Category Archives: Rants

Their sound of silence

See this image?

Image result for TUAM BABIES

It is level. Quiet. Undisturbed. The ground is even and smooth. Its very marginal nature is intended. It makes me think back to the marriage referendum, when person after person  after person in our society came forward to disclose that they were gay. These people were not deviants, strangers or outside the mainstream; instead they were establishment figures well within the status quo, and who had operated and achieved much within our communities. And yet, they had lived a life somewhere both within and without our world. where they were made to feel different and excluded, because they were. They were people who were not part of how society views itself. Instead, they lived lives that were at least in terms of its dialogue, silent and unfree. The silence was imposed both within and without; Ursula Halligan says she never spoke of her sexuality to her family, in her need to avoid exclusion. Pat Neary was never out either; years and years of not being able to be himself without fear in our country.

We hate. We hate well in this country, with passion, history and layers. Right now, as I type, the Citizens Assembly listens to testimony regarding the need to repeal the 8th Amendment. It invites Churches, but will not hear from TFMR people, an oversight that is outrageous. But lets go back to that field; that quiet, lonely, smooth field. That silence is what is wanted. Shut up.  You need to shut up. It is the same silence one finds on battle fields and in cemeteries. It is the silence of rooms empty of the living and loved. Those horrible people who destroy the doctrines of hate are silenced and are no more.

The last entry of Anne Frank’s diary is the 1st of August, and after that there is a white, silent, page. That silence is the desire here. We can be compounded, capitalised and calcified into nothings, ground like pestle and mortar by the greed of them that will have us for their pleasure or their worth, and then we will be made silent and uncomplaining by the deeds of their ways. They will destroy us, make us silent, and let the sweet calm pastures left after us testify that there is no loss or damage to be noted. We were not here. The loss of us is no loss at all. Let that which was here be not here from now on. Let our words be silent, and not heard. Let the wind alone be heard as our voices.

These people have been free to kill us; there are people not here who should be here today. They will continue to act in this way if allowed. For the sake of overly silent rooms, this must not continue.

Image result for empty room

Family

We usually come from one, we usually plan to make one, and one way or another, we build one. Some of us come from the type of family we all want to have; a close and loving one. Some of us come from the  type of family that you’d see on PSAs; the type that gets titles like ‘disfunctional’ and who get a lot of callers from social welfare and the like.

I don’t come from the second type of family. Instead, I come from a very long line of people, we go all the way back to the time of Nelson on my Dad’s side. Still, you can never be sure if what is written on paper matches what is the reality. I know myself that ink will tell lies that would make you pale. So for me, I’m going to try out that new service ’23&Me’, which allows you to create a DNA profile for yourself based on your heritage. I don’t know what it will reveal, but it will be a creation based on science rather than on the needs and illusions that have gone on before.

Someone told me recently that you cannot escape your family. Perhaps not. But there is ‘escape’ and then there is eluding. It is possible to elude the conclusion that others can write for you. It is possible, and very necessary at times, to decide for yourself the conclusion you wish to reach. Thus, I’ll go and find out things for myself, based on the reality, rather than on the necessity of others to create, recreate, and un-create their own desired reality.

As for the actual results? I’ll keep you posted. Watch this space, that I create, if you wish. Have a good week.

Final Furlong

[Bored, Received Pronunciation Commentator]

We’re under starters’ orders… and we’re off! Leading the pack is Good Idea, following up is Intriguing Plotline, and close behind is Convincing Theme. Setting a good pace for the pack is Hard Work, always necessary to see in the field and also from the same stable, Long Hours. They’re making good time now and we see the field go around the first corner.

[Bit surprised, becomes alert] But what’s this? Lagging in the Middle and Loose Thread are suddenly leading, followed up by Self Doubt and Inner Confusion, making this a race anyone can still win. It seems Good Idea has lost their rider, and that’s now confirmed by the steward, Good Idea has lost their rider.  

[Utterly excited, yelling at the top of his voice] But as we come around to the final sprint, all horses straining now with the effort, and the sheer weight of the course behind them, we find that it is neck and neck, with Not Giving Up Now and Sheer Bloodymindedness looking likely to lead. And as we come to the photo finish, we see Sheer Bloodymindedness winning the race, with a photo finish, and making us all very proud. Well done. Hopefully that will see them to the winners’ enclosure. 

“Aha ha, yes.”

It is Dangerous to go alone.

As a kid and young adult I would fantasise about finding some place where I see and hear nobody. I would get from one end of the year to another with no sight of anyone, and I would, I would tell myself, be free. From what, I’m not sure, but I would be free of it.

The point of that, though, is that we grow up. We realise that both the best and the worst of us is brought about by other people. When we’re alone, we’re never ourselves, we’re always a mere potential of ourselves. Instead, when we’re among others, we grow, change and stretch into the people we can be, often whether we want to or not.

“Well, fuck.”

Being alone seems like a treat, an ease of the demands of life. But instead, it means that you’re never free of yourself and the life that you lead. When you are with the others you want to be with, then you find both life and yourself easier.

Don’t go it alone. Just.. trust me on this one.

Go Fuck Yourself, 43.

Oh sod off. So yes, I am facing into another spin around the solar system, meaning that the planet I was born on has successfully completed another cycle around the sun (being married to the other half means I have to get that one right or I will never hear the end of it). You know what that means, youngster? It means another cluster of grey hairs, that’s what it means. It means making sure the insurance is paid and that the heating is on and oh my god the end is nigh.

Yes, that’s what it means. It means the inevitable physical and mental collapse of the rather marvellous thing called Claire and that it is getting less and less likely that I will ever really have a ticker tape parade to celebrate how fantastic I am (oh, look it up if you don’t know what that is!).

This is long overdue, people!!

So last night, after visiting my home town and tying the child up so that he would in fact finally go to sleep, I was getting myself into a tizzy about the fact that I was getting another year old.  I was, in that surreal way that can happen when you are so tired you don’t know your name, I remembered the Chorus Singers Jon Stewart would use to convey his message to Fox News;

 

 

So I pictured the following, complete with my own chorus singers;

I am so old

You’re very old!

43 is old.

That’s really old!

And I should just give up, nothing to left to do…

Don’t give up yet!

I mean, don’t want to give up yet!

Can’t give up yet!

I’ve about forty years left to me, at this rate…

That’s a long time!

And I could still do a lot with it…

Could do a lot!

So I may as well keep trying…

Nothing to lose!

In fact, being mature might be a lucky privilege…

Ain’t done yet!

Maturity could be the best thing yet.

That’s what they say!

Compost.

…You’ve lost us there!

Compost. Makes soil better, but it takes time. Mature soil grows more.

Still don’t follow!

Maturity might be the best thing.

Let’s go with that!

So let’s not write me off just yet.

You’ve got it made!

All right, let’s bring it home!

“She’s 43! She’s 43! She’s 43!”

Any of you got anything to say, don’t want to hear it. And I probably wouldn’t, anyway, going deaf. Young people and their music….

Well, feck.

Evening, fellow readers. Hope you’re all well and tucked up nice and cosy by the fire. It is Sunday night, the night before the day my people call Monday, and I … I am not happy about that.

Tomorrow morning, you see, I have to get up and go to work. Not so bad in of itself, but what is horrible is that I have to leave my son without me. I am going to leave my son without me for the day, and go about my business like some Dickensian witch who doesn’t care and who ignores a breaking heart of a tiny mite. And I will do it again the day after, and the day after that, over and over again.

Tried the lotto, didn’t work. Tried wishing, didn’t work. Tried denial, discovered it is not just a river in Egypt, didn’t work. So I have to do this. I just do not know how. I’ve had two weeks of being woken by his hands on my face, delighted to find me still under the same roof as him, and his company is a luxury always.

See, I’ll be fine. I’m the adult. He is the little person here, the one that doesn’t understand where I am or why I am not there, and when I will be back. The moment of that realisation is a knife within me, over and over. How on earth can I be doing this to him? Can you, reading this, explain it to me? How can I be doing this to him?

Somewhere inside of me is a gallery of paintings, made up of the important moments of my heart. And this moment is in there, for all to see, with all the condemnation I can muster. I am a wretch, and nothing I can do seems able to change it.

Paul Kerr The Family

‘The Family’  by Paul Kerr.

Sunday Night feelings.

So, it is Sunday. Sunday night, to be exact. I would love to give you a blog full of wisdom and good cheer, that extols the virtues and raises you up to inspiring heights. Or rather, create a funny, cheeky blog, full of wacky adventures that make you grateful for your own ordinary life, your own ways and mannerisms.

Instead, though, I’m just tired. I’m really tired, the kind of tired that is uninspired, unwise, and a bit whiny. I want to stop, stop writing, stop working, stop trying. I want to have my hard work acknowledged by all around me and my goals to come down and meet me half way. I want to be recognised as a good person without any flaws and to have those who seem blind to this fact beg me, just beg me for forgiveness. I want to be the only car on the road, the only voice in my ear, the only paradigm of success for others. I want to be rich, thin, pretty, smart and content.

All this. I’m ungrateful for my lot in life, my son, my husband, my work, my writing, my home, my happiness. There are people out there who would love my problems.

Doesn’t mean they don’t still feel like problems, though. Is it the time of year, do you think? The darkness just goes on and on, and we all get restless and discontent and hunt for things to make us sad? Don’t know. Don’t really care, either. Just wish I could get five more hours sleep per night and more time at work and everything and everything… Anyways. The writing is continuing. The work is all. We’ll get there. And we’ll use the whines as inspiration.

A Tired Seamstress

A Tired Seamstress Angelo Trezzini

Fiat Justitia Ruat Caelum

Well, how are ye? No, seriously, how are you? Are you okay, all right? Have you checked in with someone recently, rang them, talked to them, let them hear your voice, made eye contact?  Are you okay, are you at home, safe and untroubled? All your folks okay? All your neighbours?

These days, my friends, these terrible, terrible days. We sit, and horrors play out on the images on our eyes. Toddlers’ bodies flop and slack on beach fronts, teenagers flee down dark streets from concerts. And unlike the gentle words used in newspapers when I was growing up, all of it is visible and clear. Last night I watched video by a journalist who lived across from the Bataclan, showing people jumping over dead bodies at doorways, while on an upper storey window a pregnant woman clung to a metal bar, and pleaded with someone to pull her in, she was slipping. The footage ends before she gets in, there’s no way to know right now if she is okay. If anyone is okay. No one is okay.

The picture of the inside of the Bataclan looks exactly like the end of any concert, bar the larger mass of the bodies.

And what can I do, faced with the visual of these enemies of me, what weapons can I bring to bear on these men, these haters of my ways and my times? What armour can I clad myself in when I see the acts they will do? What can I do that is strong enough to stop them, I who know nothing, I who can do nothing? I am no soldier, not accustomed to hardship or battles. I can call no orders, lead no charge… But I do have in my bag of tricks something that is strong enough against these people. I, and everyone I know, can call forth around them a weapon  as strong as any fanatic, a wall of safety bigger than any gun. I can and do know exactly the form of words that will dispel the power of these men’s ways, and it is exactly strong enough to remove their power on this earth.

This power grew to a concentration just where this latest attack took place, In Paris, where the ideals and principles founded by our own culture and society began to take modern form. This power is founded in the creation of humanity as equal, and where each of us share Rights Inalienable, and undeniable, in the eyes of the executive and legislative function of our state. It is in the ideals of proportionality, in the concepts of Fairness and Privacy, in the motto and guide of our fallen brothers, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity. It has its own magic phrases such as Habeas Corpus, Presumption of Innocence, and deorum Injuriae Diis Curae, phrases stronger than any spell Harry Potter could cast about. It is a power brought about by years of argument and counter-argument, from men like Hume, Locke, Kant. It has just as much imagination, power, and yes, perhaps even magic, behind it, to make the world safe again.

These men, who would destroy us, know nothing of us, for they don’t know we can control the very turn of the earth with these words. They think we are all alike, and that we will live in fear and hate because they must. They think we will turn into them, and hate back, kill back, because that is all we can do. But they are wrong, for we have laws as strong as a mother’s love for her child’s heart. We will find these men, and all the other men. We will track them down, and we will stop them. We will look them deep in the eye, and do the one thing they do not want us to do.

We will arrest them in the name of the Law, that thing that they act against and that thing we must use now more than ever.

In the name of the Law, may it always be strong.

Something Has To Give.

Hello, sports fans. Hopefully you’re indoors on this rainy, play-called-off Sunday. I’ve the headphones on listening to Chopin, himself is cooking listening to ACDC (hence the headphones), and the child is either asleep or burning something around here somewhere. So I thought I’d take the opportunity to get a few lines down.

In terms of writing, still managed to get into the desk twice this week at 6.30am in the morning. We have now reached the thirty-one thousand word mark, and I’m reaching the inner landmarks of this novel that I’ve carried around with me for so long. One of them was reached this Thursday, in an early morning session that was just wonderful. One of these characters is, after a dreadful period in her life, regaining her sense of humour. As she lies in bed at the end of a long day, her imagination takes on a long fantasy so comically outrageous, she makes herself burst out laughing, the first time she’s laughed in years. I’ve carried that moment around in my head over and over and over again, a glass snowball of her life and her heart in that exact moment that I have had to write out to finally make free. And this Thursday she and I finally got there, we finally got to see it together.

A lot of paddling to get to that shore…

But all this is taking its toll. I’m exhausted, and really I don’t have much in the way of mental … character left in me by doing this. I normally am scrupulous with what I eat, but I just can’t keep that up this week. I came home and made Chicken Casserole with tonnes of potatoes. It tasted amazing, but the carbs should have been a big no-no. I’m finding my hands full, of all these loose fraying threads, and there is only so much energy I can give to everything. Someone took too long at a traffic light on the way home on Friday and the fury I felt was irrational, exhausted, just nonsense.

By the end of this I’m going to be a basket case. Seriously. I’m going to be nuts.

Don’t care. I think.

My ‘I have no time to write’ Post.

I have zero time to write. I have, nothing, not a thing. There is about three minutes to do this blog and then I have to work on four other projects before going home and then the second job begins. Not a second can be wasted but I’m managing to do just that because of spelling mistakes and typos and ah here…

So how are you, reading all these fascinating words on the screen at a lightening pace? How is life, how is your times, are you getting enough vitamin C, enough sleep, eating enough? You calling your Mother, getting exercise, working hard? Get some fun while you’re at it, it’s later than you think…

And now here comes the last few seconds of my time to write, nothing left to do but wrap this up, so I wish you well all of you, hope that you’re good and that life is good. Stay warm and cosy out there in that weather, you’d never know what might jump up and get ya.

Puppies make everything better….