between the rock and the cold, cold sea

This morning, as our heatwave continues, I used a sledgehammer to knock down a garden structure that has been bedevilling me since we moved in. It was actually a lot of fun. Though 4.5kg at the edge of a stick is a mighty scary bit of weaponry.

Over the last few days, we've been rearranging the house. My books have moved downstairs into the newly-floored-in-laminate-wood room, to be a combination office/spare room, while the previous shared office is... being less shared. Stacked on top of the bookshelves are my unread books, a mountain that does not encompass the set of shelves by my bedside at night.

The dis-arranging of things (in order to rearrange them) is deeply unsettling to my ability to focus. I have succeeded in getting nothing else done.

But here is a poem I was reading:

Interrogation of an Alternate Timeline

Hazem Fahmy

On a dusty rooftop in Giza, I tell Imam,
in another life, he and Hugh would have been
the best of friends. I picture Hugh, taking him
by the arm down the corniche
or the Cape, the cool night air refusing
silence. I hear their strings and tubes cutting through
beaming crowds in Imbaba and Soweto. Miriam
is serenading an open sea, clicking to the wind
by El Montaza. I see Biko
and Negm, side by side, in a crowded auditorium,
a whole generation huddled
around their voices. This is to say, in another
life revolution would be but
abstract. Biko would be a doctor,
perhaps in Durban. There would be no trains
for Hugh to sing of, save for those
that would bring him back to his loved
ones, safely. Negm would only be known
for love poems. What more
could one ask for? Let us not cheer
for those who would rather die
as soldiers when there is no
war. My whole life I have envied
the kind of thirst for music
that can be quenched by
Elvis and Sinatra. I have prayed
nightly for those I have idolized
to find a good night’s sleep
before deadly fame. What good is poetry
if it kills the poet? In another life, what must be said
here is but fairytale, ghost stories
for the rowdy children. Kanafani would live
in Acre, Baldwin would die
in Harlem, neither knowing the taste
of exile. I would write of bees
and clocks. I would not need men’s solemn
crooning to put me
to sleep. I would not mourn
the dead.

Being a list of discrete items which I must do.


- Query Tor.com regarding more reviews and posts and things.
- Acquire forms for to get US taxpayer number, so I can get my money back.
- Contact École Francais regarding travel arrangements.
- Contact ASCSA regarding travel arrangements.
- Check in with IIHSA regarding Athens.
- Forms for maintenance and fee grant.
- Scanning of images from Corinth XIV.
- Shorts and socks, purchase thereof.
- Library books.
- Write first chapter thesis, between 5K and 10K words.
- Check in with supervisor.
- Write first 15K of the Thing That Shall Not Be Named.
- Talk to local library about group thing.
- Read books including but not limited to: Sophocles, Antigone etc, Euripides, Bacchae etc, Plutarch, On Sparta, Lucretius, On the Nature of the Universe, Plato, Phaedo.

This is enough for one month, yes?

I used to dislike it.

But this afternoon, I'm drinking a lovely plain black tea from Sri Lanka, contemplating the mist outside the window, and almost happily staring at my notes.

Strange how things change. Before I found my way into Palais des Thés on Wicklow St. (or is it Georges St? Who ever remembers these things?) I would never have imagined finding tea pleasurable.

Now, it helps me work through the afternoon.

Every nine months or so, I eat at McDonald's.

And remember why I don't eat there more often. Yick.

2007 has arrived.

There are many things that must be done this week. I need to check my college fees to make sure the government has paid them as it is supposed to; I need to write my 1500-word essay on kingship in Sumer and Israel; I need to print out and deliver my CV to places which may be convinced to employ me; I need to work up a plan of study; and I need to arrange to lay aside time in my schedule for gym and karate.

Five things. That's enough for the next six days.

---

1200 words today. New story. First paragraph, for the mockery of all three people on the internets who read this journal:

( Untitled fairytale cliché story )

If I was to be an optimistic person, I might imagine I could finish that this week, too. But I'm not an optimist.

Happy 2007.

what is this about?

My OWW membership expires on December 27. I can't justify renewing, useful as I've found it over the last year. For starters, I can't afford to pay fifty quid (even US) until I can get myself a job, and I'm not entirely convinced I'll be able to put in enough writing time to make it worthwhile until the middle of June -

- nah, that part's a lie. I'd have enough writing and critting time to make it worthwhile - worthwhile to me, anyway - once I stop falling ill every time I turn around.

Still can't justify renewing. Too many other things I need to spend my money on. Too many other things I want to spend money on, even though I can't afford to be spending money at all - like these shiny little buggers, for example.

I saw a handful of them in a jeweller's today. The dragon-doing-a-motorbike-wheelie is such a cool little shiny thing, and if I were a rich bugger I'd splurge on the LOTR chess set, and I'm such a damn magpie, aren't I? Magpie see, magpie want. Get a grip or get a job, that's what I need to do.