I just spent

the entire day reading Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway," which, I discovered, is a complete abomination of a book. Utterly terrible - not the least bit engaging. A few paragraphs were well-written - I did my share of underlining bits I enjoyed, sketching a star here and there, an exclamation point on occasion. However, it felt as if I had listened (and actually paid attention) to an entire album and only enjoyed a couple verses. No redeeming melodies or choruses, just the occasional turn of phrase that jumped out at me.

The story begins with a whimper, continues like a prolonged, sickly wheeze, and finally fades out into a little more than nothing (for at least "nothing" in and of itself is an end; "Mrs. Dalloway" can barely claim to possess such.)

I know it's highly pretentious of a young writer to criticize one of the most highly regarded authors, but someone's gotta do it - I mean, she did suffer from bouts of mental illness. "Mrs. Dalloway," I suspect, was a manifestation of said illness - a manifestation the world could do without and I sure as Hell could do without writing a paper about.

Like the Linen

Everyone leave this page immediately, and go to this one.

Fatt turned me on to this site a while ago, and I just rediscovered how awesome it is. Read about Thao Nguyen, the new love of my life and download four of her songs for free. She's got kind of a Memphis Minnie (v.2k7) / Regina Spektor "Soviet Kitsch"iness about her, but, y'know - Asian.

She's great.

Stop reading - leave. Go here.

Visual DNA

I got this from my brother's blog and decided to make one for myself - actually pretty cool site. Try it out.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

It's the Little Things

The purple Skittles in Ireland are NOT grape - they are, in fact, blackcurrant.

Also - an equal combination of red, yellow, and green Skittles (The Rasta Rainbow, as it were) is the most satisfactory way in which to enjoy the candy.

Go forth and Skittle.

Legend American Buskers

So I know it's been a while since I've posted, but -- actually, no excuses. I've had plenty of "material;" I just haven't gotten around to it. But today, on this fresh, mowed-grass, Irish morning - I'm going to post, as it were - pictures and all. Thank you for your patience.

---------corona&coltrane---------

Mundane backstory: A few weeks ago, my friend, Mike (SWM, Boston, seeks SWF), and I went down to K 'n B Music to purchase cheap guitars to sate our finger-picking, good-time tendencies. I bought the cheapest one they had - a decent (looking) classical for about 70 Euro - Mike, on the other hand, going East Egg on me and springing for a nicer solid-body acoustic.

So for the next few weeks we jammed, received noise complaints, et cetera, et cetera. He taught me a lot, as he is a lot better than me, and I learned a lot. Let's just say don't worry about bringing a copy of Nelly's "Ride Wit Me" to the next party - as long as I've got my axe, we've got the raps.

We finally decided that we should give busking (playing instruments and singing in the streets) a shot - despite my complete lack of experience as far as performing goes, I was comforted by the fact that Mike could more than compensate for my mistakes and lapses, so I agreed - next weekend, let's go busking in Dublin.

Book.

So we spent that week frantically working on our "repertoire," if you will, which consisted of little more than a few Oasis, Creedence Clearwater Revivial, Bob Marley, Kings of Leon, and Britney Spears songs - very few of them in their complete state, save Oasis and KoL.

Regardless - on Saturday morning, we hit the streets of Dublin.

We found a nice little tunneled alleyway in the Temple Bar area that served as a perfect shelter in case of rain and also worked as a good people-funneling structure - anyone entering Temple Bar after crossing the River Liffey pretty much had to lend an ear, provided the individual was endowed with such.


It was such a beautiful day - partly cloudy, people everywhere doing their shopping, buskers on every corner, trad music spilling out of the center of Temple Bar, birds, smoke, the city.

So Mike and I stationed ourselves in the tunnel picture above, and began to play. I was somehow thrust into the position of singer, which should've bothered me a lot more than it did. But I was somehow comfortable with it all, maybe because I knew we were on the periphery - we weren't in focus - just extras in some urban musical depicting life in Dublin. I found myself actually singing out and people seemed to be enjoying what we were doing.

At one point, an older Asian man video-taped his timid son, probably about 4 years of age, waddle over and toss a coin in my guitar-case. I think that was the most beautiful moment of the day - the realization that we would now be packed up, loaded onto an airplane, flown to wherever they call home, and finally watched on some rainy, reminiscent Sunday.

Do you remember that, son?

Dublin? Not really - I was like, three or four, right?

And maybe the Dad will smile and remember it all so clearly - the jacket he was wearing, how his son fell asleep on his shoulder as he carried him back to the hotel, how the two young men had smiled when his son tossed a coin in their bag.


We ended up making almost 50 Euro between the two of us - quite a bit when we expected to barely make the train fare back to Maynooth.

Three Spanish girls stopped to dance, laugh, talk, and sing with us while we played.

Two Dubliners, about our age, stopped and talked music for a while and listened to us, calling their friends when they found out we could play a Kings of Leon song.

While he was on the phone, I heard him say to his friend, "Some f-ing legend American buskers are playing f-ing KoL..."

It felt good to be embraced by people.

A camera crew filmed us for a Spanish television show.

We played music in Dublin.

Jacob Smith says that I crave glory, and maybe that's why I loved busking so much. Maybe I do want those things - respect, esteem, glory, et cetera. I know I do desire those things to a certain extent, but the home video remains with me.

Is it that I find comfort in permanency? That I want to spread my effect across the globe and thus insure that I am in some way remembered?

I haven't figured it out yet. It is not something that bothers me or arrests sleep from my nights, it is simply something that I wear like a shirt - it's comfortable, lightweight, and it doesn't cost much. But then I remember that at one point very early on in history, the shirt and every other kind of adornment - shoes, necklaces, crowns - all of it was completely

superfluous.

Go Maire Fheile Vailintin!

A lesson in Irish (sans accent marks - haven't figured out how to type those yet) for Valentines Day.

La Fheile Vailintin (Valentine's Day)

Go maire fheile Vailintin! (Happy Valentines Day!)

Bi mo Vailintin (Be my Valentine.)

le gra (...with love.)

Tusa mo ghra geal (You are my bright love.)

Ta me i ngra leat (I love you; I am in love with you.)

Go maire fheile Vailintin - le gra,
SCRAM

Happy Happy Joy Joy

(L to R) Naimh (pronounced "neeve"), Connor, Ema (pronounced "m-uh"), Sorcha (pronounced "soar-sha"), and myself (pronounced "sam"). The blow-up man's name is Josepe (sp? pronounced with a soft j - "Juh-sepp-e"). Naimh and Josepe are happily married.
(L to R) Max, Dan, Sorcha, Naimh, Mike, and myself. We had a huge sing-along the other night after Mike and I bought guitars - featured hits included: Hit Me Baby One More Time (Britney Spears - acclaimed songstress), Ride Wit Me (Nelly - renowned singer-songwriter), and Wonderwall (Oasis, British brothers lauded for incredible ability to hate).

Important Video Message from Scram

So I think I figured out how to post videos on here.

The following video is for people that I love, which may or may not include YOU - but even if it doesn't, there's a great shot of my chair that'll leave every last one of you in an indescribable state of envy (for said chair, of course.)

NUI Maynooth Campus

St. Patrick's cathedral (which, unfortunately, is being worked on right now, as you can see by the scaffolding) and part of the courtyard.
Where the town meets the campus - I like the fact that in these days we can capture a Coca-Cola sign and a 900 year old castle in just one picture.
Part of the original castle built by the Fitzgerald family in the 1100s. You can see the main street in Maynooth in the distance.
A really awesome tree lined pathway on campus - the light at the end of this tunnel is, appropriately, the entrance to an old cemetery.
A beautiful garden on the edge of campus - I like the fact that there are flowers blooming, yet in the background you can see some of the snow that fell this morning.
This is one of the main buildings on the Old (South) Campus, which is characterized by old, beautiful architecture. You can see St. Patrick's Cathedral on the right.
Opposite of the building pictured above this one - the buildings form a square, with the courtyard in the center.
This is the view from my window this morning. Apparently, it rarely snows in Ireland, but I've been fortunate enough to have been here for two already - one via Cork to Limerick, and now in Maynooth.

This place is incredible.

Flying from London to Cork

The waves break white - pushing back against the ocean - the wind like a mother pulling her children along - dragging their feet & moaning about home & "How far?"

NYC 3:31 AM

It's amazing how this city augments movement.

A truck rumbles across the BQE & this apartment trembles.

In the subway stations, as a train thunders in, the ground shakes & the air blows like a burst of breath thru a blue trumpet.

At sunset, the glow of Manhattan slides across the clouds, lazily mingling with the last of what the sun has to offer.

Cartography

A man’s struggle to be exposed
is a long, slow climb
through treacherous territory—
“Harrowing the whole way,”
he says across napkin boulders
and steaming pools of coffee.

“Bears at the tree line
could tear your heart right out—
Bam— one swipe and you’re done for.”

She sighs, knees pulled close
to her chest—prodding a plateau
of eggs over easy.

“Altitude sickness.
Exposure at 12,000 feet,”
he adds and subtracts—
“can’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Why go through all that?
Seems silly to me,”
she replies— snowing salt
over biscuit mountains.

Giant slabs of sugar & ice
break off & crash
into sweet tea springs.

“The view from the top is incredible,”
he echoes through silverware valleys,
“everything spread out & open—
like a map of the face of God.”

Ireland

December 22 - 28: Lake Tahoe
December 29: Fayetteville
December 30 - January 10: NYC
January 10 - 20: London
January 20 - August: Ireland and surrounding areas.

All of this seems pretty ridiculous to me - leaving my friends and family for such a long time, living across the Atlantic, walking around a 900 year old town. I'm not sure if I really believe it will all actually happen. Bittersweet.

The picture above is where I'll be studying creative writing and philosophy.

That's why I can't believe all of this is happening. It's too good.

Thanks, J.C.

Today's News: Halloween a Time for Non-Trad Student Expressionism

My favorite part of Halloween is not the candy corn, nor the pumpkin carving, nor even the gathering of friends to celebrate such a special holiday. Rather, let us consider the Non-Trads - that autonomous group of students that always sit on the perimeters of classrooms and only speak up when the topics of politics, children, or sex arise.

For some reason these creatures, while remaining dormant for most of the semester, choose Halloween to express what they've been holding back all this time. And suddenly, when that magic day rolls around, the Non-Trad population explodes with color and life - sending a veritable smorgasbord of personalities trouncing about the campus. For some it's a time to get that witch out of your system, for others it's an opportunity to swashbuckle your way into the heart of that ghoulish Non-Trad gal you've had your eye on since the first day of class. Regardless what their true motives may be, Halloween is always a time for the Non-Trads to shine and proclaim to the rest of the student population that, "Hey, we DO have a voice. We DO know how to have a good time. And yes, we ARE the Non-Trads."

Monkey Talk

Today during Anthropology I found out that scientists managed to teach modified American Sign Language to a chimp named Lucy Temerlin and a bonobo named Kanzi.

This absolutely blew my mind.

I've spent a few hours today reading as much as I can about it. Apparently, Lucy figured out how to lie, which was previously thought to be impossible as it necessitates a sense of self - something we thought only humans had.

During an outing in the woods, Kanzi signed for "marshmallows" and "fire" - he then broke twigs, set fire to the wood with matches, and proceeded to roast the marshmallows on a stick.

I don't know how I just now heard about this, but I find it all pretty incredible. Check out these links:

Kanzi

Lucy Temerlin - includes a conversation between Lucy and her trainer, translated from ASL.

Sleeping with Nicotine

Since my last post, I've quit smoking - my last tobacco product (cigarette, 10-8-06) was surprisingly not as awesome as I'd hoped, although I tried to make it as dramatic as possible, as if I were moving to one of Jupiter's lesser moons, or something of that nature. But alas, my trusty 14mg patches have made it a lot easier than I thought, but a new problem has arisen. Wearing the patch 24 hours a day, I get nicotine at times when I normally wouldn't have, had I continued smoking - specifically, while I sleep. This extra ingredient seems to skyrocket the detail, extension, and depth of my dreams. For me, dreams typically cover a short time span, take place in one setting, and aren't too detailed. However, I've been incredibly productive and thoughtful these past few nights as I've slept - and Hunter, I know you said no one is really interested in the dreams of others, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

Dream One: Just to reiterate how vivid and striking these dreams have been, let me say that this dream occurred on the night of October 10th and I can still remember it perfectly, even having not yet written a bit of it down.

So, before I went to sleep that night, I had been rigourously studying for a Russian Literature midterm exam - Naturalism, Pushkin, Czars, Petersburg, noumenal, et cetera - so, I was definitely stuck in the Russian mindset, whatever that is. Regardless, as I fell asleep, I began recalling a discussion from earlier in the night in which my fellow Russians and I had been joking about the correlation between Chumbawumba's "Tubthumping" and the ideas of the superfluous man and the Byronic hero, both common to early 19th century Russian Literature.

So as I drifted to sleep, I had one of those pre-REM dreams, which seem to be more like extremely focused brainstorming sessions - you can still hear cars honking and occasional voices, but for the most part, you're out. Slowly but steadily, and without my consent, I began writing an essay in my brain - not formulating ideas and a general outline - actually writing a thesis statement and introductory paragraph word for word across my eyes. I watched as some part of me scribbled out certain words and replaced them with others - keep in mind, this essay dealt with Chumbawumba's portrayal of Danny Boy as a superfluous man and a Byronic Hero in their smash hit, "Tubthumping".

The last thing I recall of the dream, or essay, before I fell asleep, was my attempt to explain and speculate on the symbolism of the many drinks (whiskey drink, vodka drink, lager drink, cider drink) Danny Boy enjoys and why the author feels the need to explain that he spends the evening just "pissing the night away." Can anyone say "Oblomov?"

Dream Two: I'll keep these short from here on out - just a quick synopsis, and then on to the next night.

This dream took place on October 14th, the night after a Reaves family reunion in Memphis, which I did not attend.

I dreamt that my family (extended and immediate) and I were all enjoying general merriment at a family reunion somewhere in the jungles or swamps of Thailand. I'm not sure why such a locale was chosen, but it was probably Uncle Jerry's idea. Anyway, I smoked two cigarettes with my Mom, who does not smoke, and woke up feeling extremely guilty and then excited, because I realized I was still actually smoke-free.

Apologies if that was a boring one.

Dream Three: Take High Fidelity, remove John Cusack, insert Scram, delete all comedic elements, and change the ex-girlfriends.

I spent what felt like the entire night, going back to each and every one of my ex-girlfriends and reconciling our differences. Strange thing is, only one Ex remains unreconciled, but not by any choice of mine. Anyway, this sleepwalk down memory lane led me all the way back to Beren D., my fourth grade girlfriend who played the agressor by placing in my desk (during my first week at Pulaski Academy, mind you - I was very proud of this) a note that said "I like you."

"Simple and honest," I thought.

I guess I like you, too - so we "went out", which means we awkwardly said our hellos in the halls and at one point, I believe I may have called her. For Christmas I gave her a teddy bear and she gave me an ornament, which I have to this day and continues to adorn our tree each year.

But alas, things weren't working out and we had to go our separate ways - and I thought everything was alright between the two of us, but for some reason my dream felt otherwise. We shook hands and apologized and I continued my journey.

Rachael (circa 5th grade, multiple times, perhaps)
Cat (6th, twice)
Taylor (7th, capture the flag)
Marci (circa 8th-9th, on and off)
Nicole (10th - I could drive)
Sarah B. (11th grade, kind of)

And finally, my most recent: J. This was an interesting one because it is the only relationship that ended on a bad note and has yet to be reconciled. Given that fact that we dated for a year and a half, however, Dream-Scram and Dream-J were pretty damn civil about the whole thing - just a hug and we were out. Not much to say about the matter.

Despite the stressful state I found myself in when I awoke, I will say my version of High Fidelity was vaguely therapeutic - but maybe that's just because I remembered the ornament that Beren gave me, which reminded me of how much I like Christmas, and furthermore, how nice it is when it snows.

Lyrics to Iron and Wine's "Hickory"

I just think these lyrics are awesome. Sam Beam does it again.

he kissed her once as she leaned on the windowsill

she'll never love him but knows that her father will

her fallen fruit is all rotten in the middle but her

breast never dries when he's hungry



the money came and she died in her rocking chair

the window wide and the rain in her braided hair

a letter locked in the pattern of her knuckle

like a hymn to the house she was making



blind and whistling just around the corner and there's a

wind that is whispering something

strong as hell but not hickory rooted



she kissed him once cause he gave her a cigarette

and turned around but he waits like a turned down bed

and summer left like her walking with another and a

sound of a church bell ringing



the money came and he died like a butterfly

a buried star and the haze of the city lights

a gun went off and her mother dropped her baby on the

blue feathered wing - we were lucky



blind and whistling just around the corner and there's a

wind that is whispering something

strong as hell but not hickory rooted

Excerpt from the Short Story Entitled: "There's a Church in the Valley by the Wildwood"

I must’ve been about eight years old the first time I felt the throb of guilt. I didn’t mean to kill it – I guess I just didn’t quite understand death, finality, or endings. Mawmaw would live forever, the hummingbirds would always feed, and Mr. Vern would never fail to take us fishing. Everyday’s hot here – in Southern Arkansas there’s no escaping it – the heat’s invasive, surrounding, and overwhelming. If I were prone to making excuses I would blame it on the temperature, but I knew better – I know I did. I was out behind the old, green house looking for what Mawmaw called “live toys” – frogs, lizards, the occasional and fantastic snake. Under the pink and blue hydrangea bushes on the side of the house, I finally got hold of a little frog – soft and green like the undergrowth, its whole body thump-thump-thumping with fear. As all little boys learn ever-so-quickly, frogs pee when they get scared and before I’d rounded Pawpaw’s workshop, the little bastard had baptized my dirty hands with something far less holy than holy water. So into my fist the tiny guy went as I made my way to the carport to play with my toy in the stifling shade by the big, black body of Mawmaw’s Lincoln Towncar. The only witnesses were the horrified hummingbirds sippin’ their sugar water and the granddaddy longlegs huddled aghast in the corner. I hurled the frog against the concrete wall and watched as it landed on the oil-stained floor of the carport, its whole body thump-thump-thumping with fear. Soft and green like grass on a cemetery plot, wet with piss and blood and “This is war,” I thought. I picked up my poor victim and took aim at the grill of the Towncar, where the frog’s last breath escaped beneath a dull, metallic thud. I could hear cars driving by on the highway – quiet at first, and then louder and louder until they were gone – the rush of wind still whipping the grass into submission.

Let's All Take a Step Back

and learn to be true.
Find something purer
than mystery -
That's what God's for
and We
should offer up truth
to help our friends get by.
And let's all take a step back
to when clothes weren't worn
and I knew you,
and you knew me.
There were no shadows
or places to hide,
nothing wasted or secret -
All brilliant and simple,
without sons or daughters.
All humble and present,
not a-one of us'll live
forever, but now We
all think just that -
And it's sad cause we ain't
got so long.
And it's a waste to be hidden,
let's all take a step back,
and breathe in the air of the
open.

August 28th, 2006

"It was the first time I'd ever had the feeling of missing someone I was still with."

Stuart Dybek

------------

Spit on the floor,
But don't look down -
We've got all night and coffee to drown
"Like slowly getting hit by a bus," she says.
We'll never get lost,
No matter how hard we try.