I started working at my school on Tuesday 4th of October as the school had kindly allowed me to take Monday off so that I could move myself into my new accommodation.
I was a little nervous truth be told. I had previously suggested that I visit the school the Friday before I went to Graz but a communication error mean that this did not happen. I was a little embarrassed. I had hoped to make a good first impression but I was failing miserably.
My betreuungslehrerin asked me to turn up about 0730. I had sussed out the location of the school (a short tram ride from my new home). I was confident of the direction but not which tram to take.
Despite my ambitions to have a 'trial run'. I found myself gambling on Tuesday morning. All my impressionable eggs in one basket. It was a success, although I did get lost in the maze that is the HTL.
They eased me into lessons on the Irish, Ireland and stereotypes with me speaking a great deal so that the kids might get used to my 'special accent'.
It is comforting to note that the Irish diaspora has cemented our reputation as melancholic alcoholics who relish wet weather and work in a mainly agrarian economy.
I had hoped to disprove all of the above misconceptions but I understood it was going to be an uphill battle. With my special accent I described myself and where I cam from ('halfway between Dublin and Belfast'), as the crude map in their text book highlighted only 3 cities, Dublin, Cork and Belfast.
Every lesson was the same.
I would speak a little, talk about myself before uttering a few words of Irish, a language most of them had no ideas existed. Some even disputed that it was a language, instead saying it was a dialect. I proved them wrong.
I spoke a few words of Irish.
Hello.
My name is.
I am from.
I am working in Vienna.
Not only the lexicon but the vernacular amazed them.
To think that a European language could sound so different from what they knew.
I also gave them a brief description fo the GAA and gaelic games.
As a people interested in a variety of sports from all over the world they lapped up all information about the GAA greedily. Gaelic football had a familiarity but a uniqueness they had not known before.
A cross between football and rugby? Or soccer and basketball?
I let them decide.
On Thursday I was invited by my betreuungslehrerin to attend a short English musical with her fifth form class. It chronicled a the foundation and crumbling of a relationship between a man and a woman; wonderfully uplifting stuff. Still, highly entertaining.
Thereafter, I met with other TAs and commenced our weekend relaxation.
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Return to Vienna
Sept 30th - Oct 3rd
Poked and prodded aboard the train we finally found a seat to rest our weary legs. The journey from Graz to Vienna is not overly far. The exhaustion of the previous week in Graz had extracted its toll.
When we got to Miedling there were a few sad and sorry goodbyes, promises of reunion and pacts to meet at regular intervals.
I called my friend who had helpfully suggested I stay with him until I secured the keys to my flat on the following Monday. My friend, Jon, had just acquired the flat the night before. He and his new flatmate had gone out to christen the deal & say farewell to an old friend who was to fly back to England the next day.
My phone call stirred Jon from his slumber. I was to make my way to Ottakring on the U3, then call for further instructions. Jon sounded a little groggy. I, with my heavy luggage dragged my burdens to Ottakring where Jon and I were reunited after a week's interlude.
He needed food.
So did I.
We went to Schnitzelhaus to seek out a remedy.
It was the cure we had craved.
Jon led the way to his flat; a pretty, if dusty Viennese flat with a high ceiling.
Pretty.
but it needed a scrub.
It was also distinctly lacking in furniture (as many Austrian flats are, they don't believe in furnishings).
There is a couch type thing. I lay down and I slept on this. Several hours later, I am roused from my sleep as Jon and his flatmate, Liana return from an excursion.
That evening we bought pizzas at a nearby supermarket but without any cutlery or utensils our dining options were severely limited. We use our Schnitzelhaus boxes as plates tearing lumps off from our pizzas.
It's a pathetic scene.
Or one of improvised genius I am not sure.
The departing pal , Guy pays a brief visit.
We shake hands.
I would have liked to know him better; his stories were something to marvel at.
The next morning we watched a film, all of us lazy and slow to move.
'Submarine' a strange Welsh film.
Later on we went on an excursion through the city. Jon and Liana bought bed stuff at Zielpunkt.
I bought a blanket and two jumpers reasoning that it's time to bulk up my meagre supply of garments.
Cleaning fluids and bleach were purchased.
Extensive cleaning took place.
Rearrangement of wobbly furniture followed.
After a short time of intensive scrubbing my hosts withdrew to the sitting room/Jon's room for a cigarette break-no more cleaning is carried out that evening, however, we can safely say that we took the sharp edge off of it, dusting, however, small.
I missed out on an invitation to go to late night at the museum. Regrettable, but our night continued on to G-punkt and then Beer and Songs-I declined to sing.
The next morning was slow, sluggish and lazy. We spent our time sharing various TV shows, The Big Bang theory and Game of Thrones etc.
The next day our mutual friend, Niamh, would fly in from Dublin and I would collect my key for my new flat.
Two weeks in Vienna but finally I would have my own space to lounge. I would have to move in there before I started at my new school.
Monday had a lazy start. Jon and Liana had their first day of work. I dossed and dozed until Niamh arrived with Jon to deposit her luggage while we went to collect our keys.
We wandered into town to Flanagans for lunch before moving on to the office to pick-up our keys.
It was a gruelling three hours.
After this ordeal, it was a relief to have somewhere to call my own, my little humble abode.
Poked and prodded aboard the train we finally found a seat to rest our weary legs. The journey from Graz to Vienna is not overly far. The exhaustion of the previous week in Graz had extracted its toll.
When we got to Miedling there were a few sad and sorry goodbyes, promises of reunion and pacts to meet at regular intervals.
I called my friend who had helpfully suggested I stay with him until I secured the keys to my flat on the following Monday. My friend, Jon, had just acquired the flat the night before. He and his new flatmate had gone out to christen the deal & say farewell to an old friend who was to fly back to England the next day.
My phone call stirred Jon from his slumber. I was to make my way to Ottakring on the U3, then call for further instructions. Jon sounded a little groggy. I, with my heavy luggage dragged my burdens to Ottakring where Jon and I were reunited after a week's interlude.
He needed food.
So did I.
We went to Schnitzelhaus to seek out a remedy.
It was the cure we had craved.
Jon led the way to his flat; a pretty, if dusty Viennese flat with a high ceiling.
Pretty.
but it needed a scrub.
It was also distinctly lacking in furniture (as many Austrian flats are, they don't believe in furnishings).
There is a couch type thing. I lay down and I slept on this. Several hours later, I am roused from my sleep as Jon and his flatmate, Liana return from an excursion.
That evening we bought pizzas at a nearby supermarket but without any cutlery or utensils our dining options were severely limited. We use our Schnitzelhaus boxes as plates tearing lumps off from our pizzas.
It's a pathetic scene.
Or one of improvised genius I am not sure.
The departing pal , Guy pays a brief visit.
We shake hands.
I would have liked to know him better; his stories were something to marvel at.
The next morning we watched a film, all of us lazy and slow to move.
'Submarine' a strange Welsh film.
Later on we went on an excursion through the city. Jon and Liana bought bed stuff at Zielpunkt.
I bought a blanket and two jumpers reasoning that it's time to bulk up my meagre supply of garments.
Cleaning fluids and bleach were purchased.
Extensive cleaning took place.
Rearrangement of wobbly furniture followed.
After a short time of intensive scrubbing my hosts withdrew to the sitting room/Jon's room for a cigarette break-no more cleaning is carried out that evening, however, we can safely say that we took the sharp edge off of it, dusting, however, small.
I missed out on an invitation to go to late night at the museum. Regrettable, but our night continued on to G-punkt and then Beer and Songs-I declined to sing.
The next morning was slow, sluggish and lazy. We spent our time sharing various TV shows, The Big Bang theory and Game of Thrones etc.
The next day our mutual friend, Niamh, would fly in from Dublin and I would collect my key for my new flat.
Two weeks in Vienna but finally I would have my own space to lounge. I would have to move in there before I started at my new school.
Monday had a lazy start. Jon and Liana had their first day of work. I dossed and dozed until Niamh arrived with Jon to deposit her luggage while we went to collect our keys.
We wandered into town to Flanagans for lunch before moving on to the office to pick-up our keys.
It was a gruelling three hours.
After this ordeal, it was a relief to have somewhere to call my own, my little humble abode.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Mission to Graz
26-30 Sept 2011
Having made arrangements with veteran Teaching Assistants (TAs) to tag along with them to Graz. I hauled my weary bones out of Wombats early Monday morning.
I was exhausted.
I had spent my Sunday struggling to polish my MA thesis that was due for submission on October 14th.
I had to carry my bulky heavy bags to Graz; I had nowhere to leave them in Vienna. My camping bag I swung onto my back (with tremendous effort I might add), my rucksack onto my chest. I dropped my coat oever my rucksack onto my chest. I dropped my coat over my rucksack, a copy of Terry Pratchett's Small Gods poking out of the coat pocket.
I made my way to Meidling station to rendezvous with the second year TAs. I bought my ticket. I bump into the elders, Tori, Simon and Fabian.
I was told that I resembled a pregnant woman. I don't deny this, although I believe that almost any and every pregnant mammal could move with more grace and dexterity than I could muster.
On the train we chatted and exchanged jokes. In Graz (two hours before junior TAs were expected). I found myself turned away from Existentialhaus and forced to walk the hot humid streets of Graz. I was reluctant to wander far for fear I lose my way, my navigation skills being exceptionally poor.
I remembered then, that I had no toothpaste. Immediately I became self-conscious and concerned for the well-being of my teeth and general oral hygiene.
I bought some toothpaste.
In another shop I bought sparkling water.
The heat was intense.
I returned to Existentialhaus closer to the pre-ordained time and find the reception more enthusiastic.
At the door I meet fellow TAs.
New blood, fresh spirits just like me.
We chat.
Exchange polite niceties.
There is some trademark bureaucracy to be administered and in the ensuing confusion it is suggested that I did not pay the seminar fee. Strangely enough my Graz room mate, Peter, suffered a similar misunderstanding but after a phone call we get our key.
A few days later after some breathless persistence and blue-face insistence we clear things up.
In the afternoon we were hungry.
The group of TAs has been cleft in twain, one is to remain at Existenialhaus (and in future they commute daily), the others are escorted to the hilltop refuge of St. Martin's schloss.
Beautiful and picturesque.
We eat a meagre but long anticipated meal.
Relishing every bite.
Then, there were speeches and talks. This was followed by wine, juice and mixing with the new kids.
A night of chuckles and bonding ensued.
Tuesday was another eventful day filled with lectures and seminars.
The TAs were divided into groups. These groups gave us an insight into work as a TA and also helped us to understand the mindset and thinking of the youths we would be assisting.
We played games and sometimes we spoke German. Owing to time constraints the seminars were intense (although the late night bonding may have exacerbated conditions in the late Summer heat).
Our evenings were packed with activities including a tour of Graz.
There were ample opportunities to get to know people.
The problem was of course, that Schloss Martin presented quite the hike and in late hours it was more feasible to get a taxi or indeed stay where we were (i.e. to not leave castle and some nights we didn't. Except for those few abortive attempts to find a nearby pub.
Thursday was an emotional day topped off by a talent show.
There were various displays of our generations great potential, including some great dancers, musicians, singers and a dash of interpretative dance as well!
Afterwards, we shared a laugh as we drank the last of the wine, accepted the good advice of our mentors exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses before succumbing to fatigue.
The next day, some of us were a little worse for wear. It was a good week.
Friday was marked by the dash for train as the mass exodus of Graz had begun. Some were wise to stall and wait a little long but many of the rest of us found ourselves squeezing into aisles, our bodies pressed tightly together, faces buried in sweaty armpits and worse, before being ushered on, on what felt like a perpetual poke toward the furthermost carriage.
With much ado I found a seat.
Our journey back to Vienna had begun.
Monday would bring a whole new world of experience.
Having made arrangements with veteran Teaching Assistants (TAs) to tag along with them to Graz. I hauled my weary bones out of Wombats early Monday morning.
I was exhausted.
I had spent my Sunday struggling to polish my MA thesis that was due for submission on October 14th.
I had to carry my bulky heavy bags to Graz; I had nowhere to leave them in Vienna. My camping bag I swung onto my back (with tremendous effort I might add), my rucksack onto my chest. I dropped my coat oever my rucksack onto my chest. I dropped my coat over my rucksack, a copy of Terry Pratchett's Small Gods poking out of the coat pocket.
I made my way to Meidling station to rendezvous with the second year TAs. I bought my ticket. I bump into the elders, Tori, Simon and Fabian.
I was told that I resembled a pregnant woman. I don't deny this, although I believe that almost any and every pregnant mammal could move with more grace and dexterity than I could muster.
On the train we chatted and exchanged jokes. In Graz (two hours before junior TAs were expected). I found myself turned away from Existentialhaus and forced to walk the hot humid streets of Graz. I was reluctant to wander far for fear I lose my way, my navigation skills being exceptionally poor.
I remembered then, that I had no toothpaste. Immediately I became self-conscious and concerned for the well-being of my teeth and general oral hygiene.
I bought some toothpaste.
In another shop I bought sparkling water.
The heat was intense.
I returned to Existentialhaus closer to the pre-ordained time and find the reception more enthusiastic.
At the door I meet fellow TAs.
New blood, fresh spirits just like me.
We chat.
Exchange polite niceties.
There is some trademark bureaucracy to be administered and in the ensuing confusion it is suggested that I did not pay the seminar fee. Strangely enough my Graz room mate, Peter, suffered a similar misunderstanding but after a phone call we get our key.
A few days later after some breathless persistence and blue-face insistence we clear things up.
In the afternoon we were hungry.
The group of TAs has been cleft in twain, one is to remain at Existenialhaus (and in future they commute daily), the others are escorted to the hilltop refuge of St. Martin's schloss.
Beautiful and picturesque.
We eat a meagre but long anticipated meal.
Relishing every bite.
Then, there were speeches and talks. This was followed by wine, juice and mixing with the new kids.
A night of chuckles and bonding ensued.
Tuesday was another eventful day filled with lectures and seminars.
The TAs were divided into groups. These groups gave us an insight into work as a TA and also helped us to understand the mindset and thinking of the youths we would be assisting.
We played games and sometimes we spoke German. Owing to time constraints the seminars were intense (although the late night bonding may have exacerbated conditions in the late Summer heat).
Our evenings were packed with activities including a tour of Graz.
There were ample opportunities to get to know people.
The problem was of course, that Schloss Martin presented quite the hike and in late hours it was more feasible to get a taxi or indeed stay where we were (i.e. to not leave castle and some nights we didn't. Except for those few abortive attempts to find a nearby pub.
Thursday was an emotional day topped off by a talent show.
There were various displays of our generations great potential, including some great dancers, musicians, singers and a dash of interpretative dance as well!
Afterwards, we shared a laugh as we drank the last of the wine, accepted the good advice of our mentors exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses before succumbing to fatigue.
The next day, some of us were a little worse for wear. It was a good week.
Friday was marked by the dash for train as the mass exodus of Graz had begun. Some were wise to stall and wait a little long but many of the rest of us found ourselves squeezing into aisles, our bodies pressed tightly together, faces buried in sweaty armpits and worse, before being ushered on, on what felt like a perpetual poke toward the furthermost carriage.
With much ado I found a seat.
Our journey back to Vienna had begun.
Monday would bring a whole new world of experience.
Rathaus excursion (Vienna part 3)
15 October 2011
On 15 October a delegation of Teaching Assistants sought to sample the three day Terra Madre market and avail of a free buffet lunch cobbled together from samples.
Several local and not-so-local traders set up stalls at the Rathaus promoting their organic goods and foods. There were a wide selection of cheeses and sausages, tofu, sauces, jams, sweets, cakes and pastries. It was an education and experience for the palate.
We weaved through the crowds, squeezing through clusters to steal a glance at the many beautiful stalls. We wandered around dipping into the various displays, sometimes shamelessly so, the wooden toothpicks gripped in our vice-like hands, stabbing down like pistons and retracting with a prize.
We brushed shoulders with locals, organic farmers from near and abroad; some travelling great distances to be there.
The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly, some locals venturing to ask if the Czech pastries were as good as the Austrian ones.
I replied with a blank stare and then a sympathetic frown. Thinking back now, it was most likely a rhetorical question.
All in all, it was a wonderful afternoon and we came away with a taste for some local cuisine and a contented bellyful of pastry.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Vienna (Part 2)
Destination Wombats
Boarding the S7 I wipe the vestiges of tears from my cheeks.
I've begun a new life.
I change over to the U3 at Landstrasse and make my way to Westbahnhof. I have to find a hostel at the top of Mariahilferstrasse; the major shopping street in Vienna. With much ado I find the right U-bahn exit and at the hostel's counter I pay my dues. However, I cannot access my dorm bed until 2pm. I have to wait and I have 2 hours to kill.
In this time I avail of overpriced and cheaply manufactured crap coffee and devour the last of my milky moos. I wait. I eventually gain access to the wifi.
I lounge around until finally at 2 o'clock I can enter my room. Exhausted and with the anticipation of a sneaky nap I slowly, awkwardly ascend the stairs and find my dorm. I flick the card against the reader and breach the room.
I meet three people; two Californians and a Dane.
I get a text from a fellow Irishman and teaching assistant about coffee in the city.
I make my bed, tease my weary soul by lying in it (ever so briefly), after some brief banter with the Americans I leave to meet my comrade.
We meet at 1516.
We walk and talk
We visit a book store.
Today is Thursday, September 22nd and it is Arthur's Day.
Arthur Guinness the patron saint of alcoholic beverages.
To celebrate (and grab a piece of this highly glorified binge session) we travel to Charlie P's on Waehringer Strasse. Here, we eat and drink and meet fellow Irish pilgrims who have sought out the closest sacred ground to Ireland's favourite pastime
So, ends my first day in Vienna.
Boarding the S7 I wipe the vestiges of tears from my cheeks.
I've begun a new life.
I change over to the U3 at Landstrasse and make my way to Westbahnhof. I have to find a hostel at the top of Mariahilferstrasse; the major shopping street in Vienna. With much ado I find the right U-bahn exit and at the hostel's counter I pay my dues. However, I cannot access my dorm bed until 2pm. I have to wait and I have 2 hours to kill.
In this time I avail of overpriced and cheaply manufactured crap coffee and devour the last of my milky moos. I wait. I eventually gain access to the wifi.
I lounge around until finally at 2 o'clock I can enter my room. Exhausted and with the anticipation of a sneaky nap I slowly, awkwardly ascend the stairs and find my dorm. I flick the card against the reader and breach the room.
I meet three people; two Californians and a Dane.
I get a text from a fellow Irishman and teaching assistant about coffee in the city.
I make my bed, tease my weary soul by lying in it (ever so briefly), after some brief banter with the Americans I leave to meet my comrade.
We meet at 1516.
We walk and talk
We visit a book store.
Today is Thursday, September 22nd and it is Arthur's Day.
Arthur Guinness the patron saint of alcoholic beverages.
To celebrate (and grab a piece of this highly glorified binge session) we travel to Charlie P's on Waehringer Strasse. Here, we eat and drink and meet fellow Irish pilgrims who have sought out the closest sacred ground to Ireland's favourite pastime
So, ends my first day in Vienna.
Sunday, 6 November 2011
Vienna (Part 1)
22 September 2011
I wake.
It's 02:30 I have to catch a bus to the airport a 03:35. A quick breakfast and two mugs of tea later my parents are lifting my bags into the boot of the car.
We're off. It's a four mile journey into town and the roads are eerily quiet. We arrive in good time.
The bus is late.
After much fretting and bluffing, I almost consider submitting and retreating home to recommence my sleep, my flight at 07:10 will not wait for me. The bus comes and only 50 minutes late. Bus Eireann at their finest.
The coach rumbles into earshot and tears up the street before edging into the bus stop. I bid my parents farewell and I board the vehicle that will carry me to my next destination.
I inquire as to the origin of the delay.
The bus driver stares and not until he realises that I am waiting for an answer does he offer a response;
'I had to get my break.'
We stop a few miles down the road-a toilet break. After having presented the excuse that he was late because of a compulsory coffee break, he feigns concern for his passengers and steals another.
Not without some nail biting and murmuring between passengers (most of which are destined for the airport and on a tight schedule). We arrive at Dublin circa 05:30. I rush through security, weaving through the crowd with a disproportional piece of my life squeezed into only 2 bags. Roughly 18 kilos.
A humbling notion.
I'm upset and I text my girlfriend because the old adage rings true; 'misery loves company'.
Armed with a bag of milky moos, I feel brave enough to fly and to cope with the changing pressure and unavoidable popping of ears.
I breach the gate and board the vehicle of my destiny.
I wake.
It's 02:30 I have to catch a bus to the airport a 03:35. A quick breakfast and two mugs of tea later my parents are lifting my bags into the boot of the car.
We're off. It's a four mile journey into town and the roads are eerily quiet. We arrive in good time.
The bus is late.
After much fretting and bluffing, I almost consider submitting and retreating home to recommence my sleep, my flight at 07:10 will not wait for me. The bus comes and only 50 minutes late. Bus Eireann at their finest.
The coach rumbles into earshot and tears up the street before edging into the bus stop. I bid my parents farewell and I board the vehicle that will carry me to my next destination.
I inquire as to the origin of the delay.
The bus driver stares and not until he realises that I am waiting for an answer does he offer a response;
'I had to get my break.'
We stop a few miles down the road-a toilet break. After having presented the excuse that he was late because of a compulsory coffee break, he feigns concern for his passengers and steals another.
Not without some nail biting and murmuring between passengers (most of which are destined for the airport and on a tight schedule). We arrive at Dublin circa 05:30. I rush through security, weaving through the crowd with a disproportional piece of my life squeezed into only 2 bags. Roughly 18 kilos.
A humbling notion.
I'm upset and I text my girlfriend because the old adage rings true; 'misery loves company'.
Armed with a bag of milky moos, I feel brave enough to fly and to cope with the changing pressure and unavoidable popping of ears.
I breach the gate and board the vehicle of my destiny.
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Thief of Time
THIEF OF TIME
I am writing my thesis and it has taken up a great deal of my time.
Dare I say, this education is getting in the way of my life.
A thesis is like a little business, you work at it 9-5 but then you have to stay back and tend to it, tidy it and buff it for the next morning.
I am so tired of my little enterprise.
I want to pass it on.
Bind it, and drop it.
So tired am I that I have begun to neglect it.
We all need a little break once in a while I cannot deny that but recently despite my best efforts I have failed to make progress in the last few days.
I am under pressure; I have a deadline to meet and I start work a fortnight before that.
I am worried.
But rather than face this problem head on, I find it much easier to pretend, if only for a little while, that it does not exist.
Procrastination is a wonderful art but it is the thief of time.
A half hour on the Playstation soon mutates into half a day.
My precious time absorbed by my futile little indecisions.
The thief of time strikes again, robbing me of potential work and diminishing the dividends of my day
Waiting on Post
WAITING ON POST
I used to collect tokens from cereal boxes and send away for stuff.
Stuff. It rarely mattered what it was but I liked the idea of watching the post and receiving parcels.
I remember getting a yoyo. A heavy brick it was and I never mastered it. But it had lights and an image of Two-tales from the Sonic cartoons/games so it never bothered me that the yoyo became an ornament and was never used for its intended purpose.
Shelved and forever unfulfilled.
Until someone dropped it and smashed it into two pieces.
True to life.
It used to cost 20p for postage and packaging.
But if you collected enough tokens it was otherwise free and 20p although difficult to come by (I did not get pocket money) was not impossible to scrounge it from somewhere. Usually, the offer requested a 20p postal order but who in the right mind would be bothered to ask for a 20p postal order?
So, often we stuck the coin to a piece of cardboard using sticky-tape and sent it on its merry way.
I remember Sugar puffs once had an offer for X-men action figures. We fought over who would be the first to order one but we never collected enough tokens.
My brother did collect enough for a Space Precinct toy once. But his choice of toy was ‘Snake.’ We did not collect enough tokens for another figure.
Nowadays, if there are any postal offers you have to pay.
We used to watch the postman and when he would stop to drop the letters we would often race, wrestle and struggle to get those letters. More often than not it was rubbish. Spam.
I won a C.D. once. Well, it was last year.
It rekindled memories and feelings of anticipation watching the post everyday.
Alas, I still wait.
That C.D. has never found its destination…
Thursday, 2 June 2011
Collectors' Guild
I like to collect things. It’s a habit, I know. My wallet stuffed with bus tickets, train tickets, cinema slips, receipts and foreign currencies and little of any legal tender.
Each with their own apparently insignificant story but what is not apparent is that each carries a significant sentiment. I should make a scrapbook really or a collage but to everyone else my habits are strange, a fetish or a farce.
People might collect stamps, they might enjoy it too. People might collect war memorabilia, comics but me, why I collect crap?
No, I collect memories. Each of these scrapes of paper hold a memory of me regardless of how the world might view them. These bits of slips are a testament to my continuing existence, the memory is never enough, relegated to some obscure part of the mind, I like to bolster it with a memento or two.
It gives me great pleasure, from time to time, to empty the contents of my wallet, all the scraps of paper, faded, smudged or torn, dog-eared and I pick through my items, and settle on a memory I would like to revive, to reminisce and to quench my nostalgia.
Times and dates, my location in print. There’s something reassuring in knowing where you were, that you were.
MUNICH (Part I)
MUNICH (PART I)
2/10/2008
Munich-an interesting city as always thought. After locating the administrative offices I finally got to my room accompanied by my mentor Barbara and my friend Miriam.
After some problems with the key we left for Miriam’s apartment. Barbara had agreed to help find it.
Olympiazentrum accessed by the U3.
Probably my impressions are exaggerated by fatigue but I know this year will be tough.
2 October 2008.
Flight from Dublin to Munich 0720 hours.
Bus to Dublin 0335 hours.
Sleep achieved ca. 2 hours.
This was a recipe for disaster and in retrospect I managed quite well.
Rattled by a short bittersweet nap I make a hasty breakfast at 0310. I light the gas and boil the kettle. My mother is up now too, she also has a mug of tea. I have never been one for the early breakfast so I eat little if anything. I am nervous. I have only travelled by plane a few times, to Austria and to Australia beforehand.
But this makes me nervous. I am moving to Germany, albeit temporarily. This is a big change. I am setting out on a once in a life time adventure and yet I am worried about the little things: boarding, flying, disembarking, de-boarding, breathing German air, getting to the Student Accommodation office before it closes and I am homeless for the night.
I doubt if I would have had to sleep on the street but in my mind then, it was almost a dead certainty and far more likely than the possibility that things might run smoothly and I move into my new studio flat without a hitch.
No, ever the optimist I am.
It is October, so Munich is buzzing with the final days of Wiesn or Oktoberfest so things are bound to be busy. And hostels are likely to have been booked up for 12 months prior.
We’re waiting for the bus. A few lorries pass but no sign of a bus. I panic I begin to wonder if I had read the time table wrong. The thought that any busy could possibly be active in these small hours is preposterous, there’s no bus, I’m missing my flight and the opportunity, I can’t go tomorrow, it is over. It is over and I am not sorry and I can stay at home and do something take a year out and then the bus turns onto the street I see its headlights and the golden number. It has come. And its only about ten minutes late.
The bus journey is largely uneventful I am assuming the people here are all on their way to the airport why else, and for what other reason might they be up at this ungodly hour. I can think of none. Airport it is.
It is about 5 o’clock when we get there.
I go in and I search for Miriam. I don’t like airports. I find them confusing. Miriam, kindly offered to book flights, she’s an organiser, she likes to organise. I fret and I worry over miniscule things so I gratefully oblige. There is no sense in me worrying and exasperating us both. I am confident in her ability.
We get to our Gate. We sit about and we chat. I am nervous and I am sleepy. Sleep wins and I get drowsy.
There is a stag party en route to Munich too. They wrestle and joke, jibe and jest while other potential passengers evade and elude the behemoth mass that is the Bachelor party. When we arrive in Munich, they will launch their own exclusive WWF tournament, wrestling and rolling on the conveyor belt while some old lady eyes them hungrily insisting they’re merely part of her luggage.
The grass is golden brown in Munich. A true Autumn colour. But the heat is intense. It is October 2nd and the sun is beating down feverishly.
We collect our luggage and exit. I see Barbara, my mentor, waiting with the distinguishing scarf wrapped around her neck. She smiles and I think, that looks like Barbara (we had communicated via facebook before and she agreed to meet me at the airport), I was right.
Barbara’s father kindly agreed to take us into the city and deposit us at the Studentenwerk Olympische Dorf.
I am tired.
No, I am exhausted. No sleep makes me cranky and mopey and depressed.
With much adieu I get my keys. At the best of times German comes difficult to me and I had hoped to clutch Babara close and ask her to work as my brain but I managed. Simply because the Studentenwerk had prepared for every eventuality, even the eventuality that some lunatic would attempt to come study for a year in Munich with incoherent German. It is almost implausible but German efficiency won in the end. They met my challenge!
I got my key.
And demands that rent be paid within a few days once my bank account was opened.
So, we three, Miriam, Barbara and myself venture to Helene-Meyer Ring and into the halls of what looks like some Soviet gulag and down to my room, 107.
This is my room.
I press the key into the lock, the door opens.
We breach the room.
Bare.
A bed, a desk, a chair. And a sink. And a WC that was ripped out of Space Odyssey.
I cringe (I later grew to love it).
A window, a wall made of glass exposes me and my room to those pedestrians walking along the bridge. I only wish I had realised that they could see as much as they could with the venetian blinds open.
Quite the eyeful.
Then, having scoped the room out I decide it might be a good idea to close the door. The key is still in the lock. It won’t come out. The key is stuck. So, we each in our turn struggle, exhausting our physical and mental endurance but despite our best efforts, the efforts of three, the key remained steadfast in the lock.
Barbara rings the Hausmeister.
,Enschuldigung, ich heisse Ottmann, Barbara Ottmann…’
I can’t even make my own phone calls.
The man explains that it is an old lock, these buildings were constructed in the ‘70s after all, the infamous Olympic village.
We try. You must turn the key, twiddle it and push in before removing it. So we caressed the lock for a bit, wooing the key.
And finally, we beat the experimental Soviet gulag cell lock.
I win back my key.
And I can safely close my door with the key in my hand.
I win.
We travel to Miriam’s flat then, an U-bahn journey, one change and a further brief journey to Kieferngarten.
Her flat is amazing.
She actually has the luxury of a door between her microscopic kitchen and the rest of her living space.
I am jealous.
And I voice that envy.
We leave and we go for lunch.
Barbara takes us to a restaurant, and one I am not sure really existed as we could never ever find it again and we order dinner.
I get some pasta concoction. And because I am unfamiliar with pasta and its subsidiaries, eating as hungry as I may be, becomes an ordeal. The spaghetti slipping off my fork and back onto the slop in my bowl. I can’t fork it out; I can’t scoop it and in the end as frustration gets the better of me I try to slurp it out.
A petty meal.
I am hungry an hour after and with no culinary or the like in my flat I will be hungry.
October 3rd is a bank holiday.
Bank holidays, and church holidays are strictly adhered to in Munich. It is forbidden to do anything. No shops are open, society rolls to a halt and a whisper.
But I do have a mug. And some highly coveted tea from home.
I buy milk, and cereal as well as some fruit.
Breakfast the night day will consist of a handful of honey loops scooped into my mouth, hastily washed down with a few mouthfuls of milk. This is the student life.
Culinary and cutlery are superfluous.
I take my food home.
We meet a friend later on Marienplatz. They want to go out. I want to go sleep.
I take them both back to Olympiazentrum to show off my new flat, only to be told that I live in ‘the ‘mun of Munich.’ I reluctantly concede.
As we ascend from the U-bahn, we come out the wrong end.
This is my first day in Munich. I am dying for sure, the lack of sleep has given way to some serious illness, I feel it in my bones. Tomorrow, I won’t be alive.
I try to navigate my way back to the flat Barbara had helped us find earlier.
But I am lost.
We are lost.
This is no laughing matter.
I am lost in a strange city, and no one knows where I live.
Eventually, we make our way into the Olympic village, and after much stressing and sweating, the blood curdling in my gut we got to where I was, where I lived.
They laughed.
My discomfort brought them immense pleasure, feeding off my suffering. I am the hapless fool, the zombie craving sleep as I cradle my sleeping bag on my quilt-less, sheet-less bed. Sleep does not look appetizing and yet it is all I want.
Yet, the girls are on the road and I am compelled to follow.
I can’t remember where I live, I can’t be left alone.
We walk the streets of Munich.
It is early evening, but to me it feels like the wee hours and my home and my bed, and the bus stop and that boiling kettle on the gas a life time ago.
That was a distant dream.
We talk about the others coming.
And agree to meet the next day and to explore Oktoberfest.
I am so very tired.
I make my way back to my flat and I take out a notebook.
I scribble the date and the events, briefly onto paper.
Then I sleep.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Dear Journal
DEAR JOURNAL
It starts with pen to paper. A record, an account of the past. Sounds denoted by digits, digits and sounds combined in the mind. Intertwined like the cords of a tether, a ball of yarn in the labyrinth of the mind to negotiate memory. How much we leave to memory, how much we leave to chance.
The facts of the world and youth moulded at whim. But the world is changing and history is changing with it. I guide the ink on the fabric of the paper, eager to record the words of the world. Before I have to think, before I have to remember them. And taint them, with the snap of a synapse. I don’t trust me, I am the most unreliable witness. My hand moves in perfect rhythm, as it breathes words onto a page, I ought to learn shorthand. If only I had the time.
Words, words, words and no time for thought only the majesty of the written word. Everything else is mere distraction, this shall be the first truthful account, every breath recorded, no time, no opportunity to fabricate, to lie, concrete truths only.
These Boots
These Boots
It is hard to come by good footwear these days. Once in a while, though you find a pair that is worth every penny. A tough, rugged pair. Maybe not pretty but stitched to last. But eventually the stitching begins to rip and tear and nails become displaced and no amount of polish can mask the scratches and scrapes-the wear of many miles and many heights. These boots were made for walking and many miles we have trekked.
There are few places I have been without them. Stepping on the soil, sand and rock of many countries, the grains of foreign lands engraved in my sole.
A journal of discovery, a microcosm of wonder on the surface of a boot-a testament to my travels. Austria; Vienna the streets of the Habsburgs, croissants and strudel, schnitzel and beer. I have walked the streets of Mozart and Schnitzler soaking up the sights and sounds of this historical city, wandering down its Pilgrimgasse and Karlplatz, descending underground to the U-bahn and ascending into the rain.
The streets of Vienna.
The dazzling white airport of Seoul.
The red soil of New South Wales and Munich through the snow. The spongy snow beneath my feet, delighting in the audible crunch and relishing the cleansing cold. And finally we trek through the stony grey soils of Monaghan in tattered work boots.
The life lived, the snippet of life travelled in a pair of boots, ever reliable. We traversed many lands before making the journey home.
I sit down and shake the boots the contents spill onto the floor. The sand and the soil, the pebbles and dust, accumulate on the floor the matter of nations gathered in a little heap, a mole hill as a testament to my travels.
(2008)
Monday, 16 May 2011
TRAINS
There is an old railway line in my town.
It runs under fields, nettles, thistle and clay and burrows under houses; the phantom train.
I often wonder about it.
The train, a mighty moveable fortress of steel and iron devouring forests, internal combustion.
The power of the brute billowing through the landscape people and commodities.
A to B.
It's not there now.
But I miss it having never known it.
I find great solace on trains.
Commuting; the gentle ebb and flow of the train on a sea of wood and metal.
It calms and soothes.
Here, I think, here I write.
Some liken the carriage to a cradle.
I do not disagree.
A cradle of ideas and inspiration.
I look out the window and I see the blurry green.
And the sky.
An expressionist painting.
Vibrant, alive. But.
We are speeding past.
The window can only afford a snapshot.
Trains may offer an analogy of life.
A microcosm of society, this complex, varied assortment of people, of different dispositions, held within a capsule, travelling; spirited toward their destination with only a window view of life. Restricted and blurry and at a distance.
How little we know.
It runs under fields, nettles, thistle and clay and burrows under houses; the phantom train.
I often wonder about it.
The train, a mighty moveable fortress of steel and iron devouring forests, internal combustion.
The power of the brute billowing through the landscape people and commodities.
A to B.
It's not there now.
But I miss it having never known it.
I find great solace on trains.
Commuting; the gentle ebb and flow of the train on a sea of wood and metal.
It calms and soothes.
Here, I think, here I write.
Some liken the carriage to a cradle.
I do not disagree.
A cradle of ideas and inspiration.
I look out the window and I see the blurry green.
And the sky.
An expressionist painting.
Vibrant, alive. But.
We are speeding past.
The window can only afford a snapshot.
Trains may offer an analogy of life.
A microcosm of society, this complex, varied assortment of people, of different dispositions, held within a capsule, travelling; spirited toward their destination with only a window view of life. Restricted and blurry and at a distance.
How little we know.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Tommy Wiseau's THE ROOM
I want to get this down now and while it is still fresh in my mind but there is no film as ground breaking as The Room. The fourth wall vanishes and Tommy Wiseau steps into your life and you're free to do whatever you please. Free to shout, roar, scream or vent your frustration by lobbing spoons.
This brechtian drama explores the relationships and intrigues surrounding one man, Jonny (played by Wiseau), and how these delicate friendships fall asunder once his bored and devious girlfriend decides to sleep with his best friend Mark. As Tommy himself realises at the climax of the film; 'Every body betray me!'
You will laugh so hard your rib cage will ache. And there are few things more satisfying than yelling at the on-screen characters and tossing spoons (only on cue of course, this is a thoughtful piece of cinema).
Tommy Wiseau's THE ROOM defies classification. It is beyond tripe but there is something special in these ruins-It is a cathartic experience and one I recommend you indulge in.
This brechtian drama explores the relationships and intrigues surrounding one man, Jonny (played by Wiseau), and how these delicate friendships fall asunder once his bored and devious girlfriend decides to sleep with his best friend Mark. As Tommy himself realises at the climax of the film; 'Every body betray me!'
You will laugh so hard your rib cage will ache. And there are few things more satisfying than yelling at the on-screen characters and tossing spoons (only on cue of course, this is a thoughtful piece of cinema).
Tommy Wiseau's THE ROOM defies classification. It is beyond tripe but there is something special in these ruins-It is a cathartic experience and one I recommend you indulge in.
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Doctor Who-thoughts
'If you grew up in the 60s/70s you have a vision of the future that looks like a quarry in Cardiff.'
It is amazing how a television show can have such an influence on how you view the world, how you think of it and maybe even how you live your life. But we, being social creatures, crave a good story; a story of morals and good deeds, villains and misfortune; as is evident in the history of storytelling from the oral tradition to the more modern green screen special effects bonanzas-and Doctor Who is certainly the latter.
I am a newcomer to the series. Not a relatively newcomer but a bright eyed bushy tailed wet behind the ears newcomer. I began watching the series (and only the regenerated ones) a little over 18 months ago. I had seen some episodes to be fair, 'The Empty Child/The Doctor dances' and 'Utopia/The sound of drums/The last of the Timelords' but I did not commit and I was not sucked in until I began to watch the series from episode one, 'Rose'.
It was the Master if anything that got me into the tv show.
I was a big fan of John Simm in 'Life on Mars' and I was curious to see him and his interpretation of 'The Master'. When I heard that he was to return in 'The end of time' I was eager to get a fuller more comprehensive view of the Doctor, the Master and their universe. And that is exactly what I did.
Even in the last 5/6 years it is amazing how the show has developed and evolved and while Tennant seems to be a favourite among fans, Matt Smith certainly is doing a wonderful job.
Stephen Moffat is doing an amazing job as writer (the Weeping Angels being an eerie favourite of mine), and new season opener 'The Impossible Astronaut' lends further credence to his reputation.
Murray Gold is always on top form with the beautiful and often delicate soundtrack.
This really is a grand show, and while often I feel that the quality of television has plummeted in recent years, Doctor Who certainly holds the bar and then raises it a notch.
But let's not forget the message of Doctor Who as outlined by Christopher Eccelsten, the ninth Doctor, 'to love life' so let's not become couch potatoes brooding over our laptops and our televisions, our sims and our second lives, our facebooks and twitter and go out and live some.
It's just what the Doctor ordered... ;)
It is amazing how a television show can have such an influence on how you view the world, how you think of it and maybe even how you live your life. But we, being social creatures, crave a good story; a story of morals and good deeds, villains and misfortune; as is evident in the history of storytelling from the oral tradition to the more modern green screen special effects bonanzas-and Doctor Who is certainly the latter.
I am a newcomer to the series. Not a relatively newcomer but a bright eyed bushy tailed wet behind the ears newcomer. I began watching the series (and only the regenerated ones) a little over 18 months ago. I had seen some episodes to be fair, 'The Empty Child/The Doctor dances' and 'Utopia/The sound of drums/The last of the Timelords' but I did not commit and I was not sucked in until I began to watch the series from episode one, 'Rose'.
It was the Master if anything that got me into the tv show.
I was a big fan of John Simm in 'Life on Mars' and I was curious to see him and his interpretation of 'The Master'. When I heard that he was to return in 'The end of time' I was eager to get a fuller more comprehensive view of the Doctor, the Master and their universe. And that is exactly what I did.
Even in the last 5/6 years it is amazing how the show has developed and evolved and while Tennant seems to be a favourite among fans, Matt Smith certainly is doing a wonderful job.
Stephen Moffat is doing an amazing job as writer (the Weeping Angels being an eerie favourite of mine), and new season opener 'The Impossible Astronaut' lends further credence to his reputation.
Murray Gold is always on top form with the beautiful and often delicate soundtrack.
This really is a grand show, and while often I feel that the quality of television has plummeted in recent years, Doctor Who certainly holds the bar and then raises it a notch.
But let's not forget the message of Doctor Who as outlined by Christopher Eccelsten, the ninth Doctor, 'to love life' so let's not become couch potatoes brooding over our laptops and our televisions, our sims and our second lives, our facebooks and twitter and go out and live some.
It's just what the Doctor ordered... ;)
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Catfish
I have just watched 'Catfish' on MORE4 and felt compelled to share a few thoughts, sporadically and instantly-no time to think it through!
What a wonderful documentary that has left me somewhat confused and a little worried about that handful of people who have requested to be my friend on facebook; people I don't know.
Food for thought.
However, I reckon this little documentary carries several messages;
1. Know your facebook and know your friends!
2. Watch out for the weird, the crazy and the demented.
3. The CATFISH-we all have them? Someone to keep us on our toes.
While the lady, Angela, seems to be a strange cross between a stalker and Annie Wilkes from Misery.
I don't know whether to feel unsettled, creeped out or oddly intrigued what this strange and lonely woman did.
To construct several personalities, a multiple role-playing game that lasted a little over 9 months.
She didn't want money, she just wanted friendship it seems...should I be touched by her humanity or horrified that she used her daughters (one real and one fictional) to talk to and woo a young photographer.
To sum it up-
I'm confused. Catfish what is that? If I were to sum it up in one word-Thought-provoking.
What a wonderful documentary that has left me somewhat confused and a little worried about that handful of people who have requested to be my friend on facebook; people I don't know.
Food for thought.
However, I reckon this little documentary carries several messages;
1. Know your facebook and know your friends!
2. Watch out for the weird, the crazy and the demented.
3. The CATFISH-we all have them? Someone to keep us on our toes.
While the lady, Angela, seems to be a strange cross between a stalker and Annie Wilkes from Misery.
I don't know whether to feel unsettled, creeped out or oddly intrigued what this strange and lonely woman did.
To construct several personalities, a multiple role-playing game that lasted a little over 9 months.
She didn't want money, she just wanted friendship it seems...should I be touched by her humanity or horrified that she used her daughters (one real and one fictional) to talk to and woo a young photographer.
To sum it up-
I'm confused. Catfish what is that? If I were to sum it up in one word-Thought-provoking.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
TALK TO THE HAND
Silent conversation. The body tells a story
From a to being here.
The mouth mimes, sings a song without words
Tells a story, utter silence.
The hands move in rapid succession
Pointing to the script of the body,
In this order
A dance, every conversation is an artful dance
Choreographed delicately, thoughtfully
The subtle intonations, I am at a loss
The luxury of being heard in a crowd,
In a noisy café. I see what you mean
You need not raise the bar of your motions
The poetic diction of one's expression
Words fall short.
Reading people is not my forte
But I know
the spoken word is inadequate.
(The written word cannot be spoken with adequate feeling)
From a to being here.
The mouth mimes, sings a song without words
Tells a story, utter silence.
The hands move in rapid succession
Pointing to the script of the body,
In this order
A dance, every conversation is an artful dance
Choreographed delicately, thoughtfully
The subtle intonations, I am at a loss
The luxury of being heard in a crowd,
In a noisy café. I see what you mean
You need not raise the bar of your motions
The poetic diction of one's expression
Words fall short.
Reading people is not my forte
But I know
the spoken word is inadequate.
(The written word cannot be spoken with adequate feeling)
There is something beautiful in this poetic motion
The graceful angelic movement
The definitive symbols, truth. An honest hand.
The body as a stone tablet
You know my actions
And I would know thine
But my body betrays me
Eyes window to the soul,
To you, I'm made of nothing but glass
To everyone else, a rock.
The graceful angelic movement
The definitive symbols, truth. An honest hand.
The body as a stone tablet
You know my actions
And I would know thine
But my body betrays me
Eyes window to the soul,
To you, I'm made of nothing but glass
To everyone else, a rock.
blogs and blogging
I have so many stories to tell but most conversations I remember I imagined having them.
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