funny subconscious

I had a long dream, this morning, that started off with houses, and Olivia's school and friends and stufff - and travellers... and then had me wandering through a traveller encampment, marvelling at how fit and handsome and not at all pox-ridden the men were (okaaay...) and then I was leaving, past all the people and clutter and Hiace vans and a well to do middle aged woman was leaving with me, stopping at a stable to collect a tiny, sweet, cartoon like piglet. I picked it up and carried it for her, talking baby talk to it and exclaiming at its cuteness. We walked along the board track for a while, and then started going down stairs, as if in a train station or department store. It may well have been in a tunnel... the piglet got down and ran ahead, and I rushed to catch up with it, After a while there were more stairs and the middle ged woman had turned into a young, pregnant woman. I was anxious for her and for the piglet, but kept going forward. The piglet quickly became Bodhi, running ahead of me through lots of people. Stairs became escalators, and escalators, near the end of the journey, because strong gusts of air that whooshed you along the wall down the next set of steps. I was worried about him, but he came up laughing and fine, turning to smile at me. I followed, breathless, laughing too.

At the end, there were big glass doors opening out into sunlight. Bodhi stood on the mat and the same Star Trek type gust of controlled air propelled him out onto the pavement in the sunlight. I think he landed on his feet, still laughing, and I followed again.

So you might know why this is funny - if you don't you can read the story of Bodhi's rollercoaster birth, in brief, here. Bless my subconscious, though, and what a nice positive message to start the day with.

anonymous bringer of light

Now. I have just been enlightened by the anonymous hand of justice and truth. That post about the good-but-negative blog I wrote just received this comment.

Anonymous said...

"It's redolent of that unpleasant feeling of being trapped in endless discussions with your unhappy divorced friend, the circular compaints of hardship and misery that you sympathise with and regret, but can't fix"

it's amazing how one can rarely see oneself as one is. The above is your description of someone elses blog, but I thought it was a description of your own!


Funny. What annoys you in others is often a good mirror to the true you.


This would be a good point - if that hadn't been the whole purpose of the post. I mean - I used the words 'Moaning Minnie' and 'Negative Nellie' to describe myself within it... and, excuse my assertiveness, but I do think that while that description applies to certain posts of mine, there is more to be found here as well. There is humour, there are things I wish to remember about my children, there are happy thoughts, memories, ideas, opinions, pictures, etc. too.

I understand the feeling of reading blogs that are irritating and frustrating and how that feeling stays with you through your day - I've also found the best way to deal with that is to stop reading them.

I also find that while people may leave smug, sanctimonious, anonymous comments with a good will and the intent of enlightening the blogger, they are more likely to just piss them off. It's not really funny that what annoys you in others is most often traits you dislike in yourself, it's more of an accepted psychological truth. One I'm well aware of.

I'm not sure if I got my thoughts across right in that post. I held no resentment or condemnation for the writer of the blog in question. It's a good blog, well written, full of aesthetics and interest. I'll return to it, I know. I just hesitated to blogroll it for the reasons I tried to discuss.

For here is the thing - there are many women in very similar situations - maybe home with small children, unhappy, frustratedly married or single, or whatever, who may not have much cash, or outlet, or social life. And there is no question that blogging is an incredible outlet for them - for us. I'm not sure what I would have done the last three years without it, and the people I've met through it. I perhaps should have specified in the post that I firmly believe in the right of the blogger to use their own personal blog as a place to vent fears and anger and frustrations and simple bad moods. To whinge and bitch and stamp their foot. At the end of the day, if you don't like it, look away. I think if you have those feelings, this is as good a place as any to release them. It's a weblog. A diary. You dump it and you go about your day.It helps me get rid of it. And I'm always beyond grateful for the brief hit of tea and sympathy, or shared problems in the comments. Shrug*

But I also recognise the boringness of the relentless negativity, the self destruction of the negative cycling. However, I don't think pointing it out in a supercilious and completely gratuitous manner is any more effective than telling a depressed person to pull themselves together and cheer up.

However. Maybe I'm completely wrong. I'm sure this will make for fun commenting, so have at it. Ye be the judge.

a small success

I remembered how to cook something! That required mixing, shaping, frying and cooking in sauce (I didn't make the sauce, but it's just as nice as mine, and organic, so fuck it. No Regrets). A process!

I am currently full of tasty meatballs (well, vegballs) and spaghetti, and satisfaction. Bodhi was positive. Olivia had spaghetti and cheese... sigh. Axel is still in the bathroom, but, I don't need to worry about that.

So. I cooked!

snapshots

I wish I had a camera! Though the only thing about having a camera is I find it hard to just experience experiences because I'm so busy trying to capture them. So maybe it's better this way, sometimes.

It was Ciara's Solstice party one week late last night. We got to camp this year - last year her smallest's sudden illness deflated celebrations, and then at the make-up party Olivia got burned by a sparkler and decided she wanted to go home. So I promised next year, and finally, we did it!

Ciara's house is so beautiful. You can see all about it here. And the surrounding scenery is incredible - her house by the sea is ringed by trees and mountains. You can see (and buy!) her view here. It makes her place so very special. I haven't known her that long, and it's been a quiet and partially sad year in her family - but I still feel that glad excitement and happiness walking around the corner of her house into her garden that I feel going to visit my godparents' house - a place I've been going to all my life. Down the hill, and over the bridge, and there it is, pretty and welcoming. The atmosphere of Ciara's house is too, warm and sunny and crammed with beauty and interest, from the family photos all over the walls to the old books to the postcards and art. It feels right, and it's hard to leave. I makes me miss my family home too - the trees and flowers and mountains and the smell of the open, wide sky.

As for the sadness, I came round the corner of the house and the first sight I met was a little boy Bodhi's age, who lost his father last year, playing sweetly in the sand under the swing. A rush of sorrow swept over me that I had to put away, because, you know. So hard, so sad.

But then there was also Ciara in burnt orange, and Annah in her jewelled eyeshadow and gorgeous cleavage and beautiful healthy food and sunshine, and Bodhi sliding face first into the mud - he spent the whole time with a permanently begrimed face. I drank, I heaped his birth story on one of the home birth association people and got good advice. I talked and ate and smiled at the kids and met old friends.

The three beautiful long haired girls standing in a row eating my pretty cupcakes in pink and blue wrappers, wearing eye masks in sparkling colours was a sight to behold. I wish I had that shot - I may have to reproduce it (which will be no problem - I was mixing a bowl of eggs this morning and one of the girls appeared by my side and asked, 'are you making more cupcakes?!' at ten in the morning.).

The bonfire was a delight to Bodhi, he sat in front of it with me, entranced, delighted, quiet. He saw the North star and gasped and pointed with one hand, rubbing my arm with the other, 'It's so beautiful, Mama, isn't it so beautiful? It's so beautiful, look!' And we cuddled and looked at the fire in quiet sweetness. And then he and Olivia cuddled under the duvet and fell asleep in an instant. And he did a whole day with no nappy on without accident.

I put them to bed in the little nest I'd made in our tent, duvets and pillows and a gentle glow from the fire and the rising full moon. Later I crept in and snuggled into their warmth and tried to block out the sounds of the fledgling teenagers' excitement so I could listen to the push and shush and sway of the sea a few metres away.

But first I sat by the fire and thought about arms around me, someone at my back to lean on, the way the smell of beer on their breath would feel like sixteen again, brand new. And how sitting in the night and looking at the fire is something that people need to do, still, perhaps because we have done it for so long. Warmth, and consumption, and a centre around which to place ourselves, in the dark.

Coffee and scrambled eggs and mushrooms and toast, and the little kids collecting all the empties and pushing them to the gate in the toy tractor, and wanting to bring their uncle breakfast in bed, vying for the plate, and washing all the cars in a delighted, sudsy, fervent enthusiasm.

It was meant to rain but instead it was blissfully sunny, and warm late into the evening, and again today. Ciara keeps promising that each year will be the last party - but I think she knows she's not really allowed do any more than threaten.

considering

I just found a blog I like. It's by a single mother, it's about her cooking, her kids, dating, sex. It's very well written, the photos are beautiful, the recipes are great. I'll read it again, I'll go back and check for new posts, I was about to put it on my blogroll. Well, maybe my other blogroll...

But then, I thought, hmm, maybe not. And I will tell you why. Because it's full of her misery. Not explained in detail, just - she's not happy. Life is hard. It's not what she wants it to be. And the down-dragging weight of her unhappiness and disappointment is energy sapping. It takes, it doesn't give. It's redolent of that unpleasant feeling of being trapped in endless discussions with your unhappy divorced friend, the circular compaints of hardship and misery that you sympathise with and regret, but can't fix. I can't make you better.

A friend's friend has had a bad time - she has a horrible, debilitating, chronic disease, her husband left her, she has two kids that blame her, she's depressed and hopeless about a future relationship. She leans a lot on my friend - we haven't talked alone, me and this woman, but I sat beside her at a school thing the other day, bemoaned the price of dentistry, and within seconds she was telling me about how after she got her first job in 18 years, she gave her first paypacket to her husband to get his teeth done, and he up and left her.

I understand why she needs to repeat the story, I understand her aggrieved indignation - but I could still feel myself backing away from the drag, the weak stuck misery, the cold water bath of it. You know what I mean? My mother was so aware as being seen as the bitter dumpee. No one really wants to know unless you're upbeat and dynamic about it. It's off putting to others to say how you feel if you feel shitty.

It's not fair - and yet, I get it too. I don't know what the answer is. A lot of the time, life is hard, and it doesn't get better, despite your best efforts, there just isn't a way out of the cloud.

Do you know what I'm saying with this post? I'm not comndemning. I've lost friends through being a negative nellie, a moping moaning minnie myself. Just considering my reaction. Everyone's reactions. And alternatives.

woe is me

I managed to put my back out today. I don't even know exactly how.

I walked. I bounced on my neighbour's fabulous trampoline. Then I got in the car, and suddenly - ow. Something gone wrong in my hips. Did I bounce something out of place, or trap a nerve? Who knows. All I know is I don't think I can afford to go get it put back. But the feeling of it is weirdly debilitating - all the strength floods away, leaving me feel like I might fall in half when I lift a child, or climb the stairs, or bend from the waist.

It feels like being 80. I feel all fragile and pathetic. Like my strength has just ebbed away. Oh wait, I said that already. Well, that's what it feels like, I guess. And I feel tired, tired, with it. My emotional strength has gone too, and I just want to have a little cry and go to sleep. The sixth class kids had their graduation in Olivia's school last night, and today they're wearing t shrits with a class photo on the front and all their signatures in the back, When I realise it was printed on, not graffitied as I first assumed, it made my eyes prickle. So sweet. Imagine being 12 and just leaving primary school.

When I was growing up there was no such thing as graduating. You just ... left. And went on to the next thing. I kind of like it though. We don't do the caps and gowns or anything, just ... well, I don't know. I haven't attended one yet. But there was wine and cake (Jo Cake!) for parents and speeches and something ceremonial I presume. I don't know why I'm talking about this.

Ack. How to make my back get better? Ideas? Spells?

what I wanted

This

and This.

Makes me think about all the things that I failed to give, to stop me getting that in return.

the case against veganism

Oh readers... My cheesecake. It's so good. it's so incredibly deliciously, solidly, creamily, cheesily wonderful.

How could you go through life not eating it? It seems wrong, it really does.

I have no camera with which to photograph it - you'll have to trust me. I made square ones for ease of cutting into .. smaller squares... which is interesting. But oh. So good.

You should all buy one. I'll take orders.

surprise surprise

You know me, I stay away from any sniff of finance or current affairs type comments as much as I can because, well, I know nothing.

But. Is this startling news? I think not.

I'm just glad they didn't ask first. Because we might have said yes, lambs to the slaughter that we are. At least they just took it, and it's not our fault. Right?

a little light relief

My son is a fetishist. Long after breastfeeding has ended, I suspect he will still be climbing on my lap, sucking his thumb, reaching for my face and shouting a muffled but insistent 'I WANT TO TOUCH YOUR EYEBROW!'

He's also recently discovered the joys of sniffing my armpit as well, god help us all.

I really hope that one doesn't last into adulthood.

Relax further, it's not my armpit. But it made me snort with laughter so I thought I'd share.

anniversary

We got married 8 years ago today. Midsummer. We had just bought a house, which at that point had been the most stressful thing I'd ever lived through. And my mother was suddenly dying. You now the story. I won't go on about it. Maybe next week.

But all the for better for worse, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger stuff... I wasn't strong enough to bear that out. It didn't work.

Somehow we're going to manage splitting up. Axel is going to move a bed into what is now the toy mountain-guitar-computer-room room downstairs this week and we're going to carry on as normal. For now. We haven't said anything to the kids yet. He took off his ring and left it sitting ostentatiously on the bathroom shelf. Seeing it hurt. There's still a little white indent on my swollen ring finger where mine was. I wonder how long it will take to fade back out. It's not like we're not still married. Is it?

The truth is, I have no idea how to go about this. I have no idea if it's ok to visit this upon my children. I am sorry to those of you who've done it, I'm interested in how you make it work, I don't mean to offend but I am scared. Of shaking the foundations of my not yet three year old son's world. Of imprinting uncertainty into his view of life, of himself. Of taking too much away.

I really have no answers, for now. I hope things become clearer. Several people over the last few years have automatically told me to leave if I wasn't happy. I don't really see how you can tell someone that. It has to be right. I hope this turns into the right thing. Right now the weight of the failure of my dreams for the future is heavy, and miserable.

Sorry to anyone reading this for the first time who'd rather hear it from me. It's difficult to heap it on people. I've already made my cousin cry.

I have been feeling so trapped, so miserable of late. I see other people's happy pictures, read their stories of sex and love and sweetness and am so aware of what I don't have. If it was just us, breaking apart, then I could see the place for celebration and divorce cake and new starts. But the breaking apart of a family is something entirely different. It feels like lives hang in the balance.

I wish it wasn't my anniversary so soon. I just don't know what to do with it.

on the right side of the sunshine and rain

It's raining in France now. I have a friend who's stuck in a mobile home with her kids and ex. A test of their new healthy non-marriage, as they stare out at the  endless rain. It's raining there, it's sunny here now, and when we went, we got pretty good weather and left rain behind. Such falling into place of the cosmos for me!

We travelled there uneventfully after travelling the gauntlet of Dublin airport. You don't have to take your shoes off any  more, but now you have to rush up and down the roped off switchback while women with Eastern European accents shout at you to keep moving, in angry tones. Surrounded by alarmed families, herding young children and towing carry on luggage, I saw one stressed out guy turn and snap at his aged, mother to hurry up, as she stumbled behind him. I hope this isn't too tasteless, but there was more than a little aura of the death camp about it.

Did I mention we were flying Ryanair?

Actually, it was fine. I don't  need leg room anyway. The landing was fast and bumpy, and then ended with a funny little recorded toodilytootdetoo! trumpet noise, which I thought was ironic considering the mad quality of the landing - but it was just celebrating a timely arrival.

Then there was the Ryanair 1940s style walk across the tarmac. But in this case, it was magic. The airport was a little far away, but the I could feel the sun baking through my cords and warming my bum. At 9.45 in the morning. Ahhh.

Half an hour into the flight I realised with a jolt of horror that I'd forgotten the address and phone number of the house and its owner and had no clue as to where we were staying. I calmed down and reasoned that I could just check my gmail at the airport (I've done this before, unsurprisingly). But then the airport was teeny and prefabricated and did not have so much as an ATM. So I threw myself on the mercy of a family with a Blackberry, got the number, and masterfully sent texts and received directions in French.

Go me.

cuddling

I just happened across the concept of cuddle parties, and cuddling as being the new, most-ridiculed fetish.

I know fetishes don't have to be sexual, but cuddling doesn't seem particularly fetishy to me.

Here is a video documenting the adventures of an alarmed little black journalist going to check out a somewhat odd desert cuddle party. She's not so open minded going in :)

I'm not sure this one is representative of the general idea, tbh. Toe sucking does not seem kosher at all, at all. I dare you to watch the whole thing with the sound on - the cringe factor is exceedingly high. The stuff Americans can say without irony never ceases to amaze me.

However.

There are interesting discussions and perspectives in the comments.

Here's the thing. People are social, physical mammals, but over the years we've invented repression and personal space and all sorts of hangups. And the idea of sitting round in groups grooming each other have long disappeared. For adults, at least. But I agree, we need that contact, we need that oxytocin flow, the grounding, the recharging. The graph that shows how a child's physical contact with their parent declines once  they stop breastfeeding is really sad. The weirdy cuddlers in this vid do highlight the plight of western cultures that don't include a lot of casual touch, and the effect it has.

Lots of commenters are stressed out by the very idea of touching a stranger, and I know a lot of people who feel like that too. But I'm sorry we're all so afraid of each other. So terrified of contact. Isn't it a bit ... you know?

I'm not saying I'm thrilled at the idea of going to cuddle strangers. No. That doesn't seem to be the way forward. But I love all the people who say they used to go to lots of parties and dvd nights that would dissolve into cuddle puddles by the end. I said above that adults no longer do the grooming thing, but when I was a teenager, I found myself in an extended group of friends who touched a lot - there was much hugging and embracing and celebrating of coming-together on all possible occasions, and it was So Nice. You see kids doing each other's hair, and hugging and lounging on each other's laps and touching a lot. We knew something then, we knew the value of it. We recognised the need and met it for each other. I'm really grateful for that.

As a teenager, I had an abundance of need of affection, because, well, I didn't get that much as a kid, really. And sadly it's never really gone away. And as you may know, I married a man who didn't like physical contact much. Which wasn't so clever. So as an adult, you're reduced to grabbing your children too tight, and thinking 'Love Me!' which isn't so healthy for them (or you) really, now, is it. I have to confess, I would love to have the sort of friend group who still hung out in a heap on the sofa with duvets, and gave each other hand massages. I love when my friend cuts my hair, the cool, deft, competent feel of her touch and her movements. Any sort of massage is the best gift available. Sadly, cuddles from women don't really do it enough for me, I have that anima/animus-thing where I yearn for a manly chest to sink into more than a soft curvy one.

There's a lot to laugh (and cringe or shudder) at in the video, but generally, I'm all for the idea of finding someone to cuddle you. Let the oxytocin flow.

take me to the shame-hut of menstrual isolation

I wish men could understand what  hormonal fluctuations feel like. There should be some sort of pms simulator they can go for a ride in at funfairs.

The ready-to-weep feeling. The frustration. The vulnerability. The irritability. The uncontrolled cliff edge feeling. The homicidal rage.

And even if you know it must be pms, it really doesn't help.

This month the first day of my period has coincided with something very real and difficult, and sweet jesus, the awfulness of how it feels. You wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy... just... all men...

No, seriously, I would cheerfully retire to the hut-of-woman-shame for the week before and during my period. For the good of others, and to get me the fuck away from all you people.

Demure Lemur, writes of all the positives of pms, and how fiction is far more fun and engaging during it - a lovely perspective, not one I've noticed, but a nice idea. Her post made me determined to be more grateful for my own hormonal experiences, but just having been in the middle of it, I am less delighted.

I will say though, that I did greatly appreciate driving with the sun shining warmly and comfortingly onto my cramping abdomen today.

an uninformed oil spill post

I haven't posted about this before, because, ah, you know, what do I know? And it seems both too far away and too horrible to really contemplate, if you know what I mean.

But I have to confess to thinking ... why the hell can they not just pump it out of the water? It's oil and water, and the expression goes. They don't mix. Is it that hard to separate them? If it was the other way round, and there was water getting into the oil, would they be working harder on a solution? As opposed to just pouring toxins on top of the mess. Maybe I was being too simplistic - and yet, there's this...

How can they not be prepared for something like this? Why did they not spend the money to safeguard against it? Why are they not taking James Cameron's offer of sci fi submarines and ACTING on it?

That is all, really.

I just got a text from a friend, she got attacked on the weekend and has a broken bone in her foot - off to have tea and give sympathy forthwith. GAH. Stupid World.

songs in my head

watery

Not my bridge picture! But I didn't get one...

Ile de Ré

deep breath...

Um... hello...

I'm back, back home, and I was worried that I wouldn't be able to stop thinking in half arsed, unfinished, frustrated French - but that seems to have taken care of itself. Instead it's been replaced with (what must be hormonal) chest crushing anxiety and a litany of all the things I have failed at, and failed to succeed at, and failed to do, motivated by a newspaper spot about someone's successful packaged cookie dough business (www.kookydough.ie, the resourceful bastards!) combined with the children's book reviews, and the aforementioned anxiety. So instead of listing those things in a self pitying and whingy manner I've changed the sheets on the bed and got round to fiddling with the blog colours. It's not quite right. And there should be waterlilies. But, I'm sure you'll agree, the pink has had its day. And the pictures I'm about to post will look nice.

The island was lovely and I had a lovely time, though I felt like I didn't do much, and would like another little holiday to get me recovered from the children's endless bickering and fussing and falling over and annoying each other loudly etc. More thoughts on France anon.

holidays, my dears

I'm going on them. As of 4 am this morning. I hope no burglars read my blog.

We will have sand and sun and sea and so on on the Ile de Re, west coast of France. For a week. I am looking forward to the relaxing, the children having their dad 100% available to them, the supermarket paper thin crepes, the bread, the water, the prettiness, the glaces on the beach - though, not so much being seen as a non meat or fish eating freak woman in a French town on the Atlantic coast, so much - but all of the rest.

Now I must clean more, and finish packing, and change the bed for our return, and bring the dog to my brother and buy shampoo - harder than it looks because they only do it in one health food shop in Bray, sigh, these things aren't easy.

What else? What am I forgetting?

money porn

We saved our change in the giant wine bottle. I just finally got Axel to bring it into work and change it. He asked for a bag, as it would have looked a bit strange to be carrying this enormous bottle around with him.

So I found myself holding a small bag open in front of me by the handles while Axel shook the bottle into it, and it spurted coins out the top. I mentioned that it felt somewhat peculiar and he said, yeah, we could be inventing a new kind of porn, money porn.

I could actually do with some money porn right now. Do you think visualising yourself rolling in €50 notes would bring wealth into your life? Let's try it!

Agh!! All credit to my friend Rachel for pointing out that there was a 'money shot' shot joke opportunity to be exploited here - and I missed it!!

Ireland of the cead mile alcoholics

Weight Watchers today. A lady who'd lost all her weight, reached her target looked great, and was going home to celebrate with a whole bottle of champagne all for her, and a bottle of wine too. But that was ok because she hadn't had any alcohol for the last four months.

And she used to have a couple beers when cooking dinner. Followed by a bottle of wine. Every night.

I will confess to having raised a judgemental eyebrow to my friend. Yes, I did.

But mostly because she was blithely considering this as a bad thing, because of the fat content. Not because there was anything even slightly alcoholic about drinking two beers and a bottle of wine every night. That didn't seem to be an issue for her.

Oh, I know, it's not the end of the world, plenty of people drink more than that, blah blah, I'm not so horrified that I need to preach about it - it's more the country's general tacit acceptance of casual alchoholism and what so many people accept as the norm.

More power to her for stopping though.

visiting

I was going to see my granny last night, which I have not done enough since my uncle died. I said I'd be there around eight, I supposed, but Bodhi was strangely awake last night, and wouldn't settle. So I came downstairs at 8.40, to the ringing phone, and my grandmother saying she was getting worried about me. Sigh. As if I'm ever on time.

And then I arrived at 9pm, to her stating that it was bedtime already, looking pale and aged and feeble less of herself than she usually looks. Is 92 too old? Ugh. Last time I went out in the evening, she was all for it, and I had to extricate myself at 11 to go home and work all night. So I thought I was ok.

But no funny stories, this time, just sad ones, and awful truths - a five year old boy bruised from head to foot, and the doctor who wouldn't help, said the boy's father was only putting manners on him - and more insults for my slut of a mother (re the way she kept herself and her house again, not in terms of promiscuity, fret not). And how her life had not been easy or kind, and now this tragedy, right at the end, was just too much of a cruelty. And she wonders about an afterlife, but doesn't really believe. She's afraid. But she's also had enough. Maybe that's what the wolf in Red Riding Hood is about. Visiting one's granny is a lesson in mortality each time.

Driving home in the dark, pondering marriage, and choices and happiness, I looked at the flyover, which was once the New Road, under construction, and remembered the night we all sneaked out about 3 in the morning, climbed out the window and met up and and wandered about the roads all full of  the joy of trespass and transgression and glee. I lost my new mini-maglite torch in the old ruined graveyard and Neil climbed up the new unfinished flyover bridge and jumped off, twisting his ankle nastily.

Imagine the horror of waking to find your thirteen year old is no longer abed, is missing without trace... it's ok though, she's only wandering the deserted country road innocently, feeling that midnight mystic promise and wondering what her place is, in the leafy dark. Watching boys climb up stuff and fall off...

it should be booby tuesday...

But I've forgotten about that, rather. Hmm. Anyone?

I have a story to tell, but it's not particularly happy, and I'm not in the mood. Not in a booby mood.

And it seems I'm not in a posting mood, either, so I will give up for now, and play you the songs I'm listening to on repeat.

Divine Comedy, anyone?





I first saw Neil Hannon supporting Kristen Hirsch, with a guitar, just him on the lonely stage at the Olympia, singing Yeats poems with abandon and confidence. Such an original man. I loved this album. But then I sort of lost track... I'm glad they got so popular though.


Tonight we fly,
Over the mountains, the beach and the sea,
Over the friends we have known and those that we now know
Over those whom we've yet to meet

And when we die...

Oh will we be that disappointed or sad
if Heaven doesn't exist
What will we have missed,
this life is the best we've ever had

Such beautiful grammar in one so young... :)