Dream Journal vol. 3

You know what's more boring than vacation photos? Someone telling you about their dreams. Luckily, my blog has both of these features. I figure it must be like a double-negative making a positive because my blog is the most interesting blog ever.
Nothing new from the past couple of days: I've just been hella-stressed trying to tie up all the loose ends before I leave in a couple of weeks and still enjoy myself. Did you know that I have to write 3 essays over Christmas break? Gag me. One of them is going to be about Great Expectations. I'm expecting it to be greatly boring.
I also have a test in Old English next Wednesday. I just finished cramming some of the grammar and I'm feeling a little bit more confident. I'm at least confident that I'm not a dumbass, because, in cramming I've realized that one of my main stumbling blocks was the sheer amount of grammatical cases we have to memorize. How am I supposed to remember the 16 different case-types the word "they" can take? It's ridiculous!
It's all studying from now on, though. I've just finished translating The Dream of the Rood, an Old English poem about a guy who dreams Jesus' cross comes flying into his room and talks to him. The cross tells him how horrible it was to be the cross that Christ was killed on and how sad it made him. At no point does the dreamer question the authenticity of the flying, talking, sentient, 1000-year-old cross. I guess if you're willing to accept such a thing's existence, it's not a stretch to believe what it has to tell you (especially if what it has to tell you is the same old boring crucifixion story: "They nailed Jesus to me and I was sad! Wah!" - you're a cross!)

My dreams over the last month haven't been about flying religious curios. Than what? Read on...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I dreamed I was traveling with the cast of Futurama in a black, death-metal mini-bus from Africa to a famine-ravaged Poland. We had been told to leave Africa, where the hyenas were plentiful - a common source of food - by a deceitful, giant snake. At least the leader of our crew somehow obtained one of the snake's serrated fangs. While I was showing it to the crew members at the back of the mini-bus I put it in my mouth and sucked on it, forgetting that it was venomous. Upon remembering this, I spit it onto the row of seats in front of me and determinedly fought off sleep and inevitable death.

The bus wound up at the entrance of my private high school, running over a sign advertising the Eminem concert set to take place that night. Because of this violation, Irish cops in yellow reflective jumpers stopped our bus and we couldn't go any further.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I dreamed I was a regular at a gambling parlor with Max Bussman. I didn't have the requisite entrance fee so Max spotted me enough pounds to get in, but I had to hold the pile of clothes he was carrying while he did so and I lost one of his socks.
I told him he could have one of mine once we made our way up to his bedroom and I'd scattered the pile of clothes on the floor. I convinced him my socks were clean, but it took some time.

Later, I was using the bathroom in his house when his mom came home to give a piano lesson. I held the curtain over the window that was unfortunately set at eye-level to those sitting on the toilet, giving a direct view out into the driveway. While I was attempting some modesty, his dad came through the hallway where the door was open and noticed his Buddy Holly Greatest Hits CD at my feet and he asked me if I owned it. I told him that no, I had a different greatest hits collection.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Last night in the Dublin hostel I dreamed that the hostel owners took our bags from our room while they were serving us breakfast and there was nothing we could do about it. I also dreamed that I, or a friend, had a flying machine that manuevered the swampy green fields right outside the hostel window.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I dreamed I woke up in a Washington, DC apartment I was temporarily staying in with Raphaela and a different friend while some sort of festival was in full swing. On adjacent buildings and all through the street people were committing all sorts of naked Mardi Gras-style debauchery. The apartment was even full of people no one knew, most of them drugged up on the floor or patiently sitting on the couch. None of them remembered how they got in.

My friend was gone and all that remained familiar was Raphaela's hungry pet ferret that I finally cornered in a room for it's own safety. I blocked the door with boxes so it couldn't get out. Ferrets can't climb.

I left the people in the apartment and walked down the street wearing a nice sport coat and hoping I'd run into Bill Clinton. After I struck a leisurely pose on a concrete city planter, Bill came by and welcomed me to join him and Hilary in the Capital building. We were on a first name basis.

They had me wait in a little kitchen filled with terrible, rowdy kids and an overwrought babysitter. I tried to give her advice - "Don't back down; stay consistent" - but it didn't help anything. The kids were so out of control I barely constrained myself from slapping on of them or boxing their ears, despite their age. Finally Hilary came to collect me and gave me a VIP All-Access badge to the Capital building: a white heart sticker with cherries inside of it. We then left together to have lunch in George Washington's old office, which had been kept just as he left it. Marveling at the room, Hilary and I ran our hands over all the first president's possessions, especially his lovely mahogany desk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~I dreamed my mom read my dad an article in the newspaper about Chinese overpopulation and expressed the view that this made her scared I would become the next Charles Manson. I told her that assumption offended me, but I couldn't make her understand why. I said, "As long as I grow up right, I'll be fine."
My dad's solution to growing up right: "Wheat. Oats. Cookies."

~~~~~

Ok Junior Freuds out there: what does it all mean?

Breaking News/Grandford

Hey guess what dudes and dudettes,
I didn't know I could do this, but I fixed my blog so now

ANYONE CAN COMMENT

regardless of race, creed, gender or whether they have Blogger or not. Even old people can do it! All you have to do is click "anonymous" and you can sign your name at the bottom if you wish, unless your name is Anonymous, in which case you're taken care of.
Don't hesitate to leave me your comments! Love me like a CPR dummy! (sorry that's gross, don't comment about that)

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Things my 98-year-old grandpa has bought in the last year:

• A tooth-whitening kit after seeing it work for my aunt. My grandpa has approximately half of his teeth left. He signed on for $90-per-month deliveries of this stuff and promptly forgot he ordered it.
• A home electrolysis kit to stop hair from growing on your face. He told my grandma that he had been shaving for too many years and he was tired of it. Apparently it only partially worked and now hair just grows in patches. My aunt had to talk him into shaving again because he looked crazy.

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My DVDs of these BBC/Masterpiece Theater still haven't come. They've been caught up in customs and I may not get them for months. Fortunately, Cranford is on youtube in it's entirety. Unfortunately, I've discovered this a little late for my class tomorrow morning. I'm soaking up as much as I can, but it's 5 hours in total and it's already midnight, so... Whatever happens, I'm definitely not catching up with True Blood tonight.

The nice thing is that Cranford is actually pretty good (if you have five hours to kill I recommend it). After watching the execrable adaptation of Jane Eyre and enough of the adaptation of Great Expectations to know that it's execrable this is a pleasant surprise (for free!). And Dame Judi Dench is in effect, rocking a bonnet like it's 1846.
The best part about it is that it's actually true to the tone of it's source material - a Victorian novel about change in a small town - and actually improves on the scant story of the book by fleshing it out. Of course, improving on Bronte and Dickens is pretty tough, while improving on Gaskill is not so daunting - her writing is looser than the former and the loss of her authorial voice doesn't hobble the story like it does the others.
The other adaptations really labored under the duel purposes of staying true to their classic source material - knowing that straying too far would anger purists - and trying to make their adaptations stand out as new, culturally relevent adaptations standing out among the dozens of others; the fact that the books are so well-known and loved is a complete burdon on them. This leads them to wobble about, drolly hitting the expected notes, yet with an irritating attitude and need to prove that they're "not your father's Great Expectations/Jane Eyre." It reminds me of the less gifted son of a brilliant father trying to prove himself in his shadow - clinging to it sometimes and distancing from it at others (call it Sean Lennon Syndrome). The dirty-sexification of Victorian novels with the aim of filling pocketbooks - or worse, with the idea that because Charlotte Bronte couldn't write frankly about sex she really intended to and that by imposing it her true aim is fulfilled - it just makes dull, bad movies.



Except, of course, Alfonso Cuaron's Great Expectations starring Ethan Hawke, Gwenyth Paltrow and Robert De Niro. Get this: Pip's name is now Finnian Bell and Mrs. Havisham's is Mrs. Dinsmoor; Pip's not a lawyer he's a famous painter and Joe's not a blacksmith he's a shrimp fisherman! - how can you say this is not an improvement? It's so dirty-sexy!



Anyways, to sum up,Cranford the book is charming and Cranford the mini-series is pretty good and my grandpa's funny.

Hey Dave, what's going on? Nothing.

There's still not much to update about.
I have a cough that won't go away. Apparently it's classified as a "tickly cough," as opposed to a "chest cough." This means that instead of cough drops or something I'm taking Veno's tickly coughs solution, which is a mix of honey, lemon and menthol (and magic). It's pretty foul.

This is my week off, or "reading week," and I had originally planned to go somewhere, but now I think I'm actually going to read. I have four days off every week to take a day trip or something and this is pretty nice just catching up. I finally finished Great Suckspectations and now I need to finish the last story in Cranford before delving into The Way We Live Now again. Oh, and my other two classes.

That's about it. What will make this blog update more riviting than it already is? How about videos.


It's hard to debate Keith Olbermann's annoyingness, but here he pretty much hits the nail on the head. Unfortunately, anyone he's actually preaching to probably changed the channel pretty quick.




And hey, this is pretty neat:

No, Macaulay Culkin, No!!!

My friends have made fun of me before because I complain about my "sleep-cycle getting screwed up." What none of these so-called friends realizes is that getting up at a reasonable time is a constant struggle for me. If I give my body an inch by sleeping in as long as it wants one day, it'll take a mile the next.
Well, ever since coming back from the US I've been complaining about jet-lag. What's really happened, though, is I just haven't been firm enough with my body to make it wake up when humans do this week. I missed one-and-a-half lectures this week because I hit snooze so many times on my alarm clock that it malfunctioned and gave up on me (three days in a row!). I have to put it across the room and just admit that I have a problem - there's no other way. Otherwise I'll be waking up at 3:30 in the afternoon every day.

Like today. Since, like my other post said, everyone leaves on Fridays, it was a really mellow Halloween. I have to read Great Expectations for the third time and it's really slow going now that all the suspense and discovery is sucked out of it (Rachel, "you may kiss me if you like"). I also have to read the book of Margery Kempe, which is a Medieval diary by a crazo woman who talks about Jesus hanging out with her and how she loves crying in front of stained glass windows and abstains from meat and sex with her really patient husband and blah blah blah. What a sweet Halloween!

I did celebrate a little, though, by watching one of the movies that absolutely scarred me as a child, The Good Son. Post-Home Alone and right before leaving films for a decade, Macaulay Culkin was looking to shake up his image a bit. He did so by being in a 1993 movie where he plays the absolutely most hate-able little shit you will ever see.
I remember coming into the family room as a child and seeing the movie on TV and plopping down to watch good, old Mac. Before I knew it he was forcing Elijah Wood to watch him shoot at animals with a crossbow and simulate suicides in order to cause highway accidents. It really resonated with me, having been forced, like little Frodo, to spend many awkward hours with kids of my parents' friends who were certifiable psychos.
Anyways, the movie's aged really well and, though I've seen it three times, it never fails to creep the ever-loving shit out of me. Must be a masterpiece. It's on youtube, if you want to see it, but you have to watch a clip called something like "THE MOTHER OF ALL CLIFF-HANGERS" to watch the end.



A similar movie that I haven't seen since it first came out is Neil Jordan's The Butcher Boy. I kind of want to read the book first and confront my demonic memories of this movie by understanding it. I was like, ten or eleven when my dad brought it home from Hollywood Video and I loved horror movies, but I definitely wasn't old enough for this movie not to leave an impression on me. Plus, I'm in Ireland and Patrick McCabe's practically royalty here, right? Or maybe I should make an effort to experience some culture elsewhere.
Dig the awesome intro: