Thursday 28 August 2008

The bear and the small squiggle

If you haven't seen this yet, and you're feeling even slightly poorly, then you need to have a look at this and all will be well.

You can kind of imagine what she's feeling, even if you are wildly far out in your impressions. It is an evocative scene. The gal was artificially inseminated, so she's probably a bit surprised by the sudden appearance of this squiggle creature. She looks a bit surprised, a bit like, oh for goodness sake, look at this squiggly little maggot, it has just appeared out of nowhere and it really is hopeless. I'd better take it in and sort it out before it squiggles itself out of existence.

More about home, and happiness

But happiness comes and goes, and when it's present there's nothing complicated about it at all. The only thing that's complicated about happiness is the search for it. I used to think that I needed to love everything about Denmark in order to be content living there, but that was never going to happen, because it just wasn't the right chemistry. So some people get a kick out of being stared at unselfconsciously by the local wildlife, and other people want nothing more than to feel entirely ordinary in the place that they live, not the weirdy one that lives on the corner. I think it is entirely dependent on the chemistry of the person in the place. When you find a place or a person that draws love out of you daily for it or him or her, then it's just a question of getting on with it. There is no more search, or expectation of finding happiness. There's just living.

Awake

It's 5:43 am in County Clare and I am awake.

I am not an early riser, nor am I still fucking around since yesterday. No, I have just been sleeping bollockily tonight. Fell asleep at something to ten, and woke up at four am. And here I am, blogging. This is No Way To Live, and I'm living it.

I feel like I've been in a kind of jetlag living freeflow since february, more or less, when I slipped from the influence of the steady circadian rhythms of my Brooklyn Lover. He came to Barcelona with me in June, and there was probably another steady period of sleeping and rising at Decent Hours, for that month. But these days, left to my own devices, I am sleeping arseways. I will probably try to get another few hours sleep before waking up again, and hopefully waking up again will happen before noon today.

I'm kind of living the endless day these days. The day as continuum of Not Getting Much Done, Spending Much Time Randomly Internetting and Taking Small Pooch For Mutually Satisfying Long Walks In This Fucking Beautiful Place.

A kind of floating.

Home

There was a post asking about 'home' on Clusterflock lately, and I found myself making a long comment reply. Here is the question, and this is what I wrote:

I've been living nomadically for a while. Right now I'm in the south east corner of Clare, Ireland. I am planning to travel to New York again soon. It's a question of layers of meaning, layers of what I could call 'reasons'. I overheard two people talking about where they lived a few days ago, and one of them said, "ah well, if it's home, it's home". I found this to be as wise and deep as anything I have ever heard on the subject.

Sometimes you just end up where you end up, and it doesn't feel like home at all. I lived in Denmark for three and a half years, feeling like that pretty much all the time. It was absolutely where I lived, and I learned the language, and made homes there, moved through the culture, but I was never settled there. Every flat I lived in had a quality of 'just for a couple of months' about it, often written into the contract. I worked on an entirely freelance basis. Having lived in a number of different cultures, I think that home for me will always be a multiple of places, that I return to, regularly.

What I've learned is that finding love and engagement in and for the place you live in is an important thing, and there is no 'perfect place'. If it's home, it's home, and you enjoy the good things and deal with the bad ones. When the bad ones overwhelm the good ones, you do everything you can do to move. Usually the blend is more nuanced than 'good' and 'bad'.

Sometimes you just can't leave a place until your time there is done. I am still living on a 'couple of months' kind of basis, whether here in Clare, or Barcelona where I spent most of the summer, or New York which I am electronically connected to daily, or Denmark which I have left but whose influence I can still feel, or Dublin where I lived for a long time and which is a rich seam of memory for me, or the internet where I spend so much of my time. It is not restlessness. It is the circumstances of my sense of home. It is a constantly evolving circumstance.

Tuesday 26 August 2008

Pulp

My parents have just gotten a new juicer. They are very keen, and have been juicing fruit and veg for breakfast every day this week. I have just seen my dad go down the field with the leftover pulp, to leave down in the glade, for the foxes and badgers. Thrift and eco-friendliness in motion, my dad.

Mister, please don't put your tarmac over our wild green shit

Sunday 24 August 2008

I'm in love with a muon detector

Something exists on our planet, that "spends its time "silently counting cosmic flotsam called muons" – ghost particles that ceaselessly rain down from space".

This thought is very soothing right now.
And not only that, but this silent muon counter is branching out beyond its principle astrophysics specialism. When repurposed, muon counters can see inside thick stone, can discern intricacies of structure inside an archaeological ruin that has long been reclaimed by the rainforest. So they're using it as a non-invasive archaeological tool to pick out detail of the interiors of mayan ruins that currently lie beneath thick green mounds throughout the Amazon rainforest, without tearing them apart. They just sit the muon detector by the side of the mound, and it quietly goes about listening, counting and mapping. Far out.