One thing you will learn as you grow up, is that most people bloom half formed, incomplete without a counterpart. Craving that cut-along-the-dotted-lines silhouette which deems them complete. Without this, they are five out of the ten segments of an orange, or a glass of wine half empty. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Half Formed People
You board several trains a night, fraught with lilac mist. Blood oranges suspended above the walkway illuminate the path. Machines that blink white churn out Morse conversations. This language, the backdrop of the otherwise blank soundscape of the night. The sky is a milky pool, dizzying to look upwards when you feel you are looking down. The platform: angular and shrouded in geometry, as the silver body of the snake arrives upon the tracks and slows to a halt. It doesn’t chug, but glides silent and serpentine. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: The Night Train
After we split side to side, she said, ‘you know making love is an act of freedom. You have to do it with all your heart, or it will never feel right.’ Continue reading My Father’s Tie
I have looked at the sky at different times. It has been bright during the day, and starless dark late at night. I have stared at the sky while the winter wind whipped my cheeks, but I have also gazed at it when the summer sun toasted them tenderly. The truth is there is no special time to stare at the sky, except when the moon and stars are gloriously out for unusual attention. The sky is barely an evidence of change unlike us, the land-dwelling creatures. Continue reading The Sky Is Not What Changes
Beth owns two cats. Beth owns two cats, and every morning, once she has fed her cats she gets the 8:21 bus to work. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: A Yellow Raincoat in The Sorrento Sunshine
Build it. Break it. Build it, break it.
I exercise control in the small mannerisms I have adopted over the years. The minor, domestic cogs of my life, turning in perfect succession. Succinct, and ritually executed. These are the private domains of my psyche, the charts and the crosses, the changing of bed linen and the calculated hoovering of square spaces. Each chart is built of boxes, and each room possesses borders. The hoover head stops at skirting boards. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Charge and Control
It is late December in a pub in Dublin. Poised behind the bar, a barmaid watches her customers buzz between velvet bar stools, and neglected coats. There is a plastic clock on the wall behind her, as she waits posted in front of the array of liquors, spirits and bottles of wine. The bottles are lazily draped in pound-store tinsel. Pine needles rest upon the floor with a certain authority; the endless cycle of hoovering is no match for the green pins. The air outside turns cheeks pink and skin chapped. The bar has become a haven for restless sets of boots, and men’s frozen fingertips. A sign reads, ‘Our mulled cider is a must’. Drawing in a deep breath, she marks the beginning of her shift upon the shiny surface of the clock. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Bar Flies