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Books 2012: 28
nonfiction
28. David Dickson, Arctic Ireland: The extraordinary story of the Great Frost and Forgotten Famine of 1740-41. The White Row Press, Belfast, 1998.
This is a very interesting short book (94 pages including notes) about the terrible year of December 1739-1741. This year saw intense cold, terrible famine, and smallpox, dysentery and typhus reach epidemic proportions. Dickson (who does not know me, but whom I have met, since he's in the History Dept hereabouts and an intensely clever, soft-spoken little man he is) has done a damn good job of presenting a narrative of the event leavened with some analysis of the mortality and society.
So yesterday I walked for about nine miles, to Skerries (the next town over) and back, along the sea road. I set out intending to walk my anxiety out. I walked further than I had planned, for when I crossed the footpath alongside the railway viaduct, my brain sent me visions of jumping. The difference between suicidal intention and suicidal ideation is that the ideation - the visualisation - comes unbidden: it's an important distinction, and one not always made.
When it came, with the road and the harbour and the river bracken some thirty metres and more below, I made up my mind that I would walk until I was too tired to ideate. And I did. It's a very pleasant road in fine weather like yesterday, with the tide receding to one side and the railway line on the other. The gorse is blooming early, thanks to our mild winter, and I met two very energetic dogs tugging on the leads of their apparently-retired owners. After a half hour, the visions of stepping in front of passing traffic stopped, and I wandered all the way to the first corner shop in Skerries, where I bought milk (for I was starving, having set out on cereal breakfast alone) and turned back.
People who go from sedentary lives to Fantasyland quests should complain more. Nine miles in 3.5 hours is quite tiring, by the time you get to the end of it.
Today involved shopping. While yesterday did wonders for the state of my brain, it did not accomplish quite enough for me to feel comfortable: I picked up errands peaceably enough until I reached the frozen pizza/soft drinks aisle, at which point a sensation as of doom came over me, and I had recourse to bending over the refrigerators until the feeling of anxiety and threatening weeping passed off.
At which point I went to add Epicure tinned beans to my shopping. For some reason, preserved légumes always make me feel less under siege: I suppose I find the knowledge that such foodstuffs last for years remarkably comforting. Food-hoarding. It's so reassuring.
nonfiction
28. David Dickson, Arctic Ireland: The extraordinary story of the Great Frost and Forgotten Famine of 1740-41. The White Row Press, Belfast, 1998.
This is a very interesting short book (94 pages including notes) about the terrible year of December 1739-1741. This year saw intense cold, terrible famine, and smallpox, dysentery and typhus reach epidemic proportions. Dickson (who does not know me, but whom I have met, since he's in the History Dept hereabouts and an intensely clever, soft-spoken little man he is) has done a damn good job of presenting a narrative of the event leavened with some analysis of the mortality and society.
So yesterday I walked for about nine miles, to Skerries (the next town over) and back, along the sea road. I set out intending to walk my anxiety out. I walked further than I had planned, for when I crossed the footpath alongside the railway viaduct, my brain sent me visions of jumping. The difference between suicidal intention and suicidal ideation is that the ideation - the visualisation - comes unbidden: it's an important distinction, and one not always made.
When it came, with the road and the harbour and the river bracken some thirty metres and more below, I made up my mind that I would walk until I was too tired to ideate. And I did. It's a very pleasant road in fine weather like yesterday, with the tide receding to one side and the railway line on the other. The gorse is blooming early, thanks to our mild winter, and I met two very energetic dogs tugging on the leads of their apparently-retired owners. After a half hour, the visions of stepping in front of passing traffic stopped, and I wandered all the way to the first corner shop in Skerries, where I bought milk (for I was starving, having set out on cereal breakfast alone) and turned back.
People who go from sedentary lives to Fantasyland quests should complain more. Nine miles in 3.5 hours is quite tiring, by the time you get to the end of it.
Today involved shopping. While yesterday did wonders for the state of my brain, it did not accomplish quite enough for me to feel comfortable: I picked up errands peaceably enough until I reached the frozen pizza/soft drinks aisle, at which point a sensation as of doom came over me, and I had recourse to bending over the refrigerators until the feeling of anxiety and threatening weeping passed off.
At which point I went to add Epicure tinned beans to my shopping. For some reason, preserved légumes always make me feel less under siege: I suppose I find the knowledge that such foodstuffs last for years remarkably comforting. Food-hoarding. It's so reassuring.
