Randomosity
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Christmas poem
‘It was only a Winters Tale’
On Christmas Eve you played it
Over and over until the lyrics swam between us,
But I still refused to hear what you were telling me.
‘A love that could never be’
While we danced naked in the Christmas lights and I laughed
Two-stepping clumsily around half-wrapped presents,
Fuzzy from too many Irish coffees.
‘The nights are colder now’
You whispered it in my ear
So softly that it sounded like a love song
And not a mean spirited promise
That in the morning you would be gone.
On Christmas Eve you played it
Over and over until the lyrics swam between us,
But I still refused to hear what you were telling me.
‘A love that could never be’
While we danced naked in the Christmas lights and I laughed
Two-stepping clumsily around half-wrapped presents,
Fuzzy from too many Irish coffees.
‘The nights are colder now’
You whispered it in my ear
So softly that it sounded like a love song
And not a mean spirited promise
That in the morning you would be gone.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I present to you... the shewee
The shewee, its exactly what it sounds like, classy!!
(that said I am watching Top Gear and need to wee so will miss some... if I had a shewee it wouldn't be a problem...)
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Poem
It is possible that I didn’t think this through
Dusty stories and reddened mornings blinding me to truth.
Yesterday it was three glasses of sweetened wine
And a whisky chaser, but in the morning I was fine.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
Alcoholics drink gin in the mornings and shout,
I dream of twisting mazes with no way out.
Calming shaking, sweaty palms from terrors in the night
With a shot of comfort, you can’t say that’s not right.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
I am, at last, happy now to be alone
No grabby, needy wishing you would phone.
What’s one more after the life that we almost had?
One more for almost mother, left by almost dad.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
If you trap yourself completely inside your own brain
It is these small escapes that help you to stay sane.
A drink alone gains you looks from cornered eyes
But who wants others there when the inhibition subsides.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
I’m proud after all, I fell but still I do not call.
Dusty stories and reddened mornings blinding me to truth.
Yesterday it was three glasses of sweetened wine
And a whisky chaser, but in the morning I was fine.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
Alcoholics drink gin in the mornings and shout,
I dream of twisting mazes with no way out.
Calming shaking, sweaty palms from terrors in the night
With a shot of comfort, you can’t say that’s not right.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
I am, at last, happy now to be alone
No grabby, needy wishing you would phone.
What’s one more after the life that we almost had?
One more for almost mother, left by almost dad.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
If you trap yourself completely inside your own brain
It is these small escapes that help you to stay sane.
A drink alone gains you looks from cornered eyes
But who wants others there when the inhibition subsides.
I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.
I’m proud after all, I fell but still I do not call.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Poem
The security guard reads Mitchner in the mornings
And in the evening wraps himself in haunting classical cords.
If I am lucky he will talk to me sometimes about once upon a times
And another life in a different uniform.
He shows me photographs of grandchildren he has never met
That are worn around the edges and yellowed
And sighs and says that these children are not children any more
But long since raised and grown.
Some one time fight over Christmas dinner had sent
The only daughter home angry, and with no mother,
No heart pulling against their pride and rage
She had never returned and nothing was forgiven.
He likes a drink, in an Irish way, and it shows in his face
And in the slight shake in his hand, the red in his eye
He never says lonely but it seeps from him in waves,
His own quiet dignity heavily tainted with regret.
And in the evening wraps himself in haunting classical cords.
If I am lucky he will talk to me sometimes about once upon a times
And another life in a different uniform.
He shows me photographs of grandchildren he has never met
That are worn around the edges and yellowed
And sighs and says that these children are not children any more
But long since raised and grown.
Some one time fight over Christmas dinner had sent
The only daughter home angry, and with no mother,
No heart pulling against their pride and rage
She had never returned and nothing was forgiven.
He likes a drink, in an Irish way, and it shows in his face
And in the slight shake in his hand, the red in his eye
He never says lonely but it seeps from him in waves,
His own quiet dignity heavily tainted with regret.
Em... it was a RADIO show...
TV actor John Barrowman exposing himself during a live radio show "overstepped the mark", the BBC has admitted.
http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/UK-News/John-Barrowman-TV-Star-Exposed-Himself-On-Live-Radio-Show---BBC-Sorry/Article/200812115169831?lpos=UK_News_Second_Home_Page_Strap_Teaser_Region_0&lid=ARTICLE_ID15169831_John_Barrowman%3A_TV_Star_Exposed_Himself_On_Live_Radio_Show_-_BBC_Sorry
http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/UK-News/John-Barrowman-TV-Star-Exposed-Himself-On-Live-Radio-Show---BBC-Sorry/Article/200812115169831?lpos=UK_News_Second_Home_Page_Strap_Teaser_Region_0&lid=ARTICLE_ID15169831_John_Barrowman%3A_TV_Star_Exposed_Himself_On_Live_Radio_Show_-_BBC_Sorry
Monday, December 1, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
We wish for impossible things
There are some things you should wish for
With your half-baked, heart ached toss of a coin,
These are your wishing well moments, your bubble dreams
These wishes, they are impossible things.
Yesterday, once today, is memory
And blue black bruises fade to brown
I wished for clean white kisses, yellow mornings
These wishes, they are impossible things.
You reach right handed, left bloody
And one time caress is a slap
I wanted soft touches, babies, white weddings
These wishes, they are impossible things.
Sometimes I am so much smaller then this
And curl in a corner and cry
And in the darkness, there pain sings
These wishes, they are impossible things.
Once upon a promise they spoke magic
And led me then to believe
Beneath my shoulders were angels wings
And so I wish for impossible things.
With your half-baked, heart ached toss of a coin,
These are your wishing well moments, your bubble dreams
These wishes, they are impossible things.
Yesterday, once today, is memory
And blue black bruises fade to brown
I wished for clean white kisses, yellow mornings
These wishes, they are impossible things.
You reach right handed, left bloody
And one time caress is a slap
I wanted soft touches, babies, white weddings
These wishes, they are impossible things.
Sometimes I am so much smaller then this
And curl in a corner and cry
And in the darkness, there pain sings
These wishes, they are impossible things.
Once upon a promise they spoke magic
And led me then to believe
Beneath my shoulders were angels wings
And so I wish for impossible things.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Another Poem
In the morning light you said no more,
A ring on her finger, a promise in her womb
Every lie you told me proved to be true
And despite it all I’m losing you.
Built on a promise of yesterday, this is us
Shattered glass slippers slick with blood
Once upon a time we were in love.
We are mostly broken; we see the truth in hurt.
Love based on broken glass and fists,
Mouth my neck and weep with it
Slam this girl against a wall and thrust
Want a bloody lipped parody of lust.
Then home to the woman you would never hurt,
Back to sweet nothings and safer love.
A ring on her finger, a promise in her womb
Every lie you told me proved to be true
And despite it all I’m losing you.
Built on a promise of yesterday, this is us
Shattered glass slippers slick with blood
Once upon a time we were in love.
We are mostly broken; we see the truth in hurt.
Love based on broken glass and fists,
Mouth my neck and weep with it
Slam this girl against a wall and thrust
Want a bloody lipped parody of lust.
Then home to the woman you would never hurt,
Back to sweet nothings and safer love.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
I want one of these
From http://www.maartenbaas.com/Main.asp?Section=Miscellaneous&ID=134 , lots of cool stuff over here...
A strange little story... God know what I was thinking...
I am only a storyteller and these are my stories.
Peter Pan taught us that when we say we don’t believe in fairies one dies. Name her as an untruth and she wilts away, like a hothouse flower left out in the rain. So it is with us. When nobody believes in us we shrivel away, we start to doubt the truth of our own experience and no amount of clapping can bring us back to what we once were.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Once upon a time there was a little mermaid. She lived at the bottom of the ocean, safe, but she longed for something else from her life, she wanted to stand in the sunshine. She went to the sea witch and pleaded for her legs but the witch kept her prisoner and hurt her and broke her spirit. Eventually, when the witch knew that all traces of the mermaid child had been erased, she gave the girl her legs and sent her to the land. The mermaid saw a prince and thought that she could love him, thought that she could marry him and have his family and start a new life away from what the sea witch had done to her, but when she tried to speak to him she realised that her voice had disappeared. She was trapped inside herself forever.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Snow White runs away from her crazy mother, her uninterested father. She runs to the forest where she believes that she might be safe but she does not realise a hunter is following her, she cannot hide because he can smell her fear on the wind. She tries to escape him but he is staggering behind her, she hides but he can always find her because he can hear her crying, he knows all her hiding places. Then he is beside her, on top of her, puffing whiskey breath onto her cheek and into her ear. He leaves her heart, not cutting it out like the evil queen said, but he takes everything else. When he finally leaves her she crawls on, bloody and bruised and broken, to the safety of a fantasy. Seven tiny men who never touch her. She stays with them, heals her bruises and hides her scars and convinces herself she is happy until her crazy mother finds her and marries her off to a prince in a golden mask. On their wedding night she takes off her dress and he takes off his mask, (he leaves his boots on). He is the hunter and she is trapped beneath him forever.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Beauty has been living with her prince for so long that she has forgotten that he is really a beast. She has created a fantasy where he is kind and gentle and will always take care of her. A fantasy where her kisses have saved him. She will never escape him, he has her too closely guarded and so she teaches herself to love him because that is the only way that she can keep any of herself, but he is still a beast and sometimes, when she looks at him she cannot see anything else and she is afraid and she wishes that he would allow her to die. She is a prisoner and so she smiles and kisses and pretends he is a prince and allows herself to waste away into nothing.
I am only a storyteller and these are only my stories.
Once upon a time there was a little girl whose grandma had been sent to live in the woods. Nobody wanted the tired old woman and so they left her to rot away lying in her bed. The little girl was the only one who would go to visit her but one day she was stopped on her way by a wolf. He warned her that that there was danger awaiting her in the woods. The wolf was afraid of the hunter. The little girl was not afraid.
He crept up behind her, ripping off her red riding cloak. His hands were everywhere. When she reached the grandmothers house she was crying. Grandmas big nose smelled him on her and her weak old eyes were all the better to see the damage. She cleaned the little girl’s cuts, with a stinking ointment that stung and burnt, and wiped away her tears, all the time scolding her for being so bad. Then she stitched her red riding cloak together skilfully so that the tares were well hidden, dressed her and sent her home. She warned her that nobody would ever believe her. The hunter captured the wolf and mounted his head on Grandmas wall, she gave him a basket of fruit.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Peter Pan taught us that when we say we don’t believe in fairies one dies. Name her as an untruth and she wilts away, like a hothouse flower left out in the rain. So it is with us. When nobody believes in us we shrivel away, we start to doubt the truth of our own experience and no amount of clapping can bring us back to what we once were.
I am only a storyteller. I am only one voice that is trying to pull many voices together. My stories are truths and untruths bred from the fictions we build for ourselves. My stories are horror stories of the big bad wolf and fairy stories with happy endings and they are only stories. These are the clumsy collection of fairytales fed to us when we were children as a criptic message of where the dangers might be, but they are only stories. They are words on a page and can be easily ignored or forgotten and we can go back to being queens and princesses, if we still want to.
Peter Pan taught us that when we say we don’t believe in fairies one dies. Name her as an untruth and she wilts away, like a hothouse flower left out in the rain. So it is with us. When nobody believes in us we shrivel away, we start to doubt the truth of our own experience and no amount of clapping can bring us back to what we once were.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Once upon a time there was a little mermaid. She lived at the bottom of the ocean, safe, but she longed for something else from her life, she wanted to stand in the sunshine. She went to the sea witch and pleaded for her legs but the witch kept her prisoner and hurt her and broke her spirit. Eventually, when the witch knew that all traces of the mermaid child had been erased, she gave the girl her legs and sent her to the land. The mermaid saw a prince and thought that she could love him, thought that she could marry him and have his family and start a new life away from what the sea witch had done to her, but when she tried to speak to him she realised that her voice had disappeared. She was trapped inside herself forever.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Snow White runs away from her crazy mother, her uninterested father. She runs to the forest where she believes that she might be safe but she does not realise a hunter is following her, she cannot hide because he can smell her fear on the wind. She tries to escape him but he is staggering behind her, she hides but he can always find her because he can hear her crying, he knows all her hiding places. Then he is beside her, on top of her, puffing whiskey breath onto her cheek and into her ear. He leaves her heart, not cutting it out like the evil queen said, but he takes everything else. When he finally leaves her she crawls on, bloody and bruised and broken, to the safety of a fantasy. Seven tiny men who never touch her. She stays with them, heals her bruises and hides her scars and convinces herself she is happy until her crazy mother finds her and marries her off to a prince in a golden mask. On their wedding night she takes off her dress and he takes off his mask, (he leaves his boots on). He is the hunter and she is trapped beneath him forever.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Beauty has been living with her prince for so long that she has forgotten that he is really a beast. She has created a fantasy where he is kind and gentle and will always take care of her. A fantasy where her kisses have saved him. She will never escape him, he has her too closely guarded and so she teaches herself to love him because that is the only way that she can keep any of herself, but he is still a beast and sometimes, when she looks at him she cannot see anything else and she is afraid and she wishes that he would allow her to die. She is a prisoner and so she smiles and kisses and pretends he is a prince and allows herself to waste away into nothing.
I am only a storyteller and these are only my stories.
Once upon a time there was a little girl whose grandma had been sent to live in the woods. Nobody wanted the tired old woman and so they left her to rot away lying in her bed. The little girl was the only one who would go to visit her but one day she was stopped on her way by a wolf. He warned her that that there was danger awaiting her in the woods. The wolf was afraid of the hunter. The little girl was not afraid.
He crept up behind her, ripping off her red riding cloak. His hands were everywhere. When she reached the grandmothers house she was crying. Grandmas big nose smelled him on her and her weak old eyes were all the better to see the damage. She cleaned the little girl’s cuts, with a stinking ointment that stung and burnt, and wiped away her tears, all the time scolding her for being so bad. Then she stitched her red riding cloak together skilfully so that the tares were well hidden, dressed her and sent her home. She warned her that nobody would ever believe her. The hunter captured the wolf and mounted his head on Grandmas wall, she gave him a basket of fruit.
I am only the storyteller and these are only my stories.
Peter Pan taught us that when we say we don’t believe in fairies one dies. Name her as an untruth and she wilts away, like a hothouse flower left out in the rain. So it is with us. When nobody believes in us we shrivel away, we start to doubt the truth of our own experience and no amount of clapping can bring us back to what we once were.
I am only a storyteller. I am only one voice that is trying to pull many voices together. My stories are truths and untruths bred from the fictions we build for ourselves. My stories are horror stories of the big bad wolf and fairy stories with happy endings and they are only stories. These are the clumsy collection of fairytales fed to us when we were children as a criptic message of where the dangers might be, but they are only stories. They are words on a page and can be easily ignored or forgotten and we can go back to being queens and princesses, if we still want to.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Next Irish Skeptics Event
Tuesday 18th November,
How to argue badly and (still) influence people, Julian Baggini
More info:
http://www.irishskeptics.net/?page_id=106
How to argue badly and (still) influence people, Julian Baggini
More info:
http://www.irishskeptics.net/?page_id=106
Christian group halts book launch
A poet has been forced to launch his new collection in the street after a bookstore cancelled the event because of a campaign by Christian activists. Patrick Jones was due to sign copies at Waterstone's in Cardiff but the shop cancelled the event at the last moment. Christian Voice said the book was "obscene and blasphemous" and called on the chain to remove copies from stores. The company said it was not a censor but felt it was "prudent" to cancel the event because of its duty to customers. Darkness is Where the Stars Are is a collection of 30 to 40 poems from the Welsh publishers, Cinnamon Press. Mr Jones, the brother of Nicky Wire of the Manic Street Preachers, had been expecting to launch the book at the Cardiff Hayes branch of Waterstone's on Wednesday night. But a few hours before, the poet from Blackwood in Caerphilly county, was contacted by the company to tell him the event had been cancelled "to avoid potential disruption to our store". Mr Jones said he was not going to be "beaten down" by religious activists, and signed copies for a small group of people in the street. "I'm really proud of this book and I'm really sickened. "There shouldn't be censorship of this sort - it doesn't set out to be offensive."
He said he had not singled out Christianity in his poems, but was questioning beliefs in society. The national director of Christian Voice, Stephen Green, said the decision was a triumph "for the Lord, not for us". "The Lord had not even showed me what we should do at Waterstone's, only that it should be Christlike. "Just the knowledge that we were on our way has put the fear of God into the opposition." Mr Green also called for Waterstone's to stop selling the book. Will Garland, 28, from Newport, one of the people who went to the out-of-store book signing, said he had been a fan of Mr Jones for a long time. "I don't know what they're protesting about. "Give the guy a chance," he said. Cheryl Llewellyn, of St Mellons in Cardiff, did not know the launch had been cancelled until she arrived at the store. "If they want to protest they're quite entitled to protest outside and let his reading go ahead inside." Siân Preece, a writer from Cardiff said Waterstone's had failed to support freedom of expression. "You hear of countries like Turkey or China oppressing writers and you feel sorry for them. "And then you're surprised to find it happening here," she said. A spokesman for Waterstone's confirmed the event had been cancelled. "The book remains available through Waterstone's and we are very happy for that to be the case. "However we have a duty to our customers and booksellers regarding events that we organise, and we felt it prudent in this case. "We don't act as a censor, we stock books in the tens of thousands and would only remove them from sale on the advice of the publisher."
From: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/wales/7725790.stm
I don't know about anyone else but I'll have 100 copies please...
He said he had not singled out Christianity in his poems, but was questioning beliefs in society. The national director of Christian Voice, Stephen Green, said the decision was a triumph "for the Lord, not for us". "The Lord had not even showed me what we should do at Waterstone's, only that it should be Christlike. "Just the knowledge that we were on our way has put the fear of God into the opposition." Mr Green also called for Waterstone's to stop selling the book. Will Garland, 28, from Newport, one of the people who went to the out-of-store book signing, said he had been a fan of Mr Jones for a long time. "I don't know what they're protesting about. "Give the guy a chance," he said. Cheryl Llewellyn, of St Mellons in Cardiff, did not know the launch had been cancelled until she arrived at the store. "If they want to protest they're quite entitled to protest outside and let his reading go ahead inside." Siân Preece, a writer from Cardiff said Waterstone's had failed to support freedom of expression. "You hear of countries like Turkey or China oppressing writers and you feel sorry for them. "And then you're surprised to find it happening here," she said. A spokesman for Waterstone's confirmed the event had been cancelled. "The book remains available through Waterstone's and we are very happy for that to be the case. "However we have a duty to our customers and booksellers regarding events that we organise, and we felt it prudent in this case. "We don't act as a censor, we stock books in the tens of thousands and would only remove them from sale on the advice of the publisher."
From: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/wales/7725790.stm
I don't know about anyone else but I'll have 100 copies please...
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Self indulgent poetry.
If you had only talked about
The black cloud that you were under
I would have told you that for three years
That I barely remember
I lived in a haze of alcohol
And illegal self medication.
I would have been honest
And said I drink to much
So I don't have to think so often
And admitted that sometimes
Everyone thinks their world is ending.
I would have explained that I didn't cry
Becuase I am afraid that once I begin
The tears will overtake everything.
I would have said that I also miss him,
I'm not as heartless as I seem.
What you are feeling has been felt before
And cannot be outrun and forgotten
With just three lines to tell the reason.
If you had talked I would have understood,
And held your hand, let tears fall.
You wouldn’t have run away at all.
If you had a heart you would call.
The black cloud that you were under
I would have told you that for three years
That I barely remember
I lived in a haze of alcohol
And illegal self medication.
I would have been honest
And said I drink to much
So I don't have to think so often
And admitted that sometimes
Everyone thinks their world is ending.
I would have explained that I didn't cry
Becuase I am afraid that once I begin
The tears will overtake everything.
I would have said that I also miss him,
I'm not as heartless as I seem.
What you are feeling has been felt before
And cannot be outrun and forgotten
With just three lines to tell the reason.
If you had talked I would have understood,
And held your hand, let tears fall.
You wouldn’t have run away at all.
If you had a heart you would call.
A busy bunch of Bishops...
BALTIMORE - The nation's Catholic bishops decided yesterday to fire an opening salvo at the incoming Obama administration, pledging to work with the new president on issues such as immigration and healthcare but also warning that the Catholic Church will do everything it can to oppose his support for abortion rights. ... read more http://richarddawkins.net/article,3326,n,n
O'Keeffe reassures on religious instruction
From today's Irish Times
http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2008/1113/1226408582468.html
CONOR POPE
"THE CATHOLIC Commission on Education said it was reassured on the issue of religious instruction in the State's new community national schools following a meeting with Minister for Education Batt O'Keeffe at Government Buildings yesterday.
The members of the Commission on Education of the Irish Catholic Bishops' Conference met Mr O'Keeffe to discuss the provision of religious education in the new model schools.
The first primary schools run by the State, under the auspices of the County Dublin Vocational Education Committee, opened in September, marking an historic departure from the church-based pattern of school patronage. It is planned that hundreds of schools will open under the new community model in the next decade as the primary school population grows by more than 100,000.
The bishops said they wanted to see the model of patronage in community national schools to succeed and emphasised their wish to be able to assure Catholic parents that their children would follow the same religious education programme as in a Catholic school.
Bishop Leo O'Reilly, chairman of the commission, said Mr O'Keeffe had given an assurance that the commitment to provide religious instruction on a denominational basis during the school day for pupils whose parents requested it still stood.
He said the commission had been reassured by the meeting. "We welcome the Minister's reaffirmation of the policy."
© 2008 The Irish Times
http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2008/1113/1226408582468.html
CONOR POPE
"THE CATHOLIC Commission on Education said it was reassured on the issue of religious instruction in the State's new community national schools following a meeting with Minister for Education Batt O'Keeffe at Government Buildings yesterday.
The members of the Commission on Education of the Irish Catholic Bishops' Conference met Mr O'Keeffe to discuss the provision of religious education in the new model schools.
The first primary schools run by the State, under the auspices of the County Dublin Vocational Education Committee, opened in September, marking an historic departure from the church-based pattern of school patronage. It is planned that hundreds of schools will open under the new community model in the next decade as the primary school population grows by more than 100,000.
The bishops said they wanted to see the model of patronage in community national schools to succeed and emphasised their wish to be able to assure Catholic parents that their children would follow the same religious education programme as in a Catholic school.
Bishop Leo O'Reilly, chairman of the commission, said Mr O'Keeffe had given an assurance that the commitment to provide religious instruction on a denominational basis during the school day for pupils whose parents requested it still stood.
He said the commission had been reassured by the meeting. "We welcome the Minister's reaffirmation of the policy."
© 2008 The Irish Times
What is the world coming to?
I went to the Doctor today because I have contact dermatitis and wanted a prescription for Betnovate which has solved this problem before, sounds simple. Instead of dutifully writing said prescription (in exchange for the €50 it now costs me to go to the doctor) my doctor asked if I had tried Nettle tea… nettle bloody tea!
Now, I couldn’t react as I normally would (this woman does my smear tests and I didn’t want to upset her) but seriously? This is an actual doctor.
Seeing that I wasn’t going for the whole nettle tea idea she sighed and recommended instead that I think about something called ‘Rhus toxicodendron’. I thought that sounded fairly medical and my interest was peaked, what exactly is Rhus toxicodendron then?
It’s a fecking homeopathic treatment derived from poison ivy. Homeopathy, my actual real life medical doctor is recommending that I try a homeopathic treatment.
I left, and I didn’t get my prescription, or my €50 back.
Does anyone know a good doctor in the greater Dublin area?
Now, I couldn’t react as I normally would (this woman does my smear tests and I didn’t want to upset her) but seriously? This is an actual doctor.
Seeing that I wasn’t going for the whole nettle tea idea she sighed and recommended instead that I think about something called ‘Rhus toxicodendron’. I thought that sounded fairly medical and my interest was peaked, what exactly is Rhus toxicodendron then?
It’s a fecking homeopathic treatment derived from poison ivy. Homeopathy, my actual real life medical doctor is recommending that I try a homeopathic treatment.
I left, and I didn’t get my prescription, or my €50 back.
Does anyone know a good doctor in the greater Dublin area?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
On being made to feel afraid
When I heard your footsteps behind me I knew immediately, instinctively as it were, that there was something wrong. There was no reason to be nervous, it was daylight and I was in my city where I have always felt safe but something about how your step matched mine and your proximity to me made me afraid.
A little warning voice in my head wanted me to run and my body reacted by pumping endorphins into my system, fight or flight. My heart rate sped up, and yet I ignored the warnings my system was giving me and did not adjust my pace.
Your step fell out of rhythm with my own by a tiny fraction; enough that I knew you were walking just a little faster, a little closer than before. I slowed, convincing myself that you would pass me, concerning myself more with removing my fear then with ensuring my safety while I ignored my clenching muscles demanding that I run.
The time between registering your presence and you wrapping your arm around my waist was miniscule, but it seemed an eternal. You smelled of alcohol and my skin crawled where the side of your cheek touched my own as you grabbed me in a drunken hug, and then you were gone.
This could have been so much worse then the fleeting encounter then it proved to be, this I know. You may not even have registered the fear that you caused through the drugs and booze clouding your mind; but even with you in that state I was not strong enough to push you away. You made me feel weak and small and afraid and ashamed of being a woman.
A little warning voice in my head wanted me to run and my body reacted by pumping endorphins into my system, fight or flight. My heart rate sped up, and yet I ignored the warnings my system was giving me and did not adjust my pace.
Your step fell out of rhythm with my own by a tiny fraction; enough that I knew you were walking just a little faster, a little closer than before. I slowed, convincing myself that you would pass me, concerning myself more with removing my fear then with ensuring my safety while I ignored my clenching muscles demanding that I run.
The time between registering your presence and you wrapping your arm around my waist was miniscule, but it seemed an eternal. You smelled of alcohol and my skin crawled where the side of your cheek touched my own as you grabbed me in a drunken hug, and then you were gone.
This could have been so much worse then the fleeting encounter then it proved to be, this I know. You may not even have registered the fear that you caused through the drugs and booze clouding your mind; but even with you in that state I was not strong enough to push you away. You made me feel weak and small and afraid and ashamed of being a woman.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Mother protests at theatre hanging scene
I recently went to see Magic Macabre in the Olympia theatre in Dublin, (which was a great show) and then went away on holidays so missed all the furore that followed. Basically one of the tricks in the show involved the magician being apparently hung by the neck from the top of the theatre, prompting protests outside, firstly by one mother who was then joined by others who felt that this made light of suicide and could negatively influence teenagers. Firstly (and perhaps unimportantly if all you want to do is complain about something) this wasn’t a suicide, it was an execution scene, but no matter my real issue is the need people have to protest about these things.
I spoke to a friend who had gone along to protest (she hadn’t seen the show and I would also like to point out didn’t attend any of the protests about the unfairness of taking medical cards from over 70’s in the recent budget, or the reintroduction of 3rd level fees). I asked her why she was offended; she muttered something about disrespect and making light of peoples grief, pointing out that if I a history of suicide in my family I would understand and would have been offended also. Well as it happens I have and I wasn’t.
I get incredibly frustrated by this need people have to get into a lather about ‘issues’ such as these, protest is a powerful tool and should be used to full effect to address what really matters, and not to air unsubstantiated grievances with little or no concern for the reality of the situation.
Perhaps we should organise and have a protest about the protestors? How about next Friday, we can have it in my house. Bring a bottle of wine and your family and we will vent our frustration by beating the children.
(I'll give ya something to protest about!)
I spoke to a friend who had gone along to protest (she hadn’t seen the show and I would also like to point out didn’t attend any of the protests about the unfairness of taking medical cards from over 70’s in the recent budget, or the reintroduction of 3rd level fees). I asked her why she was offended; she muttered something about disrespect and making light of peoples grief, pointing out that if I a history of suicide in my family I would understand and would have been offended also. Well as it happens I have and I wasn’t.
I get incredibly frustrated by this need people have to get into a lather about ‘issues’ such as these, protest is a powerful tool and should be used to full effect to address what really matters, and not to air unsubstantiated grievances with little or no concern for the reality of the situation.
Perhaps we should organise and have a protest about the protestors? How about next Friday, we can have it in my house. Bring a bottle of wine and your family and we will vent our frustration by beating the children.
(I'll give ya something to protest about!)
Monday, November 10, 2008
Maybe I am better off single...
If there are two types of women in this world then they are the Elizabeth Bennet’s and the Catherine Ernshaws, I’m afraid I might be a Cathy. I might say, ‘Oh Mr. Darcy’ but give me a Heathcliff any day. I mean,
"If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever." is all very nice but wouldn’t you rather,
"Be with me always- take any form- drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"
And herein lies the problem, I’d climb over a million safe and reliable Mr. Darcy’s for one brute of a Heathcliff, which is why I’ll end up miserably haunting the moors rather then living out my days in comfort in Pemberley.
Bloody typical.
"If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever." is all very nice but wouldn’t you rather,
"Be with me always- take any form- drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"
And herein lies the problem, I’d climb over a million safe and reliable Mr. Darcy’s for one brute of a Heathcliff, which is why I’ll end up miserably haunting the moors rather then living out my days in comfort in Pemberley.
Bloody typical.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Remembrance Day
Today is Remembrance Day so you will forgive me if I wax all lyrical about the futility and horror of war for a bit. First off, I should make the point that here in Ireland we don’t do remembrance day, (or if we do it's very badly advertised and I know nothing about it) This is because we don't really give wars much notice. We had the Troubles for Northern Ireland and we called the Second World War the Emergency. Next we will start referring to America’s War on Terror as a bit of a tiff and the rest of the world will give up on us entirely.
And its not just War, we like to undermine the importance of most things, if you are manic depressive then the Irish will say you ‘suffer with your nerves’, a friend of mine is currently nursing her father through the last stages of lung cancer and when I asked after him she told me he was ‘a bit under the weather’.
Isn’t it only fantastic? I like this, you could be run over, lose an eye and have a leg amputated and you would be under the weather, in fact you move from ‘grand’, to ‘under the weather’ to dead and anything in between is just making a fuss.
Anyway, I digress, the futility and horror of war. Yes, its futile and its horrible and there isn’t really a whole lot more to say about it. It can be a bit dangerous nowadays to say so about war, (almost as dangerous as rationally questioning religion). When I express my disbelief at mankind’s persistence in killing one another I am generally told that I should not express these opinions while ‘our young men are dying’. Now, don’t get me wrong, when some mothers son comes home a bit under the weather after being blown to smithereens then I can understand that she wouldn’t be overjoyed if I was standing in the corner of the hospital room tutting and shaking my head but we need an open dialogue.
When did we develop this fear of questioning things?
We should question everything, all the time. We have become so fat and sluggish and complacent about everything and, at the risk of sounding alarmist, it’s all going to cause a bit of bother later on.
Men will become soldiers
We will fill them up them up with rage
And send them out to fill our papers
With news of their victories and losses.
We will adore them, hate them
Twist them away from the boys they were
And fashion from shell that is left
A killer, with a better name.
They will bleed for us and we
Will bear their bodies home
To tearstained mothers and lovers
Wrapped in the flag that broke them.
Men will become soldiers
Until broken, crying in the night
They find they cannot bear to fight.
We will not dare to ask it of them
And then
Our soldiers can again be men.
And its not just War, we like to undermine the importance of most things, if you are manic depressive then the Irish will say you ‘suffer with your nerves’, a friend of mine is currently nursing her father through the last stages of lung cancer and when I asked after him she told me he was ‘a bit under the weather’.
Isn’t it only fantastic? I like this, you could be run over, lose an eye and have a leg amputated and you would be under the weather, in fact you move from ‘grand’, to ‘under the weather’ to dead and anything in between is just making a fuss.
Anyway, I digress, the futility and horror of war. Yes, its futile and its horrible and there isn’t really a whole lot more to say about it. It can be a bit dangerous nowadays to say so about war, (almost as dangerous as rationally questioning religion). When I express my disbelief at mankind’s persistence in killing one another I am generally told that I should not express these opinions while ‘our young men are dying’. Now, don’t get me wrong, when some mothers son comes home a bit under the weather after being blown to smithereens then I can understand that she wouldn’t be overjoyed if I was standing in the corner of the hospital room tutting and shaking my head but we need an open dialogue.
When did we develop this fear of questioning things?
We should question everything, all the time. We have become so fat and sluggish and complacent about everything and, at the risk of sounding alarmist, it’s all going to cause a bit of bother later on.
Men will become soldiers
We will fill them up them up with rage
And send them out to fill our papers
With news of their victories and losses.
We will adore them, hate them
Twist them away from the boys they were
And fashion from shell that is left
A killer, with a better name.
They will bleed for us and we
Will bear their bodies home
To tearstained mothers and lovers
Wrapped in the flag that broke them.
Men will become soldiers
Until broken, crying in the night
They find they cannot bear to fight.
We will not dare to ask it of them
And then
Our soldiers can again be men.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Yet more self indulgent poetry - cause its my blog and I can if I want to... so there.
Epitaph
The wind is howling through the old oak trees.
Who would have thought?
Sweet smiling eyes, sweet eyes smile,
Whisper your secrets in a cat’s ear
But I can see you. The hunter is here.
Lift up your frock, at least above your knee
And the wind is howling, howling through the trees.
I can see you hovering in the corner of my eye
First left, left to right and sink lower again
It was a back tooth wish this time,
Quarter for quarter and swallow a dime.
The first clock is chiming but the last keeps the time.
And the wind is howling, and the trees cry.
The wind is howling through the old oak trees.
Who would have thought?
Sweet smiling eyes, sweet eyes smile,
Whisper your secrets in a cat’s ear
But I can see you. The hunter is here.
Lift up your frock, at least above your knee
And the wind is howling, howling through the trees.
I can see you hovering in the corner of my eye
First left, left to right and sink lower again
It was a back tooth wish this time,
Quarter for quarter and swallow a dime.
The first clock is chiming but the last keeps the time.
And the wind is howling, and the trees cry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)