Hi D, you’re well?

All is good with you?

Everything ok?

You in good form, mate?

‘Story, bud?

I’m grand. I’m fine. Coping. I’m good, yeah.

All just words really; they mean very little.

The truth is, I’m having a hectic and messy few weeks, but I’m positive about where things are heading. I’m loving work right now and when I’m out of an evening, I’m having fun, rather than just going through the motions.

There are plenty of people who’ve had it worse than me. It’s just hard sometimes to step out of self-obsession long enough to see this.

My new job in the IIA, though just short term, is perfectly suited to me. All the jobs I’ve had and all the experience I’ve gained over the years seem to be geared towards this position. And it’s nice to feel challenged by work again.

Culch.ie is going phenomenally well. Traffic on the site is taking a jump again in recent times. This is due to some great new writers, consistent quality content (the most important thing, IMO) and support from companies and PR firms who are able to offer competition prizes, review tickets and other information. Yes, it still costs me money to run. I’m reluctant to put ads on the site to pay for it, as I don’t want to take away its community feeling. We’ll see.

The love life is a real life horror movie, so there’s no change there. I just need to get used to my own company for a while. I need to find myself, blah, blah, blah… Truthfully, I don’t know what I need or want, but I’m going to try to enjoy finding out.

What else? What do you want to know?

I think Amy the Cat is feeling very neglected these days. I should pay her more attention. She doesn’t bring me dead birds as gifts anymore. I’m not sure if this is a good or a bad thing. Does she hate me now?

I’m trying to keep this week free of plans – we’re coming up to our Annual Conference next week and the preparations for that are forcing me to keep long hours. That said, I’m hoping to catch Manny Quinn tomorrow evening, head to the Queen’s 25^th on Friday and then after a hopefully quiet weekend, head to see Sandi Thom in Whelans on Monday. Yes, that is my idea of a quiet few days.

All in all, it’s not too bad. I’m smiling.

N

Over nine years, I built a life with my best friend, my lover, my everything, and at Christmas, it all came crashing down around my ears.

I drank, I cried, I made a fool of myself. I didn’t know where I was. In recent weeks, I really thought it was all starting to come back together. I thought I was doing a great job of piecing my life back into some semblance of normality and sense.

But that’s rubbish. I’m a lost child. I’m feeling and groping my way through the dark. I’m a teen fiddling with a bra for the first time – sure, parts of it are exciting, but overall it just feels like I could be doing it a lot better.

I couldn’t get off the couch yesterday – I sat there, staring at the monotonous glow of the TV for hours. I attempted to engage with the world, but it was forced and fake and unsatisfying. And that’s just it, that’s what my life is at the moment – a series of attempts. A series of endeavours to get it right, to fix it, to be happy again. But it’s all forced and fake and unsatisfying. I’m unsatisfied with life and the world. I have put in my dues, I have worked hard, I have tried to make up for all my many mistakes, but it just seems like I haven’t done enough to deserve a break.

I am, in my mind, aware of how lucky I am to be surrounded by some amazing friends and those who have become more than friends in recent times. I should be happy, or at least content with my lot, but I’m not. My heart and head aren’t in it. The very simple and silly concept of happiness eludes me. I smile and laugh and joke and engage and kiss and touch and hug and play and sing and dance and bounce and carry on as normal. But as soon as I’m on my own, when there’s no one to perform for anymore, I see the world for what it really is – a miserable mess of stupid people doing stupid things, hurting others and making vague attempts at apologies, though no one truly believes or accepts them.

Apologies, forgiveness, acceptance – these are all imaginary notions that grease the cogs of the world, allowing it to function. Without these concepts that no one truly believes; without them, we would all come to a grinding halt. Because we would see people for what they really are – cruel, bitter, lonely, sad and unwaveringly selfish.

Happy Monday everyone! Just be thankful you’re not me.

I woke up this morning at a very reasonable hour. I got up, followed my morning routine and even went so far as to put some decent clothing on. I’m currently wearing  jeans, a shirt, a wasitcoat and a tie. My shoes are on too.

Why do I draw attention to this, I hear you ask. Well, I work a three day week now, thanks to the death of the Celtic Tiger, and today is not one of my working days. So, I have pottered around the apartment, worked on Culch.ie a bit, taken a few phonecalls regarding a potential new job, written some possibly good or possibly awful pieces of fiction and now I sit here contemplative, staring out at the now beautiful late afternoon sky.

It has been raining, but right now…things are looking grand.

Yes, I’m having a contemplative day. It feels as though I’m teetering on the edge of something. No – I’m balancing on a fence. To one side is the past and all the wallowing that goes with that. To the other side is the wide, gaping chasm of the unknown, the future. The future could be wonderful or it could be a painful disaster. So…here I stand. On my fence. Trying to decide what to do next. Trying to work out how to take that step towards the gaping chasm.

Mine curdles, my life,
My plans of wealth and success, scuppered
By cans of beer, of excess
I’ve faltered.

Where once ideas and ideals stood solemn,
The column has fallen, or is maybe just leaning
Allowing for compromises and alterations,
A heart bent on large rooms relents to
An apartment. Age looms.

I once vowed to stay young, to be Peter Pan -
A petered plan. Now old before my time,
Twenty eight, the new forty eight,
Fine lines and a tired mind. I resolve
I will go to the gym, I will walk, I will cycle,
I will eat better, I will drink less, I will rehab.
I devolve
The thought of the aches from my muscles
Gym? Walk? Cycle? Sorrow!
I pour a glass. I’ll start tomorrow.

We slip in and out of peoples lives everyday. Sometimes our effect can be profound, sometimes slight, sometimes we go unnoticed at all. But we’re there. We cross paths with the world and don’t even realise that for the briefest of moments, we are a part of these peoples lives.

I think about that quite a bit. But never more so than when I’m sitting on the DART on the way to work in the mornings. It’s fascinating to watch them all.

Just think about this – how vast is your life? Think about all the years you’re on this planet; think of all the things you’ve done, you’ve thought about, you’ve been involved in; think about all the things you did in school, in college, in work; think about all those nights out, the gigs, the movies, the shows you’ve been to; think about all the people you’ve met this week, last week, last month, last year. It’s truly epic in scale. And that’s just your life. I look around the DART and see about 50 other people on this carriage alone. Each and every one of those people have had similarly vast lives. Mindblowing stuff.

I got into an argument with a priest a few years ago, who tried to spin the whole ‘bad things happen for a reason’  thing and we may never know that reason as it’s all part of God’s plan. I asked him if he then believed in presdestination, predeterminism, fate. He replied to the contrary, saying that we were all given free will by God and can chart our own courses.

This bothered me greatly. I didn’t (and don’t) believe in God and I was having a great problem with the fact that he did. His belief bothered me. I’ll acknowledge that’s a failing on my part. Who am I to question his beliefs? Can’t we all just get on with our lives, each of us keeping our own beliefs to themselves, I thought.

But – he wasn’t. He was not in a church – it was the afters of a wedding – and he was foisting his beliefs on me and telling me why I was wrong and why I should believe in God. So, I persisted too.

If he believed in choice and free will, I queried, then how could he also peddle the ‘God has a plan’ nonsense. He backfooted and said that choice and free will are an inherent part of God’s plan. I argued that this made God (should he, she or it exist) an inherently bad/evil/flawed deity that purposely made sure that bad things could happen, that he encouraged his subjects to cause pain to each other. The priest was iritated by my suggestion that God was evil, but couldn’t sufficiently explain his belief to me without falling back on the vicious ‘God has a plan’ circle.

In truth, I was the one who came out of the conversation frustrated and angry, while he was blissfully calm in his ignorance. Perhaps it would be nice to have this psychological cushion to fall back on at all times. When things are bad, he can just rest assured that his creator has a plan for him, that he serves a useful function in the world and will be rewarded in the next. Fine, I may not be comforted by the fact that this world is all we have and we have to make the best of it, but at least I’m not hiding my fear of the unknown behind a mask of religious beliefs.

I did not have further conversations with that priest that evening.

Two men admitted conspiring to take heroin into a prison when they appeared at Maidstone Crown Court on Monday.

Dino Gillett, 36, of Canterbury Road, Westgate, and Jack Hennessy, 22, of Pritchards Avenue, Hawkinge, Folkestone, also pleaded guilty to taking mobile phones SIM cards and batteries into Elmley Prison, Sheppey, between February 8 and March 14.

Gillett’s wife Sahra, 35, Carly Morris, 24, who worked for Serco Security at Canterbury Crown Court, and Darren Byrne, 29, were also in the dock.

Gillett, of Thanet Road, Ramsgate, Morris, of Devonshire Road, Dover, and Byrne, of no fixed address, will enter pleas to the charges on October 20.

Dino Gillett also admitted 10 charges of supplying undercover police officers with crack cocaine and heroin between April 14 and May 1.

Dino Gillett, Hennessy and Byrne were remanded in custody and Sahra Gillett and Morris had their bail continued.

Judge Philip St John-Stevens told Dino Gillett and Hennessy they were facing “significant” custody.

They will sentenced after the trial of Byrne, Sahra Gillett and Morris on January 4.

I was insulted. Although, is it a bad sign that I wasn’t put out by the suggestion I was involved in illegal activity, I wasn’t miffed by the suggestion that I’m now homeless, I wasn’t bothered by the fact that a friend of mine (who knows I own my own home) thought I was now living on the streets of Kent? The thing that got on my nerves was that he thought I was 29 years of age!!! I’m 28 damnit.

When things are going well, it’s all me. It’s my good decisions, wise actions and forthright, positive thinking that has brought me to this good place. But on those dark days, it’s my bad luck.

When I was younger I imagined there was a Laughing God. I think it’s the only deity I ever really believed in. The Laughing God loved nothing more than to mess with my life, to place me in awkward, difficult, horrible positions, just to watch me squirm. The Laughing God was not a good God.

So, is there fate? Is there a higher power, a puppet master yanking at our strings? I don’t think so. Wouldn’t life be a bit pointless if that were true?

I do it every year. Whether it be a new phone, a snazzy but pointless gadget, a trip away. This year, I did not.

So, I’m perfectly entitled to sit in the Westbury and order an €11 glass of wine and watch the world of the wealthy wander by.

There’s a wedding on, but I’ve found a quiet corner in The Marble Bar. Near me is a table of four. The D4 Mummy is looking dishevelled, but expensively so. Her children, a boy and a girl, are quiet. I’m the first to admit that a noisy child is the single most annoying thing you can find in a bar, but these kids were too quiet. They clearly don’t want to be here. Mummy chastises one of them for not sitting up straight. The 10 year old girl promptly corrects her posture.. Daddy seems oblivious.

He is slumped in his chair, bored with the world. His phone rings and he glances at it with a mixture of fear and disgust. He doesn’t answer it. Instead, he stares at the phone, now resting on the table. He stares at it, as if contemplating the death of the phone or his own demise. “It’s either you or me, phone.”

Has he lost his fortune in the recession? Has he just been laid off? Did his stallion not make it to the Horse Show? Or is he just bored with his lot? His irritating wife, his ‘perfect’ children, the SUV and the private members club, the big house and the boring friends.

Mummy informs the family that they are leaving. The girl and boy jump to their feet with military precision. Daddy drags himself out of the chair slowly. He contemplates his phone again, before pocketing it. Shoulders hunched, he dutifully follows his wife and kids out the door and back to a life he clearly does not want.

I sip my wine. It tastes good and I smile.

At As I turn 28, I drink with my friends and go out regularly. As I turn 28, I don’t feel tied down or restrcited. As I turn 28, I still believe the world is my oyster and I can do or be anything.

But as I turn 28, I am proud of my responsible side. As I turn 28, I look around at my beautiful longterm girlfriend, my wonderful home, my good job and my meowing cat. As I turn 28, I have a mortgage, loans, credit cards and a savings account and I’m proud of what I have achieved.

I realise life is art, but always a work in progress. As I turn 28, I’m happy to say – I like how mine is looking so far.

A friend of mine from my school days is getting married soon. I received the invitation last week and I was surprised by how overcome with emotion I was. I’m so happy for him. I look back at lunchtimes in 5th year, when we would sit out on the grass verge talking about music or the leaving cert or whatever teacher was irritating us that day. 10 years later, we have full lives and responsibilities. It’s mind blowing. It’s brilliant.

This morning, had the sun not been shining in the sky I would have assumed it a full moon. We begin with Mr. Touch. I watched him board. He gently caressed the door frame. He did not just tip his hand off it or hold the frame for support. He ran his fingers and hand along both sides and the upper part of the door frame, as he stepped onto the train. Then he stood. He looked around the carriage. As I mentioned, it’s very quiet these days, so he had his pick of seats. I didn’t see what he was waiting for. Then he reached out and grabbed one of the bars people use for support when standing. With both hands he rubs the bar up and down, up and down, up and down. More than just me was staring, bewildered at this man’s disturbing ritual.

As he moved forward into the carriage I could see he was wearing trousers that were a few inches too small for him, odd socks (black and white) and a t-shirt that was about 4 sizes too big for him. It draped on him like a poncho. His jacked was old – it was a rain jacket, black and shiny. His telescopic glasses looked like they could identify individual grains of sand on the moon.

He finally chose a seat. Not beside me, thankfully, but in the next set of four seats. As he sat down, he touched everything. Again, he rubbed and caressed. His chair below his ass, the back of his seat behind him and then the wall behind him before settling on the window. For two stations, he just sat there head down, rubbing the window. A woman sitting across from him looked very worried – perhaps concerned that he might start rubbing her. He did not. Perhaps she wasn’t the right texture for him.

At Dalkey, another odd gent got on. He was elderly, but probably not as old as he looked. Short, extremely skinny and with two bugged eyes that more or less held banners out in front of him proclaiming “I am strange”. The banner toting eyeballs did not lie. He sat directly behind me, opposite a woman who was so engrossed in her copy of Let The Right One In that she didn’t even notice him sit down.

He immediately began apologising to her. Now, as far as I could see, he had not done anything to apologise for. He didn’t bump into her or knock over her bag, so she was understandably startled by his sorries. He kept saying it – “I’m very sorry, I’m sorry ma’am, I’m sorry, I’m very sorry” and she was baffled by him. She tried to calm him with her own incessant “it’s fine, it’s fine, don’t worry, it’s ok”, but it did no good. Eventually, he just quietened down. The apologies became a dull murmur and then a faint whisper and then they were gone.

But sadly for the young woman, that wasn’t the end of it. He quietly said, “excuse me ma’am, excuse me ma’am”. She had no choice but to respond. He was very quietly spoken and I couldn’t make out what he said. Neither could she it seemed, at first. I heard her say “oh, Sydney Parade? Yes, I’ll tell you”. Presumably he had asked her to let him know when he reached his stop. This was followed with another minute-long tirade of “thank you, thank you, thank you very much, thank you ma’am, thank you”. This too eventually dwindled and tapered off.

At Sydney Parade, she did her duty and told him it was his stop. He immediately began a new set of thank you’s and as the train pulled out of the station, we could see him staring back at her, still mouthing the words – “thank you ma’am”.

Is it a full moon tonight?

Cheers to anyone who was reading.