Sisters of Stone

Gorilla's in the Mist

Sailing on a gap to Dunloe

History of Medicine

Trepanation is a fascinating procedure in which a hole is drilled into the skull of a live person in order to expose the dura mater. I could not believe it but back in neolithic times this hole would be pierced with a flint stone. One would wonder whether or not there was any logical reason behind such an egregious practice to make it medicinally viable. But apparently, it is a very old surgical procedure used to cure many ailments like epilepsy, migraine and vapourisation of the evil spirits in order to treat mental illness.

Storm of the Century

After a night of boozing with a couple of folks, I dragged myself out of bed to go for a walk. I drove along the Liffey and noticed how the water level was so high. The water was ebbing with a mighty force of energy and enthusiasm along the rivers bank. At O'Connells Bridge there was very little displacement of air left between the two arches of the bridge and the height of the water level. My heart palpitated slightly as everyone was dandering by the bridge and boardwalk without noticing the oddity of the tides. I just boiled it down to the fact that I was slightly hungover.

I continued on in my journey heading towards Clontarf. To my left I noticed a camera-man filming the movements of the passing of cars, the angle of his camera then changed slightly pointing towards the sea. I looked over to my right to discover vibrant yellow sandbags tracing the coastal outline of Clontarf. These yellow sandbags were only concentrated along weak points of this particular coastline. A few men from Dublin County Council were standing around these yellow sandbags. I was not able to distinguish whether they had any purpose to be there or was it just for the camera-man.

As I furthered my journey towards Dollymount Strand, I noticed an ambulance with Civil Defence Force imprinted along its side and rescue at the back. A man in his late 50's was at the drivers seat. At this point my anxiety was rising slightly as I didn't know what was going on. I called into a friend of mine who still hadn't arisen from the outing. I divulged my account of the journey to my friends father, who was laughing as apparently Ireland is going to be hit with a storm for two days consecutively. We started laughing at how ill prepared we were for these sort of natural catastrophies.

For threats of flooding in Dublin coastal areas, gale force winds of 6 and gust of winds of 100kmph, one would have to laugh at Dublin Council County preparation for the flood. Perhaps I should write to Dublin County Council and ask them if they think their workers ought to lay down a few more sandbags in preparation for the apparent flooding at Clontarf. Also if they are going to advise residents on their internet flood sites (www.flood.ie) on precautionary measures, perhaps give them any form of information other then a screen with FLOOD.IE in bold.

Welcome to the Reek or "Garland Thursday"

Not sure if it would be blasphemous to edit the day of a holy day. It should really be so-called Garland Sunday but since I climbed it on a Thursday I shall always remember it as Garland Thursday. I can justify this as I perceive myself as being non-christian and if you object just leave a comment or get off the site. Although, I sincerely do hope that you are still reading on as I was only playing with words. Is this what they call vocab-tomfoolery? Or am I trying to parody some form of bad religious humor but successfully belly-flopping.

I have just come back from Croagh Patrick. Initially I was just going to put up a couple of pictures of the summit, make a few comments here and there but it really would not do the whole journey into the West any justice. For me the journey was about making my first attempt to climb a mountain and the people I met along the ascend and descend. I wasn't at Croagh Patrick for the Pilgrimage aspect of the mountain. Although, I throw my hat out and shudder violently to those who attempts this journey barefoot.

When I arrived at the foot of the mountain I fell on my arse due to the force of the wind combined with a set of slippery steps that lead towards the statue of St. Patrick. I was cursing in any language I could muster proficiently, which was really f*** it in english. To top that off, once you get pass the statue of St. Patrick you have to amble across rocks where you finally reach a fence with a wooden gate. Adjacent to the gate was a hazard sign - POISON. This image was enough to barricade me to the world that I was presently in from the world that I was about to enter. The wind was really picking up speed such that I couldn't open the wooden gate. A part of me sighed in relieve as I feared what the conditions would be like if I escalated any higher up the mountain. But the other side of me wasn't going to be deterred by such trivialities. I have driven many a miles to get here so I surely wasn't going to loose my focus. I forced open the wooden gate and off I went on my merry way.

It was a really strange journey as the wind was picking up speed, there were points were I thought I was going to be blown off. When all of a sudden there would be an abrupt calmness that one would only expect to be in the eye of a storm. In one of these calm moments I sat on a rock and looked back to see how far I have achieved. The gifted image I was presented of Clew Bay is one I will never forget. The sky palette was a magnificent blue brushed with brilliant white streak of clouds. The stark contrast between the islands of Clew Bay and the mainland was striking but yet in a subtle sort of way. The islands were like disarrayed stacks of hay in both colour and in shape. All this came together with the balance of a rainbow arching over Clew Bay. I took a deep breath and absorbed every last detail of this memorable landscape. I hauled myself off the rock with the sun beaming down my face and a drizzle of rain. Bless! Nature’s way of refreshing me before the steep part.





I finally made my way up to the steep part of the mountain. I bumped into the two yanks. Lets just call them Mister Republican and Mister Democratic, as they both portray atypical political viewpoints and personalities of their chosen name. They were seated on a rock each taking a rest before their last leg of the mountain slope. All I could see was Mister Democratic lips moving so I had to politely take my headphones off. One step at a time he ushered. The man could chat for all the Greek Gods and for St. Patrick himself. I took my camera out to take a photo to make myself productive whilst Mister Democratic was chitterling away. I noticed Mister Republican hadn't even stirred a muscle with all the shenanigans even when I took a shot of him embraced in the serenity of nature. He bore the weight of both worlds on his shoulders. A quiet Yank there must be something wrong with him. I kept going.




I looked up to see whether I had far left to go. My only viewpoint was of rocks almost in a vertical position. The wind at this level of the journey was so strong I had to hold on to dear life to those loose rocks. Well at least it wasn’t raining I thought to myself. With just a split second of thought I got the rain. I kept prodding along. For a while I ended up inside a cloud. It felt extremely cool and refreshing inside the cloud almost analogous to moving mist. Finally I made it to the top. There was an overwhelming sense of achievement. Your whole perspective changes where your whole initial focus was the outline of the mountaintop. But once you reach it to the top you get a panoramic view of the your surroundings. Your psychology changes in line with your newfound depth of understanding freedom and independence. You gather up your newfound freedom and independence like they were loose marbles tumbling out of their contained bag and you make your descend.

On my way down I stumbled upon Mister Democratic and Mister Republican again. This encounter was somewhat symbolic as their roles reversed. Contemplative Mister Republican had a couple of things to get off his chest. He informed me that he had the ashes of his mother, father and brother in his rucksack. He was going to scatter their ashes on Croagh Patrick so it could airborne out to Clew Bay. He had chosen this day as it was his birthday and they were the wishes of his parents to have their ashes scattered across the bay. I gave him an understanding nod and said no more on the subject. I left them to do their final ascend up the steep part of the mountain.




On my way down the mountain I kept thinking about Mister Republican, perhaps I should have spoken to him about it. But considering where we where I felt there was no need for talking for a silent understanding was a given. We are after all subjected to that vulnerable transient state of existence. It was surreal to imagine he held two generations of his bloodline in his rucksack. Both Mister Democratic and Mister Republican later caught up with me. Mister Republican appeared a lot more content with himself. He had fulfilled the wishes of his loved ones. We said no more on the subject we all just concentrated on our descend. It probably would have been a hell of a lot easier if we just schooshed all the way down on our arses.

Plastic Cling Film

A guy peers over and watches as the Indian man sieves through a box. His sparkling beady eyes and cheeky grin made me feel like he was up to some mischieve. He shouts across with sheer delight, excited that the box contained what he has been long searching for. What is all this excitement? How can this place I surround myself in stir a volcanic explosion of emotions? I was extremely intrigued as to what I would find peering across the counter. A crusty guy with a well trimmed beard, Jamiroqui hat, and innocently light blue eyes presents himself before me.

I laugh at him and question what he really wanted with these plastic cling film bags. It is all so dubious. He utters without hesitation that he wanted these plastics bags to store his seeds in. I laugh hysterically almost in convulsion but at the same time didn’t want to appear too rude. Mister Jamiroqui spin me another yarn. You have been my only entertainment today and I am loving the show. To prove his point he places this elongated neon green seed on the counter. It was brilliantly green, somehow it reminded me of the green powder out of Adaptation. I was dissolved in a moment of Adaptation, the whole obsession of orchids or was it drugs? Or was it drugs embellished in a world of mysteria, aahh the obsessive life of an orchid lover.

Mr Jamiroqui’s seed had an unusual element to it. It resembled a lot of things. I thought perhaps it was special in its own right as it possesses the ability to be a googalplex of identity. Initially I thought it was an unripe chilli wrapped in a thin film of oil giving its green shiny perceptive reflection. I just can’t get over how neon green this seed was. It looked beautiful. Or could this seed be a potential starfruit, as in its existing form it also gives off the impression of looking like a baby starfruit. I would like to think that it has the potential to become this amazing godetia but I gainsay take away from its original entity. Like in Adaptation, when you strip mysteria out of anything in life you are only left with the truth or shall I just plainly say reality. As it transpires from the conversation with Mister Jamiroqui this neon green seed had the potential to be garlic cloves. Oh! how wonderful - Mister Jamiroqui just go ahead, strip my minds journey of mysteria and leave it lying naked and cloth it with reality.

Mister Jamiroqui whips out a horse-chestnut from his magical bag of seeds. I internally let out a shriek of delight, as that morning whilst I was walking through the park to work I too discovered a horse-chestnut. I made it come back to life as I rubbed its oily texture between my fingers. I didn’t know why I was so engrossed in this horse-chestnut as surrounding me in the park was a dense mist with rays of light penetrating through it, giving a real tranquil feel to my environment. Squirrels were scuttering around preparing for their winter hibernation. At a distance even with the dense mist I can make out a massive white tent with black triangles bordering the top giving the impression of a rooftop. I laughed excitedly as being here at this point kind of reminds me of being back in medieval times, at a knights festival but all the knights are all asleep and drifting into a deeper realm of the dream world. It is after all early morning.