I like my Saab.
I like Ireland.
We were gathering there for a few weeks in the summer. Strange occurrences happen there. Maybe because the veils are thin. I look up on the hills that surround me and I am mesmerized. All the hassles of daily life freeze their chattering head (aches) as I sit. Drawn into a different kind of drumming that I, strangely enough, can hear. It is faint. But it is hypnotising. I look up and You could say someone has taken a paint brush so that I can barely make out the contour of bodies, the etching of a hero's physique. A hero from Munster being welcomed back in this tribal ceremony---- where beauties of all shapes and sizes sway to the drumming that has now joined with a haunting sound. Distant chanting that is warming the fires. I am not warm or cold. A bard by the fire regales the feats of the last many, many days. He is there. I breathe him in. The festivities of the Tuatha De Danann go into the night. Through the open windows of my room, I can look out on these hills. Sometimes they are quiet and simply act as a blanket for the house and for anyone who comes here to rest, or to write. Ellie smiles as Dunc puts the kettle on. Fresh herbs from the garden mingle, making conversation in porcelain. I leave Ellie and Dunc and a Pomerol Chateau Moulinet in the Kitchen. The stairs carry me back to my open window. I curl up in my duvet and am rocked to the place where our senses are awake. I dream myself awake. The bard reaches for the elements. From ether, From fire. He seduces me with his story. The Tuatha De Danann break camp at dawn. I write this as another promo day begins in the land of Runes and of longboats - longboats that long ago made the Emerald Isle their destination. I don't have a longboat but I do have a Saab.
Ireland
I like my Saab. I like Ireland. We were gathering there for a few weeks in the summer. Strange occurrences happen there. Maybe because the veils are thin. I look up on the hills that surround me and I am mesmerized. All the hassles of daily life freeze their chattering head (aches) as I sit. Drawn into a different kind of drumming that I, strangely enough, can hear. It is faint. But it is hypnotising. I look up and You could say someone has taken a paint brush so that I can barely make out the contour of bodies, the etching of a hero's physique. A hero from Munster being welcomed back in this tribal ceremony---- where beauties of all shapes and sizes sway to the drumming that has now joined with a haunting sound. Distant chanting that is warming the fires. I am not warm or cold. A bard by the fire regales the feats of the last many, many days. He is there. I breathe him in. The festivities of the Tuatha De Danann go into the night. Through the open windows of my room, I can look out on these hills. Sometimes they are quiet and simply act as a blanket for the house and for anyone who comes here to rest, or to write. Ellie smiles as Dunc puts the kettle on. Fresh herbs from the garden mingle, making conversation in porcelain. I leave Ellie and Dunc and a Pomerol Chateau Moulinet in the Kitchen. The stairs carry me back to my open window. I curl up in my duvet and am rocked to the place where our senses are awake. I dream myself awake. The bard reaches for the elements. From ether, From fire. He seduces me with his story. The Tuatha De Danann break camp at dawn. I write this as another promo day begins in the land of Runes and of longboats - longboats that long ago made the Emerald Isle their destination. I don't have a longboat but I do have a Saab.
-Diary entry, Tori Amos