sniff, sniff

today i woke up with a foggy head, a stuffed nose and a clock that said twenty minutes left to get to work.

whoops.

luckily i`ve learned a few things while on the road: always pile your clothes in the same spot every day, know how long it takes to get to work if i don't have to wait at cross walks and brush your teath the night before to save time in the morning.

(st)itching to tell a story

life, in general, is good. i've gone so far as to get a fiddle teachers number; all i've to do now is call it. i'm excited. there doesn't seem to be too much committement needed because she's always moving too. i'll keep you posted what comes of it.

my glasses have decided that they'd rather been a pain in my life than do anything constructive. they live the remaining days of their life either tucked away in a pocket or, in the rare occasion that i wear a touque to support the arms behind my ears, on my head. i think i'll have to break down and ses a doctor since the mailing system won't get a script to me until well after i had ground my glasses into a thick pulp and made a few new friends who would later turn out to be lamp posts.

"but they were such good listeners" i would later say
"your not talking to anyone but yourself" would come the reply from no one because matty would still be in spain.

with those glasses in my pocket i spent my post-spectacle-shopping day pulling pints, avoiding the regulars and chatting with an american couple who kept me entertained all night. susan, another of the barstaff, made fun of me last night for being "prejudice" because i only talked to the foreigners. i didn't know where to begin telling her what was wrong with what she said ... so i agreed.

the american couple said good evening at the appropriate time (something other patrons might want to learn) and we closed up shop. the final task of closing up shop involves arming the alarm and making a mad dash to the door. on the way there are lights to turn out and massive handless doors to trapease through. the act of closing the very last door usually isn't followed by a gasp from susan, nor a sudden realization that i left something behind, nor the onset of a pain that can only come from having a massive handless door close firmly on my middle and other-ring finger.

so in the end i was able to spend some nice quality time with the night watchman at the cork emergency waiting room with the doc prepped the O.R. for a silly canadian boy who had less than agile hands. two hours and three stitches later i am on my way home.

i'll have to set up a video conference with mom when it comes time to remove the stitches as it will cost me 50 quid to visit a doctor.

sacred steps

we didn't actually have tea at the Frank's house, because it is a museum and they don't serve tea at museums.

finding it was a challenge. the kiwi's, as it turned out, don't do "getting lost" as well as matty and i. none of the streets were written in english and therefore were unpronounceable, meaning nothing to the lot of us. as tourist we were forever looking for that street that has a Vij in it or started with an L ... having evolved from the realization that following our favourite street, the one that ended straat, did us as much good as following Rue Street in Montreal.

then the house found us the day started looking good.

we spent several minutes in the antiroom reading an outline of the family, familiarizing ourselves a bit with the history and waiting for the tour guide to round the group up. fifteen minutes later we realized there was no tour guide, just a group of people who can't read the sign that says: please proceed on your self-guided tour.

What i was impressed with most was how sacred the place was to everyone there. Quotes from the diary of anne frank guided me through the house. Through them she stressed the danger her family was in, how trapped she felt within the walls and how important it was for all of them to remain absolutely silent during the day; the workers in the warehouse below were not aware of the family hiding and may have given them up to the Germans. No toliets or steps, no laughing or crying, no talking or chewing moving at all.

The house had three floors to be toured, a fourth, the attic, was sealed off. Save for a few whispers between tourists, the place was silent. As groups moved about it was clear just how difficult it must have been for this family. Above me i heard the every floorboard creak under every heel that passed. Everyone moved with such care, with a common understanding that something out of our grasp had happened here. Occasionally a blasphemous flash would disrupt the out focus and furrowed brows would assault the perpetrator. Very people took more than one photo, it just didn't feel right.

It was incredible to have walked through the place that once served as a safehouse for so many people.

ol'vanny

we visited the van gough museum, but they didn't have starry night. i was all excited to see it because, really, it was the only one i knew of his without being prompted. of course once walking past a few of his others i started to remember them as well, but i was still a wee bit disappointed.

i took the audio tour which turned out to be for people who couldn't read the plaques that hung next to each painting. i suppose it was also for art fanatics who enjoyed being lead around by a breathy female. it's been a while since i've heard my celebrity narrator, yet this was a welcome change; as well, i could watch the painting reveal it's self, if you will, as my female friend described it to me.

part of the tour took us through some of van gough's doodles. it was neat to see how his works progressed; what made it, what didn't and what changed.

the girls came with us, however we learned early on that museums weren't really their thing and pretty soon they had run ahead, finished the tour and were taking elevator rides. we hadn't thought to bring any toys with us to keep them occupied while we went about our day. i suppose those are the things you learn as you travel.

we finished off the tour, as one always does, with a trip to the souvenir shop (which, as i am sure you all know, is french for cheep-trinket). i picked out three postcards of mini van gough paintings. that i am sure ol'vanny would have been very proud to see his work trivialized, but i cared only until i saw that prints of the real thing were going for thousands of euro.

the lovely young woman who worked the check out was doodling on a bit of paper. cleverly i remarked that perhaps someday they'd be hanging somewhere with people doting over them. she smiled, thanked me and checked me out.

i walked away with a big stupid grin on my face which quickly turned my face red as i caught eyes with the group of three tourists who had watched the whole thing. all matty could do to hold back his laughter was smile and stifle his chuckle through his nose. the kiwi's pointed and i turned pink.

damn this cleverness

i collected my bag at the coat check and we went on our way. we were due at anne frank's house for tea at four.

embarassed

we visited a sex museum and it was exactly what one might think it would be.

the word museum is a very stupid word to use in this sense.

i never want to go to one ever again.

bearded

i carefully planned my shaving schedule to be at the threshold of "brad you should shave soon for work" and "hey, you look like a hip backpacker who leaves his troubles and shaving equipment at home". matty has a few pictures, i hope i was successful. unfortunately i had to go back to work, despite my desperate attempts to find away to survive without actually going to work or doing any actual calculations failed and my personal hygiene was called into question.

the beard had to go.

it was just getting to the nice comfortable bushy stage where the red was peaking through and the itch hadn't settled in. my reflection and i, after a long stare off which, after several tie breakers, had to be called a draw, ceremoniously shaved our beards together.

the week played through my mind as the beard was pulled off my face. i had to return to the pub, a reality with which i am avoiding another reality. a very funny feeling it is to return to a holiday from holiday, even though that holiday has lunches and mean ladies.

i remembered the little shops that populated every street. where the people sit at foggy tables with other people they may or may not know. the people and other people do is sit, not talking staring with blank faces at the television, coffee cups or walls, which ever is closer or clearer.

i remember the security guard at the airport who called me by name. however it wasn't until i was through the magic beeping doors that i realized he hadn't called me by a name of mine at all but mr gordon downie. i turned back to shout thank you at him but he was already enveloped in being cute with the next tourist in line. i felt honoured that he thought i resembled the lead singer of my favourite band, however i suppose it helped that i was wearing my only favourite sweater.

i remember other things too, but the time has run out.

(matty left for spain just now and he'll be back on the 23rd)

hung shingle

gone to amsterdam, back in a week.

--b

fear and clothing

We sat quietly in the cab of the truck for a while.

The truck was big and red and loud. He loved take it round the house in the winter to see how much snow it would go through. I would sit high up in the seat, hands perched on the dash to get the best view. My little head moving like a child in the front row at the cinema, quickly from side to side to take everything in: the snow rushing over the hood, past the doors, swirling away behind us. We cheered as the snow drifts coward away. I was on top of the world.

Not today. Today i was small. Today i sunk deep into the seat and never wanted to be seen again. With my hands were tightly at my side stared at the cab floor because i hadn't disappointed it, at least not yet.

He had brought a change of clothes with him, but he wasn't worried about the truck. He was doing his best to help the situation. He was thirty two and his only son and oldest child had just pooped his pants.

you couldn't have gone to the bathroom, could you?

He wasn't angry, he was confused. i shrugged my shoulders but my eyes didn't leave the floor for fear it would disappear. i didn't want to explain myself, it wouldn't've made sense anyway.It was easier for me to do what i did than to have the other boys make fun of me. They were always in the bathroom laughing at the toilet if something was "left behind". So instead of subjecting myself to that humiliation I did the only thing that made sense to me and I kept it to myself.

The truck roared to life and we started for home.

Well, will we try again tomorrow? he offered as we drove down the road.
I looked up at him with raised eyebrows. I'll have to i thought i'll be behind in the field work.

I can't wait until my son poops his pants at school. I only hope I've got a big red truck so I can bring him home.

five and three quarters

[this memory came back to me after i had re-read a post i made over at "slatfatf" two and a half years ago. the post was wishing dad a happy birthday, which is ironic because i am sure dad has never read it. the post is a favourite of a close friend of mine, i hope you enjoy it too. as for this story, it is one that i think about semi-often. not to worry though, i have long gotten over the phobia. it will be told in three installments, at least i think it will ... i haven't finished it yet. please be patient.]

* * *

It was early summer. School was in and we were in the school yard playing with our tractors. There were four of us, the same four who always turned up. We were experts in school yard farming, but then so was every five and three quarter year old kid. We lived for the time in the yard where we would clear the twigs from the "fence lines" and pebbles from the fields. Plowing and planting, plowing and replanting.

However, this day was not be remembered for the tractors, nor the planting, nor stone picking. This day was to be remembered for a scrunched up face, a big truck and small boy who made a poor choice of location. I remember this day because I was five and three quarters and my dad had come to pick me up from school early. I had pooped my pants.

2 txt a :)

on thursday matty and i fly to amsterdam with the two kiwi's with whom we visited blarney castle. this trip has sort of been planned since we arrived in dublin nearly four months ago. The Kiwi's are flying out of dublin, and matty and i out of Cork and the foursome are set to meet up at some airport in amsterdam ... or so i am told because it was matty who set the whole thing up.

[the key to successful travelling, or so i've discerned thus far, is to be as prepared as possible with places to stay, transportation means arranged and packed lunches; however, if that is not something you're capable of find someone who is and stick close with them.]

matty and i exchanged several text's the day of the booking making sure of important specifics like my name on my passport, the price of the ticket and not to mention the right days i was to take off work. matty was planning unemployment so it wasn't as big a deal for him.

With all that done, the tickets booked and paid for, matty was on his way home. i got this text from him:

$20 cheaper she didnt chrg me tx feel bad tho.

i sent back:

karma police might get ya

later he sent me:

i went back she wz cute it wz worth it 2 c her smile

what a softie.

deceivingly obvious

An old man approached the bar and stood patiently. His beard had greyed years ago, his sober marooned much the same. Next to him stood a young man. The younger man looked as though he would have like to be at a different pub in a different city, instead he found himself here. The young man stood as still as possible, not making any sudden movements.

I looked at the old man and sighed. i spoke first to young and sober. The old man could wait, and what he would hear from me wasn't going to be new; he had heard it from every pub on the street tonight.

Usually situations like this, this one included, end on a good note. The soberless person will muster whatever senses are left to muster, find their feet and subsequently the door.

i think you've had enough for tonight, come back again tommorrow.

If a barman tells you it's time to go home, it is time to go home.

no if, and's or but's.
no please's, thank you's or throwing chairs.
no telling me ... "go back on the banana boat you came on",
... "you're a langer" or
... "we've never had enough" while you show me your man-u chest tatoo.

If I've told you it is time to go home you should have left for home an hour ago.

The old man returned two hours later.

"Weren't you in here before."

He swayed a bit and his eyes moved from the floor to the stool, the bartop to my tie and rested on my face trying to figure out which of them had spoke, to whom they were speaking to and what it was they had said. He began to shake his head 'no' but stopped short because he couldn't decide for sure what his answer was, or should be.

"I think you've had enough tonight"

He replied by raising his eyebrows, which appeared to be an internally misscommunicated smile.

Glassesless Brad

Quite often i'll round the bar and come face to confused face with a customer. they look as though they want to ask where their drinks are, but all they can get out is the first part of "you don't wear glasses." Then out of nowhere, rounding the other side of the bar, is an armful of drinks and a glassesless Brad named Roy.

Roy is a writer. An actual writer, not a character who plays one in my imaginary world of imaginary patrons who have imaginary, romantic professions that justify my fueling their alcoholism.

Roy is a father. At twenty five he had a wonderful woman whom with he would have a five year old daughter five years from then; at twenty five i found a wonderful red wagon with whom i've avoided life (The wonderful woman is still wonderful, however she is marrying another man in a few weeks).

Roy is the assistant manager at the Shel, five years older than i and is constantly mistaken for my brother, although no one guesses which of us is older.

[i made a resolution]

christmas memories

this story was meant to be added a week ago, but with time moving the way it does and holidays coming and going as they do i didn't get the chance. perhaps a few of you have memories of your own you'd like to share.

the kids would do a gift exchange at christmas. this would be a process of mandy bringing the topic up every week from september until the first of december, and then daily from then on until end of december when we would decide to exchange gifts at new years, or at the feast of Epiphany on January 6th (for those of you keeping track you'll know that is after new years and thus allows more time) which can be credited to mom and her way of bringing the church back into the holiday season.

epiphany celebrates the arrival of the three wise men to bethlehem and how Frank sent gold and mir.

the year of our story had the gift exchange running on time which meant that mandy had been able to organize us enough to have us pull names well before christmas day, have us get to a shopping centre as well as have it figured out in full exactly whom had who.

i would have been fifteen i think, meaning everyone else fell into the age range of either 14, 13, 9 or 7. i went shoping with one of them and there where two other groups. sometimes through the day the groups would meet up, chat, swap members too keep everyone but mandy thinking. at one point i was in the check out of a store behind heather. she got to the cashier and didn't have enough. i handed her some money but she didn't want to take it. there we were, the two of us in the check out having a quiet fight about the money i was giving her. her being nine and wanting to do things on her own, me being fifteen and the big brother wanting to make sure little sis was ok.

eventually she gave in, the family reunited in the food court, universal meeting point of all families during the holidays, and loaded up for home. a few days later the time came for the exchange and for everyone, except mandy, to reveal who they had. being the oldest, my gift came last, and being last it became very obvious who had me.

of course you, dear reader, have already figured out who had me, haven't you! dad thought it was the funniest thing that could possibly had happened. i had, without knowing it, offered money that would pay for a gift that was coming to me. and what's more, i had forced heather to take what i was offering. the poor girl had no choice but to take it from me because she couldn't reveal to me who she had.

... i thought i was being noble.

the re-solution

a funny thing, new years resolutions are. it's always the big question, too. what's yours? seldom do i have an answer for the day of, in fact most often i don't get mine, like many other things, until the feast of epiphany; but i think that just has to do with being a murray.

i wasn't going to make a resolution, i never follow through with them anyways. instead, i'll make a list of things i'd like to improve in my life. i think that'll make it easier.

this year i'll read more, watch less and make more music.

To help me in all those departments is an every expanding library, a couple of music books and ... well, the last bit will be tougher since the only living room has a tv. any suggestions?