Fishing for Faith

"I only ever catch trout here, with white maggots" said Ian. His son, Thomas, squinted at me seriously, and nodded, confirming their shared devotion to the un-dyed larvae.

With exactly the same reasoning, I chose the fattest red maggots and began to thread them onto my hook. These dyed lip-red wrigglers differ from their white counterparts only in color. The bait box teemed with both denominations, but it was the red ones that were chosen and sacrificed to the great Salmo Trutta. Both members of the rival sect shrugged at my selection, wished me luck, and set off find their place of worship by the banks of the Liffey.

A fistful of maggots, red and white, sprinkled down onto the surface of the river. "Pacha Mama" escaped my lips.

I had long suspected that my success with the red maggots was due to my faith in them. My stubborn adherence to their slaughter made it likely that whatever I caught would be attributed to their seductive shade. If they did forsake me, there was a list of mitigating circumstances that could be trotted out to forgive them; 'The river is too high', 'It's too bright'.

Ian and Thomas must have a similar, and equally invalid dogma.

Funnily enough, when gutting the trout, it is quite easy to see the living chandlers, both red and white, that were hoovered up. They squirm in the gut of the fish seeking a miraculous Resurrection.

The Herb Garden Project

There have been more than a few years of procrastination. There has even been hypocritical preaching to others about it.

I have always had an excuse for not doing it; I was a student, I was poor, I was travelling, I was living in Bolivia, I had no garden, It wasn't my garden, I was too busy, I was too lazy.

Today I disregard the excuses, and today I have embarked on a small project to grow and nurture some fruit and herbs; Strawberries, Chives, Thyme and Basil.  This venture has been seeded by my friend Jer, who unwittingly, has become my herb-mentor. The seeds, pots, cuttings and compost were provided by him, in return for helping remove 3 boulders from his guerrilla vegetable patch, which I am very envious of. There is envy of both the patch and the clandestine aspect of it.

This offshoot of Jer's own patch has now taken root on a windowsill in Lucan. Born out of barter for labor, it's roots are organic in more ways than the obvious. It will be subject to difficult environmental conditions and will inevitably suffer from its owner's learning-curve of ineptitude. Despite my best efforts it might wither and die, but the idea and conviction that brought it to be, is made of stronger stuff. 


This idea that has germinated, long before the seeds betray their green shoots, should also be protected and nurtured, and hopefully will be strong enough one day to pass on its memetic code. 

Are we what we share?

Native Indians apparently believed that to be photographed is to lose a part of yourself. Is it now possible to say that the compulsive sharing of our every waking hour now threatens to do the same?

Like many others I can be seduced by a desire to parade my experiences for social credit. Are we wary enough of the temptation to couple our sense of worth to likes, +'s and retweets? Are we what we share?

A camera lens, no matter how many gigabytes strong, can capture what the human mind can. What is sacrificed to obtain that high-definition image? What worth do we attach to the time lost in applying the right filter, using the a la mode app, uploading it all to SkyNet and then manically checking for responses? 

Perhaps we should be listening to the gig, watching the whale or cheering the goal. 

The irony of sharing this thought has not escaped me.