they say 'you know' and 'theres always one',
rebellion inside meant there was neither
now the sea extends beyond the horizon
in the waves I am the confident diver
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Thursday, 2 August 2007
first days
today as i lounged back on a very cramped bus i thought about probably what is most peoples first introduction into the outside world-their first day of school. it is strange that it is just the photo albums of proud parents that add weight to this momentous occasion. every single person-bar those that are home schooled must go through this particular experience and yet we seldom articulate this almost universal experience and the emotions experienced alongside it. it is particularly strange we do not discuss it in books magazines newspapers etc-when one considers that we relive the first day experience many times over within the average life time. there is first day at secondary school, first day at college/university and first days at new jobs. as with all experiences each holds its unique points but i am certain there must be a collective experience/feeling or image we can recall that resonates itself with many-regardless of age, nationality etc.
I do not really recall my own first day-images are lost now as time has gone by. there are the photos-me standing beside the garage dwarfed by a sea of maroon and a smile that would light up the darkest of caves. i was so excited-little did i know how i would experience the education system in later years. its strange to see yourself so small, so enthusiastic-so naive. everything onour body looks so formal-unlike the usual grass stained grubby attire. my hair was blond then. i do not remember the journey-although i would be travelling the same route for the next 8 years and even now could walk it backwards after a night at the pub. i do remember the first entry-the room smelled of shoe polish, a dull detergent scent and the bland waft of fresh chalk. it was like stepping into a field of dark red flowers-almost immediately i could be mistaken for any of these strangers, we were all the same. i remember scanning the room-holding tightly onto my mother's hand, the previous excitement hiding in the car i had just exited. there were so many faces i had not seen before-and many of them much bigger than me. i did not like this-being the eldest child. as we opened the door everybody turned around to eye up the newcomer-there were people everywhere-in chairs, on top of desks, sitting rigidly cross-legged on the floor. they were too absorbed in idle childish chatter to pass remark-but they had already neatly fitted this new child into a category. usually at this age its not eligibility due to social background (although those children do exist) but rather "would she make a good playmate?". children are wonderful really-like us adults their self interest is blatantly evident.
you expect kindness on your first day any where-usually it is absent, although sometimes it braves the new soil at an unexpected moment. you expect to learn so much-you do, but not usually the kinds of things you expect to learn (like how to spell). you learn no matter where you are, there is always a unspoken frisson in the air-an energy never written about on work websites or in school brochures but exists independent of any enthusiastic claims. you learn almost immediately who you want to be your best friend-usually the person most inaccessible to you. you learn at later first days that the first to welcome you and include you will need to be watched at a future point.
these thoughts go unremarked upon in the photos hanging up in the hallways of family homes. the real whirls of emotion that pass through the body of a child are often forgotten about-other than by the parent who will always remember the response to "and how was your first day at school?". you live first days over and over-somehow time manages to alter them into a tapestry of a yesteryear where the colours aren't quite as bright and glorious.
I do not really recall my own first day-images are lost now as time has gone by. there are the photos-me standing beside the garage dwarfed by a sea of maroon and a smile that would light up the darkest of caves. i was so excited-little did i know how i would experience the education system in later years. its strange to see yourself so small, so enthusiastic-so naive. everything onour body looks so formal-unlike the usual grass stained grubby attire. my hair was blond then. i do not remember the journey-although i would be travelling the same route for the next 8 years and even now could walk it backwards after a night at the pub. i do remember the first entry-the room smelled of shoe polish, a dull detergent scent and the bland waft of fresh chalk. it was like stepping into a field of dark red flowers-almost immediately i could be mistaken for any of these strangers, we were all the same. i remember scanning the room-holding tightly onto my mother's hand, the previous excitement hiding in the car i had just exited. there were so many faces i had not seen before-and many of them much bigger than me. i did not like this-being the eldest child. as we opened the door everybody turned around to eye up the newcomer-there were people everywhere-in chairs, on top of desks, sitting rigidly cross-legged on the floor. they were too absorbed in idle childish chatter to pass remark-but they had already neatly fitted this new child into a category. usually at this age its not eligibility due to social background (although those children do exist) but rather "would she make a good playmate?". children are wonderful really-like us adults their self interest is blatantly evident.
you expect kindness on your first day any where-usually it is absent, although sometimes it braves the new soil at an unexpected moment. you expect to learn so much-you do, but not usually the kinds of things you expect to learn (like how to spell). you learn no matter where you are, there is always a unspoken frisson in the air-an energy never written about on work websites or in school brochures but exists independent of any enthusiastic claims. you learn almost immediately who you want to be your best friend-usually the person most inaccessible to you. you learn at later first days that the first to welcome you and include you will need to be watched at a future point.
these thoughts go unremarked upon in the photos hanging up in the hallways of family homes. the real whirls of emotion that pass through the body of a child are often forgotten about-other than by the parent who will always remember the response to "and how was your first day at school?". you live first days over and over-somehow time manages to alter them into a tapestry of a yesteryear where the colours aren't quite as bright and glorious.
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
northern Ireland
just having reflections of late, I'm sure it has something to do with the amount of spare time on my hands. I am officially unemployed-but I'm not complaining as it is giving me time to reflect on what I'm at and where I am.
The love affair is still not over between Northern Ireland and I, I still get a giddiness every time I think of grabbing a car and going up north to the antrim coast, to listen to an accent that sounds more Scottish than the Scots themselves. (I really do hope no Scottish read this post, one national character trait that seems to permeate all is a pride of gigantic proportions.) I like to imagine the rolling hills of antrim and the Gothic gloom of the coastline. I've only visited once and it is almost as lovely as my mother's native Donegal.
I write this entry with reflection in mind as it seems to be a rather regular theme in my life these days (as stated above for those with a memory like mine). I am beginning to come to grips with the identity situation here in Northern Ireland, as it relates so closely to my own questions about identity. Like northern Ireland, I am Irish but bear the scars of time spent in England, including a very home counties come Irish accent. it lies so much deeper than this though. like Northern Ireland I posses a strong sense of needing to live by the rule book, yet hold a very rebellious streak inside. it is almost as if the calm kindness of the catholic faith mingles with a very British streak of duty and honour. Even in choice of music-i like to listen to spontaneous Irish traditional music with its outburst of furious spirit but love to listen to classical music-imagining graduation ceremonies in Ox bridge surrounded by the ruling classes.
As I walked the falls road yesterday, i behaved like a typical outsider-i stared in amazement at the militant irishness on display and gawped at the locals. I could have almost passed for a Protestant the way I was carrying myself. I felt like one anyhow-defensive, upright yet meek in my ways. I was also acutely aware of the British in my voice-i have become used to the way it repels the Irish up here like fly killer. sometimes i wish i could place a chain on my passport and wear it like a piece of bling around my neck to assure people I am not a land owning Hun. sadly even this would have them muttering phrases such as 'plastic paddy'.
Northern Ireland is definitely changing, but like all change it seems nearly impossible to quantify. up here, nobody wants to know unless you are the extreme version of anything-being moderate seems to lead to being isolated. unfortunately the situation in stormont at the moment reflects this.
but i believe, like John Ardagh comments in his book when talking of 'Irish' writers, the problem is not with politics as such or faith-but differences in culture. I am not a loyalist sympathiser in any shape or form but there was something very intimidating about the presentation of irishness on the falls road. the kind of presentation that would make you think if Ireland was 32 once more-history would repeat itself. Protestants would be burned out of their homes and the same hatred would continue as it does now. The move towards peace would probably consolidate itself so much more if there were a shared culture rather than two distinct and separate. I find it funny when northern Irish people say they identify with the English as opposed to the Irish- the English are a different breed all together and most remain highly ignorant of the situation in the north.
I actually do believe the tables have turned, especially in Queen's University where the Protestants tend to be so much more shy and retiring than the militant nationalists. it is a credit to the Irish that they have managed to preserve so much of their culture-language, songs etc even when their country has been occupied by a foreign force.
The love affair is still not over between Northern Ireland and I, I still get a giddiness every time I think of grabbing a car and going up north to the antrim coast, to listen to an accent that sounds more Scottish than the Scots themselves. (I really do hope no Scottish read this post, one national character trait that seems to permeate all is a pride of gigantic proportions.) I like to imagine the rolling hills of antrim and the Gothic gloom of the coastline. I've only visited once and it is almost as lovely as my mother's native Donegal.
I write this entry with reflection in mind as it seems to be a rather regular theme in my life these days (as stated above for those with a memory like mine). I am beginning to come to grips with the identity situation here in Northern Ireland, as it relates so closely to my own questions about identity. Like northern Ireland, I am Irish but bear the scars of time spent in England, including a very home counties come Irish accent. it lies so much deeper than this though. like Northern Ireland I posses a strong sense of needing to live by the rule book, yet hold a very rebellious streak inside. it is almost as if the calm kindness of the catholic faith mingles with a very British streak of duty and honour. Even in choice of music-i like to listen to spontaneous Irish traditional music with its outburst of furious spirit but love to listen to classical music-imagining graduation ceremonies in Ox bridge surrounded by the ruling classes.
As I walked the falls road yesterday, i behaved like a typical outsider-i stared in amazement at the militant irishness on display and gawped at the locals. I could have almost passed for a Protestant the way I was carrying myself. I felt like one anyhow-defensive, upright yet meek in my ways. I was also acutely aware of the British in my voice-i have become used to the way it repels the Irish up here like fly killer. sometimes i wish i could place a chain on my passport and wear it like a piece of bling around my neck to assure people I am not a land owning Hun. sadly even this would have them muttering phrases such as 'plastic paddy'.
Northern Ireland is definitely changing, but like all change it seems nearly impossible to quantify. up here, nobody wants to know unless you are the extreme version of anything-being moderate seems to lead to being isolated. unfortunately the situation in stormont at the moment reflects this.
but i believe, like John Ardagh comments in his book when talking of 'Irish' writers, the problem is not with politics as such or faith-but differences in culture. I am not a loyalist sympathiser in any shape or form but there was something very intimidating about the presentation of irishness on the falls road. the kind of presentation that would make you think if Ireland was 32 once more-history would repeat itself. Protestants would be burned out of their homes and the same hatred would continue as it does now. The move towards peace would probably consolidate itself so much more if there were a shared culture rather than two distinct and separate. I find it funny when northern Irish people say they identify with the English as opposed to the Irish- the English are a different breed all together and most remain highly ignorant of the situation in the north.
I actually do believe the tables have turned, especially in Queen's University where the Protestants tend to be so much more shy and retiring than the militant nationalists. it is a credit to the Irish that they have managed to preserve so much of their culture-language, songs etc even when their country has been occupied by a foreign force.
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
home sweet home?
at home again, or am i wrong in now referring to the place where i have not lived full-time for three years as home? of course it begs the question of what makes a home and i certainly am well aware after moving about that simply living somewhere does not a home make. here in eire we can talk the talk about the Celtic tiger, european union and progression but it is a mistake to believe the small town complex has altered dramatically. today we might have the odd bistro/coffee shop littered here and there amongst dull streets, their Italian red offering a splash of colour-but people the people frequenting these new joints remain largely the same. they may drive their '06 motors and bleat into mobile phones about golfing on Sunday, but these same people still gallop into mass on a Sunday morning and still live in fear of what the locals might say. going out in a small Irish town is an experience to say the least. everybody carefully watches one another-gathering the seeds of a juicy story. they love to attack outsiders with the carefully coughed comment under the breath. as i am not from here i have tended to carefully choose my company-making sure to socialise with people who live the majority of their lives in Dublin and are open to change.
Friday, 1 June 2007
job hunting
another day another post. Not quite, that makes it seem as if I happen to post every day. I have begun the soul destroying process of applying for work. employment. A job. I believe the general fear that most of us feel when doing this process goes very much untalked about. I'm not sure why, bar a few lucky footballers wives, aristrocrats and others, we all have to go out to 'put bread and butter on the table', so i don't know why we don't have a collective moan about it.
For anybody afraid of being judged, afraid of being scrutinised, afraid of being put on the spot-working life is simply not for you. this includes me. each time i click a button online, the "apply for this position" button, I break out into a cold sweat, comforted only by logging off from the website. there is something so derogatory about having to sell yourself to a nameless person in human resources, to have to lay your life bare, whilst they compare it to other more fruitful lives. I would love to write down what i really do in my spare time, it goes more along the lines of laying about in the house doing nothing as opposed to swimming and yoga. i love seeing other peoples CVs, it is possibly the best form of self harm you could possibly do. forget drinking to foget yourself on a saturday night, seeing another (more productive) person's CV is like dragging a broken bottle over your lazy soul. I remember sitting in a careers class with my rival from second level, and we had to give feedback on her CV. All 3 pages. forget quips about how cvs should only be two pages at most, I felt sickened at her fufilled and proactive life. it was like looking at the life of a saint. she smiled at my sullen face, as some sort of consellation prize. i read it to mean "maybe someday you will get your act together. like me."
in my world listening to kate bush and the ability to make a mean soup would count for something, but sadly in my wee world of northern ireland all this seems to attract is comments about "housewife suitability". i have to go now, and ring a potential employer to receive feedback on my cv. can somebody please pass me a towel to mop up the sweat?
For anybody afraid of being judged, afraid of being scrutinised, afraid of being put on the spot-working life is simply not for you. this includes me. each time i click a button online, the "apply for this position" button, I break out into a cold sweat, comforted only by logging off from the website. there is something so derogatory about having to sell yourself to a nameless person in human resources, to have to lay your life bare, whilst they compare it to other more fruitful lives. I would love to write down what i really do in my spare time, it goes more along the lines of laying about in the house doing nothing as opposed to swimming and yoga. i love seeing other peoples CVs, it is possibly the best form of self harm you could possibly do. forget drinking to foget yourself on a saturday night, seeing another (more productive) person's CV is like dragging a broken bottle over your lazy soul. I remember sitting in a careers class with my rival from second level, and we had to give feedback on her CV. All 3 pages. forget quips about how cvs should only be two pages at most, I felt sickened at her fufilled and proactive life. it was like looking at the life of a saint. she smiled at my sullen face, as some sort of consellation prize. i read it to mean "maybe someday you will get your act together. like me."
in my world listening to kate bush and the ability to make a mean soup would count for something, but sadly in my wee world of northern ireland all this seems to attract is comments about "housewife suitability". i have to go now, and ring a potential employer to receive feedback on my cv. can somebody please pass me a towel to mop up the sweat?
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
unfinished poem for yeats
Dear Yeats
The greatest love endured
tumultuous times of war,
And Ireland was now celebrated
in ways not seen before
Your eyes coloured by ideals
told magic mystical tales-
Of grand Lissadell House,
and epic beauty beyond the pale
I have often dreamt of Ben Bulben,
smudged glossy white with snow
or imagined Glencar's waterfall,
roaring furiously as it flowed.
My eyes have fixed gaze upon
Maud Gonne's handsome face-
And since then I never question
Your passion and its place
for Diarmuid and Grainnes realm
The greatest love endured
tumultuous times of war,
And Ireland was now celebrated
in ways not seen before
Your eyes coloured by ideals
told magic mystical tales-
Of grand Lissadell House,
and epic beauty beyond the pale
I have often dreamt of Ben Bulben,
smudged glossy white with snow
or imagined Glencar's waterfall,
roaring furiously as it flowed.
My eyes have fixed gaze upon
Maud Gonne's handsome face-
And since then I never question
Your passion and its place
for Diarmuid and Grainnes realm
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