won’t help much with swine flu protection, either….

me: <some kind of comment I can’t remember now>

him: <witty retort to comment>

me (after laughter): I like you, you have a quick wit.

him: No I don’t. I only thought of that a millisecond before I said it.

me: You’re kinda making it hard for me to defend my compliment now.

him:……oh.

Conversation on Christmas Eve

Adult: Whose birthday is it tomorrow?

child: Auntie Kelly’s!!

Adult: no, today is her birthday. Whose birthday is tomorrow?

Child: ….

Adult: Who is born tomorrow?

Child: Oh! Baby Jesus.

Adult: Yes, that’s right.

Child: And he dies at Easter.

Adult: That’s right.

Child: I’m not sure if he’s alive at Halloween though.

Adult: ……

I met up with two good friends last night for some cheeky Wagamama (dinner, starter, and beer for €16? sign me up!) and pints. Aaannnd hot whiskies (my December beverage of choice).

In among all our catch-up talk, I asked about my friend’s friend, who I knew was getting married early next year to a fantastic guy we all knew from college – he’s sweet, funny, incredibly helpful and generous and just an all-round lovely, lovely person.  He was diagnosed with cancer last year but was in remission and back at work, teaching.

Or so I thought. It turns out, his cancer has metastasised and is now terminal. He found out from a routine scan: he felt fine. He still feels fine. That’s why they’re getting married so soon. He starts chemo the month after the wedding: not because it’ll cure him, but so that he’ll have more time with his new wife. More time, any time, at all.

This man is a few years shy of thirty years old.

Talk about bad things happening to good people.

I’m sure religious people have some way of thinking around why whatever supreme being(s) they believe in apparently orchestrated such suffering. Maybe it helps them out. But as another friend said when I told her about the new diagnosis, if there is somebody in charge, it’s no-one with any sense of decency.

I was born in Dublin, right in the city centre, at the oldest maternity hospital in Europe. It has a grand half-moon colonnade that no-one walks in anymore; it’s closed off in case homeless people sleep under its porch. Its modern entrance faces the local Sinn Féin shop with all its nonsensical Republican merchandise, and beside it the offices of the Irish Migrant Rights Council. The old trying to stay new, and the new trying to get settled in the old. The old parliament at College Green, dissolved in 1801 partly because of Lord Edward Fitzgerald’s 1798 rebellion,  became a bank, and when Ireland eventually got its own parliament again in 1922, it was based in the townhouse built by Lord Fitzgerald’s father. I’m pretty sure the son would have appreciated that.

Greater Dublin has one of the largest urban sprawls outside of Los Angeles, but the city centre is quite small, very walkable, and full of variety. It has all the buzz of a capital city, but no skyscrapers, so the sky – blue or cloudy or pissing rain – is never far away. No really: the tallest building in Dublin city is Liberty Hall (seen here all animated for the Dublin Theatre Festival).

It’s a very old city – official founding date 988 C.E., thank you Vikings – but there’s still new places to discover in it. Twenty years ago, Temple Bar was a bus depot; now it’s full of pubs and restaurants, art galleries, theatres and buskers. (And stag and hen parties,  but the less said about them the better). Ten years ago, the Docklands was a post-industrial wasteland; now it’s the financial centre of the city, has a new college, apartments, and it’s still a building site. Parts of the old city wall are still standing; there are still Viking bodies under the streets; the Georgian Anglo-Irish added grand squares and walkways but the medieval city still pops up now and again in some places like the old tower in Dublin Castle or the ruined chapel at Christchurch. You can always find little bits of green in the city; St. Stephen’s Green, the Garden of Remembrance, the Iveagh Gardens, or somewhere like this –>

It’s home to numerous distinct accents – some of them nicer than others. My grandmother’s way of speaking “and says I to her, says I…” is much gentler on the ear than my cousin’s “loike, oh my god, I was loike SO kacking it”. You can get all your government documents trí Ghaeilge on Molesworth St., Irish lessons at Gael Linn or visit the Irish-language pub on Harcourt St., but try asking for a drink as Gaeilge in any other pub in Dublin and it’s anyone’s bet what you’ll get.

Last night, my friends and I went to watch the Geminid meteor shower. Within 15 minutes from my house, we were in the mountains, watching the twinkling lights of the city; 15 minutes after that along tiny country roads bordered by ditches, we were in the bogland with only some slightly scared sheep for company. Yet, we could see the lighthouse on the coast reflecting off the clouds. It’s rare that there’s a sunny, warm day here, warm enough for the beach, but when there is, you’ll find Dubliners roasting themselves, all packed on the beach together.

I’ve lived in the same house in the suburbs all my life – all through school and university and I’m pretty much here til I can get a job that pays enough to let me pay rent. With the industry I want to work in, I wouldn’t be holding my breath. I’ve lived in the U.S., and in Australia, and I was still happy to come home. There’s something about the city; there’s always something going on, something to do, some little quirk on the streets to make you stop and think “that’s beautiful”.

So, if you ever feel like visiting: I’m going to say it’s worth it. But I am biased:)

All the pictures in this post weren’t taken specially for it, but some more shots of the city can be seen in my Flickr, “Dublin” set.

Thanks for visiting.

Do not wear over-the-knee leather boots. Really. There is a time and a place, and your college graduation ceremony is not it.

Similarly, jeans and the jumper your granny gave you five Christmases ago do not go with the academic gown.

Think about why only the females wear caps, and the males don’t. Think about it. Even if there is a “historical reason”, does it not seem a bit…silly, sexist, and pointless now? No? Not even to you, Women’s Studies graduates?

If you are one of the academics on the platform, try not to nod off during the speeches. We can all see you.

If you felt the need to bring a very small child to a long, pointless ceremony in which it is almost certainly as bored, if not more so, than the rest of us, then please don’t then ignore the child while it cries, yells, coughs, whimpers, and coughs again. For the whole 1 hour and 15 minutes. Your child is too young and possibly too sick to be here. Take it home. If you can’t do that, take it to the lobby, and do something nice, like play with it or feed it or give it some cough medicine. The child is clearly miserable, and while we can hear it, so are we.

As you can tell, graduation was underwhelming. But hey, at least the certificate now refers to me as a “Magister”.

Maggie at Mighty Life made my day yesterday. Fame at last!!

I jest.

Still, hello to anyone visiting from Mighty Life. It’s terribly clichéd, but true: I’m inspired by all those people out there who are imagining what their dreams might look and feel and taste like. Well done you.

I was also delighted to see some of the things that I consider my “peak experiences” featuring on the Mighty Life lists of others: the Tongariro Crossing, for example. And in honour of those, I added some photos of that experience to my Flickr profile, so please to click if you want to get a tiny glimpse of a summer’s day spent walking over active volcanoes.  Still one of my favourite travelling memories.

On a slightly unrelated note, I’m currently giving myself a pat on the back after wrestling with web editing for my current … job, I suppose. Off for a celebratory slice of cake.

There’s a website, Count Me Out, informing people who want to formally separate themselves from the Catholic church about how to do so. It was covered in the Irish Times yesterday.

I haven’t voluntarily gone to Mass in… a while. A long time. Perhaps the last time was accidental: I went into the Holy Cross Church in Warsaw to have a gawk at Chopin’s heart, only to discover it was Mass, and in Polish, too, so I just stood at the back, being quietly appalled by the Japanese tourists taking pictures. (While the Mass was going on. The shame! Perhaps there is a bit of Catholicism left in me after all). When I was still in school, I was sent to the principal’s office for (quietly) refusing to participate in Mass (as the students from other religions did) and went to my next class crying.

There was a period during my teens when even stepping foot inside a church would sink a weight on my chest, but I do quite like going into churches now:  being awed by the sight of Barcelona from Sagrada Familia; sitting silently St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York; lighting candles for my Nana in St. Pierre de Montmartre; examining the Strongbow’s tomb between filming breaks in Christchurch.

But liking the art and the atmosphere does not a religious faith make. I don’t believe that the wafer that sticks to the roof of your mouth is the body of Christ. I’m pretty sure I don’t believe in the divinity of Christ at all, given that I don’t even know if I believe in any kind of supernatural god or gods. I’m awed enough by nature; its wonders seem to be leaching the power from the concept of the supernatural all the time. I was amused, not horrified, by the Atheist Bus Campaign (and now I’m thinking The Atheist’s Guide to Christmas would make a great present for my sister…). I was absolutely horrified by the Ryan Report and the whole sordid pile of abuse, neglect and torture committed by people in the name of this organisation that I never asked to be a part of.

Despite all this, I haven’t clicked on Count Me Out’s little button: “Click here to begin!”

Why not? A major reason cited by others in the Irish Times article is education: with most of my country’s primary schools owned and run by the Church, any child is at a disadvantage if they’re not Catholic. Then again, I don’t have any children. By the time I might have any, there will probably be more options available. So that’s probably not a good reason.

Would I cease to become my cousin’s godmother? Possibly, in the eyes of the Church (not that I was actually there for his christening – I was his godmother by proxy) though not in any practical sense. Still, my family might be upset about it, and on that particular point I would agree. I made a commitment, and I would hate for them to think I was reneging on it.

I’m pretty sure all my grandparents would be horrified.

Also, it seems very final. I would be taking a stand – not that I would have to tell anyone – but I would definitely be saying “I am rejecting this aspect of my background, my family and my heritage. Fuck you guys”. I’m not ready for that.

Hopefully someday soon I will be – because I’m not a Catholic. And I definitely don’t feel like a hypocrite.

 

Edited to add: Yeah, I think I’m a little closer to clicking that button:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/ireland/article6933599.ece

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/breaking/2009/1126/breaking73.htm

“Over the period within its remit “the welfare of children, which should have been the first priority, was not even a factor to be considered in the early stages,” it said.

“Instead the focus was on the avoidance of scandal and the preservation of the good name, status and assets of the institution and of what the institution regarded as its most important members – the priests,” it said.”

• You will drive into the Maine woods
• Your maps will make no sense
• Roadsigns will be misleading or non-existent
• You will lose count of the u-turns you make
• Every parked car is certain to make you think it houses a psychotic murderer. Especially when that car is parked at the top of a mountain at midnight
• The rocks will seem as if they’re streaming dark red blood.
• The deer are definitely out to get you. Them and their creepy reflective green eyes.
• You will regret papping Stephen King’s house

On a lighter note,  you realise that all those kidney beans in the salad you had for lunch are currently being gastrointestinally processed, and that while this might have been ok if you were, as planned, wrapped up in several layers of sleeping bag, it is not ok in the current circumstances i.e.: in close proximity to the driver of a car with closed windows. Seriously, those bad boys were so luciously pungeant they were almost pleasant.

Anyway, you survived. And you saw a wolf: not a coyote (pronounced KY-yote in Maine as opposed to the more widespread ky-YO-tee), but a real live wolf. And the car didn’t hit it.

AND, it didn’t snow.

Perhaps Stephen King just liked messing with you a little.

*Or, What I Did On My Holidays: camping trip in Maine edition.

UPDATE for all those people on their googleboxes:

(note the wrought-iron bats)

The most vivid memory is of the instructor’s face as I reached through the air towards him. And how I was surprised by how little I had to think about anything once I gripped his arms, because after that all I did was smile.

I ripped skin from my hands; I got bruises in a line behind my knees and a load of other, little ones that I have no idea about; my arms, shoulders and back were sore (though not as bad as last time); on the video I am ungainly and scrabble to hook my knees on the bar.

But, I did it. I did first time what it took me four tries to do last time; hook my damn knees on the bar. I got to try the catch, and I got that first time too. I got a “good job today” from the instructor. I want to go back.