hall 21 February 2010
I got brought by Himself to a concert at the National Concert Hall here in Dublin (yup, am here as there are MARGINALLY less distractions for me than elsewhere in the world…) to hear some Fleishmann, Rachmaninov and Tchaikovsky (forgive the spellings of all 3 of those…). He has become quite the regular at the recitals and loves to sit in the balcony, which is above and behind the orchestra. Having sat other places in the hall I must say I love these seats too. They are, if you like, the Paupers places as they are the cheapest in the house but tremendous because 1) they’re recession beaters and 2) you can see the musicians and what they do so clearly, down to the dots they’re reading from their scores. Wonderful. Although the Fleishmann was quite modernist German music I liked it and it seemed quite filmic to me. A virtuoso (hottie) Venezualan pianist (Sergio Tiempo?) played the Rachmaninov piece which was based on Paganini variations and is used as the theme to the South Bank Show – I have never seen such elegant hands, nor such quick moving ones – amazing. The final piece was a bit ‘Honours Course’ for me and I wasn’t sure what I felt about it till the end when the organ kicked in and it got very big and lush and I am a bit of a sucker for that. Even so, it was good stuff to daydream to and I made some useful book decisions so it incorporated work in a very positive way. Trouble was we met 2 great friends I hadn’t seen in ages too and between the night out, the music, the laughter and chat, I was completely over stimulated and didn’t get to sleep till 3am (had to do the getting up to have tea trick – also did a bit of writing research…which added to the stimulation and brainwhizzery). Still, good complaints, eh? And it meant I felt no guilt having that hour’s snooze this afternoon either – RESULT!
cicero 19 February 2010
My friend Heidi Murphy, who works in the book trade, is a great woman for the quotes and here’s one I must thank her for today..
‘A home without books is a body without a soul.’ Cicero.
When I was growing up our house was full of books because my mother was, and still is, a great reader. And there was nothing we weren’t allowed to read from the shelves. To be honest, I wasn’t interested in any of her stuff until I reached adolescence anyhow so it was safe to have everything lying around. Besides I probably wouldn’t have understood anything ‘beyond’ my years while it was still, erm, ‘beyond’ my years. What I did get, on top of all else, was the pleasure of handling books, even if some on her side of the room eluded me mentally for a while and that’s good enough too in its way.
I’ve done a lot of research for the latest novel because of the many time periods involved and a lot of it was from bought books but there are times when I wonder what I’d have done without the internet. Even the most random query typed in will throw up something odd and/or useful. Also, as I wind to the end (hopefully) it’s invaluable for getting quick stabs of information I may have forgotten or need to verify. So, Gawd Bless everyone who has ever thrown up a snippet on that great information super highway – it shall prove the saving of me yet!
beloit 18 February 2010
HELL’S PAVEMENT, the movie I made 2 summers ago in Uxbridge (of all wonderful places) about fostering in the UK and the flaws within that system has just won Best Film at the Beloit Film Festival – so hoooray for that!
And it was an okay day of writing today too.
I am still slightly low for some reason, a bit sad, somehow, but that’ll pass I hope. I think it’s one of those ‘life’ things where a fear of failure kicks in and it’s a hard man to deal with…doing some good work will help, though I won’t be able to judge whether what I’m writing is any good just yet (and if it’s not, there’re always rewrites in which to seek redemption!) But at least the film doing so well is a nice push in the right direction.
I also look forward to some sunshine in the coming months – making a few freckles is always good for a bod.
time 17 February 2010
It’s amazing how much time can be wasted of a day – and me trying my best to keep busy and creative! I read a lot of poetry, looking for specific stuff it has to be admitted, and I found lots of useful things so that was all to the good of the work. BUT in terms of getting my own original words on the page it wasn’t THE greatest day ever. Still, there’s always tomorrow…and the fact that I’ll probably fall asleep soon but wake up within an hour and have to get our of bed and go have tea rather than twist and turn and annoy both myself and the long-suffering Richard Cook, Husband of this Parish, so I may be back at the laptop then. I did watch an interesting programme about brains tonight and it tickled a few ideas I had been mulling over, so perhaps that’ll all come up and out in some or other creative wash on the morrow (or later…) – I hope so, otherwise I’ll be crankier than the G cat when she was denied chicken or some other delicious meat she SO felt was due her. I find I really miss her right now. She was always good for a cuddle and an opinion when things were going tits up. Also, as you are all aware, she could be relied on to walk across the keypad at random, though always fairly crucial, moments and create the sort of fluid prose I can only dream of. I am also feeling guilty that I ate so much chicken tonight – her portion as well as mine, probably – and now am uncomfortably full…and have the cheek to wonder why the weight won’t shift quicker…
falling 16 February 2010
The Old Gal is falling apart! I spent a fortune on supplements for my crackling kneecap yesterday – it makes a sound like a part of those toys for tiny children that have bells and rattles etc attached to stimulate their senses. I think a combination of the years of Irish Dancing and wear and tear have finally come home to roost and there’s not an ounce of fluid left in the auld joints, particularly in the right one. You can clearly hear the crackle when i climb up or down the stairs. Add to that the fact that I seem to have conjunctivitis also (both eyes, though again the right is worse than the left, since you ask) which has made me a red-eyed monster – I’d love to blame this on long hours burning the midnight oil while composing my magnum opus (Novel 8 is still underway and elusive) BUT that just ain’t the case and it’s all part of the I’vefinishedajobandnowhavetimetocomeapartattheseams thing that happens at the end of a long stretch of rigorous activity. Beats getting the flu, obviously, but is mightily annoying and hideous to behold both in the mirror or aurally…
ostrich 15 February 2010
Thanks to Sean A Taylor for answering my passing query about whether or not ostriches do, in fact, bury their heads in the sand…or indeed any other kind of earth.
Turns out they do not BUT Pliny the Elder may be responsible for starting the rumour that they do – okay, okay, you pedants, to give him his full title etc he is (of course) Gaius Plinius Secundus and his dates are 23 – 79 AD. He was a curious man with an interest in all things natural – so much so that when Vesuvius erupted instead of fleeing he went closer to observe the phenomenon and rescue survivors and died in that act. Anyhow, he issued an encyclopedia of his studies and here’s what he had to say of ostriches, in Book 10, Chapter 1: “…they imagine, when they have thrust their head and neck into a bush, that the whole of their body is concealed”. Historians assume that this single sentence is the root of the myth about ostriches burying their head in the sand.
There is one interesting ostrich behaviour that comes close to burying their head in the sand. When ostriches feed, they sometimes lay their head flat on the ground to swallow sand and pebbles. The hard grit helps them to grind their food in their crop. From a distance, the ostrich looks like it’s burying its head in the sand.
I thank you!
ostrich 15 February 2010
Thanks to Sean A Taylor for answering my passing query about whether or not ostriches do, in fact, bury their heads in the sand…or indeed any other kind of earth.
Turns out they do not BUT Pliny the Elder may be responsible for starting the rumour that they do – okay, okay, you pedants, to give him his full title etc he is (of course) Gaius Plinius Secundus and his dates are 23 – 79 AD. He was a curious man with an interest in all things natural – so much so that when Vesuvius erupted instead of fleeing he went closer to observe the phenomenon and rescue survivors and died in that act. Anyhow, he issued an encyclopedia of his studies and here’s what he had to say of ostriches, in Book 10, Chapter 1: “…they imagine, when they have thrust their head and neck into a bush, that the whole of their body is concealed”. Historians assume that this single sentence is the root of the myth about ostriches burying their head in the sand.
There is one interesting ostrich behaviour that comes close to burying their head in the sand. When ostriches feed, they sometimes lay their head flat on the ground to swallow sand and pebbles. The hard grit helps them to grind their food in their crop. From a distance, the ostrich looks like it’s burying its head in the sand.
I thank you!
valentine 14 February 2010
I think Valentine’s Day is a load of old cobblers but, then again, I probably would…not that romance is entirely dead but I really do think it puts massive pressure on people to ‘do’ something rather than having it happen organically. And, goes without saying, it smacks of a money making exercise (although, there, I appear to have said it!). Anyhow, in our house, the most giving gesture of the day was Richard not driving to Cork to see a client’s gig (he has already seen the show a number of times) but instead sticking around for me to pick at him. Mind you, on this day of day’s, do you really want to hear your husband say ‘and another controversial thing, Pauline, is that you are wearing my pashmina’. Might I also add to the picture that the item is a fairly bright and shocking pink and almost definitely intended for women to wear. Now, don’t get me wrong on this, I am the woman who has bought that man every pink shirt he owns (love a pink shirt on a man) including one that’s got cerise polka dots in the design…just saying, is all…And yes, I’ve handed the pashmina back to him now…
reds 13 February 2010
My thanks to my wonderful pal Doodle Kennelly for reminding me of a great bit of BREAKFAST AT TIFFANYS which so accurately describes how I was yesterday
Holly Golightly: “You know those days when you get the mean reds?”
Paul Varjak: “The mean reds. You mean like the blues?”
Holly Golightly: “No. The blues are because you’re getting fat, and maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re just sad, that’s all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you’re afraid, and you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?”
I think we all recognise those days!
Anyhow, today is a bit better and I have some ideas to work off on the novel which came from this morning’s walk on the treadmill (not very vigorous, as my right ankle is feeling a bit strained and I don’t know why as I haven’t done anything new or strenuous with it that I can recall…). Now to fashion these crudely into viable sections of interest…
bad 12 February 2010
This lack of internet in the UK has been getting to me. It’s especially difficult to deal with on a travel day, such as today. I let the morning get away from me though I regard my activities then as quite grown-up (no less) as I paid some bills that have been following me around like a bad smell for months now. But suddenly it was time for the airport dash and by the time I realised I’d have to buy access (thought I’d get free stuff in Pret…sadly no) I also realised I’d get very little value out of it and the recessionista in me rebelled and refused to let me go there…which is why it has taken till now to get in touch. I’m also having to acknowledge that my whole email system is a wreck and will have to be overhauled along with figuring out exactly why the dongle is on strike. Technology – well. ye all know me on this…
Oh and I have just over a fortnight to finish the novel – ARGH! I am putting a VERY brave face on this latter problem and refuse to give in to any notion of defeat. In this manner I am a veritable Plucky Little Belgium of a writer. Or perhaps the ostrich with its head in the sand…by the way, do ostriches actually do that or is it a cartoon myth?