Despite the bitter and poorly edited written attacks that have been made against my name, I press on. I may get knocked down, but I get up again, because as both The Other and Narcissus know, I too am a child of the honorary path of truth. If 200 pages of reading and 20 critical journals will not push me off the deep-end, then surely the driveling words of an acquaintance will not either.
Now that the true facts of my physical situatedness and current occupation have been revealed, I suppose that I have no need to further the guise of my mysterious existence. However, since identity itself is a constantly morphing and socially constructed entity - nay, not even an entity...a construction, a concept - as I have tirelessly reiterated, I cannot concede that the rants of Mr. Narcy have truly succeeded in uncovering my true self. For who really can? It is nice to at least know that Mr. Narcy concedes that I have a soul. Thank heavens for that.
Speaking of the heavens, I was recently in a small house of worship, tucked down a dark and twisted alley that The Other knows as the potential site of lurid night-life and lusty excitement. Being in this blessed place made me think of The Other because of her obvious devotion to the Papal throne. It also made me think of Mr. Narcy due to his disagreeable view of the world as a Godless place. While I will willing own up to a certain cynicism, skepticism, and even negativism, I fear that I could never accept a world quite as destitute as the one that Mr. Narcy envisions. Then again, I am currently living in, and will continue to have my residence in, a place where soldiers of the pen are not pushed down side-streets before certain physically enduring events. Thus, I can more easily believe in a faith-filled, hopeful world, since the blessing to be able to speak out of any orifice, even one's arse, is essential to a society that is saor, as the local people would say here. (Translations not provided. Deal.) While I worry for Mr. Narcy as he inhabits a world a little different than the one I currently occupy, I do know that he will surely find a way to subvert the social norms and bring peace and justice to everyone that touches God's good earth.
Nonetheless...entering this place of devotion reminded me of my honorary comrades and I could not help but imagine what it would be like to watch the two of them in a celebration of the body of Joshua Ben Jospeh in this foreign land. Surely, The Other could make herself a bit more discreet. But let's just imagine....
As the ringleader raises the cup to the sky, chanting worlds that the devoted silently ignore while thinking about how much they need to confess but won't because that lad in the bar the other night was just too delicious for words, Mr. Narcy suddenly realizes the choice that is about to be put in front of him: accept this nectar of the gods - sorry, God - or risk offending the local culture that he trying to blend into. Now, this would be no problem were it not for the horrific effect that God-nectar has on Narcy. He nudges the elbow of The Other, who has her head in her hands. The Other ignores Narcy and gracefully rises from her kneeling position, getting into the processional line leading to the main table in this humble and faithful abode. Narcy has no choice but to follow the dark-haired beauty of The Other, stepping on the aged marble with a force that might require restorers to sigh for the futility of saving remnants of the medieval world from modern intruders. As the cup is presented before The Other, he pauses. Out of the corner of his constantly turned eye, he sees the bottle from which the nectar came, only moments ago. It is a Chilean Cabernet, not at all the wine that would properly accompany the meal that Narcy only just cooked for himself before leaving his home and racing across town on a child's bike. Grimacing, Narcy takes the cup and swallows enough red liquid to wet his tongue. He follows The Other back to their pew and kneels down very slowly. But within moments of kneeling, the dark juice has gone to his face, his hands, his hair, his nose, his lips. It hath infected and it hath made him drunk.
Now, being drunk in a house of worship ain't no big thing for most people. For most believers. Yet Narcy has a certain...grip, on rationality. A grip like that of a mother on her rosary beads before her daughter gets married. That will not let him go and that he will not let go. Thus, any loss of control strikes every fibre in his being like a wooden stick on a bodhran, beating, beating, beating, him senseless. Stumbling out of the edifice, suddenly loosed from the need to control his outward expressions, Narcy starts mumbling incoherently about the authenticity of the individual soul, the separation of the artist from the art itself, societal constructions of...gender, universal ethics, Kant, and most importantly - JUSTICE. Stumbling and mumbling until he sees a flash of coarse hair, the color of fish-blood, out of the corner of his eye. Before he knows it, a glass of cold water has been splashed on his face, his cheek has been slapped, and he has begin come to his senses.
As Narcy comes to, he looks up from his groggy haze to see The Other, standing a few feet from him. In dark brown boots, red lipstick, and a black skirt that hugs her ivory legs, she drags on a cigarette (tobacco free), and sweeps her long bangs across her face, looking at Narcy with one eyebrow raised. The Other, in preparation for an impending journey, has fully taken on a new look that has men stopping for autographs. But she merely waves them off with a few Czech words that she can't yet translate but convey that she doesn't have any English. She just looks at Narcy and sighs.
"Wha...wha...was that the Fireheaded Celt? God-damn her!" Narcy asks as he jumps at The Other.
"What iiiissss presence...was the Fireheaded Celt here...physically....perhaps.....mystically....always..." The Other flips her hair off one shoulder in a flourish and hugs her dark green shawl closer to her.
"Feck her". Narcy sighs and collects his bike.
"Elizabeth Bennet was nicer."
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Mr. Narcy Takes a Walk
I recently read on another, slightly less poetic blog, that the Fireheaded Celt had passed away. I was initially shocked to hear this because any passing is a bit of a jolt to the soul, but then I just laughed to myself. Because ah sure, don't you know that this particular Celt was a bit of a pagan and believed quite strongly in a place called Tir Na Nog. Maybe you have heard about it? Well - needless to say, the Fireheaded Celt will live on in her own special way. You will surely see her again in the future.
Throughout much of my stay in this protected and undisclosed location, I have pondered what it would be like to take dear Narcissus along with me on my travels. I will reveal that I am in a place surrounded by water - in lakes, rivers, streams, falling from the sky in frequent heavenly doses - so I imagine that Narcissus would have an interesting time not just navel-gazing, but directly gazing at his own dear phenotype in any one of the pools of liquid divinity which this place saves in abundance. Thus, I imagine that the first few days with Narcissus, or Sir Scribbles, would be a bit tedious, what with the amount of arm strength I would have to use to pull him away from anything that would reflect his lovely skin and luscious eyes. But once my fiend was settled, I can just imagine how a day would go....Let's give it go, shall we? A look into his mental gymnastics?
Narcissus walks along the main city street as though he has been called to active duty at the time of the Apocalyspe. This is the moment for which his legs and calves have been training. He will dart, he will jump, he will duck - he will do whatever it takes to beat the traffic and arrive at his destination. Where, you ask. The nearest coffee house - the only place to do sincere philosophical observations and musings (conveniently also a prime place for observing delectable morsels of human meat). As Mr. Narcy (almost like a certain Mr. Darcy, but not quite) patrols the streets, he mutters to himself about the state of the others sharing his path.
"Fecking woman. Yes, yes, now is the prime time to stop and stare at your coffee cup - the cup that is holding the fruits of some poor, unpaid day laborer's sweat and blood, the cup that will undoubtedly remain on this soil until long after the Second Coming, sitting on lush potential like oil sits on life-giving water - stare at that cup as though it is your newborn babe who just so happens to have the same oversized ears as you. Stare at that cup and slow your walk, so that you and your hipster Italiano-leather shoe lovin' boy toy stops to look at it as well, so that you can both rejoice in the fact that globalization and vanity-driven consumerism has been so effective as to bring Seattle's own Buckies all over the world."
Avoiding the woman in front of him, Mr. Narcy pulls out a small plastic figurine from his scouting daypack. Spitting on it ever so slightly, he pauses long enough for the figurine to meta-morph into a bike, just large enough to make more of his precious manpower and push him towards his destination. Flying between buses with the litheness of the snakes that supposedly fled the Emerald Isle, Mr. Narcy finds himself a decent establishment which he can dare to grace with his presence: "The All-Natural, All-Organic, All-Considerate, All-Peaceful, All-PC, ALL Jesuit Coffee House" (the ANAOACAPAPAJCH for short).
Yet when he entering his favourite establishment, a different smell meets his extra-sensitive nose. He smells neither smell harmony nor inner-drive. No. Mr. Narcy soon realizes that he, unlike the Fireheaded Celt, is a bit behind on the news and missed the notice that his dear place had closed. While the old sign remains outside, inside those eco-friendly glass doors lies something that Mr. Narcy had never dared step into before out of fear of losing a bit of his soul: a place of booze, of lust, of irreverant jocularity, a place of crude gender generalizations. A place that many call a pub. Immediately reaching for his inhaler, Narcy takes three puffs - a bit of an overdose, yes - and squints his eyes as much as possible. All around him stand the enemy: Tall, beefy, football-playing men. With cropped hair and tight shirts, muddy sneakers and small girls biting at their heels, the men smell of heterosexuality. (Their cologne - "Man-Smell for Heteros is sold at the local tourist shop next to Guinness flavoured condoms).
Because his legs have traversed half of the city, Narcy has no choice but to sit down for a moment to allow his lungs to start back up. Pulling out his only defense, the MacBook Pro, he stretches his fingers, puts his keyboard condom the keys so that they are not exposed to whatever jock-driven ITD (Intellectually Trasmitted Disease) is floating in the air, and begins to hammer the keys - but only for three seconds, before he stops again. Looking at those around him, he catches the attention of one member of the Crew-cut Mafia who is wearing an earring and seems to have overwashed his pants a little bit. The two stare...Narcy opens his eyes. The man can't tell, but continues to stare. Tension fills the air. Smoke fills Darcy's lungs, stings his eyes which turn red. He grabs the nearest glass on his table, conveniently filled with a lovely lager, and downs the remains in the glass, turning a brilliant shade of tomato red within 0.5 seconds. He touches his hand to his chest and cocks his head. The man might have a friend conveniently situated near Narcy's other side who could attack at any minute. Will they talk to each other? Will they discover that both have the hidden desire to write achingly poetic studies on gender and equality in developing countries? Will the man reveal that he gets aroused at the scent of pork? Will Narcy reveal that he falls for struggling poets that scribbles their loves and desires on tiny notebooks in their tight back pockets?
As Narcy's inner core asks all these questions such that his mind reels like a dancer on craic, his line of vision suddenly gets blurred. A tall, sleek, woman with redhead and troubled dark eyes steps up to Narcy's table and pulls out a cigarette, holding it between her fingers, rubbing one side ever so slightly:
"Want it?"
Throughout much of my stay in this protected and undisclosed location, I have pondered what it would be like to take dear Narcissus along with me on my travels. I will reveal that I am in a place surrounded by water - in lakes, rivers, streams, falling from the sky in frequent heavenly doses - so I imagine that Narcissus would have an interesting time not just navel-gazing, but directly gazing at his own dear phenotype in any one of the pools of liquid divinity which this place saves in abundance. Thus, I imagine that the first few days with Narcissus, or Sir Scribbles, would be a bit tedious, what with the amount of arm strength I would have to use to pull him away from anything that would reflect his lovely skin and luscious eyes. But once my fiend was settled, I can just imagine how a day would go....Let's give it go, shall we? A look into his mental gymnastics?
Narcissus walks along the main city street as though he has been called to active duty at the time of the Apocalyspe. This is the moment for which his legs and calves have been training. He will dart, he will jump, he will duck - he will do whatever it takes to beat the traffic and arrive at his destination. Where, you ask. The nearest coffee house - the only place to do sincere philosophical observations and musings (conveniently also a prime place for observing delectable morsels of human meat). As Mr. Narcy (almost like a certain Mr. Darcy, but not quite) patrols the streets, he mutters to himself about the state of the others sharing his path.
"Fecking woman. Yes, yes, now is the prime time to stop and stare at your coffee cup - the cup that is holding the fruits of some poor, unpaid day laborer's sweat and blood, the cup that will undoubtedly remain on this soil until long after the Second Coming, sitting on lush potential like oil sits on life-giving water - stare at that cup as though it is your newborn babe who just so happens to have the same oversized ears as you. Stare at that cup and slow your walk, so that you and your hipster Italiano-leather shoe lovin' boy toy stops to look at it as well, so that you can both rejoice in the fact that globalization and vanity-driven consumerism has been so effective as to bring Seattle's own Buckies all over the world."
Avoiding the woman in front of him, Mr. Narcy pulls out a small plastic figurine from his scouting daypack. Spitting on it ever so slightly, he pauses long enough for the figurine to meta-morph into a bike, just large enough to make more of his precious manpower and push him towards his destination. Flying between buses with the litheness of the snakes that supposedly fled the Emerald Isle, Mr. Narcy finds himself a decent establishment which he can dare to grace with his presence: "The All-Natural, All-Organic, All-Considerate, All-Peaceful, All-PC, ALL Jesuit Coffee House" (the ANAOACAPAPAJCH for short).
Yet when he entering his favourite establishment, a different smell meets his extra-sensitive nose. He smells neither smell harmony nor inner-drive. No. Mr. Narcy soon realizes that he, unlike the Fireheaded Celt, is a bit behind on the news and missed the notice that his dear place had closed. While the old sign remains outside, inside those eco-friendly glass doors lies something that Mr. Narcy had never dared step into before out of fear of losing a bit of his soul: a place of booze, of lust, of irreverant jocularity, a place of crude gender generalizations. A place that many call a pub. Immediately reaching for his inhaler, Narcy takes three puffs - a bit of an overdose, yes - and squints his eyes as much as possible. All around him stand the enemy: Tall, beefy, football-playing men. With cropped hair and tight shirts, muddy sneakers and small girls biting at their heels, the men smell of heterosexuality. (Their cologne - "Man-Smell for Heteros is sold at the local tourist shop next to Guinness flavoured condoms).
Because his legs have traversed half of the city, Narcy has no choice but to sit down for a moment to allow his lungs to start back up. Pulling out his only defense, the MacBook Pro, he stretches his fingers, puts his keyboard condom the keys so that they are not exposed to whatever jock-driven ITD (Intellectually Trasmitted Disease) is floating in the air, and begins to hammer the keys - but only for three seconds, before he stops again. Looking at those around him, he catches the attention of one member of the Crew-cut Mafia who is wearing an earring and seems to have overwashed his pants a little bit. The two stare...Narcy opens his eyes. The man can't tell, but continues to stare. Tension fills the air. Smoke fills Darcy's lungs, stings his eyes which turn red. He grabs the nearest glass on his table, conveniently filled with a lovely lager, and downs the remains in the glass, turning a brilliant shade of tomato red within 0.5 seconds. He touches his hand to his chest and cocks his head. The man might have a friend conveniently situated near Narcy's other side who could attack at any minute. Will they talk to each other? Will they discover that both have the hidden desire to write achingly poetic studies on gender and equality in developing countries? Will the man reveal that he gets aroused at the scent of pork? Will Narcy reveal that he falls for struggling poets that scribbles their loves and desires on tiny notebooks in their tight back pockets?
As Narcy's inner core asks all these questions such that his mind reels like a dancer on craic, his line of vision suddenly gets blurred. A tall, sleek, woman with redhead and troubled dark eyes steps up to Narcy's table and pulls out a cigarette, holding it between her fingers, rubbing one side ever so slightly:
"Want it?"
Monday, July 14, 2008
Drunken Insomnia
Here lies the blog of Miss Maura Barnacle, lover of all things philosophical and all things literary. Because I am a lover of all things literary (even the things that drunken and high people write in European bathrooms - no, especially those things), this blog will be undertaken in a literary fashion.
After this initial post, my future posts will be in the format of a short story, with my fellow writers as main characters.
I start out my first blog entitled "Drunken Insomnia", though the entire blog can in fact be found at" philodrunkenlullabies", because I have undertaken a journey, and at this point in said journey, I am still a bit shaken from being apart from my dear beloved ones who will constitute the character list in my writing. So alas, despite the number of spirits that I imbibe, I am awake many a night under dark skies of lashing rain.
I have embarked upon a journey to a land known for its certain way with words, a way with certain spirits, and a way with music, and in keeping with other traditions on this island, this blog certainly try to include all three of this island's specialties.
But enough specifics about me for now. In fact, too much. Like my namesake, I hope to maintain quiet and mysterious - the silent muse behind the work of other great bloggers close to me.
Those dear beloved ones that I mentioned earlier have also started a bit of writing, though I have recently been informed, via mental telepathy, that one of my better halves is currently in another state. One where the cows are lonely and the cowboys afraid. Yes, the Other is in Wyoming. You guessed it. I mentioned this Other because I have recently been implicated in some other philosophical "musings" because of my initial encounter with said Other. Upon my first meeting of this Other, I did in fact label her out as my competition. These my friends, were during some of my earlier, more competitive days. Long before I realized the Other's amazing ability to make a daycent cup of tea, down seven courses of beef, or analyze my life's problems down to an understandable T. I have now jumped in certain freezing waters with said friend admittedly not wearing my pantaloons, drank the nectar of the Irish goddesses with said friend, and defiled many a sacred place with said friend. Fiend. Friend. (Oh, Mary Shelley, pray help me.)
I would also like to defend some claims that were made to a certain "Fireheaded Celt". Yes, I will proudly admit that this name was in fact applied to the now genteel lady that you see writing before you. I am the "Fireheaded Celt". And while, yes, some of my former, smaller appearances in the blogosphere might have been written while I was under the influence of a certain dark friend, this dual identity is simply owing to the fact that I have alternate egos that are often at war with each other. Upon reading the most recent post made by Sir Scribbles (British loving bastard that he is), I was initially about to confront his ludicrous claim that The Other needs to go to Prague to "find herself". Given that Sir Scribbles undoubtedly adheres to a certain philosophical position that I too think is quite accurate - that one's identity is entirely a creation of the society and interactions around her or him - I was quite shocked that The Other was demanding such a fruitless and well, navel-gazing, plan for our dear, dear Other.
I will let you all muse about how I deal with having these dueling identities if one's identity is truly constituted by one's society. Perhaps I am torn between the love of two societies? Perhaps I am, dare I say, even more of an exile than my dearly beloved - the infamous "Irish Exile" - that loquacious man who once said that it was sad that he met Yeats when the poet was so old because my man couldn't influence him more. Yes, modest he is.
I am coming to believe more and more, especially since the moment that I met my own dear Jimmy (he's not a bad writer, you know? Has a nice long cane too...), that one's conception of herself or himself is based on interactions with other people. Thus, if The Other is to use her critically acclaimed good looks for a good purpose - that is, the search of an identity - then her very success while abroad does not depend on sausage or beer. Nay, it depends on those with whom she locks eyes. Those with whom she locks more than eyes. And since I am currently courting a drunken sailor myself, who masks as a literary god, I pray and beseech The Other to do one thing for me: go get some.
Goodnight.
After this initial post, my future posts will be in the format of a short story, with my fellow writers as main characters.
I start out my first blog entitled "Drunken Insomnia", though the entire blog can in fact be found at" philodrunkenlullabies", because I have undertaken a journey, and at this point in said journey, I am still a bit shaken from being apart from my dear beloved ones who will constitute the character list in my writing. So alas, despite the number of spirits that I imbibe, I am awake many a night under dark skies of lashing rain.
I have embarked upon a journey to a land known for its certain way with words, a way with certain spirits, and a way with music, and in keeping with other traditions on this island, this blog certainly try to include all three of this island's specialties.
But enough specifics about me for now. In fact, too much. Like my namesake, I hope to maintain quiet and mysterious - the silent muse behind the work of other great bloggers close to me.
Those dear beloved ones that I mentioned earlier have also started a bit of writing, though I have recently been informed, via mental telepathy, that one of my better halves is currently in another state. One where the cows are lonely and the cowboys afraid. Yes, the Other is in Wyoming. You guessed it. I mentioned this Other because I have recently been implicated in some other philosophical "musings" because of my initial encounter with said Other. Upon my first meeting of this Other, I did in fact label her out as my competition. These my friends, were during some of my earlier, more competitive days. Long before I realized the Other's amazing ability to make a daycent cup of tea, down seven courses of beef, or analyze my life's problems down to an understandable T. I have now jumped in certain freezing waters with said friend admittedly not wearing my pantaloons, drank the nectar of the Irish goddesses with said friend, and defiled many a sacred place with said friend. Fiend. Friend. (Oh, Mary Shelley, pray help me.)
I would also like to defend some claims that were made to a certain "Fireheaded Celt". Yes, I will proudly admit that this name was in fact applied to the now genteel lady that you see writing before you. I am the "Fireheaded Celt". And while, yes, some of my former, smaller appearances in the blogosphere might have been written while I was under the influence of a certain dark friend, this dual identity is simply owing to the fact that I have alternate egos that are often at war with each other. Upon reading the most recent post made by Sir Scribbles (British loving bastard that he is), I was initially about to confront his ludicrous claim that The Other needs to go to Prague to "find herself". Given that Sir Scribbles undoubtedly adheres to a certain philosophical position that I too think is quite accurate - that one's identity is entirely a creation of the society and interactions around her or him - I was quite shocked that The Other was demanding such a fruitless and well, navel-gazing, plan for our dear, dear Other.
I will let you all muse about how I deal with having these dueling identities if one's identity is truly constituted by one's society. Perhaps I am torn between the love of two societies? Perhaps I am, dare I say, even more of an exile than my dearly beloved - the infamous "Irish Exile" - that loquacious man who once said that it was sad that he met Yeats when the poet was so old because my man couldn't influence him more. Yes, modest he is.
I am coming to believe more and more, especially since the moment that I met my own dear Jimmy (he's not a bad writer, you know? Has a nice long cane too...), that one's conception of herself or himself is based on interactions with other people. Thus, if The Other is to use her critically acclaimed good looks for a good purpose - that is, the search of an identity - then her very success while abroad does not depend on sausage or beer. Nay, it depends on those with whom she locks eyes. Those with whom she locks more than eyes. And since I am currently courting a drunken sailor myself, who masks as a literary god, I pray and beseech The Other to do one thing for me: go get some.
Goodnight.
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