Smaointe.

Too busy for blogging today; I even watered the house plants and searched my late mother’s sewing box for some wool with which to darn a sock sporting an area of empty space where there should be only sock.

But it just occurred to me to post a video, one which I don’t think I ever posted before. I’m not generally a fan of Enya, but this one is special to me because I listened to it a lot one dark, stormy winter a long time ago when the system incarcerated me on a daily basis in a drab dungeon from November to February and-it-wasn’t-a-happy-time. This was my nightly release, sitting cold and alone in the nearest thing to a garret you’re likely to find in a dark industrial town.

A word of advice, though: don’t even think of listening to it without a side dish of weed. The combination is quite magical. It does the most amazing things to your sense of temporal perception, leaving you quite certain when you get to the uillean pipe solo in the middle that you’ve been listening to it for hours and are so grateful that you’re still only half way through. I should know; I was there.