Perfectionists should never write blogs. It's like asking for a mental block, for writer's block, all nicely wrapped in cyberspace and unleashed whenever signed in to blog. I freely confess, as a perfectionist, blogging discombobulates me.
A perfectionist cannot muse out loud to an audience, which is what blogging is (I think), because musing is so devoid of linguistic and grammatical standards and polished arguments, so personal and revealing, so maddeningly rambling. It's a freedom I normally only give myself when writing journals or jotting notes in class, but I do admit that it is precisely this type of writing that audiences find most engaging. And seeing as I am thousands of miles away from most of you (and must do better to keep in touch) and always like new challenges, musing more often might be a good option--as opposed to writing neat little entries once in a blue moon. Over the next few months, I'll give it a try.
I've moved for the seventh time since arriving on Irish soil--Northern Irish soil but Irish soil nonetheless. (The locals can argue about what exactly that means, because I don't care). I'm in Loyalist heartland now, apparently. It doesn't mean much to me except that I'll have to put up with the flute band practicing in the Orange Lodge near my house. The Orange Order aside (what it is and stands for exactly is also a mystery), I've never been of the opinion that flute bands sound good; they give me the same feeling I get when I'm reaching an essay or project deadline and my brain is spinning and spewing out words and sentences that I've no control over. The discordance of it, the numerous off-key notes, the lack of harmony, the inscrutable tunes, the repetition. There is a reason I am taking a break from academia! (And flute bands).
My new place is a house, not detached, so many of you wouldn't recognise it as such, but here it qualifies as a house. It has three floors, four bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen, a dining room (not used despite the fact that it's huge), and a sitting room. My room is on the first floor, which Americans understand to be the second floor, but which essentially means "up one and a half flights of stairs, very narrow stairs, that just barely fit my luggage bags when I pulled them up them, again and again, when I moved in the other week." It's a cosy room with two (abeit shallow) closets and a bed that must either be a very large single bed or a very small double bed. I have a chest of drawers that's proper wood and not IKEA crap, and all the drawers work and are clean and have handles. (It's the simple things in life, really, that matter). For the rest of it, it's not that big of a room, but it's a nice creamy colour with white trim and has a good-sized radiator that'll dry my towel during the proper winter--when it still rains but it's even colder and the wind can stop you dead in your tracks until it lets up.
The weather here has been dismal this spring. There were a few weeks, maybe two weeks, of incredible sunshine, but since then the temperature has stayed pretty low. As one particular pharmacy customer said, "The clouds are doing battle with the sun, and they are winning." But the rain here isn't usually like proper rain. It's a misty drizzle, a haze of wetness that all one's clothing and one's hair and one's shoes absorb like sponges. From time to time, Belfast gets proper rain, but I cannot remember the last time I heard thunder or saw lightning here. And hail isn't hail, either, it's a strange pea-sized white mush. Someone once said, "Hail!" and I bolted and said, "Get inside!" The elements, while persistent, are not normally as violent here as in the Midwest. Only the wind at times can be truly severe.
Case in point: I had a dwarf blow into me the other day. No joke. He came up to my chest or just below my chest, poor guy. Can you imagine the humiliation? On the news there were photos of trees unearthed and blown over in Scotland, but on my way into the city centre for my bus to work, I had the shock of being this tiny man's only salvation from him careening helplessly away down the street and into oncoming traffic. So, when he slammed into me as I stood trying to not fall over from the force of the gale, he grabbed on to me and held on for dear life as the wind started blowing him in the opposite direction, off of me (I think he must've got hold of my belt loops or something). Give or take 30 seconds, the wind died down, and he regained his composure and got on his feet again: "I'm so, so sorry." Me: "Oh, you're fine. No worries." The lady behind me: "Oh! My! God!" We hurried our separate ways--me because I would miss the bus and him, I imagine, because he didn't want to prolong the awkwardness of it all.
I wonder if he made it home all right or if he now walks around with bricks in his pockets to weight himself down. As for me, I must have been carrying a lot in my purse that day or I've gained a few pounds, thanks to potatoes and Kopparberg cider.
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