Novemberland

It's the end of the world. Trump is president, all the Brexit Beasts are out of the closet, our beloved Leonard Cohen joined Bowie and Prince in death. Fuckin' ISIS. Fathers carrying the remains of their children in plastic bags after another bombing session in Gaza. The destruction of Aleppo. Tinder generation ruining romance and real life spontaneous interaction. White supremacists and no fucks given about how black lives matter. The last of Rabbs' fringe-limbed tree frog has died (oh hello, Sixth Mass Extinction!). I wonder where can I find the ultimate escape to outpower this dystopian reality.

Romanticising Autumn/Winter doesn't make me feel less miserable. The prospect of running out of Vitamin D and energy, waking up in the dark and coming back home in the dark, having people turning down invitations for pints because it's too cold outside... It almost makes me miss Summer. Soon enough my socks will get so soggy they might grow mouldy. A cloak of dense clouds numb my senses. I'm suddenly a slothy cheetah with a sullen snout. What's the point of even stepping outside?

The days of dancing Fleetwood Mac on those overcrowded dancefloors are gone for now. I sit at my desk, seeking comfort in words, slurping pomegranate-flavoured white tea as the wind wildly howls. Joni Mitchell's Blue makes me forget about the world outside, the sad world beyond this sad bedroom. Curry leftovers pile up in the kitchen while I bury my head in a bunch of pillows and dream of tea parties where we drink rhubarb tart craft beers and eat Port Salut and everything is nice, sugar and spice and rainbows and dandy dancing dodos and unicorn popcorn.

Gerda

Gerda loves falafels, avocados and rice cakes. She doesn't like to be asked where she's from. She loves a good steak, the seaside, cranberry juice and oysters. She enjoys long walks and she can dance all night long with no trace of fatigue. She tells stories about Berlin, Swords and the Baltic Sea. She always walks home on her own after a night out and I never saw her flagging a taxi. 

War Memorial Gardens

In War Memorial Gardens I have found my own personal secret garden. It's one of Dublin's greatest escapes to tranquility. I plucked the remaining moribund roses, their petals withered and fading like everything else in Autumn. The fallen leaves sound like corn flakes being crushed under my feet. My thoughts become fluid and feather-light, tree branches as my umbrella and neo-classical nooks as my shelter. Only two teenagers rolling a joint and a couple walking the dog bring me back to reality in this magnificent garden located in Islandbridge, away from the noisy haste that boils my brain and pollute my mind. Next time I'll bring a book, a bottle of rosé to match the pastel flowers and the cheese knife.

Bitch Falcon & Le Butcherettes Live at The Workman's Club

2016 has been a great year for gigs: Spines, Maija Sofia, Fierce Mild, Mitski (!), Grace Jones (!!!) and hopefully next month I'll manage to witness my beloved Peaches doing what she does best. Yesterday I finally had the chance to see Bitch Falcon live, as they were opening for Le Butcherettes. They are unpretensiously fierce, incredibly talented, wildly explosive and hands down love at first listen. Deadliest opening act ever, for sure. Lizzie Fitzpatrick is agressively enthusiastic, dragging the audience into her own noise den, her ferocious voice reminding me of riot grrl references and a neverending energy that could last for hours. I was delighted to experience all that noisy climax, a riot of raw grungy riffs, embellished by kick-ass drums and a dream bassline. Coolest band in Dublin? Most likely.

Teri Gender Bender is a fuckin' hurricane and so was this gig. A theatrical experience, a rush of adrenaline inviting us to step into Teri's red glittery visceral universe and pouring her soul into this violent exorcism of demons. What a powerful performance! I knew I was in for a treat the moment I bought that ticket. This band must seen live at least once in a lifetime, I shit you not. They are passionate, insanely skilled, combining elements of garage-punk, rock n' roll and their own special ingredients - feminism-fueled lyrics, multi-instrumentalist marvels, roaring guitars invading your eardrums. I couldn't take my eyes off Teri: a voice like an inextinguishable wildfire (yet beautifully melodic), standing on top of her keyboards singing her heart out and pulling her own hair. Also, fair play to you, relentless blue-haired drummer! Unreal. Inspiring. Spectacular. Legendary. Le Butcherettes are THE band.

Deers, Daisies and Dandelions

Phoenix Park, North Side's own Bambiland. Long days spent among intimidating stags and dainty fawns. Grass so green, begging for an impromptu picnic (smoked cheese, grapes and salmon crostini come to mind), at least before the ominpresent Irish Summer rain takes over. Leafy echoes surround my lonesome footsteps towards Magazine Fort, a few minutes away from that ridiculous Papal Cross where the Ashtown kids gather, eating 99s and listening to Calvin Harris as the twilight is late and distant. I see a few more antlers camouflaged somewhere between the bushes and the trees. The Cadbury bar I carry in my pocket melts and I suddenly remember that Winter is over - until further notice.