it takes so long to get to the point. and it's harder when the wind squeezes through cracks between shingles, through insulation & batters the sheetrock in this attic apartment. i shiver & lose my train of thought. forget why I came here. sometimes the whole house lurches. outside, the rain stands sideways.

the Polish countryside is desolate and beautiful. this seaside town is just plain desolate. but the supermarket's got everything. hooray for capitalism. the flight was bumpy. two spoiled kids in the seats directly behind me alternately screaming exhilirated "wheee!!!"s or just screaming. for any reason at all. wrapping their parents about their fingers with extortionate tears. "mommy we're falling" or "no mommy the flights NOT over, we can't leave yet". the weather was the same in Glasgow. i pinned so many hopes on this trip. not so much has changed. now i lay awake a lot & think. focus on the infinite & songwriting and keeping people at work happy. from the sublime to the mundane. And every shade in between.

What makes an Irish pub? A crowd? Boisterous talk? Music?

Guinness. Pictures of Irish poets on the walls. Lots of browns and greens and grays. The slightly sour urinal smell of spilt beer.

I went to my local Irish pub last night & was surprised to be assaulted by smells. They banned smoking recently so all the other smells crawl out of the woodwork. Guy smells like sweat, dust, fish & chips and hair products. And girl smells like perfume. Both synthetic & the natural kind i'll just call "girl smell". I'll sniff Pola's hair & smile & she'll say "what's the matter, do I smell funny" and I'll say, "no you just smell like a girl". That smell.

I used to work in an Irish pub called "Liam Mcguires" as a line cook on sautee. At the end of every shift I'd shuffle out of the florescent stainless steel white walled kitchen into the emptying dark wood-paneled common room and squint. I almost always skipped my complementary after-shift-beer and drove home on empty roads that led to empty spaces.