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.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 15, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
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!
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!
Monday, March 8, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Day 02 → Your favorite movie
Today, my favourite movie is Life is Beautiful.
Guido's tireless pursuit of his dreams, his unflappable sense of humour, the efforts he goes to to save his son - they're inspiring, funny, charming, touching and often heart-wrenching. Regardless of my mood I can't help but be moved by Guido and Dora's determination to be together, wherever together is.
Life is Beautiful breaks my heart. It shows how human spirit can be unbreakable, the lengths people will go to for the people they love, how ultimately forces stronger than an individual can break a body, but a spirit can survive.
My friend (possibly my best friend) introduced me to Life is Beautiful. She gave me the DVD and warned me that I'd need a box of tissues, but that I'd love it. Before that I had a long list of favourite movies, for a variety of different reasons. I love Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, Love Actually, Anchorman, Zoolander, V for Vendetta, Battle Royale, Spirited Away, Howl's Moving Castle and Grave of the Fireflies. I adore cheesy movies, I adore movies that are moving, I love funny, stupid, entertaining movies. I Am Sam made both my sister and I inconsolable.
I know I have appalling taste in movies as a rule. I really like happy endings and fluffy predictable plots to lift me up when I'm tired or unhappy. I also really like beautifully shot movies like Marie Antoinette - the movie itself is awful, Kirsten Dunst is shocking, but the imagery and cinematography are so moving and gorgeous it's impossible not to love it.
I don't know anything about movies, but I know what I dislike. In vague terms, I know what I like too. When it comes to things I like, I am pretty indecisive. I know when I don't like something, that's easy. My favourite things are more difficult. There are so many different levels of like, different situations and tags for when something clicks with you, different headspaces that things fit into. So many factors influence a favourite. A favourite anything should make you feel something. Today, Life is Beautiful made me feel. That's good enough for me.
Guido's tireless pursuit of his dreams, his unflappable sense of humour, the efforts he goes to to save his son - they're inspiring, funny, charming, touching and often heart-wrenching. Regardless of my mood I can't help but be moved by Guido and Dora's determination to be together, wherever together is.
Life is Beautiful breaks my heart. It shows how human spirit can be unbreakable, the lengths people will go to for the people they love, how ultimately forces stronger than an individual can break a body, but a spirit can survive.
My friend (possibly my best friend) introduced me to Life is Beautiful. She gave me the DVD and warned me that I'd need a box of tissues, but that I'd love it. Before that I had a long list of favourite movies, for a variety of different reasons. I love Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Clueless, 10 Things I Hate About You, Love Actually, Anchorman, Zoolander, V for Vendetta, Battle Royale, Spirited Away, Howl's Moving Castle and Grave of the Fireflies. I adore cheesy movies, I adore movies that are moving, I love funny, stupid, entertaining movies. I Am Sam made both my sister and I inconsolable.
I know I have appalling taste in movies as a rule. I really like happy endings and fluffy predictable plots to lift me up when I'm tired or unhappy. I also really like beautifully shot movies like Marie Antoinette - the movie itself is awful, Kirsten Dunst is shocking, but the imagery and cinematography are so moving and gorgeous it's impossible not to love it.
I don't know anything about movies, but I know what I dislike. In vague terms, I know what I like too. When it comes to things I like, I am pretty indecisive. I know when I don't like something, that's easy. My favourite things are more difficult. There are so many different levels of like, different situations and tags for when something clicks with you, different headspaces that things fit into. So many factors influence a favourite. A favourite anything should make you feel something. Today, Life is Beautiful made me feel. That's good enough for me.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Creative Writing
A few months ago someone on the Creative Writing board on Boards was looking for a writing group. When I was in college I was involved in the creative writing society and I wanted to have some fun with my pen and paper again, but in a way that might actually be constructive and have a cumulative effect with regard to a body of work, rather than just being the throwaway pieces of fluff in my brain turfed out on a Tuesday evening. I decided that if nobody else was going to do it, I was going to organise the group myself. I have to say, it's been the best decision ever.
We finally started meeting properly about 6 weeks ago, on Wednesday evenings at 7 in the Gresham. I know it was 6 weeks ago because the evening after I started a Beginners class in Creative Writing at the IWC. I think I actually have an idea for a novel now. I know it is only a very patchy skeleton (full of holes - if I'm honest it's mainly a skull and an ankle bone with very little in between) but I have some serious work to do now. I'm paring life back a little to concentrate on it.
I was taking part in a debating competition with Macra (more on that later) and I've decided to drop out. I can't afford the time to actually do it properly and do my things too, and the whole concept is that the debating competition should be fun, not a chore like it was becoming for me. I also don't like the idea that I'm letting my team mates down by doing something half-heartedly. I'm looking for a replacement as we speak.
I'm not sure that I really have much to write about, but I sure as hell want to try. I have an awful feeling that I'll regret it if I don't, and completing a story will be a concrete achievement. To date I've never gotten past a few hundred words, a thousand at most, but I already have a lot more written, and a lot more to say, than I have done to this point.
Life is quite tiring at the moment. I've been looking for direction for a long time now - for the two years since I started working in Dublin again, since I finished my Masters, since I started in UCD, since I did my leaving cert... I'd like to assemble something concrete and solid to prove that I was here and didn't just squander a quarter century with no worthwhile debris to show for it.
I'm gradually working on things, very gradually and slowly. Life is a journey we take one step at a time, apparently. I'm hoping I packed comfortable shoes.
We finally started meeting properly about 6 weeks ago, on Wednesday evenings at 7 in the Gresham. I know it was 6 weeks ago because the evening after I started a Beginners class in Creative Writing at the IWC. I think I actually have an idea for a novel now. I know it is only a very patchy skeleton (full of holes - if I'm honest it's mainly a skull and an ankle bone with very little in between) but I have some serious work to do now. I'm paring life back a little to concentrate on it.
I was taking part in a debating competition with Macra (more on that later) and I've decided to drop out. I can't afford the time to actually do it properly and do my things too, and the whole concept is that the debating competition should be fun, not a chore like it was becoming for me. I also don't like the idea that I'm letting my team mates down by doing something half-heartedly. I'm looking for a replacement as we speak.
I'm not sure that I really have much to write about, but I sure as hell want to try. I have an awful feeling that I'll regret it if I don't, and completing a story will be a concrete achievement. To date I've never gotten past a few hundred words, a thousand at most, but I already have a lot more written, and a lot more to say, than I have done to this point.
Life is quite tiring at the moment. I've been looking for direction for a long time now - for the two years since I started working in Dublin again, since I finished my Masters, since I started in UCD, since I did my leaving cert... I'd like to assemble something concrete and solid to prove that I was here and didn't just squander a quarter century with no worthwhile debris to show for it.
I'm gradually working on things, very gradually and slowly. Life is a journey we take one step at a time, apparently. I'm hoping I packed comfortable shoes.
Day 01 → Your favorite song
I'm writing this blog having been inspired by Novella from Boards.ie. I've lifted the 30 blog thing from her too. I really recommend checking her blog out here. So, out of respect for her inspiring frankness, I am going to be totally honest here too.
I don't really have any one favourite song, but I have lots of songs that I love for a variety of reasons, when I'm in different headspaces. The song below is probably one of my long-term favourites though.
Del Amitri - Driving With The Brakes On.
I was 17 and I was insane about a man who was twice my age. His marriage had just broken up. (His wife cheated on him three times with men she had found online on Faceparty.) His life was falling apart. I was going through a really odd, self-indulgent, semi-depressed stage in my life where I didn't fit into anything and felt like I had no friends. The people I had been friendly with through secondary school seemed shallow and disinterested. Conversations stopped when I got involved because they moved in odd directions disconnected from any of us, and once we left safe triviality nobody cared anymore.
I have a huge weight problem (badum tish). I have had from childhood. So it wasn't that I wasn't interested in boys, it was more that they were completely disinterested in me. It didn't help that I am hard work, immediately grating and spikey, a cross between a hedgehog and an armadillo if you will. Talking about boys and associated intimacies embarrassed me because I had nothing to contribute. I didn't know any boys, I had no male friends. I knew the theory, but none of the practise.
The people I related to most closely were friends made on a particular message board. I still keep in vague contact with some of those people, many of whom I owe a large debt of gratitude to because they gave me somewhere that wasn't quite so self-destructive to channel my energies.
I fractured my foot during this time, and the doctor prescribed a visit to a child therapist - at 17 I thought this was a bit ridiculous. Not the therapy thing, the child therapist thing. The woman I went to see was based in a private hospital in Limerick. Her room was fully furnished with little chairs like the ones we used in baby infants in primary school, low tables laid out with colouring books and crayons. I, a size 26-28 awkward teen, 5' 11" in height, on crutches, felt cruelly out of place. I couldn't get back up after sitting down on the midget furniture with just one leg. To add insult to injury the therapist insisted that my foot injury was as a result of my "psychological distress". I slipped on wet steps in a nightclub while ossified after a litre of a homemade cocktail that could only be described as vile - we were celebrating the 18th birthday of one of my aforementioned school friends and door policies were pretty flexible in our area at the time.
I missed a month of 6th year because of my foot. The school I went to was very inflexible, and climbing three flights of stairs to the 6th year classroom worked for a whole two days. On the second night, sitting on the stone steps to the staff entrance waiting for my dad to collect me, I resolved not to go back to a school that couldn't accommodate me, when a third year's classes had been moved to a ground floor room to accommodate a similar injury the year before. I was missing more than half my classes as it was, and I was a health and safety risk. If there had been a fire, I'd never have gotten out. It was easy to justify my escape from life to myself. I sometimes wonder if I'm paying for that a little to this day. In the end I didn't go back to school until I had lost one of the crutches and could bear weight on my foot, even though it still looked ridiculously swollen.
During my time off I got particularly attached to one poster from the message board I mentioned earlier. We both stayed up all night online (my parents phone bills were insane, we had dial-up at the time) and tracked each other's days with text messages. He was funny, interesting, and made me feel like I was interesting too. Of course I didn't realise he was in his mid-30's with a broken marriage and a young son. By the time I found out, I didn't particularly care.
My friend (lets call him Bob) probably didn't realise I was quite so attached. Maybe he liked the attention. We went for drinks a few times and that was about the size of it. We were friends. I shared my awful, angsty-teenager poetry with him. (I know that this is quite a sweeping statement, but I don't really like poetry. I hate any poetry I've written most of all.) He sent me CDs he liked to listen to, part of my musical education. We wrote letters to each other, largely because neither of us had anything better to do.
I had always liked Del Amitri, even though I didn't know that I knew who they were. Roll to me and Nothing Ever Happens were familiar, I enjoyed them, they fitted into my 80's/ '90s childhood, along with Seal's Kiss From A Rose, which reminds me of rainy summers, hanging a tape player out a bedroom window, Wimbledon, swing sets and Atlantic 252. Bob said that Driving With The Brakes On reminded him of his situation, he could empathise with the narrator of the story, his relationship had ended on his wife's terms. The first few times I listened to it, it made me cry. It still gives me a punch in the gut, 7 or 8 years on. It reminds me of how stupid and cringeworthy and awkward I was, how much I felt and that I had nowhere to channel it, so I poured it into self-indulgence and a stranger who couldn't, wouldn't and didn't do anything with it. It's a shame song, a cringe song, but it also makes me feel compassion for someone who ultimately isn't in my life anymore. Bob had some life-changing epiphany and decided that being friends with 17 year old girls (there were a few other girls my age he was friends with, people I'm still friends with actually) was not a good idea.
I still miss him, he was my friend. Whenever I hear that song I think of him. Obviously thinking of him is not exclusively linked to Driving With The Brakes On, but it's one of the big triggers. I don't think you ever really get over your first real, rock-hard crush.
I don't really have any one favourite song, but I have lots of songs that I love for a variety of reasons, when I'm in different headspaces. The song below is probably one of my long-term favourites though.
Del Amitri - Driving With The Brakes On.
I was 17 and I was insane about a man who was twice my age. His marriage had just broken up. (His wife cheated on him three times with men she had found online on Faceparty.) His life was falling apart. I was going through a really odd, self-indulgent, semi-depressed stage in my life where I didn't fit into anything and felt like I had no friends. The people I had been friendly with through secondary school seemed shallow and disinterested. Conversations stopped when I got involved because they moved in odd directions disconnected from any of us, and once we left safe triviality nobody cared anymore.
I have a huge weight problem (badum tish). I have had from childhood. So it wasn't that I wasn't interested in boys, it was more that they were completely disinterested in me. It didn't help that I am hard work, immediately grating and spikey, a cross between a hedgehog and an armadillo if you will. Talking about boys and associated intimacies embarrassed me because I had nothing to contribute. I didn't know any boys, I had no male friends. I knew the theory, but none of the practise.
The people I related to most closely were friends made on a particular message board. I still keep in vague contact with some of those people, many of whom I owe a large debt of gratitude to because they gave me somewhere that wasn't quite so self-destructive to channel my energies.
I fractured my foot during this time, and the doctor prescribed a visit to a child therapist - at 17 I thought this was a bit ridiculous. Not the therapy thing, the child therapist thing. The woman I went to see was based in a private hospital in Limerick. Her room was fully furnished with little chairs like the ones we used in baby infants in primary school, low tables laid out with colouring books and crayons. I, a size 26-28 awkward teen, 5' 11" in height, on crutches, felt cruelly out of place. I couldn't get back up after sitting down on the midget furniture with just one leg. To add insult to injury the therapist insisted that my foot injury was as a result of my "psychological distress". I slipped on wet steps in a nightclub while ossified after a litre of a homemade cocktail that could only be described as vile - we were celebrating the 18th birthday of one of my aforementioned school friends and door policies were pretty flexible in our area at the time.
I missed a month of 6th year because of my foot. The school I went to was very inflexible, and climbing three flights of stairs to the 6th year classroom worked for a whole two days. On the second night, sitting on the stone steps to the staff entrance waiting for my dad to collect me, I resolved not to go back to a school that couldn't accommodate me, when a third year's classes had been moved to a ground floor room to accommodate a similar injury the year before. I was missing more than half my classes as it was, and I was a health and safety risk. If there had been a fire, I'd never have gotten out. It was easy to justify my escape from life to myself. I sometimes wonder if I'm paying for that a little to this day. In the end I didn't go back to school until I had lost one of the crutches and could bear weight on my foot, even though it still looked ridiculously swollen.
During my time off I got particularly attached to one poster from the message board I mentioned earlier. We both stayed up all night online (my parents phone bills were insane, we had dial-up at the time) and tracked each other's days with text messages. He was funny, interesting, and made me feel like I was interesting too. Of course I didn't realise he was in his mid-30's with a broken marriage and a young son. By the time I found out, I didn't particularly care.
My friend (lets call him Bob) probably didn't realise I was quite so attached. Maybe he liked the attention. We went for drinks a few times and that was about the size of it. We were friends. I shared my awful, angsty-teenager poetry with him. (I know that this is quite a sweeping statement, but I don't really like poetry. I hate any poetry I've written most of all.) He sent me CDs he liked to listen to, part of my musical education. We wrote letters to each other, largely because neither of us had anything better to do.
I had always liked Del Amitri, even though I didn't know that I knew who they were. Roll to me and Nothing Ever Happens were familiar, I enjoyed them, they fitted into my 80's/ '90s childhood, along with Seal's Kiss From A Rose, which reminds me of rainy summers, hanging a tape player out a bedroom window, Wimbledon, swing sets and Atlantic 252. Bob said that Driving With The Brakes On reminded him of his situation, he could empathise with the narrator of the story, his relationship had ended on his wife's terms. The first few times I listened to it, it made me cry. It still gives me a punch in the gut, 7 or 8 years on. It reminds me of how stupid and cringeworthy and awkward I was, how much I felt and that I had nowhere to channel it, so I poured it into self-indulgence and a stranger who couldn't, wouldn't and didn't do anything with it. It's a shame song, a cringe song, but it also makes me feel compassion for someone who ultimately isn't in my life anymore. Bob had some life-changing epiphany and decided that being friends with 17 year old girls (there were a few other girls my age he was friends with, people I'm still friends with actually) was not a good idea.
I still miss him, he was my friend. Whenever I hear that song I think of him. Obviously thinking of him is not exclusively linked to Driving With The Brakes On, but it's one of the big triggers. I don't think you ever really get over your first real, rock-hard crush.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
30 Blog Challenge
I have lifted this verbatim from someone else's blog, because I think it's the most fantastic idea ever. I cannot force myself to write a blog (I've tried and failed a number of times) but I'm resolving that this time will be different. Wish me luck!
So, I'm going to write thirty blogs, using the titles below. I'm not going to say one blog a day, because that probably won't happen, but I'll see what I can do.
So, I'm going to write thirty blogs, using the titles below. I'm not going to say one blog a day, because that probably won't happen, but I'll see what I can do.
Day 01 → Your favorite song
Day 02 → Your favorite movie
Day 03 → Your favorite television program
Day 04 → Your favorite book
Day 05 → Your favorite quote
Day 06 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 07 → A photo that makes you happy
Day 08 → A photo that makes you angry/sad
Day 09 → A photo you took
Day 10 → A photo of you taken over ten years ago
Day 11 → A photo of you taken recently
Day 12 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 13 → A fictional book
Day 14 → A non-fictional book
Day 15 → A fanfic
Day 16 → A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 → An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 → A talent of yours
Day 20 → A hobby of yours
Day 21 → A recipe
Day 22 → A website
Day 23 → A YouTube video
Day 24 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 → Your day, in great detail
Day 26 → Your week, in great detail
Day 27 → This month, in great detail
Day 28 → This year, in great detail
Day 29 → Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 → Whatever tickles your fancy
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