Slammin'

WORD OF THE DAY
slam poetry: le slam

My goodness what a busy bee I've been.

Busy busy busy.

But all for good things.

Since I usually reserve blogging for the evenings, I was forced to put it on the back burner this week, as almost every night was wrought with other fun things to do. Movies, poetry slams, rock climbing, Easter dinner, and "karaoke" kiiind of took precedence.

But I'm back to recount some of the wondrous wondrous things I've done.

This past Wednesday, the first of the month, there was another poetry slam at that little hole-in-the-wall place that I'd visited last month. I decided to go back, this time with Heather (from Arizona). We got there, we sat down, the only Anglophones in the room.

And then the intermission.

I decided, for the second round of poets, that I would sign up to recite something.

I said to myself, "Molly, you better slam that poetry." And I did.

I recited a poem (in English) by Sarah Kay called "B." It's pretty much my favorite poem of all time ever. And even though most of the audience was French, and maybe some of them don't speak English even a little bit, I think they understood. (And I think maybe they didn't care when I skipped a sizable chunk in the middle cos I was focusing too hard on keeping the microphone steady in my trembling hands.)

This video was another one of the slam poets who performed. His was a little more slammy than mine. And still very powerful. (Sorry for the terrible cameramanship. It took me a few seconds to make it not sideways.)

(Toward the end I got scared that the guy at the door was giving me the stink-eye, so I hid the camera behind the man in front of me. Video quality is less than adequate.)

As the final poets were performing, the emcee-like guy asked me if I had another poem to recite, and I said no, and he said "Well, that's a shame." So then I thought real hard, and I came up with one to perform, but it was too long for the time we had left. But it's probably for the best. "The Monster's Three Wishes" would have definitely ruined my cool mojo I had established with the first poem.

But it really was exhilarating. And I really want to go back next month.

But probably not with "The Monster's Three Wishes."

Amitiés :)

Tuppence a Bag

"I feel the wind blow through my hair
I'm gonna be ready this time
I'll buy a ticket to anywhere
I'm gonna be ready this time.
...
Ready, ready, ready, ready,
Ready to run."

The Dixie Chicks help me express my feelings. And I have a lot of feelings.

I've started up running again! 4 times this week! Babam!

Yesterday while I was out scooting down the promenade, I happened upon this little old man standing off to the side under a tree. He was surrounded by birds. I looked up and saw that he had crumbs in his hands, and was feeding the birds! Out of his hands! So I went up to him and expressed my amusement, and you know what happened? I held a bird, y'all. A real bird. He gave me some of the feed and I held a bird.

It's the little things.

(But I definitely didn't touch my face until I got home. Bird flu is serious.)

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So I'm sorry it's been so long since my last post, you guys. You should know, I get really really hermity when academic stressors pop up. Last week, in addition to not feeling 100%, I had quite a bit on my plate. Remember in my last entry when I talked about those essays I have to write by the end of the semester? Well, turns out I wrote 11 pages of one before realizing I was writing on the wrong topic. And it was the biggest bummer of my life.

Also yesterday we had a 4 hour essay test for that same class. Yes, you read that correctly. It was on a Saturday. And it was gross.

But last night I went over to a friend's place a watched Persepolis, and tonight we're all meeting up again.

So things are looking up.

"Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, when one only remembers to turn on the light."

Dumbledore helps me express my more pensive emotions.

Amitiés :)

UPDATE: I want a companion, so I've sold all my possessions for turtle money.

UPDATE: APRIL FOOLS!

I'm still fighting it...by writing it

Sometimes essays and homework give me the skeevies. This is one of those times.

Someday I'll look back on this moment in my life and think, "Huh. 35,000 characters x 2 = 70,000. 70,000 characters. I mean, what is that really, in the big scheme of things?"

And then I'll pause for a moment.

And then I'll heave a big sigh and realize these 2 essays were meaningless ventures. They didn't matter. I'm no better or worse because of them.

And then I remember that it's not the future yet, and I still have to write them.

And I cry.

So there's only one thing left to do: a battle to the death. Two essays enter, two essays and a severely sleep-deprived college student leave.

Amitiés :(

. . . or whatever you say when you want to spear someone with a trident.

UPDATE: This just in: It's 25,000-30,000 characters, y'all. Go Speed Racer, Go!

Party on, Garth.

PHRASE OF THE DAY
Je ne veux que danser: I only want to dance.

Birthday week strikes again!

Two days ago my mom celebrated a birthday back home, Adrien celebrated a birthday in Nice, and the spring season is now one year older and all the wiser. (Spring chose to forgo presents this year and instead funneled all efforts into making the riviera weather intoxicatingly beautiful. And my god has it worked.)

Since I couldn't be home to spend the day with my mom, I joined up with some friends to congratulate Adrien on having thwarted death for exactly 21 years. We ordered pizza and lounged about for about 6 hours, and it was really just a fantastic evening.

HIGHLIGHT REEL:

1. So I've decided to shoulder the daunting task of trying to make America sound really awesome in the international sphere by introducing my peers to a magical plethora of freedom fry topics. This, friends, is called "cultural integration." As an ambassador for America, I feel it's my civic duty to enlighten the international community to our most important achievements. So far we've thoroughly discussed the Grand Ole Opry, Oprah, and the One-Eyed-One-Horned-Flying-Purple-People-Eater. I'm well on my way to repairing our image, y'all.

2. Unfortunately the topic of the Westboro Baptist Church kept coming up. Like 4 times. This was unintentional and frankly way too homophobic for my taste. But we all agreed to recognize that this church is in the minority. The super-minority. The most minoritiest interest group in existence. I think more people have been attacked by lawn flamingos.

3. "YOU get to be a saint! YOU get to be a saint! YOU get to be a saint! EVERYBODY GETS TO BE A SAAAAINT!!" --Poprah

4. For me, nights in with friends beat nights out with friends a million to one without question. No, a googolplex to one. As Andy Samberg as Nicolas Cage would say, "That's high praise."

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Then last night we all went out in celebration of our friend Jhordan's birthday. The evening was kind of short for me, as I wanted to catch the last bus home. But it was a good time.

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I'll have to come back later and tell you about my theatre class yesterday. It was entertaining.

But for now, I need to grocery. And then I need to essay. And then I need to beach.

So it may be a while . . .

Amitiés :)

UPDATE: Yesterday I read on blogger that someone had searched for my blog using the keyword "pull the blanket over my head and make it go away." I'm confused that this happened. But I'm even more confused that it worked.

♬Oh aye-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di♬

"In Dublin's fair city

Where girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheel'd her wheel barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive-o!"

Happy belated Saint Patrick's Day, y'all!

Though I didn't make it to Dublin, as so many others did, Nice had no shortage of leprechaunical festivities. And you know what? There were Irish people there! Loads of them! So, yeah, I didn't go to Ireland. IRELAND CAME TO ME!

Now I didn't actually end up getting to town until 9ish, and unbeknownst to me, and a little to my chagrin, others had been "celebrating" since well before 2 o'clock. But the first bit was really fun. Just hanging out and chatting with friends. That's more my thing.

As the night wore on, one universal truth became very apparent. Namely, looking at photos and recounting stories always make nights out look so glamourous. But the reality of the situation is always quite the opposite.

No matter how the evening starts, happy or sad, grouchy or glad, it always devolves into a mind-numbing wander-fest, in which no one can make a single solitary decision on where to go or what to do because no one has a clue what they're doing anyway.

And everywhere you wander is either too full,

"That is a terrible line."

Too expensive,

"I've just remembered how cheap I am."

Or too sketchy.

"This place looks sketched."

And you soon realize all you really want is club soda and your bed.

So you resolve to continue wandering. Partially in hopes of finding the holy grail of hangouts, partially out of sheer boredom, and partially in search of the friends you keep misplacing because your life is a horror movie and someone is definitely out to get you.

And that's fine. Sure. If you like walking. Lucky for me, I do. So the hour-long trek back to my room was not wholly unsatisfying.

So that was the evening out. And all the evenings out.

Does this sound familiar to you?

My guess is "good lord, yes."

Amitiés :)

UPDATED:

Oh Canadaaa

PHRASE OF THE DAY
claquer les doigts: snap your fingers

These past few weeks I've found myself in a strange new quarter of my Niçois experience. If my calculations are correct, I seem to have stumbled into an alternate universe inhabited almost exclusively by Canadians. And you know what? It's not half bad. (Before you get your panties in a bunch, yes, I still speak French a lot. Zheesh.)

They've taken me under their proverbial wing of maple syrup and good sportsmanship, and I feel like I can just be myself. Whatever that is. And I'm pretty sure they think I'm super weird since I name my plants and can reference archipelagos in everyday conversation. But I think it's a good kind of weird.

I've also been a wee bit sick these past few days with a cold and then a bout of dehydration and now some everlasting allergy-induced sniffles. But I'm getting better I think.

So here's a brief exposé of all the things I've done these past few days. They are few and far between, but they are varied.

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#1: Trivia Night

Last Thursday, I went out with Emily to an Irish pub by the port for the weekly trivia night. We met up with some friends there, and, though we arrived late and unfortunately missed round 1, our little team still came out #15 out of 45.
That'll do, pig. That'll do.

I beasted the movie round. But like Seinfeld I usually "break even," and this time was no different. But, honestly, I didn't expect the music round to play music I listen to anyway. I'm just not mainstream enough. Eh, you win some, you lose some.

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#2: Marché en plein air

On Saturday, I invited Steph and Nikita to the outdoor food and flower market in the morning since neither of them had ever been, even after living in Nice for nearly 7 months! It was a B-E-A-utiful day outside, so we grabbed some fresh fruit, and headed to the beach for a picnic (pique-nique) with their friend Chas. It was truly a glorious day. We ate and basked in the sun like lizards for a few hours, tanning our faces and arms, as we were still wearing people clothes. (I made another pass at peeling a grapefruit, but tired halfway through eating it.)

I'd venture to guess this is not how Nikita expected to wake up.

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#3: SKIIIII

If you know me even a little bit, you'll know I adore the mountains. Not really the beach. Why I'm in Nice I have no idea. But much to my pleasant surprise, the mountains are literally RIGHT next door!

And what you also probably know about me is that I'm really not a sporty person. But, friends, I can ski. Unfortunately, apparently I'm a little afraid of heights, so I'll chalk up my refusal to attend the trip down the black diamond to this phobia and nothing else.

I've only actually ever been skiing once before in my life, almost 4 years ago exactly. But it was as if I'd never left. Apparently skiing is a lot like riding a bike, but down an icy cold frictionless surface with no brakes and also no bike.

"We should bundle up. Surely it will be cold."

Psych! It's not cold at all.
And don't call me Shirley. . .

About halfway through the day, we had a costume change, a few of us shedding most of our outer "ski" clothes, as the strange combination of the powdery white snow and riviera sunshine manifested itself in a way that significantly confused me.

Like the skiiers that fly . . .

This looks a lot more serene than it was. I was actually flying
down the hill uncontrollably, arms flailing, poles flapping,
finally coming to a stop near the bottom using the power of
gravity, friction, and my butt. (cred: Elizabeth)

I took this video post-wipe out. I truly am a force to be reckoned with.

Did you hear that part about me jumping through a hoop? 'Cause that totally happened. Pinky swear.

About an hour before our bus was to depart, we discovered we were on what we assumed was the wrong side of the mountain. So we were forced to do our best to scale the mountain and traverse the blue paths (2nd level, suckers) as fast as we could. Long story short, I pizza wedged it the entire way down.

Pizza wedge--the skiing equivalent to riding your brakes.

But it was a great time. Skiing, you should be in my life more often because I love you.

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#4: Le Slam

On Wednesday, I went with Emily and some new friends to this little hole-in-the-wall café/pub thing where there was supposed to be a poetry slam. It was so much cooler than I was expecting. Basically it was a cozy little room filled with middle-aged and older artsy French men and women who were laughing and drinking and actually being joyful for once. This was the first time I felt like I had found the place where everybody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. It was so chill. Anyone could read poetry, their own or a famous piece, a slam or a ballad, a monologue or a story. It was really open-ended.

2 of my friends actually got up and read something. (I didn't have anything prepared. But it happens once a month, and I really want to go back.)

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But it is now the weekend. For me, anyway. Actually all my friends back home are gearing up to start their spring breaks, which is nostalgic to say the least. But, I mean, I guess I am already at the beach. 

Spring Break 2012, here I come.

Amitiés :)

AND IIIIIIIIEEEIIIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOOUUUUUUUUU

At approximately 1300 hours on March 13th, 2012, our own Fuzz Lightyear was pronounced dead in his home. He is survived by his caretaker, Molly, and his sister, Eliza Wood.

But we shall remember him as he was. Loved by many, adored by some, watered by one.

Here's to you, Fuzz Lightyear. You will never be forgotten.

Amitiés :(