After buying John Moriarty autobiography for my father’s Christmas present I wanted to listen to his podcast whilst grouting the kitchen tiles . A modern woman needs to be able to attend to basic DIY aswell as dying the roots and getting to the root of the matter.
As I put away my organic veg the phrase we are more than transformed groceries caught my attention.
I love it. We are more than what we put into our bodies.. We are marred by the stars the earth the experience of our forefathers and mothers. We are the soul of the world the soul of the world is us.
Is it necessary then to attend funerals? My friends father has just died. The father of the four handsomest brothers around when I was growing up. The father of my first lover in fact. Shit I guess I should go. I also slept with his brother… Years later we had a bit of a thing…. Shite maybe I shouldn’t go.
The right thing to do… Anyone?My mother thinks I should go based on loveliness of dead man (indeed he was a lovely man, he turned a blind eye and nose to our debauchery in youth) … But she doesn’t know the sordid details.
Ahh Ill contact my girlfriend from that time. She slept with a few of them too…. That’s what happens when one grows up on an island… Moral compasses go askew in the wind rain and small pool of suitable suitors.
People from densely populated regions cannot understand this family sharing but to an islander its common behaviour.
We were only keeping warm sure. Transforming movies into romances. Trying our best to be more than transformed groceries.
Ps didn’t go to the funeral… Went to techno gig in Dublin instead. Ben Klock. Darkness reigned in this Hard-core old theatre in the city…. Danced in a semi state of fear all night after consuming uncle Dermots plum poitin and dried mushrooms.
Will now have to visit older handsome brothers in their home unshielded by the funeral crowd. Have lots of visiting to do in this place called home. My brother of course has messed it up with his connemara poitin and bag of weed. The bags under my eyes are in linear proportion to the late nights skiteing about that is Christmas.
I’ve even dabbled in the notion of inherited madness. Floated it by the mother as an idea that her first husband was a madman and thus bequeathed it to me his daughter.
Never forget you were conceived in love she said and if you think you’re mad well get yourself checked out. Her utter calmness was either down to the ubsurdity of my madness or her preoccupation with matching shoes and handbag for upcoming cousins wedding.
Have shied away from that social engagement also. Since declaring myself mad I can do whatever the hell I want. How liberating. After years of being forced by a socialised sanity to attend occasions, I can now just hang about with hair standing on end wide eyed…
What joy…. What guilt…. Paving the way for future generations when no one will grace the door of church for weddings or funerals unless they really want to. Or they’ve put away all the groceries and have nothing better to do!