tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1417618177409934012024-03-17T11:58:47.276-07:00Krunchie's Dream DiaryKrunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-47805383450545204532024-03-17T11:33:00.000-07:002024-03-17T11:58:16.615-07:00The White Strand song<p> When I woke up this morning, the White Strand song ("Amhrán na Trá Báine") was in my mind, for no reason at all. This was not a dream, but a memory. I was 16 when I heard of this song first, on summer camp in the Gaeltacht. Brother Flately, whom we called Pancho, was a pioneer in using a tape recorder for Irish lessons. He played back to us students a recording he had made of a debate by local men. One of the speakers used the phrase "Is cuma leis an gCeallach," (meaning "It doesn't matter at all"). I thought the actual words used were "Is cuma leis an ngeallach," literally meaning "The moon doesn't mind," but Pancho explained that the literal meaning, taken from a song well-known in Conamara, was "Kelly doesn't Care.)" (Kelly doesn't care, because he is the man who took over the farm following the tragic drowning of the author's three brothers at sea while fishing in a currach).</p><p>Now, it turns out that this song is one of the Great Songs (Amhrán Mór) of Conamara. An "Amhrán Mór" does not tell of a love affair. or trajedy, or comic event, or politics, but, like a novel, tells the whole story of an era.</p><p>The song opens with the words "Mo mhíle slán le hÉirinn bhocht, is nach breá an rud an tEarrach féin," ("My thousand farewells to poor Ireland, and isn't Spring itself wonderful").</p><p>I never got the full import of these words until forty years later. An elderly cousin in America wrote to my wife how he would love to see a traditional bonfire on his forthcoming visit. Now, he was coming in August, not June, which is bonfire month, but we organised a community bonfire that August to please him (and ourselves, of course). Talking to me at the bonfire, he said, that, if he ever visited Ireland again, it would be in the spring. Why so? "I recall in my youthful memories that, in spring, all the hedgerows would burst into white blossoms and the fields yellow with buttercups. This is the Ireland I still dream of."</p><p>And this is the wonder of spring that Brigid O'Malley sings about and that every emigrant from rural Ireland would "get."</p><p>The tune is recognised in Conamara as the air of Bridid O'Malley's song, but it is older than that. A young emigrant from my father's place, on his way to Australia, in 1904, wrote, "The Lusmagh Fields so Green." Sending it home in a letter, a traditional musician put it to this same tune, proving that the tune was there before Bridid's words.</p><p>"Lusmagh Fields so Green" is sung by Johnny McEvoy, and I have an English version of the other " Farewell to Poor Ireland," both available, inter alia, on YouTube.</p><p>Brigid O'Malley emigrated to Boston after her three brothers were drowned. She was there for the Great Depression and times were hard. She eventually returned to Conamara where she was famous for singing her song. She also sang it to acclaim in Boston, but completed the story with verses added after coming home.</p><p><br /></p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-84534914604025752012024-03-06T04:06:00.000-08:002024-03-06T06:20:41.099-08:00My Inner Architect<h2 style="text-align: left;">Summary</h2><p> I dreamt I was on an outing and adventure with my two brothers. After many adventures, we had quite an exciting journey home through several amazing forms of transport. The last part of the journey, however, was to walk up the lane bringing us home. When I arrived home, I saw that the locality had been transformed by visionary architecture.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Background</h2><p>Now let me explain the geography of home. In the later 19th century, as Dublin expanded, a railway line was constructed from Broom Bridge to Broadstone. Part of the construction involved blasting through rock. The debris from this rock was thrown into a heap beside the railway, and this heap was kept from slipping into the adjoining Tramline Cottages (built to accommodate workers on the tramline), and building ground on the other side. In the 1930s ten houses were built on this well-settled hill of debris. Our house was one of these.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">My final treck</h2><p>I was weary and tired, but my brothers were still fairly energetic. I let them go ahead, and it was quite a few minutes before I dragged myself to our destination. As you approach the end, you get a glimpse of our back-yard from the lane. Wow! some architect and developer had transformed our back-yard into a wonderful garden. There were two small teams of big children playing a ball-game, using bats and a shuttlecock, in the grass area, and many of our adult relations sitting around in deck-chairs.</p><p>My brothers and I had often used shuttlecocks in our back yard. This was because you could give a shuttlecock a fair whack without canting it, for the "feathers" would slow it down in the air.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">My welcome</h2><p>I reached the back garden, backpack hunching me forward, and expected the relations to jump with joy on meeting me, but no, they sat there indifferent to my arrival, just acquitting me a nod. This is the same as the welcome I got as a toddler from Mrs. McCormack, when I first ventured out our garden gate, having mastered the art of walking, and thinking myself a great fellow, when she exclaimed, "Oh hello Roger, and hello Jerry, and is this poor little Francie," the latter being me. No welcome for me, just a reference to me being poorly and little. That had put me in my place once and for all.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Architecture</h2><p>I went to my room. It had been transformed by the new architecture! I looked out the window and saw, in a wide panorama, that the whole locality had been gloriously transformed.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">My Railway memories</h2><p>Now, near our home, as I have just explained, was a railway. This had been disused as a passenger line for many years, as visitors from the country were then dumped at Kingsbridge (now Heuston) Station. There was, however, a tall wire fence all along the line to prevent people from trespassing, which resulted in a large stretch of land, which could have been utilised as amenity, being kept as a wilderness.</p><p>Not that the wire fence stopped us kids from trespassing. We had a rule: "He who cants must retrieve." This rule gave me a moral dilemma. My sister, who is a nun, has recently explained that, pursuant to the theology of Thomas Aquinas, when faced with a choice of two evils, the lesser evil is the moral choice. This would have eased my conscience, for I and my siblings were under parental commandment never to go on the railway line (or other person's garden).</p><p>So, on the street, I was faced with two conflicting rules: the rule to retrieve the ball I canted on the railway line, and the parental command. Disobeying the latter was, of course, the lesser evil, and therefore the moral choice, but I did not realise that at the time, and, so, was riddled with guilt.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Inner Architect</h2><p>Let me explain now what the inner architect had done: the whole area of the railway line, its adjoining houses and gardens, and our own ten-house "keyhole" enclave, had been absorbed into a magnificent development with beautiful apartments and amenity areas. My cousin, a visionary architect, was in my presence, and I expressed my delight with the architecture. "Yes," he said wistfully, "This is how it could be,"</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Message</h2><div>Being a complex dream, it seems to have a complex message, which I understand to have 3 parts:</div><div><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>To have adventure, you have to travel a long way from home (to mountain, seaside or country) because the amenities of your locality (e.g., railway and canal lands and school grounds) are out of bounds.</li><li>If you engage a super modern form of transport, it will not bring you home, but dump you at a big hub, from where you have to engage other forms of transport, which, bringing you ultimately to your locality, still don't bring you home, and, tired and weary, you still have to trudge the last bit, weighed down under the weight of your back-pack. All this could be improved by implementing <a href="https://krunchiescab.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Krunchie's Cab</a>, which would bring you all the way home in one comfortable carriage from wherever you were.</li><li>Visionary architecture could develop attractive localities with attractive buildings and community amenities. (Instead we have seen massive, characterless, housing estates, and mish-mash of different, often ugly, commercial buildings). Great cities were developed on a singular plan, including Georgian Dublin, but, since independence, ours has been largely a mishmash of mediocrity.</li></ol><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgIxoXfr2LiVOk-K5wgtzcw-xz7PVFwoy4HhqgxrbUy7rvhsPq6fl8BTdoMzUfGUMJfOb1mNxSvUU666QVH5zRpqx8-eE1SLJAnfc7VlUeaq3-Kd6cwjyxAlYmnGpMQ98biGOqcU8BzIeMg55vBmuiQ8_56KcYTlVvHS_6qUIT98LtOJLfNMdGeztIobq/s3648/IMG_20240306_103606.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifgIxoXfr2LiVOk-K5wgtzcw-xz7PVFwoy4HhqgxrbUy7rvhsPq6fl8BTdoMzUfGUMJfOb1mNxSvUU666QVH5zRpqx8-eE1SLJAnfc7VlUeaq3-Kd6cwjyxAlYmnGpMQ98biGOqcU8BzIeMg55vBmuiQ8_56KcYTlVvHS_6qUIT98LtOJLfNMdGeztIobq/w400-h300/IMG_20240306_103606.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Attractive new apartments which blend well with adjoining sylvan suburb of Glasnevin.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT49ohW-pq7b3InB3xGscNt6IktzN4NfhKhjnmJgaLqpWydgEmJuyPLV6ImLB5irl0ojnH9VBn4FndZ_5wG8BD8Hq_vKH6fEddPsy-FLFWAYZrKdWudVQSxpUU5yyWEDerNe65tDtgfcOiocU9yJUU2GmbWCPLVX6aDe6Kpc2WJyFPgck2K6eiZHZRod6C/s3648/IMG_20240306_103922.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT49ohW-pq7b3InB3xGscNt6IktzN4NfhKhjnmJgaLqpWydgEmJuyPLV6ImLB5irl0ojnH9VBn4FndZ_5wG8BD8Hq_vKH6fEddPsy-FLFWAYZrKdWudVQSxpUU5yyWEDerNe65tDtgfcOiocU9yJUU2GmbWCPLVX6aDe6Kpc2WJyFPgck2K6eiZHZRod6C/w400-h300/IMG_20240306_103922.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just across the road, new slum-style apartments. How could planning officers allow such: why is compliance with the local styles not enforced?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div></div>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-86917420897312485412023-09-07T01:37:00.002-07:002023-09-08T01:43:07.295-07:00Killeens in Tiananmen Square<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIhEDBhqLKuF_V-GjCxO7myhAe6U_HkXqZpMFZgM4e1ByRSf74r07FIiFmP5Q937eqtegrw-NDrTe4ODtpwoHiFDsRZ3uppoIdrNsJOWw9VlvXFJnAZgFs2yd6sDToJrJ7UmVhllLu6XIzo-cj9uHcLmWBrmtqpHhknuCY2MGCFFaUWzpSpP_QTFkK0fq/s986/Tiananmen%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="986" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIhEDBhqLKuF_V-GjCxO7myhAe6U_HkXqZpMFZgM4e1ByRSf74r07FIiFmP5Q937eqtegrw-NDrTe4ODtpwoHiFDsRZ3uppoIdrNsJOWw9VlvXFJnAZgFs2yd6sDToJrJ7UmVhllLu6XIzo-cj9uHcLmWBrmtqpHhknuCY2MGCFFaUWzpSpP_QTFkK0fq/w400-h250/Tiananmen%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p>In my dream world there is a photo, taken by my son Tomás, who never actually visited China, of a picture hanging in an Inn in Tiananmen Square. This picture shows a British soldier standing beside an Old Ford car outside this Inn in Tiananmen Square in 1918. The soldier had a peculiar similarity to myself - not as I now am, but as a young adult before I started to grow a beard.</p><p>In last night's dream, my wife and I visited this Inn, and, in curiosity, looked to see if the original picture was still there. Well, what did we find?</p><p>Curious about my son's interest in the photo, the manager of the Inn had enquired from China's public records office about the original picture. He found that the photo Tomás had copied was only part of a larger photo showing the British army in occupation of Tiananmen Square in 1918 (my dream' distortion of history). The manager had obtained a copy of this large picture, which now hung in the foyer of the Inn, alongside a new copy of Tomás' picture. We admired this larger picture.</p><p>The Chinese intelligence service had actually tagged all the British soldiers in the large picture, and, there, clearly tagged, beside the Old Ford car, outside the Inn on Tiananmen Square, was "Pte. Thomas Killeen, of <span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156;">The </span><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #5f6368;">Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers</span>."</p><p>Where did this dream come from? Well, it came out of the disturbed state of the world as per world news: Russia, Ukraine, China, tumbling again towards world conflict, jumbled up with worries of renewal of conflict in Northern Ireland, or wherever peace is not actively promulgated, and not even I am immune from involvement. Conflict can rage anywhere and Tiananmen Square is still in everybody's consciousness.</p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-21212891331423427192023-07-17T14:46:00.003-07:002023-07-17T14:58:07.341-07:00Day Dreams<p> From infancy, I made a habit of entering into a pleasant reverie before falling asleep. </p><p>When I was at the crawling stage, lying in bed, I would plan next day's climbing adventure. I had an ambition to climb onto the sitting-room sofa, and from the arm of the sofa up onto the window-sill and look out on the front garden. I remember being annoyed when I heard my mother telling Mrs Breen that, among my strange activities, I had climbed up onto the window-sill. I was appalled to hear my mother tell a blatant lie, for I had never <i>succeeded</i> in reaching this goal (except in my reverie). Every time, I either failed or someone intervened to prevent me.</p><p>Later, when I could walk and run a few steps, I planned how I might fly. Initially, after I realised my plan to climb up into the air would never work, I would flap my imaginary wings (attached to my shoulder blades). Then I planned to sew a wind-proof shawl to my shirt or jacket sleeves, and to the centre of the back. No need for neat stitching; rough work would suffice. Then with my arms spread wide, I would run at the house, taking advantage of the up-draft as I got near the house, and rise up to the sky. Flap, flap, flap to gain height and then cruise along like the seagulls.</p><p>With more maturity, I realised that none of these plans could have any material success, but I could take off in an imaginary flight by spreading my imaginary wings, lean forward from the hips, and take off.</p><p>In my reverie, I could see into the back gardens of the houses of the roads around Phibsboro, then fly over Dalymount Park, and continue on down over Drumcondra, Fairview, the Docks, and out over the Irish Sea, or, by leaning one way or the other, depending on the direction of the wind, turn around and fly over the island of Ireland and out the the cliffs along the west coast - where there was much to see and admire and many (imaginary) adventures to be had.</p><p>In previous centuries, wise women who undertook such flights were condemned as witches. On their flights, they could see into their neighbours houses and observe the private lives of the people who lived there. While these flights are imaginary, you see a lot of things already known to your subconscious mind, which is constantly storing and interpreting data, most of which will never be called into play in real life.</p><p>In our own time, some people call these "Yogic flights," and profess that you can influence others (for good, of course) by communicating with them in their dreams by means of such flights.</p><p>In some recent recordings, I have attempted to reproduce the moods contained in such flights:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://amazingradio.com/profile/krunchiekilleen/tunes/0ce52456-1f1c-4604-a0cf-aab70d219dd9" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRvf86EzEnzro2sWMBYemdY2hbOiDDISOQx8r4Eq7rqvNVRZ_MRCzdSqOOnqy_ABALr_RhAREnnzBjxnRWcHeGxnQuqBMz4CnIHomyI_krTfb4OA10g6N9Uxg742bRbBsxaet7waN1jSTG5h1Uj1YiiyBH5fZtJeGqhk3iZh1iOa7TcZ864fuee5u_BJJ-=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>To hear this tune properly, spread your arms out like the seagulls wings, tuck in your tummy, lean forward, and press the play button. Enjoy the flight: it is better than any real thing.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://amazingradio.com/profile/krunchiekilleen/tunes/c70862d6-ac80-44bc-ac65-8ad53084fe51" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRKAKz38al35G_xntDcgsT69sTF6CMDURB3Zv16U4KDuoFdvpI-B_VlKGuoEobivIpJV93f0Z2XF1Ctazixqe_2TgvEW9VslBdTOwOQPcX5AUFykXPn3VktCk08mcB-__IVTIiHdypGEtxWTsupak1cyuadlo0J2jSzT6rGMYrefqeKtTKkZnH-aMEvqFy=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>In this imaginary flight, I rise out through the stratosphere into open space, and venture out of the solar system into the greater cosmos. What wonderful things are there to be seen (I mean "imagined"). But take care, since there is no air out there, you will continue, not in a "state of rest," for you are already moving, but in a "state of continuous motion in a straight line," and will not be able to turn around, unless "acted upon by an external force." To be meticulous, maybe you should bring a set of small rockets with you, to enable your trip home, or simply call the project off whenever you feel like it.</p><p>Of course, the reverie can be used just to muse over other things: What might have happened if you had taken a different path at one of the many crossroads in your life:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://amazingradio.com/profile/krunchiekilleen/tunes/a0d741d6-47d9-4ec5-ab4f-93e773d15c0a" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjS3hDh-WyLkZFGZ6NxIGsGtGy_EckmY_kHi4PaIw57gFc7NzcrcjKfTM35mE-9B9PbheeznQ26OueSD5V2j6q2sA-Ju7xQ9w4rWY2UmU7PyY__h2M3TBDqgSL5rb7lN7P2RTrL2ULqo7tMgg7lahIixq3oFVibySeUsLWObfoxRgRrjZcabX6bhmw2h7Si=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Or just suppose you were elsewhere and enjoying other environments:</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://amazingradio.com/profile/krunchiekilleen/tunes/d6bb6ed8-2dcd-4a5c-95be-ddf340f4ab4c" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggp5SDPpudBPLRQDhAMjl0tJd7uXxxfZzTgwb107tP7CgcKKC0z_mG53gDyHlgaaRkTz9xOAhO5--OJA1C8M089TJxSHNDx99PSwcEFu4kiYStLnKP2hEdYa391jMHXDYAtFLfVtNabZSTOjIkS4CYWDLP4lqf-Zk7qpFT6MJ23yBnp_uNon4-zyV3IckL=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-54304880552748624172023-05-27T01:39:00.003-07:002023-05-27T01:44:47.514-07:00L'Escargot<p>Now that I often get up at nights to relieve my bladder, I have dreams that cause me to wake up for this purpose. Mostly they have me scurrying around searching in vain for a toilet or secluded place to let go my load.</p><p>Last night's dream was different. </p><p>I dreamt that there was one poem on the Leaving Certificate English course that was highly neglected. The poem was entitled "l' Escargot." This is a French word meaning "The Snail," but the poem is in English, and, in it, the poet, in very clever language, shows that it is a disguise for the Snake. I can't actually quote the poem, since I have never learned it.</p><p>Now, from the Bible, we know that the Snake causes disobedience to the Master and consequent Expulsion. No teacher wants this idea to be lurking in students' minds, so they neglect this poem. </p><p>The Department of Education appointed a special inspector to look into the matter, and he found that "l'Escargot" is the most Discriminated poem in all the secondary schools in all the 26 Counties of Ireland, and that, in all schools, boys are forced to stand in front of the class reciting childish poems, while the Snake is rising up between their legs.</p><p>At this point, I woke up realising I must visit the toilet.</p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-43669933234726141502023-03-07T03:07:00.013-08:002023-03-08T02:00:29.151-08:00Three Dreams of Eighty<p> I had three strange dreams last night. The facts that I was not dream-watching and remember the three dreams indicates that I woke up after each dream before falling back to sleep again.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NrjVINRyEAR_u0uaN2ij5cAiowWohaBKoIyC_QbNZjzL-8nEeAuslqlH6t3QeD_UOpxpkoCJPLJilaDA98uuU-94wCcdx7AzbEXR_r0yT2HSl5maEe-R6zMjyiP9kODOa9kG1Aa7I3W6DbsCZHnzJBj1mdoqPSTzd_ezTWVTBCSDYwG26JGfMhzxkg/s4618/IMG_20230226_154047.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4618" data-original-width="3464" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NrjVINRyEAR_u0uaN2ij5cAiowWohaBKoIyC_QbNZjzL-8nEeAuslqlH6t3QeD_UOpxpkoCJPLJilaDA98uuU-94wCcdx7AzbEXR_r0yT2HSl5maEe-R6zMjyiP9kODOa9kG1Aa7I3W6DbsCZHnzJBj1mdoqPSTzd_ezTWVTBCSDYwG26JGfMhzxkg/s320/IMG_20230226_154047.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Swimming Pool</h3><div>In the first dream, I dreamt that I was entering a swimming pool. A voice over the public address system said, "All swim to the Balla Rushda, join hands and swim in line."</div><div><br /></div><div>I did not know what the "Balla Rushda" was, but swam to the point that others were heading for. I saw a contradiction in the instruction to "join hands and swim in line," but had learned in life, when given confusing instructions to "follow the instructions," whereupon all would usually become clear in the execution.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I reached the place the swimmers were heading for, I found a school-mate of the OCS "class of 61" (i.e., our class that graduated from secondary school in 1961), was positioned there, shaking hands with all the swimmers as they arrived, and then sending them, one after the other, in a particular direction. I followed suit and soon found myself swimming alone in a large pool. My nose was above water and I found that I could swim effortlessly along, breathing as I went, just as if walking. The water was at body temperature, so I could swim for miles without tiring or getting out of breath.</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Retirement Dance</h3><div>In the next dream, I found myself with the surviving members of the Class of 61, about a dozen of us. We were in a theatre, in a preparation room behind the stage and were to prepare to dance out onto the stage in a troop to celebrate our retirement.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was afraid my, and our, lack of stamina, strength and skill, would make a hames of the demonstration, and considered what steps could I, in fact, perform. Some simple, easy, steps would do it. So, I said, "Stomp, stomp, Step a Little; Stomp, stomp, Step a Little," and stomped and stepped forward in rhythm with the words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dr. Oliver McHugh, my former GP, and my successor as Chairman of Claremont Residents Association, a long time ago, was in charge of the band and the choir. He raised his two batons, and said, "Listen: Where, o Where, is Pamela Farrell," in the same rhythm as my "Stomp, o Stomp, and Step a Little." Now, when I was chairman of the Residents Association back in 1980/ 81, I had asked a local musician to organise a concert of local talent as part of our summer Festival, and he had organised a brilliant variety troop made up of our beautiful young mothers, who had gone on to win awards in several competitions. Pamela Farrell was one of these.</div><div><br /></div><div>The band played and the choir sang, and repeated over and over, "Where, o Where, is Pamela Farrell," and the Class of 61, a troop of eighty year olds, none of them, I can tell you, as elegant or beautiful as the young Pamela Farrell, stomped, stomped and stepped a little, out on the stage to the applause of the audience.</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">The House Full of Children</h3><div>I dreamt I was in my own house.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went into the kitchen, but it was full of children, sitting at the breakfast table and up at the counter. So, I headed for the front room, but another troop of children were there, ensconced and feeding.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went into the middle room, but could not negotiate myself through the children feasting there.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Krunchie," said one of the kids, "That was a very long speech you gave last night."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I gave a speech last night?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes," said a senior child, "You were very drunk and gave a long speech."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh!" I said, "and what did I talk about."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You talked about corporal punishment, about punishing the down-trodden." </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I woke up. </div><div><br /></div><h1 style="text-align: left;">Interpretation</h1><div>These three dreams occurred on the eve of my eightieth birthday, and all focused on the theme of "being eighty."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Swimming Pool </b>dwelt on the importance of keeping fit and active by swimming or walking "miles."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Retirement Dance </b>suggested that though our beauty "is adorned with age," as James Joyce might say, we eighty year olds can still put on a performance, if suitably tailored to our ability. Pamela Farrell was chosen as a representative of the young and beautiful because her name matched the rhythm of my "Stomp, Stomp, Step a Little," and because, unlike other members of the variety troop of 1981, she had left Claremont soon afterwards, while most of the other members had remained to grow older in the community. The Dream-master borrowed the word "Stomp" from my tune "<a href="https://youtu.be/GyAZiabhens" target="_blank">Lakota Stomp</a>."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The House Full of Children </b>illustrated how children of the present generation are positive, outspoken and opinionated, whereas my generation was repressed and inhibited.</div>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-65783633033751471192022-09-03T02:00:00.006-07:002022-09-05T10:05:13.301-07:00Bed of Books<p> I was in bed with my brother, my old bed of my years of childhood. This was fine until my second brother came into the bed. The bed was big enough when we were boys, but now that we are adults, it is rather crowded. Not only crowded, but too warm to sleep. I wondered lazily if I should get out and sleep on the floor, where it would be cooler.</p><p>I lazily got out of the bed and surveyed the floor. There was plenty of space on the floor, at the foot of be bed, but it was piled with books and files and copy-books and reams of paper. I decided that, rather than try and clear a space, I would lie on top of the lot. This proved quite comfortable. I lay half on my front and half on my side. My shoulder dipped into a hollow in the pile of papers and my upper arm and leg were each supported by a little mound of books. However, my head was on a rather hard support.</p><p>I wondered if I should rise and take a pillow from the bed. Just then one of my brothers stirred and mumbled, "All Right?" I said, "I need my pillow," but he had turned over and gone back to sleep. I noticed that the pillow had been thrown down to the bottom of the bed. I could reach up my arm and grab it without rising. I did this, put the pillow under my head; and drifted into a dream.</p><p>In the dream my neighbour, Emmet, came across to my house with a proposal. He wanted us to play a tune he had dedicated to his grand-daughter. He called the tune "To my beautiful granddaughter." I suggested he should name the granddaughter in the title: "To my beautiful granddaughter, Emily," and he agreed. (Emily is a name proposed by the dream, not the name of an actual granddaughter.</p><p>He gave me a copy of the sheet music for the tune. I was to play on the tin whistle, and Emmet would play the Jews' Harp. I played the first bar, and it was very nice. There were no notes in the second bar, and I stopped. Emmet kept going on the Jews' Harp. Then he stopped and said, "You come in there." But I said, "There is nothing there in my copy. You better get me a proper copy." Then I said "It's very nice -- it's simple." Then, in case he might take "Simple" as a criticism, I said, "Simple is good."</p><p>The tune was actually my tune, "<a href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DQpQaDg4axGE%26feature%3Dshare%26fbclid%3DIwAR0LdjR6yjbBXrUcL4_3iq3Dq5UTujFfVI4H_g-CP0x-aXLQnKzkHJT81d4&h=AT3Fchx9VQ9UKBPXwK_A-AmGgXlvif0e-rqiiMVe8X72zyHqusrUPwT9J-T8c4_59Ts8tqxwVljLJZhjqWo3G36pl_z-P8U7SHVwGl4W7yNV4Uj3zTnooF4H-pl0A9FjZp2G&__tn__=H-R&c[0]=AT0LNFN7oWTX-BinIUrSFUGgp66ISrnYfL1E5IWcc4TTAu_H1zysav9j4FazxcJcHuISPHy-NxbyyWL-RHyuzXMIPtjHnTt6NZGngUh5YVCE5MjctdynVIVeuT8W12YQb62Ph-kk85LyjfjaPf9NV3z0c-Qzol4HK6nXnZe0K6oczJq2o_Lw">A Butterfly on a Pink-White Rose</a>," in remembrance of my friend Sean O'Connor (author of the poem of that title), who died almost a year ago.</p><p>As I said "Simple is good," I glanced up at the audience, for we were in a little theatre. There was only one person in the audience, Paschal Donohoe, the Minister for Finance. When he heard me saying "Simple is Good," he smiled and nodded.</p><p>Emmet went home to print out another copy of the sheet music, and I drifted back to sleep.</p><p>Then I heard the handle of the bedroom door turning. I lay quiet and alert. Somebody came quietly into the room and went over to my side of the bed. (I was lying on the floor still). Then I heard some pages turning. The intruder was rifling through my writings. I decided to confront him. </p><p>I uttered a shout, "Hoi," and jolted myself, as one would do if awakening from sleep. I woke up and found that I was not on the floor on a pile of books, nor in bed with my brothers, nor confronting an intruder, but in my normal sleeping place beside my wife. It was a bit warm all right.</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Interpretation:</h3><div>2 days later, I find an interpretation in my head. I am more comfortable with my books and papers than with the company of humans. Since my wife retired from her position as Manager of Clareville Day Centre, last February, there have been a stream of celebrations, funerals, weddings and visitations; plenty of small-talk and little time for my music-composition, blogs or books. </div><div><br /></div><div>The tune that "Emmet" proposed to me in the dream was my tune "A Butterfly on a Pink-White Rose." Today I looked it up and found that I had made two versions, the first, with guitar and whistle/ violin, on Sibelius, is simple, but mechanical, since the notes are all automated from the sheet music, and the second played on my Yamaha Keyboard, which has more drums and the imperfections of my fingering.</div><div><br /></div><div>While I did post the Sibelius version on <a href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DQpQaDg4axGE%26feature%3Dshare%26fbclid%3DIwAR0LdjR6yjbBXrUcL4_3iq3Dq5UTujFfVI4H_g-CP0x-aXLQnKzkHJT81d4&h=AT3Fchx9VQ9UKBPXwK_A-AmGgXlvif0e-rqiiMVe8X72zyHqusrUPwT9J-T8c4_59Ts8tqxwVljLJZhjqWo3G36pl_z-P8U7SHVwGl4W7yNV4Uj3zTnooF4H-pl0A9FjZp2G&__tn__=H-R&c[0]=AT0LNFN7oWTX-BinIUrSFUGgp66ISrnYfL1E5IWcc4TTAu_H1zysav9j4FazxcJcHuISPHy-NxbyyWL-RHyuzXMIPtjHnTt6NZGngUh5YVCE5MjctdynVIVeuT8W12YQb62Ph-kk85LyjfjaPf9NV3z0c-Qzol4HK6nXnZe0K6oczJq2o_Lw">Facebook</a> in remembrance of my friend Sean O'Connor, who used to play the guitar to accompany my whistle, when he died almost a year ago, I never finished the project or posted the tune to Spotify. The dream is reminding me of this unfinished project.</div><div><br /></div>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-84809705748016697022022-08-07T01:14:00.001-07:002022-08-07T11:10:58.054-07:00The Saver<p> I dreamt that my pre-teen (as he was once) neighbour, Garret, came over to my garden to kick football. He would try to score a goal and I would save. He shot magnificently and I saved magnificently, diving gracefully and catching the ball in mid air.</p><p>His father, Emmet, was incredulous; he did not believe his son could kick so well, or need to transfer to a real soccer park to develop his skill.</p><p>More importantly, in that dream world, I could get nobody to discuss with me what energy the ball must contain as it travelled through the air; what energy was in Garret's kick and how; what percentage of the kick's energy was transferred to the ball; what percentage of the ball's energy would be lost between the kick and the save; how my leaping energy was generated; how all this energy was brought back to zero as I lay on the ground with the ball in my arms.</p><p>The dream reached its conclusion with a sudden image of the crucified Jesus, not in a hanging pose, but a leaping pose, as He stretched out to save (the ball). Most striking in His dark figure were the crescent-moon shaped whites of His eyes under the black pupil-iris balls of His eyes, (with a hint of green through the irises).</p><p>The dream undoubtedly rises out of my pondering on a tentative book in my head, titled "Mathness," which questíons some mad math theories, sch as non-computable numbers, and a number-line divided into a continuum of multiple Infinities of points. (A line can't divide into points, only segments, and conclusions drawn from this false basis must be suspect).</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-66940227750863966322022-06-22T04:19:00.007-07:002022-06-22T04:39:28.845-07:00The Rubber Building Block<p> I dreamt I was back in my childhood home in Phibsboro', but it had elements of the Mukuru slums of Nairobi.</p><p>I dreamt the people had made a rubber building block. This was like a rubber pillow, made with a hard rubber external surface, but packed with desiccated rubbish. Basically, you got a rubber container, packed it tight with chopped-up rubbish, and attached the rubber lid, then sealed it with a blow-torch or something like that. It seemed to be a way of turning rubbish into building material.</p><p>You could build a wall with these rubber bricks, sealing the wall with a blow-torch or glue.</p><p>I was in the kitchen of our house. This is a galley kitchen. It is the back part of the passage that leads from the front door to the back door. There is a passage about three feet wide in between cabinets lining the wall on each side (cooker and cabinets on one side and kitchen sink and cabinets on the other).</p><p>Now, I was receiving information about this wonderful rubber block invention from people standing blocking the kitchen door, who appeared to be Polish immigrants, babbling in their own tongue, but obviously thinking it would be good if I accepted, in some way, the value of their invention. Homeless, they hoped to build houses for themselves with this cheap invention.</p><p>My father was at the back door, trying to bring his bicycle through the house. The bicycle shed was in the back yard, so, we had to bring our bicycles through the house. They might be parked outside the front during the day, but, for security, they had to be brought into the back at night.</p><p>"Go back into the dining room out of my way," said father. But my way was blocked by these people. I could not move.</p><p>My father got angry. He had to get to work, and his way was blocked by me. He did not seem to appreciate that I was stuck where I was by him and the Polish people.</p><p>"Didn't I tell you to get out of the way!" he roared.</p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-67628035078776987952021-09-30T01:43:00.002-07:002021-09-30T01:43:21.894-07:00Driving and Parking<p> Recently I have been dreaming about driving in traffic, probably because of a new focus in my waking hours on my <a href="https://krunchiescab.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Krunchie Cab</a> project.</p><p>In one such dream, I was driving into town in a stream of traffic. I had arrived in town and wanted to park, but I was caught in the stream of traffic and there was no place to park. I was in town, but the stream of traffic would carry me through town and out of town, to God knows where.</p><p>Then I spotted an opportunity that suddenly presented itself: a broad footpath just beside me. I made an instant decision, indicated and pulled onto this broad footpath. There was just room for my little car here, in between a lamp post and a post box.</p><p>My wife and I got out of the car. We wanted to go walking along a lovely country lane that, in the dream, happened to be where Parnell Street is today, stretching from the O'Conell Street junction up to Capel Street. Of course, in reality today, this is a busy city street, crammed with traffic, but in the dream it was a country lane, bound on both sides by leafy hedges and trees. All we had to do was negotiate our way on foot through the stream of traffic to get to the other side.</p><p>However, I hesitated. I looked back at the car. Was it all right where it was? Was it vulnerable to vandals or traffic wardens? I saw a man walking towards me who had been a colleague where I worked 20 years ago.</p><p>"John," I said, "Do you think will my car be all right there."</p><p>"I am no expert on traffic matters," said John.</p><p>"I know," I said, "But I only want your opinion."</p><p>John looked at the car. It was well clear of the stream of traffic, and was no obstruction to anybody using the footpath.</p><p>"It looks fine to me," he said.</p><p>But I still had doubts.</p><p>While I was looking, another car pulled out of the stream of traffic onto the footpath. But there was no room for it to pull clear of the traffic, and there it sat, half on the footpath and half in the way of the traffic. It caused the stream of traffic to bend and weave and blow angrily.</p><p>"Oh no," I thought, "Now the police will be called to solve the traffic problem, and my car will be treated as a culprit the same as this car."</p><p>The dilemma remained unresolved.</p><p>I wake in the morning to the sound of the radio, which we use as an alarm. Remarkably, in the news was a report of a lobby group who were demanding that the law clamp down on people parking on footpaths.</p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-28442624988132803602021-03-07T02:15:00.002-08:002021-03-07T02:19:33.497-08:00Financial Consultant<p> Yesterday, I heard a programme on radio advising the exploration of our own areas, with the aid of an old "six inch" map showing the old buildings and features, so it was no wonder that in my sleep I should find myself walking around Georgian Dublin observing all that was to be seen.</p><p>I entered a lovely Georgian street and noticed a grand building behind a fancy courtyard. I entered the building and found myself in a room that was a cross between a hotel foyer and a grand bank of the 19th century. There were comfortable seats all around the large room, shelves of books here and there, and more books disposed randomly around. </p><p>"A reading room!" I guessed.</p><p>I sat down in a comfortable chair and took up a magazine from the nearby coffee table. The pages in the magazine were of a thick semi-glossy paper, so I surmised the magazine was one to be kept rather than read and thrown away. It was entitled "The Works of John Bonham." Now the wine I had with my dinner yesterday was labelled "Bonpas," (Cote du Rhone) so I guess this is where the name "Bonham" came from.</p><p>I had never heard of John Bonham, so hoped that glancing through the magazine would give me an idea of what his works were like. However, when I opened the magazine, I found a typed page pinned onto the magazine page. The typed page seemed to be a contract that John Bonham had signed with the Department of Arts and Culture. However, a lot of the typed content had been struck out, and different conditions, written in ink, written in instead.</p><p>I turned from page to page in the magazine, but all I could find was more and more one-page contracts signed by John Bonham.</p><p>"Ah," I said to myself, "It looks like the civil servant dealing with Bonham was given the task of signing up Bonham at all costs, no matter what changes had to be made to the contract to get him to sign."</p><p>A well-fed, prosperous-looking man came in the front door of the reading room, passed across the room into an inner room, calling "Mr Brown" as he entered. With that one of the gentlemen sitting in the room got up and followed the prosperous man into the other room.</p><p>"Ah," I said to myself, "This is obviously a waiting room for a highly-paid medical consultant."</p><p>I no longer felt comfortable lounging there, so I put the magazine back on the table and made my way to the door. </p><p>Two other gentlemen reached the door at the same time. I soon learned that their surnames were Harrington and Moody.</p><p>"So," said Harrington to me, "This is not for you?"</p><p>"No!" I replied dubiously.</p><p>"But, no doubt," said he, "You have some savings?"</p><p>"Well," I said, "You would hardly have reached my age without some little bit of cash in the bank."</p><p>"Perhaps you have a few thousand or so," he said.</p><p>"Maybe so and maybe not," I said, as I moved away from him.</p><p>As I left, I saw Moody advising Harrington. He brushed a bit of dust or debris from his shoulder and, apparently, advised him always to wear a clean shirt and keep his tie straight. Then he advised him to say to himself, "I'm the best; I'm the best;" then put a smile on his face and approach the next potential client with confidence.</p><p>"So," I thought, "It was not a medical practice. It was a stock-broker's or financial adviser's."</p><p>Harrington was there to pick up customers disillusioned with the firm. He saw me considering what the firm was offering (the magazine of contracts I had perused), apparently rejecting it, and leaving. He had hoped to pick me up as a client, lure my savings from me to invest on my behalf.</p><p>Well, yesterday also saw the news about Davy Stockbrokers being fined by the Central Bank, so my devious subconscious mind was bringing all the news into personal perspective.</p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-58434996710232991942020-10-31T09:09:00.005-07:002020-11-01T09:47:53.291-08:00Hornpipes<p> I woke in the middle of the night with my internal voice clearly stating, "It's a hornpipe."</p><p>I knew immediately what this meant, but you, dear reader, obviously would not, so I must explain.</p><p>A few weeks ago, I put music to W B Yeats' poem "<i>The Song of the Wandering Aongus,</i>" and released the song on Spotify and the other streaming channels. The other day, I finished putting music to James Clarence Mangan's poem, "<i>A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century</i>," or, rather to my adaptation of it, "<i>Bertie of the Golden Hand</i>." </p><p>Mangan describes a vision of a prosperous and happy Connaught under the reign of Cathal More Of The Wine-Red Hand, and then a return visit to a desolate country under a later regime. I have lived through a prosperous and happy Ireland ("The Celtic Tiger") under Bertie Ahern, followed by a desolate country under an economic recesion; and now a renewal of Covid 19 lockdown brings Mangan's poem to mind.</p><p>I found, when the job was done, I had used the same air, (though with a swifter tempo), as <i>Wandering Aongus</i>. I was surprised because it had never occurred to me that the two poems have the same structure and meter.</p><p>I tried putting new airs to <i>Bertie</i> in my head, but failed.</p><p>Now, how I put an air to a poem is this: I recite the poem rhythmically and it naturally falls into a tune as I recite. So <i>Bertie </i>fell into the same tune as <i>Aongus</i> and would not give up.</p><p>It was in this state of mind that I went to bed, and the subconscious worked on the problem when I was asleep. It cracked the problem and, waking me up, presented the solution to my waking mind with the cryptic phrase: "It's a hornpipe," even though I had set <i>Aongus</i> to a 3/4 rhythm, like a waltz).</p><p>This dream insight provided me with a store of airs to consider for <i>Bertie Of The Golden Hand.</i> I chose <i>The Derry Hornpipe</i> and adapted this to my purpose. Having run through the song a number of times, I decided that my best presentation was as a recitation over an orchestra playing the tune. and so this was how I recorded it and present it now on Spotify, Amazon Music, Deezer, etc.</p><p>Links to these songs on Spotify:</p><p><i><a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/36q04vXzyC5qDGaPPG95ea" target="_blank">Wandering Aongus</a></i></p><p><i><a href="https://open.spotify.com/album/3rylEmsuOj5at29gC4Pbip" target="_blank">Bertie of the Golden Hand</a></i></p>Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-10963490771544875632020-03-04T01:31:00.004-08:002020-03-04T01:31:55.824-08:00ActivationSo, at the end of January I had a dream calling on me to exert my ego, have purpose and take action. Which I did!<br />
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I had just mastered the skills of composing a score and mixing my voice with artificial musical instruments and my whistle. (Well, acquired sufficient skill to produce some kind of product). So, during February I wrote scores for nine James Joyce airs (that I had been making up down the years), and a few of my own songs, and launched them onto the digital services (YouTube, Spotify, iTunes, Apple Music, Amazon, etc.)<br />
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This took hours of hard <i>purposeful </i>labour and probably expresses to some degree <i>who I am</i>. At any rate this is my work and my creation.<br />
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This February proved a good month to do it. The days were bitter cold. Down the country they had lashings of floods, (though in Glasnevin we don't see that much of the actual rain) and it was not tempting to be out and about. Might as well be sitting at the computer solving all those little quirky problems that trying to accomplish anything places in your path, and singing.<br />
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I decided to have my own recording label, <b><a href="https://glossneen.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Glossneen</a></b>. Well, the leading labels were hardly looking out for me.<br />
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All in all, I feel more lively and purposeful as a result. I thank my dream for calling attention to my ego deficit.Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-17824185046820780612020-02-01T05:19:00.000-08:002020-02-01T15:25:19.700-08:00It's in rhe Air!Well, it seems that it is "in the air" and that this fact is due to "the time of the year." (I mean my "Pierce Wise" dream, and its interpretation, in my last two Dream Diary posts).<br />
<br />
I have just heard of a ninety-five year old woman who, on the day of my Pierce Wise dream, surprised everybody by taking a taxi into town, and staying overnight in a hotel.<br />
<br />
This adventure was obviously a gesture to demonstrate that she was still an independent personality, just as my dream was a call by my subconscious to my Ego to re-assert mine.<br />
<br />
It is in the air because of the time of the year. Today is the feast day of the "Matron Saint" of Ireland, Saint Brigid. This saint is thousands of years older than Christianity; and "Saint Brigid's Day," or the ancient "Brídeog," announces Spring. Today, grass starts to grow and the birds come out to sing. There is a feeling of waking up (in Ireland anyway: other European countries may be later). It is probably the little bit of extra day-light that wakens us up.<br />
<br />
You don't have to be elderly to experience this re-enlivenment. Indeed, I experienced a similar emotion when I was 12, and wrote a poem in Irish expressing it:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Nuair a thagann Féil' Bríde,<br />
Nuair ' imíonn an Geimhreadh,<br />
Deir guth im' chroí<br />
Gur breá bheith beo.</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Tig fás le féar;<br />
Tig úire san aer,<br />
Giorracht san oíche<br />
Is fad sa ló.</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Bíonn gach rud meidhreach<br />
San Earrach aerach;<br />
Éirionn an ghrian<br />
Agus scaipeann an ceo.</blockquote>
<br />
This translates as:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When Bridget's Feast comes,<br />
When Winter goes,<br />
A voice in my heart<br />
Says its wonderful to be alive.</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Growth comes to grass;<br />
Freshness comes to air,<br />
Shortness to night<br />
And length to day.</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Everything is merry<br />
In the airy Spring;<br />
The sun rises<br />
And the fog disperses.</blockquote>
Of course, the fog that disperses is the winter gloom we have felt throughout December and January. In recent years, I have re-written this poem as <i><a href="https://krunchieverse.blogspot.com/2014/11/the-first-of-feb.html" target="_blank">The First of Feb</a></i>.<br />
<br />
Today is bitter cold, as we would wish St Brigid's day to be. This is because bitter weather is necessary for a few days more to kill off the Hag who governed during the dark days in order to allow the young Princess Brigid to rule. Otherwise, according to folk observation over hundreds of years, the hag of winter will re-assert herself later in February and March.<br />
<br />
<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-69083860179709308342020-01-30T15:06:00.001-08:002020-01-31T02:36:19.198-08:00A Question of IdentityThis morning, reviewing last night's dream, I had no idea how to interpret it. Now, at bedtime, the meaning is clear.<br />
<br />
The characters in a dream are usually, and in this case, aspects of one's own personality. So Pearse Wyse, in the dream, is my centre of wisdom, and it says to my ego: "I don't know who you are." In other words the Centre of Wisdom is pointing out to the Ego that my identity (approaching my 77th birthday) is weak, probably meaning that I lack purpose. Should I be driven at this hour of my life? My Centre of Wisdom seems to think so. It is saying, in effect, "Wake up; have goals; re-learn who you are. Re-energise yourself."<br />
<br />
Co-incidentally, tomorrow also marks our neighbour Great Britain's start into its new independent identity. And, as to its leader, Boris Johnson, well there's an energising Ego to emulate!Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-8748211110451916052020-01-30T03:12:00.000-08:002020-01-30T03:12:36.634-08:00Pierce WisePeople tend to engage in <i>Dream Watching</i> for a period of time and then discontinue. <i>Carl Jung</i> told his clients how to do it: when going to bed, tell yourself that you will keep a small part of the conscious mind open to watch the dreams. When so engaged, we remember a lot of our dreams, but must jot them down soon after rising, or they will be forgotten. When not <i>Dream Watching</i>, the sub-conscious mind sometimes takes it upon itself to communicate with the conscious by making a dream break through into consciousness. This happened me last night.<br />
<br />
I dreamt I was in a "familiar" cosy mountain hostel, with a gathering of people. I was supposed to know all these people, but had only a half-knowledge of them. They were from my previous positions in life, work colleagues, fellow students, cousins, and so on. However, those I had previously known had become unfamiliar. Others were not my original associates, but the next generation of their families.<br />
<br />
A new arrival came to the door, and someone said to me, "Come and say hello to Pierce Wise." I looked over and saw a man, who looked something like Tony Ryan, the founder of Ryanair. I guessed this must be Pierce Wise. I did not recognise him one bit (in the dream), but reckoned, since these were all supposedly my acquaintances, I must also have been, at some stage, an acquaintance of this man. So, I decided to go over, presume this former acquaintance, and say hello.<br />
<br />
I walked across the room, proferred my hand to "Pierce Wise," and said, "How are you Pierce?"<br />
<br />
He looked at me with piercing eyes and said "I do not know who you are!"<br />
<br />
This woke me up.<br />
<br />
It seems to me that the subconscious was sending me some message, but I do not know what that message is. The subconscious uses puns and metaphors in its communications with the conscious mind, so I imagine "Pierce Wise" means something.<br />
<br />
More extraordinarily, the subconscious is very often very accurate in its data. When I woke up, I was, in my conscious state, aware that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pearse_Wyse" target="_blank">Pearse Wyse</a> had been a leading politician, but could not remember what he looked like. Accessing the Web, I found that my dream image was actually a perfect snap-shot of the man.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVR66zX-iQOz88X-10bdDGhdPlv2h1-Y_VwzpJRhxLMWg5CCg-65QLB2eX_EiVrOL6su8HPcy_dg_Rd5Qw9ELoePrbbhPjY1u2DeJ78QGqkflR0iH-j6oG-_qbuWH9Pd9qfjfwzZr3Z0z/s1600/Progressive+Democrats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="1000" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVR66zX-iQOz88X-10bdDGhdPlv2h1-Y_VwzpJRhxLMWg5CCg-65QLB2eX_EiVrOL6su8HPcy_dg_Rd5Qw9ELoePrbbhPjY1u2DeJ78QGqkflR0iH-j6oG-_qbuWH9Pd9qfjfwzZr3Z0z/s400/Progressive+Democrats.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Progressive Democrats at their height outside Leinster House. Pearse Wyse is at the extreme right</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-39107774228209196132019-02-17T03:59:00.000-08:002019-02-17T04:07:25.825-08:00Trauma RememberedI woke up with the memory of a childhood trauma pulsating in my head.<br />
<br />
Around 10 years' old, I had been "tight-rope walking" on the top of the iron railings that divided our house from our neighbour's.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhooioyg88q4F7K_r3ifkzIKHBvMKKnuxWvkQyEjZaxOhb_58tn_-xx3XfRgMkvErrJIYajEVpzOnmHPDSR8vjKdDm0jwVSRytmeQn1ujLY_uwMhJAv3AN7h6obpWX6rspM6ZnpL2VtettF/s1600/NorfolkRdRailings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1037" data-original-width="1600" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhooioyg88q4F7K_r3ifkzIKHBvMKKnuxWvkQyEjZaxOhb_58tn_-xx3XfRgMkvErrJIYajEVpzOnmHPDSR8vjKdDm0jwVSRytmeQn1ujLY_uwMhJAv3AN7h6obpWX6rspM6ZnpL2VtettF/s400/NorfolkRdRailings.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The type of railings on which I was tight-rope walking (the car and flower pots are new since that event of 60 years' ago).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mother had often warned me against this practice, and, no doubt, forbidden it on the basis of its inherent danger. I protested that it was not dangerous <i>for me</i>, since I had the skill to avoid an accident. She warned that I could lose my balance and fall. I answered that, of course I would lose my balance; I always lost my balance after a few steps, but, as soon as I began to lose my balance, I would hop off the railing and land on my two feet. Each time I went onto the railing, I hoped to extend the distance walked.<br />
<br />
On this one fateful day, however, as I went to hop off the railing, the side of my foot momentarily touched against the railing, and, instead of landing on my feet, I toppled over and crashed head-first on the concrete path. The brunt of the fall was taken by the bones surrounding my right eye: my forehead, nose and cheek bone. Waking from my sleep this morning, these three areas remembered the trauma as if it were only recent.<br />
<br />
I know what brought this memory to the fore. It was the selfie I recently took for the cover of my second book of poetry, recently published:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignRIm6PakyFbOcK60U_WMlZaRjCYgqyKpANkUyFjy7mdvSywPCHcy0UVFofV28ZCGw-_vQpf-lIA_zgvupUdv5R8eFBW-GISf5zLsmjSee7LATH-nJCr7k2Xa_YbANWD_FlvM_OeBidjh/s1600/Front+Cover2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEignRIm6PakyFbOcK60U_WMlZaRjCYgqyKpANkUyFjy7mdvSywPCHcy0UVFofV28ZCGw-_vQpf-lIA_zgvupUdv5R8eFBW-GISf5zLsmjSee7LATH-nJCr7k2Xa_YbANWD_FlvM_OeBidjh/s320/Front+Cover2.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
The crookedness of my nose is very apparent in this photo. Hippocrates asserts that a crooked nose is always evidence of a poor physician, since a broken nose can always be restored to its correct shape, either by the physician's hands, or by stuffing the nostrils and using plaster and bandages on the outside to keep the shape.<br />
<br />
My physician was my mother. I must have been knocked unconscious by the fall, and awoke in bed with my mother ministering to me. She gave me something to drink and asked me questions to elucidate the extent of my concussion. She offered me a chocolate finger, but I thought it was her own finger.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Uq14kaaZqIdGbHunOLfjGvzRyOjdk1TQqPuu-PN_NBqplXphBjuo-R-ZhLKqH4gzNQBeVQVtT1di7asaSCEznfskZPGfqAt5vU4VKAV0b2NCdQwAkMBu0Jvt0kCkoGvE6_nUpkaMEp4M/s1600/Chocolate+fingers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="222" data-original-width="500" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Uq14kaaZqIdGbHunOLfjGvzRyOjdk1TQqPuu-PN_NBqplXphBjuo-R-ZhLKqH4gzNQBeVQVtT1di7asaSCEznfskZPGfqAt5vU4VKAV0b2NCdQwAkMBu0Jvt0kCkoGvE6_nUpkaMEp4M/s320/Chocolate+fingers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I felt vague, particularly in the area of my head impacted, as well as in pain. I drifted back to sleep. It was observed that a doctor was not necessary, so my nose remains crooked.<br />
<br />
The memory of the trauma is still there in my head. My left nostril is narrower than my right and more inclined to get blocked.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-36212392360426348752018-12-03T01:47:00.002-08:002018-12-03T01:59:26.625-08:00Lost in LondonI dream I am visiting my brother in London. It is nearly 50 years since my brother lived in London, so this is a throwback to old times. However, the brother in my dream bears the features and characteristics of my son, Ronan, instead of those of my brother.<br />
<br />
I am as ignorant of the geography of London as I was the first time I visited it nearly 50 years ago. It is just a huge, shapeless, conglomerate.<br />
<br />
We are standing at a bus-stop, somewhere on the outskirts of London, accompanied by a poor boy (young adult). I notice a shoe-shop near the bus-stop, with a sale sign up in the window. I realise that I have a discount voucher for shoes in my wallet, and that the poor boy could do with a new pair of shoes, so I give him my voucher and urge him to the shop.<br />
<br />
My brother thinks the voucher may not be enough to cover a pair of shoes he might choose, so decides to go into the shop with the poor boy.<br />
<br />
Just then, a bus arrives at the stop. Is it our bus? The brother nods, but continues to the shop. I try to hold the bus, but the driver pulls off.
Interestingly, the model of (double-decker) bus is that of today (with entrance door beside the driver, rather than at the back, and no conductor), rather than that of 50 years ago.<br />
<br />
Soon after, another bus pulls in at the stop. I guess that there are several bus-routes that use this stop. Would this bus also suit us? I look at the name of the destination, displayed on the bus, and guess: yes! that sounds like where we are going.<br />
<br />
Again, I try to hold the bus, expecting my brother and his companion to emerge from the shop at any moment. I reach the door, and have to step onto the bus to avoid missing it. I have to proceed to a seat. I go up the stairs and take a seat where I have a view of the shop door.<br />
<br />
Brother and companion emerge; but now there is a surge of people onto the queue in front of them. It looks like they won't make the bus.
I try to mouth to the brother a message that I will wait for them at the terminal. What is the name of the destination? I can't remember. It was something like "Tomorrow Market." I try to mouth "Tomorrow," meaning that I would meet him at "Tomorrow Market." The brother nods; indicating, "Yes: I'll see you there."<br />
<br />
The bus pulls off. Now it occurs to me that "Tomorrow Market" may not be the correct name of the destination and that the brother might have understood, "See you tomorrow," rather than, "See you at the destination."<br />
<br />
It is very warm on the bus. I notice that my neighbour's head is resting on my shoulder, and that he/she is asleep. I don't know what kind of person it is, because I can't actually see him/her.<br />
<br />
This is my predicament, uncomfortably warm on a London bus, with an un-knowable stranger's head resting on my shoulder. I am in a city of 10 million inhabitants, a huge maze of streets. I don't know where I am going, but, in addition, I don't know where I am coming from.
<br />
<br />
<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-6127448168801552502018-05-19T03:13:00.001-07:002018-12-29T06:42:25.940-08:00Ard HesslyI dreamt I was at a conference of Celtic scholars at a mysterious town a little to the west of Galway City. It was fine weather and this afternoon's session was outdoors. Now, evening was drawing in and we were moving indoors. I said to someone, "This is where I met my wife many years ago at a Gaeltacht Department seminar" (not actually true, for I met her in Brussels when on secondment from the Gaeltacht Department to the EEC). I pointed to a man who looked like an older version of John Bacchus, a detective sergeant in the series "Inspector George Gently," (which I had been watching before bedtime) and said, "He was very eloquent and persuasive then," which is hardly true of the John Bacchus character, but I was indicating this unknown person who had been at the old conference.<br />
<br />
Somebody on my left, as we moved along, said, "Will ye sing Ard Eas Laoi (pronounce: "Ard Ass Lee," meaning "High-place of the Waterfall of the River Lee) by Seathrún Céitinn (aka Geoffrey Keating)?" I never heard of the song. He recited a verse. It was in a fairly ancient version of Irish and I did not follow the words very well. Then a long-time learned acquaintance of mine, who happened to be in front of us, turned and sang this translation, in a soft hoarse voice:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Welcome, men, to Ard Hessly,<br />
Whose priests, fathers Coyle and Shaw,<br />
Will lift your faith to a frenzy,<br />
And all for the glory of God."</blockquote>
I happened to be carrying somebody's guitar, and, I picked out the tune on the guitar, (although I actually don't play guitar). The guitar and singing blended nicely, and my acquaintance sang <a href="http://krunchieverse.blogspot.ie/2018/05/ard-hessly.html" target="_blank">a few more verses</a>. The song was, more or less, to the air of "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Ln9QnLaWrY" target="_blank">Only our rivers run free</a>," though I was not aware of that, just treating it as an air I was hearing for the first time.<br />
<br />
It turned out that the <a href="http://krunchieverse.blogspot.ie/2018/05/ard-hessly.html" target="_blank">song</a> was an invective against enthusiastic priests who raised a rabble army in Cromwell's time and led them, unskilled, poorly-equipped and badly-led, into battle, to be slaughtered by Cromwell's veteran army.<br />
<br />
Now, fathers Coyle and Shaw were probably not the names of the priest of those days. Father Coyle is a former schoolmate of mine, who became a missionary and served in the Philipines. Shaw is the name of the actor who plays Inspector George Gently in the TV series, two names that were in my mind, only slightly below the level of consciousness, at the time. Irrelevant to the theme of the song, I changed them to "Fathers Kiely and Claud" in my <a href="http://krunchieverse.blogspot.ie/2018/05/ard-hessly.html" target="_blank">verse-blog</a>, to fit in better with the rhythm and rhyme, but a day later, took the names out altogether.<br />
<br />
There is often more to a dream than meets the eye, for dreams are full of symbols and metaphors and refer to matters unconscious to the dreamer. I would guess a few meanings:<br />
<ul>
<li>The mysterious town to the west of Galway, is my life before marriage, and the conference an expression of that life;</li>
<li>An unknown person who was eloquent and persuasive, refers to the enthusiasms of youth;</li>
<li>Ard Eas Laoi is a random name concocted by the subconscious to refer to a scenic place high in the mountains;</li>
<li>Seatrún Céitinn (in English, Geoffrey Keating) was an Irish priest, poet, patriot and historian, of Old English stock, who wrote a history of Ireland in the Irish language, based on tradition, modified by the Bible, and died during the Cromwellian war. He never wrote this poem, but my subconscious took his name to give it an ancient source.</li>
<li>The names produced in the dream are opportunistically drawn from my memory.</li>
<li>Bacchus and Shaw occur in the dream to remind me that recent TV material is relevant to the message; so</li>
<li>Ard Hessly is probably a metaphor for a place in recent news where, I suppose, people have been stirred up by eloquent and persuasive leaders and passionate men of the cloth to confront a deadly army with home-made weapons: the Gaza Strip, where, in recent days, protesters were fired upon by the Israeli army with multiple deaths. </li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-70234618159100074112018-05-08T07:53:00.002-07:002018-05-08T08:06:40.647-07:00A Shoe ShopI dreamt I was in a shoe-shop on Dawson Street, Dublin. This was one of those places, familiar in the dream, which has no counterpart in the real world. I wanted to buy a pair of shoes the same as I bought here about 20 years ago. Don't worry, I was not relying on the shop-assistant matching the shoes from a description: I had the product-number, which I handed to her. You might think it would be a simple matter for her to key the product-number into her computer to check if these shoes were available, but she considered that it would take considerable research, and she was too busy to engage in that. So, she lifted the phone and spoke to her father. Her father was retired, but living upstairs. He came down to the shop, rolling up his sleeves, eager to get into the project. She sent him downstairs to the cellar to do the research down there.<br />
<br />
Unusually for a shoe-shop, this shop had a line of tall bar-stools, facing a line of computer-screens, where customers could research the store's products. While waiting, I engaged with one of these computer-screens. The matter I requested was taking time to load. So, while it was loading, I decided to type a letter to a newspaper, using another window. The newspaper I was addressing was the Sunday Independent. In my letter, I recalled the advice of Hippocrates that, if a person becomes sick after changing his dietary habit, (for example, if he starts having two meals a day where he formerly had only one, or having three meals a day where he formerly had only two), then, he might be cured by returning to his former habit. I suggested that the same could be said of a nation. When I was a boy, we Irish ate our dinner in the middle of the day. Now, having bent to the practice of the western, industrial, world, we often have our dinner at night. Consequence: increased obesity and incidence of cancer. The solution could be to return to our former custom. As usual in dreams, what starts out as a simple proposition becomes more complex as I recall that in my youth, Irish people often had a glass of milk with their dinner, but now have soft drinks or wine, and that we had milk also with our breakfast, with porridge or cereals; that we only occasionally had "Irish Breakfast" and then on special occasions as a Brunch rather than a breakfast, and that the matter was more complex than just the timing of the dinner.<br />
<br />
I was tired of the letter-writing and of waiting for the man to finish researching my shoes, so I decided to go home. When I went out the shop door, instead of turning left towards Trinity College and home, I turned right towards St Stephen's Green, and wondered why I did that. "O yes," I answered myself, "No doubt I am going to turn right at the top of Dawson Street and then turn right again at some street, such as Grafton Street or Georges Street, to head for home."<br />
<br />
I found I was walking funny. My left knee would not straighten nor move forward. I was going high with my right foot, and low with my left foot. I tried and tried and tried to straighten and move my left foot. Eventually, I gave a kick that awakened me from my dream. Then I realised that I had been lying on my left side and in some way restricted the flow of blood or life-energy to my left foot. I recalled many dreams of my childhood years, where I had dreamt I had difficulty walking, and had to drag myself along by the railings. I reckoned now they were probably the result of a similar restriction of energy to my leg(s) because of my sleeping pose.<br />
<br />
As to the shoe inquiry, this matches a real-time mental exercise as to a possible purchase of a new pair of shoes. As to Hippocrates, I have recently downloaded his collected writings on Kindle, and, yes, he raises the question of illness resulting from changes of diet, from which discussion my subconscious mind is obviously drawing parallels.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-29542362183105271192018-03-08T02:18:00.003-08:002018-03-08T02:18:49.092-08:00Snow InscriptionsI dream I am at a meeting to discuss my recording of the inscriptions on the snow monuments. As I begin speaking the issue is totally clear and simple in my mind: the inscriptions have been recorded and should now be published. However, as I speak, I become aware of complications, and moderate my recommendations subtly as I proceed.<br />
<br />
"Well, of course," I say, "the inscriptions were given to my by Professor Bright, and perhaps it is my duty, or our duty, since I am agent for this organisation, is to return the record to him, and it would be his decision as to what to do with the record." As I speak, I wonder have I Professor Bright's name right, but continue without alluding to this doubt.<br />
<br />
"Then," I say, "there is the matter of copyright. The inscriptions are in three categories. First, you have the multiple anonymous inscriptions, which would have no copyright. Then, you have the history of the monuments, in very cryptic language, by someone called McCormack, and, thirdly, McCormack's account of his/her own activities, also in cryptic language. Should these latter two categories by published as they are, - in cryptic form, - or should the material be elaborated, either speculatively by us, or by Professor Bright, or pursuant to inquiry to this person McCormack, and is his/her permission needed anyway to the publication."<br />
<br />
"The snow is now melted, and mine is the only existing record of the inscriptions."Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-30404039220026782592018-02-25T05:26:00.002-08:002018-02-27T02:35:35.764-08:00Bell-Ashton FoundationThe name "Bell-Ashton" came out of my dream, and does not, to the best of my knowledge, have any relevance to any real world entity.<br />
<br />
This dream springs from my recent activities:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>preparation for my "<a href="https://landreg-ire.blogspot.ie/p/the-land-of-ireland.html" target="_blank">Land of Ireland</a>" lecture to the Leixlip History Society, which half-opened many inviting doors to avenues not yet explored; </li>
<li>last Thursday's music session by my little band of Imposters at Clareville Day Centre, where we found two wedding anniversaries to be celebrated, one a sixtieth and the other a fifty-eighth, and the sixty-celebrating groom sang two songs from an old tradition of comic songs, the first, called "the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CYnuVSwyoM" target="_blank">Two-hundred Year Old Alcoholic</a>" describing a man, who, at eightyyears decided to start living and took up smoking, drinking, gambling and womanising, to find himself becoming an alcoholic as he approaches two hundred, and the second an American song to fit in with our America theme for that day (next Thursday has a Scottish theme).</li>
<li>The other recent activity is my editing of Clareville Centre's "Dublin Memory Book," a book of contributions by clients of the Centre, (including one from the sixty-year groom), which I expect to be published soon, to which I contribute a story called "Big Boys' School," describing how different schooling was in my time, in the era of large classes and corporal punishment.</li>
</ul>
<br />
In the dream I set out with an Active Retirement group on a bus tour. The Active Retirement element is mixed up with echoes of school and church-choir outings of old. We are heading for the sea-side, and, as in the school trips, I am eager to get there and a bit irritated by the cultural and historic stops we make on the way.<br />
<br />
We stop at a site reminiscent of a university campus, the Bell-Ashton foundation, imbued with layers of history like Lismore Castle in my <a href="https://landreg-ire.blogspot.ie/p/the-land-of-ireland.html" target="_blank">Land of Ireland lecture</a>, This campus is apparently in County Meath, the county that hosts the famous Megalithic sites of Newgrange, Knowth and Dowth, and historic Tara, seat of the High Kings. Soon head on towards the coast.<br />
<br />
We spend a long sunny day (and extensive dream-time) engaging in the pleasures of the sea-side, and then board the bus for the return journey.<br />
<br />
This time, when we stop at the same campus we visited briefly on the way out, we follow a flow of people towards the door of what? The door of a large church or cathedral. The people have lighted candles and are parading in for Mass. Since we are there for the tour and not the ceremony, we deflect out a side-door and into another edifice of the campus.<br />
<br />
Here a man is giving an informative talk. He takes a saxophone and plays a couple of scales. Then he explains: "Bell developed the basic structure, but Ashton developed the many variations." He played the saxophone again, this time not a scale, but multiple variations between various sequences of two adjacent notes. "While the Bell patent gave the original funding, the multiple Ashton patents provide the vast bulk of the funding."<br />
<br />
<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-87618184654437303762017-05-16T02:34:00.002-07:002017-05-16T05:55:12.439-07:00Dream WatchingMy first engagement with Dream Watching occurred when I was about 20. A peer at a social gathering posed the question: "Do you dream in Technicolor or in Black-and-White." (At that time "technicolor" films were a novelty).<br />
<br />
Even though my dreams felt very real, I did not know the answer to this question, nor did my peers. So, in the nights that followed, I observed my dreams.<br />
<br />
I found:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Dreams are in technicolor.</li>
<li>The dream-master uses a policy of extreme economy of "paint." You see the detail of what you are focused on, but the rest of the picture is more "understood to be there" rather than actually seen. When you move your focus, the detail in what you are newly focused on is immediately provided.</li>
<li>The style of painting is <a href="https://www.google.ie/search?q=caravaggio&site=webhp&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=0ahUKEwjvhsSxjvTTAhXBLMAKHck_D5UQ_AUIBigB&biw=2048&bih=1034&dpr=1.25" target="_blank">Caravaggio</a>, rather than <a href="https://www.google.ie/search?q=caravaggio&site=webhp&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=0ahUKEwjvhsSxjvTTAhXBLMAKHck_D5UQ_AUIBigB&biw=2048&bih=1034&dpr=1.25#tbm=isch&q=el+greco&spf=1494927367593" target="_blank">El Greco</a>! </li>
<li>The technique of chiaroscuro is widely used as part of the policy of economy, although the dream-artists are allowed to give extravagant colour-patterns and impressionist effects as special exhibits when required. (I think the latter are more often viewed in the "vacant or reflective mood" prior to sleep than in the actual dreams, which follow Caravaggio pretty loyally).</li>
<li>Perspective in dreams is always perfect. This is amazing considering how contrived perspective is in paintings. Dream-artists get it right first time all the time at perhaps 30 frames per second!</li>
</ul>
<div>
Around that time, I took my sketch pad and box of paints up into the mountains. I had an idea that, just by being there, rather than stuck in a room at home, I could magically "capture" the atmosphere of the scene. It was a dull day, and my picture turned out to be a brown-grey mess. Painting is an artifice, and, whether in the studio or en scene, must be contrived.<br />
<br />
It is remarkable how Caravaggio managed apparently to copy dream images extremely faithfully. In sleep, or in reflection, we can conjure up amazing images. Stand in front of a canvas, however, and all you have in your head is blank space. You can't project those amazing images onto the canvas: you have to re-create them by artifice.<br />
<br />
A few years later, I had occasion to visit Jesuit, Micheál Mac Gréil, at Miltown Park. I paused on my way in to view a large painting that hung over a stairs. "What do you think of that?" asked Mícheál. "It looks like a Caravaggio," I said. "Do you think it's a Caravaggio?" asked Mícheál, "it came down from our house up in Scotland, and it is thought to be by a minor Scottish artist." "Ah no," I said. "I am no expert. I only said that it looks like a Caravaggio. It could, of course, be a copy by a student-artist, or a picture 'in the style of' Caravaggio." The net point of this story is that years later the Jesuits submitted the painting to the National Art Gallery for cleaning and evaluation, and it turned out to be a genuine Caravaggio, <i><a href="http://www.artble.com/artists/caravaggio/paintings/the_taking_of_christ" target="_blank">The Taking of Christ</a></i>, now on view in Ireland's National Art Gallery.<br />
<br />
A note on perspective is relevant at this point. We all learned at school that all parallel lines meet on the horizon, and I have seen art-critics rehash this principle as if it were gospel truth. A neighbour of mine (now deceased) propounded to me the theory that the preaching classes (teachers, preachers, journalists, politicians and critics) are people who are not able to do anything (i.e., do not excel at any craft) and, therefore, make out in professions where all they have to do is preach. The idea that all parallel lines meet on the horizon is true only where the landscape is flat. Every incline in a landscape produces its own false horizon where its parallels meet. Indeed, where the slope of a rising or falling road is not constant but increasing or decreasing, every change in the slope produces its own horizon.<br />
<br />
Here is a photo of a picture I painted about ten years after the initial experiment described above. This again is a "grey" scene: a wintry stormy sea-scene. I did not stand at the location vainly trying to capture the atmosphere in the rain-spotted wind, but took a photograph and returned to my chalet to do the painting. A photograph itself must be artificed. You can't just whip out your camera and expect to "capture" the atmosphere of the scene. You must select your objects and walk around until they make a satisfactory composition. When you come to paint the scene, you can remember the feeling of the place, leave out unnecessary detail, re-arrange the objects, and manipulate the palate to give the feeling you wish the painting to have.<br />
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<br />
The over-all wintry grayness is alleviated by choosing objects of high contrast. The furthest objects are misted down. The golden-brown yellow of the grasses is reflected in the grey sky and brightened with touches of red in the foreground. The road leads down to the sea-front, so is drawn in perspective to a false horizon way below the real one, and leads the eye in to the turbulent waters.<br />
<br />
My next bout of dream-watching came years later. I was reading the autobiographical "Surely You're Joking Mr Feynman," of Richard Feynman, Nobel Prize winner, and observed how he engaged in a period of Jungian dream-watching. The technique is simple: when you go to bed, tell yourself that you will observe your dreams. This keeps a part of the brain alert while you are sleeping and you are able to watch the dreams as if you are an outside observer rather than a participant. If you don't understand something in the dream, you can ask "the Director" of the dream, and he will keep you informed.<br />
<br />
Following Feynman's lead, I spent a while observing my dreams. Amazingly, I solved the riddle of all of my childhood nightmares, which had continued to my middle age, but disappeared when resolved.<br />
These nightmares were:<br />
<br />
<b>The Greek Temple</b><br />
I seemed to be inside a Greek Temple. Life was cosy enough there, but I desired to visit the world outside. (I had wondered if this nightmare was a memory of a previous life). When I approached the door, however, the sunlight outside was so strong that it hurt my eyes, and I retreated to the dim inside. When I was dream-watching, I noticed those spikes that are found in the triangular architectural feature over the door. "How," I asked the dream, "can I see those spikes if I am inside?" Then I focused closer on the spikes. They were not spikes at all, but frills. The frills, in fact, of the ribbon-thing that hangs down from the shade of a baby's pram. Suddenly, I knew the true story of the dream. My mother would often put the baby's pram outside in the sunshine. The sun gradually moved across the sky, and the pram had to be turned around to keep the sun out of the baby's eyes. On one occasion, the pram had not been turned in time and the sun blinded my eyes as a lay in the pram. This was quite traumatic, and my sub-conscious mind kept stirring the memory until a satisfactory explanation was found, through dream-watching.<br />
<br />
<b>The Abyss, or Migraine Dream</b><br />
I used to wake up from this dream with a migraine. I dreamt I was but a speck and was hanging from a very thin filament, suspended between two cliffs and overhanging a bottomless abyss. My situation was very insecure. A good shake of the filament, and I would be thrown off into the abyss. There was a great voice shouting from one cliff and being answered by an equally great voice on the other cliff. The roar of their voices made the cliffs and my filament shake, so I was in grave danger. The voices were those of Hitler and Stalin. Their foreign words were unclear to me, but their meanings were, "I will rule the world," "No, I will rule the world." Now, observing the dream, I asked, "Are they really the voices of Hitler and Stalin," and no! they were, in fact, the muffled voices of my father and mother. The words were not discernible, but indicated a disagreement. The muffling of the voices was like the muffling of sounds during a migraine aura, so here is the explanation: I was having a migraine while still in my mother's womb. This was the correct explanation, and this dream never recurred after that.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-83611617317581570372017-01-03T03:58:00.002-08:002017-01-03T04:16:40.716-08:00The Great StadiumMy elder brother died on Christmas Day, and I think this dream is a reminder that life goes on.<br />
<br />
I dream I am in a great and magnificent stadium. It is more extensive than any stadium I have ever seen. There are places in the stadium for multiple activities: a skating area next to a parkland; a swimming area and areas for multiple sports, hurling, football, hockey and so on. There are also cafés and restaurants, theatre areas, concerts, folk groups. There is even a church: a traditional, light-filled, neo-gothic church; but the congregation is outside the building, sitting at café-style tables. Sitting, yes, but also moving around from table to table, smiling and conversing and exchanging ... ideas. They listen to each others' opinions, smile and laugh and shake hands. <br />
<br />
Over the entire stadium there is a great dome of a roof. Up there near the edge of the dome there is an extensive platform, and on it is ... my neighbour "Emmet." He is standing on the platform with the nozzle of a hoze in his hands, and with this nozzle he is spraying the ceiling of the dome. He points the nozzle towards the ceiling and sprays a thick stream of cream-coloured paint onto the ceiling. When the stream of paint meets the ceiling, the paint spreads out evenly in every direction. The roof is very large and wide, but Emmet's stream of paint is so strong and copious that it quickly spreads the cream colour over the entire ceiling. The stadium is, however, continually expanding, and, as it expands, the cream colour is stretched and thinned and ultimately begins to crack into a network of little cracks. "Not to worry," says Emmet: "I have it covered," and true to his word, he quickly re-sprays the dome, restoring its lovely cream colour. In all this spraying not a drop falls on the people beneath.<br />
<br />
It is clear that "Emmet" is working under the supervision of his brother. No, not his brother "Barry," but his international financier brother that only exists in my dreamland.<br />
<br />
Then focus shifts to other people in the stadium, surprisingly ordinary people that I know. But as focus shifts to each one in turn, I see that each featured person has an important function to carry out. A theatrical performance, for example, has a stage-designer that really sets the atmosphere for the performance, besides a stage-manager that keeps the show going like clock-work, in addition to the front-of-stage performers. Sports' teams have trainers and jersey-minders. Throughout the stadium there are myriad people working away, all independently, and all necessary to the smooth operation of the stadium's activities. <br />
<br />
Emmet's financier brother does not seem to interfere in anything, yet, in some mysterious way, has a pervading oversight over all.<br />
<br />
Oh, oh! Focus shifts to me. What am I supposed to be doing? I stand, up to my waist, in soft potter's clay. I am trying to apply the clay to the moving walls around me to create forms and shapes. A potter normally stands beside a rotating table and, with his hands, shapes a pot from a ball of clay as it rotates. I seem to be inside the rotating thing, trying to shape it from the inside. Well, not entirely: I also seem to have an external view of the creations. I am using the clay more like a sculptor than a potter, I think. A microphone is placed in my hand, and I am supposed to address the crowd in the stadium. What am I supposed to say? I say:<br />
<br />
"Who am I? Well, I was a civil servant and I retired. I was a Chief Examiner of Titles and I retired. Then I became a consultant, a Land Registration Consultant, and then I retired. What am I now? I am trying to be a ... modeller, perhaps." <br />
<br />
I saw the eyes of the multitude looking at me approvingly. I had a flash of inspiration. I extended my two arms, palms towards the crowd, and declared: "I am one of the creators."<br />
<br />
At this point I woke up.Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141761817740993401.post-40079997866282307232016-04-24T00:34:00.000-07:002016-04-24T12:54:04.391-07:00Problem Resolution and Hill WalkingIt is a long while since I bothered entering a dream into my Dream Diary, but last night's dream was remarkable and deserves a mention. This dream was remarkable for being 100% in the "problem resolving" genre.<br />
<br />
I dreamed that it was a bright, sunny morning. An ideal day for hill-walking, but I was committed to attending a conference in town, a consumer consultation on how best to present contours on maps for hill-walkers/ mountain-climbers. No doubt I would be confined all day to a stuffy hotel room. I had in mind to suggest a few things myself: printing of maps for individual hikes, rather than a whole county on a map; printing the maps on plastic, waterproof paper; "print-on-demand" maps, where a client would select the needed area on a computer screen, in a shop in town or online, and the individual map would be printed on the spot, rather than having to have a store of pre-printed maps. I doubted the consultant engaged in the consultation would, however, have any function to absorb strange suggestions, but merely be confined to assessing how consumers would react to a number of different options to be presented.<br />
<br />
Another reason why I want to head for the hills, is that I wanted to try out my new "invention" for mountain snacks: a balanced diet in a single, easily prepared, food, that could be held in a plastic tub and eaten with a spoon. This snack would be simply Chia Seeds, (a super-food of the Aztecs) steeped in (an equal quantity of) water for five minutes to form a paste, and enhanced by flavourings such as herbs or spices. My particular choice of flavouring at the moment would be lightly cooked Bramley apples mixed into the chia paste. Chia seeds provide fibre (30%), vegetable oils including unsaturated fats and omega 3 oils (30%), protein (20%) and carbohydrate (20%), so are a complete balanced diet in themselves. They are also rich in minerals and some vitamins. Bramley apples are richer in vitamin C than oranges and give a nice tang. I would also consider adding a spice such as cinnamon or coriander.<br />
<br />
As I walk out towards the bus, somewhat dejected at having to go to a stuffy conference while the hills are beckoning, I meet two of my neighbours, Ronnie and Michael, spiritedly bouncing along. They are, in fact, heading for the mountains, and, what's more, they are being paid for it! The Department of Education has woken up to the need to get children out of the obesity culture that has spread over the last number of generations, and restore de Valera's dream of "an athletic youth." Mountain-walking has been at last recognised as a suitable educational activity, teaching map-reading, organisational skills (organising walking groups, bus routes, and so on), nutrition (how best to cater for refuelling needs on the mountain-side), nature study and even maths, as well as enhancing fitness. My two neighbours have received a contract of employment from the department to lead groups of school-children on educational mountain-walking expeditions.<br />
<br />
Dream skips to the end of the day and I meet Ronnie and Michael, both dejected. They have been sacked from their new jobs. Why? Well, to have an effective, educational walking trip, you need to provide the students with maps. They went and printed out the maps on the school computers; used up a supply of paper needed for other things, and used the computers for this activity which had not been approved by the school principal; so they were fired. Ah well, how often are government schemes blighted by failure to provide miniscule resources at the implementation level? It may also be a reminder that approval or appointment from the <em>Department</em> is not enough: you also need the support of the local tyrant, in this case the school principal.<br />
<br />Krunchie Killeen (Proinnsias Ó Cillín)http://www.blogger.com/profile/00292882045989604079noreply@blogger.com0