You cant roll a smoke in this kind of cold. The hands feel fine until you try moving them. It’s like watching a stranger’s hands working the paper, trying to will them to do what you want. It’s futile.
An old priest came over and told me he won a diving contest here back in ’56. Then it was off to the monastery with him.
My new home. My abode for the Winter. Galway City.
I got digs.
Four walls, an inflatable mattress, a damp draft and a stunning array of ceiling mould stretching down to the floor. Once block from the center of town, where music can be heard no matter where you stand.
When I crashed here last night it felt familiar. I remembered my first apartment in Melbourne 6 year ago.
It was a dank bare hole in the wall. All I had was one suitcase full of crap, a mattress on the ground and a pile of furniture pulled from the side of the road.
Once I found a dozen busted deck chairs on the road and spent an hour dragging them back to the apartment where I arranged them into a big pile in the living room. A big pile of bent rusting aluminium and cracked polyethylene.
Just to fill the space.
I had a 10 kilo sack of rice and a job at a Comic book store.
Foxes lived in the empty lot behind the living room.
I’d sit on my pile of deck chairs and watch them playing in the long grass sometimes.