Day 08 → A photo that makes you angry/sad

I am not really a photograph person. The photographs I take come out fuzzy, with fingers in the viewfinder and missing heads or limbs, the photographs I like are simple, of other people, and don't usually involve smiles.

I do take mental snapshots though. The old man with the bandage that looked like old greaseproof paper on his cheek who was going in for cancer surgery, and after years in the army didn't have a family or anyone to miss him if he died. The old man I met in the train station when his train had been cancelled, who used to take the train with his wife, but she died of a brain haemorrhage, leaving him alone with a travel pass and arthritis. The old man who stopped me in a shop to thank me for smiling at him, because it had been over a year since anyone had smiled at him, not to mention treating him with dignity.

I collect sad old men who have sad old stories that make me cry. I have a lump in my throat thinking about those men who saw something in my big stupid face with it's little polite smile that made them feel less like they were alone in a sea of people who had infinite better things to do than acknowledge that they existed.

These snapshots make me sad, but they make me angry too. I remember coming from a village that cared about its inhabitants. I remember other villages being the same. These men I met were all in Dublin, but they all had a similar story. They were old, alone and scared about what would happen tomorrow because nobody wanted them anymore. I'd hate to think that'll happen to me too.

Day 07 → A photo that makes you happy

I don't have a photo that makes me happy. I have many, many photos that make me sad, some that make me long for things I had once, things I might have had and things that would never have been mine anyway.

I can't forget things. That has always been one of my big problems. I don't just let go and move on. I can't build bridges, I'm awful at woodwork (my dovetail joints are never true, they're always slightly off) and without them how do you get over things?

I used to see a counsellor. I found our sessions totally useless. I would have liked a photograph of my mother's tail-lights pulling away from the kerb in his estate when I was eighteen after telling him I didn't want to see him anymore. That memory makes me happy. I don't want to go back there, I don't want to hold on to that memory. That photograph would make me happy because I could burn it in a therapeutic way and let it go a little more. It wouldn't make me sad that I gave up. It wouldn't make me remember the session he made me have with my mother before he'd let me go where I felt bullied into staying. It would make me happy to see the edges curl up like the photographs do on the fire safety ad.

I saw those tail-lights as an echoed shadow through a passenger wing mirror while sitting as far away from my mother as I possibly could in a Ford Escort. A photograph of that would remind me not to blame my mother for the awful, hurtful things she said in an effort to "make me better", to "fix" me. (For the record, I'm not any more broken than anyone else.) They would remind me to apologise for the awful, hurtful things I said months later in an argument which left both of us in tears and me in silence for three weeks. I have never not spoken to my mother like that before. In the end my father told me that if anything happened to her while we were fighting and I wasn't talking to her, I'd never forgive myself. Guilt is a great weapon in our family!

I don't have a photograph that makes me happy, but I will find one.

Day 06 → Whatever tickles your fancy

I am a champion procrastinator. I try not to be, but every time I try to push through the procrastination, my lazy level goes unsustainably low, and I have to top it up. I am afraid of failing, and so I am afraid of trying.

I used to be so enthusiastic about life. I thought it was a wonderful thing to be able to do anything. Then I started imposing restrictions on myself. Now I have qualifications that are virtually useless, an unfulfilling job and no career. I am fractious, humourless and unlikable because I am so dissatisfied. It saddens me to see myself sabotaging opportunities and then fretting at the results. I need to find a path.

I am not alone in this. When I went to University I followed my heart, and not my head. I studied something I love, have always loved, and hope to love forever. Many people did just as I did. Then some of us made bad choices. Instead of researching where I would go next, I decided I needed a break (I needed a smack of reality, I thought the "real world" would give me just that) and took a job that I dislike where I feel utterly useless and unfulfilled. My job doesn't make an impact - on my colleagues, or on the wider world. I know many people have to sacrifice their ideals as they mature, but usually there is a trade off, a pay out - the end justifies the means.

I now need to go back and start afresh. I have started indulging the parts of myself that I feared - my writing most of all. I fear it because I love it, and I don't think it will pass muster under close examination. I fear it because it is something I really, truly do not want to fail at. I am trying again - not hard enough, but I am working on it - because it is worth doing. I have never finished a story I have written. I have never completed something I believed was worth completing because if it remained incomplete then it was unfinished, and so couldn't be judged. I think it's time to grow up and begin finishing what I start.

Day 05 → Your favorite quote

"In every relationship there is the lover and the loved, and the loved always has the upper hand." Home Before Night, Hugh Leonard.

In Home Before Night Leonard alludes to his parents difficult relationship, where his mother is the loved in the relationship. He paints a picture of a hurt, bitter woman who had trouble loving or being loved, and a man who knew what she needed more of the time than not.

I am a bit like that woman.

All serious applications for the part of that man considered.

The Loves of my Life

The following is a list of the loves of the moment, not necessarily my life, lifted from a magazine.

The person: My mum (in lieu of someone romantic to care about, my mammy is the best in the world, so she's pretty much my person. Daddy comes in second because we fight about everything. SAD :) )
The memory: The entire Queen of the Land weekend - even the cringey bits.
The moment of the day: The restful time just before sleep.
The song: Blackbird, as sung by Sarah McLachlan
The movie: Le Choristes
The hero: Margaret Laurence / Margaret Atwood
The book: Pride & Prejudice / The Diviners / The Twilight Saga
The outfit: My ditsy print short dress with leggings. Comfort over all.
The accessory: My glasses. Couldn't live without them.
The gadget: Laptop. I suppose not technically the most gadget-y of gadgets, but I'd be lost without it.
The friend: My Macra best bud / Flora
The animal: Patches, my favourite pooch
The beauty product: Plush Lash - MAC. Lifesaver!
The holiday: Visiting Solfa in London (2006) rocked.
The piece of advice: It's not what you say, it's how you say it.
The drink: Sparkling water and grenadine.
The hotel: The Gresham :)
The bar: Crosses. Nowhere like home, eh Toto?
The hobby: Writing / knitting. Totally humour dependent.
The part of my body: Either my hair or my brain.
The celebrity: Stephen Fry
The virtue: Honesty
The vice: Chocolate
The smell: Burberry perfumes.
The taste: Raspberries, greek yogurt and a drizzle of honey. Pure summer!

Day 04 → Your favorite book

A few weeks ago I met an acquaintance of mine who I hadn't seen in a long time while out with some friends. We sat in the bar discussing books we had loved as a child, authors who had made us happy. I remember the librarian refusing to check my books out until I was actually leaving, because I would have my selections read before I was ready to leave. A lot of the authors we had admired matched (Tamora Pierce and Cormac MacRaois featured strongly) but my favourite had to be Goodnight Mr. Tom by Michelle Magorian.

Goodnight Mr. Tom is set in wartime Britain, when evacuated children are sent to the countryside to avoid bomb attacks. Tom is an old, hermetic man who dislikes the idea of his privacy being interrupted. William, his ward, is a damaged, abused little boy who grows and flourishes under Mr. Tom's care. Both of them grow through Willie's art, and Mr. Tom finds a way to interact with humanity again.

I loved so many aspects of that book as a child. William's confidence grew with his ability to read and the indulgence of his artistic abilities. Mr. Tom's gruff exterior belied a warm, funny, caring heart. There's plenty of conflict - friendships torn apart, death, loss of neighbours, loss of loved ones, child abuse, even the more minor conflict between urban and rural life.

Goodnight Mr. Tom is a story of growth, renewal, inspiration and survival which made me cry, laugh out loud and fall in love with the characters who often seemed like people I knew in my childhood.

I have loved, and do love, many authors and novels. I will love more into the future. The one constant, since I read it as a 10 year old, has been Goodnight Mr. Tom. I re-read it in school as a 12 year old, and have read it many times since. The characters never fade, any gloss attributed by bias and affection doesn't tarnish with further exploration. The charm and promise of the story are enduring.

Fiction stole my heart. Goodnight Mr. Tom might be where it's hidden.

Day 03 → Your favorite television program

Like movies, and to a lesser extent books and music, I do not have an immediate, dramatic pull towards any one television show. I'm possibly not the most discerning of TV viewers when it comes to what I enjoy, and what I watch.

I like to think of myself as an optimist at least part of the time. That makes me like happy endings, resolved issues, smiles and insignificant conflicts. I am also a bit of a drama queen. Hence the draw of shows like Glee, which are based on feel-good at their core, and drama at their crust.

I also think that, along with the absolute plethora of shocking Irish TV shows, there are some very good series being made at the moment. Raw and Seacht are two such TV shows and they really deserve some recognition for not pandering to the patchwork quilt effect of most Irish TV shows. There seems to be a trend in place, throwing established Irish actors of a certain age who are fantastic on the stage but awful on TV into scenes, shows and series with commendable young Irish actors and letting them car-crash their way to a miserable result. I can only imagine that the actors must feel the same dissatisfaction we do when we see the end result.

In Ireland we seem to have an "it'll do" attitude towards anything that could be improved upon with a little more than basic effort. Irish television is a prime example. Hold soaps, such as Emmerdale, Coronation St. and Eastenders up against the most popular Irish soap, Fair City, and you will quickly see where the derogatory moniker of "Fair Shitty" has come from. Lackadaisical and lethargic television viewing should be a thing of the past when the potential and promise for so much more exists, and within easy grasp.