We may see ourselves as many tribes, but we are one species, and in failing to speak out against injustices inflicted on some of our number and doing what we can to combat those without piling further wrongs on earlier ones, we are effectively collectively punishing ourselves.

Ian Banks

Easter Monday in West Cork

 

There are officially seven pubs in Baltimore. The pretty fishing village of Baltimore on the southwestern corner of Ireland that is. The first Baltimore or mother of all Baltimores so to speak. One of the pubs is the Algiers Inn, named after the attack of Barbary pirates from North Africa which took place here in 1631. It is a gruesome story of conspiracy, murder and slavery. The locals remember it well.

This picture hangs on the wall of another pub, O'Casey's. It is securely nailed to the wall in a dark corner which is why this is such a lousy picture. The girl in the picture is Bridie, she was 15 years old on that day in 1998 or thereabouts and she had no idea who these two fellas were. But they seemed friendly and in fact asked her to be in this picture. So her sister told me. She works in the pub and saw me take a double turn when I took a look. Apparently, not many people recognised these two when they came for a visit but the general opinion seems to be that they were nice enough. The locals remember it well. Bridie is now married with kids I have been told. Lovely kids.  

 

Sandycove harbour wall

 

James Joyce lived down the road from this harbour wall. It was probably a much calmer day when he wrote this.

She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she suffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his and bent them towards the stream, gently stirring the water with her foot hither and thither. The first faint noise of gently moving water broke the silence, low and faint and whispering, faint as the bells of sleep; hither and thither, hither and thither: and a faint flame trembled on her cheek.

(A portrait of the artist as a young man, 1915)

Just up and across the road to the left is Teddy's, where JC would buy ice cream for whoever was with him, kids, grandchildren, wife, daughter-in-law, neighbours, and we would all sit on that wall, watching the dogs running in the surf. On rainy days, we stayed in his car, listening to Gaybo on the radio.

The sublime and the ridiculous are always close in this part of the world.

Lough Tay, Co. Wicklow

It feels like a million times that I have stood on this spot looking down onto Lough Tay over the years. But never with snow and ice. The drive was tricky for a bit and we had to turn back eventually, unable to reach the Sally Gap.

On the last leg, the very last leg of our journey, close to midnight, all things broke down and we were standing in a crowd of lost and tired fellow travellers in this gigantic cold railway station trying to hear the crackling loudspeaker snippets of signal box failures and detour options. And for the briefest moment I wished we'd never come back. How quickly I had become used to smelling, hearing, watching the sea again. Looking out over Dublin Bay yesterday morning, high up on Dalkey Hill, even with all the new buildings and roads, I could trace my way through the maze of terraces and streets to the familiar places, our former homes and those of friends and family, memories everywhere.

I have never been really fond of Dublin, it has never - now more than ever - felt like a safe place, not with its erratic public transport, frustrating traffic jams, pickpockets, beggars, rain, busloads of confused tourists looking for the Hollywood Oirish and leprechauns. But still. A clear blue sky, crisp air, an almost warm sun (in the places sheltered from the wind), kids, dogs, turning to look south towards Bray Head, smelling the pine from the forest, perfect.

Glendalough, Co. Wicklow, upper lake

 

My father is on the phone, we have both been watching another documentary about the war, all three parts of it, and once again, he tells me about the sense of liberation he experienced as he walked towards the approaching US army, a 15 year old school boy in uniform, armed at the last minute by some fanatic henchmen to defend his hometown.

He tells me again how the first GI stopped him and asked him how old he was and how in his best school English, he tried to say something grown up. And how the soldier took his gun and told him to run off home and how my grandmother burned the uniform that night and that he became once again just a school boy. Only his school had been closed for years and would stay closed for almost another one. And how later that night the tanks rolled into the garden plowing down the plum trees. How the family was told to get out, now!, and that my grandmother would come back some nights later to secretly harvest the apples and beans from her garden, while the soldiers were up in the house singing and drinking.

We compare his wartime experience with my mother's and all her secrets and tall stories, so he claims, and before I know it he doles out another string of reasons why he had no choice but to leave her and that marrying her was probably the worst thing he ever did and that she conned him and as usual, I say nothing while he rambles through all her faults, the drinking, the suicide attempts, the lot. And when he is finished, he says, well that was a nice little chat we had. You better get on with your day now.

and the forests will echo with laughter

if only, if only

instead a fine layer of persil snow was gathering on my coat as I walked home

can't stand the sight of that coat any longer, that and the mittens, the scarves, the lot

back home I am tearing at the zip, throw the coat onto the stairs

the cat jumps and hisses at me

we are so sick of winter.

The new Kurdish cleaner at work is singing. Because she is tired of this winter, she says. And maybe with singing... who knows. But it was a sad song. About loss and complications in love, so she tells me. There are no happy-come-on-spring songs in Kurdistan, at least she cannot remember any.

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now
It's just a spring clean for the May Queen

That's another song, a weird and convoluted one. 

Come on, come on, let's hear it, let's smell spring.

ah sure, it's that day again

In 1981, when we were young and very poor, we somehow managed to get tickets for a Chieftains concert in the then brandnew National Concert Hall in Earlsfort Terrace in Dublin. The tickets were of the cheap variety, i.e. we sat behind the band on the hard chorus benches and the acoustics were the wrong way around. Tucked away behind and above the band, we faced the audience. Halfeway through the show Matt Molloy played this solo and I still remember the total silence during his performance and the exploding applause with all kinds people jumping up from their seats and SHOUTING.

I think public transport should be free. People should be able to get on any kind of bus or tram or train for any distance they want and not have to figure out fares and tarif areas. I think free public transport would make the world a better place. 

(I personally hate taking the bus but only because I am too impatient to wait at bus stops. But I know I could sort this out if I ever have to stop cycling for good. At least I hope so.)

Because this gentle river valley has been struck by a sudden and unprecedented mini blizzard I find myself on a crowded bus today. Ah yes, the smells. The clusters of school kids. The nasty elderly ladies forcing school kids to give up their seats so they can sit down and file their nails. 

The ringtones! 

Opposite me a beautiful young man is reading the Quran, his head bent over the tiny book, his voice a quiet murmur. People stare and try not to stare. This doesn't happen every day. His cell phone rings (a faint gong like ringtone) and we watch him listen to an agitated female voice. He bravely tries to get a word in but is constantly interrupted, no luck. In the end he offers a couple of yes, yes, see you noises and as he puts down the phone he notices his little audience. He blushes and explains, my mum. And we respond with a nod and a chorus of ach so, and now he smiles and so do we.

Whatever possessed me to cycle to work today of all days, I haven't the slightest idea. It looked kind of still and delicate out there by the time I left home. Grey sky, no birdsong, freezing wind from the north. At 3 pm tiny icy pellets started to hammer on my office window and I actually felt very adventurous looking out. By the time I got ready to cycle home, my bike was covered in a white crust and I bravely tightened my hood and set off into the sunset. Only it wasn't a sunset but a forest path covered in ice. All 7 km of it. Which I had to walk while it was getting very dark. There were a couple of other cyclists idiots on the way and we muttered our greetings like the fools we were. Even R could not stop himself sniggering, why on earth did you take the bicycle. Ha ha and bloody ha.

My lovely immunologist left a message on the answerphone that I should go for one week without immune suppression to give the stomach and the gums and the esophagus and whatever else a chance to heal. There are so many sore areas that I fear a week will not be enough but one must accept the little blessings. And hope for the best.

I really miss coffee. Badly.

There's talk about gastroscopy, helicobacter, esophagitis, gastritis, duodenitis or whatever. Well, never mind. I'll have a weekend to enjoy first.

Yesterday morning we woke up to no phone, no internet and no tv. And the eventual news that due to some problems blablabla this would continue for at least 24 hrs. We told ourselves that we were not bereft, no no not at all, and after dinner, just as we started looking for the scrabble, the phone rang and it was our lovely child calling from the other side of the planet. As usual we all started talking at once and R tried a couple of dad jokes and so on before we settled down and had a long conversation with many I-really-must-go-nows in between. And as usual nobody wanted to end the call until we bravely sent her off to work and settled down with this fuzzy feeling of warmth and nostalgia, both smiling and shaking our heads with wonder.

This child of mine is my blessing.

well, it's a start...

but the forecast is for snow and ice, a very drastic drop in tempartures they tell warn us...

happy birthday Miriam Makeba

social and media or why on earth do you blog

On the day I wrote my first blog post in December 2009 I had been told by yet another medical "expert" that I was imagining things and that in his opinion I was a tad hysterical and so on. He gave me two options: a prescription for "something to calm you down" or a referral to a psychosomatic clinic. I took option three and walked out of the door and started this blog. Well to be honest, I did not quite walk out of that door because at the time, walking was difficult, the ground seemed to shift under my feet most of the time and my energy levels were unbelievably low. Unbelievably for me that is. I know now that "experts" like this one see an awful lot of women in their early 50s who after complaining of similar symptoms do the slow shuffle out of the door clutching a prescription for a psychopharmacology cocktail. And to him I was just another one of these poor misfortunate hormone-stricken creatures. Bless him.

I knew, KNEW, that I was not going through some menopausal depression drama. Or I think I knew. But there were times when I was more than tempted to give in, declare myself mad and depressed and get on with "life" from there. I remember one morning a few weeks earlier sitting in the car in the pouring rain, quite unable to face the short drive home because yet another wave of vertigo was hammering through my head. I was holding a prescription for "simply the best on the market" anti-depressant in my shaking hands. Looking back, this was clearly one of my historic moments because once it had stopped raining I got out of the car and handed that prescription back to the surgery receptionist. No, there had better be another explanation for all of this.

Of course there was our baffled GP who, while at a complete medical loss, had known me well and long enough to keep on digging (with hindsight, we had some of it staring into our faces). And there were my people who tried to stay patient and supportive and hold my hand etc. But three months of this had been quite stressful and also quite boring in its repetitiveness for all of us and I was running out of people to turn to in my modest hope of... oh I forget what I was hoping for. And so to blog. 

I knew next to nothing about blogging. It seemed a good enough way to dump my fears and panic stations. Like Hansel and Gretel I started to drop my crumbs in the hope that one day they may lead me back home. Back to my normal life. Well, obviously things did not quite turn out that way. For starters, a few weeks after my first post I was finally given a diagnosis and with it a year (72 weeks to be precise) of hospital stays, drugs and tests I never thought existed.

When I got the first comment I freaked out a little bit. I had only told half a handful of people about this blog (all of whom had heard my stories ad nauseum anyway and pretended to be interested but basically stayed well away from it) and although I soon discovered other blogs and left a tentative comment once in a while, I never thought that anybody would read my shit, let alone comment on it. It still surprises me no end. That and that the majority of comments come from such wise and clever and human and gentle and caring and funny and understanding and sympathetic and kind people out there on the planet.

Still, I was more than unnerved when I realised that there are people reading my blog (silly me). Well, I have calmed down and what the heck. And while I will never disclose real names, real places or any such personal information, there it is: the real me tumbling through this maze.

Whereas facebook, that's another story alltogether. I joined it when our daughter decided to make ALL of the world her homeland incl. travelling to ALL of its corners.  Last week a colleague went off in a little huff because I would not let him be my facebook friend. I am old-fashioned here. My facebook friends include a) people I have been able to hold hands with in real life, b) maybe even hugged in real life, c) people who have sat in my kitchen, that is any or even all of my kitchens in the past 50 years, and d) the wonderful kids, parents, lovers, ex-lovers, partners, etc. of a) to c). 95% of the stuff I post of facebook is for my daughter to smile at, the remaining 5% are videos of kittens - and they make her smile as well.

We are getting ready for a visit to the green isle. It's long overdue and there are several very elderly sweethearts waiting for us to bring them on a nice long drive with a pub lunch in Roundwood and a nice cup of tea in Avoca, thank you very much.

Which we will do.

Then we shall attempt to meet some of the 500 cousins but we are making no promises. And of course there are the mountains and yes, I notice the look R gets in his eyes whenever Wicklow is mentioned. So we will pack one pair of walking boots. His pair that is, because packing mine would be so futile and only add extra weight to the baggage allowance. And it still hits me somewhere in the lower stomach, this reality that all that is gone, my energy, my stamina, my health, for crying out loud. But we decided that R simply needs to go on a good long hike with a bit of rain and a packed lunch and slippery mud and all the fantastic scenery. And that I will spend the day visiting pottery shops and then sit and sip tea in one of the grand old houses converted to attract loads of tourists, complete with parks, waterfalls and garden centers.

For the last three years I have tried, really tried to accept that this illness has presented me with limitations that cannot be changed, and I think I have done a fairly good job with this challenge and all the yuk limitations and I swear that I constantly revalue what is left of my health. Concentrating not on my illhealth and symptoms, my vulnerability, but instead on my personal strengths and bla bla bla.

But on some days... Never mind.

Hard to believe, he would have been 70 yesterday.

It's officially the greyest winter here since WWII. Seriously. This morning I got up and took a look outside to watch R's red anorak vanish in the mist and then I said my three words to the cat and crawled back into bed.  For just a little bit longer.

Some day soon, maybe, we will open the windows again, any time we want, and listen to the birds and kids and cats outside. At least that's the idea. Spring etc.

Whereas winter has me inside this dark cave. I fuss about with blankets and shawls and steaming tea and obsess about the cleanliness of the floor tiles in the kitchen. If this continues I will become a recluse. Of sorts. The daily struggle to get out of this house is just that, a struggle. Not only because of all the wrapping up. 

I know near to nothing about social evolution but I think humans are meant to live in small groups not herds of a million or more. Come to think of it we are probably also meant to communicate on a one-to-one basis. Or something like that. I remember reading somewhere that young babies are able to communicate simultaneously with a maximum of three people. At the moment I am down to a maximum of two, provided there are few background noises and I am not tired.

There is this man I know. Not very well, really. He is the second husband of my friend U. He is a good bit older. He's into cars. I have been told by more than one reliable source that he can take a car, any make, apart, down to the tiny bits and reassemble it - no bother. He was a ralley driver, crossed the Sahara desert, a man of adventures, always with cars. He drives a tow truck now in his spare time. All over the country. Making friends and fixing cars.

He has been strange lately, U told me. Listless, moody, boring in fact. And U loves to have fun, the two of them were always out and about. They have been arguing, it turns out. Many times. And things got worse, but in a weird way. Instead of storming out and getting into a car or maybe at least some angry shouting he has withdrawn to the sofa and the docusoaps on daytime TV. 

In the end, U somehow got him to see a doctor, and another one and another one. And today she called me to say that they have been told that he has Alzheimer's. And that he is back on that sofa now and refuses to eat or drink. We were quiet for some time listening to the static noises of our cell phones. She said she has never been so angry in her life. Angry and frightened.

I know the statistics, in the 65 - 70 yrs group one in 20, from age 80 onwards every third person. 

When I cycled home tonight just after sunset I decided to ignore the sound of the thin layer of ice crackling under my tyres. I just needed to get home real fast, needed to open the door and walk into the kitchen where R was singing along with the radio, chopping carrots, his glass of red wine on the counter.

We were debating last night whether it was not a bit too early for the lilies and the fig tree to go outside. Well, to be honest, we didn't debate, I just politely expressed my opinion without unduly raising my voice (too much) that they should stay in the laundry for a bit longer, that I smug as I am know more about winter in this part of the world than R will ever do. Even after all these years. Spring in Ireland may start on Feb 1st but we are not in Co. Dublin, aren't we.

So we wake up to -4°C and now what? I suppose this is what gives the edge to a gardener's year. And I am not the gardener in this set up. Who is getting obviously restless. 

Yesterday morning I woke up with the dreadful image of R collapsing on the road and so I got dressed and cycled at slow speed behind and in front of him while he did his training for the half marathon. I could see the steam coming off him while I tried to huff and blow some warmth into my frozen fingers. But I am not convinced. Or rather: I have no idea what makes completing a half marathon in a sweaty crowd attractive. But I probably have to cycle along now with him until this is over and done with.

three days in Frankonia

doom and hope

I am having one these once (!) in a while days where it seems to be the right thing to just let it happen and not do anything at all. That is, I eventually made it out of bed but only because it got too uncomfortable what with all the bedding tangled up and the cat crawling all over. No, today the message is: rest. How this used to scare the shit out of me when I first got ill. The heavy shoulders and aching chest thing and this dire need to lay down my head. Now I am just glad I don't have to do a thing today. 

And for most of next week which is a holiday week. 

Just that on Tuesday we will spend 4+ hrs driving on the motorway to get to my father's dinner thingy on Wednesday and driving another 4+ hrs on the motorway back home on Thursday. Considering the weather forecast, this could turn out to be a bit of an adventure. Snow and stuff.

The stomach is cranky. I am still at the porridge-without-milk stage with an occasional piece of toast here and there but walking into the kitchen is an otherwise pointless exercise. Coffee is a distant memory and just typing the words peppermint/chamomile tea makes me want to weep with loss.

Right now R is down there clashing with pots and pans, frying up something Spanish - so he claims - for himself.

I hope they serve porridge and toast at the fancy restaurant my father has booked.

In the papers I have been reading the most awful stories, we are doomed. As for the books, I have given the my-grandfather-the-nazi search a break and what do I find? Doom and hope. Yes, doom and hope.

First, the doom (which is all self indulgent and pompous, but then what do you expect from a thriller):

It seemed to me that there was nothing new to be discovered ever again. Our society was utterly, ruinously derivative. We were the first human beings who would never see anything for the first time. We stare at the wonders of the world, dull-eyed, underwhelmed. Mona Lisa, the Pyramids, jungle animals on attack, ancient icebergs collapsing, volcanoes erupting. I can't recall a single amazing thing I have seen first hand that I didn't immediately reference to a movie or TV show. A fucking commercial. I've literally seen it all, and the worst thing, the thing that makes me want to blow my brains out, is: The secondhand experience is always better. The image is crisper, the view is keener, the camera angle and the soundtrack manipulate my emotions in a way reality can't anymore. I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the internet.

Whereas, the hope, well, what else is there?

Wade Davis and his team are travelling back by Jeep from an outpost in the Sahara desert, having experienced a freak thunderstorm pounding their camp some nights before. They meet a caravan of six men and 12 camels transporting salt. If salt gets wet, it crumbles and loses all value. So the men had been forced to stop in the desert to dry out the slabs of salt before continuing their journey. They had lost three critical days and were down to their last quart of water, 150 km from the nearest well with a cargo and animals that represented the entire wealth of their families. They knew of a depression some 25 km away that if excavated might yield water and they sent one of their young mates with one camel. And Davis continues:

While we waited for their friend to return, the leader of the party kindled a twig fire and with their last reserve of water offered us tea. It is said in the Sahara that if a stranger turns up at your tent, you will slaughter the last goat that provides the only milk for your children to feast your guests. One never knows when you will be that stranger turning up in the night, cold and hungry, thirsty and in need of shelter. As I watched him pour me a cup of tea, I thought to myself, these are the moments that allow us all to hope.

We woke up this morning to more snow. But it's just a dusting, a feeble attempt. This is not winter any longer, I try and convince myself. Looking out onto this monochrome world searching for a spark of colour I close my eyes and I see S as a toddler, her mop of blond hair blowing in the breeze. She waves to me with both hands raised up high, her cheeks red with giggles. Her red wellie boots shine as she splashes around the water's edge. Later on we cycle back home, she is sitting in the fancy bike seat behind R and her arms are gripping his chunky blue sweater. I am a bit behind them watching and I remember my heart jumping: Oh, here is the rest of my life. These are my people.

a bunch of bullies and devils dressed up in nun's habits

water water everywhere

 

Who'd have thought that there is such a thing as an inflamed duodenum. But apparently this is what has been waking me up in the early hours with a couple of nifty pokes between my right ribs for the last week or two.
So there. More meds. Well, I'll try everything once, I used to say, stressing the little word once.

I wonder what I got myself into now. And why. The stack of books on nazi crimes and history and memoirs of children and grandchildren of nazis is growing, almost daily I receive notifications from various university libraries to my numerous requests and then there are the websites I haven't even started to check out. I know somewhere there will be traces of my grandfather, maybe just specks, little nothings. Maybe more. Probably more. I just found out that he was on the run for months, hiding from the allied forces.

Last night I read for what I thought was maybe an hour in this book by the granddaughter of one of the henchmen. She is about my age and she did the dirty work of digging up the facts after watching her mother die the slow death of alcohol, valium and depression. Her intelligent mother, the daughter of one of the henchmen. And with a lot of effort I kept on reassuring myself that this was not my mother, nothing like my mother and that I must not confuse these two women in my mind. That the similarities (age, education, family circumstances) are far too simplistic, too "easy". And yet. By the time I put the book down, forced myself to put the book down and try to get some sleep it was 3 am.

I wonder if I should stop this right now. I wonder if I still can.

tropical heat, breadfruit trees, clear skies, birds, my girl exploring, fearless, curious as always

while guilt is not hereditary, guilt feelings are

Coming home on Friday evening on the little stretch just before I turn into our driveway the car took a heavy swing on the ice and I barely made it in one piece. I furiously hacked away the icy rim of the kerb. I hate winter. I hate winter. And so on.

Back inside the lonely house - R away at a conference - I opened the mail, the ususal promises, wine tasting vouchers, ever faster broadband, estate agents asking whether we want to sell, and this fat envelope from the national archives in Berlin. 

And so I fold open two photocopies, I still have my coat on and my gloves and the keys on my lap.

One copy tells me that my grandfather joined the nazi party on Jan 10, 1931. The other lists all his various addresses and party duties/ranks between that day and July 1939.

The accompanying letter explains that these are only preliminary findings and that according to my query and the information I supplied, further searches have been initiated and any results will be posted asap.

I mean, what's the big deal. I guessed all along that the story of him having to join under duress - as rarely as it was mentioned - was simply family folklore. But still. And I have nothing else, yet. And this may be it. Nothing too sinister, eh? Except for the fact that this intelligent, well educated man, a father and husband, at age 35, decided that he wanted to be part of the mob that was growing and festering around him, pushing for power at all cost, with promises too blatantly empty for a scientist to accept. In 1931, he was well into his university career, his research projects were promising, he had published his first important papers. And he decided out of his own free will to join this pack. 

I don't want to imagine his motivation. I don't want to even consider it. And yet, my thoughts are jumping and all sorts of explanations pop up, the far fetched ones, the obvious ones.

And that night, with impeccable timing, I end up watching a documentary after flicking my way through the talk shows and romcoms for distraction. A documentary about the children and grandchildren of one of the henchmen. As it happens, there are many connections, places, times, names, that I can link to my grandfather, to stories I have been told by my mother about her glamorous and happy childhood.

And as I sit in front of the flickering screen, with the little cat on my lap, a cup of cold tea in my hand, I can hear the clicking in my mind, the adjusting and rearranging, I hear distant voices and laughter, only it sounds like the cackling of mean birds and I run to the bathroom and throw up my dinner.

I love the internet

The sheer

dull

scintillating

infantile

anarchy

of

it

all.

Boisterous Brughel medieval market.

Futuristic Middle Ages

Directed
by

Friar Tuck.

And offset, whispers
of
Robin
lurking
in
wood.

I love the internet.
Cos it's ours.

 http://barringtonkevin.blogspot.com/

more snow

no sun for ages, feel like a withered leaf

You are only ever as happy as your least-happy child. You want your children to live a life with as little struggle as possible, and you never want bad things to happen. But, of course, that's just not realistic.

Kevin Bacon

it snowed

 

I was travelling by train in the amazing valley with all the castles yesterday morning. The appointment with my lovely immunologist was, well, lovely, but she will not let me lower the meds. I still like her, though.

I met the whole world out there, yesterday. Ten hours, four trains, three train stations, three taxi rides, one bus trip. Three lousy cups of coffee, one black hair in a cheese sandwich, one sticky cinnamon bun. 

And an amazing array of ringtones.

The first taxi driver had a picture of his large family on the dashboard and when I asked about it - as in having a conversation while we were inching forward through the traffic jam - he told me that this was his family in Syria and that there has been no contact for the last four weeks and then he cried. And I could not hold his hand or anything because of the traffic and so we sat in silence for a while and when he dropped me he said, thank you. And then I started to cry.

On the first train, two excited young women asked me where to sit for the best view of the amazing valley, like, with all the castles. So we got all fixed up by the window and they sorted out their backpacks and their cameras and ipods and water bottles and peeled off their ski coats and fleeze hoodies and scarves and piled it all nicely into a heap to lean into. And then they both fell asleep for the entire journey through the amazing valley with all the castles. 

The second taxi driver was from Kurdistan and he was very happy, because in Kurdistan there are blizzards and mountains of snow and no taxis to drive and make money. He was also very happy because I said my three words in Kurdish but he would not translate them for me - nobody does. And I have no idea what it means but whenever I say them, people laugh happily.

The third taxi driver was from Afghanistan and after a short moment we both remembered that we had met before at my previous appointment at the clinic. He filled me in on his son's career (2nd year at law school) and his parents back in Kabul (safe and sound) and he gave me his card and I had to promise to book him as my personal driver the next time I come to this city.

On the fourth train I counted seven different nuns, i.e. in different outfits and totally unrelated, or probably only related due to the fact that they are nuns. I am getting lost here. Obviously, I haven't a clue about nuns. They all read books and smiled inwardly from time to time. One book was called Journey to Freedom.

Opposite me, I young man was reading The Story of Mathematics, which must have been a bit boring because he switched to Courage for Power after a while. 

And I looked out at the amazing valley with all the castles, all pretty and romantic, vineyards and churches and ferries. The castles that were once fortresses, strongholds of warlords, the river that was stained red with blood, dead bodies floating in it. The vineyards and forests that were filled with armies and rebels and tanks and bombs. Battlefields, bombed bridges with people fleeing across. Not so long ago.

Sharp frost and clear sky. Woke up with quite a handful of my usual complaints and it was really hard work sitting through two hours of Jarvis Cocker's Sunday Service - at the same time cutting up some of R's check shirts for my neverending patchwork project. Now the world and its noises are fuzzy and roaring and my head feels delicate and sore. But what the heck. Tomorrow is my next appointment with Dr B, the loveliest immunologist I know. I will take the train up along the flooded river.

To put it still more plainly, the desire for security and the feeling of insecurity are the same thing.

Alan Watts

After I had woken up in a fuzz of loneliness in my tangled bed sheets, with the grey light of another damp day coming in through the windows, after I let out one my deep dramatic sighs, R shouted from downstairs: Don't be so hard on yourself, love.

Happy Birthday David Bowie!

Imagine a 14 year old slightly akward girl, she has been told that she has a brain but she wants to be wild, she looks out for the odd ones, the school anarchists. She times her walk from school to the tram station so that she can follow this guy wearing an old army anorak with autographs from rock stars. When she eventually finds the courage and asks him to have a closer look, he proudly tells her about hitch hiking to the Isle of White Festival and Jimi Hendrix and The Doors and together they gently stroke the inky signatures of Joni Mitchell and Ritchie Havens.

Later that summer she moves to a small town on the east coast of England. A depressing place, high unemployment, strikes, school uniforms, Danny Osborn and The Partridge Family, fried eggs and toast. But in between the grey and damp, there is glitter and blue nail varnish and platform shoes and suddenly the world explodes and her head bursts open and the days and nights are full of dancing.

memory

 

I was in paradise after we stepped off that ferry (the one with the three masts) and four long hours of sea sickness

To doubt whether life's worth pursuing
Is doubtless a doubt one should quell
If nothing is really worth doing
It's surely worth doing it well

Jens Arup

The thought that there will be spring and light in the evenings soon is just wonderful. Wonderful.

internal dialogue

Intestine to brain: Hello? Stay off that pumpkin seed bread! Remember last night, between 4 and 6, no? Come on, you were cursing every seed you ate.

Brain to no one in particular: What's that? Is this yet another tinitus? Never mind, how about a slice of this gorgeous pumpkin seed bread.

Intestine to brain: Hold it, hold it, be a good girl, will you. No need to have another sleepless night.

Brain to no one in particular: That was a weird dream last night, sort of colicky, was it? About that bread, butter maybe? Or a slice of Manchego, a couple of olives?

Intestine to brain: For goodness sake, no butter or cheese! There will be cramps runs and you know that. But I seem to be talking to a wall here.

Brain to intestine: Is that you? What's up? I am thinking avocado instead of butter. Good, eh?

Intestine to brain: It's the bread, the bread with all those massive seeds, you fool!!!

Brain to intestine: Look, I am sprinkling cumin on the avocado. Cumin is good, isn't it? And no cheese. And only this one slice, I promise, or maybe just one more...

Intestine to brain: I give up. But don't blame me.

happy new year

Here, it's all a smoky mess with people shooting up fireworks from their front steps across the sky. (R complains every time about the waste of money and the noise. The cat goes into hiding.)

In paradise, people pop hundreds of balloons, which can be very noisy, too.

In Ireland, the bells ring while people get seriously drunk.