Old Bangers - and the used car trade.

The events of the day have prompted memories. Memories of cars, many cars which over the years have found me in interesting situations.

I have been meaning to write some of them for some time now, and this seems as good a time as any.

 My daughter and her boyfriend recently acquired a car. My first question, a typical woman, was "What colour is it?" What I really should have done was remind them to check the oil and water before setting out. So I am here waiting for them to arrive, and receive a call. "There is smoke coming out of the engine." Uh-oh. "Welcome to the world of cars."
says I, cool as a cucumber. I have been in that situation so many times I have lost count.
So while I am waiting to hear some news, I am going to recount some 'terrible tales' of days gone by.

My daughter's sixth birthday.

The little red mini was given to us by my sister-in-law, following the demise of the previous car, a Renault which was so rusty I hand-painted the entire body with a russet-coloured rust paint. I think it was the only car of that colour on the entire Island. After the Renault, we acquired two Deux-Cheveux, Citron Dian, which served as good run arounds. One of them, the yellow one, had a unique feature. The doors came off every time you opened them. We used to drive my daughter to school sometimes. The children would gather round fascinated and dubbed it The Clown's Car.
Generally she preferred to walk to school. But she has grown up with her sense of humor still intact, thankfully

So anyway, we set off back from The Fun Factory, which was where the party was happening. It had replaced a venue called the Top Hat, which back in the day, had hosted a Strangler's gig supported by U2, but that is another story. The warehouse was now the giant slides and coloured ball pits, adventure for all the family. In tow we had a little boy who said to my daughter: "My Daddy's car is much cooler than this one." My daughter instantly came to the Mini's defense pointing out how unique it was and so on, when almost immediately after this conversation took place, smoke started pouring from the engine. The look on the little boy's face was which could only be described as, smug.
My heart bled for Bex while I got out and called for back up to come and fetch the kids.

I had parked the same Mini in a railway station car park another time, when a van backed into the front bumper, literally crumpling it. The drivers pointed to the "Park at your own risk." sign so I couldn't claim insurance from them. I drove the crumpled Mini back to the small town (the kind of town where everybody knows your name), and lo and behold while standing at a traffic light which had only literally just turned green, a car comes from behind and bashes the back bumper. The Mini now looked like a crumple sandwich. As I went to park on Main Street to buy some groceries, a couple of the old guys started laughing and one of them said: "We call you Mrs Bean."
Well, thanks very much.

Every time one of my cars ended its days, for one reason or another, a 'kind' friend would offer me another old car that was doing nothing much, and probably for a good reason.
My landlord's son, a mechanic, gave me an old Cortina. It was red.
I was driving with the children one day on a very busy road, when the accelerator cable snapped.
The engine crescendoed into a roar, and I thought it was about to explode. I pulled into the curb and I told the children to get out quick. We all jumped out and hid behind a bush waiting for the explosion. Nothing happened except the engine died a mournful passing. The next day a friend told me she had passed us on the road. Well, nothing like stopping to see if we needed any help.

Then there was the time one of the cars ran out of petrol outside the Cullinmore Hotel. I knew the owner who invited me to leave the children with the kitchen staff, while I went off on the back of a stranger's motorbike to the nearest garage. I burnt my ankle quite badly on the bike's smoking hot exhaust while getting on. It took weeks to heal. I was a little anxious about leaving the children with strange chefs, but as it turned out they were having a feast of chocolate ice cream and jelly.

Another time we had been invited to go water-skiing. This caused great excitement and a friend of my daughter's was along for the ride. All packed up and ready to go, life-jackets and wet-suits, flippers and water-wings, a picnic, the works, and you'v guessed it, right on cue the car decides not to play the game. Much disappointment all round. We never did get to go water-skiing, but it was nice to imagine that we were going, for a while, I guess.

I was once given a car, to discover afterwards that the only problem with it that it needed a new lock for the driver's door. the only way of getting one was ordering it from France at a phenomenal cost that was more than the car was worth, and more than I could afford. So another one bit the dust.

Where has the love gone?

When I was in Dublin the other day, I had an hour or so to kill, before the train home. I like to walk around Grafton Street and the Wicklow Street areas, not for the expensive shops, but for the buskers, the street life, the quirky book-shops and the cafes. I always give something to anyone who asks me, because I know nobody would ask for money if they didn't need it. But it not just about the money, sometimes all is wanted is a listening ear.
The last time, I met a girl called Teresa. She was from the North West. Her mother was in hospital, very sick and she was very worried about her. She was pushing a buggy with two babies in it, and told me that her boyfriend had been raping her since she was seventeen. She had found the courage to leave him and now was homeless. She needed to find ten euro a day to go to the 'better' hostel with the children every night. Even this place wasn't great because of the noise on the street keeping her and the babies awake late at night. I know the feeling.
During the day she had to take the babies with her to ask strangers for money. This day she had made the ten euro but no more. She said she would prefer to talk to me than take my money. She needed a friendly ear.
She has gone to everyone and tried everything to get accommodation, but with no result.
I asked her about Focus Point - she shook her head, I asked her about The Health Board, she shook her head, nobody was helping her. What struck me about her was how articulate and intelligent she was. Soft spoken and genuine. A very pretty face a very sweet girl. She is obviously a loving mother as her children looked well-cared for, healthy and quite happy, oblivious for now, to the nature of their lives.

How is it that this beautiful little family are wandering the streets day in day out? How could this be happening? Are people so oblivious, so wrapped up in their lives to not notice. Nobody slows down enough to be accessible, to take the time to stop and listen, or better still do something.

I know that next time I go to Dublin I will be looking out for her, and will be armed with something more useful than a listening ear and a couple of euro. I will take a little more time to try and figure out a solution, find the right caring people who can help her, and insist that she gets what she needs to set up a decent life for herself and her children. I am still in shock about Focus Point - the Centre for the homeless. Maybe there really is nothing they can do. But I don't believe it.
Also I wonder how many like her are out there, blending in with the crowd.

On the verge of homelessness myself for a short while when my daughter was a baby, I got assistance with rent, free nappies, and free milk, bags of second hand-clothes, for several months, while I got on my feet. We lived on a pittance. But it was manageable. Were were poor in one way, but like Teresa, there was an abundance of love for my off-spring and a strong survival instinct. Unlike Teresa, I didn't have to beg. She had the courage to want a better life, but does life have the courage to give it to her. I hope so.

If you don't like kittens - you won't like this post.

Me again.
I have been thinking about kittens. It's been a while.
A kitten called Tom walked in through the bathroom window one day and stayed. We were living in Cork.
A year later we moved back to Wicklow and Tom ran away. A couple of days later we found him sitting on a fence. Somehow we managed to convince ourselves that it wasn't actually Tom but another cat. So we called her Moppet after my childhood kitten who had died at only a few days old. I now wonder if maybe Moppet really was Tom after all and that Tom had not been a boy but a girl all along. I don't remember anyone looking to see what his/her gender was.
Moppet had two kittens one halloween night while I was out at a party. They grew up in the bottom drawer of the old chest of drawers which my grandfather had taken to sea with him while travelling the seas in the Navy. The Tabby used to stand there rocking on her little legs while trying to walk, so we named her Rocky.
Rolly used to roll around in our hands when picked up, so she got named Rolly. It wasn't til later that we realised the 'Rock and Roll' analogy.
We moved again, this time to a little cottage by the sea which I named Railway Cottage, it being near to the railway track. The three cats came too.

I don't like blaming people for anything, but the vet did tell me that they were too young to be neutered, in which case they were also too young to have kittens, which they did. There were ten between them the first time, and the second time there were eleven, so all in all twenty one kittens in six months. They all got names and then they got homed. Rolly, was the mother of all of them. A very busy six months needless to say. Moppet simply pretended there was nothing amiss and went about her business of ignoring everybody. "Nothing to do with me" you could hear her body language shrugging. Not the Earth Mother type. Rocky inherited this attitude and decided she wasn't having anything to do with any of them either. So the onus was left with Rolly, and she stepped up and fed all of them, yes, all twenty one of them. We tried to help her with suppliment milk and weaned them a little early. This incredible little soul just out of kittenhood herself, won my heart hands down. She is the cat who stayed the distance until she sadly died at the age of fourteen.

Moppet died on my bed while the kids and I were watching a comedy eating a chinese take away, laughing :( We didn't sleep well that night. I felt so bad not to have known it was her time. She was getting old but I thought she had a few years in her yet.

Rocky was adopted by one of the adoptees, who came to take one of the kittens. She jumped into their cat box and looked lovingly at her chosen owners and I thought 'What the heck' if she wants to go, then take her. She didn't like the chaos in our home much anyway. When we moved again, Rolly was the only cat left, and she became my best friend. She would help me look for the dog when she went missing which was pretty much all the time. A loving compassionate soul who more about animals than any other animal I had ever been in contact with.

So she has been gone for while now, and now I have connected with Milo, my daughter's kitten, I am for the first time actually wanting another cat. Up till now cats have chosen me or been born into my life, this time, it will be a conscious decision. Also it might be good company for Louis the dog, when I am out.
He is off in the luxury kennels, while I am here. I know he likes it there because he comes back happy, not like when he went to the other kennel once and came back a little crazy.

Well that is my craving to write something taken care of.

All the best

Fiocle.

Sunday afternoon musings

Late night revelers wake me once again. I could sleep through most things, even a car crashing through a wall, apparently. But when they shout at the top of their voices as if they'd just witnessed  their best friend being been shot in front of them, then bang on the metal door of the little electricity hut, which sounds like a bomb exploding, might as well be in Beirut or The North during the Troubles. I am having vivid dreams these nights and every time I get woken in the middle, or maybe it is that I remember them because I am being startled awake, but then I don't get any continuity to the dreams, or conclusion, if there is such a thing as conclusion to dreams. I feel I am missing out on telling myself something important. Renders everything meaningless in a way. The other night I dreamt that Louis was lying there listless, dying. I was glad to know it was only a dream as I was concerned that maybe it had been real. Then he started retching, not actually vomiting for the best part of the following day. Last night I had another dream about being in an art class, and being given a special room to myself, and another stranger. I think it might mean I will make a new friend there. I hope so. It was an unusual room, like an old attic with dusty old relics and furniture, which we had to rearrange to make space. That in turn made us late for the registration (anxiety of being behind on the post card project possibly). I may be projecting a new friend in order to make myself feel more confident about the experience as I am quite shy in reality and am hoping that doesn't hamper my experience.
I have encouraged Louis to stay calm successfully, but I am sure he feels the same fear I do. I feel less fear and more compassion when he is with me, which is pretty much all the time.
I watched the dawn through the clouds and was not too disappointed that there was no colour to it. Then realised I needed more sleep and didn't rise again till afternoon. A  little disoriented and still tired.

Becky got a kitten the other day, and I will be kitten-sitting in her apartment while she goes to the country on a well-earned break. She forgot I wanted one too, oh well. She works so hard, long hours and though she loves her work she only gets two weeks holliers a year. She is so intelligent to go with it. Louis will be going to his beloved kennels. I know he likes it there, because he comes back tired yet contented, and Karen, the owner is a very obvious animal lover.  It is worth the expense so that Becky and I can both get a change of scenery, even though I am a little envious she is going to the country-side of my childhood without me, I am glad she is. We have had some wonderful experiences, paddling through the rivers and lakes in canoes, which I think was a fantastic thing for children to experience. It feels like adventuring through unexplored terrain and the ultimate experience in 'getting back to nature', so very aesthetic.

Sometimes I have more to give than others. But I will always have time to blog, says I, as it doesn't require much interaction.

More random thoughts.

My computer clock says two twenty seven am, and I believed it until I noticed it is only ten past twelve. Still late, yet it's a Friday night and all is still and quiet here. So I decided to have a chat with my blog again. It listens but doesn't reply. Probably would tell me not to be so boring, if it could.
Actually that is me telling myself that I am boring. It is a weird word, always has been - boring.
"You can come and stay if you like, but you'll be bored." - nah, I don't get bored. Still don't really understand the expression. Some say it is another word for depression, or being down. I'd prefer to go with that. Maybe it is being tired, weary, ennui, but bored is the silliest word in the dictionary.
Is it what drove me to write this? Or is there some other driving force behind my sudden impulse to put into words the unputtable? I could talk to someone on the net, but I just feel the need to write, solitary, on my own. I don't have much to say as I feel I am in some kind of limbo-land, or twilight zone or somewhere. I think there are photos missing off my computer, but maybe it is just that I can't find them. How disorganised is that?
The neighbourhood is quiet tonight. The clock ticks behind me - tick - tock - tick - tock... and I don't know why I am not playing music. I do actually. It is because I am liking the stillness while it is here. Got my keyboard working again, the Yamaha. It jst needed a new plug. Back to playing the same old tunes. Still have to finish the postcards, for this project I am doing. It could be fun, maybe I will get into it properly tomorrow. Ordered another book - Body of a Dancer, which I can't wait to read. I hate finishing a good book. There is a sadness involved, a goodbye to be said. Being invited into someone else's head is a privilege. One day I would like to invite others into mine, properly. Maybe as some kind of return gift. They can feel free to like me or dislike me, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that one likes oneself. Of course, one can't always like everything about oneself, and that is ok too. As long as liking is in the majority, it's cool. I think I am done for now. The clock is still ticking, it's still quiet outside, so I am going to read more of Star of the Sea.
It's a brilliant book and I am reading it slowly but surely.
I cut a lot of wood for the winter today, chopped more hedge, the prickly one out on the public pavement, which is my responsibility to keep trimmed, and omg it really hurts to get stabbed by one of those strong spikes. I mean really hurts.  I flopped on the bed afterwards and slept for three hours, and woke up disorientated. I know if I give up smoking I will have lots more energy. Winter could be cold or mild this year, but I can already feel myself shivering in anticipation.
Spending money on books is my 'vice' I suppose. Those and cigarettes. A little wine sometimes, which helps oil the wheels. And I really, really want to do another 'chapter' of dancing in the air. I have kind of left it all hanging in the air, so to speak, and it is bugging me.

Good night blog. I am signing off now, and hope you sleep well, as ridiculous as that sounds. I have a need to say goodnight and good morning for some reason I will never know. Mystery sometimes is good thing, and I certainly aren't going to try analyzing that one. I have a fear that being over-analytical can lead to annihilation.

Just thoughts

Just thoughts
You don't have to be in jail to feel like a prisoner. I'm not, yet all this time, I have been fighting it, trying to to break down non-existent barriers, refusing to accept the status quo. That is what I think I think at least, for there are so many different options to think, that one thought will do as well as the next. When one has been harboring one set of thoughts or perhaps they were not thoughts but feelings or something similar, concerning a certain 'state of being', for many years, and over night that state of being alters radically, it is a cause for worry. Yet I am astounded at how unworried I am. As unworried as I might or might not think I am, as I am still not sure yet if I have cause to be worried, I have experienced an altered state nonetheless.
This altered state I am thinking may indeed be a positive thing. I am astounded that I haven't yet had a tantrum or broken a cup deliberately against a wall or even stamped my foot. So following that lead maybe it is safe to assume that I am calmer than a windless sea, on a starry summer's night.
It is probably shock mingled with an unease the like of which I don't think I have ever experienced.
And I have experienced a radical pot-pourri of shocks of different colours, shapes and sizes. I started writing this because I can feel my mind drawing inwards on what feels like a very lonely journey.
I have lost the capability to reach out. Maybe it is because it is a road I must travel alone, I don't know, and I don't like the not knowing. It feels like the calm before a storm. A storm I am not sure will actually materialise.
Truth is after having written all these words, I simply don't know what to think.

Stella Maris.

Stella Maris.

My head is wandering these days, but the one place it can settle happily is into a good book. I have been reading many but the book I am currently enjoying, and becomes better the more into it I get is 'The Star of the Sea' by Joseph O'Connor.

I don't normally do book reviews, but this author's astounding imagination leaves one breathless in it's versatility.

 Set during the famine circa 1847 on a ship heading for the America's, the character development is sublime and the plot thickens effortlessly, (though I am sure effort was put into it), in contrast to the thin gruel the passengers in steerage had no choice but to eat. What strikes me most about this book is it's believability. Though a work of fiction, the choice of subject and the attention to detail,

leaves one wondering if it is not a true life account. He brings the dark heart of the famine to a place my own imagination could never have dared to adventure. There is a sensitivity to both sides of the cultural gap which only an intelligent and broad mind could dally into, recounting the trials and tribulations of all spectrums of society in that particular time and space.

It is a dark book, brought into the light through the medium of humour, the sometime subtlety of which can leave one reeling in a space between laughter and tears.

Here is a lighter extract from my last night's reading session which is one of the lighter moments in the book.

"And the cockney's talked as though talking in colours. Brash, browsy banners of words. He listened for hours as they nattered in the markets, as they dandered in the carnival in Paternoster Square. How he wished he could talk with such brio and bite. He practiced in the evenings over and over, made reverend translations into their tongue.

our old guv'nor

which dosses in Lewisham

swelled be thy moniker.

Thy racket become;

in Bow as it is in Lewisham.

Scalp us this day our lump of lead

and let us be bailed for our dodges;

as we backslaps the pox-hounds and Berkshire Hunts

what dodges agin us. (The bumsuckers.)

And Jemmy us not into bushes or lurks

but send us skedaddling from blaggery.

For thine in the manner the flash and the bovver.

Till mother breaks out of the clink. Amen.

The lexicon of crime became his favourite contemplation..."  

Some may think this irreverend. In the right context though, it is well placed.

and so on... his love of the written word is the key, to this incredible work.

I can only show a small part of it. In another life, I would wish to able to write like this.  

All aside, this is a serious book, and I would recommend it to anybody, anywhere to read. It is well researched and puts the social history of that period into a clear perspective, in a palpable manner

NB. Cockney - is the 'secret 'slang language of the native Londoner.

My nod to synchronicity here, something I like to do, is that I owned a house called: 'Stella Maris' - Star of the Sea, back in the nineties. They were good years, of which I have a multitude of fond memories. But also some not-so-good ones.  Everything is in the balance.

The now of now.

I haven't blogged for a while. I am not in a face-book kind of mood these days and everything I try to do just seems to go wrong. Yes, it is going to be one of those type of posts. I don't know why it is so important to get my printer working, but it is.  I can't do it, but I will try again tonight. I have half-written things which I don't have the motivation to finish and post. My mind is in a strange place and I hardly know who I am any more. Crazy things have been happening, highly emotive stuff, which has left me drained. I am coming back from it all but, fuck, I realise I have been living in hell. A hell not of my own making. I take some of the responsibility, but not the majority of it. I was born for one thing.
Counselling is helping, I think. It is not a physical hell, more a psychological one. Things could always be worse, I keep telling myself. Of course, things are worse than this, somewhere else. But I am here, not there. And here is my own personal hell. I am not looking for feed-back on this, because everything anyone says to me these days, I have to take with a pinch of salt. Why? Because I am over-sensitive, living in a perpetual state of post-traumatic stress disorder, from way back. As soon as I think I have figured out one thing, worked it through, something else crops up. It is all very well saying things like: "Live in the now", "Enjoy the moment". I can't. As simple as that. I hope to some time. But I can't now. Recent events have left me numb. Not in a good way. But I hope to turn it around or at least bury it. Again, it depends on others, though nothing ever changes in some respects. I am not lonely alone any more, I am just alone. That's how I feel anyway. Trying to connect the jigsaw pieces together, of a smattered, scattered life. It's all good, just wish it was simple.
I wonder though. If everything was 'perfect', (what is that anyway), what then? (and shut up about my grammar and bad sentence construction, and simplex wording, I know!). Would I be any happier. I don't know. I have read thousands of positive words, possibly millions. They go in there and will lurk in there, waiting until I am ready. For what? Again I simply don't know.

Then there are the false promises. I say I will do this and that, then I don't. Maybe it's catch up time. Maybe.

Anyway, if anyone does read this, because I doubt I will post it in a group, sorry it isn't more up-beat, or humerous, or interesting. It is what it is.

Now I am going to use my escapism tactics and go read a book, because that is all I am up to recently.

Something different.

"Most cultural manifestations of desire are typically boring, symptomatic, and even perpetuating of the dominations they claim a wish to alter. In this way, living with restrictions is inevitable. There is no greater self-delusion than believing one could ever be free of restrictions. Any sensation of transcendence is always traceable to an ambivalence toward one domination or other, and in that ambivalence also rests an act of perpetuation. If one acknowledges or takes responsibility for that act of perpetuation - no matter how unavoidable or undesirable - then there is no possibility for transcendence. It becomes moot." - Terre Thaemlitz

This is a quote I have taken from an article I have just read that rings true for me. 

The walls whisper

No one to understand
But we do,
we, the cold rock surrounding you
The ones who cradle your beating head
After killing
Love,
Stone dead.
No going back
follow the sign on the track
The one that points the way ahead,
Don’t count the cost of what's been lost
We know, and that’s enough.

Yeah, me and my big ego, both.

Happy birthday, Whiskey.

According to my researches, Whiskey was first produced by American clergyman the Rev Elijah Craig. It is named Bourbon because Rev Craig lived in Bourbon County, Kentucky.
                                                                                                                                                                                        My parents, waaaay back in another life, once had a pony called Whiskey, another called Brandy, and as far as I know they parented a foal who was named Babycham, after those small bottles of Perry that were once so popular in the '60's. Then there was Champion the Wonder-pony who was possibly one in the same as Babycham, who I claimed as 'my pony', even though I didn't do much riding that I can remember. There were also two beautiful horses called Johnathon, and Captain. These extant subspecies of Equus ferus materialised because my parents needed to try and turn the farm around into a growing concern. Before they had been kindly gifted it from an aged uncle, it had not been financially viable, and in fact was going into debt at a leisurely but steady pace. So my mother, being in possession of a small dowry of four hundred pounds, had invested in what was to become known as the riding stables. Along with these stables she had organised a caravan park/camp-site by the lake, and the farm manager's house which they turned into a three-in-one cafe, restaurant, and pub. Seven dogs, some feral cats, a couple of pigs in the orchard and a chuckle of hens in the old hen house, just about made up the remains of the domestic animal life.

This estate, as it happened, was located on the bog land of a remote part of the island, which was only accessible to the adventurous type of holiday maker who were good at navigating thin winding roads lined with thorny hedgerows, thousand year-old oak, beech, and hazel trees, and hampered by puddles in pot-holes. They would then bump and grind up the long avenue, and those who weren't too tall would arrive on the graveled frontage of the main house, without too many bumps on the head, and leaving old Willie Grey, in his weathered tweed cap and jacket, to have to rake it all, Zen-style, back into an even spread. They would then crunch their way to the front door, and listen as the door-knocker echoed around the wooden floored hallway. They would then be told of the facilities and pointed towards the lake which would mean retracing the bumpy road back for a mile and a half to the allocated camping spot. Willie would then turn up again to re-rake the gravel, as it appeared that he didn't really have very much else to do. There is a strong possibility that at the end of the working day he may have indulged in a shot or two of the very whiskey, the birthday of which happens to fall on this very day.

Happy birthday Whiskey.

Dancing in the Air Part 2

She reached up and touched the unvarnished wood just above her head. A jab of pain entered the tip of her fore-finger along with a splinter. Vague images of crawling under the table to sleep, nothing before that except the crush of people’s voices competing in unison. Through invisible faces, she had stood for an eternity listening to the tones which ranged from sudden high-pitched laughter to deep-base mumbling.  She had wanted to dance to it but there was no space even to stretch her limbs. As she lay there on a coat which she had taken from the back of a chair she started counting the pieces of gum which reminded her of the time she had put her hand under the desk at school and had recoiled in horror at what she supposed was the saliva of the children who had taunted her in the playground.
   All around her was silence apart from the banging of a distant door and footsteps. Through the light material of the table-cloth which reached to the ground, a shadow passed by. A clearing of a throat and a sigh followed. “Arabella, are you in here?”

Papa.
But she found she couldn’t move and as the footsteps began to retreat, she felt a sinking such as never before. In her panic she tried to call out but no sound came, so her mind diverted its attention to the throbbing finger.
 ...............................................................................................................................................

Miss Beechtree was inconsolable and poured herself another shot of gin.
Her mother sat by the window, watching the branches of the willow swaying in the breeze. She hazily recalled the time when Arabella had gone missing at Jeremy Tripwell's wedding. As they were getting into the taxi to return to Blacksteps Hotel, she'd had the uneasy feeling that something wasn't quite right. They had sent out a search party, and fifty half-drunk men had gone all around the estate with torches calling her name. Eventually Araballa was spotted in the rock garden asleep on the wishing-stone, looking like something the angels had left behind in their haste to return to the other-realm.

"I can't just sit here doing nothing." She shrugged, went over to the piano, hit the C, and then the A, a little too hard.
"We were told to stay here in case she turns up. Please don't do that."
"I'll stop if you do. It is that damn stuff that caused all this in the first place."
"Don't start that again. If you were a responsible mother, you would have brought her home after the show."
"How could I? You whisked her off before I could even...."
The phone went, saving another inevitable row.

A connection with the birthplace of the Irish author Elizabeth Bowen.

I started this on June 7th - six days ago, so it is a belated post.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    I woke up this morning and found my spirit sinking like the water from the torrential down-pour
into the drain outside.

                                                 

After discovering I had nothing to eat, I braved the elements and bought myself some bagels, some hummus and soy milk. That made me feel a little better. Then I decided to look and see what might have happened on this day any time in the past. It usually brings up something interesting, and I like to try and make some kind of personal connection with whichever new birth, death or event catches my eye.

                                                                     My eye...

I got lucky today, as now I can make a connection with an address I used to live in. It was the first apartment, where I was totally independent. That is paying my own rent through working as a waitress, and my own personal living space. I was nineteen and almost fresh out of school. The rent was fifteen pounds a week, and I was earning about thirty five plus tips, so I wasn't exactly starving. I had dropped out of college, and was to my young mind 'living the good life'.

As it turns out, today is the birthday of the Irish author Elizabeth Bowen. 1899-1973. She was born on the 7th June 1899 in the very house I was renting my apartment. It is a Georgian terrace along the banks of the canal between Merrion Street and Mount Street.

                                                    and looks something like this one.

While I was there, the canal below was a meeting place for 'women of the night'. They referred to my girl friends and I as 'virgins' whenever our paths crossed, which wasn't too often, and was a little embarassing. One time someone organised a birthday party for a friend and I was taking photos with a flash camera, my old Kodak. A woman knocked on the door and demanded the film. Apparently they thought I was taking photos of them in action with their high profile clients. Who knew? I certainly didn't sit around spying on them. In fact I never even thought to look out the window at night. After convincing her that nobody was interested in blackmailing anyone, I still had to hand over the film for the sake of goodwill, there was probably a little bit of fear involved there as well.

 All this took place in the very house Elizabeth Bowen was born.

Here she is with students in 1956.

A few years later I was given a book of hers called Bowen's Court, a non-fiction account of what it was to be Anglo Irish in the late eighteenth century. I was also given her 'Irish Stories' for my birthday in '96. They are a good read if you are interested in the topic.

To have or to have not power - that is the question.

So now I know what our ancestors spent so much time doing pre-technology. Instead of coming home of an evening from their nine-to-five, flicking on the lights, non-chalantly logging into facebook, throwing something frozen into the microwave and complaining how stressed they were - they were lighting candles.

The candle ritual actually takes longer than one would imagine. Not only does it fill in an hour or two, it also is a very meditative experience, and when without power a necessary one. Something ancient kicks in, and you begin to time travel. You realise that there is another kind of life than the one you are leading, and you are suddenly immersed in it. You have to use your wits, and wicks too as it happens. The candles must be very carefully placed in their holders, secured well, the wicks must be short or your candle will actually go on fire like one of them did, and I was glad I noticed because despite the warm weather I didn't feel like sleeping under the stars tonight. Then there is the dilemma of finding the batteries for the torch, which made me realise that I need to place things where I can find them and remove any superflouous items which hamper the investigations. In other word simplify everything. It could happen again any time and when it does I want to be able to shrug my shoulders and say: "Ok, time to light the candles." Then sit down and get on with it. None of this running around racing the sunset to get organised.

I was actually reminded of the days we used to spend with my father as kids in his little cottage by a lake, when it was his turn to have us for the holidays. Candles and paraffin lamps were the norm in that house. He had a wood-burning stove and two gas-lamps which burned in the kitchen. The aromas were rustic and retro. For entertainment we read books, played guitar, back-gammon, chess and cards. It wasn't boring at all. In fact it was much nicer than the kind of life-style that everyone seems to have these days, including myself.

It is one of the reasons why I didn't panic when the lights suddenly went off. Early training. Clothes were washed by hand and then wrung through a roller, we had no time to wonder what we should be doing. there were plenty of tasks. Chopping wood for the fire, gathering kindle, and he grew vegetables too. I am glad he didn't have animals because I don't think I would have enjoyed that side of things much.

At the end of the month or six weeks or whatever it was that time, we would bundle into his car and be driven back to civilization. Back to the push button lifestyle that we had to re-adjust to, and in my case regrettably.

So you see, I am glad there was a power cut this evening which prompted these memories and more.

I may even periodically have a 'no power' night from time to time, just to unwind, and remind myself that there is so much more to life than we take for granted. Though I have to admit that I do like my creature comforts - my stereo, my computer, washing machine and light switches, water-heater and other sundries.
But I know that if I had to live without them, I could, and quite happily.

Dancing in the air - part one.

She could see nothing at all except for what was in her extreme periphery. The music penetrated her entire body which responded with a pre-rehearsed automacy. Her spirit soared, blending into the atmosphere of the moment, with muscles that stretched with the kind of ease only an eight year old could carry. Pirouette, demi-plié, bow and curtsy, the curtain threw itself down in front of her heralding the finality of the moment, and as she stood up straight, a flash of light and a loud applause greeted her serenely smiling face, while her eyes adjusted themselves painfully to the sudden brightness.

“Didn’t you feel any nerves at all?”
Her mother asked as she scooped her up into her arms and gave her a lipstick kiss on her cheek.
“No.” came the confident reply, as her hand went up as it always did to wipe the imagined smear.

She meant it. She had quite forgotten everything while she was out there, except the notes floating out from the piano which she had become one with. Even the duet with her friend, the piece where she was proudly wearing a tailored costume made by her own mother a fashion designer and boutique owner, had not tempted her to care if anyone was watching.

She had mild autism which meant that she had already got a head start in that department, by readily retreating into a world of her own, whenever she found the outside too stressful, which was pretty much most of the time. Ballet and her were the best of friends, Siamese twins almost. How she looked up to the older girls and longed so much to wear the pointes and get right up on the tip of her toes, to feel grown up, that she had been allowed to hold a pair in her hands after pleading mercilessly with Aureole, the friendlier of the very aloof girls whom one day she wanted to emanate.  By caressing the pink satin contrasting with the hard toe-piece, she could imagine herself and hear the choreographed steps that she would make in her mind delicately clop and clunk across the wooden floor while she lowered herself to prepare for a leap through the air.

“Arabella, I am talking to you....”   a voice, familiar yet distant, insistently urging her to pay attention. How many times had she heard those words before? So many, she had lost count by now.

“She never listens...” it continued, “Sometimes, I really worry. The doctor said that there is nothing wrong with her hearing, but I don’t know, there is something the matter with that child.” She took in a wind of smoke from her imported Russian consulate cigarette. So elegant she looked, with the rainbow rows of tobacco paper covering the magic dragon weed .

And so on it went, that she retreated back again into her head, not that she had ventured out very far, or even had felt particularly enticed to stay. Then she felt her feet landing back on the floor, toes first, then heels. It was the only thing she knew, or wanted to know.

Then the rush, the crush, the gushing of people, patting her on the head, touching her hair, how beautiful it was, what a pretty little thing, what a great job she’d done. They all blended one into the other.

“Darlings!  Do come for drinks. Why are you standing in the lobby? Celebration time. Come along now, follow me in.”
It was Miss Beechtree, her beloved mentor.  Her saviour, the shining light of her young life. She beamed involuntarily and held her arms up for a hug.

“Ah, there’s my little star! You floated like an angel, my cherub.”

Miss Beechtree took her hand and led her swiftly through the pulsating throng towards the inner sanctum of the theatre’s  refreshment area, otherwise known as the bar....

Status Quo

As I am in the habit of reminiscing these days, what with no job and more time on my hands than I am comfortable with, I have decided to update my blog once again.

Yes, Status Quo, apart from the Latin meaning 'the existing state of affairs'', was also an English rock band of the late seventies. I quite liked them but they weren't as cool as Led Zeppelin or some of the others, at least not in our house.

Anyway, one evening I found myself babysitting for the children of my employer, where I was working at the bottom rung of an up-market restaurant kitchen in South Dublin. A place where The Kinks nearly came to dine, but cancelled at the last minute to the great disappointment of, well, all of us. Bob Geldof's ex girlfriend was a waitress there, which makes it three dubious claims to fame after I tell you the not very interesting Status Quo story.

I was a reluctant babysitter, as I really wasn't a child oriented person, having already been the big sister to three siblings. I'd had kind of had enough of all that by the time I had reached my teens. Anyhow there was a few quid to be had, and we were in a recession, so I couldn't refuse.

The parents told me there was a guest staying and so I shrugged. No big deal. The guest was sitting in the living room with me all evening, we mumbled a few pleasantries, and I kept on reading my book. I couldn't help peering at him over the rim of my book, because I had seen him before somewhere, but couldn't nail it. I came to the conclusion he must be a friend of my Dad's or something. He headed off to bed eventually, and as I was staying over, so did I. (no, not the same bed).

At breakfast, my employer asked me how we had got on. I told her the children had slept all night and hadn't been any bother. No, with the guest she meant. Oh, why?
He was a member of Status Quo. The base player, I think, who had been looking for somewhere low-key to stay while in Dublin. The one who didn't have the permed curly hair, the fashion of the late seventies and early eighties. Ah, so that is where I'd seen him before. Just thinking how I had missed my opportunity for an autograph, and some interesting stories, all for the sake of a book, the title of which I can't even remember.

Well, I warned you it wouldn't be too a interesting story, but I had fun writing it and kept myself out of trouble for a few minutes.

All the best
Fiocle

Across the border with Miami Fix - and some Irish history.

I have been meaning to write about this for some time, but I always seem to find an excuse to avoid doing so. For example, what would the band think of a blog post like this? ... and other insecurities.

It came up for me again yesterday, after reading a blog post by an excellent writer, and Facebook friend Rodak.. http://rrrrodak.blogspot.com/2012/04/reflections-on-faith-and-friendship.html  It was the reference to the shooting of innocent youngsters in a Ohio University, which jogged the memory. Only one aspect of a poignant story which he wrote on the topic of faith and friendship.

 In 1980 I was invited to take part in a video in Ardmore Studios. Agnes Bernelle, Brecht artiste and friend of my mothers, asked me to go along as they were friends of hers. I was nineteen. The story I am about to tell.was prompted by remembering, about a year ago, of the existence the following video which for me was the beginning of an unpleasant discovery.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-BxrqOCPoU

This is not a love song, as it might appear on first glance. It is a tribute to the five members of The Miami Show Band who were shot in cold blood at a faux check-point, at the then, border between the North and the South of Ireland. The Irish border was established in 1922 when Michael Collins struck a deal with the British government, settling for 26 out of the 32 counties. It didn't turn out to be a popular move on his part, and was assassinated in the same year by the Anti-Treaty IRA.

The border checks have since stopped and the British Army has finally left the country.

At the time of the making of the video, I had no idea that any of the following had happened. I was eleven in 1972 and had never watched television or read papers in the school I was attending, pretty much full time. And then I guess the story got lost over the years..

                              I discovered this book on the web after doing some research.

Stephen Travers was the base player. 

He survived by playing dead, while the gunmen walked around the area looking for survivors.

The fifth band member  who survived went to visit relatives instead of travelling back with the others. 

One of their most popular songs.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGQOLZkTRXQ

More to follow.....

Spirituality

"Spirituality and the search for meaning are one and the same reality. Some of us suffer from a degree of spiritual malnutrition due to our inner life receiving inadequate attention. This is often due to the pace and noise of modern living which leaves little room for reflection and stillness, something true even for young children. Not being able to make time to reflect on what lies deepest in us can lead to apathy and even to meaningless in personal living. Living with a level of meaning that satisfies comes from discovering our inner hopes and desires. That is what spirituality, the life of the human spirit, is about."

I found this quote, as is, on a piece of A4 among my papers. There is no mention of an author or even an 'anonymous', so I cannot say where this is from.

What I do know is that it rings true.

It is: The Year of the Dragon and it is, St Georges day in England today - so...

Just to prove that not all saints hail from the land of Saints and scholars, I need to do some research into St George and his collision with The Dragon. as depicted here:

A painting by Gustav Moreau

It seems to be another classic "Knight in Shining Armour" story where the knight rescues the 'maiden-in-distress' by killing the bad guy, or climbing up her hair, or kissing her to wake her up, and so on.

Actually the dragon side of things seems more interesting as it is now be an extinct species, unless you count Komodo dragons, who reside on, the aptly named, Komodo Island.

and  St George was merely species ‘man’, which hasn’t been wiped out just yet, which is a good thing. I am a pacifist, but then wouldn’t you have killed a dragon if it had been threatening to burn you with its fiery breath. Me. I would have called the fire-brigade, but then maybe there wasn’t such a thing back in the day of ancient folk-lore.

My gripe is this. My daughter has a dragon tattoo on her hip. She was born in the year of the dragon and we see that as a good thing. So to hear about the demise of the last dragon on earth is really very tragic. George, you ain’t no Saint, in my book. But then again, I don’t know you very well.
And then there is the girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a marvellous book by all accounts and a good movie too. Though I shamefully admit I haven’t gotten round to reading the book or watching the movie, yet. But I want to, and I really will.

Back to Georges Day. I don’t know much about it, because I was too busy trying to understand the myth of Saint Patrick and The Snakes. Sounds like the name of a metal band, but as per usual, I digress.



Although to try to understand it from my perspective, as children my brother and I used to travel  to school on dark cold mornings in the Grumpy-bus, driven by The Dragon lady. Alright, now I will debunk that myth. She was grumpy, because a she had to get up on cold dark mornings to do the school run, and she was nick-named Dragon Lady because she was a chain-smoker which five year old imagination of my big brother evidently found amusing. What this has to do with St George, escapes me, but heck, Dragons are extinct now, so I am not sceared.
Thanks George, you’re a saint!

N.B.  All research into this article was not done on google or found in books, but excavated from the, alleged ‘depths’, of Fiocle’s brain.
Except this one:
“Others trace the origin of Saint George and the Dragon to Palestine, where the supposed dragon was controlled by Satan. The creature blocked the city's water supply and would only move if given a virgin sacrifice. Over time, all of the virgins were sacrificed except for the noble's daughter, and even she was sent to quench the castle's thirst. However, Saint George (or Mar Jiryis ) arrived at the last moment on his white horse, striking down the dragon with a spear between its eyes.”
I wonder was the dragon possibly the last dinosaur on earth?  A pterodactyl ?  Flying reptile.  Makes sense to me. Anyway it’s all history now, isn’t it?
Disclaimer – no dragons were harmed in the making of this blog post.  Neither were any Georges.

Cecelia the Patron Saint of Church music- and some more synchronicity

I will be attending my cousin Mary's 90th birthday celebration on Saturday at our family home.                      The last 90th birthday I attended was that of my cousin Kitty, whose second name is Cecily. It took place in the same house although I was much younger then and I had invented a type of sandwich for the occasion which I named The Snail. I doubt anyone remembers it though.

Last night, by accident I found a song sung by a Norwegian called Sissel which turns out to be a version of the name Cecilia. I discovered that St Cecelia is the patron Saint of church music. I really don't seem to be able to write in this blog these days without getting a Saint in there somewhere. But then, this is the land of Saints and Scholars after all.

There is a book coming out soon, if it hasn't already, proving that all the Saints ever, have their origins in Ireland. Maybe I got that wrong as I was told in passing and my memory can be compared to a gold-panner at times.

Sissel's birthday is on the same day as mine, which I found interesting and I had a Norwegian great-grandmother who I never knew. I have been planning to research into her geneology, as not much is known about her from before she married my great-grandfather, and he took her to back to Australia where they, I don't know, started a family, I think. 

I will finish this later...

but then I say that about everything I do, I think I will change my name to Unfinished. It has a good ring to it, don't you think?

Trauma: a series and understanding and recovery. and proof that Greece is the center of the Universe despite their current economic crisis.

Epitomology: From the Greek - a wound

Trauma: as defined by the Oxford dictionary:

Emotional: a shock following a stressful event sometimes leading to long term neurosis,
Physical: shock following a physical wound or injury, characterized by a drop in body temperature, mental confusion etc.
Psychological: Emotional shock following a stressful event.

"Trauma survivors have symptoms instead of memories" Harvey, 1990

Loss of a sense of the future
Emotional overwhelm
Nightmares Flashbacks
Hyper- vigilence mistrust
Generalised anxiety, panic attacks
Self-destructive behaviour
Loss of sense of who I am
Depression
Numbing
Loss of interest
Decreased concentration
Insomnia
Shame and worthlessness
Chronic pain, headaches

The Brain processes everything we experience. Here are the three related sections
The Triune  - no, I didn't misspell tribune :)
Frontal lobes <---- (Homo-sapiens brain) reasoning, problem solving, verbal expression
For the purposes of this article I am using my Frontal lobe

Limbic system <-----(Mammalian brain) non-verbal,emotional, rational and sensory experience.
I am suppressing my mammalian brain, maybe even using some of it, here to fuel myself onwards.
Brain-stem--------(Reptilian brain) instinctive responses


In a 'normal'... (normal here is referring to someone who is not suffering trauma) balanced person (someone who can function, without constantly tipping the scales, and falling over).... the three sections of the brain are all communicating with each other in harmony. In a traumatised person they compartmentalise.
This means divided into sections.
Going on with normal life section of the personality
Traumatized Part of the Personality (dark) fight self; flight self; freeze self; submit self; attach self.
Separate parts of the self evolve reflecting of all the different survival strategies needed in a dangerous world.
And when even more trauma occurs: Even more parts of the self are needed to survive even more dangerous conditions: Parts that hold survival responses and parts that hold resources.

This is where I am at.
Trying to come to an understanding about why I am the way I am, and hoping that will make me at least feel part of something that is ...
unfinished  

Legal Graffiti

To rebel in season is not to rebel.

— Greek proverb

This sign is beside the Skate Park

No advertising?

************

Yeah, I know. Graffiti is a rebellious act done under a sheet of darkness, in the dead of night. Rebels with or without a cause. The thrill of almost getting caught. A not very serious crime, but serious enough to make it enjoyable for any kids who need to let off steam about life's trials.

To make it legal is like saying: "Ok, kids, be really naughty, but we won't be angry, we're giving you permission to write on the walls.."Um, did anyone just hear a balloon burst?
Reminds me of the time my daughter told me she tried to be a rebellious teenager, but no one noticed :(.
It definitely wasn't for the attention then :-)

Anyhow the town decided they wanted to brighten up the place for a visiting government official, who was only visiting for one day. It thought it was a bit silly because, if the place is made to look too nice it could miss out on a financial injection from the gov. Yeah, dream on.


                                     However a decent legacy has been left in the wake of the visit.

A derelict building on upper Main Street.

***************

A piece of graffiti of my own.

A car crashed into my front wall.

The photo speaks for itself.

***************

The good news is:

                                                         The town is getting a new library, yay...

... if  and when the funding happens

meanwhile we're going to have to make do with looking at this

and it is good art.

***************

Down by the Bird Sanctuary, beside the sea, there is a new skate park where borders and bikers can fly the airways and spin their stuff. There is some really cool art on the walls of the sports centre....

I am sure this is a plea for solar power that doesn't need to paid for 

and not a bid to break it out of prison

but you guessed that, right?

***************

I agree, and it is on the outside too, if we were to redefine our notions of beauty.

****************************

Definitely NOT. 

Otherwise it would have to be freed from prison along with the solar power.

************************

Not sure what this one means, but mystery is good too. :)

By the way have I told you recently that....

Alright I cheated and got that one from the web.

Anyway if you haven't been semi-blinded by all the primary colours by now,

I hope, at least, this post was a slightly interesting window into the art around the town I live in.

All photos (bar the last one) were taken by Fiocle. Er, that would be, myself, and up-loaded to this blog

in order to try and increase her, I mean, my, narcissism score which is very low, apparently. .

Hope

“We cannot all do great things, but we can do small things with great love.” ~ Mother Teresa

I sign petitions because they MIGHT make a difference

I wake up in the morning because it MIGHT be a good day

I foster hope in my children because there MIGHT be a better future

I keep on writing anything because I DONT KNOW what else to do

I keep on posting because someone somewhere MIGHT find it valuable

I stay alive because the point of it MIGHT be revealed

I continue to believe in humanity DESPITE the constant wars

Because if I don't, there really IS no point.



Fiocle

Balance the sun

I can't do anything

string my guitar
get dressed
think
feel warm
get myself out under some needed sunshine

I can't do anything

quash my sense of unease
finish my paintings
be funny
be serious
get myself out under some needed sunshine

I can't do anything

say what I want to say
be the better person
fix you
fix me
get myself under some needed sunshine

those solar flares might burn me to a crisp
already working on my insides
so I think what the heck, I'll make the trip
have a matching pair, inside and outside.

By Fiocle

Another blog post about a Relic and a Saint.

As soon as I read an article in today’s paper I could feel another blog post coming over me, not just about a relic but about a heart relic none the less.

                        The article in question writes about the theft of the heart of St Laurence.

He doesn't look too happy here, but then neither would you if your heart had been encased inside this metal cage for the remains of known time..

 ...and then stolen by relic collectors.

My first thought about who St Laurence might be, led my mind wandering to the excellent  movie “Laurence of Arabia” which was a true story. Until I realised the spelling is different. His name is spelled Lawrence.

The weird coincidence here is that St Laurence’s surname was O’Toole.  Anyone in the know will know that Peter O’Toole  a pipe smoking Irishman) played the part of Lawrence. 

 It is actually a coincidence because the film is about a man called T. E Laurence who was, I don’t know, some kind of Colonel in the British army. 

It was very clever of them to find a subject for a movie who looked so much like the actor playing them.

                 Not to be confused with Laurence Olivier who was NOT a pipe-smoking Irishman.

Right, so to get back to the Laurence in question. I discovered he is a 3^rd century Christian martyr who was barbequed on this grill here. This may be mirrored in his grim portrait expression. 

Yes, it's an unpleasant thought. Utterly disagreeable. In fact so horrendous it will be easier for me to write about it than it will be for you to read about it, because at least I am doing something to keep myself busy. If you want to get rid of those shivers I have just sent down your spine, get up and jog around the room a bit, that always works for me.

I also found a picture of him actually being grilled on a barbeque but I didn’t want to share it, because I think you are already going through enough trauma simply imagining it.

Moving on swiftly.

St Laurence was the guy whose job it was to look after the infamous Holy Grail, which may or may not have looked something like this:

Quite an important goblet.

And an important job for any martyr to undertake.

Mind you, what I can't understand is this

Wouldn't his heart have been, well, barbequeued?

Were they the ashes of his heart, or....?

Anyhow Christchurch Cathedral Dublin is now down one heart.

I will see your two of clubs and raise you an ace of diamonds.

Oops that's poker, a different game.

Hope you enjoyed

all the best

Fiocle.

Copper

I went down town to post a letter
then went on to talk to my friend in the art shop
and we had a laugh about my boiler
nearly blowing me to smithereens
as I was passing the Angel shop
my phone rang, It was my aunt
Copper had died.
I would hope my godmother
is with God now.

Always a smiling face
and never complained
she once apologised
for not being a very good godmother,
I answered with I wasn't a very good goddaughter
we hugged and we knew we'd never see each other again
that was on my father's seventy fifth birthday.
We were good friends.

I wish she could have read this.

RIP Copper
with love
Fiona

The cause of all the chocolate and hearts revealed.

I promised no one in particular that I would reveal a few little known facts, about St Valentine himself.
And once again I will prove that Ireland is the center of the universe.

(Photo not taken by me.)  This is a likeness of the man himself. Though, I am not sure how like him it actually is, and I guess that is one thing we will never know. That is, unless somebody clones him by using some of  his alleged blood which sits in a vial under the shrine in a church in Whitefriar Street in Dublin. Ok, perish that last thought, stomp on at and wash the squashed remnants into the gutter where it rightfully belongs.

I look at the statue and I think of the commercialism by which my mind has been raped. I am not going to further assault your senses with more pictures of giant red love hearts and the same shaped chocolates. There are plenty of others out there doing that already. Each to their own. Really, I don't begrudge anyone their right to be in love. It's just the paraphernalia surrounding it that is grating on me. Perhaps there is also a little of, 'what's it got to do with a cynical romantic like me anyway', involved too. I don't need an excuse to eat chocolate, and if I want a big red heart I can always paint one on my wall, or something...(nah). Anyway roses grow in my garden all year round. So I still don't get it.

So enough about all that and onwards into the past we go to see what else can be dug up, I mean, discovered about our (safe to say) old, yet barely known friend, St Val.

To answer the question: "Why is he associated with love and lovers?", I discovered that there is a semi-true, semi-legend, that he went against the laws of Rome and married young men (I am assuming with young women, since that wasn't stated), who were heading off to war. For this he was put to death, and subsequently martyred. Hardly something a person wants to think about while gazing lovingly into their chosen one's bounteous eyes on a romantic evening under the starlit sky (or while chuggin beer watching a game while the good-woman opens you another pack of pretzels, guys). I guess it all depends on who you are.

That is one theory but I prefer the pagan festival one about fertility and youngsters dancing around with flowers in their hair, possibly even naked, choosing their partners.

Maybe something like this Matisse painting except prettier and with flowers.

So I have travelled from a statue of a saint to an impressionist artist, to try and discover the origins of love- day. All I can say is it is silly because it should be love day every day - but it isn't. 

And with that I shall love you and leave you with the best I can do for a poem.

I am not trying to win your heart with a love song

what would i do with it anyway?

I need to write it to ease the longing welling in my chest

I've tried to walk away to turn my back

but when I turn around as I must

the fragments all became magnets 

and the birds make kissing noises in the trees

beside the heart shaped leaves

and I can trace the wind back to cupid's lips.

and my head says please don't do this to me 

not again, not after the last insanity.