What a weekend. Think I have damaged my brain or perhaps I'm just lazy. So late to write about last weekend when it's practically the next one. I see Mother Mary and Annie Rhiannon impatiently clicking on my blog daily and muttering about how lazy I am. Or perhaps I flatter myself.
Galway is great isn't it? Well, for me especially, where else do I get to meet such a concoction of family, friends, ex-stalkers of friends and other assorted people from the past that I might not want to run in to. It's the excitement of it, the ghosts of the recent past in The Blue Note, the smell of BO and shushing in The Crane. Going to my old friend's new house and ranting like there's no tomorrow because I've known her 15 years and she thinks it's hilarious, riding the high waves of Lahinch in Co. Clare on Saturday, gripping my bright green body board and grinning like a maniac when that huge wave throws me up on its shoulder. I've got to do this more.
On Saturday evening there is a get together for my cousin's 21st. A couple of siblings are there, acting even odder than me. In general I mean. By midnight my big brother is gushing about how great his girlfriend is (well they've only been going out 20 years or so). 'Yeah okay' I say 'but you know what?' and I prod him in the chest with my insistent finger 'You're great too, you're a CATCH, she's lucky to have you, why if I could find a guy even half as nice as you are I would be doing well'. He beams from ear to ear. I also bond a little too well with a second cousin I've never met before. His parents own a pub and somehow I confuse this with the pub we're in and let him buy me drinks, like all of sudden I think the shitty Front Door is his parents' pub in Leitrim. We swap break-up stories so that basically passes a lot of time and then some more time because we've both broken so many hearts and before you know it we're running through the streets of Galway in torrential rain, getting saturated. We go barreling into The Vic where they've stopped serving but my crazy (by now I've realised he is 'mad', like MAD, and way more truculent than me) cousin reaches over the bar to pull himself a pint (you're not at home now son). Cue security all over us. We calm them down and suddenly realise we can drink in the residents' bar where my crazy cousin keeps putting drinks into my hands. Alarmingly, I'm suddenly looking at my father some 30 years ago. Yikes! Some sleazy guy then asks me to be his girlfriend. The conversation went something like this 'Is that your boyfriend?' 'No, he's my cousin'. Is that your boyfriend?' 'No, he's my COUSIN!' 'Do you have a boyfriend?' 'No'. 'Do you want to go out with me?' 'Oh em'. 'Do you have a boyfriend?' 'YES!' Is that him?' 'No! But I do have one'. 'I'm asking you to be my girlfriend?' 'Sorry I have a boyfriend already'. Then my crazy cousin and the sleazy guy have an altercation and security is called again. Soon after this, and stopping to amuse some Americans, we get a taxi to the birthday boy's house. But both him and my big brother have just gone to bed (though not together) and I've decided that I do smoke after all and I find myself sitting in a room with about 10 guys and one girl, all of whom I fail to get off with. Some sweet English guy with red hair decides to sing a song and then tell us about English Irish differences. Cue crazy cousin outburst. Oh dear, not again. Crazy cousin and I then get a taxi to our various abodes. 'He's not my boyfriend, he's my cousin' I hiss on the way out. Just in case.
Back at my parents' house I'm trying not to make any noise as I have a tussle with the dog over some locational differences and sleeping arrangements, trip over a fire guard, get into my pyjamas and then ... next thing I know, some time later, I am sitting on a chair, apparently asleep with my eyes open. Thank God no one is up yet. I flounder back to my correct sleeping quarters, stopping to try and peel off my irises on the way (uh oh looks like I've already taken out my contacts).
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Tortured Artist
This evening I had one of those tortured artist evenings.
I do the whole tortured artist bit very well, at least the torture bit anyway. Sometimes, I do anything to avoid putting pencil to paper. Especially when I really really have to draw something for someone. In that case, the bigger the project the longer I put it off, prowling round the house in agony for hours finding all sorts of excuses not to do it. But there it stays at the back of my mind, lodged like some furtive lodger who never ever goes away at weekends.
And then, when I really really really have to do it, I sit down and draw. And at first, it's agony. I think I've forgotten how to draw (though I could last week), I do five-year old scribbles and my brain is full of angry bits of fragmented fluff jostling for attention and the constant gnawing fear 'what if I can't draw?' I never remember this feeling as a kid when I could sit anywhere with a piece of paper and a marker and become lost in another world.
But, you know, what always happens in the end? It turns out I can draw. And I just do it and I get lost in it again. And it gets done. And I'm proud of it. And I feel content. Now if only I could cut out the torture bit.
I do the whole tortured artist bit very well, at least the torture bit anyway. Sometimes, I do anything to avoid putting pencil to paper. Especially when I really really have to draw something for someone. In that case, the bigger the project the longer I put it off, prowling round the house in agony for hours finding all sorts of excuses not to do it. But there it stays at the back of my mind, lodged like some furtive lodger who never ever goes away at weekends.
And then, when I really really really have to do it, I sit down and draw. And at first, it's agony. I think I've forgotten how to draw (though I could last week), I do five-year old scribbles and my brain is full of angry bits of fragmented fluff jostling for attention and the constant gnawing fear 'what if I can't draw?' I never remember this feeling as a kid when I could sit anywhere with a piece of paper and a marker and become lost in another world.
But, you know, what always happens in the end? It turns out I can draw. And I just do it and I get lost in it again. And it gets done. And I'm proud of it. And I feel content. Now if only I could cut out the torture bit.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The EU Dinner Party
I had a great weekend, full of visitors and friends and finding a new old pub in Cork that I really liked. Though I was sad to miss the 'beard and glasses' cocktail party in Galway it just couldn't be helped. I mean you can't really have visitors for the weekend and then abandon them can you? Anyway, I would never have had enough time to find a beard and glasses. Oh wait, I wear glasses.
One of the highlights of the weekend though had to be Friday's EU Dinner Party, not that I meant it to be an EU Dinner Party but with representatives of France, Italy, England, Cork, Cork again, Galway and Ballylanders all present it had a decidedly EU feel (luckily Finland and Scotland turned down their invitations - that would have been too ridick). For readers not familiar with geography, Ballylanders is where the glaciers of the last Ice Age decided to stop thereby creating the Ballylanders Iceline - the Ballylanders representative told us with pride (though an internet search only reveals where to buy icecream in Ballylanders).
The Dinner started fabulously late as Truculent Horse proved incapable of multi-tasking and couldn't actually even boil the kettle while directing a visitor to the fridge for a beer. Luckily Cork had done most of the work - chopping vegetables, making garlic bread, getting out the correct saucepans for Truculent Horse, setting the table, getting the lighting in the dining room just right and so on. The guests (most of whom didn't know each other) all hung out in the garden smoking and being cool and laughing (a little too much - I suspect some friend-stealing may have been going on) while I slaved away over my pre-cut vegetables.
By the time Truculent had finally made the dinner, step by step, one task at a time, being careful not to drop all the spaghetti in the sink, everyone was getting along famously and the dinner conversation flowed as freely as all the beer out of the fridge. Cork and Cork did a lot of slagging of Truculent (which made me snort red wine up my nose and nearly choke) while Italy pronounced the spaghetti 'very good - no really'. France and England had been reading my blog so they were able to inform the other representatives that yes, Truculent was at a party last week and did not need 'to get out there' as she already was. Ballylanders tried on Truculent's lopapeysa and took quite a shine to it, raising his shoulders so that it began to look like a belly-top and admiring himself in the french doors ('Ok that's enough, get it off, get it off!'). Best of all I made everyone, well nearly everyone, drink Brennivín after dinner. 'Mmmm, interesting, yes not as bad as I thought it was going to be'. After some strawberries that I couldn't be bothered to take the tops off ('it'll be more convivial if we all do our own at the table'), plenty more frantic conversation and downing some more various tipples we mostly went off to Tom Barry's pub to continue our merriment. Soon after arrival France fell asleep against England and had to be sent back to their new home clutching a bit of paper with their address written on it, while Ballylanders, Italy and Truculent, wild-eyed from beer and soupy coffee, all stayed in the pub to discuss how boys smell. If I remember correctly.
One of the highlights of the weekend though had to be Friday's EU Dinner Party, not that I meant it to be an EU Dinner Party but with representatives of France, Italy, England, Cork, Cork again, Galway and Ballylanders all present it had a decidedly EU feel (luckily Finland and Scotland turned down their invitations - that would have been too ridick). For readers not familiar with geography, Ballylanders is where the glaciers of the last Ice Age decided to stop thereby creating the Ballylanders Iceline - the Ballylanders representative told us with pride (though an internet search only reveals where to buy icecream in Ballylanders).
The Dinner started fabulously late as Truculent Horse proved incapable of multi-tasking and couldn't actually even boil the kettle while directing a visitor to the fridge for a beer. Luckily Cork had done most of the work - chopping vegetables, making garlic bread, getting out the correct saucepans for Truculent Horse, setting the table, getting the lighting in the dining room just right and so on. The guests (most of whom didn't know each other) all hung out in the garden smoking and being cool and laughing (a little too much - I suspect some friend-stealing may have been going on) while I slaved away over my pre-cut vegetables.
By the time Truculent had finally made the dinner, step by step, one task at a time, being careful not to drop all the spaghetti in the sink, everyone was getting along famously and the dinner conversation flowed as freely as all the beer out of the fridge. Cork and Cork did a lot of slagging of Truculent (which made me snort red wine up my nose and nearly choke) while Italy pronounced the spaghetti 'very good - no really'. France and England had been reading my blog so they were able to inform the other representatives that yes, Truculent was at a party last week and did not need 'to get out there' as she already was. Ballylanders tried on Truculent's lopapeysa and took quite a shine to it, raising his shoulders so that it began to look like a belly-top and admiring himself in the french doors ('Ok that's enough, get it off, get it off!'). Best of all I made everyone, well nearly everyone, drink Brennivín after dinner. 'Mmmm, interesting, yes not as bad as I thought it was going to be'. After some strawberries that I couldn't be bothered to take the tops off ('it'll be more convivial if we all do our own at the table'), plenty more frantic conversation and downing some more various tipples we mostly went off to Tom Barry's pub to continue our merriment. Soon after arrival France fell asleep against England and had to be sent back to their new home clutching a bit of paper with their address written on it, while Ballylanders, Italy and Truculent, wild-eyed from beer and soupy coffee, all stayed in the pub to discuss how boys smell. If I remember correctly.
There's A Storm Coming
Brilliant!
I went out for a run this evening (yes, a RUN, which is totally different from going to the pub - I have runners and everything) and I could feel it in the air. Something's coming. The leaves rustling loudly above, their brittle backs somersaulting along the path behind me, the dark clouds racing overhead. There's a storm coming.
I caught a glimpse of a weather forecast, looks like all hell is gonna break loose over Ireland - you can't even see the country on the map, just a mess of arrows and raindrops and a huge angry thing off the coast of Donegal. I love a good storm, especially if I'm tucked up in my brand new big oak bed. And not floundering in the Bay of Biscay vomiting into a small basin and wondering if seawater is supposed to be running down the cabin wall.
I went out for a run this evening (yes, a RUN, which is totally different from going to the pub - I have runners and everything) and I could feel it in the air. Something's coming. The leaves rustling loudly above, their brittle backs somersaulting along the path behind me, the dark clouds racing overhead. There's a storm coming.
I caught a glimpse of a weather forecast, looks like all hell is gonna break loose over Ireland - you can't even see the country on the map, just a mess of arrows and raindrops and a huge angry thing off the coast of Donegal. I love a good storm, especially if I'm tucked up in my brand new big oak bed. And not floundering in the Bay of Biscay vomiting into a small basin and wondering if seawater is supposed to be running down the cabin wall.
A New Post For Mother Mary
God, I can't stop thinking about sex today, I swear, the moment my head is empty for a split second it's all 'shag shag shag shag shag shag shagging shag shag'. And it's no good just going out and getting laid as one is never enough.
Suggestions?
Suggestions?
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
ROAR!
ROAR! I felt like a tiger today, but not in a 'you go get em Tiger' way, more like in a frustrated bored tiger in the zoo way. Like everything bored me, everything. Absolutely everything. Especially myself. And I'm not sure if it was noticeable from the outside but every time someone asked me anything I just wanted to cuff them across the head with my big orange paw. Not in an aggressive way of course, not in a I should be sacked because I might injure someone at work way, but just in a kindof a restless I don't know my own strength tigery way.
Later I went out for something to eat with Sarah and I was being so tigery, knocking over cutlery with my impractical orange tail which was swinging uncontrollably and generally making the other diners uneasy, that she made me run round the block to try and ease some of my tigery restlessness. I sprinted off, paws flying through the air, scattering frightened pedestrians in my wake and nearly slipped in front of all the alcoholics as I rounded the bend at the FÁS office at an incredible speed.
After this we calmed my beating heart and Sarah's nerves with pints at Mutton Lane Inn and looked at all the cute foreign boys.
'ROAR!' I said to everyone. 'ROAR ROAR ROAR!'
Later I went out for something to eat with Sarah and I was being so tigery, knocking over cutlery with my impractical orange tail which was swinging uncontrollably and generally making the other diners uneasy, that she made me run round the block to try and ease some of my tigery restlessness. I sprinted off, paws flying through the air, scattering frightened pedestrians in my wake and nearly slipped in front of all the alcoholics as I rounded the bend at the FÁS office at an incredible speed.
After this we calmed my beating heart and Sarah's nerves with pints at Mutton Lane Inn and looked at all the cute foreign boys.
'ROAR!' I said to everyone. 'ROAR ROAR ROAR!'
Sunday, September 10, 2006
The Best Cure For Sadness is ...
A good party.
And so it is that instead of staying home on saturday night listening to Antony and the Johnsons and feeling sorry for myself (which is what I really want to do), I put on A-Ha, spruce myself up (by putting in bright green hairclip) and cart myself off to a party.
I am rewarded with a rooftop salsa lesson from a patient and talented german overlooking the backyards and spires of misty Cork, a lengthy and slightly tipsy Capoeira display in which only two people get kicked in the face by accident, an insight into the male psyche when I overhear some rather sensitive-looking boys having 'girl-talk' (turns out they are exactly the same as us - 'but I just don't know what she wants! And of course now that I'm single girls won't even look at me!'), a long discussion with someone who buys for Getty Images in which I realise that my own 'brilliant' photos are probably 'shit' (but I might try to sell them for megabucks anyway). And best of all, when I go to leave at 4.30 my friend comes rushing up going 'no no! you can't leave, my friend really likes you, he just told me!'. He appears in hot pursuit 'I can't believe you're going!'. But Truculent Horse plays hard to get and after some polite name-swapping I disappear into the warm rainy night.
Waiting for a taxi some girls are going crazy over some other girl's handbag 'oh my God! she's got a Chloe (?) bag!!' they say and look at me for a reaction. 'I don't know what a 'Chloe' bag is' I say. 'Look, my handbag is made of wool' and hold up the lovely woolly bag that Kathryn gave me. They look at me in horror like I am the biggest loser ever. 'Ignorance is bliss' I tell them and feel totally contented. Thank God I don't want a Chloe bag.
And so it is that instead of staying home on saturday night listening to Antony and the Johnsons and feeling sorry for myself (which is what I really want to do), I put on A-Ha, spruce myself up (by putting in bright green hairclip) and cart myself off to a party.
I am rewarded with a rooftop salsa lesson from a patient and talented german overlooking the backyards and spires of misty Cork, a lengthy and slightly tipsy Capoeira display in which only two people get kicked in the face by accident, an insight into the male psyche when I overhear some rather sensitive-looking boys having 'girl-talk' (turns out they are exactly the same as us - 'but I just don't know what she wants! And of course now that I'm single girls won't even look at me!'), a long discussion with someone who buys for Getty Images in which I realise that my own 'brilliant' photos are probably 'shit' (but I might try to sell them for megabucks anyway). And best of all, when I go to leave at 4.30 my friend comes rushing up going 'no no! you can't leave, my friend really likes you, he just told me!'. He appears in hot pursuit 'I can't believe you're going!'. But Truculent Horse plays hard to get and after some polite name-swapping I disappear into the warm rainy night.
Waiting for a taxi some girls are going crazy over some other girl's handbag 'oh my God! she's got a Chloe (?) bag!!' they say and look at me for a reaction. 'I don't know what a 'Chloe' bag is' I say. 'Look, my handbag is made of wool' and hold up the lovely woolly bag that Kathryn gave me. They look at me in horror like I am the biggest loser ever. 'Ignorance is bliss' I tell them and feel totally contented. Thank God I don't want a Chloe bag.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
The Boy From Another Planet
Don't you just hate it when you fall for the wrong person? When you fall for a boy from another planet, a parallel universe, an alternate reality, from another world that you can't even comprehend? When you fall for the person you can't be with?
But then, maybe if you'd not bothered to meet him again that day, if you hadn't gathered up the pieces when he poured his heart out on the ground beside you that night, maybe if you'd untangled your hand from his, dodged when he kissed you on the top of your head, maybe if you'd escaped while he was looking at the stars, or made a quick getaway on your horse the next night when you were both speeding through the darkness on the carousel (I'd picked the faster horse), if only you hadn't laughed so much together, maybe then you could have disappeared when you got lost in the crowd, when his back was turned, God knows you had enough chances. Maybe if you'd taken even one of those chances to stop it then you wouldn't have fallen for him again.
And maybe then you wouldn't have this tight knot of sadness inside you.
But then, maybe if you'd not bothered to meet him again that day, if you hadn't gathered up the pieces when he poured his heart out on the ground beside you that night, maybe if you'd untangled your hand from his, dodged when he kissed you on the top of your head, maybe if you'd escaped while he was looking at the stars, or made a quick getaway on your horse the next night when you were both speeding through the darkness on the carousel (I'd picked the faster horse), if only you hadn't laughed so much together, maybe then you could have disappeared when you got lost in the crowd, when his back was turned, God knows you had enough chances. Maybe if you'd taken even one of those chances to stop it then you wouldn't have fallen for him again.
And maybe then you wouldn't have this tight knot of sadness inside you.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Electric Picnic
You know when you arrive at a refugee camp? Well it was just like that, dragging your belongings miles across the dusty plains, through the forest, with no idea of where you’re going, just being swept along in a wave of people. And then when you finally arrive at your destination, your tiny patch of trampled grass just big enough for a tent, you’re all tuckered out and tired. Then someone hands you the most delicious mojito you’ve ever had in your life (mostly because you’ve never had one before) and suddenly everything’s wonderful. Just like a refugee camp.
Wow, Antony and the Johnsons, I was bowled over. I fell instantly in love with Antony. Yes, yes, I know they are the gayest band ever. He was incredibly modest and endearing when he chatted to the audience, telling us how nervous he was and how he hoped we didn’t mind that he was trying out lots of new (and brilliant) songs on us. Oh Antony, it’s fine, we don’t mind. I realised after this that the artists I like the most after seeing them live are the ones I would invite in for a cup of tea. Antony, Debbie Harry, The Flaming Lips, Sigur Rós, I’ll put the kettle on.
Friday, September 01, 2006
The Magic Emeralds
Okay any minute now I'm off to Electric Picnic. I don't feel like moody PJ Harvey anymore at all! More like Bananarama. The most important things to bring are my ticket and The Magic Emeralds. Annie Rhiannon found The Magic Emeralds on the shore of southern Iceland. I have to carry them with me to protect me from Mean Boys, which are always trying to make me cry. There will probably be loads of them at Electric Picnic. Now, Bald Eagle and Mother Mary have said that The Magic Emeralds are only shiny bits of worn glass smoothed by the sea. From beer bottles they say. But I think I would know if they were. I am an archaeologist after all. And it is obvious to me that they are The Magic Emeralds.
Maybe I will give one to PJ to cheer her up.
Maybe I will give one to PJ to cheer her up.
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