This is me, telling you, that I’m going to try and write on this blog once a day.

I can just picture your anticipation.

Yeaaaaaaah…..

A few trusted friends and wise writers have the novella. I’m as nervous as glass shards. The worst part is the internal dialogue I have while waiting for any response from folks. I conscious that my ego, my low minded greedy-for-praise ego wants to be told it’s only marvelous. I’m also very much aware that there are huge flaws in the work. I am trying to brace myself to hear about these.

Some of it is good. Some of it is outrageously brave. Some of it is juvenile trash. What do I think is going to happen? That my phone will ring, and in true Hanna-Barbera fashion, a hand will reach down the phone line and slap me across the face?

“It’s for you! Aaand…you’re crap!”

This is the best and the worst part of all this, the reality check that comes with it. I live in my head nearly 100% of the time (where else could I live, when you think about it), so asking for uninterrupted input is hard. But no one made me write the thing. I’ve only myself to blame.

Wish me luck!

cheesy  ::  breathless  ::   carbon copy  ::  jets  ::  shaving

Cheesy toast. That’s what she wanted right now, cheesy toast. With too much butter, on white bread, with the cheese all bubbling and hot. That, and a mug of hot chocolate, and a hobnob, and she’d be set for life. The thought of it left her breathless. Why was she stuck in this meeting, with a topic that was a carbon copy of all the other meetings, with no air and just warm blather making her want to fall asleep?

She sat up, made herself pay attention. The deficit reductions in the fourth quarter would affect families to the extent that……. Oh, booorring! How could she make herself care about all this? The self help book she was reading has suggested associating pain with your failure and pleasure with your work, but honestly she just didn’t care any more. The boss, with his overly perfect hair cut was listening and nodding, but she thought he might just be asleep with his eyes open. It must be so boring after all those jets to the White house…

Suddenly there was a thump from the end of the table. Everyone turned to the bearded weirdo at the end.  “Damn it!” he cried, looking at his phone. “They’ve rejected Croke Park!”

A collective groan rose from them all, and the file of suits sank a little further. She herself slumped in despair. With all the shaving off she was doing of her expenses, she was done to her last hundred thousand euro in savings. She felt despair sink around her, as her dream of cheesy toast drifted further, and further, and further away…

Remember Kytelers Inn? The rather lovely tavern in Kilkenny where Alice Kyteler lived? Well, I had a bit of a brain wave. Would they like me to do readings of The Stone during the summer? They said they would! So yesterday myself, Himself and the little man made our way down to the Marble city to have a chat and see about details.

Down to the home town. Where everyone drives really well…

They really did like the idea. While I was thinking of doing a reading once a month, they were thinking once every two weeks, especially during the summer season (we have the Cat’s Laughs in May, Arts Week in August and lots in between).

The plan is to have readings from the book, the history of the town and of Alice herself, discussion of the musical and maybe some talk about other versions of the story (handily, that’s what my Masters was about). I know myself I could easily talk for an hour on this, and throwing in the readings will make the time fly. I’m just worried that this is a lot of travel to organise. Also, that’s the summer booked, really; I’ll have not much in the way of free time. Hmm. What do you all think?

Because this is what a summer in Ireland is like. Yes, it is.

Prompts: Sinister, Seoul, minty-fresh, Add to Cart, Gold.

There was a dead spider in the hall. It disturbed her, even when it shouldn’t; the overturned belly was helpless, powerless. Still, it’s form made her lip curl with unease, she hated the very form of it. It was huge, about the size of a fifty cent piece. How long had it been living around her, hidden away in the corners?

Her husband called her into the kitchen again. He wasn’t happy. When was he happy? She stood there in front of him, while the words continued. She drifted off to her own world, her hands empty and swinging while the voice went on. This time it was about the brand of toothpaste he wanted. She would have to get on to the Tesco site again, get the right one, with the minty-fresh flavour. She wasn’t paying attention, was she paying attention? Seriously, was she even awake in there?

So, was the spider dead from old age, or from something else? They’d had rain, lots of it, just last night. Maybe it had crept in all wet and dying, trying to take shelter while it breathed its last, until it died in the hall all alone. Did spiders feel sad? She didn’t think they did. But she didn’t know anything.

He seemed done. “Are you listening? Are you?!” his eyes were wide, silence finally happening. She answered as breezily as she could.

“Of course I am!” A big smile, shoulders dropped, all calm and good. All good.

He shook his head at her. “I’m going to work.” He stood up, and he left. Oh hurrah, he left. Finally she was free, the house empty of his voice for a few hours. Okay. She watched from the sitting room as his car pulled away, and felt herself finally breath out.

But first, toothpaste. She sat herself down at the computer, and clicked onto the shopping website. Add to cart. Pay. Do you want to collect your gold vouchers. Done.

She looked over to the spider again from her seat. Didn’t some spiders kill their mates? What did they do with them once they were gone? How did they explain it, make it all smooth and calm again?

The spider’s body was still in the hall, and she sat there, looking at it.

And in her mind, a plan began to form…

Wednesday write cake short and sweet prompts; chloroform  ::  banana split  ::  stench  ::  cracker  ::  shoestring budget

“What, you get a girlfriend? Do they give out cloroform in college now?”

“You can’t talk, can ya, you’d go out with anyone who bought you a banana split.”

“No I wouldn’t, shut up!”

“I will not, it’s true, you’ve just a kid.”

“I am not!”

“Ya are, you still like Michael Jackson!”

“Thriller is a good record!”

“Yeah if you’re twelve. Real girls like the Cure, or the Smiths or something. Wait till you’re old enough to go to a real disco, then tell me you’re a grown up.”

Silence fell between them, sitting in the back seat of the car while they waited for their Dad. He was always taking ages, when he got talking to the newsagent he could loose all track of time.

“God I wish he’d hurry up. Put the radio on.”

She didn’t argue with him, she wanted to hear music too. She leaned forward and put on the local radio. Country music blasted out at them, and he gave out a yell.

“Ah give me a break, change it!”

She was already swinging the dial towards the 92 number, and Gerry Ryan’s voice started out.  She sat back into the seat again and they sat in silence.

Slowly, with appalling surety, it moved towards her, creeping closer with each second. Her face frowned as it finally reached her, and she started to cough as the full stench hit her.

“Oh dear God, that’s disgusting!”

He gave out a laugh as she despairingly tried to roll down the window, the broken handle refusing to work.

“Oh that’s a cracker!” he said, laughing at her face, until he finally just smiled at himself.

“What the hell were you eating?”

“Its called pot noodle, you’ll have some too when you get to college.”

“If.”

“When. And you’ll eat lots of it, not easy to get to eat on a shoestring budget.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Yeah…” He shifted uneasily in his seat. “Where is Dad, he’s gone ages. I need to pee!”

“Mum will be mad, dinner will be ruined.”

“I know. Ah here, I’ll go get him!”

“Bring us back some sweets!”

“I will not, you’ll get fat!”

“I am not fat!”

“Yeah, you’re not.”

“I am not!”

“Stop shouting, people will think that you’re a child!”

“Well stop saying I’m fat then!”

“Alright, alright, you’re not fat! Just let me go get Dad!”

“Fine!”

“Fine. Jesus!”

“You’re not allowed swear! I’m telling Mum!”

“Ah here!” Irritated now, he got out of the car and slammed the car door, leaving her there waiting for both of them. She couldn’t believe she had to have him as a brother. She would be all grown up if not for him making her so mad all the time. Stupid brother. Big, stupid brother.

Nice to have him home, though. She looked through the glass, waiting with hope that both of them would be back soon.

Prompts:  cardboard cut-out ; exhale; brittle ; gleam ; acrid

The corridor was quiet. Mags could hear noises off while she waited; the other children in the playground, a teacher’s laugh from the lounge. They sat around a large table at Eleven, little break, while outside the children played. She wasn’t outside today. Today she was sent to the Principal’s office.

At the end of the corridor was a statute of the Virgin Mary. She had at her feet a bouquet of flowers and she held her hands out as if to say “Arragh, now, what the shite is this?!” Mary, born without sin. Had to be without sin, so she’d have a womb good enough for that son of hers, the one that never left home till he was 30. Blessed is she amongst women. Nice qualifier there, big of the Church to grant her that much. Creeps.

Course, Mary was held up as the ideal to the girls. What the nuns really wanted was perfection, a cardboard cut out, no one real at all. Someone with smooth hair who was popular at the tennis club. That *had* been Emer O’Neil, who’s Dad was rich and who was blonde, thin, perfect. Knobbly knees that tanned in the Summer. But then she’d gotten pregnant at 17 and the rest of the girls had exhaled in horrified fascination at it. Surely she could have had it abroad, come back to her life? But no. This was to be faced. Emer’s boyfriend got a job in the firm and life went back to boring Sunday lunches. A whisper of gossip to follow her and that was that.

Sr. Calistia was really keeping her waiting. Maybe she had forgotten she was out here. She’d have to explain, again, about the note from Mum, and how she was leaving early today for a job interview in the local paper. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t have to listen to the brittle laughs of disbelief from old Big Nose. A job! Was that the new thing now? And was her mother the type of woman to let her daughter ignore her exams? Throw away her future? How her eyes would gleam as she got into it, throwing out comments about her family, her brothers, her sister. She didn’t mind about her sister who, yes, was a bit of a snob but her brothers were all right. And her Mum was a lady, a gentle lady. She was never angry or bitter, unlike Sr Calista who seemed more acrid the older Mags got. She supposed it was because she was fading away. They all were, it seemed. Just drifting into mists and soon they would struggle to remember all this… restriction. Daft old thing.

The door behind her finally opened. “All right, Madam, in you come,” said the Principal. She hopped up and walked in, closing the door behind her. In a moment, the corridor returned to silence again, with only the drifting motes to show there had been motion.

Prompts;  sniffle : font : northern : powdered : pick a card

She hid a sniffle as she hid in the corner. It was dark here and there was no one to see her. Her mother and sisters had gone on, saying she couldn’t go, she was too young. They weren’t here to see her cry. Her mother couldn’t sigh at her, her sisters couldn’t try to make her laugh. She could cry if she wanted, if only to show others how wrong they were. And they were so wrong.

Oh, but she was hungry. She wiped the tears off her face and made herself sit up straight. She had gone without food for so long in an effort to fit into the dress. She had silently hunted her sister’s clothes while she slept at night in the dark, and last night she had found the perfect one to wear to the palace. Midnight blue, all shimmering wonder and whispered promise. It was hidden in her wardrobe, ready for her to put on now that the others had gone on. She would wear it, and be marvellous, and the prince would fall in love with her. Not with anyone else, or with them, but with her. 

The font on the invitation, sitting on the mantelpiece, was perfect, so fancy and dainty. His Royal Highness requests the pleasure. Pleasure. She wriggled her toes in anticipation. All she had wanted was to feel pleasure as was her right. Instead, she was made to work, to clean up after herself, to earn money for things. Father had always had people to do these things, but now her Stepmother and sisters wanted her to learn. To cook, to sew, to mind her money. Money! As if she would ever have to think about such things! She was going to marry a wealthy man, and stay at home, and never have to think of such things. Work was for others, and all this was just nonsense.

She’d prepared for tonight. She’d hidden the invitation her stepmother had said she was too young to use. She had the dress ready to go. All she had to do was to powder her face and to dress her hair. These couldn’t be too difficult, the maid did it when she was here, and the maid was stupid. Poor people were.  She would arrive at the palace and the prince would be swept away and everything would be wonderful. Just wonderful. She stared into the middle distance at this magical promise, at this delight. She would show her stepmother and sisters, she would be the belle of the ball. She’d show them. She’d show them all.

This delightful, oh-so-lyrical topic was suggested on Facebook by my husband, Mark Dennehy. Why? I’ll ask him and get back to you at the end of this post. However, let us make a start, shall we?

The first starting point in researching this is Wikipedia. Your intrepid blogger goes and enters this in the search box and gets the following definition;

A pseudo-Riemannian “metric” is a nondegenerate quadratic form on a real vector space Rn.

Okay… that didn’t really help very much. What about a Riemannian metric? Wikipedia gives me the following;

ARiemannian metric is a positive-definite quadratic form on a real vector space.

Huh. I’m still in the dark here. So what is in fact a quadratic form?

A Quadratic form is a homogeneous polynomial of degree two in a number of variables. For example,

is a quadratic form in the variables x and y.

Well, now at least we’re on more familiar ground. I recognise the style of equation given. Is it possible that we’re looking at a nomenclature for a form of mathematics that I’m already familiar with?

Lets have a look at the definition for a homogeneous polynomial. What does that tell us?

A homogeneous polynomial is a polynomial whose nonzero terms all have the same degree

Ok, that didn’t really help. However, do you notice the definitions are getting shorter? It is almost as if we’re getting closer to a form of definition we might just understand. This is very much a cause of hope, a cause of optimism. We’re on the case and we’re getting closer. Maybe too close…. Okay, stop being silly. Lets see what the definition of a polynomial brings us. Is that one smaller again?

A polynomial is an expression of finite length constructed from variables (also called indeterminates) and constants, using only the operations of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and non-negative integer exponents.

Ah for feck’s sake!

Yeah but hang on, though. This seems almost understandable and familiar. 2 + 2 would be a polynomial, according to this definition. Right, so now we’re getting somewhere. Let’s go back, and have a look at the definition above this.

A homogeneous polynomial is a polynomial whose nonzero terms all have the same degree

The same degree… without being cubed or squared? So our example of 2 + 2 would seem to still be valid. So what was the one above that?

A Quadratic form is a homogeneous polynomial of degree two in a number of variables. For example,

is a quadratic form in the variables x and y.

So a Quadratic form seems to relate to the equation where the variables are squared. Okay, I’m balancing my understanding on a shaky tray, but it’s still hanging in there.  So what’s the next one?

ARiemannian metric is a positive-definite quadratic form on a real vector space.

Crashing into a brick wall. I’m guessing that this is stating the equation they are speaking of is not a minus (i.e., -2y would not be included) and by the same logic would not be grafted on the -x\y section of the graft. Very much guess work here, though. However, there’s only one more definition to go. This is the Boss Level, the big cheese, the whole enchilada.

A pseudo-Riemannian “metric” is a nondegenerate quadratic form on a real vector space Rn.

Nope, I’m back to giving you blank stares. But with a burst of inspiration, I put ‘Pesudo-Riemannian’ into Google Images, and this is what you get;

From http://coldcreation.blogspot.ie/

Which suggests that these equations are of use in describing huge, unknown tracts of space, that they help us to understand the unknown, that they can do a universe more than my stupid efforts can perceive. They see what we can’t.

Sometimes I hate being so obtuse.

Still no clear response from hubby regarding why he suggested this topic. If he gives me a reason I’ll update this entry.

Wednesday Write In #30

Prompts: overdose : mither : gloss over : poach : digest

The sniveling overdose of sentimentality during the funeral service made me smile, but I managed to get through it without rolling my eyes. There was lots of delightfully vague nonsense about how Mike had been such a good guy, we’ll really miss him. Course, being a good guy is what they say at your funeral when you’re a loser. No one said how great he was at his job or how much respect he managed to develop. No one spoke about how he would reduce morale in the office or fail to support Head Office’s demands. No, instead we got some mithering nonsense about being a good father, a loving husband. Community service. Coping with his cancer with bravery. A twat, basically.

Outside the Church, in the snow, I glossed over the service when giving my condolences to his wife. It’s one of the things I’ve learnt as I’ve gotten older. Sometimes people aren’t mature enough to  be rational at that moment, exactly? Instead I made some benign comments about the service, which she seemed to not react to. She was blond, tired. Black drained her, as a colour. She’d be better in brighter colours in a few months.  I didn’t mention to her my plans to send an email to HR about Mike’s pension. His figures were too low over the last five years to warrant any increase. At least, they weren’t when I looked at them over after his stupid outburst after the Christmas Party. “Cold hearted bastard”, indeed. If I was so cold hearted, how come he was the one yelling names? He should have thought of his family more, got sense, kept quiet. It is a demand of working life we all have to make, Mike.

Ah. There was Brian, from Head Office. I wanted to say hello to him, to have him see I saw him and vice versa. There was a rumour going around I was about to be poached from this dismal back water, promoted to Head Office. Next summer should see me gone. I walked up to him, and found to my surprise he was ill mannered. I never would have expected it from Management, but there he was, staring at my held out hand. “Brian, hello,” I said, hoping he would remember the right thing to do. Instead, Brian seemed to think he was …justified? in taking a step back. I kept my composure. “I hope everything is all right?” I asked, my voice low.  He looked at me with the most pompous assurance. “You might want to consider the decision,” he said, “of attending the funeral of the man many consider you drove to an premature death.”

I stared at him, realising.

“Please, if nothing else, consider it something to digest.”

The realisation washed over me, as he walked away, as they all walked away from me. People just despise success. They’ll revolt against it, and against people who achieve. Its happened so many times before, and here it was happening again. I watched him walk away, thinking to myself how sad it was. Some people will never know the depth of their own self delusion, the lies that they tell themselves. Shaking my head, I pulled my coat around me tightly, and headed back to the office.