the mollyblog

?

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 09:39:00 +0000

I'm pretty sure there's no point to all this. This isn't getting any better, I'm not healing, this isn't getting easier. It's getting harder. I hurt deeper than I knew. I think I really am broken.

So how do I end it?

latest work :: plugging african trip with charley boorman

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 02:53:00 +0000

Ride an African Adventure with Charley Boorman and Ross Noble from moxyfilms on Vimeo.

This is a piece I filmed and edited for Charley Boorman, Ross Noble and Billy "Biketruck" Ward. More information about this and future tours can be found at www.charleyboorman.com

a tiny ditty

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 14:50:00 +0000

being upbeat despite everything begets nothing

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sun, 16 May 2010 13:56:00 +0000

More than once.
That's more than one times to many.

Hopefully one of these days I will learn to tell the difference between being accommodating and being played for an outright fool.

Next time anyone presents me with a lump of shit and tries to convince me it's a bouquet of flowers, I will refrain from convincing myself that the pros of being presented with a lump of shit outweigh the cons, I will cease being forever accommodating, understanding, grateful and positive, and I will simply say, "Fuck yourself. You can stick your lump of shit right back where you got it."

my latest work :: my easter weekend

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 07:25:00 +0000

Relentless Suzuki :: BSB Round 1 at Brands Hatch from moxyfilms on Vimeo.

Relentless Suzuki start the year off on a team high at Brands Hatch, taking a podium finish and kicking of the season in the top ten of the Championship.

to pass this way again

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 21:36:00 +0000

Not for the first time, my mother reiterated to me today that I could always come back to America, come be nearer to home and family. Not for the first time, I thought about it and tried to put myself in that place, tried to imagine what it would feel like to relocate to a place which was familiar to me but which I might necessarily think of as "home". And then, not for the first time, I got thinking about this concept of "home" and what it means to me.

I suppose I feel more homeless now than I ever have, but it's a feeling more synonymous with images of pioneers pushing west, seeking home, than people living rough on the streets in cardboard boxes. My home is with me where ever I happen to be. At some stage perhaps I'll find that little slice of heaven where I'll stake my claim and settle. Until then, I'm prepared to be on the perpetual move, and ready to go when the wind blows.

When I first moved to Ireland seven years ago it was more like an experiment that could be terminated should I find myself unhappy with the results. It turned out that I found reasons to stay, and so did, and in doing so cut ties with "home" and established foundations here. My work is here. My assets are here. All of my things are here. And having worked so hard to do all this, going "home" would be like emigrating all over again. It's no longer an experiment which can be easily terminated. And being this close to so many places I'd like to try out holds me here. I expect, at some stage, I will have generated enough energy to attain escape velocity which will slingshot me to the next chapter of my existence.

I remember leaving Ireland after a miserable summer in 2002 to return to Oregon, and feeling like I was in two places at once so badly that I clawed my way back to Ireland a mere nine months later somehow, though I don't know how I afforded it or managed it at all. I did it out of sheer will, not because I could, or even should. Today as I imagined being back Stateside again, I can feel that dislocation all over again. Out of deep recesses come memories of cold-sweat anxiety dreams where I have gone to visit the US and find I can't get home to Ireland again. I know that I'm not ready to return.

I recall the Pacific Northwest with deep fondness, and with an excitement that I can indeed go back again some day and rediscover it all over again in new ways, like with a motorbike and a tent. But for now I see any stay solely as a visit after which I'll return to my European home base or from which I'll catapult myself into my next adventure and simply keep riding over the horizon.

All I know is there is so much world left to see and I'm not entirely certain that, of all the beautiful places I have lived, I've ever seen or been "home" yet. I'd like to go find out if "home" is out there somewhere, waiting to be discovered, before I backtrack to a corner of the world I know I could be perfectly happy in. And it is nice, at least, to know that there is indeed a place in the world in which I think I can be happy and to which I can return when I am ready.

if a memory falls in the woods and no one's around to hear it...

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 15:08:00 +0000

(note to self: maybe one episode of This American Life podcast per day should be the limit...)

"I went back to Ohio
But my family was gone
I stood on the back porch
There was nobody home
I was stunned and amazed
My childhood memories
Slowly swirled past
Like the wind through the trees."

Not for the first time, I am reminded of how subjective and fickle is the human memory. Too many times I have heard reports of something I did or said years ago and am often concerned at the fact that I have no recollection of having done or said these things. It's kind of like receiving news that you are actually an identical twin and through your whole life your twin has been dwelling on the periphery of your life and dipping into it from time to time when your back is turned, creating memories for people about you which you never took part in making.

And for some reason lately it's been my turn to remind old friends of things they did or said which I'm often surprised and sometimes saddened to find they don't recall. These memories are never about anything of any major consequence, to be sure, but they are like tape loops in my head that made an indelible mark on my mind. Something about these events was so important at the time as to guarantee this long-term storage in the recesses of my brain, and I begin to wonder what criterion was met? Was it the place? The person? The tone or light? A particular chemical flush in my blood? A meter in what was said that plays like a song?

Why do some remember what others forget? And why do we feel sad, sometimes betrayed, or surprised to find that others don't remember as well?

More often, I am the one who has forgotten, so when this process reversed I find myself almost shocked that something I selected to remember about a person isn't shared, and I begin to wonder about the importance we place on those people we create the memory with. If the memory isn't preserved in the passing of time, does it mean that the whole universe of that person to you at that time isn't as important to them as it was to you?

It's also a little along the lines of that "if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" question. In essence, if only one person remembers, are you sustaining a fantasy world by hanging on to what might never have been? I mean really, with no corroboration, who's to say what you remember that others have forgotten ever really happened?

Case in point (mostly because it's the most recent example that I can recall): A high school friend doesn't remember making a rather funny ditty out of something strange someone said in an animated outburst in the cafeteria one day. A kid jumped up at a table after having apparently been indirectly provoked jokingly by his mates and shouted the infamous words, "I know my bref stinks, cuz! I don't care!"

I wasn't on hand when it happened. Our school had a rotating daily schedule with two different lunch times which were dictated by whatever class you had around that time of day, so the lunch crowd was never the same from day to day. Some days you were with your mates, some days you were not. It was actually my friend's recounting of it (corroborated by a few others on the day) that has stuck with me for 22 years. That silly phrase that he delivered to me that day would play in my head everywhere like the hook of a bad song. It was an inside joke (or was it?). It was a moment of inclusiveness (or was it?). It was a beam of levity in a dark period (or did I make that up as well?).

All I know are the factors that were at play which may have assigned importance to this meaningless phrase:

This person had fairly saved my life that school year. I might have thrown myself into the mighty Delaware River if he hadn't shown up with his mother in the school half-way through the year, realise that we knew each other from way back and that our parents attended high school together, and deliver himself directly into my social circle of one, to the envy of most of the other kids that this handsome new kid could instantly be friends with the odd, semi-new, disappointingly brunette girl from California.
I loved him like a brother, and loved his family like my own.
I also had a very small but confusing crush on him for a while which fortunately passed, but it might have been that I clung to whatever he shared with me with a little extra tenacity because of it. I remember him kissing a mutual friend in the backseat of the car one night and feeling the slightest bit of jealousy. Because of this, the shared laugh over the cafeteria outburst might have been far more important than the actual content of the story.

It's this last factor that causes me worry now because in my neurosis I begin to wonder about memory weight and significance. If I remember so vividly something that he confesses he's forgotten, then there was something about that time, that place, that person that must have been important to me.... and maybe it wasn't as important to him. His brain clearly hasn't placed as much importance on time spent around me and has made way for new memories to fill that space. And if that's the case, then every time someone relates to me a memory I don't remember am I, too, exposing some systematic removal of apparently unimportant lifetime trivia? Am I inadvertently showing someone that I am apparently unmoved by something that struck them strongly?

By the way, I don't in any way think right here and now that my high school friend has slighted me in any way, nor am I accusing him of thinking of me as unimportant. I just found it intriguing to find that I felt a pang of sadness when he confessed he had no recollection of my memory... but I can't blame him. After all, it wasn't what I would call one of those Really Important Moments in the History of Humankind.

I will probably lay awake tonight thinking about lots of other memories and wondering if I made them up or if there's anyone out there who might corroborate them...

not the first, nor the last

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 10:12:00 +0000

'A Last Night in my house. How can I bear to leave something so beautiful? The contradiction is too painful, and the pain makes me anxious to be gone.

'There are other good-byes too delicate and too fraught with emotion to be written about in passing, for I have lived a while... I learn the value of the love I am abandoning. At times I experience a degree of misery and lovelessness I have no known since adolescence. I wonder whether I will have the capacity to ever bear such pain again. It occurs to me that that may be the condition for perpetual youth.'

- Ted Simon, Jupiter's Travels

biker chick chronicle :: so my dad knows i'm alive

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 16:59:00 +0000

biker chick chronicle :: so my dad knows i'm alive from moxyfilms on Vimeo.

From Dad, via email: "I worried about you as a Snowboarder, now I know better. Just promise me you will wear leather when you ride. Do not do this... (see video)"

Don't worry, Dad... I won't go all "Motorcycle Irene". I solemnly promise forthwith to wear protective clothing and not a white bikini and go-go boots!

There's not much glory in it and it might look laughable but riding round them cones is nerve wracking! And crikey! What feels like second nature on the road suddenly becomes daunting in the classroom. I feel like a toddler learning to walk. But its all part of the fun, and though it's boring as hell to watch it is actually fun to do.

My top motorbike instruction (and fancy camerawork!) is provided by Gene of Debut Drive in Newtownards!

in surrender to this journey

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 16:17:00 +0000

This has not always been a pretty transition, I acknowledge that. Some transitions are just like that.

Fortunately, the periods of lightness begin to outlast the darker ones. I'm slowly remembering to see the beauty in this life which I had forgotten, and the beauty in myself again which I had also forgotten. I can feel myself soften ever so slightly, allowing myself a little more vulnerability, just the tiniest bit. I am reminded that I want to be a beautiful person inside and out, and be a pleasant and enjoyable addition to life in this world. The reminders of life's beauties are beginning to connect with my brain a little better now in little ways, and I feel myself more often accepting the reminders that I am ok and this transition, this path, is beautiful as they are, and not berating the signs for not being huge, blatantly obvious fireworks from the sky.

It is a cycle of up and down, and I do have my very low times when I can't see the lightness of it. In those times I behave like a squirrel trapped in a pit, frantically running at the walls in an effort to get up them and inadvertently mauling any helping hand that comes within my reach. But I am eternally grateful to every person who has reached out to me, and grateful for all each person has to teach me.

I am feeling better today about the past that I remember with love, the future that I forgot and that I love, and the place that I have brought myself to here and now, which I am finding that I do actually love.

snow, a full moon, and a critical mass

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 21:08:00 +0000

my phone doesn't like low light and snow... but you get the idea.

Ahh... there's nothing like bitchy weather and a little wholesome civil disobedience to lift one's spirits.

After a day of squally snow showers punctuated by long periods of glorious sun I rode to city centre in the dark with the snow cutting the eyes out of me (note to self, get cycling glasses with changeable lenses... or better yet some goggles), struggling to see the little pool of light cast by my headlamp through my practically closed eyelids. Perhaps cycling down the Comber Greenway in the dark on a snowy night isn't the brightest idea, but a little adrenaline kick works better than coffee. And after a day of drinking coffee in front of my computer researching all I could about British Superbike and TT races and their corporate sponsors for an upcoming project, I so needed a little exhilarating discomfort.

Down past the shopping centre, under the towering Harland and Wolfe cranes (which unfortunately I couldn't take in because, like I said, I couldn't see), past the Odessey and across the Lagan, to find a little crew of cyclists waiting in Queen's Square.

We waited quietly under the Leaning Clock of Albert for more to arrive. The young guys with serious mountain bikes stood over their prone rides drinking tall cans. I silently berated myself for not filling my water bottle with something with a kick. As time dragged on a bit I wondered whether there was a point to waiting in the cold between snow showers for someone to lead us out on the road. I rode big slow loops around the square for fun. I stood on my pedals and balanced for as long as I could. My fingers and toes started to go numb.

The gathering crowd was a delight to see, really. There was a knot of fixed-gear heads (who, while watching them ride backward and pull excellent wheelies, made me consider wanting a fixed gear bike), the can-drinking hardcore mountain bikers, the two-wheel commuters, a couple of clean-shaven road riders, one or two BMXers, several bikey hipsters and even a family with the kid trailer. Some people had their bikes equipped with obnoxious horns, electronic things which produced sounds of all kinds, and festive lights on their spokes. I was admiring the regalia when the man with the speaker arrived.

He had a huge amp in the basket of a bike, a hybrid, home welded job the likes of which I'd never seen, with a long front fork and a seat behind a sort of cargo area. He mentioned something as he pulled up to the group about being late, and then he fiddled with something in his hand and the amp on his bike belched out a glorious, deep-throated drum beat which broke into a song. Away we went, and the soundtrack came with us.

We rode at an unhurried pace through the streets of Belfast to the sound of "99 Luftballons", "Jump" by Van Halen, some kitschy songs, one by Doris Day and another by someone else singing about what he does getting ready for Saturday night, and many, many other songs that made people on the street stop, turn, and dance spontaneously. I rode along, dinging my bell, singing along and weaving about the place, and loving being in my new city. We made it around a very large loop of the city centre, and it was good. It was so good I even forwent pints afterward because I didn't want to spoil it. As much as I wanted to go have a drink with most of the people there I was aware that the wet pavement was crystalising, that I hadn't eaten anything, and there was nothing more than the full moon to light my way home. And light my way home she did.

By the way, I love my bike. It is a good bike. It's probably several inches too tall for me (I very nearly barked my pubic bone on the cross bar this evening... which doesn't hurt me like it would hurt a man, but it hurts...), is a mountain bike (which I was never really into) and therefore is ruggedly handsome, and due to it's size it has big wheels which help me go fairly fast, which I like. It's a good steed... a good boyfriend, even. That's it, I think he needs a name. I think I'll call him Ewan.

downside up

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 17:19:00 +0000

I am fucking fed up with beginning.
I would like very much to be in the middle of something.
I feel like I have been beginning my whole life for as long as I've been alive. This doesn't feel rewarding to me. There's no reward yet to reap because for all these years I haven't ever begun.

I am nowhere, no farther forward, not even moving backward. Walking around city centre today, I felt like I was watching myself and everyone else from somewhere external to myself, not really feeling part, feeling like there's some other me waiting in the wings somewhere, ready for her cue. I feel like the rest of me is in stasis. There are moments of feeling balanced. There are moments of feeling positive. And there are crushing moments of being so fucking tired of "no", either said or implied, professionally, personally, theoretically, practically.

I wander intentionally up and down city streets at an even pace, careful not to rush, mindful that the day isn't unlimited. I take up the time allowed in a measured fashion and fill each passing hour with movement or action, just to keep my mind off the "no".

I feel like I've been asked by someone to go out into the world to look for a lost object, but have no clues about it's size, shape, it's function, it's appearance, or it's location. The only instructions I have are to "go outside and find that thing." Is it something I once had that has been lost? No answer. Was it ever mine before now? No answer. Can it be found near here or will I have to look further afield? No answer. Is it bigger than a bread box? No answer. Animal, vegetable or mineral? Does it have anything to do with what I do now? No answer. Am I hot or am I cold? Nothing. No. No.. no. no....

Do I get any hints? ANY hints?

Anything at all?

I'm so tired of "no".

Its as if I'm in waiting for a sign that I'm at least looking in the right direction. How long do I have keep pounding my head against solid walls? Is it a test of wills? Or is it simply a case of might over matter, as in a test of my ability to physically knock the wall down with my head hopefully before I inadvertently bash my own brains in?

There's something in gestation, something hanging, something pending, something or someone is designing the "next big thing" for me but I couldn't tell you what it is or what it looks like, and that frustrates me.

I realised today that I haven't been hugged in a long time and, as stupid as it sounds, I ache for that simple external reminder and reassurance that I am, that I exist, that I'm here and others are too, and that it will get better.

If you see me on the street, feel free to give me a friendly, therapeutic squeeze. I'll buy you a coffee for your contribution.

biker chick chronicle :: aching thumbs, yearning heart

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 14:55:00 +0000

Lesson 4:

Absolute piss day with driving rain, shit visibility, couldn't keep my visor clear to save my life, couldn't see a fecking thing, was blown around by the wind, got absolutely soaked and frozen... and I ADORED it. My god, who knew driving a bike in such slop could be so much fun! If I can learn to ride in conditions like this, a regular day of road riding will be a cakewalk. I'm sitting here thinking I should do all my lessons in the shittiest conditions Ireland has to offer just so I know deep in my psyche that it's not a bother.

Lesson 5:

My thumbs ache.

Any sport I've ever done in which you encounter cold, snowboarding being the coldest that I can think of, I have never, ever felt my hands get quite as cold in the way they got cold today. Doing anything else, you have an opportunity to free your hands and at least move them around a bit to get the blood moving. On a bike, though, your right hand especially had a job to do. The wind comes in through your winter gloves at the tips and that's about it, really. Cold fingers. Not much you can do about it.

When we got back to the house all I could do was sit on the bike hunched over my useless hands, smiling but grimacing as well. I couldn't even undo the release on my chinstrap. I have never felt my fingers hurt deeply like that. Even now that I'm thawed out, my thumbs are aching from just an hour's ride this morning.

My heart yearns.

Any thing that I've undertaken that has captured me with an undeniable fervor has not matched the longing I feel in me now to get going with this particular endeavour. I have to say I am absolutely and utterly smitten, to the point that I physically ache to be on a bike like I would ache for an absent lover. Its a little embarrassing to say but its true.

After a short drive through town, my instructor asked me if I wanted to go practice riding through cones and doing maneuvering stuff, or would I prefer just heading out for a spin? I opted for a spin, feeling a desperate need in me to make the most of the one frivolous expenditure I allow myself these days. I don't go out if it's any more than a pound or two in the door, I don't drink out, I never eat out, all so I can afford the one thing I look forward to most each week. Until I get steadier work it will have to stay that way.

So we spun out into the countryside where I learned to watch ahead over the hedges for traffic coming round the bends, learned to watch for farm muck on the road, and learned for the first time the joyful feeling of letting the bike go around a bend and accelerating out of it. It was a different bike today than my previous lessons; an eager, bright red little Yamaha which just wanted to go where ever you asked it. It was far nimbler than the previous bike I'd been on, and I felt myself making only small adjustments to miss potholes and manhole covers... it was delightful. It was so easy just to let it do the work.

I think I'll just sit back and let this ache in my thumbs work away, and I'll let the yearning in my heart yearn away. I'm sure something substantial is growing out of this desire.

sunlight

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 08:53:00 +0000

It was a simple shaft of sunlight in the busy street, and a man standing in it, eyes closed, motionless.

More precious than gold on a mid-January afternoon, a long sliver of sunshine pierced the skyline and reached all the way to the floor, penetrating the underbrush of the urban canopy and painted the footpath with a big, lighted arrow that seemed to beckon "this way". James was at it's apex, unmindful of the traffic swirling and eddying around him on its way to lunch.

James had left his office to nip out to the sandwich shop on the corner and bring his lunch back to his desk. He couldn't face sitting in the shop alone, and the scrutiny of the canteen clique gave him reason to believe they were forming opinions about his sexual orientation. He had no qualms about letting them at it, had no care to put asunder their ill-conceived theories about who he spent his time with and how, but today he simply didn't want to be looked at, analyzed, and misunderstood.

He had closed the door and turned the corner, walking dead centre into this mighty sliver of sunshine, and was now standing arrested in his tracks. He had stopped initially in surprise by the odd sensation of radiant warmth filling his jacket, which was a polar opposite to the usual Arctic wind trying to rip his jacket from him. It gave him incentive to pause before he knew what he was doing. It was only when he had involuntarily halted did he realise he couldn't see ahead of him. He blinked and squinted into the sunshine, tried to see a way forward, but immediately surrendered the will to even try to see through it.

He was standing in the busy footpath with his eyes closed, head tilted toward the light, feeling like he was in his own private enclosure that no one could penetrate, not caring that he could have taken one step to the right or left and carried on with his lunch hour. He let the sunshine soak into him. He listened to the sound of conversations travel past him, the roar of traffic pulsing through the nearest junction, the "blip blip blip" of the pedestrian signal calling out to the visually impaired, and smelling the occasional whiff of cologne, perfume, and cigarette smoke drift past him. He stood for so long, he began to sense that the sliver of sun was shifting.

Had one been sitting across the road at a table outside the nearest cafe one would have seen two people, a man and a woman, heads tilted toward the sun, standing still and silent like they were trapped in an alien beam in a sci-fi movie. One would have noticed that the woman was backing up slowly in an effort to remain in the sunlight as the Earth turned and it oozed it's way down the footpath. Bemused, one would have observed the stationary man in her path behind her. One would have ordered another coffee, usually a no-no, lit another cigarette, snuggled down into one's coat and keenly awaited contact.

James felt her back into him in slow motion. Her head and back pressed against his chest. She narrowly missed treading on his foot. It happened so slowly that neither were thrown off balance. She slowly turned to face him. He gently reached out and grasped her by the shoulders to steady her.

One would have sat up over one's now cold coffee full of glee at the impromptu waltz unfolding across the road.

He opened his eyes to see what he was holding. The dazzling light permitted him a glimpse of a lovely, pale face turned up toward him wearing an expression of apology. He stood looking down at this over-exposed image of an angelic face coming through waves of light passing through his eyes and he felt no incentive to let go of her shoulders. He watched as her expression of apology turned slowly to a smile of recognition, of like recognising like. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up. He realised in that moment he couldn't remember the last time he smiled.

In one's excitement, one would have accidentally kicked the table leg and jostled one's coffee cup, spilling its cold contents into the saucer, and would have stubbed out one's forgotten cigarette before leaping up and heading back to work, beaming with the knowledge that one had just witnessed two random strangers fall in love.

biker chick chronicle :: senza identificazione

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 19:00:00 +0000

come back, passport, all is forgiven!

Today was a beautiful sunny day after a few miserable mid-January days of pissing rain. I sat over my desk pushing papers thorugh the morning before heading off to meet a friend for lunch.

Sitting in my car on my way to city centre, I felt my heart aching to be sitting astride a bike in the sun. It was a deep ache. I don't know why but I positively needed to be through my lessons and on my way, positively needed to be proficient, able to get out and ride on bright days like this, and be on my way to planning a long trip. I was aching, am still aching now, for this adventure to begin.

It was made worse when, at a junction, I saw a friend on his new bike. I'd recognise his bike gear anywhere and though I had never seen his bike I knew it was him, and I felt deep envy as I watched him weave around the traffic and out of sight without a by-your-leave. I felt my ache deepen. I want to move like that.

I brought my Irish driving license to the DVA today to exchange it for a UK license so I can take my motorbike theory test. It says on the form that if you feel uncomfortable about sending your passport off to Coleraine for an indeterminate period of time you can bring your passport with you to your local DVA and let them check your identity so you can hang on to your passport. It doesn't say, however, that if your passport isn't a local one then it doesn't matter, they're going to take it off you anyway. I was informed, as the man took my form, my license and my £50, that I would be without my passport for 4 weeks. I sat uncertain for a bit... and then went ahead.

I know I let myself in for this by making the decision to go ahead and do the exchange now without having my Italian passport in hand, but if I don't do it now it will be months before I get my theory test and I don't want to put it off. I'm not that far away from being ready for part two and I can't do that until I get the theory out of the way.

But that said, I am currently without any form of primary ID for the first time in my life (aside from the few days the Russians took my passport to put their visa in it) and I feel slightly panicked. There are so many things I use my passport for here because I am not from the UK. If there's any utility, any formal thing, anything to do with immigration, not to mention just being able to travel anywhere, I need that passport. Now I have nothing with me, not even a driving license, and I actually feel trapped. I feel naked.

I hope that Italian passport gets done faster than projected. Not that I was planning on going anywhere, but just the thought of not even having the option of leaving the island if I wanted or, god forbid, needed to makes me well with anxiety.

how to lose sleep and alienate fun activities

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 18:04:00 +0000

One of the most difficult things about being self-employed and/or looking for any work is you can never take a break from it. As you go longer and longer without work, your days increasingly become more and more about finding the door that will swing open for you. You spend your days out pounding the pavement and talking to everyone you can, and your nights trawling job opportunities online. You redraft the same email again and again to personalise it for each recipient and send it to everyone you can think of. You follow up the ones you emailed last week. You spend your time left after that filling your diary with meetings which ultimately end up not as an offer of work but just another chat about who else to talk to.

That scene in the film Beetlejuice keeps coming to mind where Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis are referring to their "Handbook for the Recently Deceased", which tells them "In case of an emergency, draw a door." I feel a lot like I have been drawing doors with chalk all over solid walls in hopes that they'd turn magically into some sort of portal I could get through, but thus far my chalk outlines have only turned into sort of rubbery, condom-like barriers... springy, yielding, but as yet impermeable. I wish one of them would spring a leak...

The work of finding work (especially freelance in film) is compounded with the work of keeping one's spirits up while in this phase, and it is tiring. I would love a break from working at or thinking about finding work, but I can't afford it. I do, however, allow myself the one pleasure of the occasional one hour motorbike lesson, no matter how far it is beyond my means.

biker chick chronicle :: not the how, but the why

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 11:47:00 +0000

Success. I think that's what it boils down to. It was a sensation that I needed to feel to boost myself up, and as I was coming home from my bike lesson yesterday I was glowing with that feeling of having succeeded.

I never expected to be any sort of petrolhead. It rubs against my light-green scruples. But I know how much I've always loved driving, often taking to the road when I was in America just for the sake of taking to the road, and this seems like a new extension of that. I think about how easy motorbiking seems to be to me, and reflect on the why I am doing it. I've been met with reactions ranging from bewildered amusement to outright glee when I talk about taking up it up. It doesn't matter to me what others think, really, but it amuses that I can almost see the thought behind some people's eyes, the thought that says "this too shall pass".

Perhaps it will. I have a hunch that it won't. What tells me that this won't pass is I can't stop laughing when I'm on the bike. That, history tells me, is a very good sign.

When I took up snowboarding a million years ago I did and felt the same. I spent my first day on my ass, caked with snow, deliriously happy and laughing hysterically. My instructor was so amazed by my incredible dorkiness and enthusiasm we became partners for over 3 years. It was a fun time, one I'll never forget. And that day that I learned to snowboard lives in infamy in my memory; the day I met my first real love, and the day I met my first real sporting love.

I have flirted, since, with other sports but not quite loved them like I loved the snowboard. The board provided something which seemed to feed my soul at that time. It epitomised humility. It required strength. It was a lesson in unity. It showcased ability. It was about tackling it with everything I had in me and becoming one with it.

I know motorcycling isn't a sport, per se, not at the level which I am currently riding anyway, but it shares the space inside me where boarding took residence all those years ago. I feel my heart leaping when I think about being allowed to go at it on my own. I get excited imagining some day hopping on and riding the first mile of a many thousand mile trip.

The seed was planted by a friend who told me all about his desire to go around the world. I admired his dream, could see myself possibly sharing it. I also skeptically thought to myself "that would be a laugh but I could never do it on my own, I'd have to ride pillion with someone", never thinking for a second about the possibility of me actually giving riding my own bike a serious go. For some reason I just didn't want to believe that it would suit me. But I found myself returning to the idea again and again and tentatively reading little snippets from books, sneaking peeks at trip reports, taking in bits of information on the sly, and getting more familiar with the concept.

And now I've fallen hard for my second sporting love.

I am falling in love with it because it is mine and no one else's. That little seed that was someone else's passion has become my own, and with this kind of passion there's no mistaking that it's become mine and mine alone. You can't take on this kind of thing because you think you might want to tag along with someone else. It's far too big to be explored half-heartedly. This is something that you have to own and, what's more, you have to let own you.

On the bike I feel success. I feel like I am able. I feel proud of myself for being able. It actually surprises me that I can't yet jump on and head off, because in my head I already am riding anywhere I want, when I want. I'm riding off road. I'm fixing a flat or a chain. I'm in around the island, in Scotland, the Alps, Africa, Aisa, Australia, America. There's pictures in my camera of me on my bike in faraway places, pictures of my bike with the sun setting behind over the desert, the mountains, the ocean.

My instructor sent me a text last night offering to help me find a cheap learner bike. I told him I need a job. He told me to expect to be skint from now on. It feels like success to me.

biker chick chronicle :: better late than never

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 11:57:00 +0000

(I have failed to chronicle my progress through lessons one and two thus far,
but after my third I plan to rectify that now.)

I pulled into the road after him, simply delighted that my first stopped start of the day was a smooth one and that my first stop behind him at the junction was successful, left foot down, back and front brake on. The work I had done a week and a half ago was still with me, had taken root where it should to be on its way to becoming second nature.

None of this is anything spectacular, mind you, and if anyone had decided to come watch and see what all the fuss was about would probably have been bored crosseyed. But I was in seventh heaven. We meandered about the neighbourhood making mirror and lifesaver checks, making left turns and, more challenging, right turns, the voice in my ear gently reminding me to cancel my indicators again and again until that, too, finally made its way into the script in my head. Mirrors, over shoulder, indicate, move to side of lane, checks again, make turn gently, mind the manholes, cancel indicator, mirrors, move on through the gears.

Up hills, round corners, down hills, round the houses in the rain we went. I kept laughing with every ropey gear transition I made, talking to myself. I got comfortable enough to remember to breathe, and started to make myself relax my grip, my arms, my hold. I began taking in my surroundings.

I found my thought process worked as well. The faster we went, the further ahead I found myself thinking, preparing to gear down and brake, giving myself time to do it right. I was relaxed enough to slow it all down in my head and think it through.

We pulled in about half way through the lesson and he got off his bike to give me notes. The only note I needed was what his face told me. He was all smiles. I was doing well.

"I have never seen anyone with only two lessons under their belt ride like that. I have no doubt that you're going to be a very good pilot," he said.

I didn't get the impression that this big biker guy was the kind who would heap praise on someone undeserving of it, and tried not to let it go to my head. I listened carefully to all he had to say about checks, constant checks, and to be aware all around me, always. He knows more than me, I thought, so listen! Thank god for all those old cowboys and horsemen back in the States who taught me respect, and that I must approach everything with the understanding that I know fuck-all and to simply shut the mouth and listen to what the old boys have to tell you. Being a student with humility has its benefits, including mutual respect from your teacher when they see that you do actually listen.

Back on the bike, back on the road, instructor in the lead. The radio crackled in my ear.

"Now, I'm just gonna lead you out on the road here, no panic, just do as you're doing. We won't go through the town, we'll just go down the road a bit. Don't let the cars panic you, alright?" said the orange vested back ahead of me. I, of course, had no way of communicating anything back, simply had to follow the voice in my ear. No panic.

We pulled into the road and away we went. It almost scares me how easy it was. Faced as I was with a genuine traffic situation, I found I stopped worrying about doing it right and in doing so got it absolutely spot on. All the slow riding around the houses had been nerve wracking compared to this. This was normal. It felt so good to get up some speed and actually play the game.

I recalled how I had felt similar when I took my Irish automobile driving test. Under scrutiny, performing to please a examiner even though I already had nearly 20 years driving under my belt already, had brought me backward to the point of second-guessing my ability and making stupid mistakes. And now, in this new discipline, riding around slowly had bogged me down with the practice of it.

In action, on a busy road, it all became crystal clear. Cars behind me. Cars oncoming. Lorries. Long downhill grade with a busy roundabout at the bottom of it. Cars pulling out of side streets. Rain. Making appropriate headway. Its all one needs to put it all in place, get on the bike, and simply ride it the way you know you can.

I'm not trying to be cocky but I didn't put a proverbial foot wrong. Not once. And I couldn't stop smiling.

Next motorbike lesson, my forth time ever driving a bike: Bangor test route. Me in front.

sono italiana

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 21:50:00 +0000

He peers over his glasses at me for a moment, and then back down at the thin stack of papers on the table before him. He tents his fingers and pats the top of the stack.

"We have everything, then?" he asks, mostly to himself, looking back at me with his strangely familiar Italian features.

It feels a little like coming home, or visiting with a friend, like I am back amongst my people, walking into the Honorary Consulate's house. He is instantly interested in what I am doing and what I am doing here, and he wants my contact details so that he can connect me with another Italo-American lady in the city looking to find others like herself, and to keep in touch with me or find me if there is anything I need to know regarding my new home country. He asks me where my ancestors were from. I list the home towns of my great grandfathers and grandmothers and when I mention Erminio from Massa Cararra he lights up and talks about marble from there being used to build Belfast City Hall, which excites me. I recall trainload after trainload of massive chunks of quarried marble making their way through Viareggio from Massa Cararra on their way to who knew where, and remember floating in the sea looking off toward the mountains from where the marble came, mountains whose tops were always skimmed with clouds.

His Belfast accent doesn't mask the physical indicators of his bloodlines. His round, deep set eyes, his long nose, the structure of his face... he could be family. I don't have those big, round eyes. My eyelids are heavy, the outer corners turned down, more Northern European than Mediterranean. But everyone in my mother's family has them. My grandmother, grandfather, great aunts, my mother. I get nostalgic when I see them on the big screen. Roberto Begnini's wife, Nicoletta Braschi, has them. When I see eyes that shape, I think I'm safe.

"Your passport photos, I think, are the last thing I need," he says.

I fumble with an envelope and pull out two photos. "I hate these. I look horrible in them," I say.
"Ah, everyone says that," he says as he takes them and inspects them. Then, diplomatically, or perhaps consulately, he says, "You just look a little tired." He looks over his glasses at me again with his Geppetto eyes and smiles kindly, almost knowingly.

Tired. Yes. I've been looking in the mirror lately and watching myself age. There's a brightness in my face that's gone lately, and I'm often shocked by the sheer tiredness I see. I'm shocked by the dark circles that have formed under my eyes. My eyelids seem heavier than usual. My eyes tend to go out of focus, like they're just too tired to make the effort. I feel like a blanched vegetable, like a mushroom. I feel like my body is crying out for sun.

I look out the window as he continues filling in documents which will ultimately obtain my Italian passport and see sleet falling outside, dusting the grass with a bit of white. It's so dim outside already. The wall across the road is gray, wet, mossy. The pavement is gray, wet, greasy. The houses across the way are gray, wet, closed to the world.

I look back at the Honorary Consulate and think of the light of Toscana, Liguria, Umbria.

I look down at the papers declaring me an Italian citizen.

I look back out the window at the dark.

My mind wanders....

when is a fishbone not a fishbone?

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 09:37:00 +0000

Excuse me while I make myself a cup of coffee...

Now... where do I begin?

I woke up distressed early this morning after a restless sleep. It seemed like I woke every five minutes. My dreams covered the gambit, really. Travel, heartbreak, people, choking... the usual.

One thing that stuck with me was a dream of constantly gagging on fish bones. I would spit a few from my mouth, reach in and dislodge one, feel more in there, spit more out. It just kept going and try as I might, no matter how often I cleared them from my mouth, more appeared. I'm not entirely sold on dream symbology, I mean we can give anything a meaning. That's what makes us unique on this planet, our ability to assign meaning and interpret things with language. But try as I might, I can't help but feel distressed still by this dream. I wish I knew what my dreaming mind is trying to tell me.

It was followed by another dream about my having left my partner in which we were together on a beach and there was a gaggle of mutual friends playing, of all things, beach volleyball. I was roundly being ignored by everyone because of the decision I had made. I knew I had no choice but to endure everyone in the place being unresponsive to me in favour of showing solidarity with him and I knew that it was well within reason that he should be in this place of showing me how hurt he was by hurting me back. And all I could do was feel bereft and then notice that I had on I don't know how many pairs of bikini bottoms, all different colours, and I started pulling at them, trying to see how many I had on... and never got to the bottom (pun intended). I just stood there looking down at myself thinking "What the fuck?" This dream was also pretty distressing for more abstract reasons but I couldn't tell you why.

I lay awake in the dark for some time this morning, as I do most mornings, wishing I could knock myself out for days, talking myself into not wanting to feel like disappearing, reaching for a thought that felt better. I listened to the howl of wind outside which, thankfully, is a sound I haven't heard a whole lot of since I moved into my own place. Each gust felt like a response to the feeling in my heart, in my core. Angry, rushing in bursts, the sound of unsettling. I lay still and waited for the desire to vanish to dissipate.

I lay awake and think of my options. I think about return, I think about retreat. And I think about mastery. I can neither return nor retreat, I have to advance and I have to master this, whatever this is.

get a piece of belfast before belfast gets a piece of me

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 17:01:00 +0000

I feel totally feckless, directionless, and unfocused.

I sit here and ponder over what is keeping me? Is it the sheer vastness of possibilities? Is it an uncertainty of how to present myself? Is it because I can't see my way forward, only see myself being continually snowed under with debts, lack of prospects, lack of imagination, not enough training, no specialties?

I must be the most skill-less, talentless, least employable person alive. There seems to be so many things I can do, but not one of them is a thing that I can do to bring myself into the world and make my way forward. I've never felt further from being a film maker, from being a woman, from being a participant of the human race. Just days ago I felt ok in feeling my solitude, like it would be something I could be friends with. Today it just feels like a liability.

I've met people here so far, have been throwing myself into finding the inroads to social circles with an attitude of enthusiasm and energy. However I feel my enthusiasm usurped by the impatience of people who want what I am unable give at this juncture. After a week of tussling with an astonishing couple of male people I feel mistrusting and disheartened. These men have been sending me nearly frantic texts demanding to know where they stand when I don't respond to their advances, as if, upon only meeting them once briefly in my life, we must pursue a relationship, go on a date, or die! I don't know where they get the notion that I must find a man to replace the perfectly good man I decided, for completely selfish reasons, to separate myself from and I don't know if I'm putting out some sort of signal that says "I'm desperate for your company". Any desperate vibe I may have emitted was based on my hunger for friends and possible working contacts. As alone as I feel, I'm desperate for no one in particular, and certainly not for just any man who comes along thinking he's god's gift, and would prefer being alone to pandering to the impatience and impudence of complete strangers.

"Goodbye Molly," one texter said today... after I had only chatted with him for about an hour a few days ago. "I at least need some encouragement! I wish you luck, I really do! I won't send you any more messages. I am deleting your number."

Good lord. What did I do?

Here's what: After meeting me, he had sent me several texts saying how nice it was to meet me. I sent him only one back, which felt sufficient, agreeing that yes it was cool. He rang me the next morning at 9AM on the nose. I didn't answer. He sent me a text a little later asking how I was. I was running errands and making phone calls to various government departments trying to organise officially presenting myself to both Italy and the UK, and I didn't text him back right away because I was busy. A little while later I got a text saying something to the effect that he had thought we could at least be friends but was obviously wrong, and that he was used to looking at the back of people.

Like, woah.

I happened to be walking home at that stage and rang him back, instantly incensed by the impertinent tone of his message, as I had already had some similar exchange with another man I happened to meet earlier the previous weekend... another man who instantly must have thought I was the answer.

"What's up?" I demanded, immediately on the attack. "What are you sending me texts like that for?"
"Well, I thought maybe I'd get a response..." he said.
"Don't be sending me texts like that," I told him. "Look, I thought you were a nice guy and all and I had a nice chat with you. Of course we can be friends! So what are you sending me texts like that for?"
"Well, you have to seize the day, Molly. When you see something you like you have to go after it. There's a lot I could teach you, Molly."
"Look," I demanded, "Don't push me. I thought you were nice, I enjoyed our chat, but pushing me isn't going to get you anywhere. I've already had to tell someone else to fuck off this week. I'll be your friend but don't push me. I didn't respond to you right away because I WAS BUSY."
"I understand, Molly. I understand."

I hated the way he kept using my name, and in such a condescending way, as if he could reach inside my head hypnotically by using it as much as possible. I instantly felt like he was reaching down the phone with long tentacles, reaching for my soul, trying to squeeze. Oh no you don't, I thought. No, you fucking DON'T.

I recalled him talking in that hour about himself being a few years older than me, and how that somehow made him qualified to tell me I should be open to the world and take risks (he's telling ME this... fucking Queen of Risk-taking). Instantly he had placed me in the woman/child box and part of me knew I already hated him for it. Part of me knew this wasn't going very far, but I had been willing to cautiously give him the benefit of the doubt in favour of possibly making a friend who, you never know, might have something to teach me... for the moment...

He removed all doubt.

Earlier today, when he sent me a text saying, "I'm filling in my diary for the week... when suits you?" I responded with, "You go ahead and make your plans. I can't plan that far ahead." What he probably took as me playing acting like a player, hence illiciting the aforementioned stroppy goodbye text from him was, in fact, honest truth. And how could he know, he'd only talked to me for, oh, I don't know... an hour. And therein lies my point. He knows fuck all about me and is in no position to make demands of me.

I have a number of appointments with potential clients this week and there are no times or locations locked down, informal meetings with various media related people who intend to introduce me around some more in an effort to find me a niche and again there are no times or locations locked down. I have a meeting with the Italian Consulate to process my paperwork for passports and registration abroad. I have a dog to look after. I don't have to lock things into my diary. I am the kind of person you ring casually on any given day and say, "Hey, what are you up to tonight? Fancy a flick?" and I say either yes or how about tomorrow night. No game, that's just the way it is.

But I don't fucking put get-togethers with friends, old or new, in my diary, especially with a guy who boasts about choosing to drive his Rover instead of his Merc to first-dates as part of a selection process and who boasts about his family having six generations of military service to which he himself has not contributed. He raved with a faraway look on his face for a full 10 minutes about "Saving Private Ryan" and Tom Hanks, and while I agree that they are both excellent all I could picture at the time was Lieutenant Dan from "Forrest Gump" getting pissed off because he was supposed to die for his country.

Sigh... what can I say? It's just, I'm not up for grabs but I am all for some good, normal, social fun amongst people... NORMAL people. Have I got "Needs to be owned by a man" emblazoned on my sleeve?

I never responded to the melodramatic text he sent saying goodbye, I simply thought "good riddance". Who needs "friends" at all if this is the way it's going to be?

Why do people instantly expect me to play the game where they set the rules and expect me to assimilate it and jump right in? In fact, it seems that everyone wants me to play their game their way, and as open as I am to learning the ropes of being in this particular part of the world from the locals I don't for one minute feel willing to simply accept that the world is going to be according to how other people want it. I am open with people who meet me about my position of freedom and my lack of physical baggage, and for some reason it's like an invitation to see who can tie me down first.

I don't respond well to this. I dig my heels in stubbornly and refuse to jump when people demand it of me. I turn the other cheek when people inform me of the reality they have chosen that I must adhere to and choose to ignore them or cut them out completely.

As I seem to have no real game plan myself, there continues to be no impetus for anyone to try and march to the beat of my drum. I feel trodden upon as people try to railroad me into their compartments. I feel like I'm in the middle, in a sort of no-man's land. I feel like I have congenital separateness and terminal lonerhood. I can't see returning to where I was because life would have to be played by a set of rules that would not allow for some crazy, ethereal concept of a life I think I want. If I venture out and invite anyone else on board I fear they will do their utmost to make me fit some sort of mold that suits them instead of finding out if I can fit the situation within limits.

Everyone seems to have some sort of preconceived notion of what a woman my age should be, or should be like, and assume that I'm unhappy that I'm different than most. What I'm unhappy about is that I am not different enough, like I haven't gone the distance with the magnitude of the difference I have in me. I feel like no one should be able to touch the bubble of strength and independence I should be surrounded by. But instead I feel that bubble burst again and again when I struggle with the concept of being alone. I feel conspicuous and invisible all at once. I don't know what I want to be but I know what I can't be and what I can't be is imprisoned by someone else's history, fickle desires, or notions about who they think I should be.

I am aware of attracting like vibrations and before you say it (you know who you are) I know I am partially responsible for creating this situation where I am attracting that which I do not want. I am vibrating with the fear I feel when I feel bogged down by the fear that what I want is impossible. The life I want, the kind of people I want in my life who can help me make it happen and share in it with me, they all feel like a distant dream. I often wonder, too, if I'm not shutting out all the right people? I wish I could just not shut out a single one of you. And often times I feel forced to bring the shutters down.

The only thing I can think of right now, sitting here, is turning myself out into the world with little more than what I can carry and going it alone. I don't want to be responsible for people's feelings anymore. I don't want to hurt or be hurt by people anymore. I want to find the path that an unmarried, childless, unencumbered woman can follow in peace, a path that might be crossed with people who appreciate what I am and not what I am not... a path that has direction and purpose...

... and I fear living and dying alone.

"You're fucked up," a friend told me at dinner the other night, matter of factly. I've been thinking about that statement ever since and thinking he's probably right.

It's all too contradictory or me to fathom. It's all too much around me, piled too high for me to see the landscape. Why do I insist on being in a place where no one knows me or cares about me when I could be closer to people I feel almost certain will be open-hearted toward me, or at least more objective and perhaps sympathetic?

What, exactly, is wrong with me?

acceptance

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 21:45:00 +0000

I am here.
Here is ok.
This is good.

belonging never comes (darkness, cont'd)

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 22:54:00 +0000

I need someone to show me how to go do things. Why am I so shit at getting out and finding things to do on my own? I've moved house, city, state, country alone enough times... one would think I'd be an ace at getting the hang of a place by getting out and just going happily on my own to places around town and eventually meeting people. I'm not, I'm not.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life being the quiet one. And I don't want to spend the rest of my life moving from place to place and feeling that empty, un-inducted, rootless feeling that I feel right now and every day.

I'm nearly convinced I'm simply a flat, boring twat. It makes me tired imagining that for the rest of my life I will spend my time alone feeling this way.

the thing is

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 15:40:00 +0000

I know I'm a disappointment and I'm eternally sorry.

a canoe for charity

noreply@blogger.com (Lemon) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 11:07:00 +0000

Two poxy radio interviews (I'm so shite on the air!), on with Gerry Anderson and one with Alan Simpson, and one carb-loading session later, I'm setting about joining a team of mad people to cycle 660 miles non-stop around Ulster towing a canoe in the hope of raising a lot of money for the Northern Ireland Cancer Fund for Children.

There's been some talk about whether the welds on the connection between the bike and the canoe will hold. As a filmmaker There's been some talk about whether the weather will hold. It won't. I know. This is Ireland, innit?

This event is a spin-off of our Race Around Ireland adventure.
If you want to watch what happened back then, go here.
If you want to donate to our charity fund, go here.