White Sage
They say that what doesn’t kill you, will cure you. ‘They’ don’t know the full story, I don’t think they’re ready for it, but you are, I can smell it.
Settle yourself in a comfortable chair, gorge your belly with creamy milk and clean your ears with your favourite fore-paw (for this is how it should always be done) and when you’re ready, let me know.
Finished?
All right… where to begin?
I lived in a village once, a small village of small minds, where nothing was a secret. When cherry blossoms bloomed, the people decided when they fell. If a character was off kilter, the villagers took it upon themselves to rectify the imbalance, and that, my dear cat-lovers, is what happened here.
My girl Tess chose an awkward man. His skills where preening were concerned surpassed mine by far, his stories involved himself and his prowess and nothing else. Nothing, in fact, stood in the way of his happiness. He would bore Tess to tears of how fantastic his rock-climbing skills had become, about how wonderful his car was, but she would stroke my head and stifle yawns in the ginger fluff behind my ears and make me warm and shivery… this was the only boon to his boring company, this moist breath as she whispered her frustrations into my collar. “This guy needs to keep walking until he hears a splash, then he should just keep going…” was her most common complaint. I heard it many times, and could hear it many more. My Tess is a funny girl, far more deserving of better company, if you ask me.
He took her to a carnival one day, not having been there myself (for such crowds are not for a demure feline and anyway I had much more important things to do that evening), I could only imagine her frustrations at his constant proof of epic masculinity and accurate aiming skills, but there was a bright side, my friends. She appeared home late that night with a multitude of cuddly toys for me to sleep on, and a single candle. This candle was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, I cannot describe its attraction.
Tess unwrapped the plasticky nonsense from this entity that very same night and held it to her nose, breathed deep. An orgasmic pause developed in her demeanour as she breathed it in… she held it to my nose (being a considerate pet owner) and I recognised the smell instantly. White Sage. Not your average stink for a candle, I must say. It smelled as though something amazing was about to happen, it was an awareness smell… we felt alive.
When she sparked the wick with her zippo lighter it burst into fiery madness, potassium sparked with the flame as though a tiny voice was trying to convey its tiny message across… it mystified us, we stared at its purpled spitting wax for hours and cuddled and snuggled until she snuffed it out and it was time to sleep.
-o0o-
A lonely man sat alone, his bitterness consumed him, an outcast from a place that once had loved him but that had grown up, grown away from his natural ways. It was hard to get used to being a freak, a weirdo, once capable of wonderful healing methods, now deemed an abomination. He looked down upon the village and the carnival at its heart, and he wondered. He hated.
-o0o-
A phone call. Tess reacted in such a way as I knew it was this awful boyfriend of hers, but I knew it was important. He arrived on the doorstep a while later. Pale as my water bowl, his speech garbled, he clutched his head and spoke of exploding brains. No sooner had he reached the kitchen, the vomit began to erupt in violent convulsions… his head bowed over the sink at the end of a long trail of slippery vulgarity… I watched with awe. Tess appealed to him to see a doctor, but his masculinity prevailed and they argued, all the while he clutched his head like a madman.
“If not a doctor,” said she, “why not the mystic in the hills? His methods have healed plenty of tough cases in the past, sure wasn’t there that woman with the stick lodged in her…”
“That guy’s a curse!” he interrupted, “why the hell would you send me up there? Give me a break, my father’s done his best to alienate the guy and have him hanged and now here’s you sending me to his doorstep??? I have better things to be doing, I’ve the competition tomorrow, the leading guy is toast, he won’t stand up to my awesome abilities now that I’ve practised the…”
He warbled off on a monologue, his foot twitched the entire time, though he was too caught up in his own awesomeness to notice.
-o0o-
Meanwhile the man in the hill saw with a clearer vision than he had done in weeks… finally the blurred lines of his spell book stood still. He knew his curse had taken hold, somewhere, somehow.
We burned the candle again that night, its size diminished, the wax flowed away in silky puddles, the gilt edging morphed into mercurial puddles on her night stand and we purred. The next day, the seizures began. He was in the midst of the competition and it happened, the convulsions racked through his body and time stood still, his chances ruined.
He hit her that night in frustration and I watched. I watched and I could do nothing, but I licked her wounds as we burned the candle after his stormy exit and she told me about escape, about how she would end this, if not by chance, then by empowerment. I listened to her emphatic words and curled against her soft warm belly as the smell of white sage filled the room.
-o0o-
The old man’s headaches had subsided by now, his memory returned, his nausea disappeared. The brain tumour borne of bitter suffering was growing smaller, with every inch of the candle he had placed it in. His plan took place, his skills returned once more and he was ready.
Like a moth to a flame, I and Tess wandered to this man one day, up through the thickets, past the stone gates, into the wilderness. We disappeared.
I watch now as she learns his craft, I grow younger every day, I hear her incantations and I feel it’s right. I care not of her man and I suspect, my dear readers, that she doesn’t either.
We make more candles, destined for those with closed minds and sick souls, we strive to heal them, to clean the bitterness and save their loved ones from the destruction they cause.
If we cannot cure them, we will kill them, for that is the way. The only way. The next time you should meet such a sorry soul, send them to our house at the top of the village, we will ask no price of you, only that you accept that Darwin was not the only man with a plan.
Who needs a babysitter?
Tourist culling at Grandad’s house is about to get interesting.
Wrong number
Mobile phones. Bits of plastic with coilish gizmos inside and fiddly number pads that keep falling off. Predictive texting that has no sympathy whatsoever for drunken thumbs. Annoying, dangerously distracting yokes that will most likely kill us all slowly with brain cancer or mid-lane collisions that we rely on for every single bit of numerical order and calendar placement, but that we can’t do without, no matter how obnoxious we feel when we use them. As with everything however, there is a bright side, in this case, it’s the mis-placed text. I live for these and I don’t care what that makes me, not even one little bit.
The most recent mis-placed conversation sounded something like this;
Texter - I left the key under the mat so you can get in
Me (bored out of my tree) – Nice one, where do you live and do you have contents insurance?
Texter – ha ha thats funny
Me – I’m serious.
Texter – Andrew?
Me - I sold Andrew for a heroin fix.
Texter – Good for u
Me – I thought so.
Texter – Sorry i got wrong number but glad u are happy
Me – Me too.
Texter – Are you a chick?
Me - Hang on till I check…
Texter – Youre a bit strange arnt you?
Me – Thanks for noticing, yes I am.
Texter – Hows that working out for u?
Me – Better since I met Andrew and made him my bitch.
Texter – Andrew’s MY bitch.
Me – Not any more.
Texter – How old r u?
Me – Don’t change the subject.
Texter – Ha ha bye weirdo have a nice life!
Me – Thanks! Luv you xxx
Texter – I luv u too xxx
That was the last I heard from him or her, as is usually the case. Once I think I may have talked somebody down after a nasty acid downer, but I can’t be sure, there are a lot of weirdos out there, present company included.
Two confused people taking random stabs in the dark, a conversation that would never happen on the Dart, or on a public pathway, or at the tills in the local supermarket. How great this age of communication is!!
How great free texting is, too.
How not to have an affair
Whoever said that the Leaving Cert is the most difficult exam of your life – they’re lying. I did alright(ish) in that test, but have had no need for it since, in fact its details were soon forgotten. The biggest test of your life is monogamy. It is, by far, too cruel a rule. I speak in terms of Darwinism and biology, the fact that a person’s hormones are destined to rage when in some people’s presence, and remain flaccid in other’s. This of course fluctuates from month to month, all in the name of stupid pro-creation. It has nothing whatsoever to do with your husband, wife, or otherwise intended. Isn’t that cruel? It’s a simple mathematic equation… two random people equals one healthy baby. Who wants a baby? Nature, that’s who.
I hold my hand up. I’m guilty of the roving eye, and use the elastic band wrist trick. A vicious snap is often good enough to keep me grounded, but I can’t help wondering about my betrothed. Although he’s the most loyal man there ever was, he can only be human… a fact that stays with me whenever he leaves me for a night of taxi driving. You should see some of the slappers in Bray. They have no shame, they have no morals, they will wear nothing, they will screw anything, and will make this fact known. For a man to deny this takes serious armour.
I found a receipt once in his pocket for flowers and chocolates but I had none to show for it. That fuelled my curiosity for weeks.
I find long blonde hairs on my husband’s coat and I analyse his behaviour quietly because of them.
But why? Why the constant suspicion? Am I looking for clues? Why do we as fully comprehensible humans spring traps and accusations from thin air? If we browse the menus of our opposite sex, why shouldn’t our beloveds do so to?
A drunken moment on honeymoon soon found out. We had sweated out a Black Moon party and were back at the ranch in high spirits, so I asked. Hell, why not? That’s what being married is all about… asking dangerous questions. After all, there’s no point in hiding stuff now, is there?
‘Surely there’s been somebody you’ve been tempted by?’
He was surprised by the question, and evaded it. He changed the subject many times until I oozed it out. His reply left me reeling. He admitted that yes, there had been one or two times when temptation was more than torture itself, but that he had a fail-safe way to deal with it. What works for him, may not work for me, but that’s for me to deal with, however difficult that may be.
So what’s the moral?
I suppose that’s the secret to marriage. Even if I’m glibly stating this after a week or so of the dirty deed, eight full years of partnership have taught me that admittance is most definitely a way through. Stating your inner thoughts and worries opens doors. Marriage is about being faulty, about being impure, about being human.
People ask me what it’s like to be married. I tell them that I can feel nothing different, but that’s not true. Now I know that it’s more than a piece of paper. It’s about suffering the same things together, about holding hands through crowded concerts… it’s like holding a rope. We’re holding our partners over the edge of a cliff and it’s up to them to trust us. With marriage though, it’s like everybody can see us… everybody can see us dangling from that cliff and they’re waiting for us to fall. All we have to do is talk it through.
‘Are you still holding on?’
‘Yes. You’re heavy, but yes I’m holding on.’
The real torture is that we’re always dangling, never to be pulled up to safety. The only thing denying us all from safety is temptation, a frayed rope. The temptation of an affair is to plummet into the unknown, and that, dude, is too far to reckon with.
I desperately want to ask others about the state of their ropes, but it’s too personal a question, they need to be fully inebriated before a satisfactory answer is given. Here though, here is different. Here people have time to think.
How do you not have an affair?
Empty urges
My house is psychotic at the moment. It has split itself into two entities… sparse and pretty, and a horrific mess that looks like the set of a cardboard snuff film. Each room can take on either appearance, but there’s no way of knowing what to expect. There is the kid’s bedroom, which is slowly being emptied of auxiliary toys (I hate that part) and clothes and general collectibles. The master bedroom just about fits a bed into it, so keeping that clean is pretty easy. The garden’s got a brand new A-Frame for Laughingboy’s swing (which involved cement and paving slabs and a serious amount of head-scratching), and a massive wooden shed to build our dreams in… or probably just to be full of junk. The sitting-room has been visited by The Dude and now has pretty swanky looking wooden bits to hold everything up. He even made us a new computer desk which might be worth showing or might not…
The Men want me to paint this white, but I’m having none of it. There is a better colour than white, I just can’t figure out what it is yet?!? I took this picture because it won’t look like this for long… soon the books and the gizmos will creep in until I’ve had my gumtree way with the lot of it.
In the midst of it today I felt the urge to buy stuff, something to interrupt the chaos. Thing is, Thailand and the wedding lark sort of killed the buzz in the bank department so I’ve had to enforce frugality. No buying things unless other things are sold first, that’s our new boring rule.
But!!! I found a loophole. I can buy things, as long as they are things that you can put other things into!
Ok… maybe not that cool, but plastic boxes from that new storage mecca in Carrickmines is good enough. Pretty plastic boxes too. And things that sucker themselves to your bathroom wall to hold other things and a few boxes within boxes within boxes for the craic. I feel much better now. They entered me into a competition to win U2 tickets, but I don’t know how I feel about that.
No pain, no gain
It may be hard to believe, but in touristy areas of Thailand the ratio of tattoo studios to shops is even greater than the ratio of pubs to shops here at home in Ireland. Seems impossible businesswise, but almost every other shop offers some sort of skin engraving practice. It’s impossible not to be tempted.
The difference with tattoo studios in Thailand is that they offer Bamboo Tattoos, a practice that began roughly 3,000 years ago. When I first heard about this form of tattooing I was dubious. I imagined some dude gouging chunks of skin from my upper epidermis with a blunt piece of wood and that idea didn’t tickle my fancy so much, until I was told fervently that bamboo tattooing is far less painful, takes less time, and the results last a lot longer. These first two facts are pure fibs… but the last is very true. The basic concept is the same as with machine tattooing… a needle, or a row of needles are inserted into a long bamboo pipe, dipped in ink, and are then used to stab pigment into the skin.
The following is a clip of The Accidental Terrorist having a Thai dragon imprinted on his calf;
With a machine, this tattoo could have been completed within two hours, but would take a long time to heal, and would most likely fade and be in need of re-touching within three years. The bamboo technique took almost four hours, but was pretty much done with its healing process within three days, and won’t need re-touching most likely – I’ll get back to you in a decade or so with a more definitive result!
We both inscribed each other’s names on our inner wrist (an area known apparently to be associated with disconnecting from one’s past and beginning a new future) in the Thai dialect, then later got complete strangers to proof-read the words to make sure we hadn’t been duped. Unfortunately, to TAT’s despair, there is no ‘T’ sound in the Thai language, so he is now walking around with a tattoo that says ‘Kane’. I may need to change my name by deed pole which will play havoc with the name of this blog. ‘Kane the plain’?
Here’s mine;
And a gecko on my foot, the result of a new fascination of mine. I really wouldn’t mind returning in the next life as a gecko… they’re quiet, retiring, and make the most comical noises I’ve ever heard from a creature on this earth. Since getting this tattoo, I wasn’t bitten by a mosquito once. I’m not sure whether that’s a coincidence or not.
If you do find yourself in Thailand in search of a tattoo, my only advice to you would be to shop around. While undoubtedly the artists are all very talented, some may not necessarily be all that clean. Find yourself a friendly tattoo’d local, or a long term tourist who has experience in this field… someone who knows reliable studios who won’t give you hepatitis and won’t rip you off. The only other problem you’ll have apart from that, is feeling like a kid in a sweet warehouse. Yep… good luck with that!
Addendum:
Mating call of a male Gecko (Tokay);
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Sounds a bit like a weirdo hiding in the bushes with a Kazoo.
Guaranteed to scare the pants off you when you least expect it.
Wouldye Groomidge
My dog is applying for a nursery rhyme re-write.
Please adapt your kid’s books accordingly.
Long time no see
Irish weather is a gift. It has rare qualities that are hard to see, but for all the complaining we do about it, I really don’t think we fully appreciate its element of surprise.
Take yesterday for example. I had a million and one things to do, each task seemed longer and longer and was slowed by my increasing tiredness and lethargy. It felt like a bad day that would never end. I drove for miles with cloud overhead, shopped in cold supermarkets, carried heavy boxes and appeased complaints from cranky children who didn’t seem to want to make room for my foul mood. Even dog-walking, a usually exciting task for both parties, didn’t provide its usual buzz, this time even the passing foliage looked bored.
Then, driving back from the forest, it happened. As overhead branches became fewer and the sky crept into view, the blueness leapt out and suddenly the sun in her rarity beamed in full volume. Its power permeated everything inside the car… the Goo Goo Doll’s ‘Iris’ was playing through the stereo at the time and suddenly the notes became truer, the song became as beautiful as the first time I’d heard it. The heat hit my face and made me gasp and rose the tiny hairs on my arms and made my heart beat faster and suddenly it was no longer a bad day. The moment etched itself on my memory, leaving the rest behind, drudgery dissolved.
See, people in Spain or Florida or Thailand… places we so keenly wish to visit… they can’t appreciate that because the sun is constant and there are no surprises. We covet UV light so desperately, yet on holiday most of us complain that it’s too hot. Irish weather is perfect, it has the ability to shock the most miserable person into pure awe… they suddenly see that if it weren’t for all the Goddamn rain, the pure lush crisp green that now surrounds them would not be made possible.
I know you’ve felt it.
Sale fails
We are such a family of eejits.
On a bleached-blonde secluded beach far far away, we basked in perfection. Untouched. Raw. Electricity is cut off at 10pm because the sun has gone to sleep and there is no point in anything else. Think of ‘The Beach’, and you’re not far off from this paradise. Our friend knew we would probably find this place, so asked us for a souvenir… simply a handful of sand.
TAT actually walked into the only shop on the beach and asked if they sold sand. I laughed and laughed. He blamed the heat.
Today I took part in a car-boot sale and sold a perfectly good Playstation 2 and five games for €3.
I started at €20 for the lot, then met a shrewd Indian chap who must be excellent at poker, for he bartered backwards.
“How much for everything?”
“€20″
“I give you 50c”
“Pft! Okay… €18″
“I give you 50c”
“No way, man, this stuff is good. €18 I say.”
“I give you 50c”
“Are you battery operated?”
“What?”
“€15″ I conceeded.
“I give you 50c.”
“Go away.”
“I give you three euro!”
I was so surprised, I said yes. How fucking stupid was that?!?!
Don’t tell TAT.
Godless freaks
This blog is starting to feel like an answering machine. I
I…
just don’t know what to say anymore.
I’ve lapsed (Blogfather forgive me) in my reading of other blogs, because life has taken over a bit since moving to this house. There’s so much to do! Granted the marriage bit and the honeymoon stuff (which I’ll spare you of any blow-by-blow accounts as much as I want describe it, it won’t come to words) which took up a lot of my time of late… now is the time that I should be getting back to the flow of blogging.
But…
The quality of this girl’s writing has deteriorated because now seems to be the time of experience and learning and it feels like there’s no room for anything else. I wonder should I give up this poor blog and let her sleep? The pool of inspiration’s been dry for so damn long now, I wonder if the gloss has worn off. What the fuck is wrong with me? Is now the time to practice guitar finger-styling or to appreciate the sunny disposition of my neighbour before she moves away?
It’s just another day. Everybody else lives the same day, but in their own way. What’s so different about me? Nothing, that’s what.
So many blogs complain. So many plead for redemption for themselves or for the government, but we have nothing to honour. We Irish are all alone, we have ourselves to love, that’s it, but that’s not enough. We think we’re bigger and older than everyone else, but it really doesn’t matter. Since I came home from Thailand I’ve noticed a few things… namely that Ireland is an incredibly clean country, but also that we have nothing to live for but money, and now that’s shot.
Thai people have statues everywhere dedicated to Buddha. They serve their statues breakfast, lunch and dinner. They serve shots and Tequila Sunrises and glasses of water to these icons and place statues of their beloved King (the longest serving King in the world!) on the dashboard of their taxis and places of payment. Relics are found on every corner of every Godforsaken shithole and they are worshipped beyond belief.
I want that.
But who should we worship?
I suppose there’s always God (who no-one laughs at when…);
Then there’s always Mr. Tayto;
St Patrick? Don’t make me laugh…
Who’s left for us to idolise?
Who?
Any takers?
