A wonderful weekend
Lazing about in bed, then wandering around the neighbourhood, doing the week's shopping... this is just about the best thing about Sundays.
I can't say much better than that. I hope one day to live a well-earnt month of Sundays.
Last drinks.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
The end is nigh
It's almost been a year since I arrived in Dublin.
When first I came here, I was confused, overwhelmed and not a little scared at the thought of fending for myself for the first two weeks in a strange country. I found work and, eventually, friends and have gotten to know a little bit about Dublin.
Life here has been as if it were life anywhere else, all the quotidian details of working and living your life outside of work. In Ireland, there have been more opportunities to see more of the world, with an accessibility that makes me envious, when seen in the light of Australia's remoteness to other countries. Travelling has been a good thing, and I'm so thankful for that.
I'll be concluding the Dublin Up blog on the 15th, and reminiscing in a rather saccharine fashion about everything that catches my eye. Readers of this soon-to-be-ex-blog can keep their own eyes on my other writing blog, Ivy is here, which won't be all that sweet, and may even be tart on occasion.
Almost time to bid you adieu, my dears. Almost time for last drinks.
It's almost been a year since I arrived in Dublin.
When first I came here, I was confused, overwhelmed and not a little scared at the thought of fending for myself for the first two weeks in a strange country. I found work and, eventually, friends and have gotten to know a little bit about Dublin.
Life here has been as if it were life anywhere else, all the quotidian details of working and living your life outside of work. In Ireland, there have been more opportunities to see more of the world, with an accessibility that makes me envious, when seen in the light of Australia's remoteness to other countries. Travelling has been a good thing, and I'm so thankful for that.
I'll be concluding the Dublin Up blog on the 15th, and reminiscing in a rather saccharine fashion about everything that catches my eye. Readers of this soon-to-be-ex-blog can keep their own eyes on my other writing blog, Ivy is here, which won't be all that sweet, and may even be tart on occasion.
Almost time to bid you adieu, my dears. Almost time for last drinks.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
 I am Mr Do. |
Monday, February 09, 2004
Walkabout
A day of movement, walking from place to place, despite the cold. A picture of a statue, a building, a stone flower, my digital camera giving an approving little beep everytime I press the button. The cold, the sun playing peekaboo behind the clouds.
Every trip to and from Dun Laoghaire on the bus sends me to sleep, falling on Mark's shoulder, waking up in time to see the final destination looming. The Martello Tower in Sandycove, located near the Forty Foot Bathing Place, houses the James Joyce Museum. A good long walk from the bus stop to the Point, dogs and their evidence punctuating the footpath ahead. The wind like a shock of steel coil around my neck, bare skin.
James Joyce has two death masks.
The warmth of a pub after the museum trip, looking forward to fish and chips, chose to have seafood chowder—so creamy, the salmon tasted of sea mist, sea salt. The tingly itches on the skin as heat returns to the blood. Cider sweetening the tongue, loosening the limbs. The padded seat underneath welcoming me into a state of satiation.
♠ ♥ ♣ ◊
I didn't tell Mark this till after the wedding, after we'd switched from Luxor's basic room to the one several floors up, the one with a jacuzzi.
One night, while I was in the loo, I had the strongest feeling of wrongness about it. An immediate image came to me.
The poor guy.
By that I mean the man who'd hung himself in the shower.
It was just a flash, an image.
I probably shouldn't have told Mark during breakfast. I guess I wasn't thinking. After Mark got over the shock, he speculated that it was likely to have happened there as any place. We were, after all, in Vegas: dreams are made and lost here, as random as life.
It didn't help that it had happened on the 13th floor.
'I don't have any confirmation of this. Maybe it's just my overactive imagination, you know? That's just as likely.'
'Mm,' Mark replied noncommittally. He'd stopped eating his food.
The reason I mention this now is that Mark sent me this headline: Vegas' grim side surfaces monthly.
Creepy, huh?
A day of movement, walking from place to place, despite the cold. A picture of a statue, a building, a stone flower, my digital camera giving an approving little beep everytime I press the button. The cold, the sun playing peekaboo behind the clouds.
Every trip to and from Dun Laoghaire on the bus sends me to sleep, falling on Mark's shoulder, waking up in time to see the final destination looming. The Martello Tower in Sandycove, located near the Forty Foot Bathing Place, houses the James Joyce Museum. A good long walk from the bus stop to the Point, dogs and their evidence punctuating the footpath ahead. The wind like a shock of steel coil around my neck, bare skin.
James Joyce has two death masks.
The warmth of a pub after the museum trip, looking forward to fish and chips, chose to have seafood chowder—so creamy, the salmon tasted of sea mist, sea salt. The tingly itches on the skin as heat returns to the blood. Cider sweetening the tongue, loosening the limbs. The padded seat underneath welcoming me into a state of satiation.
♠ ♥ ♣ ◊
I didn't tell Mark this till after the wedding, after we'd switched from Luxor's basic room to the one several floors up, the one with a jacuzzi.
One night, while I was in the loo, I had the strongest feeling of wrongness about it. An immediate image came to me.
The poor guy.
By that I mean the man who'd hung himself in the shower.
It was just a flash, an image.
I probably shouldn't have told Mark during breakfast. I guess I wasn't thinking. After Mark got over the shock, he speculated that it was likely to have happened there as any place. We were, after all, in Vegas: dreams are made and lost here, as random as life.
It didn't help that it had happened on the 13th floor.
'I don't have any confirmation of this. Maybe it's just my overactive imagination, you know? That's just as likely.'
'Mm,' Mark replied noncommittally. He'd stopped eating his food.
The reason I mention this now is that Mark sent me this headline: Vegas' grim side surfaces monthly.
Creepy, huh?
Friday, February 06, 2004
The world is a coin
I actually wandered out into the world today.
No more cabin fever. I go to create. At the library in Rathmines, in the second floor, there are desks and chairs. I sit, I write.
There are many coins in Dublin. Usually you see them lying around, casual, forgotten. Ever since someone told me that these coins were lucky, I've been picking them up.
I found a €1 once. I bought bread with it. That was lucky.
Someone asked for my cinnamon tea cake recipe today, so here you go, tea cake-maker!
I actually wandered out into the world today.
No more cabin fever. I go to create. At the library in Rathmines, in the second floor, there are desks and chairs. I sit, I write.
There are many coins in Dublin. Usually you see them lying around, casual, forgotten. Ever since someone told me that these coins were lucky, I've been picking them up.
I found a €1 once. I bought bread with it. That was lucky.
Someone asked for my cinnamon tea cake recipe today, so here you go, tea cake-maker!
Cinnamon Tea CakeYum! Perfect for chilly nights, wonderful when hot from the oven. Ah, the taste, aroma and warm fuzzies!
½ cup butter • ½ cup castor sugar • 1 egg, beaten • ½ cup milk • 1½ cup self-raising flour • 1 tsp butter, melted • 1 tsp cinnamon • 2 tsp castor sugar
1. Grease 18cm round sandwich pan. Preheat oven to 190°C.
2. Cream butter and sugar. Mix in egg.
3. Add milk and flour alternately, one-third at a time, mixing lightly.
4. Place in pan and bake for 30-35mins.
5. Cool slightly on cake cooler.
6. While still hot, spread the butter and sprinkle a mixture of cinnamon and sugar.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Deadly
Wrinklies tend not to use this word. It means 'that's great' and 'awesome'. There's a slight drag and lilt in the first syllable, but it is enunciated most emphatically.
Deadly.
By the way, groovy pic on theright left, right? [Now you know, I'm directionally dyslexic.] Taken in the MGM casino, a moodier joint than the one in the Luxor, which was just loud and bright. But they both had that stale smell of 'loser' that was hard to miss.
Good thing we left.
Wrinklies tend not to use this word. It means 'that's great' and 'awesome'. There's a slight drag and lilt in the first syllable, but it is enunciated most emphatically.
Deadly.
By the way, groovy pic on the
Good thing we left.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
The indrawn breath
Another odd thing. Here. In Ireland. They use the indrawn breath. As punctuation.
I exaggerate, of course. It's commonly used to express a combination of mild shock, disbelief, agreement and wonderment at the state of the world today, especially in the face of bad news. It sounds more like the breath before a plosive gasp, or as if one is suppressing a hiccup, yet nevertheless one carries on with the conversation:
'Did you hear yer man's after raising the price of Guinness next year?'
'(indrawn breath) Ah, yeh. It's unbelievable.'
At first I thought that a lot of people just suffered from asthma. Until I knew better.
So endeth the lesson for today.
Another odd thing. Here. In Ireland. They use the indrawn breath. As punctuation.
I exaggerate, of course. It's commonly used to express a combination of mild shock, disbelief, agreement and wonderment at the state of the world today, especially in the face of bad news. It sounds more like the breath before a plosive gasp, or as if one is suppressing a hiccup, yet nevertheless one carries on with the conversation:
'Did you hear yer man's after raising the price of Guinness next year?'
'(indrawn breath) Ah, yeh. It's unbelievable.'
At first I thought that a lot of people just suffered from asthma. Until I knew better.
So endeth the lesson for today.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Hypnotised
The most fun thing about the wedding was how, once the game got started, once the ball was released, the lever pulled back and the hammer struck home on the silver metal ball, it was nothing but one, big, glorious pinball game.
Limo pulled up, pinged us straight to the Marriage Licence Bureau. Meantime, we had to fill out a form. Ping! Out the door. We waited in line, and the look and feel was of bureaucracy at night, sleepy and relaxed. Ping! To the dude who asked us to sign another form. Ping! Back to the limo! It felt cocooned in there, nocturnal neon lights blinking, bourbon and champagne glasses gently clinking in their cradles. We played with the controls, put on some music, put the screen up, so that the driver talking to his girl on his mobile phone was muted to zero.
Ping! We're at the chapel. I re-arrange my garb, am told that our pictures will get taken first, and am given my bouquet of daisies.
Ping! The photographer poses us in cheesy atttitudes, and we giggle and laugh. Afterward, the wind is so cold around my neck when we go outside, steals around my ankles and wrists and I hold onto Mark to share his warmth.
Ping! This is it! We talk to the minister briefly. He asks us if I want to walk down the aisle and Mark says yes. Because I have, in fact, lost my voice, I rasped out to Mark (back in our hotel room, while we were getting ready) to tell the minister to choose something where I'm talking minimally.
I walk down the aisle. I am looking at the minister and then I look at Mark. I say I do. I whisper my vows, but somehow it is loud enough to be heard. We exchange our rings. Mark and I kiss.
We pick up the marriage certificate. We go back to the limo.
"Did you see that? The minister was hypnotising us. He kept saying 'true love' and 'best friends'," Mark said.
"No, I didn't notice anything." I smile and feel relieved and happy because it was more fun than I believed it could be.
I'm glad we didn't go for a traditional wedding. I would have felt crushed.
We are at the door of our room, and Mark remembers to carry me over the threshold.
He closes the door.
♠ ♥ ♣ ◊
The most fun thing about the wedding was how, once the game got started, once the ball was released, the lever pulled back and the hammer struck home on the silver metal ball, it was nothing but one, big, glorious pinball game.
Limo pulled up, pinged us straight to the Marriage Licence Bureau. Meantime, we had to fill out a form. Ping! Out the door. We waited in line, and the look and feel was of bureaucracy at night, sleepy and relaxed. Ping! To the dude who asked us to sign another form. Ping! Back to the limo! It felt cocooned in there, nocturnal neon lights blinking, bourbon and champagne glasses gently clinking in their cradles. We played with the controls, put on some music, put the screen up, so that the driver talking to his girl on his mobile phone was muted to zero.
Ping! We're at the chapel. I re-arrange my garb, am told that our pictures will get taken first, and am given my bouquet of daisies.
Ping! The photographer poses us in cheesy atttitudes, and we giggle and laugh. Afterward, the wind is so cold around my neck when we go outside, steals around my ankles and wrists and I hold onto Mark to share his warmth.
Ping! This is it! We talk to the minister briefly. He asks us if I want to walk down the aisle and Mark says yes. Because I have, in fact, lost my voice, I rasped out to Mark (back in our hotel room, while we were getting ready) to tell the minister to choose something where I'm talking minimally.
I walk down the aisle. I am looking at the minister and then I look at Mark. I say I do. I whisper my vows, but somehow it is loud enough to be heard. We exchange our rings. Mark and I kiss.
We pick up the marriage certificate. We go back to the limo.
"Did you see that? The minister was hypnotising us. He kept saying 'true love' and 'best friends'," Mark said.
"No, I didn't notice anything." I smile and feel relieved and happy because it was more fun than I believed it could be.
I'm glad we didn't go for a traditional wedding. I would have felt crushed.
We are at the door of our room, and Mark remembers to carry me over the threshold.
He closes the door.
♠ ♥ ♣ ◊
