Solitude versus Lonliness; aka How I'm not an emo.

It's that kinda night, lads. It's pissin it down outside, there's no reason to get up particularly early in the mornin, an I feel great about the world at large. It might only ha' been the friendly look of a coupla girls I've never met before an shall surely never meet again, but hey! No better reason to take an alcohol-founded trip o optimism. For to be honest, I haven't felt so good in weeks. A wee quiet night out wi some folks to whom I owe nothin but respect, an possibly a drink or two next time we find ourselves between a bar an a hard place; a couple drinks in Montey's, wherein reside the finest lookin lasses afore they go to Toffs, honestly the classy standards in that place, you'd need to be Sean Connery t'score in there. Seriously like.

So optimism is the order o the day! Far as I can tell, the other folks in our motley crew are happy as larry in their relationships, be they long or extremely short distance, and I see no reason to refrain from their jollities. For I have long since figured out that I am simply better alone. I don't always enjoy it, an for the longest time I've tried to fight against it, but it just seems like solitude is the path that I am predestined to take. I'm fine with that. Because solitude is a state best enjoyed wi company. It is entirely possible to be completely alone in a room fulla people; equally it is possible to be absolutely communal and sociable on one's own. The most intimately human a fella or lass can be is when said couple folks, be they or be they not of a differin gender, are alone together. That's the overarchin goal, folks. That's the holy grail. And by god it's been too long. So here's to solitude, in all its realisin glory.

Thanks,
Dave.

Patch House, Amelie, and Forlorn Realisations

The party was awesome. I had great craic, saw a buncha people I hadn't seen in a while, got dressed up like a hobo, marvellous. Now to the interesting part, the part where I start thinking about myself, for I think of nothing else. I'm an artist, y'know.

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 fuck that's what she's like. She probably enjoys gettin wankered like anyone else, and laughs her arse off at fart jokes. The fuck I know what she's like. And alas, I've a tendency to do the same for real people. Too many, in fact. It's fucked up, and I'm not sure from where it stems, but it's somethin to be dealt with. Hopefully from this day forth.

The essay's progressin, though it ain't terribly good. Shite, you might say.

Thanks for readin,

Dave.

Windle, Winona and the Warriors.

I have a blog. I've mentioned it to a few people, cuz, let's face it, why have a blog with no audience? Madness, is what that is. So there've been mixed reactions. "Isn't that like what the emo's have on MySpace?" The fuck? MySpace is where bad programming goes to die, where bad poetry goes to be indulged by folks with more fringe than sense wi' names like xXxdarkangelbutterflysatanxXx an more friends than IQ points. This here is a blog, a place for me to vent whatever opinions happen to scream into the aul brainpan of a night's drinkin, for instance the one I've just had, where we decided Chris was an ethnic minority, despite fairly obvious evidence to the contrary, wi hilarious results. Poor bastard didn't know what the fuck.

So aye, ideas and the kind. Joyce has been excitin all kindsa synapses I never figured could have life breathed into, and bringin the senses to a level that I'd enjoyed quite thoroughly before the holidays began an my mind went into a kind of permafreeze which proves mighty tough to bust outa. He reminds me o how folks like myself oughta sound, afore we get all softened an anglicised for to fit in wi our surroundins. I've no doubt that most Belfast folks have no problems hangin on to what's theirs, but I've always struggled to sound like what I was, even since when I was wee. Joyce, even though he's a southerner who lived in Italy most his days, reminds me more o who I'm sposed to be than any writer should legitimately have the power to do.

So there's folks outside the room orderin Efe's. I'm thinkin bout the best films I've seen recently, and the one that springs most readily to thought is the delightful "Girl, Interrupted" starrin the lovely Winona Ryder, in what's somethin like a feminised take on One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, incidentally also a crackin flick. What's most worryin about this choice is that so much of it hinges on how much that lass's eyes hook mine, all brown an lovely, all full of deeper meanin, all kinds of shite I might wish to project onto that troubled soul. Cuz Winona never seems all that mental, in the film, and seems to suffer from nothin more than a case of the introspecties. An' I dig that sometimes your natural reaction to a certain situation errs somewhat from what other folks might call the norm, and what have you to justify it? You're a weird one, is what. But here, no, says I, no, I'm not a weird one, mental is what's up wi me. A wee bit cracked, wi all the artistic an philosophic advantages such ailments seems to imbue a chap with. Ignorin the characters that are actually broken, beyond fixin, and thinkin here, if I could harness a wee bit o that for my own, just imagine! All kindsa discussions could be thrown about, all kindsa unorthodox mind-waxin, and why? Cuz I'm a bit mental, that's why. But Winona's not mental, and neither am I, and as soon as she figures it out, that's when she realises her true potential.

But what good does all that head-arse interfacin do a fella? Nothin would make me happier than findin a girl o sound mind, sittin down wi her to watch a shitty movie, the likesa the 1979 classic The Warriors, maybe even a bit a Rocky, and for me to never have to explain to her who's fightin who and the why and the wherefore and the can't we watch Harry Potter instead. Just enjoyin each other's company. And now we get right the way back to my original point about the emo and the self-indulgence an the "O, nobody loves me, I'm a unique, incredible soul is my problem, an there's no one in the 32 counties can understan the likes o me." Truth is, I'm an insular, navel-gazin wee bastard like any other, the only difference bein my access to an internet diary.

So what to conclude? Joyce is amazin, Girl, Interrupted is a cool wee flick, despite the lingerin shots o Ryder's beautiful eyes, and I wish I'd got some Efe's! So that was right an productive.

Thanks for readin,

Dave.