In Idleness We Forget

I realise that I haven't been very active on here. But let's face it, I have approximately three readers, all of whom are Andre. That's life. I'll deal with it.
Anyhow, I was reading Psalm nineteen this morning, and a phrase from verse four leapt out at me. I'm not all that into Biblical poetry, but this was stunning, and I realise that it was the only phrase that could ever be the title for my great novel, to be completed before I'm thirty. Which means I have about nine and a half years more. But anyhow, the verse says,

Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun.

And I was thinking, wow. A Tabernacle for the Sun, M. Deutsch, would look really fabulous on a leather spine in bold black ink. So I googled to see whether it was an available book title, and guess what. Some bird called Linda Proud has already snatched it up. For some bolloxed novel about a Venetian runaway. How lame is that? I mean, honestly. Mine would at least have been contemporary and transgressive and borderline gonzo. Let's face it, I write compellingly.
Giggle.
None of you have ever read my serious fictional work, and we're going to leave it like that until I'm thirty, all right?
Anyhow. So that's all through with, and I was thinking and thinking about another title, cause nothing sums up what I want to write about as much as that phrase.
It's like Hebrew names. I love Hebrew names, and should I ever have babies (they will be with David Tennant, or Daniel Craig, let's not mistake things), they're going to have good Hebrew names, even if I end up with a little girl called Mannaseh and a little boy called Devorit.
But, yeah, I've come to the conclusion that whatever novel I write, the title's probably going to be something out of the Bible, and not because of this nonsense trend that's come out about writing faux-shocking things about religious canon (take that, Dan Brown!). It probably won't have anything obvious to do with the Bible, and you're going to have to squint very hard to see the very deep philosophical and social statements I'll be making, but oh, trust me, they'll be around. Hidden in long, langourous scenes about lovers touching one another with their finger-tips as they asphyxiate in tombs, or a screaming old man making sacrifices to Baal-Jupiter, kneeling in the brick-red Arizona desert, sucking water from aloe vera plants and cutting his feet to ribbons on the Mojave rocks.
Oh, yes, you will squint.
And you will be wrung out like a dishrag.
Move over, Ian McEwan, I'm going to make people cry like you've never dreamed!

On the Metro

You might remember, if you've known me long enough, how a long, long, time ago I was madly in love with a tall, slim brunet with big blue eyes and a flirty wink. He was called 'Drake,' but I determinedly called him my Adonis.
Well.
He has been effectively replaced.
By a skinny little man who gives me free coffee and shortbread.
I love my Nicky.
I will fight you for him, Aimee.
Also, David Tennant.
Here, c'est moi.

Completely Inappropriate

Kinkature.

Mood: Finger-tips hurting.
Listening To: 'The Regret' 500 Miles to Memphis
Reading: Tiger in the Smoke, Margery Allingham
Eating: roast beef and potatoes
Drinking: Smart Water!
I ain't ready, I ain't ready,
Don't put me in that pine box yet.
Hah. This song is totally rockin. I wanna rip out its spine and move in.
Things are a little crazy. I've been working out like a pony, and I made a silly little promise to a green-eyed boy that I wouldn't cut my hair till he does. Considering both of us look like haystacks, and he's well chuffed with my state of disarray, I think that may have been a bit unwise.
I've also developed a very unhealthy desire to watch High School Musical.

Man Candy

I am sick to DEATH of people telling me I look like Halle Berry.
If I looked like Halle Berry, I would have a gorgeous man-piece like Gabriel Aubry.
So there.
Been grooving to Radiohead...actually, just two of their tracks, Karma Police and No Surprises, both from OK Computer. I've got the most depressing playlist on my mp3 player right now...it even has Blue Eyed Soul by Wilco on it, but then suddenly starts spritzing up with Delivery by Babyshambles, which, incidentally, is the catchiest fucking tune in the history of catchy tunes. Long live Shotter's Nation, mah lovelies!
Urb. I'm going to go to bed and dream about blond Adonislike gods.
Observe.
Though, to be perfectly honest, I've been less and less about perfectly chiselled good looks lately, and more about scruffylooking men with killer smiles. Weird, huh?
I accosted some poor, random bloke in the mall the other day just cause he had the most glorious beard...and he was a blond. Obviously, fair men usually have kind of patchy facial hair..but he had this fabulous full on golden beard, all vikingly, and a great smile and all dimply through it.
Oh. I'm experimenting with watercolour canvas.

Killing in the Name Of

I faced off with a twelve kilo sack of half-rotten turnips the other day.
You bet your bottom I won.
I'm hungry, and I feel like having some red meat.
Grr.

Seamus Heaney

I love him.
Lots.
And I really, really want to read his Beowulf, but I can't seem to find the time.
And Neil Gaiman has done his best to ruin the legend.
The tosser.
But here, have some Seamus.

Death of a Naturalist

All the year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampots full of the jellied
Specks to range on the window-sills at home,
On shalves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hadges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like snails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.