Bog Butter.
In Ireland, and maybe especially in October, all talk is about the weather. Or, more simply, the rain.
The wind the night before whipped the hawthorn at the bottom of the garden, and in the field over the hedge the tall reed grasses were dancing. When its windy like this I can hear all sorts of voices and whistlings in my room upstairs; downstairs in the kitchen the raindrops sound like little airstrikes against the window. The honeysuckle and the heather is still in bloom.
Yesterday the giant rhubarb at the bottom of the garden had been beaten down to the ground by the force of the rain. We braved a trip into Kenmare to pick up some groceries. Since my dad became unemployed a few years ago, I have no idea how my parents keep putting food on the table. But they dont seem too worried about it, yet. A nice lunch and then the days papers are strewn across the table. The three of us have a go at the crossword. But I dont really understand enough my Da s comment about the Irish Times becoming a feminist newspaper to be able to comment.
‘Cake.’ says my Dad, when I put the cups of tea down. ‘We ll have a bit of cake.’
Thres something in the rhythm of those word that makes me happy.
Tensions are a bit high in the house today, Mam is grouchy, she knocks the trowel out of my hand with her crutch as I m planting the daffodil bulbs because I m not digging where she wants, this gets my goat, its not necessary, I know she s in pain but there are ways of working with people, and this isnt one of them. I head off to help Da bring in wood for the winter.
When I dont write in my diary it doesnt mean that things havent happened – that we didnt laugh along with the radio – that Miles David and John Coltrane didnt play –
Santa please bring me a silver Selmer saxophone for Christmas this year, I ve been a good girl, I swear –
Why do spiders go under the bed to die?
Such odd dreams lately. A plane flying low over the mountains around the village, where no planes ever fly, I see it and know it is about to crash, then turn around to see its crumpled frame and the flames tangled with the side of a mountain. My family go to help but I dont think I am much use, I am panicking as people are walking away. The something about waiting for a cooked breakfast that never comes, scrambled eggs, I leave the table at the wrong moment, I am being followed, stalked, it feels very real.
The next night I am holding them all captive as I set fire to the squat…. I go out for the evening with the Redbreast.. We have been making our way through dangerous open countryside, but when we reach civilisation we are unhappy in the world of men. And then a gang of kids swarm on me, I have my bag and my money with me, they stand close to my back so I stand up and turn around to confront them angrily, and while I m busy they go through my possessions. But I let them, in some way consciously relinquishing ownership, and as they go they seem to leave almost everything behind them
A dream about a password, a castle, trying to solve riddles to get the armour that will save all of us inside from attack –