Thursday, July 24, 2008

Float On

Would I do it again? Ofcourse I would. I don't remember that much of it anyway. Only the good parts.

I'm pretty sure the gut is the emotional bank of the body. All, each and every moment of your historical adventures and misadventures, are soaked dry for emotions, spunged out of their society-induced-behaviours, and deposited in a safe vault deep in the gut, sometimes for more than their worth.

Which is why, if you feel it from the gut, it probably triggered something. Something with more substance than a heart flutter or a parchness of the throat. I'd listen to it.

Pourquoi? Because magic is rare. When it happens, or for that matter happens again, nothing else matters.

So go on, bash on regardless...

Monday, July 21, 2008

The Blower's Daughter

The origin of the word "Pub" is from the English concept of a "Public House".

Every village in Victorian England would have a public house, usually in the village square or centre; where the villagers would gather, mostly in the evenings after work, for a pint of the lager and to talk life out. (There would always, of course, be the hope that it transpires into more than just a pint, and more than just a talk).

So why this history lesson then? Just to break into, in a manner of the formal essayist way, of the culmination of a recent search of mine. To find one pub in many.

And yes, I think may have found a good one after all. Or changed loyalties at least for the time being. It’s a pub, a bar in the american way, 2 blocks from where I live. It’s small and it’s dark. It’s got a pool table, chatty customers, an irish bartender who gives free shots if he likes you and great, no make that fantastic, music. It’s perfect. It’s the rare kind where you can as easily read a book on a Saturday afternoon in as you can walk out tottering and yelling at 4 am from.

It’s also highly pretentious, calls itself the Dead Poet and has quotes from poets scattered all over the place. Quotes like:

May you be in heaven
Half an hour before the
Devil knows you're dead
- an Irish drinking toast
Man, being reasonable
Must get drunk;
The best of life Is but intoxication
- Lord Byron
There can't be good living
where there is not good drinking
- Benjamin Franlin
Why do I drink?
So that I can write poetry.
- Jim Morrison
To be a poet is a condition,
not a profession
- Robert Frost
Work is the curse
of the drinking classes
- Oscar Wilde

Also, if you share your birthday with a famous literary figure, you get to drink free that whole day. Google tells me I might have Jack Kerouac to thank for free drinks some months from now.

And as Damien Rice said:
“I can’t take my mind off you…till I find someone new"...

Thursday, July 17, 2008

The Youth

Let's start it off with a question. Maybe that might help. Ease the flow; open the faucet - that kind of thing you know. Or maybe you don't. Or maybe it doesn't matter. Or maybe it does.

So yes, the question.

How do you...no…How do you realise...No. That's not it either.

It's tough, it is. Getting the right words. And even then, there are so many facets that could never be captured in these...these words. On a blog. You'll never know what I'm emphasising, how I raise my eyebrow at the third word and bring my tone down just enough on the penultimate word, only to stress the last word.

So why try?

Why not?

Now who can argue with that? Actually I can. Argue with it that is, but no inclination really. None. And it runs deeper than that.

So then...where were we.

…How do you know when, how do you know how, things have changed?
There. That's what I was looking for. More or less.

42.
Perhaps.