It's Monday. Oubliette harmony has been restored as our wandering other half has returned from his epic Odyssey in the US.
We have a poem for the Poetry Bus. This weeks theme - as decided by La Niamh - is 'Confusion'. Quite frankly this left me with a multitude of options. A rich, rich seam in the Oubliesphere.
Just take yesterday for example.
We all trooped into town for a bit of brunch to celebrate himself coming home. We chose a lovely little pancake/crepe place on Dawson street for our eats. As Mr Oub was up ordering, a nice old man asked me if he could sit at our table. Part of my poor little brain whispered to me that this nice old man was in fact a world famous poet, but sadly, the dominant, confused part of my brain won out and I told him to take a hike.
When Mr Oub returned to the table he exclaimed 'Hey, did you see world famous poet Brenden Kennelly?'
Sigh.
Y'know, there had been enough room at the table. He could have sat down. I could have had a fascinating conversation with the man and learnt so much. Instead I sent him packing. He had to sit at a table outside. It was kinda cold in Dublin yesterday. Had I mentioned he was old. And a famous poet?
As I said, there are so many, many areas in my life that I could have looked to for inspiration for this weeks task.
This is what I came up with.
Cartographical Confusion
It's a complete cliche
but I can't find my way
when presented with a map.
I'm completely crap,
trapped in a car,
with it's folded layers upon my lap.
They may as well be scribbles,
those infernal inky dribbles
My ordinance arse!
My little lost elbow!
I just can't follow
we're not happy bedfellows
Just where in the hell is
feckin' Portobello?!
I'll take a wild guess
No, get me a GPS
then there's some hope
of me striving
arriving
at
the
correct,
designated,
confounded,
address.
.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Hop on the Bus, Gus
It's Monday. Oubliette harmony has been restored as our wandering other half has returned from his epic Odyssey in the US.
We have a poem for the Poetry Bus. This weeks theme - as decided by La Niamh - is 'Confusion'. Quite frankly this left me with a multitude of options. A rich, rich seam in the Oubliesphere.
Just take yesterday for example.
We all trooped into town for a bit of brunch to celebrate himself coming home. We chose a lovely little pancake/crepe place on Dawson street for our eats. As Mr Oub was up ordering, a nice old man asked me if he could sit at our table. Part of my poor little brain whispered to me that this nice old man was in fact a world famous poet, but sadly, the dominant, confused part of my brain won out and I told him to take a hike.
When Mr Oub returned to the table he exclaimed 'Hey, did you see world famous poet Brenden Kennelly?'
Sigh.
Y'know, there had been enough room at the table. He could have sat down. I could have had a fascinating conversation with the man and learnt so much. Instead I sent him packing. He had to sit at a table outside. It was kinda cold in Dublin yesterday. Had I mentioned he was old. And a famous poet?
As I said, there are so many, many areas in my life that I could have looked to for inspiration for this weeks task.
This is what I came up with.
Cartographical Confusion
It's a complete cliche
but I can't find my way
when presented with a map.
I'm completely crap,
trapped in a car,
with it's folded layers upon my lap.
They may as well be scribbles,
those infernal inky dribbles
My ordinance arse!
My little lost elbow!
I just can't follow
we're not happy bedfellows
Just where in the hell is
feckin' Portobello?!
I'll take a wild guess
No, get me a GPS
then there's some hope
of me striving
arriving
at
the
correct,
designated,
confounded,
address.
.
We have a poem for the Poetry Bus. This weeks theme - as decided by La Niamh - is 'Confusion'. Quite frankly this left me with a multitude of options. A rich, rich seam in the Oubliesphere.
Just take yesterday for example.
We all trooped into town for a bit of brunch to celebrate himself coming home. We chose a lovely little pancake/crepe place on Dawson street for our eats. As Mr Oub was up ordering, a nice old man asked me if he could sit at our table. Part of my poor little brain whispered to me that this nice old man was in fact a world famous poet, but sadly, the dominant, confused part of my brain won out and I told him to take a hike.
When Mr Oub returned to the table he exclaimed 'Hey, did you see world famous poet Brenden Kennelly?'
Sigh.
Y'know, there had been enough room at the table. He could have sat down. I could have had a fascinating conversation with the man and learnt so much. Instead I sent him packing. He had to sit at a table outside. It was kinda cold in Dublin yesterday. Had I mentioned he was old. And a famous poet?
As I said, there are so many, many areas in my life that I could have looked to for inspiration for this weeks task.
This is what I came up with.
Cartographical Confusion
It's a complete cliche
but I can't find my way
when presented with a map.
I'm completely crap,
trapped in a car,
with it's folded layers upon my lap.
They may as well be scribbles,
those infernal inky dribbles
My ordinance arse!
My little lost elbow!
I just can't follow
we're not happy bedfellows
Just where in the hell is
feckin' Portobello?!
I'll take a wild guess
No, get me a GPS
then there's some hope
of me striving
arriving
at
the
correct,
designated,
confounded,
address.
.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Poo Much Information
Mr Oub arrives home tomorrow morning. Plane lands at 8am. While he has only actually been away for 8 days - somehow it feels like an eternity. It's sorta like that Star Trek episode where Captain Picard was rendered unconscious by some odd space probe. After which we see him live a whole lifetime on a distant planet - and then he wakes up just 25 minutes later back on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. I feel like that. I'm just hoping I can wake up any minute now. And if Patrick Stewart happens to be there when I do, all the better.
It's been a tough week.
The kids went mental.
Toddler Oub was especially creative. In fact she really pulled out all the stops last night.
I heard a little voice calling me at around 9.30 last night. I went up to investigate.
Hands up who remembers the dirty protests in the Maze prison during the 1970's? Well, obviously Cbeebees has been putting on some gritty documentaries between Peppa Pig and Dora the Explorer as toddler Oub seemed shockingly well versed on the poo smeared across walls, floors and doors concept (as originated by those smelly IRA inmates...)
Sweet Baby Jesus in his heaven above, how can one child, so small, produce so much poo?? It was EVERYWHERE! If there ever was a time I wanted a space probe to descend and render me unconscious, last night was it.
I grabbed the boys, hot water, anti-bac spray, clothes pegs. We scrubbed poo off the walls. Off the carpet. Off the baby gate. And 45 minutes, and I am not kidding, 45 long, smelly, stinking, germ infested minutes later we finished. Well - we thought we'd finished decontaminating the area when, like Glenn Close leping from the bath, knife in hand, the door swung closed and there, we were confronted by even more poo art. There were tears.
I know, I know. TMI. But hey, it's meant to be healthy to talk when one is traumatised.
Anyway, I will wash, but never be clean again after that experience. I took a photo to guilt trip the hubby when he gets home, and eldest Oub child wrote a written account of events (to be saved until Toddler Oub brings her first boyfriend home.) 7 year old middle child took advantage of the situation to show off his superior vocabulary and declared the entire incident 'ludicrous'.
But, enough.
It's over now. We've Fabrezed everywhere and the windows are all open.
You just might not to visit my house for a few weeks.
It's been a tough week.
The kids went mental.
Toddler Oub was especially creative. In fact she really pulled out all the stops last night.
I heard a little voice calling me at around 9.30 last night. I went up to investigate.
Hands up who remembers the dirty protests in the Maze prison during the 1970's? Well, obviously Cbeebees has been putting on some gritty documentaries between Peppa Pig and Dora the Explorer as toddler Oub seemed shockingly well versed on the poo smeared across walls, floors and doors concept (as originated by those smelly IRA inmates...)
Sweet Baby Jesus in his heaven above, how can one child, so small, produce so much poo?? It was EVERYWHERE! If there ever was a time I wanted a space probe to descend and render me unconscious, last night was it.
I grabbed the boys, hot water, anti-bac spray, clothes pegs. We scrubbed poo off the walls. Off the carpet. Off the baby gate. And 45 minutes, and I am not kidding, 45 long, smelly, stinking, germ infested minutes later we finished. Well - we thought we'd finished decontaminating the area when, like Glenn Close leping from the bath, knife in hand, the door swung closed and there, we were confronted by even more poo art. There were tears.
I know, I know. TMI. But hey, it's meant to be healthy to talk when one is traumatised.
Anyway, I will wash, but never be clean again after that experience. I took a photo to guilt trip the hubby when he gets home, and eldest Oub child wrote a written account of events (to be saved until Toddler Oub brings her first boyfriend home.) 7 year old middle child took advantage of the situation to show off his superior vocabulary and declared the entire incident 'ludicrous'.
But, enough.
It's over now. We've Fabrezed everywhere and the windows are all open.
You just might not to visit my house for a few weeks.
Poo Much Information
Mr Oub arrives home tomorrow morning. Plane lands at 8am. While he has only actually been away for 8 days - somehow it feels like an eternity. It's sorta like that Star Trek episode where Captain Picard was rendered unconscious by some odd space probe. After which we see him live a whole lifetime on a distant planet - and then he wakes up just 25 minutes later back on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. I feel like that. I'm just hoping I can wake up any minute now. And if Patrick Stewart happens to be there when I do, all the better.
It's been a tough week.
The kids went mental.
Toddler Oub was especially creative. In fact she really pulled out all the stops last night.
I heard a little voice calling me at around 9.30 last night. I went up to investigate.
Hands up who remembers the dirty protests in the Maze prison during the 1970's? Well, obviously Cbeebees has been putting on some gritty documentaries between Peppa Pig and Dora the Explorer as toddler Oub seemed shockingly well versed on the poo smeared across walls, floors and doors concept (as originated by those smelly IRA inmates...)
Sweet Baby Jesus in his heaven above, how can one child, so small, produce so much poo?? It was EVERYWHERE! If there ever was a time I wanted a space probe to descend and render me unconscious, last night was it.
I grabbed the boys, hot water, anti-bac spray, clothes pegs. We scrubbed poo off the walls. Off the carpet. Off the baby gate. And 45 minutes, and I am not kidding, 45 long, smelly, stinking, germ infested minutes later we finished. Well - we thought we'd finished decontaminating the area when, like Glenn Close leping from the bath, knife in hand, the door swung closed and there, we were confronted by even more poo art. There were tears.
I know, I know. TMI. But hey, it's meant to be healthy to talk when one is traumatised.
Anyway, I will wash, but never be clean again after that experience. I took a photo to guilt trip the hubby when he gets home, and eldest Oub child wrote a written account of events (to be saved until Toddler Oub brings her first boyfriend home.) 7 year old middle child took advantage of the situation to show off his superior vocabulary and declared the entire incident 'ludicrous'.
But, enough.
It's over now. We've Fabrezed everywhere and the windows are all open.
You just might not to visit my house for a few weeks.
It's been a tough week.
The kids went mental.
Toddler Oub was especially creative. In fact she really pulled out all the stops last night.
I heard a little voice calling me at around 9.30 last night. I went up to investigate.
Hands up who remembers the dirty protests in the Maze prison during the 1970's? Well, obviously Cbeebees has been putting on some gritty documentaries between Peppa Pig and Dora the Explorer as toddler Oub seemed shockingly well versed on the poo smeared across walls, floors and doors concept (as originated by those smelly IRA inmates...)
Sweet Baby Jesus in his heaven above, how can one child, so small, produce so much poo?? It was EVERYWHERE! If there ever was a time I wanted a space probe to descend and render me unconscious, last night was it.
I grabbed the boys, hot water, anti-bac spray, clothes pegs. We scrubbed poo off the walls. Off the carpet. Off the baby gate. And 45 minutes, and I am not kidding, 45 long, smelly, stinking, germ infested minutes later we finished. Well - we thought we'd finished decontaminating the area when, like Glenn Close leping from the bath, knife in hand, the door swung closed and there, we were confronted by even more poo art. There were tears.
I know, I know. TMI. But hey, it's meant to be healthy to talk when one is traumatised.
Anyway, I will wash, but never be clean again after that experience. I took a photo to guilt trip the hubby when he gets home, and eldest Oub child wrote a written account of events (to be saved until Toddler Oub brings her first boyfriend home.) 7 year old middle child took advantage of the situation to show off his superior vocabulary and declared the entire incident 'ludicrous'.
But, enough.
It's over now. We've Fabrezed everywhere and the windows are all open.
You just might not to visit my house for a few weeks.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Loveless Funny Bus
Well, it's Monday and that means it Poetry Bus day. A highlight of my week :)
Mr Oub is off in the USA on business - poor him. meh. - and I've been left mindingthe animals my darling children. I will survive, but I imagine I will be a pale shadow of my former self by the time he returns.
Because of these tremendously trying circumstances, I wasn't sure I would have time to hop on the bus this week. But at the last moment the screaming hordes shut up for five minutes and I was able to convene an emergency meeting with the muse and produce a little offering.
It is Argent who is driving the bus again this week. The task was -
Excursion to the Comedy Store
Now we all know comedy is not easy to do, but I know from past experience that there are some seriously (sic!) funny people out there. Dust off your tickling sticks, put that water-squirting flower in your lapel, strap on your handshake buzzer and let's make with the funny!
Tunnel of (unrequited) Love
We had the slushy Valentine's stuff earlier this year, but it's not always easy to love and not be loved in return. What's it like when that certain special somebody doesn't even know you exist (it's called stalking - Ed). Are they with someone else? Are you jealous? Come and share the bittersweetness with your bus-travelling friends.
I am hoping that I have managed to go on both Poetry Bus journeys this week.
Mr Oub is off in the USA on business - poor him. meh. - and I've been left minding
Because of these tremendously trying circumstances, I wasn't sure I would have time to hop on the bus this week. But at the last moment the screaming hordes shut up for five minutes and I was able to convene an emergency meeting with the muse and produce a little offering.
It is Argent who is driving the bus again this week. The task was -
Excursion to the Comedy Store
Now we all know comedy is not easy to do, but I know from past experience that there are some seriously (sic!) funny people out there. Dust off your tickling sticks, put that water-squirting flower in your lapel, strap on your handshake buzzer and let's make with the funny!
Tunnel of (unrequited) Love
We had the slushy Valentine's stuff earlier this year, but it's not always easy to love and not be loved in return. What's it like when that certain special somebody doesn't even know you exist (it's called stalking - Ed). Are they with someone else? Are you jealous? Come and share the bittersweetness with your bus-travelling friends.
I am hoping that I have managed to go on both Poetry Bus journeys this week.
My Unrequited Lover
My love was unrequited.
You just didn't feel the same
But the kisses still got you excited
my conflicted former flame.
My love was unrequited.
You just didn't feel the same
But the kisses still got you excited
my conflicted former flame.
Loveless Funny Bus
Well, it's Monday and that means it Poetry Bus day. A highlight of my week :)
Mr Oub is off in the USA on business - poor him. meh. - and I've been left mindingthe animals my darling children. I will survive, but I imagine I will be a pale shadow of my former self by the time he returns.
Because of these tremendously trying circumstances, I wasn't sure I would have time to hop on the bus this week. But at the last moment the screaming hordes shut up for five minutes and I was able to convene an emergency meeting with the muse and produce a little offering.
It is Argent who is driving the bus again this week. The task was -
Excursion to the Comedy Store
Now we all know comedy is not easy to do, but I know from past experience that there are some seriously (sic!) funny people out there. Dust off your tickling sticks, put that water-squirting flower in your lapel, strap on your handshake buzzer and let's make with the funny!
Tunnel of (unrequited) Love
We had the slushy Valentine's stuff earlier this year, but it's not always easy to love and not be loved in return. What's it like when that certain special somebody doesn't even know you exist (it's called stalking - Ed). Are they with someone else? Are you jealous? Come and share the bittersweetness with your bus-travelling friends.
I am hoping that I have managed to go on both Poetry Bus journeys this week.
Mr Oub is off in the USA on business - poor him. meh. - and I've been left minding
Because of these tremendously trying circumstances, I wasn't sure I would have time to hop on the bus this week. But at the last moment the screaming hordes shut up for five minutes and I was able to convene an emergency meeting with the muse and produce a little offering.
It is Argent who is driving the bus again this week. The task was -
Excursion to the Comedy Store
Now we all know comedy is not easy to do, but I know from past experience that there are some seriously (sic!) funny people out there. Dust off your tickling sticks, put that water-squirting flower in your lapel, strap on your handshake buzzer and let's make with the funny!
Tunnel of (unrequited) Love
We had the slushy Valentine's stuff earlier this year, but it's not always easy to love and not be loved in return. What's it like when that certain special somebody doesn't even know you exist (it's called stalking - Ed). Are they with someone else? Are you jealous? Come and share the bittersweetness with your bus-travelling friends.
I am hoping that I have managed to go on both Poetry Bus journeys this week.
My Unrequited Lover
My love was unrequited.
You just didn't feel the same
But the kisses still got you excited
my conflicted former flame.
My love was unrequited.
You just didn't feel the same
But the kisses still got you excited
my conflicted former flame.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Lama Dilemma
So, I'm watching this documentary on BBC4 on Thursday night called 'The Unmistaken Child'.
Fascinating. It's filmed on the Tibetan - Nepalese border and follows the four year search of a monk called Tenzin Zopa as he trudges the highways and byways searching for the reincarnation of his master Geshe lama Konchog. He enters villages and enquires are to whether there are any young boys aged roughly 12 to 18 months living there. Then he hands out sweets and balloons to any passing child. Swop the red and yellow robes with a black suit and a dog collar and I'd have been getting quite uncomfortable at that stage... but no, this monk's devoted search for his former spiritual master was riveting in its quiet spirituality.
So, eventually, he comes across this mucky chubby little chap. The child takes a fancy to a string of beads that had belonged to the departed lama. This apparently is the first sign that monk Tenzin might have found his guy.
To cut a long story short, they put the toddler through various tests and with the Dalai Lamas blessing, pronounced him to officially be the reincarnation of Geshe lama Konchog. Then, they take him away from his mammy and his daddy and everyone and everywhere he knows. He cried. His mammy cried. This viewer very nearly did too.
The documentary ends at about that point, stressing the fact that he'd settled into the monastery really well and was a happy little chappie.
Feeling the need to learn a little more about all of this, I did a little googling. Which brought me to what I felt was the most interesting bit of all. The reincarnated child has the exact same birthday as my middle son. In fact he was born only 12 hours before him.
Impostor!
Impostor!So, how come Tenzin Zopa never passed my door, dangling beads and looking meaningfully into my baby's eyes? How was he to know that his old master decided to come back only up the road in Tibet? How about bloody miles away in Holy Lucan, Co. Dublin? My boy would make a great lama! Shave his head, pop him in his robes, sure we'd have Richard Gere and (insert other famous Buddhists name here) round in a flash.
In fact, my child is quite the philosopher.
A deep thinker.
He has his own set of catchphrases (including the unforgettable 'I'm dead' and 'Wah' ) invaluable tools when your line of work causes you to deal with karma, reincarnation and all that other buddisty stuff...
The Real DealI think he'd look good with a shaved head.
Yellow is his colour (I'm sure the red would suit him fine too.)
So, Zopa, methinks you got it wrong. Send that impostor back to his village and his mammy before it's too late. I'll be waiting. And so will Lama Charlie.
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