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The smell of cut grass in September is much sadder than in June, but the colours of autumn are spectacular.  Who doesn’t love the sight of orange coloured trees against crisp blue-sky backgrounds in the mornings?  The air is cooler now, and the sun sets earlier every evening, and how beautiful the great oaks look in this season.

This week in Ireland, one of the three, male rotating Taoiseach announced our road map to 2021, but it felt to many of us like we’d been presented with the plans for a medieval garden maze instead.  In place of the five phases we had been working with since spring, we were introduced to five new levels.  Our objective is to go backwards towards level zero, rather than forwards towards to level five and we were shown pictures of stop signs and traffic lights to help us comprehend the metaphor.  More than a million Dubliners were told that we were definitely not on level two, three, or two and a bit, and as I type, we wait to be told where we are.

At this stage I feel like Eamon Ryan will never have his turn at being Taoiseach as we might all be dead before then, not from the virus you understand, but due to inconsistent messaging and general confusion.  Let’s see now, can I visit one household of six people, or is it six households of one?  Can six people visit me per visit or per week, and if one of them is very annoying; can I replace that person with someone I like better from a different household?  I can’t leave the city of Dublin unless I fly or sail or drive out, and I can’t leave the county, unless I do.

Every moment I fret about the virus is one I don’t fret about Brexit, so I should at least be thankful for that.  This was the week we heard that Boris’ oven ready Brexit Deal wasn’t quite as palatable as he may have suggested back in November pre-election.  In fact, now that he’s had a chance to skim through the bloody thing, it turns out it’s not very edible at all, and he’d really rather not keep to the terms he agreed, if that’s alright with everyone.  Some of us were less surprised than others that a Tory PM either lied in November or is lying now, but here we are with this, and there it is.  Mr Johnson may not be reading this week’s blog, but if he is, I have only two things to say to him:  Es scortum obscenus vilis.  Te futueo et caballum tuum.

I wish that media and friends would warn me when they are about to talk about Covid or Brexit so that I can listen and read if I want to or run away and hide if I don’t. 

“Warning:  short discussion in the group chat about COXIT for a bit, COXIT article up ahead, COXIT video and meme posted!  COXIT!  COXIT!  COXIT!”

I could decide if I wanted to engage further with the discourse or if I’d prefer to watch a short film about space exploration instead. Talking about astrophysics, were you following the news about Venus this week; quite exciting, no?  They found some phosphine gas in the clouds of Venus, which is evidence that there either used to be life on the planet or that there could be in the future.  It’s very earth-centric to imagine life on Venus, but I can’t stop thinking about the experiences of some of our nearest neighbours. 

I wonder if the Venusians were happy and content, or had words for emotions, or had language at all.  I like to think of them hiking up Mount Maxwell Montes, talking about the benefits of veganism, and planning for the October mid-term mini-break. Of course the heat would make holiday plans very difficult, so probably a lot of indoor activities for our friends.  Maybe they looked up in the sky at earth and laughed at the idea that there could be a presence of life here.  Or maybe they weren’t concerned with us at all and were more interested in Mars.  Or maybe their evolution hasn’t happened yet, and the phosphine gas needs to expand or contract, to jump start a big bang, to get them going.

I liked the fact that as soon as the gas was discovered the Russians claimed the planet as their own and the Vatican announced that God was everywhere, including there on Venus.  All the same, I like to think about the Venusians because Earthlings are getting on my nerves.

Obviously not all earthlings, but those who want to maximise their profits and refuse to accept that the conditions that turned this potentially manageable pandemic into a humanitarian disaster are the same conditions that are bad for us in general.  Greater resources in health, education, workers’ rights and housing not only stop the spread of the disease but are better for us all in the long run. 

It’s all so repetitive on this planet. 

Wasn’t Reagan’s actual election campaign slogan “Wealth not Health” and I’m so tired of spinning around and around on the same old axis.  Government after government show us that they don’t mind sacrificing the lives of the sick and the poor if it maximises profit for them, and that’s all that seems to matter here.  Some humans have forgotten that everything that was invented by us can be dismantled the same way, so let’s just start by getting rid of money and move on.  No more money, no more global debt, no more military spending, no more billionaires.

Money.

Poof.

Gone.

Vanished.

Evaporated like the lightest of dew, on the grass in autumn, on Venus. 

Isn’t that a nice thought (this week if it gets too much) of the dew on the grass, on Venus.

.

Hello you.

How are things? 

How was your summer and other ridiculous questions?  I’ve missed you and our quiet Friday moments together.  It’s good to be back. 

Autumn always brings out the shockingly optimistic side of my nature as the leaves colour over and the children go back to school.  I used to love preparing all my new stationery for the year ahead, and even more so when I was teaching.  I experienced great joy from fresh notepads, new pencil cases and ink pens.  Some of that excitement lingers on.

This year all the grown-ups posted photos of their children on their first days back to school and we all wished them a collective Good Luck and took deep breaths.  Good luck children, good luck teachers, good luck parents and guardians.  Good luck to the home workers and the onsite workers, good luck to the bus drivers, good luck to the people working in the supermarkets.  Good luck to us all. 

Back to school, back to work, back to Lúnasa.

Haven’t we come a long way? 

Remember back in March when we didn’t think we could do this for more than a couple of weeks.  Then April came and went and then the summer months passed through as we saw another season.  I was lucky enough to almost forget about the pandemic in July and August as I managed a couple of sea swims and a picnic or two.  The rest was appreciated, and I enjoyed the sun.

Here we are now, six months in and mid-Lúnasa, so it’s time for resolutions.

Firstly, I am going to make a few changes to the way I work.  Remember, also back in March when the world was afloat with advice for working from home.  The general consensus was we needed separate workspaces and we should keep to office hours.  We dutifully set up home offices in spare rooms, if we had them, or on the edges of beds and kitchen tables if we didn’t.  We logged on at 8 and back off at 4, but we stayed online for our 21 days of meditation, family zooms and virtual tennis.

What a load of bullshit!

Where and when we work is far less interesting than how we work and this autumn I intend to experiment.  Of course a repetitive working day didn’t suit us all, why would it?  I’m a constantly changing and ageing mammal who works much closer with the 28-day moon calendar than the one established by the discourteous sun.  I do my best work when I’m focussed but relaxed, inspired but playful, when I take the activity seriously, but know my limitations.  I reach these conditions when I’m rested, well fed, well hydrated and physically comfortable.  Or to flip it; when I’m grumpy and blue, the work I submit looks like pig’s waste.  Why on earth did we think that making everyone work the same hours, in the same sitting positions would produce the best results?

Maybe because office work was always typically the work of women?

Modern office routines evolved from those typing pools of the 1920s which were poorly paid, monotonous and noisy.  It was assumed that the mostly middle-class women would only work there until they found husbands, so they were rarely promoted or given additional responsibilities.  They were infantilised and their working hours were heavily controlled, and they had no autonomy or wiggle room to change their surroundings.

Of course the modern office has better conditions but expecting us all to follow the same system at home feels barbaric.  I am discovering the simple truth that my sweet spot is when I am in synch with myself, the needs of my body and my circadian rhythms and these all change daily and alongside the moon.  The closer I am to me, the easier the work is, the quicker it gets done and the better it is in the long run.  It flows over into my real life too.

I believe we call that a win-win-win-win.

Try it though and see how you get on.  Send your one line request from your smartphone in the park, while you try to take the perfect photo of an autumn leaf falling.  Come up with your solutions-based responses from a downward dog on your yoga mat.  Reflect on your new mission statement from a run in the rain.  Do your weekly planning curled up on the couch with a cup of Earl Grey and an episode of Mrs America all set to play. Mix it up, juggle it creatively, use your freedom to listen to your needs.

Or don’t.

Obviously, it’s up to you. 

At this stage of the experiment, you know what’s best for you, and if you like to work to the whip of the inbox, go for it!  Do what you need to do, listen to your real voice, do what feels right and take care.  You’ve plenty of unleaded still left in your tank, and you know what sustains you more than I. 

Traditionally at this time of year we should be feasting, match-making, trading, sacrificing bulls and enjoying the harvest of our crops.   We’re probably only doing two or three of those things right now, so let’s do what we can and move on.  Let’s see what this season brings and let’s do it together like we did in the spring.  One step at a time, one day at a time, one thought at a time, together. 

It’s nice to be back, happy Lúnasa from me, see you again next Friday.

Facebook, Live!

Hi and welcome to Facebook Live.  My name is Ruth and I have some news to share this evening.

Remember about a year ago?  I self-published a book called Smaller than us, alongside the brilliant photographer, Carolina Murari.  Well….here’s the second edition.  Yes, we’re calling it the second edition. 

Please note some changes.  Look at the spine here…with the title in off brown, almost orange colour there going down the side.  And look, here’s a blurb on the back. 

It says…“Smaller than us” is a collection of short stories, flash fiction and vignettes from Ruth Powell accompanied by a selection of photographs by Carolina Murari.  The stories are fictionalised versions of nearly factual events and the photos are representations of moments, seen only by the photographer.  The piece of work is a series of snapshots of moments and reflections of memories from two different observers at two separate times.  Despite the geographical and historical disparity, the observers not the common thread of humanity, which links us together, and highlights our connections over our variations.

Best of all, please note we have our very own ISBN down here at the bottom.  I’ll read the number for you:  978 1 5272 6924 8

You can buy a copy of this second edition at the Winding Stair bookshop in Dublin (just over the Ha’ Penny Bridge on the north side of the quays).  Or, you can leave me a message and I’ll get a copy to you.  But if you do live in Dublin it would be amazing to support the Winding Stair and buy this book, or other books if you like, from this gorgeous bookshop.

Lastly, then, I’ll read something from the book.

Giving thanks at the National Botanic Gardens, in Glasnevin, in Dublin.  In January.

“Thank you for my life” I said to the South American cacti in the glasshouse in Glasnevin.

“I know it’s not mine to own, it’s just on loan, and I’m fine with that”.

“Thank you for my life” I said to the graceful orchid and resplendent snowdrop.

To the magnificent hibiscus, I said, “thank you most of all”.

“I especially adore the sound of your name.  It gives me such pleasure to say it.

Hibiscus.

Hibiscus.

Hibiscus.

Gentle mysteries of the soil and air, thank you”.

Link to the Facebook Live below:

Well done you.

Yes, you my imaginary friend and reader; you who have been reading these musings and vignettes for sixteen solid weeks! Well done you. If I could, I would wash your feet with oils and massage your back and sing you a lullaby until you fell asleep. Or, if you felt that was inappropriate, I could buy you flowers instead. Just to say, for one last time, well done you, and thank you!

Sunday was a windy day.

I went to the Botanic Gardens for an hour and tried to enjoy the botany. It was quite hard to relax with all the bright yellow signs reminding us all that a deadly, highly contagious disease is still in our midst, but I tried my best. I noticed how many other people were on their own, just wandering through the gardens alone, and no one seemed to be sitting on benches to absorb it all. Of course that could have been because of the wind, but just near the water lily pond I started to enjoy the chaotic beauty of the nature surrounding me.

I love nature, who doesn’t?

This one time, back in the early 90s, I took some particularly potent acid on a white sand beach in the north of Scotland. I spent the entire day in the full and complete understanding of nature. I could see how all the grains of sand were individual and unique and yet a part of the one, larger beach. While dry, I could clearly see them as separate beings, but as the tide came in, I noticed how they became part of a bigger, damp, sea-bed, which was home to many sea creatures. When the tide left again, they returned to their original dry state of solidly separate grains.

“I can see all the sand” I said. It was all I did say for the bulk of 12 hours, and it was so true; I could see all the sand.

The water lily pond at the Botanic gardens didn’t quite have that same effect, but I could see how all the leaves of the trees belonged to just one tree, while having their own individual leafiness. I marvelled at how the water lilies come out of the water to blossom, and will return year on year, to do so. They know that the sun and the moon are still continuing their tango, so up again they came, this summer.

When I got back home, a strange thing happened. A sky blue, plastic, surgical mask was lying on my bedroom floor and I knew it wasn’t one of mine. For a moment, I imagined all sorts of impossible scenarios but then I realised that the wind must have brought the used mask up four stories, and in through my opened window.

The fact that the mask was someone else’s made me anxious and so I lurched into my emergency and disaster reduction mode. Yes, I photographed it for social media and sat on my sofa trying to think of a caption to go with it. Sadly, I couldn’t think of anything that was funny and silly and yet not dismissive of the fact that half a million people have died in the past six months.

Not an easy brief.

I couldn’t think of anything to post, so I was left with the unbearable task of trying to put the mask into my bin without touching it. This involved gloves and dustpans and sounds you make when you’re doing something disgusting, like “urgh and ahgh and urmph”.

Imagine that I wanted to photograph it! Imagine that my first response and intrinsic motivation was to show other people the mask on my bedroom floor? Why on earth did I want to do that? Has social media and the internet in general, finally broken my brain?

Some soft wear isn’t even that good and it’s such a poor substitute for real life. I miss actual conversations where people interrupt one another and go off track and don’t just deliver what sounds like pre-prepared monologues which are performed rather than expressed. I want to talk about real events that happened in real time and in physical spaces. Is that so much to ask? Of course the internet has provided Some Very Good Things too, and I wouldn’t want them to turn it off completely, but wouldn’t it be nice to have more physical experiences to accompany the machine lives we’re living?

I keep thinking about those people who went to the screening of one of the first films in the 1900’s. When they saw the film of a train coming towards them, they screamed and tried to run away because they thought it was real. It looked like a real train and it sounded like a real train and the feeling in the pits of their stomachs felt like real fear, so of course they reacted strongly. They had never seen anything like it before and their brains couldn’t quite decode it. Fast forward a hundred years and here we are doing almost everything via a screen, and our brains don’t seem to mind at all.

Or do they?

Perhaps this is why some of us are a little teary and weary and odd and blue? Yes, the pandemic has brought the reality of death closer to our days, a panic about financial insecurity and massive change and transition. But the fact that most people have increased their internet usage by about a 100% isn’t helping the situation either. Mammals weren’t designed to live like this, which is why it’s a great relief that the lockdown/pandemic is over.

Yes, hadn’t you heard?

People are talking about their new routines post-pandemic and sharing their post-lockdown life goals. They are comparing photographs of their gardens and the things they learned during the disaster, and some of them are going on holiday. Once again, and no surprises here, I am incredibly out of this new loop.

I wanted a better ending than this, I wanted a more dramatic denouement.

The development of a vaccine would have been nice. In my mind, I had everyone reacting to the vaccine news by singing and dancing out on Moore Street in the style of the Singing Detective. In the finale in my head (Fame meets Moulin Rouge meets Flashdance), the staff from the supermarket would have been waving at the LUAS drivers who would have been setting off fireworks, with some synchronised swimming in the Liffey. Tears of laughter would be running down our faces as the final curtain fell.

Turns out that’s not how it ends at all.

There was a half a second, back in March, when it looked like we might use the unfolding tragedy to design a better society with cleaner air and a respect for the working class. By July, we had silently agreed that we didn’t mind if intense traffic and industrial construction make it necessary for birds to have to sing much louder than nature intended them to, or if the virus only killed the sick and the poor. This is not the ending I would have written for you, but what can I do?

What I can do is be grateful for my health today and for the health of those I love. I can be grateful that I have a Stena Line ferry ticket for Wales and that I’ll be with my dad quite soon. I can be grateful that I have a job, and especially one with annual leave, which I am about to enjoy just now. I can be grateful that I have such extraordinary friends who make me laugh and smile every day. I can be grateful that after nearly 20,000 words, you’re still here waiting for a conclusion.

We’re all just wondering how it all ends.

Have you forgotten me?

Do you think you banished me beyond the threshold of the kingdom, passed where the dragons sleep? Do you imagine I’ve disintegrated? Do you believe that I’ve dispersed? Do you envisage I’ve dissolved? Do you suppose that if you don’t mention my name, I may not return?

“That, oh that, yes that was unfortunate”.

Do you suspect that I no longer linger in the dirty air you breathe or skim your filthy oceans? If I am no longer on your soil, where do you expect that I’ve gone?

Am I spending midsummer on the lakes of Mars, hiding away from your sun?

Have you forgotten me?

I haven’t forgotten you.

I hear the sounds from the animals in the zoo.

I hear the wails from the hippos and the moans from the giraffes. The sounds wander over the park and into my backyard. Sometimes they are interrupted by the bells that Buddhists use. I hear the sea waves and the early morning greetings from the birds. At the end of the day, I hear clouds yawn.

This is about a Japanese woman who is walking in the Botanic Garden on a hazy June afternoon. The low pressure has given her a headache and she is wearing an oversized sunhat to protect her from the sun she can’t see. She is walking with a kind Irish couple, who have offered to show her the garden. They are good guides because they know the names of trees. They are sad because they can’t show her the orchids in the glass houses or stop in the tea rooms afterwards, but anyway they can see the flowers.

The flowers and the trees.

Suddenly a grey squirrel runs down the bark of a Betula Pendula and out into the path right in front of the Japanese woman’s feet and for a moment she is terrified. She wasn’t expecting to see this type of animal and having it so close makes her uncomfortable. She is afraid and she screams. It’s an involuntary cry of fear that she has no control over, but it sounds so much like anger that the squirrel runs away.

Not far from her, a man sits on a bench near the canal. He is feeding the ducks bread, raisons and grapes. He feeds them slowly so that they can all receive something from his box. One duck has a damaged webbed foot, so this man pays him special attention to make sure he gets as much food as the rest. When strangers pass by and say hello, the man over-compensates with chirpy answers and cheerful banter, but this is the sound of abandonment. The misty June afternoon has given him a headache too and he wishes the rain would come to clear the air. The weather is making him restless and he even hopes for some thunder. He thinks back to a time when anger was still popular, and he curses the people who litter.

The sounds of his sighs show exhaustion.

This is not about the Japanese woman in the Botanic Gardens or the man who feeds ducks from the bench. This is really all about the sounds of grief, and why grief always sounds like a whistle.

Grief is a terrible man in the shadows who follows you daily and hides behind doors. Grief carries a whistle and nibbles his grubby finger-nails and smirks all the time while you cry. Grief is a menacing man, with a fat greasy face and the smell of his breath makes you vomit. The whistle rests out of the side of his mouth and there’s a snail trail of saliva just on it. When he finally blows, the sounds are high pitched and they terrify when they slam through you.

Grief is a cowardly piece of stale piss in the wind, and he only has this one very cheap trick. He can stay in the shadows, in dark corners of rooms and he can stay all day long if he wants to. Let the whistle be, just one sound in the mix, and let the other sounds around absorb it.

Hear the cries from the zoos and the bells the Buddhist ring and see if you can’t listen to sea waves. Listen all day to the way birds say hi, and at the end of it all there’s a cloud yawn.

At the end of the day, there’s a cloud yawn.

What are your thoughts about reality?

I only ask because I’ve been thinking about it a lot this week. If you’re a scientist then you probably think that reality is made up of atoms, particles, space, time and gravity and you can probably show me an equation to show me how this is so. If you’re more inclined towards the humanities then you probably think that reality is a collection of the thoughts, actions and beliefs of the people who once lived here. Linguists might assume that reality lies within a perfectly constructed sentence that encapsulates feelings about life, truth and love. Or perhaps for you, reality is the slight evening movements of a spider plant, a cello note or a morning drop of dew.

On Monday 600 shops and businesses re-opened in Dublin and we all returned to a reality. In addition to the food and hardware shops, you can now purchase clothes, shoes, Carroll’s Irish souvenirs and jewellery. We live in a world where you can queue to buy earrings from Pandora’s; so we might just call it reality with a twist.

I was quite surprised to see all the people on Monday. I went for my walk as normal, but for the first time in 13 weeks I felt underdressed and a little self-conscious in my cut-off jeans, coffee stained T.shirt, oddly shaped cardigan, ski socks and sandals. My matted mane of hair and I were ill prepared for all the visitors from beyond the 5km and it was odd seeing so many new people walking up and down Henry Street, window shopping and talking.

I’m sure you’re not at all surprised to hear I’m finding the new stage a little shocking and a little bit odd. I’m sure you’re thinking “but Ruth, you’ve handled all the other stages of this thing with such dignity and effortless grace!” I feel like I’m experiencing a complicated version of Stockholm Syndrome where I am both my own kidnapper and my own hostage. In addition, I am also my own hostage negotiator.

“Let her go, let her go I tell you!”

“I will never let her go!”

“Let me stay, let me stay here! I need to watch the end of Chariots of Fire and lick the jam from these freshly baked Jammy Donuts. Let me stay!”

“God damn it let her go, she’s delirious, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. For the love of God let her go before it’s too late!”

“I will never let her go, she is not going back to reality, she’s not ready!”

I’m happy to see the people returning to the city, as this means we have the virus under control and there are less people sick and dying. That is undoubtedly a good thing. But I was sad to smell all the traffic again and smell the concrete pours from the heavy construction. It had been nice to have clear air for a while and I naively thought we might keep that improvement. Now it smells like Dublin again and it sounds like Dublin again and it looks like Dublin again.

Yet, people like me will continue to work from home, and in our free time too we will be at home.

I work four days a week, which only takes up 17% of Time.

Isn’t that remarkable and did you also used to think it took up so much more of Time? I’ve done the sum several times and I can show you if you want. Look!

28 hours per week of a possible 168 of weekly hours x 100 = 16.6666 %

I rounded up the number to be as fair and transparent as possible but it’s a fact that a 4 days-per-week-job only takes up 17% of Time, and even if you are working five days a week it’s still only 21% of your weekly allowance. I used to think it was such a bigger part of my essence but working from home has shown me it’s really just such a small part of my day.

Numbers don’t lie because they’re not sentient beings.

It’s just 17% of Time.

So that leaves me with 83% of free time to work on my other Activity Projects, which include but are not restricted to scrolling through social media sites and having imaginary arguments with some of the people who are there too. I’m seriously considering cutting back on the social media circus before I do permanent damage to my right thumb, which is already damaged enough after an accident on a dry ski slope in Merthyr Tydfil sometime in the late 80’s.

Social media is such an obvious demon of time evaporation it’s almost not worth the effort to criticise it. Obviously, I love it in my domains, because I am the Queen of all I curate in my special kingdoms. I don’t chop off the heads of my enemies, but I can mute and block them, and I win all of the imaginary fights that I engage with. When I’m tired of it, I turn off its sun and when I’m playful again I turn it back on. What’s not to love in that paradise? But even this world is starting to lose its magic after all these days and weeks and it’s a very poor substitute for real life.

It lacks a sense of veracity.

I want new memories of reality and even some boring ones. Memes are not memories, and I want something to happen in real time.

One of my first memories is being on a slide in the playground of the nursery school and I can still feel the black rubber steps leading to the top. I remember the touch of the plastic slide and the squeeky sound it made on your legs if you were wearing a skirt. I can remember that day very clearly. Some other children were playing near the climbing frame and there’s laughter coming from the teachers, standing close to the door. It was a grey day and a cold day, but that sky-blue slide is embedded in my brain. It’s not Twitter Blue, or Skype Blue or Jitsi Blue, but real sky blue and the memory remains.

I want to go deep sea diving without any equipment or gear. I want to plan a weekend mini-break with my girlfriends and spend just an hour with my dad in his back garden. I want to kiss my friend’s kids and the children in my family and cuddle them and tickle their bellies. I want to meet several people inside somewhere and I want the real reality back now, not this.

Can I have the real reality back now, not this!

Most religions encourage us to love our neighbours.

It makes a lot of evolutionary sense to do so too, at the very least so that we can expect our neighbours to love us back! Our ancient ancestors, the hunter gatherers needed to protect one another from being eaten by saber tooth tigers and in modern times we need our neighbours to keep an eye on our homes when we go on holidays. However, in the past three months I’ve started to wonder if we’re very neighbourly these days at all.

I don’t love my upstairs neighbour very much, for example.

He spent the first month or so of lockdown engaging in every DIY activity known to humanity. He loved to hammer and drill and saw and bang. When he wasn’t improving his home, he was playing a game called “droppy keys-laughy-hop-hop”. He also enjoys dragging his sofa around the living room, bouncing on his space hopper and practising the haca. I spend a lot of my life rehearsing the conversation I intend to have with him in the future. Alas, when I do see him in the hallway I inevitably say something like “hi there, how are you holding up? Everything OK?” because I fear he will dislike me more than the pain of the noise he makes.

He’s a vast improvement on his predecessors who were a never ending supply of Air B&B guests. Every three of four days a new batch of holiday makers would wander around the building, come home late, forget their keys and ask me for directions or suggestions for the best places to eat and drink. Again, in my mind I would plot and plan what I would say to the strangers, but every time I found myself saying “oh you should definitely go to the Italian quarter for dinner and then over to Temple Bar for drinks and music”. I’d spell the names of pubs for them and say “enjoy your holiday” and then seethe to myself afterwards and all throughout the day.

I didn’t like a little girl I met last Sunday, in the garden of Dublin Castle either.

I was reading my Buddhism for beginners book and learning all about the importance of cultivating loving kindness for all sentient beings, when this little girl approached me. As I assumed she must be one of my 5km radius neighbours, I smiled at her, but she was a little too close for my pandemic comfort. I looked over to her owners on the bench, but they just smiled back proudly so I didn’t know quite what to do. I wanted her to step away to the appropriate two metre distance as recommended by health experts, but I also wanted these strangers to like me! So I didn’t say a word. When she stepped onto my blanket and rubbed my nose for a moment, I laughed my public laugh which translated as “this interaction doesn’t bother me at all, in fact, I’m rather enjoying the spontaneity of it!” When she bored of me and moved on, I thought isn’t that funny? I would literally rather risk death more than risk being unliked by people I don’t even know.

I like to be seen as a helpful neighbour.

That same day, after I left the Castle, I saw a man trip up the curb and have a nasty fall. You know those falls that don’t hurt as much as shake you for a moment, and he looked a little disorientated. I started shouting from across the street “are you OK? Are you OK?” and then I shouted a number of suggestions to him.

“You should sit down for a moment, catch your breath, have a sip of water!”

I have absolutely no medical training or qualifications whatsoever, so I have no way of knowing if my recommendations were in anyway of any use. But onwards I continued. In the end he brushed himself off and went away, possibly more embarrassed by the attention I’d given him than the fall itself.

I was just trying to be neighbourly.

I like some of my neighbours.

I like the woman at the end of the street, who stands outside her house meeting and greeting all the passers by in the morning. I like the guy who takes his dog for a walk half a dozen times a day, and I like the Latvians on the second floor. I became friends with them on the night of the Brexit referendum back in June 2016, when I came home tipsy and got in the lift with them. It was there I apologised on behalf of all British people for the result of the referendum. I told them that I loved Latvia, having only just recently visited Riga for a work trip, and I think they found the whole interaction a little strange but fine. We’ve been friends ever since and they always smile when they see me. Maybe it’s a smirk, but I see it as a smile when they see me.

They’ve been going to work throughout this whole horror shit show, and their three children have been looked after by an ever thinning network of friends and other parents in the same position. If one of them gets ill then the gruesome and grotesque pantomime of normalcy disintegrates and disappears like a water bubble on the surface of a lake in a forest. These two people are risking their health and lives so that they can hold onto their financial security, even though they probably know that The Economy is a mirage; you can see it, but it’s not really there.

I just feel like we are currently failing the most basic, neighbourly ethical dilemma of our time. Remember back in college when you used to sit on the floor drinking wine, sharing spliffs, discussing philosophical hypotheticals? Someone would suggest a dilemma and you would have to answer, and then they’d play around with the details? It’s like that, except we’re doing it for real.

“Would you jump into the rough, icy sea water to save ten children from drowning after their wooden rowing boat had gotten into trouble? Even though doing so would inevitably cause your death?”

“Yes, of course I would, without hesitation!”

“And would you jump into the rough, icy sea water to save…five children?”

“Of course, yes, of course!”

“two children…”

“Um….that’s a harder one, but yes, yes I would”.

“And what about a boat of older people, people with underlying health conditions, zero-hour contract workers and poorer people in general?”

“Oh no. That’s quite different, I’m not willing to save them. In fact, let me swim up to their wooden rowing boat and tip it over so that they all fall into the icy sea water a bit quicker!”

It’s just getting harder as it all goes along, that’s my opinion anyway.

I honestly don’t understand why we closed down the world when there were six thousand corpses, but now that there are over four hundred thousand, we’re opening back up with pleasure and delight. None of it makes any sense to me and it becomes more and more peculiar as time moves on.

I’m going off us as a species to be honest. I think we’re a bit rubbish, which is why I’m spending more time watching wildlife videos on YouTube and documentaries about the non-human animals on our planet.

Seagulls are no longer my favourite birds. They have been replaced with the bar tail godwits. I love these birds more than seagulls for two reasons. Firstly, I love them for their names which are genius, but secondly because these birds make the longest non-stop flights of any of the migratory birds, all the way from New Zealand to Alaska! They fly for seven days and seven nights without any food or rest so that they can go to their breeding ground on the other side of the world.

Isn’t that remarkable?

I came across this YouTube video of them preparing for their humungous journey from New Zealand and I think it might be one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It’s something delightful for World Environment Day, and I really hope you enjoy it.

Take good care of yourselves, and I’ll see you next week.

Don’t feel homesick for the life you once led. It won’t help you through the day-to-days and it might even leave you melancholy. Best to keep busy, exercise daily and eat lots of fruit. Do try and sleep a regular eight hours per day and don’t dream too much about castles in the clouds or combative dragons, as this will leave you restless.

Don’t quarrel and quibble over matters of no consequence, why battle with those things that don’t matter?

Do realise that there is no such thing as objective reality or absolute truth and that your existence itself is debatable.

Do go outside carefully (if you enjoy being outside) or stay indoors if that’s your cup of tea. Drink tea! Plenty of Earl Grey with milk from a special china cup that makes you smile because it was a gift from a friend. Never drink this tea while you’re reading messages or reliving old conversations with arch rivals. Rather, pay the tea and the cup the attention they deserve. If you would like to have a small piece of chocolate cake or a biscuit to go with it then good for you.

Run, skip, laugh, sleep.

Stand, stop, close your eyes and feel the sun on the part of your face the mask doesn’t cover.

Buy some candles.

Watch a film with Goldie Hawn in it.

Listen to the radio.

If you must listen to the news listen to it in a language you’re unfamiliar with, like Mongolian or Silbo Gomero. If you like, read the news in one of these languages too.

Plan a holiday. Don’t buy the tickets yet but imagine what you’d like to do in late summer. Maybe you would enjoy a ten-day ayahuasca holiday in the Peruvian Amazon, or a rented cottage in west Cork? Maybe you would happily give away your soul for a weekend in south Wales, or you might prefer a winter trip instead.

Don’t be too harsh on yourself for spending longer than you planned on your social media sites. They were deliberately designed that way.

Do talk to your plants about your day and tell them about the things that frustrate you.

Don’t spend time finishing a book or a film that you’re not enjoying – leave it there, give up on it, walk away.

Look at old photos and remember the smells that went with them, then have a drink and take a break without guilt.

Nap after lunch for a maximum of 90 minutes. If it goes over 90 minutes then you’ll have to call it sleep.

Don’t be meanspirited to the other people in your household or the strangers in the street who do things you Strongly Disagree With. They are tired of wading through their own labyrinth of shit and are probably fed up with you too.

Don’t be disheartened that you’re not as wise or kind as you hoped you would be, but spiteful and small minded instead. Definitely don’t worry if you still don’t know what you’re doing. No one does. Some people are just better at pretending.

Don’t worry that your trip to the supermarket takes so long. Being angry won’t speed up the queue. Being angry about this is like being a fly, trapped inside, bashing itself relentlessly against a glass window pane, on a sunny afternoon in July.

Remove the word “productive” from your lexicon and replace it with more interesting vocabulary. Say instead that the meeting was pulchritudinous, that the email was full of serendipity and that the report was like a freshly made jar of marmalade.

Do live in a country with a female leader as you’re less likely to die from this virus if that’s so. If you feel it’s too bothersome to emigrate right now, then ensure you’re a white, heterosexual member of the middle class with secure housing, and the ability to work from home instead.

Love fully, grieve fully, cry fully, rest.

Don’t mourn in a half-arsed way, mourning deserves more than that. Mourn in full technicolour with high pitched voices, and when you’re finished with mourning, mourn some more. Your grief is yours alone and it can be ugly. Don’t leave it unattended for too long.

Don’t be alarmed if you feel discombobulated right now, there is much discombobulation to be found. This now, is the height of the incomprehensible, as we’re further away from home than before.

Don’t think too much about post-pandemic life. Either things will get better, or they won’t. Do what you can to promote a kinder way, do what you can and sit down. Go and sit on the nearest bit of grass and listen to the sounds that surround you. Notice how the birds, construction, trees and traffic hardly ever perform the same symphony twice.

Do continue to read these weekly blogs. Unread words can be so terribly lonely. It means a lot to me that you continue to stop by. You are a beautiful, golden May sunset and do believe you’re ready for the next of it. Don’t mind these guidelines for wading through your labyrinth, except “do believe you’re ready for the next of it”.

I live in a gardenless work-life-unit so it’s important to go outside during Exercise Time for fresh air and sunshine. Sometimes I wander down to the river and saunter up and down the quays deciding which bridge to cross at: the Ha’penny, O’Connell or Samuel Beckett. Sometimes I don’t cross over a bridge at all but I sit on a bench on the boardwalk, and watch the people pass by.

The traffic has been so quiet so it’s easy to listen to people talking without seeming too rude or too nosey. I listen to women complaining to other women about their spouses and bosses. I hear people making frantic phone calls that perhaps they can’t make at home. I see a lot of secret smokers. You can tell the secret ones as they will smoke four cigarettes in succession and they never have a lighter or box of matches to hand. Sometimes there are people like me, who watch the river water flowing up and the river water flowing down. These are the least interesting of all the characters, who are waiting for a cue in a plot they didn’t write.

I watch a lot of seagulls on my visits to the quays.

I didn’t used to like seagulls after an incident outside a café just off Leeson Street when one of them stole a cheese and ham sandwich from my plate. He had been planning the theft for some time, from his observation point on the roof of a car nearby. When he finally swooped in I screamed quite loudly and I wondered who the woman screaming was, before I realised that it was me. Instinctively, I held onto my lunch for a few seconds, but he held on too, and in the end he won. It was quite embarrassing actually, because Brian O’Driscoll was sitting at the table next to me, with some friends, having a mocha. I felt sure they all laughed after I left and possibly told other people about the crazy screaming woman they saw, fighting with a bird.

Another time I was cycling down Capel Street and a piece of toast landed on my head. I was never very good at cycling one handed, so I couldn’t remove it for a while and rode down the street with some breakfast just perched there. When I pulled up at the lights, I saw an eager seagull waiting for his snack. Clearly, he’d dropped it while flying and now wanted it back, so I took it off my head and threw it to him. I looked at the other cyclists casually in the queue as if it were quite typical for me to ride around the city this way.

Now, I think they’re beautiful.

I love their soft white plumage and the way they walk. They are skilful flyers, and I love the fact that they can reverse. That’s possibly not the technical term for it, but you know the manoeuvre I mean, when they are able to double back on themselves. A fisherman on Inis Mór once told me that when seagulls eat mice they find them too hard to swallow dry, so they drop them into the sea to make them easier to digest. The sea is just one giant salty dip to our friends, the seagulls. I don’t know if the fisherman was pulling my leg, but I do know that seagulls mate for life, hunt in flocks and have developed a complex system of communication. These days, I find them fascinating.

A lot of people feed the seagulls.

Some people feed them bread and fruit while others give them left over takeaways, Shepherd’s Pie and jacket potatoes with beans on top. On Wednesday afternoon I saw three people give them a sausage roll and some chicken wings and the seagulls couldn’t have been happier.

The three people were sitting near me, one bench up and were sharing a two litre bottle of Strongbow. The woman took off her shoes to enjoy the sunshine fully, but otherwise she was dressed for winter. The thinner of the two men was trying to piece together the events of the night before, but it was all a little hazy and he was having difficulty with some of the details. Apparently, there had been an altercation with two other friends, namely, Damo and Frankie, who had done something unspeakable. Damo and Frankie were now mortal enemies of this smaller sub-group, which was a shame according to the barefoot woman, because they had all been exceptionally good friends up to this point. Nonetheless, the actions of Damo and Frankie would never be forgiven, even if they couldn’t quite be remembered, as this conflict was serious and had terrible ramifications.

The second man, who hadn’t participated in the discourse much up to now, joined in the conversation by saying, “do you know what you should do? You should visit the Cliffs of Moher, go on one of those bus tours. Have a day out!” It wasn’t entirely clear who he was aiming this recommendation to, so the woman started to check her pockets for some item, and the first man decided to take a little nap.

The traffic is starting to come back to the quays, which is a shame because it was much easier to eavesdrop when it was quieter. Voices travel further when not competing with motor vehicles and it’s smoother to pry without being noticed. I sit there with my mask and sunglasses on, like an extra from Mad Max and I love to hear what’s going on in the lives of the residents of Dublin 1.

Some of them are thrilled to see the city starting to go back to normal, while others are terrified. Some are looking forward to the next of the five phases, while others are dreading what it all might mean. Some of them find the seagulls a nuisance, while others think they are beautiful.

Before I left my bench on Wednesday an older man came by with a carrier bag of bits of bread. “Have you seen the swans yet?” he asked me and I told him I hadn’t. When I left, he was leaning over the barrier waiting and I don’t know how long he stayed.

But well done you, yes you my small but terribly loyal group of readers! You’ve made it through another week of your challenges and I’m so happy to see you again. You deserve some kind of a medal, and I wish you nothing but well.

I wish you nothing but well.