the gnome from the dome on the cnoc

oh, it has been a terribly long time since i last wrote…a terribly long time indeed. such terribly long times come to us once in awhile, especially when we need to work from dawn to dust and part way back to dawn to pay the phone bill and everything else pressing these days. ‘twould be wonderful one day to hide out under a safe mossy rock cave while the world passes by with all those self important little slips of paper running the lives of so many unimportant-feeling people…not living under a rock in the forest.

and while i do not- live under a rock in the forest- i do know a rather crumpled-looking critter who lives in a tent all year round…when he is not riding his bicycle, peddling tracks, and speaking out in archaic sixteenth or seventeenth century proclamations…and, who, among other things, also enjoys run-on sentences…

the first time i saw him, i pictured a gnome, somehow lost on an outing from the garden center, stuck at the soiled edge of a scraggly patch of industrial-site trees. he had that “i just soiled my pants” look, and i tried not to stare. you would not want anyone staring at you if you suddenly felt like a pudding just landed inside your pants…

but he looked right at me then and told me how happy he was that i was following his trek through life…and never batted an eye when discussing his dome.

it sat flapping in the breeze of a weary night’s rest…but finally settled down under the wintry sun. that dome, that dome on the cnoc.

i once had a dome tent. stuck it out under some trees in a gale force wind and slept the night away like a baby next to his mommy, but this dome was different. it even looked like it had to smell different. it was like a flapping plastic puffball surrounded by old fashioned canvas or the like…super-light meets archaic.

i felt like giving him one of my old tents. i felt sorry for him. maybe it was his grey, beady eyes. Maybe it was the gnome-ness of his features, but whatever the reason, he reflected a pathetic creature some totally ignored. And perhaps that is why he had the courage- or insanity- to pitch his dome tent on a hill in the middle of an industrial site woodland buffer, where he lived unnoticed by the late shift, the early shift, and the ones who would not know a gear shift from a hole in the ground.

unfortunately for me, i no longer travel in the same area, and although i hear about him, i have not seen him in quite some time. i imagine he has taken down his dome on the cnoc…it is getting colder, the wintry mixes are here and snow will be flying soon. but somewhere, he will hunker down in his dome and survive, if only because he is too stubborn not to.

from time to time…when i’ve nothing else to think about…i fall back to wondering how he is in those woods, and whether he, like Creek Stewart, would bed down in another, more natural cover for the night, with a proper fire and all. but maybe not. after all, he planted his dome on the top of the cnoc.

oh, and yes, i will not visit with our lady of cnoc…for i have never had a lady on that cnoc, nor do i ever intend to. especially in winter.

About thelostkerryman

Thelostkerryman is an author, and entrepreneur, living in the forests of a consistently confused country. Here in this hill country, hurling doesn't usually involve a hurley; store-made soda bread has the consistency of a sea sponge; and Kerrygold butter has finally found a permanent place on the grocery shelves everywhere. His blogs are an account of his adventures, thoughts, eclectic -and eccentric- ramblings, random or insightful poetry, humor and non-humor, pictures (photos), video, essays, fiction, poetic fiction, nonfiction, drama, and writing he has not classified in the description above. All of his posts from,,, and are copywrited according to international copywrite law.
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