Over at the new gaf, I’m talking about ridiculously disgusting vertiginous heels, cataloguing my daily duds, wishing for knee-high socks and beautiful knitwear, astounded by the Topshop Unique show for London Fashion Week and waxing lyrical about copyright law. Phew! Long may this flurry of posting continue. . .
Well, over at my new site I’m waxing lyrical about Twitter, Mark Fast, beautiful photographies and Jimmy Choo for H&M – and it’s only day one. Check it out!
Having made the decision to streamline my life (beginning with a serious clear-out of things via eBay – more details soon), this is the last post I’ll make on this site, as I make the move over to the new and improved rosemarymaccabe.com. The new site will be a more professional take on personal, and will combine personal musings, fashion, narcissism, music and journalism. Bated breath, I’m sure. See you there. . .
The best-laid plans. . . due to an unforeseen bout of sickness, I didn’t end up completing any of my planned activities. No haircut, no hair dyeing, no brunch, no quiz, no work do. I did, instead, stay in bed for two long days, watch the first episodes of Glee (which is brilliant), Vampire Diaries (entertaining rubbish), continue some Mad Men (I know people rave about it but isn’t it, well, a little dull?), X-Factor (oh Cheryl, I heart you, and Simon, too). Now I’m indulging in a spot of My So-Called Life, having discovered – the hard way – that there is nothing on a Saturday evening. Saturday evening television is, I conclude, for the old and the insane.
At some point today I went for a walk, on the advice of my Mother (whose persistence in giving advice drove me to leave the house, in fact) and felt a whole lot better. But, check this out:
© Rosemary Mac Cabe
It’s a gate in the middle of a hedge in the middle of nowhere. Very Secret Garden. I stopped and took a few photos before reconsidering my espionage. People in the country consider themselves much akin to landed gentry and have been known to get their backs up about these kinds of “invasions of privacy”.
So yes, little to report.
Me Mammy always says that if you can’t say anything nice, you should say nothing. So:
If that’s not enough for you (again, saying nothing), check out the full video here. Embedding disabled, of course.
I find myself, this evening, with a two-day break. But is it a break if I have things to write in my spare time, and have to catch up on, well, myself? The hairdresser, the fella, the house hunt (part 352), the work ‘do. . . well it’s been a hectic weekend so initially I find myself enthused about the lie on, quickly followed by my adoration of the hairdresser and a disruption of a prolonged period of separation.
Friday brings another day of work, followed by, perhaps, a trip to the cinema to see (500) Days of Summer – or Julie & Julia? – and, on Saturday, my inaugural visit to the Fashion Bloggers’ Brunch with an array of lovely ladies and gents I’m greatly looking forward to meeting / encountering in person. In the interim, I’m selling a pair of shoes, hopefully winning a table quiz, squeezing in a dinner and, I hope, two gym visits. PHEW. When I type it out loud, it don’t seem so much like free time no mo’.
It’s true. It’s addictive: who wouldn’t want to read a whole ream of strangers’ secrets? Not me.
Anyway, in today’s batch was this:
Do Christians not have the capacity to appreciate the human derriére? Or is it just another thing to add to the list of restricted items for those who believe in a higher being?
As an addendum to the above point, might I say that I loathe when people say “as a. . .” before they begin to opine on something or other. For example, “as a woman, I find American Apparel ads really offensive”. It’s fair to say that you could find those ads offensive, whether you are in woman mode or not. Ugh.
This weekend I went to Electric Picnic as a production person, or “Prod” as it so succinctly said on my wristband. Here’s the view from the other side.
- © Rosemary Mac Cabe
Here’s the view of the main stage on Friday afternoon, before the onslaught of campers and happy festivalgoers. A solitary man strides across. . . oh but it was beautiful.
© Rosemary Mac Cabe
Again, before the madness began. The food aisle – my top pick? Pie Minister and yummy toasted sandwiches for €3.
I love this idea. I’m trying to imagine a home space in which I could do this. Absolutely epic – plus, Florence Welch (of Florence and the Machine) read a John Barry poem here on Sunday, which must have been delightful.
Alas, this is where I spent most of my time. Not picnicking, but printing. Thanks to the lovely Jim of On the Record for his great company, and to the crew and the printer for not packing up and shipping on out.
© Rosemary Mac Cabe
Plus a random late-night shot of a beautifully lit pool in the Body and Soul area, which I wish I had visited more.
In other news, there was an epic PR fail on the part of the festival organisers in that the festival’s Twitter might as well not have existed. Two tweets all weekend with no mention of the weather, the traffic, cancellations from ESG, Bat for Lashes and Dan Deacon. . . ditto for the website. EP, drop me a line. I’ll do your PR for you next year for nothing. Send me a contract, I’ll sign it, because obviously someone needs to show you how it’s done. Such a wasted opportunity.
We leave so much unsaid. As Irish people, we are better at this than most; an ellipsis where there should be an explanation; a full stop where there should be a disclosure; an exclamation mark when we are missing the means by which to unload our anger. In the past, decorum called for a certain type of silence. We don’t talk about money because it’s uncouth, sex is a “private matter”, religion is a “personal choice”, politics a definite party poop. But what about now? Why do we remain so reserved in the face of a worldwide atmosphere of sharing?
The Secret Scripture, by Sebastian Barry
Sebastian Barry is the king of the Irish truth, at least in fiction. The Secret Scripture is a tale of a truth long-forgotten but, more than the words that are written down, his is a tale of the stories that are lost in the abyss of class restraint, of privacy, of desire that dare not speak its name. I would recommend it, if not for his prose (which reminds me so much of that other Irish great, John Banville, but with the distinct difference that Barry doesn’t appear to be writing to justify his own literacy), then for a story that illuminates, seamlessly, a history of an Ireland in which everything went on behind closed doors. (I’m reminded, temporarily, of Jaycee Lee Dugard and Elisabeth Fritzl, but those are tales for another day, another country, another truth.)
There is so much of human nature that, although we accept it, we will not discuss. Sex, pornography, desire – these are all dirty words, at least in a public forum. And there are offshoots – the prevalence of “do not disclose wage” clauses in employment contracts (why not disclose? Secrets, like rules, serve only to result in the shattering of trust), the disgust we feel at women breastfeeding in public (that’s private, although a topless woman on a billboard is okay), having sex is okay, even taken for granted, but STI tests are taboo and we baulk at discussing our sex lives even with our GPs (although many of us will discuss it in the pub, making jokes about past conquests and comparing current encounters).
What would it take the shatter the glass that keeps us thus encased? Is it human nature to feel embarrassment at what is natural, and turn instead to the fictions that represent these very fears? I’m thinking, again, of pornography; there is an acceptance that we enlightened creatures of the noughties have come into contact with it and we will watch it together and laugh (as I did recently with two friends), but when it comes to real matters of sexuality, desire and attraction, we are reserved.
How much more fulfilled would our lives be if we could talk openly about sex? Would they be less fulfilled? Is there a shame in admitting your sexual history, whether limited or vast? Recently, I found myself talking about STI clinics in a forum that lent itself to discussion, with people I barely know. I said I had been; I was asked why, “did you think you had something?” I felt immediately chastised, as if ensuring my safety was something worth being ashamed of. Surely she wasn’t surprised that I was sexually active; why, therefore, was there surprise at my being sexually safe?
I’d like to set up a non-profit group to educate young people about sexuality (they know enough about sex, for crying out loud). I’d like to see a day when secondary schools had comprehensive sexual education: you can say no, if you’re not ready, but, dear God, you can say yes, and you should know that. Our children emerge from schools with very little real knowledge about sex from anyone but their peers, who compete with one another for status based on their sexual experience. I’d like to talk to them about what it means to be sexual, about what is okay and what is not, about what is degrading and what is not, and why. And I’d like to tell them that sex can be a beautiful thing, and that talking about it can help open the mind, without pushing them away from the age-old ideal of morality (although I suppose it depends on your definition).
So, Minister O’Keeffe, drop me a line. I can be your travelling circus, if you’re brave enough to accept reality and deal with it accordingly.
So I’ve experienced some success, of the career variety, of late. I freelance every now and again, writing pieces for whatever section of The Irish Times will have me.
Read me talking about Twitter here; experiencing the joys of the ukulele here; and having a chat with Dublin’s cool kids here (although this piece is all about the photographs, so better experienced live – pick up your copy of this weekend’s Irish Times before dusk to see it in all its glory).
