I knew on my last visit to Barnes & Noble that St. Patrick’s Day was coming because their “Irish Fiction” table was smack dab in the middle of everything. This being a recession and me being a cheap bastard (bastardess?) I stood there with my iPod and entered the names of all the books I wanted to read. As soon as I got back to WiFi, I requested them from the library.
What this means is that I can’t lend any of my friends my copy of Confessions of a Pagan Nun. I wish I could, because I foresee this being one of those books I buy multiple copies of to give away. It’s beautiful and lyrical and moving and, I think, written just for me. That’s the sign of a great book–that it speaks to you on such a personal level.
But enough now of the deepness. I must now pass on to all of you a warning.
Do not look up the musicians you love on the internet. If someone’s music speaks deeply to you, just enjoy the music. Because the odds are that once you find out how much of an assbasket the artist is, you’ll never be able to listen to the music the same way again.
I of course am not saying that I came to this realisation after googling Van Morrisson yesterday, but I suppose if you wanted to make that connection you could.
So between all my Irish library books, my Van Morrison, Steeleye Span and Pogues playlist and my sudden craving for corned beef and cabbage I think that I’m pretty much into Irish Season. Which is good because it allows me to overlook the garish pinkness of Valentine’s day.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my husband more than I love just about anything other than God. The libertarian in me just balks at the idea of having to tell him I love him on one specific day because society deems it so. I always feel like such a joiner when expressing my love on Valentine’s Day. Like a sheep.
Or maybe I’m just saying all of this because I haven’t gotten to get him a card yet.