So are you looking? Are the walls creeping in on you, as well? I was out tonight. The lack of a structure was driving me bezerk over the elimination of purpose that was Xmas. Doing Equality Studies as a night time course leaves me with so much contaminated time - moments where I should already be in a course lecture, or moments I should be reading course handouts . Whatever the anti-dote to relaxing that besets the frontal lope in these seconds. Xmas is a nice one. The fire is lit, if not in reality, at least in memory, the comfort is provided, through insular packages of chocolate, white cards lashed on scribbled with the juices of ink that peculiarises the gift to you. And enough, less than engrossing, but palatable TV is presented to you. What a plate - do consume it!

Laterly, I do think I/we're living in peculiar times. Smithfield, in my memory goads me back to the dead end of anonymous journeys from the Heuston to town, via the Jarvis abattoir of sense. It was where the cider was stabbed open with the thirst of the most abused after feeblily buying their allowance of two bottles per person in front of Lidl tills. A friend told me the other day - how she recently took this photo of veiled Muslim devotee's playing ping pong on an open, concrete table top set up in the Smithfield Square/Market. How changed.

Tonight I went into Isoldes Tower. Grogans, which remains part of this narrative strikes me as a funny place, art work stick out on the wall, and you wonder how the bidding goes - I mean can I mount there? And if someone can stick a price sticker on the exit sign that's always a hint - I mean wasn't Jim Royles son's band inspired by such aluminum? I don't want to engage in cryptic blogging, so here's the insurmountable moment - d'others were in there. And after an Xmas of absorption in mindrot, there was the phone call summoning me back to the job. Out I goes, to Isoldes, in the end up - something to undermine the nowt.

Apparently, I look like an Italian squatter - which leads to a discussion about Czechtech with a Czech, and an immersion into the politics of multiculturalism in Dublin - because there ain't going to be a lot of it until the drink one is mellowed out. We leave and after a night of her trying to calm a boyfriend besieged by a guy claiming she was "working the bar for drinks" - we have a pounding as the harrassing drunk bloke gave the Italian - not a beating, but a cleverly placed punch in the face on the walk away from the club, not an invitation to fight - but a bang - a thank you very much man. The Italian boyfriend is pumping blood. I'd been talking to him earlier in the night. His dad had been in the Diaz school in Genoa when all of that went wrong, he was from the south of Italy and owt Berlusconi way needed to go down. We were chatting, hanging out, and I could see a fight brew all night.

Sure, I know - but aren't you exasperated too? "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee.....DA PEOPLE" - sincerely have a drink problem, we all know that - but there's something more afresh going on than just pished ribaldry on the streets. The walls are closing in on us. Fucking hell, street violence needs examining - its the ultimate parameter, we are not well. A hidden injury of class it maybe - but we need to come to terms with the Tiger, cos we aint' doing well. Apparently in Maynooth someone is doing research into the rise in violence and the possible links to patterns matching economic data. That'd be interesting. After all I'd be sober tonight, were I not in work tomorrow.

Labels: Out, Rant, Society