You ain't a beauty, but hey you're all right: The Boss.

R.A. and I had a good two hour conversation about the music of Bruce Springsteen on Friday. You read that right, two hours. She put on the Springsteen channel on Sirius Radio and I decided I wanted to listen to some while I waited for the Leafs game to come on, so I loaded up my Springsteen library. R.A. is a New Jersey girl so I'm pretty sure it's her legal and moral responsibility to love The Boss. I like it for a reason that will surprise exactly no one.

Anyway, conclusions from the conversation:

1. Early Bruce is the best Bruce because he had an edge when he was first starting (I'd say up through 'The River') that has disappeared as age has softened him. Early Bruce -- and to some extent very recent Bruce -- also liked to tell a full story in song in the Bob Dylan school and that's always been something I've liked. I hate it when artists go all impossibly metaphorical and make it impossible to understand what a song is about.

2. As a result, Early Bruce is my favourite. It amazes me that someone could write "so you're scared and you're thinkin' that maybe we ain't that young anymore" at the age of 24. I like the desperation of his early work...the need to get out, the restlessness, the fear of being stuck and consequently, the recurring imagery of the road.* (See, I told you it wouldn't surprise!) I like it less for its musicality, because let's face it, his really early stuff isn't all that musically challenging, than for how uncomfortable it makes me. It is 4 minute clips of everything I'm terrified of.

3. I think carnivals are fucking scary. I'm not even kidding. This actually has nothing to do with Bruce Springsteen, but we were talking about 'Wild Billy's Circus Story' and 'The Last Carnival'. I have never liked carnivals/circuses and then I read Bradbury's 'Something Wicked this Way Comes' and I liked them even less. *shudder* Also, I do not love clowns even a little bit.

4. The song 'County Fair' makes me claustrophobic. It literally makes me feel like I'm suffocating. I don't know why, but I have always associated county fairs with being trapped in a place and this traveling oddity being the only escape for the entire summer. I have been to a couple (once very much against my will...some high school friends dragged me one summer -- I'm talking to you L.M.O. and Carlos) and I have never been able to relax...it's like I'm just waiting for someone to come up to me and whisper "help me." I know a lot of people like them and a lot of people are happy living in Small Town America and county fairs are pretty much Americana defined, but they make me really uneasy.

5. R.A. has never heard this song, despite my prodding (she also thinks Bill is hotter than Eric on True Blood, so consider the source!), but The Killers' 'A Dustland Fairytale' is the closest I think any current band has come to capturing that sort of desperate, nostalgic, early Bruce feel. "He'd look just like you'd want him to, some kind of slick, chrome, American prince" and "we still fear what we don't know" about cover it.

*Thunder Road is one of my favourite songs of all time -- the stripped down acoustic version of it is, in my opinion, one of the greatest acoustic versions of any song, ever. (T., I know you like live sets, so I defy you to disagree with me!) I also love: Born to Run, Racing in the Street, Darkness on the Edge of Town, Stolen Car and Backstreets.

Naked Towel Dance: Visits from home.

M. came to visit last weekend...and showed up literally two minutes after I stepped out of the shower. So she got a naked towel dance* (that's right, Fraggle...be jealous!) when I answered the door.

We had a fun visit! And oddly enough, I had the second conversation about nipple rings in the course of week that led to a discussion about the Marquis de Sade. The first, for those of you who are friends on Facebook might remember the nipple ring discussion. The second I neither started, nor directed towards the Marquis de Sade.

M. and I have a long, long history of *really* strange conversations. One involved starting an algae farm. The latest one involved me sitting outside the room of my new housemate (Siobhan moved out =( ) in the middle of the night, listening to him breathe and how that wouldn't be weird at all. Not even when the other guy housemate, who works late night at a bar, came home to find me doing this. Of all the great things about M., this is the thing I miss most about not seeing her very often.

I was really happy to see her. It's always nice to see a familiar face, especially one I haven't seen in so long -- though admittedly, it had been less time since I last saw M. than it had been since I'd last seen S. when she was here. She was only here for two days, so we didn't get a ton of time, but she brought some sun, so we wandered around the city centre and went into the Cathedral and swing danced at my local to something not meant for swing dancing and listened to some unbelievably bad karaoke and she showed me pictures from J.'s wedding three weeks ago (which I, obviously and sadly, missed.) Good times were definitely had!

Yay for my Tuttle 2 girls!


*The naked towel dance is a dance indigenous to wet girls on Tuttle 2, who are naked underneath their towels. Traditionally done in doorways of open rooms along the hall when returning from the bathroom.

Hello, my friends: Watching the World Series from 4000+ miles away.

Several of my friends and I are watching the World Series. Yes, it keeps me up really late, but I'm always up that late so it's not really a big deal. What's great about technology is that a. I can stream the games online and b. I can talk with my friends about the games in real time even though I'm far away from them. At least nine of my friends have posted Facebook commentaries as their status updates (and so have I...my favourite one involves my love for this sign I saw in game 5 in Philly: "Our Lee will never surrender. Damn those Yankees!") It has been nice, being away from home with no other baseball fans, but still being able to talk about it. Even without the face time.

And...a few things on the streams:

1. TBS' commentators during the NLCS were HORRIBLE. I literally thought I was watching a foreign feed and that the MLB had decided to educate foreigners about baseball, but it was actually the TBS feed. If I have heard a worse commentator than Chip Caray, I have repressed it. I have major hatred for the stupidity that comes out of his mouth.

2. I actually heard this interview...which, I should add, was broadcast to the entire US during the ALCS: "Alex, you guys are up two games to none. What position does that put you guys in going to Los Angeles?" "Well, it's better to be up 2-0 than 1-1." You have no idea the amount of profanity that came out of my mouth after that. Seriously, FOX? An eight year old Djibutian girl could have given a better interview. I fucking hate you.

3. I have never hated Joe Buck so much as I do this year. Honestly, the depths of my hatred lack words. I want nothing more than to reach through my screen and bitch slap that guy. I swear to God, he actually said the following in the first game of the Series: "Both teams have won seven games to get here." Dear Joe Buck, are you fucking kidding me?

4. Mercifully, most of what I've watched in the Series has been Rick Sutcliffe and Dan Schulman on the ESPN America feed. Words cannot express how much better it is listening to them than it is listening to Joe Buck and Tim McCarver on the FOX feed.

On music: The great disappointment of my life.

I have been playing the piano since I was six. When I was seven, I joined the church choir. When I was eight, I started taking harp lessons. All of this continued through high school. I still play the piano every day when I can. I sing to myself in the shower. I play the harp anytime I can find one since mine is in New York. I am a decent singer, a good pianist and an excellent harpist. And no matter how hard I practice, I will never be a *great* musician.

I can read what you put in front of me, I can learn it and I can follow the tempo and volume notations and play it well, but it is empty.

I can listen to music and I can tell you that I like something or don't and why I do or don't. I can tell from chord progression when a piece of music was written and I have an uncanny ability to pinpoint which composer wrote a piece, but all the theory is meaningless.

I don't feel the music.

I am aware that this is something intrinsic, either you get it or you don't and no amount of practice will change this. Because of that, I can accept that I fall on the wrong side of the line, but I will never be at peace with it. I want music to speak to me more than it does (I can list probably fewer than 10 pieces of music that truly speak to me.) I will forever envy the people who can feel it.

This is the great disappointment of my life.

Four hundred years later: Romeo and Juliet.

I have long been a non-fan of Shakespeare. With a few notable exceptions*, I'm quite apathetic when it comes to the Bard. But, I rewatched 'Romeo and Juliet' last month just for the heck of it...

There's a desperation in it that, as an adult, is oddly refreshing; that idea that if this one love doesn't work out the world will end, the idea that one kiss means everything. It's an easy thing to forget, years later, because we've loved and lost and loved again and we're still here and we're mostly okay. We fall down, but we get up, brush ourselves off and we're away again; the world does not implode. In the intervening years, we have forgotten what it was like to feel like the sun rose and set with him. We grew up and moved on to other boys and other lives and we forgot to remember the taste of his kiss, the comforting smell of him, the feeling, both emotional and physical, of his arms around us.

Maybe the true test of Shakespeare's work isn't the words on the page (though I will admit that the line 'ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man' is probably one of the most clever in all of literature) but the response it elicits from its audience. I may not have lived in 16th century Italy, but I remember the first boy I ever loved. And some little part of me, somewhere deep down, will always be a little bit in love with him. Because he was the first and he was wonderful.

In a different life, a different situation, I could have been Juliet. Maybe *that's* Shakespeare's genius.


* I love Hamlet.

Glee: Fall television and my inner music nerd.

This post is weeks overdue...and very much NOT news to people like T., who has been subjected to at least two Facebook status updates a week regarding the following subject:

I was fairly certain after three episodes of 'Glee' that the best of it had passed, but C. talked me into sticking it out for another two before passing my final judgment. And since the third episode had a very hot, topless boy, I agreed to it. What can I say, I'm shallow when it comes to men on television.

So here we are, five episodes later.

Yeah, I'm hooked. And not just on the aforementioned (and pictured) very hot boy with a nice voice.* It soothes my inner music dork. I don't care what lessons I'm supposed to be learning from it or whatever. I show up for the music.** Plus, it brings back a lot of good memories from when I did show choir in high school. It was fun -- admittedly not as fun as the kids in Glee seem to be having, but fun all the same -- and I had a good time with it. And I did sports, so I know what it's like to juggle the two -- though it was never the stigma at my high school that it is in the show because about half of us were also athletes.

Anyway, with having my research and these stupid required modules that make me believe that the UK government is out to bore its Ph.D. students to death before they ever come close to submitting their dissertations, 'Glee' is really great way to unwind in the middle of the week. It's funny***, the music is great (if obviously overproduced), the characters are likeable, even some of them who aren't (except for Will's batshit crazy wife; she's a harpee) and I bow to the person who thought it was a good idea. Because it is. It's a good midweek pick-me-up and some weeks, I really need that. I always feel like I can cope with the rest of my week afterwards.


*There are several actual publicity shots of the hotness that is Mark Salling (who is mercifully not 18, but 27) but he's wearing a New Kids t-shirt in this shot, which makes him a fucking stud. Not that he was lacking before, but the t-shirt is awesome!

**And the fact that Josh Groban showed up in what was the worst episode, (but skinwise the best one -- we really need to see more of Puck without his shirt! Oh, my Jesus, YES!) and delivered the line, "Lemme tell you something, throngs of screaming teenagers don't do it for Josh Groban. No, Josh Groban loves a blousy alcoholic."

***"Unless you want to lose your man to a mentally ill ginger pygmy with eyes like a bush baby." Best. Line. Ever. And possibly my favourite description of another person ever uttered.

The moment: Photographs.

I really like looking at old photographs of strangers. Sometimes, I see the moment.

It's not often, but I love it when I do.

I hope that someday, someone sees a picture of me and instantly gets it.

*This is one of my favourite pictures from the past year because it's so obvious to me in this picture how much we like each other. I miss Shiva.

The Weight: Thirty.

In a little over six months, I will turn 30. It's weighing heavily on me. I can't help but think I've wasted the last 12 years of my life.

I'm supposed to be further along in my life by now, aren't I?

I'm supposed to be done with school, working a steady job, settling down with a man, buying a station wagon and a house and having children, a dog and a goldfish or two. I'm supposed to have competed in a triathlon and raised money for charity. I'm supposed to have joined the board of something. I'm supposed to be buying nice things for my parents like a holiday to South Africa as a thank you for putting up with me during my teenaged years.

I'm supposed to be looking back at my late teens and early 20s and thinking, 'I was so young then.'

And I do, but when I do, I inevitably follow that with, 'and I've done nothing to grow up in the intervening years.'

Instead, since I left high school, my life has been biochemistry, then Baltimore and college, then stage managing, then religion and the dreaded Aristotle, then New Jersey, then baseball, then Indiana, then sports information, then Texas, then grad school, then baseball again, then lifeguarding, then Prague, then English, then Belfast, then a doctorate. And in between all that, tedious nothing jobs of waiting tables and TV master control and museum maintenance.

I have only amassed a small fortune in student loan debt, a slew of failed relationships and a growing sense of failure.

I feel so insignificant next my peers who are all seemingly more talented at 28 than I’ll ever be in my whole life. They have it figured out. They know what they want and they’ve put themselves there.

I’m afraid I’m never going to figure it out.

That, more than anything, is why I'm terrified of 30. And it's criminal that I wasted so much time that I'm only realizing it now.

It's crushing me.

The Squash Soup Incident.

"There was a squash soup incident," she tells him.
They'd been lying in the dark in the moments before sleep when the mind wanders aimlessly. He'd been thinking about a cricket tournament from five years ago when she stumbled on the squash soup.
"What?"
"I have never liked squash."
"Oh."
"I thought you should know."
"Okay."
"I pretend to like zucchini, but I secretly hate it."
He stares into the darkness as she curls herself into his bare chest. He wonders what he's supposed to do with the information.
"Unless it's in bread," she breathes into him before drifting off to sleep.

Ireland and Wales: The defining pictures.

I've neglected S.'s visit, which is unfortunate because we had a really good time. And saw some amazing pretty! We were rewarded in our effort to go around the Spout Lake, through the Land of the Giant Slugs, across the Rock Quarry (which came complete with inukshuk), past the Fields of Heather, march with the three-legged sheepdog (no lie) and make it to the Castle at the End of the World on the Cliffs of Moher. Yes, we totally made up those names. We didn't make it to the Castle at the End of the World because it started raining and we were about 3 miles from the visitors centre of the cliffs -- we were well past the "do not go past this sign" sign -- but even though we had to turn back, we got the most amazing rainbow EVER.

I've also neglected Cardiff, which was a great time and involved me getting together with a whole bunch of random strangers. You know how it is when you're traveling alone.

Anyway, here are the best shots from those trips:
The double rainbow on the Cliffs of Moher
The other end of the rainbow in Liscannor Bay


















The pub in Cardiff that sells Brains (it's a Welsh brand of beer, but I like to think they cater to zombies!)













The silver half circle waterfall thingy outside of the Millenium Centre in Cardiff Bay. It's also the entrance to Torchwood (if you watch totally camp BBC series.) I was totally fascinated by this thing. At one point I just sat and stared at it for about an hour and a half. It's weirdly soothing. It's probably better I don't live in Cardiff (though I would totally live there for a few years) because I'd probably waste a lot of hours just staring at it.


So yeah, all in all a pair of good trips!

Bon Voyage: The 2010 travel schedule.

1. This isn't a 2010 travel plan or even my travel plan, but it involves me and friends and travel...M. will be here at the end of October for a few days! YAY! I haven't seen her in over three years so it'll be really fun to have her here. We won't be hitting the road like S. and I did, but that's okay, I'm sure we can find plenty to do.

2. New Year's 2010: Beks and I were supposed to go to Cardiff together, but her new job put the kibosh on that. There were some other discussions, but we finally landed on going to see Lew (henceforth L.R.) in France for New Year's...which was a brilliant plan until L.R. announced that he in no way wants to stay in St. Malo. So the three of us threw out a bunch of ideas -- oddly, none of them Prague -- and we landed on Budapest! Realistically, I think none of us care all that much where we end up so long as we end up there together. But definite yay for Hungary! Budapest is on the very top of my list of places to go.

3. St. Paddy's Day 2010: Again, not my own travel plans, but...the Swedish contingent -- E.B., Malin, Rickard and Caroline -- (and Juri) are talking about coming over here for St. Paddy's Day so they can celebrate it in Ireland. Yay!

4. Easter 2010: I have some Goucher people in the middle east, I have the time and I have the money (mostly), so I'm off to see these two friends in Israel and Jordan. I am *so* excited about this trip! The logistics of this trip are a bit of a nightmare because I'm trying to work around the high holy days of my friend in Israel, which is only fair, trying to figure out who is coming with me where because each has expressed an interest in seeing the other country and trying to figure out exact dates. But in a few weeks this should all be worked out and booked. Yay!

5. The Mini-UN 2010: Amsterdam, sometime in June or July is the plan. There's been some discussion about Grenoble in January, but it came down to a choice between seeing Beks and L.R. for New Year's or seeing some of the Mini-UN and since I'll see some of them for St. Paddy's Day and the rest of them in Amsterdam, they lost me for Grenoble.

The greatness of Jason Bourne: Conspiracy theories and me.

I love conspiracy theories. Not so much that I do much research into them or anything, but I find them entertaining.

Secretly, I don't doubt there's some truth in all of the crazy.

I like the idea of spies and double agents and top secret missions because it's fucking fun! It's Jason Bourne and James Bond in real life. The Israelis authorizes a secret vendetta crew, a Bulgarian dissident takes a risin pellet to the leg from an umbrella, a former KGB agent turned dissident writer is poisoned with a radioactive compound. By his own government. You know why that's awesome? Because it's the movies come to life...political intrigue, espionage, assassination...

.sesab ymra tcilered no snoitarepo terces fo stroper eht era ereht dnA

.yhw wonk t'nod I . ni tuo emac ti dna yllamron ecnetnes taht etorw tsuj I ,kcuf ot raews I
.rettam tcejbus eht nevig emosewa .fo dnik si siht tub ,retupmoc ym htiw no gniog si tahw aedi on evah I

Seriously, I have no idea what that was all about. I swear on all that is holy, my computer just decided for no reason at all to take everything I typed and put it in in reverse. I would type and it would freeze for a few seconds and then the writing would show up exactly the way you see it. Which is pretty freaking awesome given the subject of the post.

Anyway, as I was saying...possible secret operations on derelict army bases...

I like the idea of it all exactly *because* it's all secret and hush-hush and "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."

Reading: What I've got on my plate.

1. I decided recently, that I want to finish Tolstoy's 'War and Peace' before my 30th birthday. I've got 7 months, so it's not like it's a daunting task time-wise. But this is the fourth go at this book...I've never made it past 200 pages. Mostly because I don't think I should have to read the equivalent of a full book before the book I'm reading gets interesting. It's 1300+ pages...if you want to keep me reading, it's got to be interesting before 200 pages. This time, though, it's interesting sooner. I think likely because since my last attempt, I've had classes in both Russian and revolutionary history. Anyway, I did the math and if I read 30 pages at a time, I will can finish the book in 42 reading days (which is actually kind of funny if you consider Adams). So far, I've got 40 reading days to go.

2. The Catastrophist - Ronan Bennett -- A story of an Irish writer who chases his Italian lover to the Congo in 1959 in order to save their relationship and, as a result of timing, finds himself in the midst of the liberation movement therein. I'm only 5 chapters in, but I really like it so far. I mean, any time you combine revolution with a history I don't know, I'm on board. Also, I've been on a hunt for literature regarding Africa (either by Africans or, as in this case, by a foreigner in Africa) because almost all of the literature I've read in my life has been "western." And there is some very good work that is non-Western (Salman Rushdie is likely the most well known, but also one of my personal favourites Arundhati Roy's 'The God of Small Things') and I don't want to miss out.

3. Goodbye to Berlin - Christopher Isherwood -- The novel on which the musical 'Cabaret' is based. I finally got my hands on a copy (they're harder to find than you might think) and I'm pretty excited about that.

Reading: What I've read for fun in the last six months

I've been reading a lot more in the last six months than I have in a long time. It's been nice. I had forgotten how much I love to read, I think because I spend so much of my time reading for school.

1. Ender's Game - Orson Scott Card -- A number of friends who don't know each other have been on me for years to read this and I finally got around to it. I *loved* it. I mean really, really loved it. I finally shut the light out at half three in the morning with 80 pages to go, dreamt about it and promptly picked it up as soon as I woke up again. For such a straightforward story, it's so complex.

2. The Neverending Story - Michael Ende -- I was a bit hesitant to read this because this movie and Disney's 'Robin Hood' are the defining movies of my childhood and I was afraid the book was going to ruin it for me. But, the book was SO good. The movie ends halfway through the book, but to me the whole point of the book was the second half. The getting to Fantasia (the first half) is nowhere near as interesting as what happens when Bastian gets there (the second half.)

3. A Lion Among Men - Gregory Maguire -- The third in the Oz series that really picked up after the kind of blah 'Son of a Witch.' It's the cowardly lion's story in the days before the revolution...which is just starting to boil over at the end of the book, which sets the fourth book up to be pretty epic. Very much looking forward to the fourth book!

4. The Gargoyle - Andrew Davidson -- The single worst, most misogynistic piece of crap I've ever read. No lie. The concept is cool. The execution is shit.

5. The Gathering - Anne Enright -- The second worst book I've read this year. It won the Booker Prize last year or the year before, but it was mind-numbingly dull.

6. The Cellist of Sarajevo - Steven Galloway -- I think I'm going to have to read this again before I decide if I like it or not. It's set in Sarajevo during the war, during the time when Vedran Smailovic was playing Albinoni. He's the focal character for the three characters in the novel. It felt sort of disjointed, so I'm going to have to give it another go.

7. Children of the Revolution - Dinaw Mengestu -- This was just sort of meh. I think it wanted to be and tried to be something it wasn't. If it was a commentary on the African experience in America, I missed the message.

8. The Shipping News - Annie Proulx -- This was my second go at it; I gave up about 50 pages in when I was 15. Reading it now, I know why. It's set in Newfoundland and it's got fishing and big water. Love.

9. The Visible World - Mark Slouka -- A Czech twist on the post-war child digging into his parents' secret life in the war. It was okay...mostly I picked it up because I was feeling a bit homesick for Prague.

10. Embers - Sandor Marai -- Just sort of meh. I think the purpose of holding a grudge for 40 years is lost on me.

11. The Pesthouse - Jim Crace -- If you took Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' (of which I wasn't much of a fan to be honest), combined it with the Benet short story 'By the Waters of Babylon' (which is probably my favourite piece of post-apocalyptic literature) and made it boring, you'd have this book.

12. Heat and Dust - Ruth Prawer Jhabvala -- This also won a Booker Prize, which leads me to the conclusion that books that win the Booker Prize are all boring and will lead me to skip over about 100 pages in the middle.

13. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams -- Everyone else has loved this book, and I did like it, but it wasn't the mind blowing awesomeness everyone said it was going to be.

14. Dances with Wolves - Michael Blake -- I really quite liked this. It was apparently adapted from the screenplay by its own author. I've never seen the movie, but apparently it's good and judging from the book, I can see why.

15. Gods Behaving Badly - Marie Phillips -- Great premise, poor execution, which is too bad because it's a very cool premise.

Spring in the Dakotas.

He drinks her beautiful out of desperation and asks her for a date. She turns him down.
"I've known you before," she tells him.
"It always ends with me waking up alone," she tells him.
A cold rain betrays April and chills him to the bone. He watches it rain from a bar stool, watches the gathering dark and addresses her like she cares.
"I think I'll go to California in the fall," he tells her.
He wants to leave this nothing town and head for the coast. He tells her so.
But she knows better; he never will.
She's known him before.
The time will never be right. The weather will never be right. The money will never be right.
So he'll go on drinking the local girls beautiful out of a desperation he'll never shake.

After Prague: A year on.

On the 3rd, it was a year since I left Prague.

On the 2nd, I scrambled to wire money to a member of my Prague family who was hiding out in the middle of nowhere in an undisclosed European country (I know which one, but you don't get to,) lying low after a scuffle that landed the other guy in hospital with a broken jaw so that he could literally leave town (perfectly legally.)


Dear Prague,

We miss you. You made things like this seem normal.

Sincerely,

Wegrit and undisclosed friend.


Weird things come out afterwards. Things you didn't think to tell each other. "You know I slept with him?" "You know Hot Chris got mugged by gypsies?" "You know, I never liked her."

On the island of Britain: How Cardiff and England are related.

I've been gone longer than usual. And I was pretty scarce before the long break anyway. I blame the rain. It's just pulling my mood down so much that I can't be bothered with much of anything. It's summer, it's supposed to be sunny and warm and it has been neither and that, combined with being between friend sets for the most part, has just been making me miserable. Mercifully, the summer has been broken up in mini-holidays with my friends.

Anyway, I'm in a much better mood after three days in Cardiff that involved: football, the ocean, a castle, the Cardiff Blues rugby team, Torchwood, middle-of-the-night fire alarms, seafood, Americans, an Australian, Russians, a Frenchman, a very drunken Englishman, a South African and a whole lot of Welshmen including the REALLY drunk guy who propositioned me in the street at 7pm. I'll leave that for another post, but I will say that I *love* Cardiff.

And...despite Wales' 3-0 loss to Russia last night, England qualified for the World Cup next summer with a 5-1 (!) win over Croatia -- who knocked England out of last summer's Euro. Yay! I want to start getting excited about England, but I can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop. My own feelings aside, the press over here are practically sucking Capello's dick today.

I promise I'll try to be more present from now on. Hopefully the weather will stay nice for a few more days so I can recharge whatever it is in me that needs sun for more than two hours a day (if I'm lucky.) Plus, school starts up again soon, so I'll be meeting people again.

Summer in Ireland: Lukewarm with plenty of rain.

Dear People of Belfast,

20 degrees (68F) is not hot. It's not even really warm.* It's a nice spring day.** Once upon a time, not that long ago, I lived in a place where summer actually existed and I didn't have to wear a sweater to go outside in August. So please believe me when I say that if one more of you says to me "Oh God, it's SO hot outside," I'm going to punch you in the throat.

Sincerely,

Wegrit

*And it only happens about once every two weeks or so.

**It even has the spring showers thing going. I literally can't remember the last day we had where it didn't rain at least once.

Home again, home again: The siren song.

J.B. is moving back to Prague next month. He's finished with school, so this time he's got a legitimate job. Anyway, on top of this, Beks has been talking since the spring about moving back next spring, though she conceded last week it'll probably be July before she's finally back. Given these two things and knowing him like I do, I think it's only a matter of time before Lew, who ditched Paris for Poland, then home to Scotland and is now away again to France, which he hates, packs up and heads back. There is a question brewing that potentially puts me back in Prague at this time next year. It also potentially puts me in Toronto. It may also all be moot.

We'll revisit this in six months.

As a side note, none of this surprises me. We were all ready to go when we left, but as the year since our departure has passed, we've all found that Prague got deeper under our skin than we ever imagined possible.

My life: August in a nutshell.

M. was a bit on my case last night about how I've been derelict in my updating of the blog.

What things there have been to write about I've not cared enough to be bothered, which is sad because it involves a really fantastic three day road trip around the north and west in a BMW with S. (finally) ten years after we first talked about going on the road together.

In other news:

1. I got a new tattoo that I'm not convinced I love, which is kind of a problem. I'm waiting on a verdict.

2. I'm going to Cardiff with Beks in three weeks. We're going to see the Wales v. Russia World Cup qualifier! Woo!

3. My parents are coming over in a month.

4. J.B. is moving back to Prague next month. This will factor heavily into a later post (if I can be bothered in the next few days.)

5. There's been some discussion about what will happen after next summer, which is kind of tied to the whole J.B. returning to Prague thing.

6. 'In Bruges' was surprisingly good. If it succeeded in nothing else, it struck me with a sudden, urgent need to see Bruges.

7. Facebook is weird sometimes. At the moment, there's a conversation going on between two girls I barely know (girls from last semester) by way of commenting on a picture of mine. It's creeping me out. I feel like a voyeur in my own photograph.

Rumours, truths and speculations.

It got ahold of us, and slowly, deliberately, it calls us all back.

Subconsicously: The motif we carry.

Kundera talks, in 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', about motif and how everyone has one. It creeps in, sometimes even when we actively seek to keep it out.

My motif is the road.

Driving, for me, particularly at night, is incredibly freeing. Especially out west where it's just you and the car and the open space and the prairie moon. So when I write, the road frequently becomes a character.

"It is night traffic, not day, that captivates me, the traveler who uses the cover of darkness as a vehicle to anonymity and something else, maybe something better. It is not businessmen and families on vacation that you meet in greasy all-night diners off the Interstate at four in the morning. No, the midnight voyager is far more edgy, more unsettled. He scorns the neon harbingers of sleep and drinks gritty coffee and circles classified ads in yesterdays paper from three states ago, a cast-off of an earlier cipher. He decries the service speed to a yawning, bleary-eyed waitress, stating that he must get back on the road. He is, above all, ill at ease without the pavement rushing beneath him at 75 miles per hour. His comfort comes not in a 3:30 breakfast of fried eggs, questionably edible bacon and cold toast, but in the knowledge that while the city sleeps, he is slipping through unknown to all but the tired waitress and a trucker on his way to St. Louis, neither of whom will likely remember they even saw him."

I used to drive out to New Mexico in the middle of the night just because. Usually I'd turn around in Tucumcari; a quick four hour round trip. Sometimes I'd go all the way out to Albuquerque (8 hours round trip) and be back in Canyon in time to catch a quick nap before class. One of my favourite things to do would be to stop somewhere for chocolate milk (what? I *love* chocolate milk) in the middle of the night and ask for a time estimate on somewhere absurd, a thousand miles away. How long will it take me to get to Salt Lake City from here, do you think? How far to Little Rock? Do you think I could make it to Tupelo by 4 this afternoon? Could I make it to the coast by sunset?

It never mattered that I wasn't going any of these places. What mattered was that if I'd wanted to, I could have been.*

*The photograph is just over the NI/Republic border in Co. Donegal from the road trip with the boys in April.