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Aug 13

Sheela-Na-Gig

Posted on Wednesday, August 13, 2014 in Philosophy, Something to think about, Strange and Unusual, Taboo, Wicklow walks

I write this for the consideration of those both owning a vagina (even albeit vicariously) and for those that do not. For those that do, I’m sure you’re aware of the phantasm that has been created regarding such a beautifully crafted phenomenon. Most seem to crave it and hate it at the same time… a lot of the worst curse words you can think of revolve around these four simple flaps and the strange secrets they hold between.  Those of us that have a vagina sometimes wonder at it, but we rarely curse it. Its mysteries just never seem to end. For those of you that don’t possess a vagina (even somewhat vicariously) it’s ok, but don’t be afraid to go and find it. It will be worth your efforts, so long as you treat it nicely.

This brings us to Sheela.

Sheela Na Gig

Sheela Na Gig

Síle Na Gigh (pronounced ‘sheela na gee’… GEE you say? Those of you in the Irish inner city working classes might relate to that word. It’s not a coincidence.) Isn’t she beautifully Fugly?

Now at this point, I could bore you with conjecture as I have just crawled my way out of the Wikipedia pit having gained very little information, purely because nobody really seems to know who she is. I could tell you where you could find these figures, and how far she dates back, and I could give you a fully descriptive bunch of theories as to why she exists, but I’d much rather be so arrogant as to let you find these facts out for yourself and in the meantime, give you my own theory.

I put it to you, that in the days of old Irish ancientness, the people were no less insecure than we are now. By proportion, there was just as much judgement, and violence. There was just as much of a likelihood  that those people had just as sharp a sense of humour too.

For example… let’s have a look at the Newgrange kerbstone markings:

k1-graphic

Our present archaeologists are pulling their hair out trying to interpret the meanings of those beautiful squiggles.

I say: What is the likelihood that a stoner was commissioned to do this? Did he get busy doodling on a big rock absolutely off his face? I wonder if he realised that 4,000 years later he would be costing researchers a load of cash and time trying to figure out exactly what he was at? I’d say he’d be absolutely delighted, and is laughing his ass off in whatever turf-pile he’s turning into right now.

Same with Sheela, I think.

I mean, there she is, all bald and ugly with her bulbous eyes and weird titties exposing her vulva so gratuitously like she does. The most confusing thing is, if you want to find her, she’s most likely hanging around Churches. CHURCHES no less. Given our Catholic stoicism she’s somewhat of a contra-indication, is she not?

So. Is she really there to ward off evil spirits? Is she a blatant warning, or has she a deeper meaning? Perhaps it was just for the craic…

Here’s what I wonder. I wonder if she isn’t a warning at all, but instead of Buddhist intent. This works for both women and church. Stay with me for a moment…

02 Kilpeck

Sheela seems to be ‘all that glitters is not gold‘, carved into rock. Perhaps the fact that she is so vulgar, so uninviting… maybe that’s her thing. Maybe she’s trying to teach us something.

So, going back to those of you who do not have a vagina but would dearly love one, what is the wisest course of action on your part? Do you go for the most beautifully obvious specimen, that one that will drain you of energy and credit card capability and probably never put out that much in the end because she is too completely caught up with her own face-value, or do you choose that lady who is the supposed frog? Once smitten she has the potential to realise all of your wildest dreams because she sees the ugly that is in you too and loves it and is not concerned with material value. Maybe she is pretty, but not in the conventional sense. She might have crooked teeth, say, but she sure can play a mean game of darts.

Because Sheela of the Gee sits in Churches above their doors and in courtyards, maybe she was informing infidels of the same theory. Pagans would see her, and wander indoors maybe in the seduction that maybe what lay within has hidden interests, not just surface value. Scrolls and filigree are nice and all, but isn’t honesty more intriguing?

After all, she isn’t scary, she isn’t a threat. She’s smiley and beautiful in her way, with her saggy boobs and labia all over the place like that. She looks friendly, someone you could have over for a cup of tea, and maybe a few rounds of cards. She wouldn’t judge you, or show you catalogs of fancy clothes that might better suit your figure. She would drink out of dirty cups and suggest funny things to do.

She is the most beautiful woman of all, and it is in my honest opinion that we should all have at least one Sheela Na Gig in our lives. If you are not one already, you might look more deeply into her ethos, it’s not like she’s hiding it. If you are, fair play to you, and may God Bless all who sail in you.

 

Feb 24

I hate to interrupt you but…

Posted on Monday, February 24, 2014 in Jobs, Philosophy, Something to think about, Strange and Unusual

… there has been an accident outside.

Imagine you are at a volunteer first aid meeting (if you’re into that sort of thing) where you are expected to sit and be relatively comfortable in your mindset, you are wearing your best jumper and jeans or maybe your pretty heels because you never know who may be looking at you and judging you. You might even be wearing a suit. You are expecting education on a formal basis.

It is a commonplace meeting and you may well want to be somewhere else but you are there because you are there, you are bored or needing an outlet, but you are a volunteer nonetheless.

Suddenly:

a person known to you, a contemporary if you will: runs in and announces that a horrible car crash has happened outside. You are dubious but somewhat alarmed.

I’d like that. I’d like to disturb people out of their zone of security and lead them out into a mayhem of contrived chaos. I’d like fake blood and ripped up pieces of paper to represent broken glass. I’d like to spill water on dry ground and let people wonder what this fluid is, and then flick a cigarette butt into it and cause an imagined explosion. I’d have a driver with a pretend brain haemorrhage who is the father of a child who has suffered minor injuries in the back of a crashed car (because he was wearing his seatbelt) who could give a full history of not just his father’s medical background, but that of his friend’s who is in the passenger seat and suffering an asthma attack brought on by stress.

Interesting, maybidge?

I and a fellow meeting volunteer have contrived sick plans in our sick minds because we want our stagnant meetings to have a bit of flavour, and to introduce an opportunity for otherwise bored people to go out and heal sick people on a whim. I and he would rather this be kept a secret, to which you are privy.

What say you? What sick and accidental contrived situation would you imagine if you could? Nobody is watching. Everyone that reads this blog is unjudgemental so please unleash your best! But shhhhhhhh. Don’t tell anyone.

Think your worst. Think reality. Give us a scenario to practice our healing because we NEED it. We need to practice, they need to get their suits and high heels dirty. I would like to orchestrate the play from Hell, because that is life, that is what should be expected from us.

REALITY. Choking babies. Exploding supermarkets. Your favourite neighbour’s heart attack.

Reality is harsh, but plays are fun, and practice makes perfect.

No musicals though. Lyrics shall not be accepted.

gunnd

Is it cruel that I make light of such a thing if we’re to be rescuers? Should a love of horror be disturbing?

I fear for the day I find a teddybear at the scene of a car crash where a child has been decapitated.

Help us to prepare. Life is cruel.

Curtain opens…

Jan 5

Goddessing in its highest order

So. I believe I was telling you a story before I got distracted.

Once upon a time, not so long ago I was blessed with experience, an entirely different experience which is difficult to write about as most life-changing experiences tend to be. It was an adventure of the Goddessing sort of order.

I’m not a sort of Goddessy sort of person though, let’s just sort that out right now. If I had an altar, it would consist of several old birthday cards, a dead fly, a box of matches and an empty vodka bottle. My chalice would have coffee stains in it and my coven would be ignoring my texts. Nope, I’m not that sort that embraces Wiccan technology. I do love it though, when others bare their souls to me. I call it Goddessing here, because these souls just happened to be female, as a lot of souls tend to be whether they like it or not.

It happened during the Costa Rican adventure, which was an adventure within an adventure which is what happens when one is caught on-the-hop and one hopes that nobody is filming anything for fear that one would be caught in the act of being a gobshite: A fight-or-flight situation, if you will. They were quad-biking, these people. There were Minors. There were Majors there too but these Majors were highly trained in the ability to predict, prevent and warn against accidents so there was that element of false security because accidents always happen.

So, there was an accident.

The road was beyond bumpy, I had known this from my adventures the evening before and in my infinite wisdom I had thought ‘Ah sure they’ll be grand!’ in my Irish way. It was as though somebody had made a perfectly good path, then chewed it up, gotten drunk and spewed it back up and then poured acid all over the remains. Large pointed rocks stuck out at weird angles, scree and sandy pebbles made wheels spin, pot-holes the size of posh televisions threatened to pick up  the bikes and knock them into the ditch along side us. Total concentration was needed which was difficult given the view of the idyllic deserted beach to the left and a steep embankment of spooky wood with enormous Jurassic-leaved plants hiding alien forms with scuttly feet and eerie cries on the right. Distraction was everywhere, as was heat-exhaustion. If that doesn’t teach teenagers what rough is, I don’t know what will. I hadn’t accounted for the bravery of photographers though. Their angles escaped me, and it wasn’t the perilous road that was her peril. It was the slippery leaves, the things that were least likely to cause injury. It’s the innocent things that get you, in the end.

quad

The posse stopped all of a sudden and voices of alarm could be heard above the throbbing engines of the strange unpredictable excitement.  I turned my head as the paramedic ran past, and in slow motion it dawned on me that an accident had occurred, and that I might be needed.

I baulked.

I don’t have much experience with medical emergencies bar those that have happened to my family. I didn’t want to get in the way, didn’t want to be useless, didn’t want to waste my training, didn’t want to make mistakes and have people scorn me. Nothing seemed quantifiable.

The confusion cleared as I saw what had happened.

Arawa was our mother, our earth. I and Curly were employed as mothers to the children on this trip, but Arawa was our guardian to keep us mothers grounded. We went to her if we wanted somebody we could trust, she was our person we could call Home. She is the all-understanding type, a worrier, a warrior, our sense of humour when we were out of our depth, she also had a love of photography so she was always there taking sneaky shots of weakness and heartfelt emotions and we were all secretly thankful for that, she had a way of hiding our flab. She was hurt.

She had slipped from the rising embankment while trying to climb above our sweaty heads for a panoramic view of bike and beach. She lay on her side clawing desperately with one arm at her leg, her face was ghastly as she wore an expression of horror. Our mother was in need of help and I didn’t know how to act.

I ran to the side of the experts and offered my help from a distance.

Paramedics  threw me a Sam-splint.

“Have you worked one of these before?” they asked.

“Sure!” I lied. But. I have the ability to speed-read and thankfully this shit comes with instructions.

A Sam-splint is a pliable structure with a foam exterior and a metal innard, it comes in a 36″ roll which can be formed into a rough support for a damaged limb. I folded it in half, moulded it and loved it to its fullest extent because I loved its recipient. I made a heel, and studied her calf like a sculptor and did the best that I could.

“Good Job!” they said. Afterwards they offered me a Cheers in a verbal sort of way, the sort was like the American High Five and not as cheesy maybe but still feels very, very nice.

We suffered a gruelling ride in a big 4×4, all expenses seemed a piss-take when it came to CostaRican back roads because she felt every miniscule. Rugged maybe could describe it, but to say that it was a hole that had a road in it, would say it best. She screamed with every bump and I held her and asked her to focus, like I had focussed at childbirth. At least childbirth gives you something at the end… this woman had nothing. We both blessed her with all the Goddessing we could manage and she felt our being but she was at a loss. Pain. PAIN. Indescribable. Focus. BREATHE. I was amazed that she didn’t pass out. Bravery in Goddessability.

She was planted in a foreign room. They demanded an extortionate amount of money (tens of thousands!) for her to be treated but of course she had not got that money straight to hand. She was a film executive but even film executives would not ordinarily have that many digits at her disposal. I was fairly disgusted. Helicopters are expensive I suppose. Thank goodness for fortunate friends at the end of embarrassing phone conversations. I say embarrassing, but I have a feeling that the person on the other end of that bank balance would be only to glad to help because Arawa is that sort of person.  If it had been me, I would have probably lost that limb. Such is extortionism.

Broken Tibia and Fibula in a foreign country.  Imagine that you fell in a way that BOTH bones in your lower leg were fractured. How much pain would you feel? Imagine that the muscles in that leg contracted in response to this trauma, pulling the limb into a strange contortion so that every motion brought you into a fucked-upededness pain that you had never thought imaginable before? This is pain at its worst, and you are all alone, no insurance, no help. You pay thousands or you remain alone, you lose a limb. Forseeable thwartapossability and thousands of dollars for release. I didn’t know Costa Rica (America?) was Third World. “Gimme Money or you’re fucked”. I was suddenly glad of Irish Health Insurance and so was Arawa but she had no access to it because it was out of hours. Nobody seemed to care. She was so apologetic, disgustingly apologetic. Such is the irony.

You’d want help in the way of immediate medication, pain relief, if you can’t breathe and your leg was all fucked up?

What if you didn’t have medication? What if you couldn’t afford it? How long could you scream?

What if you only had two women. Me, and a scantily clad yoga instructor to help you?

Breathe” How useless did we feel?

“FUCK OFF AND FIND ME MEDICATION! I love you” That was what she felt. Dichotomy. Can you imagine?

We were all she had. And she is overly thankful to us in hindsight as we are to her but she can’t see this because SHE WAS IN EXTREME PAIN AND MEDICATION IS EXPENSIVE. Birth is nice because you get a baby out of it, but could you deal with PAIN OF AN EXTREME NATURE BECAUSE YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO PAY FOR TREATMENT AND YOU GET NOTHING BUT ABNORMALITY AT THE END? She felt embarrassed, but it was the healthcare system that should be embarrassed, not her. America is pretty, but it seems backward to me.

These things happen to teach us. We all learned from this. And we all became better people because of it. And there is no shame in that. Some things are not our fault.

There is no shame in pain. We all feel pain. Every one of us. Nobody needs to feel sorry, apart from the crappy system.

We all learned something, through our nakedness, because we had to beg in out darkest hour such is the nature of life, each and every one of us. Truthfulness speaks: In a strange country it is bad that in strange places you need money to pay for accident. Arawa deserved more than what she got.

When we are naked, may there always be one who will always spread her arms and shield us and make light and tell the world to mind its own fucking business. That will be our friend and wherever we all have friends may we have the strength to find them and not be afraid to ask.

Stick with it.

We’re all broken in some way or another.

Every system will someday be healed.

 

 

 

Feb 1

The Loser

Posted on Friday, February 1, 2013 in Arty Farty, Philosophy, Rantings, Something to think about

Well sure, now and isn’t it a while since we played a game?

- I don’t like your games, I always end up being laughed at.

Well isn’t that the point, to have a laugh?

- Not if I feel bad about it, no.

But if there isn’t a loser, there can’t be a winner, can there?

- I agree, but what does losing mean if it’s all the time?

It means you haven’t found the game you’re good at yet.

- Find me a game that I’m good at and I’ll play with you so.

Sure I don’t know what you’re good at, will we just play cards?

- I don’t know how.

I’ll teach you! You’ve a face like a tomato, you need something fun.

- I don’t want to be taught, I just want an easy life.

Sure if you can’t be taught then how will you learn?

- Eventually.

How’s about we get a grip?

- That’s easy for you to say. You’re not me!

Yes I am.

- Fair point.

So what will we play?

- I don’t want to play anything, I just want to watch TV.

Let’s play ‘what happens if you only have a week left to live!’ What would you do?

- Sleep.

That isn’t true. I bet you’d get a degree in Metaphysics or something.

- You have a lot of faith in me!

That’s because I am you.

- Is that what you’d like to do?

Not really. I’d go out and go crazy.

- That’s kind of pointless though.

So is sleeping.

-True.

So what will we do?

- Write a blog post?

What about?

- nothing.

What’s the point in that?

- I dunno.

So let’s play a game!

- Let’s play ‘leave me alone’? I have things to tidy.

You’ll go crazy if you don’t play.

- I think it’s too late for that.

So you think you’re already crazy?

- Maybe.

But if you were crazy then you wouldn’t realise it so therefore you’re not crazy.

- Shut up and leave me alone.

Nope!

- I hate you.

I’m your inner child, you have to listen to me or I’ll broken your face.

- Fair point. What are we playing?

Let’s play ‘Hide and Seek’. I’ll go hide and you have to find me.

- That might take a while.

I have all the time in the world. You love me though, I know you’ll find me.

- Eventually.

I hope so.

- Me too.

Oct 28

Weird rituals

The handy thing about being the overlord of the school library is the ability to make it my hovel. If there was a zombie apocalypse I think it’s the first place I’d go to hide out. I have a Lord of the Rings poster in there, not the new release one, but a graphic that was done for the book series a while back. I like to scatter odd poetry books and fact books about whales and motorbikes about the place. And cushions. Lots of cushions.

There’s a blackboard at the rear of the little library room, this year I’ve decided to chalk up an aul’ Word of the Week for the laugh. It’s difficult to decide what the week’s word should be though, it can’t be too long or too short, and must be relatively comprehensible to your average nine-year-old.

This week’s word is:

Delenda

De`len´da

Meaning: Things to be deleted or destroyed.

To use the word in a sentence, ‘The spam comments on this blog are among my delenda today.’ It would make a lovely name for a cat, if you’re a fan of irony.

So far the past words of the week have been ‘Jagged’ and ‘Laconic’. Have you any ideas for good words? I run frequent blanks.

I leave you with a creation of Puppychild’s;

ghost

I made the skull out of scrunched-up newspaper sticky taped together, which Puppychild wallpapered over with kitchen paper and a PVA dilute mixture. When it was dry she painted it and skewered its brains with a coat-hanger and hung ripped-up plastic aprons onto it before performing her weird ritual which of course I asked nothing about.

Happy Halloween, pagans!!

Aug 24

The sort of post that should really be TWO posts.

Posted on Friday, August 24, 2012 in Little known facts, Something to think about, Strange and Unusual

Don’t you hate it when you can’t remember your username and password for your blog site? That’s a bad sign. Baad blogger. Baad girl.

So I learned an interesting fact recently…

-o0o-

Onions are spurious artifacts. They make you cry. They’re good for clearing paint-smells out of a room. They are the base of any good bolognese recipe. But they are also toxic under the right circumstances. Did you know that?!?

Apparently in the olden days whenever somebody was sick, a half-onion was placed by the bedside, because onions absorb bacteria. It’s one of their better traits. So when you’re at a barbeque and you’re about to sue the dude that’s frying the burgers because you got sick after eating a double-decker with onion relish, think twice. It’s not the meat that’s at fault, nor the cook. It’s the chopped up onion that’s been sitting there for hours absorbing the E-coli around it. It’s why you should -NEVER- store a half onion in the fridge… it’s absorbing the random bacterium in fridge-land and it’s going to make you hurl unless you cook it properly. That is all.

-o0o-

The second part of this post shall be…

How to amuse 100 children?

I like doing the whole fundraising thing for Puppychild’s school. It’s nice meeting with parents and shooting the breeze. It’s nice to share the fact that children don’t just drive you crazy, but keep you sane at the same time.

But…

Movie nights are an integral part of fundraising and they’re the background money-spinner, and yet they’re a dodgy entity.

Photobucket

I mean… I can’t sit still for a whole movie, and I’m an adult. I start wanting munchies, I start wanting to roam or knit or chew my nails and I’m middle-aged for gawd’s sake. How on earth are a whole bunch of 5 – 12 year olds supposed to sit out an hour and a half of film quietly?? We’ve tried it before, and the first-aid kit was broken out because there is such a thing as attention deficit disorder but it’s not limited to those special children, it pretty much exhibits itself in 50% of the ticket holders in most of the films we’ve shown so far. Sugar will do that to small dudes. Parents are starting to not send their children in for these events for this reason, because boredom breeds injury.

I need an alternative to the standard run-of-the-mill movie night. I need a murder-whodunnit-night, or a disco-on-an-extremely-low-budget-night or something. Do any of you have any strange or crazy ideas?

When I say strange or crazy, I mean strange or crazy.

Is there anybody out there who’s ever had to amuse a hundred children on a low budget? I’m guessing that most of you haven’t… but if you had, how would you do it? Should we be sacrificing hamsters to Hermes?

No suggestion would be too weird or inappropriate.. you know me by now.

 

Aug 8

Erudition regarding knackers

Posted on Wednesday, August 8, 2012 in Family, Something to think about

Okay so you may or may not remember a post I wrote four years ago in which I slagged the knackers… I’m still not sure whether I meant that stuff or not. It was sort of knee-jerk, but I didn’t take it away because it was heartfelt too, and it was also my second most commented upon post and I’m shallow like that. But that was then.

Here’s my story for today:

Puppychild bursts through the front door with gusto, gushing about a party that is to be taking place the next day, at 3pm. She begs me to go, there is little reason why she should not, given that the party is in a house but twenty footsteps away and we are doing nothing else that day. The family of the child that is having the party is hovering outside and pregnant for my answer.

Thing is, the child that is having said party is a traveller. This is also why saying ‘no’ was difficult, for what reason would I give aul’ Puppychild?

I said yes, after ten seconds of frantic deliberation.

I bought a cheapo teddy random collectible for the kid. She’s a sweetie… she seems to have respect for me and asks me questions and lets me ask questions in return. Her family have been seen to throw rubbish around, the father bulldozed a cyclist once as he was pulling into the estate, he attempted a hit-and-run, but he drove home which was all of twenty feet away and promptly got busted. I swear, you can’t make this shit up. The younger sister of this family wanders into unlocked houses and cars and takes random things. It’s all very spurious.

But still, Puppychild’s pavee buddy is all of six years old.

I had frantic discussions with The Accidental Terrorist last night, we spoke about prejudice and why sometimes it is not and is deserved, and why it might not be, and why travellers may or may not be likened to the Mississippi fiasco. We argued about age, and development and building harmful bridges and burning same. It was all very confusing, and we agreed to give up, as you do.

The party came and went.

It turns out, that of all of the children in our estate (that would be twelve and a half (net) children) that were invited, only one turned up.

Puppychild gave said kiddo the cheapo teddy, kiddo played with that teddy that whole day and loved it to pieces, instantly.

We got a HUGE slice of cake delivered to the door a few hours after Puppychild came home.

I’m not sure whether to be happy,

 

or sad.

Jun 7

How to not lie awake at night

Posted on Thursday, June 7, 2012 in Philosophy, Something to think about

I lie awake sometimes at night and think of all the things I should have done or said. Thoughts of embarrassing moments cross my memory and I shudder and cringe and re-live horrible moments in intimate detail. Torture. I take things too seriously sometimes, maybe. It’s good to force those feelings out they say, focus on the positive. Guilt is a useless emotion.

Easier said than done though is that lark, focusing on the positive I mean… it seems easier to beat oneself up.

But then adults are always hard on themselves, it’s in our programming. We’ve been told to be responsible and to support ourselves or the book will be thrown at us and it’s that, probably, that forces us to rebel on some level. I’m thinking to myself though that that’s where we’ve been going wrong.

I’m an adult, yes, but I shouldn’t have thrown away childish thoughts. I shouldn’t have assumed that every birthday should be the funeral of the years that have gone before, they’re still there, still within me, looking for approval and acceptance. We’re like trees, you and I, with rings inside counting our age… but trees don’t let their inner rings die, they keep them inside and it’s those rings that strengthen and support the adult tree as it grows, and we should be the same.

We should be allowing that inner two-year-old or thirteen-year-old to take part in everyday life, and we should embrace our five-year-old selves and love it and educate it and let it take over now and then. It’s natural. Feeling guilty is pointless. Blame the kid inside and be done with it.

When you walk into a room and you’re on your own and you spot a tea-cosy, put it on your head. When you see an errant traffic cone, rob it. If you see a patch of grass with daisies on it, plonk that arse down and start making chains. Sleep with a teddy-bear. Make mistakes.

Try it, if you feel like you know what I might be phaffing on about… feel your past ages and remember them, and remember how you felt at each stage. Let that kid judge you for a change, let it ask questions and answer them as honestly as you can because nobody else is listening. Listen to it cry and hug it, and let it giggle and make rainbows with garden hoses. It’s not lost, you just can’t see it anymore but it’s still there.

I sleep better sometimes, spooning with my inner seven-year-old me. She’s a messed-up kid and she has no idea what she’s talking about but then again, neither do I.

Jan 5

Why moaning in blog posts is a good thing

Posted on Thursday, January 5, 2012 in Something to think about

It was in the giving of advice to a new blogger out there that I realized I don’t practice what I preach.  Much like leaving the light in the toilet on after I’ve used it, I can’t really afford to give out, for I do it myself.

This new blogger person was wondering if their first post was too negative (for the want of a better remembering of what the word actually was that they used to convey their naked embarrassment of having just splurged their innard thoughts on the interwebs for the first time) and if this first post wasn’t too much of a bad buzz and if it shouldn’t be taken down.

You know what it’s like though, to barf those dark thoughts into print, don’t you? Don’t you worry if people will be shocked, or will be spurned far far away from your web address never to re-visit again for fear of being appalled by how depressing your life is?

I told her to leave it there! Don’t touch it! It’s perfect as it is!

I told her that others relate to your worries in a strange sort of way, that people are more likely to relate and comment on your distress because they too feel those dark feelings. Blogging is a good thing, because it allows an anonymous person to relate in an honest way to the world. But…

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I don’t do that. I haven’t the guts. I did it once, but deleted the post and also deleted it also from my memory cringe-bank though it felt good to write it down at the time.

So how much do you hold back and why? Are you afraid of offending your siblings and well-read-commentators, or are you just too yellow to tell people how you really feel? I’d be guilty of that latter, it’s far too easy to try to be funny instead and fail rather than have people judge you negatively but ultimately, who cares?

I say fair play to ye who have the balls to be honest. Fair balls. I aspire to be like you someday.

Dec 21

How to build a bomb-shelter in 364 days

Posted on Wednesday, December 21, 2011 in Something to think about

It’s December 21st! Finally, the shortest day. It marks the end of death, of withering, of dark mornings which don’t be the best friend of alarm clocks at all - at all. It also marks the start of our final year together as a human race, in all possiblity.

Yes, K8 the Gr8 is a sucker for sensationalism but she wasn’t caught up with the doomsayers before who warned us that Armageddon was upon us and that we should brush up on our Bible passages…

Nope, I’m used to laughing at those who say the end is upon us. ‘Up your end’, I’d be declaring in gay abandon.

This is different though. The end of days is this time prophesee’d by the Mayans, a people who died out more than a thousand years ago but whose calendar is still accurate give or take 30 seconds or so. They foretold the rise of Hitler, the Stephen’s Day tsunami, their intricately calculated calendar foretold many things besides and ends mysteriously next year, on the 21st December 2012. Ooooo.

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Of course, this too is complete bollox and completely mis-representative of Mayan systems and beliefs. But it got me thinking, how nature is an increadibly intelligent thing, how clever it is in maintaining order. Now that humans are breeding at a tremendous rate almost like a virus, wouldn’t it be feasible that nature might try to over compensate with natural disasters? We have had an awful lot of late, and I’m pretty damn sure it has nothing to do with global warming and most likely, absolutely nothing to do with God.

So what could be the end for us as an entire race? A meteorite? An inter-stellar conjunction leading to the interruption of our gravitational pull to the sun? Maybe mysterious methane emmisions from the North Pole will accelerate our passing into the next Ice Age and do us all in. Or! Maybe we’ll all accidentally turn into zombies.

I’m rooting for zombies. I think I stand a chance against those fuckers.

Either way, it makes me wonder. Why worry? We’ll all be dust this time next year. Bwah hah hah hah… etc.