February 23, 2005

My Scream Got Lost In A Paper Cup

So I'm thinking about ordering a takeaway pizza, and paying for it with my credit card. There is something about sitting around all day doing nothing that makes me loathe cooking. COOKERY THOU ART A BASTARD. Or maybe it is just that I loathe cooking only for myself. And all my family are away doing *stuff*. By family of course I do mean husband and housemates, but having been rejected by my real family on account of my being a spider, they shall have to act as surrogates. Not that I'm asking any of them to give birth to me. Man, I've been there and done that and it was obviously so traumatising that I can't even remember it.

So it snowed here. I tried to take some photographs of the beautiful tree in my garden but the useless battery on my very expensive camera ran out, and I can't find the charger. One of my friends who is unlucky enough to live in Navan, was completely snowed in today, having had two feet of snow in the night. Err, what country is this again? I'm not liking these extremes we're starting to experience. It makes me worry that an inch of ice will melt in Antarctica and flood all of Europe. AND I HAVE NO BOAT. Perhaps I should think about investing in a boat, although I've already gots debts with the credit union up the yin yang and they're unlikely to indulge any more of my suspicious loan requests. I was lucky enough that all I got was a few raised eyebrows when I asked for the four grand for the face lift. I hope they don't find out I spent that on chocolate!

I have been listening to the very beautiful and slightly frightening Tori Amos all day. There is a certain palatable insanity about her music. Well, less about her music and more about the way that she sings; she sort of sounds like a half-crazed animal. I honestly envy that. No matter what I do I seem to sound like a choirgirl. Maybe I need to get roughed up a little, you know - live in the wild, or the bronx or something for a bit.

I got twenty five bucks and a cracker, do you think it's enough to get us there?

I don't know, Tori, I just don't know.

neuro-praxis -- Getting That Peetsah

Liking Fashion = Having Feet Chopped Off

AND RIGHTLY SO.

Hello. Do you have a child of your own, whom you hate and wish to brainwash? The following story should aid you in your desires.

The Red Shoes
by Hans Christian Andersen
(1845)

ONCE upon a time there was little girl, pretty and dainty. But in summer time she was obliged to go barefooted because she was poor, and in winter she had to wear large wooden shoes, so that her little instep grew quite red.

In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife; she sat down and made, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of some old pieces of red cloth. They were clumsy, but she meant well, for they were intended for the little girl, whose name was Karen.

Karen received the shoes and wore them for the first time on the day of her mother’s funeral. They were certainly not suitable for mourning; but she had no others, and so she put her bare feet into them and walked behind the humble coffin.

Just then a large old carriage came by, and in it sat an old lady; she looked at the little girl, and taking pity on her, said to the clergyman, “Look here, if you will give me the little girl, I will take care of her.”

Karen believed that this was all on account of the red shoes, but the old lady thought them hideous, and so they were burnt. Karen herself was dressed very neatly and cleanly; she was taught to read and to sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror told her, “You are more than pretty—you are beautiful.”

One day the Queen was travelling through that part of the country, and had her little daughter, who was a princess, with her. All the people, amongst them Karen too, streamed towards the castle, where the little princess, in fine white clothes, stood before the window and allowed herself to be stared at. She wore neither a train nor a golden crown, but beautiful red morocco shoes; they were indeed much finer than those which the shoemaker’s wife had sewn for little Karen. There is really nothing in the world that can be compared to red shoes!

Karen was now old enough to be confirmed; she received some new clothes, and she was also to have some new shoes. The rich shoemaker in the town took the measure of her little foot in his own room, in which there stood great glass cases full of pretty shoes and white slippers. It all looked very lovely, but the old lady could not see very well, and therefore did not get much pleasure out of it. Amongst the shoes stood a pair of red ones, like those which the princess had worn. How beautiful they were! and the shoemaker said that they had been made for a count’s daughter, but that they had not fitted her.

“I suppose they are of shiny leather?” asked the old lady. “They shine so.”

“Yes, they do shine,” said Karen. They fitted her, and were bought. But the old lady knew nothing of their being red, for she would never have allowed Karen to be confirmed in red shoes, as she was now to be.

Everybody looked at her feet, and the whole of the way from the church door to the choir it seemed to her as if even the ancient figures on the monuments, in their stiff collars and long black robes, had their eyes fixed on her red shoes. It was only of these that she thought when the clergyman laid his hand upon her head and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and told her that she was now to be a grown-up Christian. The organ pealed forth solemnly, and the sweet children’s voices mingled with that of their old leader; but Karen thought only of her red shoes. In the afternoon the old lady heard from everybody that Karen had worn red shoes. She said that it was a shocking thing to do, that it was very improper, and that Karen was always to go to church in future in black shoes, even if they were old.

On the following Sunday there was Communion. Karen looked first at the black shoes, then at the red ones—looked at the red ones again, and put them on.

The sun was shining gloriously, so Karen and the old lady went along the footpath through the corn, where it was rather dusty.

At the church door stood an old crippled soldier leaning on a crutch; he had a wonderfully long beard, more red than white, and he bowed down to the ground and asked the old lady whether he might wipe her shoes. Then Karen put out her little foot too. “Dear me, what pretty dancing-shoes!” said the soldier. “Sit fast, when you dance,” said he, addressing the shoes, and slapping the soles with his hand.

The old lady gave the soldier some money and then went with Karen into the church.

And all the people inside looked at Karen’s red shoes, and all the figures gazed at them; when Karen knelt before the altar and put the golden goblet to her mouth, she thought only of the red shoes. It seemed to her as though they were swimming about in the goblet, and she forgot to sing the psalm, forgot to say the “Lord’s Prayer.”

Now every one came out of church, and the old lady stepped into her carriage. But just as Karen was lifting up her foot to get in too, the old soldier said: “Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!” and Karen could not help it, she was obliged to dance a few steps; and when she had once begun, her legs continued to dance. It seemed as if the shoes had got power over them. She danced round the church corner, for she could not stop; the coachman had to run after her and seize her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet continued to dance, so that she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they took off her shoes, and her legs were at rest.

At home the shoes were put into the cupboard, but Karen could not help looking at them.

Now the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not rise from her bed again. She had to be nursed and waited upon, and this was no one’s duty more than Karen’s. But there was a grand ball in the town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red shoes, saying to herself that there was no sin in doing that; she put the red shoes on, thinking there was no harm in that either; and then she went to the ball; and commenced to dance.

But when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes danced to the left, and when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced down the room, down the stairs through the street, and out through the gates of the town. She danced, and was obliged to dance, far out into the dark wood. Suddenly something shone up among the trees, and she believed it was the moon, for it was a face. But it was the old soldier with the red beard; he sat there nodding his head and said: “Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!”

She was frightened, and wanted to throw the red shoes away; but they stuck fast. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown fast to her feet. She danced and was obliged to go on dancing over field and meadow, in rain and sunshine, by night and by day—but by night it was most horrible.

She danced out into the open churchyard; but the dead there did not dance. They had something better to do than that. She wanted to sit down on the pauper’s grave where the bitter fern grows; but for her there was neither peace nor rest. And as she danced past the open church door she saw an angel there in long white robes, with wings reaching from his shoulders down to the earth; his face was stern and grave, and in his hand he held a broad shining sword.

“Dance you shall,” said he, “dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and wicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and fear you! Dance you shall, dance—!”

“Mercy!” cried Karen. But she did not hear what the angel answered, for the shoes carried her through the gate into the fields, along highways and byways, and unceasingly she had to dance.

One morning she danced past a door that she knew well; they were singing a psalm inside, and a coffin was being carried out covered with flowers. Then she knew that she was forsaken by every one and damned by the angel of God.

She danced, and was obliged to go on dancing through the dark night. The shoes bore her away over thorns and stumps till she was all torn and bleeding; she danced away over the heath to a lonely little house. Here, she knew, lived the executioner; and she tapped with her finger at the window and said:

“Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance.”

And the executioner said: “I don’t suppose you know who I am. I strike off the heads of the wicked, and I notice that my axe is tingling to do so.”

“Don’t cut off my head!” said Karen, “for then I could not repent of my sin. But cut off my feet with the red shoes.”

And then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep forest.

And he carved her a pair of wooden feet and some crutches, and taught her a psalm which is always sung by sinners; she kissed the hand that guided the axe, and went away over the heath.

“Now, I have suffered enough for the red shoes,” she said; “I will go to church, so that people can see me.” And she went quickly up to the church-door; but when she came there, the red shoes were dancing before her, and she was frightened, and turned back.

During the whole week she was sad and wept many bitter tears, but when Sunday came again she said: “Now I have suffered and striven enough. I believe I am quite as good as many of those who sit in church and give themselves airs.” And so she went boldly on; but she had not got farther than the churchyard gate when she saw the red shoes dancing along before her. Then she became terrified, and turned back and repented right heartily of her sin.

She went to the parsonage, and begged that she might be taken into service there. She would be industrious, she said, and do everything that she could; she did not mind about the wages as long as she had a roof over her, and was with good people. The pastor’s wife had pity on her, and took her into service. And she was industrious and thoughtful. She sat quiet and listened when the pastor read aloud from the Bible in the evening. All the children liked her very much, but when they spoke about dress and grandeur and beauty she would shake her head.

On the following Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked whether she wished to go too; but, with tears in her eyes, she looked sadly at her crutches. And then the others went to hear God’s Word, but she went alone into her little room; this was only large enough to hold the bed and a chair. Here she sat down with her hymn-book, and as she was reading it with a pious mind, the wind carried the notes of the organ over to her from the church, and in tears she lifted up her face and said: “O God! help me!”

Then the sun shone so brightly, and right before her stood an angel of God in white robes; it was the same one whom she had seen that night at the church-door. He no longer carried the sharp sword, but a beautiful green branch, full of roses; with this he touched the ceiling, which rose up very high, and where he had touched it there shone a golden star. He touched the walls, which opened wide apart, and she saw the organ which was pealing forth; she saw the pictures of the old pastors and their wives, and the congregation sitting in the polished chairs and singing from their hymn-books. The church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or the room had gone to the church. She sat in the pew with the rest of the pastor’s household, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, “It was right of you to come, Karen.”

“It was mercy,” said she.

The organ played and the children’s voices in the choir sounded soft and lovely. The bright warm sunshine streamed through the window into the pew where Karen sat, and her heart became so filled with it, so filled with peace and joy, that it broke. Her soul flew on the sunbeams to Heaven, and no one was there who asked after the Red Shoes.

THE END

------------

Ah yes. Nothing quite like the angel of the Lord coming to mutilate the limbs of little girls. Thanks for your weird perversions, Hans, they should come in useful when I've got some pride-filled brats of my own whom I'd like to see die of a broken heart.

:)

neuro-praxis -- All About The Grace, Baby

February 22, 2005

Find Me

This needs to be done from time to time.

The top search strings in google and yahoo and other such zones of seeking for this month that caused folks to stumble upon this here blog are as follows:

1. clothespegs
   
2. ferrero rocher origami
   
3. neurolife hair treatment
   
4. corroborate
   
5. hemorrhoids loud flatus (my personal favourite, that)
   
6. jake gillenhall
   
7. maud gonne fuck (er, what?)
   
8. we came in drastic like tameless horses
   

It's reassuring to know that no matter what kind of internet perversion you're after, you'll probably stumble upon me. More of this nonsense later.

neuro-praxis -- Giving Cold And Flu The Old One-Two

February 21, 2005

Take Your Medicine

I know, I know. The increasing length in delays between entries has been reported to be causing bowel cancer in my readers. Thank you all for your emails, and my sincerest apologies for the life threatening diseases. I have been away for the last few days on a Women's Weekend^TM and, if you'll pardon my French, it was rather fab. And here we all are, wet, exhausted and cheerful after our canoeing. That's me, first on the far left.

No, not really. Those are some random chicks I found on the internet. Unfortunately there are no photographs of me personally in existence, as in pictures, I appear as a standing lamp (unlit). This is simply one of life's little mysteries.

For example, here is me on my eighteenth birthday in my parents' living room.

It's an unfortunate but fascinating fact. Another unfortunate but fascinating fact is that the "movie" Dodgeball which I am currently viewing, is an acclaimed "comedy". Pah. It's about as funny as a bowl of lukewarm pea soup with a boiled egg in the middle.

neuro-praxis -- Coasting On Noice Pitchers But Will Try Harder Soon

February 16, 2005

More Filth

One of these delightful fellows, at least one inch in length, accompanied me on my bus journey to visit my brother today. In acts of disgusting fly-gymnastics, it spent a full hour ridding itself of whatever putrefaction it had been picking up in the local toilet or garbage dump. It sat there, three inches from my arm, scraping and scratching the dirt from its legs and wings kich-kich-kich-kich-kich. I watched this large bastard fly with fascination and revulsion for the entire journey, not even glancing at my book of cultural theory according to Adorno (AREN'T I THE INTELLECT? ACTUALLY NO, SEEING'S HOW I'D RATHER WATCH FLIES). The most amazing thing that it did was reach its back legs up onto its wings and scratch them, bending them right in half. I don't even know how to describe it. Every so often I would become aware of how demented I must have looked to the other passengers, who could not see the monster. Once every six or seven minutes, I would note my grimace and pull my face back into normal, peaceful mode. After two or three seconds more of watching fly gymnastics, however, the look of disgust would slowly creep up my neck and strangle my face once more.

Thoughts of this nauseating creature have haunted me all day.

SECOND WORRY

Would you let your baby be breast fed by some chick who wasn't its mother? Nannies who do this are called wet nurses. I forced K to engage me in a debate on why we are revulsed by this prospect. WELL? ANSWER ME, YOU CONDITIONED INDOCTRINATED BUFFOONS. Buffoons! What a fabulous word. Now go get some milk from a nice lady.

WORRY NUMERO THREE-O

Are you there God? It's me, neuro-praxis. SORRY KID, I'M HAVING A PEDICURE.

...There are no real worries. Used Christmas crackers for those of you who got the Judy reference! Today was a day for BREAKING YOUR SPECTACLES WHILE REMOVING THEM FROM YOUR FACE. Ok there neuro. Let's try taking things a little easier from now on. Today was a day for angry Australian ladies who shout and smoke profusely and live with your brother. And lastly, but not leastly, today was a day for catching in the rye.

WELL. The good news is that the word on the grapevine is that I got a first in my English thesis, boys and girls.

neuro-praxis -- She So Fly

February 14, 2005

Caught A Lite Sneeze

From One Week by the Barenaked Ladies

It’s been one week since you looked at me
Cocked your head to the side and said I’m angry.

How fitting. And what a bizarre coincidence! It has been exactly one week since the fellow above (noted for taking his shirt off at funerals) had his row with his laydee, and it has been exactly one week too since I posted in my blog, which must be a record.

Not a good record, mind; we're not talking Whatcha Waitin' For by Gwen Stefani kind of good record here. I like to think I'm more in the league of a record like Irish Son by that prodigy Briyiyiyiyiyan McFadden.

I am utterly disgusting and flu-ridden at the moment. My best friend is my dressing gown. A hot anorak came to visit over the weekend and me and my generous housemates passed all of our bacterial diseases onto him - gifts that keep on giving! He left this morning with a horrendous cold and a new appreciation for his disease-free family.

So.

SMAPPY SKANKENTINE'S GHEY!

Today is the day that sucker imbeciles revere (or rather, draw painfully inaccurate pictures of with crayons) the hollow muscular organ located behind the sternum and between the lungs - its rhythmic contractions pumping blood through the body moment after moment. It is also the day of expensive fermented, roasted, shelled and ground cacao seeds, often combined with a sweetener or flavouring agent, not to mention the heaps of children's toy bears, usually stuffed with soft material and covered with fur-like plush. Today is the day men give women Marks and Spencers bestest versions of any numerous shrubs or vines of the genus Rosa, with prickly stems, pinnately compound leaves, and variously coloured (often fragrant) flowers. People also post each other flat, usually rectangular pieces of stiff paper, cardboard, or plastic, folded once and inserted in a thin paper pouch. EVERYTHING IS SO ROSEMANTIC. Personally I will be marking this hallmark holiday in my usual fashion - by frantically smashing both the radio and the television with the meat tenderizing mallet about oooh I'd say halfway through the day.

Quite.

I have had this page open for three hours trying to think of something else to say and I have finally given up.

Back to sucking coal for me, then.

neuro-praxis -- Gone For Good

February 08, 2005

Monday Night And The Air Is Getting Hot, Pretty Baby

Christian Conferences have been eating my time like the filthy clock monsters that they are. I don't particularly object to this: I learned how to play drums (badly) o'er the course of the weekend (I don't have time to type the letter V anymore I'm that busy) and now my life is one walking rhythm and not of the circadian variety. Although, the sun has been out and nobody can deny that. It is good when the sun shines. All us pasty irish types get a brief dose of vitamin D that helps us to blossom into the kind of plants that we were meant to be. If I were a plant, I'd be a spider plant. This of course being down to the fact that I've got eight legs and a hairy back. My husband is disgusted with me but I came with a dozen fine cows that spurt out the most deliciously creamy milk twice of a day, so he wins too.

I am happily re-reading the masterpiece The Butcher Boy for my contemporary Irish literature course at the moment and I can positively feel my soul darken as I turn each page. Why do I love him so much, the little boy who murders people in pig obsessed frenzies? The voices in my head scream BECAUSE HE IS YOUR SON! But I know that this is not true probably, as I cannot remember ever having given birth. I must ask my mother. She is better at remembering things than I am, but I am better at drumming than she is. My classmates were at it again today, hovering over my desk during the lecture, rubbing my mug in it, if you will. I did not purchase those RyanAir flights, however, as the car broke over the weekend and it has transpired that I do in fact have to sell

1. one arm and
2. one leg

to afford the cost of the repairs. It was and is most disconcerting. I can no longer clap. I wave my remaining arm about repeatedly with vigour but all that I manage is *swoosh* *swoosh*. How can I show my appreciation for the general staff at Tesco's now? Their butcher packs me a little polythene bag full of mince and offers it to me at a delightfully low rate...and as I reach to applaud him, nothing happens. It's so humiliating. Likewise, the cleaning lady makes the floor sparkle, and instead of standing over her clapping as usual, I simply wave like some class of a moron from Ballykissangel.

Speaking of Ballykissangel, I was in Avoca at the weekend. YOU KNOW. THE TOWN OF AVOCA, WHERE POPULAR BRAINDEAD SERIES BALLYKISSANGEL IS SECRETLY FILMED. And I spent twelve euros and seventy cents in their "quaint" little cafe on a couple of Cokes and a rice crispie bun slice. Horrific. I said to the woman, "You have raped me." Turning pink she replied, "Er, what?" I watched her squirm and told her, "My baby will starve. [intense whisper] How do you sleep at night?" Am I lying? Only time will tell. And by time I mean witnesses. Of which there were none.

I took some nice pictures of Avoca. Here are two of them.

!fun fun fun in a stale cream bun!

Ok. So final paragraph. I suppose I owe you bastards a few more lines seeing as I've been away so long. Let's discuss the merits and pitfalls of beekeeping as opposed to the merits and pitfalls of beer. Allow me to make a chart for your perusal.

There is nothing more to be said tonight. Normal something will resume when something something.

neuro-praxis -- Now A Marxist

February 03, 2005

Over The Cuckoo's Nest

I returned to college this week only to discover that each and every one of my classmates had developed wings. This is both

1. very surprising and
   
2. rather upsetting

as it seems that I am the only one who cannot fly, and am beginning to feel rather insecure about it. I went home on Tuesday evening and sat down with a heap of cardboard from the recycling bin, lots of tape and a bed sheet, and set about constructing a pair of wings for myself, but as expected, they don't work. My only option now to regain the respect of my peers is to purchase some RyanAir flights to Prague and wave them in their faces. (They can't fly for more than a few minutes at a time.)

neuro-praxis -- Walking On Hair

February 02, 2005

Ode to Anne Doyle

An Experiment in Rhyme inspired by seeing our own RTE's Anne Doyle (I thought she was dead too!!) glaring at me from inside her car on Monday night at the traffic lights on the way to Mount Merrion. She did not seem to appreciate the notes we scribbled and stuck on the window for her to read. They were a bit rude. She also did not like it when we licked the window.

Anne:

I longed for your fame from afar
When I saw you last night in your car...
I can't hear your voice
From inside your Rolls Royce --
My hero! Celebrity! Star!

Your newsreading skills may astound...
And with age you have not gained a pound!
You eat nowt but fags
And collect Prada bags
And your nip/tuck physician is sound.

Oh Anne, when will you notice ME?
I'm as charming and cool as can be!
I have dyed my hair white
Since our encounter that night
So our connection can deepen, you see.

I know all your secrets, you know
(that you make up the news as you go),
But that's ok by me...
All I want from TV
Is to escape from the hell that I sow.

Anne, you're the queen of the land:
News-Bearer-Extraordinaire-Bland!
You can keep your bad news,
And your snake Gucci shoes,
And your skin...so aggressively tanned.

*click click click*

THE END