Desmond & the Name He Can't Even Spell.

Life is an infinitely strange affair. You meet foreign people on foreign buses in foreign lands, and they teach you the same life lessons your parents taught you: learn to be peacemakers, learn to be accepting.

I met an ex-war-journalist on the bus in Berlin the other day and he offered me help with directions. Of course I knew where I was going, but I'm not above asking for directions, and so we got to talking. We talked about Germans and friendliness, and German weather (which is oddly like the Irish one), and after awhile of talking (of conflict and layman philosophy), he pulled his jeans-leg to his knee, revealing a prosthetic limb where the flesh should have been.

The biggest thing I got from our short talk--which regrettably ended with a handshake and a first name that I can't even spell--was a sense of weariness from someone I felt had good intentions. (Now, I realise Dad and Mum taught me not to judge a book by it's cover, but let's say the guy had good intentions). I felt he was tired, and at 26, to speak like you've seen the best and worst of half a century is... just saddening. It's not sad, but it's saddening.

That's when I realised--even if I've always knew it was possible--that even Good Samaritans tire. Maybe they don't tire of doing good, and being good, but perhaps they tire of trying to fight for the good of all men. Maybe they stop making peace, and just settle for being peaceful people.

I know it's a heavy entry, and I don't normally do heavy entries anymore. And this isn't a cautionary tale of sorts, although if you take it that way, "good for you". But I'm writing this partly to remember, and partly to free the bottleneck I've experienced writing-wise.

Dear Friend, Do Not Grow Weary in Well Doing. Because in Due Season...

Desmond and the Pardon-My-Unchristmassy-Blog.

Dear World,

I sincerely apologise for the lack of festive cheer thislast year. Well, at least that's how it must have seemed, because for the first time in a few years, Repeatedly's December saw no worrying amount of Christmas blogging with Irishy Photos and snow and ice and whatnot.

Please do not worry, World. I'm mostly just speechless to be have been here in Ireland for Christmas. Years ago, I wrote that I wanted to do so. I never, never expected it to have come true. Me of Little Faith then, I suppose? In December 08', at the height of my massive Ireland-Christmas blogging, I posted a certain picture. And a few weeks ago, I was in the car in town, and looked up and realised I was looking straight at the same picture from my blog.

World, I've met the 'Eric' who was wished a Merry Christmas. It turns out it was Limerick. So, even though it's nearly 3 weeks late, I want to wish all Erics and Gapores a Merry Christmas, and a happy new year.

Dreams do come true. (Sometimes. What? Would you rather I'd lie to you and say they always do? Didn't think so. Have a good year, World.)