AMSTERDAM is the word, Troggs!
That is the capital on my lips and in my soul for the next few weeks building into my hectic uni schedule. Or that I'll be trying to do so.
The Documentary Film Fest is taking place on 18th November till the 29th and the Documentary Practice tutor my friends have affectionately named Jack Nicholson (we don't remember his name, never learnt it; Jack stuck from the word 'go') has told us he's going and if we wanted to come, we had to make our own way there. And I plan to travel and get high on everything I've got and they've got too.
So if the air tickets now are an approximate 80 quid, and accommodation can be set up in a hostel if I get together with the other stoners, I've got a mind to fry and eyes to burn out watching a screen with 800 other people all highly charged to talk about politics, socialism, futurism and its contents with satisfactory gusto afterwards. That's my kinda scene and I want to be there so badly! Stoned and talking bollocks about the Soviet communism, that's absolute correctness for me right there.
But it comes down to money and possibilities. The money part is simple; I haven't got any.
The possibilities are down to the nerve reactions of my parents, well actually my dad.
It can tip either way, depending on the series of events that have taken place on the day I ask permission. My father is like any loving, caring father but with a mean streak.
When I tell him something that reflects the positive in my day, depending on his mood and the circumstances of the conversation, he could sour my thoughts within seconds with the slicing edge of a horrid comment.
I used to retaliate with the fists (which gets me going nowhere as he was a former heavyweight builder, it's basically me trying to box out human concrete), now it's with the bear hugs.
I found out the strategical way is to hug the big guy out. He softens up and leaves for work relatively happy. And occasionally, he coughs up money. Jackpot!
Well, the treatment worked for my starved wallet and our father-daughter relationship, but leaving the country for a film festival is most likely tipping on the wrong side of the fence, and it's going to fall into the NO side.
He's hated my love affair with film since day one, claiming it was the works of the Devil. I love when he talks smack like that. But it's a wedge between my bridge to A'Dam and pursuing my first dream. GAH!
Anyway, it would've been a great birthday present to myself. Nobody ever remembers the November babies. The October babies are all born in the first 10 days, and so everybody is too skint to remember the November babies. Don't care *sniff*
I could always go to the festival next year, when it's been set for June instead. Ah, feck it. Can't be arsed to write any more. No energy - need a boost of coffee. Might go to France to get it especially injected *drool*
