Three a.m., St. Michael's Ward
I remember the Juggernaut. I remember the blinding lights and the windscreen and the rain droplets that suddenly morphed into a million tiny pieces of glass… and the fire. I remember the furious heat most of all. Burning hair. My poor car! I wonder what it looks like now.
I don’t remember how I became so lucid! There was nothing in between, no tunnels or white lights and definitely no Grandmother welcoming me into her open arms as I expected. Those people must be starved of answers for that is not what death is like. Unless… am I dead? Maybe I’m not. I feel a sudden want to be a wet dog at the beach, to send a flurry of shakes throughout my body and furiously flick away whatever is causing this fuzzy strangeness but I can’t, and instead it clogs my mind so that I can’t think straight.
Slap slap slap… my bare feet on linoleum… I’m walking through a corridor that smells of uric acid and tumble-dried cotton, a corridor that could use an open window to breeze away the heavy stuffy fug that amplifies the muffled sounds of swishing ventilators. It’s oppressive. The fact that I can feel that is good, right? I’m so confused. A nurse passes me and shivers. She won’t look at me and I don’t want to talk to her, she has work to do and I seem to have no urgent agenda right now, anyway. A buzzing exit sign that I have no interest in whatsoever passes me by.
A baby screams.
“200. CLEAR!”
Where is that child? It’s urgent cries tear through me. It makes me flinch and I yearn to pick it up and have it feel the warmth of my neck, I need to stop it from herniating itself, such violent cries should not be left untended… what the hell is wrong with that infant? I pass doorways, dark rooms that seem like capsules of immune silence. Sleeping souls oblivious to the suffering outside their rooms snore gently and beep contentedly. The screaming gets louder as I find the room I’m searching for.
“300. CLEAR!”
It’s empty. I can’t believe this room is empty save for this poor child. His blanket has tied itself in knots around his kicking ankles, his pillow sodden, its whiteness paling so bleakly against the furious redness of the small child’s cheeks. As I reach toward him, I feel the change. I feel the needle entering my arm and it’s so wonderfully exhilarating. Beautiful and uncontrollable ecstasy rules my functions and I collapse into a nearby chair and my stomach distends but I care not a jot for the unborn child. I feel like I’m dying all over again, but this is a living death, a torture of unheardof proportions.
“500. CLEAR!”
A jolt of clarity awakens me and I sit up, the child is still there in front of me and still crying and I am infuriated with my lack of willpower to stay with it and so I stand with sudden urgency. I reach out and touch the child whose skin is burning and itching from a rash of foreign cause and I feel its deep loneliness and needing. I know now that there’s no mommy, that mommy has gone away, mommy was never there in the first place. The baby’s need is so urgent that I can feel it too, tears trickle down my cheeks as I grab the child with sudden urgency and squeeze it tight to my breast. It’s ok now. Every little thing’s gonna be alright. Shush now. Shushhh.
“700. CLEAR!”
I feel the end. My feet no longer touch the linoleum beneath as my weight shifts and a great racking breath leaves my soul, I’m plunged into newness and I care no longer for my car.
“Let it go… she’s gone. Time of death, three fourteen a.m.”
The baby’s cries stop in a sudden vaccuum of inevitability and a peace falls upon its tortured soul, the heroin addiction no longer there. It relaxes its clenched wrists and notices the lights above the door to its room and it gurgles with pleasure. The baby sleeps, and wakes to a whole new dawn.
(Image from Glasseyalley.com – best Photo Blog, Irish Blog Awards ’09)
Trips
It always gets me how these things happen in threes.
First was the phonecall last week from a very troubled teacher (with what sounded like a weeping assitant in the background) in Laughingboy’s school. Apparently the child lurched out of his hoist in an unexpected fashion and ended up head-first on the floor. This, I explained to the frought teacher, is not the first time he’s had a bump on the noggin, and it won’t be the last. It took me fifteen minutes to calm the man down, my overall reasoning being that a certain bit of pain is good for the body… it gives adrenalin glands a bit of excercise and toughens up the consitution somewhat. Laughingboy is proud of the poppy bruise on his forehead, I can tell. He thinks he’s well ‘ard now.
Then there was the comedic dog-walking accident. Yesterday morning, while trapsing to Puppychild’s playschool on a busy road, my large and cumbersome dog managed to wrap his lead around my ankles twice before I knew what was happening, and dashed behind me excitedly towards a small yappy dog, thus yanking my feet out from under me. It’s the sort of situation where you really do have to stand up immediately and laugh, despite the swimming spotty vision and the temptation to pass out with the pain of a cracked knee-cap. Today I have a swollen knee, a grazed elbow, a sore hip and a very stiff neck, and am searching on Ebay for an oversized hamster wheel for the dog in order to avoid such accidents in the future.
I dropped Puppychild into school this morning, and got a phonecall ten minutes later from a panicked teacher. She too, was inconsolable. ‘You need to come quick, I think she might need stitches… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…’ she babbled. Upon arriving, I found my very pale child covered in blood with a half-inch gash in her forehead from an overenthusiastic tricycle accident. Her teacher was more upset than she was and again, I found myself spending more time consoling her than the child, explaining that it’s probably a good lesson for the kids to see what gravity and speeding is capable of. This still didn’t stop the flow of apologies… I think she expected me to go Medieval on her, from the way she acted. Accidents happen. Always in threes.
One of my favourite jobs as a mammy is the nursing… the mopping of blood and the fixing of butterfly sutures and the wiping of tears, I’m damned if I’m queueing up in Accident and Emergency if I can avoid it in any way possible… hospitals seem to be the most effective way to infect a wound anyway, especially in this country. Superglue and vodka – yer only man for the job.
We three are now watching CBeebies… me with my banjaxed kneecap, Laughingboy with his swollen noggin and Puppychild with her puffy closing eye and blood clotted hair. TAT will wander in any second now, take one look at us, shrug, and go back to bed. Wise choice.
Searching for a Ketchup tree
While squidgeing a popular brand of Tomato Ketchup into my cereal this morning I was reminded of a phenomenon that confuses me deeply.
That phenomenon is this*.
(At this point you’re conscious that there’s something to be expected in small print at the bottom of this post aren’t you? Word treasure… some inside information or a disclaimer maybe? You scan the page and find nothing and start to feel like you’ve been robbed of something, made to look like a fool perhaps. You’ve just wasted several valuable seconds of your life searching for the damn thing, but it isn’t there. It’s either an absent footnote, or it’s written in letters 0.15 pixels high.)
The ketchup bottle in question states the following on the front:
GROWN NOT MADE*
And on the back, it says this:
It’s our* sun ripened tomatoes, along with our… etc
And I’ve searched the entire bottle for the footnote that says something along the lines of: “*cough – Bullshit! – cough”
… but I’m at a total loss to find it and that, for some reason, pisses me off no end.
Has anyone else seen this secret footnote phenomenon before? What’s it all about? Do I need to be a Stonemason to find out the full truth about ketchup, or what?
P.S. This link is not a footnote reference and it’s most definitely not ketchup either.
The Irish Blog Awards '09 and some more dead braincells
I fell in love on Saturday night at the Irish Blog Awards. When his big brown eyes locked gazes with mine… I almost dropped my cocktail. It would have been improper to approach him though, for he had important work to do but happily, later on in the night, he approached me! Or rather his owner did. Digital Darragh, you have the most beautiful Labrador in the world and it was wonderful meeting you both. I would’ve loved to speak to you and Emma a bit longer, but there’s always next year.
I got to play mindgames with Tinman18 at the start of the evening. How do you recognise somebody in person from their writing style? It’s not easy, unless you have their mobile number and you know you’re both in the same room. All you need to do is to some kinky texting, and watch out for the giggling bloke. Thumbs up. What a sound character! Thanks for the juice, dude.
I stuck by Robert Sweetnam for a good while, completely addicted to his Corkish accent, but I’m totally at a loss trying to remember what it was exactly that we spoke about. That’s a sign of a good night. I robbed this photo while he wasn’t looking:
Point of note… that’s the Accidental Terrorist second from the left. He is responsible for Rick O’Shea’s beard, though it’s a little known fact. There’s nothing like a bit of fuzz to boost a man’s sex appeal, I was beside myself from hugging them both on the night, I’ll never wash these cheeks again.
I also got to see a bride on a bouncy twister castle. I’ve scrapped the wedding plans and have re-arranged them from scratch. I am that inspired.
This bobbing bride is Ciara Crossan of Wedding Dates.ie, I got so much great advice from herself and Ellybabes, the support bowled me over. A definite highlight of the evening was Elly’s surprise gift… a handmade choker (something new!) to go with my wedding dress… it’s beautiful, I couldn’t believe she made it just for me. Thank you so much again, Ellybabes.
Here’s a rather nice shot of Darren Byrne’s arse…
…and a photograph of some people blatantly ignoring the rules of bouncy twister:
And a shot of Grandad delivering the punchline to what was probably a filthy joke to Robert Sweetnam:
The rest of the photos are somewhat blurry as my demeanor got more and more hazy throughout the night, but I do remember swaying to Bock the Robber’s theories for a better world through a haze of Jack Daniels and laughy tears, and being poked fervently by Darragh Doyle, not for the first time either I might add. The following is his Wossy/Brand YouTube pisstake made with Maxi Cane… it was an honour to have my reputation so blatantly flaunted like that baby yeah!!!
The night was brilliant, thanks to Damien Mulley and his crew… I was bowled over with my award for best post (Thanks to KRO IT Solutions for sponsoring!), but even more so by the well wishings I got from people, it was an atmosphere dense with serial friendliness. Although I got to meet some of my favourite leg-ends… John Braine, Elfinamsterdam, Nick, Lottie, HairyBen (gorgeous he is) and Willknott (thanks for the badge, dude!) and Grannymar, I was gutted to have missed out on meeting some other fine heads I heard were there.
I honestly have to say I was equally gutted to find Xbox4NappyRash, the Sexy Pedestrian and Manuel so cruelly robbed of their trophies, for I was rooting for them something rotten, but blogging is a fickle thing and I know their time will undoubtedly come again.
Mostly I want to thank everyone for nominating The Secret Fire… the world seems dominated by paranoia and negativity, for they are the things that catch the headlines. To have so many people recognise the goodness in the little things, the fleeting beauty that can be found in the strangest of places… it’s wonderful to see. I hope, if anything, it gave people the ability to open their eyes and search for these tiny things, these small redeemers of humanity, for they are everywhere if you look hard enough. Blogging is a powerful tool… use it for the greater good. Follow in the good footsteps of Maman Poulet… we all have a voice.
Don't break my child
Today I be mostly writing up an instruction manual for Laughingboy for the babysitters while I’m away at the Blog Awards.
So far there are thirty two pages.
Who says kids don’t come with manuals?!?! Mine does, and it’s a pain in the ass trying to remember how he works. It’s like trying to describe how to operate a stick-shift.
After all, our babysitters are both male… one is a DHL delivery man, the other is a chef. They have never looked after my kids before, nor do they know what they’re getting themselves into. I think they’re planning a party while we’re away…. heheh… good luck, lads.
The 100 things meme
Brian F at Rantings Diversified (the dude abides) was my very first ever commenter which is a big thing for every blogger – we all know who first popped our cookie.
Anyway… he memed me with the 100 things meme (in which all the truths that apply to me are in BLUE, all the shit I haven’t gotten around to doing yet is in BLACK) which sounds like too much fun to ignore. Also, if you have the patience to sit through it, I’ve a wee present for you at the end.
1. Started my own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. I have played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than I can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sung a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched lightning at sea
14. Taught myself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown my own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb Killed it, Butchered it and Ate it too
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset (both)
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of my ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught myself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had my portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62.Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma.
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check/cheque
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had my picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Ridden an elephant
For shits and giggles, I pass this meme to The Jelly Monster
Now for your present! This is a most highly coveted ring-tone, as kindly donated by a random passenger in TAT’s taxi:
Means to an end
I swore I’d never write anything politically orientated again, but I can’t help it.
Anyway… this is more anti-political, for those like me who have a thin patience for the bullshit.
In the words of Billy Connolly;
“I think, roughly, the desire to be a politician, should ban you for life for ever being one. Don’t vote, it encourages them.”
I’ve had conversations with plenty of people about this country, comedians are loving the constant supply of new material. I’m fed up trying to figure out who’s actually voting for people like that Cleverly Fluthered Bint or whatever her name is, because it’s not me, and I do vote. The common opinion seems to be that we, the four million bogdodgers of Ireland, should have more of a say with what’s happening, should be privy to the way our highly coveted cash is spent… we should be given a chance to convey for ourselves why we thought the Lisbon Treaty concept failed, for example. Instead we are made look like fools by people who can rarely be bothered turning up for Dáil meetings. There’s far too many of them in there anyway, if you ask me.
There’s a certain unanimous frustration with our socio-political situation (marmalade… that’s another big word) which seems to be itching under the skin of this country… it’s like there’s a gas leak waiting for a spark. The laypeople, the ones underneath, they want to have their say and they want to line the bankers up.
A buddy of mine (a poker playing/band playing/lumberjack friend who’s responsible for The Accidental Terrorist’s apt naming and definitely not the violent type) set up a facebook group last week. He named it the Irish Democratic Revolutionary Party.
We will be set on the overthrowing of the Irish Ruling Elite, through peaceful means, by popular consent.We shall reinstate the meaning or the word Republic, as defined as, For the People By The People.
Our revolution MUST be carried out through peaceful means. The rule of law MUST be respected. Our revolution will NOT become an excuse to attack any vulnerable targets in our society.
Schmalentines
-o0o-
“So we’re not arsed with buying cards are we?” The Accidental Terrorist glared at me through the eye-slit in his balaclava.
“Naaah, screw Hallmark. Say… how ’bout we go shopping for wedding rings instead? Cool mark for an occasion as any, innit?”
“Yeah! Tell you what… wake me up with a rasher sandwich and a cup of coffee at 4pm and we’ll sort that out” sez he. The train of conversation got blitzed in a sudden ‘Shite!’ from me as my little Yoshi character hit a banana skin and slid his wee Mariokart into a gorge. First place lost, dammit.
-0o0-
I woke this morning in the bed of TAT’s sister. Having spent the night on a haze of red wine and conversations floating around our prostitute names (mine’s Misty Bushpark) and the trials and tribulations of fellatio, we woke spooning against the cold of the broken central heating system. Puppychild bounced on us and sored our heads.
TAT’s sister would not be seeing her husband on Valentine’s day either, but we are each others next best thing I suppose. As we properly reasoned, every day is Valentines day if you’re lucky to own that frame of relationship. I brought her flowers, to keep her husband on his toes.
I spent the morning on her couch in a duvet-roll with Puppychild and allowed random flickers of Nickelodeon to invade my semi-consciousness until the urge for coffee kicked in, at which point the day should really start, maybe 1.30pm is pushing it a bit. We spent the morning fawning over my trappings of wedding concerns, then she turfed me up into the attic to remedy a problem with a dodgy stop-cock. (*giggle*)
I arrived home at about 4pm, and nudged the sleeping terrorist. He looked and smelled too comfortable, and was only in the sixth hour of his sleep so I didn’t push it. Instead, I chose to climb rope bridges in Shankill playground instead. I highly reccomend swinging where at all possible, in the non-biblical way I mean. There’s nothing more powerful to knock the senses than flying through the air lying back with your head brushing the ground on a swing… a proper timber swing with six foot ropes and excellent potential for momentum. You should try it if you don’t already.
I spent an hour afterward over dinner chatting with TAT and enjoying his accounts of the back-stabbing dog eating world that seems to be taxi-driving nowadays, and now I am alone again with my whiskey and my computer and LastFM.
I got no flowers, but the flowers he brought me last week still occupy the vase, even if the rest are fading, the lilys are at their climax now. I got no card, but I always feel horrible when I have to throw out cards, or burn them or recycle them… it’s the embodiment of a love that really doesn’t have to be. Tokens are all over the place, there’s really no need for more, besides… I never know what to write in the damn things. I love TAT today as much as I do every day, and all the days after that. Valentines Schmalentines.
Apparently this day in 278, Valentine was beheaded in Rome just as today, somewhere in Hallmark, someone probably got fired because sales are down. It’s a parallel, it gets my cogs grinding, such is life.
Trippy
Pretty! It’s like a magic-eye picture only without all the hassle…
February's Dog's Bollocks
This month’s Dog’s Bollocks award goes to the man who came up with the following statements:
My inner caveman desires wide open spaces to hunt, not fucking Tesco whispering ‘Every little helps’ in my shell-like while getting busy Shawshank Redemption style on my butt.
and…
Yes, I am pissed again, but this time I am cross too. Cross at the little scumbags that fecked a bottle at me from the bus as it went past when I was walking home. Missed me. Fuckers. Hope your knobs fall off.
and…
“I like to think of it in terms of a society having a goal, this helps define individual purpose. If a society has a common goal, as can be brought about by a disaster or crisis, people pull together and have a purpose, they have the freedom to act to make their world better. In the case of negative freedom, it become random and base. People revert to their fundamental nature, consuming and rutting and fighting, with or without a thin veneer of civilisation”
Right on, brother.
Thrift Criminal, you’re a great buzz, your posts are clever and with a unique sort of humour… please don’t bugger off in March and have us fend for ourselves!! I don’t know what I’d do without your smartarse comments in my inbox.
We’ll miss you something rotten. You’re the Dog’s Bollocks mate.
