Saturday, November 17, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Leaves had started falling outside
In a late summer gloom of fledgling rainclouds
Reflected in foggy puddles underfoot
We trooped on through, out of step,
Packs on our back and foreign coins
In our pockets. The first discarded leaves;
Big five-fingered horse chestnuts, face down,
Showing waterlogged veins in the inch-deep pool.
Jackdaws fluttered outside the gates,
Hoking at dirt, pecking at apple-cores,
Flitting off as we arrived. We ventured in,
Catching the moment in digital memory:
An irregular holding cell, walls towering
At the end of a hallway that withered and shrank,
Though a door that led into sky-scraping judgement,
And the window that spoke of Saint Daniel;
There was silence in that room, space for silence
That loomed and condensed three stories overhead,
That rained ash-snow, staining the railway lines,
Unholy blend of hair and ground thigh-bone,
Snow on a mountain of odd shoes and lost luggage,
Marked in fading chalk with its last destination,
Deep darkened snow, overwhelming, drawing
The air from the room that had space for more silence.
I managed to open the door. Disorientated,
I took a breath to regain my bearings. Upstairs,
An exhibit that asked to be walked upon. Gently
Stepping between grotesque iron faces, frozen in
Wordless death-masks, turned to iron and concrete;
I lost my footing, and the faces, disturbed, screamed,
Awakened, echoing off high walls, reverberating;
As I left I heard iron crunch and cry out.
A jackdaw flew home as we escaped to the surface,
Apple-heart in mouth, into the sunshine.
I put the camera away, resting easily between
Victuals, tour maps and a handful of foreign coins.
I couldn't help looking back. It was still there,
A multi-story building under receding rainclouds.
We walked home, out of step, in uncomfortable silence.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
God must be lonely; his only love
Unfaithful, distracted by bright lights
And wet dreams that turned to sacks
Of yellow flowers at dawn, penniless,
Eating pigswill for brunch, down and out
In Sodom and Gomorrah. His love told
Lies to friends, abused his intimacy,
Hurling curses at enemies who
Didn't know what pawns were,
All the while wrapped round the body
Of the fella with bigger muscles.
God must be funny; only a real joker
With brass balls could make a world -
A whole world! - either deny him or else
Fight about denying him or else
Fight about defining him or else, or else!
A world where his name is on a bomb
Or in the mind of a bomber as he unveils
Hell for his love. God must be beautiful;
Inconceivably beautiful, blindingly, hypnotically -
To create something so magically vital,
And not bottle it up, frame it, bind it,
Publish it online - to set it to the wind,
With his blessing, to strap a satchel
To its back and send it down a road
With demons and angels who dress the same
And never make their intentions known.
God was my love; I insulted him,
Blamed him, wept in confusion, in bitter
And speechless frustration - everything
People had told me about him was wrong,
How could he... I will write him a note,
A postcard, or a letter, if I'm feeling
Old-fashioned, just to say 'hello,
I understand now, I think, and at any rate
I'm sorry.' I'll leave the end blank,
Because he knows my handwriting,
How I cross my 't's; and if I don't
Hear back I'll write again. And if
I don't hear then I'll know why,
And understand why God must be lonely.
Monday, September 24, 2007
A cricket rubs his legs, wild percussion
Close to the house; close to the house
Are the open valleys with crazy-form mountains –
Slieve More - big mountain; Knockmore - big hill.
Hives on the arms are tattoos of honour,
Though the midgey convicts’ days are numbered.
They emerged, days later, from behind the curtain,
Overdosing on the quiet peace of the living room.
Over the fence, a donkey tears the grass free
With blunted teeth. There is space to hear breathing,
A steady brush of air between the lips,
The tips of the leaves twitter in the breeze.
She Held a Daisy in Her Fingertips, the Bitch
She had a camera, capturing the coast though a daisy
Held up to the lens. Her friends sounded German
Or Swedish, she looked French, or at least like
The ones I’d seen in the movies.
There she was, standing at the edge of the world,
Taking photos, though the tint of her travels;
Maybe the reality of Ireland clashed with her dreams,
Maybe it didn’t. Either way,
A month later, I was wandering through Amsterdam,
And met her in the red light district, taking photos
Of the girls in the windows, selling wet dreams.
But I hadn’t the nerve to say hi.
Three Nights In Belfast – A Villanelle
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Strides across the field on the attack
His antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
October’s dress, embroidered in delight
Heaven-witnessed observance of a pact,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white.
One drizzling evening, nothing but polite
In her appraisal of all the things I lacked,
Her antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
A desperate prayer, the forlorn hope I might
Restore to you a life made whole, intact;
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Should patrol above your headboard, shine its light
To ward away the demons at your back,
Its antagonists stand quaking at the sight.
A man sits by the bedside, tries to fight,
And, pleading for a gem that sickness cracked,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white,
Your antagonist stands quaking at the sight.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
I will probably reduce your life to pithy verse,
Wailing, chest-beating, drunk despair,
Breathless hyperbole, unctious crap,
Which I’ve accepted. Just as fair.
I know nothing truly dies, though all things change,
As wind will alter course, lead the lost astray.
Though the truth of the matter may fade,
I remember in my own way.
I will look to sea, every coastal bound,
In stubborn dumbness, most hope gone;
Take what I need and to hell with the rest,
And with heart in hand, march on.
They tell their own story,
Angry, red-ribboned, fraying,
Black-edged, a more sober
Reminder of nocturnal passions
That grow green and pale
In the cold haze of morning
Or the warm breeze of spring.
A Sorrow Burns
A vesperal flare in the reddening night,
Curled on the floor, half-naked, we lie
To each other, beautiful half-truths, delight
Daubed freely across the northern sky.
Drifting for now, asking nothing but the world
Leave us, all fingertips and tales,
Sun-fled and tight-lipped, too fleetingly held
To the warm, dull thud, too livid and pale.
And down, as needs must, as rainfall returns
Us to respective lives. Frail memory concedes,
And sentiment directs a crowd-pleasing reprise
Where our parts are played, sensationalised
By our favourite actors, the starring leads
In their picture. Somewhere, unheeded, a sorrow burns.
Standing by a clearing, unassuming,
Awaiting discovery, a stone
Behemoth shading the wood. There sits
A fallen trunk worn smooth by time,
A wizened great thing, skinned by curious walkers,
Curiously slumped, wide-eyed
Transfixed by terrible earth-woven beauty
On root-woven soil. But none the wiser,
For once seen, my native landscape,
The drumlins and cliffs, like so much
Ham-fisted doggerel, stands
Unassuming, all noise of myth fallen silent.
Waiting, dirty-eared, pulse-conscious,
The great stone bastard holds his breath.
Back on the path, its gravelled lustre
A reminder, overwhelming, that I hid
Skillfully, pretending the rough sea
Wind had blown dust under an eyelid,
And walked on, a few steps behind.
I made jokes about the cliff face, and
You pointed out primroses, designated
Them spots in the garden, and I feigned
Interest, and pointed out Fairhead.
It emerged we'd walked the wrong way,
And shuffling past the anoraked yankees
We giggled like kids, knowing no fear to allay,
Being locals, proprietors, and far more
Rightful to shuffle down the stairwell
In half-hidden mirth. By a crumbling
Hand-rail with a red-rusted warning fell
Any palm-sized rock we found,
And after all these years I shouldn't've been
Surprised that you still had the better arm.
They stirred the spray. The ocean
Refused all entry, the cluttered sky gone grey,
We retired for the day for a stout meal
At one of the pubs you knew. And then, I thought
I knew what you felt in your blood.
A Good Year
A good year it's been now. Coarse and brittle,
A rainless year, without memory of rain,
Without a prayer for a squall,
Or the lousy grump of October.
A full year now, since the pang of thirst
Was settled, and reminders of that
Something I felt first, cast to the roadside on
That cruel April evening, driven out.
A bloody year it's been, with blood-torn nights
And bone days, where no bitterness
Lies, for the senses have crumbled, no scent of
Summer lingers, no words lie in the throat.
It was a strange thing to hear,
Like a student-fantasy play
At the end of the Ireland crisis; "We're
Imagining that one day
The two of them'll meet in a room
And, y'know, get on like normal folks.
Not to say they'll sing the same tune,
But they'll laugh at them'uns' jokes,
And get on like the whole thing
Was just a misunderstanding."
A Patch of Daffodils
These could be my last words.
This could be the last feeling I manage to recall,
Bearing in mind that the feeling cannot be retrieved in full,
Only represented in poor rhyme, or not even that.
I would you could step in my skin for that brief moment,
To know how I felt when I looked at you
And saw everything I wasn't.
Thanks for reading,
Friday, June 01, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
The cricket was an eye-opener. Like how long a match can seem when it ends as a contest two hours before the conclusion. Or how much sunburn plays a role. Or how much work it is to document every last bloody ball from morning to evening. Or how tetchy the opposition can get if you wait untile they're 2-2 before asking for a quote. Whoops. Still, t'was good craic, and if all else fails, I've got a pretty sturdy safety net in sports journalism. The world will always need sports journalists. The article ran in the Nouse Roses pullout, which made me happy. What made me happier still was bumping into Raf and Niamh at the Vanbrugh cafeteria and hearing that not only had they read my article on 300, they enjoyed it, and mentioned it on the NOuse podcast! Yessssssssss.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
So a weekend in Stirling then. Over Saint Patrick's, no less, with a big old rumble in the six nations for company. Never have I felt so heartbroken as when the French shunted their way over the tryline for the last time, and me halfway through eatin a lovely burger. Well, the remainder was bitter as all hell, let me tell you. No amounta cheese an bacon could cover the raw stench o undeserved defeat. That said, we've still a crackin team, an while I'm by no means expectin the Irish to go all the way, they could still give the best in the world a decent game of it.
Anyway. Stirling. My good pal Aaron, who recently turned 22 (see below), had largesse enough to provide a crackin weekend fulla drunken hilarity an pensive philosophising. That is, prank calls an talkin shite. It's always a revelation to take a look into the stage play o someone else's day to day life; to meet the characters, to warm to the drama and tensions between the players, and, for a while, to be a novelty in a few people's lives. They're crackin folks up there, I miss em already. Wee things like that make life worth gettin up for.
So Modest Mouse have released another belter. "They've got someone ridiculously famous now, haven't they?" says someone, possibly Amy. And yes, yes they have, the one and only Johnny Marr, once the guitarist of The Smiths. And their new single (above), is a sweepin symphony of a track, rockin and rollin with the best of them, with a nifty video and Isaac Brock's usual vocal spasmodia addin to the fun. Nice to see a band achieving popularity of a degree, but keepin their standards, even if they're much better produced these days than back in what some fans would call the band's heyday of Moon and Antarctica. They've certainly changed their style somewhat, but to me it seems more like a maturing process than selling out.
Even wholesale change is possible without compromising one's principles, or even without changing one's major motivations in life. Sometimes the goalposts move, and the choice is to change or atrophy. I like to think that that's never going to be much of a choice.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
But spare a thought for those who weren't so lucky. Those who didn't find themselves on the right side of the party lines. Those who were caught receiving a 'sports massage' in a Belfast hotel in the middle of an election campaign for the most socially conservative political party since Ian Paisley could sit in place for more than a half hour without urinating uncontrollably. Nevertheless, Paul Berry's valiant effort to convince the nation that ability to govern and sexual preferences were unconnected fell some way short, though picking up over 2000 first-preference votes in Newry and Armagh district is not to be sniffed at. Northern Ireland: We're Getting There!
So that's it! Another election under the belt - the Northern Irish have more politicians and elections per head than any country on the earth - and things have more or less panned out as expected. Trimble and Hume retired to international diplomacy, Paisley can only eat soup, his son's a bollickin fool; it won't be long til Gerry's the only piece left on the board since '97. Strange how these things pan out.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Beckett ain't all that bad, either. Havin actually seen his work performed, it suddenly makes sense. Studyin the text is pointless, an it takes a certain kind of genius to pull off such a seamless transition from written word to performed art, maybe performed reality. Endgame an Waiting For Godot in the right hands make for some transfixin viewing, that strikes its mark wi the greatest force when you recognise the players as aspects o yourself. Not only that, but it manages to keep a sensea humour about itself, somethin Joyce alternately struggled with an captured perfectly, dependin on whether he was composin for that intolerable bastard Stephen Dedalus or not. Ulysses is a crackin book, no matter what mantle o greatness might be thrust upon it, just because it gets the point so perfectly, inhabits the character o Leopold Bloom so entirely, like no one has done before or since. 1922. Unreal. An o course, seein him fuck up a drive on the pitch 'n' putt is comedy gold. Jimmy woulda approved.
So Fusion was on last night, a show o highs an lows. There's some extremely talented folks out there. Woulda liked to have seen more of em. But it turned out to be when we got home that the best story emerged. After orderin Efe's (lovely pizza), we told the delivery guy that Amy said hi, all of us bein slightly tripped out by hunger. He remembered seein Amy a couple weeks previous, huddled in the corner in a similar fashion. The conclusion was obvious.
"You are pregnant!!"
Before rushin back to the van. He reappeared seconds later with a handful of strawberry flavoured lollies for the newly expectant mother. People are wonderful.
But not as wonderful as this dude here, who recently celebrated his twenty-second birthday. Here we see him in earlier times (on the left), recoverin from a nasty bouta sunburn, as was his wont. Happy Birthday Aaron! You are the wind beneath my wings.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Better, by far, than the 19-16 bloody stupid scoreline some o the lunatic fringe were hopin for. I couldn't believe the hack o some folks in the build-up to the game. Of course it was awful, no-one wanted for folks to get killed back in the day, but it happened. And life went on. There's no point in arrguin that the RA started it by killin British agents, there's no point in playin 'who's the victim'. The fact is that the Black and Tans were ordinary fellas put in extraordinary circumstances beyond their trainin, in a hostile environment. What they did was inexcusable, and - of course - the lessons learned from that day should never be forgotten. But just as inexcusable is playin stupid bastards an demandin an apology eighty-six years later. From who? The men with the guns are long dead. The politics that motivated them have passed on. The government that occupied an repressed no longer hold sway. It's just the Irish now, an there's a minority that can't let go of the victim status. It's time to move on, give the fuckin B&Ts a break. And don't pin stupid political banners on a little game o egg chasin.
The Bell Jar is fascinatin stuff. I'd always seen it as a kind of scenester book - one that you read just to say you'd read. An true enough, she's a pretty tragic figure, wi more than her fair share o stories to tell. First time I saw it was in the hands of a fella - I assume he was a student, he looked like one - the copy all dog-eared an outta print, readin it on the subway in Boston, Plath's hometown. Back then, it suggested to me everythin my bias needed to hear, that this was a novel for the myspace crowd, of bad fringes, tight jeans an expensive tastes. But Plath herself is a narrator - while not free o pretense, fair enough - who's at the very least an engagin figure, one you root for in the end. But there lies in the book a tenderness, a willingness to understand, an a wish to be understood, that's often absent in fellas like Burroughs or Huxley. There's a definite desire to see the best in life, a cravin for the thing that makes everyone else seem so happy, so normal, that sits agonisinly, infuriatinly outta reach. both for reader an writer. Watchin the novel unfold, sittin in pretty fuckin awful comparison to the actual end to Plath's life, leaves a bitter taste. I can see why the myspace crowd took her on: she's a genius no-one got, but for me, it seems more a case o her failin to 'get' anyone else. The fact o the bell jar is that everyone can see you, scrutinise you, judge you, but you're helpless to do anythin about it. Myspace man could get anyone he wanted wi his hipster fringe an desginer scruffy jeans, but Plath wouldn't a got him. Maybe I'm missin the point, but the book is jus so much more than a handbook for non-convention. It's more like a cry for help that no-one got.
Thanks for readin,
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Another beltin track an video from New York coupleband Matt and Kim. It's an odd video, but sweet in its own way. There's not many bands out there that I'm excited about, but these guys have just captured my imagination in a way that no other act has done in a long time. Maybe it's an acquired taste, or maybe they'll turn out to be a flash in the pan, but man, it feels good to be excited again.
PS. Kim is hot. That is all.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Thursday, February 08, 2007
It was cool goin out an seein everyone again on Tuesday. I'll be honest, I enjoyed it pretty much right up until we headed to Toffs. There's just somethin that makes it impossible for me to enjoy myself when I cannot hear anyone and have no real interest in the music that is causing my aural mischance. These things I cannot deny. On the other hand, where is it writ that I should feel that so inclined? Some people love clubs, can't get enough of them, the dirty bastards. That's fine, they are for the most part, decent, clean-livin folks with whom I have no beef. However, I am simply not categorised under the variety of folk that find it easy to let go in a crowd wi'out fear of lookin a dick. Nor, in fact, do I feel like I know the folks who do enjoy clubbin well enough for to hang out wi'them, thus aggravatin my discothequal misery. So what to conclude? Clubs simply aren't for the likesa me. Which is a shitter, t'be honest, as that's where what gangsta rappas call 'tha honeys' is at, so to speak. And it is in precisely that category of lifestyle accesorisation that I am unfelicitously lackin. Damn and blast. Anywho, I'm under the belief that given the right circumstance, an a fair bita good fortune, some finelookin lass wi low standards shall surely come my way. An I'll probly fuck it up, but she might have a mate who's got a good sensea humour, and perhaps enjoys all variety o chinwaggery bout Kerouac an such. A fella can dream.
Might I direct you t'ord the fine site www.xkcd.com? Tis a marvellous thrice-weekly updated comic site, wi more revelations bout the geek-psyche that I can handle alone. In this, I need the assistance only you can grant. Do this...for me.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Another week gone, another week wi'out any movement pon the upmost peaks o English football, which some smarmy Italian bastards might tell you ain't all that formidable, but this midweek evenin showcased a couple o the best damn footballers from Newcastle to Naples. I'm talkin o'course about Rooney an Ronaldo (the thinner, better lookin one).
O course, no calcionista is worth much wi'out a fine supportin cast, one which a greater man might yak on bout for days, but not I. Watchin Wayne an Christiano turn from petulant adolescents into model professionals over the course of a year has been a joy to behold, an though Watford are by no means Barcelona, the fellas tore them asunder wi effortless grace. Rooney's finish here, added to his heart-rendingly beautiful strike gainst Portsmouth, invite all variety o temptin comparisons t'Eric Cantona himself. The difference bein, course, that it took a ninemonth ban for Cantona to control his temper, Rooney seems t'have figured that one out already. And say what y'want bout Ronaldo's simulatin shenanigans, he's the best diver out there. An his footwork is simply the best in the world, a glorious combo o individual finesse, and, new out this season, an instinctive team ethic. I don't see this fella sheddin many more tears in his day.
An honorable mention goes to Peter Crouch, who looks more like a real footballer every day. He's put on weight, picked up a yard o pace, an is bangin them in like nobody's business. I talk lightly of him, but he could surprise a lot o folks yet. Another crackin goal today, an his work wi Dirk Kuyt, surely the most talented grafter ever to hassle a Premiership defence, puts him in great shape to hold his England place.
So, wi Chelsea winnin again, even wi Ashley Cole out wi ligament damage, there's no great power shift at the top. But damned if it isn't good to see four quality teams at the top again.
This here's some sample artwork by a young lass by the namea Maureen Twist, who's been scribblin away at sketches for a comic book bein written by myself an my good friend Adam Hanley, himself a greatly talented artiste. We've thrown down two outta the five planned chapters of our wee book already, wi more to come, once I get the gumption to go do it.
This fantastic four are a rock group known as The Distillers, bout whom I've previously ranted more than is healthy for a fella. But they are just that good. Were that good, I should say, for they went their separate ways over three years ago now. Still, the fact remains that their second album, Sing Sing Death House, is one a the best rock albums I've had the pleasurea listenin to. It's freea as much pretention as it's possible t'be free of for a rock band, and lordy but it woulda been splendid for to while away the dusky hours o a summer night in their screamin hysterical presence. The whole shebang opens wi "Desperate" onea a number o tracks lastin slightly below the 1:30 mark. But where a lotta bands fall down on tryin to squeeze every last dropa rock out a track, the Distillers beat it out, move on, an start over. The next few tracks, "I Am A Revenant", "Seneca Falls" an the unmatchable "The Young Crazed Peeling" are, simply put, fuckin awesome. Brody's aforementioned vocal stylins, put over the top of a crashin rhythm section wi more melody than a balls-out (proverbially, in this case) punk rock band should be capable of retainin. The message in mosta the tracks is, admittedly, pretty simple; "It hit me / I got everything I need /... When the birds have been freed from their cages / I got freedom and my youth." But the honesty wi which these lines're delivered charms the everlastin socks off me, an considerin the wealtha clever bands peddlin all manner a cynicism an smarm, Sing Sing Death House is still, five years on, fresh as the first time.
Post Script: We got the bloody bungalow in Vanbrugh Drive!!!!! Thanks, God.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
So the answer to your question is that i agree with Dawkins that religion can be harmful, and i think his suggestion that moderate religious types do as much harm as anyone by paving the way for the extremists is very well made. But in saying that, i know people who are much, much happier and content since coming to believe in one or other religion, and i would find it deeply unpleasant if anyone were to pluck that from them, or to mock them for having it (one thing i DO find very unpleasant about Richard Dawkins is the occasional, although only occasional, tone of deep smugness that creeps in when discussing these things).
i find it fucking incredible, to be honest, that Darwinism is SERIOUSLY bein contested in science classes on account of manuevering by the religious right, and the fact that probably near as many people are harmed by religion as are helped is obviously something to worry about. but i know i felt a lot better in myself and treated others a lot better when i came to consider the idea that there was some sort of God character (not because i feared punishment if i WASN'T nice, which Dawkins, and many others, Neitzche bein one off the top of my head, suggests to be reason why Christians are 'good', and that in fact it's not moral at all, that behaviour. Choosing not to do something because you think you're being watched is no morality worth considering. i don't beleive in hell, as it happens.) to derive some strength from. And maybe it's just me i'm deriving strength from, but it's done me more good to carry on as i'm doing than it did when i was doing the opposite, and at the end of the day that's all i can go on.
duke de mondo
Hope that sheds some light on things, certainly did for me.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
He often sounds rather frustrated at the fact that his views are even questioned. If you skip ahead to about 24 minutes in, he is confronted by one of the declarations in his own book, the belief that there is ‘very probably alien civilisation somewhere in the universe that is superhuman, even godlike, beyond anything any theologian might imagine.’ He appears insulted to be even questioned on this belief. The UCD Professor, Gerard Casey, performs brilliantly, and in a way perfectly suited to the discussion; he is composed, relaxed, and open to every suggestion Dawkins makes. Kudos.
So I handed in the aul Joyce essay on Monday, blessedly. I didn't think much of it. It ended suddenly, it was fairly unfocused, if a fella cam up to you an said 'show us a run o the mill English Literature essay, or the bunny gets it' (he has a bunny, and an anti-bunny weapon of some description), you'd have to do no more than usher him toward 'Names and Narrators: the Power of Perspective in "Cyclops"'. God, it's painful rememberin even that much. Even the title's drippin wi convention, like a stripey jumper, or anythin on channel 4. I can only hope that its middling qualities soothe the markers into such a state of incapacitation that they forget what essay they're readin an give it a good mark. These things I hope against hope.
Joyce wasn't a terribly fascinatin chap, as far as conventional critical opinion goes; the author himself is represented in the book by Stephen Dedalus, an introspective, morose little bastard if ever there was one. Quite a hero o mine, so he is. The most interestin characters, e.g. Stephen's dad, his roommate Mulligan, an the Citizen, are the ones the author paints in the worst possible light. In a strange way, the author has been left thoroughly behind by the sheer brilliance of the text: Ulysses is now so much more than a mere novel with a writer an protags an plot: the fact that anythin like it exists is unbelievable. Some clever chap, I can't remember who, defined art as somethin that makes you proud to be human. I can't thank JJ enough for bustin the borders o literature so wide it made me proud again.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Aye, so there's a beltin lookin girl there, beknownst only to me as 'white hat girl'. She had a white hat. She was pretty as hell. And Amy had a great scheme for me to go talk to her. She would occupy her friend wi idle banter, while I smoothed in and engaged white hat girl in all kindsa witty talk and charmin word-flirtin. The very idea terrified me, and it was no small relief when the scheme, Wile E. Coyotean though it was, din't work. Turns out she had more than one friend at the party, which is really where the operation fell down at a conceptual level. Point is, I was scared shitless. Not only at the thought of puttin myself in a situation where some demands might be made of my personality, not only at the possibility of rejection, but at the very idea of turnin somethin from an idle fancy into reality. This problem is only too easy to see: Even on this page alone there are pictures of women I've got all sortsa romantic childish notions about. Look at Audrey Tautou, there, would you ever. Gorgeous, she is. And just the kinda woman about whom I could imagine all kindsa romantic shite, like she only ever bathes in a bathtub fulla finest silk, an her day job is bein a muse for poets an artists across the land, who bask in the soothin glow of her beatific visage.
The essay's progressin, though it ain't terribly good. Shite, you might say.