Somethings are too emotional to be said all by yourself. So I'm going to use other people's words to reflect on the next 21 beautiful days, that will be spent watching a beautiful patch of green grass.
“Football, a game in which everyone gets hurt and every nation has its own style of play which seems unfair to foreigners.”
George Orwell
“I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women. Suddenly, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain it would bring.”
Nick Hornby
“To say that these men paid their shillings to watch twenty-two hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink.”
JB Priestley
“Amongst all unimportant subjects, football is by far the most important.”
Pope John Paul II
“In football everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team.”
Jean-Paul Sartre
“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. It is much more important than that.”
Bill Shankly
“Rugby is a game for barbarians played by gentlemen. Football is a game for gentlemen played by barbarians.”
Oscar Wilde
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa
It's going to get very real, very soon. And also wet. It might even smell of fish.
You see, I just resigned to go to another bee hive. But that's not important. What's important is that I get 10 days. 10 glorious, shiny, full of possibility days between these things they call "jobs". And it somehow coincides with the beginning of summer, the defeat of winter. Isn't coincidence a wonderful thing?
What's also important is that we've decided to unleash our inner kerouacs and go on a road trip. To catch a beach town while driving on a sea-side road. Step onto cobbled streets, eat with the local fishermen, swim in their seas, watch their sunsets, drink with their blessings. That kind of thing.
Someplace much removed from Morrissey's "Everyday is Like Sunday" seaside town. Someplace much out of an artists biased potrait of everyday small town living.
It's not completely "on the road" I will admit, marred as it is with a little planning thrown in. It's the price you pay for living in a foreign land.
And yes it's a boring thing. The being planned.
But worry not, we will throw caution to the wind. Without abandon we will.
So if you see a small rented car, going east from new york, with two, smiling like the dickens people, yell us on and if you want postcards, drop your address in the backseat.
You see, I just resigned to go to another bee hive. But that's not important. What's important is that I get 10 days. 10 glorious, shiny, full of possibility days between these things they call "jobs". And it somehow coincides with the beginning of summer, the defeat of winter. Isn't coincidence a wonderful thing?
What's also important is that we've decided to unleash our inner kerouacs and go on a road trip. To catch a beach town while driving on a sea-side road. Step onto cobbled streets, eat with the local fishermen, swim in their seas, watch their sunsets, drink with their blessings. That kind of thing.
Someplace much removed from Morrissey's "Everyday is Like Sunday" seaside town. Someplace much out of an artists biased potrait of everyday small town living.
It's not completely "on the road" I will admit, marred as it is with a little planning thrown in. It's the price you pay for living in a foreign land.
And yes it's a boring thing. The being planned.
But worry not, we will throw caution to the wind. Without abandon we will.
So if you see a small rented car, going east from new york, with two, smiling like the dickens people, yell us on and if you want postcards, drop your address in the backseat.
Friday, May 21, 2010
No Surprises
I'm coming today to vent.
I love my mum and dad. Unconditionally and insanely.
I hate my grandmother (dad's side). Conditionally and sanely.
But that might change. Unconditionally and insanely being common.
She's a right bitch that one. Always been mean to my mother, always been mean to other daughter in laws. You get the gist. You've seen that TV serial.
And I know the drill. Life's not fair, blah blah blah. And another blah. She's elder and senile and all those excuses. I've heard them all before.
I still don't see the light.
I'm sure she won't pop it soon (or soon enough) or won't suddenly make an about turn and start being a loving one rather than an insecure grouch. Yes, I've been through all those thoughts and permutations in between before. If you label me a rank amateur in your head, you've got the wrong joe.
So what can I do. Other than a shoulder shrug and a sigh.
Mum's suffered a lot. Still does. And I feel so helpless so far away. So far away. So fucking far away.
That's all.
I love my mum and dad. Unconditionally and insanely.
I hate my grandmother (dad's side). Conditionally and sanely.
But that might change. Unconditionally and insanely being common.
She's a right bitch that one. Always been mean to my mother, always been mean to other daughter in laws. You get the gist. You've seen that TV serial.
And I know the drill. Life's not fair, blah blah blah. And another blah. She's elder and senile and all those excuses. I've heard them all before.
I still don't see the light.
I'm sure she won't pop it soon (or soon enough) or won't suddenly make an about turn and start being a loving one rather than an insecure grouch. Yes, I've been through all those thoughts and permutations in between before. If you label me a rank amateur in your head, you've got the wrong joe.
So what can I do. Other than a shoulder shrug and a sigh.
Mum's suffered a lot. Still does. And I feel so helpless so far away. So far away. So fucking far away.
That's all.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
California Stars
I have the time, and I don't have the time.
I want to write, and I don't want to write.
I have those words on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my finger,
and yet it feels like I don't.
In that sense it's like an everyday day.
I used to have a lot to say. Actually I still do. But perhaps now, because I'm happy, I mean happier...with the status quo, the words come coated with a paint of laughter, a tint of contentment.
Tragedy makes good writers. Contended writers on the other hand sound boring, even to themselves.
But they wouldn't want it any other way.
But I will say things, soon I will shout and rant and blurt. I will jump to conclusions, I will make my assumptions, I will dispense existential angst at will and I will wander aimlessly as well. The paint of laughter and the tint of contentment though, will not fade. It's a permanent structure now and as permanent structures go...unfadeable.
...cause it's on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my fingers.
I want to write, and I don't want to write.
I have those words on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my finger,
and yet it feels like I don't.
In that sense it's like an everyday day.
I used to have a lot to say. Actually I still do. But perhaps now, because I'm happy, I mean happier...with the status quo, the words come coated with a paint of laughter, a tint of contentment.
Tragedy makes good writers. Contended writers on the other hand sound boring, even to themselves.
But they wouldn't want it any other way.
But I will say things, soon I will shout and rant and blurt. I will jump to conclusions, I will make my assumptions, I will dispense existential angst at will and I will wander aimlessly as well. The paint of laughter and the tint of contentment though, will not fade. It's a permanent structure now and as permanent structures go...unfadeable.
...cause it's on the tip of my tongue, the bite of my fingers.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Lemon Tree
A day dedicated to fools?
Nay sir, it's but confusion.
A day dedicated to being a fool?
Nay sir, your lack of understanding merits a repetition. It's but confusion.
A day dedicated to foolery?
Aye sir, aye. It's but confusion followed by laughter. Like watching the world through kaleidoscopic eyes (with yellow smiley's floating in the background), through lenses that colour in myriad but joyful ways, that don't break, but bend. It's understanding that tragedy is manmade, laughter is organic. That tragedy is forced, self indulgent and that without so much as an effort you can poke at it with spokes of laughter. If you so desire.
A day dedicated to desire?
Aye sir, you're catching on. But that's all you'll get from me. For it's the first of April and there's much foolery to be done.
Nay sir, it's but confusion.
A day dedicated to being a fool?
Nay sir, your lack of understanding merits a repetition. It's but confusion.
A day dedicated to foolery?
Aye sir, aye. It's but confusion followed by laughter. Like watching the world through kaleidoscopic eyes (with yellow smiley's floating in the background), through lenses that colour in myriad but joyful ways, that don't break, but bend. It's understanding that tragedy is manmade, laughter is organic. That tragedy is forced, self indulgent and that without so much as an effort you can poke at it with spokes of laughter. If you so desire.
A day dedicated to desire?
Aye sir, you're catching on. But that's all you'll get from me. For it's the first of April and there's much foolery to be done.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Creep
Ok enough of the mushiness already.
My chest hairs have started to bristle, my muscles ache to be clenched and I fear that I might have to go camp, kill a wolf, eat it's raw heart just to cleanse myself.
It's a little disturbing I know, but don't blame it on me. It's but genealogy.
(At least I hope that's what it is, else chicken won't be our staple diet anymore).
On similar notes, we've been painting this mean ol town red. It has to be done. And no plans. Nothing. All plans have been thrown to the wind where they flutter lifelessly. Just her, me and a town named boo.
oh and last night, in a karaoke bar, I sang my post marriage rendition of Creep. A girl at the bar yelled "If I had underwear to spare, I'd throw it at you".
Making life difficult for single guys, one bar at a time. Ah bliss.
My chest hairs have started to bristle, my muscles ache to be clenched and I fear that I might have to go camp, kill a wolf, eat it's raw heart just to cleanse myself.
It's a little disturbing I know, but don't blame it on me. It's but genealogy.
(At least I hope that's what it is, else chicken won't be our staple diet anymore).
On similar notes, we've been painting this mean ol town red. It has to be done. And no plans. Nothing. All plans have been thrown to the wind where they flutter lifelessly. Just her, me and a town named boo.
oh and last night, in a karaoke bar, I sang my post marriage rendition of Creep. A girl at the bar yelled "If I had underwear to spare, I'd throw it at you".
Making life difficult for single guys, one bar at a time. Ah bliss.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Strawberry Fields Forever
....
To tell you the truth, the honest god forsaken and all the different kinds it comes in, truth - I don't know that much of the written word to describe how much of a blast it was.
But if you were in front of me and saw my hand gestures, the excited tone in my voice, the eyebrows with a mind of their own, the bulging eyes themselves, you'd see my point. Even if I didn't have to pin you to a wall and scream it out, you'd see it.
I lived those two weeks.
I laughed, I danced, I drank, I sat on a horse, I wore heavier clothes than I've ever worn, some jewelry too yes, I hugged a thousand people, I reflected a million flashes of the camera on my skin, I made my jaws ache by smiling so much, I walked in a daze, I saw family and friends I hadn't seen in ages and I cried for it, and I smiled for it
...and she looked so lovely through it all. And I crossed my fingers every time I managed a secret glance at her.
Now we're busy assembling ikea furniture and the camera's are slung on tourist necks clicking past me at the buildings and the concrete.
Shit I miss the attention.
To tell you the truth, the honest god forsaken and all the different kinds it comes in, truth - I don't know that much of the written word to describe how much of a blast it was.
But if you were in front of me and saw my hand gestures, the excited tone in my voice, the eyebrows with a mind of their own, the bulging eyes themselves, you'd see my point. Even if I didn't have to pin you to a wall and scream it out, you'd see it.
I lived those two weeks.
I laughed, I danced, I drank, I sat on a horse, I wore heavier clothes than I've ever worn, some jewelry too yes, I hugged a thousand people, I reflected a million flashes of the camera on my skin, I made my jaws ache by smiling so much, I walked in a daze, I saw family and friends I hadn't seen in ages and I cried for it, and I smiled for it
...and she looked so lovely through it all. And I crossed my fingers every time I managed a secret glance at her.
Now we're busy assembling ikea furniture and the camera's are slung on tourist necks clicking past me at the buildings and the concrete.
Shit I miss the attention.
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