Author: Ruth Powell

On Tuesday I tried to connect my new work laptop and my new work mobile to my new work printer.  It was quite the day!  I’ve never been good at following technical instructions, and I’ve had a lot of disappointment in this area.  Tuesday was no exception.

I started by unwrapping the printer from the box and putting it centre stage on the table.  It was smaller than I had imagined, and I was immediately drawn to the four bottles of printer ink.  The names of these bottles of ink were marvellous; there was black, yellow, cyan and magenta.  I poured them into an area of the machine which looked most suitable, and then I stood back to admire my achievement.

The machine lacked leads. 

There was only one cord to connect the printer to a source of electricity which meant it would be communicating with the laptop and mobile, sans wires.  This is where I lost my exuberance because I wasn’t sure how I would pass on this information to the mobile and laptop. 

How would they know? How would I tell them?

Instead, I gave my attention to the mobile telephone and my first issue was how to open the little place where the sim cards go.  It seemed that I needed a small, flat pin-like tool, which had obviously been thrown in the bin along with the packaging and the instruction manuals.  It seemed odd to me that the entire capacity of the device depended on something you might win in a Christmas cracker.  This struck me as a design flaw, so I thought I would share that opinion on Twitter.

Then I remembered that I had recently taken a vow of zero-conflict, after watching an interview with Keanu Reeves.  Keanu says he’s reached the stage of life where he no longer engages in unnecessary arguments, if he can avoid it.  He says that even if someone states that 2 + 2 = 5, Keanu says “that’s correct, have fun!” and carries on with his day.  I had decided to follow this philosophy and perception, but then I forgot.  I pretend I’m watching documentaries about the Dalia Lama and the dangers of rising sea levels, but I’m not.

I’m watching interviews with Keanu, Leo and Dolly.

The laptop was ready to go. 

This was because it arrived already set up, so that was no challenge.  I just had to lift the lid and press go, and everything was fine.  However, when I tried to print a document, it wouldn’t work, so I turned the laptop off and back on again.

“Why aren’t the machines speaking to one another?” I asked my partner who was desperately keeping out of operations.

“Because they are not sentient beings” he replied, and he put on his headphones ready for his zoom.

I decided that this was the perfect time for me to step outside for a while, so I left the site and went for a walk.

I needed to go to the pharmacist to buy some antihistamine and antiseptic cream for my rash.  I have sensitive skin, which flares up if I eat prawns or expose myself to too much sun and heat.  Sometimes it happens if I mix strong hand sanitisers.

The rash begins with indiscernible red spots on my right hand, that look like bites from microscopic insects.  At first, I hardly notice them and they’re no trouble at all.  However, if they start to spread, they begin to get itchy, and what I need to avoid is the stage where they become clusters of red mounds, in team formations.

If they spread onto my back and stomach, they go full scale Elizabethan and by the time they reach my thighs and shins the itching is relentless.  In the past, I’ve always lathered myself up with cream, popped some antihistamine, and hoped for the best.  I don’t have any medical training, but this form of treatment has been successful before.

When I got back from my medical scoping mission, my new technology was seamlessly working in harmony with one another and I could see a previously queued document being printed in colour.  I could almost hear the drums of Also Sprach Zarathustra playing in the background, as I surveyed the wonder that was in synchronisation, in my living room.

All was well. 

I could almost feel the rash decreasing in fury in response to the new office equipment being all set up, and everything was suddenly as it should be.  As a celebration, I decided to watch another interview with Keanu, and I put the kettle on for some afternoon Earl Grey tea.

Up

     and            and up                  and up                   

            down              and down             and down we go.

The next day I received some upsetting family news from Wales, which made everything still again.  In amongst the noise, haze and strangeness of our lives, everything went quiet.  I remembered, again, that our time here is finite, that love and kindness are all that matter, and that being far from home is heart breaking.

We, who are far from home, we miss you.

We, who are far from home, we love you.

We, who are far from home, will see you soon again.

Of all the things I was needlessly concerned about, pre-2020, I can safely say that worrying about living though a pandemic, never crossed my mind.  I worried about being eaten by sharks, being sucked out of aeroplane windows, falling off the cliffs on the Aaron Islands, and surviving a nuclear winter: but I was never anxious about how I would cope in a pandemic. 

I still wake up some mornings and think, is this really happening?  Is this what a pandemic experience is?  Are some people having a bit more pandemicness than me?  Am I doing it wrong? 

For the most part, I’m thankful that I have my health, shelter and a salaried job, but in moments of extreme, spoilt selfishness I wish that it was more real.  Do you know what I mean?  Living with a deadly, infectious, mutating virus is so tiringly uneventful, and I mean that in the most gracious way possible.  I’m very happy that boredom is my main complaint, but this loop I’m in, is exhausting.

Now that we are in week six of level five, in Lockdown Three, it’s easy to have lost track of time, especially now that there are Easter eggs and Valentine’s chocolates in the shops.  I differentiate days by the food I eat or by the shows I watch, as that’s the only way to do it. 

15 November? 

Ah yes, that was the day I ate cauliflower cheese for breakfast, cut my own hair and watched ten hours of The Crown.  I remember it well. 

I don’t know if I’ve told you this before, but this loop I’m in, is unsteadying. 

Although I have to say, my intrinsic negative cynicism and laziness are helping me through the loop.  I don’t really mind if I don’t get dressed sometimes, and I never believe any Virus Good News, so I’m not disappointed when it doesn’t come to pass.  As I mentioned last week, I’ve now accepted that we are going to live like this forever, so that doesn’t frighten me anymore.  I’m pleased I’ve moved effortlessly into this stage of acceptance, and I am looking forward to you joining me.

I don’t mind staying indoors all the time, dressed like I’m permanently prepared for an emergency yoga class or an impromptu séance.  I don’t mind never going back to a place of work, or if the kids don’t go back to school.  I don’t mind never flying again or never going to concerts, restaurants, theatres, cinemas, pubs, galleries or cafés. 

I don’t mind at all.

The more I go out now, the less I want to engage with 3D people because everyone is so cross and irate.  Just yesterday I went to the post office to buy a birthday card and a stamp.  A year ago, I would have done that on the way home from work, and not given it a moment’s thought, but yesterday it was an activity of its own merit.  I brushed my hair in anticipation of seeing other humans, and I wore my posh mask.

The queue was enormous, and everyone had to stay in their little circles which were spaced two metres apart.  There was a couple with a pushchair in front of me, and they were getting too close to the woman up ahead of them.  She was carrying a cup of coffee and was lifting her mask off, from time to time, to take a sip.  She asked the couple with the pushchair if they would move back and stay in their own circle, as they were starting to make her nervous.

I don’t know if the couple with the pushchair didn’t hear her properly or just decided to ignore her, but from the moment of her request, they did nothing but edge closer and closer to her.  It was as if they couldn’t quite help themselves, as if a higher power were forcing them away from their clearly marked circle and towards hers.

She asked them to step back a bit.

They stepped a little closer.

She implored them to step back a bit.

They nudged a little nearer.

It was as if she were the sun, and they were merely in her orbit with no control over their movements.  Eventually she yelled “are yous thick, would you just move back!” and that’s when it all kicked off. 

The couple with the pushchair took off their masks so that everyone could hear their counter argument.  They disagreed that their IQ was lower than average and suggested, instead, that the woman herself was of a character of low morals.  They called her names I’m not comfortable repeating here.  For some reason, the woman threw the remains of her coffee on the floor, until the security guard had to get involved to calm them all down.

Going to the post office didn’t used to be this challenging. 

Simply watching them increased my heart rate and made me desperate to leave.  I bought my card and stamp, thought what a ludicrous species we are, and went home to the safety of the Netflixiverse, where no one uses hand sanitiser.

I miss Dublin though.

I miss the Dublin of fun interactions and stories and debates.  I miss those Saturday afternoons where you would wander into Grogan’s with the pure intention of only staying for one drink.  You run into an old friend you haven’t seen for a long time, and they have the corner seat, a toastie and some news.  By the time you’ve heard the scandal, it’s too late to go shopping for that terracotta water jug, bonsai tree and vintage boxing gloves, so you stay for another round instead.  The afternoon mixes into early evening, and lo and behold, there’s someone else you haven’t seen for an age, who has their own story to tell. 

By the time that it’s time for one for the road, you’re happy and giddy and content.

Now that’s a loop I could do with.

I started January with a feeling of brightness.

I was excited about starting a new job. I was delighted that one of my short stories was included in an anthology called “Cosmos, Creation and Caboodle”. I felt rested after a long Christmas and New Year holiday that included ten-hour sleep sessions (excluding naps), and I was looking forward to my 49th birthday.

Then, on 06 January there was a so-called attempted coup d’état in Washington, where people stormed the Capitol Building, to cease power.  Some of them were dressed as forest animals and mythical creatures, and some of them were armed.  We all agreed that had a group of black men caused the failed insurrection, they would have been shot to the floor before you could say “Fox News”.  However, as they were white, they survived.

A truly more metaphorical image of the last days of Trump, you couldn’t have choreographed yourself.  Once these people claimed the seat of power, and won their place in the house of democracy, what did they choose to do? 

That’s right; they took selfies.

At that very moment I decided to give up on January.   I said to January “OK January.  I hear you and I see you and I feel you.   I will not engage with you any further, I will simply return to my sofa where I will consume chocolates and films until you tell me it’s safe to do something else instead”.  January shrugged and said, “that’s fine by me” and that’s just the way we’ve been playing it.

It’s all still awful and shitty and rotten, isn’t it? 

You have your own original boiling pot of piss water to worry about which might include home schooling, living alone, working from home, working on site, being unemployed, losing your home, being sick or dead. I don’t know your details; but I know you’ve had enough.  I think it might be quite helpful, at this stage, to just remember that no one feels like themselves anymore.  Everyone feels a little unravelled and unusual and unwell.  For further proof of this, let me just tell you of one of my human-to-human interactions lately, and you can judge for yourself.

I met an old friend on Monday.

I know it was Monday because I was wearing clean clothes.  She was standing in the queue outside Tesco, but I walked past her because I didn’t recognise her with her mask on.  When she called out, “Ruth, is that you?” I remembered her voice immediately.

Annie and I used to teach together a long time ago, but I had no idea she lived in the neighbourhood and I was delighted to see her.  For a second I forgot that we couldn’t hug or kiss, so I decided to high five her instead.  Sadly, she didn’t seem to know what I was doing, so she put her arm up to defend herself.  This change in trajectory made me hit her across her forehead instead.  In fact, I slapped her across her forehead, with the palm of my hand, with some force. 

She was surprised to be hit like that, but then, due to the entanglement of our arms, I managed to pull her mask down around her chin as well.  In the end she said “stop, please stop” and finally I did.

I was embarrassed by the assault, and too tired to laugh at myself, so I said something awkward about preferring to shop in Aldi and I crossed the road and went away.  If the scene had taken place last February or March, we would have just laughed about it and found it quirky, clumsy, and odd, but mostly funny.  Imagine witnessing that eleven months ago: imagine seeing two middle aged-masked-women standing in a queue outside Tesco, in the rain, air arm wrestling!

Now, we’re all too frazzled and nervous to be able to deal with the oddities of human interaction.  After the shop, I went home to my indoors fictional screen people, who I am far less likely to hit over their foreheads, when they are least expecting it.

I’m at the level of lockdown where last night I watched a film called The Lake House with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reaves, because David recommended it in an episode of Schitt’s Creek.  Actually, it was a lovely film, although I didn’t fully follow which space time continuum theory the film was espousing, but a lovely, warm, enjoyable film it was.

There’s a part of me which believes that we are going to live like this forever. 

We will always work from home, children will never go back to large schools, non-essential retail shops are a thing of the past, and socialising will forever take place in parks and at other outdoor amenities.  Now that I’ve accepted this truth, my brain has told my mind that it’s actually all OK.  So deceptive is my internalised coping mechanism, that I hear myself tell people that I love the quiet of Lockdown 3, that working from home was made for me, and that I love a slower pace of socialising.

On my side of the street there is a never-ending supply of chocolate, films and satirical North American comedy on Netflix.  There are Terry’s chocolate oranges and mint aeros, sticky toffee puddings and pancakes with chocolate spread and strawberries.  There are lakes of hot chocolates with marshmallows bopping around on the surface, and there are profiteroles.  There are Belgian chocolate eclairs and individually sized black forest trifles.  It is still winter, so there are warm comfy blankets, hot water bottles throughout the day, and camel hair socks, that tie up around your ankles.

It’s fine here. 

We are OK. 

I’ll see you here next week.

Did you ever notice that in order to seem successful and happy you have to sound busy and stressed?  You must be busy at work, against the clock at home, snowed under with your family and swamped with your volunteering and activism.

Busy old you.

When was the last time you asked someone how their work was and they replied, “actually, it’s very easy.  I complete the tasks I have effortlessly and there’s a simple, smooth way through my activities.  It’s quite undemanding which leaves me with plenty of time to concentrate on the more important things in my life.  It’s great thanks, you?”

No one ever says that.

We’re always one email away from a meltdown and if it’s not work it’s our home, family, friends, pets or the traffic.  We incorrectly believe that the opposite of being busy, is being lazy and we’ve managed to equate stress, with being important.

Look no further than our social media for evidence. 

Everything we do is on brand.  A nice walk in the park must be photographed, captioned and on message.  A simple coffee with a friend becomes a political act of solidarity.  A lazy day watching Netflix must be re-packaged into a humorous comment, shared with a thousand of our closest friends.  Even in lockdown we’re sharing posts of our curated lives which prove we’re politically aware, clever, funny, and up to date with politics, climate justice, responses to the virus, and inequality.   

It’s exhausting, isn’t it?

I’m worse than any of you.  Last week my daily average screen time was 32 hours per day, so I really need to take a little break from it all over the Christmas holidays.  What would happen if I didn’t read that tweet, or like that post? 

Nothing would happen. 

Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

Nothing would happen if I stepped away from the machines and had a little rest.  Nothing would happen except my shoulders would thank me, and perhaps my thumbs would come out of scrolling position long enough to turn the page of a book or a magazine instead. I’d save some money on electricity too.  The problem with social media is that it wasn’t designed for us to notice a post and enjoy it fully or feel empathy with the sadness. It was designed for us to continuously scroll until we hit the jackpot of inner satisfaction. Except that can’t be found online.  I think it’s the least mindful activity that I spend my time doing, and too much of it is time consuming, irritating, and silly.    

When I spend time noticing, I’m happier.

If I make a coffee at home and sit to drink it slowly, I enjoy it so much more than if I buy one To Go, and walk down the street with it.  This is because there are too many other wonderful distractions on the street to enjoy like people, weather and seagulls, which takes me away from the sensation of the hot drink. 

Likewise, a cup of Earl Grey in the afternoon, served in my favourite china cup, is infinitely more enjoyable if I curl up on the sofa with it, rather than try and send an email while it cools.  When I truly notice a sunset, a flower, or the shape of the moon I enjoy it so much more than when it’s in my peripheral vision.  This morning, for example, I noticed the smell of damp leaves on the pavement in the street, and it was glorious, heart warming, and divine.

Time spent noticing, isn’t wasted time.

Time may be infinite, but our time here isn’t. 

Time moves on anyway despite what you or I say or do.  Even the shortest day of the year has 24 hours in it, and Time doesn’t mind what we do with it.  Time doesn’t worry if we’re uncomfortable or dissatisfied, alert or clear headed.   Time doesn’t concern itself with if we’re happy or sad, light-hearted or blue. 

Time moves on forwards, that’s just what Time will do.

So thank you for reading me, and for giving me your time.  You’ve been wonderful company this past ten months and I thank you from my heart.  I wish you a warm, safe and well Christmas, and I wish you all you wish for yourselves.

I wish you good time. 

Above all else, I wish you good time.

December 2020

On the first day of time, a freezing fog descended over the sea near Dublin.  It settled on the surface of the water for just a moment, then the clouds gathered it back into themselves before they drifted out of sight.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said a woman I didn’t know.

“Me neither,” I replied, and we smiled at the mystery, and at one another.

The horizon was a mix between the colours of peachy-salmon, indigo and the grey of the evaporating fog.  Later, the sound of fog horns accompanied me home across the city, and it’s how I fell asleep on Sunday night:  to the comforting sound of the fog horns.

I wish I could feel more comfort from the news about the vaccines this week. 

On Tuesday, the first woman and the first man received their Covid19 vaccinations, but I wonder why this doesn’t fill me with more excitement?  I was concerned that the vaccinators who vaccinated the first man and the first woman were vaccinated, and then the obvious next question needed to be answered:  who vaccinated them?

Another concern I have is about the freezers. 

The live vaccines need to be kept in super freezers and Ireland has bought nine of them.  I don’t know if nine is enough.  I might have ordered fifteen to twenty super freezers, just to be on the safe side if one malfunctions, but nine was the decision, and nine have been bought.

Many countries won’t be able to buy the super freezers to store the vaccines.  Some regions of the world don’t have access to reliable electricity or have extra money in their health budgets to vaccinate a population for a disease we didn’t even know about this time last year.

If only we’d developed a vaccine for inequality instead.

Here in Ireland the plan is to get us all done.  The government published a list of the demographic groupings, in the order they will be vaccinated and listed people into fifteen different categories.  I’m in group fourteen.  I’m just ahead of children, teenagers and pregnant people, but below everyone else in the country.  Seeing my lack of essentiality written in a list like that was a little harsh, I don’t mind telling you.  I knew I wasn’t a key worker in society, but fourteen out of fifteen!  Nevertheless, all going well, I should get my injections before next summer.

Probably not before spring.

In the meantime, we have to continue living as we have been because even the vaccinated can pick the virus up, and possibly pass it on.  Maybe that’s why I’m not on Tick Tock singing “Forget your troubles, come on get happy”.  The vaccine is good news, and perhaps we’re half-way through this thing, but it’s not all over yet. 

We’re back at Level Three here in the Republic of Ireland, which is a bit more manageable than Level Five, and somehow it feels easier.  Although, to be honest, the whole level thing is giving me déjà vu. Sometimes, when I’m half-way through a particularly intense sensation of déjà vu, I feel like I’m looping into another one.  I call these déjà two, and they are all so familiar yet stranger than before.  Perhaps I already mentioned that in last week’s blog?

I feel like we’ve done it all before? 

Didn’t we?  Haven’t we?  Didn’t I write about it already?

Didn’t we close everything down once, and open back up? 

Then we closed it all down again, and opened back up? 

It’s a macabre game where winners get to go onto another level and the losers die on ventilators in ICU.  Still, at least we have Christmas, hey?

I’m finding our attachment to Christmas and the complete denial that it’s our first Pandemic Christmas completely hilarious.  I’m not sure if our insistence that Christmas will go ahead makes us the most ridiculous species on earth, or the most endearing.  Possibly a mixture of the two.  It’s as if we’re all pretending that Christmas can be normal for some younger member of our family who hasn’t heard about the virus yet? 

Or are we doing it for ourselves? 

Are we treating ourselves to a midwinter-mini-break where for one day, we celebrate our lives and give thanks for those things we are grateful for?  Maybe we deserve a day off from a no-deal Brexit, Trumpism, the disease and all the other crap.  I’ll start us off, but feel free to jump in at any time with the things you are thankful for. 

I’m grateful for my health and the health of those I love. 

I’m grateful for my warm, safe shelter and that I have reliable work. 

I’m grateful for my friends who make me laugh daily, and the love I feel around me.

I’m grateful for all the fog horns that keep us safe, and I’m very grateful for you.

You who read these musings weekly, I’m so very grateful for you.

Sometimes I think about how sound travels. 

Of course I don’t have the first notion of how sound travels, but the fact that it does is a joy to me.  Right now I can hear the Friday evening traffic, a tap dripping in the kitchen, a siren, and the quiet clicks of this laptops’ keyboard.

I marvel at many things when I have time.

I love to think about our waterproof skin, and how we were all once unfertilised, microscopic eggs.  I love that my body moves without my consciousness getting involved, and isn’t it magical that when we sleep, we dream.  I love to think about my stomach digesting food and turning it into energy so that I can walk, chat and wave my arms up above my head.  I love how we invented music, and that we can read and write.  I love how it was our brains that invented the concept of reality. 

When I don’t have time, I get scared of things instead. 

I’m not sure if you can isolate one thing over another but this evening my current fears are:  this pandemic, capitalism, the menopause, grief, and getting old. 

One of the strangest phobias I have is of cotton wool.  Or, more specifically the sound of cotton wool when someone scrunches it.  If I’m around someone who is scrunching balls of cotton wool, I have to make my excuses and leave the room.  I hate that squeaky itchy sound it makes, and if it goes on for too long, I stop breathing.  Even typing about it now, on these very quiet laptop keys, makes me hold my breath, and I think it’s for the best if we change the subject.

I would like to reach a balance in my life, where I can marvel at the beauty and be scared of the things that frighten us with some sort of rationality and emotional stability.  Isn’t that what we all want, a balanced perception of our subjective experiences of life?  I’m concerned that my emotional reactions are out of balance and, on occasion inappropriate.

Exhibit One:  I’ve been very weepy this week; this was the weeping week. 

I cried after a semi-argument with a woman in the post office queue.  She thought I was too close to her and she wanted me to step backwards.  However, I couldn’t step backwards because then I would have been too near the man behind me. I tired to explain this conundrum to her, but she wasn’t very responsive.  She became very cross and shouted at me, and quite unexpectedly, I wept.

Then I made the cruel mistake of watching that new David Attenborough documentary and I suggest that you give it a miss. Of course David is wonderful, but there’s a very disturbing walrus scene that should best be avoided if you can.  Then as if that’s not enough, David goes on to explain how our species is coming to the end of its run here on the planet, and how destructive we’ve been to all forms of life while in charge. David gives us all a bit of hope at the end, with some suggestions how we can change the outcome, but by this time it was too late for me.

Then I cried because of Christmas, and because I miss my family, and because of all the changes and because of the last of the falling leaves, in St. Stephen’s Green.

All the same, you have to admit that tears are quite remarkable, aren’t they?  Imagine that we evolved with the ability to cry when we feel sad or afraid and I think that’s extraordinary.

It’s also incredible that our brains produce endorphins to allow us to cope with pain.   Our brains don’t want us to feel too much pain, so they have mechanisms to release chemicals into our bodies so that we experience pleasure instead.  Anyone who swims in the icy cold sea knows this to be true.  In order to deal with the cold water shock, the swimmer will experience an incredible sensation of wellness and happiness and bliss.  You genuinely believe you’re having a wonderful time.

Thank you brain, for happy endorphins.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could release them on command, instead of waiting for them to come in response to a harsh event.  Then we could turn them on during Attenborough’s horror show, enjoy them while people shout at us in queues, and just let them do their jobs when you hear that Christmas music unexpectedly.

So let’s embrace the menopause with curiosity instead of fear. Be grateful for the grief we feel, and thankful for the love that caused it. Let’s accept that politics has always been divisive, mean and unkind and let’s be gracious for the opportunity of growing old, with any wisdom that comes our way.

The cotton wool we’ll leave for another day.

I’m afraid I didn’t have much time for writing this week.  In fact, I’ve been neglecting all my projects including the spider plantation, my complex exercise regime, this month’s online courses, and lurking on Twitter.  I’ve been neglecting them all because of Netflix.

Holy mother of God, why did I sign up to Netflix?

Up to now, my home entertainment schedule relied on me downloading films and series from a selection of streaming sites, and this always worked out well.    Occasionally, I would have to watch something with subtitles in Arabic or French but that would give me something else to look at if the film itself was dull.  Things have changed now that I have Netflix.

I signed up with Netflix so that I could watch season four of The Crown without interruption. In a sense, could we perhaps argue that my new addiction is another tragedy caused by the Palace?  I honestly thought I could watch the series and then keep the subscription for a couple of months, to see if there was something else I wanted to enjoy.    

I thought I could handle it, I was wrong.

At first, the variety of choice was too great for me, so I only watched films that I’d seen before.  However, I quickly started watching new content, and all the recommendations Netflix made for me.  I consume Netflix at an alarming rate.  It’s as if I’m doing it for a charity fundraiser or as a challenge for the Guinness Book of World Records and I’m probably damaging myself in some way.  I binge watch while devouring Tesco Belgian chocolate eclairs.  There are currently six cushions, two blankets and a hot water bottle on my sofa. You don’t sit on my sofa; you get into it.  Of course there’s no room on the sofa for my partner so he must sit alone, over by the window.  Sometimes he tries to communicate with me, but I just growl at him, like a bear and return to my new friends in Netflixland.  I curl up on my sofacave while watching hours of new shows, and it’s just a matter of time before I’ll need a neck brace.

One of the things I love about Netflix is watching people nonchalantly interact with one another in a physical dimension.  I watched Wine Country the other night but missed most of the plot because I was marvelling at how six women could go off together for the weekend.  They could go wine tasting, and bicycle riding, and they could gossip together in a hot tub!

On Netflix, no one wears masks, everyone hugs, and people go to restaurants and bars. It’s just a better place to hang out in than Dublin right now, and I plan to spend more time there in the coming months.  Dublin is just a bit quiet, and people are getting irritable, and there isn’t much craic.

One of the many reasons I loved living in Dublin was because of the craic. 

Dubliners love to talk.  My first memory of Dublin is a conversation. I arrived in Dublin airport one March afternoon, and I got into a taxi and the driver started chatting.  I told him I had that just moved from Copenhagen to Dublin, and that I was going to stay with my friend.  I had Julia’s address written down on a piece of paper, and I was so excited about the new adventure.  In return, he told me about his recent holiday in Copenhagen with his son, and something about the best pubs to visit in Temple Bar.  When we pulled up outside Julia’s apartment, he helped me with my luggage and told me that the trip was free:  then he said, “welcome to Dublin” and I’ve never looked back.

What’s not to love about Dublin?

It’s a gorgeous city altogether with great pubs, restaurants, theatres, parks, mountains, and the sea.  We love the craic agus ceol, and we love to talk.  If the average person uses five to seven thousand words per day the average Dubliner can treble that in a morning.  We talk waiting for the bus, and getting on the bus, and while moving on the bus, and when we’re just after getting off the bus.  We use equal passion and breath when we talk about the weather, one another, the politicians, or our families.  Have you ever seen two Dubliners meeting for the first time outside of the city?  Within five minutes they are the best of friends, within ten they are family, if you leave them alone for an hour, they will have adopted one another for life.    

Thus, telling Dubliners to isolate and keep their distance seems a harsher request than perhaps asking Scandinavians to do it, for example, or the quiet and unassuming Tibetans.  Dubliners need noise and an audience for their daily performances, and this simply can’t be done online.  Without the story to tell someone, there’s little or no point in doing an activity in the first place. 

Why do anything at all, if you can’t tell someone about it?

Zooms are poor substitutes for Dubliners and cannot replicate the intimacy and fun of interactive conversations.  Zooms are one-way, performative, monologues where very few people come across as themselves.  One of my own problems with Zooms is staying on track.  One minute I’m updating people about a project or activity then the next thing I know I’m comparing the performances of Catherine Keener and Cameron Diaz in Being John Malkovich.  I end my sequence of talking with the words “in conclusion then, I would argue that it’s very difficult to say whose performance is the best after all,” and everyone nods, as if I made sense.

It’s just harder for we Dubs, than most.

So I’ve decided to embrace the fictional world and watch my characters interact instead of me.  It’s only a matter of time before I start speaking English with an American accent or offer my legal counsel to someone wrongly accused of a crime. It’s simply a matter of time before I start re-watching shows I’ve already seen and experiencing déjà vu because of it.  It’s also a matter of time before I accuse real life friends of misdemeanours fictional characters committed. 

But I don’t care.

I’m enjoying my never-ending supply of content to absorb, and I’m doing it with glee and guilt free.  I highly recommend that you do likewise. So snuggle under that duvet and turn on your favourite show and enjoy every single second of your time. 

Every single second of your time.

Orientation for life

When I was younger, I was very much afraid of rattlesnakes and quicksand.  Luckily, I grew up in south Wales so the chance of seeing either was low.  Nevertheless, the fear I experienced was real and was possibly due to staying up late on Saturday nights watching inappropriate films for children.  At least that explains the rattlesnakes.  The quicksand, on the other hand, must have come from watching Tarzan.

Do you remember those 1970s American films they used to show on TV on Saturday nights? 

The film would start off slowly, and then some guy in aviators and a rain mac would start following our protagonist around the city.  Sometimes he would slip envelopes under doors or listen to phone conversations with a tissue over the mouth-piece so that no one could hear him breathing.  Usually he would smoke, and drink whiskey and soda, but we never saw him eat, meet with friends or exercise. 

The background music would start quietly.  It would grow more hectic as the paranoia grew, reaching a chaotic climax of clarinets, cellos and discordant piano notes towards the end.  If there was a woman involved, she would have fabulous hair and shoes, but would be dead by the final credits if she had sex or showed interest in anything other than our main hero.

Everyone was terribly competent at opening apartment building doors with their credit cards, roll jumping out of moving cars and remembering complex clue details without writing anything down.  Dates and times were arranged and strictly kept to, lunches went half eaten and no one needed to go to work or phone in sick.  No one needed directions while driving. 

If the government of Ireland wanted to spy on me, they wouldn’t need to hire anyone.  They could just browse my social media where I have expressed all my thoughts, whims and fancies, every day for the past 15 years.  Everything is there:  my political opinions, food preferences, work details and holidays.  Even in lockdown I keep them informed of my whereabouts and my trips to the supermarkets, my walks in the parks and my yoga. 

The conspiracy theories of the 70s were so much better than the ones we have today.  Did Elvis kill JFK and then film the moon landing in Stanley Kubrick’s studio?  The fact there was never any evidence to support these theories was evidence itself of the cover up, which led to a delightful proliferation of Catch22s and chickens and eggs.  The best thing about the conspiracies back then, of course, was that people believed in the moon landing hoax, but also that you could send letters in paper envelopes safely and have private conversations on public telephones. 

Bless.

Virus related conspiracies are dull in comparison with what’s going on in public life and seem quite ordinary when put side by side.  The current President of America believes the election was a hoax; the Prime Minister of the UK has recently sacked his Head of Propaganda (but no one believes him); and the Tánaiste of Ireland (who everyone, including the Taoiseach, is still calling Taoiseach), is hand delivering confidential documents to all of his friends.  Sadly, the motives for all this are also very dull.  They are doing it for the money.  That’s all.  I don’t know how many yachts they need to make them happy, but they are only doing it for greed. 

I can’t wait until we’re post-capitalism, post-politics and post-government as life is going to be much lovelier.  Then we will be able to concentrate on much more interesting conspiracy theories such as, do we exist, is music just in our mind and is time linear?  Are molecules real and what happens outside outer space?  How did the dinosaurs really die out and did the Palace kill Diana?  So many more vastly interesting things to contemplate rather than the wealth of the rattlesnakes of politics who are making us all suffocate in their grubby, dirty quicksand. 

I know some of you have had a slumpy week. 

It’s not easy, all this.

It’s actually quite hard, which is why I wrote you another poem and I hope you enjoy it, and that it cheers you up.  Remember it’s November, so wrap up well and be kind to yourself.  Stay indoors and drink warm drinks and be gentle with your mind.  However, if you do see a man in aviators and a rain mac following you around, try and loose him at the corner of 5^th and call me, and let me know!

Orientation for Life

Orientation for Life

is in room 274

Irredeemable Love is in the main hall.

Due to high demand

The Epicureans and Dreamers practical exam

is happening on the roof

Devil May Care (for beginners)

is in the music room

Evergreens for transitions

Has been cancelled altogether, while

Umbrella Maintenance

is in French

Finally, the how to build an igloo course,

You’ll all be pleased to know,

is taking place online.

I must tell you what I did on Monday.

After my lunches, I decided to take a stroll around the city.  I thought it would be useful to take my boots to the cobbler to get the soles replaced before the winter. I thought it would be helpful if I dropped my partner’s watch into the jewellers, for them to replace the battery.  I also thought I would stop off for a coffee and a piece of cake on my way back, so I told my partner my plans, and my partner nodded and said, “OK”. 

Lately, I have been forgetting parts of the English language.  Mostly I have been forgetting nouns and some of the lesser used verbs and this is down to lack of usage.  So what I literally said to my partner was that I was taking my “foot coverings” and his “wrist clock” to “make working properly”.  Luckily, he seemed to understand the gist of what I was saying, so I set off and went into the day.

Monday was beautiful.

It looked grey and damp from inside, but outside the weather was mild and the air was fresh and invigorating after the night’s rain.  The colours of the leaves seemed even more striking against the contrast of the silver sky, and I thoroughly enjoyed my walk around town.

About half-way up Grafton Street it suddenly dawned on me that everything was closed. All of the shops, including the cobblers and the jewellers and the coffee shops and the cake shops, were closed.  There’s a pandemic and we’ve been living with restrictions for 35 weeks, and all the people are inside, and all the shops are closed. 

I had forgotten. 

I had simply forgotten. 

I had slipped into Plato’s allegory of the cave where the shadows on the wall of my reality were open shops and business as usual. In my parallel universe people could pop into shops to speak with the crafts people therein and stop for sugary snacks on the way home. 

What on earth was I thinking?

When I returned home, I said to my partner, “everything is closed due to the lockdown!” and my partner nodded and said, “oh yes”.  I put my foot coverings back under the place where we sleep, and I placed my partner’s wrist clock on his furniture item, where his laptop sits.

Seriously though, I am starting to forget the English language which is a shame because I’m not fluent in anything else.  I could hold a short conversation in Danish and perhaps buy some meat and dairy products in Mongolian, but it’s English I rely on for the most part.

I used to tell my language students that the best thing they could do to improve their English was to practise as often as possible, with as many different people as possible.  To this end, I would advise them to try out their new vocabulary on strangers on the bus, to try out new grammatical structures with the people in the supermarket, or to even try and fall in love (ideally with someone who had better language skills than they).  All this was to prevent them losing skills they didn’t use, and usually, this strategy worked out fine.

I used to speak a lot.  I would speak at home, at work, after work, during the weekends and even in my sleep.  Now, I speak less and less and there are whole sections of the day in silence.  Nowadays, I use a fraction of the words I used to use, which has resulted in me using words like “nowadays”.  Most of my interactions take place on video calls or the phone, which makes the live, physical conversations the anomalies. 

I use more and more emojis in my written correspondence, I find reading entire articles exhausting, and it can take me a month to read a small paperback.  I believe that the sound of my voice has changed since March, and I’ve started leaving notes to myself which make little, or no sense at all, when I try to read them back to me.

Wednesday’s note, for example, said “forrest ring head.  Lisa (heads off)”.

That’s not even how you spell forest.

Thank heavens I have this blog where I can keep practising my English.  If I didn’t have the opportunity to use my words here, I might lose them forever, so I am very grateful to you, for reading.  Thank you for returning here, week after week, and for supporting my very public writing apprenticeship, and for keeping me so well. 

I wish you much wellness in return 😊

This pandemic is a peculiar backdrop, but our lives still go on.  People are still getting married and announcing their pregnancies, they’re still getting divorced and announcing their splits. They are changing jobs, and going back to college, and having arguments with family members and making new friends.  People work, they relax, they gossip, and they sleep.  They celebrate birthdays with cake and wine, and they cry alone, and together when it all goes wrong.  The sun comes up and the sun goes down, the sea comes in and the sea goes away again.  The clouds cover over the blue sky, and then they drift away again. 

Yes, those vapoury watery mass things float over the blue sky, and then they go away again.

I used to love Sundays.

Sundays would start with hangovers and coffees but drift into brunches and newspapers effortlessly.  Sundays would involve walks around the city to buy innocuous items such as garlic presses or plant pots.  Sundays might have pints and toasties in Grogan’s and late afternoon chats with friends.  Sometimes, Sundays would have visits to galleries or museums. Sundays could, if you wanted them to, finish up with take-away dinners and films at home, or any slow variations of the descriptions above. 

I’m not sure I love Sundays anymore.

Now that I spend on average 22 hours per day in my home, being in my home isn’t the treat it once was.  Sunday is now just part of the blob of time that has morphed into itself, and proof indeed of the law of diminishing returns.

Sundays at Level Five bring challenges. 

Although, in my opinion Lockdown Two is so much better than the original.  When they said we were moving into Level Five I raced out and bought provisions for the new situation. I bought some cosy warm curtains, eight books, a Bialetti Moka, a meditation cushion and some vanilla scented candles.  These may not sound like the items one would normally buy to prepare for a humanitarian emergency disaster, but I swear to God, that meditation cushion has been a game changer. 

I love my home, I love working from home, and I think I’m quite good at entertaining myself when everything is closed.  Even so, even I may be running low on ideas as we move into the 8^th month of Virus Hide and Seek. I still have my Spider Plantation to maintain, of course, and all the online courses I’ve signed up to.  I love reading and watching season after season of almost anything, and I’ve developed a fondness for documentaries. 

But when is it going to end?

A lot of people claim they love working from home, but when you ask them to explain why they do, they tell you all the things they didn’t like about going to work instead.  They didn’t like the commute or the open plan office, they found the office distractions annoying or found the building too damp or too cold.  I love working from home for its own sake.  I love the comforts of not wearing shoes and socks and the never-ending supply of tea, toast, and snacks, and I love being able to work to my own flow.  Nevertheless, another disappointing thing about the pandemic is that it has removed the joy of Sundays, now that working from home, and Sundays look and feel the same. 

It’s impossible isn’t it?

It’s simply impossible not to mention him.

It’s simply not possible not to mention Donnie Trump.

We all know that Donnie is a symptom of a much more hideous disease. 

Perhaps when he’s not permeating our collective memory with his rants and his tweets, we might be able to find out how and why he was elected not just once, but nearly twice.  Why are some women, people of colour, and working class people voting for a man who clearly hates them?  What emptiness does he fill, what questions does he answer, what hope does he promise?  It seems to me that the only way we can ever find out is by asking them, rather than by continuously shouting at or laughing at them. Perhaps when all the balloons are depleted and the campaign decorations have been put away until next time, we should ask them what’s been going on?

Maybe they’ll be able to tell us, this one time, before it’s too late. 

I wouldn’t want to be Biden right now.

I doubt that Biden wants to be Biden as he inherits the Biggest Kingdom of Crap in the history of the States.  Lord knows it’s always tough starting a new job, but where is he going to begin?  Will he start by trying to return children to their parents at the Mexican border, or will he try and ensure health care for patients with Covid instead?  Might he have a look at some of the environmental issues Donnie made a mess of, or should he look at the horrendous prison-for-profit system first?

Good luck Biden, good luck.

What I would suggest is that Biden makes his working from home area as comfortable as possible in the White House.  Might I suggest he invest in some cosy, warm curtains, a Bialetti Moka, a meditation cushion and some vanilla scented candles.  This will get him started and they’ll be purchases he won’t regret. 

Alternatively (if he can) he should spend time looking at rainbows.

I saw one Sunday when I was walking along the city and it changed my mood dramatically.  I was quite grumpy and irritable beforehand, but as soon as I saw the rainbow, I felt happy and calm.  Rainbows are such beautiful mysteries of refracted light and I love how they are optical illusions you can photograph!  I love that they have no purpose or evolutionary role to speak of and that even though we can just see the arcs, they are perfect, never ending circles.  They appear for a while, their vivid colours so clear to us, and then they disappear without trace.  Our ancestors believed them to be magical, and perhaps they weren’t wrong about that.  I know that whenever I see one, I feel better inside, and I love pointing one out to a friend.

Look Biden, there’s a rainbow!