Festering

Whales outside my daughter's house. To give us all perspective. They arrive each June without fail, following the fish. All the way from South America. Sanity saving.

I am a political junkie. There, I've said. I think that if I don't monitor the news, terrible things will happen and catch me unaware - as if terrible things don't happen every single day and my awareness is not helping the situation in any way, shape or form.

I do other things, of course. But monitoring the news and posting and reading on Bluesky is not helping me. Or others. I need to pull away, skip headlines and hope for the best. I tell myself I'm pretty safe out on this remote rock on the Atlantic Ocean and it's not about me anyway, it's about the next generations following. We will survive these harrowing times. Or we won't. And there's very little anyone can do. The No Kings march in the USA was a prime lesson or how ineffective even massive marches in multiple cities and towns can be. they change absolutely nothing.

And with Carney caving to the Trump pressure and this appalling Big Awful Bill trying to get passed in the US government, things are going sideways on their axis with all of us helpless. 

Meanwhile climate change has us by the throat now on our way to extinction so does politics really matter?

I have lots of lovely items on the agenda, activities I could better enhance my outlook with. Some editing, some writing, some knitting, some social engagement.

I need to stop the other stuff eating me alive.

"Stay where my hands are" is where I need to be. Especially now.

Confession over and out - progress will be reported honestly.

A Giggle

You'd think to yourself there's nothing funny about the confession box. That now nearly obsolete emblem of the Roman Catholic Empire's control on its underlings.

Especially when you read that the confessional was often used for grooming little kids for paedophiliac priests.

In my time, from the age of six onwards, confession was a weekly Saturday afternoon ritual. I, along with reams of other children, had to confess all our ill-doings, our sins, our pratfalls, our disobediences, our impure thoughts, to the Holy Fellah behind the screen of Da Box.

Queues of us there'd be. All watching each other carefully as we emerged, often red-faced and sweaty, sometimes crying rivers of snot, after the "interrogation". Remember- we were all of six years old.

It would go like this:

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

"What did you do, my child? Leave nothing out. For your Father in heaven can see everything you do. And if you leave anything out, anything at all, He will know and you will not be forgiven and you know what happens then? You will burn in hell for all eternity."

"Well...I back-answered my mammy." (I'm now shaking and trembling)

"And?"

"I stole a penny out of the dish on the sideboard."

"And?"

"I hit my brother."

"How many times?"

"I dunno. He's very bold."

"Remember now about hell. How many times?"

"Every day since last Saturday." (gulp)"And I lied to my daddy when he asked me if I made my brother cry."

"Did you have impure thoughts or actions?"

"What's that?" (I'm puzzled).

"What's that, Father." He uses an intimidating, deep voice.

"What's that, Father?"

"Touching yourself."

"What?"

"What, Father." He's irritated.

"What's touching, Father?"

You get the picture. In light of today it was downright nasty child intimidation, both corrupting and suggestive. And yes, this all happened.

On finally emerging from the confessional there was a slew of prayers to be said. Often many Our Fathers and Hail Marys to atone for these hanging offences. It was a twisted badge of honour when we were this tiny, to be on your knees for a long time in the pew afterwards. Your friends were awestruck at your confessed naughtiness and begged to be told what you actually did to incur such a punishment by the Holy Father. Invention was huge. I remember telling the boys I had stolen a tricycle when I hadn't and had to say a whole rosary - this at an age where I could barely manage the answer to the first question in the catechism ("Who made the world? - God made the world!"). I was a hero for the week. A dangerous lying criminal to be both feared and admired.

So Grannymar herself suggested that I write a play about the whole experience of growing up while a mini Irish Catholic and I'm taking it on.

I've already written the outline and am actually giggling all the way through this.

A comedy.

Yes, it's a comedy.