I had a dream about Golden-Grahams cereal last night. I don't even eat those in the States, and I haven't seen anything like them in France yet. Just thought that was notable.
Friday, March 20, 2009
I'm off the malaria pills, what's with the weird dreams?
I had a dream about Golden-Grahams cereal last night. I don't even eat those in the States, and I haven't seen anything like them in France yet. Just thought that was notable.
Birds don't belong, ever.
Tonight was a milestone in Tricia Scully history. No dad, I’m not pregnant, but wouldn’t that be fun news right now? Even better. I’ve realized where my obsession with cats came from.
It all started long ago, when my parents raised me next to a cat named Walter. He was by far my best bad omen of a friend, the cat that set the precedence for all others in my life: all black and cool as hell. He was classy, the classiest of cats one could say. Being raised next to this fine feline, it was hard to take a liking to any other sorts; dogs seemed dumb and sloppy to me, snakes and newts were boring, fish died way too easily, and birds were annoying. Alfred Hitchcock spoiled birds for me too when I was home from school watching old TV shows and movies one unfortunate afternoon.
It didn’t stop there with the birds though- I remember a friend of mine’s father had a bird fetish and raised dozens of them in his basement. I won’t comment on that, but I will say that whenever I went over to their house, we’d look at the birds, watch her dad feed them, and maybe have one sit on our hands until it pooped and we were done. I was never really into this pastime, but as a guest I smiled and secretly harbored my hatred of feathered things (ok actually I like boas, they’re pretty, but they have nothing to do with birds really, just Broadway and little girls’ dreams of one day being beautiful under bright lights).
Later in life, I encountered more birds. My ex-step-mother has a bird she calls Squeaky. The little rat's still alive unfortunately. She would encourage me to hold it, but every time I did the stupid thing would bite me or crap on me. Thanks Squeaky. I would lie in bed, wishing for the little darling to escape one day from its cage and run straight into a wall. Evil cat thoughts…
Next bird episode: grandma stories. I’m blessed with an Irish family that embellishes everything by nature. My grandma was on a beach one time for a vacation of some sorts, probably in Florida, and she was apparently shat on by a passing bird. As stories go in my family, it couldn’t have been a simple and isolated unfortunate event, it was way more than a fly-by-dropping, it was a “shit-fest” and the birds where maliciously attacking. That’s a strike four for birdy, don’t mess with the fam.
My turn. Tonight was a special evening. I wore my fancy brown pants, my leather shoes, a nice top, and I even popped the collar on my jacket for flair. My host my mom Renee took me to see a play, a one-(wo)man comedy about growing old and growing wide. I was pretty excited to see this little number, and so was Renee. We got there a little too early, so we had to wait outside for a while. We were standing outside, and I was leaning against the building, when I felt a sudden drop of wetness on my head. Then I heard the subtle “coo” of city-pigeons. Merde. And it was in fact, shit. I, like my dear grandmother before me, had been targeted and hit by the malicious little bastards. I couldn’t do anything but laugh hysterically for a few minutes; I just can’t adequately express my emotions in quick bursts to the French yet, so laughing is all I’ve got. Or silence. You can’t stay silent with bird crap on your head though, that’s just bizarre. After the play, I was trying to formulate sentences in my head about how much I hate birds, when my limited vocabulary steered me towards saying “I hate birds, that’s why I love cats”. An image of a cat with a dead bird in its mouth immediately popped into my head, a scene I’m too familiar with from my cats when I was growing up. That’s when I realized that my hatred for birds has but strengthened my love for cats.
It all started long ago, when my parents raised me next to a cat named Walter. He was by far my best bad omen of a friend, the cat that set the precedence for all others in my life: all black and cool as hell. He was classy, the classiest of cats one could say. Being raised next to this fine feline, it was hard to take a liking to any other sorts; dogs seemed dumb and sloppy to me, snakes and newts were boring, fish died way too easily, and birds were annoying. Alfred Hitchcock spoiled birds for me too when I was home from school watching old TV shows and movies one unfortunate afternoon.
It didn’t stop there with the birds though- I remember a friend of mine’s father had a bird fetish and raised dozens of them in his basement. I won’t comment on that, but I will say that whenever I went over to their house, we’d look at the birds, watch her dad feed them, and maybe have one sit on our hands until it pooped and we were done. I was never really into this pastime, but as a guest I smiled and secretly harbored my hatred of feathered things (ok actually I like boas, they’re pretty, but they have nothing to do with birds really, just Broadway and little girls’ dreams of one day being beautiful under bright lights).
Later in life, I encountered more birds. My ex-step-mother has a bird she calls Squeaky. The little rat's still alive unfortunately. She would encourage me to hold it, but every time I did the stupid thing would bite me or crap on me. Thanks Squeaky. I would lie in bed, wishing for the little darling to escape one day from its cage and run straight into a wall. Evil cat thoughts…
Next bird episode: grandma stories. I’m blessed with an Irish family that embellishes everything by nature. My grandma was on a beach one time for a vacation of some sorts, probably in Florida, and she was apparently shat on by a passing bird. As stories go in my family, it couldn’t have been a simple and isolated unfortunate event, it was way more than a fly-by-dropping, it was a “shit-fest” and the birds where maliciously attacking. That’s a strike four for birdy, don’t mess with the fam.
My turn. Tonight was a special evening. I wore my fancy brown pants, my leather shoes, a nice top, and I even popped the collar on my jacket for flair. My host my mom Renee took me to see a play, a one-(wo)man comedy about growing old and growing wide. I was pretty excited to see this little number, and so was Renee. We got there a little too early, so we had to wait outside for a while. We were standing outside, and I was leaning against the building, when I felt a sudden drop of wetness on my head. Then I heard the subtle “coo” of city-pigeons. Merde. And it was in fact, shit. I, like my dear grandmother before me, had been targeted and hit by the malicious little bastards. I couldn’t do anything but laugh hysterically for a few minutes; I just can’t adequately express my emotions in quick bursts to the French yet, so laughing is all I’ve got. Or silence. You can’t stay silent with bird crap on your head though, that’s just bizarre. After the play, I was trying to formulate sentences in my head about how much I hate birds, when my limited vocabulary steered me towards saying “I hate birds, that’s why I love cats”. An image of a cat with a dead bird in its mouth immediately popped into my head, a scene I’m too familiar with from my cats when I was growing up. That’s when I realized that my hatred for birds has but strengthened my love for cats.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
In Paris, men can wear pink and still be men.
Rugby. The word just evokes thoughts of beastly men with scrapes and stitches all over their faces, taped up fingers, who growl at anyone in their path. Kind of like a… dinosaur?
I went to a rugby game here in Paris, and even though the Paris team sports bright pink and blue, the men are no less men and no less beasts. If their ferocity is doubted as a result of their jersey colors, I spotted a poster for one of the games that eradicates such doubts. On the poster were two of the rugby players with a Tyrannosaurus Rex right in between them. I’m sure all those who were on the fence about seeing a Paris rugby game were completely convinced after seeing the poster. I want to see a dinosaur with burly men in pink, who doesn’t? Their marketing agents definitely know what lures spectators.
I also went to a ballet at the Palais Garnier, an absolutely astonishing opera house. The ballet was “Le Parc” by Angelin Preljocaj, and it was a mix between the classic ballet and modern dance. I was on the first level balcony (there must have been 10), and I had a perfect view of the orchestra pit. That was my favorite part. I could watch the musicians, see their expressions when one messed up and the other looked over and laughed, I could see some violinists swaying and getting wrapped up in the music. Oh it was just wonderful.
Last night, I went to dinner with a friend at one of those wonderful student cafeterias (I really should take a picture of the stuff they serve us), then we bought boxes of cookies and walked around for a while. We ended up by l’Eglise de Saint Sulpice, which apparently played a big role in The DaVinci Code. It’s been under construction now for decades, according to my friends’ host mom who lives right near it. Apparently the financing for the restorations hasn’t been consistent, so the scaffolding stays up while no work is done. It’s kind of sad, half the church is covered. I’m sure it’d be an absolutely splendid church when seen in full view. For now, there rests a beautiful fountain in front for bored cookie-eaters to sit by, and creepy people walking the balconies at night who look like ghosts standing guard.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
This one goes out to a Mr. Phil Hauck.
4 March 2009, I fell into the possession of a ticket. That ticket allowed the admission of one adult to the pre-opening night of the new Marc Riboud exhibition at the Musée de la Vie Romantique. Who is this Marc Riboud you ask? Don’t you worry, I had no idea either, until I went and saw his work. That’s when I realized I knew who this man was, and I knew him well.
We’ve all seen the photo of the young girl at a protest, sticking a flower into one of the barrels of many rifles pointed in her direction. Pretty intense. And you may have seen the picture of a man casually painting the Eiffel Tour, trusting the thin metal beneath his feet that’s suspending him hundreds of meters above ground, with a very very tiny looking Paris in the background. That was the photo that made him famous, but his other photos are what gave me and many others inspiration that night.
Ribound was (and still is, even at the age of 85) a world traveler. He went to China, Africa, America, Thailand, anywhere a boat or plane could take someone, and took pictures of people and their conditions. Life at it’s best, life at it’s worst, colors, no colors, blurry pictures, clear pictures, Paris, friends, family, strangers. Some pictures were absolutely astonishing, others were not, but it was appropriate and exploited in the best of ways. We all know his work because we are his work, we are the human condition he was so enthralled with. To be able to see the progression of different social movements and everyday life during those times through the work of one man in one night was an experience I’ll never forget.
I was given the ticket because the Graduate student overseeing the program here had two, and couldn’t go for some unknown reason. She talked to another girl in our program about photography during our first week here, and she saw my ancient Canon AE-1 during our touristy outings, so she thought we would both enjoy it. She has no idea how much we did, I’ve kept my camera close at hand ever since.
We’ve all seen the photo of the young girl at a protest, sticking a flower into one of the barrels of many rifles pointed in her direction. Pretty intense. And you may have seen the picture of a man casually painting the Eiffel Tour, trusting the thin metal beneath his feet that’s suspending him hundreds of meters above ground, with a very very tiny looking Paris in the background. That was the photo that made him famous, but his other photos are what gave me and many others inspiration that night.
Ribound was (and still is, even at the age of 85) a world traveler. He went to China, Africa, America, Thailand, anywhere a boat or plane could take someone, and took pictures of people and their conditions. Life at it’s best, life at it’s worst, colors, no colors, blurry pictures, clear pictures, Paris, friends, family, strangers. Some pictures were absolutely astonishing, others were not, but it was appropriate and exploited in the best of ways. We all know his work because we are his work, we are the human condition he was so enthralled with. To be able to see the progression of different social movements and everyday life during those times through the work of one man in one night was an experience I’ll never forget.
I was given the ticket because the Graduate student overseeing the program here had two, and couldn’t go for some unknown reason. She talked to another girl in our program about photography during our first week here, and she saw my ancient Canon AE-1 during our touristy outings, so she thought we would both enjoy it. She has no idea how much we did, I’ve kept my camera close at hand ever since.
Monday, March 9, 2009
new song, hit single.
My form of blog entry today is a new song, which can be heard here: www.myspace.com/triciascully
It's called Curse Me! It's the very first song I started and finished here in Paris. How special. I'm almost done with another one too, so expect that in the near future. It will be a completely different style, all electronic, just thought I'd warn you.
Curse Me! was a real doozy to record. I tried recording the guitar first, then the vocals, but realized I missed an entire part when I tried to sing to it and the music didn't match. Good job Tricia. I gave up and recorded it live style, with my human imperfections right out in the open, mais c'est la vie, et c'est comme ca. Hope you enjoy it!
There is a cat freaking out in the hallway right now. He's probably alone in the dark and can't reach the light switch (the lights stay off in the hallways, it's kind of strange. There's a little light switch next to every door for when people walk out of their apartments and want to see the elevator). Poor thing.
It's called Curse Me! It's the very first song I started and finished here in Paris. How special. I'm almost done with another one too, so expect that in the near future. It will be a completely different style, all electronic, just thought I'd warn you.
Curse Me! was a real doozy to record. I tried recording the guitar first, then the vocals, but realized I missed an entire part when I tried to sing to it and the music didn't match. Good job Tricia. I gave up and recorded it live style, with my human imperfections right out in the open, mais c'est la vie, et c'est comme ca. Hope you enjoy it!
There is a cat freaking out in the hallway right now. He's probably alone in the dark and can't reach the light switch (the lights stay off in the hallways, it's kind of strange. There's a little light switch next to every door for when people walk out of their apartments and want to see the elevator). Poor thing.
Friday, March 6, 2009
a lock with no key
My keys were accidentally taken by my host mom's niece. Having no keys as opposed to few keys is extremely complicated; how great it is to see all sides of a metaphore...
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Leave the fish to the cats
Sometimes I’m ok with not knowing what I’m eating. Most of the time I’d like to have an idea, but I don’t get picky about the details. This evening, I ate at a cheap-o student cafeteria with my friend Sarah (they have these cafeterias all over the city), and the dish-of-the-day was something of a fried-fish-circle. They looked like onion rings, so I got excited. Sarah went with the personal pizza, but I decided to be daring and go for the faux-o’s. The darling rings were tossed on a gigantic plate of green beans and garnished with a half-smirk from the server. I should have known to give the plate back after a smirk like that. I took my plate and went on the hunt for Sarah.
Finding a friend in a student cafeteria is this humiliating jostle between balancing the strange dish and sides on a tray in your hands, the backpack usually affixed to your back that mysteriously starts sliding down your shoulder, your jacket that is now suffocating and adjusting with the backpack at the same time, traffic of incoming and outgoing students, and navigating the layout. There are two giant support beams in the middle of the room that hide the two corners, and all the tables are communal. Walking up and down the cafeteria once is fine but a little nerve-wrecking, for one is juggling a lot all at once on this small commute from the line to the seat, but if one does not spot their friend after one tour of the room, the second is the walk of shame. A look of terror immediately takes hold of my face muscles, as if I’ve been stranded, and I become this frail mess standing in the middle of chaos. Ok, maybe it’s not that bad but I thought I was done with cafeterias in high school, it just brings me back to those beautifully insecure and awkward moments… I finally spotted Sarah. She was in the left corner behind one of the support beams, sitting with two other students (no affiliation). I sat down, eager to try this innocent looking main course.
Never, and I repeat, NEVER, eat anything that’s in the shape of an O, and has “fish” in the description.
That’s really all I’m going to say. Dessert was ruined after that, my water tasted funny for hours, and I could hardly choke down that mass of green beans that the fish-o’s so stylishly laid upon. That’s what you get for being a student in Paris and eating at cafeterias where the entire meal costs less than 3 euro. I’m often led astray by appearances, but I’ve completely evolved this evening and will never be eating something just because it looks like another thing I’m familiar with. I’d suggest following my lead.
Finding a friend in a student cafeteria is this humiliating jostle between balancing the strange dish and sides on a tray in your hands, the backpack usually affixed to your back that mysteriously starts sliding down your shoulder, your jacket that is now suffocating and adjusting with the backpack at the same time, traffic of incoming and outgoing students, and navigating the layout. There are two giant support beams in the middle of the room that hide the two corners, and all the tables are communal. Walking up and down the cafeteria once is fine but a little nerve-wrecking, for one is juggling a lot all at once on this small commute from the line to the seat, but if one does not spot their friend after one tour of the room, the second is the walk of shame. A look of terror immediately takes hold of my face muscles, as if I’ve been stranded, and I become this frail mess standing in the middle of chaos. Ok, maybe it’s not that bad but I thought I was done with cafeterias in high school, it just brings me back to those beautifully insecure and awkward moments… I finally spotted Sarah. She was in the left corner behind one of the support beams, sitting with two other students (no affiliation). I sat down, eager to try this innocent looking main course.
Never, and I repeat, NEVER, eat anything that’s in the shape of an O, and has “fish” in the description.
That’s really all I’m going to say. Dessert was ruined after that, my water tasted funny for hours, and I could hardly choke down that mass of green beans that the fish-o’s so stylishly laid upon. That’s what you get for being a student in Paris and eating at cafeterias where the entire meal costs less than 3 euro. I’m often led astray by appearances, but I’ve completely evolved this evening and will never be eating something just because it looks like another thing I’m familiar with. I’d suggest following my lead.
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