In praise of laziness and effortless superiority

A poet was once described by a critic as being 'effortlessly superior'. On telling this story, a priest I knew shrugged his shoulders and said with great mirth, 'well, isn't that the only kind of superiority worth having?!'

Atoms are made of 99.99 percent empty space, and we are made of atoms, so why do we have so little empty space in our lives? Maybe we should learn from the structure of the universe. What is life for, if we have no 'time to stand and stare'? Perhaps this is the requirement and the secret of genius. We grow up being taught to read, a very important element in our learning, but who teaches us not to read, but to day dream instead? We learn alot about the facts of the physical universe, but who is there to teach us to value the stars? We even learn that beauty can be measured in golden sections and fractal equations, but who will encourage us to stop and properly appreciate the beauty of the human form. Well, I suppose there is Oscar Wilde for one. We should learn by looking at the lilies of the valley and the birds of the air.

But we go about as if there is something great to do in life. We dress in ties and jackets, power suits and sensible shoes as if we are the ones in charge, or at least the 00.01 percent of us which isn't simply void. But what is there to be done? Survive, yes, thrive, preferably, but nothing really apart from being. We just have to consent to be. When we are lazy we recognise this great truth and let the goodness of not doing but simply being flood our minds. However, this is not as easy as you might think. Every time, I try to do nothing, I end up doing something. I sit, see, reflect, eat, watch tv. I always end up doing until in the end I realise it doesn't matter what it is I am doing, so long as I don't try to do it as much as possible. In this way, my thoughts come without self consciousness; I see the beauty of the tree, not of me; I see the existence of the other person.

We are so superior to the rest of creation we don't even have to try. The flowers and the birds are beautiful but they cannot see beauty. The truth is knowable but it cannot know. The moral life is good but it cannot live well. Only we can do these and we do them best when we don't even try. This is the lazy poetry of life, that its power is in weakness.

Well and truly giving the goose

Allora, so here goes with the curious incident of 'the goose in the kitchen with the microwave'. - (How about that for an interesting game of cluedo?) Mon frere, Pierre - (pretentious, moi?) - was coming down for a visit so I thought I'd go all french cooking on his ass, but in a lot less a gay way than that sounds. So I was going to cook duck a la something, the only problem being not only the something but also the duck - it couldn't be got for love or money within three miles of the Maynooth environs. So I had to settle for a rather large Lidl goose, frozen et avec ses giblettes. My first decision or rather pure guess was could the duck fit my microwave, not having a full 24 hours at my disposal to wait for it to warm up all by itself? I cogitated and imagined, measured and inwardly digested the possibilities and struck the deal. Off I went carrying a frozen goose all the way home, trying desperately to look like I was carrying duck.

In the house neither of my two microwaves seemed up to the challenge. One stopped working altogether, and the other went round - bop against the door - back round - bop against the back. This went on for some time, perhaps too much time, for when I reopened the door the legs were tinged with a golden brown, doing nicely, but the rest of the bird was quite simply frigid. Thus began my hour vigil at the microwave manually turning Miss Goose. (I say Miss but I could quite as easily say 'Goosey' for by now we were becoming on quite intimate terms, directing as I was her rear end towards the microwaves at opportune moments, feeling much as a fake tan artiste must do in similar delicate situations.

To make a long adventure slightly less long, I'll cut to the highlights. I had said defrosted goosey sitting in the sink all ready for the next ignomious part of the struggle. I checked for giblets and not finding any I put her in the oven and sat down fagged out. Ten minutes later the old grey cells starting working again and I had what you might call an epiphany. I took the already cooking bird out of the oven and tried the other end, and sure enough - bob's your uncle but only on Tuesdays - there they were ... still frozen to the rest of the insides. More delicate microwave positioning followed even more ignominious than before. I'll leave that to your own healthy imagination.

Cook for 2 and a half hours breast down to ensure tenderness. The goose fat came out and in went the potatoes and things seemed to at last have come together like a good plan. I presented the bird to my brother and friends and carved with all the pride of one who has survived much to give something of beauty to the world. The carving wasn't easy, but I presented the first piece to my brother, encouraging him to eat it. The second breast was even harder to cut, at which my brother inquired softly if the breast might not possibly be on the other side. And true enough that side was deep and by now quite tough, but much more acceptable as an offering to a guest than the remains of Goosey's behind. With this is mind, I realise than I've still got a belt or two to go before I can get that illustrious cordon bleu, but still Goosey did not die in vain, as the meal was made with love, and I think you could taste that.

Voyvodina in January

It´s the morning of the 21st and I´m about to go to Bilbao for the first time. We´re seeing a band called Capsula there tonight, not sure whether they´re Basque or Spanish. Goren and I had a great night with a friend of his at the festival for San Sebastian, so much so we had to stay in a darkened atmosphere for most of Wednesday, and then we had a lovely - you´ll remember Liam - dinner with his mother, and brother.
Tomorrow we´re going to a place where they make cider to see it and sample along with eating apparently very bloody steaks cooked over a fire. Two more firsts. I´m having a good time, if a little tired. But i´ll no doubt sleep on the bus journey too.
On the down side, there´s some strikes by air traffic controllers at Dublin airport which i understand, but hope won´t spill over to Saturday and leave me stranded in London.
The view from Goren´s patio is of mountains and at the moment we seem higher than the clouds, at least one rolling in as mist. It is to be mild today and hopefully a good day for walking. That´s all from my postcard from the edge for now.

En route

On the road again, after a period of mild panic wondering whether the flights I booked really were booked or not. I'm in London Stansted on the way to the Basque country to see Goren and experience the festivities surrounding Sab Sebastian Day from midnight tonight. I only got two hours sleep last night with all the excitement, but I think the adrenaline will kick back in to keep me going ... Now just three hours in my stop over to learn some Basque words, ba means yes, which explains why they tend to sound like sheep alot when deep in conversation. On Thursday I visit Bilbao, which will be a first for me. That's it for the first installment, as my sterling ends in about one and a half minutes. Off to the irish pub with my little yellow dictionary and a sleepy, drowsy song in my heart. Ba ba humbug.

Dreaming my dreams

Two acapella troupes doing 'dreams' by the cranberries in two pretty different ways.

I like the quirky asian girl in this first one.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zqChs4gasds

In this one, watch out for the 'ring, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding - namenum, namenum, namenum'!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I6SG6jnhN_I

And the real thing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1ZbStShI2o

Lisa Mitchell from Australia

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid23356125001?bclid=23279385001&bctid=23554783001