Desmond and the Tea-time Smoothie.

It's been so warm the past few days and in the sweltering heat, I've made a new friend that just won't leave me alone. Yes, the still, hot air is sticking to me like a plague. I can feel it on my skin, and in my face, and in my room.

I'm not happy--not happy at all. And I can't even summon my latent-violent tendencies to beat the hot air to a pulp. That would be like chasing the wind, which is really pointless.

I want to have smoothie-tea-time with a polar bear in his living room. Now.

Desmond and the Lemonade.

We don't make lemons out of lemonade.

Desmond and the Supermoon.

Tonight the moon supposedly upsizes and becomes a Supermoon. Well, I just scrambled down to sneak a peak, and I can't say we've got our money's worth. But it certainly is insanely bright. I wish my teeth were that white.

Happy Supermoon Day! :)

Desmond & St Paddy's 11'.

I miss Ireland so much, and what better day than St Paddy's to blog it, right?
Happy St Patrick's Day All! And even though I wish I could be there in Ireland today, I'm just thankful that I ever got to go at all.

Thanks, God. You really are the best.

Desmond and the Inability to Post a Cat Picture.

Between the puppy-eyed look of a dog and the haughty arrogance of a Queen Mother Cat who hasn't got time or need for you, we'd almost always pick the dog. At least I would. And I boil it down to my preference for affectionate creatures. Who doesn't love someone or something that loves them back? And with those puppy-dog eyes? Oh how my heart melts!

And then the infinitely adorable canine licks up my melted-heart-puddle, because to him everything about me is worth loving. No wonder I love dogs. No wonder I love dogs.

Cats, on the other hand, are pretty much holier-than-thou. They don't care about you. If your heart was a puddle, they'd splash around in it--not out of disrespect, but complete ignorance. Cats don't really hate you. They simply nothing you.

Then I realised that the shocking truth is: I don't really hate cats either! Honestly, I think I only say I hate cats because sometimes the things or people I love don't love me back, and rejection is a bitter pill. A bitter, bitter pill. Bitterness always looks for something to blame. And what better to blame than the Almighty Cat that goes largely unfazed no matter your feelings towards it?

I think cats should be sympathised with. People hate them because it's cathartic to release your bottled up frustration (especially the ones that come with rejection). And since cats don't return the abuse, it's like a win-win for us.

Cats are the stress-balls of society and hating them is like squeezing that stress-ball. It feels good and right, and so much better than counting to ten. But knowing now that I've been taking advantage of the feline-nonchalance, I feel terribly about it. Terribly enough that I might be changing my mind about the Queen Mother.

(Yet even after the entire guilt-ridden entry about not loving cats more, this individual still cannot bring himself to post a picture of a cat, opting instead for an infinitely adorable canine. Yes, he is such a cad.)

Desmond and B. WinturB.

Bobby Winturburg wandered into the wilderness of the night and found out--the hard way--that bears have no sewage system. Needless to say, he'll be finding some other way than solitary walks in bear-infested woods to relieve his stress. I suggest dear Wintur-B tries blogging, as I will again.

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.)

Desmond and the (in)Preperation.

It's been a long while since I've blogged. One month actually! So much happens in a month--so much happens that one or two paragraphs never quite cover what you have to say.

Plus, what do you really have to say anyways? People say, "bring on the photos, and spare me the words!", but you know in your heart of hearts, no photo could ever represent fully your experience, no photo could repeat the complexity that is your feelings.

And maybe videos could do a little better than their visually static cousins, but they're essentially the same: insufficient.

When you're here, you have to prepare yourself for loss.

Desmond the True Fact.

Everyday Ireland grows a little more on me. True fact.

I love how quiet it gets at night, and how you can get hellos just by walking down the street. I love when it gets foggy and I embarrass myself by thinking there's a fire. I love that I can't tell when the traffic lights turn. I love seeing well-behaved dogs walking by with their well-behaved owners. I love that I can exhale and produce mist. I love that it's been awhile here now, and I'm still getting excited about things.

Truly the grass is greener, the seas, bluer. I love Ireland.

Desmond and the Spider Convention.

Where do spiders go to die? My house, I'd say. There are so many of them here it's like I've bumbled none-the-wiser into Ireland during their Annual Spiders' Convention: Charlotte -- Webbed or Webber?

And naturally, the elitist in me feels a great need to mark my boundaries. But spiders don't respond to pee-demarcations as dogs do. And unfortunately for me, my fight or flight instinct varies according to what I'm wearing. You'll never catch me stomping a spider in shorts and slippers. That's like walking into the Cullen house with a paper-cut.

(Yes. I made a Twilight reference. Bite me. --WOH-HO! And I'm on a roll!)

But it's true, spiders are meant to be fought with whilst wearing the right equipment. Because the spiders here are huge asses. No, I mean they actually have large bottoms and long legs. I wonder if they feel pressured by Sunny-island Spiders, to maintain that elusive size 2, or size 0.

What? So they're spiders, but they're not that different than Humans I assure you. Those little buggers have freaking conventions discussing the nature of great literary characters!

Which is why you must never, never underestimate a spider.

Especially when you're wearing shorts and flip-flops.

(Irish fun-fact#3: They have so many many rainbows!)

Desmond and the Dancing Monkey.

Life is unexpected, as long-time residents of this lovely blue-green marble know it to be. Yes, we humans understand that there are places on earth where gravity seemingly fails, places where the laws of physics become mere echoes of themselves (read: Disneyland); places where pain turns to masochistic joy, where we guard un-gold-like treasure with the barbarity of pirates.

Yes. Pirates.

Which is fair to say, because 'Pirates' is merely missing an M and a letter-placement swap from being 'Primates'.

Which is also fair to say, because sometimes we behave like monkeys. Barbaric monkeys. And I suppose occasionally it'd be nice to see a performing Monkey dressed as a Pirate balancing on a blue-green marble.

But sometimes it's just off-putting. And so I try my hardest to not be too expectant, because I know human-monkeys will, more often than not, let you down. And you, Other Human-Monkey, will fall flat on your face and the world will laugh, because circuses must deliver sweet-and-salted pleasure, at the expense of fumbling jesters. Insert Frownie Face here.

(Unrelated Irish fact#2: The wind sounds like a cranky old man dragging around his cranky old wagon.)

Desmond and the First Rains.

Ireland the Country has been great. Emphasis on the 'R' for that Scottish ring to the word. Why Scottish? Because it's close enough. I experienced me first real Irish rainy day today, and it's not at all bad. I love it. I love grey clouds, and rainy days.

Of course, I am also too busy living to get the photos off my camera into the laptop. You would think I have more time to do all these, but really I don't. And I don't quite know why either. Ah, Life. Full of ya mysteries. We don't question the Laws, we are just subjected to it.

Which is a dire, dire, way to look at it. But World, I've never been much of a fighter. No Sir, no progress for me. No porridge, no soup. Just the bread, and maybe Scotland. Because that's close enough.

Desmond and Ireland(Original Version).

Hello World. You know how things can sometimes be so surreal? Like being told life is about being in a teacup--which is insane--and then finally having it happen to you at the carnival, beside your neice, and her screaming friends? Teacup rides are real my friend, teacup rides are very real.

And so are experiences. Real, and surreal. Like finally being in Ireland. Yes, I'm here, and it feels strange to know that how ever I've seen it before in photographic replica is true to that which is replicated. Cows, horses along the roads. Fields, and plains, and nice rusted fences. Ireland has not let me down visually. The only inconsistency I've noticed is the weather. I'm told we came in a good, and rare, week where the sun is up and shining.

Which is a decent take on life. Sun, up and shining; Life, in a teacup.

Irish Fun Fact #1: The Irish thank their bus driver when getting off the bus.

Desmond and the Easing Back.

It's been a while, World. And even now, it seems a little rude to have disturbed the peaceful non-existence that has repeatedly.blogspot.com for the past few weeks. But I thought I should write, because I feel obligated to this blog. Nearly six years and counting.

A lot changes in six years. Heck, a lot changes in a month. And a lot will change in less than a fortnight's time. But for now, I'll just leave that till it comes. Take it easy on me, I'm easing back into writing: blogger style.

Here's the premature goodnight: Sweet dreams, World.

Desmond and the Ad.

Alrighto world, here's a little advertisement (for the three of you who still visit this blog). My friend has opened a blogshop selling polo tees and dress shirts for guys. Which makes roughly half the population of the world their demographic. So if you are part of that Half, or know someone from that Half, you should take note. Shop sells imported tees, from brands like Ralph Lauren and Lacoste. I say, I don't know much bout brands, but take a look anyway!

www.eurekavenue.blogspot.com

Desmond and the Post World Cup Finals (Lesser Words Ver.)

World Cup Season is over, pretty quickly too. Wherever did time go?!
EPL starts in 4 weeks (I think). Do I intend to watch/keep up? I don't quite know.
But that's a big step up from "heck, no!"

Desmond and the Post World Cup Finals.

There you have it. The Picture with four words that speaks a thousand words. I can't believe I watched the entire match, except for that few minutes during which the goal was scored. (No one coerced me into spectator-ship). Of course I feel like going on a whine-fest about how I missed the goal, but when I consider how sucky the Dutch must be feeling right now, I thank God for an innate tendency to compare myself with others. Which, in this instance, works to my benefit.

I was rooting for the Orange uniforms of the Netherlands--and that might be a little more literal than you think--so I was a little bummed that they lost. But I'm glad that it was to Spain, because these Spaniards have never won the World Cup, and frankly, I'm an underdog person. Glad to see a new winner of the Cup as opposed to the usual suspects.

What a great World Cup of insane matches and upsets. I'll catch You in 4 years' time.

Desmond and the Pre-World Cup Finals.

It's about three hours to the finals between Spain and Netherlands, and I'm seated on my bed, feeling an odd mix of excitement and nonchalance. But I think I'm going to do this -- I'm going to catch the Finals!!

Or at least try to stay up till the opening minute. We'll see! :)

Desmond and the Chart.

Mostly true.