Well, the links are back, and it's all thanks to Dave who generously gave his time to trawling through my disgusting html, and is great, even if he only updates his blog once every four years. He did it in spite of his hacking COUGH OF DEATH, which I had the privilege of having spewed over me on Tuesday night, courtesy of Chestal Region Infections Inc., with whom Dave is a client. He saw their range of lung bacteria and thought to himself, "I'll have some of that," which he then dutifully shared out. We are now all ill...but then again it could just be a repeat of that time that our friend Emer had cancer and we all starting developing cancerous symptoms in sympathy. (Boy were our faces red! She's dead now.) But truly, I have become infected. (I can tell because my fingernails ache.) In the words of the great Adrian Mee, "My bones are practically dust, mon cherie."
And so here I sit, languishing at my desk, Victorian style, wearing some kind of hideous whalebone corset or whatever, inhaling arsenic from the dye in the wallpaper, coughing up blood onto my spotless starched bedsheets...this fantasy got out of control fast.
I am thinking about eating beans on toast. I have a little can of baked beans in my handbag, as every lady does. But I have no toast. I have no toast because I went to the shop this morning and the ATM was out of service, and all I had was 2 cents in my wallet. When I write 2 cents, everything in me wants to write 2p, because 2p is so much more what I am used to. My mother just gives right in to that desire, incidentally; as far as she is concerned we are still using pounds and pence. Her new blouse cost thirty pounds, wasn't that a bargain? Yes mother, but in what COUNTRY?
But back to the beans. I feel certain that the ATM will be feeling better now, as its repair was taking place as I stood there sadly in the shop with only 2 cents to my name. But I would have to walk there now to get the money and the bread, and then walk back to my building and up the three flights of stairs to the canteen, and then, you know, toast the bread, and butter it too, and put it on a plate. By the time I got all that done it'd be close of business and they'd be booting me out of the building, surely.
But the hole in my stomach compels me. Like the power of Christ compelled the demon out of that chick in that movie! Yeah, my life is one long horror scene. (I use baked beans to fake the guts.)
neuro-praxis -- She Beans Walking Around All Night
The reason that you can no longer see my links section on the right is because I am VERY STUPID. I cannot do the most basic of HTML commands and as such my list of abridged links has been swallowed up into the abyss that is all the unseen code of unsuccessful programmers on the internet.
And tomorrow night I might cook a roast chicken. This is following on from the craziness whereby I made fairy cakes yesterday. The nostalgia owns me.
neuro-praxis -- She's Just Like Momma Used To Make
Everyone I know is acting weird or way too cool
They hang out by the pool
So I just read a lot and ride my bike around the school
Because I’m bailing this town,
or tearing it down,
or probably more like, hanging around.
All that I need now is someone with a brain,
with some know-how, to tell me what I want anyhow.
I’m listening to Aimee Mann (and thinking about Judy Bloom. Woman-centric Tuesday!). She is one of those artists about whom I have the deluded sense that if we knew each other, we’d be good friends. It’s a nice fantasy. When I listen to her sharp insights I feel like we have a connection. I would say it is this falsity that sells more records and makes them the ones that you listen to over and over and over rather than any kind of marketing or hip image associated with any particular music genre. I kind of feel the same way when I listen to August and Everything After by the Counting Crows. Ok, maybe the songs don’t make a lot of sense, but there is something about that entire album that encapsulates a poignant and perfect time in my teenage development, and when I listen it creates almost a kind of yearning in me. For what though? The stalker in me says FOR THEIR PHONE NUMBER. Although, as I sadly learnt through my obsessive episode with Ronan Keating, phone numbers can be easily changed now. (Ronan, if you are reading, I’m really sorry about what I did to your wife. But she was an obstacle?) But what is that sense of yearning? In part it is the juvenile desire to be best mates with the artist – not for their fame or good looks or general all-round apparent awesomeness, but so that we can like, talk, and stuff, and you know, have beers and go deep. I think that ultimately it brings up that old nutcracker of simply wanting to be known really, really well, and projecting that onto the author of a magic song means I can avoid the whole messy fucked-upness that comes with relationships where you go real deep.
Can you tell that neuro is in a reflective mode?
I have not been "myself" whatever the hell that means (and yet it means something, doesn’t it?) for the last nine months or so. It wasn’t really supposed to work out that I would be in my mid-twenties and working three days a week as a civil servant (or was it?). There is something amiss here – but what? I have a better quality of life than a lot of people – I work flexible hours in a very enjoyable job and my leisure time way outweighs my work-time. And although I don’t usually spend my days off watching soap-repeats (thanks to a wide circle of good friends) I still I feel at odds with myself and with the world. I don’t know what I’m talking about. It is probably the middle-class malaise, best solved by spending loads of cash on a collection of guitars I rarely play, or by getting coked up at my monthly swingers party, or of course by the most common option of having a baby. Ahhh, what a rich culture we enjoy. Sadly I don’t enjoy drugs or extra-marital affairs (dry-shite), and squeezing out a few puppies would probably be a bit irresponsible and, well, inconvenient right now, so I guess that leaves me with an unmentioned option for the whole pursuit of fulfilment. Maybe charity? (I would go to Africa to feed the poor only that somebody I am annoyed at is there and I don’t want to bump into her right now.) And what about God? I have been having a good root around to find Him but recently I think I am being left in the desert-place to fend for myself for a wee while. I can’t object (well, I can and I do and I have been for a long time now) seeing as I am Property of Yahweh TM but I am really quite thirsty by now, and haven’t found the sweet honey in the rock as I ought to have (baffled? That’s because you’re a HEATHEN).
What’s my problem? What’s your problem? I’ve got a kick-ass husband (abusive), good job, interesting study ambitions (partially fulfilled), a long list of friends ready to whatever, and yet I feel like an alien. I went on a retreat for two days recently – packed my bags and travelled to a valley in Wicklow where I walked around amongst the lakes and tried to be at one with God and nature and myself and all that crap. I might as well have gone to Mars (did you know that the US government is covering up reports about evidence of fossilised water molecules, i.e., life, on Mars? I saw it on the West Wing). I might as well have stayed home and eaten a packet of Mars bars in homage to Adrian Mole for all the good it did. That’ll teach me to run away from my problems.
I saw the movie Amazing Grace with about twenty others from my church last night, which no doubt Zoomie will be blogging about at (incisive) length shortly (ha, grammar is so amusing) so I won’t ruin your fun and say too much. It’s a bit hammy, and a bit cheesy, a bit of a croque monsieur if you will. It is a period piece of course, as Zoomtard reminded me in a whisper during a cringeworthy moment, to which I replied that yes, it was rather like having a period. But it does have some powerful scenes and the power of repentance and transformation resonated with me - as a filthy sinner what’s gawn and bin saved. Where’s your soul at, brutha? (Sing it!) Ok, enough preaching. Fear not readers; I am addressing myself.
neuro-praxis – All that I need now…
I'm experimenting! (May involve illegal drugs and immoral sexual practices.)