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coming back round again

ok ok ok. It's all ok. I finally wrote yesterday. Before yesterday I hadn't written for over a month and it was fucking me up. Yesterday was a 12 hour work day. But I wrote. And listened to punk music really loud. and realised what matters. my writing. and love. love matters. love/zest/curiousity.

I am aiming for Dublin at the beginning of next year. I gotta find a home/base in an English speaking country. I also need to find a community of English speaking poets and artists. Damn. how many times have i wrote that on this blog!!!

Today is a light teaching day. I am going back to my flat to shit and write.

I will have a new flat next month with a teacher from Canada named Todd.

I am almost finished with Godzeenie. My writing yesterday should wrap up my Polish manuscript.

Now I just need to work on getting a home for a while and sending out work. I should have internet in September again for a few months.

Yes. Writing is not a fucking hobby. It's a fucking addiction. I need the high.

Is it healthy? I dunno. But too late to turn back now. Can't live without it!

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…