Belgian director renowned for his reluctance to shy away from confrontational material in his work...The naivety, it shook me to the core tbh. No, instead I went on to tell him he could expect the image of Lydia, a girl portrayed as being plagued by insecurities, lack of self assurance, and general social anxiety, booming the lyrics to "U.G.L.Y. (you aint got no alibi), to be etched in his mind for quite some time after, should he attend the piece 2kaiX

Seriously, i'm still haunted by the aforementioned scence that unfolded right in front of my eyes…the fact that a loud drumming accompanies the chant further accentuates the raw, exposed emotions in question…you couldnt, as Palahniuk would say, make it up. Why, the audience was left in a state of utter silence for minutes after. To this, he responds with “well it does seem to have had a profound effect on you so i imagine it's good”
Finally, I felt I’d made a break-through of sorts, though I felt perhaps my efforts were worthy of more than just having given the impression the performance was merely “good” but ah sure, C’est La Vie like!

I then understood what I had to do to fully encapsulate the genius of the show in word form. First coveying my indignation in replying with “it was…”, I then went on to play the biggest card I had on hand, the potential “dealbreaker” of sorts, if you will…"even Maryam was forced to show her amusement at Saoirse’s undeniably comical lines, having being rendered hysterical with girlish laughter” Now, that was saying something, and judging by the silence that ensued, I’d no doubt scored a direct hit with such a risqué statement. I followed through with a second blow, to seal the deal once and for all…"i liked that it wasnt afraid to push the boundaries, even if in doing so, the play just so happened to have offended a handful of people, predominantly middle aged women like”. At this, he was left speechless on the matter, and the a change of topic took place. I knew I hadnt the power to make the boy attend the perfomance before it left, but at least I felt i'd given an informative account of what was to be missed out on were he to turn a blind eye to the MidSummer Festival 2010's prize theatrical piece, and so felt my culture-related obligations for the day had been carried out

One might still wonder, however, how exactly a production which casts a spotlight on the lives of 15 mere Corkonian young wans in a blend of spoken word and film, true confessions and lies, earns itself a standing ovation come the end of the show? Is it the fact that the cast are not exactly acting, just offering enhanced versions of themselves on stage to open the audience’s eyes to even the most trivial shit - that it really is “ok to strip”, ok to perform even the most awful karaoke, and that kinky whipped cream applications don’t always end well? Or is that, because the stories, anecdotes and reflections are based on personal experience, the experience feels authentic: the words and feelings have not been imposed; when, for example, Charlie tells you that he "hates happy people" you know he really means it? I’ll leave that up to you to decide for yourself…FML plays in the Everyman Palace for just 3 more nights…don’t miss out, bitches =]

-C'estMícheálB*tch

A monkey with a miniature cymbal.

I wrote that title before I watched Doctor Who Confidential and they actually play that song during a scene. EMPLOY MEEEEEEEEEE!
Well season 5 of the great Who is over :( and the only way to describe the finale, not to make light of the word, is EPIC. Half way through the first episode of the double, I thought it was going to be a mediocre, gimmicky, ‘exciting’ wannabe ending to catch the attention of the new Matt-ette viewers, but honestly the effort put into the finale is astounding. I never thought it would be brilliant, especially considering the UNREAL season it was, and I think it wholly defies Stephen Fry’s opinion on current TV shows being "like a chicken nugget. Every now and again we all like it. Every now and again." A resounding EPIC, then.
The last episode :( opens with the beginning of that very first episode exactly, with Amelia Pond inside her house – the house that I will one day own - talking to God/Santa about the crack in her wall. In this rewritten history, no Doctor appears to save her, only a foggy, fez-clad (we’ll revisit THAT later..) silhouette delivering enigmatic post-its and a brochure to the National Gallery. Now that the “silence” is enveloping and erasing all of history, what better place is there to exhibit some historical debris that’s been modified because El Medico is looked up in a box-prison? Nile penguins, daleks and Australian polar bears litter the corridor leading up to the said Pandorica, looming in front of Amelia like the cube from Transformers.
She releases her adult self after being kept alive inside for 1894 years, (“This IS where it gets complicated, kid”), the Amy who has been guarded by new-pimped Rory for the while. BTW does this mean that Amy is actually now older than the Doctor? Hmm. I love the new Robot Rory, he was both likeable and actually talented. AND funny – “Trust the plastic”. After a little River Song/Dalek action, the Doctor, half dead, flies the Pandorica into the exploding TARDIS to create the second Big Band and rewrite/save the universe. Some n3rdsp3ak: because the exploding TARDIS will transfer the reviving-light emanating from the Pandorica to every part of the universe through the cracks in the wall, everything will be restored but changed. BUT The Doctor tells Amy that, as she lived as a quirky little freak her whole life with a crack in the universe on her wall, she has the power to bring people back from the cracks just as she did with Rory. BOOM.
After BB2, the Doctor’s appalling loneliness is emphasised more than ever as he horribly tries to say goodbye to the Girl Who Waited. It actually hits home that he’s much more than a celestial outsider observing and assisting, but that he’s now totally intertwined in Amy’s life, even though now he has to leave. After he visits the sleeping Amelia on the night she waited and tells her the story of his old, borrowed TARDIS, he enters the crack in her wall, allowing all the cracks to close completely, locking himself out of the universe.
For the next 12 years, Amy lives out her life with the family that she had remembered back into existence, including her mother and father who I do NOT like. Amy’s realisation goes pete tong at the wedding (eeefinallyyy!) as she begins to feel that she is forgetting something important. Seeing River and her now-empty blue diary tips her off and she finally remembers that it is the Doctor through his planted memory of something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.Clever,eh? So she manages to save him. With the power of her imagination. Where have we heard that before?
Moving on, The TARDIS appears in the middle of the all too ordinary wedding-eating-hotel-hall (is there a name for them?) and The Doctor steps out in tails, a white bow tie and scarf. NOICE. Maybe I’m being too much of an unprofessional fashion-hoe but Fez me, El Hombre Matt has never looked better. Yes the unfortunately-bombed fez emphasized AUL DAT. Also I related more than any language can ever depict to his “drunken giraffe” dance moves, a style which will hopefully take over soon and gain as much hipster cred as Fish Custard now holds in the tumblr-sphere.
Conclusion? Amy = Totally Boss as companions go.
Especially when she says to The Doctor: “You may definitely kiss the bride”.
On her wedding day. Standing next to Mr. Pond (he will never be anything else to me now).
Why hello there Awky!

Then the trio (yes, Mr. Pond and Amy are sticking around- wahey!) leave for an adventure involving an escaped Egyptian goddess. On the Orient Express. In space, which I hope to God is the Christmas Special! So a brilliant end to a beautiful season. Only 5 months to the next episode.
I know this ‘review’ will be TOTALLY lost on now Who-ites but oh well, watch the episode.

I’m off to a train adventure myself in 8 ½ hours..to SWITZERLAND! Geronimo!
Adieu, I expect to see an offensive amount of posts when I return! Apparently someone went to Shanghai?

♥♥♥

hot town summer in the city

I'm sorry I haven't posted in so longggg before nowww. It's because I Love Summer and I'm busy growing psychologically, goddammit! Here, have some atmospheric photos that sum up the last two weeks:

(Bitch)

♥♥♥

Set Phasers To STUN! or How Much I Love Terry Gilliam part dos

"Port Talbot is a steel town, where everything is covered with gray iron ore dust. Even the beach is completely littered with dust, it’s just black. The sun was setting, and it was quite beautiful. The contrast was extraordinary, I had this image of a guy sitting there on this dingy beach with a portable radio, tuning in these strange Latin escapist songs like Brazil. The music transported him somehow and made his world less gray."

WOW. I’ve just finished watching the entirety of Terry Gilliam’s Dreams Trilogy. It’s a little depressing to think that this man might only have a few films left in him and even more depressing when you looks at the cinema listings at the moment. Maybe Christian Bale was right, and with regard to the film industry, perhaps “professionally, we’re fucking done!”. With these unique, staggering films, while you’re watching them you can feel desperate, overwhelmed and a little nauseous, but you wake up the next morning feeling so blown away and fresh and inspired and changed. Much like the after-effects of a LSD trip. I’ve heard.

So here we go with another Gilliam rant, a Gulf Coast-like unstoppable spill of consciousness spewing from my noggin. What a shoddy post this is! To quote the poet Bale once again, “fucking amateur!”
Brazil is described as a film about the dehumanizing effect of technology, but it swissrolls many of the issues of the current and past centuries into the one vast plot: industrialization, terrorism, government control, technology gone wrong, inept repair people, plastic surgery, meaningless Christmas presents, love, and even modern filmmaking. Its buffet of themes weave together making it’s very concepts extraordinarily haunting. This is not a film that can be put in a box. A..food box perhaps?
It follows the character of Sam Lowry, a stressed technocrat in a futuristic society that is needlessly convoluted and SICKKKENINGLY industrial. Sam's perception of the world alternates between being trapped as a mere cog-in-the-machine in a grey office and escaping from his grim existence by becoming a hero in his own progressively more elaborate dreams. He dreams of a life where he can fly away from machinery and overpowering bureaucracy, and spend eternity with the woman of his dreams. While trying to rectify the wrongful arrest of one Harry Buttle, Lowry meets the woman he is always chasing in his dreams, Jill Layton. Meanwhile, the bureaucracy has scapegoated him responsible for a stream of terrorist bombings and both Sam and Jill's lives are in danger. So his life and these dreams begin to merge together; his dreams becoming more realized and central to him as his life falls apart like a wet cake. Hmm, obviously I’m hungry today..
The plot rolls on until the final 8 minutes and then it..*insert intelligent phrase here* HOMYGAWWDDD11. As Sam’s life hurtles downhill, he endeavours to escape his horribly dystopian society through whatever means possible. The conclusion and especially that final shot is sickeningly disturbing without using any graphic brutality, but it is a very happy ending in a powerfully original and edgy way.
I cannot emphasize enough how shocking and emotionally moving those last few minutes are. I’m rarely moved by dramatic endings and that’s not a macho-girl boast, I just find them detached at times, especially when loaded with slow-mo, long speeches and Galadriel-like-singing* coming from nowhere.
This one, however, uses few special effects and only one piece of music – “Brazil”. It leaves you with your hand over your mouth in a combination of acute shock, disgust, disbelief and somehow admiration. It’s tragically happy and not an overall positive conclusion, butafterwards I felt bizarrely and suddenly euphoric something a film has never done to me. Ultimately Brazil is about extreme escapism and the part each small individual plays in society. YAWN YAWN, I know but from start to finish, it perfectly exhibits the famous 'domino effect'. After all, it only started with a fly stuck in a keyboard. It shows that the ‘system’ isn't great leaders, great machinating people controlling it all. It's each person performing their job as one obedient little cog in this greater machine. Sam is accepts this and in due course, pays the price though his yearning for escapism overcomes this, in a way.
Like all Gilliam films, it’s visually STUNNING, full to the metaphorical brim with symbolism, carefully stylised colours in wide camera shots rather than close-ups. It’s also distinctly claustrophobic, chiefly in the overwhelmingly mammoth and soulless buildings of the Ministry Of Information. Outside, huge intestinal piping intrusively snakes through every elegant living room and posh restaurant.The sets are so brilliantly effective, designed to look like the century compressed into a single moment, compiling elements from the 1920s through the decades up to the here and now. It’s the definition of a retro-future, but it defies it’s potential charm to instead become bizarre and corrupt. Brazil is a smothering jumbled collage of a world set in an evil version of Fellini’s, if you will. But it is not set in the future itself specifically and it’s not set in any country and has nothing to do with the country Brazil. It is instead set in "every part of the 20th century," or "the other side of now."

Gilliam says: “It's all about my own frustrations and my seeming inability to achieve what I wanted to achieve and my inability to affect a system that is clearly wrong”. Like a fever dream I had after watching Donnie Darko, it simultaneously repulses and intrigues you at times, which works in stupendous contrast with Sam’s desperate and impossible dreams.

Don't go look up the ending on wikipedia, kids, take 2 hours and 22 minutes out of yer young lives and watch a classic film.

ITS SHORTER THAN AVATAR!

♥♥♥

*If you don’t get that reference you can FUCK OFF.

For Your Viewing Pleasure

OH SWEET CREATIVE OUTLETS!
Eimear "The Ringo Devotee" Hurley has somehow trusted me with the insane-in-the-membrane task of pimping her brand new white converse. Two days to go. Will it be a stress-induced disaster? Lets see..

BEFORE.

AFTER.

♥♥♥

What Punk Is Doing In His Retirement

I can not stop looking at this and LMAOing like a prize history nerd.


bahahahahahahaa! CLICK FOR A CLEARER VIEW KIDS.

♥♥♥

Ridin' solo on the invention of conjoined words

Its a tricky, untamed beast the english language, a terrible beauty. Yes many prime examples of its self desctructive tendencies springing to mind. Situations that leave you screaming inside your head ''WHAT THE FUCK'', how in the name of Hamlet did a perfectly logical pre-formed sentence like ''Swedish people must have a fascination with sims'', materialize into just ''Swims''. Just swims. Not even '' fascination with swims'', just ''swims''. Leaving a cold empty pit in my mind. Why dont you love me brain? Why cant we just work together and display a reasonal amount of sanity and normality, do you not like the lovely english language? hmm? Why cant we all just be friends? Instead moments that could be imortalized FOREVER with one clever comment are destroyed as you are reduced to mumbling - conjoining freakish words together FOR NO APPARTENT REASON other than my brain turning into a vegtable due to excessive amounts of cartoons or residue from my pokemon days. (What happened in Doctor Who this week? blank - yet remembering what village Ash Ketchum is no problem.) This syndrom is contagious. Yup my father is reduced to ''Hey manderina'' and my mother thinks my cousin has bought a new ''blueberry phone'' with free music from ''Michael Bubbles'' on it. In a recent interview for a job i will never get due to my weird, nonsensical answers. It was all going swimmingly until she asked me to talk about myself- in my mind, i quickly prepared some fail proof guidelines. Just say art and music, dont use words with more than seven letters, DONT RAMBLE RANDOMLY. Which i did in the second sentence i started. In my mind i had two options, say '' i love art alot'' or ''i love art aload'' when the question of hobbies reared its head.In hindsight neither are great specimens of the english language but under pressure thats what i came up with. However,what i actually said was something along the lines of ''Art is aload, i mean, i love art alod''. Silence. Next question. ''Will you be relying on a lift?'' no, i reply my dad can drop me down or i can walk. okay not too bad. Next. ''What do you know about our company?''.


''Well'', I start giving the ol'brain time to warm up. thinkofsomethingcleverandappropriate. ''When i visited your previous stores-'' lie. ''I thought it was flabulousish'' <----- Karma smacking me in the face for my lie. She looked up, i looked at her rabbit-in-headlights. I felt like Claire in Heroes when she accidently used her previous name in the presence of Sylar,then he knew who she really was the freaky cheerleader who could regenerate. Obviously there are only minor similarities in these to anecdotes but in the same way Sylar saw the superhuman cheerleader and wanted to steal her brain, this woman saw a crack in my adopted persona and now she saw a glimmer of the crazy word conjoiner underneath. The rest of the interview was a subconscious blur, something about black clothes, a garden centre and comfortable shoes and then it was over. It was like a distant memory but the cold emptiness of failure was unmistakeable. Maybe i'll never be employed. *Sigh* Whether or not there is a cure for this...thing i dont know but my previous life of Hollyoaks, weird Austrialian daytime childerns programes and various ''mon'' programes (pokemon, digimon, yugimon? it was called yugimon wasnt it?) have limited my current brain space to very little since it still retains the information from my youth i.e (again - i cant stop i still know all this useless stuff) what squirtle evolves into. There should be a post soon on the subject of a suffer of this.....tendency to conjoin words and invent their own....... Well on that note im going to watch Ferris Bueller and eat ice-cream.

38 Ways To Make Yourself Sound Smarter Using Wise Phrases. by Marc, Bevin, Nooge, Martha, Marianne..and Louis..occasionally

I can't imagine why this wasn't put up earlier..

1. We've all wandered off the path at some point
2. We've all dropped the shovel at some point
3. If the bird doesn't fly why bother?
4. We've all sat on the cactus at some point..
5. If hes gay say nay
6. Sometimes the donkey has to wait at the traffic cone...
7. The rubber duck doesn't always float
8. We all bang the drums
9. If the teddy nods hes saying no...
10. Everyone's inner chair can groan
11. When the door slams just lock it
12. Every pickle has a jar
13. Its not over til the green bong sings
14. At €5.99, don't question the spoon
15. As the blue fish winks dance whole-heartedly
16. When the wind blows think of dolphins with herpes
17. When wearing flippers, always drink low-fat milk
18. Please keep arms and legs inside the mayonnaise lid at all times
19. Cotton wool speaks miles
20. Yet salmon seldom whistles
21. The Dunnes Stores paradox continues
22. Depending on the grapefruit's co-operation
23. Prostitution is always the answer when a
shortage of cornflakes befalls you
23. An elephant in hand, three paramedics in the bush
24. When the sun rises from the east, abstain from eating
table salt (by Louis just now)
25. Don't exaggerate! swim diagonally
26. Red hay makes the world say
27. Why cradle a roast duck?
28. Ikea beckons with a rubber blue gun
29. The radio speaks loudest to the doorknob
30. At times the quill gets too frustrated
31. A lot can happen in a frying pan
32. Cheese
33. Lads are merely goats dressed as apostles
34. FANIMAL ORGY
35. Sometimes an old shovel can be better than a best friend
36. Intelligent guessing is for grave robbers
37. A cold lima bean is better than a blue ribbon (Louis..again)
And finally marc..this perhaps being the wisest
thing ANYONE said all night:
38. Okay lets just stop before one of us gets a brain haemorrhage.

Hooollllly Shhhhanghai

It's like Chelsea freaking flower show but for countries:
http://en.expo.cn/indexn.html?id=13100005

"Expo 2010 Shanghai China will also be a grand international gathering. On the one hand, we shall endeavour to attract about 200 nations and international organisations to take part in the exhibition as well as 70 million visitors from home and abroad, ensuring the widest possible participation in the history of the World Expositions. On the other hand, we will put Expo 2010 Shanghai China in a global perspective and do our best to encourage the participation and gain the understanding and support of various countries and peoples, in order to turn Expo 2010 Shanghai China into a happy reunion of people from all over the world."

....so yeah, mainly I'm looking forward to the fake handbags and iphones....

£

A combination and a form indeed, where every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a Man.

DUNNO IF YOU HEARD but I’m not going to You-Know-Who tonight even though my parents and their friends are. *laughs hysterically* I just heard four of his songs via a few phone calls..I thought it would be horrible YOU DO NOT HANG UP on Sir Paul McCartney and so I answered the phone(s).
Strangely, very very strangely, the one and only thing that calmed me down all day and actually made me happy was the voice of Macca singing All My Loving from 156 miles away. Even if my mom ruined it slightly by texting “Brilliant” after the call. Not even putting in punctuation. REALLY, I mean REALLYYYY LIKE?!? But it was odd, because it wasn’t even bittersweet hearing that voice, and although I would honestly, truly stab numerous children/babies in their faces to even be outside the RDS right now, hearing the music didn’t cause me that awful, awful pang that I’ve been feeling all day.
Both today and Yesterday* I’ve been looking through a haze of combined bereavement and nausea, as in earlier I was trying to lobotomize myself and everyone around me if I saw a picture, heard an ad or received ANOTHER text/call from my dad saying:

“OMG OUR HOTEL SHARES A WALL WITH THE RDS AND WE CAN HERE HIM TALKING AND SINGING PENNY LANE DURING THE SOUNDCHECK YAYYYYY!”.

Thanks. I’ll just go back to obsessively making Mop Top biscuits and torturing myself with the setlist like a fucking masochist.
But really the sound of..is there a word? HIS VOICE made me happy mainly because I became, in some way, happy for the people who were there, not just my parent (disowning my mother after this ofc) and their friends, but the whole audience. Because really; as many people as possible need to experience this. And I KNOW how cheesy and oh so martyr-ish that sounds, and the only way I can describe it really is through the words of Lennon/McCartney** themselves: “There’s nowhere you can be that’s not where you’re meant to be.”
I mean, it blows my mind to think that those four people were ever even alive, plus that I can hear their voices and innermost thoughts any time I want..but the fact that I literally witnessed this..force that’s existed and lived and BEEN through history and in every chapter of my own life is utterly, utterly, utterly surreal.
I was just SEVENTEEEN* for god’s sake, and I somehow got to witness unique emotion and genuine humour and intense talent and intense passion during some three and a half privileged hours. He actually spoke to us. I don’t think thats something I’ll ever be able to take in or comprehend. I don't want to write a post on that night though, because it feels too..personal?
Anyway I genuinely think that some experiences and emotions surpass plain, written words.
GODDD WHAT A DAY. What a lot of capitals. :-S
I’m off to empty my stomach contents onto the couch kthnxbye.

♥♥♥

* ha. Its humorous cause that’s a song he wrote. And sang. To me.
** HOLYFUCK I SAW ONE HALF OF LENNON/MCCARTNEY

FML, this is post 64 an' all..

be·reft (bĭ-rĕftˈ) verb
A past tense and a past participle of bereave adjective
1. a. Lacking something needed or expected.

2. a. To be deprived or robbed; dispossessed.

b. To leave in a sad or lonely state, as by loss or death.

Summer - Qu-est ce que c'est?

As I sit here in a north side library scraping the bottom of the barrel that is my mind, trying to somehow encapsulate summer in just the one blog post, I come to a conclusion. It’s only been, what, a week now, and yet I've decided there’s no better way of going about conveying what summer means, to me at least, than drawing on my own experiences-so-far to do so

So, summer, qu-est ce que c’est?
It’s fall-outs and seeing new sides to old friends, being brought yet closer by newly discovered mutual interests and the likes
It’s adopting a new image, a summer season look if you will, an attempt to invite summer to bring with it some change in your life, a new you ready to take on the world with new awoken eyes, armed with a splattering of H2O2 (aka hydrogen peroxide)
It’s getting noticed, capturing a stranger’s gaze, even reducing some poor random lad to a blushing, giggling state with the use of a mere smile
It’s recounting an incident involving a run-in with a hand-dryer entirely in Irish, “scrúdú téip” format, and not feeling the need to return to the use of English as a medium of converstation afterwards, resulting in many incredulous looks
It’s holding a pose for a sketch for minutes on end, fighting the urge to even take in a satisfactory breath for fear of ruining the potential masterpiece in the making, only to have the artist in question give up on the piece in the process, deeming it hopeless, and disposing of it

Summer, it’s all about taking on they city you’ve known and loved pretty much all your life through the eyes of a tourist, seeing it in a new light, rediscovering its hidden secrets
In this way, it’s about contemplating, whilst on the banks of our own “Lovely Lee” just how sanitary the river’s water is before going bohemian/hedonist, saying “ah sure fuck it” and wading into it’s murky, filthy depths for a quick paddle
It’s about mingling with the local kids at the Fitz’s park playground, before every parent there makes it known our seemingly paedophilic ways aren’t appreciated in the vicinity, with unwelcoming glances
It’s well and truly re-discovering how the “shaky bridge” earned its name, discovering for oneself the finest local music talent the city has to offer under a hot, baking sun, and re-discovering a knack for making a mean banana bread loaf

Summer, it’s having a mouldy, carefree laugh in a crowd of sober persons, further accentuated by the disapproving eye of the public
It’s whipping out some killer dance moves in said crowd, dancing like no one’s looking, when in actual fact, you’re the central focus of a number of video recorders, being filmed by those present in their middle ages
It’s only realising the above the following day

Summer, it’s all about making a point to have something to show for each individual day. It’s making an attempt to “vivre pleinement” each and every day, to remember what it is to live without the toils of formal education slaying any ambitions to take each day as it comes, in demanding weekly structure in ones life. It’s making the most of the cards you’ve been given for the three months so that, when looking back, it wont be with regret for wasted opportunities.
But most importantly, summer, it’s here.

-C'estMícheálB*tch

A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory.

WELL NOW the first five days of summer have whizzed past in a BLUR, and I don't think I could have physically stuffed more lovely experiences into them. :) So to ensure that the next three months will hopefully be just as good..here is my list of 50+ Things; gathered from friends, websites, my brain, public toilets and yoko ono's twitter page.

♥ Make a Lolita-float.
♥ Re-read/read 25 books, some based on films..
♥ Spend the whole day at the library.
♥ Learn how to use a sewing machine.
♥ Tie-Dye a t-shirt or bed sheets
♥ Make popsicles in the freezer
♥ Flirt with someone of the same sex (done :L)
♥ Make at least one new potentialfriend
♥ Make jelly
♥ Stay up for an entire weekend
♥ Go SURFING USA
♥ Insert encouraging messages into helium-filled
balloons and release them. Include your email address.
♥ Kiss someone new
♥ Have a foam/waterfight
♥ Make a mooovie
♥ Try EVERY different drink at local shop. Naymsayin?
♥ Do something that your parents or friends disapprove of (ie: SMOKE A CIGAR)
♥ Go roller-blading
♥ Go outside everyday
♥ “Do the hot one”. ;)
♥ Have a midnight walk
♥ Have a surfing day with ice cream floats & write a letter in a bottle.
♥ Make some peach lemonade.
♥ Watch at least 50 new films
♥ Have a bonfire
♥ Sleep on a trampoline
♥ Make a giant* queen cake with pastel icing
♥ Go to Waterford to revisit Knobby..and those other people
♥ Make a human centipede. BAHAHAHA.
♥ "Do something nice for someone else but don’t tell them it was you".
♥ Lie in the middle of the road for one minute
♥ DRAW PAINT DRAW DRAW..maybe enough for a portfolio?
♥ Meditate for 30 minutes.
♥ Skinny-dip
♥ Go to a PROPER photobooth
♥ Watch the sunrise
♥ Buy the biggest sub humanly possible and have it in the park
♥ “Catch a bee. Freeze it. Let it thaw. See what happens.” Thanks Yoko.
♥ Dye hair silver and cut it like THIS.
♥ Learn at least 5 ukelele songs off by heart
♥ Use michelle’s bubble stick!
♥ Get CRUNK
♥ Climb a giant* tree.
♥ “Rob something”. Right. Jellies again,so? :L
♥ Figure out religion lad
♥ Go on a bus tour plus COFFEE TOUR around cork
♥ Eat at McDonald’s for breakfast
♥ Study 3 artists
♥ Go to douglas cinemaaaa for old time's sake
♥ MIXTAPE the shit out of everyone
♥ Break into school(s), sign wall(s)
♥ Picnic Day
♥ Facedown as much as possible
♥ Go to the The Bootleg Beatles and to the after party
♥ Camp on the beach and stargaze
♥ Become a Yes Mangirl
♥ Learn morse code
♥Write some fan letters..Terry Gilliam perhapsss?
♥ Hug the ground of every place you’ve been happy. :)

GOODNIGHT AND GOOD LUCK. If y'all have any suggestions..you know where the comment cube is.

*pronounced ‘guy-ant’.

Hijack your friend's facebook for a GOOD TIME!

Spot The Sedgwick

Two of my favourite people?! MIRRORING EACH OTHER?
*dies*

"The Ultimate Ginge".

WELL I'm on my day off from shenanigans (M-ing, chatroulette, Paul Party, beach-ing, Park-ing, walking to a hotel like an old couple, Stalking, concerts, PeterPan-ing, psychological breakthroughs YANO YARSELF) to sleep and repair my gay-pride-march-john-for-paul tattooed legs, and so I just watched this week's Doctor Who. Verdict? HMMMMMMM. I. Wonder...

This week, t'was Matt Man meets Van Gogh (whose actor actually looks FREAKISHLY like the real thing). Something that was weird about this episode was that it was so so genuinely heartbreaking, but not in a o hai i can haz ded alian civelizatin? way but because it emphasized the awwwful awful tragedy of Van Gogh's life and work. It was quite suprising to see the work that was put into this character, like it wasn't just an actor putting on a straw hat and a title to make a cute cameo in a science fiction series. The actual scope of the artist's 'madness' and complex loneliness was so prevailing and just RIGHT in order to portray him accurately. Even the way he swoooooshed his hands around when talking about colour and paint was both passionate and violent; two emotions which were very much hand-in-hand until his suicide. Then the ending, where he's brought to the modern-day Museo D'Orsay to see the impact he made on the art world/world by Bill Nighy, in all his 50s glasses and bow tied glory. With an Athlete song playing in the backround and the insane likeness between the actor's eye, clothes, hair..everything with Van Gogh's portrait, it was HEARTBREAKING. I mean, seeing a man being that emotional is beautiful anyway but it was so poignant just because this never happened. He never knew the greatness he achieved and portrayed in his work, instead keeping his billion-dollar-paintings strewn around a messy french house. The camera shot that goes around his famous bedroom really highlights that; I mean pieces like Starry Starry Night and Café Terrace at Night and Irises thrown around the same dingy room was surreal, almost ridiculous. Its just incredibly unfair and futile that one of the world's greatest artists was never loved or praised in his time but is so much now. UGH. I just think the pure emotion shown at the end really put it into context for me. But maybe if he had been he would have become a modern publicity whore like Picasso or Dalí, I dunno. I mean, there IS romance to him there.

Then there was the monster itself which kept in tone with the whole Impressionist/paint what YOU see thing. Only 'Vinny' could see the blindegyptianparrotsnail because his mind was so open and, wait for it, IMPRESSIONABLE. In his words: "It seems to me there's so much more than the average eyes allow to see. I believe if you look hard there are more wonders in this universe than you could ever have dreamed of". So The Doctor had to get a solid mechanical thing to fight something that would usually be easy for him. Also it was classs the way he had to turn his back on a crazy alien to fight it a la Blink.

So the conclusion? Art Is Power. Kudos to Richard Curtis. And gingers unite. :)

♥♥♥

OOOHHH YEAH she was taking you ovaah, OH-HH YEAH it was tha start of tha summerrr.

Well, los examenes are thart and amach and I got 505 points! So now I'm determined to make a list (with the help of ItsMichealB*tch) of 50 things to do this summer and eat at least 5 bars of tuc machine's finest galaxy ever day. Trying to come to terms with the end of fifth year tomorrow AND the fact that we have barely a year left in lovely, safe High School before we're shoved out into the world like a premature baby*.

HAHAAHaahalol lOl i cAn Hazz ch1ldh0od bAk plzz?!

Anyway, before my epic plans and retrospective post, here's some glorious summeresque photos;

* Ruáin's baby ofc

♥♥♥

Martha Hegarty, Shame On You

My fellow bloggers, subscribers, and passive readers, I have a confession to make. I am “sick at heart”. That is to say, there’s a matter eating away at me, making itself more of a nuisance with every.passing.day. I can feel it in “the deep heart’s core”, the parasite it is. It’s host? It saddens me to say, my sanity

No doubt you’re wondering to yourself what could possibly have acted as a catalyst to such a ferocious inner struggle, what could possibly have brought about the loss of so many night’s sleep, along with a notable loss in appetite. I’m no sadist, and so I have no intentions of keeping you “in the dark", so to speak. Brace yourself, though, it’s no light matter…my dear friends, I regret to inform you, Miss Martha Hearty DOESN’T LIKE AMERICAN BEAUTY.

This is no joke, I tell no lie. She told me herself one seemingly non-descript lunch break. She said it as if it were no big deal, as if it were totally acceptable to have a COMPLETE LACK OF APPRECIATION for such a seminal moment in the cinematic history of 1999. to say I was lost for words would be an understatement. I struggled in vain to come to terms with the fact that such words of ignorance, tastelessness and naivety had just been issued from the lips of not only a fellow blogger, but also a freindy-friend who has, on occasion, claimed to share my appreciation and love of culture, to such a point it apparently “eats her”. At that moment of time, it were as if Martha Hegarty were a stranger to me. It felt as though everything I thought I knew about the girl had proven itself a lie, and the slate had well and truly been wiped clean. I refuse, however, to let this be, and so I vow to enlighten Mar-fuck-a, and have her change her ways/opinions

American Beauty is not by all means the first film I’ve come across which explores in depth the banalities of Suburbia, the inaccessible, violent purities of adolescence, conveyed in a part cynic, part romantic manner, and it’s unlikely to be the last. Said films are arguably “mon truc”, though American Beauty sets itself apart from the rest in that it arguably “has it all”. I question whether or not Mar-fuck-a’s blindness with regards to this is in part due to the fact that Angela’s (a character undeniably rich in Mean Girl potential) “You just don't know cause you're this pampered little suburban chick” quote might just apply (soz bbz...lol I joke)

Seriously though, the movie boasted an array of psychologically complex characters that came close to rivalling that of Happiness (NOT for those of us more easily, eh, disturbed btw). Now that’s saying something. A suburban husband and father going through a mid-life crisis, the catalyst for his newfound quest for love, freedom and self-liberation? It has it. A colonel so hell-bent on masking his deepest secret, a mere character trait he deems as being so shameful, he banishes his only son for his apparent, shared possession of it, and even indulges in the glib and oily arts of murder to keep it on the “down low”? Check. A teenage girl so riddled with insecurities she deperately strives to acquire sufficient funds for a breast augmentation whilst her own best friend, in stark contrast, makes such self-assured comments as “I am so fucking sick of people taking their insecurities out on me!”? Check. A youth so driven in his quest to capture moments of beauty, moments he feels are “like God's looking right at you, just for a second, and if you're careful... you can look right back”, his existence becomes but the eyepiece of his video recorder? It has that, too.

That said, what’s to be admired most about American Beauty is that it does exactly what it says in the title, though I argue the term “American” wasn’t all that applicable, the perception of beauty expressed in the film being at least similar to that found in pretty much every western world country. The film celebrates the existence of beauty in even the hollow existence of Suburbia, enlightening the viewer to open their eyes to the beauty that surrounds even their most monotonous and mundane lives. I mean loike, how was I to know Mar-fuck-a wouldn’t share my vision of the film’s viewing as an eye-opening experience? With quotes such as:

“but it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it. And then it flows through me like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry, you will someday”

and

"that's the day I realized there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.",

how could one not better appreciate the life they have after, however seemingly “hollow” it may be, and all the brushes with beauty that arise throughout and thus, have a profound appreciation for the film?

Miss Martha Hegarty, I “beseech you bend you” to change your ways and OPEN YOU EYES, GIRRLL. It’s all I ask.

-C'estMícheálB*tch.

OH the joy of post-examination flolroflmao's

I mean, what else WOULD we be doing in our last double maths class but drafting numerous Human Centipede sketches and dousing each other with water from my futuristic bottle? WHAT DO THESE TEACHERS EXPECT?

Amateurs.

♥♥♥

It's Too Late To Apologize, ITS TOO LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE!

- Anon.