French toast
Mark's sicky today, so I made him some french toast for brekkie, served with serious maple syrup yum. Then we had a walk around Terenure, just to see what was around our next-neighbourhood.
We wandered over to the boulangerie in Rathgar, bought some sticks of bread and cheese, and had that for lunch. And now, here I am, blogging about it.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Who?
According to this news item that Mark emailed to me (yeah, that's right. We don't talk, we email), some so-and-so's made an attempt to break David Boon's record for number of beers drunk on a plane, or some such thing.
Anyway, the record remains unbroken. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is going, Who? But all ye Tasmanians and cricket fans, we know who Boonie is.
Carn, Boonie!
According to this news item that Mark emailed to me (yeah, that's right. We don't talk, we email), some so-and-so's made an attempt to break David Boon's record for number of beers drunk on a plane, or some such thing.
Anyway, the record remains unbroken. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is going, Who? But all ye Tasmanians and cricket fans, we know who Boonie is.
Carn, Boonie!
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
I forgot
I've been meaning to post one item here. Don't know if it falls under gossip or odd trivia or what. Anyway...
You know Clive James, right? The writer? The guy who sometimes turns up on TV with a weird accent that's sorta Brit, sorta Aussie, sorta Yank? He was at the bookshop last week, signing books during a walkabout of the Dublin bookshops. Anyway...
He's got hairy ears.
That's all.
I've been meaning to post one item here. Don't know if it falls under gossip or odd trivia or what. Anyway...
You know Clive James, right? The writer? The guy who sometimes turns up on TV with a weird accent that's sorta Brit, sorta Aussie, sorta Yank? He was at the bookshop last week, signing books during a walkabout of the Dublin bookshops. Anyway...
He's got hairy ears.
That's all.
Monday, November 24, 2003
A bit of kulcha
What a groovy weekend I've just had.
Went to see Beckett's Waiting for Godot at the Gate Theatre, which was some kind of special. Although I didn't really get off on the titchiness it induced in me during the second act, I'm glad I went and saw it all the same. And just like I have a need to find the underlying meaning of Mulholland Drive, I think I have decoded Beckett's play.
I was reading a couple of pages from his work at the bookshop, and it is really quite compulsive. I'm tempted to buy a copy. Maybe I'll just flail around a couple of secondhand bookshops until I find one.
Anyway, Beckett was my Saturday night, while Tarantino was my Sunday. And I, like many others, liked Kill Bill.
Finished reading a proof copy of Garrison Keillor's Love Me, which had quite a good start, but seemed to flag a bit in the end. The use of poems in the novel was quite intriguing, though.
And so I am here today -- my day off. I've just polished off my muesli and grapefruit juice (sour face) and I'm ready to procrastinate.
What a groovy weekend I've just had.
Went to see Beckett's Waiting for Godot at the Gate Theatre, which was some kind of special. Although I didn't really get off on the titchiness it induced in me during the second act, I'm glad I went and saw it all the same. And just like I have a need to find the underlying meaning of Mulholland Drive, I think I have decoded Beckett's play.
I was reading a couple of pages from his work at the bookshop, and it is really quite compulsive. I'm tempted to buy a copy. Maybe I'll just flail around a couple of secondhand bookshops until I find one.
Anyway, Beckett was my Saturday night, while Tarantino was my Sunday. And I, like many others, liked Kill Bill.
Finished reading a proof copy of Garrison Keillor's Love Me, which had quite a good start, but seemed to flag a bit in the end. The use of poems in the novel was quite intriguing, though.
And so I am here today -- my day off. I've just polished off my muesli and grapefruit juice (sour face) and I'm ready to procrastinate.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Quick quick
Did some dancing tonight, and boy, my hips kinda hurt.
All the lights are up in the city, Christmas trees, street decorations, all blinking and colourful; the night seems bright and clear, people flowing around us as we walk to catch a bus home.
I'm looking forward to my dinner. Did I say it's now just after 10pm?
Did some dancing tonight, and boy, my hips kinda hurt.
All the lights are up in the city, Christmas trees, street decorations, all blinking and colourful; the night seems bright and clear, people flowing around us as we walk to catch a bus home.
I'm looking forward to my dinner. Did I say it's now just after 10pm?
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Monday, November 17, 2003
No peeled grapes
But very happy, anyway. I've just received a response from an online journal (that actually pays for poems), though only after a little prodding from me, of course. Ahem. Waiting almost a year for a yea or nay is just cause for a prod, don't you think?
So, his response was quite encouraging: he 'nearly' took one. Cool cool cool.
I sent off a submission today, my first in a long while. I might even try the poetry publishers now. Maybe.
Still I am gripped by doubt. This must stop.
But very happy, anyway. I've just received a response from an online journal (that actually pays for poems), though only after a little prodding from me, of course. Ahem. Waiting almost a year for a yea or nay is just cause for a prod, don't you think?
So, his response was quite encouraging: he 'nearly' took one. Cool cool cool.
I sent off a submission today, my first in a long while. I might even try the poetry publishers now. Maybe.
Still I am gripped by doubt. This must stop.
Friday, November 14, 2003
The wind
It whistles behind the board that covers the hole of the fireplace, up along the throat of the chimney, like the last exhalations from rattling lungs. It shakes the windows in their grooves, and flings raindrops against the glass, sends leaves skittering along the path, children let out from school at long last. The telephone lines sway and sway, and on the lawn, a shirt lies down like a dead body. Today, he rides to work, the wind's cold grasp snaking down his neck, presses on his cheeks, steals his breath away.
It whistles behind the board that covers the hole of the fireplace, up along the throat of the chimney, like the last exhalations from rattling lungs. It shakes the windows in their grooves, and flings raindrops against the glass, sends leaves skittering along the path, children let out from school at long last. The telephone lines sway and sway, and on the lawn, a shirt lies down like a dead body. Today, he rides to work, the wind's cold grasp snaking down his neck, presses on his cheeks, steals his breath away.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Oh, poop
Just lost an entry.
What'd I say? I said I was watching Mark eat a Galaxy chocolate. Now I'm eating a bit. Also, that I was tired. And that sometimes I don't know what I'm saying when I'm tired.
People here don't know what to make of the beautiful weather we've been having lately. The Irish are so fatalistic. They're funny. I love it, though. I say, Revel!
Just lost an entry.
What'd I say? I said I was watching Mark eat a Galaxy chocolate. Now I'm eating a bit. Also, that I was tired. And that sometimes I don't know what I'm saying when I'm tired.
People here don't know what to make of the beautiful weather we've been having lately. The Irish are so fatalistic. They're funny. I love it, though. I say, Revel!
Monday, November 10, 2003
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Personal barometers
In Hobart, there is Mt Wellington by which one can tell what the weather might be like for that day. If it had snow, it was going to be cold. If not, it might be okay. Here in Dublin, I have the window-panes.
The past couple of days, there have been no fogging-up of the windows, and like a borne-out prediction, they have been mild, beautiful, unseasonal winter days:
I love these good days
when weather does not deserve
its reputation
Today, there is a little fog around the edges, and Mark had to come back to put on a heavier layer, after stepping out in just a t-shirt and jacket.
What's your barometer?
In Hobart, there is Mt Wellington by which one can tell what the weather might be like for that day. If it had snow, it was going to be cold. If not, it might be okay. Here in Dublin, I have the window-panes.
The past couple of days, there have been no fogging-up of the windows, and like a borne-out prediction, they have been mild, beautiful, unseasonal winter days:
I love these good days
when weather does not deserve
its reputation
Today, there is a little fog around the edges, and Mark had to come back to put on a heavier layer, after stepping out in just a t-shirt and jacket.
What's your barometer?
Dancing fools
I forgot how much dancing makes my hips hurt. I think I may be overcompensating for when Mark goes forward with his right foot and my own left foot goes back in response, because that is the leg which was aching the most yesterday.
But still it's fun. Good to be dancing again. And we were, by far, the most advanced couple on the floor. Aren't you impressed?
I forgot how much dancing makes my hips hurt. I think I may be overcompensating for when Mark goes forward with his right foot and my own left foot goes back in response, because that is the leg which was aching the most yesterday.
But still it's fun. Good to be dancing again. And we were, by far, the most advanced couple on the floor. Aren't you impressed?
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Belated pumpkin
Meet Edward. Well, actually, you probably will never ever get to meet Edward because the last time I saw him, he was in pieces after a successful suicide bid out of our bedroom window.
Don't ask.
Anyhoo... Shh! I have a secret. I'm not telling but it's writing-related. Don't worry, not getting published, but am writing. Very cool.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Wasabi peas yum
Ah-huh, doesn't get much better than this.
Ooh-ooh, would it be terribly bad of me to exploit a contact if they know someone who can help me get my poetry manuscript published?
Maybe nothing will come out of it, but I got to try.
Sometimes I think I should resign myself to waiting till people are clamouring for my poetry to be in a book.
It could be a long wait. Tee-hee!
Ah-huh, doesn't get much better than this.
Ooh-ooh, would it be terribly bad of me to exploit a contact if they know someone who can help me get my poetry manuscript published?
Maybe nothing will come out of it, but I got to try.
Sometimes I think I should resign myself to waiting till people are clamouring for my poetry to be in a book.
It could be a long wait. Tee-hee!
Monday, November 03, 2003
Listening to the 80s
As a leaving present from my previous place of employment here in Ireland, I was given a book of poems by Irish poets (of course) and a presentation case of eight CDs of 80s music.
Okay, I like 80s music. I do. There is no 'but' to this paragraph. I was just surprised that someone would give this to me. Maybe it was the way I'd sing along to it at work, or the fact that I'd put one 80s music at every opportunity that gave people this idea that I would enjoy it. Yeah, that might be it.
The thing is, I don't play it enough, you know? Gotta be in the mood for the ol' 80s, which was why it was perfect for work. It seemed to provide a certain escapism there. At home, it just feels like a nostalgia kick. Ah, well.
It's nearly time to leave this second bookshop. And I've got to hustle (as in 'work hard', not 'sell') my butt once more.
As Ned Kelly once said, 'I am an outlaw, and my orders must be obeyed. Make no noise. Raise no alarm. Keep your hands up and stand against the wall.'
Oh, hang on, that's not what I'd meant to write.
Nevermind, that'll do.
As a leaving present from my previous place of employment here in Ireland, I was given a book of poems by Irish poets (of course) and a presentation case of eight CDs of 80s music.
Okay, I like 80s music. I do. There is no 'but' to this paragraph. I was just surprised that someone would give this to me. Maybe it was the way I'd sing along to it at work, or the fact that I'd put one 80s music at every opportunity that gave people this idea that I would enjoy it. Yeah, that might be it.
The thing is, I don't play it enough, you know? Gotta be in the mood for the ol' 80s, which was why it was perfect for work. It seemed to provide a certain escapism there. At home, it just feels like a nostalgia kick. Ah, well.
It's nearly time to leave this second bookshop. And I've got to hustle (as in 'work hard', not 'sell') my butt once more.
As Ned Kelly once said, 'I am an outlaw, and my orders must be obeyed. Make no noise. Raise no alarm. Keep your hands up and stand against the wall.'
Oh, hang on, that's not what I'd meant to write.
Nevermind, that'll do.
Saturday, November 01, 2003
Last night, he said
"It's like a war zone out there." Although fireworks are illegal in Ireland, you wouldn't have thought so from the view outside our living-room window, where we had front row seats to our very own four-hour fireworks display.
When we stepped outside, the streets were littered with lolly wrappers and the air was smoky with the smell of cordite. Madness.
As I made my way home from a very tentative day at work (because I was still just getting back into the swing of things; still sick, you know, but getting better thank you very much), I was sitting at the top of this double-decker bus (trés cool), when I heard this splash behind me.
At first, I thought, 'Oh no, some poor dork's opened their water bottle and it's spilled everywhere.' But it was worse than that.
I looked over my shoulder, and in actuality, it was some poor girl who'd just whoopsied all down the stairwell, where smelly vom cascaded against the wall, down the steps and over this woolly-hatted dude's sleeve.
That sharp acidic smell followed me home.
But the upside is, I'm getting sausages and mash for dinner tonight. Just as soon as Mark gets home. Yay!
"It's like a war zone out there." Although fireworks are illegal in Ireland, you wouldn't have thought so from the view outside our living-room window, where we had front row seats to our very own four-hour fireworks display.
When we stepped outside, the streets were littered with lolly wrappers and the air was smoky with the smell of cordite. Madness.
As I made my way home from a very tentative day at work (because I was still just getting back into the swing of things; still sick, you know, but getting better thank you very much), I was sitting at the top of this double-decker bus (trés cool), when I heard this splash behind me.
At first, I thought, 'Oh no, some poor dork's opened their water bottle and it's spilled everywhere.' But it was worse than that.
I looked over my shoulder, and in actuality, it was some poor girl who'd just whoopsied all down the stairwell, where smelly vom cascaded against the wall, down the steps and over this woolly-hatted dude's sleeve.
That sharp acidic smell followed me home.
But the upside is, I'm getting sausages and mash for dinner tonight. Just as soon as Mark gets home. Yay!
