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View My Stats From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace :: Gardening
Depression & Health, Poetry, Art & Science, Work & Play, Gardening, Photography & TravelAugust 4, 2010 6:01 am

 To hear an audio version of this blogpost - with a few extra bits - click here for AudioBoo.

Good morning,

It’s the last few hours before I go on holiday.  There won’t be any blogposts for the next two weeks - unless I use my iPad from Galicia, Spain.

It’s possible that I’ll sit in cafĂ© shade, and link in via the roaming Sim that MAXroam have provided.  But I may well confine myself to a Moleskine Notebook.

From the damp panic of Cork, the crazy perspective of having too many things to do before departure- I can’t tell how I’ll feel over there - I hope to be open to the option of silence.

Holidays matter - for so long no one had them. They are a recent invention, a privilege, an achievement.  They are a change, a re-charge, an investment.  A holiday opens up the space for something new to happen, a buried seed to germinate, a bit of pruning back, growth.

Holidays don’t come with a guarantee - I’ve had some disastrous ones. They are not always enjoyable - but they always offer the potential of renewal, personal development, and creative work.  

Holidays are a time for the artist to emerge, the paintbrushes, the pens, stories, stones from the sea shore.  How can I predict what this holiday will do with me?  Above all, a holiday is an adventure, a waiting-to-happen.

Holidays are also an opportunity for others - the people you leave behind.  You give them peace, quiet, relief, a bit of fresh space. They can get on without you. When you meet again, you’ll be changed people - something may well have shifted. I’ve often wished a holiday on another person - not just for their benefit - so that I might have time without them.

So it is with holidays.  Hard-fought opportunities for the shifting sands of shaky foundations to flourish… Playtime.

Enjoy. 

Depression & Health, Politics, Poetry, Art & Science, Work & Play, Children, Gardening, Photography & Travel, Epic PoemApril 9, 2010 8:28 am
CANTO XX1 (begins here)
On a mountain in Kerry sits a woman
driven only by money,
she’ll not move her arse, unless you pay her
for the privilege.
Outside Cahersiveen,
visible on a clear day 
from the beehive hut 
on Skellig Michael,
she counts the stones,
in case the birds have swooped.
She lives on the juice of fushia,
sleeps on montbretia stalks,
rests only on lambswool 
she;s shorn herself.
Her favourite drink is distilled
from bull’s blood,
mixed curds and whey.
She’s an icon,
too fierce for Lisdoonvarna,
every day she surfs McCarthy home
in her dreams…
Maybe she’s the one to consult?
It’s said she tells the story of the god
that sifted earth through a strainer
and threw the Skelligs into the Atlantic,
off the Kingdom’s coast.
A third cousin twice removed to Hydra,
a Peloponnesian beauty,
it’s said she was once impregnated
by a ram from Delphi.
She’s holding a key 
stolen from the oracle
in the Park, the longfella.
My best friend Homer Simpson
brought his family to visit her, 
she blamed him for the fall of Troy,
the death of Paris,
the kidnap of Helen,
and the failure of Odysseus
to get back in time
to spare his wife from disgrace.
This is no wife of O’Donoghue,
this is one of the species
that lives to battle.
No Queensbury rules here,
bareknuckles rules her ring.
She’s eaten all the honest men she’s found,
so Kerry’s denuded,
and the women she’s fried 
on the fires of Santorini
during the night.
Monks terrified she’d swim out to them
and force their virginity on her.
Everyman’s nightmare, a Mrs Hyde
craving to be ravished, 
she hears the confessions of priests
from the Dublin Archdiosese,
young men born into the vocation, 
incarnate youths captivated
by the gutteral tone:
Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meam.
Give me your body, let me taste your blood.
Boys taken into a seminary,
some from penuary,
some to free their brother
to inherit the farm,
lads put to scrubbling stoneflags
with icy water in December,
mortified their flesh,  
hearts gouged of pride,
like a filly broken-in
to the institutionalisation of desire.
Taught the ceremony of the bugger
by an older priest,
a father figure,
a godhead that offered a little taste
of hell on earth,
so that the Last Judgement 
might have a suitable rehearsal.
Those faithful kids entered
the apostolic virtueland,
believing the soul stained with Original Sin,
convinced they were in for salvation.
The first rule they learned 
was the Law of Obedience:
question and sin,
do as I show unto you
follow the leader,
make your parents proud of you, for once,
be consecrated with a power
to make all bend a knee to your hand,
and open their legs to your desire.
Be a bit of a Lord.
Bring little children with you 
into the Garden,
give each a crown of thorns,
rape their body
and their minds.
Suffer little children to come unto you
in the sacristy,
in their grandmothers’ parlour,
in the back of your Morris Minor.
Show them the sperm of Salvation,
and shut them up
with the promise of exposure.
We are all liars,
petty little criminals.
Teach them the fear of disbelief,
expose young people to the beauty
of a sinning mind,
and the miracle of the flesh
made dirty.
Filthy little buggers,
temptation-ridden sluts,
bring them the epistles of Paul,
the Gospel of John,
the four horsemen of apocalyptic vision,
redemption through suffering.
Joyce’s Jesuit would have understood,
and denied all.
"Bless me father for I have sinned"
- anyone who can’t remember sins to confess
can make them up.
All is sin, we are creators of a sinful world,
all we do is sin.
So when I sin with you,
we are both sinners before the Cross.
All sins are equal before Christ,
so what’s so bad
about a little bit of torture.
Wasn’t our Saviour himself
tortured unto death,
and didn’t he emerge victorious:
resurrected, ascended - if you like.
You, my child, prepare yourself
for the pain of crucifixion,
so that you might be taken down
from the Cross
into a tomb, to suffer in silence.
"Into thy hands I commend my spirit
Father"

- I’ll go silently back to the house of my father,
my tongue sacrificed
on the altar of your orgasmic need for submission.
I’ll spend the years wandering with shame in my knapsack,
I’ll leave Ireland on a boat to Holyhead.
I can dig ditches, lay tar for McAlpine.
You can move from parish to parish,
saving souls, ministering to the sick,
a pillar of the community,
revered by the Sisters.
"These are my sins…"
- and for my penance, I’ll recite
three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys
and three Glory Bes,
all my life, in every cold bed,
in every damp sheet.
Meanwhile, you are vital to your Church,
a true soldier of Christ,
confirmed in your addiction to the power
of the body and blood,
ordained to lead,
known to your friends as a butcher
of innocent limbs.
Is it any wonder you didn’t become an alcoholic
or wife-beater, or lover of prostitutes?
Remember me, I wish I could not
remember myself. 

An old bald stoop shuffled forward,
rosary beads pressed
into the flesh of the palm,
it was his turn to confess.

"Bless me Mother, for I have sinned,
it is 40 years since I last made a good Confession.
These are my sins."

"Before you open your mouth,
I know you. I have watched
your deepest thoughts,
I have seen every one.
How can you be sorry?"

"Is my face not sufficient?"

"You have the look of a mountain goat
with mange. You are the child of bishops:
‘Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil’
Isn’t that what I smell off you!"

"I am sorry.
I want to confess,
will you not hear my Confession?"

"The words, you want to give me words…
Take down your trousers,
I’ll give you a knife for penance,
I’ll watch you  make contrition,
and commit a miracle."

"I want to be forgiven."

The old Kerry woman put on her Medusa look:
"I want to see the colour of your soul,
the one you’ve carried around 
under the Archbishops.
Take up your blade. Cut your penis off.
Eat your testicles, and chew them forty times,
swallow the lot.
Then tell me you’re sorry."

The priest fainted when he heard his sentence.
She poured his piss from a cob,
cooled with the frost of morning.
As the first eye winced,
she defecated into his open mouth:
"I am here to remind you of the pleasures from your flesh,
the joy you brought to those who served your Mass,
your penance has begun."

The boy who served his parents pride
vomited into the field,
the whole body of the woman
towered over him,
as if she was one big bad breast
of sour milk.
Dante, you were a mild writer of punishment:
our holy man of Ireland
would cross the Styx a thousand times
rather than face this woman
with her hairy cunt pressing down
to suffocate him.
Oh, he wished he could wake up dead,
and, if that wasn’t possible,
he wished he was dead to death.

 
(end of Canto 21) 
Work & Play, Gardening, Photography & TravelDecember 26, 2009 10:16 am

I took this on my pocket digital camera on Christmas Day.  I was attracted by the light on the branches. 

Depression & Health, Gardening, Photography & TravelOctober 12, 2009 11:03 am
 
 
An acer is not a computer.  It’s a journey… this little baby is a gift from the Wiffe
Depression & Health, Politics, Work & Play, Children, Customer service, Gardening, Photography & Travel, Food & Drink, History & MuseumsSeptember 23, 2009 10:03 am

In case you want to plan your visit to the southern part of Kerry, John O’Donoghue territory

Photograph of Office of Public Works (OPW) map on site… 

Depression & Health, Work & Play, Gardening, Photography & Travel, History & Museums 9:48 am
Derrynane Beach on Sunday morning in September 2009 
 
 
Walking in garden of Daniel O’Connell’s house in Derrynane 
 
Beara Peninsula in background 
Depression & Health, Work & Play, Gardening, Photography & TravelAugust 11, 2009 3:15 pm

Gardening in Glanmire has resumed… I’ll be posting thoughts & feelings about it from now on.  The last chapter was written ages ago, during last season.

 

Peter Dowdall of Dunsland Garden Centre striding across the Farmers’ Market last Sunday.

Focussed I’d say.  He twitters @Downsland

Peter’s my greatest gardening consultant, thought he doesn’t know it.   As a result of his advice I bought grass for the two new pots.  If it was up to me, I’d never have chosen grass.  When a surprise comes to you from the universe, I find it’s good to grasp it.

Grace came with me.  She spent plenty of time on the statue of the horse,  riding it with all the enthusiasm of someone who knew what she was doing.  She’s had practice riding real ponies.

 

She liked playing with the barley.

She can now (almost 4 years) recognise & name hydrangeas, Hebe, rosemary…

Back to pots & grass:

 

Japanese Forest Grass - in case you’re stumped…

 

(to be continued…)

Poetry, Art & Science, Work & Play, Gardening, Photography & Travel, Food & DrinkJuly 30, 2009 11:23 pm

Some of the latest fashion…

 

 

 

 

Work & Play, Gardening, Photography & Travel 9:03 am
Depression & Health, Work & Play, Blogging & Media, GardeningJuly 20, 2009 11:06 pm

There are a few things I’ve let slip, and they are haunting me.

(1) The gym: I resolved to go regularly - it’s ages since I’ve worked up a sweat.

(2) The Moleskine:  I resolved to write a daily note at start of day - that too is ages.

(3) The garden: I resolved to learning how to garden - I’ve only cut grass.

This is a public admonishment of self.

Get real man.  Get back into the game, off the sideline.

There is a life to be won.

Depression & Health, Politics, Poetry, Art & Science, Work & Play, Children, Blogging & Media, Customer service, Gardening, Photography & Travel, Food & Drink, History & MuseumsMay 26, 2009 10:30 pm

I leave on the morning of 27 May and will be in Listowel for all the festival.

That’s where you can find me.  Grace will be well looked after in my absence.  A lot of thought has gone into ensuring that.

I’m getting away from NAMA.

Away from Batt O’Keefe and his disgraced department of education.

Out of Cork, over the border into Kerry.

Fair weather has been promised…

Grass will grow…

I hope I remember to book a table at Aloe’s …

This will be good for my health…

Nothing like a change of scenery and service…

This will be a trip down memory lane…

I hope to write while there.

 

Poetry, Art & Science, Gardening, Food & DrinkMay 6, 2009 6:14 am
0535 5/5/9
 
Pale, blue lightofmorning,
a birdtray rests,
waits for creatures to wake,
feed their way into thisday.
 
Cold light brightens,
the darkofnight passes on,
hangs in the trees,
silhouette about to fade.
 
Still, a clock ticks,
the gardensight frozen,
secondless. The sound ticks on.
 
I saw a blade move,
a blink of grass,
a breeze stir.
 
There must be life,
outside too -
two crows drop from a branch.
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