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August 2008

moving on

The JB came home for about five seconds and turned straight around and left for Boston where he is giving a paper at a Pol Sci convention - (not to be confused with a Sci-Fi convention). I always miss him like mad for a few hours and then cheer myself by thinking how I can have the remote and watch DVDs of The West Wing till they come out my ears, and then I depress myself by thinking that 100% control of a remote is a poor substitute for the JB's warm and humorous presence in my life, and then..
well I won't go on. It's bad enough having to listen to this in my head without duplicating on paper.
My tenant has paid his deposit and will move in on Sunday! HOORAY. I can't wait for all that to be resolved. And also hooray! I just fixed my wacom tablet which had mysteriously given up the ghost. Its light was on, but it wasn't turning green like it is meant to when the pen touches it. So it was a little surprising (after long international calls to Wacom support who advised me to buy a new one) to find that all that was required was for me to push the plug home firmly, and not leave it to hang half out, like it was. Well, not surprising to me at any rate. O, lovely Wacom tablet how I missed you.

My goodness. I am hungry. Even for me, I mean, whose default position is one of gnawing emptiness. Lunch beckons. I think I'll go to the Botanical Gardens later and draw a bit.
And thus I conclude this inconsequential missive.

(I feel less sad about all that. Of course it is always hard to know if I am afraid of being a mother, because I am feeling low, or if I am feeling low because of my on-going issues/attempts to be a mother. But today at least I am affecting a insouciant and fatalist demeanour).


People kept looking at me funny yesterday. One man in the bargain shop at Arnotts poked me in the arm and said: Lovely, that, isn't it? pointing at a one of those 80's-reminiscent photo of a drop falling into water. I smile, even though, inwardly I am saying: No, it's a piece of horrendous kitsch, and not the good kind. Then he moves off, looking over his shoulder to say: Sveden?
Dublin, I say. And he apologised, though I was utterly unoffended. To be thought Swedish? Fine.
Who cares.
In the bus to my apartment though, there was some cause for offence. A man (apparently normal and sane) saw fit to clip his fingernails and allow the clippings to fall inaccurately on a piece of newspaper at his feet.
Stomach turning, this. I did some glaring, but he was so oblivious to this, that I had no further recourse, but to get up huff-like and stand at the front of the bus.

As for this. The Charting experiment. The novelty has worn off, after a few months. I remain without child, and ambivalent about it. Meanwhile JB is very disappointed about it, and although he says an adopted child would be wonderful too, he wants to have a biological child too. And this is where our plans deviate. I have felt for so long that adoption is right for me: I have an strong feeling like an homing instinct about it. I am sure about it. I am not sure about the physical and emotional turmoil that a pregnancy at my advanced age would bring, and that's if (big IF) I can get pregnant at all.
It's making me a bit sad, all this.  I feel split in two - of course I want J to be a biological parent, if that's what he wants. But how hard do I have to try? And how can he push so for it, when he knows I am afraid of it?

be the living hokey

I spent ALL DAY submitting an application to a Certain Arty Techy College in south Dublin co - their application form spared nothing in its relentless search for a detailed accounting for every minute of one's life since conception. It was quite tiring papering over the many cracks in my illustrious career.
I must really want that job. I do! I want that job.

In other news, the form is good, I am feeling groovy. Even if JB is pushing off to see his father tomorrow, and after that will jump athletically onto a plane to Boston for a conference.
Speaking of athletics, sort of, good, these Olympics, eh? Phelps. WOW. And Jamaican 100m sprinter, whose name escapes me - like  superhuman. I am being amused by the gossipy Irish commentary, all about who is clean, who is dodgy, whose coach hasn't a clue, why such-and-such got injured. They talk as if they have never heard of a minor detail called slander. It's a hoot.
Another hoot is this letter written by my cousin in 1976 in Adelaide. I dug the pack of letters out at the weekend - they are quite the time capsules with their references to the "lushness" of the Human League's lead singer, and boys, and the rich inner lives of our hobby horses.

Letter That Sherald was the real biche, don't you agree?

100 miles in 4 days

DSCN4302 Friday lunchtime: Castletownshend

DSCN4310Friday afternoon: Drumnagumna beach

Bar overlooking Drumnagumna
building selves up

Fast forward to Friday afternoon:
Ferry to Clare Island (sighting of porpoises)

Ambitious route-plotting in Schull
Saturday: Ballydehob

Wait for me!
Sunday - Bantry and Durrus

DSCN4323 Bantry to Skibbereen and home

and now for the alternative August Bank Holiday

After a wonderfully quiet and empty Dublin bank holiday, when we cycled peacefully about the town, as if in times gone by, we are nearly ready to head off to Cork tomorrow for the cycling holiday with my cousin and her intellectual PhD Phil partner. HURRAY!

Still haven't rented my apartment. BOO!
Although an English man (lecturer in Classics, no less) may or may not be considering it as I type. HURRAY and/or BOO!


Spike was a hoot yesterday. He decreed that we should all lie down in a row in the corridor, got each of us a pillow and lead each "guest" to his/her spot where he commanded him/her to rest. We all sat down, (some more stiffly than others, Poppum) and went to "sleep". Then, whatdoyouknow, it was MORNING! about 10 seconds after and we all had to wake up and have invisible tea and biscuits.
He is also interested in a kind of reverse hide and seek, in this version of which, he shuts someone in a room, and when the captive (as they will) break out by opening the door, and go to find him, he covers his eyes, as if counting.