This week’s prompt words are:

‘I do’  ::  crockery  ::  surreal  ::  torch  ::  capsule

_______________________________________________

“Do you understand these terms as I’ve explained them to you?”

“I do.”

Behind him she put the crockery away, while the fire crackled in the small fireplace. He searched my face for confirmation and seemed to find me satisfactory. I swallowed when he looked away. I could do this. I could do this.

The evening had been one leap of faith after another. Meet the contact in the coffee bar. Follow him to this house, to this room, where he made me repeat the message over and over under it was word perfect. His wife filled me with over strong tea, compensating for the lack of food.

I thought again about the message. It was a random stream of English words that I didn’t understand but could repeat phonetically if I heard the catchphrase. I had one hour to meet with the other side. After an hour and a half the guards would come around that part of the underground canal again. If I was caught, I wouldn’t even be able to answer questions, just look like a bumbling tourist.

It turned nine o’clock. I left the house and walked quietly to the marketplace. When there was no one around I went down the stone steps into the darkness. There, just where they said it would be, was the torch I could carry along the way (if I had been stopped with it on me I would have been picked up). I followed the path exactly as described, my heart beating. I’m not afraid, I told myself. I’m not. I’m not.

At the spot he was waiting. He was scared, sweating. He hissed at me: “You’re late!” But this wasn’t the code word. I didn’t say anything to him, just stood looking at him. My hands were in my pockets, and I held the capsule in my fist. A moment, and it would be over. A moment, and I’d be over. What was he going to say? What would happen? I said nothing, just waited.

He gave the password. Time started again. I felt my shoulders relax, felt myself breathe, and gave the response.

In a moment, the message was given. We went our separate ways. By eleven I was at home, safe. Getting ready for my classes the next day. The capsules were on my bedside table, next to my reading glasses. I looked at them and thought, “My life is surreal.”

As suggested by Mary Alagna via Facebook. Thanks Mary!

Freud once said that almost nothing mattered, so long as the world realised that Claire was right, all the time, without exception. Feud Fraud Freud was right. He also pointed out that most errors and slip ups are in fact intentional dialogues from the subconscious or unconscious, a reflection of the repressed. Don’t know why I mentioned that. Let’s forget about that and move on.

Food is our sustenance.  It doesn’t matter what type of psychology you currently grant yourself, you cannot survive without food. Give it three days and you’ll have no persona to credit yourself with, you’ll just seek food.

“Fubbing….starving…..”

Hence, food is necessary, materially, independent of your level of civility, or even civilisation. The variation in the answering of that need can swing in a huge arc, whether you’re a big fan of the raw meat or whether you’re getting served a State dinner.

Pumpkin pie tart, pear tatin with whipped cream and caramel sauce, served at the first Obama State Dinner.

So when we choose food, we are choosing the life we lead. We decide our mental, physical and social status, in ways many of us don’t even realise. For example, the regular diet that you consume influences the telomeres, the little things at the end of your DNA code that decide if a gene is active or not (think of them as like the little plastic tags on a pair of shoelaces). And these active or inactive genes are what gets passed on your kids (that goes for guys too, before you think you’re exempt). Your food has an impact on the very genetic code that is active in your body, and so your food has an effect that lasts.

“Ooh, I *so* care right now.”

Still with me? So lets look at that plate of cookies that you pull towards you of an evening. Food can lift and assuage all manner of distress. It provides a comfort that was built into our bones over thousands of years, a comfort that tells us food is home, it is safety, it is a sign that everything is all right. Food matters, matters like your language, your architecture, your education. Giving yourself the food that you want every so often (once a month or so) provides a sense of largess to life that is unique. It is philosophical, romantic, an elevation from the humdrum of life. If we are the universe coming conscious, then how we treat ourselves is that consciousness reflecting upon itself.

“I hope they still make that shampoo I like….”

To break it down simply, you, a small person dwarfed by the sheer scale of the cosmos, have no right of refusal in such matters.  You, the result of four billion years of evolution, of genetic patterns going back generations and leading on into the distant future, are led by ideas you know nothing of. The final say is this;

You owe it to the Universe to have these cookies.

Happy Cookies.

I have had, at my request, a few blog titles suggested to me. One of them was this one, 90s British Comedy. After researching it for five minutes, I realised that the only good way to deal with this topic was to post clips, and let them speak for themselves. Anything else is just redundant whining liable to get Charlie Brookner complaining about me on the couch.

“I want to know what the hell was she thinking?”

Enjoy.

Ab Fab

Sweetie sweetie sweetie!

men behaving badly

“Ah Kylie….”

bread

“I want to be a model!”

Mr. Bean

…no, I have nothing….

Spaced

“Men telepathy”

Blackadder

“Bury me in a Y-Shaped Box?”

So, okay, recently I turned forty.

Yes, I know. Forty.

There really is no way around it, I’m old. No, don’t bother contradicting that one, it is fairly much programmed into my cells that I’m past it. I can confirm to myself that I’m in good (enough) health, that I have vigour, strength and a fair amount of humour to keep me going, but the fact remains:

You say ‘Forty’ and I see this.

A slow unavoidable decline into the darkness that is old age. (I’m saving the ‘D’ word for another post)

I’m surrounded by friends of the same age, who are equally lovely, smart and vivacious, and that is a comfort – life is not over, merely moved to a more mellow key. The speedy, at times thoughtless velocity of youth moves into a more thoughtful, slower middle age*. I am very, very glad that the huge gaping mistakes and gaffs of my youth are not my common experience any more. My older self looks back at the rather fantastic size of my youthful mistakes and cringes. But still. Still.

Surely youthful passion will overcome any and all lack of preparation! Now, let us rock on, youngsters!

It seems that I have, yet again, another element of my personality, existence, what have you, that I have trouble accepting. Whoopee. If that doesn’t happen every Tuesday already. Nonetheless, I hesitate to end the blog on a depressed note. So I leave you with this musical number. A big hit in, you guessed it, the year I was born. Enjoy.

David Bowie – The Jean Genie – 01-1973

*(I’m middle aged. Dear God.)

You may have seen from other previous posts that I was a bit worried about my weight. One other thing that added to that was all the lovely Mummy forums online, who insist that you should not worry about your weight once the baby arrives, even if it takes six months to get back into your old clothes. Seeing as I had a seven month old and I was still turning sideways to get through doors, it seemed wise to take the matter in hand and go on a diet for God’s sake.

So I went on the Ketogenic diet. This is very close to the Atkins diet Induction stage, but it doesn’t have a limit, you merely keep to the diet until you’re done. I’ve done very well on it, in that I have lost 30lbs since November. It is a matter of some distress to note I still have a huge amount of weight to lose, in that I still have about about another 30lbs to go. However, at least we’re now getting somewhere, and not contemplating chucking ourselves under the Dart (only to find the damn thing couldn’t go over us we’re so fat,  leading to a bored announcement over the tannoy that there was a piece of lard on the line causing a disruption to service, but Dublin Bus would honour the tickets, while all the well dressed commuters would give loud tuts as they passed said mortified fatty on their way out of the station, while the security guard would lean down saying, ‘Come on love, lets be having you’ until he called over his mate because my size and girth was just beyond him. Ah Jesus just shoot me!)

ANYWAY. Lardy went on a diet. A strict diet. So no flour, no starches, no carbs, meaning no potatoes, no pasta, no rice, no noodles. No bread. No sugar of any kind so no fruit (which contains fruitose). What I can have is meat, poultry, green veg, eggs and dairy, but only to a set carb amount each day.  This diet has led to a lot of weight loss. I’m also back swimming three times a week. So I hope to keep going until at least the summer until things have removed themselves from horror fantasy land.

However, biscuits. Remember them? The Alton Brown inspired treats that I adore? I crave them. Crave them the way Bill Compton craves blood, crave them the way Victoria Beckham craves class, crave them the way the cold craves heat. Crave crave crave. So when my husband said he was getting me some from the Market, please forgive me dear Reader, I was powerless to say no. ‘Don’t get me some!’ I cried, in a tone of voice that said ‘For God’s sake get up and get me some!’ Away he went to hunt and gather. I honestly found it hard to focus on my bundle of joy I was so looking forward to them. Should I have one and save the rest? Or should I have them all, and eat them quickly to get them over with? And what the hell was taking him so long?!!

He got home, and came in with something to eat for himself. Only after half an hour did I ask him where they were, and then I rushed out to get one for myself. Just one, on a saucer for me. And I bit into it.

Humans live in an objective world, with the imposition of our subjective understanding onto it. That means that we can live quite happily in our own minds without really interacting clearly with reality. When it happens that the two interact, it can be a charring experience. I really wanted those biscuits. Wanted them until I was breathless. But like so much of life, the want was subjective. The expectation of them was built up hugely in my mind. The actual experience of them was objective, was ordinary. It was a biscuit.

Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice biscuit. But it was’t the mental reward or the congratulation I somehow had made it out to be. It wasn’t an emotional experience, it was just a biscuit.

I put the question to those on Facebook; what should I do with the other three? The general consensus was to go Cookie Monster Style on them. But the biscuits, like David Bowie’s somewhat dodgy Goblin King from Labyrinth, had no power over me. They were just biscuits. I ate two more, saved the last one for breakfast.  Back to the diet as of today.

Just managed to come up with a story line involving love, betrayal and a sad but sweet ending, just by looking at this little fella for a while.

The little man.

Any one else want to offer their version? Think of this as a fiction open mic.

This is a very random blog, in that I don’t normally write out the floatsom and jetsom of my mind. But this is an idea that is becoming more rounded in my mind and it is an idea I will never write, so I’m going to write it out, send it on the sea and to have it made free to someone else out there.

Here is how I would write out the story of True Blood.

For those of you who don’t know the story, this series of books written by Charlaine Harris describes a society where vampires are shown to be real. The story focuses on the life of Sookie Stackhouse, a telepathic waitress, who forms a relationship with one of them, and who becomes aware of their lives and their battles. As the novels go on, she goes on to become aware of werewolves, other telepathic people like herself, and a whole host of strange characters. Sookie is regarded as an important character in the novels but her interaction is with most of them is usually sexual. She moves towards her lover in the first few novels, and then moves away from him towards other novels. She is a figure of desire for many vampires who hope to exploit her. She’s desired, but in many ways very unaware as a character.

Sookie Stackhouse [a failed opportunity]

Firstly, there is no curiosity on the part of Sookie about life. She walks through the new society she has discovered but never asks herself about it. Why do vampires live so long? Why do they need blood to survive? Why is pushing a stake thorough their heart enough to see their body completely disintegrate? And why does silver stop them in their track, to the extend that they can’t move at all?

In my opinion, vampires, for Harris, seem very close to spiders.

How ya doing, Sookie?

They have only one major organ. If you fail to hurt them in their heart they can’t be killed. They move incredibly fast and mostly are very much predators. A body of a spider is mostly organs in blood, there is very little in the way of muscles other than those on the exoskeleton. Spiders are resistant to a great deal, can’t really be drowned, and can only be killed by destroying the organs, the limbs don’t affect mortality. Both of them are effected by light. And crucially, spiders are real, it is realistic (at least in fiction), to have a person change from one form of humanity to another if they follow this model. Vampires for Harris are not mythical, so creating a real reason for their existence would be important. That just leaves silver.

Silver. So now you know.

Silver, for one reason or another, is important here. Vampires are pinned down by it; if you put one on a vampire they have to lie there, prone, while it burns into their skin. Why silver? Well, look into it, and silver has some interesting qualities.  It has the highest electrical conductivity of all metals, has the highest thermal conductivity and one of the highest optical reflectivities (thanks Wikipedia). So Harris  is actually on to something here, there is more to think about here. But I got as far as book five and didn’t see anything about all this in it. So here is what I would do.

What if all this Vampire society was discovered, just like in Harris’ book? But instead, a scientist, an amateur scientist, reads all about this and starts looking into all this? Say, for example, they discover the dislike of silver, and manage to use it to create a way of protecting one’s skin from Vampire attack (they’re still predators, remember). What if they didn’t stop there, but instead managed to find out how vampires were created, a process that vampires themselves didn’t understand.

And then managed to figure out how to reverse it?

Think of what that would mean, especially when you consider that there is a fairly large metaphor in Harris’ books and in Alan Ball’s TV series of comparing Vampires to the homosexual community. What would it mean if you could reverse being a vampire? Think of those people who didn’t want to be vampires, they would now be free to reject the instincts they never wanted in the first place. But think of those who hated, and feared Vampires. They would want that ‘cure’ immediately, to ensure freedom from Vampires, to destroy that which they hate.

What would that discovery do to the life of our amateur scientist? He or she (and I’d prefer if it was a she) would almost be hunted, end up going on the run to preserve their life, and be at risk from almost everyone. I keep thinking of what they would end up saying or doing, of how they would be regarded by Vampires, by the religious right, by their old friends and neighbours? It seems to me to be an idea with more social and political comment than that the path taken by Harris. I also like the idea of it being an amateur, someone not protected by an institute, someone who is a bit of a laughing stock. Their stumbling on this idea means a huge shuddering quest being embarked on, the kind of story that could be really good.

There, that’s my idea. Commence your laughter.

So there is a new report about the Magdalene laundries. People are so shocked! So upset! They never knew we were such a country, such a cold, cruel place!

Same with the hand wringing with regard to cyber bulling. The poor little things! Such pain they must go through, how we must protect them!

Lets be clear; no one gives a damn. Not at all, not in the slightest. Oh sure, there may be quite a bit of ‘please think of the children’, but it’s all steam from a kettle in terms of permanence. And there’ll be no tenacity in terms of moves to make amends.

The Magdalene Laundries were there for generations and no one cared. They are exactly what the Catholic Church wanted and still wants, a place of punishment and confinement for women who were seen to have slighted the moral code, with no oversight or correction over the authority supervising these women. These women were, as a result, denied person-hood,  economic power, sexual rights and any element of human expression, and most of our country didn’t and doesn’t care in the slightest. These women still have no economic power, and so the powers that be will just get in their car and go home at the end of the day, with no further thought of them.

What do you think is happening to women in prisons? In mental homes? In care homes for teenagers? What do you think is happening in maternity wards, in courts, in work place environments? No one thinks of these places at all, not in the slightest. We sigh, we tut, we change the channel. And our generation will be subject to the same anger, the same accusations from our children, and we’ll say we never knew. Because we never cared to know, and that will be that.

So, last Wednesday I was sitting in the sitting room, thinking about a comment I had read on Reddit. On one of the Motivational subreddits, a poster had made the following comment; Your screen is the size of your prison.

It struck a chord inside of me. The screen you are staring at, day in and day out, is the prison you willingly enter and chain yourself to. Imagine escaping that. Imagine doing without that. Imagine doing without Facebook, Gmail and Twitter. Imagine doing without Reddit. I felt myself immediately panic at the very suggestion, and it was the kind of panic that made me determine to do it.

A week. A whole week without the Internet. That is very difficult to do, especially as I was making a submission to an Oireachtas Committee, talking to a Committee organiser about rent, and generally just live my life online. But I decided nontheless to give it a go. I glanced at my watch. No internet until 8.50pm, the following Wednesay, 16th January 2013. Right.

Give up all this, are you crazy?

Thursday: It is very difficult to avoid the automatic tap-tap that leads me to the Internet. My morning routine is to put on a playlist from Youtube and to hit up Twitter on my phone on the way to work. Instead, I pick a radio station and have to put the phone away to stop staring at it with longing. Is it really so hard to think for myself? That evening, when my child is having a nap, I pull out Frances Yeats’ Art of Memory, and come across the following passage describing the creation of writing; “For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because they will not practice their memory. Their trust in writing, produced by external characters which are not part of themselves will discourage the use of their own memory within them. You have invented an elixir not of memory but of reminding; and you offer your pupils the appearance of wisdom  not true wisdom, for they will read many things without instruction and will  therefore seem to know many things, when they are for the most part ignorant and hard to get along with, since they are not wise, but only appear wise.”

This seems so pertinent that I stare at the passage for quite some time.

Friday; I’m already heartily sick of the hell that is Breakfast Radio. The nicey-smashy nonsense is killing me, so I move over to more content rich radio in the form of Morning Ireland. The amount of sport has me rolling my eyes, however. I begin to suspect my fellow commuters are getting worried about me, due to all the tut-tuts of frustration they hear each morning. When I arrive at work, I feel weird. My brain is already resetting itself and I find the transition very strange.

Finishing the submission has to involve several visits to Reddit and Twitter to collect links. The urge to go a-clicking is hard, and I obviously do this with no self control all the time. But I manage to collect the details and get it done and out in good time.  How will I cope over the long stretch of the weekend?

Saturday, Sunday; I buy the Irish Times rather than go online. I never get to read it though, as the little man more than fills up my time. Am I ignoring him when I go online? I don’t know how, I didn’t think I was. But the fact is he more than takes up my full attention. Between that, and a Culture Novel by Iain M. Banks, I am busy throughout the weekend. My husband tells me that one of the founders of Reddit, a 26 year old I almost certainly interacted with online, has died by suicide. I feel sad, but I still stay away from Reddit. It is becoming almost a religious/spiritual thing to stay away from all that noise, and I know that I don’t need to say or do anything, it will all go on without me.

Monday; It is harder to avoid the distraction during the working week. The radio is terrible, a sheer tabloid nonsense that avoids all proximity to intellectual property. I want to organise a mob, a riot, that rushes the radio station and asks Directors, do they even listen to this stuff? I think with longing of my playlists, my subscriptions on Youtube. Oh Michael Sandel, how I miss you!

Tuesday; I’m nearly there. I’m calmer, and more at home with myself. As I do my lengths in the swimming pool, I think how I have changed the way time feels. It felt like a quick year, and a quick decade. But by removing the constant unending distraction, there is more  chance to reflect and to take pause. I’m aware of more, ironically, when I stop looking around me. That night, my little boy wakes me up at 3am. After I get him back to sleep, I am exhausted but unable to drop off. I find myself clicking my Facebook icon and checking my notifications. No one has missed me online at all.

Wednesday; Final day. I have a long day ahead of me, and I only get the chance to check my online life well after 9pm. I have well over fifty emails, but only three are actually generated by people I know hoping to speak to me. I have only one response on Twitter, and no one on Facebook seems to have noticed the ‘silence of the lame’ at all. I’m able to see, again, that the interactions aren’t as strong as I thought – or whatever. Tenacity of relationship isn’t going to come about on Facebook, it will come about elsewhere and Facebook will back it up.

I’ve learned to love the silence. I am going to enforce rules for myself about the Internet around my kid, and maybe even go so far as to set a timer, or something. This last week has seen my online life go down in value in my eyes, and made me appreciate my own thoughts more.

Good evening! Welcome to Claire’s Evening of Cultural Appreciation. This evening we will be reviewing art, music and poetry that you might enjoy. To start with, let us enjoy this rather piece from Eric Whitacre:

The Seal Lullaby; Eric Whitacre

Eric Whitacre

Originally written for a movie soundtrack, its rather lovely sweeping score borrows from Scottish melodies to create a very sweet lullaby. From Eric Whitacre’s website: “Eric Whitacre is one of the most popular and performed composers of our time, a distinguished conductor, broadcaster and public speaker. His first album as both composer and conductor on Decca/Universal,  Light & Gold, won a Grammy® in 2012, reaped unanimous five star reviews and became the no. 1 classical album in the US and UK charts within a week of release.”

And a poem to go with it, from Rudyard Kipling:

We now move on to our first piece of art. This marvellous piece was created by Louis Comfort Tiffany, a magnificent craftsman (his glass windows are an excellent example). This vase has incorporated into it the structure of peacock feathers, and the luster alone would silence the viewer:

Louis Comfort Tiffany (American, 1848–1933) | Vase | ca. 1900

How often do you see something of that quality in your daily life? How uncommon is that magnificent subtlety?

The next piece in our musical programme is Claude Debussy’s Girl with the Flaxen Hair. This piece would have my mother’s eyes roll; she thought Debussy had all the originality of the top of a biscuit tin (she was more a fan of Liszt or Chopin). None the less, its included this evening as it has a marvellously romantic air, and is soothing to the frayed nerves.

Girl with the Flaxen Hair

And to enjoy with it, is Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus*. Painted in 1486, it hangs in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, where, I can attest, if you get too close they give out to you.

The  cold of winter is still with us, so our next piece is Anuna, Winter Fire and Snow. This piece, sung so marvellously by Kate McMahon, is haunting in its beauty.

And to enjoy with it, a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley;

Also appropriate for this time of the year, is this German Hannukkah Lamp, dating from the 17th century.

Our time together draws to a close. To end, I bring you Bach’s Prelude, played by Yo-Yo Ma. Life is so short, don’t you find? There is never enough time to do the things we want to do.

Yo-Yo Ma

Model for the Cathedral Pieta: To visualize lifesize or colossal marbles, the great Roman Baroque sculptor Gian Lorenzo Bernini began by making small, spirited clay models.

So it is, that the years go on, and despite desires and wishes, inclinations, we are left with the life that is only just a tiny bit closer to what we want.

William Blake’s Illustration for his poem The Laughing Song

I hope that you have enjoyed our brief interlude of music and art, and that 2013 brings to you all you desire.

Paul Signac, Woman on the Terrace 1898

*”What’s the matter, Homer? Ain’t you never seen a naked chick on a clam before?”