It really doesn't matter if you do it on your own or get some help, whether paid or voluntary. Moving house is exhausting, stressful, dirty, endless, sad. Here are some thoughts from a battle-hardened Queenie, who has two moves in less than twelve months under her belt.
Superquinn reuseable shopping bags are the greatest invention known to man. You can tip the contents of your bedside locker into one. You can tip the contents of your bathroom cabinet into another. You can tip the contents of the drawer for miscellaneous items into a third. And bingo - the most annoying part of packing is done. When you get to your new place, just tip them back in. Voila. Everything is where it should be and you still can't find it.
Having long dark hair is the most useless invention known to man. It gets EVERYWHERE. I have spent all day picking dead bits of myself off the floors, the bath, the kitchen, the bottom of my wardrobe, the underside of my couch, the mattress, in front of the mirror where I dry my hair............ no wonder I'm thin, I must use all my bioenergy replacing lost hair.
Clean is relative. I thought my apartment was clean (well I gave it the Queenie version of a good clean the other day, but I knew in my heart that I was fooling myself). That was before I met my tenant's mother yesterday. Who spent an hour telling me how clean and neat her girl was. So I had another look this morning, and I am a slattern. A filthy wench. I really am. I cannot believe I have never poisoned a house guest, or murdered a small child with germs. No wonder I'm so healthy, I am probably cultivating my own forms of 'good' bacteria.
So I had to clean the place again. The moral of the story being, try not to be a slattern. And if that's not possible, don't clean until you are actually on your way out the door.
The only way to get teabags stains off a stainless steel sink is with chemicals that give you a rash on your hands because you've already thrown out your last pair of Marigolds.
The best way to move is to engage in short frenetic bursts of activity followed by periods sitting on the sofa drinking tea and not thinking about what has to be done next. When you are rested, the next task will come to the forefront of your mind automatically. Any other methodology will render you a gibbering wreck. As I demonstrated yesterday while trying to finish it all off by seven o'clock.
Cleaning fridges is the most boring activity on the planet. At least when you're doing the oven, there's the whole 'stand back, wear goggles, don't inhale' drama of the mousse. Why don't they just make fridges in a nice rust colour, which is the colour of all the stains in mine? Sooooo much yesterday's Indian...........
The only way to figure out whether everything will fit in your car is to actually PUT the stuff in the car. No amount of lazyman measuring will sort this out for you.
Madonna is the best cleaning music. Followed by Moby.
Don't answer the phone when you're packing. It won't be an offer of help. It will be an enquiry as to how you are getting on by yourself. If you ignore this crucial piece of advice and do answer the phone, don't lose the plot with the person on the other end. They are not moving house and do not understand the strain you are under and are ringing you because they are nice. Not because they have been put on this earth to drive you insane.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Saturday, May 28, 2005
So, what's the plan Queenie?
Damned if I know, but there have been a lot of requests for some kind of briefing. If this was a work thing, the Canada plan would be the extremely argumentative point I’ve been making at staff meetings for the last four months in order to wind everyone up, to the extent that they have finally ganged up on me and asked for a paper on it.
So, because I am a good civil servant, even though I have to stop being that now, I feel I should crystallise my thinking and write it. And of course if I do, and get in ahead of everyone else and argue my point coherently, I might progress one of my ideas. Which is of course the whole point of being a policy analyst. Or so I think anyway. And I reckon my peers all agree, which is why so many of us are frustrated. Which is why I’m leaving. But that’s another story entirely.
So yes, the plan. Well, you see therein lies the problem. Because an analyst needs time to think things through. And in today’s age of high productivity, sitting around thinking is not quantifiable and is therefore unproductive. It's all about participation, yes, lots of meetings so everyone can quantify their input and fuck the outputs. But that's another story entirely.
It always amazes me the way that people expect coherent, workable solutions to extremely complex problems and at the same time don’t allow you to sit around and think about what to do. How else are you expected to come up with a solution?
Anyway, the plan. Yes. Well, currently, there are a number of plans, or ideas. And really what you should do is give me some seed funding, and let me run a pilot, so I can figure out what works. But of course, there are budgetary constraints (Why is that, by the way? We’re loaded, aren’t we? Is there something they’re not telling us?). But to give them their due, they have decided I can do a pilot, and they will graciously allow me to take time out from being a responsible adult to engage in these pilots. But only on the understanding that I pay for it myself.
And I said yes to this deal??????????????????????
I am a muppet.
No I’m not. I chucked in my job and that in itself is something everyone should do at least once in their lives. I heartily recommend it. I've done it four times. You wouldn’t believe the type of people who slide up to you and shake your hand when you do it. We are legion. Even amongst the powerclass. But that's another story entirely.
Anyway, the plan. Well, there’s a chronological plan, that involves a week in Toronto, a week in Kingston, a couple of days in Montreal, the train down to Halifax NS, a couple of weeks in Wolfville, down to Digby to see the whales and then back to Halifax to get a job for the summer. Then down to Katharine’s wedding, at which point I will consult with my team (ie my friends) as to what I should do next. I am assuming I will have some options for them to consider. As far as I’m concerned, this is an extremely workable plan, but it takes time to explain, so most people’s eyes glaze over after Montreal. So I need a sentence that describes what I’m doing.
I’ve been trying. I’ve made quite a few speeches about this in the last few weeks. But none of them have worked. I’m finding it quite difficult to explain why I’m doing this, even though I know why. I just haven’t found the formula of words to describe it. And I'm damned if I'm going to spend three months developing a model of nine interlocking characteristics, which flow into five key challenges, which illuminate another five strategic priorities, which manifest themselves into forty two key recommendations, none of which have been costed (apart from the childcare one, which the Labour party just costed at one billion, which is probably conservative, except for it is not a cost, just a transfer of wealth, which of course we CAN'T have in this country. But that's another story entirely.)
So here are some sentences:
I am going to Canada because it is unusual to do it at my age, and I like doing unusual things.
I am going to Canada because they gave me a work permit.
I am going to Canada because it has a beautiful wilderness that I need to see.
I am going to Canada because I have this idea in my head that I might be able to write if I can switch off all the distractions, and I think that I might be able to do it there, if I go up the right cul de sac.
I am going to Canada because they are the world experts on partnership and I might find some idea over there that I can bring back to Ireland and persuade my colleagues about.
I am going to Canada because I cannot work for the public service in Ireland until after the next election. Because nothing is going to get done for the next two years. And I will go mad if I have to do another report.
I am going to Canada because I don’t know anyone there and I can reinvent myself if I want to, although I don’t think I will, because I like my current manifestation.
I am going to Canada because it is closer to the real centre of power in the world, and I am tired of operating in a small backwater, run by male pissheads. Who listen to me because I'm pretty, not because I am a serious operator.
I am going to Canada because it sounds like a place where you can have no money and still be dignified. Unlike Ireland, where choosing a low income lifestyle means you are a loser.
Which is bollocks by the way.
I am going to Canada because I might be able to find a business idea to take home and make work.
I am going to Canada because it is an easy exit strategy, and once I’m there, I don’t have to worry about coming home if I don’t want to.
That's all I can think of at the moment.
So there you go. There’s the plan at present.
If this was a work context, I would present this myriad of options to a committee, which wouldn’t have time to read any of them, and so would agree to let me choose one. Which it would then disagree with. But then, that’s what all groups of people do.
So I will choose one. At some point. The interesting part of this pilot is that there is no deadline, so I can do whatever I want. The only benefit of self-funded pilots. But not insubstantial (Damian - this sentence is for you by the way)
Which, if I remain true to my nature, will result in me imposing a deadline on myself. I will try not to do this this time, because the real reason I am going to Canada is to see whether it is possible to break the old routines and work on your strengths/ weaknesses so you can start using them to achieve different things.
Anyways, I’ll see you all in Vermont in September. Or in Canada at some point.
So, because I am a good civil servant, even though I have to stop being that now, I feel I should crystallise my thinking and write it. And of course if I do, and get in ahead of everyone else and argue my point coherently, I might progress one of my ideas. Which is of course the whole point of being a policy analyst. Or so I think anyway. And I reckon my peers all agree, which is why so many of us are frustrated. Which is why I’m leaving. But that’s another story entirely.
So yes, the plan. Well, you see therein lies the problem. Because an analyst needs time to think things through. And in today’s age of high productivity, sitting around thinking is not quantifiable and is therefore unproductive. It's all about participation, yes, lots of meetings so everyone can quantify their input and fuck the outputs. But that's another story entirely.
It always amazes me the way that people expect coherent, workable solutions to extremely complex problems and at the same time don’t allow you to sit around and think about what to do. How else are you expected to come up with a solution?
Anyway, the plan. Yes. Well, currently, there are a number of plans, or ideas. And really what you should do is give me some seed funding, and let me run a pilot, so I can figure out what works. But of course, there are budgetary constraints (Why is that, by the way? We’re loaded, aren’t we? Is there something they’re not telling us?). But to give them their due, they have decided I can do a pilot, and they will graciously allow me to take time out from being a responsible adult to engage in these pilots. But only on the understanding that I pay for it myself.
And I said yes to this deal??????????????????????
I am a muppet.
No I’m not. I chucked in my job and that in itself is something everyone should do at least once in their lives. I heartily recommend it. I've done it four times. You wouldn’t believe the type of people who slide up to you and shake your hand when you do it. We are legion. Even amongst the powerclass. But that's another story entirely.
Anyway, the plan. Well, there’s a chronological plan, that involves a week in Toronto, a week in Kingston, a couple of days in Montreal, the train down to Halifax NS, a couple of weeks in Wolfville, down to Digby to see the whales and then back to Halifax to get a job for the summer. Then down to Katharine’s wedding, at which point I will consult with my team (ie my friends) as to what I should do next. I am assuming I will have some options for them to consider. As far as I’m concerned, this is an extremely workable plan, but it takes time to explain, so most people’s eyes glaze over after Montreal. So I need a sentence that describes what I’m doing.
I’ve been trying. I’ve made quite a few speeches about this in the last few weeks. But none of them have worked. I’m finding it quite difficult to explain why I’m doing this, even though I know why. I just haven’t found the formula of words to describe it. And I'm damned if I'm going to spend three months developing a model of nine interlocking characteristics, which flow into five key challenges, which illuminate another five strategic priorities, which manifest themselves into forty two key recommendations, none of which have been costed (apart from the childcare one, which the Labour party just costed at one billion, which is probably conservative, except for it is not a cost, just a transfer of wealth, which of course we CAN'T have in this country. But that's another story entirely.)
So here are some sentences:
I am going to Canada because it is unusual to do it at my age, and I like doing unusual things.
I am going to Canada because they gave me a work permit.
I am going to Canada because it has a beautiful wilderness that I need to see.
I am going to Canada because I have this idea in my head that I might be able to write if I can switch off all the distractions, and I think that I might be able to do it there, if I go up the right cul de sac.
I am going to Canada because they are the world experts on partnership and I might find some idea over there that I can bring back to Ireland and persuade my colleagues about.
I am going to Canada because I cannot work for the public service in Ireland until after the next election. Because nothing is going to get done for the next two years. And I will go mad if I have to do another report.
I am going to Canada because I don’t know anyone there and I can reinvent myself if I want to, although I don’t think I will, because I like my current manifestation.
I am going to Canada because it is closer to the real centre of power in the world, and I am tired of operating in a small backwater, run by male pissheads. Who listen to me because I'm pretty, not because I am a serious operator.
I am going to Canada because it sounds like a place where you can have no money and still be dignified. Unlike Ireland, where choosing a low income lifestyle means you are a loser.
Which is bollocks by the way.
I am going to Canada because I might be able to find a business idea to take home and make work.
I am going to Canada because it is an easy exit strategy, and once I’m there, I don’t have to worry about coming home if I don’t want to.
That's all I can think of at the moment.
So there you go. There’s the plan at present.
If this was a work context, I would present this myriad of options to a committee, which wouldn’t have time to read any of them, and so would agree to let me choose one. Which it would then disagree with. But then, that’s what all groups of people do.
So I will choose one. At some point. The interesting part of this pilot is that there is no deadline, so I can do whatever I want. The only benefit of self-funded pilots. But not insubstantial (Damian - this sentence is for you by the way)
Which, if I remain true to my nature, will result in me imposing a deadline on myself. I will try not to do this this time, because the real reason I am going to Canada is to see whether it is possible to break the old routines and work on your strengths/ weaknesses so you can start using them to achieve different things.
Anyways, I’ll see you all in Vermont in September. Or in Canada at some point.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Enough with the bloke stuff already
Okay boys and girls, Queenie has had enough!
She knows you all mean well, she knows she probably brought it on herself by writing a blogpost about dating, but she has one nerve left and you are all getting on it.
So before you say "Ah sure, you'll meet some bloke over there and get married", or "Are you off to get yourself a Mountie", or heckle her about going to get a man when she's trying to say goodbye at a party, or make jokes about lumberjacks, or send her pictures of Canadian men, or whatever, consider the following:
Qeenie is snowed under an avalanche of these comments. Your comment, while obviously meant to be a JOKE, does on one level imply that Queenie is in some way incomplete without a man. Your comment implies that Queenie is in some way lonely or unhappy without a man. Or should be, anyway. Your comment implies that Queenie's life is less satisfying or interesting than it could be with a man. Your comment implies that Queenie feels this in some way, and is tearing up all her roots and tracking halfway across the world purely to get a man.
Queenie doesn't know why she's going to Canada, but at the moment, she feels it might be to get away from the sympathetic comments about her single status.
Maybe Queenie is getting up on her high horse here, but she feels incredibly undermined by these feelings. All these years of being financially and emotionally independent, of being able to live successfully on her own, which Queenie considers to be the greatest achievement of her life to date, appears to be "despite being single", in other words a failure, in the eyes of almost everyone she knows.
Is she mad to be thinking this?
The fact that she is intermittently mad is beside the point.
The second last nerve snapped recently, when she had to endure a lecture on her lack of flirting ability (and how she should work on it in Canada) from a married man who would run away with her tomorrow if she gave him the nod. Which she won't. Ever. Comprendez? She's not that kind of girl. Well, not anymore anyways!
Queenie knows how to flirt, no better woman actually, but she doesn't engage in the sport anymore because it gets her into all kinds of trouble. Man trouble mostly.
Although some of the happiest times of Queenie's life have been spent in the company, of one kind or another, of a man, ALL of the loneliest, the scariest, the unhappiest, the angriest, the most boring, the most unfulfilled, the most depressing, the most violent, the most abusive, the most confusing, the most disappointing, the most frustrating, or the all-round most empty-inside times of Queenie's life have been the result of her having a relationship, of one kind or another, with a man.
Having said that, lest you all think she's an embittered old hag, Queenie would like to point out that she loves men. Anyone who knows her knows that. And she knows that mostly these times were caused by her brain dribbling out her ear and down her low-cut top and the poor decision-making that consequently took place. And she doesn't hold any grudges against men. Far from it! And any trust issues she might have are mostly concerned with her own judgement in these matters!
Queenie is a very high maintenance Alpha chick. There have been a few men who have taken her on and she will always be glad that they did. No matter how it ended. And maybe there will be some more some time. Who knows? Who cares? Queenie had a party last weekend and that's it. You're not getting another day out, no matter what.
So come on, guys, with all the love in her heart for you that she has, Queenie would like to say "gimme a break".
Plus, Percy's getting a little agitated by the whole thing. Thinking is he not man enough for her.
Percy dude, you're all the man I need - Queenie
So many hostages to fortune, Queenie, so many. I can hear the whirr of printers all over the cyberworld - Percy
She knows you all mean well, she knows she probably brought it on herself by writing a blogpost about dating, but she has one nerve left and you are all getting on it.
So before you say "Ah sure, you'll meet some bloke over there and get married", or "Are you off to get yourself a Mountie", or heckle her about going to get a man when she's trying to say goodbye at a party, or make jokes about lumberjacks, or send her pictures of Canadian men, or whatever, consider the following:
Qeenie is snowed under an avalanche of these comments. Your comment, while obviously meant to be a JOKE, does on one level imply that Queenie is in some way incomplete without a man. Your comment implies that Queenie is in some way lonely or unhappy without a man. Or should be, anyway. Your comment implies that Queenie's life is less satisfying or interesting than it could be with a man. Your comment implies that Queenie feels this in some way, and is tearing up all her roots and tracking halfway across the world purely to get a man.
Queenie doesn't know why she's going to Canada, but at the moment, she feels it might be to get away from the sympathetic comments about her single status.
Maybe Queenie is getting up on her high horse here, but she feels incredibly undermined by these feelings. All these years of being financially and emotionally independent, of being able to live successfully on her own, which Queenie considers to be the greatest achievement of her life to date, appears to be "despite being single", in other words a failure, in the eyes of almost everyone she knows.
Is she mad to be thinking this?
The fact that she is intermittently mad is beside the point.
The second last nerve snapped recently, when she had to endure a lecture on her lack of flirting ability (and how she should work on it in Canada) from a married man who would run away with her tomorrow if she gave him the nod. Which she won't. Ever. Comprendez? She's not that kind of girl. Well, not anymore anyways!
Queenie knows how to flirt, no better woman actually, but she doesn't engage in the sport anymore because it gets her into all kinds of trouble. Man trouble mostly.
Although some of the happiest times of Queenie's life have been spent in the company, of one kind or another, of a man, ALL of the loneliest, the scariest, the unhappiest, the angriest, the most boring, the most unfulfilled, the most depressing, the most violent, the most abusive, the most confusing, the most disappointing, the most frustrating, or the all-round most empty-inside times of Queenie's life have been the result of her having a relationship, of one kind or another, with a man.
Having said that, lest you all think she's an embittered old hag, Queenie would like to point out that she loves men. Anyone who knows her knows that. And she knows that mostly these times were caused by her brain dribbling out her ear and down her low-cut top and the poor decision-making that consequently took place. And she doesn't hold any grudges against men. Far from it! And any trust issues she might have are mostly concerned with her own judgement in these matters!
Queenie is a very high maintenance Alpha chick. There have been a few men who have taken her on and she will always be glad that they did. No matter how it ended. And maybe there will be some more some time. Who knows? Who cares? Queenie had a party last weekend and that's it. You're not getting another day out, no matter what.
So come on, guys, with all the love in her heart for you that she has, Queenie would like to say "gimme a break".
Plus, Percy's getting a little agitated by the whole thing. Thinking is he not man enough for her.
Percy dude, you're all the man I need - Queenie
So many hostages to fortune, Queenie, so many. I can hear the whirr of printers all over the cyberworld - Percy
Friday, May 20, 2005
After Theo Van Gogh's Death
http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,1485350,00.html
Here's an article about Hirsi Ali, the Somalian woman who co-produced Submission, the short film about Muslim women that resulted in Theo VanGogh getting murdered in the Netherlands last year.
Ali is preparing to make Submission 2
Here's an article about Hirsi Ali, the Somalian woman who co-produced Submission, the short film about Muslim women that resulted in Theo VanGogh getting murdered in the Netherlands last year.
Ali is preparing to make Submission 2
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Today's Question
Is suing someone for hurt they caused you in the past a form of capital appropriation? Is it an appropriate method for transferring capital between the classes? And is litigation a class-based issue generally?
Or is Queenie talking through her butt? She was thinking about this last night when she was supposed to be writing Percy's blog.
Or is Queenie talking through her butt? She was thinking about this last night when she was supposed to be writing Percy's blog.
Monday, May 16, 2005
SONNET 96
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Tears, yes, and some violins, but mostly dancing!
Queenie decided to make a playlist for herself and burn it for the laydeez coming to lunch on Saturday. Jeez, it’s hard work. First you gotta find the right toons, then you gotta put them in the right order, then you gotta delete one, because you’ve gone over the 70MB, then you gotta go out and buy the cd roms, then you gotta write out all the little cards and burn all the discs….. she reckons the music industry has nothing to worry about. Nobody has the time for this, surely.
Anyways, she’s burning and listening now so she thought she’d tell you why she likes these songs.
She also CANNOT do the third person for another second, so the rest of this is in the first person. I’m at home. I scored really low on Finisher in the Belbin, okay. Just leave me alone.
1. Smog: Hit the Ground Running
Well, you’ve got to start with your tongue in your cheek, don’t you.
I had to le-e-e-eave the country! Although there were some nice folks there.
I like Smog, even though he’s a humourless bastard. He gives it to you straight, with none of that ideological rubbish Billy Bragg goes on with. Gosh I am sick to death of being lectured at by political junkies.
But you is one - Percy.
Not any more, dude.
A bitter man rots from within – how true!
And I love the children’s choir in this, so deadpan. Reminds me of that awful choir I was in when I was young, the Choirmaster was THE choirmaster, if you know what I mean!!
2. Bloc Party: Positive Tension
This is from one of only two good albums (new albums) I spent my hard-earned on this year. The other one being Push the Button. Although Bloc Party's Irish gig in Whelans recently was deemed disappointing by my mainstream music guru. As opposed to my obscure music gurus. Who are legion.
This is my favourite song on the album. Great energy. Really camp without being too much.
Something glorious is about to happen! Damn right it is.
3. Badly Drawn Boy: Another Devil Dies
I had to think about this song for a long time. And I moved it around a lot. I don’t really like BDB, he’s a bit twee for me. But this is not twee. It is such a bitchy song. And really insightful. And I know the laydeez like him. So this is for them.
It seems like we’ve weathered the storm. Without having the privilege of calm.
I can relate to that. Can you?
4. Jefferson Airplane: Coming back to me
From the kooky Surrealistic Pillow album, which I only discovered recently. Via a film I love. It’s called The Indian Runner, directed by Sean Penn, which is based on a Bruce Springsteen song that I also really love, called Highway Patrolman. It’s on Nebraska. It’s about a man who lost his farm and had to be a cop, and his relationship with his brother who is a bad un. One memorable night in Springtown a couple of Christmasses ago, I was at a party and two of my friends played the Springsteen song. Out of the blue.
So every time I hear this song, I think of The Indian Runner, then I think of Bruce Springsteen, then I think of that party. Not quite what the airplane had in mind when they wrote it. Never mind, it’s my song now.
5. Alicia Keys: Butterflyz
I wasn’t expecting to have something like this on the playlist. I rarely listen to R n B. But whenever I do, I really like it. It must be my secret shame, like Wattser and musicals….. what is that about?
I love songs that say Baaaaaaby that way. I’d love to be able to do that, but it’s too rich for my blood. This is a great song.
This is for Polly. Because she could sing it if she wanted to.
6. Basement Jaxx: Being with you
This song interrupts the last one in a very annoying way, which I didn’t know how to fix.
I love BJ, I have all their albums. I saw them when I went to Glastonbury and they always remind me of that weekend. More of that anon.
But I chose this song, which is not really their style, because it reminds me of a Kool and the Gang moment I had when I was sixteen. And I don’t have any KATG.
I was on some summer cultural trip like a Gaeltacht, only with sunshine, in a little village in the North of France and I met two Dutch blokes who invited me back to their tent for a cup of tea. So I went. I was only sixteen. Well, we sat there and made a little fire. And they made me a cup of tea. And played me KATG. And then they drove me back to my hostel. And the guy who was in charge of the trip was waiting for me outside the hostel with two gendarmes.
I still fail to see what was so terrible about the situation. I’m an excellent judge of character.
7. Kevin Shields: City Girl
Kevin used to keep chihuahas. Did you know that? This is for Elmo. And Elmo’s mammy. And her mammy. Who is also my mammy.
8. David Gray: Please forgive me
Please indulge me. I’m a hopeless romantic. And he played on every stage in Glastonbury that weekend. Bless him. He must have hated this song by the end of it. I wonder what he’s doing now. Falling like a stone into someone’s eyes, no doubt.
I love a bit of mystery. All women do. Unfortunately, it’s all in our head. Never mind. We can just make it up.
9. The Waterboys: Glastonbury Song
Aaah, the lads!
That was a stormer of a gig I went to in the Olympia last year. The best gig I was at for a long time. It was a night back in Galway again.
Galway…………..! Do you remember all those weekends…. Hitching down from Maynooth, with all the dodgy guys in beamers? Occasionally you’d get a lorry driver. And he’d feed you. Bliss! And it was always pissing rain when you got into Eyre Square. And you had to walk miles to some manky pub with a load of NA Travellers and their smelly dogs. And then to Supermacs. And onto the Warwick, or the Oasis. And getting off with a cadet! Or a rugby player. And then trying to get rid of them the next morning. And we only ever had a tenner!
Why can’t it be like that again?
10. Bob Dylan: Forever Young
This song always, always, always reduces me to tears.
11. Mary Gauthier: Our Lady of the Shooting Stars
I only found this the other day in a Party Shuffle. It’s incredible. The guitar is great – I wonder is she playing. I presume she is.
I’ll hate it in a month.
Btw, it’s pronounced goshay. But you knew that, didn’t you.
Did I tell you I won a music pub quiz the other night? Well, I had a bit of help.
12. Everything but the Girl: Missing
Nearly as annoying as Badly Drawn Boy. Sentence bands. For fuck’s sake. We know you’re clever. You didn’t get where you are today with a tit job, now did you.
I really like the way they worked this up into a dance tune though. The original is torturous. I should know. I have all their albums.
But I needed a link song. You’ll understand in a minute.
13. Mercury Rev: Black Forest (Lorelei)
See? I think it works. Black Forest didn’t link into the Gauthier well enough. I had to ditch Solas though. I was really annoyed about that. I had What’s up with Win, which is a riotous sortie through the traditional Irish oeuvre. Which is what you want in a trad band. None of this introspective Clare fiddle crap that Martin Hayes has going on. Where you have to sit quietly at a gig.
Life’s too short not to talk at gigs. And to my shame, I told a young fella to shut up at the Rev gig. I’m mortified. But I got my comeuppance the other night. I was talking my way through a gig at Whelans, as I normally do, when a completely nutty guy standing two people away glared at me and told me to stay quiet. So I did. And it was so difficult. I know I talk a lot. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up now.
You can't go around the black forest, boys and girls, you have to go through. How true!
This is for Nadia.
14. God is an Astronaut: Route 666
I got this from Stevo. He gives me albums. In order for me to listen to them, which I’m very bad at. Which is why the party shuffle is really good, because I hear a song and then I go over to check out who it is. Real smart. I wonder who decided that had to be a feature. Probably someone with the attention span of a flea.
I went to see GIAA with Stevo and Eileen and it was a great gig. They had visuals of George Bush. It was very serious. Very early Floyd. I really enjoyed it. I love going to gigs with Eileen and Stevo. This is for them.
The album is called The End of the Beginning. Of course.
15. Orbital: One Perfect Sunrise
I’ve had so many. I’m really lucky. Going to have a few more shortly.
Sunrise at Macchu Piccu.
Sunrise in Los Llanos. On Lake Maracaibo.
Sunrise in Goa.
Sunrise in Connemara
Sunrise in Dun Laoghaire
Sunrise in Glasnevin
Sunrise in Springtown
Blue Album is my favourite album. I was going to put on Transient, but it's too sad.
I also managed to burn two CDs while that was on, due to it being so long.
16. Miracles
I don’t know the artist. Maybe someone can help me with it. I got it from a cd Mark gave me, which is entitled Firstborn – when it hits you can’t feel it. Which is intriguing.
I just love the guy’s enthusiasm. It’s infectious.
Mark says the name of the band is Firstborn and I should learn how to read my cd covers properly. So there you go, Miracles, by Firstborn, from the album When it Hits you You can't feel it.
17. Viggo Mortensen: To Sleep
To sleep. Perchance to dream.
What with the forthcoming change in time zone, I’ll be up when you’re all asleep. So I’ll be thinking of you all. Dreaming.
And he says it in this little poem so much better than I ever could.
Don’t you think?
Anyways, she’s burning and listening now so she thought she’d tell you why she likes these songs.
She also CANNOT do the third person for another second, so the rest of this is in the first person. I’m at home. I scored really low on Finisher in the Belbin, okay. Just leave me alone.
1. Smog: Hit the Ground Running
Well, you’ve got to start with your tongue in your cheek, don’t you.
I had to le-e-e-eave the country! Although there were some nice folks there.
I like Smog, even though he’s a humourless bastard. He gives it to you straight, with none of that ideological rubbish Billy Bragg goes on with. Gosh I am sick to death of being lectured at by political junkies.
But you is one - Percy.
Not any more, dude.
A bitter man rots from within – how true!
And I love the children’s choir in this, so deadpan. Reminds me of that awful choir I was in when I was young, the Choirmaster was THE choirmaster, if you know what I mean!!
2. Bloc Party: Positive Tension
This is from one of only two good albums (new albums) I spent my hard-earned on this year. The other one being Push the Button. Although Bloc Party's Irish gig in Whelans recently was deemed disappointing by my mainstream music guru. As opposed to my obscure music gurus. Who are legion.
This is my favourite song on the album. Great energy. Really camp without being too much.
Something glorious is about to happen! Damn right it is.
3. Badly Drawn Boy: Another Devil Dies
I had to think about this song for a long time. And I moved it around a lot. I don’t really like BDB, he’s a bit twee for me. But this is not twee. It is such a bitchy song. And really insightful. And I know the laydeez like him. So this is for them.
It seems like we’ve weathered the storm. Without having the privilege of calm.
I can relate to that. Can you?
4. Jefferson Airplane: Coming back to me
From the kooky Surrealistic Pillow album, which I only discovered recently. Via a film I love. It’s called The Indian Runner, directed by Sean Penn, which is based on a Bruce Springsteen song that I also really love, called Highway Patrolman. It’s on Nebraska. It’s about a man who lost his farm and had to be a cop, and his relationship with his brother who is a bad un. One memorable night in Springtown a couple of Christmasses ago, I was at a party and two of my friends played the Springsteen song. Out of the blue.
So every time I hear this song, I think of The Indian Runner, then I think of Bruce Springsteen, then I think of that party. Not quite what the airplane had in mind when they wrote it. Never mind, it’s my song now.
5. Alicia Keys: Butterflyz
I wasn’t expecting to have something like this on the playlist. I rarely listen to R n B. But whenever I do, I really like it. It must be my secret shame, like Wattser and musicals….. what is that about?
I love songs that say Baaaaaaby that way. I’d love to be able to do that, but it’s too rich for my blood. This is a great song.
This is for Polly. Because she could sing it if she wanted to.
6. Basement Jaxx: Being with you
This song interrupts the last one in a very annoying way, which I didn’t know how to fix.
I love BJ, I have all their albums. I saw them when I went to Glastonbury and they always remind me of that weekend. More of that anon.
But I chose this song, which is not really their style, because it reminds me of a Kool and the Gang moment I had when I was sixteen. And I don’t have any KATG.
I was on some summer cultural trip like a Gaeltacht, only with sunshine, in a little village in the North of France and I met two Dutch blokes who invited me back to their tent for a cup of tea. So I went. I was only sixteen. Well, we sat there and made a little fire. And they made me a cup of tea. And played me KATG. And then they drove me back to my hostel. And the guy who was in charge of the trip was waiting for me outside the hostel with two gendarmes.
I still fail to see what was so terrible about the situation. I’m an excellent judge of character.
7. Kevin Shields: City Girl
Kevin used to keep chihuahas. Did you know that? This is for Elmo. And Elmo’s mammy. And her mammy. Who is also my mammy.
8. David Gray: Please forgive me
Please indulge me. I’m a hopeless romantic. And he played on every stage in Glastonbury that weekend. Bless him. He must have hated this song by the end of it. I wonder what he’s doing now. Falling like a stone into someone’s eyes, no doubt.
I love a bit of mystery. All women do. Unfortunately, it’s all in our head. Never mind. We can just make it up.
9. The Waterboys: Glastonbury Song
Aaah, the lads!
That was a stormer of a gig I went to in the Olympia last year. The best gig I was at for a long time. It was a night back in Galway again.
Galway…………..! Do you remember all those weekends…. Hitching down from Maynooth, with all the dodgy guys in beamers? Occasionally you’d get a lorry driver. And he’d feed you. Bliss! And it was always pissing rain when you got into Eyre Square. And you had to walk miles to some manky pub with a load of NA Travellers and their smelly dogs. And then to Supermacs. And onto the Warwick, or the Oasis. And getting off with a cadet! Or a rugby player. And then trying to get rid of them the next morning. And we only ever had a tenner!
Why can’t it be like that again?
10. Bob Dylan: Forever Young
This song always, always, always reduces me to tears.
11. Mary Gauthier: Our Lady of the Shooting Stars
I only found this the other day in a Party Shuffle. It’s incredible. The guitar is great – I wonder is she playing. I presume she is.
I’ll hate it in a month.
Btw, it’s pronounced goshay. But you knew that, didn’t you.
Did I tell you I won a music pub quiz the other night? Well, I had a bit of help.
12. Everything but the Girl: Missing
Nearly as annoying as Badly Drawn Boy. Sentence bands. For fuck’s sake. We know you’re clever. You didn’t get where you are today with a tit job, now did you.
I really like the way they worked this up into a dance tune though. The original is torturous. I should know. I have all their albums.
But I needed a link song. You’ll understand in a minute.
13. Mercury Rev: Black Forest (Lorelei)
See? I think it works. Black Forest didn’t link into the Gauthier well enough. I had to ditch Solas though. I was really annoyed about that. I had What’s up with Win, which is a riotous sortie through the traditional Irish oeuvre. Which is what you want in a trad band. None of this introspective Clare fiddle crap that Martin Hayes has going on. Where you have to sit quietly at a gig.
Life’s too short not to talk at gigs. And to my shame, I told a young fella to shut up at the Rev gig. I’m mortified. But I got my comeuppance the other night. I was talking my way through a gig at Whelans, as I normally do, when a completely nutty guy standing two people away glared at me and told me to stay quiet. So I did. And it was so difficult. I know I talk a lot. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up now.
You can't go around the black forest, boys and girls, you have to go through. How true!
This is for Nadia.
14. God is an Astronaut: Route 666
I got this from Stevo. He gives me albums. In order for me to listen to them, which I’m very bad at. Which is why the party shuffle is really good, because I hear a song and then I go over to check out who it is. Real smart. I wonder who decided that had to be a feature. Probably someone with the attention span of a flea.
I went to see GIAA with Stevo and Eileen and it was a great gig. They had visuals of George Bush. It was very serious. Very early Floyd. I really enjoyed it. I love going to gigs with Eileen and Stevo. This is for them.
The album is called The End of the Beginning. Of course.
15. Orbital: One Perfect Sunrise
I’ve had so many. I’m really lucky. Going to have a few more shortly.
Sunrise at Macchu Piccu.
Sunrise in Los Llanos. On Lake Maracaibo.
Sunrise in Goa.
Sunrise in Connemara
Sunrise in Dun Laoghaire
Sunrise in Glasnevin
Sunrise in Springtown
Blue Album is my favourite album. I was going to put on Transient, but it's too sad.
I also managed to burn two CDs while that was on, due to it being so long.
16. Miracles
I don’t know the artist. Maybe someone can help me with it. I got it from a cd Mark gave me, which is entitled Firstborn – when it hits you can’t feel it. Which is intriguing.
I just love the guy’s enthusiasm. It’s infectious.
Mark says the name of the band is Firstborn and I should learn how to read my cd covers properly. So there you go, Miracles, by Firstborn, from the album When it Hits you You can't feel it.
17. Viggo Mortensen: To Sleep
To sleep. Perchance to dream.
What with the forthcoming change in time zone, I’ll be up when you’re all asleep. So I’ll be thinking of you all. Dreaming.
And he says it in this little poem so much better than I ever could.
Don’t you think?
Portentious news, or maybe just pretentious
Percy's new friend Paul (whom he met through Queenie, she'd like to point out) recently introduced him to Electrelane, who as you can see from the photo, are a band of minstrels very close to Percy's heart.
And now, comes the news that they are playing The Horse Shoe Tavern in Toronto the night Percy and Queenie arrive in Canada.
It must be a portent! Better consult Campbell, Percy!!
And now, comes the news that they are playing The Horse Shoe Tavern in Toronto the night Percy and Queenie arrive in Canada.
It must be a portent! Better consult Campbell, Percy!!
Nano-celebrity and all things mattressy. All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Five, Sunday
Sunday morning is the worst moment of ATP for this girl. Waking up after two nights of mayhem with a manky chalet and a whole 24 hours left to go. Uggghhh. The major clean up after party got going in fits and starts. Poor Dr. Aileen was finally succumbing to her chest infection. But it was a beautiful day, so Clare and Queenie hauled the divan mattress out onto the grass in the square and sat on it for the day.
Well, Queenie did. Krossie and Clare went swimming, went to the record sale, signed up for the pub quiz and did various activities that only made Queenie feel even more tired. She tried to write in her journal but having to listen to Luke singing along to the Bangles Eternal Flame, playing on an mp3 player, proved a little distracting. More squawking than Jabba getting molested by the local Capo cat.
Finally made it upstairs to see Jayne County. As she walked upstairs, a man in front of her was making a video of his walk into the room. Very New York. Jayne, who used to be Wayne, was great – lots of ranting about rightwingers and finished off with a version of California Uber Alles a la Arnold Schwarzeneggar. Thank God somebody else is interested in having a pop at right wing Americans this weekend.
Then we went downstairs to see Ted Curson. The biggest man at ATP. Elderly too, his bursts of energy had to be followed by regular little sit downs, but he had a great backing band supporting him and a super double bass player. He oozed love for his great friend, Vincent.
What is it about him? Vincent Gallo seems to be a right a prick, but we are all drawn to him anyway. Why is that? Is it because he seems to need us? That’s why people perform isn’t it – to reveal something about themselves in order to get our attention? Attention-seeking is something that everyone engages in, particularly at ATP. It’s a weekend where you can be a celebrity for a nanosecond, acccording to one of Queenie's room-mates.
Some people use their moment in the spotlight to say wise/ important things, but in some way, Queenie reckons they’re almost worse than mememememe pure attention seekers, because she’s never quite sure to what extent they believe their own agenda. Or whether it just works for them.
And why are we drawn to performers, anyway? Is it their vulnerability? People aren’t drawn to vulnerability in the people around them, they are drawn to strength. So why are we drawn to vulnerability in the famous?
Too many big questions… the point is, we’re all nano-celebrities this weekend.
The rest of the day was spent upstairs. Queenie rocked out to James Chance and the Contortions with the dance troupe from the chalet across the square. They seemed to be the oldest rockers in town. Apart from The Zombies, who followed them with pride. A quick look at their line up provided an explanation for the oobit outbreak – Zombie fan basic equipment maybe.
The live acts for ATP 2005 ended with Yoko Ono, who was supported by Vincent Gallo and her son Sean Lennon. As we waited for the gig, a woman handed out Onochord torches and a poem. The poem gave us instructions as to how to click out I-Love-You on the Onochord torch.
Photoflashes were banned, but Queenie got three off before she was politely asked to stop. Sorry Yoko. Politely asked to stop is so much nicer than getting hauled out of the venue by her hair, which is what would probably have happened Queenie if she had risked it in Ireland. Yet another reason why ATP is the nicest little festival in the world.
Yoko said: “I’m so tired, a twelve hour flight and then two more hours to get here”. Yeah well, so are we, Yoko. Three days of music and beer and lord knows what else.
Clare and Queenie ended up in the bar with the Pauls and some randoms and danced the night away, until it all faded to black around 4.30am.
Great weekend. Thanks for the memories guys!
And thank you Mr. Gallo………………… for having loads of great female artists and three female headline acts. The ladies rock!!
Well, Queenie did. Krossie and Clare went swimming, went to the record sale, signed up for the pub quiz and did various activities that only made Queenie feel even more tired. She tried to write in her journal but having to listen to Luke singing along to the Bangles Eternal Flame, playing on an mp3 player, proved a little distracting. More squawking than Jabba getting molested by the local Capo cat.
Finally made it upstairs to see Jayne County. As she walked upstairs, a man in front of her was making a video of his walk into the room. Very New York. Jayne, who used to be Wayne, was great – lots of ranting about rightwingers and finished off with a version of California Uber Alles a la Arnold Schwarzeneggar. Thank God somebody else is interested in having a pop at right wing Americans this weekend.
Then we went downstairs to see Ted Curson. The biggest man at ATP. Elderly too, his bursts of energy had to be followed by regular little sit downs, but he had a great backing band supporting him and a super double bass player. He oozed love for his great friend, Vincent.
What is it about him? Vincent Gallo seems to be a right a prick, but we are all drawn to him anyway. Why is that? Is it because he seems to need us? That’s why people perform isn’t it – to reveal something about themselves in order to get our attention? Attention-seeking is something that everyone engages in, particularly at ATP. It’s a weekend where you can be a celebrity for a nanosecond, acccording to one of Queenie's room-mates.
Some people use their moment in the spotlight to say wise/ important things, but in some way, Queenie reckons they’re almost worse than mememememe pure attention seekers, because she’s never quite sure to what extent they believe their own agenda. Or whether it just works for them.
And why are we drawn to performers, anyway? Is it their vulnerability? People aren’t drawn to vulnerability in the people around them, they are drawn to strength. So why are we drawn to vulnerability in the famous?
Too many big questions… the point is, we’re all nano-celebrities this weekend.
The rest of the day was spent upstairs. Queenie rocked out to James Chance and the Contortions with the dance troupe from the chalet across the square. They seemed to be the oldest rockers in town. Apart from The Zombies, who followed them with pride. A quick look at their line up provided an explanation for the oobit outbreak – Zombie fan basic equipment maybe.
The live acts for ATP 2005 ended with Yoko Ono, who was supported by Vincent Gallo and her son Sean Lennon. As we waited for the gig, a woman handed out Onochord torches and a poem. The poem gave us instructions as to how to click out I-Love-You on the Onochord torch.
Photoflashes were banned, but Queenie got three off before she was politely asked to stop. Sorry Yoko. Politely asked to stop is so much nicer than getting hauled out of the venue by her hair, which is what would probably have happened Queenie if she had risked it in Ireland. Yet another reason why ATP is the nicest little festival in the world.
Yoko said: “I’m so tired, a twelve hour flight and then two more hours to get here”. Yeah well, so are we, Yoko. Three days of music and beer and lord knows what else.
Clare and Queenie ended up in the bar with the Pauls and some randoms and danced the night away, until it all faded to black around 4.30am.
Great weekend. Thanks for the memories guys!
And thank you Mr. Gallo………………… for having loads of great female artists and three female headline acts. The ladies rock!!
Monday, May 09, 2005
Very Fin de Siecle: All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Four, Saturday gigs
Our chalet was kitted out with a vast array of lights, candles, streamers, screamers, pineapple chunks on sticks, cheezy wotzits and girlies in black cocktail dresses when we arrived back from Autolux. Go the party organisers! Tom and Luke got kitted out in formal fin de siecle gear as well. Queenie sat on a chair outside the chalet and vetted the guests. Krossie and the doctor sneaked off to Buck 65. Who is Canadian, from Nova Scotia!
The people in the chalet across the way were also having a party, but they were cheating by having a free bar. There were three of them – they used to be members of some famous dancing troupe that Queenie hadn’t ever heard of. They did one of their routines on the lawn for their guests and got a big round of applause. It was hilarious – one of them looked like a character from The Incredibles and dressed in a spin off superman outfit – all blue and red with strange pointy boots. They were very nice, even though they won the ‘the most party guests’ competition by bribing people. We directed our guests over to partake too – no point not sharing the love around.
As a consequence of being mannerly enough to attend her own chalet party, Queenie missed Buck 65, which she shouldn’t have done, as he was very good. But she got to hear the cd on the way back to Gatwick and he’s playing the Village soon, so maybe she’ll get another chance.
Much later, after all the cheezy wotsits and chocolate cake had been trodden into the floor, and mixed with the tinsel that was going to have to be removed the next day, the kids went onwards and upwards into the madness and the frenetic buzz that is Saturday night at ATP. We went downstairs (on the left, beside the bar) to see Sean Lennon with Vincent Gallo. And sat on the manky carpet and waited. And sat through a thirty eight minute sound check. After which nothing happened. Queenie suddenly realised the sound check had been the gig. Oh, right. Maybe Sunday night gig would be better.
Seriously, though, guys, very disappointing.
Queenie noticed that a serious percentage of this year's crowd had a John Holmes 1970s oobit look going on. She wasn’t sure if this was a trend, but someone told her it was the same in ATP 2004. If it is a trend, it is a very scary one, as it might mean that the chief occupant of Queenie’s mancupboard might not shave off the oobit he grew for his current film. Which will of course result in him getting flung out of said cupboard.
Pirate scarf and leather jacket she can handle. Oobit – only if it's absolutely integral to the plot and it must be gone the day after the wrap party.
Queenie met up with a group of English blokes who looked as if they’d strayed off the set of Wonderland and proceeded to the second part of ATP Saturday, which is the bit of the weekend where she normally gets chatted up. This is one of her favourite bits of ATP. The blokes are usually from Halifax, or Wigan, or Glasgow and really nice. (Although ATP was very Londoner-oriented this year). They chat to you about stuff. They don’t slag you off. They don’t assume you want to sleep with/ marry/ go psycho on/ manipulate them. They do assume you are here to see the music and have some fun.
Due to the high oobit factor, Queenie spent her time convincing them they should go into the porn business. They bought the drinks and she pitched plots to them. Then she got bored and they parted company. Probably not such a good idea. Queenie stayed on downstairs for John Frusciante and during the gig got shouted at for being a fucking paddy by some random English bloke. She can’t remember why. The Pauls think it might be her overwhelming sense of Irish superiority getting her into trouble again. Probably. Whatever.
By the time it was time to go upstairs to listen to Polly Jean, it was time to calm down, sit against the wall and listen quietly to the gig. The queen of wail didn’t disappoint, even though it was her first solo gig in many years.
PJ thanked VG profusely for believing in her and convincing her to do a solo gig. In fact, loads of acts thanked him profusely. So either he’s really nice and helpful and kind and the racist, sexist, homophobic ranting on his website is just some terribly clever NYC pisstake that us lesser mortals don’t get. Or he has them all bribed/ drugged/ brainwashed into thinking he’s great.
Either way, he got what he wanted as everyone at ATP spent all weekend talking about him.
Queenie had to crash around eleventy three and went for a nap during Brown Bunny (in my bed in the chalet), then got up at 3am and went to DJ Ellen Allien for a while.
Why?
Because she is an eejit. That's why.
And here's some Machado.......
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Antonio Machado
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?
No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
Last night as I was sleeping
Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart
Antonio Machado
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?
No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
Last night as I was sleeping
Antonio Machado
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart
Gifts for a girl who's travelling light
Queenie loves presents. She's got a lovely windchime and a little dragon statuette that she got as presents, that are going in the bag with Percy. And she got a wonderful gift recently that won't be going to Canada, but is an important part of the preparations.
And here's another one she got by email this morning. Thank you, Oisin!
Radio Waves
for Antonio Machado
by Raymond Carver
This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.
I don't understand the first thing about radio
waves. But I think they travel better just after
a rain, when the air is damp. Anyway, I can reach out
now and pick up Ottawa, if I want to, or Toronto.
Lately, at night, I've found myself
becoming slightly interested in Canadian politics
and domestic affairs. It's true. But mostly it was their
music stations I was after. I could sit here in the chair
and listen, without having to do anything, or think.
I don't have a TV, and I'd quit reading
the papers. At night I turned on the radio.
When I came out here I was trying to get away
from everything. Especially literature.
What that entails, and what comes after.
There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.
For being still. Coupled with this
a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.
But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,
not always trustworthy. And I forgot that.
I listened when it said, Better to sing that which is gone
and will not return than that which is still
with us and will be with us tomorrow. Or not.
And if not, that's all right too.
It didn't much matter, it said, if a man sang at all.
That's the voice I listened to.
Can you imagine somebody thinking like this?
That it's really all one and the same?
What nonsense!
But I'd think these stupid thoughts at night
as I sat in the chair and listened to my radio.
Then, Machado, your poetry!
It was a little like a middle-aged man falling
in love again. A remarkable thing to witness,
and embarrassing, too.
Silly things like putting your picture up.
And I took your book to bed with me
and slept with it near at hand. A train went by
in my dreams one night and woke me up.
And the first thing I thought, heart racing
there in the dark bedroom, was this -
It's all right, Machado is here.
Then I could fall back to sleep again.
Today I took your book with me when I went
for my walk. "Pay attention!" you said,
when anyone asked what to do with their lives.
So I looked around and made note of everything.
Then sat down with it in the sun, in my place
beside the river where I could see the mountains.
And I closed my eyes and listened to the sound
of the water. Then I opened them and began to read
"Abel Martin's Last Lamentations."
This morning I thought about you hard, Machado.
And I hope, even in the face of what I know about death,
that you got the message I intended.
But it's okay even if you didn't. Sleep well. Rest.
Sooner or later I hope we'll meet.
And then I can tell you these things myself.
And here's another one she got by email this morning. Thank you, Oisin!
Radio Waves
for Antonio Machado
by Raymond Carver
This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.
I don't understand the first thing about radio
waves. But I think they travel better just after
a rain, when the air is damp. Anyway, I can reach out
now and pick up Ottawa, if I want to, or Toronto.
Lately, at night, I've found myself
becoming slightly interested in Canadian politics
and domestic affairs. It's true. But mostly it was their
music stations I was after. I could sit here in the chair
and listen, without having to do anything, or think.
I don't have a TV, and I'd quit reading
the papers. At night I turned on the radio.
When I came out here I was trying to get away
from everything. Especially literature.
What that entails, and what comes after.
There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.
For being still. Coupled with this
a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.
But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,
not always trustworthy. And I forgot that.
I listened when it said, Better to sing that which is gone
and will not return than that which is still
with us and will be with us tomorrow. Or not.
And if not, that's all right too.
It didn't much matter, it said, if a man sang at all.
That's the voice I listened to.
Can you imagine somebody thinking like this?
That it's really all one and the same?
What nonsense!
But I'd think these stupid thoughts at night
as I sat in the chair and listened to my radio.
Then, Machado, your poetry!
It was a little like a middle-aged man falling
in love again. A remarkable thing to witness,
and embarrassing, too.
Silly things like putting your picture up.
And I took your book to bed with me
and slept with it near at hand. A train went by
in my dreams one night and woke me up.
And the first thing I thought, heart racing
there in the dark bedroom, was this -
It's all right, Machado is here.
Then I could fall back to sleep again.
Today I took your book with me when I went
for my walk. "Pay attention!" you said,
when anyone asked what to do with their lives.
So I looked around and made note of everything.
Then sat down with it in the sun, in my place
beside the river where I could see the mountains.
And I closed my eyes and listened to the sound
of the water. Then I opened them and began to read
"Abel Martin's Last Lamentations."
This morning I thought about you hard, Machado.
And I hope, even in the face of what I know about death,
that you got the message I intended.
But it's okay even if you didn't. Sleep well. Rest.
Sooner or later I hope we'll meet.
And then I can tell you these things myself.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
A year's worth of reading
Queenie had a very mixed weekend. She packed up most, but not all, of her possessions, loaded them into her dad’s jeep, and brought them down to Springtown. Now, they line the shelves of the old drugstore. Waiting for her to come home and reclaim them. It was a struggle.
Queenie sat in the garden watching Jabba the Cat mince around the puddles, trying to find a dry patch to sit in, and finally realised that she would not see her moggy for at least one year. Or her family. Or her friends. Or have a pint in Smoothies. The next few weeks will be very precious.
Packing up her books was strange too. They never really got unpacked when she moved last year. Piled up in the store room they were inaccessible, so boxing them was an hello as well as a goodbye (Queenie gets real emotional about books). She had to decide which ones to bring to Canada, so that was fun. Here’s the final cut:
The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell
Anyone who is going on a Quest should have a copy of this extended interview with Campbell, as it is an easy reference guide to finding tremendous import in the smallest things. Clues and such like. So Percy insisted on it. And as Myles said once, Hero with a Thousand Faces is a book that has some really kooky bits (Queenie is paraphrasing here) Plus it’s too heavy for the bag.
The Emigrants, by WG Sebald
Queenie discovered Sebald a few years ago and he blew her mind with the same intensity that Bruce Chatwin did a decade earlier when she discovered his work. Then Sebald died in a car crash in England, tragically young, as Chatwin did. Such a waste of such talent. It was a toss up between this book and The Songlines. But this won out, for a number of reasons. One, the title; as Queenie and Percy will be emigrants, it was deemed more suitable. Two, reading about the heat of central Australia in the middle of a Canuck winter will probably be depressing. Three, Queenie’s dad owns the Chatwin collection, so she shouldn’t steal it.
On a sidenote, Queenie was very excited when she found out her intellectual mentor had discovered Sebald recently. For a very petty reason. Queenie discovered him first, nyah, nyah. So she's not as stoopid slash ignorant as she generally feels when in Mentor's orbit.
The Berlin Wall Café, by Paul Durcan
Queenie’s second favourite book of poetry ever. The first being Daddy, Daddy, which has gone to live in the States with Mags and Mike. Hopefully, the two books will soon be reunited somewhere around the Great Lakes. Queenie cannot wait for that weekend! Queenie’s uncle bought this book for her in 1985 and saved her from death by the Intermediate Certificate English poetry curriculum. The book opens with The Haulier’s Wife meets Jesus on the Road near Moone, which is a wry and compassionate descriptions of loneliness, and its intersection with hope, in the life of an ordinary woman. Durcan’s feel for the inner life of women is spot on.
A Wild Sheep Chase, by Haruki Murakami
The Independent on Sunday review of this book was ‘weak-kneed with admiration’ and Queenie concurs with this when thinking about Murakami generally. In her humble opinion, Murakami is probably the best writer alive today. His Wind Up Bird Chronicle, as well as being a stonking great read, gave Queenie the tools she needed to fight off the black dog that happens along every once in a while. Now, if he appears, which thankfully he doesn’t so much anymore, she just imagines herself sitting at the bottom of that well until the thought makes her laugh. And once the facial muscles are arranged in a smile, it is impossible to take herself too seriously.
Norwegian Wood is the most beautiful love story she’s ever read. 2004 was the year in which Queenie couldn’t read any books, no idea why, something to do with work she suspects, and she started this and then left it to one side. So this one is going on the plane.
Introduction to Mythology, by Lewis Spence
Queenie bought this ten years ago in one of her irregular fits of intellectualism and then never read it. Sooooo many books found their way onto her shelves in this way!! So this will accompany the Campbell and maybe teach her a few things. On another flick through it, it looks very DIFFICULT and LEARNED. So no, Queenie is not taking bets on whether she will read it this year or not. But it’ll be a long winter, so maybe.
Station Island, by Seamus Heaney
The Queen Mother bought her this a few years ago, so that’s mainly why it’s going in the bag. But also, it’s about time that Queenie faced up to her responsibility as an Irish person and had an INFORMED opinion about Famous Seamus' oeuvre. Particularly when her family's expertise on Heaney is well known. This will be well thumbed and annotated by year end, hopefully.
Chronicles Volume One, by Bob Dylan
This is a great book! Queenie was really surprised when she read it. And then realised there was no need to be. The beauty of Dylan’s lyrics point to his talent as a writer and this book has many fine, lyrical passages. And a lot of whingeing and bitching about people who weren’t nice to Bob. A great dipper.
Where I’m calling from, by Raymond Carver, the selected stories
What can Queenie say! Down on your face girl and pay homage to the master! Every time Queenie takes a notion that she’d like to be a writer, she unconsciously scuppers herself by taking out this book to study his style. And then realises that, unless she can write like this, she doesn’t want to write. And of course she never will, so that’s grand, no need to try. Clever girl. NOT GOING TO WORK THIS TIME. Or will it? She’s deliberately not bringing any Steinbeck for the same reason. But a year without Raymond Carver is impossible to imagine.
Danube, by Claudio Magris
Okay, okay, yes, this is Queenie’s dad’s book and she’s nicking it. But she nicked it years ago and he didn’t seem to mind, so it’s not as bad as actually filching the Chatwin from the shelf. In any case, it’s Europe in 400 pages and she’s going to need some Europe to shield herself from the Americanness of the next few months. Plus, she’s never managed to read it straight through, so it’ll be good for some horrendous bus journey across Manitoba or something. And it will make up for only having one Sebald.
The Black Book, by Orhan Pamuk
This Turkish writer evokes his country so beautifully, it is as if Queenie is back there again. Her two trips to Turkey were fantastic – it really is a spectacular country – and she wishes that Turkey could be part of the EU. But there is the small matter of its human rights record to be sorted out first. However, Galip’s bungling attempts to play detective will satisfy her need for convoluted plot (as will the Murakami) and she will be able to close her eyes and hear the muezzin whenever she needs to. The Book of Red nearly made it, but this was a casualty of the year of non-reading, so it's a good opportunity to renew her acquaintance with Pamuk's second colour themed novel. (Well, second published in English).
Let’s hope they all fit in the bag. It was such a difficult choice to get it down to this pile. Queenie hopes she’s not going to have to ditch any of them. She went to Argos and bought a 132 litre rucksack the other day to ensure they could all come to Canuckstan. But any views on how she’d lighten the load would be gratefully accepted.
Queenie sat in the garden watching Jabba the Cat mince around the puddles, trying to find a dry patch to sit in, and finally realised that she would not see her moggy for at least one year. Or her family. Or her friends. Or have a pint in Smoothies. The next few weeks will be very precious.
Packing up her books was strange too. They never really got unpacked when she moved last year. Piled up in the store room they were inaccessible, so boxing them was an hello as well as a goodbye (Queenie gets real emotional about books). She had to decide which ones to bring to Canada, so that was fun. Here’s the final cut:
The Power of Myth, by Joseph Campbell
Anyone who is going on a Quest should have a copy of this extended interview with Campbell, as it is an easy reference guide to finding tremendous import in the smallest things. Clues and such like. So Percy insisted on it. And as Myles said once, Hero with a Thousand Faces is a book that has some really kooky bits (Queenie is paraphrasing here) Plus it’s too heavy for the bag.
The Emigrants, by WG Sebald
Queenie discovered Sebald a few years ago and he blew her mind with the same intensity that Bruce Chatwin did a decade earlier when she discovered his work. Then Sebald died in a car crash in England, tragically young, as Chatwin did. Such a waste of such talent. It was a toss up between this book and The Songlines. But this won out, for a number of reasons. One, the title; as Queenie and Percy will be emigrants, it was deemed more suitable. Two, reading about the heat of central Australia in the middle of a Canuck winter will probably be depressing. Three, Queenie’s dad owns the Chatwin collection, so she shouldn’t steal it.
On a sidenote, Queenie was very excited when she found out her intellectual mentor had discovered Sebald recently. For a very petty reason. Queenie discovered him first, nyah, nyah. So she's not as stoopid slash ignorant as she generally feels when in Mentor's orbit.
The Berlin Wall Café, by Paul Durcan
Queenie’s second favourite book of poetry ever. The first being Daddy, Daddy, which has gone to live in the States with Mags and Mike. Hopefully, the two books will soon be reunited somewhere around the Great Lakes. Queenie cannot wait for that weekend! Queenie’s uncle bought this book for her in 1985 and saved her from death by the Intermediate Certificate English poetry curriculum. The book opens with The Haulier’s Wife meets Jesus on the Road near Moone, which is a wry and compassionate descriptions of loneliness, and its intersection with hope, in the life of an ordinary woman. Durcan’s feel for the inner life of women is spot on.
A Wild Sheep Chase, by Haruki Murakami
The Independent on Sunday review of this book was ‘weak-kneed with admiration’ and Queenie concurs with this when thinking about Murakami generally. In her humble opinion, Murakami is probably the best writer alive today. His Wind Up Bird Chronicle, as well as being a stonking great read, gave Queenie the tools she needed to fight off the black dog that happens along every once in a while. Now, if he appears, which thankfully he doesn’t so much anymore, she just imagines herself sitting at the bottom of that well until the thought makes her laugh. And once the facial muscles are arranged in a smile, it is impossible to take herself too seriously.
Norwegian Wood is the most beautiful love story she’s ever read. 2004 was the year in which Queenie couldn’t read any books, no idea why, something to do with work she suspects, and she started this and then left it to one side. So this one is going on the plane.
Introduction to Mythology, by Lewis Spence
Queenie bought this ten years ago in one of her irregular fits of intellectualism and then never read it. Sooooo many books found their way onto her shelves in this way!! So this will accompany the Campbell and maybe teach her a few things. On another flick through it, it looks very DIFFICULT and LEARNED. So no, Queenie is not taking bets on whether she will read it this year or not. But it’ll be a long winter, so maybe.
Station Island, by Seamus Heaney
The Queen Mother bought her this a few years ago, so that’s mainly why it’s going in the bag. But also, it’s about time that Queenie faced up to her responsibility as an Irish person and had an INFORMED opinion about Famous Seamus' oeuvre. Particularly when her family's expertise on Heaney is well known. This will be well thumbed and annotated by year end, hopefully.
Chronicles Volume One, by Bob Dylan
This is a great book! Queenie was really surprised when she read it. And then realised there was no need to be. The beauty of Dylan’s lyrics point to his talent as a writer and this book has many fine, lyrical passages. And a lot of whingeing and bitching about people who weren’t nice to Bob. A great dipper.
Where I’m calling from, by Raymond Carver, the selected stories
What can Queenie say! Down on your face girl and pay homage to the master! Every time Queenie takes a notion that she’d like to be a writer, she unconsciously scuppers herself by taking out this book to study his style. And then realises that, unless she can write like this, she doesn’t want to write. And of course she never will, so that’s grand, no need to try. Clever girl. NOT GOING TO WORK THIS TIME. Or will it? She’s deliberately not bringing any Steinbeck for the same reason. But a year without Raymond Carver is impossible to imagine.
Danube, by Claudio Magris
Okay, okay, yes, this is Queenie’s dad’s book and she’s nicking it. But she nicked it years ago and he didn’t seem to mind, so it’s not as bad as actually filching the Chatwin from the shelf. In any case, it’s Europe in 400 pages and she’s going to need some Europe to shield herself from the Americanness of the next few months. Plus, she’s never managed to read it straight through, so it’ll be good for some horrendous bus journey across Manitoba or something. And it will make up for only having one Sebald.
The Black Book, by Orhan Pamuk
This Turkish writer evokes his country so beautifully, it is as if Queenie is back there again. Her two trips to Turkey were fantastic – it really is a spectacular country – and she wishes that Turkey could be part of the EU. But there is the small matter of its human rights record to be sorted out first. However, Galip’s bungling attempts to play detective will satisfy her need for convoluted plot (as will the Murakami) and she will be able to close her eyes and hear the muezzin whenever she needs to. The Book of Red nearly made it, but this was a casualty of the year of non-reading, so it's a good opportunity to renew her acquaintance with Pamuk's second colour themed novel. (Well, second published in English).
Let’s hope they all fit in the bag. It was such a difficult choice to get it down to this pile. Queenie hopes she’s not going to have to ditch any of them. She went to Argos and bought a 132 litre rucksack the other day to ensure they could all come to Canuckstan. But any views on how she’d lighten the load would be gratefully accepted.
Friday, May 06, 2005
NARRATOR 7: Regarding the recent lull in postings
Queenie asked me to send you this newsflash.
She is very chuffed that people are sad when there aren't new postings on Percy's Depressed. She will do her best to keep up the copy stream. But she would like to point out that currently, it is jostling for position with a lot of things, including:
Changing her ESB, gas, phone, letting her flat, selling her car, getting a refund on her tv licence, sorting out her income tax/ SSIA/ apt. tax/ Canadian tax/ double tax/ rearranging her mortgage to maximise her tax, cleaning her house, shampooing her sofa, redirecting her mail, sorting out her will, packing her paintings, clothes, books, valuables, cds, dvds, jewellry, papers, photos, kitchen implements, selling her tv, dvd player, video recorder, stereo, organising her leaving do, archiving her work files, transferring her work files, telling work everything in her brain in two days, getting her international drivers' permit, her no claims bonus letter, storing her mobile phone number that she's had for ten years (thanks O2), cancelling her car insurance, taking out life insurance, booking her flight, booking the hostel, finding a job in canada, talking to her family if possible, and trying to meet everyone she knows before she leaves. Without missing Desperate Housewives.
Not to mention the whole Percy getting ready to go to Canada saga, which is a weekend's worth of blogging in itself and you'd think he'd do it! Nah! You'll have to wait till Queenie's had a moment to draw breath for that. It'll be worth it though, I promise.
Gotta go now for a while. Gotta help Queenie wrap her paintings in old newspapers so they'll survive the trip to Springtown tomorrow.
There are three installments of ATP weekend below. Read from the bottom up for the correct timeline, although it doesn't really matter. It is ATP after all.
Mwah!
She is very chuffed that people are sad when there aren't new postings on Percy's Depressed. She will do her best to keep up the copy stream. But she would like to point out that currently, it is jostling for position with a lot of things, including:
Changing her ESB, gas, phone, letting her flat, selling her car, getting a refund on her tv licence, sorting out her income tax/ SSIA/ apt. tax/ Canadian tax/ double tax/ rearranging her mortgage to maximise her tax, cleaning her house, shampooing her sofa, redirecting her mail, sorting out her will, packing her paintings, clothes, books, valuables, cds, dvds, jewellry, papers, photos, kitchen implements, selling her tv, dvd player, video recorder, stereo, organising her leaving do, archiving her work files, transferring her work files, telling work everything in her brain in two days, getting her international drivers' permit, her no claims bonus letter, storing her mobile phone number that she's had for ten years (thanks O2), cancelling her car insurance, taking out life insurance, booking her flight, booking the hostel, finding a job in canada, talking to her family if possible, and trying to meet everyone she knows before she leaves. Without missing Desperate Housewives.
Not to mention the whole Percy getting ready to go to Canada saga, which is a weekend's worth of blogging in itself and you'd think he'd do it! Nah! You'll have to wait till Queenie's had a moment to draw breath for that. It'll be worth it though, I promise.
Gotta go now for a while. Gotta help Queenie wrap her paintings in old newspapers so they'll survive the trip to Springtown tomorrow.
There are three installments of ATP weekend below. Read from the bottom up for the correct timeline, although it doesn't really matter. It is ATP after all.
Mwah!
We did go to the beach! All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Three, Pottering on Saturday
Maybe three and a half hours sleep. Not too bad. The boys went to bed at 7.30am and we woke them up at nine. Because.
Nice cup of coffee and a cigarette. Maybe Queenie should call her blog that. The anti-nice cup of tea and a sit down site. She’d make a fortune. As she was outside smoking, she used the opportunity to annoy all the johnny foreigners, ie nice British people, that were living in the square. Then she found the three incredibly poseurish French people who spent the day in bed together on a mattress outside the chalet. It’s a big metaphor for:
Oh yes, we’re French, we’re so sophis. We have three way sex and everything back home in France. You do know what sex is, you idiotic little Irish mucksavage, don’t you.
We took photos of them. They LOVED it. In that French, phuh, shruggy kinda way that’s so endearing. While at the same time irritating.
Then we met the Pauls. A whole chalet full of Pauls. From Cambridge. Doing PhDs in all kind of mad things. With camera bags. And zoom lenses. Very smart. Queenie was glad she had some Doctors in the House, she can tell you! There’s only so much intellectual thin ice a girl can tread on in one weekend, you know.
Saturday ATP daytime is for making friends with the neighbours and drinking lots of tea and doing the washing up and the shopping, and going to the beach. Nice, normal things. Aileen not feeling too well, so she held the chalet and the rest of us headed off to do LOTS OF THINGS ON THE BEACH.
Merzbow was on the beach. Pitying us. Pitilessly. Particularly Krossie and Clare, when they went swimming. Queenie took a picture of Dermot taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Who were flying a kite. She could feel Merzbow’s intellect boring into the back of her neck. She wished Merzbow was taking a picture of her, taking a picture of Dermot, taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Flying a kite. But then the pinnacle of achievement would have been reached and she would’ve had to die tragically. Alone. Bereft of motivation to go on. In a world without meaning.
Snapoutofit!
It was much easier to concentrate on things when he left.
Back then to see Autolux, who were at least as pretentious as Merzbow and were indeed excellent. Two guys and a girl. Carla, Greg and Eugene. The doctor and Queenie decided that the girl, who was the drummer when she wasn't writhing pretensiously around on the floor wailing at us, was doing both of them and playing them off against each other, in order to maximise their creative genius.
That’s the great thing about ATP, you can talk shite like this all weekend and nobody cares.
Afterwards, Queenie’s ears felt like they were bleeding. Her hearing was definitely damaged this year. It usually bounces back after a while though. A stark thought struck her as she stood there: pint in one hand, cigarette in the other, ears buzzing, at 3pm, in a smokey, grimy room watching some anally retentive feedback-frenzied guitar band prancing about on stage – Queenie’s going to be a dreadfully unhealthy fifty-something unless she cops on a bit.
Maybe next year.
We had to leave at 4pm to go back to the chalet for our party. A cocktail party no less. Fin de siecle no less.
Nice cup of coffee and a cigarette. Maybe Queenie should call her blog that. The anti-nice cup of tea and a sit down site. She’d make a fortune. As she was outside smoking, she used the opportunity to annoy all the johnny foreigners, ie nice British people, that were living in the square. Then she found the three incredibly poseurish French people who spent the day in bed together on a mattress outside the chalet. It’s a big metaphor for:
Oh yes, we’re French, we’re so sophis. We have three way sex and everything back home in France. You do know what sex is, you idiotic little Irish mucksavage, don’t you.
We took photos of them. They LOVED it. In that French, phuh, shruggy kinda way that’s so endearing. While at the same time irritating.
Then we met the Pauls. A whole chalet full of Pauls. From Cambridge. Doing PhDs in all kind of mad things. With camera bags. And zoom lenses. Very smart. Queenie was glad she had some Doctors in the House, she can tell you! There’s only so much intellectual thin ice a girl can tread on in one weekend, you know.
Saturday ATP daytime is for making friends with the neighbours and drinking lots of tea and doing the washing up and the shopping, and going to the beach. Nice, normal things. Aileen not feeling too well, so she held the chalet and the rest of us headed off to do LOTS OF THINGS ON THE BEACH.
Merzbow was on the beach. Pitying us. Pitilessly. Particularly Krossie and Clare, when they went swimming. Queenie took a picture of Dermot taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Who were flying a kite. She could feel Merzbow’s intellect boring into the back of her neck. She wished Merzbow was taking a picture of her, taking a picture of Dermot, taking a picture of Luke and Tom. Flying a kite. But then the pinnacle of achievement would have been reached and she would’ve had to die tragically. Alone. Bereft of motivation to go on. In a world without meaning.
Snapoutofit!
It was much easier to concentrate on things when he left.
Back then to see Autolux, who were at least as pretentious as Merzbow and were indeed excellent. Two guys and a girl. Carla, Greg and Eugene. The doctor and Queenie decided that the girl, who was the drummer when she wasn't writhing pretensiously around on the floor wailing at us, was doing both of them and playing them off against each other, in order to maximise their creative genius.
That’s the great thing about ATP, you can talk shite like this all weekend and nobody cares.
Afterwards, Queenie’s ears felt like they were bleeding. Her hearing was definitely damaged this year. It usually bounces back after a while though. A stark thought struck her as she stood there: pint in one hand, cigarette in the other, ears buzzing, at 3pm, in a smokey, grimy room watching some anally retentive feedback-frenzied guitar band prancing about on stage – Queenie’s going to be a dreadfully unhealthy fifty-something unless she cops on a bit.
Maybe next year.
We had to leave at 4pm to go back to the chalet for our party. A cocktail party no less. Fin de siecle no less.
Ooooh, Mr. Gallo, how brown you are! All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part Two, Gigs, Friday
First things first, over to the leisure centre to get the keys to our chalet and the wristbands.
Lurking around the front door, waiting for Dr. Aileen to collect them when out walks a very small, very tanned, very hairy man wearing a brown leather jacket, brown teeshirt, brown trousers and brown boots. It was the Little Brown Bunny himself.
Queenie mental note No. 1 – not bad…. A bit short but. A bit of a brown overload but. But not bad.
Queenie mental note No. 2 – don’t tell the boys mental note No. 1.
Top Chalet!! Really good. One square back so it’s quiet and peaceful, but sooo near the venue. Dr. Logic works out that it’s because it’s a seven person chalet. Or maybe Queenie just heard that this year, dunno. Anyway, top!! And Queenie got a bunkbed.
Very grown up this year – brought the cafetiere. Shopping all done. Booze all bought. Didn’t have to go to Budgens, even though we had a car. Tom brought the shopping from New York. Very New York.
We clucked around a bit and then went over to see Blues Explosion.
First pint was in the upstairs bar. Damn, now there’s one end of this bar that you never get served at. Which end? Queenie can never remember. In fact, she can’t remember again now.
Anyway, the bar staff all look new, and she gave one a massive tip so she’d remember Queenie. (It worked too, got served asap all weekend!) You know you're getting old when the barstaff at ATP look younger than the young cops that freak you out about getting older. Doncha!
Clinked plastic glasses and made a pact – the year Bono comes to ATP is the last year any of us can go. Please, nice people in Flaming Lips, if you do curate next year, don’t tell him about it………please.
The first ATP gig 2005 was Blues Explosion – the link between blues and heavy metal, with a bit of Led thrown in. As Luke says, top band, you get Blues, then an explosion. And Jon Spencer, their lead singer is really charismatic.
Then Queenie saw Afirorampo – great little Japanese noise girrrls, but not as good as 00100, who blew her mind last year. Completely. Well, that’s Queenie’s story and she’s sticking to it.
Back to the chalet for an hilarious moment when three people, who really weren’t in any condition to be doing same, were writing their ATP journal instead of being at a gig. The chalet looked lovely, with fairy lights and candles and “Careful now” in the window and art on the walls. Lovely in a “utopian commune meets really messy workplace creche after fingerpainting day” kinda way.
Queenie and Dr. Aileen had a conversation about corporate social responsibility and the privatisation of society and social capital. Queenie thinks that was what it was about anyway. Typical Friday night girly chit chat, anyway!!
Back upstairs for Peaches. The line up got thin late at night this year, with only one band on after 9.30pm. As opposed to last year’s two – one upstairs and one downstairs. Queenie was worried that the gigs were going to be rammed but she needn’t have been, it was actually very quiet. Even though the chalets seemed to be full. Maybe some folks didn't arrive till Saturday. How New York.
Peaches was very annoyed. Hot and bothered. Even in a little white skimpy bikini. But she got to feelin’ better as the gig progressed and in a weird oppositional way to everyone else in the universe, she put more clothes on as the gig progressed.
Fuck the pain away, Fuck the pain away – atta girl. You do that if it makes you feel better. Queenie's off to the bar to dance with Krossie and Clare.
Lurking around the front door, waiting for Dr. Aileen to collect them when out walks a very small, very tanned, very hairy man wearing a brown leather jacket, brown teeshirt, brown trousers and brown boots. It was the Little Brown Bunny himself.
Queenie mental note No. 1 – not bad…. A bit short but. A bit of a brown overload but. But not bad.
Queenie mental note No. 2 – don’t tell the boys mental note No. 1.
Top Chalet!! Really good. One square back so it’s quiet and peaceful, but sooo near the venue. Dr. Logic works out that it’s because it’s a seven person chalet. Or maybe Queenie just heard that this year, dunno. Anyway, top!! And Queenie got a bunkbed.
Very grown up this year – brought the cafetiere. Shopping all done. Booze all bought. Didn’t have to go to Budgens, even though we had a car. Tom brought the shopping from New York. Very New York.
We clucked around a bit and then went over to see Blues Explosion.
First pint was in the upstairs bar. Damn, now there’s one end of this bar that you never get served at. Which end? Queenie can never remember. In fact, she can’t remember again now.
Anyway, the bar staff all look new, and she gave one a massive tip so she’d remember Queenie. (It worked too, got served asap all weekend!) You know you're getting old when the barstaff at ATP look younger than the young cops that freak you out about getting older. Doncha!
Clinked plastic glasses and made a pact – the year Bono comes to ATP is the last year any of us can go. Please, nice people in Flaming Lips, if you do curate next year, don’t tell him about it………please.
The first ATP gig 2005 was Blues Explosion – the link between blues and heavy metal, with a bit of Led thrown in. As Luke says, top band, you get Blues, then an explosion. And Jon Spencer, their lead singer is really charismatic.
Then Queenie saw Afirorampo – great little Japanese noise girrrls, but not as good as 00100, who blew her mind last year. Completely. Well, that’s Queenie’s story and she’s sticking to it.
Back to the chalet for an hilarious moment when three people, who really weren’t in any condition to be doing same, were writing their ATP journal instead of being at a gig. The chalet looked lovely, with fairy lights and candles and “Careful now” in the window and art on the walls. Lovely in a “utopian commune meets really messy workplace creche after fingerpainting day” kinda way.
Queenie and Dr. Aileen had a conversation about corporate social responsibility and the privatisation of society and social capital. Queenie thinks that was what it was about anyway. Typical Friday night girly chit chat, anyway!!
Back upstairs for Peaches. The line up got thin late at night this year, with only one band on after 9.30pm. As opposed to last year’s two – one upstairs and one downstairs. Queenie was worried that the gigs were going to be rammed but she needn’t have been, it was actually very quiet. Even though the chalets seemed to be full. Maybe some folks didn't arrive till Saturday. How New York.
Peaches was very annoyed. Hot and bothered. Even in a little white skimpy bikini. But she got to feelin’ better as the gig progressed and in a weird oppositional way to everyone else in the universe, she put more clothes on as the gig progressed.
Fuck the pain away, Fuck the pain away – atta girl. You do that if it makes you feel better. Queenie's off to the bar to dance with Krossie and Clare.
Careful now! All Tomorrow’s Parties, April 2005: Part One, Arrival, Friday
No matter what time Queenie gets up in the morning, it takes her ten minutes more than she has to get her act together. Why is that? If she has ten minutes, she can shower, dress, put on slap, clothes, drink coffee, eat banana, tidy flat and leave in twenty. If she has three hours, the same set of actions takes her three hours and ten minutes.
Queenie has never been good with time. Too elastic for her.
So she’s ten minutes late and driving to Blackhorse Ave. and the phone is ringing and she knows who it is, but it’s all going to be fine.
Queenie loves picking up couple friends to go on a trip and watching the whole “couple leaving the house for the weekend” vibe. It is one of life’s more hilarious set pieces, don’t you think. Queenie used to be in a couple, the other half of which was a security nut, and it used to be great fun to walk around behind him unlocking windows and doors as he locked them and then saying “You didn’t lock the kitchen window, you muppet! Jesus!”
Bad Queenie.
Over to the airport then, and straight through the Ryanair check-in and HURRAH, no queues for the x-ray machines. In preparation for the big trip next month, when a knight of the round table and all of his weaponry are going to have to be smuggled into Canada, Queenie had a trial run and smuggled her nail scissors through (this was the week of the big panic because the EU people smuggled a bomb through). Silly Aer Rianta. Coulda stabbed someone with that!!
It being ATP and therefore, important that one wears a silly hat for at least some of the weekend, Queenie slopes off to Monsoon without telling anyone to buy a hat. A green one.
She’s been explaining how she’s broke and has no money, so Dr. Groove can’t quite compute the brazenness of Queenie’s both expecting sympathy for having no money, and concurrently soliciting admiration of a new hat.
Well, Queenie’s never been good with logic either. Not elastic enough for her.
On reflection, she thinks it’s because the concept of ‘no money’ is different for girls. Or maybe it’s not a gender thing, maybe it’s a personal thing. To Queenie, no money means:
“I have no actual positive money balances anywhere on my financial horizon currently, but I have access to various lines of credit for the purposes of impulse buying. Which I shouldn’t access, but fuck it, it’s the weekend.”
That kind of no money.
Sat beside a man reading an article about the importance of having the right golf trousers. Won't mention his name. It's a friendship thing.
Met Joe on the flight, who was going over to see the Frames in London. Queenie would rather chew her left arm off than do that, but she didn’t say. It’s a friendship thing.
Then the three adventurers headed off to Hertz to pick up the electric blue Ford Focus that proves they are GROWN UPS at last.
All set. Queenie driving. Dr. Groove navigating. Dr. Aileen back seat driving. What could go wrong????
Tunbridge Wells, that’s what. Three roads in. Three roads out. Therefore, two possibilities for the exit route. Logical? That’s what they thought.
None of those roads! is the correct answer. The "off to the side small road, leading to the completely unknown road on the far side of town through the traffic" was the road. The one the navigator pointed at and went, “now, now, turn now”, because he had a feeling and an ability to read maps, happened to be the road. It's all a big Tory plot to keep us from having any fun, Queenie reckons.
The kids needed chips after Tunbridge Wells, so they pulled up at the Little Chef a ways out the road. The Little Matchgirl served them. Straight out of the picture story book that used to make Queenie cry when she was little and her mother read it to her. The smallest, thinnest, waifiest little thing they ever did see, with two wall eyes. Dr. Groove left a big tip. For the operation.
Finally got to Rye after three hours and picked up Krossie and Clare. Then onwards and upwards and suddenly, there it was – the golf club, the church, the restaurant, the path to the beach.
Dear Camber Sands. Such jolly times. With jolly good friends. Queenie’s heart lifted like that of a character in an Enid Blyton book when she saw the gaily painted railings of the little holiday camp she’d grown to love so well over the years. And look, there’s Luke and Tom. How they’ve grown!!!!!!!! Oooh, Queenie knew it was going to be a smashing festival this year. WIth kites and ginger beer and all kinds of exciting adventures.
Queenie has never been good with time. Too elastic for her.
So she’s ten minutes late and driving to Blackhorse Ave. and the phone is ringing and she knows who it is, but it’s all going to be fine.
Queenie loves picking up couple friends to go on a trip and watching the whole “couple leaving the house for the weekend” vibe. It is one of life’s more hilarious set pieces, don’t you think. Queenie used to be in a couple, the other half of which was a security nut, and it used to be great fun to walk around behind him unlocking windows and doors as he locked them and then saying “You didn’t lock the kitchen window, you muppet! Jesus!”
Bad Queenie.
Over to the airport then, and straight through the Ryanair check-in and HURRAH, no queues for the x-ray machines. In preparation for the big trip next month, when a knight of the round table and all of his weaponry are going to have to be smuggled into Canada, Queenie had a trial run and smuggled her nail scissors through (this was the week of the big panic because the EU people smuggled a bomb through). Silly Aer Rianta. Coulda stabbed someone with that!!
It being ATP and therefore, important that one wears a silly hat for at least some of the weekend, Queenie slopes off to Monsoon without telling anyone to buy a hat. A green one.
She’s been explaining how she’s broke and has no money, so Dr. Groove can’t quite compute the brazenness of Queenie’s both expecting sympathy for having no money, and concurrently soliciting admiration of a new hat.
Well, Queenie’s never been good with logic either. Not elastic enough for her.
On reflection, she thinks it’s because the concept of ‘no money’ is different for girls. Or maybe it’s not a gender thing, maybe it’s a personal thing. To Queenie, no money means:
“I have no actual positive money balances anywhere on my financial horizon currently, but I have access to various lines of credit for the purposes of impulse buying. Which I shouldn’t access, but fuck it, it’s the weekend.”
That kind of no money.
Sat beside a man reading an article about the importance of having the right golf trousers. Won't mention his name. It's a friendship thing.
Met Joe on the flight, who was going over to see the Frames in London. Queenie would rather chew her left arm off than do that, but she didn’t say. It’s a friendship thing.
Then the three adventurers headed off to Hertz to pick up the electric blue Ford Focus that proves they are GROWN UPS at last.
All set. Queenie driving. Dr. Groove navigating. Dr. Aileen back seat driving. What could go wrong????
Tunbridge Wells, that’s what. Three roads in. Three roads out. Therefore, two possibilities for the exit route. Logical? That’s what they thought.
None of those roads! is the correct answer. The "off to the side small road, leading to the completely unknown road on the far side of town through the traffic" was the road. The one the navigator pointed at and went, “now, now, turn now”, because he had a feeling and an ability to read maps, happened to be the road. It's all a big Tory plot to keep us from having any fun, Queenie reckons.
The kids needed chips after Tunbridge Wells, so they pulled up at the Little Chef a ways out the road. The Little Matchgirl served them. Straight out of the picture story book that used to make Queenie cry when she was little and her mother read it to her. The smallest, thinnest, waifiest little thing they ever did see, with two wall eyes. Dr. Groove left a big tip. For the operation.
Finally got to Rye after three hours and picked up Krossie and Clare. Then onwards and upwards and suddenly, there it was – the golf club, the church, the restaurant, the path to the beach.
Dear Camber Sands. Such jolly times. With jolly good friends. Queenie’s heart lifted like that of a character in an Enid Blyton book when she saw the gaily painted railings of the little holiday camp she’d grown to love so well over the years. And look, there’s Luke and Tom. How they’ve grown!!!!!!!! Oooh, Queenie knew it was going to be a smashing festival this year. WIth kites and ginger beer and all kinds of exciting adventures.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
A moratorium on execution of minors
The Iranians have introduced one. Maybe the USA will reciprocate. Or am I being harsh and they have already done so?
As Goethe said:
Mistrust all in whom the desire to punish is imperative.
As Goethe said:
Mistrust all in whom the desire to punish is imperative.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Very tired - All Tomorrow's Parties' Photos
Home from ATP. Very Tired. More instalments tomorrow.
The photos are under the title. I hope.
The photos are under the title. I hope.
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