A Candle in the Wind

Marilyn Monroe was perhaps the greatest philosopher of the twentieth century, and, you know, just a girl trying to make her way in the world and all that. Born Norma Jean Mortensen in 1926, she developed a witty and articulate manner in her childhood, which accompanied her throughout her life, whether it was during her teenage first marriage, her acting career, or her brushes with controversy. So epigrammatic was she that Marilyn accounts for 27% of all the quotes from the 20th century, just behind Albert Einstein on 28%. No others come close to their quota of quotable quotes, a fact now attributed to a disease that created a chemical imbalance in their brains and substantially enlarged the size of their grey matter.

While the disease that they shared gave them an advantage, it had drawbacks. Einstein had to contend with unruly hair which appeared afflicted by static electricity; it had fatal consequences for Marilyn. Despite being so often perceived as an airhead, she had a brain that swelled so much it pressed against her skull. It gave her excruciating headaches, something akin to having too many cocktails and shots with the girlies. In the end, she tried to alleviate the pain with a drill. Undoubtedly, her last words were utterances made of pure 24 carat gold; unfortunately, nobody heard them but her. The press were kind enough to sugar-coat the truth, and they allowed medics to clear up any sign of the drill and the mess it had made. They had decided wisely that no dignity could be retrieved from the truth, and, more importantly, a beauty like Marilyn wouldn't like to be caught dead with her hair in such a state.

"I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth — and truth rewarded me."

On set, Marilyn sometimes struggled to remember her lines. The flow of remarkable sentences, the perfect Feng Shui of syntax, and the evocative rhythm and word selection all flooded her mind, affecting her memory. She would fluff her lines, often being criticised for being a dumb blonde. But it didn't matter because blondes have more fun (winky face).

Marilyn's status as an actress and sex symbol brought her many lovers. Unhappiness followed her everywhere, and it made matrimony a stormy affair. She tied the knot many times, notably to Joe Di Maggio and Arthur Miller. She sued for divorce in both cases, perhaps struggling to reconcile the contrary demands of a 1950s housewife and an ambitious, independent actress and business women. In any case, as we all know, it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. When married to Arthur Miller, he occasionally mined some lines from her when he found himself in the limbo of writer's block. From the outside, it looks as though he was exploitative of her physical attractions and mental powerhouse, but she received a lot in return. He made her feel beautiful, freer, more confident, and able to take on the world. No, wait, that was vodka. Vodka made her feel that way. In addition to these relationships, she infamously had an affair with President Kennedy. A well-known fact now, only those close to either person at the time knew what she meant when she declared the timeless words, "Life is too short; buy the shoes, drink the wine, order the dessert, fuck the President."

Fucking the President, however, is as lonely as the job of president itself. Marilyn was no stranger to heartache, and often had to pick herself up off the emotional floor — usually with chocolate, because chocolate is to women what duct tape is to men; it fixes everything. Often, in the frenetic stream of love, she made mistakes. But they were her mistakes to make, or some bollocks along those lines. In her lowest moments, when her films got a tepid reception, when those around her failed to support her, and when man's world could not give her more credit than chauvinism or the sexual gaze would allow, she struggled with depression, undoubtedly contemplating ending it all. But she would pour herself a drink, put her lipstick on and walk out the front door in her most fab dress. "My life's a mess, I must confess. But I'm still pretty in this dress," is what she'd say, more or less, when talking candidly to the press. "Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring," is what she once retorted to the criticism of one woman, who told her to get her shit together. Unbeknownst to most people, that woman was Jackie Kennedy, who then told her to "stop fucking my husband and lose a few pounds, you basic bitch." Days later, Marilyn tried to resolve the matter with a terse but thoughtful letter. She explained to the First Lady that "girls just wanna have fun, you dry cunt." She may have been drinking at the time (hee hee hee). 

"Some girls are just born with glitter in their veins."

Despite all these troubles, she would never compromise her integrity or character. Famously she declared, "I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I'm out of control, and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." The most impressive part of this profound and insightful statement was how well she had translated it from Mein Kampf and passed it off as her own. For all her wisdom, her life was really too busy for study and meditation. She needed to lean heavily on her own substantial earnings, attempting to attain privacy and security. Undoubtedly, as with many of the wisest souls that have walked among us mere mortals, she chided the cult of the dollar and looked beyond the emptiness of the many zeros in her bank balance. That and she liked to have her money where she could see it, in her closet (#shoes). 

She died Marilyn Monroe on August 5 1962, in Los Angeles, and her suicide invokes a quote from her some years prior: "They say nothing lasts forever; dreams change, trends come and go, but friendships never go out of style." Unfortunately, in the end, she didn't have any friends, nobody to tell her it was okay to be just Norma Jean, no one to share all the cocktails and shoes and chocolate. Nobody to question if she was really depressed or suffering from low self-esteem and not, in fact, just surrounded by assholes.

A Cut Above the Rest

People often ask me the same questions, when reading my blog: Where do you get your ideas from? Why did you stop adding pictures of sexy ladies? Why are you such a lazy git about it?  What have you got against Tubbercurry, county Sligo? All of these haves answers, but they are such pedestrian paths of inquiry that they are hardly worth treading. I rarely get asked interesting questions, such as how I know so much about history. I could cite all the history books I have read, or display the intimidating power of my academic mind, but that would not explain it adequately. The fascinating reality is that history is everywhere, if you know where to look. 

For example, the other day when I went into my barber's to get my hair cut, I sat at the nexus of historical lines that fan backwards through time and place. Everything, from the red and white barber pole to the blue sanitation liquid pointed back to a vast and rich culture, which courses like veins through world history. It's a fact that rarely emerges in the public consciousness (perhaps for fears of being misunderstood as racist), but all barbers can trace (at least part of) their genetic lineage back to the Berbers of northern Africa. Those without this lineage would be better described as hair dressers, much in the way that you either drink Champagne or Prosecco, despite them tasting similar. If you are unsure if you are in a barber's or a hairdresser's, ask the person cutting your hair where the sanitation liquid comes from. A real barber will, without a second hestitation, tell you that it was extracted from the aquifers deep underground in north Africa, discovered by Berber tribes centuries ago. 

The Berber Diaspora was a slow one, at least in the beginning. At first, few of their customs quickly adopted. They had some success when a nomadic sect of their culture was assimilated into the tribes of northern Europe to become the Barbarians, around the time of Christ. Their exact level of influence is a matter of debate, though anthropologists and historians often point to some shared physical features, language structure, customs (both cultures had these things), and ways of tapering the back and sides. This proud race survive today in northern Africa, though they have suffered invasion and colonialism over the centuries. Perhaps best described as a cunning revenge, the Berbers have in many ways influenced their invaders more than their invaders affected them. When the Arabs, and then the Ottomans, ruled over the Berbers, they adopted many of their customs. If you wish to be convinced of how the Berbers won that particular Kulturkampf, consider how we have many Turkish Barber's but no Berber's Tirkish. 

The Berbers withstood all their conquerers. Their flag, white with red (and, sometimes, blue) lines descending diagonally across, was misunderstood by their oppressors as some kind of decorative panel, not unlike the Moorish tiles. Their mistake is forgivable, given the Berber flag is only truly understood when wrapped onto a Berber pole, the lines twirling in infinity, the ever-enduring spirit of the Berber people. Their folk songs tell stories of an unbroken line that runs through the centuries. Sung in a cappella by a group of four, their jaunty harmonies are a delight to the ear — a cheery smile in the face of adversity.

The Belgian football team.

The greatest threat to the Berbers' way of life by far was the Roman Empire. They despised the Berber culture, particularly their "vulgar display of head". Like the Romulans of the Star Trek universe, the eponymous Romans were only permitted one haircut, a practical bowl we now call the Caesar cut. The Berbers, by contrast, had as great a variety of haircuts as the current Belgian national football team. They descended from ancient, legendary tribes, who united to become the Berbers: the Long Wavy Locks, Crew Cuts, Skin Heads, Side Parts, Undercuts, Fades, Mid Parts, Quiffs, Mullets, Dreadlocks, Corn Rows, Afros, receding Widow's Peaks, Crowns, the villainous Slicked-back tribe, Mohawks, Faux-hawks, and the notorious Comb Overs, to name just a few. For centuries, the Romans were aghast at such incalcitrant disorder, and historians now believe that this distaste was the primary reason for their total destruction of Carthage after the Third Punic War. It wasn't until the early fourth century CE that the head of the Roman man was finally liberated, when Emperor Decorus Metro Sextilius converted to Barberism and allowed his beautiful locks to flow. The people of the Empire followed suit almost immediately and the Berber ways rapidly dispersed across the known world (not unlike the water droplets from the spray bottle in a barbershop).

 Roman Emperor, philosopher, and general, Decorus Metro Sextilius.

What to do with this knowledge though? A book, perhaps? I have burned more than a couple of bridges with publication houses, and the idea of self-publication fills me with a unique, wrenching dread. I then thought about a little museum, and I must admit that for some time, this idea charmed me so. A handful of tasteful rooms, decorated with mirrors, the smell of hair gel, and strands of hair on the floor. For an additional fee, we would place specks of hair down your collar. There would be a display of the world's smallest trimmers, ye old timey razor blades, and the many faces of the Barber's across the globe. If affordable, there would be a darkroom, with a video on the shifting conquests of north Africa, which both imbued and transmitted the Berber culture. People could then tentatively enter the room, take the weight off their feet, and leave before the clip is over — as is the custom in every museum. We would have to include the classic scene from the 1956 film Izem Amazigh, where the titular character, wise, brave and stoic king of the Berbers is held at knifepoint by his would-be executioner. "Be careful not to take too much off the top," the king says wryly. 

In the end (where else?), I abandoned the prospective project; the final nail in the coffin came when I visited the Phallic Museum in Reykjavik in January. It had the lay out I had in mind, but €15 to see three rooms full of willies made me reconsider my idea, and eventually I rejected it as folly. I conceded that I would be creating virtually nothing that couldn't be found in a barber shop anyway, willies and all. And so, the trivia remains potential energy in my head, and I doubt anything very productive will come of it. At least I can take consolation in the fact that I'll have something to talk about when I'm getting my hair cut.

Me at the Phallic Museum. I'm trying to make the shape of a
urethra with my right eye, much like my idol, Paris Hilton. 

Was I Not There?

Was I not there? At all your concerts, large and small? Did I not accept every invitation? You dragged your equipment from house to van, and from van to stage, and back again. You spent endless hours sound checking, assembling and disassembling your equipment. The microphone beeped; the crowd chatted or left after the band before you finished; or they just never showed. You were badly paid and got back pains from all your endless driving across the country, trying to build an audience. Was I not there, at your gigs? Was I not standing at the back of every gig, cloaked in multiple disguises? Was I not the man-bunned guy sipping his craft beer? Was I not the old man, hovering his teary-eyed face over his whisky? Was I not the meretricious young lady, hardly clad in anything? Was I not there, the face of dozens of strangers, your biggest fan? 

Was I not there, as you walked alone on the beach? An invisible pair of footsteps imprinted on the sand beside yours? You looked at the great ocean, dark and ancient. Your life you measured against it and felt the dread of how it passes in an oceanic blink. Did you not tremble at the suddenly real prospect of ending it all? Did you not consider ceasing to make footprints on the path of your life? Didn't you pause and wonder how long and painful it would be to walk into the waves and keep walking until the darkness of the ocean consumed you whole? And was I not there, ever cognisant of your feelings, knowing that you would find a path worth walking? Did I not keep my distance, agonising to see you in pain, reminding myself that one must stand alone if one is to truly stand? Did you not notice the shark fin in the distance? The man disguised beneath, breathing through an apparatus, so as not to give myself away? Did I not need to fend off local fishermen, who were incredulous at the presence of a shark in cold water? 

Was I not there, when you needed to move all your stuff? You laboured over boxes and bins and refuse sacks. You placed and then rearranged countless items into storage: toys, crockery, books, DVDs, comics, stationary. Pots and pans, dusters and brushes, toiletries, mats, and shelving. Furniture, cushions, clothes and linen. Bedclothes, ornaments, rugs and pictures. You cursed my name and called me unreliable. But I was there — across the road, peering in the window with binoculars. For every curse you gave me, I returned two lines of praise. You see, I swore I would help you, but I could not accept the gratitude for my help. Did I not come like a thief in the night, as you slept soundly under the blanket of a hard day's labour? Did I not lessen the load of your boxes and bags? Did you not wonder how they felt so light the next day as you transported them to your new home? You gave credit falsely to your night of rest, but I feel no jealousy. To see you toil less is my reward. Did I not return your items between your journeys back and forth between houses, as sneakily as a ninja? Did I not tranquillise you in the back with a dart from a bamboo shoot, when I mistimed your journey and you came back earlier than expected? You probably did wonder about that when you awoke on your couch later. 

Was I not there, when you were in total darkness? You awoke in the woods, cold and alone, your friend gone. The serial killer had dragged her off to his cabin. That's the last thing you remembered before slipping and falling into the ravine. "She's gone", your mind realised upon awakening. "Run for it!" Was I not there, as you hastened breathlessly through the woods, desperate to find the road or a sign of civilisation? When you feared for your life? When you shivered in the cold? When you struggled on against the shock and the devastation of losing a friend so violently? When you momentarily broke down crying? Did I not trail you the entire time, awkwardly waiting for the right moment to reveal myself? Had I not let you sleep, after rolling you over, so you wouldn't swallow your tongue? Had I not waited by your side to ensure you were protected? Was that protection even necessary, given I had called the police and they had arrested the killer and found your friend upset but unharmed? Did I not spare you mansplaining, by not telling you the police were in the opposite direction to which you were running? Did I not startle you a little, getting into my car and starting it once you had reached the road? Did I not drive off — as you screamed at me to help you — sparing both of us awkwardness of me trying to explain why I was there and why I hadn't helped you sooner?

"Of course it looks fake. It was me in a shark suit."