this is it

i stop checking after some time

things remain constant and smooth

or constant and not smooth, little hills to walk up, big ones to fall down

but constant

expectations

and when there is change all that can be done is quiet

quiet reaction action steps

inhalation

this momentary obstruction of what is familiar

perhaps it becomes familiar

perhaps i am done with familiar

this is my being ready and my being new and my reclamation

self voice body mind soul

things that once were hurtful are no longer

things that once were maddening remain so

things that once were tearful cannot be

consistency is over

Quote of the Day

Homophobia’s not like Creed, something you can just drop the instant you realize it sucks.

-Troy Johnson “Mommy’s Little Monster” in Spin

one year ago

I moved to New York. One year ago, today. Liz, Mr. Collins, Margaret, Ben, and I drove up in an SUV and moving van with a lot of stuff. A LOT. I never realize how much I have until I move. And now I am in the process of moving out. (So much to be said on this, and now is not the right time).

After a full day of moving things up three flights of stairs and into a hot sticky apartment, with Thai food from 4 blocks away, Liz and I passed out. Literally. I woke up in my sweaty jeans. The next week was spent cleaning a mess of an apartment – she had to use a screw driver to scrape nastiness off the stove – and wandering. We slowly found our way around the neighborhood and eventually the train lines. This isn’t DC, it’s not the blue line, it’s the C train.

One month passed before we had our new roommates, Boy Cat and Girl Cat. They found roaches…yay. I met Andrew. We searched for jobs. And we searched some more. We handed out resumes. We stole internet. We went to cafes. I walked across the island. I walked blocks and blocks with water and crackers and paper. I got a temp job after one month. Liz got a job at a tea shop. I got a job at a cinema and then the drama department at The New School. Classes started. I knew the moment I sat in my first class that I had made a wrong decision. The program was not for me. I stuck it out. I am now out. Where do I see myself in five years? On some land with horses. We got sick. Really sick. I danced. Liz went to plays. Friends visited. The toilet flooded and could not be used for two days. It took some serious phone calls to get that fixed. I met people from VA, from McLean. Teejay, Rebecca, Rachel, Sadiqeh, Krissy, Gary, Gonzalo, Nayareh, Ayat, Endam, Mommy, Bashir, Nazir, Ethan, Kaytee, Ben, Margarita, Frances…baseball and Vegetarian Palate and Hendog and Chinatown and Union Square and movies and no sleep and movies and movies and sitting and guitar and long walks.

New York, what has it given me? I have been looking back a lot. Reflecting, analyzing. Sometimes I think things over too much, but overall I have come to some important self-realizations, more awareness. To be aware is a path chosen for me in my name, assigned at birth. I am, like all Agahs, meant to be aware. I cannot turn my back on who I am. I will not.

Recently, I said to a friend, that I think New York can further pronounce already existing qualities of our personalities. He mentioned that New York helped him to become more patient. I, and I may have addressed this before, have relocated a part of myself I thought had been let go soon after turning 16 and upon starting in a new place. What I had once dismissed as a sometimes cruel personality, and one I had shed, is who I am.

As a post script to yesterday’s letter, New York, thank you. Thank you for helping me reclaim myself. Thank you for helping me return to a part of myself I thought was not needed, but after years of submission, of slumber more like, it has returned. And more often than not, returned without the intent of hurt or self satisfaction (yes, I made people cry in junior high and high school).

So, here I am, one year later. It has almost taken me an entire year to reach out past myself. I am okay with that. I have recently come into the company of some amazing people. I have found that before quieted voice. It is loud. It is speaking.

I still haven’t cried. I seriously considered watching Edward Scissorhands the other night so that I would cry. I changed my mind.

Dear New York

Dear New York,

I know what you are trying to do. You don’t know me well.

-Aman

Dear John Malkovich

Note: I had first intended my “letters to emily” category to be a moment of reflection on the works of Emily Dickinson. After my letter to the cats, and feeling kind of inspired by Henry Rollins (I know!), I decided to make it more of an open letter to different people, places, things…

So, on to the letter.

Dear John Malkovich,

No. I realize that too many of us have left you with the impression that you are a stellar actor, but it is time that I speak up. I will give you Empire of the Sun, but let’s not kid ourselves, Christian Bale stole that film and made it amazing. And I like Being John Malkovich because it is completely absurd, makes fun of my home New Jersey, and who the hell would ever want to be you anyway? (Again, that’s why it’s funny). Let’s look at some other roles that have generally won you praise: Of Mice and Men. Personally, I get kind of annoyed when some actor is told they play retarded well. I like Sean Penn, but really? Is he really that memorable for I Am Sam? What about The Assassination of Richard Nixon? What about his directing? And I love What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, but not because of Leonardo DiCaprio. I mean, he is good in it, but there’s also the story that kinda carries the whole film, not to mention Johnny Depp.

Okay, you may also deserve some credit for In The Line of Fire. But you did play a psycho in that. And in Con-Air. You seem well-suited for those roles. That odd shaped head, somewhat sweet and thick voice with a hint of a high-pitch. Again, though, for Con-Air at least, someone else stole the show. In this case it was Steve Buscemi. The man played with Barbie dolls and talked about wearing a human head as a hat. And he wins the prize when it comes to funny looking. The Coen Brothers went with that.

Let me get to what prompted this letter in the first place: Knockaround Guys. Here is a movie, pretty bad mind you, about a group of mob kid friends who decide they want to join the family business. You, as you may or may not know, play the uncle of the main kid, played by Barry Pepper. To hear you attempt a Brooklyn accent and end up sounding like some kid whose just watched A Bronx Tale and is trying really hard to imitate what they assume to be the accent of everyone in this city, is beyond sad. Please, just…no. I have an idea, why not do what you have done in other movies that require an accent, don’t do it. In The Messenger you kept your same old John Malkovich voice, despite the efforts of others to sound French. (Vincent Cassel is French, so don’t even start the comparisons there). Even in Eragon, which I am admitting to seeing, despite the fact that it is one of the worst movies ever, you did not feel the need to use any accent. Then again, you really did not feel the need to act either. Did you know right away that you were going to treat that performance like practice for other crap roles? Did you just see it as some extra cash? Or were you fooled into thinking it would be good like those of us who shelled out $10 because, like us, you saw Rachel Weisz and Jeremy Irons in the cast and thought “hey, there is no way this can suck!” ? Is that what happened, John? You can be honest. You should know that a good cast does not mean a good film. The Messenger is a great example of that. And you should know that just because everyone says it is good, does not mean it is good. Gone Baby Gone, hello! That movie was a waste of my life. And I cannot get that time back.

Here’s the thing, you are in some post-productions that I want to see, and I will see them. But I need you to know that my attending Burn After Reading has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with The Coen Brothers. And when I buy my ticket for The Mutant Chronicles it is because the futuristic movie is about a guy who fights NecroMutants.

-aman

sometimes

I need to take a moment

or two

or 3

and step far far back

from everything.

Sometimes

I need to stop.

Ireland Pt. 2 – You don’t win friends with salad

So, we got Rebecca to watch The Big Lebowski. Well, half of it. It was late and she had to leave the next morning. We woke up early Friday morning to make sure she got to the airport with plenty of time to go through security and customs, which they ended up doing in the US anyway, I left Rebecca at the security entrance and headed back into City Center where I took the train to Booterstown, where Bashir works. We had agreed to meet for lunch, but as I had several hours until then I walked along a footpath near the beach to Black Rock, where we were to meet. I stopped at one point, went up some stairs and down to the other side to dip my feet in the cold water. I had wanted to do so since our arrival in Ireland. I love the feeling of sand beneath my feet, between my toes, soft and grainy, molding to each step. I was completely alone too. I had passed maybe 3 people along the path, and no one was here. I enjoyed the solitude. The only sound was the wind lapping slowly against the water, and the water in turn creeping up the sand. I enjoyed the wind against my face, blowing my hair lightly from side to side. I enjoyed the water momentarily freezing my ankles. And for a brief moment, I thought, I could die here, and no one would know. The nearest houses were really only a few hundred feet away, just over the wall, and yet, there was complete solitude. I felt separated from everyone and everything. I felt calm. This was not the same feeling of solitude I get in NY, where despite the crowds, the hundreds upon hundreds of people, I still feel alone. And every now and then I want to shriek and scream. I want to yell Fuck you NY!!! But not in Ireland. This was a different alone.
Bashir and I met for lunch in the small town of Black Rock. I think I may have eaten goat cheese every day I was in Ireland. We ate a quick lunch and instead of taking the train back to Booterstown, which was a 20-minute wait, we walked back in about 15. I went up to Orix with him to say bye and passed on my “I’m a Batman Crime fighter” for Katherine to give her son Christopher, who is known as Batman and Batsy. I headed back into Dublin and spent some time relaxing at Bashir’s and getting my stuff together. Not that there was a lot to get together. When Bashir returned we headed to the Ferryman to watch that night’s match, then back to his place to finish The Big Lebowski.
We spent Saturday watching movies. I really did not want to o anywhere because I get anxious before a flight and wanted to make sure I was on time. It’s not even the flight itself that makes me anxious, but airports. Not only am I now used to being treated like a threat, but airports are like hospitals, cold and sterile, uninviting, and filled with supposed experts who can never give a direct or clear answer. Our flight now had to stop in Shannon to pick up people whose plane was experiencing technical difficulties. When I got on the plane and saw just how empty it was, and then saw that everyone in Shannon filled it up right quick, my suspicions were confirmed. They had already planned this stop. How else would they have known to not fill up the Dublin flight?
But compared to Rebecca’s experience, my flight was heaven, even if they did show us Fool’s Gold, a movie so bad I could not even zone out to it, but had to sleep. While Bashir and I were at the Ferryman Friday night Rachel called saying that Rebecca’s flight was listed as canceled online. That, of course, freaked me out. It had been over 10 hours since I left her at Dublin airport and there was no word from her. I tried to not let on to Rachel that I was scared. That was the last thing she needed. I tried calling Aer Lingus and could not get through. Rachel finally called back as she had been told that Rebecca’s flight went to JFK and then she would be getting home from there. Turns out that that Rebecca’s flight, which was scheduled as 12, was delayed for 2 hours. They were told that in 2 hours an update would be given. So around 2 they were told to wait for one more hour. Then at 3 they were told the flight had been canceled and the options were to either wait until the next morning and try to get on a plane to Dulles then, which was no guarantee, or to fly to JFK and get themselves home from there. Rebecca chose to board the JFK flight and purchased herself a ticket back to Dulles. She, smartly, wrote Aer Lingus a letter about their lack of support for customers and that the situation should have been dealt with differently, so they reimbursed her flight. I have to say; I thought they would fight her on that.
I managed to sleep through most of my flight, which is good because I was feeling a panic attack looming and picking up on some serious nervous energy from the guy sitting next to me. This was the first flight where I had ever gotten nauseous. The pilot dove in for the landing and I swear he did it like 3 times. I felt my stomach jump in waves and I thought for sure I would puke. So I decided to lean forward with my head bent down, and take deep breaths. It definitely helped. Finally we landed and did not have to wait on the plane for too long.
The gorgeous non-humid weather of Ireland made me forget how gross the weather in NY was. I also had managed to forget which station to go to for my train. I literally erased the US from my mind while I was away. But, fear not, I was welcomed back in true US style. I was harassed at customs. Apparently it was suspicious that I packed so lightly for a 9-day trip. After all, this is the US; everything should be done in excess. So I was sent from the first agent to the next, who, upon seeing my scarfed head in my passport picture, proceeded to treat me like shite. He spoke to me like I did not k now English even after having just spoken to me. Awesome. Welcome back, I thought. But I stood there silently and obediently, not quite ready to be sent away for vacation in Guantanamo.

So now it has been almost a month since I left for Ireland. It took me over a week to accept the fact that I was not there. The remaining EuroCup matches helped me to stay connected, as Bashir and I texted and emailed, him watching at the Ferryman and me watching either the game or live commentary online.

Being in Ireland was a reminder of how much I love traveling and how badly I want to go to Iran again. I hope that with one year’s time I can be on my way to visiting Iran, and not just Tehran, Isfahan, and Mashad, but Qazvin especially and most of the country. I definitely want to go to the places I am from, where I can trace back. So, County Cork will be visited some day. Every time I have traveled I have evolved, gained some new knowledge of myself, or confirmed things I thought to be true, some I thought to be false, others I merely thought. There are times I feel I could remain completely to myself, as long as I am in motion. And then I think that I do love to share experiences with others. Chris McCandless learned that happiness is greatest when shared, and despite a love for isolation, I do often feel similarly.

I think that even one day away from the things that are familiar can help us to see things differently.

11. Party Girl

Yes, I have seen it. And when I read the title on my list just now I knew Parker Posey was in it, but not sure it was the same Parker Posey movie I had seen. IMDb confirmed that it is. I guess it’s not that memorable. I remember liking it enough. It was funny, cute, and maybe now that I live in NY and went through my own struggle trying to find a job, I would appreciate it even more. Though, I definitely do not spend my money on fashionable clothes or parties. I did just find out that Eddie Vedder is doing a solo tour and I want to purchase tickets for that. That is where my money goes….music, and movies. Anyway, the one thing I remember most about this movie is the Middle Eastern guy in it, played by Omar Townsend. This is his only movie, sadly, ‘cause he is gorgeous. I doubt I will see this again. I know, I know, Ade, it’s like one of your favouritest movies ever. I borrowed it from Ade about two years ago. I think she owns it on VHS. Ade, if you read this, speaking of borrowing movies, you still have Dazed and Confused and What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. The former, is more whatever, but I have been craving the latter. I suppose I could netflix it.

I am not sleeping in white girls’ room either -Raul

So, it hit me even more this weekend how much my social anxiety has kept me from doing things. I have been making an effort, a small one, but never the less an effort to go out and do things, and I knew that what was preventing me from meeting people and from getting out was my social anxiety…and still is, let’s be honest, it’s not as if it disappears over night. But this weekend, when 6 of my friends were up, and one day before 2 other friends were up, I realized that for most activities I have been relying on people visiting me or my own visits back home. I have successfully avoided parties, movies, lunches, dinners, dances, etc and managed to not feel completely isolated because I have gone home enough and had enough visitors to keep myself occupied. Not to mention, I have learned over the years to interpret my anxiety as a dislike for people, in addition to an already existing dislike. I have used it as an excuse to not do things.

But I want to break out of that. There is so much to see and so much to do and there are cool people out there. I have met some truly genuine human beings here in NY, LC specifically comes to mind, and some really amazing, some really fun and funny, some really generous, some really open people.

I had a great weekend. And at the end it was sort of bittersweet when my new realization hit. Not only was it already sad to see everyone off and to have to return to a world completely different from the one we occupied for a few days, but to figure out one more piece of what I have used as an excuse to not get to know anyone new. I have managed for – 2 weeks shy of a year now – to keep a safe distance from all but one person in this city. And this is how I have gone through most of my life. On the one hand I am completely fine with it. I don’t need quantity, rather quality. On the other hand, I am fully aware that Will Hunting my way through life can’t last forever. It won’t.

Ireland Pt. 1 – I Blame the Sadness

I know, I know…it has taken forever to post this. And it is turning into a longer piece than I imagined, so it will be posted in 2 parts. So as not to annoy anyone too much. Mainly, myself.

Black Rock – lunch with Bashir. Dropped Rebecca off at the airport. Got here on the 6th
flew out the 5th. We went to Radiohead at Malahide Castle the 6th. Beautiful day mostly, then it started to rain, but it was light and two rainbows appeared in the sky. I learned, and so did Thom Yorke, it does not get dark till after 10 in Ireland at this time of year. They played “How to Disappear,” which made me happy. I remember Life As a House with Ayat, and so I tried to call home to at least leave it on the machine for her to hear. I could not hear if someone had picked up or it went to the machine. Turns out Baba answered the phone and did not know what he was listening to, so he hung up the phone. Awesome. They played “15 Step,” “Weird Fishes,” “There There,” “Paranoid Android.” They played two encores, and I hate encores. When I worked at The Patriot Center and saw band sets I learned that encores were staged, part of the performance, and I was disappointed. Music should be spontaneous. I remember seeing Pearl Jam once and they decided to just play through the encore. I was grateful, because why waste our time. I refuse to scream and clap loudly when I already know you are coming back out on stage. Imagine if everyone remained quiet. Malahide is outside though, so even though we did not want to miss the train and slowly made our way out of the fenced in area, we stood and listened and got a different view of the light show. I was tired and cold and wet, and full of energy from Radiohead. Thom danced like he had never danced before, hips swinging, arms flailing, head spinning. I loved every moment of it.
On Saturday we took the Dart to Bray. I was reminded of Mumbles. We walked along the footpath near the beach and made our way over one mile up a steep hill, at the top of which stood a large cement cross, grafitied. This hike was a reminder that no matter how much I walk in NYC I am out of shape, and it is not uphill, not this steep, not for this long. It was really beautiful up there. I could hear the wind blowing through my stretched ears, which was funny. Everything just seemed so at peace, so slowed down, easy, without expectation. I could sit and enjoy. We ended the day out with some dinner and the Portugal/Turkey match at a local pub.
On Sunday we walked to Phoenix Park, about 5km/3miles from Bashir’s. We stopped at the Irish Film Institute along the way to see what was playing, but either Bashir or I had seen them, or they were of no interest. As much as I love going to the cinema, I was totally cool with not attending any shows. I felt like Bashir wanted to, and it didn’t work out. We did, however, watch a lot of movies at his place.

At Phoenix Park we rented bikes from two rather funny guys with a cute boxer dog Frankie and rode around for 2 hours. It had been nearly 10 years since I rode a bike, so I definitely started out a little wobbly, especially as we rode along the path with cars. Not a good time or place to be wobbly. Almost forgot that along the way to Phoenix Park we met Roger and his two friends and their bunny Jeffrey, for whom they were building a nest. These boys fit the stereotype of hooligan Irish kids in movies, kinda dirty, big blue eyes, football jerseys, and there was something really endearing about three boys making a nest for their shaggy little bunny. And they were not shy about it, or hesitant. In the park we met a horse named Harvey at the polo fields, definitely a rich man’s sport, and several magpies, all of whom we saluted.
1 for sorrow
2 for joy
3 for girl
4 for boy
5 for silver
6 for gold
7 for a secret never to be told
That night we watched Germany/Poland at the Ferryman, Bashir’s local pub. That was especially enjoyable because there were 2 young men, an older woman, and an older man there speaking German, Polish, and English, all watching the match as well. One of the young guys rooted for Germany, and the other for Poland. They were really fun and good-natured people to watch the match with, teasing each other at times, but not maliciously, and cheering with us sometimes.
A group of older white ladies from the US came in and we tried to make sure none of them realized we are from the states as well. At one point one lady asked the barkeep – a really friendly guy who asked me from that point forward who I was cheering for each night we came to view a match – who was playing, and when he replied Germany v. Poland she hooted “Go Germany.” The young man rooting for Germany gave her a strange look, as did we. I was annoyed because she clearly was not a fan of football or the German team, but said it with a definite dislike for Poland, which of course prompted the three of us to talk about US ignorance towards Poland and Polish people. There is an historical significance to the match seeing as how Germany invaded Poland over 50 years ago, and this woman clearly did not think before speaking. My dream games – and I am speaking World Cup finals – Ireland defeats the Brits and Iran defeats the US. Iran beat the US in a ’98 World Cup match and I remember my cousin jumping up and down with joy. It is a small victory, one could argue, but a significant one, a symbolic one.
Monday we went into Howth, another beach town. I woke up late and felt even more tired. Somehow my sleeping was not letting me feel rested, like my whole body was trying to adjust to the time difference, but failing. We didn’t have much time in Howth, but we did see seals! One seal and I went back and forth making noises at each other, and I called him Boy Cat, since Boy Cat is after all a descendant of the seal, mostly the beached seal. We had to get back in enough time to get ready for dinner with Bashir’s co-workers, Katherine, Sarah, Caroline, Violet, and Lauren. It was a good time, a lot of teasing of Bashir, mention of The Big Lebowski, Bashirisms, and of course Batman. At one point conversation turned to talk of weddings, rings, and other things that Rebecca, Bashir, and I all find boring and pointless. It was interesting to see the conversation shift to that and the three of us have nothing to say. It occurred to me, not long ago, that not only am I opposed to marriage, but if someone were to ask me to marry them, I would be insulted. Why is that “the next step?” Why would an already existing commitment not be enough?
At some point during the weekend we wandered a bit around Grafton St and Temple Bar. We stopped and got a snack at the outdoor market of Temple Bar. I like Temple Bar better than Grafton St. Grafton is all these shops, a lot of designers, US places, fast food, things I wanted to avoid when leaving NY. Temple Bar was mostly restaurants and pubs and small independent shops. Though there was a Hard Rock Café that snuck its way in.
Tuesday morning Bashir had to return to work. Rebecca and I wandered. We went to Hueston Station to get times of trains to Cork, Galway, and Kilkenny. Cork quickly became a no with a cost of 59 Euros. So the choices were narrowed to two and we decided on Galway, after hearing from Bashir and his co-workers that it was a better choice. We had hesitated at the recommendation from his co-workers only because there seemed to be a definite interest in shopping, something neither Rebecca nor I care for. Once Bashir said it was a better choice, and he does not enjoy shopping either – he, Rourke, and I once cleared Tyson’s mall in about 20 minutes searching for a shirt – we agreed to go there. The train was a three hour ride, departing Wednesday at 710am. We spent the rest of Tuesday wandering about, into Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, which is large and old and beautiful. We rested on the lawn outside and watched these young girls blowing bubbles. They had to be between the ages of 5 and 7 and when a younger girl, a toddler, made her way over the girl with the bubbles asked the toddler’s name. I did not hear her reply, but the girl with the bubbles responded, “that’s a lovely name.” Who says that? Irish kids, that’s who.
We also made our way back to Grafton Street so I could go to Tower Records where I purchased The Big Lebowski for Bashir, and for Rebecca’s benefit since she had never seen it and Bashir and I spent a good amount of time quoting it. I had just purchased a soy chocolate shake before entering Tower from a small Starbucks like chain, therefore expensive, yet crap. I should have figured that this place, the name of which now escapes me – something Chocolate and Butler – was going to suck since I had seen so many. I asked the lanky English teller at Tower if he had a trashcan for my now empty cup. He replied, “rubbish bin?” I think he was being a smart-ass. Maybe he thought I was.
Wednesday Rebecca and I rose early and made it just in time to Hueston Station to grab a quick breakfast and get on the train. We saw several cows, sheep, and horses along the way, which did not cease to amuse us. One would think neither of us had ever seen them before, not to mention the fact that I at least have been on several farms and used to work with horses. I eventually fell asleep with my iPod playing a shuffle of Radiohead, Beirut, NIN, Sonic Youth, and others.
When I awoke and we stepped off the train, out of the station, into Galway…it was raining. I HATE rain. It makes me depressed and not want to do anything. Walking around Galway for the next proposed 8 hours was going to be a struggle, and although we cut the trip short by three, it still was, for both of us. We still wandered, first in search of St. Nicholas’ Cathedral. After two bad directors we found the way with the help of an old man in a repair shop. We saw the cathedral after making two rights and a left, crossing over a small bridge, and walking along a narrow path, but we entered at first, the wrong way, toward a monastery. It was a small white building with an encircled patch of grass in front, occupied by five cows. After unsuccessfully trying to pet some of them Rebecca and I approached the monastery door. The first set was open, but the second locked. I turned to look, before leaving for St Nicholas’, at the collection of praying cards and fliers on small table, and then the door was opened by a tiny nun in full habit, Franciscan I think. I was quietly excited and wanted to tell her my mother used to be a Benedictine Sister, but I kept quiet on that and told her we thought we had walked toward the cathedral. She kindly directed us to the actual entrance and returned inside.
St Nicholas’ was beautiful and catholic, unlike St. Patrick’s and most other cathedrals in Dublin. I lit some proper candles and purchased pendants of St Jude for every Agah. On the back of each pendant is a red and white circle. I asked the teller if it was a sticker to be removed, I thought maybe it told him how much they cost. He looked at me as if I were a complete idiot and replied, “They’re relics. These have touched relics of the saint.” He definitely knew I am not Catholic.

Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes and the same saint our grandfather used to light candles to when praying for the family. I had no intentions of getting gifts for anyone but my parents and had already gotten St. Patrick pendants for them, but this was important to me. I plan on getting a St. Jude tattoo with Iranian motifs, one of those traditional icon images, on my right arm.
After five hours in Galway, soaked in rain, with sandwiches in our stomachs, and a Batman Total Film purchase, Rebecca and I called it quits. We were cold and tired and unable to explore properly. We got back to Dublin right outside 6pm and walked home, stopping along the way for a coffee.
Thursday was Rebecca’s last day. We wandered more, this time into Trinity College’s campus, out the other end and into a park. We looped the park and came to a large rock with an Oscar Wilde statue perched on top. We both wanted to try and climb it but people kept walking past and several lingered to take pictures and stare. In retrospect, we probably looked shady, like we planned to do something. But no defacement was planned, just a quick climb into Wilde’s lap, something I imagine he would approve of. We hung about for quite some time hoping people would back off, but they did not, and finally our annoyance led us away to finish a tour of the park.
We happened upon parts of the city we had not been to before, crossing through several poor areas, and a large strip mall. Eventually we found our way back to Grafton St so that I could return The Big Lebowski, which did not work. An observation, Tower Records employees were a lot friendlier and less elite than the ones in Tyson’s and Fairfax. In fact, Rebecca and I noticed that there was such little judgment overall in Ireland in comparison to the US. We first picked up on this at the Radiohead show. Radiohead themselves seemed so relaxed and fun. Generally, audiences in the US – and I say this having just seen REM and Pearl Jam in the last two weeks – no matter what band I have seen, have been so fabricated, so judgmental. I always felt as if I were not cool enough, which was probably a little bit of me, but definitely a lot of them too. And I certainly am not the only one who ever felt that way. But the Radiohead show, and all of Dublin was different. Everyone, despite all the different styles, seemed so chill, so unconcerned with the looks of others. I didn’t know if Radiohead were more relaxed because maybe of where they are at themselves, or maybe if they feel better playing outside the US and so close to home. I’ve heard Yorke say he’s not a fan of the US. I can’t blame him. He’s rock star, and he’s probably not cool enough. Walking around Dublin and Galway was not like walking around certain parts of DC (Dupont and Georgetown come to mind) or NY (Williamsburg anyone?) where you can feel the eyes burn into you. Watch the hipster olympics if you have not. Pretty priceless.
Class really stood out in Ireland. I feel like class is one of those things in the US that is elusive. There are the definite rich and the definite poor, and then there are the numerous that fall in between. We are lied to and lie to ourselves. It seems that hiding class and hiding from class can often be done with ease. We are sold lies. It reminds me that the US is false, an illusion, one that many of us, most of us support, sometimes willingly, sometimes not, sometimes without realization. The US sells itself to the world, and primarily its own residents, as a land of dreams and opportunity, where everyone not only can, but has made it. So why do those of us who live here and know differently, still believe it? Even most of us who know it to be false believe it by our very actions.