It was a gloomy rising this morning. Not only were the Aran Islands obscured by ashes, but the wavelets mirrored the sunless sky with a solemn frown. It may all be pure Nature, this darkness, but that's what they also told the dinosaurs.
Yesterday I returned to tranquility after a midweek in Dublin. I am now on the transplant list, or 'pool' as they call it. For the time being this means that between now and roughly three years I can get a phone call any moment to receive a new kidney. Maybe even two, as young kidneys go to the young and patients of my age get the seniors. These are kind of worn, but will do the job together. This might even be an advantage, as older people die easier than young ones. Those who can find a volunteer donor themselves, have a much earlier turn. I am depending on a 'cadaveric kidney', a corpse kidney. What a ghastly word, 'cadaver'. It makes me think of these containers with counterweights that used to be in the countryside, where dead cows and the like, not even worth slaughtering, were deposited.
And then I will have four kidneys, as they are not exchanged, but added. This will surely save a kilo on my weight belt.
All that time I'm on standby. When I'm contacted I have to reply within an hour. Or else the kidney goes to the next in line. Also I have to be able to depart any moment within twenty minutes.
Yesterday I straightaway bought a new phone, as I sleep right through the old one. I wanted one with an old fashioned bell that sounds as loud as possible. That I have now and the ringtone is called 'Nostalgia'.
I'm trained to that sound and for me a phone call still is exceptional, as it doesn't ring that often. In the past that was all there was and nowadays most of my friends rather text, because it's cheaper & more creative 2 condense a msg 2 its essentials.
How to organise swimming I don't know yet. I can leave my phone at Bridie or Anna and ask them to hoist a red flag when it rings. Also I could take the phone with me in a water proof pouch. What a life…
But of course I also can jump off the Cliffs of Moher and be done with all this hassle. Then finally I can try out an old fantasy. When I make the two hundred metre drop with mono and wing they might build up so much resistance that I can glide unharmed onto the water surface. And if this does not work out you'll see that at that very moment my phone rings.
But now that I have finished me porridge and mopped the brim of my mega-mug with the next teabag the sun has clearly lit up some shades of grey and it's brightening between the wavelets. When I muse over the water for a while the light reflections join into figures. I see them walk on a market place, here a merchant singing his praises with wide gestures, there, in the armpit of Cape Cowskull a terrace with a scurrying waiter and far away an alley, winding towards the horizon.
Wouldn't it be too bad after all with this unpronounceable volcano? I have heard a plane again, but not seen a trail. Yesterevening I heard a boat thumping by with lights that ghostly jumped across the waves. A distinct feel slumbers as if the world is holding its breath. Even the seagulls are silent.
'The ashes descend as dust and colour the sunset blood red.
No Photoshop, but indeed quite another version of 'Dusty'.'
Meanwhile outside the day has got sunny. There's a bit of swell, but the tide is going out and this'll brake the breakers. Let me hope my snorkel doesn't clog up with all this ash and that Dusty is in a good mood. It won't be a first that I'll gather my courage again. Once out of the water and fully refreshed, I can celebrate my resurrection.