Sniffles and catnaps

I have been keeping busy or trying to.
I've not been very good at relaxing lately but I never was.
I often only take time for myself when I'm procrastinating as odd as that may sound.
A mind that seldom rests and that doesn't sleep well is a recipe for disaster or at least some minor hardship.
Sniffles are a prominent danger.
How can one avoid such a debilitating condition?
Healthy eating and good sleeping are one way to reduce the risk.

I believe I will never get used to rising early.
I wonder will I wander around for the rest of this life always in a dazed stupor of various levels of fatigue.
It's the sleep or lack thereof that gets me, hindering my immune system that undoubtedly struggles in the germ incubator that is school.

Thankfully there are weekends but they are buffered by five days of early starts.

Microscope

We seldom stop and look around us, look up, look down and take in every facet, every eroded and aged surface as the meandering river of time rushes by.
There is so much beauty immediately before our eyes but we trivialise it and take for-granted that which is right in front of us.  Instead, we fantasise about the other, the erotically exotic pastures just out of reach.  There is so much more to be seen in the here and now than we actually see.  The buzzing computer behind our eyes a blurry mess of opened and abandoned tabs, multiple progammes running at once; a drain on power and all at a poor resolution.  The human being is a complicated creature, fragile and stubborn, curious and careless.

A young boy I tutor took my hand excitedly today to show me the present Nikolos had brought him.
A white and black scientific microscope.  He ushered me to sit on the couch by the coffee table while he plugged in the apparatus and popped open his box of glass slides.  He had collected a few new samples over the weekend.  He adjusted the lens and then offered to share this microscopic universe.

The various glass slides held cells of different organisms.  It was an exhibition of the life aesthetic; an onion that resembled a forested dream-scape, grains of salt that may well have been a cluster of asteroids and other wonderful intricate designs within cells.

He is excited; keen to put life beneath the lens and scrutinise its delightful complexity.  A multiverse of wonder within our grasp.

Forever A Student

There I was; typing, copying, and pasting my worksheet when I realised I was in my element.
Browsing the depths of the internet looking for the perfect image to complement the incredibly complicated simple tasks I had put upon paper.

I was enjoying it.
I was happy to put time and effort into this worksheet; editing the language to make it more accessible. There were boxes to be numbered, crosswords and word spirals, pictures to be coloured, a story to be read and a song to be sung.

I enjoy searching for, reading and examining other's foray into lesson plans and student worksheets.  Every teacher is an artist searching for a new means to communicate a theme or topic to a hungry audience, an audience that is desperately seeking an interpretation relevant to their life and existence.

I am forever learning new tricks. I keenly watch my colleagues and peers, taking a note of their approach, the resources and the reception.  I ask too.  I ask questions and I ponder out loud.  I read and I read often and I complain even more so.  But in complaining and opening myself up to criticism I am also learning.

Life is a learning curve.
I'm staying in school.

I don't know if I can ever leave.
My mind is buried there under a messy pile of lesson plans and uncorrected papers.

The starfish children

02/12/2013

There are creatures that lurk in the Vienna Christmas' markets.  These beings weave between the legs of hapless would-be shoppers and browsers, tiny things not coming above the knee mummified in a cushioned membrane.  These creatures are the starfish children.

They come in different colours and shades but they have one consistent physical feature and that is that their static bodies resemble the celestial pentagram.  

Their parents take great pains to wrap these babies up and shield them from the cold.  

Layer upon layer upon layer of clothing until the child resembles the Michelin man more than any other mammal on Earth.

Their movement is a fascinating spectacle.  Unable to move individual joints like the elbow or knee, these children move their entire body in a zig zag motion, swinging from side to side as they shift their weight to each foot and pivot their entire body.  

They rush off to the next exciting wonder, be that something hot, sharp or inedible.  They tend to loiter under steaming mugs of punsch and mulled wine.  Perhaps it is the aroma that attracts them or their taste for danger.

The starfish children float through the crowds at the markets, giggling and gurgling and sometimes they are eerily silent.  They love mischief and impulsively dash into the path of unwitting spectators.

Thankfully, their parents come and swoop them up and off before the starfish children become agitated and decimate the wooden market huts with their gummy jaws and high-pitched shrieks.

They are a creature one should be wary of.  Look out for them.

Steady thoughts carried by locomotives

I haven't read much lately.
Any time I plan to sit down and open a book my mind wanders.
Even if I get to the point where my eyes scalpel words from the page they fall asunder, spun out in the blender of my mind.  I cannot focus and when I try to read, the words fall into the abyss of pointless procrastination.
However, recently I have come upon a remedy.
The comfort of transit; when I am not squashed between the sweaty bodies of Viennese commuters gripping whatever my hand can reach and my fingers can wrap around, swaying with the crowd like a leaf in the wind as the u-bahn, tram or train grinds to a halt or squeals into motion. When I am seated and comfortable, gliding through Vienna to and fro, I find the carriage a cradle for my thoughts; rocking and rolling over the metal tracks, steadying my wobbly mind and allowing me to read and write.

Maybe it is because I have little else to do and I shyly refrain from staring at the nomadic disposition that is the commuter, maybe I have become bored of the scenery flashing by me or maybe my tired mind relishes the moment to turn off the outside world and immerse my consciousness in a book, nursing the lines as they waft off the page.

I am not sure why it helps.
It may simply be that a still body cannot ignite and propel a mind into motion.

A Tale of Three Bikes

I’ve had three bicycles.

My first bike was a BMX. 

There was once a time when everyone longed for a BMX.  We all dreamt of being stunt masters; executing wheelies, somersaults and all sorts of radical crazy tricks that would woe every spectator from the toddler to the pensioner.  Alas, those dreams of being a biking legend were never realised.  The BMX may have been my first bike but I never rode it.

I had wanted a bike for a long while.  I was with my mother at a local fair most likely after a trip to the optician or doctor.  As we wandered through the labyrinth of stalls assessing the usefulness and value of various objects; clothes and ornaments, paintings and tools, we came upon that white BMX.  

The white paint had become dull and dirty, the appearance of the tough red saddle was softened by a little transferrer sticker of a blue goblin, the handlebars were wrapped in soft rubber grips -  this was a genuine BMX.

The bike was rugged and aged but this only added to its character.

My mam took it home and I showed it to my siblings.  There was only one problem.  I could not ride a bike.

My feet could not touch the ground.  I did not have stabilisers or training wheels and every attempt at cycling ended with grazed knees, a bruised body and me lying in a heap on the cold hard concrete.  Back then I wobbled and swayed more than a wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man.

I never cycled that bike.

The next bike I got was a Falcon mountain bike.  It was green, white and yellow in colour.  I stowed it away in the garage while I contemplated the physics of balance and velocity.  At some point our dog knocked the bike over and he ate the soft cushioned saddle.  This happened long before my cheeks ever touched that saddle.

This bike was a little big for me.  I tried to ride it a few times, pushed along once on the farm I wobbled and struck a wall head on.  I didn't pull the brakes.

I do remember my first successful bike ride.  It was a Saturday evening.  My older sister had a  bike-a pink one with a little basket.  It's small frame meant I could comfortable throw my leg over the saddle and touch the ground.  I remember the air gliding by my face, peddling harder and faster swerving around the house. 

I didn't care that I was riding a little girl's bike - I was cycling!

I was soon able to climb on to and ride my own Falcon.  It was kitted out with Kellogg's reflectors of multiple colours.

I had punctures and I had chain trouble.

At the age of 10 I felt it was time for an upgrade.

I decided Christmas was the best opportunity and I asked Santa to go about this task.

My new bike came with a selection box on Christmas day.  A beautiful black 'Raven' by Raleigh.  It was shiny, the wheels were hard and it offered more control with the precise 10 speed gears on it.  I was overjoyed and as soon as it was daylight I hopped on and took it for a cruise up the road.

I have never had a bike since.  It lies at home now, as good as the first day, the Raven with the rugged Falcon in a dusty corner of the garage and the BMX rusting in the overgrowth behind a wall.

Three bikes at 3 very different times in a boy's life.  I often look at the cyclists in Vienna and think to myself how I'd like to belong to those ranks of wheelers that glide to their destination or climb mountainous peaks powered only by their determination, perspiration and thirst for adventure.

Maybe it's time to invest in a new bike.

Worrying Trends

I worry.
I worry and I worry about worrying.
The slightest troublesome thought can ignite my mind;  a chain reaction of concern and anxiety.
Finances, career, health and wasted time are the root of many worries and remain the repeat offenders despite my attempts of worrying my worries to death.  They are resilient.

It does not help to know that I am being foolish.
I read the wise words of the  Dalai Lama:

“If a problem is fixable, if a situation is such that you can do something about it, then there is no need to worry. If it's not fixable, then there is no help in worrying. There is no benefit in worrying whatsoever.”

And I nod to myself in wholehearted agreement before returning to my trembling phobia of the unknown; the potential, the likely and the implausible.

Nostalgia (i)

25/4/13

Today I saw a girl with a smurf t-shirt.  It made me think of my first days at school.  I had a green school bag with black plastic claw grips.  Stitched onto the flap were the Smurfs.  The smurfy congregation gathered around Papa Smurf, waiting for him to bestow some elder wisdom upon them.  Before I got my bag I'm not sure I had ever heard of the Smurfs let alone watched them on television.  I think I may have even asked my mother several times who the little blue people were that decorated my bag.  I'm sure her heart sank.

The plastic clamps were too difficult for me to open; although I did succeed once or twice in unfastening the clamps and only mildly injuring myself.  I often had to request the help of an older student or someone with less delicate fingers.

Llama hats in Bratislava

I had been to Bratislava airport; I had flown to Dublin from there.  I had seen only a few sites of this city from behind the windows of a bus.  I wanted to walk these streets and soak up some of the ancient history of this city.

So, it was in December, Imelda and I were keen to go somewhere different and given that Bratislava Letivsko is not an adequate representation or reflection of the city, we decided that we ought to visit Austria's close neighbour; a short bus journey away.

Other contenders included Krems but I'd seen a little of that town before.

The trip to Bratislava was discussed and called off many times within a short space of time.  We were still discussing the prospect on Friday night in Barcode.

After much deliberation we decided we would go the following morning and set our alarms for the not so early time of 0900 hours.

We got to the ticket office and the agent promptly slammed the window closed.  He had started his lunch break.  We missed the bus we had hoped to take and so we wandered around Südtiroler Platz, searching for a little cafe to pass the time.  We found one and sat down for a quick beverage and biscuit.

We thoroughly enjoyed our little sit whilst taking a variety of photographs to document our delay.
We boarded the bus and began our adventure.

We rolled out and travelled on soaking up the Austrian towns and countryside, occasionally dipping into our confectionery supplies.  Soon, we had crossed the Slovakian border and were eager to dip our senses into the thrills of this often overlooked city.

Our first stumbling block was getting to the city centre.  We bravely and boldly followed the crowd onto a bus and immediately panicked that we did not have a ticket, nor did we know how to obtain one.  We kept our heads down and maintained a vigilant watch but our conscience succumbed to the barrage of sweaty pellets of guilt bleeding from every pore and we hopped off at the Economic University where we gathered our thoughts.

We studied the map and bought a 90 minute ticket.  We took another bus and travelled to a shopping centre before finally hopping on a tram to the centre of the city.

The Christmas market was buzzing.  We were both very hungry; biscuit and chica morada only taking the human body so far.  We found a restaurant and ate our fill.

We decided it was time to explore the city.  We started with the market.  We wandered around, sampling the stalls and indulging in some local mulled wine.  We caught the end of a talent show and wandered some more.  We surmounted the stairs to Bratislava castle and walked to the President's residence.  On and on we went until we realised we were somewhat lost.  In the dark we groped for familiarity.  Eventually we asked for directions and within a short space of time we were satisfied that we knew where we had to go.

We weren't sure when the last bus left for Vienna that day so we opted for the 20:15 bus.
We popped by the cake stand at Schottentor and bought some Waffeln.  We agreed that anything other than a movie that night would be over exertion.

Waiting on the step

Here in Vienna I have often thought of home.  There are mornings when I wake up in a daze and almost feel I am in my childhood bed.  The large window to my left, the giant poster hanging on the wall to my right and the broken TV adjacent to my bed.  But as my perceptual vision is restored and my brain begins to distinguish the sounds of busy traffic just outside my window, I realise I'm not in sleepy Oram at all.

There's great comfort in home and reminiscing.

The green green grass of home is always greener from continents afar.
The smallest slightest coincidence can send your mind racing back to yesteryear, and into a dazed nostalgic stupor.  A chain reaction of memories that have little in common other than they're all mine.

I remember...dancing on frozen puddles on a Saturday relishing that satisfying crack as the thin sliver of ice breaks and the sting of the morning air teases my skin, before my mind moves on, each memory held to another with the thinnest thread, and I think of guiding a ladybird as it tickled my fingers, coaxing it up my arm and trembling at its delicate touch.

I think of tea and figrolls; sitting with my grandmother and reading her snippets of 'Ireland's Own' even though she's likely already read it and playing card games: patience, snap and more-all forgotten.

I remember sleeping on the couch in my other grandmother's sitting room, waiting for my parents to collect us after a wedding, watching Playbus and CBBC when I stayed over, trips to Dundalk and Faughart.

And I come back home, thinking of cows and tractors, milking and silage.  I remember sitting by the gate, waiting on the step for my father to drive by so I could sit and ride along in the tractor.  Sometimes I fell asleep on that step, the warmth of the sun nursing me to slumber or maybe I was tired waiting.

Babysit

There's a young boy and once or twice a week I play games and speak English with him.  The child is already learning 2 languages, Polish and German, but his mother is keen that he learn some English.

There's a lot of monologue in these sessions.  There's a lot of monologue in these sessions, I find myself drifting back to my younger days.  What did I play?  What schemes, stories, character expositions and conflicts did I dream up between actions figures, dinosaurs, lego and soft toys.  Stories expanded throughout the house, with various exotic and exciting locations including on top of the tumble dryer.

We have such wonderful conversations he and I.  Everything is communicated n a beautiful acute economy of speech; English words and German words buffered with the occasional groan, grunt or sigh.  Epic battles between good and evil where characters change sides multiple times, stab each other in the back and even redeem themselves at the eleventh hour.

The games children play; tales of morality, crisis and triumph, friendship, love and loss.  At least when they're not wrestling with a banana or savagely beating a tiger or whipping the air with a sock filled with marbles.

Sometimes we even speak English.

He's a clever boy who rebels against all kinds of learning and structured authority.  He has to be 'tricked' into learning.  This requires a complex and delicate ploy, an elaborate deception where the boy is taught unbeknownst to him.

Anything that involves toys is fun, even learning.  I often teach one of his teddies.  Sometimes I whisper songs under my breath becoming progressively louder until I have nurtured the embers of his curiosity.  He has a keen ear for sounds and I am often impressed when he repeats with perfect inflection.

I sometimes laugh to myself when I think of the little Austrian kids that will speak with an Irish accent.  Despite my best efforts at neutrality it often bleeds through, 'boots' and 'her' being repeat offenders.  Although I have been keeping tabs on my persistent 'th' problem.

It's not all fun and games but a battle of wits when it comes to speaking English and adhering to house rules.
Just the other day he had me making him toast because he was hungry.  We searched the house for bread and nutella.  I made four pieces of toast and he ate each one with relish.  However, no sooner had his mother returned and I described the events of that evening in question I saw the look of sheer horror on her face.
'That's not okay.'
I was frozen with shock, the first thought that popped into my head was 'This boy is a  celiac and I've probably just killed him!'
As it happened he was being cheeky and was supposed to eat the dinner his mother had prepared for him.
Oh, that sigh of relief.  It reinvigorated my body.
Kids are crafty little schemers-they keep you on your toes.  And the little boy, how is he?
Despite getting him into trouble the little boy has asked his mother if I can move in!

A can of twirls

During the 40 days of Lent we collected sweets, lollipops, chocolate, bars and biscuits from my grandmother and neighbours.  Kitkats were graciously accepted from my grandmother and hidden away so as to avoid temptation; biscuits were politely declined and jelly beans were pocketed to be secreted in the infamous tin.

Those of iron will power might open this can of sweet temptation and count their spoils for Easter Sunday.

The weeks limped by and most of us realised that we could manage just fine without the sugary nourishment of confectionary.  Despite this, when Easter Sunday arrived and we had attended Mass, the lid of the tin was peeled back and we dipped into the treasure that had accumulated over the last few weeks.

Lent is a time when several people give their New Year's resolution another whirl.  It's a time when they might shake the dust off of their gym membership card and vow to give up cigarettes or other guilty vices.  Every year in the run-up to Easter many people undertake Lenten vows to purge and cleanse their souls as well as their bodies; some abstain from chocolate and sweet stuff, like my father, and others perhaps beer.

When we were young we would collect sweets over the weeks and stow them away.  My older brother had the idea of using an old baby food tin.  I come from a large family by present standards and so there was always a younger sibling devouring baby food by the crate load.  This meant there was no shortage of tins to be recycled or used as we saw fit.

During the 40 days of Lent we collected sweets, lollipops, chocolate, bars and biscuits from my grandmother and neighbours.  Kitkats were graciously accepted from my grandmother and hidden away so as to avoid temptation; biscuits were politely declined and jelly beans were pocketed to be secreted in the infamous tin.

Those of iron will power might open this can of sweet temptation and count their spoils for Easter Sunday.

The weeks limped by and most of us realised that we could manage just fine without the sugary nourishment of confectionery.  Despite this, when Easter Sunday arrived and we had attended Mass, the lid of the tin was peeled back and we dipped into the treasure that had accumulated over the last few weeks.

Before breakfast was consumed something was snared from the tin and devoured.  Often, the first item ingested was quickly chewed and swallowed with little time being spared to savour the taste.  The second piece of chocolate would taste strange and you might wonder why you ever ate so much of this but shortly after the cravings return with a vengeance and that guilty stomach ache you suffered Sunday evening coupled with a sugar crash are soon but a distant memory.

Strangers

One evening I was bitten by the insomnia bug; it may have secreted something in the 5 large mugs of coffee I had consumed that day.  As my mind wandered, I stared at the ceiling sketched with the shadows of miscellaneous items, and I thought of the present, the past and the future. 

My mind drifted on and I thought of my past studies; moving to Maynooth, orientation week, my first year of study, my Erasmus year, the stress and exams of final year and securing a place on the MA programme, looking for a home in Maynooth and helping my little sister find somewhere before opting for the very halls she declined through hesitation.

When I was studying my MA I lived in communal accommodation just off-campus.  These little flats hosted a variety of characters; some seminarians, some attending the language school next door and some regular university students.

I remember one of the residents – Salvatori.

I hadn't realised this bearded, shy man with an eccentric streak was a man of cloth.  He’d wander around the kitchen, his hair resembled tanned tumble-weed stuck to his head, his beard a wild bush.  He always wore sandals even in the cold winter.  His clothes were mostly woollen garments, possibly llama or alpaca wool and outdoors he often wore a poncho.

After a time we spoke and I found him to be a pleasant fellow.  I often found him in the kitchen cooking or brooding over his English homework.  On occasion I even helped him but only when he asked.  He was a pious man.  Although born in Italy he had spent many years working in Bolivia.  He spoken many languages but English was his next goal.

His celebrity crush was Jodie Foster.

He sometimes argued with the other residents citing the Bible as his justification  and calling our neighbour the atheist an 'anti-Christ' but all in all he was a good man.

When I mentioned that I had applied for jobs in London I found a small map of London by my door the following morning.

When I packed my belongings to leave and move back home I thought about asking Salvatori for his e-mail address.  I didn't.  

So, as I wondered I wondered where he was now.  What might he be doing?  Had he gone back to Italy?  Or was he once again working in Bolivia?  

Where were they? 
He and all the other people I knew and didn't know, the people I met but never really knew save for brief or fleeting encounters.  Would it be fair to call them acquaintances if I had hardly known them?  Perhaps, that would be the greatest insult - to say I was acquainted with someone when I knew so very little of their life.

In a little while my mind moved on coaxed by the dancing shadows I thought of a great many things and promptly forgot them all before morning.

Interval

29/01/2013

Interval

I sit at Hütteldorf station waiting for a train to spirit me to my next destination that happens to be in the 14th district of Vienna.  I sip tea from a flask relishing its goodness and the nourishment of its stimulating contents. I have in my pocket a bag of rubber bands 'Gummringe'.  I  set about lapping them round several bundles of my flashcards.  Most have been snapped and knotted until they were little more than a knotted length of band ; useless and worthless.

Rubberbands here come in a variety of colours and while aesthetically pleasing to the eye, they don't quite match our bands for quality and durability.

As I ponder these thoughts my train rolls into the station, I board it and carry on.