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.