The animals went in two by two

Ah, creationism. Creationists, I should say - they are a strange and byzantine species, full of nuances and expressions that would puzzle the average homo sapien. I adore them, and their almost-childlike view of the world.

Noah's Ark is an interesting story. God takes umbrage at the world of man, and decides to destroy it all except for the few that please him. And so his chosen take the animals that will survive and carry them into the Ark, and after forty days and nights of global flooding to wash away the wickedness, Noah is left to repopulate the world.

Interesting does not equal true, however, for the accepted value of true associated with historical events - meaning that these things actually happened, and the story of the Flood is factual. There's nothing to show that it is. There's any number of problems that arise if we even assume the most basic facts, and then extrapolate the likely effects; for example, let's say there was a global flood that lasted for forty days and nights. There isn't enough water on earth to flood the whole world, forty days of flooding is enough to destroy a good chunk of all life on earth, and if it happened, all evidence of it was magically removed from the geological record.

But people still believe it's real, like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Their bible is so important to their faith that if even one part of it isn't true, none of it is. The details of the story are made more important than the morals or lessons contained within it. That is the real tragedy of creationism; its proponents remain forever childlike, trapped in a parody of faith because they can't let themselves see the wood for the trees.

I still smile at their antics, and try to be gentle with them as I would with a child. Creationists are not inherently bad, or stupid, or misguided, although some would label them as such. They need time and space to honestly examine their faith and the book they hold so dear, and the constant battering of science isn't doing them any favours.

What does all this have to do with me? Nothing, really. I don't know any creationists. Being a predominatly Catholic country with a very lax attitude to bible literalism, Ireland doesn't seem to have enough of them to be organised. But I find the concept fascinating, like an adult who still believes in Santa Claus.

And the holidays are past

I'm back again after the holidays.

I like to take a break over Christmas. It gives me time to relax and recover from the year gone by. I didn't have any real holiday in 2009 during the summer; blame that on my work ethic if you will.

I've made some New Year's resolutions, as always. The first, to finish the Novel and start querying. The second, to learn how to play the piano. The third, to finally get into shape and exercise more.

I'm not making any others for the time being. Three very hard ones are more than enough. Of the three, the Novel will be the hardest, I think. I'm not looking forward to having my work put on trial, even if the eventual aim is to get it out and on the shelves.

Learning how to play the piano is a little challenging. I'm playing "The Music of the Night" at the moment. It's a matter of connecting what I know the piece should sound like with the notations on the page - no trivial task, of course, when you have to decode each section first. A friend has told me that I'm doing very well for someone who's never played before, which is certainly very encouraging. I'm planning to try a little bit of the start of "Clair de Lune" once I get more confidence.

Sigh. Honestly, I'm talking to myself. I'm sure there's a point to all this, but I probably won't be able to find it without the help of a therapist.

Is it obvious that, in the face of a hopeful new year, I am more hopeless than ever?

No. Hopeless or not, I have to have some kind of faith in my writing, because otherwise I would not write at all - and that is as likely to happen as the sun going backwards around the earth. I am a weaver of stories, good or bad, and especially when I'm talking to myself.

So. Another year. What would Brenda say?

This is what I learned: that everybody is talented, original and has something important to say.

She will always be my hero.

Christmas Threads

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a... writer?

This falls into the category entitled 'Dubious'. I get ideas all the time. They tumble through my head in drips or in torrents, and I catch as many as I can and pour them into my book of things that need writing at some point. But, dear reader, not all ideas are created equal - and yes, I am talking to myself right now because no one else is looking at this.

I have an idea for a story, and that story is a Christmas story. They've been done to death and then some, and yet I have some hope that this story is a worthy one. But what I fear more is the commercialisation of Christmas, and the fear of my worthy story being brutalised in the pursuit of money - whether by dismissive review or desperate interferance.

All this, and I haven't even written a word of it! I can't help thinking about it, though. The tales we weave are a part of us whether we want them to be or not, and seeing one bastardised in the name of greed is painful.

A thought for another day, I suppose. I'll have to flesh it out a little and see where the thread takes me.

Being instead of doing

Much as I don't like to cast myself as the tormented artist, it seems that that is sometimes my fate. To suffer for one's art implies that you deny yourself in some way - avoiding people, spending money you don't have, breaking relationships - but the reverse is just as likely to be true, and that is the situation I find myself in.

Writers are driven to write for various reasons. I've found that lately I write because the world is tormenting me; the threads of my own life become unravelled, despite my best efforts to stop them, and so sinking into the narrative of the Novel is escapism at its finest. It's also leading me to question myself, and my ambition of becoming a published author.

I believe, as I always have, that I was born to taleweave. Clichéd it may be; the world is littered with the remains of those who believed something similar, and they never made it. But I can't define my success or failure by whether I make it as an author, because I asked myself the hardest question: if there were no hope, no chance of ever being published or of living from my writing, would I still write?

The answer is yes. I would write even if I lost both arms. I would write even if every day my work was taken and burned in front of me. It's so simple, so obvious. It's the difference between being and doing.

I have a job, and it is a thing that I do because I am paid to do it. But writing is not what I do; it is what I am, in the bedrock of my soul, because the need and desire to tell stories is as much a part of me as my own name; so much so that I can't imagine a world where I am not a storyteller.

So what then? I will write even if no one will ever read it, and I judge my success or failure on whether I can look over my work and be happy that the result of my taleweaving is the best that I can do. Even this blog is a part of that.

The song of pain continues

I've read Part 2.

I did try to post only about things to do with writing on this blog, but some narratives are too big, too violent, too insidious to ignore. The story of the Dublin report has threads stretching out over the country and into the heart of every good Irish person who has ever walked inside a church. I can't ignore it, and I can't bring myself to stay silent about it. There has been too much silence.

Why did they do it?! WHY?! What damaged them so much that they thought it was acceptable to rape and to hurt?! Enough excuses, enough sanitisation - I want every last priest, every last believer in Ireland to know that this, this is the horror that was inflicted on the young, and the bishops let it happen! They were incompetant, and uncaring! They are unrepentant even now!

That the government were, and are, so utterly indifferent to the whole mess speaks volumes about their moral worth, and of the value they place on the Irish people. The evidence is there for all to see. These crimes were committed, and shown to have been obfuscated by the Catholic Church in order to save face, but there will be nothing done - not even a statement of condemnation - while the government remains spineless and self-absorbed. Andrew Madden talks here about his experiences while trying to obtain justice. The response of Bertie Ahern (then the leader of the country), that the State could not investigate the Church, chills me to the bone. And the sad truth is that they only care to speak about it at all because the Irish people are screaming at them.

It sends a clear message that the Catholic Church here is accountable to no one. That if a priest does something to me, or to the people I love, the law will not hold him to the same standard as a non-priest. I don't know if I want to live in this country any longer, knowing that.

I know I cannot be part of a religion whose leaders are so morally bankrupt that they allowed this to happen, and then refuse to take responsibility for the pain their decisions inflicted on hundreds of people. I will not have it on my conscience.

And so I sing across the Net, my voice lost in the chorus as the sons and daughters of Ireland call out the true lament; that our beloved country is broken, that there will never be justice to ease the pain.

The shameful lament of the Dublin Diocese

The Dublin Diocesan report has been published. I've read through Part 1 so far. Here's Part 2.

This is the land of saints and scholars. Ours is an ancient culture, a proud history going back generations. Ireland is known for its friendliness, and beauty; the people are known for their warmth, and generosity.

Sometimes it seems that all the things that make my country a wonderful and admirable place have survived in spite of the activities of the Church.

I have known priests who were heroes. Leaders, Samaritans, interested in only the good of those around them; they were the ideal, the ultimate sacrificers of their own lives in service to the people. What of their faith now? What of all the good that they have done, tainted by this evil?

I have known people who were devout Catholics, and truly believed in the divine instruction of their saviour to love one another, as he had loved them. What of their belief now? What of their trust in the Church, ruined by the actions of the few?

I weep for this open wound on my country. I weep for the pain of the victims; may they find some measure of solace from the horror they have known. This strikes us all, whether we care or not, and the pain and shame will never go away until the wound is healed.

For the Church: Reach out to us. Your messiah wanted to take away the hurt of all mankind; show us you still believe that! Show us that you are still worthy of our trust!

For the people: Never forget. Never, never allow the Church or the government stay ignorant of the hurt that they cause. Demand that the Church live up to its ideals.

And the winter falls upon us

It's getting very cold here.

There was some very severe flooding in my area over the last week. My friends have no clean water; the authorities, uncaring and caring at the same time, have switched off the pumps to prevent contamination. Homes and businesses have been destroyed as the water swept through them. People are angry and afraid, looking for someone to blame while politicians and civil services wriggle away from their gaze.

Last week, when the flood was at its worst, there were rivers flowing through the streets at night. Then the morning came, and the rain stopped for a while. The sun came out for a few hours, and all was sparkling, rippling reflections of light and shadow; a town made suddenly strange and wonderful through disaster.

My heart is with those who have lost so much in the floods, but I cannot forget that I saw the worst of it, and it was beautiful.