~

kept getting urgent texts from the IBTS pleading for blood donations so i went to the regular clinic they hold in the function room of a hotel and sat there under the golden chandelier in this improvised milking parlour, diligently squeezing a plastic bone-shaped dog toy in my fist to make the blood flow quickly and impress the nurses. (any context in which someone is wont to comment on how readily your body yields its fluids is interestingly fraught.) when the bag was full the nurse accidentally jogged the needle while removing the tape that was holding the tube in place and the needle fell out of my arm and a rope of blood flopped out, spilling down my wrist, the armrest, the machine, the floor. the nurse wasn't sure how i'd react and started talking to me with the nervous, bright tones of a parent who's just seen their toddler walk head-first into the corner of a table. for a brief, churlish second i thought ah lads, no wonder blood supplies are critically low. but then i thought c'mon, B+. plus, free biscuits.

at some point i started letting go of the idea that i am someone who can hold down a normal job. i have always made art and will continue to be an artist. this is not aspirational, just an acknowledgment of an inconvenient reality. i cannot care about or focus on other, less devalued kinds of work, and consequently i am forever neck-deep in money-related anxiety. frequent swells that threaten to drown me entirely have me firing off job applications to increasingly unlikely places. somehow i just got called to interview for the position of rural recreation officer, whatever the fuck that is. this is rural ireland. recreation around here means standing hands on hips looking out over sodden bogland, admiring the grand stretch in the evening (sunset 5pm)