I bought a book of international stamps because almost everyone I know has bailed on Ireland and headed for London or the States. Anyway, this the postcard I sent to Marianne.
All of this is true. This lives on my cupboard in Chicago now and it makes me happy when I go to my cereal in the morning. The reverse of the card is also pretty excellent, it’s a picture of Obama photoshopped onto the rolling green landscape of Moneygall. Because, you know, Obama is Irish. Everyone who ever did anything is basically Irish. You can read more about that on the postcard, though some of it is obscured by Donald Glover’s pharaoh hat.
Also, hello, poor neglected blog.
Since Christmas I have been extremely busy, which means I haven’t had time to stay up until 2am, which is generally when I do most of my writing. I wrote a big sentimental I-love-my-friends-also-I-have-goals-and-ambitions-post but then I didn’t post it because it was exactly that kind of post. And now the blog is neglected. Sorry blog.
BUT. No excuses.
I am now a literary intern at the Goodman Theatre, along with Aoife, who is also my roommate, thus fulfilling the implied vows we took never to leave each other’s sides. I don’t know where we are, but we go everywhere together.
Our superiors in the office seem to be worried that we will fight, due to over-exposure, but that’s just because they don’t yet realise that we are both exceedingly charming people. Even the mornings are highly entertaining. Here is an insight into our morning commute:
Aoife: Marianne, look at that pigeon!
Marianne: Yes, Aoife.
Aoife: Did you see it?
Marianne: I did indeed.
Aoife: It was brown!
Marianne: I know, I saw it.
Aoife: Well, I hope you did see it, Marianne. I hope you weren’t just humouring me.
Another thing I have been doing is sound-designing for a wonderful weird and creepy show called Tennyson Spade. I mainly deal in wind and weird tonal noises. I haven’t done any sound design in ages, so I felt like a hack for a long time, but now that the show is up, I don’t think I did a horrible job. Here is a review of the play in question by a seven year-old girl.
I am currently on my lunch in the Cultural Centre in Chicago, with Aoife by my side, as always, reading The Third Policeman. I have finished my bagel and I am now eating my backlog of blogs, as well as a Skor bar, which is a bit like a Daim bar except with more butter because THIS IS AMERICA AFTER ALL.
I was very sick last week. Terribly, dramatically sick. Whenever I get sick, I immediately assume that no one in the world has ever been sick before and that I am, therefore, entirely alone in my pain. American medication is also nuts. Dayquil is not my friend, it made me even more delirious than the high fever it promised to fight with its cocktail of drugs. I think I may be suffering the residue of this, because I’ve been weirdly giggly all day.
This is getting banal.
I’m glad to be working downtown, because I know feel like I am moving through the Chicago that most people who don’t live in Chicago picture when they hear Chicago, which is skyscrapers and vast underground parking lots and possibly Batman. Little do they know that I live in a lovely residential area populated by rabbits. I also get to hang out in places like the Cultural Centre on my lunch, which is cool.
I will post a real thing soon, about something important. Like cartoons. Or body hair.
In conclusion, Adam is great and this postcard is one of my favourite things.