Friday, May 6, 2011

La Fin est Proche

Je t'aime
Tu m'aimes
Bonheur
Nos cœurs
Et pourtant...

Il y aura toujours un pauvre chien perdu,
Quelque part, qui m'empêchera d'être heureuse.
Il y aura toujours, dans un journal du soir,
Une gosse de vingt ans qui meurt de désespoir.

Voyages
Mirages
Heureux
Nous deux
Et pourtant...

Il y aura toujours, seul devant l'océan,
Une femme en noir qui pleure et qui attend.
Il y aura toujours un petit garçon pas riche
Qui rêvera des îles devant une belle affiche.

Caresse
Ivresse
Tes bras
Prends-moi
Et pourtant...

Il y aura toujours une lettre anonyme
Qui viendra salir le bonheur des amants.
Il y aura toujours dans la chambre à côté
Un silence de mort après les cris d'amour.

Je t'aime
Tu m'aimes
Bonheur
Nos cœurs
Et pourtant
Il y aura toujours un pauvre chien perdu,
Quelque part, qui m'empêchera d'être heureuse

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Salvation Tambourine

Duke Special knows something most of us don’t know. He knows how to make his audience’s sides ache with laughter one minute and choke them up the next. He knows how to find the balance between the past and the future. He knows what songs are meant to remain album tracks and which ones come to life on stage. He knows how important a sense of humour is, even when you’ve got something very serious to say. He knows that there’s talent right here in good ole Eire and that the right mix of people can make something truly special. He knows how to bring Irish music to world standard, and hot to remind us of all that we have accomplished culturally as a fairly tiny nation. The guy knows how to put on a fantastic show.

The first time I saw the Duke (aka Peter Wilson) live, it was at three o’clock in the afternoon in Cyprus Avenue. It was an all-ages matinee show. One woman waiting outside said she was going to come back for the evening show five hours later. I remember thinking ‘Gawwd he can’t be that good, like’. Wull wull wull. I still maintain that that gig was a turning point in my life, creatively at least. It was the most chilling, beautiful and downright entertaining thing I had seen in all my sixteen years. So yeah, expectations were high for this evening with Duke and the RTE Concert Orchestra two years later. It was a show of two halves; firstly, the music of Ruby Murray, the Belfast balladeer, followed by a set of Duke’s own songs.
Like a lot of people, I’d never heard of Ruby Murray until I saw that Duke Special had made a documentary about her. It turns out that when he was asked to make it, he knew pretty much nothing about her other than she was from Belfast and she did all right for herself with a couple of nice songs and lived happily ever after. None of that is strictly true, though. Ruby moved to England and made a name for herself on the stage. She was in the right place at the right time as television arrived in 1955, and her voice reached a bigger audience than she could have even contemplated before. Her record for the most record sales was unmatched until only two years ago after the death of Michael Jackson rocketed his almost all his albums simultaneously into the charts. Ruby was as famous as you could get in those days, but she didn’t want fame. She just loved to sing. But she also loved to drink. Unfortunately, the year her success reached its height also saw the arrival of Bill Haley and His Comets, and the world of crooners and Silly Love Songs was turned on its head. She died in 1996, an alcoholic, her stardom all but forgotten.

2010: enter Duke Special. With an endearing pride in his Belfast roots and a love of all things beautiful and mysterious, he goes on a journey to champion Ruby’s music and remind people why simple, sweet but good songs will always speak to people.

The show opened with a nice upbeat number. ‘Dancing’ David Brophy conducted the orchestra on stage. It was odd observing him doing what he does from the audience. Weird how I didn’t think anything of his goofiness when I was one of the lucky people being conducted by him. The inimitable Chip Bailey and Classy Clarinet Guy were up there with the fancy pants musicians, adding Duke’s unique twist to the whole affair. The man himself sang the first few songs standing, a little awkward and not as exuberant as I had expected. He soon got into the spirit of things though, and by the time the evening was drawing to a close, he decided to do the opening number again – he wanted to ‘nail it’ this time.

He was joined by guests May Kay of Fight Like Apes and Mary Coughlan. May Kay was not what I had expected, her husky voice bringing a lovely coy, unpolished but sweet quality to Ruby’s songs. In the second half of the show, consisting mainly of Duke’s own songs, Mary Coughlan sang with him for a gorgeous, sweeping rendition of ‘Why Does Anybody Love?’. May Kay was the Dusty Springfield to Duke’s Randy Newman, which he introduced by saying ‘There’s no point in doing any old shit, I suppose’, to which he added a nervous laugh. Throughout the evening he stood at the microphone like an anxious schoolboy, tugging at one side of his top and fiddling with his magnificent dreadlocks. When it came to singing his own material, he was a little more at ease, putting actions to the words and injecting brilliant expression and sarcastic tones into his lyrics. As if an incredible lyrical ability wasn’t enough, Duke Special marries these songs and the mood swings within them to wonderful Elfman-esque, soaring orchestra parts. Most captivating, though, is the way the bridge or the end of a song will break down, leaving our leading man repeating a phrase or a single word, as the piano dwindles along with him. Haunting.

By the end of the show he had already brought the house to its feet three or four times. As I looked around, I saw people starting to dance in their seats, then suddenly remembering they were in the Opera House and stopping. But just like a simple, four-chord love song that moves people to tears even sixty years after its composition, the fact they forgot themselves, even for a second, says a lot.
"People just really love music, don't they?" Guess so.

£

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Aprés Moi, le deluge.

..ANDI'MNOTTRYINGTOBEFRENCHWITHTHATITSASPEKTORLYRIC.
Waaaaaaay, I did no homework today, spend two hours at creative writing, talked on the phone and had some cake. I also wrote this little epiphany in the last half of Biology. Meh, at least it's not like I have my pre's in three days. Phew.
OH..wait..

I have this hang-up. A mental defect. I cannot stick to an argument or let go, especially when it's with people. If someone who was once my friend now isn't or if we just aren't talking, a bowling bowl of sometimes sourceless guilt and regret clogs my stomach until I, often against what I truly feel or believe in, apologize. Or take words back. Or just up-the-forced-ante to resurrect (for no concrete reason) a naturally dying relationship.
Like a kid who's misbehaving on the run up to Christmas, I feel like this weight won't shift, that an odd, sour and pointless regret will continue to hang over me like Santa's imagined glare.
That is, until now. Maybe the crux of it is the question..what could have been?
But..WHAT could have been? It's fair to say that, having learnt the enormously dramatic ripple effect of chance encounters, I've developed this malignant desire to not to miss out on possible experiences open to me, to embrace as much as I can and from that, grow Grow GROW. But even today, I came back to That Question.
It's the same way that the media portrays all teenagers are all brainless Skins renegades because, letsfaceit, that's simply more FUN. We crave sensationalism or being made to feel something. There aren't many Irish people I know who don't love complaining or moaning about something. (hello electionsss)
But when I look into it, I know that What Could Have Been was..not much. That's reality, but the unknown can both question and intrigue, and that dark side of the moon IS something that is endlessly fascinating to me.
I should blog about that bloody deFECKt aswell..
Therefore, it causes pointless regrets that are without any basis. Some people talk and say nothing, do nothing, say a big No to life beyond pretence. The fact that the people in my life I look up to or just plain love genuinely like me is a source of completely contrastingly explosive happiness, and I metaphorically slapped myself in the cerebellum today when TWICE, that goddamn guilt ball approached me, much like with Jésus in The Big Lebowski.
Why the scroobius pip was I worrying when I wasn't happy/was mostly just bored when with them? As if 40,000 acquaintance-relationships would render be a fraction of the happy I am now, even amid all this exam chaos. Settling for the sake of it isn't, or shouldn't be, an option. As isn't being stuck in a pointless job or course, I don't care what they say. Maybe that's naiive, actually I'm sure it is, but there's no money anywhere anyway so you might as well have a bittuv integral direction in your life and live on happiness and a prostituting job on the side. Or should that be on the corner?
Perhaps this is an An Education moment for me, but the idea of wasting your short and valuable time on things or experiences unprovokingly mediocre while beautiful things and people roam your peripheral vision seems offensively futile. It has taken me SO long to learn how to think simply, it's this really unbelievable thing I've learnt about myself.
I'll wrap this up before heading to Chino for a curry chip butty & some of their brain-kissing coffee with an insanely relevant quote about the 60s from an insanely relevant 70s film, Cemetery Junction:
"What if the world is having another party and we're missing it cause we're stuck here?".

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Odette/Odile Syndrome


So I saw Black Swan last week and, like Brazil or a wine so fine it’s worthy of Dylan Moran, its been growing better and better and embedding itself deeper and deeper in my mind over the past eight daze. It’s one of the closest things I’ve seen that encompasses what art is..the whole odd indefinable spectrum of it: the emotion, the psychological commitment to it, how the act of creating something can consume you – on different levels ofc.
I’ve lost all sense of surroundings and time when drawing before but I haven’t quite gone as far as Nina does while becoming the “perfect” artiste in BS. Heh, that looks like bullshit.
But anygay, honestly it was beautiful, and genuinely sickeningly disturbing at the same time, like when you eat too much Turkish delight after thinking about how nice it seemed in Narnia. As a non-believer said, “there is NO light in this film”. And I think that’s true in that every frame is clogged with claustrophobia, every camera angle is truly nausea-inducing and every character, in contrast to Nina is a decidedly black, or at the very least grey, swan.
But after a week of mulling it’s full-bodied undertones around my brain, it seems that the light of this film is the art that is created in it, the bi-product of all the therefore necessary introspective-craziness that occurs around it. And BOI, is ballet beautiful. It’s something that keeps popping up like a facebook chat notification on the monitor of my life, and I’m even more fascinated by it now than when I first saw The Red Shoes.
It seems like the ULTIMATE art form in that it is obligatory to let it uttely consume you, to give yourself over to the process, pouring as much pure emotion into it as possible and conveying all this through the greatest instrument you’ll ever own- your body. Hopefully that doesn’t sound like an American self help book.
I also love the irony of having to look as graceful, elegant, delicate and feminine by beating your body into unnatural acts and achieving an incredible level of fitness..a frankly fucking odd concept that’s explored in all it’s disturbingness in this film. Its unexpectedly and extremely appropriate that the director also did The Wrestler & Requiem For A Dream.
Its fair to say that I’m VERY double rainbow about this.
SO, what really gets me about the intensity of BS (ha), which seriously made me as tremeeendously dizzy and nauseous coming out of the cinema as Parnassus ’09 made me stunned and enlightened. Well actually, there’s the rub: no one really GOT Parnassus, a fucking..work of art in itself that had more of an effect on me..at least not on a large mainstream scale anyway. So how is it the EVERYONE loves BS, something so extreme it’s worthy of a cult status?
Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fantastic that something like this is getting the attention (and hopefully Oscar) it deserves and I’m not saying a film loses credibility if it’s not so obscure that only indie kids know of it, but the idea that it’ll get any way watered-down is teeerrifying. And also, what about all the other films as bizarre and affecting as this that DON'T get credit? I don’t have faith in the idea that art should be elitist, and yeah, it’s great that such a film will most definitely influence pop culture..(PoTC anyone?) But who really wants to see thirteen year olds donning the hot new ballerina trend, making the monochrome tutu what the poncho of 2005 was, or HELL, whatamisaying: what nu-rave of 2009 has become.
Maybe you just can’t win, maybe it’s inevitable that BS will become a living, changing thing of it’s own and as The Ginsberg said: “Art IS a community effort”. I really hope it doesn’t get filtered to the point that it's cheapened or weakened though.
So come what may, it's worth your while to see this film.

Friday, January 21, 2011

EXHAUSTED.

I like women who haven’t lived with too many men.
I don’t expect virginity but I simply prefer women
who haven’t been rubbed raw by experience.
There is a quality about women who choose men sparingly;
it appears in their walk -
in their eyes -
in their laughter -
and in their gentle hearts.
Women who have had too many men
seem to choose the next one out of revenge rather than with
feeling.
When you play the field selfishly everything works against you:
one can’t insist on love or
demand affection.
You’re finally left with whatever you have been willing to give
which often is: nothing.
Some women are delicate things
some women are delicious and wondrous.
If you want to piss on the sun,
go ahead, but please leave them alone.

Yes, the world may aspire to vacuousness, lost souls mourn beauty, insignificance surrounds us. Then let us drink a cup of tea. Silence descends, one hears the wind outside, autumn leaves rustle and take flight, the cat sleeps in a warm pool of light. And, with each swallow, time is sublimed.

Truly nasty people hate everyone, to be sure, but most of all themselves. Can't you tell when a person hates himself? He becomes a living cadaver, it numbs all his negative emotions but also all the good ones so he won't feel nauseated by who he is.

Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

I don’t like standard beauty. There is no beauty without strangeness. – Karl Lagerfeld

SO I have been one acquainted with the voice-destroying flu-disease and being stuck inside, missing out on some allegedly..whatamisaying..DEFINITELY deadly english hamlet classes and not being able to taste even my evil diet of toast 'n' tea is wearing my mental stability thin. I want to study and get this goddamn erosion of a year over, but right now this headache is preventing me, and so I'll have to be content myself with looking to the far future for now. Benicassim? Inter-railing? Oxegen? Prostituting yourself around London or Paris?, I hear you cry. no No NO. I'm talking what my house is gonna look like. Not that us art/arts people will be able to attain a house, probably better off living in some ironic box in an avenue HAH?
But anyway, post-leaving cert post-summer of love, post-college, post-inevitable immigration (nnGAH) and possible 2012 demise, this is the basics of what my house will look like, give or take a bit of Fellini's and Mr Yunioshi from Breakfast at Tiffany's:








Also it might be on a houseboat.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Instant Karma.

In Which I Learn A Lesson.
In light of the fluorescent puddle of realism that the recent Other M post has spilled on the subject of new yeerz, I want to add a sidenote. I don't and never have believed in new years resolutions, mainly because I think depending on a universal date of change to make an internal change is detatched and stupid.
So I had new years planned out to an M for a few weeks up to the event itself, and a fantaaaabulously idyllic night was to be had by all. That is, until I got a cancelling text two days beforehand, standing dumbstruck before that dodgy alley next to Vibes & Scribes with a flock of topshop/river island bags in my disbelieving hands, as a lead balloon filled my insides as quickly as a jar of marshmallow fluff lights up the eyes of a fat american child. I trudged home like a Wilfred Owen war victim, burying myself in christmas-blankets and a playlist or two, until I awoke the next morning lying in pretty much the same (juxta)position.
Then later that day (one the way to see Deathly Hallows for the third time- HOH YES) I had an epiphany that jolted my out of my deep end and into the kiddie's pool.
I was like WAITASECOND, look, LOOK at all I have. Call it a mild Christmas Carol moment..actually don't, its not like that at all, but it was like a sudden mallet of inspiration to the head. I thought of the seamless fluidity thats hijacked my reality in the past few months and year, the success I'm somehow having in every area of my life right now, the new people I've met, the new experiences I've had, the things I've learnt and discovered, the fact that I'm not dying or sick or working in an Amsterdam brothel, the class plans I/we have for the near AND far future and basically all the amazing things people have done for me in the past few daze/weeks/months.

I realized I was being unbelieeeeevably hypocritical saying that new years wasn't important and that people shouldn't pile on expectations on this one night and rely on it to "Change Your Life" or "Be The Best You You Can" or whateverthefuck books like The Secret spew out to the masses, when I was getting blue over two days of fun being cancelled.
I realized that there would be times equal or better to what my new years could have been, and to move on instead of dwelling on this one blip of a fail.
I realized that positive thinking should be something I should adopt even more, my self-induced resolution, so to speak but something I'd have to incentive to actually apply in 2k10, not to wait till The New Year for it to kick in.
I realized that a day trip to tha gurlz, hopefully a brief sesh of malibu & a night in with Jools Holland & the family wouldn't be the worst thing ever in light of the rest of EVERYTHING.
I realized how bad my would-be-accommadator must be feeling about the cancellation and how I should reaally let it be (ha) known how much I genuinely appreciated even the idea that I could stay-n-hang with her.
So I picked up my phone and took a deep breath to prepare myself for the ensuing giant text I was about to tap out.

And 1.4 seconds later my phone vibrated with a message saying the New Years plan was back on.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Hardly New Year

There's one thing more annoying than hearing "Happy New Year evry1 lez hope itsa gud wun!?LOLCASM xXxo", and that’s "Happy New Years Eve....'s Eve" which is what today happens to be(and yes, someone, with a seemingly fully functioning brain, the same model that invented the light bulb, that built and filled the Louvre, that is writing this post, just said this to me). It's moments like this that make me want to blog-rant 'till my face melts.

Now it's not my intention to be a procrastinating Grinch that only stumbles out a week later to kill the refreshing-new-beginning vibes, but to every Who that forwards this fruitless wish on the opening of a fresh calendar, I fail, scratch that, I choose not to comply with you. I mean, "Happy Christmas", fair enough, "Happy Birthday", fair enough, but to wish a whole year of happiness? Too hopeful. It's too rare nowadays to even have a whole day of wow-what-an-amazing-tree kind of optimism. Even then, they usually spring up on the most unexpected days, which is why hopeful thinking can only go downhill. As if nobody ever got a visit from Aunty Climax on the hyped-up holidays. That bitch. We created her with all our "Christmas is the best day of the year" and "I cannot wait to turn eighteen" and the most frequent and coincidentally most impossible, "Happy New Year, 2Kwhatever to be the BEST YET"

In general, you’ll get the same amount of highs and lows as you did last year and the year before that, give or take a few laughs and tears. New Year’s Eve is just a mark on a clock that we made up when someone realised, “oh look, the sun is in the same place it was 365 days ago, let’s have a drink to celebrate” If it were as socially acceptable, we’d celebrate the beginning of every hour. (Now you’re definitely getting ideas, provided you’re Irish)

Then there’s the New Year’s resolution. Yes, just to add to the high expectations, we like to make ourselves impossible promises. One of us gives up smoking, another starts a diet, the youngsters vow to eat more vegetables, I might as well promise to give up yawning and grow double my height. Why give yourself your own word, knowing that you most definitely never have or never will be “a man of it”? Hands up whose last resolution lasted the year? Hands up who can even remember what it was? Thought so.

So go ahead, wish me a slightly more smiley than average New Year, with an extra laugh or six. And if you’re going to make an resolution, make it so impossible that people will laugh, only then will it benefit anyone. It’ll also add the extra few laughs to their New Year, making it a happier one, then making you’re wishes come true-ish. Someone great once should have said, “Go to the party dressed all in black, then the biscuit will taste better.”

A terribly uneventful and reasonably better year to you all,

Cloudy.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

THE 10 COMMASSMENTS.

1. Thou shalt not worship any other ass before me.
2. Thou shalt not grab my ass in vain.
3. Thou shalt respect thy neighbour's ass.
4.Thou shalt ‘drop it like it's hot’ when the bitches got an attitude.
5. Thou shalt not lie about liking big butts.
6. Thou shalt celebrate the patron day of the Ass Wednesday.
7. Thou slinky shall go A-DOING-DOING-DOING on seeing my ass.
8. Thou shalt not witness the ASSCLIPSE (ass-eclipse) without adequate eye protection.
9. Upon asking "WHAT WOULD THE MASSIAH DO?", thou shalt always shake that ass for me, shake that ass for me.
10. -insert word of god here-


© Michelle 17A.A. (After Ass)

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Eighteen Candles.

Good God. One cold cup of coffee, one even colder shower (thanks for everything snow), and the first sleep in about 30 hours (in which I woke up not knowing where I was or what time it was or whether last night was a dream or WHA) are conquered, and the details of my 18th birthday are now gradually returning like pins & needles. Veni, Vidi, Vici.
For the week leading up to Friday the 17th, the weather was predicted to be cold but tamely and THANKFULLY snowless. Then at about four o’ clock on The Big Day it was, in the words of Family Guy weatherman Ollie, SNOWING SIDEWAYS. The panicky texts began to trickle in as the white bastard jizzed over everything, putting parents in the risk of losing their lives and tolerance of letting their resident teens out. I was at this point (approx. 19.30 hours) convinced the whole thing would be A Winter’s Fail. Little did I know that 29 mad wans would take an overpriced bus AND an even more overpriced taxi, risk their limbs driving around hills, fall UP hills, walk two hours warmed only by whiskey and essentially beg, steal or borrow their way to my humble and well-decorated abode. It is no exaggeration to say that I’ve never meant the phrase I-cannot-thank-you-enough more than right now.
What followed was a chaotic Van-Gogh-swirl (see above photo) of UNREAL, something all the more positively heightened because I really didn’t think it was possible that it could happen.
I can’t quite put into words what it meant to see the frankly otherworldly effort my friends made, and although not everyone I wanted there could (100% understandably) make it, I was very much saved from spending my 18th birthday burying myself in DVDs, ice-cream and rum and cranking till I tripled myself.
AHAHAHA I laughed when I wrote that
To say this birthday brought me closer to my friends and made me appreciate everything I have is an understatement.
And this is why it was (and I know I’m somewhat obligated to say this) the best one yet, both because of the above and because how the plain imperfect perfection of it sums up how I feel about everything good in life right now. Like any standard high-white-balance-and-flash weheartit photo, what ever is spontaneous, unconventional and wonderfully flawed, is usually the most beautiful in the end.
And indie.
Anyway, what other night could result in a dancefloor smeared in snow, malibu, bodily fluids and the aftermath of our cake war, making the room look like the monkey paintings out of the lion king? Which domino-ed on to create some of The BEST cartoon falls I have ever seen or experienced first-hand. Which in turn ballooned on to a pretty class singing circle time, including such classics as a racist cover of Blackbird, Something, Real Love, Hamlet:L, Iris, Thaz Aul Right, our insane Ceolchoirm na Nollag setlist (re-enacting the trombone solo and harmonies on both Fairytale of New York and Sneachta Ag Titim respectively) and some folksy shit aswell.:)
Images of the stairs getting an encouraging lap-dance, that Spanish girl being forced into the snow, more than wood being burned in the fire and a guest’s surprise entrance around half ten post-crying phone call with signature pineapple in tow can’t quite leave my brain..we are indeed as someone said today, “a colourful bunch of legends”.
It was a surreal and twoderful time and something that affected and submerged me so completely that I didn’t even realize how emotional I was the next morning when saying goodbye until Marianne said “Oh god don’t start crying”. And as I opened my kiss-and-cake-torn mouth to say “What choo talkin bout de Leaster”, I realized that yes, I did indeed have tears in my eyes. Because it had just hit me in that pins-and-needles way just how Christmas-miraculously great it was.
Plus the non-metaphysical presents were totally Boss (is that phrase from Scott Pilgrim? I don’t know anymore..) and the cards were just plain sob-worthy. From what other people can you get the reaction of: “I find that hard to believe” when you answer No to the question “So have you ever smoked drugs?” or just getting asked do you practive tap-dancing professionally. And I think one of the most genuinely beautiful & plain simplistic moments of my life was around 5.30am, when I slid across to a cutely inebriated friend and sang from the “Home” lines up to the chorus in time with Stornoway’s Fuel Up while she smiled perfectly and looked at us appreciatively. Cinematic ta fuck.
That is, I think, something important. The crux, or part of it. Like romance and those “Home” lines, happiness and exquisite nights like these cannot be constructed. They just occur and form themselves, emerging from your own feelings and a few feet of snow.
So really, I cannot thank ye enough.

Friday, December 17, 2010

That Day.

I don't think I'll ever forget the moment Conor J O'Brien stooped down to whisper in the ear of the security guy standing beside me. Even though I moved, being the awkward little ninny that I am, he was inches from my face. I thought about touching him. But that might have been weird. I just tangled Martha's leg in ecstasy instead (thanks for that babez).
Conor needn't have pyhsically touched me, though (although it would have been nice). Clichéd as it may seem, the guy's got talent. Tangible, moving, harrowing but beautiful bucketloads of it.

I've left gigs before wishing the performers had spoken more with the crowd during the show - but Villagers are no ordinary group. When the brilliant Mr O'Brien did speak, it was really funny and good-humoured, which was kind of surprising seeing as the man pours his whole being into every song. But the songs really said it all.

I saw a bird-like tuft of hair off stage and my lungs nearly collapsed. He walked out, picked up his tiny ukelele/guitar, somehow made infinitely cooler with black tape that would look blasphemous on any other instrument. He played 'Twenty Seven Strangers' on his own, slower than the album version. He bounced to push his syrupy voice from belt to falsetto.

Then the band came on AND BOIZ WHAT A BAND. Seriously, if Aiden Grimshaw was too intense for the X Factor, these dudes could send the whole Great British public into heart failure with one number. The bassist moved around like an underwater gazelle. Keyboard Man's expressions made me well up. The whole band moved as if in syncronised slow-motion. And then suddenly Conor would start to scream and eerie chaos would ensue.

Excited fans shouted "GO ON CONOR, YA MADMAN" and "CAN I'VE YAR CHRISTMAS JUMPER?".
Conor asked why "all these people" were there... Not just those slightly odd people; it seemed like he wasn't quite accustomed yet to all these people standing in front of him having paid to see him and singing along to his songs. He said they had played Cork before 'but not like this'. His incredulity is hard to believe when you're standing less than a metre away from him as he sings one heart-wrenching line after another. I couldn't help but wonder what he expected when he decided to record the songs he had been touring. Do people really need to listen to 'To Be Counted Among Men' 50 times before they fall in love with it?

In fact, I think the best might really be to come from the valiant Villagers. Hearing the really amazing songs from 'Becoming a Jackal' was exhilarating enough, but the new songs literally took my breath away. The lyrics, the chords, the emotion... and they do that day after day! It kind of makes me sore...
For fear of repeating myself, I'll steal Conor J's take on this one:

"In the carnival is a sunlit stage
Never in the dark of a morning failed
Your own audience will decide your fate
In a carnival on a sunlit stage."


£

Monday, December 13, 2010

Rest-less

there is no future. there is no past. do you see? time is simultaneous, an intricately structured jewel that humans insist on viewing one edge at a time, when the whole design is visible in every facet.





Saturday, December 11, 2010

Here's To The Next Hundred/Eighteen.

She's got you thinking this is how you’re supposed to be. Well it's not. We're young. We’re supposed to drink too much. We're supposed to have bad attitudes and shag each other's brains out. We are designed to PARTAY. This is it. Yeah so a few of us will overdose or go mental. But Charles Darwin said you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. And that's what it's all about. BREAKING EGGS. And by eggs I do mean, get twatted on a cocktail of class A’s. If you could just see yourselves..it breaks my heart. You’re wearing cardigans!
We had it all. We fucked up bigger and better than any generation that came before us. WE WERE SO BEAUTIFUL!
We're screw-ups. I’m a screw-up. And I plan to be a screw-up until my late twenties, maybe even my early thirties. And I will shag my own mother before I let her..or anyone else take that away from me!

Friday, December 10, 2010

All those highs and the lows and the to's and the fro's, they left me dizzy.

AKA What It Meant To Be Seventeen, yo.
What? The kids like it when you use their lingo.

Well its the eve of PURELY TECHNICAL adulthood and I can't help but retrospect the lymph outa the nodes of experiences that have polka-dotted the past year. I mean it started off (well, nine days in) with PAUL MCCARTNEY.
I remember watching QI last december when I was sixteen and hearing thou-shalt-not-question-Stephen-Fry saying that "scientifically, seventeen is the best age to be" to the shouts of denial from his subjects. On the brink of kidulthood and possessing just enough responsibility to be able to go both chicken oriental, and indeed, fucking mental? Still clinging to the fragments of childhood and swiftly coming to terms with the dichotomy of worldly naiivety and the need to grow Grow GROW?
Oh Alan Davies, how wrong you were.
I think the biggest thing I've learned this year, as well as today actually..OMG I JUST REMEMBERED HOW BRILLIANT MY LAST DAY OF LEGALHOOD WAS..
anyway, i'll start that sentence again. I think the biggest thing I've learned this year, as well as today, from such a spectrum of events, feelings, people, encounters (both brief and otherwise, kathy), decisions, journeys and challenges galore is how Above-Everything important it is to extract something valuable from every experience. To sweep a few droplets of oil off the surface of the water below and make a difference to yourself with those golden spheres of knowledge. Or maybe that should be baby out of bathwater? Well I've certainly learned to turn a phrase..
It all comes down to you, no-one can see your thought process but it should shine through in a way, in other ways I s'pose.
Its not unlike when you draw an eye and, unless you're Pee-Wee Hurley, you don't draw a flat, fully outlined diamond shape, you assume the viewer knows what an eye looks like and you rely on minimalism and other things to make it look 3D and realistic. If that makes sense at all. You don't need to shriek "The philosophy of 16th century monks really speaks to me!" to the masses on a daily basis, its more that if you fall in love with a state of mind, you have to compress it, pocket it and then apply it. Sticking to your metaphorical guns, basically. (Hello Brazil)

In a way the wonderfulness today summed up all those things, that is why I bursted-out earlier..Outburst? Geddit? Sí?
So anyway, thank you everyone..God that sounds so cheesy, but. Yeah. I wish I could stay in Seventeen Village forever but I can't. So the next best thing would be to gather up everything I've learned into a gypsy/topshop handkerchief, knot the bitch up on a stick and hit the road. Life is a college lecture, its not supported by permanent walls but the good thing about that is that its not enclosed with boundaries either.

So fuel up. Lets give it a whirl.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

if you're having girl problems

i feel bad for you son,
i got 99 problems but censoring
already general opinions ain't one.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

*insert appropriate let it snow lyric here*

OH the simple things in life!
The joy of snow is something that has to power to seduce, convert non-believers (hello tramore), and generally unite the human race in both the fear of dying suddenly on the ice and in the beauty of a Beige Wonderland.
Today during a typically funny and odd history class, It Began To Snow at last and due to the fact that no-one was in and god finally "came", El Scurvmeister announced at 11.45am that "fuaireamar an comhairle" to Shut Down The School asap. Look at me capitalizing like theres no tomorrow/Dickinson!
Treading home, I was met by an icing-sugar-from-a-sieve flurry of snow encircled by the overflowing excitement being jizzed out of a few hundred teenagers at the fact that we were being evacuated, and a hobo-man inching across the road who proceeded to Wham! headlong into that weird rotting house shouting "JAYSUS I NEVER SEEN ANYTING LIKE I-"
Everything was slowed down like a hungover zoetrope, lines of normally shpeedin' traffic were fluidly submerged in a monochromey midnight blue snowdome. It was like a big in-joke between us all, both with our facebook statuses and with the usually silent real life pedestrians who gave me a jaunty nod of ho-ho-escaped-early-today-did-we? amid the ice confetti.
I'm sure this snow-eyelashed wonder (hello matthew) will wear off after a few weeks, transport systems will skid to a halt, plans will be ruined, being stuck inside cut off from friends and teaching ourselves the Leaving Cert will get to be a bittuva drag. (queen).
But today is still November; the fire is warm, Anastasia is on, homework is low and the novelty is still very much present.
And since we've no place to go..

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Kulture Eats Ye















Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty' - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

£

Saturday, November 20, 2010


Wave to the Birdy

I know this should be something Harry Potter related but it's not. I apologise in advance.
I would just like to point out a running theme this week. Birds. As I have come to the realisation that they are very strange creatures who ultimately defy gravity.
Birds are often ignored so let me draw your attention to them:

A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an angle-worm in halve-
And ate the fellow, raw,

Well I didn't tell anyone,
But a bird flew by
Saw what I'd done
He set up a Nest outside
And he sang about what I'd become.

Fun fact: apperently they burst if they eat rice.
Interesting - no?

Anyway, feed the birds tupence a baaaaaaaag, tupence, tupence, tupence a bag.

Oh yeah and if you're particularly fond of pigeons: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU5rpwG4W8g
$$

Sunday, November 14, 2010

THINK FOR YOURSELF.

I don't want to appear like a stereotypically 'angry-teen' who excretes their rage onto the internet via their blog, but in fairness the subject of this post is something thats been on my mind for some time, and after the latest cataclysmically good Lost Weekend, its sort of been brought to the forefront. I wasn't going to blog about this but it's funny what can happen to a girl on the quest for an early-morning croissant in 4°C weather, with an iPod for company and the last wonderful traces of sambuca leaving your system.

The thing that has my blood boiling is the idea that relationships - close relationships/what people view as True Love - should influence, or more importantly, LIMIT what you want to do and who you are.

In (most) relationships, adultery is a no-no. To me this is totally logical, and makes sense from a trust, loyalty and aul-that point of view. Anygay, if it is love, you naturally wouldn't want anyone else. CAPICHE? However, what I don't agree with is the ludicrousness of withdrawing a person's choice by holding an emotional gun to their head to make them feel differently, even if it is about something as small as legally getting drunk on your best friend's 18th birthday.

I suppose this is the point where I should slip in the obvious and overused-in-this-kind-of-situation phrase; I'm Not Going To Name Names. The reason I'm Not Going To Name Names is that it definitely wouldn't be fair or nice, and I don't want to do a Mark Zuckerberg on this.
I want to get across that the biggest issue with relationships for me is the idea of having to diminish another area of your life - be it to do with education/friends/interests/future - or just miss out on things altogether because of it. They should be beneficial. Something someone said on this subject last night:
EVERYONE NEEDS TO SCREAM LIKE A BAT SOMETIMES!

Trying to change someone or part of someone by force, metaphysically or otherwise, is never right and never good. I believe Love to be something that accepts you, and from then on in can inadvertently change you for the better. But essentially, self-change comes from self-acceptance, which comes from - OH YEAH - you. And I think its pretty clear that such "negative" aspects of a character are extremely subjective. This is coming from the perspective of a 17-year-old (going on 18 soon, GAH) who is not naiive enough to assume that she can fully understand or comprehend Love. Nevertheless I agree with Mumford and his Sons in that it should not betray you, dismay or enslave you, but set you free. Cáisiúl as that looks on the blogosphere.

This argument/clandestine anecdote, doesn't (thank god) apply to me and I hope never to become part of that plastic branch of clockwork orange; someone who appears healthy and bright on the outside, but who's decisons, opinions and interests are being domineered by someone else.
You should never give up your ability to choose and think for yourself for an emotion that is supposed to be positive.

Maybe my keyboard-fucking rage isn't coming across as strongly as it should, but I am well and truly PISSED. Right now, any mild evidence of The Crime from Friday must be swept under the carpet and denied that it ever happened.
Healthy, no?
Opinions about what is enjoyable shouldn't be changed by force.
But clearly, Love Conquers All.