I've written about how I hope I'm influencing Baby Brother's musical tastes. But, I've also had the opportunity to influence the tastes of Little Man. I've had the opportunity, and the great privilege, to introduce him to... Harry Potter. In my defense, this wasn't entirely my fault. Yesterday morning, when we were getting ready for school, Little Man said, quite out of the blue, 'Put on Harry Potter.'
Now, Little Man has never (to my knowledge) seen Harry Potter. He has never read it. There are no Harry Potter DVD's or books in the house. He's only 3, so, even though Harry Potter is a brilliant, cross-generational, cross-gender communication tool, I think that, with 3 headed dogs, giants snakes that kill you with a look and evil wizards who murder your parents, its perhaps a little, shall we say, 'advanced' for a 3 year old. In short, I believed Harry Potter would scare the be-jeebus out of the little mite.
That's not to say I wasn't enthusiastic about the idea of introducing him to Harry and Harry's wonderful world. Having brand new little people to read Harry Potter to is, I believe, one of the most compelling reasons for having children. Seriously. Its not just Harry, of course. I have already got my whole reading program organised for said potential future children. We'll be reading Harry Potter (of course), the Little House on the Prairie series, the Chronicles of Narnia, Gerald Durrell, all of Roald Dahl, Round the Twist and Paul Jennings' books, 'Ramona Quimby Aged 8' and 'The Cricket of Times Square.' Yep, I would consider having kids just to be able to relive all the books my Dad read to me when I was little (the less difficult option might be to set up a reading circle for children at the local library, but my brain doesn't work that way).
Anyway, as I was making breakfast yesterday, and Little Man was watching Tractor Ted, I swear to God, he turned to me, took a deep breath and came out with, 'Put on Harry Potter.'
I could hardly contain my excitement. To me, this was comparable to him reciting a Shakespearean sonnet, or suddenly declaring, 'E=mc2'. 'Did you say, Harry Potter?' I breathed.
Blank stare.
'Harry Potter? You want me to put on Harry Potter?'
Blank stare.
'How do you know about Harry Potter?'
Blank stare. I tried another tact.
'Did your cousin tell you about Harry Potter?'
'No.'
'Did you hear about Harry Potter at school?'
'No.'
'How did you hear about Harry Potter?'
'Put on Harry Potter.'
Utterly delighted, but absolutely none the wiser as to how he had found out about my favourite wizard, I decided to stop questioning, and embrace the happy situation.
'Where shall we put on Harry Potter?'
'On the laptop.'
I might have mentioned before that I had been showing Little Man all sorts of videos on You Tube, mainly a song about dinosaurs, 'Never Smile at a Crocodile' and the 'silage and Maize' song. He really likes You Tube. So, I said, ok, once you've finished watching Tractor Ted, I promise to put on Harry Potter on the laptop.
When we went out to the computer, I faced a bit of a dilemma. As much as I was absolutely looking forward to the prospect of showing someone Harry Potter for the VERY FIRST TIME, and also watching Harry Potter myself whilst at work, I was still a little unsure of the suitability of the series for a 3 year old. When I typed it into You Tube, the top hits where dark green and black coloured previews of the final film, 'Harry Potter and the DEATHLY HALLOWS' (emphasis mine). Perhaps the violence and dark undertones would pass over his head. However, I am still haunted by the image of Tom Cruise playing a Vietnman vet, sitting in a wheelchair with no legs, in 'Born on the 4th of July' (sorry, Dad, but its true), which I saw as a little one, so I thought perhaps, even if he didn't understand the violence and scary images, that might even be worse.
Then I spied one of my favourite You Tube videos ever. 'Harry Potter Puppet Pals and the Mysterious Ticking Noise.' I watch this little gem whenever I'm feeling a little down, and it never ceases to amuse and entertain me. If you haven't seen it (that is to say, if I haven't forced you to watch it already), you should watch it now:
Hooray! I thought. A G-rated, Harry Potter-related, fairly short video to show the 3 year old charge. I wasn't sure if he would like it, or if he would be scared by the bomb at the end, but I thought it was the best option I had. I put it on for Little Man. He was delighted. 'Put it on again.' After the 4th showing, he was chanting, 'Snape, Snape, Severus Snape,' along with the video. I chose to view this as his deep and clearly advanced understanding that the true heart and soul of the series was actually Severus Snape (and/or Alan Rickman), rather than the fact that this was the first name to be introduced in the song, and the easiest rhythm to remember.
It was about the 8th showing that he acknowledged Dumbledore suddenly took his clothes off halfway through the film. He turned to me with a very serious face and said, 'He's got no clothes on.' Almost unable to conceal my amusement at this very confused little statement, I agreed that the Dumbledore puppet had no clothes on. 'Why doesn't he have any clothes on?' Unable to explain the absurd and hilarious nature of this randomness to a child who can't count past 10, I said I didn't know why he had no clothes on, that maybe he had taken them off. Maybe he was being silly and taken off his clothes. Little Man considered this answer for a while and then said, 'Maybe he didn't like them. So he took them off.' I agreed that was a very reasonable explanation.
On the 10th showing, Little Man started to giggle at the end of the film. He started to giggle more and more. 'That's a bit of a silly man,' he said, in reference to Voldemort. I said, 'Why is he a silly man?' 'Because he has silly glasses on!' And he burst into giggles. 'And he has a silly head!' See, even a 3 year old can tell that Ralph Fiennes' make-up in the Harry Potter movies is just a tad on the silly side. And he clearly can already understand the basic notion that Hermione puts forward into the first book, which is that 'fear of a name only increases the fear of the thing itself.' This clever little 3 year old could tell that by laughing at Voldemort, he made him much less scary.
His final realisation was that Ron was also 'a little bit silly'. Now, I promise, I did not prod him any of these directions. He picked out Ron as the obvious 'comedic relief' character all on his own. He's clearly a genius, who is destined to love the Harry Potter films as much as his (soon to be forgotten) Australian au pair.
I know how ridiculous I sound. Almost as ridiculous as these guys:
Ah, but I can't help it.
I introduced a kid to Harry Potter!
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Back to Zen
This evening I headed back to Zen Buddhism for the first time since July, and had my first visit at the Cork dojo. I'd been given some advice by one of the people I met on Inishmor, that I shouldn't force myself to go back to meditation, that I shouldn't make it a chore or beat myself up about it if I didn't go. I should just take it as it came, and see if I wanted to go back to it, and to only go back to it when I felt ready.
It was extremely good advice, which seemed almost tailor-made for me and my usual, general attack upon the world: 'You must do this! You must do that! Why aren't you doing more of this now? Why are you doing too much of that! You're a terrible human being, because you're not doing that!' So, even though I knew that the dojo was holding meditations early in the morning and in some evenings only 30 - 40 minutes away from me in Bandon, I decided not to attempt to rush myself in there before or after work. I knew that I would only *just* make it, if I made it at all and it seemed silly to be getting all stressed and upset over an activity that I was taking up to make me feel happier and calmer and more at peace.
So, I left it for all of August. I didn't even force myself to try and meditate on my own, or to look at Zen Buddhist principles. I let it lie. I told myself I would start up again, when I knew I comfortably and easily could do so, that is, when I was in Kinsale.
In the end, it was the end of September before I contacted the Cork dojo and said that I would like to come back to meditation. That gave me 3 weeks to settle into my new job, new family, new routine and see whether or not I had the time, inclination and energy to go into Cork on a Wednesday evening and meditate. Eventually, I decided to go back last week, but I was asked to work late that Wednesday, so I put it off. Again, I took a very Zen approach to the whole incident and said it was fine, there was no rush, and I would go back the week after.
That was today.
I can't tell you how wonderful it was to go back to the practice. After my post a day or two ago about being sick and tired of being anxious and worried and constantly feeling like my brain is being pulled in 5 different directions at once, like it is being forced to concentrate and give energy and focus to a million different responsibilities, it was utter bliss to go somewhere quiet, and sit still, and calm and just stop for an hour and fifteen minutes.
Three of the people I had met at the sesshin on Inishmor were there, including the man who runs the dojo. I was met with such genuine warmth and welcome, and it was wonderful to see them again. Even sitting outside the dojo, there was a real feeling of peace and contentment. I was reminded of the practice, the correct way to do certain things, sitting, hand placement, and then we were into the dojo and preparing. When I sat down on my zafu, I felt like I was about to burst into tears from relief. I was so happy to be back, to have an hour and fifteen minutes in which I was not allowed to do anything but sit and breath and focus on sitting and breathing. When I could let all my thoughts and feelings wash over me and know that I couldn't, wouldn't, was not required, was not able, to do anything about them. I couldn't fix anything, I couldn't look anything up, I couldn't eat anything, or drink anything, or sit in front of a laptop and will it to give me answers, or sit in front of a TV and will it to block out the problems. I hadn't forced myself to come back, I hadn't stressed about it, but at the same time, clearly I had been desperately missing it. In a way, it was probably a good thing I didn't get stressed about it as well - I was already missing the meditation, it would have created even more emotional havoc if I'd started beating myself up over it.
With a start like that, when you are so grateful to be there, so happy, so delighted, of course the practice itself is going to be more difficult. It actually felt longer than the sittings we did on Inishmor, maybe because of the feeling that there was a world rushing by outside and that I would soon be on a bus, back to Kinsale, where I would immediately jump online and re-connect with 'the world'. I was aware of a pain in my back, in my neck. I was slumping. But, we were given some actual teachings to consider during this practice, which also made things easier. And, whilst it seemed much longer, when the bell was rung to signal the end of the practice, I was hugely reluctant to move. My arms and shoulders felt heavy, and they tingled like muscles that have been tensed for some huge exertion and then been let go. They felt totally blissed out and calm, and they did not want to go back to tensing, and walking and typing and moving about.
I've been reading a book recently that I wouldn't normally pick up, as it falls into the self-help/religious section of the bookstore (a friend once lost a job at a bookstore for sneering at a customer who asked to be shown the self-help books, and, apart from not wanting to lose his respect, I have a similar attitude towards the self-help aisle, so never go there), but I started reading it in the library and became hooked. Now, bear with me, o thou, cynical non-believer atheist, but the book talks about how modern Western life, with its reliance on science and rationality, has left us with a spiritual void in our lives, and how the common emotional malaise of our times, which often then develops into depression, anxiety, eating disorders, drug abuse, can be related back to this spiritual void, this lack of meaning, purpose and direction. Now, obviously its a big generalisation, and not everyone who has a problem would agree that they need to fix it with a religion, but its certainly something I have felt in my life, and particularly in the last few months, when I have been very uncertain of the reasoning behind my decisions, when my chosen career path (no matter how it looks from the outside) seemed to be slipping further and further out of reach, when long-term and lasting relationships appeared to be so incredibly impossible that I had truly resigned myself to a life as a crazy spinster in a falling down house infested with cats. My parents took the view that we, the children, should be able to make our own decisions regarding religion, though we were enrolled into Church of England scripture classes in primary school (and, look, I don't mean to offend anyone who is a Church of England parishioner, but, all the images I can conjur up for that particular religion are King Henry VIII chopping off his wives' heads and Eddie Izzard: 'Cake or Death?') My point is, up until now, instead of 'making up my own mind' regarding religion, I kind of took up my Dad's atheism by default, as well as his respect and belief in science.
The problem was, I didn't have the understanding and knowledge of science that my Dad did to back up this belief in its inherent rationality. I was like John Safran said in 'Safran vs. God': one of those pinky-lefty intellectuals who scoffed at religious people, basing my atheism on Stephen Hawking's 'A Brief History of Time', a copy of which sat, unopened, on my bookshelf, because my BA didn't give me the resources to even understand the index. So, in some ways, I was just as bad as the religious fanatics out there, clinging to a belief system that I didn't understand the half of, that I understood superficially, defending it passionately, afraid someone might notice that I couldn't actually back up my arguments, and I would be left, rudderless and confused, my only sense of how the world worked suddenly left in tatters at my feet.
This kind of sounds like I'm about to turn around and tell you all I'm converting to Orthodox Judaism. I'm not. I'm not even becoming a devoted Buddhist at the moment. All this is, is building up to is a realisation that I don't know how the world works. I don't even know how I think the world works. I don't know what the point of the world is, what its purpose is, and, therefore, how could I possibly be expected to figure out what my little place in it is meant to mean. And, so, I'm dipping a toe. I'm experimenting and exploring, to see what I can find. I've got a lot of predjudices to work through. I have some hang-ups about religion in general, and Buddhism in particular, left over from high school and many a cynical discussion with friends and family. The story we were told during meditation tonight really irritated me, though I can't quite remember why, now. Some of the precepts that were read out, panicked me as well, though, again, I can't remember why. But, at the same time, sitting still, and having to only focus on my breath for an hour and fifteen minutes is wonderful. Maybe I could do it without the religion. But I don't think I want to. I don't think it would be the same without the ritual, the people, the incense, the gashu, the zafu, the chanting. All these rituals build up to give significance, meaning and importance to the act of sitting still and becoming aware of your sitting, your breath, yourself. And, hey, if I need that feeling of significance at the moment, to make me stop worrying about the future, beating myself up about the past, and just let me sit still, quiet and calm for a little while, then I am happy to go through it all.
And, there is something about being silent that seems profound and important in itself. This book I'm reading, it talks about how the prophet Eljiah goes into a cave, hoping to hear the voice of God. He doesn't hear it in a storm, he doesn't hear it in a fire, but finally, he hears it in 'a silence so profound that it spoke.' I'm never going to convert to Christianity, its just not going to happen. But, I know that feeling, that feeling of significance, of importance, of connection to the world, of a greater presence. And I want to figure out a way that I can incorporate those huge, inexplicable feelings into my understanding and experience of the world.
It was extremely good advice, which seemed almost tailor-made for me and my usual, general attack upon the world: 'You must do this! You must do that! Why aren't you doing more of this now? Why are you doing too much of that! You're a terrible human being, because you're not doing that!' So, even though I knew that the dojo was holding meditations early in the morning and in some evenings only 30 - 40 minutes away from me in Bandon, I decided not to attempt to rush myself in there before or after work. I knew that I would only *just* make it, if I made it at all and it seemed silly to be getting all stressed and upset over an activity that I was taking up to make me feel happier and calmer and more at peace.
So, I left it for all of August. I didn't even force myself to try and meditate on my own, or to look at Zen Buddhist principles. I let it lie. I told myself I would start up again, when I knew I comfortably and easily could do so, that is, when I was in Kinsale.
In the end, it was the end of September before I contacted the Cork dojo and said that I would like to come back to meditation. That gave me 3 weeks to settle into my new job, new family, new routine and see whether or not I had the time, inclination and energy to go into Cork on a Wednesday evening and meditate. Eventually, I decided to go back last week, but I was asked to work late that Wednesday, so I put it off. Again, I took a very Zen approach to the whole incident and said it was fine, there was no rush, and I would go back the week after.
That was today.
I can't tell you how wonderful it was to go back to the practice. After my post a day or two ago about being sick and tired of being anxious and worried and constantly feeling like my brain is being pulled in 5 different directions at once, like it is being forced to concentrate and give energy and focus to a million different responsibilities, it was utter bliss to go somewhere quiet, and sit still, and calm and just stop for an hour and fifteen minutes.
Three of the people I had met at the sesshin on Inishmor were there, including the man who runs the dojo. I was met with such genuine warmth and welcome, and it was wonderful to see them again. Even sitting outside the dojo, there was a real feeling of peace and contentment. I was reminded of the practice, the correct way to do certain things, sitting, hand placement, and then we were into the dojo and preparing. When I sat down on my zafu, I felt like I was about to burst into tears from relief. I was so happy to be back, to have an hour and fifteen minutes in which I was not allowed to do anything but sit and breath and focus on sitting and breathing. When I could let all my thoughts and feelings wash over me and know that I couldn't, wouldn't, was not required, was not able, to do anything about them. I couldn't fix anything, I couldn't look anything up, I couldn't eat anything, or drink anything, or sit in front of a laptop and will it to give me answers, or sit in front of a TV and will it to block out the problems. I hadn't forced myself to come back, I hadn't stressed about it, but at the same time, clearly I had been desperately missing it. In a way, it was probably a good thing I didn't get stressed about it as well - I was already missing the meditation, it would have created even more emotional havoc if I'd started beating myself up over it.
With a start like that, when you are so grateful to be there, so happy, so delighted, of course the practice itself is going to be more difficult. It actually felt longer than the sittings we did on Inishmor, maybe because of the feeling that there was a world rushing by outside and that I would soon be on a bus, back to Kinsale, where I would immediately jump online and re-connect with 'the world'. I was aware of a pain in my back, in my neck. I was slumping. But, we were given some actual teachings to consider during this practice, which also made things easier. And, whilst it seemed much longer, when the bell was rung to signal the end of the practice, I was hugely reluctant to move. My arms and shoulders felt heavy, and they tingled like muscles that have been tensed for some huge exertion and then been let go. They felt totally blissed out and calm, and they did not want to go back to tensing, and walking and typing and moving about.
I've been reading a book recently that I wouldn't normally pick up, as it falls into the self-help/religious section of the bookstore (a friend once lost a job at a bookstore for sneering at a customer who asked to be shown the self-help books, and, apart from not wanting to lose his respect, I have a similar attitude towards the self-help aisle, so never go there), but I started reading it in the library and became hooked. Now, bear with me, o thou, cynical non-believer atheist, but the book talks about how modern Western life, with its reliance on science and rationality, has left us with a spiritual void in our lives, and how the common emotional malaise of our times, which often then develops into depression, anxiety, eating disorders, drug abuse, can be related back to this spiritual void, this lack of meaning, purpose and direction. Now, obviously its a big generalisation, and not everyone who has a problem would agree that they need to fix it with a religion, but its certainly something I have felt in my life, and particularly in the last few months, when I have been very uncertain of the reasoning behind my decisions, when my chosen career path (no matter how it looks from the outside) seemed to be slipping further and further out of reach, when long-term and lasting relationships appeared to be so incredibly impossible that I had truly resigned myself to a life as a crazy spinster in a falling down house infested with cats. My parents took the view that we, the children, should be able to make our own decisions regarding religion, though we were enrolled into Church of England scripture classes in primary school (and, look, I don't mean to offend anyone who is a Church of England parishioner, but, all the images I can conjur up for that particular religion are King Henry VIII chopping off his wives' heads and Eddie Izzard: 'Cake or Death?') My point is, up until now, instead of 'making up my own mind' regarding religion, I kind of took up my Dad's atheism by default, as well as his respect and belief in science.
The problem was, I didn't have the understanding and knowledge of science that my Dad did to back up this belief in its inherent rationality. I was like John Safran said in 'Safran vs. God': one of those pinky-lefty intellectuals who scoffed at religious people, basing my atheism on Stephen Hawking's 'A Brief History of Time', a copy of which sat, unopened, on my bookshelf, because my BA didn't give me the resources to even understand the index. So, in some ways, I was just as bad as the religious fanatics out there, clinging to a belief system that I didn't understand the half of, that I understood superficially, defending it passionately, afraid someone might notice that I couldn't actually back up my arguments, and I would be left, rudderless and confused, my only sense of how the world worked suddenly left in tatters at my feet.
This kind of sounds like I'm about to turn around and tell you all I'm converting to Orthodox Judaism. I'm not. I'm not even becoming a devoted Buddhist at the moment. All this is, is building up to is a realisation that I don't know how the world works. I don't even know how I think the world works. I don't know what the point of the world is, what its purpose is, and, therefore, how could I possibly be expected to figure out what my little place in it is meant to mean. And, so, I'm dipping a toe. I'm experimenting and exploring, to see what I can find. I've got a lot of predjudices to work through. I have some hang-ups about religion in general, and Buddhism in particular, left over from high school and many a cynical discussion with friends and family. The story we were told during meditation tonight really irritated me, though I can't quite remember why, now. Some of the precepts that were read out, panicked me as well, though, again, I can't remember why. But, at the same time, sitting still, and having to only focus on my breath for an hour and fifteen minutes is wonderful. Maybe I could do it without the religion. But I don't think I want to. I don't think it would be the same without the ritual, the people, the incense, the gashu, the zafu, the chanting. All these rituals build up to give significance, meaning and importance to the act of sitting still and becoming aware of your sitting, your breath, yourself. And, hey, if I need that feeling of significance at the moment, to make me stop worrying about the future, beating myself up about the past, and just let me sit still, quiet and calm for a little while, then I am happy to go through it all.
And, there is something about being silent that seems profound and important in itself. This book I'm reading, it talks about how the prophet Eljiah goes into a cave, hoping to hear the voice of God. He doesn't hear it in a storm, he doesn't hear it in a fire, but finally, he hears it in 'a silence so profound that it spoke.' I'm never going to convert to Christianity, its just not going to happen. But, I know that feeling, that feeling of significance, of importance, of connection to the world, of a greater presence. And I want to figure out a way that I can incorporate those huge, inexplicable feelings into my understanding and experience of the world.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Bored
I haven't written in a while. Problem is... well, I'm bored. Bored of just about everything. I have a lot to do, really, when I think about it. Tax, uni essay, play, all due in, oh, say, a month. There's also plenty of lovely things to do in Kinsale. I could go for a walk. I could take the bus to Cork and see the opening of the dragon parade. I could do so many things. But, I'm just bored. I think I'm massively bored of sitting in front of my computer, and, unfortunately, most of the 'useful' things (ie, those things that involve a deadline) I need to get done at the moment have to take place in front of the computer. AND I CAN'T STAND LOOKING AT IT ANYMORE.
I would like to talk to a human being. A real one. One that I can reach out and touch if the moment took me there. One that could pour me a cup of tea, share a joke.
Its not like I haven't seen people. I've been looking after little people all day. They occasionally let me pat their head, or hold their hand. I've also been speaking to grown-up people. I had a lovely weekend with a friend in Cork, after my producers meeting, we had a drink, dinner, another drink and then headed home and watched 'The X Factor' (which I am suddenly obsessed with. I even have a favourite. She's Irish, her name is Janet Devlin, and she's the best).
But, I don't know. It all just seems a little.... well, pointless. I made a big decision on the weekend. I was very excited about it, and more than a little terrified. But, then, life goes back to normal. Its just the same. I have to put in a lot of work for this new decision, and whilst it was inspiring on the weekend, now, it means just a lot more staring at computer screens, trying to figure out what to do next January.
Actually, you know, THAT'S what I'm bored of. I'm bored of worrying. I'm bored of thinking over every single bloody possibility in my head. I'm bored of constantly feeling that if I walk away from my computer for 2 seconds, I will miss the opportunity of a lifetime. I'm bored of thinking that if I dare to, say, sit down and read a book, to go for a walk, to write something in my diary, I will miss the one chance I have to figure out a direction for my life.
Things are getting desperate, my brain seems to think. Its starting to convince me I should lie about my age, that I should join ASIO, that I should write a novel, quick, do something, ANYTHING, significant, or if you can't figure out what to do, then, quickly, quickly, pretend your not as old as you are, because otherwise people will start to look at you funny, and begin to mutter things about you under their breath, when it turns out you're 3 years away from 30 and still have no idea how to get your life together.
So in that spirit, I'm going to back away slowly from the computer, walk as far away as possible, take my book to a little cafe and read it for as long my paranoid brain can stand to be away from the internet.
If you look at my computer screen, you will get an idea of where my head is at. 8 tabs open. 3 social media sites - Twitter, Facebook and Linkedin. Gmail is open. A website with grants named 'Aim for the Stars', a membership application for studio space, and a website for a street performance ('Get Involved'). I'm flicking between them all constantly, willing one of them to change, for an email to appear, a message or post to arrive, for one website to suddenly hold the answers to all my questions, which path to take, for the mist and fog to finally lift and it to all make sense.
Google, you once held so much promise with your predicative text, your 'I'm Feeling Lucky' button and your amusing daily changes to your design. You promised to understand me, to brighten my day, to make sense of the crazy world out there. But, I don't feel lucky. I don't feel understood. I feel confused. I feel overwhelmed. There's too many things to look at. They're changing all the time. I might have missed the really important one. I have missed it 1 month ago when I didn't have Twitter. I may have missed 4 years ago when I didn't use tabs. I may have missed it 5 years ago when I didn't have Facebook. And the top website response you've given me to 'What Should I Do With My Life?' is a book by a person called Po Bronson. I don't want to sound ungrateful and predjudiced Google, but I don't want to take advice from a person called Po. They sound like a Teletubby.
I would like to talk to a human being. A real one. One that I can reach out and touch if the moment took me there. One that could pour me a cup of tea, share a joke.
Its not like I haven't seen people. I've been looking after little people all day. They occasionally let me pat their head, or hold their hand. I've also been speaking to grown-up people. I had a lovely weekend with a friend in Cork, after my producers meeting, we had a drink, dinner, another drink and then headed home and watched 'The X Factor' (which I am suddenly obsessed with. I even have a favourite. She's Irish, her name is Janet Devlin, and she's the best).
But, I don't know. It all just seems a little.... well, pointless. I made a big decision on the weekend. I was very excited about it, and more than a little terrified. But, then, life goes back to normal. Its just the same. I have to put in a lot of work for this new decision, and whilst it was inspiring on the weekend, now, it means just a lot more staring at computer screens, trying to figure out what to do next January.
Actually, you know, THAT'S what I'm bored of. I'm bored of worrying. I'm bored of thinking over every single bloody possibility in my head. I'm bored of constantly feeling that if I walk away from my computer for 2 seconds, I will miss the opportunity of a lifetime. I'm bored of thinking that if I dare to, say, sit down and read a book, to go for a walk, to write something in my diary, I will miss the one chance I have to figure out a direction for my life.
Things are getting desperate, my brain seems to think. Its starting to convince me I should lie about my age, that I should join ASIO, that I should write a novel, quick, do something, ANYTHING, significant, or if you can't figure out what to do, then, quickly, quickly, pretend your not as old as you are, because otherwise people will start to look at you funny, and begin to mutter things about you under their breath, when it turns out you're 3 years away from 30 and still have no idea how to get your life together.
So in that spirit, I'm going to back away slowly from the computer, walk as far away as possible, take my book to a little cafe and read it for as long my paranoid brain can stand to be away from the internet.
If you look at my computer screen, you will get an idea of where my head is at. 8 tabs open. 3 social media sites - Twitter, Facebook and Linkedin. Gmail is open. A website with grants named 'Aim for the Stars', a membership application for studio space, and a website for a street performance ('Get Involved'). I'm flicking between them all constantly, willing one of them to change, for an email to appear, a message or post to arrive, for one website to suddenly hold the answers to all my questions, which path to take, for the mist and fog to finally lift and it to all make sense.
Google, you once held so much promise with your predicative text, your 'I'm Feeling Lucky' button and your amusing daily changes to your design. You promised to understand me, to brighten my day, to make sense of the crazy world out there. But, I don't feel lucky. I don't feel understood. I feel confused. I feel overwhelmed. There's too many things to look at. They're changing all the time. I might have missed the really important one. I have missed it 1 month ago when I didn't have Twitter. I may have missed 4 years ago when I didn't use tabs. I may have missed it 5 years ago when I didn't have Facebook. And the top website response you've given me to 'What Should I Do With My Life?' is a book by a person called Po Bronson. I don't want to sound ungrateful and predjudiced Google, but I don't want to take advice from a person called Po. They sound like a Teletubby.
 |
| Po Bronson suggests following your dreams |
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Rant
So, here's a new topic. I went to a young producer's meeting today in Cork, and it was very interesting and exciting and inspiring. After my decision in the last few days (if you haven't read 'Doctor's Appointment' you won't know that I've decided to leave the au pair business at Christmas, rather than staying on until next May), it was the perfect event to be at. It was a matter of talking to people, saying, this is what I want to do, this is what I'm feeling at the moment. I need to be doing something more related to theatre, and them then stepping forward and saying, 'here, this is an opportunity, and, this is an opportunity' etc.
So, as I said, it was a great thing to go along to. First of all, it was a great kind of, comfort, to speak to some people just starting out and to see how much I actually already know and what I've already done. That was great. Its always nice to find out you know more than you think you do.
Secondly, it was kind of exciting to be in a room, with enthusiastic, like-minded people who all seemed to be excited about collaborations and what we could achieve together to invigorate the Cork theatre scene. I was filled with hope for the start of next year, thinking, great, I'll have all this spare time, I can help. I can be the person who runs around and does everything, who emails groups, who puts up posters, who networks and supports. I will be that general theatre oddsbody, the person no-one wants to be, because I'll have time, and I want to see this stuff up and running.
But, here is where the story gets depressing and confusing. When I attempted to talk to people, well, ok, a particular person who I'm not going to name, offering to help, to talk about getting some of the things that we had discussed off the ground, I got a total cold shoulder. I got a patronising look, I got a closed book, a feeling like I was intruding on somebody else's turf. This was a person, who, only minutes before was talking about collaboration, of not being clique-y or closed off etc. etc.
It happens so often in theatre. I don't know if its in the arts in general, or its just in theatre, but, people who, in theory, are enthusiastic about working together, opening things up, who want to collaborate and help actually turn out to want the complete opposite. I wonder if its because of competitiveness. We're all competing for a tiny audience, for a tiny amount of money, for a tiny little space in the arts scene that we can claim for ourself. We talk up the virtues of collaboration because we can see the benefits for ourself. We can see the glory that awaits us at the end of all the hard work. And then, someone else comes along with the same idea, the same motivation, and instead of thinking, 'great, here is someone who can help me', we start getting jealous, we start getting insecure and defensive. We start thinking of all the problems we possibly can with the person who has just volunteered their services. Why are they helping me? Are they crap? Are they going to hijack my project?
I know I'm ranting and its probably not particularly interesting to those outside the arts, but this experience made me really upset and angry. Here I was, standing there, saying, 'I want to help,' and instead of people responding with a, 'great, lets figure out how we can do it,' I got a 'Well, yes, I think everyone needs to be involved,' and a change of the subject. I essentially got the brush off.
Now, I don't know what I did in that meeting to give this person the impression that I wasn't serious or capable or whatever, but it seems a truly bizarre reaction to me. I did have to ask them to stop talking once or twice (as they had interrupted me), but considering they spent most of the meeting voicing their own opinions, I think it would be a bit rich for them to get shitty at me for something like that. The only justification I can think of is that she thought I was arrogant, or that she was getting defensive because she felt threatened by me. I was talking a lot about past projects that I had done, and ones that I had up and running at the time. But, still, I think its odd behaviour.
I wonder if it isn't a case of her having made a quick judgement on me. I was very dolled up, because it was a chance to be out of the house, with adults etc. and this person was not at all. Perhaps I looked like a bit of a ditz, or a bit vain, and she subsequently dismissed me because of that. Either that, or, because I'm Australian they decided I wasn't at all interesting or worth their while, or that I have no idea what I'm talking about in regards to the Irish arts scene. That is a feeling that I get a lot when I'm talking. And, look, fair enough, mabe I have no idea, but by cutting me off, by ignoring me or brushing me off when I'm attempting to help or assist, or by not explaining to me why you think I'm talking out my rear end, things aren't going to get any better.
Sorry. I'm mad. I'm pissed off. I'd like to give this person a piece of my mind. But, instead, I am filling up web space with useless rants.
Give people a chance, that's all I'd say. Give peace a chance, sure, Lennon, but give people a chance too.
So, as I said, it was a great thing to go along to. First of all, it was a great kind of, comfort, to speak to some people just starting out and to see how much I actually already know and what I've already done. That was great. Its always nice to find out you know more than you think you do.
Secondly, it was kind of exciting to be in a room, with enthusiastic, like-minded people who all seemed to be excited about collaborations and what we could achieve together to invigorate the Cork theatre scene. I was filled with hope for the start of next year, thinking, great, I'll have all this spare time, I can help. I can be the person who runs around and does everything, who emails groups, who puts up posters, who networks and supports. I will be that general theatre oddsbody, the person no-one wants to be, because I'll have time, and I want to see this stuff up and running.
But, here is where the story gets depressing and confusing. When I attempted to talk to people, well, ok, a particular person who I'm not going to name, offering to help, to talk about getting some of the things that we had discussed off the ground, I got a total cold shoulder. I got a patronising look, I got a closed book, a feeling like I was intruding on somebody else's turf. This was a person, who, only minutes before was talking about collaboration, of not being clique-y or closed off etc. etc.
It happens so often in theatre. I don't know if its in the arts in general, or its just in theatre, but, people who, in theory, are enthusiastic about working together, opening things up, who want to collaborate and help actually turn out to want the complete opposite. I wonder if its because of competitiveness. We're all competing for a tiny audience, for a tiny amount of money, for a tiny little space in the arts scene that we can claim for ourself. We talk up the virtues of collaboration because we can see the benefits for ourself. We can see the glory that awaits us at the end of all the hard work. And then, someone else comes along with the same idea, the same motivation, and instead of thinking, 'great, here is someone who can help me', we start getting jealous, we start getting insecure and defensive. We start thinking of all the problems we possibly can with the person who has just volunteered their services. Why are they helping me? Are they crap? Are they going to hijack my project?
I know I'm ranting and its probably not particularly interesting to those outside the arts, but this experience made me really upset and angry. Here I was, standing there, saying, 'I want to help,' and instead of people responding with a, 'great, lets figure out how we can do it,' I got a 'Well, yes, I think everyone needs to be involved,' and a change of the subject. I essentially got the brush off.
Now, I don't know what I did in that meeting to give this person the impression that I wasn't serious or capable or whatever, but it seems a truly bizarre reaction to me. I did have to ask them to stop talking once or twice (as they had interrupted me), but considering they spent most of the meeting voicing their own opinions, I think it would be a bit rich for them to get shitty at me for something like that. The only justification I can think of is that she thought I was arrogant, or that she was getting defensive because she felt threatened by me. I was talking a lot about past projects that I had done, and ones that I had up and running at the time. But, still, I think its odd behaviour.
I wonder if it isn't a case of her having made a quick judgement on me. I was very dolled up, because it was a chance to be out of the house, with adults etc. and this person was not at all. Perhaps I looked like a bit of a ditz, or a bit vain, and she subsequently dismissed me because of that. Either that, or, because I'm Australian they decided I wasn't at all interesting or worth their while, or that I have no idea what I'm talking about in regards to the Irish arts scene. That is a feeling that I get a lot when I'm talking. And, look, fair enough, mabe I have no idea, but by cutting me off, by ignoring me or brushing me off when I'm attempting to help or assist, or by not explaining to me why you think I'm talking out my rear end, things aren't going to get any better.
Sorry. I'm mad. I'm pissed off. I'd like to give this person a piece of my mind. But, instead, I am filling up web space with useless rants.
Give people a chance, that's all I'd say. Give peace a chance, sure, Lennon, but give people a chance too.
Doctor's Appointment
Well, things have gone downhill fast in Kinsale. Not for any thing to do with the family, or the boys, all of whom are lovely. Nothing to do with Kinsale itself, either, which is a beautiful town and I would dearly love to spend more time here.
No, its back to the existential angst for Jenny.
Today, I went to the doctors to try and get a pap smear. I had checked with a variety of sources as to whether or not I could do this, and all people had said that I would be able to do so, and would be able to do so cheaply/for free. When I got into the doctor's office, she told me she couldn't give me one for free, without me having a PPS number. It would cost me 100 Euro. Now, the PPS number is difficult to get. I need proof of address, which is difficult to get as an au pair, because I need some form of bill with my name and address on it. I then need to take said bill to an office in Cork, which is only open from 10am - 12pm on, like, a Monday and Wednesday (most ridiculous hours ever, they may as well be open 'only for 15 minutes on the day of the full moon and whenever 5 dark-haired people congregate outside holding rainbow banners') and apply for one. The number can then take up to 6 weeks to be produced.
When the doctor informed me of this, and that she couldn't give me the pap smear, as she didn't want to charge me 100 Euro, I became teary. She noticed and said, 'Are you getting teary?' Nothing like asking me if I'm upset to bring on the waterworks. I said, 'No,' and promptly burst into tears. She started getting very worried, could she help, could she print out a letter with my name and address on it, I said she couldn't. Thinking back on it now, that might have worked, but at the time I was mortified that I was sobbing in this woman's office. I attempted to get a hold of the situation and explained that it wasn't her fault, that I was under a lot of stress at the moment, and I'd be fine. Of course, when you say something like that, whilst attempting to hold back tears, which have been brought on by such an innocuous statement as, 'I can't give you a pap smear', and you're in a doctor's office, they start to get worried. This woman didn't know me from a bar of soap, and she was clearly very worried. 'And... and... do you have someone to talk over these... problems with...?' I felt like I was going to die of embarrassment. I had absolutely no desire to talk to her about these problems. I had no desire (nor did I feel there was any need) to be referred to 'someone who could help'. I held my head in my hands and muttered, 'Jesus', (probably not helping the situation - the situation being me, looking like I was having a mental breakdown in the doctor's office), as she attempted to comfort me again. At that point, I thought, there was absolutely no point in attempting to convince this woman that I was mentally sound, so I stood up and said, 'Look, I know what I have to do now, so I'll do it, so, can I just go, please?' The woman seemed relieved. 'Yes, ok, go, just go,' she said, waving her arms in my direction and at the door.
Not the most comforting of behaviours, when you suspect someone of being mentally unwell, but, hey, I threw her into a pretty uncomfortable situation there. Not meaning to, of course, I was just feeling very frustrated at the whole process, I was also already feeling overwhelmed, on edge and highly anxious.
The reason being that, my new host mother sat me down on Thursday and asked if 'anything was wrong'. She then proceeded to tell me that she felt I had been all over the shop the last week and a half, that I'd lost my enthusiasm, that my heart wasn't in it, that she wasn't sure I wanted to be there etc. etc. etc. There were a variety of things I had done in that week or two that she wasn't happy about (I had no idea they would be inappropriate, but, hey, that's what happens when you move to a new work situation). But, anyway she is an insightful person, and she was/is right on the money. As anyone reading any of these posts would know, I really DON'T know what I'm doing here, and I often feel like I would rather be doing something else. I think she intended it to be a pep talk, because she went on to tell me that she thought I was doing very well, but that I had to keep up my enthusiasm and energy. That was comforting, as I had been very worried that I was making lots of stupid mistakes.
However, the fact remains that I am still not sure that I want to be here, as an au pair. I want to be in Ireland, I want to finish as much as I can of the Creative Connections course, but I don't know how to marry this up with, you know, money and accommodation etc.
When I first decided I wanted to come to Ireland, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, it was wild and spontaneous and inexplicable and crazy. That was part of the charm. When I thought about why I wanted to go, it was a combination of wanting an adventure, wanting to feel inspired, and to chase creative opportunities overseas. But, I got scared. I chose to do something that was comfortable and easy. And that makes sense when I was first moving. It still makes sense in hindsight. But, I think staying where I am, as an au pair, for the next few months, for my last few months in Ireland, defeats the purpose of coming here. Originally, I thought I would work for 6 months, and then travel for 6 months. That changed when I got the Creative Connections course, and I suddenly felt I had to stay in the one place. I do want to finish as much of that course as I can, but I'm finding it difficult to contemplate staying in Ireland just for the course, with nothing else to do.
Being an au pair is ok, but I find it hard to justify why I'm doing it. I feel like I'm wasting my time, just a bit. It was always meant to be 'a means to an end', so to speak, but it seems like somewhere along the way, my priorities got crossed, and I ended up committing more to the things I didn't care as much about, making the things that were meant to be a 'means to an end' my priority, instead of the things that I actually wanted to be here for.
I'm 27. Most au pairs are just out of school, are trying to learn English, are figuring out what they want to stufdy next year. Those seem like reasonable reasons to be an au pair - to take a break, to learn a skill - ones that might keep you doing it. But, I feel like its taking up most of my time, without me getting much in return. Of course, I'm getting bills, accommodation, and that's not nothing. But, at the moment it feels like I'm staying here just for the hell of it. Just because I said I would.
So, what started out as being a pep talk ended with me admitting I didn't think I wanted to be there, that I thought I wanted to do something else. I think it took my host mother a bit by surprise. We kept having little discussions about it over Thursday and Friday, and went further and further down the track - me saying I couldn't stay until May, her suggesting Christmas, me then agreeing to a Christmas end date. I don't think its at all what she wanted, she doesn't seem very happy with me (and understandably so - she waited for me to arrive for 8 weeks), and what was a stress-free household for me, is now uncomfortable and I feel like I'm treading on eggshells. She says she's happy for me to stay until Xmas, and really we don't have a choice, as I don't know where I'd go if I left right now, and she would have no childminder for when she goes back to work next week.
BUT, the final BUT, is that I think this is the right thing to do. I have to stop running away from scary things or from opportunities. I have to take some risks and go out there and focus on what I actually want to be doing, which is making theatre. It might be expensive, it might scary, but that doesn't mean its the wrong thing to do.
So, in light of that decision, I will be in Kinsale until Christmas. At that point, I will move, preferably to Cork, if I can find some things/opportunities to occupy me there, or to Dublin if I can't. I will be making theatre. Lots of it. I will throw myself into everything I can possibly get involved in. Development opportunities, workshops, internships, work experience, paid work (if available), just hanging around other people and generally trying to soak up their amazingness and talent. I'm going to apply for residencies, I'm going to apply to volunteer on festivals, to stage manage, to administer. Whatever people well let me do, I will do it.
Then, at some point in the year, as yet undetermined, as various projects and and opportunities are yet to be confirmed, I will move to the UK. Much as I love Edinburgh and the Scottish people, I'm not going to let myself get sidetracked again. I'm moving to London. That doesn't mean I wouldn't consider moving somewhere else, or travelling somewhere else if the right opportunity came up, but I think I need to travel to London and just see what's going on. I need to meet people that are in London and the UK, I need to work at innovative theatre companies, I need to see their work on a regular basis.
To give myself the best possible chance at doing what I love and what I want to do, this is what I need to do. So, this is what I'm going to do. If anyone has any suggestions of people to talk to, ideas of companies that might let me hang out with them and see how they work, ideas of artists that might do the same, festivals that have volunteering opportunities etc. etc. etc. pass them on. I'm going to need them in the next few months.
No more fear.
Or, feel the fear and do it anyway.
Or, some other cliche.
Jesus.
No, its back to the existential angst for Jenny.
Today, I went to the doctors to try and get a pap smear. I had checked with a variety of sources as to whether or not I could do this, and all people had said that I would be able to do so, and would be able to do so cheaply/for free. When I got into the doctor's office, she told me she couldn't give me one for free, without me having a PPS number. It would cost me 100 Euro. Now, the PPS number is difficult to get. I need proof of address, which is difficult to get as an au pair, because I need some form of bill with my name and address on it. I then need to take said bill to an office in Cork, which is only open from 10am - 12pm on, like, a Monday and Wednesday (most ridiculous hours ever, they may as well be open 'only for 15 minutes on the day of the full moon and whenever 5 dark-haired people congregate outside holding rainbow banners') and apply for one. The number can then take up to 6 weeks to be produced.
When the doctor informed me of this, and that she couldn't give me the pap smear, as she didn't want to charge me 100 Euro, I became teary. She noticed and said, 'Are you getting teary?' Nothing like asking me if I'm upset to bring on the waterworks. I said, 'No,' and promptly burst into tears. She started getting very worried, could she help, could she print out a letter with my name and address on it, I said she couldn't. Thinking back on it now, that might have worked, but at the time I was mortified that I was sobbing in this woman's office. I attempted to get a hold of the situation and explained that it wasn't her fault, that I was under a lot of stress at the moment, and I'd be fine. Of course, when you say something like that, whilst attempting to hold back tears, which have been brought on by such an innocuous statement as, 'I can't give you a pap smear', and you're in a doctor's office, they start to get worried. This woman didn't know me from a bar of soap, and she was clearly very worried. 'And... and... do you have someone to talk over these... problems with...?' I felt like I was going to die of embarrassment. I had absolutely no desire to talk to her about these problems. I had no desire (nor did I feel there was any need) to be referred to 'someone who could help'. I held my head in my hands and muttered, 'Jesus', (probably not helping the situation - the situation being me, looking like I was having a mental breakdown in the doctor's office), as she attempted to comfort me again. At that point, I thought, there was absolutely no point in attempting to convince this woman that I was mentally sound, so I stood up and said, 'Look, I know what I have to do now, so I'll do it, so, can I just go, please?' The woman seemed relieved. 'Yes, ok, go, just go,' she said, waving her arms in my direction and at the door.
Not the most comforting of behaviours, when you suspect someone of being mentally unwell, but, hey, I threw her into a pretty uncomfortable situation there. Not meaning to, of course, I was just feeling very frustrated at the whole process, I was also already feeling overwhelmed, on edge and highly anxious.
The reason being that, my new host mother sat me down on Thursday and asked if 'anything was wrong'. She then proceeded to tell me that she felt I had been all over the shop the last week and a half, that I'd lost my enthusiasm, that my heart wasn't in it, that she wasn't sure I wanted to be there etc. etc. etc. There were a variety of things I had done in that week or two that she wasn't happy about (I had no idea they would be inappropriate, but, hey, that's what happens when you move to a new work situation). But, anyway she is an insightful person, and she was/is right on the money. As anyone reading any of these posts would know, I really DON'T know what I'm doing here, and I often feel like I would rather be doing something else. I think she intended it to be a pep talk, because she went on to tell me that she thought I was doing very well, but that I had to keep up my enthusiasm and energy. That was comforting, as I had been very worried that I was making lots of stupid mistakes.
However, the fact remains that I am still not sure that I want to be here, as an au pair. I want to be in Ireland, I want to finish as much as I can of the Creative Connections course, but I don't know how to marry this up with, you know, money and accommodation etc.
When I first decided I wanted to come to Ireland, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, it was wild and spontaneous and inexplicable and crazy. That was part of the charm. When I thought about why I wanted to go, it was a combination of wanting an adventure, wanting to feel inspired, and to chase creative opportunities overseas. But, I got scared. I chose to do something that was comfortable and easy. And that makes sense when I was first moving. It still makes sense in hindsight. But, I think staying where I am, as an au pair, for the next few months, for my last few months in Ireland, defeats the purpose of coming here. Originally, I thought I would work for 6 months, and then travel for 6 months. That changed when I got the Creative Connections course, and I suddenly felt I had to stay in the one place. I do want to finish as much of that course as I can, but I'm finding it difficult to contemplate staying in Ireland just for the course, with nothing else to do.
Being an au pair is ok, but I find it hard to justify why I'm doing it. I feel like I'm wasting my time, just a bit. It was always meant to be 'a means to an end', so to speak, but it seems like somewhere along the way, my priorities got crossed, and I ended up committing more to the things I didn't care as much about, making the things that were meant to be a 'means to an end' my priority, instead of the things that I actually wanted to be here for.
I'm 27. Most au pairs are just out of school, are trying to learn English, are figuring out what they want to stufdy next year. Those seem like reasonable reasons to be an au pair - to take a break, to learn a skill - ones that might keep you doing it. But, I feel like its taking up most of my time, without me getting much in return. Of course, I'm getting bills, accommodation, and that's not nothing. But, at the moment it feels like I'm staying here just for the hell of it. Just because I said I would.
So, what started out as being a pep talk ended with me admitting I didn't think I wanted to be there, that I thought I wanted to do something else. I think it took my host mother a bit by surprise. We kept having little discussions about it over Thursday and Friday, and went further and further down the track - me saying I couldn't stay until May, her suggesting Christmas, me then agreeing to a Christmas end date. I don't think its at all what she wanted, she doesn't seem very happy with me (and understandably so - she waited for me to arrive for 8 weeks), and what was a stress-free household for me, is now uncomfortable and I feel like I'm treading on eggshells. She says she's happy for me to stay until Xmas, and really we don't have a choice, as I don't know where I'd go if I left right now, and she would have no childminder for when she goes back to work next week.
BUT, the final BUT, is that I think this is the right thing to do. I have to stop running away from scary things or from opportunities. I have to take some risks and go out there and focus on what I actually want to be doing, which is making theatre. It might be expensive, it might scary, but that doesn't mean its the wrong thing to do.
So, in light of that decision, I will be in Kinsale until Christmas. At that point, I will move, preferably to Cork, if I can find some things/opportunities to occupy me there, or to Dublin if I can't. I will be making theatre. Lots of it. I will throw myself into everything I can possibly get involved in. Development opportunities, workshops, internships, work experience, paid work (if available), just hanging around other people and generally trying to soak up their amazingness and talent. I'm going to apply for residencies, I'm going to apply to volunteer on festivals, to stage manage, to administer. Whatever people well let me do, I will do it.
Then, at some point in the year, as yet undetermined, as various projects and and opportunities are yet to be confirmed, I will move to the UK. Much as I love Edinburgh and the Scottish people, I'm not going to let myself get sidetracked again. I'm moving to London. That doesn't mean I wouldn't consider moving somewhere else, or travelling somewhere else if the right opportunity came up, but I think I need to travel to London and just see what's going on. I need to meet people that are in London and the UK, I need to work at innovative theatre companies, I need to see their work on a regular basis.
To give myself the best possible chance at doing what I love and what I want to do, this is what I need to do. So, this is what I'm going to do. If anyone has any suggestions of people to talk to, ideas of companies that might let me hang out with them and see how they work, ideas of artists that might do the same, festivals that have volunteering opportunities etc. etc. etc. pass them on. I'm going to need them in the next few months.
No more fear.
Or, feel the fear and do it anyway.
Or, some other cliche.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A Single Leaf
So, I know I keep going on and on about this, but I evidently find it charming, and its at least a break from music. The fact is, I find Baby Brother adorable. But its not just the fact that he's got big, chubby cheeks and wide, blue eyes. What I love about him is watching him explore the world. I've mentioned before how many new sensations a baby comes in contact with every day, and how something that to us is quite straight forward (like a piece of hair, or a piece of string), to Baby Brother needs to be explored in a variety of sensory ways for hours on end. Its beautiful to watch him.
Yesterday we went for a walk, and he was getting grumpy in his buggy. That's not usually like him, as going outside tends to quieten down completely. I think its because of all the sudden new sensations - the sights, the sounds, the feel of the air on his face, the coolness on his arms and legs, the movement of the carriage. There is so much going on, but all subtle, gentle sensations (not like a Hi5 episode on TV), things that you need to concentrate on to feel and experience. I think, often, with something like TV, its overstimulating for him, there's too much going on, its too loud, too bright, it just confuses rather than calms. Whereas, pop him in his buggy and ride around and he'll be happy for hours. Well, 45 - 50 minutes, which is hours in baby land.
Anyway, we went for a walk, as, for the first time in about a week, the weather was sunny enough and warm enough to take him outside. But, as I said, he started to get a bit grumpy. So, I picked up a leaf from a tree on the side of the road and handed it to him. I'd done this before and knew that it would occupy him for a good 20 minutes. This time, however, I watched him as he played with the leaf, and it was just beautiful.
First he stared at it, holding it by the stem as it had been given to him. He had this little look of confusion, possibly compacted by the fact that his eyes were slightly crossed to enable him to focus properly on this leaf that was right in front of his face. Then he brought his other hand over, slowly, and stroked part of the leaf. He stopped. Stared some more. Put his little fingers up and pinched the leaf. Then, he gently folded over part of the leaf and watched it spring up again when he let go. He did it again for a different part of the leaf. He folded it over entirely, and let it spring up. Then he transferred it to the other hand, so that he was now holding it by the leaf, and the stem was sticking up. He stared at that for a while. Then he brought out his other little hand and touched the stem. His hand leapt back, it mustn't have felt like he expected. He went back another time to try again. This time he flicked the stem back and forth, back and forth for a while. Then he brought up both hands and smushed the leaf up in his fingers, breaking it apart and watching as the pieces fell through his chubby little fingers. The whole process must have taken 15 minutes. Just to examine one leaf. When he realised that the leaf was gone, and it wasn't going to spring up again, he started to make whingey noises. So, I picked up a different leaf, different shape, different colour, and handed it to him. Instant silence. Again, the staring. The contemplation, and then the exploration began again...
It was fabulous to watch. It must be wonderful to have so many new sensations to explore. Sensations that are completely and utterly new, like that. But, I also felt like it was a lesson many people (including myself) could take on board every day. No matter how much we've seen, we've never seen it all, and there's always going to be something new to see, taste, touch, hear, smell in a day. It would be wonderful to be able to approach each new sensation with that same sense of exploration, of complete willingness to take it all on board, every aspect. Of course, the problem is time. We don't have time to be sitting around for 20 minutes and examining in minute detail everything we come across.
I had the opportunity to do something similar last Thursday. I had the morning and afternoon off, as I was doing an evening shift, so I went for a long walk into Kinsale. It was miserable weather, so, once I got there, I stopped at the delightful Perryville Tea House for a drink. The place was all done up like a lovely, old-fashioned country house. But, when the tea (and cheesecake - I couldn't resist) came out, I was even more delighted. Normally I'm the sort of person who thinks 'bigger is better' when it comes to food and drink. My meals are often ridiculously over-sized, a hang-over from, again, years of eating disorders, and this strange anxious feeling somewhere in my head that I may not get enough food, that I may get hungry and to protect against this potentially drastic situation at all costs.
However, my Perryville Tea House tea and cake were dainty sized. Doll sized. This would be something that would normally put me into a slight panic, and feeling of not getting my money's worth etc. etc. Not so on this day. The tea cup and saucer and plate were all beautiful china, decorated with green and gold around the edges. My little table had a milk jug, sugar bowl (with sugar cubes) and a little jar of flowers. I was overwhelmed by the sense that this was absolutely perfect, and that here were enough sensations, visual, oral, sensual, olfactory, aural (music being played) to entertain me for a good hour, as long as I took my time and savoured them all. It was one of the most peaceful and delightful times I have ever spent in a cafe. There was no-one to talk to, no book to distract me, all I could do was focus on what was in front of me. By the time I'd finished I felt more satisfied than if I had come in and eaten half a cheesecake and drunk a gallon of tea.
Of course, its a lesson I'm learning slowly, and with each 2 baby steps forward, I'll take one back. Though Thursday was lovely, I was back to old habits on Friday and Saturday due to my appalling mood. Still, being around Baby Brother is a constant reminder of how wonderful the simplest things can be if you just take the time to experience them properly.
Yesterday we went for a walk, and he was getting grumpy in his buggy. That's not usually like him, as going outside tends to quieten down completely. I think its because of all the sudden new sensations - the sights, the sounds, the feel of the air on his face, the coolness on his arms and legs, the movement of the carriage. There is so much going on, but all subtle, gentle sensations (not like a Hi5 episode on TV), things that you need to concentrate on to feel and experience. I think, often, with something like TV, its overstimulating for him, there's too much going on, its too loud, too bright, it just confuses rather than calms. Whereas, pop him in his buggy and ride around and he'll be happy for hours. Well, 45 - 50 minutes, which is hours in baby land.
Anyway, we went for a walk, as, for the first time in about a week, the weather was sunny enough and warm enough to take him outside. But, as I said, he started to get a bit grumpy. So, I picked up a leaf from a tree on the side of the road and handed it to him. I'd done this before and knew that it would occupy him for a good 20 minutes. This time, however, I watched him as he played with the leaf, and it was just beautiful.
First he stared at it, holding it by the stem as it had been given to him. He had this little look of confusion, possibly compacted by the fact that his eyes were slightly crossed to enable him to focus properly on this leaf that was right in front of his face. Then he brought his other hand over, slowly, and stroked part of the leaf. He stopped. Stared some more. Put his little fingers up and pinched the leaf. Then, he gently folded over part of the leaf and watched it spring up again when he let go. He did it again for a different part of the leaf. He folded it over entirely, and let it spring up. Then he transferred it to the other hand, so that he was now holding it by the leaf, and the stem was sticking up. He stared at that for a while. Then he brought out his other little hand and touched the stem. His hand leapt back, it mustn't have felt like he expected. He went back another time to try again. This time he flicked the stem back and forth, back and forth for a while. Then he brought up both hands and smushed the leaf up in his fingers, breaking it apart and watching as the pieces fell through his chubby little fingers. The whole process must have taken 15 minutes. Just to examine one leaf. When he realised that the leaf was gone, and it wasn't going to spring up again, he started to make whingey noises. So, I picked up a different leaf, different shape, different colour, and handed it to him. Instant silence. Again, the staring. The contemplation, and then the exploration began again...
It was fabulous to watch. It must be wonderful to have so many new sensations to explore. Sensations that are completely and utterly new, like that. But, I also felt like it was a lesson many people (including myself) could take on board every day. No matter how much we've seen, we've never seen it all, and there's always going to be something new to see, taste, touch, hear, smell in a day. It would be wonderful to be able to approach each new sensation with that same sense of exploration, of complete willingness to take it all on board, every aspect. Of course, the problem is time. We don't have time to be sitting around for 20 minutes and examining in minute detail everything we come across.
I had the opportunity to do something similar last Thursday. I had the morning and afternoon off, as I was doing an evening shift, so I went for a long walk into Kinsale. It was miserable weather, so, once I got there, I stopped at the delightful Perryville Tea House for a drink. The place was all done up like a lovely, old-fashioned country house. But, when the tea (and cheesecake - I couldn't resist) came out, I was even more delighted. Normally I'm the sort of person who thinks 'bigger is better' when it comes to food and drink. My meals are often ridiculously over-sized, a hang-over from, again, years of eating disorders, and this strange anxious feeling somewhere in my head that I may not get enough food, that I may get hungry and to protect against this potentially drastic situation at all costs.
However, my Perryville Tea House tea and cake were dainty sized. Doll sized. This would be something that would normally put me into a slight panic, and feeling of not getting my money's worth etc. etc. Not so on this day. The tea cup and saucer and plate were all beautiful china, decorated with green and gold around the edges. My little table had a milk jug, sugar bowl (with sugar cubes) and a little jar of flowers. I was overwhelmed by the sense that this was absolutely perfect, and that here were enough sensations, visual, oral, sensual, olfactory, aural (music being played) to entertain me for a good hour, as long as I took my time and savoured them all. It was one of the most peaceful and delightful times I have ever spent in a cafe. There was no-one to talk to, no book to distract me, all I could do was focus on what was in front of me. By the time I'd finished I felt more satisfied than if I had come in and eaten half a cheesecake and drunk a gallon of tea.
Of course, its a lesson I'm learning slowly, and with each 2 baby steps forward, I'll take one back. Though Thursday was lovely, I was back to old habits on Friday and Saturday due to my appalling mood. Still, being around Baby Brother is a constant reminder of how wonderful the simplest things can be if you just take the time to experience them properly.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Cork International Folk Festival
I'm sure you're sick of hearing about music. Well, I'm sick of writing about it, frankly. Problem is, I'm not sick of listening to it, so until I get bored of going to pubs, drinking cider and listening to mournful folk songs about beautiful ladies and broken hearts; or trad. sessions with violins and mandolins and 'diddle-day-ay' and 'tra-la-la-la-la' music (which ain't happening any time soon), I'm just going to have to keep blogging about it, because there will be nothing else to blog about otherwise.
So, this weekend was the Cork International Folk Festival. Being a bit a folkie, a bit of a tragic folkie, and having my whole weekend off, including Friday, with no babysitting duty required, I decided to head in and see what the world folk scene had to offer. Not that I hadn't seen it before, but I thought it might be different this time around. Or, exactly the same, which is more what I'd prefer. Oh, you know what I mean, be quiet, Jenny. The weather has been quite, quite miserable for the past week, despite us being promised last Tuesday and Wednesday that we would be experiencing the hottest day of the year. Actually what happened was, that whilst England and Dublin were in the midst of a heat wave, all the crappy weather that would normally hang over the north of Ireland and the British Isles decided to congregate over Cork instead. It wasn't just rainy, it was grey and foggy and windy. Now, I quite like a bit of fog. It lends a magical and mysterious air to any day. But, in Australia, I'm used to the fog clearing up by, say, 10am. At the latest. Maybe if I was hiking in the Blue Mountains, I'd expect it to stick around for a bit longer, but I would be certain of seeing some clear sky sometime during the day, and usually be looking at better weather by the next day. Not so in Ireland. Fog here is the real fog. The fog is like a deadbeat younger sibling who never knows when they've over stayed their welcome (not that I have a deadbeat younger sibling, mind you, but I've seen them on the telly and they seem very annoying). When the fog visits in Ireland, its not here for a cup of tea and a bikkie. Oh no. The fog is here to stay. To sit on your couch and put its muddy feet on the white pillows and hog the TV and eat all the ice-cream and not leave for weeks on end, until everybody in the house is all like, 'Jesus, would the fog ever get off the couch? I want to watch the X-Factor.'
Ahem.
Yes.
Too much fog and being inside all the time can make you a little bonkers. And the fog is still here. A week later, and its still here.
Anyway, back to the festival. So, it was miserable weather when I left Kinsale, but I was given optimistic predictions by my host family that the weather was often worse on the coast, and the Cork might be sunny. Considering this advice and weighing it against my experience in Ireland to date, I dressed myself in a long, warm jacket, stockings, wrapped my head in a scarf, and took a big umbrella. Under my big jacket, I decided to wear a summery dress. Just in case. But I didn't hold out much hope.
I had hoped to find a room in Cork with a mate, but as this was not possible, I booked myself into the Bru Hostel and Bar, a suitably seedy looking establishment, with All Blacks flags flying outside and other antipodeans working behind the bar.
I had a meeting at 3pm in a lolly store called, 'Sweet as!' (unfortunately not run by Kiwis) where I was given the sweetest chai latte of my entire life. I guess I should have taken on board the fact that I was ordering it in a lolly store, and that the pies that they had on offer consisted mainly of toffee or caramel, stuffed full to burst with lollies or M&M's and then drizzled with cream or sugary syrup. They kind of hurt your eyes to look at. It was clearly a very particular clientele they were catering for. That is, children and people on their way towards Type 2 diabetes. But, after the initial sugary burst, I managed to finish the drink and also to quite enjoy it.
I didn't have much to do after the meeting. The first gig I'd booked for wasn't until 8pm, so I wandered aimlessly about Cork, in the rain, attempting to find something to do. I had wanted to go and see the markets that were on that day, but it wasn't really market weather, and by the time I remembered, after my meeting, to go and look at them, most people were packing up. So, I went to Marks & Spencer and spent an inordinately long time deciding on what to eat for my dinner (Indian? Soy Strips? So Good Vegetables? Vegetarian Moussaka? Spicy Lentil Soup? Cheesecake? Garden Salad?), checking calorie counts, ingredients, comparing colours, textures, serving size and getting more and more stressed the more options I encountered. The truth was I wasn't really hungry, so it was nearly impossible to decide what I actually wanted to eat, in a few hours, when I would be hungry. All I knew was I wanted 'something substantial'. That at least made garden salads and vegetable soups were easy to discount. Why am I going through all these details? Well, this was the first indications of a mood that lasted me all weekend. There's a fabulous Calvin and Hobbes cartoon which I have been desperately looking for on the internet (but cannot find), when Calvin's Dad goes to the supermarket and gets so angry and confused by all the choice on offer (do I need crunchy peanut butter or low salt? what if I wanted both? etc.) until the final picture of the cartoon strip where he comes home looking very grumpy and says to his wife, 'I think you should do the shopping from now on' and she replies, 'Did the store manager have to speak with you again?' This was me on Friday night. I had no idea what I wanted, and so a choice of dinners soon dissolved into a choice of activities for the weekend, choice of careers, choice of lifestyle, from where it slid into an existential crisis, ending with me clutching a pile of ready meals in the middle of the supermarket aisle, unable to move, and mumbling softly to myself as people gently pushed past me, afraid of making any loud or unexpected movements in case I would suddenly snap and bring down the fury of God upon them in the form of a pre-cooked and packaged Dhal Makhani. I was existentially relieved with the spying of a previously unseen choice of layered prawn salad and bread roll, but the mood was merely quietened, rather than resolved.
After dinner, I headed out to the first gig of the folk festival, which improved my mood slightly. It was in a beautiful venue called, 'The Pavilion', and I enjoyed all the music very much. However, in between the acts, I was very aware of being on my own. I don't usually mind going to things by myself. I used to go the movies on my own as a teenager all the time, usually because I was worried my choice of movie may not be approved of by my friends, so I just saved myself the hassle of asking someone (and the potential rejection), and went by myself. I have obviously headed to many events on my own whilst in Ireland as well, and its usually not a problem, as I find people to talk to very easily. This weekend, however, was different. I was left very much on my own, no questions of where I was from, what I was doing here, what did I think of the weather etc. and I suddenly felt very, very lonely. I think there were a lot of things that contributed to my being ignored. The festival wasn't like the one on Cape Clear, where you know everyone is there for the festival, and there's a feeling of camaraderie, and 'we're all in this together', and everyone's pretty much seen the same events, and you see the same faces every time you attend something, so, eventually, you don't mind sharing a joke with the person next to you, because even though you don't know each other, you've become familiar, you can be fairly certain you have things in common (if only the music and events at the festival), and there are things to talk about (what did you think of this? where are you going next?) Because the Cork festival was a lot of separate events, and people could go to one and then ignore the rest of the festival, these things didn't occur. The venue was also dark, so you couldn't really catch people's eyes to start a conversation. Finally, I think my terrible mood and my feelings of loneliness were working against me. Not only did I not look like a pleasant person to speak to, but I was determined not to be engaged in mindless chit-chat, a hang-over from the existential crisis in the supermarket perhaps. Its only a quick jump from, 'I don't feel like talking to anyone, back away!' to, 'No-one wants to speak to me, I'm so lonely and sad.'
I headed back to my hostel feeling more than a little miserable, but uncertain of what to do. I wanted more music, but I also didn't want to hang out in crowded bars with everyone around me having a good time with their mates, and me feeling lonely. I sat down for another glass of wine at the hostel hoping I would figure out what I wanted soon enough. A guy walked past me and said, I thought, 'Don't stress!' There is nothing I hate more, when in a bad mood, than a patronising male chirping, 'Where's your smile?' as if being cheery was some sort of public service I do for middle-aged men I don't know. So I was determined not to be jollied out of my foul mood, and I was also determined not to get into a flirtatious conversation with yet another middle-aged man I wasn't interested in. I said, 'I'm not stressed!' He said, 'What?' I said, 'What?' He said, 'Don't stress!' I said, 'What?' He said, 'Don't stress!' I said, 'Don't stress?' He said, 'What?' I said, 'What?' (getting more and more grumpy), he said, 'Don't stress!' I said, 'I'm NOT STRESSED.' He said, 'No, no, I said, NICE DRESS.' 'Oh,' I said. 'Thanks.' But, we were both so exhausted by the 'conversation' that he, thankfully, moved on. So, that's one way of dealing with unwanted attention, I suppose. Pretend you're deaf. Or, don speak-a-da Engliss. That's probably another option.
I eventually headed up to my hostel room, not feeling much better. It might have been a feeling that was invading the hostel, as, about 3am, I was woken by an absolutely bonkers German girl screaming her head off. 'I JUST WANT TO FUCKING SLEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!' She cried. What I first thought was some sort of battle against an existential crisis of her own, whose manic, unanswerable questions were keeping her awake, my ear soon tuned into a delightfully loud and obnoxious group of Australian boys somewhere in the hostel laughing and yelling and having a bloody good time. What's more, they wanted everyone to hear about it. The German girl, conversely, was incensed at having their enjoyment and good moods shoved down her throat (or down her ears, to be precise), and, I can only presume, from the sounds, she then launched herself out of her bunk bed, propelled herself down the hallway and proceeded to throw herself bodily, kicking and screaming, at the Aussie boys' dorm room, screaming, 'WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?? JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!'
Now, I'm not sure if the German girl had ever been in a hostel before, but to me, when you're paying a pittance for a room, you have to expect any or all of the following: lumpy mattresses; flat pillows; smelly, stuffy rooms; bugs; cheap, unsatisfying breakfasts; strange roommates; and most of all, NOISE. That doesn't mean I enjoy these things, but railing against them seems as useful as, say, railing against a dog for eating meat, or railing against the waves for breaking on the sand and messing up all the lovely seashells. You can yell and scream and cajole all you like, but nothing is going to stop your hostel (except in a few, notable exceptions) from being smelly, dirty, cramped, unattractive, loud or all of the above. The Aussie boys evidently felt the same way, and decided to scream back at the German girl, telling her to 'fuck off!' One particular charmer said, 'Do you want a piece of me?' to which she replied, 'Sure, come on!' and then he yelled, 'I've got a great big wing-wang (or something) here you can have a piece of that!' Thankfully, before it all turned into an imitation of a NRL after-party or a P&O cruise, the hostel owner came and explained to the boys that they really should be going to bed now.
I woke up the next morning in an even worse mood, perhaps due to the lack of sleep, or perhaps encouraged in my existential questioning by another grey sky, fog, rain and an uncertainty of what to do before the gigs started at 1:30pm. I ended up wandering down the road, to my favourite Cork bookstore, 'Vibes and Scribes'. In the store, the feeling of indecision continued, with me picking up 'Killing Bono' (by a schoolmate of Bono's who also tried to be a rockstar and failed miserably), an account of the worst Everest disaster in modern history, 'Committed' by Elizabeth Gilbert, a book that explains the meaning and origins of old phrases and superstitions, 'The Equation of Happiness', and a variety of others. Looking down at the pile of books that I couldn't afford, had no time to read and had no space to take home, I decided I instead should visit the library. I put all the books back on the shelf, smiled sheepishly at the sales assistant and headed out to the library.
I found, 'I was Bono's Doppelganger' in the library, the older, and much less snazzily titled copy of one of the books I had coveted in the bookstore, and started to read. After about half an hour, I went to check out a free folk fesitval gig ('The Songs of James Joyce'... wow... SO Irish...) that was happening out the back in the Rory Gallagher Music Library. Now, up until the weekend, I had never heard of Rory Gallagher, but he's apparently kind of a big deal. Even more so in Cork, as he was raised here (whilst being born in Co. Donegal). I had images of a friendly, soft featured, big bearded folk musician, but when I looked around the music library, I saw a long-haired, denim-wearing, dripping in sweat, 1970s rock and blues musician. It was a fairly incongruous image in a library, particularly when I was being served by a most delightfully sweet and soft-voiced 60 year old lady in a sensible cardigan and flat shoes. I decided to join the music library, and took out my Bono book, as well as a few fat volumes of Irish fiddle music and folk songs. I headed to the nearest cafe (because my levels of frustration about being stuck walking in the rain and amongst crowds were reaching a fever pitch), which just happened to be Gloria Jean's. I ignored the cries of 'Evil chain store!' and 'Owned by Hillsong!' that were dancing around in my head and went inside to order the largest, sweetest Chai Latte I had ever had... since yesterday. I then sat and read my Bono book, taking great pleasure in his poor friend's lack of success and his envy and resentment of Bono and U2, because his disappointed dreams were strangely appealing and soothing to my appalling mood. That is, I was soothed until a man sat in front of me (outside) and proceeded to smoke dirty cigarette after dirty cigarette, the smoke of which was billowing straight into my face through the open window. I can usually stand cigarette smoke. Not today. I was ready to throw up. I was ready to hit him over the head with my book. I was ready to tip my chai latte over his cigarette. Instead, I took the socially acceptable route and left Gloria Jeans.
About this time, it was lunchtime and the gigs were starting again. I went back to the markets (again in the rain - my umbrella was starting to drip water onto my head, which is always a bad sign in an umbrella, and kind of defeats the purpose of carrying it around, but something habitual kept me holding it over myself, despite the drips) and listened to the 'Sons of Delta', a great Blues band from the UK. After a few songs, including the ever popular, 'I'm a Man of Constant Sorrow', I snuck away to hear the traditional song contest.
The song contest was only for singer-songwriters with a new 'traditional' song up their sleeves, which was frustrating for me, as I was dying to get up and have a sing. Still, it was kind of interesting to sit back and watch for once. Kind of. I don't really want to be critical of people who are doing something I would never, and probably COULD never do, so I just won't say anything. Songwriting is something I have only the slightest desire to do, and its also something I think I would be terribly bad at (without a lot of practice), and when you already have a wildly talented composer in the family (my younger brother Chris), it seems ridiculous to attempt to compete with him. Anything I did would just pale in comparison. So, no songwriting for me, and no being critical of those who get up the guts to do it.
With the song contest over, and another 4 hours until I was supposed to be at the next gig, I was again at a loss. The weather was miserable, so I couldn't sit outside, and I didn't want to sit in another cafe, having already done that several times over the past few days, and I didn't want to go shopping, as I felt (quite rightly, I'm sure), that in my current mood I couldn't be counted on to make reasonable and sensible decisions, and may very well buy all of the clothes in Penney's or H&M.
I poked my head into a free art exhibition, and then finally gave in and went and got some terrible, terrible food, at the end of which I felt much, much better. The Irish love their chips. Not surprising, really, as, I'm sure you've heard, the Irish love their potatoes. But, the Irish have turned the humble chip into something much more. In Australia, you're usually given a choice of chips on your usual Take Away menu, the choice goes something like: Chips - Regular, Large. If the place is very fancy, they may ask if you want chicken salt. If its a take away joint that's leaning towards the gourmet, you may be able to get 'Seasoned Wedges with Sour Cream and Chilli.' This, one would think, would be enough choice for anyone. Not so in Ireland. You may get chips. You may get chips and cheese. You may get chips in gravy. You may get chips in curry sauce. You may get chips in gravy, covered in cheese. You may get chips in curry sauce, covered in cheese. You may get chips in garlic sauce. You may get chips covered in garlic sauce and smothered in cheese. On Saturday afternoon, I opted for this final, artery-clogging option. Thinking back on it now, it was pretty disgusting. But, at the time, the terrible, terrible food somehow soothed the anger within (possibly by clogging it up with fat and salt), and I headed back to the hostel in a kind of high-cholesterol haze, lay down in the TV room and read some more about how terrible it was to go to school with Bono. A strange man attempted to interrupt me at one point. He was wearing a kilt (so, presumably, Scottish). And had two cotton balls stuffed in both his ears.
'Hello', he said.
'Hi', I said, without lifting my eyes from the book.
'Have you got hot water?' He said.
'I haven't had a shower today,' I said, getting slightly worried about whether or not he was going to leave me alone.
Of course, he had no intention of leaving me alone and started on a diatribe about how he'd complained, and it still wasn't fixed, and it wasn't right, it wasn't fair, if you paid for a room, you should expect hot water, and what did they think they were playing at (during which I sighed, thinking, again, had this person never stayed in a hostel before and mentally referring him to my point of view on hostels telepathically addressed to the German girl the night before). I was already in a foul mood (as we have established), which was being made worse by the fact that he wasn't picking up on my VERY OBVIOUS visual cues that I had no desire to talk to him, and that he should LEAVE ME ALONE.
However, he then started on a rant about Australians. And of how they think they can just come over and take what they want and just destroy the place. I can only think he meant the Kiwis that obviously ran the bar (hence the 5 All Blacks flags outside), as I couldn't see how his lack of hot water in the hostel was directly related to Australia (Bad management of the Murray-Darling Basin? The carbon tax? Too many Aussie backpackers?), but I suddenly saw an easy way of getting this man to shut up. I looked up from my book, fixed him with a glare and growled, 'I'm an Australian.' He immediately backtracked, said he hadn't meant it that way, and it was all just, you know and that was all and no harm and mumble, mumble, mumble, at which point I fixed him with another look and said, 'I'm just trying to read my book', which finally got him to leave me alone. I decided to move to my bed and continue the book there.
After a short, chip-induced snooze, I woke up and headed out to the next gig. I had been feeling much better, until I got to the venue. I opted not to get a drink, as I could see people gathering at the doors already. I joined the queue, and not long after, the double doors were opened. We shuffled in. And then we stopped again at the bottom of a flight of stairs. At the top of these stairs was the actual entrance to the venue, which was being barricaded by folk festival staff. My rage knew no bounds. I hate standing around aimlessly. I hate queues when I'm tired, when I have nothing to read. I hate not knowing what is going on. I hate feeling like a fool. And, at that point in time, all these things were combining. Add that to the occasional staff and customers who had to push past to get to the loos (also at the top of the stairs), and a little girl who stepped on my toe (HOW DARE SHE), and by the time we were allowed into the venue, I was ready to punch someone. No, everyone. One after the other. Oh, how satisfying.
Instead, I got myself a very sugary cider and found a seat. My rage was now directed towards the empty stage. After about 10 minutes of sitting around, waiting, a man came towards me. He asked me if the seat next to me was taken. I said it wasn't. He then checked if the seat in front of me was taken. It wasn't. He started to beckon someone over. I asked him if he was with someone and he said he was. I asked if he would like me to move so that he and his wife could sit together. Now, to me, that is a fairly standard thing to offer, but this man acted as if I had just volunteered to feed and house his 20 homeless grandchildren. He said that I was so kind, so nice, and when his wife got there, he reiterated to her how kind and nice I had been, and then insisted on buying me another, ridiculously sugary cider. My mood began to brighten. And, it just goes to show, that if you actually take the opportunity to reach out to people, to be kind, to talk to them, they will generally always return the favor (unless, of course, they are reading a book and you unintentionally insult their homeland). The gig was another corker, by the amusingly named, 'Folk the Recession', a line-up of very talented musicians from all over the country and from a variety of different bands.
This time I went straight back to the hostel and fell into bed as soon as I got there. I was exhausted and I was still a little sad, and I didn't think staying up later, by myself, and drinking was going to help matters.
After a long, 10 hour sleep, I woke up feeling much better. After a Skype conversation with my Dad, and tea in the loveliest, old-fashioned, Sinatra-playing tea-room in Cork (Fellini's), I headed off to see the Ceili Mor, which was being held, in the rain, on the Grand Parade. For those of you who don't know, a Ceili Mor is a community dance. So, they were teaching everyone all sorts of Irish country dances, similar to the barn dances we used to learn at school. I normally love these sorts of things (guilty admission: I loved them at school, though I would never have admitted that to anyone, it was just way too uncool), but I was by myself, and I didn't want to go and dance with someone I didn't know, so I instead watched happily for an hour from the sidelines. There was then an excerpt from 'Pulses of Tradition', a Riverdance-inspired version of the Ceili Mor for tourists that would be on offer in Cork from 2012. This was very much not my thing. The thing I like about a Ceili Mor and folk in general, is the feeling of community that it gives. I love that old grannies and 5 year old kids are dancing together, and maybe they're not getting all the steps right, but they're having a great time while they're screwing it all up. Things like 'Pulses of Tradition', whilst very pretty, just kind of bore me. Plus, the costumes they had clashed terribly. Peach dresses on the girls and bright purple shirts on the boys? Seriously?
So, I wandered off in search of Indian food and a bus home. It was an up and down weekend, and I was exhausted. The festival itself was lovely, but I think, after 3 weeks of being in Kinsale, my Bandon au pair friends mainly gone home, no Creative Connections on a regular basis, and my director being in Australia, I've gotten kind of lonely and sad again. I'm in the process of rectifying this, however, and have made a few connections with au pairs in the area. Also, Creative Connections is starting back this week, so I'm really looking forward to seeing everyone again and doing some more art.
Thank God for art!
So, this weekend was the Cork International Folk Festival. Being a bit a folkie, a bit of a tragic folkie, and having my whole weekend off, including Friday, with no babysitting duty required, I decided to head in and see what the world folk scene had to offer. Not that I hadn't seen it before, but I thought it might be different this time around. Or, exactly the same, which is more what I'd prefer. Oh, you know what I mean, be quiet, Jenny. The weather has been quite, quite miserable for the past week, despite us being promised last Tuesday and Wednesday that we would be experiencing the hottest day of the year. Actually what happened was, that whilst England and Dublin were in the midst of a heat wave, all the crappy weather that would normally hang over the north of Ireland and the British Isles decided to congregate over Cork instead. It wasn't just rainy, it was grey and foggy and windy. Now, I quite like a bit of fog. It lends a magical and mysterious air to any day. But, in Australia, I'm used to the fog clearing up by, say, 10am. At the latest. Maybe if I was hiking in the Blue Mountains, I'd expect it to stick around for a bit longer, but I would be certain of seeing some clear sky sometime during the day, and usually be looking at better weather by the next day. Not so in Ireland. Fog here is the real fog. The fog is like a deadbeat younger sibling who never knows when they've over stayed their welcome (not that I have a deadbeat younger sibling, mind you, but I've seen them on the telly and they seem very annoying). When the fog visits in Ireland, its not here for a cup of tea and a bikkie. Oh no. The fog is here to stay. To sit on your couch and put its muddy feet on the white pillows and hog the TV and eat all the ice-cream and not leave for weeks on end, until everybody in the house is all like, 'Jesus, would the fog ever get off the couch? I want to watch the X-Factor.'
Ahem.
Yes.
Too much fog and being inside all the time can make you a little bonkers. And the fog is still here. A week later, and its still here.
Anyway, back to the festival. So, it was miserable weather when I left Kinsale, but I was given optimistic predictions by my host family that the weather was often worse on the coast, and the Cork might be sunny. Considering this advice and weighing it against my experience in Ireland to date, I dressed myself in a long, warm jacket, stockings, wrapped my head in a scarf, and took a big umbrella. Under my big jacket, I decided to wear a summery dress. Just in case. But I didn't hold out much hope.
I had hoped to find a room in Cork with a mate, but as this was not possible, I booked myself into the Bru Hostel and Bar, a suitably seedy looking establishment, with All Blacks flags flying outside and other antipodeans working behind the bar.
I had a meeting at 3pm in a lolly store called, 'Sweet as!' (unfortunately not run by Kiwis) where I was given the sweetest chai latte of my entire life. I guess I should have taken on board the fact that I was ordering it in a lolly store, and that the pies that they had on offer consisted mainly of toffee or caramel, stuffed full to burst with lollies or M&M's and then drizzled with cream or sugary syrup. They kind of hurt your eyes to look at. It was clearly a very particular clientele they were catering for. That is, children and people on their way towards Type 2 diabetes. But, after the initial sugary burst, I managed to finish the drink and also to quite enjoy it.
I didn't have much to do after the meeting. The first gig I'd booked for wasn't until 8pm, so I wandered aimlessly about Cork, in the rain, attempting to find something to do. I had wanted to go and see the markets that were on that day, but it wasn't really market weather, and by the time I remembered, after my meeting, to go and look at them, most people were packing up. So, I went to Marks & Spencer and spent an inordinately long time deciding on what to eat for my dinner (Indian? Soy Strips? So Good Vegetables? Vegetarian Moussaka? Spicy Lentil Soup? Cheesecake? Garden Salad?), checking calorie counts, ingredients, comparing colours, textures, serving size and getting more and more stressed the more options I encountered. The truth was I wasn't really hungry, so it was nearly impossible to decide what I actually wanted to eat, in a few hours, when I would be hungry. All I knew was I wanted 'something substantial'. That at least made garden salads and vegetable soups were easy to discount. Why am I going through all these details? Well, this was the first indications of a mood that lasted me all weekend. There's a fabulous Calvin and Hobbes cartoon which I have been desperately looking for on the internet (but cannot find), when Calvin's Dad goes to the supermarket and gets so angry and confused by all the choice on offer (do I need crunchy peanut butter or low salt? what if I wanted both? etc.) until the final picture of the cartoon strip where he comes home looking very grumpy and says to his wife, 'I think you should do the shopping from now on' and she replies, 'Did the store manager have to speak with you again?' This was me on Friday night. I had no idea what I wanted, and so a choice of dinners soon dissolved into a choice of activities for the weekend, choice of careers, choice of lifestyle, from where it slid into an existential crisis, ending with me clutching a pile of ready meals in the middle of the supermarket aisle, unable to move, and mumbling softly to myself as people gently pushed past me, afraid of making any loud or unexpected movements in case I would suddenly snap and bring down the fury of God upon them in the form of a pre-cooked and packaged Dhal Makhani. I was existentially relieved with the spying of a previously unseen choice of layered prawn salad and bread roll, but the mood was merely quietened, rather than resolved.
After dinner, I headed out to the first gig of the folk festival, which improved my mood slightly. It was in a beautiful venue called, 'The Pavilion', and I enjoyed all the music very much. However, in between the acts, I was very aware of being on my own. I don't usually mind going to things by myself. I used to go the movies on my own as a teenager all the time, usually because I was worried my choice of movie may not be approved of by my friends, so I just saved myself the hassle of asking someone (and the potential rejection), and went by myself. I have obviously headed to many events on my own whilst in Ireland as well, and its usually not a problem, as I find people to talk to very easily. This weekend, however, was different. I was left very much on my own, no questions of where I was from, what I was doing here, what did I think of the weather etc. and I suddenly felt very, very lonely. I think there were a lot of things that contributed to my being ignored. The festival wasn't like the one on Cape Clear, where you know everyone is there for the festival, and there's a feeling of camaraderie, and 'we're all in this together', and everyone's pretty much seen the same events, and you see the same faces every time you attend something, so, eventually, you don't mind sharing a joke with the person next to you, because even though you don't know each other, you've become familiar, you can be fairly certain you have things in common (if only the music and events at the festival), and there are things to talk about (what did you think of this? where are you going next?) Because the Cork festival was a lot of separate events, and people could go to one and then ignore the rest of the festival, these things didn't occur. The venue was also dark, so you couldn't really catch people's eyes to start a conversation. Finally, I think my terrible mood and my feelings of loneliness were working against me. Not only did I not look like a pleasant person to speak to, but I was determined not to be engaged in mindless chit-chat, a hang-over from the existential crisis in the supermarket perhaps. Its only a quick jump from, 'I don't feel like talking to anyone, back away!' to, 'No-one wants to speak to me, I'm so lonely and sad.'
I headed back to my hostel feeling more than a little miserable, but uncertain of what to do. I wanted more music, but I also didn't want to hang out in crowded bars with everyone around me having a good time with their mates, and me feeling lonely. I sat down for another glass of wine at the hostel hoping I would figure out what I wanted soon enough. A guy walked past me and said, I thought, 'Don't stress!' There is nothing I hate more, when in a bad mood, than a patronising male chirping, 'Where's your smile?' as if being cheery was some sort of public service I do for middle-aged men I don't know. So I was determined not to be jollied out of my foul mood, and I was also determined not to get into a flirtatious conversation with yet another middle-aged man I wasn't interested in. I said, 'I'm not stressed!' He said, 'What?' I said, 'What?' He said, 'Don't stress!' I said, 'What?' He said, 'Don't stress!' I said, 'Don't stress?' He said, 'What?' I said, 'What?' (getting more and more grumpy), he said, 'Don't stress!' I said, 'I'm NOT STRESSED.' He said, 'No, no, I said, NICE DRESS.' 'Oh,' I said. 'Thanks.' But, we were both so exhausted by the 'conversation' that he, thankfully, moved on. So, that's one way of dealing with unwanted attention, I suppose. Pretend you're deaf. Or, don speak-a-da Engliss. That's probably another option.
I eventually headed up to my hostel room, not feeling much better. It might have been a feeling that was invading the hostel, as, about 3am, I was woken by an absolutely bonkers German girl screaming her head off. 'I JUST WANT TO FUCKING SLEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!' She cried. What I first thought was some sort of battle against an existential crisis of her own, whose manic, unanswerable questions were keeping her awake, my ear soon tuned into a delightfully loud and obnoxious group of Australian boys somewhere in the hostel laughing and yelling and having a bloody good time. What's more, they wanted everyone to hear about it. The German girl, conversely, was incensed at having their enjoyment and good moods shoved down her throat (or down her ears, to be precise), and, I can only presume, from the sounds, she then launched herself out of her bunk bed, propelled herself down the hallway and proceeded to throw herself bodily, kicking and screaming, at the Aussie boys' dorm room, screaming, 'WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?? JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!'
Now, I'm not sure if the German girl had ever been in a hostel before, but to me, when you're paying a pittance for a room, you have to expect any or all of the following: lumpy mattresses; flat pillows; smelly, stuffy rooms; bugs; cheap, unsatisfying breakfasts; strange roommates; and most of all, NOISE. That doesn't mean I enjoy these things, but railing against them seems as useful as, say, railing against a dog for eating meat, or railing against the waves for breaking on the sand and messing up all the lovely seashells. You can yell and scream and cajole all you like, but nothing is going to stop your hostel (except in a few, notable exceptions) from being smelly, dirty, cramped, unattractive, loud or all of the above. The Aussie boys evidently felt the same way, and decided to scream back at the German girl, telling her to 'fuck off!' One particular charmer said, 'Do you want a piece of me?' to which she replied, 'Sure, come on!' and then he yelled, 'I've got a great big wing-wang (or something) here you can have a piece of that!' Thankfully, before it all turned into an imitation of a NRL after-party or a P&O cruise, the hostel owner came and explained to the boys that they really should be going to bed now.
I woke up the next morning in an even worse mood, perhaps due to the lack of sleep, or perhaps encouraged in my existential questioning by another grey sky, fog, rain and an uncertainty of what to do before the gigs started at 1:30pm. I ended up wandering down the road, to my favourite Cork bookstore, 'Vibes and Scribes'. In the store, the feeling of indecision continued, with me picking up 'Killing Bono' (by a schoolmate of Bono's who also tried to be a rockstar and failed miserably), an account of the worst Everest disaster in modern history, 'Committed' by Elizabeth Gilbert, a book that explains the meaning and origins of old phrases and superstitions, 'The Equation of Happiness', and a variety of others. Looking down at the pile of books that I couldn't afford, had no time to read and had no space to take home, I decided I instead should visit the library. I put all the books back on the shelf, smiled sheepishly at the sales assistant and headed out to the library.
I found, 'I was Bono's Doppelganger' in the library, the older, and much less snazzily titled copy of one of the books I had coveted in the bookstore, and started to read. After about half an hour, I went to check out a free folk fesitval gig ('The Songs of James Joyce'... wow... SO Irish...) that was happening out the back in the Rory Gallagher Music Library. Now, up until the weekend, I had never heard of Rory Gallagher, but he's apparently kind of a big deal. Even more so in Cork, as he was raised here (whilst being born in Co. Donegal). I had images of a friendly, soft featured, big bearded folk musician, but when I looked around the music library, I saw a long-haired, denim-wearing, dripping in sweat, 1970s rock and blues musician. It was a fairly incongruous image in a library, particularly when I was being served by a most delightfully sweet and soft-voiced 60 year old lady in a sensible cardigan and flat shoes. I decided to join the music library, and took out my Bono book, as well as a few fat volumes of Irish fiddle music and folk songs. I headed to the nearest cafe (because my levels of frustration about being stuck walking in the rain and amongst crowds were reaching a fever pitch), which just happened to be Gloria Jean's. I ignored the cries of 'Evil chain store!' and 'Owned by Hillsong!' that were dancing around in my head and went inside to order the largest, sweetest Chai Latte I had ever had... since yesterday. I then sat and read my Bono book, taking great pleasure in his poor friend's lack of success and his envy and resentment of Bono and U2, because his disappointed dreams were strangely appealing and soothing to my appalling mood. That is, I was soothed until a man sat in front of me (outside) and proceeded to smoke dirty cigarette after dirty cigarette, the smoke of which was billowing straight into my face through the open window. I can usually stand cigarette smoke. Not today. I was ready to throw up. I was ready to hit him over the head with my book. I was ready to tip my chai latte over his cigarette. Instead, I took the socially acceptable route and left Gloria Jeans.
About this time, it was lunchtime and the gigs were starting again. I went back to the markets (again in the rain - my umbrella was starting to drip water onto my head, which is always a bad sign in an umbrella, and kind of defeats the purpose of carrying it around, but something habitual kept me holding it over myself, despite the drips) and listened to the 'Sons of Delta', a great Blues band from the UK. After a few songs, including the ever popular, 'I'm a Man of Constant Sorrow', I snuck away to hear the traditional song contest.
The song contest was only for singer-songwriters with a new 'traditional' song up their sleeves, which was frustrating for me, as I was dying to get up and have a sing. Still, it was kind of interesting to sit back and watch for once. Kind of. I don't really want to be critical of people who are doing something I would never, and probably COULD never do, so I just won't say anything. Songwriting is something I have only the slightest desire to do, and its also something I think I would be terribly bad at (without a lot of practice), and when you already have a wildly talented composer in the family (my younger brother Chris), it seems ridiculous to attempt to compete with him. Anything I did would just pale in comparison. So, no songwriting for me, and no being critical of those who get up the guts to do it.
With the song contest over, and another 4 hours until I was supposed to be at the next gig, I was again at a loss. The weather was miserable, so I couldn't sit outside, and I didn't want to sit in another cafe, having already done that several times over the past few days, and I didn't want to go shopping, as I felt (quite rightly, I'm sure), that in my current mood I couldn't be counted on to make reasonable and sensible decisions, and may very well buy all of the clothes in Penney's or H&M.
I poked my head into a free art exhibition, and then finally gave in and went and got some terrible, terrible food, at the end of which I felt much, much better. The Irish love their chips. Not surprising, really, as, I'm sure you've heard, the Irish love their potatoes. But, the Irish have turned the humble chip into something much more. In Australia, you're usually given a choice of chips on your usual Take Away menu, the choice goes something like: Chips - Regular, Large. If the place is very fancy, they may ask if you want chicken salt. If its a take away joint that's leaning towards the gourmet, you may be able to get 'Seasoned Wedges with Sour Cream and Chilli.' This, one would think, would be enough choice for anyone. Not so in Ireland. You may get chips. You may get chips and cheese. You may get chips in gravy. You may get chips in curry sauce. You may get chips in gravy, covered in cheese. You may get chips in curry sauce, covered in cheese. You may get chips in garlic sauce. You may get chips covered in garlic sauce and smothered in cheese. On Saturday afternoon, I opted for this final, artery-clogging option. Thinking back on it now, it was pretty disgusting. But, at the time, the terrible, terrible food somehow soothed the anger within (possibly by clogging it up with fat and salt), and I headed back to the hostel in a kind of high-cholesterol haze, lay down in the TV room and read some more about how terrible it was to go to school with Bono. A strange man attempted to interrupt me at one point. He was wearing a kilt (so, presumably, Scottish). And had two cotton balls stuffed in both his ears.
'Hello', he said.
'Hi', I said, without lifting my eyes from the book.
'Have you got hot water?' He said.
'I haven't had a shower today,' I said, getting slightly worried about whether or not he was going to leave me alone.
Of course, he had no intention of leaving me alone and started on a diatribe about how he'd complained, and it still wasn't fixed, and it wasn't right, it wasn't fair, if you paid for a room, you should expect hot water, and what did they think they were playing at (during which I sighed, thinking, again, had this person never stayed in a hostel before and mentally referring him to my point of view on hostels telepathically addressed to the German girl the night before). I was already in a foul mood (as we have established), which was being made worse by the fact that he wasn't picking up on my VERY OBVIOUS visual cues that I had no desire to talk to him, and that he should LEAVE ME ALONE.
However, he then started on a rant about Australians. And of how they think they can just come over and take what they want and just destroy the place. I can only think he meant the Kiwis that obviously ran the bar (hence the 5 All Blacks flags outside), as I couldn't see how his lack of hot water in the hostel was directly related to Australia (Bad management of the Murray-Darling Basin? The carbon tax? Too many Aussie backpackers?), but I suddenly saw an easy way of getting this man to shut up. I looked up from my book, fixed him with a glare and growled, 'I'm an Australian.' He immediately backtracked, said he hadn't meant it that way, and it was all just, you know and that was all and no harm and mumble, mumble, mumble, at which point I fixed him with another look and said, 'I'm just trying to read my book', which finally got him to leave me alone. I decided to move to my bed and continue the book there.
After a short, chip-induced snooze, I woke up and headed out to the next gig. I had been feeling much better, until I got to the venue. I opted not to get a drink, as I could see people gathering at the doors already. I joined the queue, and not long after, the double doors were opened. We shuffled in. And then we stopped again at the bottom of a flight of stairs. At the top of these stairs was the actual entrance to the venue, which was being barricaded by folk festival staff. My rage knew no bounds. I hate standing around aimlessly. I hate queues when I'm tired, when I have nothing to read. I hate not knowing what is going on. I hate feeling like a fool. And, at that point in time, all these things were combining. Add that to the occasional staff and customers who had to push past to get to the loos (also at the top of the stairs), and a little girl who stepped on my toe (HOW DARE SHE), and by the time we were allowed into the venue, I was ready to punch someone. No, everyone. One after the other. Oh, how satisfying.
Instead, I got myself a very sugary cider and found a seat. My rage was now directed towards the empty stage. After about 10 minutes of sitting around, waiting, a man came towards me. He asked me if the seat next to me was taken. I said it wasn't. He then checked if the seat in front of me was taken. It wasn't. He started to beckon someone over. I asked him if he was with someone and he said he was. I asked if he would like me to move so that he and his wife could sit together. Now, to me, that is a fairly standard thing to offer, but this man acted as if I had just volunteered to feed and house his 20 homeless grandchildren. He said that I was so kind, so nice, and when his wife got there, he reiterated to her how kind and nice I had been, and then insisted on buying me another, ridiculously sugary cider. My mood began to brighten. And, it just goes to show, that if you actually take the opportunity to reach out to people, to be kind, to talk to them, they will generally always return the favor (unless, of course, they are reading a book and you unintentionally insult their homeland). The gig was another corker, by the amusingly named, 'Folk the Recession', a line-up of very talented musicians from all over the country and from a variety of different bands.
This time I went straight back to the hostel and fell into bed as soon as I got there. I was exhausted and I was still a little sad, and I didn't think staying up later, by myself, and drinking was going to help matters.
After a long, 10 hour sleep, I woke up feeling much better. After a Skype conversation with my Dad, and tea in the loveliest, old-fashioned, Sinatra-playing tea-room in Cork (Fellini's), I headed off to see the Ceili Mor, which was being held, in the rain, on the Grand Parade. For those of you who don't know, a Ceili Mor is a community dance. So, they were teaching everyone all sorts of Irish country dances, similar to the barn dances we used to learn at school. I normally love these sorts of things (guilty admission: I loved them at school, though I would never have admitted that to anyone, it was just way too uncool), but I was by myself, and I didn't want to go and dance with someone I didn't know, so I instead watched happily for an hour from the sidelines. There was then an excerpt from 'Pulses of Tradition', a Riverdance-inspired version of the Ceili Mor for tourists that would be on offer in Cork from 2012. This was very much not my thing. The thing I like about a Ceili Mor and folk in general, is the feeling of community that it gives. I love that old grannies and 5 year old kids are dancing together, and maybe they're not getting all the steps right, but they're having a great time while they're screwing it all up. Things like 'Pulses of Tradition', whilst very pretty, just kind of bore me. Plus, the costumes they had clashed terribly. Peach dresses on the girls and bright purple shirts on the boys? Seriously?
So, I wandered off in search of Indian food and a bus home. It was an up and down weekend, and I was exhausted. The festival itself was lovely, but I think, after 3 weeks of being in Kinsale, my Bandon au pair friends mainly gone home, no Creative Connections on a regular basis, and my director being in Australia, I've gotten kind of lonely and sad again. I'm in the process of rectifying this, however, and have made a few connections with au pairs in the area. Also, Creative Connections is starting back this week, so I'm really looking forward to seeing everyone again and doing some more art.
Thank God for art!
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