The Russian navy alerted the Irish government that it will practice military drills 260 km off the southwest coast of Ireland starting next Thursday. In international waters… but also in Ireland’s exclusive fishing zone. Fisherpeople are up in arms over it. God. Out of restrictions and into this ... mess. War drums beat not so far away.

Where's my mind this morning? On those drums, and on my belly, between cigarettes. I buy chalka maslana and chocolate-iced gingerbread biscuits from the Polish grocery down the street from my house. In the too-short hour before office work begins, I scarf two slices of chalka maslana with coffee while reading a fantasy novel. I only ever read fantasy novels, devouring them one after the other, series after series, when I'm stressed out, i.e. working on an essay. Acquisitive firedrakes and malevolent faeries take my mind off scarier monsters, those sentences that refuse to cohere, my self-doubt above all.

This current essay is for a book of my friend's photographs of the things she sees when she's walking around Galway at night; my essay is about walking at night as a woman. Last summer I was awarded an Arts Council grant to make this book, originally planned as a zine. The grant was the most money I had ever seen for anything creative I've ever done. Anyways, there's a gallery launch for the book in Belfast in March (during St. Paddy's weekend, our busiest time in the pub, dammit), and the designer and my photographer friend are keen to see the essay, which I am nowhere near finishing. Oof!

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