MIA
I've misplaced my camera somewhere. It's really annoying. On the other hand it has lasted this long - my camera, which surely is a record. I've used it a lot too. It was not one of those things which were like fad type toys which i bought and then promptly forgot to take out, dust and so on...
I was thinking of new love - it is not soft and warm, it's actually violent and warm. It also belongs to those who live in their yuff. See if someone came up to me and offered me new love on a plate now, i would have to pass. I just don't have the energy anymore. It would be like someone giving me a puppy. It's very nice but i think perhaps you'd better find another home to rehouse it in. And i'm just being honest.
I'd have to say, we need to just cut straight to the chase...all this (and i'd wave my arm) this is all very good, but this stage passes and then what...what happens after this stage?
I'd imagine i'll have to watch Oisin and Ghin go through this as well and be patient. Ah well...
Today Ghin and i enjoyed an evening together. I had to get a bottle of white. It had been raining all morning and then the sun came out just around lunch time. We went out for lunch at the office and then it felt like it was Friday. When we got back after lunch, i worked all the way through to home time - and when we hit 5 - i was ready for a glass of cool white.
I collected Ghin, got dropped back home, and then after settling in we walked to the shops for eggs and the wine. It was cool, but not cold and the sun was out as we approached the longest day of the year. I was in a gardening mood. The street was strangely empty. It's that kind of street in any case. Neighbours pop in and out of their houses and cars; they don't hang about waiting for conversation or passers by. But today, in this beautiful evening light it seemed even more deserted. Ghin sings Bob the Builder and i sign along with him. I see the one white strand of hair, silver in his dark brown curls. I have not pulled it out simply because it reminds me of fairytales where the enchanted child has a single strand of golden hair, or some sort of distinguishing mark left by its other worldly past. So i have given Ghin white hair as well.
At the shop i notice that people are extra friendly to me. It's i reaction i think to the Romanians who have been driven out of their homes in South Belfast. Sometimes these things are good. There is a contortion now of people jumping up and saying, we are not racist in Belfast. We so not condone this sort of behaviour. We are pinning all our colours to the mast and white supremacy is not one of them.
Why is it often the poorest people who are the most obviously racist? Possibly because all they have is the colour of their skin and in some place they were told that white was right - white is right. They are simply attempting to forge a place, an identity a narrative for themselves - and this seems to be the only thing left. I understand racism. Like all hate crime, it is a cry for help. As i watch people implode, it is the greatest sign yet that we have failed them - that society has failed them. Condemning people for being racists does not help - it simply pushes them into a more extreme corner - seeing what hate crime for what it is might be a more creative response.
****
I am determined to make sure that i exceed the number of blogs for last year which was a very poor showing of less than 100.
****
A changkul is known as a cultivator here. I use to all the time, particularly since my spade has disappeared. I was convinced that it must have been lost in some weeds somewhere, but i have almost tidied up the entire garden and it is still gone. Perhaps it has somehow wended its way to Donegal. Peter must have taken it there.
One thing that has happened for me this year is that it seems that things which must have made sense to people a long time ago are starting to make sense to me now. For instance, i understand what all the different tools in a garden are for now. When i'd use a trowel instead of a fork, why i should have a digging fork nearby and why garden paths are essential. Four years ago i would happily stand all over the newly dug beds, something which even my eight year old son understands he is not to do. I have looked at my soil and gone, hmmmm, i do not have soil conditioning right.
I am now going to fold all the laundry i washed yesterday. It should take me another half hour. Clean clothes always smell comforting. They are the scent of care, of love. Of someone who bothered. Someone who took the trouble to match the socks and hang the shirts. Someone who put the underwear in the underwear drawers and the jumpers in theirs. I remember ma folding the clothes. the pile of laundry she'd bring in smelling of the sun and washing powder. She'd do the laundry everyday in Singapore, because you had to. Clothes were not left to pile up because you used new clothes everyday. In front of the flickering TV screen, as we did our homework, or lounged like lizards, ma would be opening and closing cupboard doors. Making the same sounds as i do now as i put them away. Then she'd do the sheets. The sound of her fingers zipping over the fabric, making straight clean cuts so that they would double over and then quadruple, then become eighths and finally be placed in the tidy pile, all ready to be stored till the next time.
Song cycle
It is a never ending cycle this - laundry.
Relegated to chore, the realm of uninteresting, brutally annoying.
The daily drudgery and ordinary insult. Incompletion, the impossible task.
And yet, in truth, it is a poem.
The poetry of empty bins and clean, dry dishes.
Of freshly changed sheets and toys cleared away.
They are the sacred litany of the everyday,
the eternal reflection of skies in soap bubbles,
childlike satisfaction of order - but more than that, evidence
that someone cared, cared enough to make sure that everything was
just so. Shoes arranged on shoe racks
fitted as precisely and correctly as notes on a stave,
the dotted minim and demi semi quaver. My size fours by their - nothings.
Placed there by the invisible hand that
restores a baby bird to its nest, the same that
caresses my children's faces as they sleep,
its voice is a manifestation of motherly whispers.
I love you it breathes; - and they,
lost in that sweet Galaxy of Dream, turn to sigh and face
the other way, safe and knowing, should they awaken,
this music will help them find their way back home.
I was thinking of new love - it is not soft and warm, it's actually violent and warm. It also belongs to those who live in their yuff. See if someone came up to me and offered me new love on a plate now, i would have to pass. I just don't have the energy anymore. It would be like someone giving me a puppy. It's very nice but i think perhaps you'd better find another home to rehouse it in. And i'm just being honest.
I'd have to say, we need to just cut straight to the chase...all this (and i'd wave my arm) this is all very good, but this stage passes and then what...what happens after this stage?
I'd imagine i'll have to watch Oisin and Ghin go through this as well and be patient. Ah well...
Today Ghin and i enjoyed an evening together. I had to get a bottle of white. It had been raining all morning and then the sun came out just around lunch time. We went out for lunch at the office and then it felt like it was Friday. When we got back after lunch, i worked all the way through to home time - and when we hit 5 - i was ready for a glass of cool white.
I collected Ghin, got dropped back home, and then after settling in we walked to the shops for eggs and the wine. It was cool, but not cold and the sun was out as we approached the longest day of the year. I was in a gardening mood. The street was strangely empty. It's that kind of street in any case. Neighbours pop in and out of their houses and cars; they don't hang about waiting for conversation or passers by. But today, in this beautiful evening light it seemed even more deserted. Ghin sings Bob the Builder and i sign along with him. I see the one white strand of hair, silver in his dark brown curls. I have not pulled it out simply because it reminds me of fairytales where the enchanted child has a single strand of golden hair, or some sort of distinguishing mark left by its other worldly past. So i have given Ghin white hair as well.
At the shop i notice that people are extra friendly to me. It's i reaction i think to the Romanians who have been driven out of their homes in South Belfast. Sometimes these things are good. There is a contortion now of people jumping up and saying, we are not racist in Belfast. We so not condone this sort of behaviour. We are pinning all our colours to the mast and white supremacy is not one of them.
Why is it often the poorest people who are the most obviously racist? Possibly because all they have is the colour of their skin and in some place they were told that white was right - white is right. They are simply attempting to forge a place, an identity a narrative for themselves - and this seems to be the only thing left. I understand racism. Like all hate crime, it is a cry for help. As i watch people implode, it is the greatest sign yet that we have failed them - that society has failed them. Condemning people for being racists does not help - it simply pushes them into a more extreme corner - seeing what hate crime for what it is might be a more creative response.
****
I am determined to make sure that i exceed the number of blogs for last year which was a very poor showing of less than 100.
****
A changkul is known as a cultivator here. I use to all the time, particularly since my spade has disappeared. I was convinced that it must have been lost in some weeds somewhere, but i have almost tidied up the entire garden and it is still gone. Perhaps it has somehow wended its way to Donegal. Peter must have taken it there.
One thing that has happened for me this year is that it seems that things which must have made sense to people a long time ago are starting to make sense to me now. For instance, i understand what all the different tools in a garden are for now. When i'd use a trowel instead of a fork, why i should have a digging fork nearby and why garden paths are essential. Four years ago i would happily stand all over the newly dug beds, something which even my eight year old son understands he is not to do. I have looked at my soil and gone, hmmmm, i do not have soil conditioning right.
I am now going to fold all the laundry i washed yesterday. It should take me another half hour. Clean clothes always smell comforting. They are the scent of care, of love. Of someone who bothered. Someone who took the trouble to match the socks and hang the shirts. Someone who put the underwear in the underwear drawers and the jumpers in theirs. I remember ma folding the clothes. the pile of laundry she'd bring in smelling of the sun and washing powder. She'd do the laundry everyday in Singapore, because you had to. Clothes were not left to pile up because you used new clothes everyday. In front of the flickering TV screen, as we did our homework, or lounged like lizards, ma would be opening and closing cupboard doors. Making the same sounds as i do now as i put them away. Then she'd do the sheets. The sound of her fingers zipping over the fabric, making straight clean cuts so that they would double over and then quadruple, then become eighths and finally be placed in the tidy pile, all ready to be stored till the next time.
Song cycle
It is a never ending cycle this - laundry.
Relegated to chore, the realm of uninteresting, brutally annoying.
The daily drudgery and ordinary insult. Incompletion, the impossible task.
And yet, in truth, it is a poem.
The poetry of empty bins and clean, dry dishes.
Of freshly changed sheets and toys cleared away.
They are the sacred litany of the everyday,
the eternal reflection of skies in soap bubbles,
childlike satisfaction of order - but more than that, evidence
that someone cared, cared enough to make sure that everything was
just so. Shoes arranged on shoe racks
fitted as precisely and correctly as notes on a stave,
the dotted minim and demi semi quaver. My size fours by their - nothings.
Placed there by the invisible hand that
restores a baby bird to its nest, the same that
caresses my children's faces as they sleep,
its voice is a manifestation of motherly whispers.
I love you it breathes; - and they,
lost in that sweet Galaxy of Dream, turn to sigh and face
the other way, safe and knowing, should they awaken,
this music will help them find their way back home.
Comments