Happy Paddy's Day from Dallas

Via my Da:

"Late news, in case you hadn't heard:

Kinky was Grand Marshall at the Greenville Avenue
Thanks Paddy's Day Parade last weekend. Someone handed
him a Guinness, and he took a good long pull from it.

Now, some people (Baptists, presumably, or others who
would like to drink but don't, except secretly) are
raising a stink because it's illegal to drink an
alcoholic beverage in public in Dallas.

Kinky's response: 'Guinness is the drink that kept the
Irish from taking over the world. It would be
unthinkable not to have a Guinness during a St.
Patrick's Day parade. In fact, it would be spiritually
wrong.'"

I suggest we all move (back)to Texas (if we don't already live there) just so we can vote for this most righteous man. How 'bout it, y'all?

Comfort.

I've taken to bed with regularity these days. It's the only way I can bribe myself into doing work. (And by work I mean the daily grading, reading, writing that I do at home in the evenings after I put in my hours at the office and in the classroom.) The logic goes: if I make myself as comfortable as possible by preheating the bed with my electric blanket (thanks again, SMH!) and climbing in after I've had a long, hot soak in the tub and dressed myself in flannel jammies, then I can endure any torture I imagine my work will bring. This is my new anti-procrastination tactic.

Tonight it worked. I got a chunk of stuff done. Yay. Monday night, I got too comfortable and fell asleep before I got much of anything done. Damn.

Problem now is I need to clean the house, shop and cook for the ceilidh I'm throwing Friday after my reading. I can't do that from my preheated bed. Damn.

I need a wife. Naw. I need a P.A. Sid's ready for the job, so she says, but I can't afford her.

Oh well. Guess I'll just keep doing it all myself. I am looking forward to having a house full of people. Dancing, drinking, partying like it's Paddy's Day!

And I might have actually figured out what I'm going to wear for the reading. . . .

Trapped.

I'm experiencing a period of creativity in which the stories are all stuck inside, quietly percolating, preparing to burst forth. But nothing's coming out willingly. It's not a dry spell; my mind is racing with images, thoughts, memories; I'm planning, plotting, scheming; I guess I'm working wet. Shaping the clay before it dries up. But does it dry up if I don't get it out in time?

Anybody out there commiserate?

I find that it is during these fiercely internal creative periods that I turn to other outward expressions of what's on the inside. I cook. Yesterday I made barbeque sauce, barbequed pork tenderloin, cabbage slaw, sweet potatoes, porridge with apricots, creamy, lemony celery soup, orange chocolate mousse. . . . this is officially the house of delicious things.

I also buy shoes. But when don't I buy shoes?

Shoes like these just seem to make everything a little bit better. Do you think they might help tease out some of those stories, if I stare at them long enough, or dance around the house in them to the right music? That is actually what I did Friday night before going to bed. I made up a new cocktail (rye+1/4 of an orange+dash of bitters+grapefruit seltzer=delicious), drank it out of my new Rosenthal bourbon glasses, and danced like there was no tomorrow. I need more of this in my life. And I can make it happen.

Now I just need to make this writing happen. Shit.

From rock star to pin-up girl

You're Bettie Page!


What Classic Pin-Up Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Chameleon indeed. I figured out when I was in Dublin that I am a shapeshifter. I'm not always aware of it; I need to tap into this power. Interesting things abrew.

Thanks to Shasta and Viv for the quiz tip off.

This weekend I'm set to work. Grading and writing. I've been thinking a lot about writing a Dublin piece for my reading on Friday. Dublin, my lover. Dublin, the most erotic place on earth to me. Dublin, the place where I buy lacy, racy undergarments without even thinking about it. Dublin, the place that makes me quiver, just when I step off the plane and onto the ground. Dublin, the place where the rock star, pin-up, intellectual, shapeshifter, journalist, street fighter, saint and pole dancer in me converge without conflict.

Damn, I think I might have started this piece. . . .

Two-minute poem.

Nothing was the same now that it was midnight.
All the pubs had closed and the blonde
from Dallas wanted to dance.
The boys of Dublin wanted
her--
chest exposed, nipples pert,
ready to dance.
The boys wanted to dance alright,
horizontally speaking. But what
they didn't know is she'd only give
it up under the mirrorball.
To get with her, they'd have to
groove with her.
Too drunk. Flat foot. Whiskey dick.
She danced her way home.
Alone.
Satisfied.

Now you try! Start with the same first line and see where it takes you. . . .

Poetry rawks!

Home sick.

I've become a complete wuss when it comes to the slightest sign of illness. I wish more people were like me--then I probably wouldn't be sick as often as I am.

So I cancelled all my appointments and I'm not going to class today. I am doing a bit of work, and I went for a good run in the sunshine this afternoon. (I have an awful sore throat, but it hasn't moved into my chest, so I think a good aerobic workout might help kick the bug).

I would like to take a moment to give thanks for my life: I've filled it with work and some level of chaos, but it is pretty free of drama, the nasty variety. I've been wounded in the past, and I will no doubt be in the future, but I will continue to lay my cards on the table . . . I don't know any other way to live. But I think I can be (and have gotten) smarter about whom I'll make myself vulnerable with. Cut loose the bloodsuckers and hold near the people who'll throw their cards down, too.

Shit. I'm not even on any cold medicine. Pretty cryptic, huh?

Life in the Zoo

I'm back. And it's fine. For the first time ever I didn't cry all the way home from Ireland. This is personal growth. I think it means I'm more at home with myself--I don't need a particular place to feel like myself. This is good.


Although I do love the place. Miss it, too. But I'll return, as often as I need to.

In the meantime, I'm back to work in full force. I taught class last night and this morning and soon I'm off to another class and then to meet with students. I'm back to the gym working my ass off, too. I like being strong. And I'm back to running--put in a good hour outside yesterday. Getting geared up for the Shamrock Shuffle in Chicago April 2. Sid will be in town then, too!

Yay!

As life goes on, I have memories and photos to keep Ireland with me--and part of me in Ireland. . . .

More to come as I get myself a flickr account. I promise.

And more about the street fighter Chicagoan I chatted with the seven hours back from Dublin . . . later.

Ash Wednesday.

This will be my second time receiving ashes on my forehead in this fair city.

Seeing "Breakfast on Pluto" in Dublin is a very different experience than seeing it in Dallas. Although I was mildly drunk both times. Everyone here seemed much more amused by it all--I just think they copped on to the jokes better.

Is it wrong that I find Gavin Friday incredibly sexy?

Instead of seeking trouble yesterday, I hung out with Aisling and Ben. I spent some time in town, wandering around, running errands, seeing the movie, but I went back to the house and walked around the nearby memorial gardens beside the Liffey with my dear friends. It snowed. Can you believe it? That shit follows me. But I'll upload photos when I get home. You'll understand why I can't resist that kid. And my God is he loved. It's a beautiful thing.

Today, after ashes to ashes and dust to dust, I think I'll head toward the sea. I've decided not to visit Glendalough--it's too friggin' cold to be walking around a snow capped mountain. I'll lose my frostbitten fingers for sure. But I must sit by the sea before I leave. Maybe I'll go to Bono's house and see if they'll have me for tea.

What? If you don't ask . . .