Twisted Pixie: Shelah

Shelah is a woman with short, pale hair and a smile like sunlight in on copper–warm and bright and mischievously wonderful. No bitter words sour her tongue. Her eyes are clever and sparkle like cut crystal. She has a gentle kindness to her that make your heart stutter for all that you have realized the world is missing. She is constantly at work cheerfully greeting a friend (for everyone who meets Shelah must become her friend) or gently hammering art out of metal and semiprecious stones.

TL;DR  Shelah is sunlight and puppies in a sweet, old-lady package and you can find her work here: Twisted Pixie.


No Community|Found Community

I was, at first, going to be petulant about my role in community or social activity. Community; I don’t belong to one. Social Activism is minimal. I didn’t grow up in a community that engendered. Community. We were clannish, sticking with our blood. Friends were transient but you were stuck with family. That kind of environment should create a tight-knit family unit that weathers the storms of life together. I’m pretty sure that’s what families do, but my family isn’t like that. There’s my mom, my dad, and my sister. Ever relation beyond that is…philosophical. So, that reflects in my writing. I don’t write about blood family. I don’t like to. I write about found family and friendship because that is what feels like community. I write about loneliness and loss of community. I understand these things better than the idea of strength in family or safety in community.

Why I chose to support my son when he turned down treatment for a deadly tumour

Why I chose to support my son when he turned down treatment for a deadly tumour


This article recaps Joyce Craig’s decision to support her son when he refused treatment for a very aggressive cancer. Craig, of Bangor, had already lost a daughter to illness and has another son with cerebral palsy. She won “Mum of the Year” and has began a website to support others facing the difficult decision. The treatment would not have saved him and the medication was at times dangerously toxic. The son passed away peacefully and not at all in pain.

You can visit the website here: Michael’s Choice

Black Lives Matter

A friend of mine gave me a smack down I needed a few days ago. She didn’t know it but I did. So, when I got to choose between a fiction reading and a Black Lives Matter rally, I chose the latter to put my money where my loud mouth is. Here is a link to an original poem called “Wet Grass” read by one of the speakers. Wet Grass13669642_10207485467990213_7407629206955976379_n


The tattoo reads “SKINHEAD”.

The man above and his shorter friend were very drunk when they showed up to the rally. They immediately made friends with a well dressed Indian man and began sharing song suggestions. The tall one, pictured here, had a two liter bottle of beer under his sweater. Both he and his friend had the same tattoo “SKINHEAD” across the back of their necks. They never once said anything untoward or harassed anyone. They were, despite smelling like sewer, as pleasant as two inebriated men can be. I don’t think they understood what their tattoo meant.



Bacon! Bacon, bacon, bacon! Francis Bacon! (Dublin City Gallery)


My mom is so thankful I’m not Bacon.


I loved that the sky was relatively smooth but the flora and building had constant texture.


A combination of glass insets and painting directly on the glass. The result is fantastically vivid.

The building was constructed like an older manor house with a grand sitting room and several smaller rooms for entertaining or more private affairs. And then that building was mostly gutted, the walls painting white, and everything began to echo in a very lonely manner. The second floor, dedicated to contemporary art, had nearly every art piece isolated with a vast swatch of white wall between. It gave each work of art severity and poignancy. The sacred emptiness of each sterile room was broken by the splash and shock of color, like stained glass. I got close to each painting with reverent wonder to mark the angle of the brush strokes, to recreate the moment of creation.


Not my picture, “Homage to the Square-Aglow”, by Josef Albers. Each painting was a mediation for him, each paint chosen and categorized. He was specific down to the company and number of the paints; if the paint he needed was not available, the painting was not finished. Therefore, the use of two different paints to create the outer ring of gray is almost uncharacteristic. But, because the two stripes of differing gray mirror each other the inclusion of the color must have been intentional. Why?

I passed many more beautiful painting on the ground floor before coming to Francis Bacon’s shrine. It was like a pilgrimage; like unearthing an alien city. The see his workshop you had to step into a glass inset of three sides–a viewing platform. The suffocating chaos of the paper, the paints was palpable. It felt like church.

I know now that if someone had shown me Bacon’s work when I was thirteen, I would have become an artist.


I adore the raw poignancy of the distorted figure and the honesty. The clean lines of a careful studied floor against the stylized figure. 

“The Wake” Get’s Woke.

What a whirly- durly- hurly kind of play. Reading it literally put everyone to sleep–we took naps, it was awesome. Seeing it? I didn’t know Finbar was that funny. I read Vera quieter. Henry is hilariously, tragically, dickishly wonderful. I don’t really have too much to say that I didn’t say in line at the bathroom. Also, the Abbey Theatre is…kind of…underwhelming. I expected more. Or something fancier.


Problematic portrayal of a person who may or may not have a mental illness. Schizophrenia doesn’t quite work that way.

Margaret Hulihan

Margaret Hulihan
Margaret grew up a little ways outside Darry in a small village with her mother, a seamstress, and her father, who worked as a cobbler. She shared a room with two sisters and teased her younger brother mercilessly. She would often visit family in Bogside around Christmas time and, though their means were often meager, Christmas never failed to be an evening of good cheer. One of those Christmases when Margaret was thirty two she met her future husband, Henry. Two years later they were married and moved to his flat in Bogside to be close to the family. Two years later she gave birth to her only son and five years later the troubles started. She lost her son and husband to riots.