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.