I've spent the entire day indoors. Dublin's winter cold was accompanied by a persistent drizzle today, and I simply couldn't force myself to stir from the safety of our 4 thin walls, warmed by an electric fireplace look-alike.
The fireplace is actually a nice addition to the room. It's equipped with a mantle, which provides a very studious-looking spot for Liam's best books, flanked on either side by the bookends Mother sent him, and during this holiday season, it can be festooned with stockings and holly plucked from Liam's mam's garden. The flickering light, meant to resemble the dancing flames of an actual fire, are oddly comforting. My mind is evidently easily fooled.
Instead of my morning run, I blared Toadies music and crunched and lunged my way to a more toned naked figure, the changes perceptible only to me, and probably I'm fooling myself even then.
After a lukewarm shower and 30 minutes of basking under the bathroom heater, I emerged cleaned and blow-dried, ready to attempt a journal entry. It was successful only in the fact that I put words on empty paper; I wouldn't call the writing profound, but an exercise is an exercise, at least, that's what I'm deeply hoping today. Both my abs and my career depend upon it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Balconies should be warm
In Texas, I had a balcony: a wide-planked spread that boasted views of the field beyond the trees in my yard, as well as glimpses into the windows of unsuspecting neighbors, should that interest you at all.
It was warm and welcoming. Leaves dropped and stayed, carpeting the wooden slats. The setting Western sun beamed down upon it, through the boughs of the trees, and afternoons spent idly indulging in good beer, and easy company, left the lounger neither scorched, nor chilled.
A separate balcony waits outside now. Dublin's fierce wind eddies between the wrought iron bars and over the hard brick floor. Planters full of nothing but stubborn moss sit irresolutely placed beside two plastic chairs that haven't cradled the seat and back of a lounger in years.
Below and beyond, inviting scenes beckon. The black lamps of the courtyard garden pour sallow light over the always-green grass, and lush ferns and vines soften the corners and twists of the path. Past the canal, looming grandly over the tops of row house after row house, the green copper of a church dome glows dimly against the blue Wicklow Mountains beyond.
The scene offered is certainly more visually appealing than the weathered wood and spindly trees of my Texas balcony, but the wind still whips and shakes the glass doors, and I stare blankly into the deepening dark, knowing a balcony should really be warm.
It was warm and welcoming. Leaves dropped and stayed, carpeting the wooden slats. The setting Western sun beamed down upon it, through the boughs of the trees, and afternoons spent idly indulging in good beer, and easy company, left the lounger neither scorched, nor chilled.
A separate balcony waits outside now. Dublin's fierce wind eddies between the wrought iron bars and over the hard brick floor. Planters full of nothing but stubborn moss sit irresolutely placed beside two plastic chairs that haven't cradled the seat and back of a lounger in years.
Below and beyond, inviting scenes beckon. The black lamps of the courtyard garden pour sallow light over the always-green grass, and lush ferns and vines soften the corners and twists of the path. Past the canal, looming grandly over the tops of row house after row house, the green copper of a church dome glows dimly against the blue Wicklow Mountains beyond.
The scene offered is certainly more visually appealing than the weathered wood and spindly trees of my Texas balcony, but the wind still whips and shakes the glass doors, and I stare blankly into the deepening dark, knowing a balcony should really be warm.
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