A year in the life of an Australian writer in Ireland.
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Friday, May 30, 2003

The Boys
What was my first encounter of Janssen?

I'd always heard about him through the grapevine. That's how it is in Hobart, especially if you move in artistic/literary circles. The community is actually small enough that the circles twist inwards into spirals. That six-degrees-of-separation theory? You only need four in Hobart.

There is no memory of the actual day I'd met Janssen, but Mark really clicks with him, and so the two stick, drinking beer and making each other laugh. Artist he is, vague as fog, but talented as the f-word.

He also keeps trying to get me drunk. For some reason, he really wants to do this. I remember one year, him chasing me with a beer-jug, trying to top up my pint-glass. Out of spite, I tipped my lot on the lawn. Boy, was he aghast!

He's off to Sweden to see his girl in June (only a few days away, Janssen!).

Now Andrew is a good sort. But my first reaction to him (he'll laugh when he reads this): I was intimidated. Well, wouldn't you? He's a biggish guy, loud, and kinda boisterous, in a weird, dark way. Has a gothic feel about him.

So I thought, okay, don't have anything to do with this guy.

I've seen him around the traps. He does TheatreSports, acts (we've even been in a production together: A Gothic Night of Sex and Death), loves the limelight, but little did I know how we'd get to know each other.

It was in Tog where I was editor that I'd really got to know this guy's amazing capacity to tell a story. During this time, I edited his work, gave it a little polish, and sat back to view the reaction of the University campus as his words were released.

I don't think they quite knew what hit them. His voice is unique, and he's also a dear friend. We've had some crazy japes performing poetry together at the Republic, too. That's fun. I miss seeing him around (hi, Andrew!).

So those are two of my pals from Hobart.

Thursday, May 29, 2003

i.m. Anthony Day
Farewell, Dancing Man.
Lax
Call me slack (Ivy, you're slack), but I swear, everything and nothing is happening. Just the usual work-home-work-home to and fro.

I guess I've always had this idea, and I'm probably not alone in this, that when one goes away to another country, somehow it changes one's outlook, perception and, for all I know, demeanor.

Disappointingly, this is not the case. I'm still the same me, just less bored.

I am working in another country. That's a good thing. Oh, I know, (heaven knows) I'm lucky to be working. Jobs are rather scarce here in Dublin, too. But the whole going-away-thing loses lustre when the other country becomes quotidian. The everyday.

That's why the trip to Amsterdam was something to savour. And why another European destination is looking very enticing, indeed. Take me away from the daily. Transport me to a place where I can just concentrate on something else other than the chore of keeping one's self (mind, body, soul) together.

Okay, let's flip a coin. Paris? Or Spain? Sometime in September, mind you.

If it's Spain, it'll be to Alicante, the place where, interestingly, Sylvia Plath spent her honeymoon.

Just a bit of poetry trivia for you.

Sunday, May 25, 2003

Propriety
My goodness, it's wonderful to have some money saved up now.

Mark and I went and spent.

I'm sorry. I feel a bit bad about that. But also somewhat deserving. Isn't it funny how money can make one feel that way?

I did need new shoes, though. These are Hush Puppies. They look very swish. And I also have a new pair of dangly earrings.

I guess I feel bad about buying new things because I'd rather spend it on a new literary magazine. At least, that's what I've splurged on in the past. I think, you know, I'm helping the literary community somehow, by buying their work.

That's what I did with most of the grant money I received... spent it on subscriptions, so that it goes back to the writers in some fashion.

Money makes me feel funny. That's for sure.

Wednesday, May 21, 2003

A matter of time
Dammit, I have to travel for two hours each way to work and home! Doesn't it just bite the big one?

Because the shop is being re-fitted, all full-time staff get to work in Finglas where the books are currently stored in the warehouse (I nearly verbed the noun warehouse until I remembered, just in time, that doing that [i.e. use the word warehoused] is a bit of a booboo. But then again, didn't I just do that with 'verbed'? [And I think warehoused is actually part of common parlance now anyway.] Let's move right along, shall we? All these parenthetical asides is making me ill. You're probably feeling worse.)

So I now wake up at the intemperate hour of six in the morning (as if seven in the morning is that much more civilised). But one good thing about working somewhere else is seeing a different part of Dublin. On the drive there, I received a running commentary from the other people in the car.

'That's where Michael Collins is buried.'
'That's where I went to school.'
'What's that? Is that a prison over there?' asks I.
'No, that's a housing development.'

I actually managed, tonight, to scrounge up a meal so that Mark came home in time for it to be dished out. How switched on is that? Believe me, it's a rarity nowadays. He likes shepherd's pie, so he was very appreciative.

I've been working on a poem for the last few days. Normally, I don't take this long, preferring to do it in one hit over several hours, but with this one I wanted to give it time and space, which would result in a fruitful perspective with which to judge the work. At least, I hope so. It is done, and I know I've not skimped on it. Now it is free to go find its home somewhere.

Monday, May 19, 2003

Letter T for temper
Yesterday was a real howling hound-doggy dog-doo of a day.

I packed a lot of boxes. Full of books. Heavy books. I packed fifteen boxes in four hours. I was ordered around like a little soldier and you know, I thought, I'm getting really jack of this crap. Somebody played really bad (and I mean, woeful) music. I lost my temper and I'm still regretting it (but in my defense, I was hungry. You know what I'm like when I'm hungry. I get abominably cranky. Blame it on my Spanish blood).

There was book-dust everywhere. I woke up this morning with the dry throat usually associated with too much Baileys consumed the night before. I was in that hellfire-blasted shop from nine till nine. Today I am not doing a thing. Do you hear me? Not. One. Iota.

I'll be taking steps to find a new job. Yesterday made me realise that I need to do it now. So. Must revamp CV and send it out again into fair green Ireland.

Thursday, May 15, 2003

Do you not?
That phrase has to be the cutest amongst all the Irish phrases I've heard so far. The Irish do not say, 'didn't you?' or 'doesn't she?', preferring instead to say, 'did you not?' and 'does she not?' Isn't it the coolest?

The commonest phrase I hear is 'Thanks a million.' This may be because I work at the cash-register.

The most complimentary stock-phrase I've received is, 'Ah, you're very good.' It needs that 'ah', and it is very run-on together. It's like a verbal pat on the head.

I'm trying to find out Irish curse-phrases. I'll be reporting on these soon, when I have a good number with which to scandalise the reading public.

Mark's downstairs cooking banana bread. We've returned from another book-launch. Can't beat those free canapés, champagne and wine!

It's rainy-wet outside again. If I may be allowed the audacity of quoting from one of my poems...
wet tires on macadam
make the sound of a million
zippers unzipping

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

What to tell
There was a stabbing here in Lucan a couple of nights ago. Bit strange, really. I heard the sirens outside and thought, What was that? An idea that just floated off until the following day when a workmate said, 'There was a killing near your place. Did you have anything to do with it?'

All the daffodils are shrivelling in their lawns. The evenings are warming up, and Mark might finally be able to get rid of the car we've had since Aberdeen. We are in the process of scoping out other places to live in Dublin that might prove closer in to work. The commute is just getting unbearable.

Still no word poetry-wise. No news must be good news, right?

Maybe.

Monday, May 12, 2003

Silence for a while
The days off I really like. It's the reality crash of work that's not so good.

Staff morale is ailing, and I really feel like making tracks for a town called Elsewhere.

I rang Australia and jawed a bit to my friends and family about how I am.

And I have nine poems that are currently in the limbo of Submission Land, where I await the 'aye' or 'nay'.

Why am I so elliptical? Today has not been the best of days. I swing between ennui and frustration. If the one intelligent person who works at the bookshop ever went, I don't know how I'd be able to keep my sense of humour.

Mark and I are thinking of buying a Vespa and commuting to work that way. I've always wanted a scooter (well, 'always' being about five years). They seem so cool. Much better than a bike—all that exertion!

We've also been going sick on jackfruit chips. It's our latest fad food. The things you find at an Asia Food Emporium. If ever there's a day you feel adventurous, I would thoroughly recommend spending time and money at one.

Postscript: I still want to get published.

Wednesday, May 07, 2003

Better
I'm getting a bit antsy with work. Not really too sure what to do. On the one hand, it's steady and comforting. On the other, I'm feeling dissatisfied. Ah, well...

I am so looking forward to my day off tomorrow. Have even got my outfit semi-planned out (one does these things, just to augment the feeling of perfection to the day). I need to wear something special and out-of-the-ordinary, something that's not suitable for work.

Furthermore, I am raring to go and find more poetry journals that might publish my work. First thing (or second thing tomorrow, depending on how I feel), I am heading to The Winding Stair Bookshop to grope among the dust-bunnies for lovely, lovely books.

Yesterday, Mark and I rented out The Piano, so that will also form part of Operation: Perfect Day Off. Things are looking better.

Sunday, May 04, 2003

Another one
A Scotland-based journal that has just started up, Anon, has accepted a poem of mine. Yay! "Happy, happy, joy, joy!"

And the hour at the radio station also went well, I think. Who knows? Something might come out of it. Mark said I read my poems clearly, which is always a bonus.

Am I getting closer to publication? God, I hope so.

Friday, May 02, 2003

Days
Sometimes you bumble along and then other days it's like bam!

I worked at The Dubliner again today. Did I tell you that I'm giving up my days off? Because I work varied days at the bookshop, I can get a day off in the middle of the week. So, effectively, I work six-day weeks sometimes.

At the office, I was getting on with my tasks, when the pubisher asked if I wanted to be on the radio. I said, sure.

So I am spending Sunday, my only day off this week, reading my poems out on a community radio station, Anna Livia (103.2 FM, I think). Huzzah, and a little bit 'woe', at the same time (mainly because I feel a bit tired). But really, mostly 'huzzah'.