The National Lottie

In my mind I am a dancer. I float blissfully through the city bowing at windmills and capturing imaginary partners in a graceful dip.

But at the end of the day reality dawns and I realise just how clumsy and uncoordinated I really am.

I lie in bed and count my bruises challenging myself to recall where each purple-blue haze originated. Resting my legs up against the wall I press each mark causing a small painful twinge that might, like some biological jump lead spark a memory.

In my mind I am Anna Pavlova then I catch my reflection to see Stan Laurel squinting back at me.

Regina Spektor’s new album, Far, was released online yesterday and should be on the shelves as of this morning. She took her time didn’t she? Her previous album Being to Hope dating back to 2006.

Spektor, born in Russia to a Jewish family and raised in the Bronx trained as a classical pianist in Manhattan. She traveled extensively in her childhood which lends itself to her quirky misplaced singing accent. She is in my opinion, the original and the best of those “quirky” songstresses who play and instrument and sing with an accent ala Kate Nash, Lilly Allen, Duffy and Corinne Bailey Rae.

While Far lacks something of what Begin to Hope had and doesn’t have anything in the same league of the beautiful Samson it is a lovely sweet enjoyable album and merited the third play this morning.

Samson

The stand out songs on the album are the a-typical bittersweet Spektor songs such as Eet, Laughing With and One More Time With Feeling.

Over all, me liksies!

Reblogged from here.

Self. Do not get irrationally agitated, upset or insulted when a randomly generated spam comment accuses me of telling porkies.

Sitting three away from me, ginger complexion freckling in the sun, Nike’s pressed firmly into the mound for balance he waitied, patience failing him. The Canadian  postured and searched the audience for volunteer after volunteer as little feet raced back and forth. Gravity could barely contain him as his hand shot higher and higher madly searching for the entertainer’s eye until finally it seemed as if all was lost.

Then with great panache the show-man announced the final trick.  “Right boys & girls, I need just one final helper from the audience,” and the firecracker was up like a light.  “I need someone who is  here with both their parents”.

Dejection filled his little pink face as he slid downwards onto the grass. His mother leaned forward brushing imaginary hair from his face, failing to disguise the look of apology in her eye.

The Good:The Last Days of the Reluctant Tyrant in the Abbey

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Some relationships are marriages of gasoline and fire. Where you’re both doused in the volatile liquid and face off with lighted matches in hand.

As you can feel the match burn down towards your drenched fingers tips you question how you can keep doing this for the rest of your days. You think that it is either you or them or both and it’s so tempting to just cast the flame into the middle and watch the whole thing burn.

Alone in the coffee shop, not quite in the lunch time rush yet, I wait for my companion to arrive and sip dark bitterness. I let the hot sharp fluid soak deep into my tongue.

Each time my lips touch the circumference I remember them. Warm, soft vessells, slaves to tamptation.

It’s easy to forget your lips, but today, as I lick the opaque froth from the rim of the mug, slurping up every drop, I feel my lips. I am so acutely aware of them. The tingling nerves. The soft berry like texture where inside meets out. Their warmth.

I run my finger along the bottom bow where they are most sensitive and my mind wanders desperatley. Catching a glimpse of my refection in the glass door I remember my surroundings and try to compose myself.

There they have sat, brazen for twenty odd years but never never before have I been so aware of my lips.

‘It wasn’t mine. I could have taken it… but it was someone else’s ticket and someone else’s luck’

AN honest shop assistant is appealing for a mystery man who left a winning lottery ticket in the shop to come forward and claim his prize.

The absent-minded shopper left his National Lottery ticket on the counter of a shop on Drogheda, Co Louth, last Wednesday, little realising that it would soon be worth €350,000.

I’m not sure I would be.

…But Final Destination much?

An Italian woman who arrived late for the Air France plane flight that crashed in the Atlantic last week has been killed in a car accident.

Johanna Ganthaler, a pensioner from Bolzano-Bozen province, had been on holiday in Brazil with her husband Kurt and missed Air France Flight 447 after turning up late at Rio de Janeiro airport on May 31.

All 228 people aboard lost their lives after the plane crashed into the Atlantic four hours into its flight to Paris.

The ANSA news agency reported that the couple had managed to pick up a flight from Rio the following day.
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It said that Ms Ganthaler died when their car veered across a road in Kufstein, Austria, and swerved into an oncoming truck. Her husband was seriously injured.

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