I'm off to Ireland in a couple hours, bound over on the tin carcass of Ryan Air, with a planned descent into Knock airport in the west of Ireland. My farm that I'm working on is somewhere hereish: On the north-west coast of Ireland in the "mountains". The folk I'm staying with sound incredibly nice, and if my luck holds out they'll need acres and acres of bushland cleared, probably the kind of bush that only really respects skinny white kids, if I'm really lucky.
I don't know much about the couple who own the farm, save that they have a sense of humour I really appreciate, and that they have made several obscure references to fairies, which could go either way I think.
It'll be a wonderful two weeks of Guiness and wandering, and if the internet rears it's head you'll hear from me often. If anything else rears it's head though, it'll probably kill me.
Anyways, I'll talk to you all soon, and if you live in Canada, I'll see you in a few weeks.
Well, looks like my ancient, recently twenty-six body is still able to type, so hopefully I'll stay out of the rest home this year, although from the swelling in my knees I can tell it's going to rain tomorrow.
Had an explosively wonderful birthday yesterday, and as I begin this year (and this morning), sipping on some amaretto and orange juice, I can't help feeling everything will continue as such.
It was a fantastic experience, although I hadn't remembered any Klingons or Hobbits in the original script, I'm sure that's just my aging mind starting to slip.
In another bit about artistic genius, I'm on BBC2 today in a reality show, most properly described as Visual Torture, where upon an excruciatingly unfunny comedian attempts to do some sort of fake space briefing to a panel of mollified, hideously embarrassed young people. I unfortunately count myself amongst the latter, and the whole thing turned out to be unpaid. Bollocks.
Anyways, that's on at noon, London-time, so anyone with a satellite subscription so superfluous that they receive BBC2, see you then.
I'm off to Ireland tomorrow afternoon for a couple of weeks of farm work on the west coast, but I'll talk about that tomorrow, after the glorious shame of today has worn off.
Thanks for all the birthday love everybody, it was stellar.
It's been such a while since I've been pushed enough to write, and while my life is less for the sharing, the wants to alchemize the moments of my days into an internet script have waxed and waned these few years of travel, and I have no reason to expect they have not again.
As the days of winter drew on, and this steadfast mire of London became ossified and comfortable, I thought often of the grand plans of spring and the news from which I would draw. But as the days have softened, and the gardens of London, that is, the wide greens that form the gaps in it's grays, have boiled over with blossoms, those great plans have indeed come to be, and I have still left their wake unnoticed. In the last month, we have jaunted to Amsterdam for a quick visit with our friend Natalja, and the past week we rode a rickety tandem bicycle all the way to Paris, a feat to say the least. In so doing I expected a more thorough spark to ignite in my typing, I was hoping to skim off the top of this simmering recipe and hold it out for my dear ones to taste, but the act of broadcasting seems somehow repugnant. Like a summer day when the clouds suddenly eat the sun, and you're left feeling topless and a fool. Ach, this is what happens when you don't feed the metaphors...
Alrighty, here is a picture of Amsterdam, taken from the top of a huge carnival ride (made of swings and devilish intentions) that was situated right in the middle of the city. But as you can see, this photo really doesn't explain anything, like all the photos of this marvelous city I tried to shoot. I would like to spin a spiraling anecdote about how Amsterdam cannot be captured on film, because of it's vibrant life, or something, but really it is such an upfront and spectacular city that I can't imagine that my excuses would be in any way true. The truth is, if I wanted to explain our time in Holland with our friend, it would look as simple as this:
Actually, it looks more like Jess is yawning than screaming in delight, but you get the point.
Anyways, Holland was fun, we took a boat, I realized the sea really isn't that romantic, more kind of there. And flatty.
Then a week later we took our crazy English tandem bicycle, I left all my self-respect at home, and we rode off south towards Paris. I have some shots I wouldn't mind putting up, but for now I'll embed a video of the trip I made shortly afterwards.
WARNING, This video is as sappy as a Matchbox 20 Kittens For Africa promo, and I really must strongly advice those with any normalacy to skip it, unless you like vomity bonding at a level of Armaggedon. (The movie, not the biblical end of times, which I imagine is not actually that mushy.)
I guess spring has riz, all the wild flowers have invaded our primply manicured parks and threaten to overthrow all the careful planning.
Anywho, just a quick note for all ye out there in Edmonton, I'll be home for the summer, and I would love to have the job thing sorted out before July. Anyone with a connection that is just sitting around rusty, and thinks they somehow need much, much more Nick in their daily lives, let me know, I'm all in.
Found out yesterday there are 60 applicants for every single job in my burough. You want to bag groceries? Get in line my friend...
Back again? I think so, or at least the recently delivered latte beeps in agreement. Mister Andrew Fanning, of the well-known Fantastics, has just left London for his adventures in Paris, and his two-day visit helped provide a much-needed spark to the occurances here. Jess and I are heading to Amsterdam to visit our friend Natalja in mid-April, and after that apparently are going to cycle to Paris ourselves. (see: here) Hmmm...
I'm going to do some more Wwoofing in May, which for those of you who remember our Jungle Slavery period of Bolivia, means working on farms in return for room and board, but those farms being in wildly awesome places. In this instance I'm heading to Ireland, where there are a couple of farms that look cool, namely those on tiny islands off the west coast. I have to say, it's really charming when Irish people try to warn you about Atlantic weather, and you try to explain Newfoundland.
Plans within plans aside, I am also gloriously returning to Canada for the summer. The glory being most assuredly not mine, but the sense of home I cannot wait to revel in. I'm visiting my grandmother in Toronto in June (Sarah, prepare yee thine liver), and then coming to E-Ville for the summer. Anyone with a heads-up on a cool job for me should definitely hold forth, and no, jokes that involve mayonnaise will not be considered original or helpful.
In September there are options aplenty, if Mister Ian French chooses to pursue his own ill-fated education, then I am most probably going to Tokyo for a year, otherwise our wandering of mountains appears assured. Those plans however are just too far away to consider temporal.
Also in life: I have melted a laptop with the Great Linux Experiment of 2009, and have a very lovely plastic space-brick that does a remarkable job of holding down papers in the wind. I'm about to wrap up my Arabic lessons, and while I can doodle people's names in cool letters, I am still unable to conjure up such complex sentences as "I am making toast", and "You are wearing my pants", leaving my command of the language futile. I got totally boned by the BBC a few weeks ago, where I endured hours of the most horrible social awkwardness I can imagine, and they didn't even end up paying me. But if the show ever airs, 'll let you know.
London is filled with new-born flowers, the days slowly soften from black to grey, and I am typing into the sunrise.
Halfway through all the blabbing of travels the wind kind of went out of me, perhaps, and I presume so, drawn out by the routine drifts of a rapidly returning ascent to normalcy here in London.
As I've seen before, the dreaded 9-5, (or 5-10, as it may be in my case), leaves little urges to record splendor, or see the interesting amidst the interring, but of course that is a theme for the greater coursing masses anyways, and I'll take my rain cheque on the philosophy.
It's late January now, the wicked wanders of the season have moved a bit within memories, from invigorating to nostalgic, a bit like turning possibility into fantasy, from aqua into unda. Meanwhile my work has dried up a bit as we enter the slower season, leaving what could be ample opportunities for free-space, that I must admit have turned to forgotten days under my watch. I'm in classes for Arabic, violin, and a choir (ha!), but it always sounds a mite more engaging in a list, and less so in the reality of eastern scribbling and D flats. (Oh, there are many, many of those.)
Plans are being made heartily with Monsieur Ian French (of the recently engaged), to travel this summer, east and east again, so the future is very open. Financially daunting, but open. Kind of like a Planet Organic, exotic and forbidden.
Off to the Tate Modern again this afternoon. Meh, it's free.
As the documents of the days come before me I shall post them on the cork, I promise.
Nick.
P.s. This is a photo of my theatre: The cardboard box I sleep in is behind Row W.
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