all the gold in the world

healy's theories of mind

The mind is never a mistake.
The mind is one.
The mind has chambers.
We must not fear to enter any chamber.
We can create new chambers by experience and by choice.
We can redecorate old chambers. (That is to say respond in a new way to an old memory, open a window towards a different outlook, reconsider the most oppressive thoughts in a fresh light.)
Sometimes we are a little bit in love with our sickness.
We can choose to be well.
We are meant to be well.
Life is not a conspiracy against us.
Every journey begins with a single step.
Every melody begins with a single note.
Jesus is lord of the natural mind.

the toothpuller

Il Cavadenti by Heelers (based on an original by Carravagio)

I feel a trip to Italy coming on...

betty who

Lunch with the Mammy and Doctor Barn in the Chat and Chew.
An old While I'm At It reader approaching our table.
"I read you every week," she cries. "I never miss it."
Her compliment has to be taken with a pinch of salt since the column hasn't been published for more than a year.
Ah life you bauble...
Still at least it wasn't one of Daktari's fans.
I mean I get tired of that very quick.
"Hey Doc," sez I when my fan has gone. "Do your patients ever come up to you and thank you for operations you didn't perform?"
We are in the window seats.
Outside sunshine breaking through the showers.
School children wandering down Main Street in flocks.
Newbridge revels in its afternoon.
I am with my family but strangely absent.
This morning Divya told me I must write a book.
Her words have been with me every moment since.
Yes folks, with all my other complications, I've somehow managed to pick up a Hindu Betty Blue.
Who knows what acts of creative genius she'll drive me to?
Ah life you bauble... Come to me.

apologia pro snots mea

Achooooooooooooo.
The sound filled the Whitewater Centre cafe.
The Mammy eyed me with less sympathy than you might expect.
"You could snot for Ireland," sez she.
Teenage sexors at an adjoining table adjusted their undulating limbs on the twirly seats and favoured me with their best patented cool assessive stares.
With the measured dignity of a poet under pressure, I withdrew a handkerchief from my pocket and sounded the maritime alert through my honker.
All the while, my venerable mother kept up the chatter.
"What I don't understand," sez she, "is why you have to examine the results after you've blown your nose. What do you expect to see? Do you expect the snots to tell you well done?"
Ireland's greatest living poet shrugged sheepishly.
"You're a howl Mother," he murmured. "You should take the show on the road."