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Equally cursed and blessed

September 24, 2010

You’ve been sitting there for a while now, and the thus-far silent glass has told you to go out into the back yard. What if there is no back yard? Not in the Irish sense, where the backyard is tiny and full of refuse; if the house just stops. You’ve walked through the cottage office and thought of all the things you wanted to say, and forgotten them as fast as they coalesced. Instead, you mix mango and milk and whatever preservative is floating in your glass: it’s fine. Something you loved is playing from the conjoined battery of speakers, something overlooked. Someone is praising the noise with nationalistic fever: doubtless someone is doing the exact opposite across our dear neighbour’s wall.

The noise? Like a river, babbling, nonsensical, incoherent, musical. Can you discern the separate threads of conversation, alternatively about sex or alcohol or something so delicate and specific, beautiful even though you could never relate to it?  Stories from friends.

People leave and pass and your eyes assume that dry feeling. Now you’re stuck between the two states.

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