Fall down go boom

Because this page is where the juices of my brain like to ooze when under too much pressure to remain in my head, ooze they shall.

My unhatched chickens are preoccupying me. Though obviously it would be unwise to count them, they are many. There are job-chickens, exam-chickens, thesis-chickens, travel-chickens, love-chickens (you knew they were in there somewhere), .... I'm finding the chickeniness of my life these days a little overwhelming. There are a few things I find helpful in fending off visions of the white, wobbly fragility of it all: blog-oozing, for one, tea, TV, foreign languages and music.

Lately I've been hearing music everywhere -- the disco beat of my drippy tap, the old-fashioned-sounding kerclunk of Louise's bathroom fan, the sighing and whining of bus wheels, the subtle chirping of my computer's thought. When I feel like I'm about to topple over I pick up my guitar and try to elaborate further on the latest jig to emerge from it -- inspired, of course, by a certain chicken. The more I play, the quieter the rest of the noise in my head becomes. If this is insufficient, tea is consumed, and I immerse myself in the plot of a TV series. (Currently my dreams involve a lot of lawyering and whiskey-drinking, along with the usual train station hullabaloo.) And should I begin to get jittery and queasy over an academic task, I magically wind up on Google Translate or Wikipedia finding out things I don't need to know and reading languages I don't speak aloud just to see what they sound like. Some of them sound lovely; I sound entirely insane. My poor roommate had to pull me up off the floor of my bedroom and make me some tea today because I was consoling myself with a page of Italian ('frastagliata' was my favorite). Odd as it might be, it is strangely therapeutic.

So as my brain bastes in a larger than usual puddle, I am greatly appreciative of all the hands extended to help me up. And of coffee.

Circularity

"Life is a curious thing," he pointed out in his usual semi-comical tone as we crossed a sleeping College Green to send him on his way again. Five years ago, the question, unasked, had been like a cigarette butt put out on my heart; now, it was a source of amusement, with just a touch of pensiveness. The answer was like chocolate-coated irony. Going through the gates without my guest, I was a mixture of smiles and damn-its. Stories are self-perpetuating -- they run on the dissatisfaction they leave behind. Perhaps this is why we never change, and why I'm not done with this story.

Home

It is late-ish on a Friday evening and once again I've found myself in Leixlip, the axis around which my world of music now revolves. Nuala's high heel is tapping the offbeat on the wooden floor, Seán is attempting to munch on Pringles discreetly, and Gearóid is using his hand as an organic whiteboard to tell me when the next bus is coming. These small goings-on seem a little far away to me: I'm entranced partly because of the oaky red wine, but mostly because I'm listening to my soul being played back to me. The shoes in the room are unanimously appreciative as John's fingers move subtly as ripples in a pond over the fiddle strings, and Catherine's flute seems a chorus of echoes. Although they are but two, the sound could not be more complete. I am transposed, transfixed, transcended. And it is clearer to me than ever before that this is something I can never leave for long. This is my home.

ESP music requests

Was just looking for a song on Grooveshark and the cafe's radio started playing it. I like it when things like this happen.

Miserable old bat

I'm sitting outside at a rather empty cafe, quite comfortable with my feet on another one of the wicker chairs. An old lady has just come up out of nowhere and told me off for dirtying the furniture. I find it somewhat upsetting that this bothered her so much that she felt the need to tell me I am inconsiderate and should be ashamed.

My new friend

This weekend I met someone inspirational. She makes the most of what she's given, and so she can't help but impress. My own age, and from my own country, she speaks this foreign tongue with conviction after only three years of study. Looking after a four-year-old and undergoing surgery in a foreign country can not have been easy to say the least, but her face shows that she is one to see the sunny side of things. Her joie de vivre lights up the room. I hope one day to be as strong as this girl who smiles so contagiously at the steep slopes she has to climb. I wouldn't be surprised if the slopes bent to make way.

A memory.

At the top of a hotel in Nyon is a little wood-clad room with a similarly little window looking out on the lake. That night, as I sat in the dim light with the scent of wood and freshly washed white sheets, I was drawn to the open window. The breeze stroked the surface of the lake much as a mother would stroke her child's hair, and invited the evenly spaced lights on the opposite shore to perform their simple but mesmerizing musicless dance. I wrapped myself in the almost-silence, the faraway lights, the foreign taste of the air. After a great deal of lying still with wide eyes, creating and dispelling expectations, I fell asleep with a new smile on my face.