The Yo-Heave-Ho

As we sped out of Rialto village, what was left of my life filling the trunk and back seats, and drove toward the motorway, I couldn't help but smile. I felt like the entire tribulations of the last year were falling away behind me, particles of dust in the wind; the break-up of my three year relationship, the struggle of breaking away from it, of gaining independence and living under such strenuous circumstances, constantly scrimping for cash every single day was all just a billowing plume of fine, grey dust falling away beyond and above me. I sighed- more out of relief, rather than nostalgia. It was finally over. A chapter was closed and shut and could never be reopened.

Ahead of me is nothing but opportunity. Next year I will at last return to college and complete my education, a degree in English Lit. and (probably) Anthropology. So this year I aim to save as much money as possible, and start that by looking for a better paying job- although with the current economy I know I'm lucky I have the luxury of looking for a job whilst still employed, so I can't complain.

When we'd initially come to the house I was leaving for good at lunchtime today, the new girl, Maura, opened the door.

"Hey, you got here. You're welcome, come in," she smiled. I gave a momentary smile that died on my lips almost the moment it appeared. She was welcoming me into the house I've lived in already for six months?
"Thanks," I said dryly. "I'll be quick, you won't even know I'm here." I said it trying to make up for my lack of enthusiasm at her welcoming me on what had been my own doorstep.
"Oh," she smiled. "Good." I'm sorry, excuse me? She thus disappeared into the kitchen. Mal and I started disconnecting the DVD player, Playstation, TV and surround sound system and packing them into the car. Last to be packed were Sofia's paintings, which were quite large (and expensive) and so we were careful to pack them in last.

"Okay, I just have to go take care of the- the money thing-" I told Mal, as I gestured back at toward the house. He laughed.
"Yeah, you do that, and I think I'll smoke for the both of us." I headed inside and found Maura in her large bedroom in the downstairs hall (formerly my large bedroom) and told her I was leaving and asked for the deposit.

"Okay there you go," she smiled handing it over and moving toward the kitchen door in a sort of semi-gracious won't-you-follow-me kind of way, as though after six months I didn't know where the front door was.
"Great," I said. I took fifty euro from it, added five euro from my pocket and laid it on the kitchen table. "Thirty five is for the gas bill that came while I was still here, and please tell Jana the other twenty is what I owe her."
"Sure," she smiled. "I'll just leave it in her room." I was aghast. Either this girl is so cocky (and patronising) she'd walk into someone else's room (when she could just leave it in the kitchen with a note like the rest of us did) or she's so chummy with them already that they've probably been bitching about me.

"Great," I echoed, adding, "I'm glad you settled in alright. I hope you enjoy living here... I'm glad I convinced them to take a chance on you. You'll fit in perfectly." I said it sincerely and with as patronising a smile as she'd given me. Her smile didn't faulter but the gleam in her eye was gone suddenly.

When Dani had lived there we all bitched about him. The girls constantly complained to me and each other about him. Heck I admit I bitched about him, but the difference is I never actually pretended to like him to his face like they did. They'd sit around and have wine and dinner and laugh with him, talk with him for hours and then bitch once he left. I knew now that it was clear they were doing the same thing with me. That patronising smile and attitude of her's said one thing and one thing only: 'I've heard all about you.'

As we drove further and further into the suburbs Mal insisted that at least now I could rid myself of all that unnecessary baggage and concentrate on what was important, moving on. I hadn't been able to think of just myself in so long. There was too much else going on- rent, bills, expenses that amounted to hundreds each month, medical care, everything was increasingly bringing me down and making me depressed. Once I was released from it all, and knew I would be released from it all, my mood returned to 'normal' and what did I have to show for it? €400, €300 of which would go on repairs to my macbook pro's screen because it decided to die, and my freedom.

I am, literally, starting from scratch with hardly a cent to my name. My overdraft is paid off, my loan from the bank is pretty much almost repaid and my other expenses are minimal. I've literally got a clean slate. It is such a liberating feeling that to describe it would be a cliché, suffice to say it's wonderful.

So, this, is Day One.

The Debt, the Muse & the Difficulties of Housemates

I thought I'd had it all planned out. I'd get my deposit back from my apartment tomorrow and simply save it. So at least I would have some savings to build on. Apparently this isn't allowed- why? Because that's just my luck, I think God is clearly having a laugh at my expense.

I switched off my macbook pro to bring it upstairs, and when I turned it on again, the computer worked but the screen was dead. For a second I thought it was the backlight that had died but no, no. The screen just isn't switching on at all. So most of the money I was going to save from my deposit shall go to pay for repairing my laptop next week. No joy for me, hey?

Apart from that, I am now out of debt; my overdraft has been completely paid off, I've been charged €30 for overdrawing on my card when I don't have an overdraft set up. So why, I ask you, do they allow it to be overdrawn in the first place? Oh yeah, that's right, so they can charge you €10 for every purchase over €20 that you overdraw (even though you apparently do not have an overdraft). I love banks. Really. Can't understand why people are so hostile about the banking sector... and I think we'll leave the blatant sarcasm there...

Of course naturally, the one time I want to write I can't. I figure this is really a mixture of excitement about having tried to begin a third novel. I'm still not sure where it's going but I have some loose ideas floating around in my head, but can't seem to pin them down. I think for the moment I'll just write whatever comes to mind, if it's interesting I'll use it, if not, disregard. At least until some sort of plan emerges, or my one great idea comes along.

It is, I must admit, very relaxing to be living at home. Tomorrow I shall go back to my old house and remove whatever's left. Speaking of which, I got a really rude phone call when I was in work from the new girl who has taken over my room.

"Hi, is this Lorcan? Lorcan this is M, the new girl who just moved in. Lorcan I'd just like to know when you plan on moving the rest of your stuff out. It's just that, you know, it's here and it's wrecking my head," she ranted.

I said, "I'm sorry but I told the others I'd be back to collect it as soon as my friend was free to move it. I don't drive and anyway I've been working, my family are working, so we don't have a lot of free-" she cut me off.

"Well Lorcan I just think, you know, I obliged by moving in on the second of July to give you more time..."

You what?! I got really angry then. Jana had told me to move out on the 28th, because this girl, M, was told she could move in then (by Jana). So why the fuck did she wait until the 2nd? Anyway I paid for the full month, what's three or four days extra? It's not my fault someone got their wires crossed and she moved in on July 2nd when, rushing in a panic, I packed everything in my bedroom and vacated on the 28th, thinking she'd move in that evening as soon as I was gone. Apparently not. So why did Jana tell me to move out on the 28th? Why tell the girl to move in on the 2nd? What's up with the conflicting stories? I'm beginning to think they all lied just to get me out of the house.

This is why I think my friend Marie has the right idea: she's just renting this beautiful large studio apartment and living alone. She's had enough of living with people and I can't say I blame her. It's always rosy in the garden for the first five months and after that, it curdles and goes sour very rapidly. Next time I move (whenever that will be) I'm going to live on my own, because honestly, I can't stand this sharing shit. People are bitches sometimes, becoming completely absurd over ridiculous, trivial things.

I don't know where my future is going, or what I'm going to do for the next year before I return to college. I want to get a better job, earn much better money and then at least have some sort of financial safety net to fall back on. However that's all easily said and not so easily done.

So tomorrow I have to meet Maura when Mal helps me move my things back home. I'm definitely setting her straight about the move-in date, even she doesn't mention it I will because I don't understand why she said she was giving me more time when Jana and Malwa told me I didn't have time, that I had to move out immediately on the 28th! I think I smell bullshit frankly.

Tomorrow should be an interesting day!...

The Uncertain Road Ahead

I refer back to my statement of "What is wrong with the men in this town?" from an earlier post. Seems that Army Guy I was seeing is indeed a player. Marie said our mutual best friend Tadgh swore her to secrecy, afraid that I'd get the wrong idea if she told me G had been chatting to Tadgh and coming on to him all night in a bar about a week ago. Naturally Tadgh was not at all interested since he wasn't sure what had gone on between me and this guy and basically told him to leave him alone, he wasn't interested but G, not taking no for an answer, continued whispering sweet nothings in his ear all night.

Honestly. Tadgh is well known and anyone who knows Tadgh knows his closest friends. It seems impossible to Marie that G could not have known Tadgh and I are all close friends. I'm guessing that was G's plan all along, to make me jealous? Sadly, I only get jealous about guys I actually like, thus I'm not jealous and actually don't really care what he does, but isn't going after my best friend just the most pathetic low? As my friend Ciarán put it, "All the lemons I've wasted my time on, if I was a slot machine I'd have hit the lemon jackpot a long time ago."

Living with the parents again is rather odd, it's like being a teenager, but without the restrictions. I do give them money for living here, obviously I mean that's just fair but I am missing not being so close to the city that I can just take a tram into Dublin city centre whenever I want etc.

One thing that needs to change, and due to the global "R"-word this will be difficult, but I need a new (proper) job. My pay is shit, my work is shit- I'm perpetually in a state of apathy and disinterest- and to be totally honest I can't concentrate when I get home enough to write anything. The writing isn't entirely the issue as I'm tying to allow ideas and concepts to build up and germinate in my mind at the moment but this is ridiculous. My best friend Sofia and I are fed up. Entirely. Enough is quite honestly enough to be very blunt.

I've disagreed with bosses I've had over their treatment and behaviour of staff and walked out. I've disagreed with bosses and tried to work with them, tried to come to some sort of working relationship only to be labelled 'rebellious' and been, after much legal scrounging on their part, fired in a way which they ensured I can't sue them. I've even worked for complete tryants, for idiots who didn't know any better and for wonderful, truly amazing people I consider myself lucky to have had the opportunity to call my bosses. I have never, ever had to shelve my pride in the way I'll have to this weekend. Maybe I'll write about it, but maybe I won't, all I'll say is that for the money I'm being paid and the hours I'm getting it's really not worth it at all. Sofia feels the exact same. I probably wouldn't mind prostituting my pride and self-respect for a job I believed in or loved, but this time I can't, don't and won't. The fact that I have a good manager is great, but why not let us draw straws and have one person do it. Why does everyone have to do it, and if one person has made the choice to turn this task down, why aren't they entitled to do this? Without recrimination?

We shall see what happens but either way both Sofia and I are throwing in the towel at the earliest opportunity. For Sofia, that day might be today...

A Dream Discarded

My whole life is packed up in boxes, ready to be brought back to my hometown. I have Sofia's paintings (all gifts), my sketches, bags of shoes, and only things left in my room unpacked are my clothes and various bathroom and cosmetic items I use daily. All that needs to be done is disconnect the TV, DVD and Playstation, with the surround sound system in the living room and give my brother-in-law a call so he can grand-theft-auto a police van (he's a cop) some afternoon when we're both free and ship it all back home for the final time.

I don't know when I will come back to live in Dublin. It could be a year, it could be three. All I know is that I'm keeping my job, so I'll commute only half an hour by train each morning and evening, which for me is fine. I used to go further for college so that's nothing. At least this way I can save money and still go out with my best friends after work, to save my social life.

Struggling to pay rent, bills and even feed and clothe myself has been exceedingly difficult. My medical bills are huge and every month costs me €100 euro at the pharmacy because I have, as of yet, to get my GP to sign the my medical card application form. I can only afford to eat very little, so much so that everytime my family see me they tell me I've lost yet more weight. To point where I'm back to fitting into (waist size) 30 inch jeans and some 28" jeans depending on the designer but I don't mind that. I've become the master of one meal a day simply because I cannot actually afford to eat more than that. There have been times when I've felt like I was about to faint and I'd eat an apple or smoke a cigarette, or mostly fill my stomach with fluids to keep the hunger at bay since large bottles of water and soft drinks are comparatively cheaper than food. Mostly it's been eat either lunch in work or eat dinner at home and I opt mostly for dinner and some fruit at lunch. But in the last five months, I'm living off an almost vegetarian diet just for the sole reason that meat is too expensive for me to buy. So plenty of vegetables, fruit and things like rice, pasta the odd bit of chicken, pizza or even (sometimes!) chinese take out. Some nights when I wanted to go out, I would end up not being able to eat at all during that day and night in order to actually buy the drinks in the club. So I got drunk fast and thus was forced to drink less, which was alright and I found the cigarettes and alcohol filled me up to the point where I didn't notice I was hungry. Obviously this can't go on. While I'm eating healthy when I do eat, I don't believe I'm eating enough. I'm sick of being constantly hungry, I'm sick of scrimping for cash down the back of my dresser in desperation because I seriously need to eat food. Thankfully this will all be over now, and at least in my parents house I can eat all I want and with my bike there, I can cycle in order to keep the excess weight off. You know when you can't afford to eat, things are seriously in a bad way.

I have tried hard to make this work. To make an independent life here work for far too long. It's finally time I discarded my ideal and pick it back up and make it work sometime in the future when I have a better paying job and can afford everything I should need to.

Also the situation with the guy I was seeing have, naturally, fallen apart. When we were together (briefly) we got on really well, we liked each other. He continuously told me how much he liked me, and didn't I realise it? I said I did, I was content. He seemed mature, he was in the army, very handsome. Seemed like the all round gentleman. However, he was twenty-seven and it was like chasing after a teenager. If I wanted to do that, I would. What is wrong with the men in this town? Is it so difficult to have an equal, adult relationship? I don't think I'm so awfully unappealing.

What I didn't understand was it take five seconds to say "I'm just not that into you." Instead all he kept saying was "I'm so into you, you know I am, you know that I really like you." So naturally I was extremely confused when we agreed to spend a day together again and all weekend I heard nothing. This was the fourth time he'd either cancelled last minute or backed out. He didn't text, didn't respond to my texts, didn't call, email, IM, nothing. There are men (and by 'men' I mean responsible, adult, mature - guys who are actually gutsy enough to tell you they don't like you to your face). I'm annoyed, not at him, but at his lack of guts.

Everyone who matters knows what I've been through (and some of them don't even know the entire extent of it, which is gruesome in parts), what I've struggled through (mental hospitals, violent assault and it's aftermath, drugs, drug overdoses) to achieve all that I've achieved which isn't much to some people but I've had to move goddamn mountains just to get to a place where I can accept my past experiences and have made a somewhat stable life for myself. I respect people who can own up to their shit and call it like it is. Honesty, for example. It's not easy perhaps, but it's required as an adult. I have absolutely no time for spineless behaviour, or spineless people for that matter. How is it so difficult? I don't find it terribly much to expect of someone who's twenty-seven years old to just tell me they're not interested. Hey, we could be friends, but until today, when he finally messeged me explaining how he felt, I was like "Fuck that shit now. I don't have time or energy for this. I'd rather spend my time on people who have a goddamn backbone." Do I sound bitter? I guess I am, but as the cliché goes, it's experience that has made me this way. Although, in the end as I mentioend he did messege me and apologised for being a complete ass, said he just wasn't sure what he wanted and asked that we remain friends. I accepted it. We're staying mates and I hope we really will, because despite his behaviour I know deep down he's a good guy. But we'll just see how that goes.

To be honest, I'm actually looking forward to moving back home. With my sister's baby due the second week in August, home is exactly where I want to be. I've been so fed up lately, and so exhausted by everything I've decided to book a flight to Prague in September. So I'm leaving, for a week. I don't care, I took holidays from work and got a friend who has agreed to come with me. We're going to base ourselves in Prague for the week with small trips to Trieste and Vienna too. Living at home in Kildare I can save money for the trip and after the trip I plan on saving more money and going back to college the following year, so I hope. English literature and Sociology but maybe Anthropolgy instead, my mother's best friend was doing Anthropology and Sociology and chose to continue only with Anthropology for her final years and it sounds so varied and interesting, the kind of thing I'd love to do. Being typically manic-depressive I find it difficult to settle on one thing, I want a million things and nothing all at once. So trying to tie myself to a college course is hard, but I have a year, less actually to make my mind up. I've decided to talk to her about her Anthropology course some evening and see what I think of it.

I feel, weirdly, that life is finally about to kick off. I'm going back to a haven, a place where I can be myself and relax, do some proper writing. Finish my edits on The Bridge and work on the start of my third novel (working title Ode to Paris, In Winter, or at the moment I'm just calling it Ode- the story of the years between three friends, their triangular-relations and the effect on their lives set in 1920s Paris and New Orleans). Everything else can take a backseat. Family and the quiet life are now a priority. So like I said, who knows how long I'll keep my job in Dublin. I'm guessing it might get pretty tiring travelling back and forth, God knows I don't have much patience for this kind of thing but well, I might love it in the end, I usually climatise to these strange in-between situations.

Here's to endings and most importantly, very special beginnings...

Yet More Photos..

A good indicator of how one of our nights went... hahaha




Marky (with a vaguely psychotic look on his face) and Marie










Lorcs & Grzegorz before the drunkenness set in!







Brian, Lorcs & Marky








Lorcs and Brian

The Frying Pan or the Fire

To vote or not to vote, that, seemingly, is the question on most people's lips. As I was out canvassing with my dad and his collegues yesterday and today, I came away rather perplexed and very frustrated.

People had no concept that this isn't a general election, there's no way to vote the ruling party out and anyway, who else is there? Fine Gael are more right wing and anti-gay rights (they say they support them but it's rather dubious, they've no plans to impliment it like Fianna Fáil will attempt in a few years if they're still in power).

The response is all very confusing. Some people, while admitting they're unhappy and disillusioned with the current administration, they promised my dad a vote- they know he's at local level, a groundworker if you like, and has no say, sway or influence at national level. He can't do anything about national policies etc. Others flat out refused to vote at all since they think it might be worse having anyone else in power but they refuse to vote for them anyway.

Someone, a nurse, asked him if she voted for him what he would do about the health service. I jumped in and said "I'm sorry, local elections have nothing to do with anything at a national level- that's a different ball game. This is simply electing a politician who can take care of the local community. My father- and all his other collegues- can do nothing about the current situation or anything at all on that par but-" she interrupted me and was, by this time, so angered I just let her talk.

My father looked proud, as I'd controlled myself and said it politely, rather than jumping on the woman and tearing her bleeding pieces with pure frustration. She didn't listen, or didn't care, and badgered him rudely about the state of the health service. I thought, Jesus, people just don't seem to get it. So Dad just let it go and walked away. All that woman wanted was a fight and trying to provoke him hadn't worked, the only thing that resulted was that her lack of abiliy to get a rise out of him made her even angrier.

Today however was different, a lot of people around the borders of the boglands assured my father a vote because they knew all the work he had done and is doing, regardless of his allegiance to any particular party.

I'm hoping it goes well but as I said, it's very difficult to gauge the response.

Here's hoping!

Sullen Boy

It seems my time has run out. I must beg my parents for rent money again this month, by Monday- and I have decided this time is the final time. I have inevitably decided to withdraw from the city. I can no longer survive here, not this way. Not without a secure, well paying job which I do not have. So I am doing what seems to be the best thing to do: I'm going to pack my shit and leave by the end of the month probably.

My housemate, to whom we all give the rent, is not frustrated with my inability to pay rent on time but I am, and my constant struggles with money and I'm sick of not having any. I'm sick of not being able to survive. I'm sick of the struggle, of being constantly hungry and feeling guilty about eating and mostly, I'm very, very tired.

Moving back to Kildare has many implications, it means not seeing my friends very often, it does mean however that I shall have to commute to work every morning, but seeing how I will no longer be paying rent or bills, or food even probably, I can afford €50 a week I think. It also means having to travel to Dublin every few months for my sessions with my psychiatrist which I don't mind since he is worth it and I trust him.

My life has been up here for the past three and a half years. To go back there now, to nothing, when all my friends are now in the city, is, to me, an extremely depressing prospect- but what other choice do I have? I have failed to find a significantly well paid job that could afford to have me continue living here, in this city that I love so.

It is the right choice, it is the only choice, but why then must it feel so much like my doom?

What a literary agent said, RE: 'The Bridge.'

"The Bridge is moving, part prose, part poetry... the story of a woman on the edge, haunted by her past and the people she cannot forget... As you can see from the Reader's Report included we found 'The Bridge' to be a work of considerable merit that had many things in its favour, not least of all the emotional weight of the narrative and what we deemed to be a work of possible social interest....

...Assia Miller is not an easy character for the reader to warm to, self-absorbed and emotionally bereft... you did quite well with this - as her pain becomes clearer, it seems that her fate becomes inevitable but not entirely - a good characterisation.... there is consistent quality of language for instance, particularly liked the last scenes of the novel; taught, controlled and utterly surprising, nothing is let loose a second too soon - shows good skill, excellent use of suspense, if we can use an example from our reader's report again:

"...[this book] leaves quite an impression after the final page. Written mostly in the present tense, the author instils a sense of constant anxiety in the reader akin to that which his characters are experiencing as the action spirals ever onwards, continuing on an unpredictable and erratic journey to a destination unknown. However, some tweaking is definitely needed, perhaps editing out of several dead-ends in the narrative which are never quite followed upon etc..."

As mentioned, there are elements lacking, mostly there is certainly a stronger need for something more concrete to grab the reader's attention between chapters 1-3- we recommend heavier editing and perhaps additional inserts in the areas outlined.

We did feel, Lorcan, that you dealt with the issue of mental illness honestly and directly and were certainly not afraid of tackling this huge and frightening subject head-on, which is commendable in someone your age. Like the physical structure, 'The Bridge' has many levels and was rather cleverly constructed... and whilst we felt this is a commendable effort as a first novel, I'm afraid more work is needed. On that note I'm sorry to say we will not be pursuing this piece just yet.

I hope this information and advice proves of some value to you. Obviously due to the vast number of submissions we receive on a daily basis, a detailed reply such as this is rare, and indeed, we would welcome the opportunity to review your work in the future so do not be entirely disheartened. This isn't a personal reaction, and I regret that I do not have more positive news at this time. Do continue with your writing, and we wish you the very best of luck.

Best wishes

A. Kehoe..."

When I Get Low, I Get High...

Things have altered completely. I have gone from wildy depressed to exceedingly hypomanic. Having slept three out of the previous seventy-two hours I spent most of my time calling friends at all hours, talking for hours, sometimes leaving upwards of six or seven messages on their machines, blasting my stereo (through my headphones though thankfully) at all hours, and shopping online for Sofia's birthday present... along with presents- many presents- for myself. And others. I spent such a frightening amount of money my mother agreed to let me use her credit card so as to keep myself out of debt. However even my current account is minus 200 euro (thank god for overdrafts) into which well over half of my wages shall sink on Thursday.

In one week I bought one designer brown leather laptop bag, one Diesel top, a pair of jeans, a pair of designer shoes and for Sofia I bought several antique Tibetan jade bracelets, a silver bracelet, a jade ring and several random Netsuke items along with an elaborately carved jewelry box as a thank you to my mother for her help and a vintage Tibetan craven silver cigarette case for my father. All of these items I have paid for (in a rather feverishly gleeful state I might add) and it has left me penniless. I have no idea how I shall make the rent this month.

My father's re-election campaign is in serious jeopardy due to the loss of support for the government. Goverment support now stands at an alarming 11%. His party will be the reason for his possible risk of failure in these elections. The only thing that stands in his favour is his own publicly stated unhappiness with the actions of the current administration (he even released a statement condemning their policies in the last two years, he and his collegues together) and his enduring, even in these unsteady times, popularity with the local people who I hope shall remember and repay their debt for his hard work on their behalf. Politics I know is fickle and people are even worse, shall they remember his work, or will the fact that that stupid party logo which must go on his election posters be his downfall?

June is coming, we shall see. I have gone from severely depressed, even almost suicidal to being manic in a state of a week. I am hoping this means I might now slip back down into normality again. One should hope so...

The Long & Winding Road

I sat in my doctor's office, fumbling with my fingers and explaining how things had not been going very well for me lately; my hours having been cut, my pay therefore decreased and my mood slipping into depression rather steadily. Although I admitted too that I was still functioning exceptionally well given my usually dour mood. Some days, I told him, I felt perfectly optimistic- even so much as to say I was happy-go-lucky -but most days I was in dire straits.

"Any suicidal thoughts?" he looked at me, narrowing his eyes over the rim of his slim glasses, mouth slightly ajar, pen poised over a blank page on my file.

"Yes, some," I conceeded. "Nothing serious- fleeting moments of weakness. 'Oh I don't feel like going to work, I wish I was dead. Why not take an overdose? Oh I missed the last tram- why not take an overdose? Oh I'm penniless- why not take an over-' do you see where I'm going? I would never seriously consider it. I'd only bloody make a mess..."

"-For the people left behind? Right," he nodded gently.
"No," I said, "I'd make a mess because I'd probably fail! Could you imagine the humiliation? And yes, of course, for my family. They'd be distraught."

I cut straight to something I didn't want to keenly admit: when things get bad, sometimes, yes, I consider opting out of the entire awful human rat race. It's a terrible thing to admit, but at least I'm being honest. Plenty of depressives I know, and especially manic-depressives think this way occasionally- we just don't admit to it openly. Why am I admitting to it so honestly? Because if I can make more people aware of how close to suicide people can be, especially former suicides, then I'm doing something worth doing.

Sometimes people get better and then, suddenly, they're found dead with their veins cut open and dozens of bottles of pills by their side. He/She was doing so well, what happened? Why did she suddenly kill herself?

Failed suicides are never that far from death. It clings to us, it's something which knows us intimately. Al Alvarez in his book, The Savage God: A Study of Suicide, reckons it is the failure to complete the act which leaves a fascination with death, a feeling of incompleteness, a subconscious desire to complete the act, they feel they've only been partially used "and wish to be used more fully." That's slightly out of context but it applies to what I feel and what I mean.

Can you imagine having such a strong, unbearable desire to no longer live? If you could for a moment imagine being in such pain, just emotional pain that nothing- nothing -is worth staying alive for, in an existence where such intense, immense, caustic pain which cannot be endurable is possible to occur and reoccur, why live? Why force yourself to experience much more than you can take?

So imagine then failing to die, after wishing it so intensely. Then you are gradually helped back to health, assuming you are, and you continue living, maybe even with the zest and lust for life you once lacked so extremely. Consider being plunged back into another black, desperate despair... what is your natural inclination? Suicide. End it before it gets worse, why live a life pitted with so much pain and despair? Depression not only alters mood but thought processes too. The very way in which the mind opperates and interprets the surrounding environment and outter/inner stimuli changes to a negative way of operating. It causes immense psychological change.

So of course failed suicides resort to their former thought processes when under extreme stress and depression. I've undergone it enough times to know when, how and why, but for me, at the moment I've still had the sense to say Wait, no this isn't right. I don't really want to die.

Sadly though, sometimes, some do. We just need to reach those particular people before they reach that tragic point...

And I Rode Alongside You, 'Til You Lost Me There On the Open Road...

From an Unsendable Letter:

"Dear Louis,

Words escape me. What use is language in the face of loss? Could you ever possibly have thought it could have ended like this? People have used the words "tragic" and "potential" in the same sympathetic breath to me in conversation.

You left me one day in Autumn. Though at first we wrote each other often, eventually the letters stopped going and stopped coming. A whole continent apart now, we had finally drifted beyond each other. I must admit I regretted it only for a short time before life swept me up in its busy current and I continued on the way I had been before. My heart lightened, I forgot you, completely it seemed until on day walking through Trinity with a friend I thought I saw you, I walked closer, and did it fact see you. I also saw the way you moved toward the other guy, how you interacted and stayed close by each other. I chose not to interrupt. Time I figured had moved on, and both of us with it.

I never thought things would end up this way. When we first met I never thought you would become a bittersweet memory for me. Bitter because we drove each other up the goddamn wall, and sweet because well, the memories still somehow are... What galls worst of all, is that I can never tell you this. I still don't know where we went wrong, I never understood you or tried to. When you're young you never think those things matter. I wish I could tell you that you did matter to me, though you might not have believed it. I wish I could send this.

I wish more I could say it..."

Night out...

From left to right: Fernando, Alex & me














Fernando


















Grzegorz











From left to right: Me, Amanda, and Amanda's friend.













From left to right: Brian, me, Eduardo & Doug

















From left to right: Doug & Eduardo

Conjuring

"Lonely spell to conjure you, but conjure hell is all I do..."

Days go by, stars glitter and disperse night after night and still nothing has changed except my mood. Despite the loneliness, despite the nights out partying with friends, despite everything that is good and despite my generally optimistic moods I am wallowing in loneliness. However, on the contrary, I'm not looking for anyone to love. I find that below me (can I admit that? Is that not too vain?...) and rather disencouraging.

I have accepted the fact that G and I can never be, and will not. We are better friends, and so the saga comes to an end, it is buried where I have buried it deep down and shall not be resurrected. He has happiness and I cannot wish to take that from him, nor would I want to.

I went out with Justine for a bottle of wine the other night and had an absolute blast with her and my friends, whom she really liked. We took many, many photographs and had a good laugh. I ran into Doug and later, Eduardo.

The weeks are passing, time, actually, is passing and what am I doing with it? I'm living yes, barely being paid for my work, unable to find an agent who is thoroughly enthusiastic about 'The Bridge', though all are saying it is well written and promising, but the opening chapters fail to "grab" them enough to persue. I need to rewrite it somehow but find myself blocked.

Perhaps I'll let the ideas germinate in my mind for a while, and continue to live and let time pass...

The Beginning...

As arranged I set off into town to do three things this morning; first: cash in my savings scheme cheque at the GPO, and then head across river to the SoDa area to meet Matus and borrow that €150.00 off him for my meds and finally, to meet my half-sister (Let's call her... "Jenn") for the first time.

I stood on the corner of lower Grafton street in my slim, flattering black trousers and flimsy light grey hoodie, hands shoved deep into the pockets of my leather jacket, my feet tapping the damp concrete beneath my feet in the cold. Finally I see him striding toward me. I'm craving a cigarette again. We agree then, to have a quick coffee in Léon where he passes the money over the table. I take it and it disappears into a zip pocket of my jacket. I want to run in shame, but do not. I smile genuinely. We chat about our lives, animatedly, laughing, smiling and genuinely enjoying each other's company, the awkwardness of our break-up now evidently a thing of the past, though we both need space. I thanked him again, for letting me borrow from him, to which he kindly said "Please stop thanking me." I blushed and we rose from the small table, headng out the door onto the street and a sky threatening rain.

I was five minutes late to meet my sister Jenn. I walked quickly toward South Anne Street and walked into the old Victorian building. I asked for the social worker Jenn had been dealing with, who was very friendly and led me from the empty waiting room full only of a coffee table boasting magazines and eight chairs, winding their way around the walls of the room like sentries to the meeting room and I stepped inside, greeted by a large room, a dinning table of sturdy mohogany with matching square backed chairs in the middle of the room, two long sash windows letting in bright white light and before a large fireplace where four fashionable armchairs, and a girl, blonde, sat, looking similar to me. Jenn. Together I saw, we would be distingushable as blood relatives.

We were introduced, I smiled, she rose and we hugged immediately and both of us giggled uncontrollably before sitting back down facing each other over the low coffee table. We spoke for hours, the social worker very sweetly bringing up pot after pot of strong tea which we devoured along with the small bars of chocolate. I learned quite a lot. Both my parents had a volitile relationship (and by that I mean volitile on both sides) and both were manic-depressives, the illness I inherited from them.

Jenn was lively, talkative and we were both relieved to feel very relaxed around each other right away, we clicked instantly, our sense of humour being almost exactly similar to the other's. We look alike around the eyes and nose, all five of us having quite nice eyes and yes, high foreheads. Unusually there are a string of coincidences tying us all together...

Mine are simply that the day before I found out that I had four biological half-siblings, all adopted, I had lunch outside the place where Jenn worked. Second coincidence is simply that Jenn comes into the art shop I work in regularly enough, and yet we never managed to recognise the other (having a the time only seen photographs). Both of us were taught musical instruments but were both kicked out of our respective music schools for wayward behaviour. Both of us are very creative, indeed all of us are. My parent's once lived in Springfield, which is also near where our eldest brother lived at one point. Our eldet sister once lived around the corner from our biological uncle, who was frequently visited by our biological mother, and Jenn herself used to work across the river from where I used to live.

All rather amusing. In the end we swapped emails and general contact info and sadly, parted. I would've been willing to talk to her all day and grill her over the details, silly trivial things that writer's generally find useful but might, all at once, seem like odd questions to anyone else, but simply aid me to build a larger, more vast and comprehensive picture of the person in my mind; favourite colours, movies, music, books etc. Influences and likes, dislikes, pet peeves you name it, I'd love to know it. And you know what the best thing is? I have all the time in the world to find it all out.

How exciting, what a major rush this has become! This is a whole, brave new chapter. I'm ready to turn the metaphorical page...