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Dec 13

Dimensions

Posted on Tuesday, December 13, 2016 in Philosophy, Strange and Unusual

I am in my bed trying to think. But there are so many things to think about.

There are three dimensions, obviously length, depth, and height.

Then there’s the fourth, that’s time.

Time escapes me.

There’s the fifth though. Those questions that small children ask you about trying to find the end of a rainbow, that feeling you get when a person is off kilter. When you wake up and hear the rain pelting off your roof and you know someone out there needs you. That small smile or wink that a person gives you for no reason.

I don’t know what to do with that, but sure you can only do your best.

I’m asleep. I’m not writing this.

I’m asleep. Sometimes it feels like we all are sleeping, that we are only really awake when we open up to that strange fifth dimension. Notions. Dreams. Imagination.

Earlier today I got together with a group of friends and we played ‘Rizzla’… where you get cigarette roll papers and write the names of characters (real or fictional) and stick them onto the forehead of the person beside you. It’s an excellent game.

It’s also a good example of the fifth dimension. Every one of us was somehow able to read each other’s minds and guess the answer pretty quickly because we know each other so well. Like when a good friend of yours can finish your senten…..

 

May 21

Roughing it

Posted on Saturday, May 21, 2016 in Strange and Unusual

I would normally be a shopper at those places where everything is extremely cheap and nobody is around to help you, things are stacked awkwardly so that you have to reach right to the very back for un-damaged products, and the queues are enormous.

But, occasionally I nip into the posh supermarkets where everybody is nice to you and they pack your bags and tell you to have a lovely day. I pay more for this, but often the entertainment in itself is worth the difference.

You see, these boring cheap supermarkets are full of drones, people who don’t look at each other, they are there to get in, do their business and get out. I’m one of them.

BUT the posh supermarkets have their perks.

There’s Thai Bride Thursday… lots of elderly gentlemen with young Thai ladies making cow eyes at each other over packets of noodles. That’s sweet.

On Wednesday I went to get a few ingredients for a birthday cake in said posh supermarket. Somebody greeted me at the door, which unnerved me for a start. Then, when I was in the dairy section I overheard a lady speaking loudly on her phone about cottage cheese, I lingered for a while as it seemed like an interesting conversation, then I wandered away.

I caught up with the same lady a few aisles later, she was talking about how sea salt is so much better for you than normal salt. Again, I lingered and eavesdropped, I was learning a lot.

Then I glanced at this lady, and realised that she wasn’t having a phone conversation at all, she was talking to herself.

She continued this (I have to admit to stalking her for a while because I had nothing better to do and she was obviously having a very intelligent conversation with herself) for the next two aisles, until we got to the tea section. She became very excited then and began answering herself back:

“I know! I know! Milk Thistle is SO good for your liver apparently!” she told herself out loud.

At this point I wondered if she didn’t have a Bluetooth device of some sort so I had to circle her a bit. That was a bit creepy of me but I wanted to be sure, interrupting a phone conversation is pretty simple etiquette, but interrupting a conversation with one’s own self is a bit more complicated.

talk

“Excuse me?” I ventured.

“Yes hold on!” She smiled at me and paused for a few seconds, looking at me. I wasn’t sure who she was saying ‘hold on’ to so I went ahead anyway.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but you seem to know a lot about these teas, can you tell me which one would be good for a coffee substitute to wake a person up in the morning?”

She then became very enthusiastic and picked out a Lemon and Ginger tea for me that has hence done the job brilliantly. We both went on our separate ways, after she booped my baby’s nose and went on with her conversation.

I didn’t see her at the check-out queue.

I wonder if she was just a figment of my imagination.

 

Apr 4

It’s been four years since your last confession…

Posted on Monday, April 4, 2016 in Jobs, Strange and Unusual, Taboo

… is what the bloke behind the counter said when I scanned my blood donation card. He wore a poker face, I could tell he had cracked this joke many times before. I giggled, and ran with it.

“Well, nobody can resist those cocaine parties, I’m a sucker for those!”

He didn’t flinch.

“No, seriously though, I’ve got a few babies under my belt since I last visited.” I meandered and mumbled the last bit, he eyeballed me and sent me onwards, but I could’ve sworn he winked as he did so.

At the next station, after filling out all the paperwork and ticking all the boxes, I met a very bored nurse who insisted on asking the full lot of 50 questions all over again even though I’d just filled in the form 5 minutes before.

“Have you ever been employed in the handling of monkeys?” she asked. (I’d ticked ‘no’.)

“No” I replied, “but I live with a few.” She gave me the BDI.

“If you are a man, have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse with another man?” she asked.

“Hold on,” I retorted, “what are you trying to imply?” She smiled and explained the force of habit, and we had a brief discussion about gender equality. Apparently not everybody knows who Caitlin Jenner is.

I passed the tests and quizzes and signed things a lot, then finally I was told that I was allowed to give blood. I was very relieved about this, as sometimes I suffer from low blood iron levels so tend to be refused frequently. In the case that I may have been refused, the Accidental Terrorist had supplied me with a long shopping list to organise afterwards, and in my opinion, having a nurse stab you with a large gauge needle and sap a whole pint of blood out of you is FAR preferable to going shopping.

They stabbed me in the right arm, and the vein collapsed pretty much straight away. There was much apologising which seems silly as it’s not their fault, my circulatory system often seems to have a mind of its own. They removed the needle, and asked me to put pressure on the bleed with my opposite hand, which I did.

Then they took blood from the other arm which all went swimmingly, as was my head as I walked away and stole several packets of crisps, pencils and bumper stickers on the way out.

Today I woke up to find this image embedded on my inner elbow:crotch

 

The imprint left by my index and middle finger, along with the needle mark itself doesn’t look unlike a person’s crotch and bellybutton.

I have porn on my arm now.

Sigh.

Apr 1

I forgot what I was going to say…

Posted on Friday, April 1, 2016 in Family, Quickie, Strange and Unusual

Easter Holidays are lovely. I get to not have to get up so early in the morning and I don’t have to make school lunches. Children just happen around the place randomly.

This time of year also means gardening.

There are weeds everywhere. I would rather stay inside either sleeping or doing laundry or some other haphazard sort of thing but the seeds are calling me, and there are bored children.

So.

‘Here’s a shovel, lads.’

‘But I want to play Transformer Autobots!’

‘Yes, but there are worms underground that need to transform into motorbikes.’

‘How do they do that?’

‘You won’t know until you dig them up.’

‘OKAY!!!!’

Meanwhile the lady children weeded my garden while the young boys made mud pies and havoc. I wandered by later and sowed seeds.

It’s been that sort of day.

Mar 29

The savoury stage

Posted on Tuesday, March 29, 2016 in Family, Humourarse, munchies, Strange and Unusual

“no milk or sugar in your coffee? ARE YOU SURE?”

I’m not really sure I like coffee any more. It’s a morning ritual, sure, and I love it when Puppychild or the Accidental Terrorist lands me a cup of clean pure diluted granules on my bedside table every morning but usually I wind up enjoying the zephyr from it, then I go back to sleep. Microwaved re-heated coffee is nice though eventually. Is that old age setting in?

Easter though. All the chocolate.

The Terrorist brought me and a few friends out last week for dinner here in our local finer establishment. I did not wear silly shoes for it was an upstairs thing and decided to be sensible in my forethought. I ordered the cheeses for dessert much to the horror of my peers but they were good cheeses and it seemed fitting because everybody seems to concentrate on chocolate at this time of year and forget about the cheeses. I had wine too, because that’s what cheeses liked apparently.

There is a lot of chocolate here now, and wonderment as to why I don’t eat it. Because I’m a girl and that’s what girls are supposed to do, so they say. I just tell them all to shut up and make me a Tayto sandwich.

We didn’t do Mass this year. I fear that we’re entirely missing the point. Sigh.

memmeh

Mar 4

Interrobang

Posted on Friday, March 4, 2016 in Arty Farty, Family, memememememe, Strange and Unusual

This post is brought to you by a friend of mine who doesn’t write, but shares my love of new words. He challenged me and inspired me to learn 19 new words and use them ALL in one blog post.

So…

Thus follows the story of K8’s February.

I am studying to be a teacher of all things medicine which is a huge thing to undertake and a marvellous privilege. I also have many children now at this stage, and am the keeper of wonderful things that come with this such as nappies that smell like popcorn, and pet rats that tend to escape.

To begin at the beginning…

There was the extraction. A lower molar, the sort that needs a lot of Novocaine and a monkey wrench to remove. It hurt, once my tongue was able to feel the gap. Even a nurdle* was too much to bear. They are good dentists, they did their best. They invited me back but I politely declined.

Two days later, I started a new course.

I forgot the octothorpe* after the numbers on the security system when I entered the building to let my students in on the first day… this sent the alarm off at the school where I was teaching. The alarm sounded like the vocable* of a really bad song, the sort of noise that sticks in your head, that sound that blackbirds love to mimic just to drive you crazy on a Sunday morning when you’re suffering from crapulence*.

The students arrived, and tea was sunk and class began, but due to the nature of the lesson I soon found that my keeper* was unreliable and several students commented on my builder’s arse. They were too demure to obviously point it out however and instead very kindly commented; ‘Hey K8, what’s the crack?!’ I was not in the mood for such interrobangs* so early in the morning so I avoided the collywobbles* by going outside to sniff the petrichor*, for it was indeed a grand soft day, and my desire path* told me that one cigarette wouldn’t hurt.

We had pizza for lunch. Or, at least the students did. By the time I had come back from collecting training equipment all that was left was the box tent* and a few lousy bits of cornicione*. I gave out to them for not eating their crusts, as every good mother does. What followed was a lemniscate* of argument which I could not win, and just ate into (as it were) a perfectly good lunch-time.

Later, at home I yearned for the punt* of a bottle of Chilean wine but found that Puppychild’s pet rat had escaped and was scratching around underneath my oven leading to immense curiosity of the dog and much perplexity of my daughter. Having spent most of the evening prone on the floor with a piece of ham trying to lure the fecker out while also explaining to Sir Fartsalot about magical letters in words where some are invisible.. knights, knees and knickers and other such examples of apthong* technology such as homework is at that age… I felt something nibble on my aglet*. When I turned and looked, it was gone, whatever it was was be found on the overmorrow*, leaving me fitful in my insomia and due dysania* with nightmares and fear that the dog would leave a bloody carcass where my neglect ran dry. I pictured Puppychild staring at the muntin* for weeks while the rain ran down the pane in despair of the horrible mother she had, she that had not the reflexes to catch the rat.

Catch it I did, however, last night. I heard it behind the piano while I was sniffing my barm* and I grabbed it tight and it squeaked and bit but the struggle was worth it, once it was reunited with its sister in the cage. And there it remains, barricaded in the frustration of its own existence. Just like me, just like the rest of us.

Sometimes freedom is more than what it seems to be I suppose.

This is a somewhat abridged version of my eventful recent past, there was also some tree-pruning, quite a lot of runny noses and nappies and also a flat tyre… but I have no more room for cromulent words at the moment, this will have to do for now…

…meanwhile I cannot use the oven, for the insulation is all chewed up. I’m not sure what to do about that.

apthongs aglet barm boxtent dysania desirepath crapulence cornicione collywobbles interrobang keeper lemniscate muntin nurdle vocable punt petrichor overmorrow octothorpe

Nov 18

Arachnophoboprophylactic

Posted on Wednesday, November 18, 2015 in Family, Humourarse, Philosophy, Strange and Unusual

I have a new theory that I have been testing out for 18 days now. It is a prophylactic spider:

spider

It is not a real spider.

But people sometimes think it is, and tend to stamp on it violently forgetting that this is not a country where large spiders tend to exist, hence its lack of legs. Poor inanimate thing.

Since Hallowe’en, I’ve noticed that laying large fake tarantulae around the place has led to a lack of spiders who would generally otherwise invite themselves into my home AND NOT PAY ANY RENT so I left them there presuming that spiders are innately carnivorous and would probably be terrified of large counterparts who might eat them. I’ve googled this theory intensely but have not come up with any answers other than anecdotal evidence so I am conducting this experiment alone, and will keep you updated.

There is one by the front door, one by the back door, one on our bedroom windowsill and one at the back of the house for extra measure. Since Hallowe’en I have not had one single spider enter my home. This is quite impressive considering the grand soft Irish weather we’ve been having lately. Not one single spider.

I’m not mucking about here, by the way. I’m very serious about this. I have regular dreams where cute little animals suddenly develop eight scuttly little legs…

squirrel

… and given that I’m the only coal-fetcher in our house I can assure you that monster spiders are lurking for I have seen them. They are there.

In the dark.

Waiting to come in to my nice warm house.

And this is why my fake spider sentinels will remain in place, ready to not pounce, ready to not eat them.

Aug 17

Gnarly gardening

Posted on Monday, August 17, 2015 in Philosophy, Strange and Unusual

It planted itself by accident one day.

The seed just put itself there when I wasn’t looking

As they tend to do.

It sprouted and grew sideways and everyone told me it looked dead.

Compared to the other trees, its roots ran just as deep but the wind blew in the wrong direction that day maybe and so it is

My stunted tree.

I crouch by the roots some days in the shadows of branches that made their own success and I wonder if the underground tells stories that I can’t see.

Meanwhile

My smallest tree grows slowly.

Determined.

Sometimes I cry tears at its roots to see if that works and the sun shines between its leaves in mysterious ways to make me happy and sometimes my tears are not needed as nature takes its course without me and laughs at my effort

but that’s ok.

I know that some day this beautiful unusual tree will die like a weed deprived of sunlight, no chance for seed.

Like the most beautiful flowering thing above it, though it shines for a while it will wither and create mould eventually and create nurture for the soil beneath

and new seeds will fall

stronger and weaker as nature determines.

And that is the impossible truth.

Nov 4

For Shame

Posted on Tuesday, November 4, 2014 in Fiction, Something to think about, Strange and Unusual, Taboo

I hadn’t reckoned it would wind up this way, my head on hard pillows with everyone looking at me funny like they are now. Most don’t know what to make of me, some think they have me all figured out and want me punished for my sins. But, I’m not really sure what I did wrong.

I’d always hated those dances Mammy made us go to, it was only because she’d made me a fancy dress which had ‘nearly broke her fingers’ she told me… I like the music they play for us, but the magical atmosphere they promise is always ruined by the strangers there. Especially that fella with the red cap. He’s always there, and looks at me strangely always grabbing that chance to whisper things I don’t understand into my ear. I would have been miserable at that dance that night if it wasn’t for Joe.

Joe knows me, he knows my moods and I know his. He doesn’t snatch hard work from me like most boys do, he hovers and helps and cracks jokes. He’s great at catching chickens. At dances like these he never asks me to do anything I don’t want to… we keep each other from being lonely is all. I don’t know how to explain it.

I escaped that night, the fog of heavy meaningless noise drove me away. That, and the fella with the red cap. Joe saw me leave and followed me to the barn where he listened to me cry and showed me how to make a Saint Bridget’s Cross with straw to distract me. I fell asleep with the noise of cackling music in my ears with him beside me and I felt safe.

The noise had gone when I woke, startled. All was calm and silent, but  when the glow appeared at my feet I started, desperately wondering where I was and where home was and wasn’t Joe here somewhere?

The glow brightened, it turned from wisps of gold and silver into a grey form with enormous wings and heated me up with its presence against the cold wind in the barn and it terrified me but I knew it was more like a firework in its overwhelming state, under its own control. It told me I was to have a baby, that this baby was to be the saviour of something… I was to look after it with every grasp of energy I had, my path ahead would surely be difficult. Saviour of what? The man in the red cap?  Difficult how? The apparition had dissipated before I thought to ask it questions.

To say I walked home in a daze would understate it. Joe caught up with me not long before I reached my front gate and commented on my paleness, he claimed I’d seen a ghost which maybe I had… I don’t know, I can’t remember. Either way it was why he held my hand as I reached my front door to confront Mammy, which was maybe our undoing.

I explained to her what had happened, every detail. Her face decreased into a state of scowl that eventually made me realise that I’d made a mistake in telling her the honest truth, especially when a few weeks later my blood didn’t appear. She told me For Shame. She asked me what my elder priest brother would think and cursed Joe’s parents. Then she sent me off to this place.

This is a place with endless laundry and meaningless power. I’m made to pray and work and confess things I didn’t do and meanwhile my stomach grows bigger with every passing week and still Joe visits me, but not Mammy. I keep thinking of that ghost, and what it meant by saviour. Even when those nuns beat me and tell me my child is not worthy of me,  even when this thing inside me, whatever it is… beats the inside of my navel and pushes my abdomen around like the demon they tell me it is, I know it’s pure. And it’s mine.

It kicks most when Joe is there at the gate, when I’m supposed to be picking weeds from the garden… he whistles to me and the bump in my tummy jumps in reply. Joe shows no remorse that he didn’t put it there and I don’t worry that the bump will have to go away someday, but because of him and the ghost I know that everything will be okay.

I’m not sure what that something is and I’m not certain what okay means, but that something is definitely not the nuns. Maybe it is these women my baby is to save?

I hope so, for the sake of the women around me and for the sake of mankind, I hope so.

 

Aug 13

Sheela-Na-Gig

Posted on Wednesday, August 13, 2014 in Philosophy, Something to think about, Strange and Unusual, Taboo, Wicklow walks

I write this for the consideration of those both owning a vagina (even albeit vicariously) and for those that do not. For those that do, I’m sure you’re aware of the phantasm that has been created regarding such a beautifully crafted phenomenon. Most seem to crave it and hate it at the same time… a lot of the worst curse words you can think of revolve around these four simple flaps and the strange secrets they hold between.  Those of us that have a vagina sometimes wonder at it, but we rarely curse it. Its mysteries just never seem to end. For those of you that don’t possess a vagina (even somewhat vicariously) it’s ok, but don’t be afraid to go and find it. It will be worth your efforts, so long as you treat it nicely.

This brings us to Sheela.

Sheela Na Gig

Sheela Na Gig

Síle Na Gigh (pronounced ‘sheela na gee’… GEE you say? Those of you in the Irish inner city working classes might relate to that word. It’s not a coincidence.) Isn’t she beautifully Fugly?

Now at this point, I could bore you with conjecture as I have just crawled my way out of the Wikipedia pit having gained very little information, purely because nobody really seems to know who she is. I could tell you where you could find these figures, and how far she dates back, and I could give you a fully descriptive bunch of theories as to why she exists, but I’d much rather be so arrogant as to let you find these facts out for yourself and in the meantime, give you my own theory.

I put it to you, that in the days of old Irish ancientness, the people were no less insecure than we are now. By proportion, there was just as much judgement, and violence. There was just as much of a likelihood  that those people had just as sharp a sense of humour too.

For example… let’s have a look at the Newgrange kerbstone markings:

k1-graphic

Our present archaeologists are pulling their hair out trying to interpret the meanings of those beautiful squiggles.

I say: What is the likelihood that a stoner was commissioned to do this? Did he get busy doodling on a big rock absolutely off his face? I wonder if he realised that 4,000 years later he would be costing researchers a load of cash and time trying to figure out exactly what he was at? I’d say he’d be absolutely delighted, and is laughing his ass off in whatever turf-pile he’s turning into right now.

Same with Sheela, I think.

I mean, there she is, all bald and ugly with her bulbous eyes and weird titties exposing her vulva so gratuitously like she does. The most confusing thing is, if you want to find her, she’s most likely hanging around Churches. CHURCHES no less. Given our Catholic stoicism she’s somewhat of a contra-indication, is she not?

So. Is she really there to ward off evil spirits? Is she a blatant warning, or has she a deeper meaning? Perhaps it was just for the craic…

Here’s what I wonder. I wonder if she isn’t a warning at all, but instead of Buddhist intent. This works for both women and church. Stay with me for a moment…

02 Kilpeck

Sheela seems to be ‘all that glitters is not gold‘, carved into rock. Perhaps the fact that she is so vulgar, so uninviting… maybe that’s her thing. Maybe she’s trying to teach us something.

So, going back to those of you who do not have a vagina but would dearly love one, what is the wisest course of action on your part? Do you go for the most beautifully obvious specimen, that one that will drain you of energy and credit card capability and probably never put out that much in the end because she is too completely caught up with her own face-value, or do you choose that lady who is the supposed frog? Once smitten she has the potential to realise all of your wildest dreams because she sees the ugly that is in you too and loves it and is not concerned with material value. Maybe she is pretty, but not in the conventional sense. She might have crooked teeth, say, but she sure can play a mean game of darts.

Because Sheela of the Gee sits in Churches above their doors and in courtyards, maybe she was informing infidels of the same theory. Pagans would see her, and wander indoors maybe in the seduction that maybe what lay within has hidden interests, not just surface value. Scrolls and filigree are nice and all, but isn’t honesty more intriguing?

After all, she isn’t scary, she isn’t a threat. She’s smiley and beautiful in her way, with her saggy boobs and labia all over the place like that. She looks friendly, someone you could have over for a cup of tea, and maybe a few rounds of cards. She wouldn’t judge you, or show you catalogs of fancy clothes that might better suit your figure. She would drink out of dirty cups and suggest funny things to do.

She is the most beautiful woman of all, and it is in my honest opinion that we should all have at least one Sheela Na Gig in our lives. If you are not one already, you might look more deeply into her ethos, it’s not like she’s hiding it. If you are, fair play to you, and may God Bless all who sail in you.