Paper dreams
Have you ever wondered, “What exactly is my purpose on our little shining blue ball floating around in our vast universe?” Have you? Congratulations, so have I! It took me the better part of my teenage years to get to the stage where I thought, “Yes! Eureka! Yes, I found out what I am doing here!” Translated, it sounded more like this, “I know where I am going to live!” Part of the master plan that had been hiding in my unconscious mind had already been set in motion, albeit drifting rebelliously between my conscious and the harder to access unconscious level, before mischievously appearing again.
Books? Great medicine!
All joking aside, I cannot even begin to count the number of books I have read since childhood or how many I handled while working in a library. Books become part of life, a friend I will remember forever, a gateway or hiding place where distraction reigns. Just holding them, turning page after page, waiting to be explored, conquered, talked about and put on a shelf waiting to be taken out again. And so the cycle begins again.
#strongerthanms with MS Ireland
“So, how’s the book,” friends often ask me. “Oh, it’s getting there,” I joke. “I’ve finished one page, the one with the title and my name!” I don’t lack the ambition to keep on writing, but I have an overabundance of low energy levels, so I must ask people to use their patience… patiently when dealing with me. Like all cowards, the illness I write about lurks in the dark within my central nervous system, and it sometimes rises to the surface in unflattering ways. My body does a good job in concealing it for now, but every so often I worry about it rising to the surface and staying there… permanently.
Kick-Ass Ireland
Some days I sit still and think about how my life became a dream full-circle. There’s William Butler Yeats, James Joyce and Brendan Behan. Seamus Heaney, Jonathan Swift, Samuel Beckett and George Bernard Shaw. The Lake Isle of Innisfree, Land of Heart’s Desire and Yeats’s grave. Dubliners, Ulysses and Bloomsday. The mountains, lakes, Dublin, Sligo and the Shannon. Brú na Boinne, Corcaigh, Beara, Daingean Uí Chúis, Zú Bhaile Átha Cliath, craic agus ceol. Brian Ború, Michael Collins, Theobald Wolfe Tone and Daniel O’Connell. Seven hundred years of cruelty, yet still able to endure hard times. Writers, dancers, taps, tin whistles and uilleann pipes. Books, almighty libraries and small bookshops selling secrets. Friendships gained, lost and renewed. New alliances forged in foothills and strengthened on mountain tops. “You, the Irish” becoming “Us…
Books, Ireland and a few blanks
"To see the real Ireland, the sea, the ocean, the mountains, the patches of green under constantly changing shadows, is to know its people. Despite trying to give Ireland the best of both worlds, it ended up taking up part of me. Lex talionis not applied, I abide by its spirit and ever-welcoming mind."
I’m an ex and I’m lovin’ it!
"I used to be a lot of things. Busy. Book addict. Ireland lover. Passionate. College student… and perhaps a tad crazy also. But then friends started saying that I was “slowly turning into a blonde”. Physical discrimination on the basis of hair colour aside, I felt they had a point. Concentration skills went from hero to zero. Walking from the couch to the fridge a massive undertaking. In tears in front of the staircase after work because I had to sleep for an hour before being able to scale its height."
2015: Year of the Pen
We’re a few days into the New Year already, and I’m looking forward to sitting down in Starbucks Ireland once again. Parker pen, a large latte and carrot cake to take me through the thoughts in my mind while a new notebook waits for thoughts that sound like words; with emotions that sound like sentences or paragraphs. Life’s the story; my family, friends & MS gang, my inspiration. This year will mark my fourth year of blogging, although mentally blog ‘posts’ are now called ‘articles’ and blogging turned into ‘writing’. No, it’s not a matter of being arrogant, being a social climber, or being above ‘mere’ blogging. Writing simply became a lot more than blogging. Writing became a lifestyle.
