Student Story (to be completed)

In a conversation recently the idea came up of a dome being put over the space outside of which one rarely ventures, so that one could live life as normal without bumping into the boundary. Mine is embarrassingly small, while others, always travelling, might have a globe around all of planet earth. Since I have returned from Chicago my bubble has been reached approximately from my house, a 20 minutes’ walk south of Trinity College, to just very slightly north of the Ha’penny bridge.  The diameter of my bubble would take little over half an hour to walk across, and even within that there could be many force fields on certain streets which I am never far from but which I would never encounter. I imagine in Chicago no-one could have a bubble as small as this and if they did they would most certainly be seen as some kind of eccentric or recluse. The dome would also have to be much taller, because of all those skyscrapers. 

Grafton Street is within my bubble and the buskers have become more eerie and desperate as Summer and tourists creep in. Today I saw one busker breaking what I have assumed to be an unwritten rule of Grafton Street Performance. Normally the performers are situated to the edge of the pedestrianized street, to allow for a crowd (if present) to form a semicircle around them leaving some space on the opposite side (hopefully) for PeopleWhoNeedToBeSomewhere to get by. This Climp-in-Costume was performing in the centre of the street, which would cause a considerable nuisance were there any chance whatsoever of him attracting an audience. If you too had to walk down this street every day to go to college or otherwise, you too would be outraged.

Yesterday saw the annual Trinity College Ball. I, did not. I did see on my way home from the theatre last night (as the tuxedo and ball gown-clad drunkenness spills out into all of the city centre), a formally dressed boy doubled over a bicycle rack eating a kebab with no hands. The whole thing was in his mouth and I was in awe. It was one of those moments where I wished my eyeballs were a camera.

On campus they have recently put picnic benches outside the Arts Block, where the smokers hang out between classes and if raining can avail of a tiny bit of shelter. Along with the benches however, are signs saying “No Smoking in This Area”. Aha! What seemed at first to be a gift is in fact thinly veiled tyranny. Furthermore I don’t believe that it ends here. No; they are trying to phase us smokers out, I am sure of it. I suspect also that the next stages will not have ‘gifts’ to placate us, either, when it gets to the stage where it has creeped so far that to go back would appear unthinkable. In our lifetime, the idea of an English Literature Professor smoking a pipe will be laughable. But, who do I write to make my grievances known? Institutions seem to have so many separate actions and responsibilities spread out over so many little bureaucratic sects that all anger is diffused by not knowing where exactly to direct it. Who do I write to about it? You, apparently, despite the fact that you are across an ocean. 

As the weather is at its best, during the period when classes have ended but exams have yet to rear their hideous heads. Student forces themselves to pretend to forget the ban on sitting on the grass outside the arts block though they know somewhere in their minds that they shall be moved. We see other people doing it, and assume that given the good weather perhaps the security is having a rare moment of benevolence. Hah! Once I saw a security-guard remove the groups as follows: he felt picked up the sign that says “Please Keep Off The Lawns” and placed it beside a group of students and stood there until they felt so awkward that they left. Then he brought the sign to be next group and did the same to every single group until they were all evacuated.

It is said that scholarship students have the privilege of being permitted to graze livestock on any of the lawns on campus, an out-dated perk preserved for the sake of tradition. It is said, but I am certain it’s merely a very popular lie that people have more fun believing that finding out that it is completely, absolutely false. There is another rumour that if you are standing under the campanile while its bell rings, you are doomed to fail all of your exams. I, for one, don’t believe that there even in a functional bell in the campanile, if indeed there ever was. If there ever was, if it ever sounded and a student subsequently failed, I bet (or, imagine) they did it to a particularly troublesome student (like Oscar Wilde, perhaps), and their exams were never even corrected. I like that. It’s a much more fun thought than mere superstition. “Hey! Lads! He’s there! RING IT!”

If I didn’t choose to remain so invisible to all appropriate college authorities, they might ring it on me if I ever stood under the campanile, which I do not. As I don’t see any reason to, not out of fear. In any case, I am, I believe, somewhat anonymous in this institution: silent as I can manage in tutorial discussions, never writing an exceptionally good essay, pleading for extensions on late ones, nor excusing my absences from classes. I choose not to engage but to absorb, like many other shy people. But, I don’t make a habit of any of these, because then I would be known by my absences. Yes, I am here to absorb, like the creepy crawly that I am. Absorb, and not necessarily accept or make known any disagreement. I avoid arguments first and foremost as I am not very commanding or charismatic, and also because I can’t deal with the internalized panic it causes me to feel.

I’ve spent a lot more time in the library this year doing a lot less work. There are several reasons for this. One of which would be encountering far more interesting books than those relevant, as though they have been thrown in my way by the devil himself to distract me (“Modernism and The Occult” for one, I hold him personally responsible for). Another unfortunate distraction is my pen and paper. Being necessary for actual work, I cannot divorce them, but sadly I end up drawing the most elaborate deviations. Sometimes there is a connecting theme between my deviations and my real study, but mostly not. If John Berger can write an essay composed entirely of images (which he did not even draw himself!), surely I should be able to. Then of course, I’m not in Art College and if I were I would surely write essays instead of painting. Why? Because I have been sent here to destroy me, that’s why!

But I’m not the only one. I’ve met some others here, so I must conclude that the institution knows how to deal with us. They knew we were coming.; the ones who can only be seen in the am hours at the arse-end of an all-nighter looking as though they’ve been fried alive, who 12 hours earlier could be seen sprawled out on the grass (which they are not allowed to be on!) attempting to discern if pigeons have eyelashes or not. We are a type: full of panic and inaction, providing entertainment and lovingly protecting the smugness of others. A classmate recently said to me “If I wrote an essay the way you did I’d probably have a mental breakdown”. I said “Me too!”. I came across the theory recently that procrastination stems from the fear that the finished product will be inadequate once complete. That sounds about right. I would like to know just once what the finished product would look like were it not catapulted together at the last minute. But, there isn’t a tweed jacket on this earth that would give me the intellectual confidence to find out.

So, we sit in the library making popping sounds with out mouths and collecting scowls from the studious. This is not to say that while being a student I have not learned a lot. Academically, I have learned that the obvious is not obvious, or at least that it is problematic, endless, but necessary, but we pretend that it isn’t for fun, or whatever the academic’s equivalent is.  I have also learned a little about human nature (while remaining stumped, if not becoming more so, about a lot of it). This is the learning that takes place outside of the classroom, as part of my lifestyle. Yes, some of it comes from getting home in the small hours of the morning. For example: many dog-owners will walk their dogs in the wee hours of the morning to avoid cleaning up after them. Thus one must be extra cautious. Dublin City Council, take note. (Wait: I’m writing to the wrong person once more).

Other lessons come from those encountered on the way home. I’m being more honest than I should be comfortable with when I say that I envy those brazen, charmless ones. If everyone were as reserved as I am, nothing would ever happen. One occasion in particular, it was such a silly hour and I took to the road home (which implies that I was in a car, which I was not), with some delicious treat in hand and an expression to exaggerate my sobriety and seem as unapproachable as possible (not very, apparently). He was older (he still is, I suppose), and he said that he just had to stop me because I was... small... and dressed all in black. (Now, if that doesn’t do it for you...) He asked me to imagine, now really imagine, that I had been in the same pub as he had just been kicked out of and imagine, ok? That, now try very hard, imagine that (this was beginning to sound like it would exhaust all of my creative capacities), that I had been in the same pub as he had instead of where I had been (he didn’t ask), and that he had bought me – what was my favourite drink? Red wine. Red wine! Of course, look at you! – imagine he had bought me lots of red wine all night. Well! After all that it was so much easier than it sounded like it would be. I must be very good at imagining things, because it took hardly any time at all for me to imagine that. Much less time than it took him to say the damned thing! I looked up at his smiling face and not a single thought rattled around in my skull. This intoxicated man had managed to absorb all of my energies and was looking at me as though all was going according to plan. Without a thought and more a feeling of discomfort, I left with my mouth drooping downwards in cartoon fashion. He said “I’m sorry, you’re just gorgeous!” “That’s ok”, I replied. “You’re not responsible”. Though, I changed my mind as of course he chose to wear those beer-goggles. But I am, of course, quite small with a tendency to wear black. My conclusion from this, was that perhaps there was another less obvious risk involved in talking to strangers. But mostly this will be learned from experience: they’re not going to warn kids in school about the risk of strangers draining your mental abilities and wasting your time.

  http://mamagrandepress.tumblr.com/

New magical realism/horror publication, 'Mama Grande Press'. Read/watch/feel uneasy.

The Modern

A devil-drawer

dressed in eel skins

with her number sixes

with her Newgate knockers

decided to air the dairy

at the mercy of Satan's bones

and a ginger pop.

She wore his ugly bracelets.

Then she wore devil's claws.

Her aggravators got loose

Her aggravators fell out.

The Stench of Sadness 

It’s easy to imagine the smell of a person crumbling before your eyes would be something like body odour, from lack of showering, the saltiness of tears of course, and perhaps bad breath from whatever comfort food they had been eating if indeed they could eat (both of those she encountered with it had not). But this stench of sadness was a new one. With an overwhelming sense of empathy and tendency to blame herself instinctively, Annette attributed it to herself. It existed independently of scale of pleasant to disgusting. It did not smell like earth, but it reminded one of it. "Worrying" is one of few appropriate adjectives to describe the smell itself (as separate from its source).

Of course for many this might be the scent in question, and that they did not omit the Stench of Sadness is not to say that they encountered lesser suffering. Whether it was the exact ratios of such olfactory ingredients in these particular cases that caused this Stench of Sadness she didn’t know. Or perhaps something like the body sending out smoke signals. But it was so unique that the second time she smelled it, she did not check her shoes to see if she had stepped on something like a putrid leaf (which made sense as she had never known the scent of a putrid leaf), but connected it to the set of circumstances in the first incident, which is probably terribly unscientific.

To say the connection between the two situations was “a very sad/distressed/upset person in need of comfort or counsel” may be true, but far too simplistic. These were two, undemanding souls softly pleading with cruel happenstance (God or prayer had long been ruled out); “No more”. It caused her to grasp the gravity of both situations.

The first one was frank with her and she was aware from first statements that she was dealing with an altered, broken version of her friend. There was no connection made at the time between the scent and the broken, volatile state of her dearly loved.

The second was Gaia, also in a volatile state. The best and yet not terribly useful efforts were being made to restore and comfort, as it is in Annette’s nature. Well, this had been going on for a few years. She is more opaque and reluctant about her trauma. Sometimes she is not easy to love, though she always is. Nonetheless – a magnanimous effort was made on this particular occasion. Then the stench came, along with horrified revelation: the same Stench of Saddness.

The Looking Glass

The Looking Glass being a new Trinity College Dublin Children's Literature publication, here is my my cover illustration for the very first issue.
It's based on Alice Liddell, and contains all kinds of unimaginative Alice in Wonderland/Through The Looking Glass references.


As it happens, if any of you are interested in writing Children's literature or illustrating, you can send submissions (or maybe examples of your work in the case of illustrations) to tcdthelookingglass@gmail.com
The submission date for the first issue has already come and gone, so you'll be submitting for issue two.

Three close but uncomfortable friends are sitting outside a café: two men and one woman. The
sound of drizzling rain is the background noise. The woman, dressed pretentiously all in black,
is giving dirty looks to strangers passing by who are unseen by the audience. The scowling is a
digression from a story she has been telling. She turns to her friends to continue.

The two men look at each other in a guilty panic. The woman looks irritated that the two were not
following her story, despite the fact that she herself forgets.

The woman’s face lights up.

Woman Yes! So there I was, going about my business and this pathetic meathead beta-male
security guard has the cheek, the cheek to ask me what I am doing. It completely breaks my
concentration. Back to square bloody one!

Boy Absurd. I mean, who were you bothering?

Woman leans in and points at Boy waving her cigarette in his face agreeing and nodding
aggressively.

Woman So I said calmly, you know me: I’m a very calm person, “I am trying to figure out whether
or not pigeons have eyelashes”. And he looks at me like I have two heads! I swear to god. Couldn’t
get over it.

Man (preparing to launch into own monologue) People are so inhibited. I mean-

Woman Yes! If I want to find out if pigeons have eyelashes, what’s it to him? Or anyone? Maybe
not everyone has the inquisitive nature to think about these things, or the balls to lie across a path
getting up close and personal with a pigeon to see what you can see. But I am (with traumatized
certainty) An Artist! (pauses for nods) I’m not railed in by these conventions. (In a mocking voice)
“Ooh – I’ll just google it”. I am in touch with my inner child. (Points at heart, as though this is where
the inner child resides) I want to learn though my own experience, at the expense of looking like
a “weirdo” or worse a “loveable eccentric”. And how am I reacted to for this? Kicked out of Iveagh
Gardens. Absurd.

Over the course of this rant the rain has gotten heavier and the woman’s cigarette has gone out.
She realises and rolls her eyes while the other two notice the increase in rainfall and put up their
respective umbrellas. They are now all covered. She relights her cigarette.

Woman (oblivious to the irony) We must look like freaks sitting in the rain with umbrellas.

Boy The price that we pay for your smoking habit.

Woman (genuinely annoyed) Oh shut up.

A brief but petrified silence.

Woman I need to get back to my studio.

Man (preparing to be bored by the response) How is the project coming along, anyway?

Woman Oh, it’s a challenge, really. It’s like, nailing jelly to a wall.

Boy Feeling like you’re getting nowhere, eh? What does the piece consist of?

Woman I’m nailing some jelly to a wall.

The Blue Bottle Graveyard

We live in an old house. Beautiful, but dysfunctional. There are many very standard utensils that we do not possess. We're always running out of essentials and doing without for an amount of time which would be unthinkable in any one of what we call 'the real houses'.
One of my brothers went away for seven weeks. Opened the breakfast room door and went to flick the light on. We still didn't have a bulb. He pretended to be shocked but, he's lived here for years. He should know by now.
The origins of the fly graveyard are as follows (and this will be long-winded): there is the fact that we, like many other 'real houses' have the occasional bluebottle fly in the house which either of my brothers will eagerly squish with a paper or magazine.
Once, I recall my eldest brother running around the house with a newspaper in only his underwear chasing a fly all over the house like a maniac. In my mind, I have added a bandanna and warpaint for comedy, but really, he acted as though he donned them at the time. That much is true. I saw the fly coming towards me, my brother close behind it. He screams. Instinctively I, with nothing to swat it with, reach out dumbly to grab it, not wanting it to escape and continue to terrorize our beautiful home. To my horror, I was successful. I had a squashed fly in my hand before I even knew I had reached out for it. My brother the hunter looked at me in emasculated shock. I looked at him in girlish disgust. A dead silence. And then laughter.

The graveyard... Is not a place where we solemnly bury our victims, but something more shameful. On our windows, there is a gap between the pane of glass and the windowsill. A little trench. We swat against the window (the best place to do so), lift the newspaper and see the navy shimmering thing with its creamy earwax stuff squirted on the glass. Looking at it always makes me feel itchy. The fly remnant is then pushed off and allowed, carelessly, to drop into the fly graveyard which it took quite a while for, if not all of us then certainly me, to consciously realize existed. The graveyard is remembered, looked at, about twice a year if the desecrated flies are lucky. My memory paints it presently. Twisted, hairy things connected in a mass of webs, though it seems even spiders have turned up their (perhaps non-existent, for I am no biologist) noses at them. The alarming thing is a lot of the flies do not seem 'squished'. So, I imagine a fly, happily banging its head against the glass expecting to penetrate the force-field, glimpses the fly graveyard. Now, imagine seeing corpses of your species in such a state, and what's more with all those eyes (I don't know how many). Fly, horrified fly, dies of heartbreak instantly. Graveyard grows. Not in size but in sickening density. And this is the fly graveyard.

The worst thing about the fly graveyard is that though we call it Thee Fly Graveyard, there are several. One for every window.

In the house, the subject has been addressed once. Only once.
My eldest brother and I were drinking tea in the breakfast room. And then he asks me tentatively, dipping is toes in the water
''Do you know the fly graveyard?'' and his eyes narrowed. I looked at the window and pointed, then my eyes returned to him. He nodded.
''Yes, I do, yes.'' and I shuddered. ''I thought I was the only one who really noticed it. I mean really looked at it, though I can rarely bear to. And, most of the time it's safely blocked out of my mind.''
''Exactly. Do you remember Aoife?''
''Your ex? Of course. Why? ...you didn't tell her about it, did you?''
He giggled like a loon. ''I don't know what I was thinking.''
''Me neither. There could never be any reason to tell her that! She must have thought you were a serial killer. Or that we're all sinfully bad at domestic hygeine. Which is true but, you know...''
''Yeah... Whichever it was she really wasn't impressed''. - I'd be worried if she was, in any way.
''Did she actually look at it?''
''No... She politely declined and then vomited.''
''I suppose it's one of few situations where it is both appropriate and ladylike to vomit''
''Absolutely. She was a lovely girl''
I thought by the mechanics of chewing - like pedaling a bicycle.
''We need to become less disgusting, or find people as destructively relaxed as us''.

I stand by that. The normal thing to do upon noticing a fly graveyard would be to clear it out. It wouldn't be pleasant, but it was be the right thing to do. But, it has been there for years. The reason it is so so shameful, is whatever fondness we have for it, as evident from its presence today and the cute little name we have bestowed upon it.