For years Ireland has been shaping its image in the eyes of the world and its own populace, to give the impression that it is a tech savvy educational haven. This simply isn’t true. No longer can we live off the Celtic monks’ scholarly impressions of old, or hide behind Google and Microsoft citing them as examples of our IT prowess. They are anomalies in our society, brought not by the high standards of our information infrastructure, but by our absurd tax breaks and easy to manipulate political class.
We have the 17th highest GDP in the world, yet we are 70th for internet connections per capita. We are still yet to reach the same connections per person as Denmark in 2003 at 78% vs Ireland in 2012 at 68% (±4.5.) Even then, only just over 1/3 of those connections are “broadband.”1
I met a man on a park bench once, a retired secondary school teacher, who said that the most frequent comment he heard from people when he told them he taught Irish was that it was a dead language.
With a grin, he said “It’s not dead, it’s just dying.”
A religious and traditional man with a deep understanding of early Irish culture, he was also a strict evolutionist. We spoke for quite some time and one of the many things I took away from the conversation was this; though Gaeilge in its truest form may perish, its impact on our English vernacular is immutable.
“What’s the bleedin craic ye cuntche,” being a prime example.
“Synesthesia (also spelled synæsthesia or synaesthesia, plural synesthesiae or synaesthesiae), from the ancient Greek σύν (syn), “together,” and αἴσθησις (aisthēsis), “sensation,” is a neurologically based condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway.”
Some comedian once said that rich people do not know what it is like to be poor, but every poor person knows exactly what it is like to be rich.
Though it is not a perfect analogy for how I feel about synesthesia, it does come close. If I focus I can remove my sythestisiac experience and in a way, simulate normality. I can trick myself in to pretending that the word London isn’t blue.
Unnecessarily deep half yawned exhalations, the single handed knuckle crack that steps through in to the conscious mind, ignoring it’s subconscious origins. Go ahead, lick the left outside of your top front teeth, even though you haven’t eaten anything in hours. Shift your weight an inch to the left, an inch to the right, and sit forwards, elbows on your thighs.
You’re restless. Something’s amiss. Hungry? No. Thirsty? Maybe, but no.
Want to do something? Sure! Can’t think of what it is? Of course not!
Do you want to know what your problem is? You’re one of the millions of people around the world who bought a leather couch. You dolt. What were you thinking? Or, rather, why weren’t you thinking?
I once said that there is an hour of banality secretly added to every normal hour on a Sunday.
This has not changed.
I have spent my entire life living in excruciating disappointmenterialistic1 anticipation of the Irish weekend. Saturdays are fine, oh don’t get me wrong, Saturdays are great; but on the other hand, fuck Sundays.
We are human beings for god’s sake. We need to move, we need to run, we need to spend money, we need to shake the motherfucking dust2.
But no! Not on a Sunday we don’t. On a Sunday, we need to get up during the mornings’ stiflingly dull twilight hour with the enthusiasm of a sloth on valium and turn on the telly to let our intellect dribble out of our ears and evaporate around us, letting it condense during the night so we can mix it in with our coffee on Monday morning having spent the day doing nothing.