Coffee

Whenever I hear it, I miss the sound of coffee being made; the bang and clatter of delph and the hiss and gurgle of of the frother. The jug tapped to settle the foam. Cups hurriedly placed on wooden tables. Spoons rattling on saucers as cups are placed on them.

The toughest thing I face in life is that every few years my favourite coffee place closes and I have to find a new one. Perhaps I’m attracted to doomed coffee places, or perhaps I doom them. Either way, once I walk in the door and settle down in the corner, start thinking up a new business model, because your days are numbered.

My first love was The Winding Stair. It was the fire hazard to end all fire hazards. Not alone was the book shop entirely made of dry, untreated wood, but on the walls of the (only) winding staircase to the first floor coffee shop, some young bohemian libertinev had stapled the pages of books in a fit of romanticism. I was so convinced the place was going to go up in flames that I was scared to use my phone there. And so convinced was I that it would be shut down, that I spent as much time there as I could, like the family of a dying relative who visit all the time but would otherwise be somewhat ambivalent. 

I’m not sure if it was passionate love, or caffeine addiction, but the two are very similar. The taste, the smell, the look, the atmosphere; just being around coffee made me happier. I would think about it all the time. Sometimes in the midst of a conversation I’d zone out and dream of coffee and smile, and only tune back in when my frustrated interlocutor started calling 

“Paul! Hello!!! Are you ok!?” 

I’d sigh happily. 

“Yeah… I’m great...”

Weirdo.

When The Winding Stair coffee place finally closed, the bookshop downstairs stayed open. The clerk recognised me when I came in. We shared our sympathies. He invited me to get coffee from somewhere else and sit in the couches they had for bookstore customers, but we both knew it was over.

After that, I went through a dark time. I had a few one-morning-stands with disreputable chain coffee houses. I had coffee out of petrol stations. I even had one of the McDonalds cappuccinos, before the café at the front existed. All I could taste was bitterness. I never thought I’d have to talk about it, but here it is, out in the open. I guess it doesn’t matter now.

Eventually, I found I had a new regular. I don’t remember how it started, but before I knew it I was a regular and I was introducing it to my friends. It was first year college and I had classes near Stephen’s Green, so I’d slide out to a little West Coast Coffee place just off Grafton street. Most of the seating was in the basement, and I’d spend hours shored up there, reading and writing. 

Pat Ingoldsby was still to be seen selling poetry on the streets of Dublin those days, and I found his awe at the world somewhat contagious. His poems have that childish wit and charm that compliments Irish melancholy so well, and form something strangely uplifting, and a little cheeky. I’d have silly conversations with him, and then spend assimilating his words and perspectives.

It was years later that this West Coast Coffee place closed. I still have happy flashbacks to playing chess with strangers there. Flirting over the top of a book. Darting in with a friend to grab the couch. We had a good run. She’ll be missed. 

There have been others; in different cities, different countries. Bewleys has been there all along, but we’ve never gotten serious. Just a quick one to-go every now and again. And I make myself one every morning, of course.

Right now I’m drinking a decaf cappuccino, and I would imagine this is what sleeping with a prostitute is like. I don’t have the kind of life where I can afford to spend until three am bolt awake staring at the ceiling just because I’m hopelessly in love with a beverage. I wish I did. I wish I was bold enough to just do it. But I have a job and a life and a million excuses that seem to stop me following my heart. 

Sometimes a pale imitation is just enough to stop you going after what you truly desire.

The place itself is pretty cute though. It’s the Costa opposite Trinners. It used to be Easons, so without a single book, it reminds be of a book store. The rooms are oddly shaped and sized, and the dark wood, warm lights, and grey stone walls outside suit the winter.

There’s something promising about it. I think this might be the next one I fall for. I think the next coffee I drink here will be full caffeine, and screw the time of day.

Drink there soon if you’re going to.

It's doomed.

Infographics

In a recent poll involving me alone, infographics were determined to be ridiculous creations. The main reason cited was that they do not help information retention.

I have read a lot of silly infographics in my time. Stared at them. Admired the colours and the various shapes. Even vacantly drooled on the table a little. But I can't remember what a single one was about, and I'm going to blame the infographics.

They're a reflection of the mentality of catering for the lowest common denominator; aiming at the broadest audience of perusers, who click, glance, and move on, rather than those who read with the intention of learning or remembering. The whole development process is aimed at making information palatable, rather than memorable.

"Jimmy is scared of proper information, so lets give Jimmy a picture he can look at".

Jimmy isn't going to learn anything extra from the picture than he would have from a graph. All an infographic will do is obfuscate the information for anyone who stood a chance.

In summary, know whether you're trying to communicate or entertain.


Edit: 
Since writing this, I've relaxed somewhat on what I vehemently opined. I now believe that infographics can be good, but that 95% of those I have seen were poorly designed. As an example, this infographic from The Huffington Post is touted as good, and is clearly a mess.

I'd note also that Wired's top 13 infographics of 2013 are all either maps or well labelled charts. 

The difference appears to be that well organised graphs which don't use traditional axes work, but jumbling random facts into a long picture does not.

Finishing Books

I always tell people that if they're reading a book just for pleasure and they don't enjoy it after a few chapters, they should just stop.

So, I'm about 100 pages away from the end of Sentimental Education by Flaubert, and I've been bored to death by the last 150. I had been reading a book per week, but this thing has dragged out for a month.

Rather than rant about book stories, I'll leave you with some recursive irony.

Take your own advice.

How the Other Half Lives

I've often tried to get foreign people to be "racist" and do impressions of English speakers, just to hear what it sounds like. You can imagine my delight at finding this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vt4Dfa4fOEY

Diaries

It puzzles me when people show off their diaries to others. For me, my diary is a completely accurate record of what's going on; the good, the bad and the ugly. It's bare, and I don't sugar coat anything. At the same time, I don't make anything sound worse than it was. It just is.

I could never show it to anyone, because for ever more I would write it knowing someone might look at it. I would have an audience in mind. I would self censor and completely compromise the integrity of the writing, and then it would be nothing more than an aesthetes dramatisation of my life.

I keep a blog for the world, but my diary is for me.

Art, Background, and Context

Art commentary really bugs me, largely because the language surrounding art is completely illequiped to describe its impact on the average person.

When I look at art I will be struck by the technical expertise, whether I like it or not, and an emotion. Speculating as to what it "means" is making the rather large assumption that it was designed with an intended meaning, and that the artist was actually able to communicate that meaning above all others you may accidentally pick up on.

However, despite my protestation, this "depth and meaning" has come to be of considerable importance to the value of art, and thus must be included in it. Were one, say, to produce an extraordinary album, one surely must have a good story of how it came about.

The Sisters Brothers

I’m not generally a fan of narratives that take place in Western America, but I was quite impressed with this novel. There’s something strangely charming about the innocence of killers. Their world of hope and struggle in the gold rush era makes for a curious setting to their confused odyssey, which seems to walk the line between purpose and disaffection that so many great tales carelessly ignore.

The subjective narration leaves the story feeling very self contained, so that although much is left unexplained, the reader is left with a sense of closure.

I know nothing about the author, but he reads like a far more experienced and professional writer than other titles I’ve read recently.

The Bell Jar

This book is full of such incomprehensible emotion and behaviour that my instinctive reaction is to suppress any acknowledgement of it. I battled with this through the entire book, and came to loathe everything that the protagonist was. 

Her disaffection to the world, her warped perspectives of those around her, and the absence of any awareness of life beyond that which affects herself was so totally repugnant, I was impressed that such a character could be written. It exists in a dimension I could not have conceived before reading the book.

Notwithstanding that, it was an easy and educational read. The narrative trundles along, and even when things are happening, it feels like they aren't. Such is the skill of the writer.

Toward the end, the structure breaks down and becomes a bit of a mess to read, much in the way that the last chapters of The Great Gatsby become a little sloshy. Time passes madly. The reader has to work to stay in tune. The author is clearly sick of writing and needs to wrap it up.

Perhaps it was a flaw in my edition that the spacing of paragraphs was poor.

Though not enjoyable, the book itself was not totally abhorrent. Read it to have read it, rather than to be reading it.

I Am the Messenger

The first book I read by Marcus Zusak was "The Book Thief". It was a Christmas present that I had shelved for a long time, thinking it was going to be moralising tripe like Chicken Soup for the Soul, which is more like Fish Food for the Brain. I was pleasantly surprised.

Many people write books; Zusak tells stories. He tells them in a way that makes you forget he exists, in a way that lets you drift off into his world.

"I Am the Messenger" is quick, pleasant read that will make you feel good about yourself. Perfect bedtime reading.

Mornings in Jenin

My opinion of this book is tainted by how little I enjoyed reading it. And that's not to say it was a bad book; I just didn't enjoy it. So much sorrow crammed into a lifetime, and crammed into a novel, does not for a pleasant Sunday read make.

Stylistically, it's overwritten. The plot rambles in places. It will not make you feel good about yourself. But none of that really matters.

When you mention Israel and Palestine to most people, their faces take on a slight panic as they think of some thing to say, and usually only manage something like "what a mess". The mess is comfortable. The mess means that maybe no one is right, and the whole thing is just a jumble of silly things. The mess makes it easy to ignore. "Busy, busy" if you're a Bokononist.

The horrible thing Mornings in Jenin does is make it very simple. 

A family live in a village. Then some people come, shoot them, take their village, and claim to still have the moral high ground. It's so simple it's hard to ignore.

Monings in Jenin taught me something I'd rather never have learned.

Sometimes it's very wrong to say that no one is right.

A Few Flying Tips

Always dress well. Security is faster, people are nicer, and if you meet someone you're not in pyjamas. Do not wear shorts. Planes are cold. Change in the airport if you have to.

Be flirty and cheerful with the check in people. Especially if your bag is overweight. They're usually bored and open to banter.

Plan your bag. Make sure your laptop slides out.

Pick your queue well for security. You are looking for
1. the number of people in the que,
2.the proximity of the scanner's exit to the entrance to the shopping area, and
3. the age/racial profile of the people queuing.
Asian businessmen are fastest to follow when queuing for security. Then white businessmen, and then white families. Young women in sweatpants are surprisingly fast. The slowest are nouveau-riche Chinese (who don't know how to que), coloured people with non-western clothes, and old people. Arabic people go through at a surprisingly normal rate, but will likely get "randomly" searched as they walk about later. Couples can be stupid, languid and lovestruck.

Bring an empty bottle through security and fill it from drinking fountains when you're through.

Hold your passport open, your picture page unobscured on the bottom, your ticket across the top. Don't start fumbling when you get there.

Assign a single pocket to avoid passport panic.

If someone needs help with a bag, don't hesitate and do insist.

Have an item of clothing to use as a pillow. Airplane seats are crap.

Always be the last on the plane. While waiting, sit in the seat nearest the gate and allow the que to disappear while you watch in comfort, then step up casually. This way you won't have to stand, and when at last you seat yourself, you won't be hit in the head as late arrivers shuffle their bags into overhead compartments.

If seating isn't assigned, ask to sit in the emergency row. Usually the air hostess will stand in it. This is not because she's minding it, but because it's easier to stand in. Just ask and you can have the legroom.

Announcements are always unpleasant because of their caustic treble-saturated volume. Put a finger in your ear on the speaker side. Expect babies to cry.

When babies do cry, imagine they are distant F1 cars flying around a course, changing gears. Seriously.

Take off your shoes on the plane. It's so much more comfortable if you're in the air for a few hours. If you keep your shoes on, your feet will sweat and your socks will feel unpleasant on arrival.

Marvel at the clouds. Every time.

Have in-ear headphones. They're cheaper than active noise cancelling, work equally well, and you can wear them as earplugs without an uneasy dead sound. Also, you can roll your head sideways and sleep, where a headset will keep you jammed facing forward.

Read a book.

Stand up and stretch occasionally. Don't be embarrassed about going for a walk-about. You'll feel more alive on landing.

If you watch a movie, check if children can see your screen. Having sex or gore unavoidably on display where a child can see it is extremely poor form.

If you read or watch a movie, glance up every so often at the farthest away part of the cabin you can see to give your eyes a rest and a stretch.

Make sure your movie will end at least 30 minutes before you land. Nothing worse than having 10 minutes left and the system is turned off.

Do not expect the sleep you get on a plane to count for anything, ever.

Leave the plane after the crowd. I have never beaten my luggage to the carousel. If you have checked in bags, there's no good reason to bustle in the isle. Read a book, chill out, and wait until it's clear.

Brush your teeth and wash your face while you wait for your bags. Spray some aftershave. Freshen up. You probably look like you slept in your clothes.

If you're being collected by a friend or by family, turn on your phone and answer any messages that want answers before going through the doors to arrivals. Those moments of reacquaintance, embrace, and drive home are important to whoever picks you up or they wouldn't be there.

Remember that air travel is a ridiculous, silly, and fantastic thing to exist, and that though it may be commonplace these days, it should be treated as a privilege and a marvel.

The Unbearable Lightness

Just a few moments ago I was sitting in a restaurant below the acropolis reading a book by Flaubert. As I put it down and made to settle the bill, a fear and listlessness suddenly struck me.

What is there to do when you've visited all of the great cities, have read all of the classic novels, and can hum every important piece of music? It's perfectly possible to do this by turning thirty. But what then?

A stupid, arrogant, and irrelevant pondering, but all the same... worrying.

Coffee and Conversation

The coffee was so thick that when I darted some milk into it, the colour barely lightened. I stared at the cup, imagining the sludge, and she continued talking somewhere in the background.

War on Terror

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. 

So we're declaring war on it. 

We'll shoot it with bullets.

Gatsby

Perfectly neurotic. Tragically beautiful. So much longing, love, obsession, and truth.

One man wrote it, vastly dramatised, and yet any of us could have written it if we knew ourselves well enough.

Take A Holiday

Go to Graiguenamanagh.

http://graiguenamanagh.net/

The Orient

I have just come home from working in China for a few weeks, and remarked on a number of things. Forgive the rambling; I have been awake for 40 hours travelling.

Shenzhen
Shenzhen is a quickly built city that exists in the seesaw middle-ground between post apocalyptic mayhem and utopia. There may be a five star hotel here, a run down block of apartments there; a gleaming shopping centre on one side of the road, a field full of rubbish on the other; spanish villas, shanty towns. It has sprinklings of each side, but never full fruition of either.

As a general rule of thumb, even if things look alright, they're always a bit shit.

'Ol Factory Output
To be back in the clear air of Dublin is wonderful. In China, when you wake up the air is heavy in your hotel room. When you go to work, the air around the traffic is heavy. When you are at work, the air is heavy.

With the pollution from the cars and factories, the dust from the construction sites, and the heat of the day, the air feels like it weighs more in your lungs. Buildings a few hundred metres away look greyed out by the smog. All colours are faded. All smells are faded. The world is a brown-grey haze.

Walking back up Grafton Street was like turning a screen from black and white to colour. The air, so thin and clean, and a myriad of smells floating past; a bakery, a woman's perfume, cigarette smoke, a shop selling soaps, a coffee shop with it's doors open, a rainbow of smells.

And the sky! Rather than a homogenous grey haze, the sky is blue. There are even well defined clouds with white centres and golden outlines! Buildings that are hundreds of metres away appear in crisp Technicolor HD images. It's like what being on drugs is meant to be like, but undoubtedly better because it comes with the clarity of mind that only 20 hours of long haul flights seem to give.

Katy Perry
Back home, I'm just out of the shower. I had the strangest experience as I was getting in. My body seemed to develop a light, sharp ache all over the surface of my skin. It came on a little at first, but within a minute I was shaking with it, and a blue flame of familiarity lit in my head; I had rediscovered "cold".

It comes as quite a surprise to have "coldness" thrown on you when you haven't experienced it for a few weeks, and it reminded me of my feelings when I came back from Australia. I kept them in a little notebook so here they are, for your pleasure. They seem obvious and trivial to read, but they were so far from the norm that they made an impression on me.

1. Tap water is cold.
2. The ground outside stings your feet.
3. The fridge has so much stuff in it.
4. Clothes are really heavy.
5. People are pale and blotchy.
6. There's stuff to think about everywhere.
7. Metal hurts to touch (cold).