Those Places of Which We Dream

Like footsteps before bedtime - you know when you walk through the dream? I wonder many things, tell me a story please? I had a dream which I wish I'd written before so that you would believe me, but I told enough people and I guess a blog is essentially for myself so it is alright.

I dreamt that I was walking up the road to Christchurch lying grey against the morning sky. It was overcast and heavy, the high pressure which in Dublin make 8 degrees feel a heck of a lot warmer than it really is. I could feel the dusty taste of my childhood on my tongue; the taste of clean dirt that recalls the community centre and all those videos projected against the dull yellow breeze-block walls that remind me of the problems, the struggles, that may not affect everyone but are part of my heritage.

On my left was a post office or a bank. Suddenly all these policemen growled in on their motorbikes, lining up in a row outside the homeless hostel. Then I knew there was something wrong. I knew there was a bomb. I turned to run, and stupidly, despite my assurance that I am calm under stressful situations, I ran towards them. Last minute, I realised what I was doing and fled. The noise was out, the revving heavy on the sullen air. I had to run towards the bomb. A policeman grabbed my right arm but it was too late and time to dive. I threw myself onto the concrete path, and lay for several seconds, expecting. What an awful wait. But nothing can make you feel ready. When the building exploded, rubble rained down and I found myself choking as the dust began to settle. The policeman still had his hand on my arm, and I wondered if I would survive until I was found. I tried to make a little cocoon of air with my crossed arms, hugging it and breathing til they came.

Even though the dust was settling in my dream, I awoke in full flight and managed to give myself a blackeye before I realised what was going on. I was sweating and upset, by my shoddy reaction and by the intensive feeling that something big was about to happen in the world and in somewhere I knew well. The knowledge was irrefutable and I consoled myself that it had to be one or the other, couldn't possibly be both.

I realised that the reason the policeman still had his hand on me was because he was dead.

I took myself into work, destraught. I told my colleagues and I wrote to my sister. We have an old tradition that if one of us dreams of something bad we tell the other, and provided that we didn't both have the same dream, that it won't happen if we tell it.

That morning there was a bomb which exploded in my home area. Also that morning, was the bombing in London.

I know that it seems like a coincidence, but the thing is I had a similar dream on the morning that London announced that it was going to have the Olympics last year. It's not that my dreams precede the event, but it does affect me. What is the link, why do I dream of it?

I have more general news to tell but it can wait. This was all I wanted to share for now.

Getting around to things

I haven't been around a lot lately, mainly because there has been little time for me to sit down and write, or little privacy. I think about it often, but like my old counsellor sometimes I am afraid of visiting my blog. And the people I know who read it. I will have to change one day.

I left my old job, letting Spring take me on it's way down a new stream. The interview was a 90 minute event, with questions of which I have never heard the like before. I was asked to give examples in each case of situations where something in particular had occurred, for example when I had been unable to overcome a particular obsticle in order to finish a job, and explain what happened and how I got around it. It was facinating and an education in itself. Then I had an hour long test where I had to write about news going on in the world. I was very sick. I spent twenty minutes with my head on my arm, after which I handed in a poor test. I was very disappointed and asked if I could take the test again. But despite the test they took me on.

I love my new job, I write profiles on people based on news articles, and it is quite secretive after that. The company just leaves me alone to do what I want and eventually I will be able to work from home, which is a big plus. I work a lot of overtime because it is quite complex and I want to do it to the best of my ability. This means that often I don't get home til 8 in the evening, if at all, as often I have a band rehearsal straight afterwards.

The rehearsals are going well finally, although everyone is impatient. But I think that is a good thing, because it means they still have the desire. Gordon's wife just had a baby but he is as dedicated as the rest and we are working on a level we never have before, picking everything apart at the seams and examing it closely and then rebuilding from the bottom up. The new songs sound great too.

I also somehow found the time to get involved with a Catalan boy. One of those classic situations where I said "No more green eyed, musician-types, Catalans or Leos". Hmm. I should know by now that is exactly what will happen. Actually, I even made a joke about it at the time. Anyway, I decided one night what the hell, and it has been a few weeks and he seems to be still around. Turns out I had met the guy once about a year ago, and when he made a pass at me, I replied "You know what you are? You are an arsehole!" Yep, that sounds like me alright, I must have been in a bad mood that day. Well here I am, returned from celebrating Queensday in Amsterdam, and I should be seeing him tomorrow.

I have a strange feeling about things though, a disquiet like a pitbull chewing my stomach from the inside out. The Catalan had been stuck to me like glue before I left and seemingly confused by it himself. I was pretty sure he seemed like a messer, and so I decided not to get too attached, and told him on more than one occasion that I don't owe him anything. On the morning I was to go to Amsterdam he woke me at 4.30am to ask me "What would you say if I asked you to marry me." I was horrified. I said what? Are you serious? Yes, he answered. I replied: now, I'd laugh at you and say no. In five years time if we got on well and had a good relationship, I'd say give me time to think about it. He smiled and said good, I just wanted to know. A few minutes silence. "I really scared you, didn't I?" he asked. Yes, I replied.

Thing is, mental as it sounds, it doesn't worry me because we have these kind of strange conversations about everything from death to electronics all the time. I don't think he was actually contemplating marrying me right there, at least I hope not. But it's still a great story, and it made me laugh.

Point is though, that since I came back, I have a feeling he is trying to distance himself. That is fine, but I want to know flat out what is going on. I like the guy but I don't love him (yet) and maybe won't, but I like his company a lot and like to keep things simple. Anyway, I am looking forward to seeing him in the flesh that I can just see how he is and decide from there. Of course it's on my mind, but somehow I am not to preoccupied with it.

A friend of mine is staying in my house at the minute. She has just broken up with her boyfriend and things are very complicated. In a way it isn't a good time for me because I am no really able to bring the Catalan back here while she is here, for starters the place is too small. But I like to be able to tell her not to worry and just come and stay with me until she gets herself sorted, and that is what I'll do. My friends joke already that my house is like a woman's hostel, and I guess it kind of is. But I like being able to help and it is not like I am that easy to live with either, so she has to have patience and kindness too! Also, she is interested in Alex, and Alex in her, I can see it. I am not sure it is a good idea but it is there own business. I do get a bit irritated when she asks "He is such a nice guy, isn't he such a nice guy?" Yes. That is why he's my best friend here.

Finally, well my grandmother has been sick a long while. She seems to get better then worse then better. My grandfather has been trying to do as much as possible, despite the whole family trying to help out. They are pretty organised about it actually. But now it seems like he might have cancer of the bladder. Or he has it but they don't know if it is malignant or not. I hope not, of course, and I am disappointed for him because he has always been the healthy one. I am worried because although my gran has been weak a long time, he has been getting weaker without getting better, and some of us suspected he would somehow be the first to go. Not that I want either of them to die of course, but it is inevitable that it will happen at some point. Now suddenly it is my grandfather I want to go and see and extract the same promise as from my Grandmother, namely that he will not just give up. It is tough though, and I hope he is somehow in good spirits, and if he is sick that he will at least stay the same person:stubborn, hard-working, honourable, interesting, intelligent, a fighter.

Identity Crisis

Every time I look in the mirror I cannot reconcile myself with the person I see looking back at me. Often I think I know who I am, but maybe I am just terribly delusional. Who is this fat-faced girl looking back at me. I don't live in this shell, this cage of aspiring dreams and broken reality. I live somewhere out there. That is why I need to climb mountains even when they are full of shouting fairgrounds and gaudy temples. Somehow there is peace lying on the wonky horizon.

I am now 27 years old, hooray for me having made it this far. I celebrated at someone else's party by playing a game against friends of mine from Ireland. The seriousness with which I flirted at the Italian party is frightening. I decided the Argentinian boys were fair game because they were systematically chatting up each girl in the room. The ludicrousness of the entire game was exaggerated by the fact that every woman was dressed as some sort of a brothel treat, due to the hostess's facination with Moulin Rouge and a certain boy who she wanted to get into bed. It worked, but only after I realised it was one of the Argentinians I was teasing and let him escape. The rest were sure that the Irish girls were on for an all out orgy and were somewhat disappointed when we left (do they not know Irish don't do sexy?)
I was ashamed of myself.

Claustrophobia was the instigator last night. I went out with a pair of Uruguayan twins last night, one of who I had a crush on and the other one my friend liked. Somehow after being ignored like the old left over piece of bread no-one is interested i for most of the night, I ended up with Mister Confident and the guy I liked was with my friend. We left the club at 9am because I was having an overloud of small dark nastiness and had to go. Outside the bouncer believed me when I told him I was claustrophobic as apparently he could see it on my magic-face-which-does-not-belong-to-me. Being in bed with a stranger is complicated because I do not want to offend nor disappoint them but I also need to follow my own rules. It is not my house and I am annoyed to be in the situation in the first place just because my friend can't say no. Only the next morning will I learn this, at the moment I think she is happily with the other guy, which is probably true even if she won't admit it. Why are so many girls like this? At least I admit I am ashamed. Tomorrow my twin will be the one saying to his brother "How did I get dumped with the old one?"
I am ashamed.

In Prague someone tells me "I will not let you go". But it is never true. No-one can hold you to the end. Everybody leaves in the end.

Who am I? Why do I look so different to who I really am?

Nowhere to Hide

Wearing high heels can be difficult.Stepping through the brittle winter sunlight as a tall white woman, I can't help but stand out. The terraces are full of muffled cappuccino drinkers eyeing each other up, and I bury deeper into my cream granny crocheted scarf. I sit down nervously, aware that these eyes are critical not appraising, and take my coat off in my confusion. It takes a full seven minutes before I realise that I should put it back on.

I don't want to go to Apolo. Along with the memories the name brings to me like a tide of knotted seaweed, I cannot feel easy today. Something is escaping my pores and I know I should be on fire. I am conspicuous by my omission from this world. I sit in this city like a ladder in a hole, going up yet going nowhere, tall and plain, its purpose uncertain. On the metro they stare at this gothic girl in her black and navy clothes, hidden behind swathes of cloth, head covered by a cream scarf. I finger nervously at the edges, pulling it up and over my nose, my black-blue eyes filled with adrenaline. Don't look at me.

Flash flash flash. I can't see who is taking the photos but the sudden white contrasts starkly against the sedate trendy colours of the people on this scene. I can see their nostrils gleaming, sweat lying in wait on their foreheads, ready to land on some unsuspecting fellow-reveller. This is an addiction, a spiral of colour waiting to happen in a city of fashion, where what you wear is more of an indicator of your personality than who you are. The lights change, the videos change, the music stays the same. The groups leave, the friends move on, and I am left in the bar, behind. With the other untrendies. Something fizzles in the air. A nondescript band take to the stage. And suddenly we all stop talking.

Seven people on stage. A blonde girl seems to be singing backing vocals but we cannot hear her. We can however see her dance and gyrate on stage, throwing herself on the ground before jumping to her feet again and spinning around the drummer. The singer looks like he should be an illustrator, but his voice has the timbre of the soft morning light. The songs change and revolve, now circus, now rock, now ballads, now something else. There is no noise. The empty bar contains a few bodies dancing in their own circles, weaving their own stages. The drummer grins and plays in melodious fury, his teeth gleaming white beneath the weak lights. I can see the sweat spray with every hard roll he makes. I am in love. I need this drummer.

Angel, I don't care it costs 40euros to get you here each time. We need you. We will figure it out.

P.S. For the record, I don't mean I am in love with this guy physically.

No Turning

As we cross the crest of the hill, the side of the old Jail choked with dead ivy greeted us, the air dead and old and damp in our nostrils. The tower of an old cathedral lies silhouetted against the sky on the way down to the river valley, and shafts of yellow dusky light break through the gloaming. We entered silently through the front gate, the echoes of forgotten hooves in our minds and our blood hot and violent with the memories of injustices. The courtyard too was empty and the Jail stood like a cruel castle stretching across our eye line on its plateau above. I could see crows on the surrounding trees, but the flap of their wings made no sound against the dead air. The hollows on the open ground smelled of blood and countless dead no doubt buried beneath.

We climbed the steps up to the main building and eyed the open door with suspicion. We were not going in. A figure stood within the doorway, beckoning, but upon closer inspection faded into a table and leaflet stand. We declined to enter, instead turning to our left and circling like an animal stalking its prey. The crisscrossed barricades were not that old, the Jail was not closed long enough. An old telephone box lay on its side as though shot by a sniper, the flat leaves of the weeds converting it into some sort of tragic hero's grave. The buildings at the back were all open. Not like normal. Old peeling doorways framed by decaying paraphernalia such as splintered damp baby's cots and torturous looking wheelchairs, their rusting skeletons reminding us again of the relative recentness of use.

The final building was composed of tiny cells, the bars on the windows thick and grmiacing like mouths full of bared teeth. Holes in the wall provided little reprieve for the complete absence of light. Yet still something made our hair stand on end and gripped our stomachs unrelentingly. Something raised our blood in defiance and gave us the strength to walk to the pit of this crime against our heritage and our people. We found an old piano stripped naked in the last room and turned to face each other, aware of all the souls screaming at us. Suddenly, an organ sounded terrifying chords, and we were rooted to the spot. It sounded as though it came from right next to us, from this time. When the choir started I don't know if we were more relieved or disappointed that it was the New Year's Day concert in rehearsal.

Walking down the hill again towards the docks we passed a huge house with a strange sign in the driveway: "No Turning". We walked on, but after a few minutes we were obliged to give in. We returned to the driveway and spent a good ten minutes performing jerking 3-point-turns and spinning until we were filled with laughter and had shaken off the chills of Cork Jail.

Giu can't be serious!

God, I am so funny. What a pun eh? Took me two seconds to think of it. Not surprising really....

So after my last blogs, I went down to the winetasting. Lately I have not been able to eat very much so I was drinking on an empty stomach. There are lots of photos, me looking slightly sad in a green jacket and all-embracing cream scarf, wineglass in hand, cheek glued to someone's head, normally poor Victor the Norwegien. I do this thing in photos where I tilt my head shyly and end up looking like I am glued to the person standing next to me.

Anyhow, by 9 I was pretty plastered and who comes rushing at me like a train, but Giu! We give each other a big hug and I turn around and...all my friends have melted away (later I found out it was not on purpose, they just didn't see Giu somehow). So I go to the Champagneria with Giu, followed by the Sugar bar where the girl again keeps giving us free drinks, and then up to Placa Urquinaona to eat chips in the square. Even if I talk a lot, I also listen. He tells me an awful lot of things, including for some reason about how he sleeps with a big Donald Duck teddy. I am not a girl who likes these kind of things, but I listen. Then we kiss cheeks and leave. I am sure it is over.

But no, the next day is a holiday and he isn't working. But Mayke spots him waiting for me outside. She doesn't say anything. I walk off for a coffee with Mabel and I don't see him. But something causes me to stop and I turn and there he is about to walk away. I call him and he comes with us. He talks to Mabel and I listen and stare out the window. I cannot get comfortable. Mabel takes off home and I tell Giu I am going to the World Press Photography Exhibition, does he want to come? By now I have already decided I am just gonna be myself do my own thing (sounds so obvious I know, but sometimes I forget who I am). He has to tidy his room. Fine, I will walk alongside him a few minutes and he can change his mind if he wants, I tell him. I walk along in silence. After 15 seconds it is too much and he laughs and he says we will go together.

The exhibition is of photos that I have already seen mostly due to the amount of news I read. It is brutal in that photos of severed heads lie next to gorgeous landscapes. It is dark and small and packed with people. I walk around and Giu comes and finds me at regular incidents, until he can't take it anymore. We leave and take another drink. I am raised with such photos. I don't like to stare at death because I think it is morbid curiousity rather than horror that causes us to stare. I like to give time and weight to every photo though. It helps me remember that in the future I have to try and do my best. Many people see the past in those pictures. For me I am reminded that these events are happening as we speak and will continue to do so. Many people in that room had previously ignored the written reports of death. Giu admits he is one of them.

On Saturday I went to a party in his house.I went with Alex who seems to be a bit under the weather right now. I think he is having a crisis of staying or leaving. When we arrived there weren't many people. I drank a bottle of wine very quickly (is there a pattern here?). Giu was DJing and his best friend was chatting me up. Not a good situation. As usual someone else I know ended up kissing him. Alex went home early cos he felt like shit, Mayke who arrived later went home confused, and just as I was leaving the party ended. Giu yelled at me to wait and we would go downstairs together. Fine. He needed to go to the bank machine. Does that mean I have to go too, I asked sardonically. Yes, he replied. Fine. Next thing, a cab was hailed, Giu was in it, and I had to rabbit kisses on my cheek and was on my way home. He was off to Razzmatazz. Honestly! What is he thinking? Then everyone asks why didn't you go? Well, I like to be asked, you know?

Anyway, so I have put that to bed. I am a woman who looks like a girl. I am searching for a man who looks like a boy. I am insecure about other stuff. I am not cool, I do not like fucking around, I am difficult, silly, intelligent, spontanious and I do not play games. This is too game like. If he wants me, he can come and get me. Meantime, I am back focusing on becoming rich and famous.

Passe Passe

Mabel invited me to go to a wine-tasting session this evening. I agreed, despite feeling slightly depressed. I can only assume it is the come-down after the gig that has left me so hopeless. It will be fun. Giu came down to see us chatting. No kisses on the head this time. He stood by the wall. Mabel ran, "leaving us to it" and smiling manically. I am sure the girls behind me were watching with interest too but I didn't care. For a second, I saw a look on his face, as though he was unsure whether to kiss my cheek or not. I looked down and started talking. Yes, he had enjoyed the gig, and he was a bit impatient I didn't remember him saying that. Yes, he's okay, a bit stressed. I offered to help him put together a CD and shared with him the possibilities that might come from our gig. He was pleased for me. Thursday he would make the CD, yes Thursday. He tells me I know he is crap with days of the week in English. I wonder is he saying then on Thursday we will meet or what? I leave it.

At home I couldn't wait anymore. I sent him an email, basically saying:

Giuseppe,
I hope you are well. I have been very nervous with you, and well, I hope I am not irritating you lately. It is hard to get to know someone through cigarettes at work. Anyway, I just wanted to say again that if you need help with the CD let me know.
Otherwise I will see you for a cigarette soon.
PS Do you like Chilean Folk Music? There is a friend of mine playing on Saturday, if you would like to come?

That is as brave as I get. It is clear to both him and me from here on in. I am expecting a gentle rebuffal and am slightly disappointed already. Better to know now that later. And in fairness, no fault to me, what with all the kisses on the head.

Right, off to get plastered now. Drowning your sorrows is so very passe, don't you think?

The Day A Disaster Turned Out Okay

What more could go wrong? We had not rehearsed together since the last gig in September as Alex had been in the states, and then as soon as he came back Gordon had some sort of flu. So on Saturday night as I went down the stairs to check if everything was ready before the gig, I prayed nothing else would happen. The minute I walked in it was clear that the left speaker wasn't working. Alex and Darren were sweating in the dungeon changing cables and pressing keys and turning knobs. "There's no sound from the keyboard!" Darren yelled while shaking one cable and manically changing settings. "I have to let them in," I said quietly. They looked at me in despair. "We'll sort it out."

The night had started off well enough, despite the drummer being an hour and a half late and the fiasco with the amps. I told the bar staff it would be busy. They nodded. No, I mean busy, I mean call your extra staff. I knew for a fact 40 people who were coming. Then there were all the maybes. They stared at me for a minute, and grabbed the phone and started dialling desperately. Giuseppe came in. I was busy writing out set lists. I knew it was him because of the familiar squeeze of the arm and kiss on top of the head. When I saw his face it was definitely him. That's got to be a good sign, right? I know I looked pleased. He left the party early to come along early. I was delighted. We chatted a little as people started to flood in. Within minutes the upstairs was packed. Shit. Downstairs was smaller still...

The gig went fine. The first 5 minutes were pure technical problems, so I just talked and embarressed myself as usual. They all laughed. It was hot and dark, with people squashed right into the cubbyhole at the back, sitting on crates and right the way up to our feet. Unbelievable. Afterwards, there were so many to thank. Someone talked about a gig somewhere, someone else mentioned handing a CD to some record company guy. A guy from a TV production company asked me to sing on some song or other. Not bad for just our second gig, the first I actually invited people to (the last time I invited 4 people). MY boss from work told me to go for it, that this was obviously what I was meant to be doing. I don't think she meant she was going to fire me either.

Giuseppe had disappeared. I couldn't see him anywhere. Everyone was off to parties but we couldn't go because we had to get all the gear back to my house. Anyway, the last 2 weeks of sleeping little and eating even less was starting to crash down on me. We had a free bar but I only had a beer and a ginn&tonic. I asked Sven if he'd seen Giuseppe, not being able to hold my patience any longer. "Who?" he said. It turns out that though they's been talking all night and both work for the Italian team, that they didn't know each other. As if by magic Giuseppe appeared. "Where were you, I had been looking for you?" He smiled and pointed down the back where a big group of people were putting on their coats and filing out the door. "We're leaving now - to go to some club or other." I didn't hear an invite, but I think it may also have been clear that I wasn't going anywhere. In either case I was disappointed.

We managed to drag everything home and then sat a while listening to a new tune I wrote and having tea and cigarettes. Not very Rock and Roll. Over the next two weeks we have to record a CD to give to the record company guy just in case, and organise 2 further gigs. I wish I had a manager and no full-time job.

As for Giuseppe, well I don't even know if he liked the gig. Many people were raving about this and that but maybe it's just not his thing. Also his constant entourage makes it hard for me to know whether or not he needs space or needs to be chased. The last time we met for a drink was because someone else had cancelled on him. I don't want to have to chase but maybe that is what I will have to do? I rack my brains for inspiration. No, I can't think of anything. So for 2 days I have not contacted him, despite his assertion he would see me on Monday (I don't work on Mondays). So it looks like I will have to book him or wait until the 16th which is when he does his gig. He strikes me as the type who has constant attention. But then I was so sure he liked me.

What is a kiss on the head and a hug squeeze to someone you barely know?