That bloody marriage course is a scam, they make you do it if you want to get married. Sure wouldn’t it be as well to be a protestant and not have to do it?
My mother, in reference to a couple in their 30s with a small child still having to do the Accord marriage preparation course before the Catholic church would agree to marry them
Tuesday topic: To give my oh so clever blog title a little bit of legitimacy and myself some kind of timetable, I’ll be updating each Tuesday with a blog about something. More to follow!
I love dream logic. I honestly do. I love seeing what place exactly my brain is going to take me to tonight, I love being brought on a story and I love experiencing the narrative as it happens. I love that dream narratives only make sense when one is in them and that while one is there all the weird shit going on makes perfect sense. I love that there are certain things one can’t bring back from ones dream like the music that seems to soundtrack all of mine. The only problem with dreams is that I always forget them!
I’ve started attempting to keep a dream diary, jotting down key faces, key colours, sounds, images, people I know and anything else I can remember in the moment after waking. I was surprised on my first attempt by 2 things
1. how many people I know turn up in my dreams each night
2. how fucking weird my dreams really are
not even weird in a creepy or disturbing way. Just this strange collage of locations, sounds, situations and characters that were obviously on my mind. Prince William, Superman, their respective spouses, a bitchy old auntie, royal concubines and Christopher Lloyd all featured. And in the moment of the dream, all made perfect sense. It was brilliant! That’s like the best story ever, how can you knock something like that?
I would type out the narrative- it’s in my head now, I remember clearly each different thread and plot that I went through. They roughly break down into 4 or 5 sections all distinct from one another, but to type out the rationale behind all these wonderful and fucking hilarious characters would take away some of the magic of it. It’s just fun to be able to look back over my stream of consciousness notes (Typed on my iPhone for an extra dash of pretension) and remember clearly all the different strands.
I’d recommend trying the dream notes thing at least once if only to see what crazy shit your mind might throw at you. I can guarantee you won’t be expecting the connections you’ll find perfectly logical at the time.
Niamh ‘All I do the whole night through is dream of you’ Keoghan
”J. Kearns: “So I went mistakenly into the helix, believing that’s where this final was being hosted. No one was there, so I went to the stage and sat on a large red chair with a button. I kept pressing it, and nothing happened. Then I realized I wasn’t Bressie from the ‘Voice of Ireland’ or whatever its called, and proceeded over here, to something much more worth watching anyway, even if Im sitting behind here as a disembodied voice for you all!”
Call me silly or humour-less or whatever you like but I still don’t get why abusing somebody’s trust in your word is a good thing.
THE SONG THAT NAME DROPS THE THEME OF THIS POST IN IT’S TITLE BUT ISN’T REALLY THEMATICALLY LINKED TO IT
I do think there’s something inherently sneering about the concept of April Fools day. My friends have pranks like posting an ultrasound picture on your boyfriends facebook with ‘x :)’ attached to it, or pretending to come out, or telling someone an untrue story and then laughing at their reactions. Is this really supposed to be ‘funny’? Funny to me moves from the person making the joke. A good comedian makes a heckler funny by turning their interference back on them but the heckler was still the one who instigated the exchange. April fools pranks just take the form of the following general categories-
- Things involving getting someone wet (cling film over the toilet bowl, bucket of water in the doorframe)
- Fooling someone into doing stupid shit because they trust you
- the ‘reaction’ pranks (Coming out, being pregnant, STIs, etc)
Maybe I will again.
It is an imposing, ghost-like thing,
An echo of the tigers’ brief roar.
Dusty windows and dirty floors, the fenced
Off doors to the past
Silent inside, the lights have not lit a room
In years with an ugly industrial glare.
The vault of an old, cold world that never cared to see the fall
Was approaching and the flood waters were encroaching.
It is the grave of the recently passed, naïve world, out-dated now,
A moment out of sync with the times, the silent crimes of
Concrete poured into the field, into corners, squaring off the edges.
The Shrapnel from the boom still whistles by and tears us all apart,
Our ears still ringing from the blast,
In a frequency
We will never hear again.
Niamh ‘Is a bit shit at poetry’ Keoghan