Okay, I know you’ll all tell me I don’t need to apologise – but I have to start by explaining the absence anyway. Basically,  internet access here is pretty poor. The only place we found, and I’m back in it right now, is on Nevsky – and it’s a little over a half hours walk from the b&b and not really en route to any of our usual haunts. Hence, no talkie from Louie. Also though, I have just completely gotten sucked into this place and I’ve been enjoying just flowing along, relaxing, absorbing, soaking it all in, and drinking more beer than one would have thought possible.

So, today is our second last full day. We’re leaving the b&b at around 12 on Monday, after that, I’m not entirely sure when I’ll be back online, well, sometime on the 1st most likely.

I have a million things to say, there’s so much it’s a swirl, a happy swirl, but not one that wants to break itself down into writing yet I’m afraid. I go to try to pick a shiny bit out and it spins off in the flood of a hundred million things I would like to say about this place. I suppose it shall have to suffice to say that my love for St. Petersburg has only grown, I’m like some melodramatic 18th century lady with a rose and an opera note that could shatter glass – this place is pure romance to me. I’m so excited about it I really can’t write – no words will come to explain what I feel right now.

But, that’s the way it goes, have to wait for the sand to settle before I can start to convert the sensations into images and find the words to do them justice.

How about I just say this: when I walk out of this internet cafe it will be into a street with thousands of people on the paths, ladies in fur and stiletto boots, cars six lanes deep, encrusted with the black mud of a city thawing. On the pavement dance music bangs from shop entrances, like nothing you hear in the rest of the world. Posters and signs in every colour and font grab your eye like crosswords – the Cyrillic begs me to translate it. High above video billboards adorn the tops of buildings and all along the footpaths the sides of corrugated metal scaffolding’s are wallpapered with even more signs and posters advertising everything from ham to shoes to alcopops. Christmas lights flash everywhere, and I mean everywhere – you can’t move but see a flashing light reflected – in a muddy puddle, the buckle of a ladies shoe, everywhere.

 Everyone moves together, it’s a seamless and purposeful flowing of bodies, in a city of 5 million. Car horns blare, wheels skid on slushed black-brown mud. Above our heads sculpted faces stare down from the buildings, smoke billows from industrial chimneys, the sky is a deeper shade of black navy than I have ever seen in Ireland.

Okay, 6 minutes left, time to spell check and then dive back in. Take care all, x

I’m writing this to you from a net cafe on Nevsky Prospect, and my lord but the keyboard is weird, so, you know the drill, ignore all typos and things that could have been edited better

I have 24 minutes left, so if I end very abruptly, you know why.

Yesterday was incredible, so much happened in such a short space of time, I’m not sure how I’m even awake today.

We got to the airport on time, the queue was long, the airport was packed. We were fretting about how long it would take to get through security but it was fine. We grabbed the usual ‘New Scientist’ and ‘Economist’, a coffee and a egg and bacon sarnie between us, and then we ambled down the gate A, where the lady at the desk had directed us to. When we got there I realised it was the same lounge I had left for South Africa from, then Benny noticed the flight, although for Frankfurt (we nearly always have to catch a connecting flight from there), had the wrong number.

We walked back up the corridor we had just come down to find our way blocked by a member of airport staff, who, in a none too sympathetic way, explained that we could not return to the main hall to go to the correct gate (probably 20 paces from where we were) and that we would have to go out through baggage collection and go back through security. At which point I had a minor heart attack. We tried pointing out that our boarding time was in the next 5 minutes, she was interested, our mistake, our problem. She didn’t even give us proper directions on where to go – so we ended up running around an empty part of the airport, completely lost, half an our before the plane was due to take off.

You sometimes wonder in life if there isn’t somebody looking after you. As we ran up the empty corridor (ignoring wrong way signs because at this stage we’d gone so far we couldn’t go back) we came upon a band of three cleaners. Benny explained to them what had happened to us and one of the girls ran the rest of the length of the corridor to open a door for us to let us back into the main building, effectively skipping going through security again. Now, considering that going through security at the busiest time of the year probably would have lost us the flight, that girl was an angel from above. She broke the rules for us, and I intend to pay that kind gesture forward to the very best of my ability.

Anyway, we eventually got to the gate on time, pouring with sweat and minus my delicious Bewley’s Americano. I didn’t really give a shit at that stage, I was more interested in getting on the plane without being hauled out of the queue like terror suspects for skipping security. Oh, another stroke of luck – the ‘airport offical’ that wouldn’t let us back out of gate A wrote on the wrong ticket that we had gone the wrong way – so, no unnecessary questioning at the boarding check-in.

The flights were fine, I figured out something about why I get so upset by the take off, which I don’t have time to go into now, that saved me a lot of grief. We had our mandatory early morning beer and fag in Frankfurt, caught the next plane with plenty of time, oh, and I bought some nice treats in the duty free.

The marshrutka (probably the wrong spelling, it’s the name of the little van/buses over here) ride into Sennaya was memorable. We got the front seats, the dance music was blazing, the New Years lights flashing all around us, the traffic at it’s usual frenetic dance… I instantly remembered how much I love this place.

No matter how much I knew it back home, being here is an entirely different thing – everything about here inspires and stimulates me – from the different advertising, to constantly trying to read the Cyrillic, to looking at the different buildings, people, clothing, cars – the list is endless. I’ll try and expand on that as the week goes on, but I have 6 minutes left and I want to do a quick surf of everyone else’s blogs.

I’m ecstatic to be back, and the camera is always in my hand – have no fear

Just a quickie guys.

We’re packed, well, Benny’s at home putting the finishing touches to it now. Then he’s picking me up here in about two hours. Then it’s off to Dublin to swap prezzies with my parents and have a quick nip over to Dar’s house for the big Christmas shindig. Then, well, it’s very little sleep and off to the land of fun!

Merry Christmas everyone!

I’m busy this morning, but in the most disjointed way. Doesn’t feel like I’m getting anything done, even though I’m constantly doing something. I’m not complaining about it, just noting the oddness of it. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t stopped yet, to take stock.

Although, I think it may be a carry over from yesterday’s burn out. See, I keep forgetting that I burn out from time to time. When I’ve been very focused on something, really putting my brain to it, experiencing the high of consuming as much information as I can about something – there comes a day when I crash. Big melt down, thoughts in a loop, stomach in a knot over every little thing – and I never seem to realise what it is until I’m at least half a day into it. I suppose that’s a feature of the impaired judgement that comes with it – I always see everything through black glass.

Sorry, I have to indulge myself for a second – black glass. What a beautiful image – smoke glass, opaque, now see through, swirling white. Black glass with a lead tint, making murky a daylight beam of sunshine. Something of Noir, something of a vase my mother owns that I was attracted to from a young age. Something of the painting that I love that my mother now has hanging in the guest bedroom back home – an oval framed relic of the eighties, white and black crashing waves on a silver and black streaked beach. A slice of moon threatening ribbon clouds. You can hear thundering waves when you look at it, feels like they’re only muted because it’s twenty odd years old.

Mmm. Introspection. Mmm.

Lol. Sorry. I just felt like it, what can I say.

Sidestepping not so gracefully back into real life – I did a quick round trip a few minutes ago back to the house for one last search for my credit card. Don’t go worrying, it hasn’t been stolen or used since I last know I had it. But I’ve torn the house up, and my desk here at work, and it’s just no where. I’ve even done the bin thing, and the inside shoes thing, and the between the mattress and the bed frame thing. I’m thorough about such things, but then, you probably could have guessed that. So, it’s cancelled now anyway, and the lovely lady informed me there’s no charge for a replacement – happy days!

Tonight we have to discuss how much money to pull out of our accounts for the trip. The fun thing about the Ruble, and you may have noticed Mairead asking me in the comments, it’s a closed currency. So, a money belt is an essential piece of kit for SPB. I also have to put on the last wash. Yes, laugh away, it didn’t get put on last night – the radiators will be hopping tonight.

Oh, interesting. I think I just felt relaxed, just for a second now, oh, wait, there it is again. No, it’s gone again. Ah well, nice while it lasted. I was just meditating in the toilet, as one does, that I probably wont actually get around to looking forward to this holiday properly until I get on the plane on Sunday morning.

Oh, how I love getting on the plane – the terror, the white knuckles, the sucking in air and burying my head in Benny’s chest, trying to muffle my rapid breathing so as not to scare anyone else. And then, the really fun times, when the sensation in my stomach from the plane leveling and ascending just after take off is just too much, and I start crying because I feel so dreadful.

The thing is, I don’t actually dislike going on aeroplanes anymore, I amen’t even all that worried about falling to our deaths in a fiery ball of severing and agony and roaring. I just can’t physically take that sensation when taking off without having a panic attack – no matter how calm and placid I am, no matter how well I’ve wrapped my head around the thing – the second I feel that pull and dip in my stomach, my body freaks out – I think it thinks it’s being attacked. Maybe I was shaken to death by King Kong in a past life.

It lasts for the duration of the take off, and then I’m fine. Sometimes I manage to sit still through it, but I have the look of someone who’s already dead when I do it. We’ve worked out that I’m worse on Airbus than Boeing – Airbuses appear to ’step’ up more while gaining altitude, so, up a bit, level, up another bit, level – it’s the leveling, which feels like dropping, that scrambles my circuits.

The rest of the journey though, I’m as happy as a pig in poop. I love the little dinky trays, and the crap processed food (if only for the joy of peeling off little lids and seeing what you’ve gotten!) and watching the staff doing their thing, thinking about the joyful piece of information my air-hostess friend told me about how all the up and down makes a person rather windy. I’m not even too bothered by the landing – it makes more sense to the physics engine in my brain, big things came down (slowly and using their wings to create resistance), big things shouldn’t go up (how the bleep does something that frigging heavy go up? I don’t care that there’s a rational scientific explanation, me and my overreacting body aren’t buying it).

Now. Aeroplane rant over. Back to work

I wonder sometimes if the reason I feel crappy a lot of the time is to do with my having a very low tolerance for things not being perfect.

Like, right now, I have something on my mind, and it’s not overly pleasant. It’s eating at me. When I direct my mind away from it, to see if there’s anything else worth mulling over, this huge big ugly black monster of a thought sways in to make sure there is no escaping the shitty feeling. The monster is stupid, it’s just finishing the washing for SPB, which I really should have done last night. It’s also telling me I should have done more cleaning, and that my procrastination is the mark of a retarded, lazy, f*ckless individual and that I only have myself to blame if I end up in a flap at the last minute.

Now, the thing is, if anyone else spoke to me like that, I’d wipe them off the face of the planet. But when I say it to myself, it works. It’s like there are two – the stern overly negative voice, and the cowering self-conscious submissive voice. The latter of which seems to take whatever is slung with very little resistance.

This is so different to how I am in real life, or, is it. Are there times when despite the facade of assertiveness and confidence I take what is slung without realising the impact it has on me? There are, but it’s usually a wood from the trees kind of situation when it does happen, or, I just bottle it up thinking that the person wont keep making this mistake, until one day I explode. (This is really just skimming the surface of this issue, I know, I’m leaving out a hell of a lot of explanitory detail).

It’s hard to remain forgiving indefinitely, when there are so many things you see people doing that make you itch and burn to say something to sort them out. I try to limit the amount of time I spend watching the news for this reason, and tend to get into all sorts of bad humours if I watch too much. I sit there, silent, fluctuating in my heart between compassion and outrage and hurt. Now, I’m not saying it’s as extreme as that every time, mostly I have a little filter I pop on to keep it all at arms length. But plenty of things get through all the same, and press too hard on certain nerves.

What I’m saying is, I do a lot of bottling, international news, work life, home life, Louise bottles an awful lot of ‘wtf?’. One spills onto another until they all become equally, painfully distressing. And then big monster thoughts lumber in to make sure the tremble in my belly will not let up. It’s like when I feel bad I somehow subconsciously shovel more crap on there to make sure I’m really bad. Perhaps it is typical Louiseian efficiency – get all the crap stuff out of the way at the same time.

More likely it’s just that when the black ink spreads, it touches everything with it’s negative taint. Suddenly little problems rare up and loom large over me, leaving me feeling weakened and scared.

So that’s where I am this morning. A very mild anxiety attack is pulling at the frayed edges, looking for an excuse to spill over and run me to the toilet, to sit wringing hands and looping positive thoughts mantra style.

I make it sound so extreme. Language does that sometimes, how disappointing of it. How disappointing my control of it this morning is not enough.

I just want to sit still, and not do anything, not go anywhere, just meditate, stare out the window and unwind my heart and my head. Listen to what they’re telling me – because I’m ignoring something and soldiering valiantly, and they’re saying, no, my dear, it’s time to sit and stop running.

****

Well, I sat, and stopped and there were quiet a few things I was juggling. I put them all down on paper, and a solution beside each and I feel calmer. Funny how you can actually be under a lot of pressure and not actually realise it until you see it written down in front of you.

Friday morning was long, painful, interesting and cathartic.

We managed to leave at about 06:20, not bad, not great, but well, that’s why we always schedule extra time, we’re both useless at keeping to self appointed deadlines.

The drive down was nice, himself likes to do the long journeys, I’m happy to have him do them. The roads were quiet and we listened to Lyric fm a lot of the way. As we reached the motorway the sun came up, a rousing choral piece rose and fell from the speakers, the sky lit up with dusky pinks and grey-toned oranges, and the little Punto soared along, a red flash through skeleton silhouetted feilds.

We made it in plenty of time. Enough time to dump me at the doors of a local hospital to run in for a guilty pee. Why is it I feel guilty for ’stealing’ the use of a toilet in a public place? While I was there I was reminded of the toilet in the private hospital where I had my wisdom teeth operation last year. I wonder if these weird little hospital toilets are standard issue? Whatever they are, the creep the hell out of me, with there scruffy yet sterile pain infused tiles. Pain infused tiles? I feel like all the ill fretting people that have used them somehow infuse their worry and pain into them, like a dirty sponge. The sterile smell just makes it all the worse, an illusion that doesn’t quite cut through the atmosphere I can’t help but absorb myself.

Speaking of atmospheres leads me rather neatly to my attempt to describe the ‘office’ (read bizarre hallway with a glass windowed booth at the end) where they process the visas. What a supremely odd little room. It honestly does feel like a chunk of Russia – the ancient red carpet, the bizarre red felt backed plasticy coat of arms. The old maps, the faded picture of St. Basil’s, the tattered documents tacked to the wall, the crappy folding plastic chairs – even the wallpaper and the tiny broken heater. The guy behind the desk was hilarious – he approached each document with the expression of a man clearly looking for a reason to give you bad news – the quivering arched eyebrow, the disdainfully pursed lips, the constant glances back at you that say ‘I’m on to you, really, and I will catch you out if you’re fucking with me’.

I felt like I had a bubble in my heart, and when I didn’t feel like that, my pulse just raced. Amusingly, everyone else waiting in there was going through the same pain, and it’s always funny to watch the way people grab at humour, any humour to relieve the tension. We laughed at the stupidest of things, we all smiled at each other, all jollied each other along. It’s quite touching actually, to see how people look after each other as an involuntary reaction to the stress. While we were standing waiting to get in I whispered to Benny that the writer in me was wondering what all of their stories were, what these ten other people were going to Russia for. By the time we were leaving I had shared a smile and a laugh with all of them, and knew quite a bit more about each of their stories.

After we successfully concluded our transaction we headed for the city centre and went to Ann’s bakery for sausage, chips and gravy. If ever I deserved sausage, chips and gravy, it was then. After a quick flit around M&S and Dunnes we headed for my parents house for coffee and a bit of recuperation before heading out to finish up some more of the Christmas shopping in the Blanchardstown shopping centre.

I drove out of town to my parents house. That was a momentous moment if ever there was one – the streets I’ve been driven out from my whole life, as a child in the back of my dad’s car, by Darren, by Benny, the busdriver, whoever. All the times I’ve pounded those streets, frosty mornings, earphones blaring, walking to make my lungs hurt and get the brain blazing – and there I was, driving it myself. It was a good feeling.

Good to see Dublin again too. I actually liked being back this time. I particularly appreciated the shops – I don’t like shopping generally, but when you can’t get what you want in the shops where you live, you soon start to reevaluate the importance of having that choice.

We had a lovely evening with my parents and on Saturday night we had a ball at the gathering of our old workmates. Strangely, it didn’t feel as if any time had passed. No one even looked particularly different – it was the same old buzz. It was lovely to see everyone again, and I was quite sad leaving. It may be the last time I saw some of them, never a nice thought.

It gave me some perspective, made what we’re doing now look a little different. Somehow the texture of my old memories got a little richer again.

Going back to SPB has me reflective too. I can’t wait to feel those paths under my feet, to touch the walls as I walk past, let the cold lead window sills cool my eyes just by looking, let the ice wind go into my skull, the fumes hurt my throat.

I saw a woman on a hill, a tall woman with a cloak, a large staff in her hand with a skull on it. The wind whipped around her. She was at a great height. A warrior. The camera swoops up from below her whisking around and up anticlockwise. A huge woman with broad shoulders. I was daydreaming about why what I just wrote was so indicative of a self-harmer, to use the tacky buzz word, and she just popped into my head. Like a stone statue in her indifference to the cold, a pure symbol of power.

Russia, red, made of stone and pain and snow and blood. A place for striding and standing at great heights, observing all below. A dark place with hard white gleaming light, glittering on the darkest night. A city of extremes, of soul aching beauty and filth, and pain and suffering. A decaying magnificence that isn’t diminished by it’s decay, but rather enriched, made more lovable by the layers of darkness and hurt. Lovable to a warrior, to a hard stone force of a woman. A woman who welcomes the cold, let it freeze, let it burn, let it hurt, let it steel, let it cool. Let it root me, let it bring me peace in it’s solidity. Hope in it’s heights, understanding in it’s darkness, magic in it’s glittering streets.

Take me home.

The visas are sorted. Louise is falling asleep in front of the computer. Standby for details tomorrow.

Be good

I have that butterflies-esque feeling that comes before I do something slightly outside the norm. I have the paperwork to recheck, clothes to pack, things to leave ready for the cats, the gift voucher for the restaurant to grab, my credit card to grab, toothbrush…. okay, you get it. And I have to do all that before 22.30 – fat chance.

We’re up at 5.30 or thereabouts, so I really need to get my skates on. Fingers crossed I can sleep!

I may not be able to post for the next two days, I will certainly do my best, but my dad only has dial up, so I dunno if I’ll have time or patience to deal with it. Although, knowing the level of my addiction, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Right, off I pop, back to old stomping ground. Always weird to go home after an absence, no doubt it’ll fuel some interesting musings.

Take care of yourselves everyone,

Love, Lou, x

I can hardly concentrate long enough to write a sentence tonight, so I shall endeavour to be brief.

work busy.

many distractions.

mostly good ones.

sorry no comments.

still love you all.

worried about visa.

not sleeping properly.

Right, now that that’s out of the way, (I was trying to formulate sentences to cover that ground for about 10 minutes before I gave in and wrote that), I can ask you all a strange question.

Me and Benny were talking about the way our minds work tonight – specifically about how I associate colours, fonts, images, memories, whatever, with each letter of the alphabet. Some I like, some I hate etc. We narrowed it down to symmetry on a lot of them – the more pleasant the letter looks when it’s held against a mirror, the more I seem to like it. Similarly, the more ‘red’ the letter/word, the more fond of it I am. Diagnosis aside (I’m already fairly confident I know what it indicates, so that’s not why I’m asking about it, though your thoughts are welcome) – I’m wondering if any of you have any similar associations with letters or words, however mild. I’m fairly sure I’ve spoken about this before, so forgive me if I’m being boring, but I’m just fascinated to know how it works in everyone else’s minds. Are there colours, are there words you’re more attracted to than others – letters that look ‘nicer’ than others. Do days of the week have associated colours/sounds/tastes. Even if it’s just on one word, or one letter or whatever that you have something similar – I’d be very interested to hear about it if you’d like to share

Some examples if you’re stuck: r, s, and t are all red. z is rust coloured orange, v is maroon/wine red, f is blue, a is yellow. I also hate the letter y because I always think I should put an l in instead of it. Similarly, I dislike l because it looks too like a capital I. I also don’t like vowels because they’re curvy and round and could all fit inside each other. K’s look great with their backs together, H is perfect as it is. Oh, and K is brown. I don’t really expect to find that anyone sees them exactly the way I do – but I’m just interested to see what you’re reaction is to it generally, or if anything immediately sprang to mind when you read it.

That is all.

I had one of those ‘if anyone could see me’ moments in the sitting room about an hour ago. I was gathering up jeans and t-shirts from the radiators ready for the next batch to go on, when I stopped to smell the clean hot cotton. I stood hugging the jeans for a minute or two, holding them up to my face to feel the warmth and inhale as much as possible of that glorious hot, clean clothes smell. How incredibly comforting a thing to do, and yet how incredibly weird looking I must have been, locked in a blissful embrace with a pile of denims! Benny smirked and the kittens resumed their grooming. I resumed my task with a slightly stoned smile and a dreamy wobble in my step.

I had a seriously busy day in work today, I have no urge whatsoever to discuss it though. I try to leave it in there as much as possible when I leave. It’s the sort of job you could very easily take home if you’re not careful. It was good though, to have something to do all day and to have a sense of purpose, I’m starting to feel more confident too so it was pleasant to have more opportunity to flex my newly rediscovered sales skills.

I have the attention span of a goldfish tonight though, I’m having that waking up every hour thinking I’ve slept in thing – drains the aul batteries that does. I foresee an early night tonight.

****

My Mother pointed out a scary fact tonight – what with all the not thinking about SPB because of the invite and visa worries I genuinely hadn’t noticed it was so close – we’ll be there the weekend after next! EEEEEK!