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My girleens are 18

8/8/2020

This day 18 years ago, in an anaesthetised state of slumber my two girleens were lifted into this mad world. My diary reads from the night before How am I going to sleep without Gaviscon? the heartburn a gift from Virgil’s underworld. So I counted backwards from 10 and woke up with two beautiful daughters, one just ahead of the other by 2mins 30secs and yes, she does pull rank when befits. Nestled in amniotic comforts like two oysters in the one shell there was little room for manoeuvres. At 8lb10oz and 8lb2oz the midwives reckoned they were record weights for twins at the time. Their arrival brought such excitement and joy and still does today. They are closer than we will ever know. When they row there are no holds barred. So girls, stay close, stay connected. Your sister should be your closest confidante, your best friend, someone who will always have your back. Cleanse and moisturizer daily. Medb, you’re beautiful inside and out. Róisín, you’re beautiful inside and out. Be independent, be yourself. Remember your flaws and differences are what make you unique. Don’t worry, it’s like paying a debt you don’t owe (wish they were my words, they’re Mark Twain’s). Everything will be fine. Things have a way of working themselves out even in these crazy CoVid times. Don’t spare your ‘good’ clothes for special occasions. Wear them wherever, whenever. Wear red lipstick. I love the bones of you both. I’m so proud of the young women you have become. I admire your intelligence, kindness, sense of humour and determination, each of you expressing it in your individual ways. So on this your 18th my wishes for you are from the sagacious Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the light surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young

Waiting for Leo

4/29/2020

Warning: Readers may find this week’s ruminations from a lockdown kitchen head melting. Whilst every effort has been made to hinder thought ramblings, sure look it, read at your own risk. Like a hop-on hop-off existential tour, feel free to hop-off wherever you like.

There is comfort in the stillness in the morning only because we are non-verbal in the early hours otherwise heads would be taken clean off. Each of us quietly toiling in our own corner, some more than others, I being one of the other. All tuned out and plugged into screens. Himself has colonised the spare room containing the boxes that were never opened after a move 3 years ago including a recent addition is a standy-upy desk that looks like scaffolding for hobbits. I am relegated to the kitchen table. I know, like thousands of others; pity about me. For a couple of hours there is but the muffled hum of strange teleconference voices. That and frustrated yelps of ‘OMG. What is this teacher even on about?!, Where does he think he’s going with all this work like, I just don’t get this maths’. That’s the printable version. Come lunchtime there is a mass movement downstairs, like wildebeests migrating to a watering hole. The kitchen foraging begins and my erstwhile tranquillity ends.

And here’s the deep bit. It is then that I feel the spirit of Samuel Beckett loitering amongst us. It’s tangible. I’m a massive fan of his brilliance and I can’t help but ponder what would he make of this calamity. Welcome to I’m in a Beckett play, Get me outta here.

Now more than ever Vladimir's Habit is a great deadener in Waiting for Godot has never rang more true. The big brained absurdist existentialists like Beckett, Camus and Sartre figured habits are an unavoidable natural mechanism to elude the absurdity or randomness of life. And my Jaysus does this beat Banagher in terms of absurdity. The farcicality of padlocked playgrounds, empty pitches, barred beaches and vacant schools. Restrictions have imprisoned us and clipped our wings. Inmates in our own domesticity we surrender to stasis and habituation. To make sense of it all we cling to routine and the very thing that pledges security exudes monotony. There’s no escaping the quotidian mundanity. Like Vladimir and Estragon in Waiting for Godot and Hamm and Clov in Endgame in this lockdown we become all too aware of our interdependency combined with a need to leave whilst rooted in habitual behaviour. I even have a gammy knee, to match Estragon’s limpy foot, from walking the same route every day, the sea teasing me to places I cannot get to. Like Winnie in Beckett’s Happy Days we regurgitate stories and memories to elapse time. Her time is not linear as past, present and future are intertwined and it kind of feels like that now. But at least unlike poor Winnie, buried up to her neck, we have the privilege of movement.

Like Didi and Gogo in Waiting for Godot our own lines trip off the tongue with expert delivery and timing What’s for dinner?, Can you empty the dishwasher? I did it the last time, It’s not my turn, Who ate all the biscuits? Where’s all the ham gone? What’s up with the stupid WiFi?, I don’t want to go for a walk, Who didn’t flush? In the name of God will you open your window? I’m so sick of this f….n house. Just press shuffle and repeat and off you go again. Every day.

And then there’s the waiting. And the talking about the waiting. And the waiting for Leo to come on the telly to bring us hope Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. But it’s not to be and we cannot live in a constant preparation for leave-taking. So what’s to do. Don’t look at me, I don’t have any answers. Best pay heed to Beckett, You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

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Ukulele Lockdown

4/22/2020

It’s akin to Hitchcock’s Rear Window in my kitchen but alas I'm not swanning around in evening attire and faffing over Jimmy Stewart. I sit, try and work but am drawn to the comings and goings from the birdbox on the back wall. A new couple has moved in. They’re kilt with the busy toing and froing with twigs and moss. I’m guessing they are you young first timers the way they move from one branch to the next, like Olympic gymnasts on poles, but you never know, they could be downsizing. I even know they don’t like the peanuts in one feeder but they go stone mad for the fat balls in the other. Wouldn’t blame them either, if I roasted and salted the peanuts it’d be a different story.

I cannot speak for anyone else in this mad world but myself and can vouch that I am going fruity, losing the plot along with the marbles. You see it’s the pressure to produce, to be creative, to use this time constructively and prolifically. Don’t mind the virus, it’s going to be the death of us. It’s not enough to bake a few scones or banana bread. We’re expected to produce Bake Off standard. Go for a walk. Nope, not enough. Run a marathon around your back garden at least. And don’t talk to me about virtual exercise videos either. Tried that before. I should have known as the receptionist in the gym who recommended it had a number of angels pinned to her jumper. It’s easy, she said, no pressure, she said. The instructors on the big screen were like a team of Australian borgs, shouting out instructions to squat and lunge using instruments of torture masqueraded as weights. I couldn’t walk for a week, my knees buckled. Not for me, I’m out. Some people have a lockdown book written already? Ah lads…Small mercies but at least our younger ones are older. Otherwise I’d be gone wrong in the head with egg cartons, pipe cleaners, glitter and crepe paper. That never ceased to amaze me as an 80s child. Who had pipe cleaners in their house when Mary-Make-And-Do was on the telly? No one in Corrib Park that’s for sure.

I digress. In an effort to foster a positive industrious spirit in this nutty lockdown I took it upon myself to have a crack at learning the ukulele. Yes we had one already and no it’s not mine. It’s the youngest dawthers. I dusted it down and last week I learned a song. I know, musical genius me, 10,000 hours and all of that. It might as well have been cause it certainly felt like it. The wonderful Bacharach’s ‘Close to You’ famously and dulcetly sung by Carol Carpenter has been butchered within an inch of itself in the interests of sanity. The middle dawther said I sound like Kermit the Frog. Kids are great for an aul confidence boost all the same, aren’t they? The other night, as is becoming more frequent, wide awake at 3.30am looking at the leak stain in the ceiling I had a brainwave. I could re-write the lyrics of the Close to You and turn it into a lockdown song. So there I was at the kitchen table, pen in hand, staring at the clock waiting for inspiration to cradle me in its creative arms. It’ll be hilarious, I convinced myself. I could be a sensation, might get on Dermot and Dave. I was even writing up my interview notes. I’d be made.

The following morning I attempted to share my new ditty with the young ones. Oh Mum, seriously, not one of those? No interest - tumbleweed. In fact, nigh on repugnance. Had they dragged their eyes off their TikToks to even heckle me it would have been something. So apparently it’s shite. Mario Rosenstock, your job is safe. But if this thing goes on any longer I just might have to inflict further misery on the world by sharing it to the masses. Now for my next song…

By June 21st we will have exorcised the demons - this house will be clean

6/14/2018

By June 21st we will have exorcised the demons

I’ve found my new niche career – bomb disposal technician. Every day, at any given time, no real sequence or pattern as to where the bombs are, the risk of one going off looms large. Nonetheless, I endeavour with perseverance not to cut the wrong wire. Wires are snarled, mangled and all interconnected to a main frame that’s somehow fused to yours truly. Potential triggers include the last slice of ham, my mere presence, the last biscuit, an empty Nutella jar, any comments on hair or make-up – positive or negative – socks, equations, Matt Cooper’s voice, the wrong dinner. Helmet and flak jacket reactions include remarks on states of bedrooms, bicycle punctures, phone issues and one sister taking anything belonged to the other.

Aged 16, I did my first Leaving Cert. Oblivious to its importance. Not a tap was done, apart from English. I used to boldly walk into UCG library, find the requisite books on Shakespeare and Wordsworth, Kavanagh and Keats, transcribe what I could and squirrel away same in the Engineering section in the hope they would be there the following day. Thanks to slightly apathetic library staff, they usually were. Aged 17 I repeated many but not all subjects. I vividly remember the days of this vicious gruelling marathon of exams. The relentlessness of it. The mere sound it. And the scorching hot days. The feeling of hopelessness as those who did well carried out post mortems whilst I walked away, knowing I had made a hames of it. Notions of nailing questions were scarce as hens’ teeth, simply never having the confidence in what I had understood or written. I became better and more self-assured at studying and doing exams the older I got.

Now as parents, in our gaff we are in the throes of one Leaving Cert and two Junior Certs. The house is possessed by exam poltergeists. I say ‘we’ as I feel like I am doing it again. Such is the contagion of stress and tension. At least I can bring the dog for a walk or go for a run to wring out the anxiety that inevitably seeps in and not have to face into an Irish essay or maths problem on my return. Alongside the behemoth workload the ad nauseam talk of careers and points and students needing to know ‘what they want to be’ ratchets up the worry. These same sermons are from those who went to a school, did their HDip in the same school and went back to that school to teach. They never left it. No life experience, no concept of other sectors.

The examinees this week schlep out the school doors battle weary dragging their feet in ‘doobs’ with laces and soles long gone, trousers two inches too short, heads as bedraggled and frayed as their scratchy wool jumpers. Tired eyes, pale faces. Hints as to the level of satisfaction of how the paper went can be ascertained by the speed and ferocity at which schoolbags are fired into boots. Love Island allows for some breathing space. This vile, vacuous programme is an antidote to critical analysis of Lear’s Cordelia and schneaky financial maths questions.

It is hoped that futile efforts to keep things steady by alluding to life being a journey, not to be too hard on themselves, that grades and points are not the measure of them as a person, that this dirty rotten exam is not the be-all and end-all of everything are all greeted with a heavy sigh and a ‘yip’. Old head, young shoulders and all that business. But perhaps these words will percolate somehow, at some level. In the meantime, the walls of the church in Westside are charred with Nana candles. Our three chalk off the exams like prisoners on a cell wall. By 21st June we will have exorcised the demons. This house will be clean. Three years from now we will have not one, but two Leaving Certs, in the house. And so it continues. Meanwhile, on results day August 15th I may be found in any corner, in some random room, manically rocking back and forth eating my hair and talking to myself. The demons just moving on.

Happy 18th Birthday to The Small Man

9/14/2017

This day 18 years ago our son arrived into this crazy world. The scent of lilies are like a time machine for me, straight back to the ward in the Coombe to my bed opposite the confident assertive lady who called her son Jay. She seemed to have it all under control. I felt so out of my depth, shell shocked but with a fierce love and terrible fear of my little baby, all at the same time. Donnachadh was the talk of the maternity ward. Gorgeous, he is...look at de hair on him...Jaysus he’s only massive the nursing staff doted as they peered into his see-through cot. They reckoned he had the most luscious head of black hair for a newborn. He never lost it. He immediately became known to us, his brand new naïve parents, as The Small Man, all 10lb 8oz of him. I couldn’t believe he was mine and I asked as much in the delivery suite. His journey wasn’t easy and he was tardy, five days over. All in his own good time. Still the same. No panic lads. He’s the most intelligent, the wittiest, the most handsome person I know. He’s kind and loyal. I admire his discipline and self-motivation. He makes a mean omelette. He is a legend biscuit eater but cannot abide almonds and powdery apples. As a baby he never kept his socks on. No change their either. Under the coffee table and behind, underneath or between the cushions of the sofa are home to his socks today. Our house is not without its rows, like any house with teens who jostle for their voice to be heard among the myriad of pressures they face and the concerns they harbour. He’s a big brother and his sisters are stone mad about him; they may not say it, but they are. We all are. When he’s happy, sad, up, down, stressed, elated, we love the bones of him. We wish him contentment and success in everything he does whatever that may be. And so to our Small Man on his birthday; don’t worry so much, especially about what other people think, don’t be too hard on yourself and things have a way of working themselves out. I hope perhaps someday you will be as proud of yourself as we have been and continue to be, of you. Happy Birthday xx

A little ditty from an October trip to New York, just before the Wizard of Oz oils his wheels and levers for the White House.

11/9/2016

23rd and 10th

Bags we did pack, New York we were bound
Sweaters and hoodies, T-shirts and socks,
Chargers and earphones, kids must have their sounds
Shampoo and conditioner, knickers and jocks.

Departures was bedlam, check-in easy
Security would make you tear out your hair,
Two hours later began to feel queasy,
Like cattle in a pen, all waiting to get in.

Finally on aboard, our seats we found,
Pringles and jellies and back of seat screens
Refreshments from crew, green ladies dead sound,
Heads on shoulders, movies unseen.

Touchdown. New Jersey we land,
To Manhattan we speed - eyes darting and wide
Skyline familiar, glistening and grand
Déjà vu feeling they have been stateside.

Jug handle junctions, battered buildings and turnpike
Shimmering behemoths across the Hudson,
One World Trade Centre a middle finger spike
$75 billion reprisal reconstruction.

23rd on 10th red brick blocks boho
Iconic ladders outside of each floor,
The Chelsea Hotel we shared with Leonard and Brendan, pure soho,
When will it re-open its door?

Diners and psychics and dogs wearing shoes,
Drugstore enema kits, diapers for men,
Lucky Charms, Reeses and cheeses in tubes,
Hyper and silent, freaky and Zen.

The High Line, above the streets it rises,
We peer and posit through windowed apartments
Built by Mexican navvies Trump criticises,
Jenga buildings with art and attachments.

Apt street art for contemplative talk
I want a president Zoe Leonard demanded.
We read and think and ponder and walk,
The lessor of two evils, US future stranded?

Peaky Blinder on balcony, Irish brommie
Costumes galore for Halloween high jinks,
Zombies, witches, Wallies and mummies,
Jet lag the better, for us, forty winks.

Pancakes and waffles and thick butta’d toast
BBQ wings, Carlos cannoli’s, lashings of Coke
Cawfee in mugs from sweaty Greek host
Pizzas, omelets, the portions…a joke.

Matilda’s Martin a true old New Yawker,
The flashlight he keeps
Like a ghost, a sleepwalker,
From vaudeville past, shows us our seats.

To Tiffanys we jaunted, just for a gander
Blue boxes, blue bags in Chinese ladies hands.
Ground floor we meander,
Emeralds and sapphires from exotic lands.

The Belly of the Beast we ventured
Air rights built him up
Trump Tower’s pink marble for his favourite gender
Epitome of ostentatious man’s one up.

From a Nescafe jar the old man drinks
Tips pills into shaking hand,
Into Cheetos camouflaged bottle he sinks
His possessions in a trolley they stand.

Others hear voices, loud and clear,
Talk to themselves, ward off the demons,
Choose they cannot what they want to hear,
Mental evils, complex the reasons.

The madness of Macy’s on 34th street
Make-up and perfume, left right and centre
From black bosomed beauty, bright white teeth
Medby’s lipstick and liner bought from a mentor.

Skating in Bryant, the blades cut the ice
Legs arms flaying, not graceful at all
Our girls brought home bruises, tumbling thrice,
Great memories we have, despite the fall.

Weird, wonderful, wistful, woeful
Strange and selfish, a solipsistic conundrum,
A beacon to narcissistic pre-disposals
Sure to return, escape the humdrum…

...or perhaps not, as we may not be let in.

Spring is sprung, the dry chat has begun

2/11/2016

At the time of writing the deluge hammered down on my roof and I could not remember a time when the weather was calm and inaudible. Sure as eggs are eggs last night was the first night in months there was neither gale nor gust and the roof breathed a sigh of relief. An elderly energetic lady I know has a particular modus operandi when it comes to winter. She reckons denial is worth a try. DLO (Don’t Look Out) she advises. The same lady can handle anything, but the apocalyptic nonsensical excuse for weather was wrecking her buzz. And mine. It was like living in a windy washing machine. I feared it was not beyond the realms of possibility that we might run out of letters for the persistent tempests. Sheer numbers might dictate the appellations of next years orages and could hence be revered to as MacEva, MhicFrank, O’Gertrude and so on.

Winter, if only by its seasonal name, has passed. We are emotionally attached to the weather, in Galway at any rate. We cannot help ourselves talk about it. Angrily muttering under pulled up hoods and inside out umbrellas, on the sides of football pitches, shoving children into cars and putting bins out is there ever an end….Jaysus it’s relentless. As if the swirly Met Éireann clouds had a vendetta against us.

Nonetheless, we have seen the back of back of it and there’s a grand stretch, all the same. Christy Moore personifies the months ‘the January man is here the start of each and every year/Along the road forever’. No way around it, only through it. To those who took one for the team and did Dry January, fare play to ye. Here, it stuck itself up its own derriere. Suffice to say, I was one of the smug sickeners with intentions to stay off the sauce but failed spectacularly. Having been successful in previous years can I honestly say with confidence that it made me a healthier, better person? Ah…that would be no. However, there was less cheese consumed.

So Spring has sprung and February brings the politicians out of the traps to chase the rabbit. Over the next few weeks, in order to hold on to some degree of sanity, one must endeavour to remain rational in the face of empty promises from delusionally detached prospective representatives of ‘the people’. Us mortals whilst reasonable thinking beings are primarily irrational head the balls. The eminently brilliant psychologist and founder of behavioural economics Prof. Daniel Kahneman just might provide us with the mental armour we need to shield ourselves from the dry chat of politicians. The hand-shaking-funeral-attending-baby-kissers prey on what Prof Kahneman refers to as our brain’s System One, intuitively organised and primarily first across the line behaviourally. In second place is System Two, the rational, logical, thinking structure. It’s a biteen slow. We are prone to bad mental habits or cognitive errors, basically. For example, we anchor or rely heavily on certain information so grill them on the nitty gritty as they stand on your doorstep talking scour. We are prone to the 'Ikea effect' in that we tend to disproportionately place a higher value on things we have worked hard for or built ourselves. Thus politicians talk about ‘building an economy’ and ‘valuing society’ because they have allegedly larboured to create it but it doesn’t really wash with tax payers. Knowledge of both systems and how they work can be used by governments and policy makers to become more economically and societally responsible. The Obama administration has its own social and behavioural team. I know, we could send all the members of the next government, whatever smorgasbord that will be, off to the Centre for Applied Rationality (CFAR) in San Francisco. Yes, it does sound like something out of a Margaret Atwood novel but it does exist (oh and the MD has a cool eye patch). I’m guessing it has really, really big windows. Inda and Joan and Gerry could all head off on a junket for System Two bootcamp. Sure they’d only love that.

Me, I’m sticking with le flou artistique. It’s the lazy option.Suits my systems just fine.

Stubborn Asanas

10/19/2015

I have a dysfunctional relationship with yoga. A recent class took the biscuit. You see, it’s just not that into me. Feel the breath. Allow the breath to become more fluid. Let your thoughts come and go. I should have been relaxing, I should have been baring all monkey thoughts but what breath?! I had stopped breathing 10 mins into the class. I think I like it, I know I am the better for doing it, I do get something from it. There is that feeling coming away from a class of being a bit lighter mentally and physically, like my muscles have been put through a 1400 spin and my brain has been exorcised. But I’m just not that good at it and I’m not convinced I like the people who do yoga either, even though albeit inconsistently, from time to time, I am one of them. Go figure. Perhaps it is that sub-conscious competitive part in me. Everyone else is better at it. And perhaps it is because I admire those who have the discipline to work at it and improve. They have a handle on their asanas, whilst mine are the yoga equivalent of Future Islands lead singer’s dad dance. Some people are just bendy. I’m stiff as a plank, not bendy at all. In one particular posture I sit with my legs spread apart. The idea is to bend from the hip, reach down with your hands along our inner legs to grab your toes, all the while breathing. I resemble a door that has something jammed in its hinges. I can go no further. The lady beside me has folded herself over, now lying with her cheek on the ground, all the while chewing gum. I’d swear she has WD40 IV’d into her hips. How dare she be so bendy! Maybe I’ll excel at the balancing postures? Nope, cannot master those either. I stare unfocused, unstably, at something ahead of me, not really sure as I have forgotten to wear my lenses. I can’t see the instructor either so I’m left looking around me as if I have a nervous tick to see what the others are doing. They are all in the moment, eyes closed, doing that breathing malarkey. There are accouterments like straps, blocks, foam cushions, like raw materials for a Mary-Make-&-Do adult class. Whatever extra tools are available I’m using them. Now we’re trying the splits. Saints preserve us. Blocks stacked high either side of me, I’m leaning on two Jenga piles to make but a mere triangle with my legs. Chewing gum lady is horizontal, just chilling, legs 180°. I need more blocks and announce to the instructor we’re going to need a bigger boat! Smelly guy to my right is laughing his arse off at me and falls out of his asana. Into another posture now and we’re using straps wrapped around the soles of our feet, to encourage the leg to drop to the side. It’s cosy, we’re packed to the rafters, just a little too close for comfort. As my leg drops I struggle to keep it from falling uncontrollably to the right in which case it will crash land and destroy the jewels of the guy beside me. My red face in contortions, concentration all over the shop, my pranayama is all gone a bit Pete Tong with futile attempts to stifle a menacing prevailing wind from the spicy chicken I had earlier. The only thing that has had a work out are my glutes with ferocious clenching, and my forehead from frowning. I hear the sounds of music and craic waft in through the windows from the pub across the road, drowning out the plinky planky yoga tunes. Maybe that’s where my true asanas lie.

This Hipster is pinin' for the fjords!

9/23/2015

I recently went to a local quirky eater for lunch. You know it; white washed uneven walls adorned with mediocre badly framed photos of austere 1960s bathing shelters, chipped enamel milk jugs with indigenous fresh flowers? That’s the one. The food was great, up to its usual standard so not an issue there. Alas, I came out of the place with a form of tinnitus, the word ‘guys’ ringing in my ears. Ok guys, what can I get you?, Everything ok for you guys? Thanks guys, have a great day! Well hey, guys, that drives me spare. Enough I say. Not only that, and this really wrecked my buzz, the majority of the waiting staff were bearded, pierced and inked to the last. I have no problem with tats, rings or indeed beards. In fact I’m married to a beard who, much to my horror, ordered a flat white (slippery regressive slope there, just saying). When it opened first this eatery prided itself on being the ‘Other’ to the rest of Galway restaurants i.e. hip, trendy, vintagey cottagey, artisanal (oh I don’t know, I’m not an interior decorator) as opposed to the GBC with stainless steel milk jugs, matching chairs and beans on toast. Not a thing wrong with that either, we were reared on it. But seriously, someone needs to pen a sharply worded letter and inform the powers that be of the demise of The Hipster. Indeed The Guardian the stalwart liberal voice on all things broguey, beardy and tweedy lamented its passing back in June 2014. Soooo last year, guys. Lunch was superb, the boy Jamie might even have cheered on from his foody heights as I savoured my quinoa salad with all the pomegranate jewels, seeds and tasty greens. At least I didn’t get lunch served in a welly or on an ironing board as has been gastronomically à la mode recently. That’s great, guys, I’ll have that old style on a plate, thanks. When next I darken its door I will sport one said Hipster by the neck, drag it to the counter and inform management Pythonesque that ‘E’s not pinin’ for the fjords! E’s passed on! He has ceased to be! E’s expired…’is metabolic processes are now ‘istory! ‘E’s off the twig! ‘E’s kicked the bucket, ‘e’s shuffled off ‘is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible!

Funky Dopamine

7/9/2015

According to Aristotle, never knew him but I’d say he was sound enough ‘it is the nature of desire not to be satisfied and most men live only for the gratification of it’. Well that’s comforting. Whatever floats your boat, where you get your kicks it’s horses for courses really. If pleasure is a tenuous thing, it will always be fleeting. Here’s the thing though, the great scientific minds of our insatiable world, in particular Dr Kent Berridge suggest intense pleasures are rare and less prolonged than intense desires. So unfortunately we are hardwired to be unappeasable, always wanting, doomed to never be satisfied. Again, consoling. Desire and pleasure are complex yokes, a mix of psychology and neuroscience driven by media and envy. The best-arse jeans, that perfect sized handbag, the coolest boots, the perfect relationship, content children, the pithiest comments, the best burger, the best holiday evvverrr – all will-o’-the-wisp. Fundamentally it’s the old reliable chemicals, based on a reward system, doing their thing in the brain – we look for what we think we need, endeavour to obtain it and if it brings us pleasure then we want more. Dopamine, the kingpin, the chemical honcho is at the eye of the pleasure/desire neuroscience storm. Take food, for example; when it comes to eating, sugar, fat or salt triggers the happy chemicals in the brain, in the dopamine pathways, resulting in a craving for more. For research and reference purposes try Boychicks doughnuts at the Saturday market in Galway and have all three; sugar, salt and fat together...OMG soooo good. Same for nicotine, blood nicotine levels low, brain signals craving, smoke a cigarette, brain releases dopamine, creating further pleasure, resulting in further cravings. Genius. So this push and pull of wanting and liking comes and goes like the tide.

Science is behind everything, this we know. There is psychology behind the whys and wherefores of listening to music. It too has an effect on the dopamine system. The big brains in the pleasure/desire research world have analysed music and suggest there may be a song with an exact balance of syncopation and length to satiate the pleasure of listening with the desire for more. The funk equivalent of a pint, in the snug, in Neachtains, on a Friday afternoon. ‘Good Old Music’ (1970) by Funkadelic is allegedly said song. Download it, listen to it, move to it, run or walk to it. Trust me, it’s a spotless, funky tune.

What is also interesting, is that sometimes the anticipation of the pleasure is as powerful as the action – the pop of a wine cork, getting ready to go out, booking a holiday. If you’re lucky enough to be heading off to somewhere nice, as you stock up on flip flops & bikinis, shorts & maxis and all the accoutrement that you don’t wear, perish the thought, but could this be the best part of the holiday? The anticipation, the craving, the desire to go. Is this why when we come back we feel like we could do with another one, the pleasure unappeased, already thinking about next year. Or perhaps the weather was just shite and you were transformed into the Elephant Man by mutant mozzies. Next time will be better…