Eye of the Watcher/Window to Dohman/my Art

I am reblogging this from a friend’s site.
I think it is a masterpiece.
She is a very talented person. Poetry, Painting, Sketching, Writing, Photography… I could go on.

Tropical Affair


Copyright Cheryl Pennington February 2014

Okay, so it is 99.99999% complete.  Meaning every time I pass by the picture I will see some way to “tweak” or enhance it.  Otherwise it is done.  This was done with a combination of graphite pencil, colored pencil, pen and ink and a bit of watercolor here and there.  I hope those of you who take a peek will leave me a comment to let me know what you think.

 Flash Forward:  I have been posting chapters in order for you here; but I wanted to give a bit of sneak preview for things to come. I hope you enjoy this little “peek”.  Let me know if you like it.

Thank you for reading!

Excerpt from Forever Never/The Dawn of Illusion

by Cheryl Pennington


Laoch raised his hunting knife high over his head as the female stood breathless behind him, also brandishing a…

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Sacred Heart.

Sacred Heart.


I will take a break from the silly stories for this evening’s post, if you don’t mind.

You are welcome to leave and read something else for whatever reason. But I have to get this out there, today, for some unknown reason. Maybe it will make sense to somebody.

Some of you will already know about my invisible friend, and how he teaches me things without having to put in an appearance. How he sets things up in order that I learn properly.

Today there have been too many prompts for me to ignore, and they are all begging me to tell this one story. Again, please leave if this story is not for you. I will have something light hearted tomorrow. Thank you.

About two years ago I was at Sunday Mass. I go there most, but not all Sundays. I’m only human. Like most Sundays I would daydream about this and that during the service. And to be totally honest some of my daydreams would shock even the author of Fifty Shades. I have normal daydreams also…sometimes.

On this particular Sunday my invisible friend whispered a question to me. It was so feint I thought I had come up with it myself.

Why do some people treat the wafer (host) at communion time as if it were the real thing? Surely this Body and Blood ritual has been misrepresented somewhere in the past two thousand years.

I pondered it again the very next day, driving in my truck. I wasn’t losing my religion but as usual I was questioning things like crazy. My mind is never on the road. It’s always elsewhere. Trucking is a great job for any budding philosopher. Lots of thinking time. Up here, in the cab, above the hustle and bustle. We see it all, us truckers. I can see Scotland on a clear day!

I listen to political chat shows although you would be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

So this day (the day after the question) the radio host took a break from the usual. He had a guest on who was talking about Padré Pio, a famous stigmatic. Incidentally there are a few alive in the world today. My aunt met one a few years back. He was also a monk.

Anyway, in the course of the conversation somebody mentions an event called The miracle of Lanciano.

In all my forty years I had never heard of this. In fact very few people get to hear about it. It’s one of those things you won’t see on telly. Because it is the polar opposite of the aim of television. I am not saying all telly is bad. But he who pays the piper calls the tune. That’s all I’m saying.

Getting back to the radio. The person told of a priest years ago in a town in Italy. He was saying Mass. At the consecration when he was holding the wafer aloft and saying the same old words, something happened. He started to doubt!

He doubted that the wafer was really the Body of Christ. He doubted that the Wine was really the Blood.

Instantly the wafer started to bleed, real blood. He dropped it onto the altar in shock. Members of the congregation ran to the altar thinking he had hurt himself. What they all witnessed was the wafer turning into a piece of flesh and the wine in the chalice turning to blood.

Samples were tested and found to be the same blood as the Turin shroud.

A scientist was given a sample of the flesh. He was told nothing of its history. He concluded that it was from the left ventricle of a human heart and that the person suffered a traumatic death.

There have been other identical miracles down through the years and in all corners of the globe. Buenos Aires, Poland, China, Japan…

I have included two videos below. But you can go and search the web yourself.

I am not a scientist. I am a trucker. All I know is that the question never entered my mind for all my forty years, until one day, and the very next day I got my answer.

I hope you get all your questions answered. There can be a time delay with the answer. But just like the old internet connections, spiritual connections are improving all the time it seems.


If this message has no meaning to you. Don’t even give it a second thought. Pass on by.

I’m still the same blogger.

Thank you for reading,


In response to http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/22/prompt-young/

Here are two samples you won’t find on telly.

There are better quality videos of this scientist on youtube. This is only a snippet.  He was an athiest writing a book about athteism when he realised the truth.

Three cops and a fountain.

Three cops and a fountain.

There was a very good reason that I physically restrained my wife from throwing a coin into the Trevi fountain. Even though every euro was precious to us personally, it had nothing to do with the recession back in Ireland. But the police, or polizia to be exact, were having a hard time understanding.

It was my wife’s first ever time on an airplane. It was my second. I was the expert! Even though I was too young to remember my first time, I was such a know-it-all.

“Don’t worry. Sit back and relax. You won’t even know you’re in the air.” I reassured her.

My wife was making her peace with God, just in case. She was feeding the rosary beads through her fingers at a rate that would have made Mother Teresa green with envy. The plane taxied down the runway. I was all business. Until it hit full throttle.

I don’t know what came over me but, when the pilot gave her the welly, I cracked. I snapped the beads from my wife’s hands and prayed like this was the cresendo of my life on earth.

I had spent more than fifteen years of my life as a motor mechanic (before this trucking lark) and the laws of physics had led me to believe that there wasn’t a rivet on the earth which could stand the sheer acceleration dished out by these jet engines.

We must have been in the air about thirty minutes when my wife, who had just discovered her life’s purpose (flying) was asking me to look out the window at all the little tiny houses down below. I couldn’t look. My fear of heights had been heightened by the shaky rivets and the volcano ash cloud which had blown all the way from Iceland to northern Europe.

Bing bong! The captain informed us that we would be taking the scenic route (long route) to Rome. Lovely! Just flipping lovely!

Bing bong! “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now over the Alps. Enjoy the view. Oh and by the way, I will take this opportunity to introduce a new pilot. This is his first time in charge and I am sure you all agree he is doing a fine job…”

That’s was it. Our fate was sealed. I know it is a cliché but I whispered to myself “We’re all going to die.”

I could picture this little apprentice, barely through puberty, grinning from ear to ear on his spotty wee face. Saying to himself, ‘Let’s see what this baby can do’, as he gazed around the dashboard like a kid in a candy store.

Have you ever spent four hours putting on and taking off your seatbelt? No? Well I have. There was a red light up near the front which was going from red to green then red again, at roughly ten minute intervals. What I thought was the ‘Seatbelts on‘ light turned out to be the ‘somebody’s in the toilet‘ light.

Of course nobody corrected me. Why would they? A full grown man hammering out Hail Marys to beat the band had enough on his plate.

We made it to Rome. When I stood up my wife commented that my shirt was stuck to my back with sweat and my face “looked a bit grey.” I didn’t care how it looked. All I could do was smile. I would have kissed the ground but we had to walk through a tunnel straight into the airport buliding.

We were in town for my older brother’s wedding. He was always the awkward one. He couldn’t just get married in Ireland like the rest of us. Oh no, that would make too much sense.

Anyway, he got married. It was a lovely wedding, I’ll admit. And the weather!! I always thought weather like that only happened in the movies.

The following day my wife and myself, wandering around, found ourselves looking at the famous Trevi fountain. When I say looking I mean standing on our tip toes trying to catch a glimpse of the thing over the shoulders of every other person on the planet who all had the same idea, on the same day. Damned Tourists! With their cameras that appear large enough to snap somebody pretending to place a flag on the moon.

We wiggled our way through the crowd until we reached it.

“Give me a euro,” my wife said, in a panic.

When I asked why, she informed me that if a person throws a coin into the Trevi fountain fate will ensure that person will return to Rome again sometime in the future.

Upon hearing this I quickly removed my empty hand from my pocket. I lied that I didn’t have any change. As beautiful as Rome is, I wasn’t prepared to put myself through the hell, better known as flying, it took to get there. I have been on mainland Europe a few times but my choice of transport is always the car ferry. Probably because I can swim. I haven’t quite been able to master flying yet. Perhaps it’s the lack of feathers.

Of course as fate would have it, she had found a coin in her own pocket. I grabbed her wrist just as she was about to throw it. A struggle ensued. I could hear bystanders discussing if they should interfere or not. Just then a little street urchin made a grab for my wife’s camera (a lego camera by today’s standards). So I grabbed him with my free hand. This was turning into the ridiculous.

Within seconds three big straight faced Polizia-men arrived. One of them took the boy away by the scruff of the neck, whilst the other two handled our little “domestic”.

That is as much as you’re getting. Did she or didn’t she? That is the question.

There is a famous saying; When in Rome.

There is another famous saying; Not on my shift.

There is also a third; She wears the trousers!

Thank you for flying


In response to http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/21/daily-prompt-coins/

Thank you Lita

Thank you Lita



First of all Thanks to Lita( http://litadoolan.net/ )

She has given me The Versatile Blogger badge, and well deserved I might add. I am worth it.

She is the sort who genuinely wants the best for every new blogger. It’s not forced though, it comes natural to her. Cheers Lita.

Now I have to mention seven random things about myself.

1 : I believe Jesus was on a world tour during the missing eighteen years. Not to learn from, but to teach those who would listen. I have reason to believe he was in Ireland.

2 : I am facinated by the spiritual beliefs and understandings of ancient Ireland. I mean thousands of years ago.

3 : I am happiest when I am conversing with people. Or else alone on a mountain or in a forest.

4 : I care for neither fame nor fortune. If you’re happy, I’m happy.

5 : Actions impress me way more than words. Leading by example impresses me.

6 : I can’t watch a mouth to mouth revival scene on telly or in movies.

7 : I am a hypocrite. I am not that good at being Christian. But I kick myself for it each time.

So now I have to pass this on to a few people. I think I am allowed fifteen.

I know there are bloggers who have so many awards that they don’t need another right now, so I have crossed a few off. Also there are those who need encouragement. Then there are those who are simply gifted. And lastly there are those who are too beautiful in their prose for a trucker to appreciate. Blame me if you’re not on the list. Not yourself.

In no particular order (apart from Cheryl who is practically my manager )

http://tropicalaffair.me/ This Lady is the wordpress answer to Leonardo Da Vinci.

http://mcwilson1956.wordpress.com/ Feel like I knew this lady for years.

http://marthakennedy.wordpress.com/ She was there man!

http://tnkerr.wordpress.com/ The best short story teller. End of.

http://kyliejlowe.wordpress.com/ This young lady is a welcome breath of fresh air.

http://jackiesworldtravel.wordpress.com/ One to watch for the tourist.

http://healthyharriet.wordpress.com/ Up the Irish!

http://oldmainer.wordpress.com/ Just love this blog. Everything about it.

http://nofacilities.com/ A man’s man.

http://followingmyjoy.com/about/ The earth moves for this lady.

http://mememe2u.wordpress.com/ I like this site. Quirky. And Irish.

http://suespen2paper.com/ Thanks for the encouragement.

http://salemsmudge.wordpress.com/ Nice posts here.

http://connectiontoyou.wordpress.com/ Half Irish, all talent.

http://analindenblog.wordpress.com/ Cheers Ana

That’s fifteen. You guys and gals can do the fifteen or less or whatever.

Thank you Lita

Thank you for reading



Manly music

Manly music

Three little songs:

My earliest memory of music in my family home is this song.

I was the middle son of three boys. All under the age of ten. We each took turns at recording ourselves singing this song into a cassettte recorder. It was mid seventies Ireland and cassettes were cutting edge technology. The novelty of playing back the recordings to each hear how we sounded was a thrill I will treasure.

I guess it was our daddy or a school teacher, or both, who taught it, I don’t remember learning it. But I have known this song, by heart, since I could string a sentence together. True! It’s such a graphic story of an Irish harp. It still sends shivers of pride down my spine.

Next up is a guy whose ‘Best of..’ cassette was played everywhere by my father. Even in the car. It was the soundtrack to every journey. So much so that I developed an Italian/Donegal accent for a few years.

Until just now (watching this video) I believed his duet partner was a boy. My mother told us it was a little Italian shepherd boy. And we bought it! All three of us trying to outdo each other in the back seat with our Tenor talents.

The testosterone of the next song is off the scale. These guys were heroes wherever they went. Needless to say my brothers and I could sing their songs in our sleep. I think this may have been the song that taught me what a happy marriage is all about…”Upon my knee a pretty wench and on the table a jug of punch.”

Those are the songs of my childhood.

Thank you for listening


In response to daily prompt http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/20/daily-prompt-papa-loves-mambo/



The Pope and I

The Pope and I

“Stand up,” she demanded. “Now, I am giving you one last chance to tell me your full Christian name, or else.”

I was terrified. I had already given her my full name.

I was baptised with the namesakes of two famous monks. Saints, both of them.

Francis Benedict. That’s who I was known as to my parents until about the age of five. From then on they called me Frankie. The problem was me. I couldn’t get my tongue around it.

It is quite normal for a child that age to have a slight problem with pronunciations. At bedtime I would pray to Jesus, Mary and Jofis. I couldn’t say Joseph properly. My two best friends were John Coss (Crossan) and Gerard Kaana (Kavanagh).

I remember the time when our regular teacher (a nun) was off sick or something. A new nun came in to teach us for a day or two. We were lucky in that our nuns were nice; Nowadays we hear some very sad stories of miserable childhoods.

But anyway, this new nun, Sister Assumpta, was winning us over by asking each child his or her name and making each one feel special. She was lovely. Young and full of joy and peace. Until she met me.

“Oh, look at you with your lovely curly golden hair.”

I smiled.

“What is your Christian name, child?”

“Francis Bendy-dick.” I replied, all proud of myself.

“Sorry. What was that, child?” Her smile was more fake now.

I told her again. I also told her that my granny had helped pick the name at my birth.

I think she blessed herself and then…well then she lost the plot. She turned into the nun from hell. A few of the children started to cry. My friend John had my back “Please Sister, that is his real name. I swear.”

And so it continued until she sent for the head nun. It was eventually all sorted and explained. She apologised to me and to the others. The head nun explained that Sister Assumpta had a build-up of wax in her ears. So that was that. Sorted.

It was sometime around then I became known as Frankie.

As a matter of throw-away fact, tomorrow is the feast day of Saint Benedict. I only know that  because there was a Benadictine monk on the radio today talking about opening a new monastery in Ireland.

If I could just give an opinion on the subject of names, in general. It doesn’t matter which name parents give to their child. It is how the child lives and how they treat those they encounter which is important. Even if his name is Lucifer it doesn’t mean he is destined to be a bad ass.

Good manners are worth more than any college degree.

I hadn’t given much thought about my double barrelled name until last year when, for only the second time in history, there are two Popes alive at once. Francis and Benedict.

I will strive to clean up my act from now on. I have a name (or two) to live up to.

Thank you for reading

Francis Bendy-dick.


Pleonasm, look that up!

Pleonasm, look that up!

Subjective. That was a word I had cause to look up in the dictionary.

You’re outraged, aren’t you. You with your varnished writing desks beside a window with a view. And your achievements framed on the walls around you.

“He didn’t know the meaning of Subjective?  Is it even legal for him to own a keypad? Haven’t we any crayons to give him.”

Anyway, I found the meaning. I was getting it mixed up with Submissive.

“Romance is Subjective,” she said.

Of course I was like thinking Hello, hello you saucy little minx.

My bad.

As it turns out this new word was just what the doctor ordered to express my perspective on today’s prompt about travel. The question was, Do I travel with a plan or do I wander about asking to get ripped off? Basically that was the question.

Travel is subjective, meaning it depends on the purpose and the destination. With online hotel booking a neccessity (to save money) these days, only a wealthy man would ‘wing it.’

Unless of course I’m on a camping trip, a different kettle of fish. Not as subjective as the city.

I suppose it’s subjective also in that it depends if you are alone or with somebody. I enjoy the outdoors, and walking, and discovering, and most importantly speaking to strangers. I can’t help it. It seems to be part of my instinct, to be chatty.

It is subjective yet again if I’m on a family holiday, with the kids, or with a group.

Travel, it’s so subjective that only a Versatile blogger could handle it. More on that later.

Thank you for reading






The one

The one

Attention Moderators! Could we get somebody down the prompt department ASAP! And bring a bucket of water.


“Tell us about your love life,” she says.  I wouldn’t even tell my wife about my love life!

Besides, there’s no point. It’s all been told before. And told better. With images of flowers in fields. Or waves lapping the shoreline. Or the sun setting on the horizon. Or little birds landing on shoulders. Or Monkeys jumping from one tree to the next.

Well WordPress, I can’t do poetry!!

You must understand, I’m not the sort of chap who can look at a tree and see something other than a tree. To me a tree is a tree, a flower is a flower, the sea is the sea, and a fluffy white cloud is just a by-product of evaporation, a mass of condensed water vapour floating in the sky.

Beneath this outer shell of chiseled male perfection is just an ordinary everyday man who knows what he likes when he sees it.

He doesn’t look at his ladies and go “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” No he looks at her and says “Woah! She’s alright.” Not out loud, you understand.

If she has the same effect a few weeks later then it’s love. Pure, raw, uncensored love! And after a year or more, if he can picture himself when he’s old, and grey (but still handsome)  enjoying her company then she’s probably the one. Put a ring on it!

Maybe kids will come along and help hold the thing together. Either way, it’s not the end of the world. It’s only Love

Thank you for reading





St Patrick’s day is drawing to a close. There is cement still stuck to my hands. It’s the quick setting variety so I can’t linger.

In Ireland it’s a national holiday. We can do whatever we like, within reason. This year I happpened to use the day off to refurbish the bathroom in my parents house, hence the cement. It was probably safer for all that way.

There is a lot of talk about drinking and getting drunk on days like this.

I will be totally honest. I like beer. I like (love actually) the taste. Like an angel crying on my tongue.

I don’t like being drunk. But I do really enjoy that point where the mind starts to relax, feel happy, feel funny.

I wish that feeling would linger all night.

But that’s the problem with alcohol, isn’t it. It’s all nice and smooth and soft until…until…








Clap along, if you awoke at 11:11

Clap along, if you awoke at 11:11

“It might seem crazy what I’m ’bout to say..”

That is a line from a song my youngest girl (11) is going around the house singing. The song is called Happy. A catchy little number. I took her singing as  a prompt to write about this. I will take inspiration from the WordPress daily prompt to finsh it off.

There is an invisible entity which follows me everywhere. I first noticed it in 2007. It whispers to a part of my mind, sometimes so quietly that I cannot decipher between the whisper or my own brain generated thoughts. I think I now know what it is, or at the very least, what is at the root of it.

My gut, on the first day, was telling me it was Jesus. That’s an important point to remember. A few weeks later I googled the occurrences. Low and behold, I wasn’t alone. There were lots of others experiencing the same things.

Some claimed it was angels, others claimed it was the spirits of dead relations, others claimed it was half-angels called midwayers, some reckoned it was invisible alien beings.

I don’t know if it was their wishful imaginations or the truth, but some claimed to have conversations, during meditation, with their personal entities. I have no reason to doubt them. I have seen enough paranormal activity since 2007 to dismiss nothing.

One point, which did raise the eyebrow even further, was that most of these people were creative types; artists, musicians, writers etc. Maybe it’s just that these types use their minds differently than the average Lady Gaga wannabe. My own feeling is that we are all creative but some just haven’t discovered their talent yet, and maybe never will.

It is hard to get in touch with the inner self when everywhere we look, everything we read is telling us how we should live and think. From sinning to praying, and everything in between, there is a global standard which must be adhered to.

Even the trainee doctors are warned not to think beyond the medicine which their sponsor promotes. But when the time comes, and it will come, when the best doctor in the world can’t do any more for us, even the die-hard athiest will, I reckon, wonder on their last gasp…What if? What if there’s more?

There is a word, Synchronicity. It was first coined, about a century ago, by a man who spent most of his life thinking and philosophising. His name was Carl Jung. He was educated by a chap named Sigmund Freud. Who was in turn educated by somebody else. And fine thinkers they all turned out to be, they made the most of the grey matter.

You can check it out but Synchronicity is another word for Coincidence, basically. Synchronicity existed long before Jung invented the word. Coincidence existed long before the word, Coincidence. I am sure there was another word for it thousands of years ago.

I will get to that word shortly.

My realisation of the existence of an invisible entity started with a time on my phone (I don’t wear a watch). I would happen to look at my phone at the same time each day for a week back in 2007.  I tried everything resetting the time etc. But my hand would take on a mind of its own, reaching into my pocket and before I knew it, I was looking at it again.

Things got freaky after a couple of weeks. There were occasions where the phone would vibrate and light up at that same time. It was official, there was something hanging out with me and it wasn’t going away. It was then that I googled 11:11. It was also then I discovered I wasn’t that unique.

Lots and lots of strange things have happened since then, practically daily. So much so that it has become ‘not strange’ anymore. I will perhaps craft little blog posts about some of them from time to time.

I can see lots of you nodding in understanding. There is something big going on the world these days. More and more people are being slapped in the face with coincidences or synchronicities on a daily basis.

More and more are starting to see past the news headlines to the real truth, starting to see past the teaching to the real knowledge, starting to see past the material world to the invisible world. In short we are getting back to the truth. And the man in my About me page knows it’s happening and he knows the party is coming to an end. But they won’t go quietly.

The headlines are on the case, hijacking the phenomenon to steer your thinking back to the telly, back to the Discovery and National Geo channels, away from your inner voice. I have a feeling this will be a year for meteors. Nothing like a bit of good old fear to create chaos in the minds.

But you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.

I will wrap up this post before it turns into War and Peace.

This past few years I dip into the Bible when the notion takes me. It is overflowing with talk of signs and wonders. There are also warnings of false prophets. I read something in there like, “..and if they tell you ‘Come see, he is in the desert’ or ‘Come see, he is in the secret chambers’ do not believe them.”

If we are all creations of God he will let each of us know in person, when his Son touches down again. I don’t think he will need the media.

Is there a big significance to the number eleven? Maybe it’s just an eye catching number, maybe we are in the eleventh hour, maybe… I could go on and on and neither be right nor wrong. I don’t believe that this entity expects everybody to become numerologists.

In the Bible, Jesus talked about signs and divine things which the Father would bestow on us. He didn’t mention vibrating phones or philosophers or big words like Synchronicity but he did say we should become like children to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

He also spoke of The Holy Spirit,  quite a few times in fact. That same Holy Spirit is also referred to in other religions. I feel this is the person/thing at the root of all the coincidences and synchronicities.

I read a book once which told of a twelfth century monk, Joachim, who had encountered the Holy Spirit one Easter Sunday. Knowledge was given to him that there is a Law of three in this world. The Father, Son and Holy Spirit equate to the old testement, the new testement and the new period into which we are now entering.

Oddly enough the three periods also, allegedly, tie in with the three ages Aries, Pisces and the one we are currently entering, Aquarius. The next period will, according to Joachim the monk, be the one where we will have a more direct line to God, via….The Holy Spirit.

Exciting times ahead then!

That was enough typing for three blog posts. Sorry about that.

I guess the moral is – Listen to our gut, once or twice…or even three times.

Thank you for reading,