Wisdom Tooth Guide for the Wise

Wednesday, March 28th, 9:20pm, 2018, Somewhere in the West of Ireland.

Dear Reader,

If I were typecast in a play or movie, I would always be the nerdy girl in the ‘coming of age’ genre because I seem to have an obsession with writing about growing up.

Sometimes I follow these instincts. Sometimes I shut them up inside, because I don’t want to be the writer who is always repeating herself. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that growing up can be different from every angle and as time goes on there is always something new to write on the subject.

Growing up came into play for me on the eve of my 23^rd birthday. Strange things can happen when you turn 23. 23 means hangovers are unpredictable. They tend to crop up in the middle of the day long after your pints of water and sips of coffee. 23 makes you realise that drinking with friends is more fun, the less often you do it. 23 lets you embrace the kindle; realising that eating while reading hands free is a gift. 23 means you can reread a book and hate it despite loving it the first time. 23 means still finding yourself enchanted by rereading a book you now dislike. It can allow you to relive a snippet of the time when you first read it because the pages of your dog-eared story use an old receipt as a bookmark. – ‘pyjamas and a tooth brush for €20’. It must have been one of those ‘treat yourself’ days. 23 means you curse more and care less. It feels great to care less about looking perfect or shaving your legs. It feels great, until you go too far, and sometimes you don’t care about art or writing as much as you used to.

You’re growing up. Have your sprinkles of imagination and creativity blown away? I hope to prove that this isn’t the case. I often contradict myself, because while I always convince myself that this is the case, I really don’t believe that it can be true.

Moving on, 23 means that that little tooth in the back of your mouth that was niggling against the other teeth has to go. 

Was that the source of my ‘caring powers’?

That may sound like a metaphor but I am in fact talking about a wisdom tooth that coincidentally became very painful on my 23^rd birthday this year. Smiling through cake and cocktails, I danced the night away and had a great time, but the following morning beamed with an aching hangover in my tooth. After several appointments, I made sure to have the tooth removed because when you’re soon to be moving to another country, wisdom tooth removal, if necessary, becomes a priority.

The procedure consisted of a 2 hour car journey to a hospital in Roscommon, no food or water beforehand, and a less than fashionable hospital gown. It doesn’t sound ideal, but I was very well taken care of and happy to be there. The operation was surprising. In my head, the procedure seemed like a small ordeal, not worthy of the six, maybe seven people milling around me as I lay in the hospital bed; machinery beeping, and voices talking over each other; some nurses asking if I knew why I was there. All I could think was, what was so important about getting this tooth out? Was it not just a tooth?

What if I don’t fall asleep and I feel everything?

I expected someone to ask me to count down from ten like they do in movies, but maybe part of wisdom tooth removal is realising that that’s not always the case. If wisdom tooth removal equates to growing up, then not everything is like the movies. All I remember is a nice nurse holding my left hand and smiling down at me, and another nurse, pinching a vein in my right hand.

Then, my eyes flittered and I was gone.

I wasn’t entirely gone, because my body was still in that bed, but my mind was frozen, as if I’d dipped my toes in foreign waters and drank spirits with nameless ingredients.

A tickle of my black-out peeled away when I was suddenly awake in a different room. I tried to speak, but a wad of cotton wool blocked the thoughts on my tongue. Cool air rushed down my throat and into my nostrils. There were 2, maybe 3 nurses in the room paying no heed to me. I wondered if I might be invisible, or just really good at keeping still and silent?

Looking around beneath drooping eyelids, I spotted some black rectangular boxes piled on a cupboard in the corner. Medicine boxes?

My eyes widened as my mind came to the only possible conclusion regarding these boxes. Obviously my boyfriend had crept into the room while I was sleeping, and replaced all of the medicine from the boxes with cards from the card game Cards against Humanity. I instantly felt betrayed because I couldn’t imagine somebody so thoughtful becoming so thoughtless, and despite momentarily having no peripheral vision, I could have sworn that I could see him in my peripheral vision. I tried to turn towards him but a nurse heard me tutting. She approached me; adjusting the cold air that ran through me, just an inch in front of my face.

Oh right, it was an oxygen mask.

I mumbled some more as the nurse took my temperature, though I didn’t notice my temperature being taken.

        ‘36.5 degrees Celsius’ she announced. I murmured further, and she moved the mask from my face to hear what I had to say. I awed and spluttered over my temperature, because it felt like I was behaving like a summer’s day in Spain and I deemed myself so special and privileged to make that comparison for that brief time! I tried to laugh, drool spitting from my mouth. I didn’t know if my laugh made any sound because the left side of my face felt too numb to create laughter. Minutes later I complained about the pain and they treated me with pain relief.

My entire body tensed up, one piece at a time; starting from my toes and escaping through my head. I was a cat, stretching in the morning with dawn tingling on my skin.

But it wasn’t morning. The nurses told me it was 4:30 in the evening, which confused me greatly because I’d been in the hospital for 10 that morning. It had started with a lot of waiting around, and then I was knocked out for 2 hours, though it should have taken just one hour. The oral surgeon said that my tooth was a tricky case. It didn’t feel so tricky then, but days later, it would become trickier.

        Once my face lost its numbness, I faced a paradox of motions. Growing up meant losing my wisdom tooth which meant acting like a baby. I shoved puréed food in the direction of my lips, hoping it would land in my mouth. Sometimes I missed, because my mouth would barely open. Soon my left cheek grew in size and yellow bruising, and like a baby, I cried and cried and cried. Thankfully, my thoughtful boyfriend turned out to be just that. For days he fed me ice-cream and tea, having not replaced valuable medicines with Cards against Humanity or anything of the sort, like I had thought while in my questionable state of mind.

        23 means my tooth is gone now, and at 2 weeks after it was removed, I’m starting to feel almost better.

Almost whole. Almost grown up. Almost me again, because wisdom tooth removal has lead me to deal with growing up, through the things I care so much about: art, writing, family, friends. Pain and free time allow me to write and when I do this, I wonder why I ever stopped writing in the first place.

What next?

Well, when growing up, it is advised to watch old episodes of Goosebumps on Netflix, laughing at what you once found scary.

Embrace growing up.

Laugh with your friends over times you’ve been spooked by moths and spiders.

Laugh at your two left feet. Smile at the tiny skipping rope that trips them, during skipping games with your niece.

Giggle over how slow you go on a kid’s scooter or how tangled your body gets when climbing a tree.

Know that at 23, you care less about looking perfect or shaving your legs, and this suits you. Know that at 23, you curse more and care less (but only when you’re literally being tickled). Know that the friends or loved ones whose tickles you tolerate will grow up with you. They have seen you at your best (laughing and smiling) and at your worst (cursing and blinding).

        Now I ask myself: Does the removal of a wisdom tooth make me less wise?

Not at all.

I think the removal of a wisdom tooth has given me the wisdom I needed to grow up. At 23, I am blessed to know that I can reread a book and love it, even though I hated it the first time around.

( Perks of growing up these days I suppose ;-) )

Ciao 4 now,

Madame Mayreed. X

The Write Life

Saturday, 10pm, November 11^th, 2017

Somewhere in the West of Ireland.

*For Mam, who has contributed so much to my development as a person, and as a writer*

Dear Reader,

Jupiter and Venus were visible through Irish skies this evening, and I being a country girl, could’ve seen them. - No city lights masking their presence and beauty.

If only I had bothered to look.

But I, pacing the floor, saw only the insides of my walls tonight and the glowing stickers of my ceiling as I lay on my bed,

thinking.

            In November of last year, I wrote a blog post called ‘How to Like Christmas’  for those who curse the cold (bah humbug) and scowl at the early arrival of Christmas decorations in shops every year. It’s that time of year again, when living in the countryside has never felt so apparent: The yellow weather warning signalling bad rain means that it’s probably safer to stay inside, the lack of streetlights and traffic lights makes the darker evenings span for miles, the stillness of the night evokes a sense of isolation and cabin fever.

But then, with these thoughts tonight, I planted two feet on the ground and I realised that I didn’t want to feel lost at sea while I was still on land.

So now, I will deem my cabin fever obsolete. And even though winter in the countryside can be bleak, I remind myself of how the country life has helped shape me both as a person, and as a writer.

*

            In the 1990’s, my parents lived in a nice area in the city with my two sisters who were children at the time. Everything was bliss, except for one thing. The radiance and roar of the city lights blocked the stars that my Mam so badly wanted to see. So, they packed up and left; moving to the west of the west of Ireland where my Dad designed a new house and my Grandad built its surrounding limestone wall.

Along came my brother, and me, soon after that.

They say I was a quiet baby. Maybe I was already too busy writing stories in my head; my inspiration stemming from the feeling of cold grass beneath my feet, or watching our sheepdog Judy nuzzling the fur of her nine pups.

            In the early toddler days of my country life, it was just Mam and me. We went for nature walks: Two-year-old me peering over the side of the pram as Mam identified various wild flowers and birds’ nests. Some people still get a little scared when I tell them that my earliest memory consists of those nature walks with my Mam, and the sheer amount of dead animals we saw on our trail. – Frogs, birds, mice, all left breathless due to the narrowness and bendiness of our country roads. But it was this live nature against dead nature that created this happy-sad mixture in my mind, and from then on out, the stories began to brew.

‘Shame’ was my imaginary friend. I’m quite sure that his name was supposed to be Shane, but like most children my age I had a habit of mispronouncing certain words. And so Shame, the little boy of my imagination was the cool friend whom I loved to brag about at home. He had white hair and a Spiderman coat, and we played together every day at playschool.

He was the coolest boy in the world according to me at three – the girl who also spent her time with her other pretend friends. At this point, Judy the very real sheepdog and her nine pups had just found alternative housing arrangements, due to neighbours of ours complaining about them chasing their livestock, so I, being a toddler of three, invented a new dog to play with. My imaginary book club soon followed, as well as the cartoon angel and devil companions who perched on my shoulders, advising me on which actions to take. The angel was very talkative. The devil was completely mute, which hardly seemed fair, but I being that well-behaved country toddler, was also oddly self-aware.

            When I was six-years-old, our first ever computer arrived in our country home and my brother and I, not quite understanding how the world wide web worked, completely disregarded our older sisters when it came to this computer. We argued over which of us would use it first, because my brother couldn’t wait to type in www.eminem.ie, while I was desperate to type in www.mice.ie; somehow thinking that what I was looking for would just pop up on screen. You could compare this to a child’s prophecy of the wonders of Google that were yet to come, but of course I couldn’t go as far as saying that I predicted Google. Hell, I wasn’t that creative.

When my turn finally came around to using this fine windows 98 model, the internet was no longer on my agenda, because my eyes widened at the sight of a note pad document where you could type words and words and words.

My first ever short story was born, entitled ‘A Skeleton Blood on his Head’. It was a detailed first-person account of flash fiction in which I described the scary things I saw as I turned around these corners that happened to be there in the story: bats, pumpkins, a ghost, oh no…!! A skeleton, blood on his head!

Living in the countryside left little time to head into the city frequently, so I was always glued to my notebook and our windows 98 computer, where I wrote story, after story, after story. My Mam went back to work as a teacher and I started attending school so we didn’t go for our nature walks that much anymore, but I still played outside most days, pretending that our cat Tabby was actually a tiger.

I soon discovered the wacky characters of the author Dr. Seuss and knew that I was going to grow up to become a writer. During Ireland’s rare sunny days I would lie on a rug in my back garden reading The Cat in the Hat, listening to the cows mooing in the fields behind me, and smiling as the grass tickled my bare toes. During the more rainy days I stayed inside, writing a ‘novel’ about a girl who could talk to magpies, and whose destiny it was to save the magpie forest from being chopped down.

I kept diaries well into my pre-teen years and continued to write them as a teenager. Poor Mam assured my numerous English teachers during parent-teacher meetings that I was in fact normal, following the short stories I had submitted involving haunted houses and witches burned at the stake. All I wanted in Secondary school was to write, and paint, and play music, because as a country kid, these were the hobbies I had acquired. They didn’t involve slow traffic lights or trips to the city. No beeping cars. No hustle and bustle. They made me happy. They made me whole. They made me me.

I still kept a diary during my four years at University, and although I had to visit the city quite frequently for my classes, I still lived in my country house, commuting from home every day. The blurred gate between city life and country life had its ups and downs. – Sweet diary entries on slow Sunday mornings spent in bed with a cup of tea, stressful diary entries during visits to the library where I wrote my many assignments, peaceful diary entries on arriving home to calming silence after a busy day at lectures, sad diary entries on how I wished I had lived in in the city so that I could see my friends more often, drunk diary entries about those guys on nights out in the city who thought it was okay to grab my ass without my consent.

            Ultimately, my mesh with city life proved to be outstandingly beneficial. I became more independent as my shell of shyness began to crack, revealing more layers and the confident person who’d lived inside this whole time.

 I was a creative writing student, learning that writing did not just mean fiction writing. I wrote poetry and plays and screenplays.

I became friends with so many new writers, and I discovered so many nooks and crannies and cafes in which I could write.

            In my third year of University I moved to Paris to teach English and write a novel. No, not a magpie novel, a real novel. I became comfortable with city life and I blended in with the French passers-by along the Champs Elysees.

Moving home, I deemed myself a city girl, but,

 I was living in the country again.

            It frustrated me entirely, and it does ‘till this day as I think about winter in the countryside: the cold, the early arrival of Christmas decorations, the yellow weather warning signalling bad rain, the lack of streetlights and traffic lights, and the dark stillness of the night.

Bah humbug.

*

Jupiter and Venus were visible through Irish skies this evening, and I being a country girl, could’ve seen them. - No city lights masking their presence and beauty.

I didn’t get to see them, but that’s not what worries me anymore.

If only I had bothered to remember

the stars.

-Burning embers in the sky; the whole reason why Mam had loved the idea of country life those many years ago, when she along with my Dad, made the decision to move our family to the west of the west of Ireland.

These stars are bright and hopeful and they remind me of the warmer writing days I spent working on a ‘novel’ about magpies, and the mornings I spent reading colourful books by Dr. Seuss.

I can always see the stars.

I am a country girl today; perhaps a city girl tomorrow, but I will always see the stars,

and for that,

I am forever grateful.

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x

Secrets Book

Thursday, April 20^th 11:00pm, 2017, Somewhere in the west of Ireland.

*NOTE: I found my childhood diary from ages 6-9, so now you’re about to read a satirical ‘book review’ on it because hey, why not! ;P

*

Dear Reader,

            The well-known stance of ‘refusing to read a book because it’s too mainstream now’ has recently become a pivotal part in the life of the twenty-first century hipster. I, as hipster and reader, have been desperately trying to avoid Secrets Book by award-winning author Margaret Stagger for fear that it will be, well, shit.

            But,

this week as I was tidying my bedroom, the book glared at me from a box of empty notebooks and old diaries, under layers of regret and millennial dust.

After all these years, it was finally time.

I understand that I am thee biggest and thee latest wagon to join this band wagon, but you’ll humour me by leafing through my thoughts on the novel,

won’t you?

Where to begin…

SPOILERS AHEAD, TREAD WITH CAUTION!

*

Much like Alanis Morisette’s false depiction of irony in her catchy and iconic song ‘Ironic’, the author fails to grasp the concept of a ‘secret’, as her novel opens with the confession of many secrets; none of which are worthy of being kept as secrets. Immediately I am stumped by a plot hole - When a protagonist claims to no longer like Barney the dinosaur, how can I believe them when they’ve plastered their confession with Barney stickers? While this scrapbook style gives the novel an authentic homemade feel, the speaker’s repulsion towards dear Barney reeks of denial, and it just does not strike me as plausible. Although riveting, the speaker’s list of favourite animals and TV shows that follow fail to suggest secrecy in my eyes. I hope that the book will be removed from the mystery genre it claims to belong to and I’d relish to see it moved to another genre of its own; Paperback clickbait, or the catfish chronicles perhaps?

            Speaking of cats, the novelist’s constant references to a character named ‘Tabby’ are frustrating in the sense that we are never given any characterization, nor does the character of Tabby ever move the plot along. Tabby’s character has no dialogue from start to finish nor does the character pose any significance other than that the protagonist likes her and gives her lots of food. As a nation of readers, I can hear the collective sigh in my mind as many of us might remember what our English teachers used to tell us when we went to school: Show, don’t tell.

            Who is this Tabby and what do we know about her? How does she move the plot along? That said, there doesn’t seem to be a plot to move along. The author’s links between paragraphs lack consistency. I for one cannot see the connection between describing the day’s events at a football match in Dublin and then suddenly declaring that your favourite Disney characters are Timon and Pumba.

            Indeed, the book reads like a first draft, but every first draft has its darlings.

 Stagger’s writing style is charming.

 Switching from first to second person narration carves a unique story in which the reader plays an important part. Stagger often asks the reader how they are doing today for fear that she had just been talking about herself far too much on any given day. Empty spaces hover above printed lines on many of the book’s pages in order to give the reader a chance to fill in the blanks and respond to the writer’s questions, like filling out a form but minus the formalities:

It’s as simple as that and yet with this recurring motif, Stagger creates a relationship between reader and writer.

-A bold move of course, because not every reader makes a great character, but, in the same way that Walt Whitman brought free verse to poetry, Stagger is innovative in her decision to write like this.

She gives an entire body to the faceless reader in order to create a critically acclaimed novel;

            A novel, that has also caused controversy on social media with its many strengths and weaknesses.

It is loved for rhyming words that stick to your tongue in Stagger’s ode to Dr. Seuss; A collection of poems wedged into the middle of the book, describing a Christmas battle between the adorable mice and some men made of ice.

And oh dear, it is hated for the way in which the book skips through time, planting an ‘o’ shape on the mouth of the reader because the protagonist has suddenly aged a year with no explanation as to what has happened since the page preceding this one year leap. Secrets Book follows the interactive nature of Dora the Explorer, except Dora has lost her map AND her marbles.

It’s like a poorly planned pantomime show being performed on repeat, and yet, there are only so many times you can say ‘It’s behind you’, before the joke gets old and you’re not even sure if what you’re reading should be considered a novel anymore, for it almost reads like the inner thoughts of a child.

The paradox of this story’s strong points and weak points poses the all-important question; would I recommend it?

Pardon my language, but hell yes, I would.

It entertained me, because trying to figure out what the hell was going on was an experience in itself.

8/10, would recommend to a friend.*

But wait, that’s not all.

*My favourite part of the book was the ending because, pardon my French, it was so gloriously shit;

The protagonist ends up playing with a bunch of pigs and chickens for some reason, in the author’s poor effort to emulate George Orwell’s Animal Farm. She then drastically changes the subject on the novel’s final page with promises of a sequel to hit our shelves in the near future.

Goodness knows, I’ll be the first to buy it!

Ciao 4 now,

Madame Mayreed x

Suitcase of Memories

Friday, March 31^st, 1:00pm, 2017, Somewhere in the West of Ireland.

Dear Reader,

I’ve just emerged from the tail end of a French exam and I think it went well, so instead of sitting here on the corridor’s cold floor while I watch people walking by, I could dedicate this next hour to non-fiction writing before I get up to meet my French classmates for lunch.

I had reserved this hour to edit the first draft of my book. I brought it into college with me every day this week just hoping that one day I’d take it out and restart my editing process. However, today, on the one day where I actually reserved an hour to edit, I realise that my book is not in my bag as it should be. I think that maybe I had wanted to distract myself with the wonderful world of fiction so that I wouldn’t pay much heed to the rolling sound of suitcases on the concourse this Friday afternoon. The sound is less prominent to my ears now because of the Irish bus strikes, but the suitcases are there, nonetheless.

This lulling sound often marks the end of a busy week, but this time it marks the end of the year; the big end; the beginning of the end; THE end, because, I’ve finished all of my classes for my undergraduate degree. Never again will I hear the rolling sound of a suitcase on a Friday afternoon such as this one.

Sometimes when I think about not hearing the sound anymore, I feel proud, surprisingly…

It is beyond magical to have come this far as a student from the shy eighteen year old I was in first year who had just grasped the idea of make-up. To have heard the sound of a suitcase being wheeled around on a Friday afternoon as often as I have has made me decide that I’m going to miss it. Although it makes me sad to say that, I must remember that this sound acts as an ostinato to the last four years of my life, and just because I won’t hear it anymore does not mean that I won’t reach my perfect cadence.

        Today my designated hour of fiction has turned to non-fiction, and I’ve stopped beating myself up over forgetting to bring my book with me today, because I really needed to use this hour to be truthful with myself. Now, with fifty minutes remaining, I feel like I could tell you about all of the things I’ve learned in the past four years, but in my year (almost) of blogging, I’ve learned that I can only ever write about what badgers my mind most at any given time. So, I will tell you about how just one of the most valuable things I’ve ever learned has only become clear to me in the past few weeks.

        On the morning of my 22^nd birthday this year, I woke at my friend’s house with a pounding headache having just danced the night away at the ball the night before. I dragged my limbs from the bed and over to the mirror, wincing at myself; scowling at the glass as if it were too sharp for me; as if everything was the mirror’s fault. But, all the mirror did was show me myself as I appeared at that moment, and all I needed to do was to change my perception of myself. I wasn’t that girl with a blotchy red face. I was that girl, still smiling even though she was hungover.

This girl, decided not to wear make-up on her birthday, even though it might have been expected of her to look nice on an occasion of this kind. At first she had toyed with the thought of a bare face in her mind; worrying that a bare face would make it look like she didn’t care. But, why would a face with no make-up equate to not caring? No amount of make-up or lack thereof could erase her mind’s collection of Winnie the Pooh quotes or the wideness of her eyes at the sight of some camembert cheese.

        And yet, she still adored make-up because it was fun, and it was an art form, in a way. She wrote fiction for escapism; to live as someone else for just a little while and yet when her friends read her fiction they’d see that her characters were still embedded with her and those characters, by all means would always be true to herself. Her make-up acted in this way too. Her make-up never changed her; it only mirrored her. It offered her fifteen minutes of face painting in the morning before school and she enjoyed it.

        She still enjoyed it now on the morning of her 22^nd birthday, but the hangover that bubbled beneath her skin allowed her to relish in her decision.

She would not wear make-up today.

 She would still wear make-up in future, on days when it would be fun, and when it would be an art form in a way. But today, had she worn make-up, it would not have been for herself. It would have been to match the other painted faces in the streets and to satisfy the advertisements. So, she decided that she would wait until she wanted to wear it for herself again before she opened her make-up bag once more.

        The bare faced girl was no different from the fairy-like girl with the painted face of the night before, because both girls had chosen what would make them happier on the given day that was in it. They made their make-up choices for themselves and for no one else.

This girl applauded her female friends; the ones who chose to wear make-up because it made them happy and the ones who chose not to wear make-up because it made them happy.

This girl enjoyed her birthday and she experienced what could possibly have been the most tolerable hangover of all time; Getting into the aquarium with friends for free to see all of the fish; Bare face bopping about the glass’s reflection, and she smiled, because how can you not smile when your face is surrounded by baby sharks?

        I realise now that wearing make-up makes me no more of a lady than it makes me when I don’t wear make-up, because being a woman means whatever you want it to mean.

Wearing make-up doesn’t automatically make you a feminist.

Not wearing make-up doesn’t automatically make you a feminist either.

But, making your own decision with what you decide to do with make-up, without relying on the bar that’s been set for you, does.

        And, I’m so glad to finally see that.

I’m especially glad to have realised this while the suitcases still rolled along the tiles of the concourse. It’s as if the rolling sound of the suitcases have acted as the hour glass in my four years of self-discovery; Four years in this institution; One hour of non-fiction writing designed for me to be truthful with myself,

and what an hour it’s been.

Anyway,

I’d better hurry and meet the girls from my French class, seeing as our lunch might involve wine and cheese!

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x

P.S It IS entirely acceptable to go three days without washing your hair. ;P

New Adventures & An Ode to Oscar Wilde

Monday, February 27th, 11:30pm, Somewhere in the West of Ireland, 2017

Dear Reader,

It’s easy to write about my hometown.

It’s the place I’ve lived in for my entire life, with the exception of last year; A year I spent writing a novel in Paris, knowing then that travelling to new places to write would become a recurring decision of mine.

This is the town,

where I often pass by a stone statue of Oscar Wilde. I greet him with what I hope is a low whisper. I thank him for writing ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ and for making me laugh at times when I’ve been rattled with stress. 

Unfortunately, my voice is audible, even over the droning music of the street, so I raise an eyebrow to the puzzled faces and the quizzical pigeons around me; I am void of embarrassment because these daily interactions always make me smile.

I mutter a goodbye. It is always my native Irish goodbye (Slán Oscar, a stór, a dhil) and I’ve never truly understood why I’d choose to speak Irish to a wizard of the English language. Maybe it’s because the lyrical language of my childhood offers the most comfort. The poetry I’ve written in this language seems most endearing to wish someone well with.

These interactions often leave me with the will to write. I have always noticed that being in a certain place at a certain time can make me want to do nothing but write. Short stories have spun from the sunset over Mount Viso in Northern Italy, from the ‘o’ shaped mouths of tourists as they see the approaching Notre Dame cathedral of Paris, and from the poorly placed goats in the desert trees outside Marrakesh, Morocco.

Sometimes I wish I could sit inside someone else’s mind and peer out through their forehead  as if it were a window, because I would like to see how they see the world. I know that it would be completely different from anything I could ever imagine. No two people have ever read the same book, in the same way that no two people have ever seen the same city because we notice different things and we regard them in opposing ways. The work-shopping structure of a masters’ degree in creative writing would be perfectly satisfying to me, as there is something quite magical about the thought of someone who is willing to share a fragment of their mind with you, despite the barricades that might frame it.

Recently, I’ve been contemplating.

(Pfft… no way.)

I know! Who would’ve guessed it that I, the girl who’d illustrate snow in fifty different ways before settling on an adequate word to describe its magic, would’ve contemplated anything at all to begin with.

I’m joking, of course, because a writer has no fleeting thoughts.

This is simultaneously a gift and a peril. There is nothing sweeter than mentally painting fifty different feelings for snow to pass the time on a long bus journey, but such imagery can instantly turn your mind to a blizzard, especially when you’re supposed to be doing something else, like tidying your room or studying for a test.

            Nevertheless, I’ve been contemplating.

At first, I had thought about the deadlines. (Of course)

There are five weeks left until the end of this semester and my final year in University, so my mind is at its snowiest of storms, with exams to study for and essays to complete.

There are only five weeks left.

            But now, after I’ve applied for a job in Canada, and as I wrap up the last of my masters applications (because who knows which path I might take next year) I can’t stop thinking about how

there are only five weeks left.

There are five weeks left to think about what I’m going to miss most. I’ll miss the constant coffee scent; my boots clacking on the concourse; the rolling sound of suitcases on Friday evenings; pigeons cooing crescendo overhead; teachers who teach with enthusiasm; my friends’ cherry laughter; my battered school bag on one shoulder and a musical instrument on the other as I canter from class to class, living the year out of my locker.

            These memories form an image in my mind – The typical picture of immigration in Ireland in the 1950’s; A young lady gazing over the sea, definitely wearing a bonnet; Possibly sobbing into a doily; Definitely not talking on the phone (because how would that fit in with an authentic art work like this?) But, sometimes, I imagine that she is phoning a friend, so that she can talk about her options for next year. And, although the phone might be out of place, the girl is like my vision of a Paul Henry painting. Together, the frosty colours and the flickering brush strokes spell out ‘goodbye’.

            ‘Promise we’ll always be friends?’ she says, ‘Even if I move to Canada?’

Then, sometimes, my Paul Henry painting melts into the scene from Disney’s ‘Moana’, where Moana sings about travelling across the sea for a new and exciting adventure; hoping that that further shore is reachable from here, to quote Séamus Heaney. This tropical image spells ‘hello’, reminding me that leaving University behind is not a ‘goodbye’.

University is like the road trip before reaching your destination, or the pre-drinks before going into town for a night out. It seems like it might be the better part of the bigger picture, when in reality, adventures are ongoing. They will continue as I shuffle from masters applications to year long working contracts, even if I’m no longer cantering down the concourse and listening to the pigeons as they sing their Sunday songs.

To anyone who has not yet reached this point in their final year, cherish every moment that comes. I know that this is the clichéd wish that every older relative grants you at a family gathering right after they’ve told you how tall you’ve gotten since you were a baby, and after you’ve just spent the last ten minutes trying to remember who they are. But, even if you have know idea whether your relative’s name is Luke or John, listen to this John fellow. This Luke guy knows what he’s talking about.

Cherish every moment that comes, but then, cherish every moment that comes afterwards too. I like to think that it’s best to fall somewhere in between Moana and the girl in the Paul Henry painting. 

What might I say when I return home?

If I attend a year’s worth of classes, will I return with more words learned and new things to say?

What will I say to Oscar Wilde’s humble statue; the one I’ve spoken to all these years?

            I realise now, that I’ve already written about my home town. Moving to a new place, under new instruction, is what I need for my writing to improve.

Oh, but of course, it’s easy to write about my home town.

So, maybe I could write about somewhere new.

Ciao.

- Madame Mayreed x