In Case You Were Wondering

This is the kind of stuff she’s been writing here at the Tyrone Guthrie Center:

POLYPHORES

The boss was born Earthstar.  He’d never look at her.  His spores were meant to go somewhere else:  to a Silverleaf.  Or a Shag.  Not K that smelled like wet rot.  She belonged with other Common.

Varnish and varnish:  I’d say this for K:  She was tenacious in her delusions.

“My mum’s a thick,” she said once.  “A focking thick.”

“Hmmm,” was all I managed to say in response.

Want to know what happens?  Tune in next week.

On the Move 2: WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge

These ballet dancers move along a wall on a street in dowtown Miami (November 2013).

These ballet dancers move along a wall on a street in dowtown Miami (November 2013).

In Self's Opinion, the Picture of the Year: She saw it in the Wall Street Journal, a few days after Typhoon Haiyan/Yolanda devastated the Philippine city of Tacloban.

In Self’s Opinion, the Picture of the Year: She saw it in the Wall Street Journal, a few days after Typhoon Haiyan/Yolanda had devastated the Philippine city of Tacloban.  There is so much kinetic energy in the picture: from the womens’ purposeful expressions, to the crosses they bear in their arms.

Maria King pushing her mom, Peggy King, from Max's Opera Café, where self met up with them for lunch. They were self's hosts when she first arrived at Stanford, in 1979.

Maria King pushing her mom, Peggy King, from Max’s Opera Café in the Stanford Shopping Center. The Kings were self’s host family when she first arrived at Stanford, in 1979.

 

The Moral Decline of One Young Man

As far as possible, on this trip, self wants to focus on Irish writers.  She’s at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, after all.  And she’s surrounded by books by Irish writers — in the Main House, in her cottage.

She stumbled across a pocketbook named Grace Notes and Bad Thoughts, by John Kelly (Dublin: Martello Books, 1994).  It opens thus:

Of a man’s first disobedience there is much to be said — and perhaps the best place to start is the day I boked all over Joseph Haverty’s “The Blind Piper” in the National Gallery of Ireland.  It was one of those sudden bokes that catches the boker completely by surprise — if I’d had even the slightest indication that such a Vesuvian boke was on the cards I would not have been standing in front of Joseph Haverty’s “Blind Piper” with my mouth open.  It stands to sense.

Like a sudden and violent dig in the ribs, it was a sharp elbow in the very cage itself.  Clutching at my side with both hands, I doubled over with the kidney pain of the whole affair and out came a terrific rush of air — expelled with such a hellish force that out with it came the mother of all bokes — a ferocious geyser of a crop-spraying and psychedelic boke.

For the non-Irish readers of this blog, a boke, self eventually figured out, is a barf.  Vomit.

After reading aforementioned scene, self was delighted to insert a puking scene in one of her own stories.

Priceless.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

 

 

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