It's New Year's Eve, as I'm sure you are all aware. I am, therefore, trying to summon something deep and meaningful to post here.
Unfortunately, the only thought I really seem capable of is one in which I wonder if the cleaner really had to come at 8.30 am after I was up til gone 2? Grr. Guess that's the end of my "feeling incredibly rested" streak.
So, what kind of year has it been?!
Well, for starters, as anyone who has been anywhere near any of my blogs - or, in fact, anywhere near me - will verify, it's been a West Wing year. 'Nough said on that one.
It's been a year of new beginnings, of rediscovering myself, of finding that being an expat in Brussels actually really is very me.
A year too when writing became a part of my life again - actually, it feels more like it's taken over my life.
But, mostly this: a year without heartbreak. I don't remember when I last said that. It feels unadventurous, maybe a little shallow, but you know what? I like it.
Which is kind of interesting, because that's one of the major themes I'm exploring in "Inevitable", the book I am currently writing. What's better - a life of adventure which ("inevitably") involves pain somewhere along the line, or a dull but happy life? Or can you not be happy without adventure anyway?
Still, in the meantime, here's to 2010, and may it be heartbreak-free. And possibly a little adventurous. It makes my blogposts more interesting.
Related Post: http://brusselsclaire.blogspot.com/2009/12/2009-year-in-life-of-claire.html
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Isaac and Ishmael - a few brief thoughts...
I’ve just watched Isaac and Ishmael for the first time.
The first time, you ask?
Well, yes. Both times I have been tearing through the West Wing and desperate to get to the action. Shame on me, I know. It’s also been quite cool knowing that there is an episode I hadn’t yet seen. Now, sadly, that’s it, and I have to make do with writing fan fiction (and yes, reading it too – one of my guilty pleasures!) and sobbing gently into my pillow with the unfairness of ER getting 15 seasons. Fifteen? Imagine that.
(We’d get to see President Santos reforming health care and managing to include a public option; freakishly intelligent curly haired, dimpled blonde children grow up to also be very organized and a little bit arrogant, and take over the world; and Sam finally seeing the light and marrying his French tutor, who looks a lot like me. Anyway.)
I really loved this – the way it explored the issues and taught me so much in the process, which is one of the hallmarks of the West Wing as a whole; the Aaron Sorkinesque one-liners; and, let’s face it, I wasn’t entirely opposed to the focus on Josh, either.
How amazing would it have felt to be one of those kids in Political Classroom?
I guess pretty much as amazing as it felt to get to be one of those younger actors in the West Wing. I loved the guy Josh called “Fred”, and the fact that Josh saw himself in him. That was moving. Moving also for me because I have often been that kid, or at least liked to think of myself at that kid. “Most people weren’t the smartest kid in the class,” Toby says elsewhere. “Most people didn’t even like the smartest kid in the class.” But what’s that compared to Josh Lyman looking you in the eye and saying “keep doing what you’re doing”? Wow. It’s enough to make you proud to be a geek – and that’s something it takes some of us a long time to learn.
It must be almost as amazing as Bradley Whitford looking you in the eye as an actor and saying the same thing.
Anyone know what any of those younger actors are up to these days?
The first time, you ask?
Well, yes. Both times I have been tearing through the West Wing and desperate to get to the action. Shame on me, I know. It’s also been quite cool knowing that there is an episode I hadn’t yet seen. Now, sadly, that’s it, and I have to make do with writing fan fiction (and yes, reading it too – one of my guilty pleasures!) and sobbing gently into my pillow with the unfairness of ER getting 15 seasons. Fifteen? Imagine that.
(We’d get to see President Santos reforming health care and managing to include a public option; freakishly intelligent curly haired, dimpled blonde children grow up to also be very organized and a little bit arrogant, and take over the world; and Sam finally seeing the light and marrying his French tutor, who looks a lot like me. Anyway.)
I really loved this – the way it explored the issues and taught me so much in the process, which is one of the hallmarks of the West Wing as a whole; the Aaron Sorkinesque one-liners; and, let’s face it, I wasn’t entirely opposed to the focus on Josh, either.
How amazing would it have felt to be one of those kids in Political Classroom?
I guess pretty much as amazing as it felt to get to be one of those younger actors in the West Wing. I loved the guy Josh called “Fred”, and the fact that Josh saw himself in him. That was moving. Moving also for me because I have often been that kid, or at least liked to think of myself at that kid. “Most people weren’t the smartest kid in the class,” Toby says elsewhere. “Most people didn’t even like the smartest kid in the class.” But what’s that compared to Josh Lyman looking you in the eye and saying “keep doing what you’re doing”? Wow. It’s enough to make you proud to be a geek – and that’s something it takes some of us a long time to learn.
It must be almost as amazing as Bradley Whitford looking you in the eye as an actor and saying the same thing.
Anyone know what any of those younger actors are up to these days?
Monday, 21 December 2009
The ghosts of Christmas past (a winter ficlet)
It’s just starting. Indecisive flakes are lazily making their way past your apartment, then thinking better of it and peeking into your neighbors’ windows before continuing their descent.
You love the snow, but for now you’re content watching it from indoors. The dog will need walking soon enough , and you’d like to wait until New York City’s fresh white coat is draped over its shoulders before you head out. You’ll take your camera and your snow boots and go exploring.
For now, though, you’re happy in your fluffy holiday sweater and your big thick socks. You flick on the TV and busy yourself warming some milk on the stove (no, who I am kidding, probably in the microwave) for that hot chocolate you are going to curl up with.
Your lurching stomach responds before your ears consciously do. You recognize immediately the Pavlovian reaction to that theme tune: that gut-level knot of nostalgia, pride, and frustration.
Frustration? Yes. There’s so much more to you than this one role. You are not her, and everyone seems to forget that – even those crazy fans who like to send you Facebook messages in the vain hope that you’ll one day respond; even those, very few and far between, who have worked out that your name is, in fact, a stage name. They forget that your character was created, that you breathed life into her, that although you may love her like a twin sister, she is distinct from you .They seem not even to be aware that you have played other roles. It shouldn’t get to you; you owe so much to the genius of this show, and to the wonderful character you were given to play. But it ended three years ago, and you want to move on. You think everybody should. All those websites are a little creepy.
And yet – those years were some of the happiest of your life.
Usually you flick the TV straight off. It’s simpler than trying to untangle all of that. But they’re showing the Christmas episodes (really? Could they not think of anything more original?) and those are some of the happiest memories of all. So you settle down with your hot chocolate and an enormous box of tissues with one eye on the snow that seems to be getting heavier, in sync with the episodes.
The phone rings at the end of the second one. Why are you not surprised when you see my name flashing up?
“Hey.” Even without caller ID you’d have recognized my voice with one syllable.
“Whatcha watching?”
A playful sigh makes its way down the phone line. “What do you think?”
You know the drill. “Yes, you were wonderful in that episode. Yes, you totally deserved that Emmy.”
“Thank you.” I like to think that was graciously uttered. “ But you know, you made me what I was.”
I say this so often that I don’t think you really hear it anymore; but I mean it every time. Do you remember when I got you to babysit my Emmy? I wanted it to sit on your shelf for a while. So much of what I was on the show was a product of my relationship with you; it seemed only fair.
You’re not the only one with conflicting emotions. “We had it good, didn’t we?”
I can almost hear your thoughts. Are we really going to do this every time they put on re-runs?
But you have no choice but to agree with me. You do add, though: “if by good you mean twenty hour days and forgetting what our friends and family looked like and being stalked in the street by hysterical people who have forgotten to take their medication.”
I know what you mean, although that seems to still be happening to me, with frightening regularity. I remind you of one perk you seem to be conveniently forgetting: “You also got to flirt with me every day for seven years.”
I can picture your broad, beautiful smile. “Well, yes. That was fun.”
“We were good together, weren’t we?”
The pause tells me I’ve overstepped the mark, as I am prone to do.
You say my name, a one-word scolding, in the same affectionate but exasperated tone your character used to take with mine.
I know what’s coming. Why must you always break the spell?
“I’m married,” you remind me. “And we’re happy.”
I know. And if you think I don’t kick myself every day...
You sigh again, this time not so playfully. You remember now why those emotions curdle inside you like benign poison, make you feel slightly nauseated. Why normally you flick straight onto another channel.
“You missed the window. Deal with it.” It would sound cold, but I know you. I know you don’t mean to hurt me, that it’s friendly advice, that I, like those crazy fans, need to move on, that it’s what’s best, for me, for our friendship.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Old habits die hard: it’s the same adolescent tone of voice I would use with my mother when she nagged me about getting a real job, in case, you know, the acting didn’t work out. So much of me is still a petulant teenager; that part of my character I had no problem identifying with.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, though.” I'm glad you clarified that.
A line from Notting Hill pops into my head: in a depressingly asexual way... But for once, I choose to keep my mouth shut. See how I’ve grown?
“Or that making out with you wasn’t a lot of fun.”
Aha! Now, was that so hard to own up to?
“We were good together, weren’t we?” Just a little more reassurance is surely not too much to ask...
“Amazing,” you concede. “Now go away and leave me alone.”
“Okay,” I say, but there’s no click, and we both sit watching the snow with one eye and hours of us with the other, tissues in one hand, curled up with our hot chocolates.
You love the snow, but for now you’re content watching it from indoors. The dog will need walking soon enough , and you’d like to wait until New York City’s fresh white coat is draped over its shoulders before you head out. You’ll take your camera and your snow boots and go exploring.
For now, though, you’re happy in your fluffy holiday sweater and your big thick socks. You flick on the TV and busy yourself warming some milk on the stove (no, who I am kidding, probably in the microwave) for that hot chocolate you are going to curl up with.
Your lurching stomach responds before your ears consciously do. You recognize immediately the Pavlovian reaction to that theme tune: that gut-level knot of nostalgia, pride, and frustration.
Frustration? Yes. There’s so much more to you than this one role. You are not her, and everyone seems to forget that – even those crazy fans who like to send you Facebook messages in the vain hope that you’ll one day respond; even those, very few and far between, who have worked out that your name is, in fact, a stage name. They forget that your character was created, that you breathed life into her, that although you may love her like a twin sister, she is distinct from you .They seem not even to be aware that you have played other roles. It shouldn’t get to you; you owe so much to the genius of this show, and to the wonderful character you were given to play. But it ended three years ago, and you want to move on. You think everybody should. All those websites are a little creepy.
And yet – those years were some of the happiest of your life.
Usually you flick the TV straight off. It’s simpler than trying to untangle all of that. But they’re showing the Christmas episodes (really? Could they not think of anything more original?) and those are some of the happiest memories of all. So you settle down with your hot chocolate and an enormous box of tissues with one eye on the snow that seems to be getting heavier, in sync with the episodes.
The phone rings at the end of the second one. Why are you not surprised when you see my name flashing up?
“Hey.” Even without caller ID you’d have recognized my voice with one syllable.
“Whatcha watching?”
A playful sigh makes its way down the phone line. “What do you think?”
You know the drill. “Yes, you were wonderful in that episode. Yes, you totally deserved that Emmy.”
“Thank you.” I like to think that was graciously uttered. “ But you know, you made me what I was.”
I say this so often that I don’t think you really hear it anymore; but I mean it every time. Do you remember when I got you to babysit my Emmy? I wanted it to sit on your shelf for a while. So much of what I was on the show was a product of my relationship with you; it seemed only fair.
You’re not the only one with conflicting emotions. “We had it good, didn’t we?”
I can almost hear your thoughts. Are we really going to do this every time they put on re-runs?
But you have no choice but to agree with me. You do add, though: “if by good you mean twenty hour days and forgetting what our friends and family looked like and being stalked in the street by hysterical people who have forgotten to take their medication.”
I know what you mean, although that seems to still be happening to me, with frightening regularity. I remind you of one perk you seem to be conveniently forgetting: “You also got to flirt with me every day for seven years.”
I can picture your broad, beautiful smile. “Well, yes. That was fun.”
“We were good together, weren’t we?”
The pause tells me I’ve overstepped the mark, as I am prone to do.
You say my name, a one-word scolding, in the same affectionate but exasperated tone your character used to take with mine.
I know what’s coming. Why must you always break the spell?
“I’m married,” you remind me. “And we’re happy.”
I know. And if you think I don’t kick myself every day...
You sigh again, this time not so playfully. You remember now why those emotions curdle inside you like benign poison, make you feel slightly nauseated. Why normally you flick straight onto another channel.
“You missed the window. Deal with it.” It would sound cold, but I know you. I know you don’t mean to hurt me, that it’s friendly advice, that I, like those crazy fans, need to move on, that it’s what’s best, for me, for our friendship.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Old habits die hard: it’s the same adolescent tone of voice I would use with my mother when she nagged me about getting a real job, in case, you know, the acting didn’t work out. So much of me is still a petulant teenager; that part of my character I had no problem identifying with.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you, though.” I'm glad you clarified that.
A line from Notting Hill pops into my head: in a depressingly asexual way... But for once, I choose to keep my mouth shut. See how I’ve grown?
“Or that making out with you wasn’t a lot of fun.”
Aha! Now, was that so hard to own up to?
“We were good together, weren’t we?” Just a little more reassurance is surely not too much to ask...
“Amazing,” you concede. “Now go away and leave me alone.”
“Okay,” I say, but there’s no click, and we both sit watching the snow with one eye and hours of us with the other, tissues in one hand, curled up with our hot chocolates.
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Quirky things about Belgium, #357. #358, #359 etc...
It seems that I often seem to rant and rave about Belgium here. And I feel bad about this. I feel bad, because I can't help thinking it's an arrogant expat kind of attitude that does this; an attitude I have spent most of my life despising. I feel bad, because for all its quirks, I love Belgium. It's home.
So here are some quirky things about this place, that make me smile rather than stamp my foot in frustration:
- the kindness of strangers.
This warrants a post to itself, and in time it will get one, but so often there have been people to help me just when I needed them - people who in London would have looked right through me or maybe shrugged their shoulders or pushed me out of the way
- my local supermarket - Tesco Metro equivalent - sells fresh, home made soup, made by a lady who brings it to them every day. I just think that's so cool. Souper, in fact. (Sorry. Plenty more where that came from, so I am actually being quite restrained.)
- the little hooks next to train seats to hang your coat up! Priceless!
- the way they wrap your presents for you in shops. I love them for this. I'm so bad at wrapping presents, and I get distracted by Friends episodes when I try and do it.
So there you go. That's just the beginning. Watch this space for more thrilling installments in the New Year...
So here are some quirky things about this place, that make me smile rather than stamp my foot in frustration:
- the kindness of strangers.
This warrants a post to itself, and in time it will get one, but so often there have been people to help me just when I needed them - people who in London would have looked right through me or maybe shrugged their shoulders or pushed me out of the way
- my local supermarket - Tesco Metro equivalent - sells fresh, home made soup, made by a lady who brings it to them every day. I just think that's so cool. Souper, in fact. (Sorry. Plenty more where that came from, so I am actually being quite restrained.)
- the little hooks next to train seats to hang your coat up! Priceless!
- the way they wrap your presents for you in shops. I love them for this. I'm so bad at wrapping presents, and I get distracted by Friends episodes when I try and do it.
So there you go. That's just the beginning. Watch this space for more thrilling installments in the New Year...
Monday, 14 December 2009
Quirky things about Belgium, #356
Ah, Brussels South Airport. "The friendly airport." How I wish I could say that I love you.
I'd like to love you for your ridiculous name. Possibly even more ridiculous than "London Luton".
I'd like to love you for your slightly-too-efficient security guys. My luggage will fit in the Ryanair measuring thingy. It will. Even if I have to bribe you with the chocolate I thought I was packing to give to my friends when I arrive, if you ever let me on this plane.
I'd like to love you, most of all, for your oh-so-efficient use of lighting in the toilets. Movement-sensitive. But only sensitive to movement close to the washbasins. Once people are in a cubicle, sitting still and attending to business, the light turns itself off. We have to shuffle back out, trousers round our ankles, to coax the light to come on again. Pure Belgian genius.
Such pure Belgian genius, in fact, that someone in an adjoining cubicle quips, "Ca a encore été inventé par un Belge, ca..." then apologises profusely for her assumption that "Belgian" sometimes means the same as "faintly ridiculous".
It's really okay. I live here. I understand exactly what she means.
I'd like to love you for your ridiculous name. Possibly even more ridiculous than "London Luton".
I'd like to love you for your slightly-too-efficient security guys. My luggage will fit in the Ryanair measuring thingy. It will. Even if I have to bribe you with the chocolate I thought I was packing to give to my friends when I arrive, if you ever let me on this plane.
I'd like to love you, most of all, for your oh-so-efficient use of lighting in the toilets. Movement-sensitive. But only sensitive to movement close to the washbasins. Once people are in a cubicle, sitting still and attending to business, the light turns itself off. We have to shuffle back out, trousers round our ankles, to coax the light to come on again. Pure Belgian genius.
Such pure Belgian genius, in fact, that someone in an adjoining cubicle quips, "Ca a encore été inventé par un Belge, ca..." then apologises profusely for her assumption that "Belgian" sometimes means the same as "faintly ridiculous".
It's really okay. I live here. I understand exactly what she means.
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Thankful, part 2
Today, I am thankful for...
drumroll please...
Amazon.
I know, I know. I should be supporting my local bookshops, not some big evil American corporate entity. Boo hiss.
The thing is, though - they're brilliant. Not just cheap, though I will freely admit that cheap is a big part of it. But so efficient. Admittedly I can't get the free postage from here in Chocolate Land, but it's not extortionate, and my parcels arrive soooo quickly! And now you can track them too!
In my defence, living in Belgium means buying English books here is an expensive business. But I wouldn't want to give you the impression that I never used Amazon before. Oh no.
(Lest you think I am over my West Wing addiction, I'd also like to plug the fact that you can currently get *the entire box set* for just under fifty pounds! The entire box set!)
And then of course there's the Wish List feature. I'm the only person I've ever met who plugs mine, which is 37 pages long because I started way back in 2001 when I barely had a grip on email, let alone exciting things like online shopping. But getting presents you actually want? You can't put a price on that. (Well, you know what I mean.) And in fact getting more presents, because all people need to do is click a couple of times. Genius. Pure genius.
And what's more, free with every book comes its own protective cardboard wrapper, which you can use religiously every time you leave the house with some reading material. OCD? Maybe. But a book with a bent spine or upturned corners? Shudder.
drumroll please...
Amazon.
I know, I know. I should be supporting my local bookshops, not some big evil American corporate entity. Boo hiss.
The thing is, though - they're brilliant. Not just cheap, though I will freely admit that cheap is a big part of it. But so efficient. Admittedly I can't get the free postage from here in Chocolate Land, but it's not extortionate, and my parcels arrive soooo quickly! And now you can track them too!
In my defence, living in Belgium means buying English books here is an expensive business. But I wouldn't want to give you the impression that I never used Amazon before. Oh no.
(Lest you think I am over my West Wing addiction, I'd also like to plug the fact that you can currently get *the entire box set* for just under fifty pounds! The entire box set!)
And then of course there's the Wish List feature. I'm the only person I've ever met who plugs mine, which is 37 pages long because I started way back in 2001 when I barely had a grip on email, let alone exciting things like online shopping. But getting presents you actually want? You can't put a price on that. (Well, you know what I mean.) And in fact getting more presents, because all people need to do is click a couple of times. Genius. Pure genius.
And what's more, free with every book comes its own protective cardboard wrapper, which you can use religiously every time you leave the house with some reading material. OCD? Maybe. But a book with a bent spine or upturned corners? Shudder.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
I am Donna Moss...
I am Donna Moss.
Deluded, I hear your cry. Someone give her a dozen tablets and lock her in a small room with no light and definitely no West Wing DVDs.
It’s okay. I am fully aware that I am not tall, slim, blonde and stunningly beautiful.
But I do have more in common with Donna than a predilection for handsome, powerful Democrats with dimples, good hearts and a certain heroic determination to make the world a better place. (Not realising, of course, that their very presence does that. Ahem. I digress.)
Those of you who know me probably realise I am not talking about her powers of organisation. I like index cards, but am pretty sure she would not approve of the way they are strewn on my mess-ridden floor.
I did use to think philately was fun, and I also have been told that there is a bright future for me as a stalker, should I desire to go down that career path.
But there’s something else, too.
“I’m a flautist. I play the flute... I ask myself, if I’d pursued the flute professionally, would I be meeting interesting men? And the answer comes back to me: Probably not."
All depends, of course, what you mean by interesting. If you mean men capable of distracting you from Josh Lyman, well, let’s not fool ourselves: that is a tall order for anyone.
If you mean interesting as in “would make a great character in a novel”, though, there is plenty of mileage in it. (Although let’s not overdo the artist thing. A professional flautist and a professional writer? I’d have no time to bore you all with my delusional thoughts...)
Men who at, say, 45 ask you how much you paid for your flute and does it have a silver heard and you really should consider investing in one of those flutes with holes in the keys (I’m so unprofessional I don’t even know what they’re called). Interesting, yes. In a sociological study kind of way. It does make you wonder, you know, about their childhood and stuff.
So yes, Donna. You would be meeting “interesting” men. But I think you and I probably ought to stick to politics.
Deluded, I hear your cry. Someone give her a dozen tablets and lock her in a small room with no light and definitely no West Wing DVDs.
It’s okay. I am fully aware that I am not tall, slim, blonde and stunningly beautiful.
But I do have more in common with Donna than a predilection for handsome, powerful Democrats with dimples, good hearts and a certain heroic determination to make the world a better place. (Not realising, of course, that their very presence does that. Ahem. I digress.)
Those of you who know me probably realise I am not talking about her powers of organisation. I like index cards, but am pretty sure she would not approve of the way they are strewn on my mess-ridden floor.
I did use to think philately was fun, and I also have been told that there is a bright future for me as a stalker, should I desire to go down that career path.
But there’s something else, too.
“I’m a flautist. I play the flute... I ask myself, if I’d pursued the flute professionally, would I be meeting interesting men? And the answer comes back to me: Probably not."
All depends, of course, what you mean by interesting. If you mean men capable of distracting you from Josh Lyman, well, let’s not fool ourselves: that is a tall order for anyone.
If you mean interesting as in “would make a great character in a novel”, though, there is plenty of mileage in it. (Although let’s not overdo the artist thing. A professional flautist and a professional writer? I’d have no time to bore you all with my delusional thoughts...)
Men who at, say, 45 ask you how much you paid for your flute and does it have a silver heard and you really should consider investing in one of those flutes with holes in the keys (I’m so unprofessional I don’t even know what they’re called). Interesting, yes. In a sociological study kind of way. It does make you wonder, you know, about their childhood and stuff.
So yes, Donna. You would be meeting “interesting” men. But I think you and I probably ought to stick to politics.
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