So there we were. Finally. After months of preparation and excited chit chat we were in Sydney. A wet and dismal Sydney for the most part. E had warned us it would be cold and damp but we laughed –she had forgotten what the weather was like at home, sure weren’t the temperatures in Sydney mid-winter as high as the temperatures at home in late Spring?
The house we had rented was problematic, it was tiny and we were packed one on top of the other without any recourse to a suitable outdoor space to escape. What is it about holiday en famille that is enough to drive one insane? Particularly for that first week as each individual struggles to come to terms with the proximity of other individuals. And everybody straining against the leash to do their own thing. I am invariably cantankerous for the first week of holidays until I find a routine. The boys squabbled continuously like discontented starlings so that did not help.
We did all the touristy things. I admit to a thrill when I touched the cool tile of the Sydney Opera House. The magnificence of the harbour area and Sydney Bridge only being outdone by the sheer vastness and barreness of the plains of land we had seen as we flew into the city . Nature’s stoic greatness exceeds man’s attempts to dominate the landscape, it always will. We went to hear E. sing in a jazz session that first week. I had almost forgotten what a wonderful voice she has. We could see how fond of her all the other musicians were and it gladdened our hearts.
We found Sydney expensive. Books in particular are an insane price. I spotted a friend’s novel- ‘The Other Boy’ by Yvonne Cassidy - in one large bookstore, I was horrified to see it priced at over Aud$30, that’s almost €20!
We spent our first full weekend in a beautiful house in the Blue Mountains, about an hour’s drive from Sydney. I had heard of the place from a lovely young woman I met in the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annamakerrig last year and it lived up to her descriptions. We had a delicious late lunch in a tiny restaurant called the ‘Blue Mist Café’. Best of all the place was full of second-hand books for sale. I could quite happily have browsed there all day long. The following day we ‘did’ the National Park in Katoomba, this is a magnificent place and very sensitively managed. Seeing the dense rain forests and the strangeness of the terrain I could not help but wonder what it must have been like for the first European settlers who made their way there. It can only have been a very harsh life.
On our last morning in the area we partook of the most expensive breakfast in Austrlalia! A restaurant preserved in the art deco style of the hotel it was when it was originally built. The memorabilia and nostalgia industry is alive and kicking ass in Katoomba.
My mood started to improve, as it invariably does on the second week of holidays. We had all found our stride and ways of accommodating each other. Jemser and I went to see ‘Long Day’s Journey into Night’ with William Hurt in the lead role, wonderful. Jemser, son#1 and E climbed Sydney Bridge in the pissin’ rain and came home elated. Later in the week E, son#2 and I went to see the musical ‘Wicked’ in a beautiful old theatre, great show – but I doubt the songs will live as long as those from ‘The Wizard of Oz’.
That week we also visited an old friend of Jemser’s who settled in Sydney over twenty yers ago and we sat on his deck admiring his pool and garden. The orange tree at the end of the garden had unfortunately been blasted by wind and frost and looked totally lopsided as only three branches remained clothed in leaves and budding fruit. I’m sure I’ll use the image as a symbol for something at some stage when I’m feeling profound and appearing pretentious!
Next up was our trip to the Great Barrier Reef…….worthy of a blog on it’s own. More anon.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Our Odyssey to Oz, Cuid a hAon
Yes, I know my Irish spelling is dodgy. Don't snitch on me to Jemser if it's wrong because he'll deck me!
Ok. I’m back! Did yiz not notice how quiet the country was for the past three weeks? That’s ‘cause I was away and wasn’t prepared to sell one of my kids in order to fund a long enough session in an Internet Cafe to blog. But I took notes and will be boring you all to death with ‘me holliers’ for the next few posts. Blogging and Facebook are the new way of showing your workmates your holiday snaps – the memory of your holiday being incredibly precious to you and mattering not a whit to anyone else.
The clan’s Odyssey to Oz began with a gloriously sunny Dublin morning, a 7.30 am taxi ride to the airport with a stereotypical taxi driver who slammed everything Irish, British, American and Australian. In ten minutes! Everything went smoothly at airport, much hilarity at the fact that two of son#1’s pals came to see him off! They mourned his leaving them for THREE WHOLE WEEKS over free coffee and paid-for egg mcmuffins in the airport’s Mc Donalds. Son #1 claimed he would be homesick for these gangly lads. I laughed. I shouldn’t have laughed-it became horribly obvious he was homesick later in the trip, more on which anon.
We flew with Ethiad airlines and it was an experience. Even in Economy it is the luxurious end of air travel. All male members of fambly thrilled with individual screens in seat backs showing a huge variety of movies, tv shows, music videos and computer games. Staff incredibly courteous and even though there were several tiny infants on board the flight was quiet and civilised. I finally got to see Neil Jordan’s ‘Ondine’ , what a magical film! The part of the fisherman Syracuse must have been written for Colin Farrell because he was superb in it. All performances were brilliant in fact and the scenery, sets etc were beautiful. Definitely a winner.
For the rest of the flight into Abu Dhabi I read, wrote, ate – relatively decent airline grub and studied the forward view on screen from a camera mounted somewhere on the plane. A joy of a journey and then a smooth trafer to a second flight. And none of our bags got lost, although I could have done with losing one or all of the male members by the time we arrived! And big step-kid #1 was waiting for us at the airport. Looking as beautiful as ever. Or maybe even beautifuller. It was so, so good to see her. I think I might have hugged her too hard and she me, because the two of us shed a few tears-much to the bemusement of the males in our lives. What is it about men and tears? They just don’t get them at all do they?
More later…
Ok. I’m back! Did yiz not notice how quiet the country was for the past three weeks? That’s ‘cause I was away and wasn’t prepared to sell one of my kids in order to fund a long enough session in an Internet Cafe to blog. But I took notes and will be boring you all to death with ‘me holliers’ for the next few posts. Blogging and Facebook are the new way of showing your workmates your holiday snaps – the memory of your holiday being incredibly precious to you and mattering not a whit to anyone else.
The clan’s Odyssey to Oz began with a gloriously sunny Dublin morning, a 7.30 am taxi ride to the airport with a stereotypical taxi driver who slammed everything Irish, British, American and Australian. In ten minutes! Everything went smoothly at airport, much hilarity at the fact that two of son#1’s pals came to see him off! They mourned his leaving them for THREE WHOLE WEEKS over free coffee and paid-for egg mcmuffins in the airport’s Mc Donalds. Son #1 claimed he would be homesick for these gangly lads. I laughed. I shouldn’t have laughed-it became horribly obvious he was homesick later in the trip, more on which anon.
We flew with Ethiad airlines and it was an experience. Even in Economy it is the luxurious end of air travel. All male members of fambly thrilled with individual screens in seat backs showing a huge variety of movies, tv shows, music videos and computer games. Staff incredibly courteous and even though there were several tiny infants on board the flight was quiet and civilised. I finally got to see Neil Jordan’s ‘Ondine’ , what a magical film! The part of the fisherman Syracuse must have been written for Colin Farrell because he was superb in it. All performances were brilliant in fact and the scenery, sets etc were beautiful. Definitely a winner.
For the rest of the flight into Abu Dhabi I read, wrote, ate – relatively decent airline grub and studied the forward view on screen from a camera mounted somewhere on the plane. A joy of a journey and then a smooth trafer to a second flight. And none of our bags got lost, although I could have done with losing one or all of the male members by the time we arrived! And big step-kid #1 was waiting for us at the airport. Looking as beautiful as ever. Or maybe even beautifuller. It was so, so good to see her. I think I might have hugged her too hard and she me, because the two of us shed a few tears-much to the bemusement of the males in our lives. What is it about men and tears? They just don’t get them at all do they?
More later…
Monday, June 28, 2010
'The Chosen One'
He calls himself ‘the Chosen One’, standing in front of the mirror above the fireplace in my sitting room. The hair is in constant play. He flicks the fringe with either a toss of his head – reminding me of a horse clearing hair and flies from his face - or with a sweep of his hand.
He is good-looking, I’ll give him that, and when he smiles his dimples wink at you and his teeth are strong and white, shining. I envy him his confidence and then feel proud, for surely he would not be as confident if I had not instilled that self-belief in him.
‘You can do anything. Be anything you want to be. All you have to do is firmly believe in yourself, acknowledge your own limitations and f*** the begrudgers’.
Have I done the right thing? Sometimes I fear for him, fear the landing he might get when that first disappointment comes – as it will – for luck also plays a part. But then I realize that I have prepared him for that too. Prepared him for reality, which is just as well considering the world we live in.
I also hope I have made him aware of other people, their feelings and how he must live in the world with others. I think I’ve succeeded there. He is immensely popular, a huge circle of friends both male and female. They tease and slag each other with that teenage cruelty that horrifies us as parents. But where did they learn such cruelty? Is it innate in us all? We talked, the Chosen One and I of this and we agreed that there is a meanness in humanity, only the very, very young and those special souls who may appear ‘simple’ to our sophisticated eyes appear not to have this trait.
Is that what makes us human? Or divine? Battling that tiny voice inside that suggests cruelties, both great and small. It was an interesting discussion, one I would not have been able to have at sixteen. Sixteen. Jesus, I can still remember vividly my waters breaking when he decided to arrive a little early. Always in a hurry – he couldn’t wait to be born to start on his path. He has been running away from me ever since. I hope he’ll either slow down or I speed up and we can walk companionably at least some part of the way.
Happy birthday son.
He is good-looking, I’ll give him that, and when he smiles his dimples wink at you and his teeth are strong and white, shining. I envy him his confidence and then feel proud, for surely he would not be as confident if I had not instilled that self-belief in him.
‘You can do anything. Be anything you want to be. All you have to do is firmly believe in yourself, acknowledge your own limitations and f*** the begrudgers’.
Have I done the right thing? Sometimes I fear for him, fear the landing he might get when that first disappointment comes – as it will – for luck also plays a part. But then I realize that I have prepared him for that too. Prepared him for reality, which is just as well considering the world we live in.
I also hope I have made him aware of other people, their feelings and how he must live in the world with others. I think I’ve succeeded there. He is immensely popular, a huge circle of friends both male and female. They tease and slag each other with that teenage cruelty that horrifies us as parents. But where did they learn such cruelty? Is it innate in us all? We talked, the Chosen One and I of this and we agreed that there is a meanness in humanity, only the very, very young and those special souls who may appear ‘simple’ to our sophisticated eyes appear not to have this trait.
Is that what makes us human? Or divine? Battling that tiny voice inside that suggests cruelties, both great and small. It was an interesting discussion, one I would not have been able to have at sixteen. Sixteen. Jesus, I can still remember vividly my waters breaking when he decided to arrive a little early. Always in a hurry – he couldn’t wait to be born to start on his path. He has been running away from me ever since. I hope he’ll either slow down or I speed up and we can walk companionably at least some part of the way.
Happy birthday son.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A book with words in it by me!!!!!!!!
Just got word that 'His Name Is Rebecca' will hit the shops August 27th-28th. I almost cried when I got the news. I feel like my 'labour' is nearly over, my baby is on the way and it'll all be over soon. All my anxieties, fears etcetera over and it wasn't half as painful as I thought it would be. Or maybe I've already forgotten the tearing my hair out, throwing the laptop at the window phase - as I forgot labour No. 1 until labour No. 2 started. I reckon we would all be only children only Nature does us a favour and blocks out the memory of the pain until it starts all over again!
Like pregnancy the book started with excitement, enthusiasm and pleasure and like labour it comes to an end with a wearier pleasure that becomes a great joy.
My job is done. Now all I have to do is rear the baby/flog the book!
Like pregnancy the book started with excitement, enthusiasm and pleasure and like labour it comes to an end with a wearier pleasure that becomes a great joy.
My job is done. Now all I have to do is rear the baby/flog the book!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Chosen People
Few beliefs over the millennia have been as misunderstood as the ’Chosen People’ doctrine. I do not purport to rehash any of those arguments here. I am no religious scholar neither an intellectual nor a philosopher. I approach each piece of reading and writing in the same way – with an open mind and a willingness to learn. My ramblings here are merely musings on my reading, personal thoughts on history as ‘twere and not intended as statements of fact or faith.
When I first heard that ‘Chosen People’ phrase many years ago I thought it a peculiar aggrandizement indeed a racist nomenclature for how can any one people decide that they are ‘Chosen’ above all others?. But as I grew older I realized that the term did not necessarily mean ‘better’ or the ‘best’. For a huge number of Jewish teachings, as in Christianity and Islam and other religions, are committed to the belief that all mankind - of whatever colour, gender, creed –is created in the image of one God and is possessed of an inherent human dignity and worthiness.
The horrors of the Holocaust often come to mind when the term the ‘Chosen People’ is mentioned. Were the Jews chosen, not solely I know, but as the primary victims of genocide so terrible it will reverberate for aeons? And why? It certainly showed Humanity what cruelty is innate in us and what a responsibility, a duty we have to tolerate, accept, love and care for one another. Or is it merely coincidence that those of the Jewish faith were the primary target of Hitler’s ethnic cleansing? It could be both of course, the ‘coincidence’ will forever be used to illustrate both the suffering that Man can withstand and the cruelty that Man is capable of. The battle between good and evil goes on every day, in every one of us, in our every mean and petty thought and every small gesture of compassion and humility. We should welcome the battle within us, for the very fact of it shows us to be closer to Heaven than our human minds perhaps even realise. Above all it proves us capable of being modeled on the Divine as well as re-affirming our obvious human frailties.
Some days my head hurts with too much thinking. I think a big mug of tea, some toast with melted butter and an hour in the sun is called for. Or perhaps some gardening, for there I can be judge and jury, compassionate in staking and watering, ruthless with weeds and spent flower heads. My own little kingdom.
When I first heard that ‘Chosen People’ phrase many years ago I thought it a peculiar aggrandizement indeed a racist nomenclature for how can any one people decide that they are ‘Chosen’ above all others?. But as I grew older I realized that the term did not necessarily mean ‘better’ or the ‘best’. For a huge number of Jewish teachings, as in Christianity and Islam and other religions, are committed to the belief that all mankind - of whatever colour, gender, creed –is created in the image of one God and is possessed of an inherent human dignity and worthiness.
The horrors of the Holocaust often come to mind when the term the ‘Chosen People’ is mentioned. Were the Jews chosen, not solely I know, but as the primary victims of genocide so terrible it will reverberate for aeons? And why? It certainly showed Humanity what cruelty is innate in us and what a responsibility, a duty we have to tolerate, accept, love and care for one another. Or is it merely coincidence that those of the Jewish faith were the primary target of Hitler’s ethnic cleansing? It could be both of course, the ‘coincidence’ will forever be used to illustrate both the suffering that Man can withstand and the cruelty that Man is capable of. The battle between good and evil goes on every day, in every one of us, in our every mean and petty thought and every small gesture of compassion and humility. We should welcome the battle within us, for the very fact of it shows us to be closer to Heaven than our human minds perhaps even realise. Above all it proves us capable of being modeled on the Divine as well as re-affirming our obvious human frailties.
Some days my head hurts with too much thinking. I think a big mug of tea, some toast with melted butter and an hour in the sun is called for. Or perhaps some gardening, for there I can be judge and jury, compassionate in staking and watering, ruthless with weeds and spent flower heads. My own little kingdom.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Midsummer mentality.........
I stood in a lift in a shopping centre this morning and a trio of middle-aged, sun-kissed ladies (much like myself) broke that sometimes awkward silence by chatting desultorily about the weather.
‘Isn’t it just lovely’ sez lady 1.
‘Yeah Mary, gorgeous…but what have we to complain about now?’ sez lady 2.
‘Not a ting, not a ting,’ sighed lady 3 with satisfaction.
I grinned. The list was as long as not only her arm but the combined length of the arms of everybody in the country. We live on a godforsaken bog which has been governed for generations by a greedy, corrupt Church propped up by successive subservient Governments, both aided by the cash from the all too powerful big business. So. Where to start?
I think the ladies had it right. When the sun shines in Ireland we should take a day- nay, a week even - off - dismiss to the back of our minds the woes and tribulations of being Irish. We should take to the streets, the beaches and fields of the country, smile at each other, be gentle and kind to one another; sing, dance and above all laugh. Enjoy ourselves. It is but temporary and therefore all the more welcome.
Perhaps when the Azores high moves on we may be refreshed enough to take up metaphorical cudgels again and bat our way into a brave new world. A Golden Age is coming, a real Renaissance.
We can but hope and pray.
‘Isn’t it just lovely’ sez lady 1.
‘Yeah Mary, gorgeous…but what have we to complain about now?’ sez lady 2.
‘Not a ting, not a ting,’ sighed lady 3 with satisfaction.
I grinned. The list was as long as not only her arm but the combined length of the arms of everybody in the country. We live on a godforsaken bog which has been governed for generations by a greedy, corrupt Church propped up by successive subservient Governments, both aided by the cash from the all too powerful big business. So. Where to start?
I think the ladies had it right. When the sun shines in Ireland we should take a day- nay, a week even - off - dismiss to the back of our minds the woes and tribulations of being Irish. We should take to the streets, the beaches and fields of the country, smile at each other, be gentle and kind to one another; sing, dance and above all laugh. Enjoy ourselves. It is but temporary and therefore all the more welcome.
Perhaps when the Azores high moves on we may be refreshed enough to take up metaphorical cudgels again and bat our way into a brave new world. A Golden Age is coming, a real Renaissance.
We can but hope and pray.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
One In Four - Omos
I have just spent a most incredible evening in St Stephen's Church off Merrion Square ( better known as the Pepper Canister).
The occasion was a cultural evening - an evening of readings and music to honour those in this benighted isle of ours who have experienced sexual violence. To try to empathise with these victims and to show them that we take a collective cultural responsibility towards them and endeavour to help ease their healing through the disciplines of words and music.
The line up was superb. Theo Dorgan m.c'd, RTE radio were recording it for future broadcast, Christy Moore, Don Baker, Eleanor McEvoy, Shaz Oye and Karan Casey provided the musical end of the night. Dearbhaile Crottry performed an extract from Bailegangaire by Tom Murphy and Joe O'Connor, Roddy Doyle, Nuala Ni Domhnaill andLia Mills all read from their work and Margaret Kelleher read two poems by Seamus Heaney which the great man had selected for the evening.
Each performer outdid the one before, each made the other's performance shine, enhanced it almost until at the end of the night we the audience were left in no doubt but that we had been part of a very, very special evening.
I know it's a cliche - but sometimes cliches are the only words that will aptly describe something. When Karan Casey wound up what had on occasions been a very, very intense and disturbing night with Nina Simone's anthem of hope 'New Dawn, New Day' the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my skin prickled. For you know, I do think there is hope for our little republic yet. We are in the process of tearing down all our old sacred cows, Church, State, Banks and big business. What we will be left with remains to be seen.
But once we are peopled by those like the courageous survivors of horrific acts, people brave enough to stand up and come forward, who may perhaps feel they are reliving (often over and over and over) the whole sordid sorry horror again. Once we are peopled also by artistes like those in the Pepper Canister tonight - people willing to observe, analyse and show us our sins and our ability to heal from those sins. With people like these among us then yes, yes, Ireland of the future may well be a very, very fine place to live.
The occasion was a cultural evening - an evening of readings and music to honour those in this benighted isle of ours who have experienced sexual violence. To try to empathise with these victims and to show them that we take a collective cultural responsibility towards them and endeavour to help ease their healing through the disciplines of words and music.
The line up was superb. Theo Dorgan m.c'd, RTE radio were recording it for future broadcast, Christy Moore, Don Baker, Eleanor McEvoy, Shaz Oye and Karan Casey provided the musical end of the night. Dearbhaile Crottry performed an extract from Bailegangaire by Tom Murphy and Joe O'Connor, Roddy Doyle, Nuala Ni Domhnaill andLia Mills all read from their work and Margaret Kelleher read two poems by Seamus Heaney which the great man had selected for the evening.
Each performer outdid the one before, each made the other's performance shine, enhanced it almost until at the end of the night we the audience were left in no doubt but that we had been part of a very, very special evening.
I know it's a cliche - but sometimes cliches are the only words that will aptly describe something. When Karan Casey wound up what had on occasions been a very, very intense and disturbing night with Nina Simone's anthem of hope 'New Dawn, New Day' the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my skin prickled. For you know, I do think there is hope for our little republic yet. We are in the process of tearing down all our old sacred cows, Church, State, Banks and big business. What we will be left with remains to be seen.
But once we are peopled by those like the courageous survivors of horrific acts, people brave enough to stand up and come forward, who may perhaps feel they are reliving (often over and over and over) the whole sordid sorry horror again. Once we are peopled also by artistes like those in the Pepper Canister tonight - people willing to observe, analyse and show us our sins and our ability to heal from those sins. With people like these among us then yes, yes, Ireland of the future may well be a very, very fine place to live.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)