Bren's Shorts

Moving on...

2011-06-28T00:36:00.000+01:00

Hello
Sorry I've been quiet for a while. I'm moving this blog over to Wordpress, where I have also started a new blog called craichouse.

I also write regularly (more regularly than anywhere else) for http://www.dad.ie/blog

Thanks for visiting, and I hope to see you over at http://brensshorts.wordpress.com

On Reading Sometimes a Great Notion

2011-05-26T00:39:00.000+01:00

I'm reading Sometimes a Great Notion again. This is a (huge) book by Ken Kesey (perhaps better known for One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest; or the infamous acid tests). I read it first in college; it was hard work.

The story itself is a huge cycle, centring on a town called Wakonda in the Pacific Northwest of America. The town's income is almost exclusively derived from lumber and logging. The union, comprising almost everyone in the town (except the extended Stamper family) go on strike for better pay and terms from the lumber mill. The Stampers (who aren't on strike) are the hard-headed centre of the story. They not only continue to work, but extend their contract, promising to deliver the lumber that the striking workers would have provided. Were this not enough animosity to drive a storyline, Kesey also adds a dose of intra-family animosity, centred primarily on Hank and Leland, two brothers from different mothers. While Hank lives and works in Wakonda, taking on the family business from his father, Leland lives back East. He comes out to Wakonda, ostensibly to help the family meet their contractual obligations with the lumber mill; but also to wreak some kind of revenge on his brother for injuries from the past.
The hard-headed approach of the Stampers is beautifully crystalised in an early moment:
Kesey winds through the story of how the first Stampers came to move to Wakonda. Jonas, a religious man who worries about his family's "curse" of always pushing further west moves out to Wakonda with his young family. He soon moves back to Kansas - he simply can't hack it. Everything he tries to cultivate over-grows with weeds - all his attempts at controlling nature fail. He returns to Kansas, taking with him most of the money the family have. His son, Henry, takes over the running of the family and the business. Some time later, Henry has a child, Hank, who becomes one of the central figures of the story. Henry's father sends a religious plaque for the baby with an inscription reading "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth". Henry takes the plaque and paints "NEVER GIVE AN INCH!" over the inscription in yellow machine paint. The humour here (the meek, who moved back to Kansas, is still convinced the meek shall inherit the earth) is also shot through the whole book - although, I'll confess, sometimes it's hard to pick up on, because the narrative is pretty dense.
The narrative style makes the book both engaging and enraging. Kesey stitches each chapter together with threads of narrative from different characters' viewpoints. At first disorienting, the approach becomes really engrossing once you can get your concentration into gear. The voices start to spread into your own mind, much like the natural environment in the story, growing over all the attempts humans have made to cultivate and control it.
I often think of the writing styles of American literature in terms of spreading - from the long lines Walt Whitman used in his Leaves of Grass right up to Jack Kerouac's manic, seemingly uncontrollable prose (I don't mean to ignore the minimal, and shorter forms - such as Carver, William Carlos Williams, etc; just in this context, I'm coming from this style). The prose 'spreads' or reaches out, reflecting a discovery of the land and landscape and people. This works really well for their narrative, as almost all their heroes have real adventures; overcoming great difficulty thanks to their own ingenuity, hope and physicality. Of course, all these ideas are played with - so you can point out nearly any book where none of these things all fall together - but the point is they play off this idea of going off to find a fortune or a good living, and the discovery and attempt to master nature.
In Sometimes a Great Notion, Kesey's characters are already at the edge - there is not much further for them to spread. On one side is the Pacific Ocean; on the other, land that has already been discovered, conquered and mastered; which of course is no good to them. Where they are just keeps growing. This works well for the lumber men, because there are trees to fell and product to sell. For others, coming from out-of-state, it's almost horrific. Those from Wakonda live a tough life in constant struggle; those from elsewhere are infected by the romanticism of this savage landscape, but soon withered by it.
This modernisation of the dream is reflected by the narrative style. The threaded voices, each telling their own story with their own motivations are like channels swirling in water. Like water, the narrative gets deeper and deeper - you don't realise until the end that you are introduced to much of the story in the first 50 pages. Rather than reaching outward, Kesey brings us down further, exploring the relationships between all these people that are on edge in so many ways.
Within this framework, Kesey deals with a huge number of themes, which all ripple outward (yes more water) - for example, antagonisms between man and nature blend into antagonisms between authority and submission blend into antagonisms between community and individuals blend into antagonisms between family members. There is a major East vs West(ern United States) theme that ripples into civilisation vs savagery, touches on family, the idea of playing it safe and striking out on your own, and so forth. This is the easiest way to describe it, but I've described it poorly - the book is not simply a series of dualities set up to duke it out. While there are many opposites fighting for control, the swirl of narrative really adds something very rich to the whole experience (and it feels like an experience - not a simply activity of reading a book).
All of this adds up to many unresolved contradictions and paradoxes and (god save us!) human hypocrisies. When I say unresolved - I don't mean storylines are unresolved - I mean that he reflects some of those questions about our life that are unresolved; and he does it in a pretty robust way. You stick with it because the characters are so human, and the prose so beautiful.
It really is a tough book, with timelines and ideas all jumbled together. Great concentration and - frankly - discipline is required to complete it, but when you do (and you actually don't) - it is well worth the toil.

On The Queen, Garret and Barack (and doing it for ourselves)

2011-05-24T22:38:00.000+01:00

It has been a remarkable couple of weeks in Ireland, with first the UK head of state and then the American President visiting in close succession. We also lost Garret Fitzgerald.

For the queen, we pulled out all the stops - stops for traffic; stops for nefarious characters, who were duly searched; stops for our cynical hearts, which embraced the Queen of England's presence with startling warmth.
I am proud that our country has moved on to the extent where our neighbour's leader can come to our country and not be under constant criticism or threat for personal security. But we went a bit beyond this. For all the talk about equals, there was a wavering balance. Like having your girlfriend's ma'am turn up to meet you.
"Nothing serious!" she says, "just a little chat! I know you've been seeing each other for a while, and I just realised - we've never really had a" - here, the face scrunches up, lips pushed out, eyes peering over nose to you - "proper chat."
And duly, in our role as young lover, having shifted the face off England on and off over the years, as well as had a few rides here and there, we put on our best clothes and maybe some coffee and said "Yes! It would be great to talk!"
"Like equals" she says. And you know she means it, talking to a self sufficient young man; but you think to yourself Do I? You're nervous because you want to put forth your best face. After all, you've been in the house, and passed it a hundred times. You know about their strange ways, their traditions and etiquette, which are slightly different from yours. They remind you of the porcelain figurines on the modern wood mantlepiece, opposite which you both sit. You don't need to defer to her, but you want to. For your lover. And you know this woman has seen you round the neighbourhood, back when you did things you're a bit embarrassed by now, smoking fags with the big lads outside Tescos just a couple of years ago. But here you are now, settled.
You chat for a while; still nervous. She asks how you are, and seems genuinely interested. You tell her. You ask her about herself. It dawns on you: your both nervous. She knows how you hurt her child, and knows how her child hurt you. But you're putting that behind you - and you've been neighbours for as long as you remember; and while you've never spoken to this woman - your lover's mother - properly - you both know each other. It's a painful, but joyous moment, almost... intimate. So you move on and she says "Well, I hear you play the guitar!" Oh Christ. You know you'll have to play the guitar. While you're OK with it, you have much greater talents you could show. But this is what she knows about you, and this is what she asks for. So you play You Raise Me Up and secretly know you're going to be really embarrassed about this when your friends find out.
But it all passes on well enough. She smiles and you smile. You get so comfortable - it's like you're on the same wavelength - she's really talking your language. As she leaves you think "I'm going to do my best by her - her kid deserves the very best I can do" But then you have to ask yourself - why can't you just do it for yourself?

I must confess to witnessing some republicans (with a small r - into the "nation for the people", but not the murderous psychopathy) wavering in their own beliefs. I woke up in a cold sweat on Thursday morning - I had to get out of town before the Queen came in, and I was sure Mary McAleese was going to be crowned. Or attempt to adopt the Queen, for taxes and little-old-lady-with-the-belly-of-a-lion-leadership. But, more luck for me, this never came to pass.
I drove the startlingly well surfaced, clean roads from my home in Co Kildare out to Dublin. The traffic was still a bit heavy, but with well-tended shrubs and a beautiful morning, it didn't seem all that bad. We cleaned up pretty well here. Sadly, not for ourselves. If only we kept the place clean, there wouldn't be that nervousness whenever someone comes to visit.

Then we heard the news. Garret the Good had died. I know of at least half a dozen people who hoped in his last hours, he might have heard the Queen's speech at the State banquet in her honour. We reflected on the timing - so apt that he might go, just after it's confirmed that his work was done. A stickler for detail, it seemed he'd had his homework closely assessed, and outside a couple of stray grammatical errors, it was of a first class honours standard. If the Queen was our lover's mother, Garret was surely our Grandad. Like a grandfather, everyone seemed to have a story about him; some event that demonstrated his warmth, intelligence or generosity. Tiresome in our youth, but making more sense as we grew older; until ultimately, he calmly (having seen it all before) explained where he thought we were going wrong, as we laughed and continued doing it anyway. And when it all went wrong, rather than hold it up to us, he told us: Well, you'll have to make it right now. As we fumbled with that task, he calmly and meticulously tried to explain what it was we should be doing. Like all grandfathers, we listened but pretty much ignored his advice (some even mocked it) until he died. I have no idea if he was right or wrong - but I do know he was talking to us all the time until he did die. Then we exclaimed his broad genius. In fairness, we always held him in our hearts; if not our minds. A true statesman and grandfather to the nation.

It was just as well our buddy was coming over. He'd cheer us up. He always did. A bit of craic, the President of the USA. This time in teh clothes of Barack Obama. Your big brother or sister's friend. No - your big brother or sister's cool - no coolest - friend. The one that was always sound out. Dressed like they did in the movies and never apologised for it. Confidence, they had, and everyone wanted to be around them. They asked you how you were doing, what you were up to (making you feel like everyone might want to be around you too). The one you once spent ages in the pub talking to. Then, when you were walking home, you realised (with embarrassment) that you never asked them how they were doing. But you were pretty sure they were doing OK. They were always (and still are) sexy, confident. Everyone in the room looks at them. They pay their own bar tab. Your older now, and you know they're only human; they have their problems, but you don't want to talk about that. You want to impress them instead. They come over, full of confidence and optimism. They tell you what you need to hear. Some hard truths, some softer, all a bit something you know in yourself, but somehow you still need to be told. Then you want to say something to them, but you're nervous you'll say something stupid (even though you know they're pretty generous of spirit, you don't want them thinking your stupid). Say something smart. Say something. SAY SOMETHING! You tell yourself over and over. And you tell them something you know they've heard before, because they said it before. But you say it anyway - repeat back to them something they've already said - to show how cool you are now. How you're getting it together. They make you smile, maybe laugh a bit. And like your big brother or sister's coolest friend - they have to hit the road too soon! They leave, but you feel confident. You think, "Yes, I can do it. I'm no dork".

And we have to hold onto all these things. It is sad that we can't generate this confidence within our own country. Confidence in our status, the conviction of our values, the courage to go on. And we must go on. If we don't nurture this new-found self esteem, it will be gone again, and before we know it, this mad weekend will be over; it will be Monday again, and we'll be hitting Snooze because it's just a struggle to get out of bed and face that day ahead.

Some Thoughts...

2011-04-27T22:47:00.002+01:00

I Wanna Be An American

Barack Obama produced his birth certificate. End of what was a long and non-existent story. I would like proof that Donald Trump's hair was either grown or manufactured in America. I doubt this will be forthcoming. Can we trust an American who can't account for his own hair? Especially one who espouses transparency from the tips of his toes to the top of his strange translucent head blankets. On the other hand, he and whatsisname getting married in England might be in some kind of conspiracy involving people rich in money, but poor in follicle activity.

Publicans at the Gate

Some (long) while ago, Sacha Baron Cohen, in the guise of Ali G, did an interview with someone in the North (Wikipedia tells me it was Sammy Wilson, but hand on heart I could have sworn it was David Ervine). He asked what everyone had against the "publicans". Much hilarity ensued. Of course, it may not have been that funny, but Ali G was a show I consumed after a bellyful of pints in a pub that had an upstairs "niteclub" (a spelling I have always abhorred). I would often be told it was time to go home by men who bore no similarity to my mother. Wearing their branded tee-shirts and a steely look probably formed somewhere in the army ranks, they were sound enough guys. But couldn't risk any "incidents". Through the threat or use of force, they were willing to preserve the peace of the raucous "niteclub", where punters evidently did not discuss the poor spelling under which their entertainment laboured.

Instead they were drinking and dancing and, probably, shifting away, as I staggered home in my steel toe capped boots pondering the inherent absurdity of that threat or use of force protecting peace and restricting my own, completely rational freedoms. Older now, one sees it percolated throughout any civilised society. Perhaps "force" is too strong a word, but the idea that you can be made to do something you don't really want to (pay taxes, or a fine, community service, go to prison, etc.) does have some element of "force" to protect those who may be victim to the cruel whims of others (excepting, of course, the cruel whims of those in high political power. There is no protection for us against them it seems). All our freedoms must to some extent be restricted at the point where they may infringe on the freedoms of others. Depending on whether it is your freedom being protected or being threatened, we all love or hate this situation. Some of us love or hate it on a daily basis. All because we can't trust ourselves to be responsible enough to not encroach on other people's freedoms.

Tied up in this absurdity is the fragile idea of hope. Hope, tied up, kidnapped. There is hope because, even though it seems inescapable, we know it is absurd - therefore we know there is either a better way or another way, or some other situation which might not be quite so absurd. Such were my drunken philosophical meanderings as I wound my way down perfectly straight, properly surfaced roads.

At home, Ali G would be on the TV, perhaps on a rerun, asking difficult questions that were difficult because they were utterly pointless. Back in those halcyon days, we were all about peace on this island. Hold on...

...we still are. Who are these guys standing in their balaclava helmets reading out speeches threatening everyone who isn't one of them? On what basis are they demanding a return to bloodshed and mayhem? Who are they proclaiming to protect or represent? They come across as latter-day bouncers, protecting the revellers in something. But what? Answers on a postcard, please (addressed to 1981).

Labour Get Left
Much commentary over our new coalition has mentioned that Labour have lost their "leftist" credentials. Well, that was a mistake, as they've gone Stalin on our asses now.
Joan Burton has said she's going to cut payments to anyone on social welfare who doesn't take a reasonable offer of work (read: the first job they're offered). Rather than give someone with decades of specialised experience the chance and space to find a new opportunity, they'll chuck them into some low-grade career-starter role, or perhaps a position with no career prospects at all!
The time for all this bullish "cut your benefits" talk was when the country was at near-full employment. When those on the dole - or at least a large number of them - simply did not want to work. These people will always exist, there is nothing you can do about them not wanting to work. But now is not the time to invest money and resources into getting them to work. The situation is completely different now. Most of those on welfare don't want to be on welfare. They are getting close to despair not being able to work - not being able to ply their skills and exploit their talents and experience. They don't need to be forced into jobs. They want jobs. Perhaps they need to be upskilled to learn entrepreneurial skills; or given the tools that will help them sell a service based on their talents and skills. Pushing them out the door could well push them out of the country. And that wouldn't be a terribly smart economy.
On the other side, we have Ruarai Quinn. Before the election, Labour promised investment in education (for the Smart Economy, which now looks the size of a Smart Car), he's now said the money isn't there. But we can improve by simply being better. So we'll have a world class education system for nothing. If only we had have thought of this earlier!

International Women's Day: A Dad's-Eye View

2011-03-09T00:23:00.000Z

I just wanted to write some words about International Women's Day. These would be those words.

Apology

I'm not qualified to write on the plethora of issues that have been raised throughout the day, but I understand some very interesting facts and figures can be found on the We Are Equals and the UN International Women's Day websites.

This morning, as I was driving into work, there seemed to be a fair bit of scepticism/cynicism about the whole concept of International Women's Day. Typical questions included:

What do they (i.e. women) need it for?
Is it really relevant now, in the West?
Why isn't there a men's day?
You have to accept biological differences, this is PC gone mad!

So, what is International Women's Day for? In the West (our great enlightened concordance of ideas), I suppose it is for men like me. Up until about 3 years ago, I fell in with those arguments listed above (except "why don't men have a day?"; that feels to me like arguing against a perceived victim mentality by claiming one). Women seemed suitably represented. Our president (and previous president) were both women. I worked for a while for Yahoo! whose CFO was a woman. I knew at least 3 women who either owned their own business, or were their own boss. Outside of the guys I was working for at that time, and 2 short term contracts, every boss I had was a woman. My wife earned considerably more money than me at the time too.

Then, we had a girl. Then, we had another. Then, in the courses of various conversations, I wondered what would become of them. It wasn't until then that I really considered it. I honestly believe if I had boys, I wouldn't have considered anything further than they can do what they want and be happy. For my kids, I had to go from this belief to they shall have to do what is required to be happy enough. My kids can't do what they want. Just the other day, someone talking on the radio said "It's a choice women have to make: have a career or have kids." (someone also said that this morning). Other people say women are happy with a restricted career so that they can have kids. The underlying assumption being that women have to take more time out during and after pregnancy to look after those kids, which means they aren't in the office as much as their male counterparts. This is all fairly logical. And, as already mentioned, biology determines these issues. There can be no "socialisation" of sexuality and reproduction. And nor should there be.

However, all these arguments are founded on the idea that business needs to grow exponentially and forever, like some kind of continually aroused phallus, growing and growing until it has screwed every one of us. We haven't stopped (or even paused) to think about this at all. Why must we continually work longer hours? Labour saving devices and technology were meant to give us better lives with more free time. To allow us to become more 'human' in the sense that we enjoyed our human lives; were protected to some extent from our human frailties, and could enhance our human experiences. Instead, we saw the efficiencies gained and thought - we could fit some more in there. Make a bit more money, develop a bit more stuff, sell a bit more crap. And we did that. Over and over again. We live in a time when - as they lay dying - people will wish they spent more time in the office. We're casualties of our own success, our ability to do the things we want to do and earn money doing them. We soon neglect, or forget our families, or have to prioritise work over our time with them (which is ironic, because we tell ourselves we are working to make things better for our families). Our lives facilitate our careers, rather than our careers facilitating our lives. We haven't considered the idea that we could slow down a little, spend a little more time with our children and families and enjoy life a little more.

I'm not qualified to write on the issues that have been raised throughout the day, but I am qualified to write about my wishes for my children and the world in which I would like them to live. I would like them to be happy. I would like them to have children if they want to; but not feel they have to choose between having children and having a career. If they have children, I would like for them to give those children the love and care they'll want to give. I would like for them not to be told, or to decide that they 'have to choose' between being the best they can be both professionally and personally. And I would like that this lifestyle is not achieved through sheer luck (because they are lucky enough to work for people who are sympathetic to the idea that employees have families). Rather, I would like them to be in this situation because that's just the way it is.

More Haiku for the Modern World

2011-02-03T23:51:00.000Z

On Politics
People! Going forward!
I don't accept that! Yes! No!
It's democracy!

Well, it's broken now
And despite what you might think
They did it, not us.

If a party calls
For measures to be taken
Run! Run for the hills!

This side of the mouth
Says something different to
That side of the mouth

It's not my fault that
You saw fit to employ me
To watch this ship sink

Burble burble bup
Maranarafurdletop
And in conclusion...

On the Internet
Error Four Oh Four
This resource could not be found;
Check your spelling there

Such expressive rage
In one hundred and forty
Tweeted characters

I would love to share
Your link. But I am afraid
Of who might read it

Where is that email
Confirming payment
For crap I don't need?

In the Shop
Dear God, are you there?
Please get me to the counter
Before that slowcoach

Do you really save
If you buy so much of it
You throw it away?

There are bananas
Such diverse shapes and sizes
Beside the on'ons

I've come to spend cash
Please help me: I need a coin
For your damn trolley

If I stop the kids
They will scream in the trolley
Or hang off me. Argh!

How do people eat
Such healthy food and not sleep
Right there at dinner?

Garlic bread and wine
And pizza from the fridge there
They're away tonight!

A Preventable Death; An Absurdity

2011-01-31T23:45:00.003Z

Reading this (TheJournal.ie), this (IrishExaminer Online) and this (Antiroom.com), but not any (RTE) of (Indo) these (Times); I am moved to write something about Rachel Peavoy, the 30 year old mother of 2, who died cold and alone in her flat. EDIT: You should also read this account (Political World Blog), from someone who lives in the area.
In the tradition of Irish misery, she died of the cold. No other systemic issues were found by the coroner. She died of hypothermia in her apartment; neither the council nor her TD, who had been contacted, helped her. I don't know what had to be done to fix her heating, but anyone who can recall as far back as January will recall it to have been bitterly cold. What cost-benefit-analysis methodology decided that it was not worth their while fixing it, because some other apartments nearby were having some building work done?
Perhaps it is because I am a father of 2 girls; perhaps because it has thrown into sharp relief my own problems (and cast them as comic asides in a veil of tears); perhaps it's because she was 30 years old. It would be sad, should she have been 70, but at 30, the story stops me dead in my tracks. Perhaps it is because I've had enough; and this is my yawp, my scream out the window: "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not taking this anymore!"
I am angry for several reasons, but I'll stick to these: 1 - the lack of reportage, 2 - the political/social situation in which something like this can happen, 3 - despite, or because, of points 1 and 2, Rachel Peavoy and what happened to her will be forgotten (or overlooked) by all but her immediate family and friends.
So, why would one be angry at the lack of reportage? Having had to hide from the news during the weeks after Michaela McAreavey's death; from the bizarre voyeurism, which included 'live coverage' of her funeral; I am astounded to find there is no coverage of the Peavoy case. Granted, Michaela McAreavey was the daughter of a well known GAA manager. Also, she died abroad, on her honeymoon; which is all the more tragic. But that is the extent to which it is of public interest.
Isn't it in the public interest, that in 2011, someone could actually die of hypothermia in an apartment? That the reason why this happened was because the person's heating wouldn't be fixed? She seems pretty enough to be splashed on the papers every day for a week. Why isn't she? Is it because she appears to have been living in a council-owned apartment? Perhaps that's a bad dollar.

Jimmy! Get in here!

What is it chief? Is it the story?

Yes, it's the damn story! What am I supposed to do with the panel opposite?

What?

The panel opposite! What are we going to sell there? Nothing! Get me a murder, something that could sell shampoo or diet pills. Or a weekend getaway.

We don't have any more murders, chief...

No more murders? Well, get something from one of the political parties. Perhaps we can sell some insurance or a loan or something....

There is something very sinister about the lack of reporting into Rachel Peavoy's death. Not only in the case of newspapers, but also on TV and radio. I must have read the story at about 9am on Sunday morning and heard at least 3 full radio news bulletins during the day; and I heard nothing about Rachel Peavoy. I actually started to believe I had imagined it. But on Twitter, a number of other people mentioned it. 30 years old (this is younger than I). A mother of 2 (I also have 2 children). Dead. From the cold. After years of economic development. After all this talk of closing the poverty gap. After all the money spent on who-knows-what-services. How, in 21st Century Ireland, could a woman have her heating break down and nobody fix it? In the middle of the coldest winter we've had in years.
What political/social situation allowed this to happen? Everybody has it tough right now with the economy. People are cutting their own spending; the government will have to claw back more of what they spend and cut down on some of their projects and plans. One politician's greatest regret is that he didn't get his sports stadium built. Yet a 30 year old woman called Rachel Peavoy dies of hypothermia in an apartment.
Someone quite rightly pointed out that the problem is not just that Rachel Peavoy had even contacted her TD (Noel Ahearn, one time housing minister) about getting her heating fixed - it was that the system is such that this was the only conceivable way of getting the heating fixed, after the council refused to do anything because there was building work going on in adjacent flats. This is absurd. It's beyond a tragedy, because there should have been no helplessness in the face of fate here. I'm sure the council are well able to fix a heating system. We claim, as a country, and a society, to care for the most vulnerable in society. Wherever Rachel Peavoy might have been positioned on a scale of vulnerability doesn't really matter. If we claim to care for the most vulnerable, then we must care for those from that point on the scale to the other point on the scale. The least vulnerable, for example, who can claim €17,000 because they have a lack of ethical responsibility, but a keen sense of legal entitlement. All the while, at the time, we were bound up in Michaela McAreavey and whether Cowen would jump or be pushed.
I credit most of the people I know with caring more than this. However, I also think it's time that we had a better feedback route to the media. The Internet and social media platforms were allegedly going to do this for us; but evidently they didn't. We binge on news now. Rather than reading broadly and becoming well informed, we read deeply into stories that disappear in days or weeks. It is a single minded, over-wrought form of (to borrow a term from Julian Gough in Prospect) "wangst". This is the fault both of the reader and the media outlets. It's a vicious circle, the kind of which we see in local pubs across the country. Customers want a beer. Publicans want to sell beer. Everyone is quite happy with this arrangement. Problems arise where more beer is wanted than the publican feels it is safe to give (he is 'nannying'), or if the publican refuses to sell anything but beer (when a customer wants a whiskey or a wine). Or, as is often the case in this green land, both publican and customer keep at the beer until one has fallen off his chair and the other is mopping up the eructations of over consumption. It is a strange form of willed ignorance; a blinkering that allows us all to become economic dilettantes, but to know nothing of Rachel Peavoy, who at the age of 30, having had 2 children, dies of hypothermia in her flat because neither the council, nor her local TD would intervene to fix her heating.
I recall an interview with Tom Waits on the launch of his album Mule Variations (I cannot find this interview right now, but will add link when I do). He was talking about the song Georgia Lee; about how he came to write it. He had heard of a girl that had been found in a bush on the side of the road, dead. There was little about it for a range of reasons - where were her neighbours, her preacher, her community etc. Indeed, the chorus has the stark lines "Why wasn't God watching, Why wasn't God there? Why wasn't God watching, For poor Georgia Lee). When they came to line up songs for the album, they had way too many. They had to decide what to cut, and Georgia Lee was on the block. Except one of his children thought it was awful; that no one would remember this girl, she would forgotten completely. I remember vividly Waits' summation, saying he wouldn't want to be a part of that.

Indeed, neither do I with respect to 30 year old Rachel Peavoy, mother of 2, who died of hypothermia in a country that a few years ago was considered one of the richest and to have one of the best standards of living in the world.

(Georgia Lee, by Tom Waits.

Video by TraeCH on YouTube)

Thoughts on Paternity

2011-01-24T23:43:00.001Z

On page 12 of the Sunday Times in Ireland on the 23rd January, 2011, there was an article about paternity leave in Ireland. I was quoted in this article, and I must say every word that was quoted was indeed something I said.

However, not every word I said was included. This is not to claim that my opinion was twisted in any way. I imagine the fact is, much of what I said was rambling; being interviewed at c. 530 on a Thursday, at the end of a very busy week and particularly a day that found me drinking coffee constantly. My hands were shaking, I felt under some pressure to 'perform', not only on my behalf, but also for dad.ie (for whom I write a blog about my experiences as a father), who had organised the interview. In short, a lot of what I said was perhaps poorly phrased, confused or just couldn't make the cut if there is a word count to which one must work. However, because some people have asked about some of the things I was quoted as saying, I want to lay out my position here.

The truth is, it is very easy to have strong opinions on paternity leave in Ireland - both pro and con. It is much harder to hold - and indeed explain - that you can see both sides of the argument. To try and discuss paternity is impossible without a mass change of attitudes and opinions is much more difficult again. I will often be accused of 'sitting on the fence', because the certainty-lust of others demand you take a side and fight it to win it. Not all these things are competitions or races. Quite often, the questions that face us in life are qualitative: there can be no "win"; so how do we come about creating a situation where the best possible outcome for competing sides can be achieved?

Very quickly, the points I would make in relation to paternity leave and rights in Ireland are:

I was very lucky when M was born, as the guys I was working for at the time allowed me to take 2 weeks holidays (paid), starting from whenever M was born. This was taken out of my regular holiday leave. I know of at least 2 other people where this was not the case; where they took their leave based on the day their partner was due to give birth. If their partners went 'over', that was tough luck. And so it was for one, whose child was born on a Thursday; they had to return to work the next Monday.
This (as pointed out in the ST article) does have an affect on you as a father. You want to spend time with your newborn, and these days, this is nothing to be ashamed of. In years past, the opinion was you should spend time with your children, but whether you should want to was beyond anyone's imagination.
The other point (which did make it to the article) was that being at home for a good 2 weeks after birth helped me to better understand just how manic my wife's days were. There is a lot of stress after a child is born (not just financial - after your first, I had an existential ping, reminding me of my adolescent searching to understand what it was all about; there is also the logistics of a child in the house, how normal household tasks are performed; and also (for us anyway), stronger organisation of our time was required to make sure we met all our feeding, nappy, bedtime requirements); so any kind of understanding between the parents/guardians of any infant helps to short circuit any major incidents that might arise as a result of this stress.
I then pointed out that society has developed. Mothers are no longer expected to be purely domestic entities. It is well known and accepted that women can earn their own money and take care of themselves. Of course, in a family situation, you all take care of each other. However, I think for fathers the role has not moved on. The father's role is still considered to be primarily material: to provide the financial/economic resources required to run the household. This is not to shy from one's financial responsibilities: it is to point out that fathers' generally want to be recognised as carers of their children, and they are often not. This is the case with paternity rights where parents are unmarried; but it is also not the case when people think about a childs needs in the immediate post natal period. Who should be there to care for the child? Just the mother. This opinion does both parents a disservice.
However, I was working on contract jobs, generally sporadically at the time B was born. This meant after her birth I was almost immediately seeking work, being painfully aware that money would be required to pay bills, etc. Even were charm and good looks a tradable commodity, I would be broke. And so, one can see the problem, especially for smaller businesses and those (so many in Ireland) that operate on project work. It is very difficult to 1 - allow people to take time off from project work, where suitable cover may be hard to find and 2 - pay those people who are not actually being productive toward the business (this of course excepts the idea that you might be taking holidays)
My point about our obsession toward hyper-productivity was not a resounding yawp to return to a simpler time. Rather, it seems to me, social development has directed us further into our work, rather than allowing us to balance our work. When one considers that perhaps 40 years ago, many households had 1 person working. The idea that 2 people working might mean that both spend some time at work (a good thing for the sense of self, soul, creativity, imagination, &c.) and both spend some time at home (a good thing for appreciating life itself, family, etc.). However, this has not been the case. Instead, we find ourselves in the position that in most cases both parents are in work full time and the children are in creche; which is a horrible feeling for a parent. It's not like you're sending them out to the world to earn their living, but you feel lonely for them, and you worry how they will get on with 'other people'.
Finally, there was the question of whether I felt my employer would accept a decision to take 2 months unpaid leave. I think in all cases (unless the business could do with a payroll break without actually losing talent), this is considered a bridge too far. It has to do with the above point (6 - family life in a productive world), but also a question as to whether someone has dedication toward their work, if they are taking 2 months off. Quite frequently you will hear motherhood being cited as a 'life choice' that means women can't make it to higher executive positions in companies. I'm not sure I agree with the argument, but I am aware of it. I think the same sentiment can be applied to any time requested for family/personal purposes. There is a suspicion that you are not properly engaged with the company, not loyal enough, not committed enough. But this should be seen in the negative: It is not that one is any of these things, rather it is simply that one wants to take the time to spend with their family.

I recall Bertrand Russel's essay "In Praise of Idleness" where he argues that if everybody's working week was reduced, then more people could actually work. Of course coupled with this is a range of other social, political and economic issues that may be too much for any one person (except Bertrand Russel, of course) to attempt to bear. How does one reorganise a whole society in such a way? And what for the sparky entrepreneurs, whose efforts create employment? Any entrepreneur I know would baulk at the idea of being told they should work less. We live in an age when people will be on their deathbeds and will actually say "I wish I spent more time in the office". This is just a fact of life. But it then begs the question of how we adequately deal with implementing a decent paternity leave policy for the country; while squaring peoples desires to work, and companies needs to have people working for them.

Reading Chaucer's Canterbury Tales

2011-01-19T00:12:00.000Z

In the chaos, confusion and general comedy of Christmas in a household of 2 young children, I needed some refuge. Books and CDs have always provided this for me; and I certainly had books around. Receiving a new copy of Tristram Shandy (for the pages were falling out of the 3rd copy I had bought). My sister, who had sent over an Amazon voucher also bought me a copy of C by Tom McCarthy (which I am told is surely one of the best books of 2010).
But I had a hankering for something... I wasn't sure, I couldn't put my finger on it. I leafed through the books on our over-stuffed bookshelves. I wondered what book I was looking for; I knew I was looking for some specific book. There it was, at the back - two books in, over on the right: The Canterbury Tales, by Geoffrey Chaucer.

I had to read a few of the stories from this great Tome of hte Canon when I studied English in UCD. At the time, I both loved and hated it. I loved the idea - these string of stories tied together with the ingenious device that the people telling them were on pilgrimage. This allowed Chaucer to tell as many stories as he wanted, in as many ways as he wanted. A pilgrimage would provide a mix of characters; this mix of characters would allow him to write diverse types of stories in diverse tones. Some even included the C- word! When I left college, I had overinflated ambitions of writing myself; and Chaucer was the model I wished to follow. Not to re-write or re-create or re-configure The Canterbury Tales, but to write in short stories that would string together to create something greater than each individual piece.

I hated reading the Canterbury Tales because much of the concentration at the time as on translating it from middle English to modern. This I found tiresome and close to impossible. I was really bad at it. So bad, that every small victory over the text would be celebrated with grand boasting and showboating. Always, I learned from myself, a sure sign of insecurity. Anyone who studied it will remember the sheer size of the original text you had to work with. Three bibles thick and ten times as obscure. You had to first translate text, then research the context to finally provide a decent translation. Then, you might (if you wanted a first) use the correct graphic formation for the letters. For me, all of this was hopeless. The only chink of light was the knowledge that we would be examined on the content of the stories as well as the translation.

For understanding the stories, I had a simple solution. My booklust had me in O'Mahony's in Limerick one rainy Saturday. I was 3 pints away from getting some money owed to me. I was in O'Mahony's to be sure I wouldn't drink those 3 pints and forget about the money, or - invariably in those days - claim that it was fine, I didn't want the money back. Perusing the shelves, opening some books. Black ink floating on white, shiny pages; in others embedded in the cream, heavy pages. The smell. There I found The Canterbury Tales, in a modern English translation. Published by Oxford World's Classics, I believed it must be authoritative to some extent. The most important aspect was that as I leafed through the stories, I could understand every single word. No translation. Easy notes, stuck at the back, so I didn't have to trawl through each page and its associated notes. I made the purchase and sat down with a pint and The Knights Tale (which was on the curriculum).

That year, UCD had the privilege of hosting Terry Jones (of Monty Python fame), who has written a book taken quite seriously, but often rejected, about The Knight's Tale. His thesis was that The Knight's Tale was a subtle satire on the morality of the time. Most consider the Knight's Tale to be the 'control' for the stories - the one that demonstrates Chaucer's ability as a writer, proving that the subsequent tales are true satire, using vulgar (in both traditional and more modern senses) language to throw light both on his characters and the words they use.

I think, when in UCD (it was a long time ago now), I had to read three tales altogether; some for translation, others for discussion. I read my three stories from the modern translation, and carried on with the 'real' interest books that modern, American, Canadian and Anglo Irish literature promised. In a lecture on Joyce, the lecturer said he'd been told when first studying Joyce that he should wait ten years before reading Ulysses in full. This, he had been told, would increase his appreciation. I thought that a good plan to try with The Canterbury Tales. Wait ten years to revisit the crushing, painful love of such a difficult text.

That was 13 years ago. But much of what has been written here came to me when I saw the book sitting there, at the back, on the right. I'm only three tales in, enjoying it already. I also think my appreciation has improved with time.

You never really know what you're reading. Not because the language is difficult, but because you need to gauge the character who is telling the tale. In many cases, each tale reacts to the one that went before. For example, the drunken Miller tells a story of a student who cuckolds a carpenter. The Reeve, insulted at the victimisation of the carpenter, tells a tale where the Miller is a scoundrel. Each character insults the next just enough to keep this momentum going. Even in the modern translation, the verse has been kept. I'm quite the fan of verse, so this suits me well. All the while, the narrator keeps reminding us that it's a book we are reading, and perhaps doth protest too much that he's telling it exactly as it happened - so has to use all this foul language and puerile detail, because that was what was told.

This time, of course, I don't have to consider important insights or witty quips to make in an essay. I can enjoy the book for what it is. Apparently, a reworking (rip off?) of The Decameron by Boccaccio. But, hell, I'm enjoying it. And that's really what one should be doing with any book. Now in my Christ year, I believe that more than ever and am willing to stop reading the moment a book becomes unsatisfying. I reckon I'll finish this one. Perhaps to revisit it in another 13 years.

Another Conversation with My 3 Year Old

2010-12-13T20:36:00.000Z

"Hi M! How was your day?!"
"I'm NOT E-"
"Hi Cinderella!
"I'm NOT Cinderella"
"Hi Sleeping Beauty"
"I'm NOT sleeping Beauty"
"But grumpy this evening?"
"NO! I'm NOT Grumpy. Or Sleepy, or Bashful, or Doc, or any of them. I'm NOT a dwarf"
"Hi Arial"
"I'm NOT Arial. Mummy, I'm not talking to Daddy TONIGHT!"
"Hi princess"
"Oh, Daddy! Hello! Today we saw Grandma and Autnie J and we went for lunch and B- was crying and Mummy had to tell her to stop and we went to the shops and it was..."

Initial Thoughts About the IMF

2010-11-19T00:05:00.000Z

I don't really know much about the IMF, outside of they're coming meaning we're in a whole pile of trouble. But, on reading the comments and papers and watching the news, I do have some reflections I'd like to share, both good and bad. I'll start with the bad in the hope that this ends on a good note.

The Bad

The humiliation and shame we feel about the IMF being in the country. Well, it is tough. And I suppose humiliating. But we did bring it on ourselves. We'd like to think Fine Fail brought this on us, but the fact is, their economic policies were being questioned in various corners since Charlie McCreevy's "What I have, I spend" comment. Elections since then appear to have based on the electorate being willingly deluded that money was free, and like trees, would simply grow. Children who convince their parents they can have another chocolate at Christmas. Parents who just want the peace to get on with Trivial Pursuit, say 'Go ahead'; children get sick and think "How could they do this to me"
This business of the beggars on Stephen's Green being an iconic image of the trouble we're now in (here it is). Well, this is where you should feel shame. I first started spending a lot of time in Dublin from about 1994/1995. People were begging there then. They have been begging there ever since. If you have only noticed them now, well, shame on you. Perhaps it's a sign of just how blinkered the society was that nobody noticed them before.
We should feel humiliated and ashamed of our politicians. The hiding away of the Green party and the Fine Fail back benchers rattling their sabres feels plain wrong to me. Both these groups voted for the bank guarantee (rightly or wrongly - I'm not questioning the guarantee right now, though I think I did over on the Fat Man blog a while ago), which appears to be the primary cause of our current serious troubles. Sure, they're political creatures and they have to survive, but I'd like to see a bit more backbone. Say "We got it wrong", apologise and try to move on. Stop trying to pretend there were always various factions at play after voting along party lines for years. On the other hand, we have Dick Roche boasting that they're playing poker with the IMF - which seems such a level of hubris that he must be completely unaware of what the rest of us are thinking and feeling.
I don't know where I sit with the whole "Is this what they died for?" bit. Frankly, it feels to me like we're feeling so angry and depressed we want to be moreso. But with news not getting much worse for us, we've turned to our history to try and resurrect some of that old misery we used to love so much.

The Good

I welcome the return of humour to Irish political discourse. Our dark humour and dampened spirits have exceeded themselves in the delivery of razor sharp wit and observation of the society within which we have found ourselves.
Someone had to put on the brakes. This is a good/bad point, but let's look at it as a good point. We have been overspending for years; and we have been running the country on unsustainable taxes raised from one-off projects (construction) and similar deals (business activity). How we thought this could just go on forever is absurd, unless the government brought in 15 year destruction orders or something
Following on from that, we appear to have gained some sense in ourselves. And, perhaps of ourselves. Perspective you might call it. Well done us. Hopefully this will lead to a more independent electorate: the end of voting on party lines for family reasons. The beginning of a more rigorous consideration of what it is that political parties stand for; and what their policies might mean. I recall a debate in the UK sometime round the early 2000's where someone snidely cut across a panel member, saying "But you're going to vote Lib Dems - and they want to raise your taxes!" to which the other person replied "Yes, and that's how they'll pay for a better public service. I still don't know how the Tories or Labour intend to do that." Wise thinking indeed.

A Conversation With My 3 Year Old Daughter

2010-08-12T21:54:00.000+01:00

"Peppa Pig?"
"No, that's boring for girls."
"Aladdin?"
"No, that's boring for girls."
"Teletubbies?"
"Daddy! That's only for BABIES"
"Shrek?"
"Daddy! That's only for BOYS!!"
"Dora?"
"No, that's boring for girls."
"Tinkerbell"
"Yes! That's PERFECT for girls! How did you know?"

Before a Storm

2010-07-07T00:12:00.001+01:00

The air heavy. Heat around your skin; radiated like flesh torn or battered. The sky is metallic, dark, bruised with rolling clouds, ready to bleed. Sun there, far away, mendacious. Pushing, squeezing. Can’t pierce the bruises. Shouldn’t be counted. It’s not a sunny disposition.
The earth pants in exhausted billows of cut grass and leaf. The ground sweats.
The world taut.
Something is going to give.

Mo Leaba: A Derivative Account of Child-Induced Insomnia

2010-07-02T21:56:00.000+01:00

I am in my own room. It is where I live now. With my wife and two children. I am sleeping, or trying to. My children, whom I assume to have read Beckett are punishing us. Perhaps for bringing them to this damnable world, but who knows? This has been going on for weeks now.
I don’t know how it started. They say when you dream, your brain processes all your memories - taking your RAM and dumping it to storage for later retrieval. Except we haven’t had any sleep. One or other of these lucky ladies will wake. And when they do, crashing from their dreams into the silent dark of their rooms, they will scream. Scream!
Then, my wife or I will run. Run! To try and settle the unsettled child, who will continue with sobs. We didn’t always wait up all night for one of them to wake. But when we didn’t wait up - the one to wake would surely start the other.
Whichever one it is, if she doesn’t wake the other, we will bring her into our room to settle her there with hugs and bottles and all the other weapons in our young-parent armoury of love.
If it is Sunshine, she will clutch her baby Susie, fall asleep in three minutes. With somnolent shifts, she will move to a horizontal position, kicking one parent in the head, while the other’s hair is pulled and tangled. We get little sleep, sore heads and stiff backs.
If it is Starlight, she will be true to her name, shining on through the night. She will not settle in our bed. She believes it to be playtime. We curse ourselves and the attention we give her. She gurgles and giggles and climbs on us and stands up there in the middle of the bed. We have a series of minor heart attacks as she rages against the brightening of the light - when - as day breaks and the earth wakes - she will decide to sleep. When I have to go to work. When my wife has to look after Sunshine and her little cousin, Tinysmiles. But these are distractions - work, care. These are things we do when we are not in our room, which is where we live now.
At first we told ourselves we’ve been through this before. The sleeplessness. The cries that wake us in the night. But then, we realise, back then, we only knew half of it. There are two now.
We are insensate. The world is inexorable. We are not in it, nor of it. We do not touch it or move it. We are ideas. Words waiting to be said. Stories waiting to be told. We cannot escape it. Our children have taken our place.
They are in our room. It is where they live now. They turn us and roll us and command us. The progeny discipline the parents. A new order.
“Something must be done” I tell my wife. She looks at me hopefully, like I am going to do something. But I cannot. There is darkness and silence, but no sleep. One child kicking my face, the other dancing in the space between my wife and I. So much in the spaces between light and dark. So much in the space between words and actions. But something must be done. Someone should do something.
“Perhaps it's done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.” (Beckett)

Ripples

2010-06-19T01:31:00.001+01:00

The water ripples were tiny
Hours after the car plunged
Days after the letter was opened
Weeks after the message was written
Months after the patience was lost
A Quarter after the payments became 'irregular'

A Thing of Terrible Beauty

2010-06-19T01:27:00.000+01:00

It is such
a thing of terrible
terrible beauty
the way she
shuns me
looking out
the passenger window.

I smile to the sun,
magnified through
the windscreen.

And my eyes hurt
and I tell her
"according to that wall
over there
Kelly loves Sam
but
Eddie's a
wanker".

I laugh as
She turns to face me,
Seething with
Mango on her teeth
She calls me a clown
but
She calms down.

Our laughter is such
a thing of terrible beauty.

Crossing Lines in The Dark

2010-06-17T00:19:00.002+01:00

It is dark and I steer illumination, drawing
The lines I will cross
White-black-white-black
In the middle of the road
Home.
Where I know
She is sleeping again
In the dark
In her underwear.
It is thrilling to be here:
driving there
to her
in her underwear
At home.

Fire Signs #1

2010-02-11T16:23:00.001Z

A spark, a flame: A fire.
Stolen long ago from the gods by Prometheus, who was forever punished. Tied to a rock, his liver torn out and consumed, by an eagle no less. Over and over again. The liver, you see, being reinstated to aid the punishment. The (same?) eagle hungry and knowing just where to find a quick bit to take away. Maybe feed the chicks. Dress it in a little sauce. This was all in hell you see, so the pun, 'devilled liver', comes clattering along. A cliché formed of too much heat, too much light. Little imagination. Poor Prometheus.
For providing a bit of heat, a bit of light, a bit of imagination. Humans become gods, having fire. Keeping it to themselves or hurling it full force at each other. Too much heat, too much light. Too little imagination.
Really a natural occurrence created by nature, managed now by humans. Oxidation of what have you by means of combustion, which produces heat and light and crap, which can be managed by the imagination. All quite temporary, once the what have you is used up, that's it: the fire goes out. So it has to be managed.
Project managed, with timelines and deliverables and milestones that are millstones. Ample heat, ample light. Too much imagination. We have so little to do, having heat and light, that the imagination will not be tied to a rock, only to have its liver eaten out. No.
The liver, you see, filters out the excess. Stops you poisoning yourself, or overdosing on a life of too much heat, too much light. This is what imagination has to do. See the similarity there. Taking the overflow, the nasty crap, helping you filter it out. Leaving you with hope, or dreams or whatnot that keeps you going when you throw your arms up in the air and say "I can't go on!"
And, you know, none of it makes sense, because all I'm doing here is lighting a cigarette.

The Dances No. 2

2010-01-11T17:41:00.002Z

    The summer is coming and so are the exams. Six youths: three lads, three girls, walk across a flat, marshy field to the cover of a ring of bushes. In the centre, the ground is always scorched – so hot is this place with youths. They carry cans and naggins and smokes and sometimes, but not often, hash. They always have their MP3 players. Someone once brought a portable DVD player, but it got puked on and that was the end of anything that costs money but doesn’t fit snugly into your pocket.
    Three lads, three girls. Something might happen, but nothing is planned, save in the relentless minds of young men. They are a loose affiliation, with only a school, and only really an Irish class in common. But they live close enough to this spot to make them all connected enough to come drinking together. They don’t have any other plans for the night.
    They don’t wear the same clothes, like the fashionable ones, or those that wouldn’t be seen dead in anything other than funereal black. They wear whatever. They don’t drink the neon, easy drinks. They’re harder than that with ciders and shorts of various flavours and hues. They don’t go in for the whole ‘group’ thing. They each think: whatever.
    Madeleine - a real character - pulls a plastic cup from her bag, and mixes vodka from a naggin with an energy drink from a long, thin can. Everyone wants some, but she says no, get your own, scabby fuckers. She holds up the cup, little finger out: the epitome of civilised drinking in a dark, mucky field, surrounded by hedges, sheep, shit and the eager faces of the others who want to get pissed as quickly as possible. She puts on a face and takes a sip. They all laugh. She knocks back two cups, then says “How about a fire”? She produces two firelighters from the same bag, throws them on the scorched earth. The rest of them look on. After a few moments, Gary takes the firelighters, some twigs that surround them, takes out his lighter and gets a fire going.
    “I love a fire” says Anna. The lads glance toward each other. What kind of granny is she? I love a fire. What does it mean? Tobsly and James still would. Gary thinks that’s way off, and probably a sign of something worse.
    “Music. I need music.” Madeleine pulls an MP3 player from her bag. Gary says “Jaysis, just like Mary Poppins”. They laugh a little, not drunk enough yet to find it hysterical. “Here, give me one of them,” Anna says. Madeleine hands her one of the buds, and she puts it in her ear.
    Anna and Madeleine listen to whatever on the MP3 player; Mary, silent, stares into space, thinking, like, whatever.
    Tobsly, Gary and James abuse each other tirelessly. They call each other fags, pussies, dopes, gobshites, fuckers, cunts and the rest. They laugh, sip, curse. The curses get compounded, objects are added, bizarre poses and sinful actions until finally Tobsly, the one they all think is a bit odd, but OK – he always hands over a smoke, and brings his own booze – says “You fuck goats while licking sheep arses half way over a fence so the barbed wire rips your balls open so your mother can suck them.” Silence. Someone says “Shit. That wouldn’t be much fun. I think that was Mungo.” They all laugh at that one. Mungo, their large, clumsy looking but careful biology teacher, who wanted so much for them to be mature enough to discuss sexual reproduction that he made a laughing stock out of it. And himself.
    They talk about the exams, each declaring themselves less prepared than the last. All of them knowing they are lying. They have been preparing, they are hoping for a good result and for something to happen. Except for Gary, college is expected of all of them. Gary wishes it was expected of him. The others bear it like a chore, a slight on their very existence – the expectation of success. James tries to ask what success means, really. They look at him blankly. He’s thinking too much.
    The subject is suspended there. They sit in silence for some time. Some turn and lift their heads, only to drop them again. Madeleine and Anna hum along to whatever on the MP3 player. A decent distraction.
    Music. There is music, but not from any of the MP3 players round the fire. Gary pokes his head up above the bushes to see Tim walking toward them with what their parents called a ‘ghetto blaster’ in the tone of one uncomfortable with a foreign language. They don’t say that. They each have a different word for it. It gives them music to share without headphones. And, if you wanted, you could talk over it, while listening to music in both ears. “Jesus”, says Gary, “It’s the man of the eighties!”
    Tim pushes through the bushes, music playing on the speakers at his ear. Hip hop going, he put on the shape of a guy from a Spike Lee film. Not a hard guy or a good guy, but one of the eccentric ones. Loud, solid colours, a squeaky voice and a way of talking that sounded like a machine gun going off out of control. That was exactly how he speaks.
    “Well, fuckers! How goes it! Brought some tunes! But I’ve no drink! Help me out!” Rat-tat tat. Rat-tat tat. Tim was stoned and ready for some fun. That much was obvious. Tobsly took a half bottle from his pocket and threw it up to him. It landed on the ground behind him. Tim put the player down, picked up the whisky, took a swig, and coughed three times. Khe-khe khe.
    The seven of them sit around, like all the sins collected. They listen to the music for a while, not talking. They’re bored now, but no one wants to admit it. Where are all the wild antics from those films? Girls taking off their tops, boys jumping round the place, drinking wildly, shouting. Where is all that?
    Sporadic conversations strike up, like small fires, and die down again. The mad, the bad and the dangerous antics of friends, family and weirdos from the town and the school. Sometimes they laugh, sometimes they gasp. Like a tide, their conversation drowns out, then uncovers the subdued sounds of hip hop from Tim’s CD player.
    During one such silence, Tobsly gets up, jerks his arms, contorts his body, seeing in front of him exotic characters whose skin he wants to be in. He turns to see them all looking at him, saying nothing. He stops, sits down. He hates dancing in front of people. He tries to think of something smart to say, recover the situation. Nothing comes. So in silence, he sips his whisky, passes some to Tim, offers some around. Their faces are hot from hard liquor and the fire. They notice the light flickering on their faces, knowing it must now be dark, although they didn’t notice it getting dark.
    Tim pulls out some cigarette papers, evenly distributes tobacco in a thin tube along the centre. Then he pulls a small cube of dark resin, holds it over a flame and crumbles it along the top. He rolls the whole thing together and smiles. He has only recently conquered the technique, and he knows he’s at least a month or so ahead of others in this respect. He lights it, takes a long draw, and passes it to Tobsly, on his right. Tobsly says “I thought you were meant to pass that on the left-hand-side,” singing the last three words. He smokes, but not this. He doesn’t want this, but he doesn’t want to look dry. It turns out no one wants it. Tim tokes on, delighted that it’s all for him, but disappointed that no one recognises the talent he has displayed in rolling such a neat joint.
    Madeleine, Anna and Maria get up and start dancing around the fire. The flames touch off their clothes, but never catch. The boys watch and look at each other, wondering who will get up first. They know they have to. If they want anything to happen, they will have to.
    The girls laugh, and they pull up the boys, who join in willingly once invited. Tobsly, odd man out, starts trying to dance with Maria, who is dancing with Tim. Tobsly tries to get near, treads on her toes, and knocks her by accident. She gives him a look, and he moves away. “Sorry”.
    He likes dancing alone. It feels good. He throws his hands in the air, pictures the video for the song, and does the moves he can remember. It takes over him like some kind of voodoo. He is drunk, and only feels embarrassed when he thinks of himself going crazy in the sitting room as a child, when he had been jumping in front of his father’s great big fuck off stereo, as they all call it now. His mother walked in with the neighbour; the neighbour burst herself laughing, his mother burst herself crying. Ever since, she gives him this look every so often, like something isn’t right. He wants to make it right, but he can’t. And as the chorus comes back, he forgets about it, and carries himself, drunk, smoking, throwing shapes that mean something to someone somewhere, but here just provide a feeling and a motion.
    Meanwhile, the rest of them laugh. They think he’s doing a great take on the dances of pop stars. He’s a gas, they think, a real nutter. Contorting his body, bending his arms, forming angles that straighten at the end of a bar, or on the beat of a drum or the jangle of a guitar chord. The rest sit down, talk about what they think the song means. “I heard he wrote this about his wife…”; “I heard it was about wanking…”; “I heard he tried to commit suicide, and it didn’t work, but as he was close to death, this was the tune in his head, and he could hear those words, as if someone was saying them to him, but no one was there…” The theories became more and more contrived and slurred, backed up by arguments based on the lyrics and whether some of them deliberately didn’t rhyme, so that you’d understand those were the words you had to read into more.
    Heads spinning from deep conversation, alcohol and dancing, they all lie back. Gary starts in on Maria, tickling her some, while she eggs him on by saying “Stop, don’t” through short laughs, and not moving away. James talks to Anna about fire, what it means to them, why it’s so attractive. They kiss. The others laugh a little, and Gary looks at Maria. Maria looks at Gary. They kiss too.
    Tobsly moves over to Madeleine, who sits with her head down, looking drunk and bored. He nudges her with his elbow and says “Alright?” She thinks, well, whatever. I’m here. Why not. And she waits. He talks about fire too, then about books, about music: a torrent of procrastination. She thinks there’s only one way to shut him up and get this over with and that’s to just do it. She kisses him. He kisses her, thinking, what a night. What a night!
    Suddenly Madeleine spins fast, turns her head down and gets sick in her bag. When she looks up, they are all looking at her. Except Tobsly, who is looking at the others. “Jaysis… Just.. like Mary Poppins” says Gary. There is hysterical laughter this time.
    “You there! You there!” a voice calls from somewhere. Gary looks through a gap at the bottom of the bushes
    “Bollocks. Maddy’s Da, and a copper. Two coppers. Ah fuck! There’s two cars… Four coppers!” They all try to find an escape route. They, whoever they were out there, had found the place. They knew what went on here from the glass naggins and scorched earth, and they were coming back to restore order. Reclaim this place for the decent people.
    The light from a torch pokes through the bushes around them. Tobsly can see a high-viz jacket and knows there’s only two things to do – get the fuck away, or get fucked.
    He throws his cigarette away and dives into a bush. The butt hits one of the others, who yelps. The torch goes straight for them. Tobsly, finding a gap in the hedge dives through. Fuck them all, he thinks as he crawls across the grass to the next hedge. He wants to be somewhere no one will see him. He hears the confusion behind him, and he seems to have got away, once he just keeps going.

*** *** ***

    The summer is over, and so is, their parents tell them, their ‘youth’. They aren’t old enough to know what this means. For a while now, they have been preparing for college, applying for places, securing accommodation and trying to find out where to get jobs to keep them going. They have been drinking in fields, and friends’ houses, waiting. Tonight, they dress up to let down their hair.
    Tobsly met up in Tim’s house with Edel and Jessica. The girls looked like models. If the lads weren’t such wankers, they’d think of trying something on. Instead they think of getting some drink inside them. After thirty minutes of Tim’s dad’s scotch and discussions on manhood, the stretched, white limo appears. The girls bolt out, quick as they can. Edel spills a little champagne on the way out. It was the weirdest thirty minutes of her life. At least Jessica knew Tim’s parents. At least Jessica knew Tim. She was left with Tobsly. What kind of name is that? He seemed OK, until he spoke or did anything. She could have gone to this debs with anyone, but she promised Edel (who promised Tim) that she’d go if Tobsly asked her.
    It took him some time, too. Months, weeks, days, hours and minutes of procrastination, all boiled down to about thirty seven seconds in which he said
    “Errr, Edel…”
    “Yes?”
    “Would you… Or, actually, you know… You know the Debs?”
    “Yes”
    “Well, I was err” turns round to look at Tim, egging him on, while she looks at     Jess, who raises her eyes and rolls her wrist, go on, tell him yes!
    “Yes”
    “Well, I mean, would you like to go with me?”
    “Yes”
    “Oh, that’s great! Thank you so much” She had already turned, headed out, probably for a smoke with Jessica, when the hallway erupts in cheer for Tobsly. Here and there a few say things like “Virgin” and “Gobshite”, but they can’t be heard for the overwhelming support for what had just happened. One of the hottest girls in the school said yes to the biggest freak this side of the elephant man. What-Ever!
    Now they are in the limo, on the way to the Debs. Tobsly reaches into his inside pocket, pulls out a fag and a naggin of whisky. “Anyone?”
    “Classy” says Edel, looking at Jessica.
    “Aw, c’mon. It’s only a bit of whisky!” Tim tries to keep spirits high, while Tobsly downs some of his personal supply.
    Edel gives Jessica a look.
    They get there, at last. A red carpet has been rolled out to make the whole thing more special for the young ladies and gentlemen who believe this to be the rite of passage to adulthood. Or, indeed, the pissup of a lifetime. Bouncers with humourless faces pat down the gentlemen, relieving them of drugs and alcohol that might make them that much less gentle. In the limo, Tobsly puts the naggin between his boot and his ankle. They head up.
    “What’s wrong with you?” asks the bouncer
    “Hurt my leg. Playing, ah, rugby”
    “Yeah? Looks like you’re walking on pebbles. Why don’t you take your shoe off?”
    “Shoe has nothing to do with it. Hurt my leg playing footie, I told you.”
    “You said rugby”
    “Bollocks I did. I don’t play rugby. I play football.”
    “State of you, you don’t play anything tubby.”
    “How do you know my name?” The bouncers, mistaking this for cheek, usher the others in, grab Tobsly and bring him round the side of the building
    “Listen here you little shit. I know that Edel, I know her dad. I’m letting you in, but it’s so her night isn’t ruined. It wouldn’t be fair on her. She’s a lovely girl. But I’ll have my fucking eye on you. Do you hear me? My fucking eye!” Tobsly thinks about his fucking eye, but decides not to say anything. Edel’s night is ruined when she discovers Tobsly Dath has not, in fact been barred from the Debs. He staggers in, the drink affecting him both from the inside and out. She looks at Jessica, who is laughing at yet another of Tim’s clever little jokes.
    From the bar, they are ushered to the function room by staff. Tables laid out not so much like the pictures from the brochure, but like an army mess hall with fancy glasses and cutlery. The napkins are tissue, the table cloths disposable.
    The bar is lined with boys in ill-fitting suits, while girls in fancy dresses chat in the toilets and around tables. Powder is applied to faces, powder is applied to noses. These kids are grown up and know it, and act it, aping their parents’ bad behaviour, and then some. The guys talk about exams, jobs, colleges, bitches, assholes, pussies who wouldn’t do this, and cunts who wouldn’t do that. They give their cursing a real workout. The girls talk about exams, jobs, colleges, assholes, guys, some slut who did this guy, and some real whore who did some other guy. They drink, they chat, they judge. Just like the grown ups they are growing into.
    The barmen, meanwhile, ask each and every one of the gentlemen for ID. In their turn, the gentlemen produce their faked IDs. Many don’t even need fake IDs, but it just happens to be the only ID they have, and you can’t get a drink without an ID. The barmen, unconvinced but unconcerned, dole out drinks to these seemingly older-than-average Leaving Certificate graduates.
    Teachers mill around, reminding the young ladies and gentlemen how they are mature now, and how they should act it. After a while, a tap on a microphone urges them all to sit down, in their various school groups, whispering and hissing about the other groups.
    The Head speaks glowingly of the year, of their achievements over their time in the school. He jokes about various transgressions. They laugh. Then they all bow their heads for grace. Soup arrives with Amen.
    Dinner is consumed with tempered savagery, which becomes less tempered as wine is poured and repoured. By the main course, small groups have formed at most of the tables to order more wine, as their allocation has been consumed. Some go for the cheapest, some for the most expensive. Most go for the highest alcohol content, and order some shots ‘on the side’. The teachers look warily on at the mature ladies and gentlemen, whom it has been their pleasure to teach all these years. They see them now, outside the classroom, responsible for their own behaviour. The teachers shake their heads.
    By desert, food has been pushed aside to make more room for pints, shots and shorts. The ladies toddle on high heels to the bathroom, where they clean themselves up and puke. The gentlemen look on glassy eyed, comparing notes on who’s going to ride who, and what it’ll be like. During which time, they stagger into the toilet to puke and clean themselves up. The band starts up, welcoming them to the dinner they’ve already eaten and the night they’re in the middle of. The first night of the rest of their lives. The lives they feel in the middle of, even as everyone assures them it’s only just beginning.
    As showband tunes play, the floor fills with staggered, mocking dances. The gentlemen roll up their sleeves and do the “Dad at a wedding” dance, while the ladies laugh and dance in circles, passing comments and glances on those around them.
    Tobsly’s at the bar, showing his fake ID, pursuant to the purchase of a round of drinks. Back at the table, Edel says “He’s full of shit.”
“Yeah, but he bought the wine.” Tim replies, swirling the last of it in his glass. “And he’s buying the first round!”
“So? That just shows he’s always thinking of drink”
“C’mon, Edel, he’s not that bad. He’s kind of cute.” Jessica tries to soothe the situation, looking at Tim, then Edel, trying to gauge the opinions travelling from one to the other.
“He’s tubby.” Says Edel. “But he can be funny. He’s just so full of shit! Half of his ‘stories’ are patent bullshit.” Her fingers do air quotes on ‘stories’.
“Oh, c’mon, take them with a pinch of salt, and forget about it. He’s only trying to impress you, you know” Tim winks at Edel. She feels lightly flattered, but heavily depressed at the thought of fighting Tobsly Dath off all night.
“He’s not… expecting… anything, is he?” Edel, horrified at the thought that just landed on her. “I only agreed to come to the Debs. Nothing else. Oh Jesus. Tim, is he, you know, like… expecting anything?”
“I don’t think so. Go easy on him. You know he’s a nice guy once you get to know him.”
“They said that about Hitler” Jessica puts in, full of confidence. She has no idea whether this is true, but it sounds good to put in.
“What about college?” Tim asks, changing the subject.
“I guess it’ll depend on my points. Hoping for Trinity, but who knows?”
“I know. I’ll be in Leeson Street, repeating.”
“I’ll be in Leeson Street…” Jessica says, meaning with Tim, but they all laugh at the implication of Jessica as street walker or stripper.
“What’s so funny?” Tobsly lands the drinks, droplets flying over his hands, which he then licks clean. He places them in front of their respective consumers.
“Ah, nothing. What are you doing for college, Tobsly?”
“I dunno. Depends on points. Probably business or something. UCD.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Oh, I dunno. Go into business. Maybe an accountant. That’d be good. High pay for a-counting…” they laugh a little. Lame joke, lame laugh.
“How about you, Edel?”
“I was just saying I don’t know. It depends on points. Trinity for Arts I think.”
“Oh, Orts” Tobsly says. Edel gives him a look. “Sorry” he says. “What subjects?”
“I applied for English and Psychology” She looks away, already thinking of all those books.
Tobsly convinces himself he’s interested. Why not? English, Psychology. A degree in reading books. The psyche of the mind. What makes us all tick. All that. Yes, lively characters, stories to grip you. At the end of that, you’d really know what life was all about, he thinks. But it’d be a bitch to get a job.
“Tobsly!” Edel shouts him from his fugue. He awakes to realise his eyes are resting on her breasts, well presented in her dress. Tim and Jessica laugh.
“Let’s dance!” Tim shouts, jumping from his chair.
“Ah, no” says Tobsly, “I think I’ll drink!” he raises his glass, thinks of some character from a movie or a book, takes a swig. They look at him. Tim leans down
“C’mawn… think of it. You’re here with Edel. You’d get a great chance if you geve her a little dance…”
“Seriously, Tim. I… I… I don’t know how. I never know what to do up there…” He’s shamed.
“Do what everyone else is doing!” Tim cheers him on, grabbing his arm “No one knows what to do, you just do your thing. Eventually, we all get along, doing something similar. There’s no rules, it’s just what we’re all doing”
    Tobsly downs his drink, stands, offers Edel his hand in what he believes is a courtly manner. She turns and walks to the dance floor. Tim grabs Jessica’s waist, shaking her lightly to the rhythm of the music, shimmying to the floor. Tobsly follows behind, his stride jerks as he takes on the rhythm.
    On the floor, some gentlemen still play the fool, while some ladies dance absent-midedly as they talk. Edel joins the ladies, as Jessica is turned round the floor by Tim. Tobsly dances in a shrug and a stagger on the corner of the floor, nodding hello to others as they pass him. He waits two songs.
    He’s about to go back to his drink when the tempo rises - the band finishing with a bang - and Edel, Jessica and Tim start dancing as part of a group. Tobsly goes over, beside Edel. In the group he feels a little more anonymous, a little more comforted. The ladies and gentlemen are kids again. The band urges them on, as the teachers shake their heads, and start sneaking out to the hotel bar.
    More join the group, some crying, some laughing. They shout whispers to each other about never forgetting, and how it’s the end of an era. Most of them mean it. Tobsly, looking at his strangely moving feet starts to stamp them. Edel shrieks as he lands on her toe. The whole group looks on, gentlemen laughing as the ladies scowl. Tobsly keeps going, looking up every so often to see if they’ve looked away. The song ends, and he heads for the bar.
    He orders another round to make it up. He looks around, but can’t see them. They aren’t at the table. They are milling around, talking to others. Mingling. Tobsly looks for them, listening to the conversations going on along the bar. College places, jobs, and jokes. Is there anything else?
“Is there anything else?” The barman was asking. Tobsly, waking from his reverie says no, and hands over the note. He looks around again, but still can’t see them, Tim, Jessica and Edel. He downs the girls’ gin and tonics. Picks up the pints, puts down the lager, sips the Guinness and decides to walk about a bit.
    He steps outside for a smoke, dizzy. The bouncers look at him, but nobody says anything. Some teachers look over, but turn their head, hoping not to get into a conversation. He sips his beer and lights the smoke, watching it rise in ribbons from the end of the cigarette, puff in clouds from his mouth. For a while, this is all he does, all he thinks of.
    Smoke done, he heads back in. The DJ has started, thumping beats and electronic noises. Eyes have gone from blurred to dilated. Movements from sluggish to jerky. The night, for the ladies and gentlemen, has turned around. Tobsly hits the bar, orders another round.
“Where have you been?” It’s Edel behind him.
“Went for a smoke. I’m sorry about your toe. Let me buy you a…”
“No, it’s fine. I’m… um, I’m over with Shay now. We’re… um. We’re together now.”
    He stared, wide eyed and stupid looking as she turned and walked toward Shay O’Toole. Fucking tool, Tobsly thought, raising his pint to his mouth. He’ll do well in his leaving cert, well in college, well in his career. Worst of all, he’ll do well with Edel now, tonight. Fucking tool.
    Tobsly seethes, surveying the room. He considers pissing on the dance floor. As he straightens himself up, he thinks again, seeing the bouncers watching his halting movements. He shrinks again, orders a whiskey.
“Are you sure?” asks the barman, eyeing him.
“Yep” he says, trying for chirpy, but managing somehow to slur it. The barman pours it, places it in front of him. Tobsly offers the note, but he says “No, you’re having a bad night. Just don’t go mad.” Tobsly downs the whiskey, grabs his pint and goes out for another smoke. He feels eyes on him, and needs to get away from them. He goes out the doors and somebody says something; but somebody is always saying something, he thinks.

Some sketches

2009-11-16T00:33:00.000Z

It is cold and Matthew Martinson is waiting on the street, right by the entrance there. He is waiting for her. She should be here. She will be here, despite it all. It's been two weeks, which is time enough. Hopefully.
****
In the heat of a pub's open fire Micheál's face reddens. He drinks a shot of Jemmy, straight. Hot inside, warm out. The heat makes the close air heavy. Hard to breathe. He is looking through the crowd, past the edge of the bar, through the arch between it and the wall, to the door. It opens and closes. Cold air would breeze through it when it opens; he knows that. But it does not reach him. Does not refresh him. He steps toward the crowd, then back. Yes, says the girl behind the bar. Pint and a Jemmy, says Micheál, rubbing the back of his hot neck, trying to muscle up a fan of cooler air.
****
They - they always say - always say it is never enough to have. One must do. And these ideas swirl round, like the vortex spiralling down a plug hole. So much used water to be expelled. Nothing done with it. The water is used, like a mind, but then turns to refuse. Like a mind. Mind you, it cannot be all bad. It cannot be all. It cannot all be. If you see what I mean.
****
They hunted for some time. Enjoying the cold air, cutting through lazy last-night heads. Looking out over grass, toward something. Toward game. One raises his iron, lines it up with his eye, and with a quick shudder to his shoulder and a crack to the air. What next? They wonder. They wander.
****

Thoughts on The Lisbon Treaty Referendum

2009-10-04T19:43:00.009+01:00

I am happy the referendum has passed, also that it has done so with such a majority (there's a special section on the Irish Times website with good analysis of the voting, turnout and such).

I voted yes because I felt that Europe, while working to some extent, could be working better. Currently, the European Union is a shadowy, meta-government, which holds some power over its constituent nations, but cannot act decisively - whether you believe this is in the interests of its constituent nations or not.

The benefit of the EU becoming a more solid entity is that it can approach larger trading and diplomatic blocs (USA, India, China) with more weight behind it. And, what is more, those larger blocs will not be able to play the constituent nations of Europe against each other. Economically, and politically, this has both its up sides, and its down side. I believe the former outweigh the latter for numerous reasons, which I shall not go into here.

This post is about a deeper concern I have about the various discussions and debates that fed into the referendum results. I was disappointed with both sides of the debate, and felt that while the result is welcome (for me), the manner with which it was achieved is not.

First, too many voices raised a clamour about Ireland In (or Out) of the EU. This was an absurd argument, as the referendum had nothing to do with Ireland's membership of the EU. The Treaty of Lisbon, and Ireland's need to ratify it, was solely concerned with the running of that entity, EU. To give it teeth, which (if you were against the treaty) might chew up the citizens, or (if you were for it), might protect us better in a rapidly changing world, where the centres of power are shifting. The USA, China, India and Russia are all in the ascendancy, and the old colonial countries like the UK, France, Germany cannot compete alone. Therefore, working together, the old European nations have greater weight in their diplomatic and trade discussions. This also has the benefit of neutralising the in-fighting and land grabs that cost those countries (and then the world) so dearly in the early half of the 20th century.

Secondly, the promise of jobs, economic prosperity and cultural repercussions, both on the pro and anti side, were ridiculous. One must concede that when Intel decided to join the debate, and some comments Michael O'Leary made when he spoke about it, did indicate that jobs could have been lost, should Ireland vote down the Treaty. Perhaps fortunately, we can not know for sure whether this was the case. However, whatever the situation with larger employers, Europe is not going to reward Ireland for voting Yes by creating a pile of jobs, just for us. Everyone is suffering from the economic downturn, although it is clear that larger countries are starting to turn around. Ireland is not starting to turn round, and with NAMA on the cards, if we don't tread carefully, we will be in a depression that could last decades. I agree that our place in Europe will help this situation. But simply passing the referendum on the Lisbon treaty does not automatically grant us a 'Get out of gaol free' card.

To create jobs, and improve our economic situation, we have a lot of work to do. Being in Europe, and Europe not being a shambles will complement the work we have to do; but the imperative is that Ireland, as a nation, take the right decisions and move in the right direction to ensure these jobs are created. Over the past decade, the government has done little in this regard, and now has no choice but to do so. But do they have the imagination and (perhaps more importantly) resources to do so?

The issue of cultural dominance or some kind of disappearing Irishness is so ludicrous, I find it hard to argue seriously. Our cultural heritage and traditions are our own, and will remain alive so long as we practice them: Only the Irish can destroy Irish culture. We managed to survive the English influences of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, et al. We also managed to survive the American cultural revolution of Rock and Roll and Jazz. Even the great Australian invasion of the mid eighties (Neighbours, Home and Away, Crocodile Dundee) receded. I could write forever on culture, and believe or not, could write quite cogently. But this argument that we are losing our cultural identify as a result of being within a framework of larger countries is quite riduculous, and leads me down the path of psychotic proclamation. So, I shall stop now.

And turn to the question of living standards. My favourite aspect of the referendum debate. Coir, quite shamefully claimed the minimum wage should (then would, then could...) fall to €1.84. I personally heard three accounts of this claim that ran from "averaging the lowest minimum wage across ten EU countries" to "because they sign their contract abroad, but work here in Ireland" to this morning's claim that "as these workers are being paid little, the Irish government would be forced to reduce the minimum wage so that workers in this country could compete with workers from other countries who signed contracts in those countries" (all my quotes to distinguish my tirade from the arguments being made). The basis of the argument is unclear - are they talking about shop workers, manufacturing, building, accountants? This was a stunning tactic used by Coir and Libertas to some effect. Without really outlining an argument, they asked pithy questions in the hope that it would make you "stop and think". For example, "Irish Democracy 1916 - 2009?" (Libertas - question: should it be 1921-2009?), "They died for your freedom, don't give it away" (Coir). The tactic backfired for Coir, when it was noticed that the Herald, intending to display a Coir poster, had inadvertently published a satirical poster, intended to lampoon the strategy.

It's not fair to pin this criticism on the No side exclusively. Fine Gael and Fine Fail posters cried "Yes to Europe, Yes to Recovery" on lamp posts all over the country. Dog piss would have been a more intelligible argument. "Yes to Europe, Yes to Jobs" went another. Blow, or hand, I wondered. Driving from Dublin to Kildare one day last week, I thought if I said Yes to Europe I may also be saying Yes to anything I wanted. I closed my eyes and pictured a mansion, sports car in the front and a package the size of a telephone book, which I knew to be my bank statement. I said "Yes to Europe", but when I got home, I still lived in a four bed semi D on the outskirts of a small rural town. There was a package the size of a telephone book, but it was my new Golden Pages.

The saddest argument I heard, from several sources personally and on the radio, was "Why not hand power over to Brussels - there's no one in this country that can make it work" Whether you believe this to be true or not, there shouldn't be any case for relinquishing our sovereignty. We are still a republic, even if the ruling elite are acting like a... well, ruling elite.

So, what does all this mean to me? I think Ireland might be one of the most informed countries in relation to our relationship with Europe (I think this because we have held referenda every few years in relation to Europe to ratify treaties; this forces us, or perhaps just behooves us, to be informed). Yet, we can still be convinced by campaigns based on misunderstanding, "scare tactics", and general obfuscation of facts. This applies to both sides: whether you were for the treaty or against it, the general message intended to convince you of the 'right vote' were the repercussions of its passing or not passing. This needs to change, especially as it now seems likely that the Lisbon Treaty will come into effect in Europe. We need to start discussing European issues on a European level, and really understanding the place our nations hold within Europe. The EU itself has an important role in this: improving the way it communicates with citizens. But our politicians hold a similar responsibility also. False promises will lead to disillusionment. The arguments made must be more realistic and practical. I hope this is the last time we vote on European political issues from the standpoint of a nation concerned about pot holes on our back roads.

This treaty provides us with more access to European decision making, but will also make the decisions made more far reaching. In a quote from the Simpsons: "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance".

10 Things You Probably Won't Hear on The Rose of Tralee

2009-08-25T21:39:00.004+01:00

Why is it so hard to discipline one's self to write for an hour a night?
Who knows.

Anyway, in the spirit of doing precisely what every other half wit smart arse is probably writing - here is my list of ten things you'll probably not hear at the Rose of Tralee...

"...with the ping pong balls? Well, I learned it in Thailand when I was backpacking..."

"...my talent? Is this dress not low cut enough? Do I need to lean over? Jesus!"

"What's with all the fucking questions? You're good on the radio, but don't push it..."

"Ah, I understand your question, but I think it over simplifies the issues. It needs to be reframed, so that we are discussing one of two things. The first is, of course, the collapse in property prices along with the credit crisis, which could be seen as the two legs, as it were, that one could say the economy has fallen over on. The second option is discussing routes for recovery. Simply throwing out a statement about NAMA, developers and bankers may well curry favour with the public, who essentially want revenge; some may say rightly so; however what is required is a real, informed debate about the banking sector, it's responsibilities to the Irish people and the Irish people's need for a healthy banking system... Ray? Ray are you awake?"

"When you come for the Rose, you best not miss."

"Well, I guess my talent is in financial management. You see, I started out working on a fund of... oh, say about $250,000. In the good days, I moved a lot of this into high risk, high return sub prime investments. But knowing that nothing that good can last forever, I switched to some higher liquidity investments, linked to some of the larger markets, then flipped to some key commodities. The profits were phenomenal, but when you're in the zone, it's like... like being coked out of your head and being king of the world, if I were to be honest. So I put it all on Frozen Fire..."

"I'm only here for the beers"

"After I got arrested, the police asked why such a pretty girl like me would do such a thing... so I thought, well, why not give the Rose of Tralee a shot... no pun intended!"

"I don't think you mean that at all! You just said good luck to the last girl out here! Oh my GOD, I can't believe you're doing this to me... I thought we had a real connection, and all I get is "Good Luck", like someone you met just ten minutes ago... Look, I know we only met ten minutes ago, but a connection is a connection. And we were connected."

"It's important for us to be role models for the less good looking, or less talented girls. I think I speak for all of us when I say to them 'Hey, you could be so much more of a person. Why don't you just try harder?'."

"I like walks in the park and dream of world peace. My ideal date is dinner and a movie with a man who is confident and in control of himself. My turn ons include clean sheets, lacey neglige and a man with strong arms" (perhaps this last belongs on another list)....

Stand up for what you bleedin believe in!

2009-07-29T21:40:00.004+01:00

I can tell by the way he looks
And this is quite certain: he cracks his eggs in such a way
My wife and child could never be safe,
Were he as free as I.

A big endian, make no mistake,
Would be partial to rape
Or consuming children one by one
Until he felt his mission done.

Or do I mean a small endian?
Which am I again?

I can't remember, which can only mean
I'll only know if I can see
Which way his eggs are cracked,
That fucking hack.

Then, I'll know. Then, we'll see
Just how tough I can be.
Big endian or small, I'll make him crawl
For wanting to rape my wife.
Because he's free like me.
For not acceding to simply die
And leave us in peace to live our lives,
Our country for us and us alone:
A land we can call our own.

A darkness

2009-07-22T22:36:00.005+01:00

This is totally unplanned. It just unfolds.

We have to cut back on some things, but we don't know what. She lies in bed, on her front. I lean in the door frame. We just can't agree.
"We don't get out together anymore."
"We can't pay these bills. Loans. Credit cards. Phone, electricity, gas."
"But we need to have a life!"

All that kind of stuff. We need to be able to laugh at this. Shit. There is darkness flooding this house. Pushing the light switch sets off no more than a ping. The sound tells you more about the light like that. Your ears tell you what your eyes need to know. Like when your belly tells you what your arse is about to go through. How can anyone go on like this! Flicking the switch. On. Off. On, off. On/off. No light, not even a ping anymore. Nothing to be done.
"Just change the bulb... ... Not now! In the morning..."

"...as simple as plugging out your electrical appliances at night. TVs, DVD players, mobile phone chargers... laptop power adapters are divils for using excess power, even when the thing is turned off! We can't continue on this energy splurge any longer, either economically or ecologically..." We should change the alarm from radio to beeps. At least the beeps - violent as they are to dreaming minds - remain meaningful, no matter how often they are repeated. Get up. Get up. Get up. News, on the other hand (and music for that matter) turns human misery into cliché.

We can cut back. We can get through. But where do we go from there? She tells me I think too much, as toothpaste escapes my mouth with my thoughts. Dressed, she gets her things together. I am catching up. Pants, but no shirt. I need coffee though. Something else to cut back on.

At work, they're cutting back. No more printing without permission. Or photocopies. There goes the end of all those loan applications. No more free coffee. Motivational meetings to be held on Facebook, or emailed to the team. Still, there's more than one way to waste money during the day. We email each other. It starts off "I'm not giving out, but you should think about..." A few of these, and it turns into:
"Wine, €25 per week --> €1500 a year! NOT including Christmas!"
"Smokes: how much?"
"You don't need designer anything!"
"You don't read all those books!"

All that kind of stuff. We need to be able to laugh at this. Shit. We arrive home at the same time, by accident, hoping to miss each other. Bags in our hands. Our minds compiling the accusations and arguments, ready for another round of who overspends and what is a want and what is a need; a train of thought; runs right through it; drives it all off the tracks. We look at each other. Really look at each other. We smile. The bulb unchanged. There is darkness in this house, but at least we can make light of it.

A Walk

2009-07-14T22:54:00.001+01:00

The grass wet under bare feet. Squelching mud water squeezed between toes getting dirtier. How Do You Do? Nobody asks anymore; it;s all howya and hows it going and how are you. How you do whatever you do is your own business; it's not done, or something to do, to ask How Do You Do?
But there is no one here. There is no road, which will do quite nicely. Gentle blades of grass brushing the base of feet, wet from the grass and muddy water that does the toes in for cleanliness. No road and no one. First one leg, then a loss of balance recaptured by the next leg, stepping out to maintain upward integrity.
Everywhere, someone is laughing or listening. Or crying. Someone, everywhere is worried. Someone, everywhere is ignoring the signs; the information flowing like rivers raging against each other. They add their voices, but their voices are as the beasts of the field; whinnies and neighs and moos. Somewhere, everyone is articulate; their voices rise like tides or waves, to drown or crush with the pure force of gathered momentum.
Here, elsewhere the water rises slowly, through tickled toes. Here, where there is no road.

The Dances: 1

2009-06-25T22:46:00.005+01:00

He tells her: I’m eight years old and that’s big enough to look after myself. She smiles and says, but could you look after the dinner? He protests he’s not allowed to use the oven. She knows, because she made the rule. With a short laugh and a rub of his head, mum runs out to the shop. Finally free, he walks into the Good Room where the Good Stereo System is.

He finds the right CD, and turns the volume up. He has to be in position. He gets up on the arm of the sofa, hits play on the remote control and jumps

landing and tumbling behind the sofa with the crash of the music starting. With the music going and the volume up, he throws himself around the room. The last time, when they saw him, they said it was like he was posessed, in the throes or something. She told him to stop. She said don’t do that again, you could hurt yourself, or break something. Later on, when they were having drinks and he should have been in bed, he heard them laughing about it. Well, not her, not mum. As the others laughed, she said there was somehting about it, about his movements, about his eyes, something she didn’t like. The rest laughed some more, and he hid in the bathroom under the stairs when dad came out to freshen up the drinks.

He moves round the whole room in fits and starts, the room where children should be seen and not heard, and should sit still on the sofa and listen so that the adults could bore him as much as they bored each other. They were strange, adults. They seemed restrained in some way that kids weren’t. He guessed this was why they put so many restraints on kids. They were jealous. They worried about money, they complained to each other, sometimes they even called other grown ups assholes and fucking this and fucking that. He knew when this happened he’d be sent to bed, no matter what the time was. They told him not to use the same words they used so freely, and then he was told not to dance when sometimes they danced so much they fell over laughing and knocking red wine to the floor. Once, a friend of his mum’s even danced on the table, asking whether anyone else remembered the time she danced like that in the college bar. She cried later, with his mum cuddling her. Seeing that, he wanted a cuddle, but he was hiding again, meant to be in bed for hours. He thought of going in and saying he had a bad dream, to get the cuddle. He thought better of it and went to bed.

None of this crosses his mind as the music erupts from inside of him. He moves in a series of spasms and jerks. It’s not about rhythm, it’s about sounds. His elbow doubles and straightens with violence as a guitar jangles; fists fly and fall with banging drums, but not crashing cymbals. For the cymbals he falls to the ground completely, figuring out how to get back up for the next bit. He changes between moving by the lyrics or by the music. There’s no plan. It’s about him and the music. Being each other.

Cast under the spell of the music, nothing so domestic as a front door could disturb him. And it doesn’t. Even if he could hear it, he’s definitely not allowed to open it. As it goes, he doesn’t hear it at all. He’ll hear about it later.

He runs around the table, half considering getting up on it. As he considers, he gets on his hunches, tongue out, arms outstretched, hands waving. Dad sometimes laughs at that, his Haka he calls it. He tried it once in school and another boy, Justin, hit him. Then he said he was a freak. He called Justin an asshole. That afternoon he had to account for all this to his mother, his teacher, and, what’s worse, Justin’s mother. Such injustice. Forcing kids to repeat what was said, even though everyone knows it will make them angrier.

He got up on the table. He lifted one leg then the other, kicking up the air, kicking that boy, the asshole, Justin, right in his asshole. He laughs wildly, then swings his arm in a huge arc. Looking down in front of him is the rug, but in front of his mind is Justin. “Fuck you!” he says, louder than the music. “Fuck you! Fuck you asshole!” he screams. His face feels hot, and he steps off the table, curls into a corner of the sofa. Tears are hot on his hands. He has to stop: mum would be worried about him. And besides, he isn’t even allowed have a drink when he’s on this sofa, let alone pour out all this salty water.

He stays like that for some time, tasting his tears from his cheeks, from his hands. He didn’t want to dance just because his mother was out. He wanted to make sure she wouldn’t see him again. She got so upset. He’d hate to feel like this again, not having a cuddle. He sucks air in a big sniff through his nose, just as the song cuts out. He laughs at it, like a fart or something when no one is talking. Another beat, another crash of sounds and noises. Another song!

He likes this one. He is calmer now, but the music is still loud. He is in his own place now, not at home, with the neighbour banging on the door and his mother coming round the corner of the estate. He is where the music is. He gets up, wiping his eyes, determined to stop crying.

He has to build it up. He starts with his hands, rising and falling with the beat because he can’t yet click his fingers the way older kids and adults do. His arms go next, stretching out and in to the left and the right; first one, then the other then both, and he spins himself around. Looking down, he thinks maybe he’s like Jesus, then takes it back in case God or Granny or Grandad or someone was listening. He turns faster and faster, the whole world stopping around him. He likes the idea, so he starts to laugh again, the tears nearly dry in his hot eyes and stinging cheeks. He has forgotten how it started, and he knows there is no end.

Difficulties with Writer's Block

2009-04-13T23:08:00.003+01:00

A plot! A plot! My story needs a plot!
There are words and ideas teeming.

The soul, scathed is reeling.
The searching is done and the story is won, but not plot! No plot! No plot!
The mind and the hands composing
- First one, then the other -

Who could bear with such a thing?
Ideas tease out words that tumble from brain to screen,
From the mind to the eye, with no "Where?" or "Why?"
No reason to continue.

But
Read on! Read on!

Poem

2009-04-03T00:07:00.002+01:00

The sun is climbing down there
One last, blinding cry, the light's goodbye,
Dazzling the eye from the corner of
A powdered covered sky.

A light blue turns pink, an orangey red,
Tucked under clouds hanging over my head.

I cannot sleep in such daynight.
Thinking and turning
The mind is churning
Close the eyes, but not the mind.

To transend or transgress everything
It is. This sky.

Baby blues and pinks, soft colors
Translucent, transparent, transgressing, transcending,
Everything is moving, from here to then
- never the right time, nor the place -
Tucked under a sky
Turning soon to night that will
Break through to day.

Happy, But Hated. Why Not?

2009-03-22T23:10:00.001Z

IT was a great weekend for Irish sport. A shame for me as I don't follow it.
As a zeitgeist whore, I enjoyed the unbridled energy, goodwill and passion of Ireland's grand slam rugby win. Later on, some fellow beat the living shite out of a guy from Central America (who, at time of writing is still in hospital). This time it was considered a triumph for the nation. I wish I'd blogged on Friday, just after I'd swigged a wine and whined to my wife "You know if they win, someone will declare the recession over...." She, again, rolled her eyes to heaven.
Earlier in the week it was said that the Welsh hated the Irish. Confusion ensued ("no they don't"; "no, indeed, we don't", "we don't care anyway!"; "yes they do!" "no, indeed we do! Do you mind if I take a leek?"). Well, we sorted it out. They hate us now. OR whatsisname, Stephen Phffewyardsshortt Jones. If they don't hate one, they'll hate t'other. I'm sure of it.
The Germans are pissed off with us. Of course, it looks like they'll end up bailing us out of this government-backed bankruptcy that Fianna Fáil (Fine Failers, a teacher of mine once called them) barrelled us toward.
The Americans are annoyed with use because we took their jobs, or so they believe - what with our cut-rate corporate taxes.
Europe is annoyed with us because we were the kid with all the chances who spent fifteen years staring in a mirror and masturbating furiously. Now, we're in serious need of a lover and we're reluctant to take any form of prophylactic that might protect them from contracting something nasty. Also, we were the spawning ground for Libertas, who believe themselves to be the real voice of Europe and want to stymie any attempts at making Europe work efficiently.
We've aggravated Libertas with our constant questioning of their motives. (I must admit, the only thing I've ever agreed with them are these points: Why are Libertas questioned to an extent that no other European party are questioned? Why is there this feeling that if you're pro-EU, why can you not question the way it works?).
But, we're happy. And our happiness pleases me in many, many ways.
First, for the first time in (how long?) fifteen years, our happiness hasn't been predicated on being "the small country punching above its weight" or "one of the richest countries in the world" or "fuckit, we' LOADED!"
We're proud because we 'done good'. Fifteen lads manhandled a pig's stomach in a much more convincing way that fifteen other lads. One lad beat seven shades of shite out of another guy.
But they were Irish. Irish and proud.
And this morning, everyone was happy, smiling even. Smiling! At strangers! Being friendly! I haven't seen it in years. It's not the misty eyed "Here we are, all miserable and happy together". Neither is it "There's more to life than money, and now we've no money, there's more to our life..." It's just the idea that we've all shared this great experience (experiences) and we're enjoying sharing it. We're together again.
Happy but hated, why not?

Dark Was The Night

2009-02-18T22:41:00.002Z

Via Stu

Love this for the widget more than anything else...

still, ho hum. Whistle along!

Emliy in the Snow!

2009-02-07T09:58:00.001Z

Snow!

2009-02-03T21:09:00.010Z

It took me six hours to get home Monday. Seven, if you include the hour rushing from the office to the train station, then back up to Georges Quay to get a bus home.

The clouds had skidded across the sky, colliding with the ground. No one can say for sure who came out best. The Snow, bleeding ice across the road looked back to the bruised sky, putting on an air of indifference.

The ground lay there, taking the pounding; covered in that ice, overwhelmed and undermined. It was no support to anyone. It's whole purpose fundamentally slipping away from it.

Me, I had to get on the bus, one sliding foot at a time. I had the oshit moment of seeing the bus there, on George's Quay, but being on the other side of the river to it. I had that cramp inducing fast-stagger, which occurs when ice, rain or booze is down. Attempting to swing your hips faster, but holding back your legs so they can provide the required traction. It's lights came on. Oshit. The door closed. Oshit. It stood. It stood while I staggered toward it. There was the driver, reading his paper (or perhaps someone else's, but this is not something I can bear a grudge about), until he saw me, meekly pawing at the glass. A desperate dog looking to get out for a leak or in for a meal. "Do you go to...?" &c.

I was on the bus. It was on the ice, which was on the ground. There seemed in this minor triumph a great was had been won. I had vanquished the earth (ground), the heavans (snow, ice) and man's own unique genius and mechanical ability (a bus). I was going home. Any time now.

Fifteen minutes, later, we were off. A bunch of young lads at the back on their way for a night out to Waterfrod discussed career options and questioned each other's wisdom and ability to deal with "reality". An old lady across the aisle started snoring, a couple around smiled to each other. Ain't it quaint. Q102 was on teh radio, so there were headphones in my ears. Charles Mingus, whose trumpets were too fast and screaming traffic-like for the thudder-judd momentum of the bus. We stalled our way toward home (and a party in Waterford).

I read my book. Finished it. It was very good - Why I Am Not A Christian, a collection of essays by Bertrand Russell on the subject of religion and unthinking following. And, of course, a lack of rational argument/intercourse/imagination that is causing much of the misery in the world. My misery was caused by the to-ing and fro-ing of the young lad's carrers, while cars careered from one side of the road to another. One car managed to slide its way forward, only to be stopped by gently tapping the bumber of the 4x4 before it. No one seemed to notice except me. I heard the tree falling. But perhaps I am only telling you I heard a tree fall. If I didn't see it, how can anyone be sure? I suppose we could go and look for it. It's a tree; must be around somewhere. Although, they can be hard to pick out when one is in the woods.

Two hours later, at Newland's Cross, we picked up an angry fellow and his companion. They had waited three hours (he claimed). He was frozen and kept saying he felt like having a fight. I was resolute: I shall pretend this fellow doesn't exist. That way, he'll overlook me if he does "burst someone" as he claimed he was going to. He also claimed it wouldn't be his fault. It was because his brain was frazzled. This he said down the phone to his girlfriend, who was waiting for him in Carlow. He told the young lads discussing their future to shut up.

An hour or so after that, before the Citywest campus, teh angry fellow asked the lads for a cigarette. As he attempted to smoke it in secret, he asked them where they were from. They ended up quite good chums, as it goes. Those poor lads, on their way to a party in Waterford.

Thirty minutes later, the phones started ringing. Una voce: "No, the traffic is dreadful. The roads are snowed over, everyone's going slow, I'd say there's been breakdowns and maybe even people running out of petrol!" Una voce: "I am telling the truth! I got the bus nearly three hours ago!" The lads were missing their night. The angry fellow's brain was really fried now, and he was no way not going to burst someone soon. This must be how the ground felt; trying to do its job, to be what it is, only to be stimied by the cloud-crash ice.

Then, things started to slow down. My MP3 player died. I'd read and re-read a number of essays in my book. The angry fellow was mumbling something about bursting anyone who said anything to him about smoking (or at least that's what I could hear coming from under the seat behind me). A kindly fellow, a real goody-two-shoes came round to ask if anyone was going to Kilcullen. I know what this usually means - We want to bypass your town. Please let us. No way, I said. We'll stop in Kilcullen. Drop me at the motorway sliproad if you will, but you're not bypassing my wife and child and me. Angry fellow, on his way to Carlow, was wont to burst me at this point, but perhaps didn't hear my protests under the seat.

In the central margin, abandoned cars, car tracks, footprints. Snow covering it all. Making a secret, somehow purer than muttering idle threats from under the seat of a coach.

Hours later, we pull up the Naas slip road. Then stop. Bus driver has to talk to another bus driver, so pulls over. Off the bus, I have a smoke, keeping an eye on my seat and (moreso) my laptop. Back on the bus, the angry guy was telling the young lads about the fights he'd been in. They offered up their own examples of unique technique in tight situations. So close to home, but so far away, I thought of that story, Cannibalism in the Cars.

Finally, we get to Naas town centre. But there is another wait. I suppose it is fair the driver allowed people off to get Abrakebabra, &c. When one is low on cash and patience, such fairness seems a dreadful slight. Angry guy concurred, making me change my mind immediately. On the phone to his missus, he went on about being in Naas, having to get up again at five, threatening the bus driver to get the bus moving again, &c. It went on. His voice being clearer, he had evidently some out from under the seat, and he was really in the mood for a fight now.

We were off again. Next stop, Kilcullen, where thirty or so minutes later, I alighted and slided my way home, across the vanquished ground, riding on the victorious packed ice, feeling cold and smoky and ready for my dinner.

Georges Quay-Kilcullen (c. 50 km), 6 hours.

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Joby Cain Gets Fired

2008-11-30T21:37:00.001Z

Joby Cain worked for Callus Representation and Partnership. He doesn't now, because he was fired three days ago. He's been at sea since then. Some would say gone to seed.

He stayed up the first night getting drunk. The second night - the night before this - he couldn't sleep for the nerves. WTF would he do now? He asked himself again and again:

As he made coffee with shaking hands and a sore head
As he took the bins out, smell of cheese and that smell that only rubbish can have
As he switched on the computer and googled aimlessly round the web
As he panicked, realising his rent would be due in two weeks, and he had only enough really to pay for that month

WTF would he do now?
Last night, after the day and evening drinking coffee, he decided to stay up and watch the dawn. He'd be at the darkest, just before then. Or so they said. It made some sense to him, but why, he had no idea. It was a feeling more than a rationale. And besides, WTF else was he going to do?
When they did it, he knew it was coming. He got an email. Not telling him exactly. But saying something else that he knew meant that was it. They didn't need to tell him it was the third, but they did anyway. He knew what would happen next, so he waited. He delayed. He saw the mouse pointer moving about the screen, perhaps of its own behest, it became real. Deus Ex Machina. He always took this to mean "God's coming from the machine - there was no classical education here. But, when he saw that pointer, he knew it meant this is it. He didn't know, nor did he care WTF he'd do next. He was nearly - nearly - ROTFL.
He was miserable anyway, so didn't see much point in fighting it anymore. Fighting himself, to get out of bed and get in there everyday; or fighting them, with their artillery of numbers and spreadsheets and three letter acronyms which recorded - apparently very accurately - calls answered, compliments received, complaints reversed, complaints carried over, complaints outstanding, complaints, complaints, complaints. WTF was this job anyway? Somewhere between an answering machine and a sounding board for general frustration.
The call centre was an outsource partner for every crap service and product distribution company in the land. So customers phoned up to complain about something that wasn't working, or the shoddy attitude of the person who came to fix it, or the last person they spoke to about this (or that, or any of it). He'd been called everything from an asshole to an automaton to unfeeling. He'd been told of nervous breakdowns, heart attacks and pregnancies. Everyone was miserable, as far as he could tell, and he was paid to listen to them all let it out. But not as much as a therapist or psychiatrist or barman who was expected to provide solutions, or show a way out. Because he was paid to keep them in limbo. To stall them, while someone somewhere else figured out WTF would be done about it. Everyone seemed to know: At least they said as much in pubs and things. But still they said "I want to know: What you YOU going to do about it?"
So, he stopped answering phones. That was when he got the first email. They called him in and told him "This isn't good" They talked about SLAs and SQ and SDTs and he had no idea what they meant. One guy was wearing braces, like in the film Wall Street. And the girl he fancied from the interview seemed to grow fangs as the "Interface" progressed. He shrank in the glass cube while people passed to get their coffee and listen in and try to figure out how bad it was.
But then he was back at his desk. He had to answer phones, and he had to make people happy. So he tried to DO something about things. First, he wrangled emails to try and contact the people who seemed responsible.
Dear so-and-so, Joby from Callus here. This old woman nearly died (her daughter said) from exposure because her gas was cut off. But it shouldn't have been, because all her payments were up to date...
Dear such-and-such, this customer pays a fortune in line rental and the infosuperhighway broadband, but suffer very poor speeds. This is a work-at-home business, so likely to cause real problems for him...
Dear cares-not-a-jot, your toy broke off in a girl's hand. She was only two years old and nearly ate the head. He mouth turned blue from the ink used to colour the dolls hair, and her mother is most distraught...
That brought him in the second time. All the acronyms were rolled out again. But this time they also mentioned the crucial role of Personalised Response - Interfacing with Customers in the Brand-Customer interface. Brands were presented to customers, but couldn't interface with them, because appropriate responses had to be formulated according to the Brand objectives, customer value and legal ramifications. It was absurd to try contacting these people. They would deal with customer issues based on volume, priority and Brand requirement. WTF did a PRIC think they were doing when they tried to contact these people directly? Apart from anything else - and as one partner pointed out - if they were taking calls and dealing with these things, they'd have no need for the Callus PRICs, would they? There was no arguing it. The world needed Callus PRICs, apparently. WTF would happen without them?
So he was back at his desk, feeling contagiously miserable. Spreading through telecommunicative contact; symptoms: general feelings of frustration, anger and leading to drunkenness or complaining to friends and family. Jesus wept, Callus Representation and Partnership (NASDAQ: CRAP) seemed to be the hub from which some awful conspiracy spread. Humanity was no longer journeying to face hell. No longer your epic travails with the great writers of antiquity. No longer the simple pickup by a skip down an alleyway just off the quays. No longer the suffering of the world - a vale of tears - visited upon you when you least expected. Now, you phone a Lo-Call or Freephone number, and get patched through to limbo, inaction and frustration for next to nothing. It seems a shame to get it for free, when others had studied or worked so hard to experience it.
So he was incident free for about two weeks. Kathryn and he ate lunch. She asked him to tell her about his meetings and why he did it. He told her he didn't know, and embellished enough to make her laugh. They'd looked at each other just so, every so often. WTF would happen there? Hopefully something good. She always ate vegetarian. But she was a good laugh. He just had to stop looking at her cleavage. She'd caught him a couple of times, but if anything were to happen, he'd need to seem more together... less of a perv.
So that side of things was getting better as every other side was getting worse. For phone lines and gas lines and credit lines and storage lines and any other line of business requiring support or a customer interface, the customers tangle with scripts, ably read by people wearing headphones and staring at screens. People like Joby. Callers fight back with scripts of their own, but are powerless against the might of the call centre scripts and so become more and more desperate.

“...look, you have to help me...” asserting

“...look, you have to help me...” demanding

“... look, you have to help me...” hoping

“...look you have to help me...” pleading

“...look you have to help me...” begging.

Cries of desperation. Like those who had not known Christ, these people who called daily were tortured for not knowing a better service provider. Their arms outstretched, grasping for hope; hope ebbed away with those answering “Hello! Some company name. I'm whatever, how can I help you?” So promising, some even responded in good tones. Sooner or later the callers, the unclaimed customers, realised these call centre folks were really just passing by. They asked how they could help, knowing they couldn't. Joby could pass no longer; he stuck out a hand.

He told one woman to never give up. While the thought of calling everyday was daunting, she would get nowhere until she hit the critical threshold. The number for that particular partner was free, so it would cost her nothing but time and her battery charge. She had nothing to lose, had she?

Another, he told to give up. It was quite simply the company policy to avoid support discussions relating to the lithium battery shipped with the device.

He spoke to another customer for thirty minutes about her son's phone bill and how best to deal with his way with it.

Then, he hit the big time. He called to one woman's house with a mop and bucket to replace the set that fell apart. She asked how he got her address, and demanded to know why he would do such a thing. She slammed the door. He was still explaining through the letterbox about how he wanted to make a difference when the Guardians of the Peace arrived to ask him what he thought he was doing. Down at the station, he explained to them how he could take the suffering no more. How he had to do something. When Mrs Molloy called about her mop and bucket, he decided to replace them for her. It was a small thing, but he hoped it would make a difference. The Guards looked at him blankly, then gave him a coffee and a breath test. They told him he could leave and asked him – begged him – to not give them reason to bring him here again.

It was the following Tuesday that he got the email; that the pointer started moving round his screen of its own free will.

It was short, really. Some berrating. Some recrimination To bring a competitor's product to someone's door! We can't have our partners thinking that we hire stalkers! It went on, until It's not without regret that I inform you... This last, spoken as if it were a letter being dictated. He wondered whether he should be writing it down. It turned out this was unnecessary as they'd be sending him a letter and an email to confirm in writing what he'd heard in person.

And so here he is, past the darkest moment – or so they said – with the dawn light bleeding from behind the night sky and its clouds. Blood red and beautiful, he stares up. And thinks “Well maybe it wasn't for me anyway”. He makes some coffee. He looks at his phone, the unanswered calls. Texts. He thinks about his rent, due in two weeks. He drinks his coffee and wonders what he'll do next.

Go on, smile!

2008-11-23T21:14:00.003Z

Emily Sunshine, all this time later.

"Make me laugh and I'll make your day!"

IRL

2008-11-01T12:59:00.022Z

A summer afternoon, a Friday, a throng to get through on Grafton Street. Shoppers and drinkers utilising the long evening to get ahead of a weekend of spend. Lemuel_Buckett (AKA Frank Murphy, IRL) is heading for HMV where he'll meet JoyceJameson. He was surprised to learn that JoyceJameson is AKA Joyce Jameson, IRL. He can't wait to meet her, IRL.
He suggested they meet IRL after they'd LOL'd enough to feel like they really knew each other. They were going to go for coffee and maybe some lunch (one step at a time). Maybe even a drink later. Maybe even...
No. Wait and see how we go. You have to wait for a page to load before you can click a link. That's just how it is.
He tries to avoid the people bustling toward him. Some are going in, others are just dodging other people. He sways to avoid them all; gets an unnecessary umbrella slapped across his face (why do you even need an umbrella in this weather?); has his knees slapped by shopping bags; shoulders shouldered by pedestrians... he waits. Soon, he should see her, IRL.
He's seen her avatars and read her signatures and mottoes. They wrote about trying to cross Dublin without passing the front door of a pub; of the radio show when "Kilcock" was the reply to the question "Which town in county Kildare is also a body part found in a man's pants?" (Correct Answer: Athy).
She came from the UK, from Bristol (or Brighton? He couldn't remember, and now only remembers he'd intended to look through their threads to remind himself). Studying Anglo Irish Literature in UCD or Trinity or maybe DBS or somewhere like that. She had a brother and two sisters, one of which was over here too, working in banking (but which one?). For some reason he remembers only the shadows. He hasn't taken in anything she told him and now he must face her, IRL.
"Hello" says a soft, English accent, somewhere to his right. "Are you Frank?" He turns his head to see another average sized, brown haired, early thirties male say "I'll be as frank as you want, love. You're lookin' great!" She laughs timidly, unsure; the guy laughs on and walks off.
Convinced the coast is clear, Frank goes over. "Joyce"
"Yes" she says, confused: who is Frank?
"How about that coffee..." thinking reference to a private conversation would convince her of him.
"Oh, Frank" she said. "Yes. Yes, let's go for that coffee." Quickly adding "I will, yes" with a smile.

*****

The coffee shop is all metal frames, glass panes and fabric cushions. The waiter (in invariable black) puts down the coffees, rattling off complicated names with the boredom of a botanist being asked about sunflowers on Gardener's Question Time. Perhaps one day there will be Barrista Question Time. Answers from experts about roasting fair trade beans and how to get the stains out of the filter. Vinegar will always be the answer. Use vinegar, but rinse well to make sure you don't corrupt the beautiful flavour of those unique beans. She is talking. He can't listen, sidetracked as he is by this bitter reverie. But he must listen, otherwise the whole thing will be a mess. So he listens. But he hears a pop song from overhead, and from behind: "So, anyway, like I said, I said to him you better not be talking about Marie Boool and he's like, well, he says, like..." she is not coming through at all. She is talking, he can see it, but he's not receiving. Whatever did that guy say to Marie Bool. He'll never know now. Too much noise: here.
"Would you like lunch?" he asks. She looks at him. "Here, or somewhere else... ahm, whatever you like..." he says hopefully. She is still looking at him. She is not talking, so perhaps he should. But he has now. He's asked her to lunch. Yummy. A pannini or ciabatta would go down nicely. Or even one of those nifty salads where they chuck a whole bunch of hams and lettuces and strange looking vegetables on a platter and you douse them in olive oil and vinegar and spear a couple of pieces with a fork to deliver to the satisfaction of a salivating mouth. Feels like they go on forever those salads. Like being in some kind of eternal salad heaven, where you meet the salami you first tasted when you were ten and thought "Now that's good." Tragedy of losing such a moment forever. Joy of reliving it for something between thirteen and fifteen Euro.

***

And Joyce Jameson was first captured when her name was called out as "James' son, Joyce" in a classroom. "Like the writer?" the teacher had asked. Not that she knew of, coming from Bournemouth. As far as she is concerned, nobody comes from Bournemouth; if you were born there, you stayed there. Other people go there. Often for holidays; it was beautiful and once home to Auberon Waugh. Every summer it would fill with visitors and their accents.
One summer, she met Ger (who pronounced his name Jayer), who read James Joyce and thought all the world was made of words. That convinced her of the beauty of Irish thought and that there was something more than digging and drinking and dying in the streets to them. Besides, her degree had tired her of the English and Americans and their hysterical irony that meant nothing.
She landed in Dublin with an acceptance letter from Trinity college to attend the MA in Anglo Irish literature. She would read everything worthwhile in the course of a year, maybe two. She would travel to see the beaches of the west, the bog of the midlands. She was ready for smog, but happily surprised by Dublin's clean air. She would have dreams. Everyone here had dreams.
After a time, Dublin became tiresome. High costs, high men, high ho.
She got a job in a coffee shop, grilling paninis and heating milk and pouring espressos and collecting change and handing out receipts. "Do you take laser?" she was once asked. Olga, one of the other girls explained it was a cash card and they did. But her reaction still cost her the job, and she found another in another coffee shop, where the manager looked at her funny when she asked "Is laser accepted here?"
She'd had no luck with men, so far. Either splashing money on fine wine, only to get pissed or taking her to the cinema with an obvious attempt at being chivalrous to achieve less chivalrous ends, they all seemed duplicitous, devious and dying for a shag.
So, she concentrated on her study. Literature, to her, was the real 'first draft' of history. The encapsulation of a moment, expressed in terms framed by the time. Truer than journalism - edited to suit the ephemeral needs of the day - literature for her would be the beauty that would save the world. It's safe to say she probably needed to lighten up. No one can remain so intense and retain a functional level of insanity in the modern world.
Throwing herself into studies, she quickly learned the key to so much of this literature was in the language. She spent more and more time on blogs and forums, learning how Irish people talk. How this strange breed think. How they read. This was where she met Lemuel_Buckett. Satirical, straight, serious. He seemed like no other. Without airs, without hypocrisy. They spoke of literature and how crystalised ideas could hold a whole world in your mind. She believed in literary humanity; he believed in symbols. She thought this a sign. They were Ying and Yang. Balance.
But now the scales are tipped. With him silent, she tries to fill conversational shadows with some light. She talks about the time she dropped a salad all over a posh woman with BO; how she first heard the term "Laser", and how pouring the coffee all over the guy got her fired; how she sometimes missed Bournemouth. He stays quiet. Maybe none of this means anything to him. Maybe he's really into his books, so the experience means nothing to him; he's searching for the symbols. How could she know? She looks at him for a moment, saying nothing. Just looks and tries to see.
In a lunatic voice, accompanied by pointless gestures, he asks if she wants lunch. She doesn't really know. The last thing she wants now is a paninni or ciabatta or some other quasi-Italian way that Irish people show how cultured they are.
When you can buy it in a petrol station, along with Coke, condoms and a girlie magazine, it's no longer a cultural demonstration this was the opinion of one of her failed dates in Dublin, but she supposed he was right. She suggests a salad somewhere... guessing it's a good compromise between demonstrating fluency with this adopted culture and a tasty lunch.

***

And so they leave the coffee place that does lunch to find a lunch place that does coffee.
"Hey, did you see the Godfather on TV last night?" she says.
"No, I don't watch TV" he says. There is a guy asking for money somewhere. You'd have to look down to see him, he knows. "Look, you can see the spire there - just over those buildings"
"Oh yes," she says "what is it for?"
"For? Nothing that I know of. Perhaps a spear to fire at the Brits in case they try something funny." She looks at the beggar, who redoubles his efforts. Hope eternal springs from eye contact. I know you can see me now. I know you can see a human here. I know you can see the possibility of you here. Now. They walk past. She wonders why he doesn't try to hold her hand and is thankful he doesn't.
They walked for some time in silence; all small talk exercised in the forum. Where they were from, what they did, their jobs. The books they read, what they thought of them. The music they listened to, the magical moment when they found some obscure or cultish artist they both liked. Disappointment when trying to impart some kind of trivia only to find the other already knew it, or had heard some updated version. Quick searches to help them say something sensible in reply to comments about things they'd no (previous) interest in. Now it seemed they'd nothing to say, IRL.
"Hello!" says Frank, surprised. She turns to him to find another guy walking toward them.
"Howdy pardner" says the other guy, with neither a trace nor attempt at an American accent. The words deliberate; the delivery wasted.
"Raymond!" says Frank "This is Joyce. Joyce, Raymond. Raymond is an Americanist." They say hello, and Frank says "We were just on our way for lunch..." he looks at Joyce, who looks at him. Neither of them knows where they're going.
After a moment, Joyce relents and says "... Oh, Frank. I'm so sorry, I have to meet someone... in about thirty minutes... so maybe..."
"Yes," says Frank "another time. Yes." She smiles. "OK then. Well, it was nice to meet you..."
"You too" says Raymond
"You too" says Frank. There's a moment, then she turns and leaves. So close, but not really.

***

That evening, after Frank has had a few pints and Joyce has called home and thought again about what it is she is doing in Dublin, they message each other to say it was nice they met up. Unknown to each other, they both look up Sisyphus and think he knew hope. Just at the moment, just at every moment when the boulder looked like it would get to the top, there was hope. An early wave of achievement, which made pushing the boulder up that hill again (and again) just a little less absurd and a little more essential.

Driving #1

2008-10-27T20:39:00.005Z

Friday of a Bank holiday
LUAS from work to Tallaght hospital
Drunks stagger in
And wonder where their stop is
Abbey Street and the Four courts
And Smithfield and the Museum
And Heuston and suddenly they're all gone.

The rest of us
Released from offices
Jaded
Looking for our own
Stops. "Pints?"
We ask our phones. Pushing buttons
To release us all from the week.

My car is in the building
Beyond the kids
Throwing fag buts and beer cans to the ground
Beside the bin.
The woman in front of me walks nervously
I think because I am walking behind her.
I slow down, watch my breath steam
In the chill dark evening.

Pay the day's parking and curse the distance from here
To the M50 to the M1 to Ardee then all the way to Derry
Pop across the border from there then Home.

I roll a cigarette but don't smoke it
Because of my daughter's chest.

Onto the roads, turning right
Turning left. Guessing my way
Out of Tallaght toward the M50
Toward my wife and child in Donegal
Pushing buttons to ask me
"Have you left yet?"

Finally, onto the M50.
And back off at the next exit
Down the wrong way on the Naas road
turning back round for the petrol station
Because it's the only one whose location
I'm definite of.

I pay for my petrol but pull across
To the parking spaces where
I jump out for that smoke
And drink bad coffee I just bought.

A young lad in a car asks
"What are you looking for?"
I tell him nothing and his friend says
"What are you looking at?"
Invitation to something unknown.
Dark shadows cast from bright lights.

Blog Action Day: Poverty

2008-10-15T20:45:00.003+01:00

Very late in a very bad day, but here goes a completely off-the-top of the head blog for Blog Action Day. I had notes, I did some research. I even started thinking about characters for a short story. All of this is left behind, perhaps to surface again. But for now, here is my contribution.

A few days ago, I commented - cynically - that the problem with "Blog" "Action" day was that the opinion based blog did not really tally with the action. A number of events have changed my thinking on this.

Today, my wife lost her job to the ridiculously bad management of the Irish economy and the government's 'call to arms' about being patriotic. We've been wondering what we'll do. Emigration has been mentioned.

I've lived my life with an unhealthy fear of poverty - of not being able to afford things. Of losing the things that I have. These are the things you dwell on when you have a tendency toward self pity. But then, all this is swept away with the sight of my daughter; with the thought of my wife. This is no time for 'dwelling'. It's a time for 'doing'. Sounds dreadfully American, I know.

The next thing to come along in a flurry of texts from my family is the very good point: You have each other, you have your health. Remember, this is a chapter in a whole life.

And it hits me. I'm not facing Poverty. Because Poverty is not about being poor. It's not necessarily about losing those things you built up with a strong line of unhealthy credit.

It's about being at the edges of life, with no way out. It's about poor education, poor healthcare, little or no social assistance.

I'm not a socialist. I believe in Money. By its finite nature, it will always gravitate toward the entrepreneur, the lucky and the cunning. It makes some richer, some poorer. That's ineluctable, much like the modality of the visible. Attempts to control economies have proven that where the people outnumber the money, the people lose out. Stalin had 20 million losers.

The problem may seem like Money, but I it's not.

Money is a tool of humanity; no more, no less. It allows us the time and opportunity to improve ourselves spiritually and socially. It provides a means to equalise everyone's experience of life. But it is not doing this. Not right now. But that's not Money's fault. As a tool, it has no moral plane of its own. Any morality that may relate to Money and what it does has to be lain at the hands of the person working the tool. Remember: A bad workman always blames his tools. It made sense when you were a child, and it makes sense now.

The problem we face is that Poverty is caused by Money, which is wielded by Humanity. Humanity, which is imagined as much as the money it controls. Shelley once claimed "Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." By this, he saw that poets captured, filtered and reformulated the way people imagined themselves and their society. Ads work like this - showing us dreams and letting on that a can of pop, a chocolate bar or a drink that tastes soft but knocks your socks off will make you the person who lives like that. The problem we face now, globally, is that we live in a world imagined by merchant bankers.

They imagined (and convinced the rest of us) that the world's finite amount of money, viewed through a prism and mathematical sleight of hand could be seen as much more than it was. Infinite, you could say. This meant that the money that was made available to Bob as a loan was also made available to me. Two people, one bit of money. Bob and I pay back our money, and suddenly there's two bits of money, where previously there was one. So now, they can lend to four times as many people. And given there was only one bit of money to start with, they can take the risk of lending money to some who may not be able to afford to pay it back. But then, it's provided to accumulate assets - so they can always take back the asset.

This is nothing new. Sadly, it's something we've been reading for nearly ten years now. Reading, but ignoring; content to live in a world imagined by merchant bankers. By the way, the rhyming slang is fully intended here. And if you think about it, makes a lot of sense- self abuse, self delusion, ultimate emptiness of solipsism.

So, there's all this money - real and imagined - sloshing around the place. But still, and for fifteen debauched, orgiastic, onanistic years we rolled in it while using to also keep others buried in Poverty. In both the developed and developing worlds. I don't believe this was entirely intended (although I cannot say it was entirely unknown), but it happened. And it happened because of the way we imagined ourselves. Building up our unhealthy debt; scratching our heads wondering "What can I do?" (if we had time to think of human injustice between the Nine O'Clock News and pints). But this inaction wasn't simply inaction. It was a tacit choice, based on how we imagined ourselves. Many did take action - travelling to countries to teach English as a Foreign language or volunteering, and I can't dismiss this. But these folks don't represent the multitude, and it pains me to admit that they don't represent me, who cowered in fear of Poverty - If I became a volunteer, what would it do to my career? This selfish consideration to be soothed by the thought that Besides, they wouldn't want me anyway. I don't have the skills.

Our choices are based on our imagined humanity. Poverty is real, it is killing people, it is causing disease, it is propagating itself. Much like we are. Perhaps we've imagined Poverty, made it in our own image. Perhaps our morality is impoverished; perhaps our imagination.

Imagining ourselves differently - who we are, what we're doing here, what we should do next (I owe Alasdair Gray for that formulation of the imagined self) is what is required. With the morality and courage to see ourselves sharing this humanity (not just as West, East or Developed and Developing, but as Humanity, globally) will be a start. After that, we will be guided by actions informed by a better self. It is the making of that self, the imagining of what we are and can do, that makes me realise why Blog Action Day is so important.

"Work as if you live in the early days of a better nation" (Alasdair Gray).

Hmph. Perhaps I am a socialist after all.

'Breath' by Samuel Beckett, dir: Damien Hirst

2008-10-10T21:27:00.003+01:00

Love this. 'Breath' by Beckett, directed by Damien Hirst (he who made headlines auctioning his work). This works for me by its sheer visual power, and the breath itself; what sounds like a final, desperate breath. I also love the fact that the credits take up more time than the actual "Breath". Seriously. I bet they did that on purpose. Because to eplain anything takes longer than to experience it.

From The Fundament

2008-10-04T22:29:00.004+01:00

The rain came down

So the worms came up

Wriggling their way

From the fundament.

Through the clay, soil and shit

Through dazzling grass

To a moon bathed garden growing

From the fundament.

The rain came down

And then it came up

And surrounded them with what they'd escaped

From the fundament.

Diamonds on the way down

Death when it comes back up

From the fundament.

In The Central Margin

2008-08-29T23:52:00.019+01:00

7.57
Driving into the station for the 7.57 train. Pedestrian struggling, lumbering up to the station. Won't make it. Pass parked and abandoned cars... no space. No spaces. Maybe a space. Turn; try again. Try and try again.

7.59
The train pulls into the station, people get on. Then it goes. They go. Turn past the parked and abandoned cars. Now what? There's an ad on the radio for property somewhere a long way away. Have to get to work; there's all this stuff to pay for.
Options?
Drive? Traffic, stops. Motorway. Badtime to head to the city.
Wait for the next train? Thirty minutes before it arrives. Stops on the way. Crowd. Pushing. Hundreds of private worlds, shoving each others shoulders. Hundreds of private worlds ignoring each other. Hundreds of private worlds with their too-public gasses.
Drive.

8.00
Driving out of the station. No sign of the pedestrian. Must have got the train. Tortoise and hare. Newsreader reading the same-olds and usuals. Seemingly, people in Iraq are having the worst time ever; bombs going off everywhere, tribal and international war, repressed women and whatnot. They're looking for something that's not there. Raging about it. Keep going. Bonnie Goodbody, teen pop sensation, thinks they'll find them, these weapons of mass destruction. These reasons for war. Tim Badboy, youth actor and spokesperson for teen celibacy thinks it's a hoax. Thinks it's all proper-gander. That's how he says it. Like something people just want to have a good look at. But then what, once they find them?
Seemingly, some property developer wants everybody to be miserable. Passing brown envelopes to build boxes with big windows for the affluent; small windows for the government-sponsored. It's all about how you see the world. A politician on the phone - a crackling line as fragile as his morality. "...a travesty this should be on the news... upstanding member of society being blackguarded by a media with nothing better to do..."
Pull onto the windy roads leading to the motorway.

8.06
Ads. Credit facilities to pay for the kinds of property in faraway places that one simply must have. Get in there before the neighbours. Get it, then pay for it; all this stuff. Pick up something quick to eat, drink, read, watch, hear, smell. Feel like a coffee. Stop at the petrol station.

8.09
Back to today's main story.... No, not again. All this repetition turning human misery into a cliché.
No
NO
Scan channels..."...let me know.../...if you wanna touch my body.../...last chance!/...in the central margin?"
What's in the central margin?
"Yes, the central margin. He's just walking around there"

8.10
"Well. If anyone out there has seen this guy. He's walking in a circle in teh central margin of one of the city's - the countries! - busiest motorways. Someone should call the Guards. Has anyone? What do you think? Give us a call on the usual number!" Coffee!

8.11
Petrol station!

8.20
Running (running?) late. Driving late. Shit. Down into motorway traffic. Injected, with the rest of the addictive souls feeding this habit. Poetic eh? Someone still strolling round the central margin. DJ still thinks someone should call the cops. Overtake one-two-three cars. Pushing it. Pull back in. Can't let them pass. Got to get ahead.
82.

8.26
Step on it. 80, OK. Cars hurtling toward their destination; people toward their desinties. God help anyone who gets in the way.
"Well, I can tell you one thing now. This guy is selfish! SELFISH! How do I know? because walking round like that... what's he trying to do? Kill himslef?"
"Or others..."
"Yes, YES! Or OTHERS! You're right! Jesus, what's he trying to do at all? Is he foreign?"
"Time for another caller... Frank!"
"He must be foreign!"
"Aah"
"Well, why else is he doing this? Does he even care that hundreds or thousands of people will be late now?"
"Late?"
"Lookit - what happens the traffic anytime a drop of rain falls? What about someone causing this big spectacle like this while people have to get to work? No Irishman would do something like that. No. Foreign. Or a woman, you know, with her MPH or whatever it is..."
"Errr... thanks. Think it's time for a break..."

8.32
Ads. Buy a car. Get a credit card. Buy a holiday. Smell good, fuck more people. Listen to this, be loved.
78

8.35
Still more talking. Endless talking. "Has anyone called the guards yet? Someone should call the guards! This guy is posing huge danger to everyone!" Weapon of mass destruction? More talking.
70

8.40
News: Teen sensation in rehab shocker. Middle aged teen-dream in plastic surgery shocker. Paedophile in paedophile shocker. Motorway backed up, as man walks in circles in the central margin.
62. Slowing down too quickly. Signal, move manouver. 72.

8.47
Brake!
Stop. Start. 40.

8.48
Not far enough along to make it. Can't be late.
For what?
Meeting
For what?
Project. Get it back on track.
For what?
Meet or beat deadline.
For what?
Bonus. Paycheck. Money
For what?
Bills
For what?
Living
For what?
I don't know.
30.

8.52
Full stop. Traffic backed up to here. Never make it now.

8.53
Stop-start. Two steps forward, thirty seconds stopped. Someone walking in the central margin. In circles. Round and round.
"He's obviously a lunatic, Gerry..."
"I'm not Gerry. Gerry's on 2FM"
"But I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about this guy in the central margin. Obviously a lunatic. Needs locking up before he gets near kids or women or something. Who knows what he's capable of!"
"Gerry?"
"I'm not Gerry! He's on 2FM! But go ahead anyway?"
"Is he a foreigner? Do we know?"
Radio off.
Stop-start.

8.57
There he is! Walking in a circle. Car abandoned at the edge of the margin. He's just walking round. What's he got going on there? What is it? I have to know!

9.00
"And here is the news at nine AM. Gardai have issued a traffic alert in Dublin's suburbs as a number of people have abandoned their cars on the motorway and are walking in circles in the central margin. No demand has been made as yet..."

?
He won't talk to me. I look around. I tried first to ask him about... something. But he won't talk to me, so I gave up. I look around. A breeze brushes the grass in the central margin here. There's others here too, in the fresh air. Looking around. Cars pass. I can let them. I have some things to figure out.

A good old moan

2008-08-19T22:32:00.001+01:00

It's impossible. I'm on the train, and a train of thoughts causes such a racket in my head, I can't even read my book. I turn down - and then off - my MP3 player. Such is the power of such thoughts. There I sat, watching
fields of sheep, cows, passing quickly. Hedges, haw, bogs. Splashes of colour from animals (and their farmers' markings), bogs, flowers, cars (yes, cars - you can't see the road, but the cars are on it) and then we get to
Adamstown, where nothing seems to be happening. It's lovely, but much in the same way as a showhouse is. Will it look and feel so good once the families move in with all their humanity? Beyond that, will the families and humanity at least add some character to the place? Questions, questions. So many questions from all this, as well as two poems and three short stories, based on the idea that
The fidgety girl in pink hoodie who legs to the toilet when the inspector comes round actually lives on the train, because she has nowhere to go
The conductor is secretly in love with the girl, and knows she is living on the train illicitly, but won't report her because then he'd never see her again - plus he'd be ruining any chance he had with her, as he was the informant
And someone else on the train must be something because of some reason

And there you have the problem. Three hours later, I cannot remember any of this. And this is my time to write.

Tom Waits at the Ratcellar

2008-08-02T20:52:00.015+01:00

Once again, if there was ever a gig populated solely by the artiste's biggest fan, it's Tom Waits. The excitement was palpable. So many were wearing hats and suits. You could see 'Small Change'-Tom Waits argue with 'Mule Variations'-Tom Waits over the songs that actual Tom Waits would just have to play.
But there was no trouble. No one wants trouble at an event that everyone knows everyone else has made sacrifices for.
The Rat Cellar was quite a sight on the site. You can see a picture of it here on Stu's blog. A circus-like marquee, with Mr Waits looking down from the publicity photo. Step Right Up! he seemed to be saying, or maybe even "Those with a heart condition be warned!" Under his watchful gaze, we shuffled up, along and back from stalls selling beer, burgers, coffee and chocolate.
Inside, you could see seats. Rows and rows of tightly packed seats. The stage was set for something quite promising. Trees of old speaker cones grew above lightbulb hedges surrounding the stage, hanging over the instruments closely but carefully packed around a small stand, in front of which rose another microphone, it's stand positioned on the floor and quite extended. Everyone knew what was going to happen there, but nobody was prepared when it did.
Taking my seat, I felt lucky. Lucky to be here, lucky to have a friend like Owen the Oracle and the lovely Niamh, without whom I certainly wouldn't have been there, lucky to be the fat guy between two skinny folks in those too-close seats. When one of us stood, another five had also to stand to accomodate thighs, shoulders and bellies. Intimate.
Then the lights went down.
A roar went up (from the crowd).
A band appeared and took their places.
Mr Waits shot out from backstage and onto his little raised platform at the front. We were all on our feet, clapping as he raised and lowered teh crowd with two outstretched arms, commanding rather than pleading. A gasp of his voice-box percussion and the whole damn band blew into action
"Well, they call me William the Pleaser..." As anticipated, The Voice. It came up from the bottom of his shoes, or perhaps even the bowels of hell. It rattled through his body as he sang, feet kicking to raise dust and hit a small bell on the small platform; arms outstreched, waving - a lunatic prophesying.
A snap of silence to break Lucinda into "Ain't Goin' Down" let us all know just how kinetic this gig was going to be. With clouds flying everytime he kicked the floor and the band pulling together all those sounds that make up a Tom Waits Song. Looking around at the crowd, most had forgotten the intimate seating, and were enraptured by this 58-year old who refused to be pinned down by anything other than his own artistic whim and, of course, love.
The band were amazing. I can't imagine what it takes to keep a Tom Waits song tight, given all the almost 'accidental'-sounding bits and pieces that go into them. But Casey Waits (yes, his son, but worthy of being there of his own right) kept beats and percussion to meet the needs of Waits' driving, yet eccentric songs. The bass boomed out by Seth Ford-Young was understated but essential to the whole. It rumbled on underneath the spikes, jolts and beauty of Omar Torrez' guitars. They weren't Marc Ribot, but they were all the better for not trying to be Marc Ribot - Torrez made the position of Waits guitar-man all his own (a hard enough task after Ribot). On the piano (when Waits was busy gesticulating and bursting at the seam from the power of his voice) was Patrick Moran. He was sort of undesrtated to, hidden at the back as he was. But on songs like November, his touch was perfect, tender and quiet then a little intimidating. On many, many other instruments was Vincent Henry. He was quite remarkable, playing a multitude of wind instruments and guitars and apparently giving a young Sullivan Waits lessons during the gig. I couldn't say enough about this band. They didn't just hit the right notes at the right time - they got the tone, the touch, the feeling of every moment dead right. It couldn't be stressed enough just how important this is for a Tom Waits gig, and if you've ever listened to a Tom Waits record, it probably doesn't need to be said. So we'll move on!
After a more than impressive first song, the band powered through a set of songs spanning most of the Waits catalog (the early period stuff - Closing Time, Heart of Saturday Night - seemed left out...), including favourites for both 'Small Change'-Tom Waits and 'Mule Variations'-Tom Waits. I smiled to think how they'll both be getting on, happy and mimicking that growl as they tip their hats to each other.
There were some real surprises too. A rocksteady twist on Black Market Baby, 9th and Hennepin with a cinematic intimidation. Make it Rain with the glitter promised in the title of the tour. Glitter rained down on Waits to the glee of the crowd. It recalled the confetti Waits threw during the Big Time tour (example 1, example 2).
And like the glitter, doom and confetti, a thought drifted down on me, settled and stuck - next year: will a Glitter and Doom CD & DVD be released? With any luck it will include a rerelease of Big Time, which never managed to make it to DVD.
After it all, I walked around, dazed. For two days.

How "Psycho" Got His Name

2008-07-17T21:12:00.006+01:00

It is a midsummer afternoon and we are sitting in La Jardin Bierre. I am drinking beer with a lemon in it, served in some kind of giant branded wine glass. She is drinking wine, from a regular wine glass. She is telling me about her day. I am trying to listen, but this reedy voice behind me snags my attention, again and again. It's husky and high pitched; I think of a three year old who has smoked twenty a day for forty years.
"Why are you smirking?" she asks
"Nothing" I say "go on."
I seems nothing in her office works. Her computer, the network, the printer. The final straw came with the photocopier coating her skirt in black dust. After a brief but satisfying meltdown, the boss came over and said "Look, just take the afternoon off." Janie, a superbitch in the office was giving her a look when
"Well," says the reedy voice, from nowhere, from behind me - shhitch of a cigarette lighter - "then there's Psycho. D'ja hea' 'bout his latest escapades?"
I nearly jump from my seat, from my skin as a deep bass says "Psycho?" A barrel talking to a nail scraping down a blackboard. About 'Psycho' no less.
The Jardin is one of these bars where the class war is in truce. Everyone is here for the same reason - to drink outside where you can smoke with impunity. The whole bar is outside. That's its theme - a European-style garden bar with an Irish twist (a fully retractable roof for when it rains). We sit around in the afternoon, drinking sensibly, waiting for the evening when we'll pick up the pace and then go our separate ways. She and I will go for dinner, and maybe some more drinks in Shea's Wild West Saloon - a new theme bar where they serve group cocktails in a pitcher shaped like a stetson. I don't know what the odd couple will do - but I guess they return to their own world, their own dinner, their own bars.
The reedy voice is finishing its story about Psycho and whatever it was he did. The deep voice rumbles "I heard about dat. I didn't know his name was Psycho. I know him as Gerry..." he trails off. After a few moments of staring into space, the reedy voice says
"Nice bar, wha? Y'know who owns this joint? You know Spacey? Lives on the corner from yer ma... Yeah, well Spacey's brother: he owns the place"
"Your kidding? I didn't know Spacey had a brother"
"Yeah, yeah. Spent a few years knockin' 'round Europe, then a good time in London. Came back with a bit of money and bought himself a place. Was just settling when some fellah comes along and throws a wad of cash at him - 'will you sell me yer place?' 'will I wha'?' says he. Anyway, that started him, and now he owns a bunch of places. This one is great though, wha'? All sorts in here." his voice lowers "Yuppies an' all..." shhitch, the lighter goes again.
We are talking about maybe buying a place. We've been living together for a while. "Renting is dead money" she says and she is right. I take a sip of beer and light another smoke. Buying is a big step. But then living is a big risk, you could die at any moment.
"D'ja know how he got the name?" the reedy voice asks. Whatever physicality the deep voice had obviously signalled No. There was a cough - a throat clearing. I awaited the mighty voice that would relate to all in La Jardin Bierre the Story of How Psycho got his name.
But the voice remained reedy as it said
"Well, he moved in on the street. But you know he's not one of us. I know you only moved to the street three or four years ago, but yer from the area. He's nah' He came from down by the brewery. Anyway, he moved onto the street and you know the way the kids are? Well this one, Barra Molloy, he'd seen the place all empty for so long was kicking a ball against the window. Y'know the way they do tha'? Anyway, Psycho comes out and grabs the kid by his throat, drags him out to the road and hangs him by his jacket on the railings outside the house. Says nothing, just does that and goes back in. Anyway, later on, the kid's father, Jamie, he comes down the street, big walk on him an' everythin'. He storms up to the door, bangs on it like crazy. The door opens, out comes Psycho and before yer man can say "Who do you think you are?" or "D'jew know who I am" or "I'll ram this fuckin' whatsit up yer arse or down yer throat", Psycho has dragged him out to the street as well. Bates seven shades of shite out of him, then walks back inta the house."
"Say anything?" asks the deep voice.
"No. Nobody said anything" says the reedy voice. "Anyway, it's gettin' late. Fancy a chippaw aw sumthin'? This place'll fill up with yuppies in about half an hour."

The Rat Story

2008-07-16T21:22:00.002+01:00

Written some time ago...

As it happened, I happened across the rat as I was crossing the road. It was massive, for a rat, and much too fast to stamp on. So I ran instead, pretending not to have seen it at all and that I was dodging traffic. I sought refuge in a Coffee shop. Thank god for Coffee Shops. Came here so long ago to free us all from Cafés, with their instant coffee, domestic tea and week-old scones. Right now, it was a double decaf mocha with a froth I needed, being so wound up. Not a Maxwell House double stirred with congealed sugar and a slice of bread and butter. As I waited, I pointed to a Danish as well. The girl took it from the display with tongs, shoved it in a bag, which she placed on the counter. A Danish would go down nicely. Although, one should never discount the power of a roast chicken pesto pannini in times of great terror. Of course, it wasn't terror I was in. More shock. Over the rat. Nasty thing. I wish I'd killed it. But there was just no way to. It was too fast. Thinking of its jerky movement makes me shudder even now. Just no way to defeat these rats.

The woman beside me, she asks if I'm going to have my coffee. I've been staring into space. On account of the shock, no less. But still she asks me, with her cutting words, whether I'll be moving on. I don't know what to say. I pull out my wallet, and send a bunch of receipts flying from it onto the counter. No money. Whoever thought you could actually have no money? In this day and age. I suppose that's what credit is all about. I pull out a card and say "Do you..."?

"Only Laser" she says, in an accent. I could fall in love with her and live in Buck Rogers land. But instead, I must live out the almighty shame of excusing myself from the coffee shop. Without money, there's no refuge here. Back out with the rats, who coincidentally also have no money. The woman says something as I leave. Am I not humiliated enough? I wonder.

I try to find a bank machine. Wouldn't you know it the easiest (no queue, does have receipts, quiet location) is in a Bar. Bars, I just don't know about them. Whatever happened to pubs? I mean, I'm very happy for the convenience of the bank machine here, but Bars in general just seem so clinical, so clean. Makes me feel a little low, walking in there. No one else would realise the state of my house, but I know. And walking into a Bar, with its chrome, its 'interior' really makes me long for the long lost pub, which was always at least as shitty as my place, and often worse. In my grandfathers' time and my father's time (and, I suppose my mother's time), pubs were even better, with the spit on the floor and a fog bank of smoke from all over the planet, as well as the fireplace. No one could have lived in such circumstances, and as a result we were all kind of equal, being better than the shit hole that the pub was. I order a pint while I tap in numbers. It's cool and clean in here. Well lighted. What a smell - polish and beer. Cash in hand, I head out for a smoke.

"Oi! C'mere! Whataboutyerpoint?"

"Just goin for a smoke..." I assure him. I think about legging it. After all, I only ordered out of guilt. Imagine walking into a place and saying nothing to the only other person in there? It can't be done. And how do you say hello to a barman without ordering a pint or short or something? That's even more impossible. I smoke away as the pedestrians come barrelling toward me, like meteors in some science fiction film. I think of my Buck Rogers girl again. I think of dropping my smoke in mid air, just to teach these people some manners, and to not be so sure of their walking habits. They go straight for you, you see. They want you to move out of their way. It's obvious why; what without pubs and Cafes to hand it's the only simple Irish manner of bolstering a sense of worth. Which is what we need if we're thinking about having a sense of self. I step back in for my pint. Thinking: That's a good one now - the whole sense of self/sense of worth thing. Interesting. I could think about that over a pint. But no. No I can't.

"Up to much today?"

"Ah no, day off"

"Hence the early drinkin', eh?"

I smile. "Busy?"

"No, not on a Tuesday. Not on a Tuesday til lunchtime. Then about eight o'clock..." I could tell you what he's saying, but I'm not going to because here he is cleaning. I don't mind him cleaning, I don't mind him talking. But which does he want to do right now? He's only pretending to take an interest in me, I'm sure of it. Why else would he keep going with that damned cloth? I need a paper, I think. That way I can think away to myself, but pretend I'm remaining entirely wrapped up in this world. Skull the pint, head out, get the paper, come back: that's the plan. No point asking him for a paper, he'd only want to talk about the news. You send a much more definite message if you walk in with a paper. Open it, read it, order pints. Mumble assent. No commitment to conversation. Excellent.

Excellent, except that on the road, there it is again. My first instinct is to run again. I know I can't kill it. I shudder at the thought. Of it, and of its death. I keep my eye on it this time, see where it goes. Filthy thing. Attracted by the waste of humans. Even more disgusting. But maybe it has something there. Maybe. I cross over the road, lie chest down and stare into the gutter railings. If I stay very very still, they may come and get me - mistaking me for one of their own.

If there was a tree...

2008-06-30T22:18:00.002+01:00

If there was a tree, he could have hung himself. The thought occurred to him as he thought about that play by Beckett. At least you could die standing up (if you see what he thought). But there was no tree. Not here, as he plodded like Poldy round Dublin, where the North city had not re-gentrified but instead the middle classes had re-galvanised with expensive buildings, too high to get over, too secure to get into. Standing proud and tall, shrugging off the old, the decrepit, the council-owned. Reaching for the sun during the day. And of course the stars, during the night. Getting pissed on first or at least believing as much.
He was thinking of Godot on account of the fact that he was unsure of what to think of. Despite the hundreds, maybe thousands of lives that walked, avoided and shoved their way passed him. Life. Going on as it must do. Strange to think of all this life, he thought. This city, he thought, is blooming with life. And I am walking round, looking (seeking? searching?) for something. But what?
He had no idea. Not since it all happened. It had started out here, with him like this: walking around. For work, he knew. He remembers one thing - the feeling that they could fire him. The feeling that they held him in their hands and that whatever he was looking for he needed. Without it, he'd be going back to the office to be fired. And that would be no good. Not with all that stuff to pay for. The stuff he'd accumulated in a life with a girl who he lost. Was he looking for her? No. He didn't think so. He would find her elsewhere, he knew. It was his destiny. Or at least a part of his destiny that hadn't been wrenched - with the house and the car and the stuff - with his job. It was something. Written in the stars, they used to say at school. If he had a mind, he could try and get in and get up one of those sky scrapers. Read whatever it was that was written in the stars. It could tell him where she was.
She was what he needed. But first.
First he had to find what he was looking (seeking? searching?) for. He'd know it when he found it. And once he had, he could turn his attentions to finding herself. He'd say "Well?" and she'd say "Well yerself!" like she used to and then she'd kiss him. He'd try to apologise and she wouldn't hear of it. No, he knew it couldn't happen that way. But he also knew it couldn't happen at all unless he found what he was looking for. If only he could figure it out - who made it, who sold it, who delivered it?
There were too many questions for asking. And besides, no one to ask, really. Not with all these people passing and bumping and even barging their way through this city to find things they must know they are looking for. Unless they are trying to get to them before they forget. Because, and they are reminded when they see him, he is what happens if you forget before you find it.
Dear God.
If there was a tree...

...on the lighter side...

2008-06-26T23:29:00.002+01:00

I've been very reflective and perhaps a bit maudlin recently. So here are some things that made me giggle...

Ironic Forum Signature:
"It's ok to be different, it's good to be different, and we should
question ourselves before we judge others." -- Johnny Depp" (I can be different because Johnny Depp says it's OK?)

Road Sign: No Unauthorized Dumping.
Jeremy, a good lad who wore decent suits and worked hard in the city just couldn't take it any more with K. She had to go. But how to do it?
Passing through a swell in the council offices, he took a ticket and waited. On the third day, his beard started itching him. At a small hatch filled with a young woman's head, he got the forms.
Having consulted forums (where people were different because celebrities were quite sure it was better to be different) and tried (but gave up) trying to contact the council officials, he finally managed to complete all the forms.
Six to eight weeks later, it came through the post. Laminated. Non transferrable. He took K down to the field, where he said
"Look, K, I'm really sorry, but I just don't think this is working... It's not you, it's me... the past few weeks? I've been busy... well, getting this license..."

When you're young, idealist and ignorant...
A young socialist, handing out "Stop the murder!" flyers on Nth Earl Street, wearing a 'Revolutionary' Stalin T-Shirt. (Click here to access the irony)

Racism Not Recessing, Unlike Economy
Two guys on a number 90 bus, jerking its way toward Heuston Station:
"You'd emigrate, would you?"
"Jaysis, a' course. I'd go anywhere. I'm not stayin in f?;[ing Dublin. Are yuh mad?! No f?;[ing way. Dis place is going down the tubes"
"Yeh. The f?;[ing tubes!"
"A kip! We're all f?;[ed anyway, so yuh might as well be goin' over to wherever to get sum wawk."
"Yeh. You know who I blame?"
"Bertie."
"No, no, you're showin yer ignorance now. No. Dem foreigners frum Africa and Eastern Your-Op"
"And the Chinese"
"No, no, ignorance! Ignorance! Everyone know the Chinese are the best workers. The problem is all dem foreigners that came over and took up dem jobs. Actchully, maybe yer right about the Chinese too. See they all got the jobs...."
"Yuh, yuh. Took them jobs right out of the hands of the Irish... what did they come here for anyway?"
"Jaysis, sher I dunno. C'mere, here's my stop. See you next Thursday at the Social."
"Yuh"

***
Dragon's Den on Dave is nearly over, meaning I better get to bed.

...a moment...

2008-06-19T20:45:00.006+01:00

...on the bus to my train these days, because the LUAS works just mess everything up. It's yet another block in a wall that threatens to one day fall on me. Feeling sorry for myself, I was glad to receive a call from my brother. For one thing, it's something of a minor tradition - he calls me maybe once a week as I traverse Dublin's quays on foot and public transport. The other thing is it's always good craic. No matter what's pissing us off, he or I will make the other one laugh.
It's a good feeling.
We were having our usual conversation: How's work, how's home, how's the kids... each waiting for the other to make the first joke and send us off onto some bizarre mental plain.
I was on the top level of a bus, looking around when I spotted someone sitting on the outside of the bridge at Usher's quay. Above her, two Guards seemed to be talking to her. There was a head between the balusters. Some messer or dosser or junkie, doing something stupid without realising - or caring - about the danger they were putting themselves in. Getting a dressing down from hard put-upon Guards, just trying to get through the day.
As we talk about a friend, the bus moves along; a closer, parralax view tells a different story.
It's a girl and she looks younger than me. She is wearing decent enough clothes. Her shoulders slumped, her hands on either side of her, on the very edge of the bridge. Just holding on, or getting ready to push off? The bus stops as I say
"Jesus Christ, someone's about to jump off a bridge on the quays!"
"What, really?"
"Yeah. It's this girl, there's two Guards there talking to her or something and there's... Oh Jesus, - the other person is another Guard. She's obviously talking to her."
For a moment - a full, complete, whole, lasting, long, moment - the bus is stopped, I am silent, my brother is silent and the Guards are paused. People must be getting off the bus, getting on, going about whatever they do. A life continuing around, or beyond the moment.
The bus moves - a Guard jumps the balustrade - I turn my head to see - we've gone too far - there's nothing of that scene to see.
"Jesus Christ" I say
"Jesus" my brother says
"Jesus" over and over. A lapsed prayer. I don't believe in God, but I believe in hope. A hope for the girl, who was maybe hopeless. Who knows? Could this happen in daylight, in a city?
I am suddenly concious that I am a life passing by, as someone is trapped in a moment. Whoever she is, I wish her well. All the bricks threatening to fall on me, they're made of cotton and clouds. The moment I'm in is a postscript to a previous - talking to my bro, getting on the bus- or a prequel to the next - talking to my bro, getting on the train.

Suddenly forced to think of a moment in and of itself. With no prequel (how can I know what happened before?) and no sequel (I don't know what happened next, but I hope for her something happened next - that it didn't end there). Just a moment. A Guard vaulting a balustrade, one arm on it, the other groping toward

What? I have no idea. The bus whisked me toward Heuston as I tried to describe the whole moment to my brother...

O'besity kills 450 a Year in the North

2008-06-18T16:57:00.001+01:00

How many does McBesity kill in the republic? I thought we were beyond all this!

http://www.breakingnews.ie/ireland/mhgbgbojaugb/

Ignatius J. Reilly, Meet Thy Daughter

2008-06-07T20:29:00.006+01:00

Sunshine and I were out and about for a stroll and some fresh air. I like strolling, and the fresh air helps sunshine sleep (having the time to write this is testament to that fact).
We met all sorts on our way, out and about on the plains of the Curragh.
She was pointing the way, toward sheep, bushes, heathers, whatever flora, fauna and foliage caught her eye. I, for my part was rehearsing my thoughts for a blog about the Lisbon referendum, and the absurdity of much of the debate and posturing that's going on (you'll find this post over at the Fat Man Thinks, when it's ready). Such it my role as the Ignatius J. Reilly of modern Ireland.
At some point, Sunshine takes issue with a point I am making. Ay-ay-ay-ay-ya! she says. I enjoy her energy, but she has much to learn about the art of great rhetoric and debate. On this, time will be in the telling. She may well be a politician yet, or perhaps found the greatest advertising agency this country has known. Of course, all first time parents (while they may not wish it) believe this; such is the manipulative power of the first child. As a parent, I have always found my sheer physical size, and the magnitude of the 10 month old's dependence mean that just about any debate can be quashed with a soother, bottle or the quick lift from a pram. But not today.
"Ay-ay-ay-ya! Bu-bu-bu-ay-ay. Wuh-wuh-bah!" I am completely unprepared for this argument. I thought I would not hear it for at least fifteen years (falling in the back door, drunk). As Tom Waits once sang: "These children are so hard to raise good"
So, this final rejoinder shut me up, and I followed the finger, which seems to have dictated the course of my life for the past ten months.
There were looks from people. An large, unshaven, floppy haired man just cannot push a pram containing a child anywhere without attracting looks. I've learned this in the past ten months. But much of it, I believe to be Sunshine's fault. Her finger was manic. An auditory account would run thus:
To the sheep! To the bush! To those other children! To the sheep! To the hill! To the hollow! To the sun, by Christ, and step on it; my mission is both imperative and too important to explain to an unshaven, floppy-haired, fatman such as yourself!
Ignatious J Reilly, meet thy daughter.

2008-05-30T22:05:00.003+01:00

Daniel: A Confession in Two Acts

2008-05-26T21:55:00.010+01:00

I was delighted to see my brother last weekend, with his many children in tow: Rory, the red haired firstborne scourge of those lacking imagination, his sister and partner in crime (fighting, last weekend the 'Yankees' and 'Terracons'), Emer and young Daniel, who had a harder way to come than most some 18 months ago to join the rest of us. At some point, Daniel needs a nappy change (as these children so often do), and my brother, who coos to him starts singing that song, 'Daniel':

Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain
Oh and I can see Daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

I'm not a fan of the song, but I remember it's christening as his song. As I said, he had a harder way to come than most, and that is all that needs to be said about that. The family crowded in to provide support.
My particular duty, three or four days, was to sit at the front of the Rotunda hospital, smoking fags. To keep it 'real' (as is the bizarre disposition of humans in crisis), I brought a book along with me, Becket's More Pricks Than Kicks. Whenever my bro came out for a (no doubt, much needed) smoke, there I'd be - beyond the crowd pregnant women, smoking away as they staggered, whimpered and wheelchaired about the front of the hospital - there I'd be, reading some poncy book like some unkempt arts student who never grew up. I thought this would cheer him up, and I still think to some extent it did. I ran my MP3 player mercilessly, seeking a song. I am the one with all the songs, so that's the other thing I thought I could do. One week, I think I charged the damn thing three or four times, just looking for that song. The right song. No song seemed 'just right', but such is the way with these kinds of times.
I wished I could have done more, but such things are beyond me. I loaded up an MP3 player with songs for his partner, I visited with magazines, I stood in awe of how they were getting through it all. All the time, swanning about with this air of the quotidian. Oh, how usual to stop
for a cheap cup of coffee and newsagent sandwich made three days ago, then pop into the Rotunda. Oh how usual to smoke nearly twenty a day. Oh how usual for that feeling to be there, just at the edge of each eye and another somewhere half way down the cheek. How usual for hands to shake. How usual my bro looks with his eyes hung, dark, pure, the epitome of what humanity might aspire to: Selfless. He wasn't himself, and he wasn't for himself. He was too busy being strong.
One evening, when the news had started to increment in the right direction (a little better, a little every day), my mother, sisters, wife and I went for a civilised dinner (My brother had to go home to sort out the children). Pasta and sauce, it was so exotic. My wife even had prawns, which I thought could be to some extent sinful, but I kept my mouth shut. There were drunk people shouting; an argument over our shoulder to do with a child that was grounded, but was going to a show "A school show, that's why" "That's not the point!"; other people making plans on where to go next. All this life, going on, as life does.
"So, did you all hear the name?" I think it was my mother who asked. I, quite selfish was happy to butt in.
"Yes. It's a good name. I think they've chosen well. Lion's den and all that." This, my brother had told me while we smoked a cigarette, watching the pregnant ladies wheezing and whining through their own fags, and a case of mistaken fatherhood ("You're nah! I'm tellin' ya! It's Joey. I said Joey to ma, I did!")
My sister, the second runner in the family in the music fan stakes, sang:

Daniel my brother you are older than me

She halted there. I was grateful, as I didn't like the song. I protested it was too obvious, but really it was because that song - for whatever reason - was to me the elevator music of my childhood. I only ever recall hearing it in the car on the way to school or from some activity, and at that, only ever just before or just after an ad break. I decided to continue my earnest search for a new, better song that would mean something, that would touch to the root of all of that week.
But it is a folly of human life that we sink back into routine all too easily. Smell the roses is a cliche, so people seldom do. I did continue my search, in vain, but soon it petered out. Daniel was sung on a number of occasions since, for various reasons: around tables, in cars, over dinner, after wine.
Then my brother sang that verse last weekend. I had never realised the first line was about leaving tonight on a plane. My brother singing that reminded me of him leaving on a plane, a long time ago. Another life ago, almost.
We were living in New Zealand, and he was going to a boarding school in the UK. He often came over, it seemed to me, just to bug the hell out of me. He brought with him a strange kind of slang, and gained a self confidence which I despised. His holidays at home were characterised by a brief spell of cameraderie, followed quickly by a long spell of fighting in which things were said that only children have the blind cruelty to say.
On time that he was leaving, we went to a strip behind the airport to watch the plane take off. Perhaps we did this every time he left, but this is the one time I remember. As we drove from the terminal to the strip, I think "Daniel" was playing on the radio, but I can't be sure. My mother and sister were distraught. At that age, I could never figure out my Dad, so I can't really say how he was. There was another family who had just waved goodbye to one of their own, and they were at the strip as well.
I was glad he was on his way. We must have had some fight. Probably one of those in which he tested out his bizarre slang on me, while I threw back the latest obscenity that I had heard (I recall once, not this time, but once, calling him a 'nipple'. His blank stare in return convinced me that I had gone so far as to have permanently wounded him. Of course, he was probably wondering what this 'eggy' kid was on about.)
My mum was comforting my sister, and mentioned something about burgers or ice cream. Perhaps even some kind of toy. Well, I thought, I better get in on this action.
I buried my head in my hands, and thought ooh, I miss my brother already. Mum drew me into the hug with my sister.
And that was when I felt it. I did miss my brother already. What had he going on over there, in England that was so much better than here. It couldn't be the slang. 'Eggy' and such terms were no match for 'fuck' and 'nipple', and I had many more words I could teach him. Like he had so many games he could teach us.
Through dust and tears, we waved goodbye to a jumbo jet tail fin as it rose into the clouds. I think my sister, or perhaps my mother, or maybe even my father suggested they saw him waving - we had missed it because you had to look very close, and the plane was moving very fast. But it had been caught, he was in there, waving back to us.
I never really thought of that until I heard my brother singing those lines from the song. And in sitting down to write this, I understand why my sister had halted when singing the song that night in the restaurant. I had to look up the lyrics, but the line after the one she sang is

Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won't heal

This makes me realise what I've been missing all this time. I've been missing it out of a selfish and quite vain streak of high-minded Arts-graduate doublethink. Convinced that the greats are the only ones that can communicate anything that means anything. But all this high-brow, has-to-mean-something comes to nothing. Because at the very bottom, meaning is defined as much in the moments we share, as in the abstract connections we make between things. As a quasi intellectual with a touch of dyslexia and a restricted mentality, this comes as quite a shock. But a shock worth sharing all the same. For many, this is obvious. But for me, it has been a two-day epiphany.

Daniel, by Elton John & Bernie Taupin

Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for spain
Oh and I can see daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

They say spain is pretty though Ive never been
Well daniel says its the best place that hes ever seen
Oh and he should know, hes been there enough
Lord I miss daniel, oh I miss him so much

Daniel my brother you are older than me
Do you still feel the pain of the scars that wont heal
Your eyes have died but you see more than i
Daniel youre a star in the face of the sky

Daniel is travelling tonight on a plane
I can see the red tail lights heading for spain
Oh and I can see daniel waving goodbye
God it looks like daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes
Oh God it looks like daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes

Senseless

2008-05-19T22:46:00.004+01:00

On the Luas, commuters waiting to commute, waiting for the toneless beep before the doors slide shut. At the back, behind the wall that's behind the tram, there's two junkies. One's on a bike, the other's leaning on the wall and both are on something, eyes rolling, hands jerking, bodies shaking. Hands jerking. There's only three hands I can see.
Trying not to look like I'm looking, I look. It looks to me like she's... And that's why he's rocking forward and backward on his bicycle. And that's why her hand (the visible one) is jerking. And that's why their bodies are shaking. It's a job. You can't tell, because the top of his trousers are under the top of the wall. And no one goes back there. No one who's a commuter anyway.
JONG IS A FAG and SHARON SUCKS 4 BUCKS according to the wall, which also says, mysteriously, Grift! A freesheet on a free seat says research has proven that gay drivers are at least as bad as women drivers. There's so much being said, so little being meant.
Over here you can hear the tsk-tsk hissing of an electronic hi-hat on a keyboard generated dance track. A tall guy with a bald head and a huge adam's apple is in a trance, maybe going over something in his head. Nothing seems to disturb him, not even "...me fuCKING MONey!" which suddenly pierces the tram. Coming from somewhere and going back there, whoever it is, they're angry - you know that, and not just because it's money. You can hear it, in the voice which crescendos then diminuendos. But to claim to know what it means would just be innuendo. The chatter, the chatter starts on the tram. "He said she was going..."; "Where are you...?"; "Yeah, I miss you too..."; "Just on the Luas..."
"What'd you ge'?"
"Borgor. Chips"
"It's fuckin' luvely in dare, innit?"
"Yah"
Smells of grease and perfume. Named after a celebrity no doubt. The perfume, that is, not the grease. Although could you imagine: Your dinner can smell like Kate Moss'. You can imagine. The smell. Heavy, lingering, slippery. Mixing with that perfume that smells like a subtle room deodorant. You can hate that smell. Even bald guy has turned his lips down, squinted his eyes, screwed his nose. It's not snobbery. It's just... different things for different people... all these different people... you don't turn your nose up at it, you just follow your nose to another place. To the Hugo Boss, the Cool Water, the Poison, the Estee Lauder, the perfumes named before celebrities, before no one knew anything about what anyone else did, because everyone did the same thing, smelled the same way, shared the same worlds...
A breeze comes in, I lean lightly against it. Feel it on my skin, warmed underneath but chilling. Hang over from last night. Feeling queasy. Feeling guilty. No reason that I know to - just conditioning. Spend so much time apologising, from down here, from in here, where I feel only myself, much like everyone else who can't feel what anyone else feels... Vinyl - is that the word? The fabric they make the jackets from. The big ones, puffing out. Nylon - that's it. Nylon on your skin. Feels alien. Smooth but uncomfortable. You feel like you might reach out and
Touch it. Touch it all. By looking, hearing, smelling, feeling, you touch it all. Make it something else, something that includes you, but it's not the thing you experience. It's the thing the other people experience because you're in it because you touched it. And for you, it's the thing they are in because it's the thing they touched. But for all of us, and them, it's only the ones we notice - the handjob, the music, the takeaway, the jacket - it's the stuff. We're just watching in on it. Viewing like voyeurs with nothing to do but sense all this. These meaningless senseless...things.
And yet, there's something in it all that makes you write it down.

Water

2008-05-12T23:35:00.003+01:00

It is no curious thing that water is clear, unless polluted by such things that would discolour it. Of course, when polluted by those things that would not discolour it, it is still clear: so we have a situation where water, unless unpolluted by such things that would, or would not discolour it, is clear. Which brings us nowhere if we just need to know whether we can drink it.
A fast flow traps air, which rises in a panic to join molecules of its own king - up there, in the air. A metaphysical refugee, fighting the influx of molecules which not only displace it, but do so with the utmost transparency, so everyone can see what's going on.
They say water can mean purity, but not when they are talking about water torture.
Although, apparently, elsewhere they have said drowning is the most peaceful way to die - so if you're in a hotel room that's on fire, with the mattress coughing out carbon monoxide, which drifts across, nice and easy, ready to put one over you and sleep you to death - jump in the pool and breathe deeply - it'll be much more relaxing. We humans, if we have no control over our destiny, we have nothing.
And nothing returns us to the question of transparency, and what's in it for us. Sure, we can see through clear water, but that doesn't mean it isn't loaded with something. It also doesn't mean that we care. Just because the water's transparent doesn't mean I was even looking for it. I could argue for days the benefits of transparency in water, while I continue to drink diet Coke.
I'm not even on a diet, I tell myself. But I do eat. Which, I suppose is no more than a modern day oxymoron (a word whose meaning is rapidly changing to describe TV audiences in the early 21st century. Or should it be polymoron?)
Like the transparent water, we're happy everything is pure, so long as we don't have to taste it. Even when we see those bubbles rising rapidly, and with some violence, it won't bother us, so we might as well just get on with it.

PEHDTSCKJMBA!

2008-05-12T22:21:00.003+01:00

Tom Waits announces US tour, promises European tour to follow... It's written in the stars, we are told.
As the stars told the wise men of Christ's birth, as they tell millions (maybe billions?) of commuters about their lives, so they tell us of the coming of Tom. Waits for news are over. The moon is rising. Damp brows everywhere are wiped. Clean the credit cards, for they will be needed to book. Tickets won't be cheap, and if London, 2005 is anything to go by, they'll be gone. In a second. Chances are, no sentence can encapsulate the feelings of fans around the world, so I won't try to.
At a press conference, which appears to have been held in a rented school room, Tom Waits lays out the good word about his tour. You can see the video here.
More news is always available from the ever reliable Eyeball Kid, perhaps the best source of all Tom Waits ephemera on the web.
And, should you want more 'official' updates, there's always the ANTI blog, which includes updates on all their artistes here (also good for streaming audio from ANTI artists, including Nick Cave, Jolie Holland, Neko Case, Billy Bragg...).
Set your mouse pointers to the Buy Tickets button!
A word of advice...
In an attempt to reduce touting, there may be bizarre rules in relation to ticket purchases. The US gigs are using a paperless ticketing system: book online, print out a confirmation that you bring along on the night (no ticket is sent to you!), along with a form of Government ID and the original credit card used to book.
There's a limit to two tickets per card, and both those people have to show up together. Touting is a pain in the arse, and has to be stopped, but surely there's an easier way than this?? The whole system sounds like something devised by a character living in a basement in a Tom Waits song... or is that exactly what we're meant to think?

Again, David Blaine...

2008-05-01T21:33:00.003+01:00

David Blaine has set a new world record for holding his breath...

Indeed, no, he did not die and we should not all hold our breath waiting for it to happen...

I always thought (ironically) that I'd read a news report about David Blaine; about how he's hold his breath or wipe his ass in some record-breaking manner...

And now it's happened...

Read the original report on the BBC News Website

Proposed Tom Waits Set List

2008-04-26T00:55:00.008+01:00

After my rant on Scarlett Johansson, I have been challenged to define a set list for a Tom Waits covers album. Some of these have been recorded already, some are ideas:

Chuck E Weiss sings Diamonds on My Windshield (from The Heart of Saturday Night)
Ramones sing I Don't Wanna Grow Up (from Bone Machine)
Daniel Johnston sings Better Off Without a Wife
Tori Amos sings Time (as much from love of tori - not the best Tom Waits cover, but still way ahead of SJ)
Johnny Cash sings Down There By The Train (from Orphans)
Bob Dylan sings A Soldiers Things (from Swordfishtrombones)
Sparklehorse sings Rain Dogs [but how would he do it?] (from Rain Dogs)
John Hammond sings Til The Money Runs Out (from Heart Attack and Vine)
Nick Cave sings 4:19 (from Orphans)
Neko Case sings Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis (from Blue Valentines)
Bruce Springsteen sings Jersey Girl [of course] (from Heart Attack and Vine)
Patent Bullshit Entry Removed
Lucinda Williams sings I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You (from Closing Time)
Primus sing Fillipino Box Spring Hog (from Mule Variations)
Jolie Holland sings A Little Rain (from Bone Machine)
Kris Kristofferson sings The Day After Tomorrow (from Real Gone)

Bonus (hidden) track - William Shatner does 9th and Hennepin (from Rain Dogs)

Most of these are ballady. In my three-pints state, I'm now thinking of a double album, a la Orphans - one for the brawlers and the other for the brawlers... I'll be back.

In the meantime, let me know what you think!

Johansson Scarlett as Tom Waits for Decent Tribute

2008-04-24T22:01:00.003+01:00

I gave the streaming a chance. I decided, after a couple of listens, it's just not for me. And I don't think it does anything for the Tom Waits songbook either.
It's dreary, really. As I mentioned in the last post - it's all movie-type atmosphere meeting over-produced 'sound scapes', which no doubt are an attempt to 'reinterpret the raw, manic power of Tom Waits vibrant percussion, bizarre instrumentation and legendary voice'. This is my own quote, and I know it's a pile of crap. It's marketing crap, made to build something up that (frankly) doesn't require building up. In fact, that quote belittles Mr Waits' work - much like this album.
It's hard to know what this album is 'for'. Some years ago, there were a couple of tribute albums released. Some songs on them were good, others were pretty cool indie bands doing a garage-type-cover of Tom Waits work. Which means they tried to sound like Tom Waits. Big mistake. Tom Waits sound is unique, so trying to copy it makes it less than it is. However, criticism of those albums aside - they were an attempt for a range of musical acts to pay tribute to someone they felt was a big influence on their lives. I'm sure there was an attempt to raid legacy copyright license value also (all the songs were from the Asylum/Elektra recordings). Another affect the albums would have had was to introduce Tom Waits' music to a different fan base - fans of the acts involved on the albums.
But what is the Scarlett Johansson album for? Is it a tribute? A re-exploration? An attempt to foster new fans? If it is any of these, it has failed, I'm afraid. Here's why:
If it were a tribute, it is lost as such. The dull thuddery of electronic over production, stretching like a duvet upon which the pillowed tones of Scarlett Johansson's voice sleepwalks through the songs do nothing for them. I can see that it may be an attempt to pay tribute to Tom Waits by being really original - so original in fact as to try and produce an Anti-Tom Waits album (pun intended for those who care). Tom Waits writes songs that are brats - they kick against the pricks of formulaic songwriting in contemporary pop music. But their treatment with Scarlett Johansson (more correctly David Siteck of TV on the Radio) is to "formulate" them - to make them sound like something that has been studied, analysed, sterilised and rehabilitated so they can make a useful contribution to current pop music. Unlike Tom Waits songs, you can predict what's coming next. One point I made last night that still sicks in my craw is the how percussion works. I like the way percussion does two things in Tom Waits songs - 1, builds cadence then 2, punctures it. This is part way to the ragged feel of the songs and provides that whole 'what's happening now?' feeling that you get when you listen. The songs I've heard from Scarlett Johansson also do two things with percussion: 1, build cadence and then 2, reinforces it. Much like the cymbal crash at the end of a crescendo in a movie score (which I'm not against, by the way - it works in movies, just not in Tom Waits songs).
So, is it a 're-exploration' of Tom Waits' music? No. Because these songs start to sound formulaic. That's not an exploration. At best it's a mapping out, so that the next set of tourists that come along can find the English-Speaking Tour/Irish Bar/MacDonald's without too much effort.
How about an attempt to foster new fans? Well, this is an odd one. Firstly, why would any big star go to the bother of undertaking a project just to promote the work of another? Unless your Mark Linkaus of course, and you feel your friend isn't getting the exposure they deserve.
Outside the question of recording an album for the betterment of Tom Waits - there's the question of whether it would even work. I'm not convinced that fans of this album would necessarily be fans of Tom Waits albums - as I mentioned before, this is the polar opposite of a Tom Waits album. Which makes it all the more painful. That and the idea that there will (definitely) be people walking round in the Autumn barking on about this gravelly-voiced hobo who did a terrible job at covering Scarlett Johansson's album...

Scarlett Johansson 'Does' Tom Waits

2008-04-23T23:25:00.002+01:00

I'm not sure what I think of this (Scarlett Johansson's Tom Waits album) yet.

My immediate reaction is not too promising, but I don't want to make an off the cuff remark I may regret later.

Tom Waits, filtered through a kind of 80's soundtrack-type musical feel and tone. Interestingly, where Tom Waits uses percussion to pierce cadence, the percussion here seems to add to it - as you get with movie soundtracks - they seem to be using the percussion to build up to crescendos in the song.
One of those flat female vocals, similar to from the Velvet Underground (but not as much charm, I don't think). Radiohead might be in there somewhere too...

I will say this: It's not what I expected. So, kudos there, I suppose.

URL: http://www.scarlettalbum.com/

Click the "Listening Party" link to stream some songs.

As I write this, 'Falling Down' has come on. I'm disliking it.

Now hearing Anywhere I Lay My Head, and switching off. Full blog tomorrow.
bye bye

Early Sex Linked to Crisis Pregnancy

2008-04-10T15:44:00.001+01:00

Don't get it up when you get up or you'll get up the duff might be the message.

Another could be "The Boogie's Gonna Getchya"

PS: Just so it's on record. I hate the term 'Crisis' pregnancy.

Read the proper news story here, on the Breaking News Website.

Naomi Bailed After Row on Plane

2008-04-04T12:57:00.001+01:00

According to my reading of this headline, Naomi Campbell not only did her usual spoiled poodle thing, but then she left the room, presumably slamming the door behind her, and pulling the parachute chord!

What really happened can be read here, on the BBC News Website.

As China Booms, Invasive Species Flood In

2008-04-04T12:37:00.001+01:00

Without reading the article, one has to ask... is the invasive species 'humans'? Ho ho ho

You can find out the real answer here, on the Discovery News Website.

Ahern Under Pressure to Explain Tribunal Evidence

2008-03-28T14:44:00.002Z

From BreakingNews.ie again (guess what I'm doing while I eat my se7en bagel?).

It seems Bertie has only a few hours to summarize the evidence that has been heard before the Mahon Tribunal. The tribunal began back in November, 1997, when we were younger and thought that perhaps corruption was something that could be found in trees around the North Dublin area (and so easily expunged). However, with 10 and a half years of evidence to explain, and the rest of us scratching our heads wondering what it is that it all means that this Tribunal that was set up to investigate is investigating on behalf of the citizenry of Ireland that is different from what it was ten years ago... phew. No wonder he's under pressure...

Read the real story here: http://www.breakingnews.ie/ireland/mhojeysncwau/

Three men quizzed in relation to cannabis haul

2008-03-28T14:33:00.001Z

This one is from BreakingNews.ie.

Without reading the story, it seems a new quiz show, whereby three challengers play for cash and prizes, was being filmed close to a cannabis haul... How close is a matter of national security, so the best indicator we could get was that they were 'in relation to' it.

Read the actual story here: http://www.breakingnews.ie/ireland/mhojeysnqlgb/

Getting Late

2008-03-25T22:57:00.002Z

It's getting (too) late
to change my ways
to relive days (gone by).

It's getting (too) easy
to carry on again
doing the same things again
and again and again and again
and expect a (different) result

I'm getting (too) drunk
on Friday and Saturday and Sunday and
(even) Wednesday nights
to really make a difference to someone

Someone who (really) made a difference
to me
in me

But thinking about it
is the (inevitable) first step
to step out of parentheses
and put into (real) practice
to do

What I fear it may be
getting too late to do

Gladiators Returns! Are We All Stoop-id?

2008-03-12T15:54:00.000Z

Gladiators, the hit 90's show is coming back and being presented by Kirsty Gallacher and Ian Wright! I can't really say anymore about this than Bill Hicks said, back in the 90's:

“Go back to bed, America, your government has figured out how it all transpired. Go back to bed America, your government is in control. Here, here's American Gladiators. Watch this, shut up, go back to bed America, here is American Gladiators, here is 56 channels of it! Watch these pituitary retards bang their fucking skulls together and congratulate you on the living in the land of freedom. Here you go America - you are free to do what well tell you! You are free to do what we tell you!”

If you must know more about it, you can learn about it here on the BBC News website

Fall Destroys Rare Stradavarius

2008-02-13T16:05:00.000Z

Another classic BBC Headline.
In the tradition of not reading the associated story, I believe this has to do with Adam's expulsion from Eden. He must have been pushed out just after he started cooking it. Music is food for the soul, and in fairness an apple would never keep the Father of Man going. I guess the border guards are pretty rough. Whatever happened, it was destroyed!
Click here to read the actual article.

Drive to Curb Teen Pregnancy Rate

2008-02-06T12:32:00.000Z

Headline from a BBC story. I haven't read the story, but the headline sounds like there's going to be a lot of people out, driving recklessly near mini-mart fronts, cinemas and good time emporia.
If I understand it correctly (without reading it), the idea is to knock them over before they get knocked up.

Beautiful

2008-01-29T18:13:00.000Z

Sometimes, things go so wrong - or, so many things go somewhat wrong - that music is the only respite from it all.

Jolie Holland, singing "Committed to Parkview" is helping me to get through.

A conversation

2008-01-09T22:43:00.001Z

"I do wish you'd stop doing that."
"I can tell you're annoyed. You do that thing."
"What thing?"
"Stretch out your sentences. Do wish."
"Why must you point out every little thing when your in this mood?"
"I don't"
"You do"
"I do do!"
"Pff!"

***

Overheard conversations, I Am Legend and a Reminiscence

2008-01-07T21:51:00.000Z

Things said by, to, at or around me in the past few weeks...

"What kind of finance minister doesn't have a bank account?"
"Well, I suppose it explains his difficulty with understanding how cheques work..."

***

"Quite a riddle... is there any way to cross Dublin without passing a pub?"
"Take the M50. You wouldn't pass anything that way."
"Aye, but you wouldn't be long at it before you wanted a pub."

***

"They assembled that IKEA building, you know. Just like flat pack furniture!"

***

Watching I Am Legend
"Jesus, Will Smith! He is a legend!"
We fell into watching the movie, knowing no more than it was a Will Smith film. With CGI.
"Is there a Will Smith movie without CGI?" I ask. My wife knows loads of them. That shot me down.
An interesting movie, its environmental bent being proved not just in the story (question of human tinkering with the things of nature), but also in its form (lots of dark screen stuff with only the sound of heavy breathing and anxious zombie grunts) - if the movie is successful, the frequent and long periods of darkness could save megawatts around the world in the need for less light. A la Blackle, if you will.
Not long into the show, I figured out it was probably some kind of zombie film. My wife hates these kinds of films. So, after agonising over what I should do (enjoy the film, or warn my wife), A zombie comes after Will Smith. This happens in darkness, with much grunting and fast breathing and finally, our hero falling out of a window with some yoke writhing all over him. Actually, the yoke was possibly something Will Smith has to deal with quite regularly - someone who dislikes sunlight, but wants to consume anything to do with the hip, rapping, cheeky chappy.
As my wife screamed, I assured her... "Lookit, they're not dangerous..."
"Did you see what just happened?!"
"No, they kept the screen dark nearly the whole way through. Besides, look at them. They're like Emily." I said (Emily, our five month old daughter)
"What?!" Disbelief sliding into indignancy.
"Well, look at them... They're kind of pale and you can see their veins... they're also bald... and, look at the way they chew everything around them. Also, that fellow that was looking for Will Smith's autograph - did you see the way he was trying to lift himself to crawl when he hit the ground? It's just like Emily!" I was triumphant.
"Shut up" she said, once again.
"You would say very little if you couldn't say that" I said, hastening to some slippery moral high ground.
"I wouldn't say it if you would only say very little" She said, snatching the flag.

***

A Reminiscence

I lived in Cabra some time ago with two kindly gentlemen. We were all different, but all the same. We were all over the place. It was real fun.
Our landing light burnt out one day, so two of us (interestingly, the other one also called Brendan) decided to get up there and fix it. First, Brendan tried to change the bulb, but couldn't reach. He then tried to position a chair on the landing, but the landing was too narrow, and the chair was unstable. He asked me to help, and I agreed: "Yes, let's shed some light on this situation"
I held the chair, and passed him up the replacement bulb, as he passed me the dead one and fitted the new one. It was complicated. We hit the switch, and there was light.
"Let there be light" I said, the genesis of a smart comment for me.
"Many hands make light work" he said.

Packing Up

2008-01-06T15:06:00.000Z

One thing after the other, is how I've been going on for some time now. Work, home, Emily, Jennifer. Eat in between. Drink also. Watch some DVDs, read books. Too much TV.
This weekend, we started packing up the apartment for the Big Move to Kilcullen. This was something we had discussed and weighed up and considered for quite a while. Then, we took the plunge. Now we're in the middle of legal documents and surveyors reports and mortgage loans. Scratching our heads, we go on.
Until we started packing. Then, the paperwork, phonecalls, questions and answers took on an all-to-actual reality. It's no longer rarefied, in the abstract - it's realized, in the action. A strange thing happens when plans go into effect. For one thing, they change constantly - oh, this won't work, let's try it another way... And then there's the whole 'best laid plans' thing. Poor Emily contracted some kind of virus. To the doctor with her! The doctor smiled and said "Well, I don't want to prescribe antibiotics when she's so healthy. Perhaps see if she can weather it out herself. If she gets worse, bring her back in." I agreed, with my vast knowledge of virology (BBC News reports on the dangers of overdoing antibiotics). My first experience as the hassled father, looking out for the best in his child.
Back at the apartment, we prepared boxes for packing. Books here, clothes in bags, cutlery, crockery. My sister in law drove up with a cargo of boxes, bubble wrap and tape to help us out. Then we pulled out drawers and emptied out cupboards. Starting the process of moving out. Out, out, out. Out, DVDs! Out, spare linen! Out, ornaments and artwork!
It would be easy to get sentimental. Let's just go with: Out, Bren, Jen and Em! We all felt uneasy. All that dreaming, all those happy moments and all the symptoms of a viral infection saw to that. Preparing to oust ourselves to Kilcullen, where our lives shall continue - but in a new vein.
I thought when we first bought this apartment that it was the start of a new life. I thought when we were engaged it was the start of a new life. I thought when we married, and returned here that it was the start of a new life. I thought pregnancy was the start of a new life. I thought bringing Emily home was the start of a new life. After all of these I finally learned - there is no new life. There are changes. Life continues apace, but in another vein. You do new things. You find new ways. Whatever happens, you must go on, to use Beckett's phrase.
So, with five years times two plus four months packed away into boxes, here we are. Watching Noel Edmunds on TV, humiliating the desperate by showing how much less they know than children. Watching a little girl, recovering from illness show a stuffed tiger what's what.

Parisienne-En-Seine

2007-12-04T22:48:00.000Z

Coffee in Paris tastes no different than it does here. At least in Starbucks anyway. We are in love in the city of love.
"City of light" she says. I smile, knowingly even though I don't know. Always thought of it as the city of love, the city of light. There you go. Light. Love. I look into the cardboard cup and ask
"What are we doing in Starbucks?"
"It was here. That's what. It's stupid, but it's here. You're the one that loses your temper if you get too hungry." I nod as I bite into something that cost too much and tastes too little.
Paris has been beautiful. We've walked down all the streets and roads that have French names. Not their proper names (although, of course they do have Proper names). I mean Boulevard, and Rue, and such. Ignorance is bliss, culturally. Not knowing what's really going on. Just going on. It seems complicated, like you can't go on. But you go on. Hoping. Some great resolution will come. Or an epiphany. Christ and culture, dawning on one. Let there be light. Let there be love.
Culture. Grows on you like bacteria. Ha ha ha.
She doesn't laugh, but she doesn't in the way I love. Her face kind of lights up, but without a smile. Like it's dawning on her - the patience she has with me derives from something greater. More fundamental. Arcing over our lives.
"Stop it" she says. "Stop spacing out. You're thinking of something. Why not talk ot me instead."
"I'm listening" I say. To some bloke with an accoustic guitar, falsetto voice, and many thoughts about his various and vicarious problems, apparently.
"No you're not" she says. "You hate this kind of thing." She starts humming along. I chew on my whatever it is. I just pointed at it. Maybe it has a Proper name, like the Boulevards and Rues and so forth. Something else I'm ignorant of. But this time, not so blissful. The Boulevards and Rues have, to their credit, long histories, and the distinction of great cultural importance.
Humanity, distinguished from animals by the sum, depth and eminence of conscious thought. Shaping a world, rather than mere surviving. Shedding light and love on experience and existence. And the rest of it. Here I am, chewing on something with the great historical epithet "Made fresh today for you!" and the cultural importance of the Spice Girls.
"Come on" she says. "We're going." When I look at her she says "I know that face. You'll mope here forever if you don't shake yourself out of this... whatever this mood you're in is." She may well be right.
We get into the light, pass a bunch of teenagers in their dark clothes and rings and made up faces. Made up lives. Made up existence. No different from the teenagers here. Teenagers. Starbucks. "Let's go for a drink" I say.
"After the Lurrve" she says. Lurrve. Louvre.
The queue is like, but not literally, a mile long. "Maybe we could come back tomorrow." She looks at me.

.... to be continued, when I'm less tired

When My Life Changed Forever

2007-11-11T00:13:00.001Z

3am feed, bleary eyed.
Looking down and see her eyes.
Clear, focused, looking at mine.

On Losing My Life, Or, Am I A Dog Now?

2007-11-11T00:03:00.000Z

I lost my life to my child and my wife
I know it most when they're away.

I cannot
Hear them
See them
Touch them or
Feel them

I sleep in the bed
Where my wife usually dreams
With a bib or baby vest
And I am held by their smell.

I don't sleep for a second
For fear of missing
Those True, life-saving scents.

Am I a dog now?

Driving at Night (With My Wife)

2007-11-10T22:08:00.000Z

Driving at night, going home
Through the city
Neon splashes
Yellow flashes
Reds and greens
As you stop and go
Yellow, yellow, yellow.

Driving at night, going home
With my wife
On the motorway
Smooth road
Yellow, dark, yellow, dark
Lights from other cars
Recurring.

Driving at night, going home
With my wife
Pulling off the motorway
To take old roads
A less yellow way
A less lit way
A less straight way
No one knows what's
Ahead of the light we throw on
The jaded road
Ahead of us.

"How like life!"
I suggest
To which, my restlessly resting wife,
Says "What?"
Which is why I love her so much.

Driving at Night (With my Daughter)

2007-11-10T21:34:00.000Z

I've always liked
Driving at night
The rhythm, the flow
Even when there's nowhere to go

Following the lights; their hypnotic hold
Shedding light on a black road
The white line
The cats eyes
The curves and the bends and the turns

Steering the wheel,
And crunching the gears
And stamping on breaks and clutch.

But tonight I drive with my daughter
A little slower than I used to
'Mrs Jones' on the radio
I whistle and she warbles
Singing along
To the very song
That was playing as she was born.

Why Would You Do That?

2007-11-08T22:04:00.000Z

Blow up buildings, kill people
Kill a person, after looking them in the eye
Hurt someone on purpose
Make them squirm, make them uncomfortable
Ignore the pain of others
Enjoy the hysteria, forsaking the weary
Use manners as a weapon in daily interpersonal combat
Lie to a lover
Trust no one
Why would you do that?
Situations are questions that need
Answers
Not punishment.

Rash Judgement

2007-11-05T22:16:00.000Z

Oven. The oven. The oven had me out there doing what I had to do because of the oven. I hate going out there. The people and everything. Looking at me looking at them. It's like some kind of dysfunctional mirror. Anyway, the thing is - was - I had to go out on account of the oven burning the last of my rashers. I was hungry. It was life or death.
I hit the street - inertia from the stairs had me running, the flat of the ground stopped me, hurtling my face, knees, hands and forearms into the pavement, which showed its reluctance to give way by skinning all of them. The only comfort you get at a time like this is a fucking good curse. Fuck - being way over used - wouldn't do it. So I went with the C-word, which brought on the ire of a passing woman, who theorised that use of such a word would inevitably lead to my becoming a rapist. I shook my head, sighed, and pushed myself up, to which the woman shrieked, and ran.
The shop was next door, but now I needed plasters. It was huge, overlit, and freezing. I spent a few moments browsing the deli counter to catch the heat released from the ovens with "Freshly Baked Today!" plastered on them. They weren't opened.
I walked across to the chiller aisle behind the series of freezer aisles and the fridge aisle where the drinks were. Rashers. Packs and packs of rashers. All I wanted was a pack of rashers, but now I had to decide which was the best value, and which spoke about me as a consumer. Was I a family, with active children and traditional values? Maybe I was a young, about-the-t, own girl who might like something a little different for my cream cheese and cracker bread. I could well have been a burly gent, looking for something home-cured, or at least cured in the home-cured way. I was hungry, and here I was considering my true identity within a broad socio-economic structure in the chiller section of a mini market.
I realised much of the groundwork had been done for me. I was here, wasn't I? In this mini market. So, I was a man who needed convenience in my life, but also the range of products offered by a brand as powerful as this one. With, of course, smiling staff who were ready to help. Maybe I was helpless? Is this why I came in here? Should I ask one of them - what do people like me buy in the way of rashers here? I just didn't know. Without relish, I realised that I didn't even know what people like me bought in the way of rashers anywhere. In effect, I didn't even know who I was. I had to find out, and quick, before my toes fell off from the chill. I walked back to the magazines and papers. One of those should be able to tell me.
But was I broadsheet, or tabloid? Celebrity gossip or cosmetics and beauty advice? Boobs or arse? Sports or markets? DIY or cars? I had never even considered the options before. I bought a paper with boobs, news, a good-sized classifieds section and a page dedicated to business movers and shakers (mostly those who had wives or daughters with sizable assets). I thought maybe perusing this over my food would help me find who I really was. Something would grab my attention and I'd say, Yes! I am a man who is interested in X, and eats the appropriate rashers!
I was heading back to the chiller section when I realised this wouldn't work either. I'd need to read the paper first to find out the person I was before coming back to buy the appropriate rashers. There was no way I was doing that. For one thing, I was too hungry. For another, I'd come in to buy the rashers in the first place. So if anything, I should buy a few packs of rashers, decide who I was, then come back and buy the appropriate paper. I went back to the rack and put the newspaper away. Then, back to the chillers, past the freezers and the coolers to pick up one of each pack of rashers. But then I ran out of arm-room to carry them. I should have thought ahead. I couldn't possibly carry all these personalities. For one thing, I'd be like a mad man, running round with happy children while making big, thick sandwiches, with a light cream cheese spread. No, that way madness lies. I would have to just go for it.
I closed my eyes, and plunged my arm into the chiller. First one pack, then another, then another, I felt my way to what I believed was my true identity. In a world of chaos, this was the only way to find ones' true self. Just grope in the dark until you feel what's right for you. I opened my eyes and looked at the cold squishy block in my hand. I was surprised by who I really was.
I trudged back to the rack, past the coolers and freezers, to select the appropriate newspaper. I went to the till. The girl there gave me a look, and all I could do was shrug.
"Yes," I said, "I know. I wouldn't have thought so either. But you are who you are, so I guess this is me. It's disappointing, I can tell you. But maybe I can be happier now I understand what I really..."
"Five euros twenty seven please" she rushed it out of her, like the words had been running from her very fundament, making themselves breathless on the journey out. I handed over a crumpled fiver from my pocket. I dug about for change.
"Five, six, eight, ten... hold on" I said
"No. That's fine."
"Well, thank you very much!" I said, delighted by this strange show of true human charity. She was letting me off seventeen cents. I would have to remember this.
"I'll remember this" I said to her, and her face changed.
"Are you threatening me?" She said
"No, no. I meant... just seventeen..."
"Please, go. How do you know my age?" She was panicking now. Was that woman right? I head meant the cents, but could the paper and the rashers reveal the rapist in me? Something I never even knew existed, brought to the surface. It was astounding. I was fascinated by the idea when her shrieking voice woke me from my brief reverie: "Darius! Darius!" A large, blond man came hurtling from a door beside the chillers.
"Sophie?" he said, then "Can I help you sir?" to me.
"I think I'd better go."
"Yes." he said
"Yes." she said
"Yes." I said. It was a positive end, but it depressed me so much. I - a conservative, rural, middle class Irish family with a penchant for rape - trudged back to the apartment. What a let down, I thought. I guess they may have thought me racist, more than a rapist. What with these rashers and this newspaper.
They were spitting away nicely, and I was reading all about a bizarre love affair between a Dublin businessman and his chauffeur, when the Angelus came on the TV. To be true to myself, I decided to reflect on my new life. I wished I could have said the Angelus, but I hadn't learned it yet. I'd need to do so, to be true to myself, I knew it. I'd make an appointment with the local Parish priest, or PP as I'd call him from now on. Before that, I'd need a little book to write all my addresses, numbers and notes in. Not a Filo-Fax. Not a personal organiser. Nothing ring-bound. Just a little book I could carry round in my handbag (I'll need one of those too) and refer to and write notes in whenever I needed to. Maybe I could even record the prices of the things I bought in there. Help me to create my household budget, so I didn't end up like that poor shop worker who had taken offers from several credit card companies, and ran up debt of five thousand euro.
After the Angelus, the news came on. I couldn't believe it. After all the torture. "Pork products, such as bacon and sausages have been linked to cancer." For Christ's sake. You can't be anyone without it being the cause of your own death. But still, I went to the oven, pulled out the griddle pan and threw the rashers straight in the bin. The bin liner melted and the grease spatted the rest of the junk in there. I felt hungry and thought that was a rash judgement and lit a cigarette to consider what I was going to do next.

Smile

2007-10-29T19:30:00.000Z

Night time. The neon splashes on water lying in the gutters, running down windows. The rain splashes on the people lying in gutters, running down streets. Cars pass, throwing puddle water and neon from the gutters. There is no rush, but confusion comes down with the rain. Should we go in here? How about here? I just want to get out of the rain! Anywhere that has a roof is fine with me!
Some run to the pubs. Some run for their trains. Everyone wants off the wet streets. In the pubs, damp hangs in the air. Words hang too, maybe stuck to the damp. Unfinished conversations. Famous last words. Arguments that aren't arguments at all. Vocal, boisterous agreements about politics, business, books, the theatre, pubs. Is it right? Of course it's right! The question is why it's right! Here's your evidence, here's mine. My evidence is even more compelling. A pint's in order after that argument! I love the way we can argue, yet still retain our winning friendship!
They go home, feeling like why didn't I say it was wrong? Deep down, that's what they believe. But deep down they know, who would believe that? Only a fool! Best to convince themselves, then try and convince others. Like it was their opinion, like they were sophisticated, like they were liked.
That damp.
Waiting for dry.
No need to wait anymore. Hop on a plane, be there in a few hours. Bask in the winter sun. Tip the locals, they'll like you then. Build up a relationship. Let them see how sound you are, despite all your money. At home, it's not much. Over there, it's a pile.
Despite all your money? Having money proves a shallow ability to extract money from others. The idea probably derives from the forties or fifties. Maybe the twenties. Maybe even the century before last. When product quality was questionable. When salesmen sold things that didn't exist. Faulty insurance, widgets. Government stepped in. Legislated for 'merchantable quality' and made it illegal to sell certain things that didn't exist. But then people invented other things that didn't exist. Sold them at a good profit. Then the people who bought them, the invented things, came to realise the things they bought didn't exist. And they hated anyone involved in creating the thing that didn't exist and the lousy bastard that sold it to them. Then, to cap it all off, the lousy bastard salesman and the guy who created nothing take all that money and spend it on a beach somewhere. Getting friendly with people who get screwed by other people in their country.
And we have the damp. Hanging in the air with drizzled rain.
Rain, drizzled on a city like the way they describe olive oil on salads with all those leaves. Adds to the flavour. Maybe even the texture. Who knows? Does it really matter, though? Whether or not olive oil is like rain? Makes no sense really, if you think about it.
The train goes slow, because of the rain and the leaves. Creates a fine fluid-type substance. Something similar to Teflon. Making the rails non-stick. So you could stir fry on them. Or maybe fry. In olive oil. But rail food is famously crap, so who would do that? I don't know.
So the rain comes down and the train runs out. The people, a little drunk and very wet, wish they were at home. Drops form puddles. Some people sit on the floor. Might get piles. That's how you get them, they say. 'They' that are the people who told them that they say. They's they.
No one knows how anyone feels. But they all feel the same. Damp, depressed, drunk. There must be more. But where is it? Scrape around in the neon in the puddles in the gutters, before cars throw it all up to splash on someone drunk. Everyone searching for something. They don't know what. Everyone knows how everyone feels. But they can't let each other know. Who could trust anyone that scrapes around in the puddles, searching for something they don't even know? How could you trust yourself, knowing it's what you do? If you can't trust yourself, you can't trust anyone. The best thing is to forget it. Look out the window. See the city railing past.
Somewhere out there, relationships are breaking apart. Children are being beaten. Someone is throwing up bad Chinese food and wine. Someone else is hoping to score. Someone again is trying to find a vein, in vain. Desperation hangs in the air, with the damp.
Damp, filling, but empty. There's nothing in the spaces. Between the spaces, droplets of water. H2O - not water - not at this temperature. The same chemical makeup, but it's in the wrong form - to call it water. How can 'damp' be a wrong form? Who knows, but it's not the form we're looking for. Not water.
Damp. Dreaming now, staring out windows. Dreaming of that Man, that Woman. They're waiting for them. At home, with beauty and food. A fire, maybe a DVD. Something to do to distract from this. This damp: not wet, not dry.
But how do you let them know you're dreaming of them? What words? I dreamt of you on the train home. We were naked in front of the fire... You're losing it. There's no room for such words in reality. They're made up. Created from nothing. You wouldn't pay for it, but you might feel for it. You might feel like this is what you're looking for. At the bottom of the puddles, in the spaces between the water, the H2O. The moon shoots a beam of light through the drizzled window, and you know. You know you're going to make it tomorrow. Smile.

A Vision of Ireland

2007-10-24T12:37:00.001+01:00

He walked the way
From his childhood
Home
His face looked carved out by
The wind and the waves

He reached the cliff
Stared into the sea
That looked like his face because of
The wind and the waves.

He started to giggle
Went on to cackle
And then screamed with laughter
At the great Atlantic sea.

Claiming lives that sought refuge
Through it
With it
And sometimes
In it.

So distracted was he
Slipped, rolled and fell,
Giggling, cackling and screaming
Into the Atlantic sea

I, learning the lesson
Stepped back
Once
Twice
And laughed until
I fell into
The brittle rough heather and
Grass tufts of
The soft, solid ground.

test post

2007-10-20T23:40:00.001+01:00

This is a test post to check transferring of the blog has worked.

Bren's Western

2007-10-15T21:37:00.000+01:00

Bren's Western, the dead dog, has raised it's panting head and let out something of a yelp. Read Chapter 2 here!

Blog Action Day

2007-10-13T23:42:00.000+01:00

Originally, from the Other Place

It started simply enough - one of my best friends emails to let me know about Blog Action Day. Bloggers around the world (12,316 at last count) are going to devote a post on Monday, October 15th to environmental issues. I joke immediately - So, tens of thousands of bloggers are going to switch on to blog about environmental issues, drawing on the world's ever-jaded energy reserves. It was twee, I'll admit. It's also a cliché at this stage, a cynical (or, I would believe, more cruelly sceptical) pass-remark used over and over in relation to Environmental awareness (remember the criticisms (see controversies and criticism) of Live Earth?). But, then I started thinking: in light of the fact that this is a cliché, is there a need for more awareness of Environmental issues? Or, is the awareness that has been generated actually doing anything?

Awareness or Engagement? Which is the Real Need?
The problem with the 'Environmental Question' (as with all issues that seem to divide along Liberal/Conservative lines) is that generating awareness is often a question of preaching to the converted. People who want to be aware tune in. Or, those who want to be true partisans for their political or ideological viewpoint will actively seek out this information. So, we end up with those who always thought it was important telling us it's even more important now. There are two problems with this approach. Firstly, it's working in a vacuum. Second, in possibly 8 cases out of 10, all that happens is attempted persuasion (nothing actually gets done, nothing changes).
Working in a vacuum is a common problem with political discourse in many western countries today. Essentially, you're talking about a political system divided along two lines: Left and Right. Left and Right mean different things to people from different countries, but they run something along the lines of this: Left thinkers believe the State has a duty to its citizens, generally financial, but also in terms of taking responsibility for social issues (behaviour, culture, etc.). On the other hand, Right thinkers will emphasise the need for individual, personal responsibility to be taken for financial and personal well-being. Yes, this is over-simplified, but it provides a rough compass for the purposes of this argument.
The problem in political discourse at the moment is that the Left argues among itself about how Left it should be (meaning different things in different countries), and the Right does the same. When an issue like The Environment arises, each side will agree on its position (We need to worry about it/We don't need to worry about it), but for different reasons. So, off they go, arguing about why their position is correct, rather than whether it is correct. It's anecdotal, but a good example (or, more correctly, series of examples) of this is recent discussions I've had about the environment:

Arguing about the Environment has become a point-scoring exercise for the Left, in terms of who knows most about the damage being done. Sometimes, it will include who suffers most from the damage being done.
Arguing about the Environment has become a point-scoring exercise for the Right, in terms of who knows most about why no damage is being done. Sometimes, it will include who understands the most about cosmic rhythms and pre-historic ice shifts.
Arguing about the Environment rarely occurs between the Left and the Right. So, the Right don't hear (whether they refuse to, or whether they are ignorant of it) the Left's point of view. The Left don't hear (ditto) the Right's point of view. Each side listens to the scientists that espouse their own point of view.

What is really required in the Environmental (and many other) argument is an ability to engage with the other side. What is also required (and sadly lacking in all aspects of human endeavor) is a willingness to be rational, and communicate properly during such an engagement. It's easy to say "I'll engage!" but then say "I engaged, but they're all mad! You won't believe what they say (because I certainly didn't)!" An open mind, armed with rational thought, is the only way forward. But, of course, this is someone on the Left talking. So, many on the Right would say this is hippy talk, at best, and hysterical at worst.
The scientists will bash it out, anyway. Armed with test tubes, spectrometers and research grants, they line up their armies, take aim and prepare to fire interns and research grads at each other, like so much cannon fodder. The columnists will take the information they get from their generals (or, more commonly, disregard any information that has the slightest relationship to fact) and grab our attention. We, then, go to the pub and say "I was reading today in the --- about the Environment. Their columnist is very good, you know."
Only to be told either:

"Well, I read in the --- that polar bears have turned gay because the warming of the environment has tricked their brains into thinking that other bears are of the opposite sex. It's based on research into the effect of alcohol heating up the human brain."
Or, "Well, I read all polar bears are turning gay because they've over populated. It's very common and occurred no less than 35.7 million years ago."

Either way, we're talking about the opinions of columnists in the --- or the ---, who espouse what we believe, and so further our need to be more 'informed about the fact' (a great irony of modern life - we all want to be more informed, but prefer to disregard what those who disagree with us might say). But, we never appear to get more informed than the facts and opinions provided by those we agree with. The problem we face will require engagement of the 'Other side' before anything gets done. This thought terrifies me.

A Time for Awareness or a Time for Action?
Al Gore, accepting the Nobel prize awarded to him and the IPCC (See the BBC News website for more details) said "I will be doing everything I can to try to understand how to best use the honour and recognition of this award as a way of speeding up the change in awareness, and the change in urgency." But what does this mean? Are we to hear more spokespeople on the radio, more articles in the papers telling us how much of a problem global warming is? I don't mean to be cynical, but in fairness, if this is what it means, then we can also expect more spokespeople on the radio, more articles in the papers, telling us what a load of cobblers the 'global warming threat' is. While I believe something should be done, I would sing along with the Live Earth critics - what is this awareness doing? Of the people I know that would mention the Problem of the Environment (usually mentioned in passing), only one has actually done anything. She has stopped using hazardous chemicals when cleaning her house (e.g. bleach), takes public transport despite having a usable driver's license, tries to choose 'environmentally friendly' options in every minutiae of her life. The rest of us wring our hands and wonder, what can be done?
And indeed, what can be done? Turning off light bulbs and TVs is probably a good idea, but is also probably much less than a drop in the ocean. Fifty years ago, the same was being done, but for different reasons (war, rationing, etc.). Climate issues have continued apace. What is required now is real political action - and worldwide action.
What is missing is, at best, real political belief. At worst, we're missing real political dedication. Grants for alternative fuels and other 'green'-based activity would appear to derive more from concern for the future of fossil fuels than the need to address the environmental issues. But what political force will really address environmental issues? I thought this a great way to end a paragraph, so that I could provide my end-of-discussion conclusions. But, man plans, God laughs. This coming from an agnostic. The thought terrifies me.

So Where Do I Stand?
In Straw Dogs, John Gray (School Professor of European Thought at the London School of Economics) argues the point perfectly. My take of his argument is as follows:
Our problem is one of perception. We believe we have responsibility for the planet, thus inferring we are masters of the planet. But this is incorrect. We have a parasitic relationship to the planet, taking what we need and replacing what we feel is 'right'. Generally, we plant trees to make up for the burning of fossil fuels, rape of women in war torn countries, McDonald's, oil, war and human intolerance for other humans. So, in one sense we over-compensate for what we feel we have inflicted on the planet. Hooray, us!
However, if we understand ourselves as dependent on earth, we start to see that trees generally plant themselves. We can (and do) intervene, planting trees ourselves. But, left to their own devices, they would plant away, propagate, grow, die. Such is life. We humans have rational thinking among our talents. This lets us take things we find around us, and make other things with it. We move matter from one place to another and generate billions in revenue in the process. We really are brilliant. But we really are parasites. Our existence depends on the earth - the earth isn't depending on us. Unfortunately, this is our relationship with our own existence. Which means, we have to do something. It's not a question of being 'responsible' for 'Mother Earth' or 'Mother Nature'. It's a question of ensuring our own survival on a planet that can destroy us, should it need to, so that balance can be restored. Not new-age 'balance'. This is a balance based on physical, chemical and biological sciences. Once we over-tilt, we fall over the edge. Like any other parasite, we will be destroyed before the body we inhabit.

Social Networks

2007-10-06T00:53:00.000+01:00

I was going to complain about social networking. But then a friend sent me this, and I think it says it all:

Over-Scene #2 - The Naggin

2007-10-03T21:56:00.000+01:00

"You can pull that hood over as much as you like. I still want to see some ID."
"Wha'?"
"ID"
"Here"
"Hmm. It's fake"
"It's fuckin' no', I'm nineteen, I am"
"No, not the ID, you tool. The money."
"The wha'? You're having me on. Here, give it back"
"No, I have to keep it. Send it into the coppers."
"Wha? Send it wha'? Bollocks. You're only trying to nick me fiver, you wanker!"
"No, it's the law, you fool. I've to hand it into the coppers. It's fake. You can hang around if you want while I call them. Let them know you gave me it... Thought not. Fucking tool!"

***

"I see you Johnny, but I don't see a naggin!"
"Don't start. You won't believe..."
"You're fuckin' right I won't. You're full of shit. There's no naggin is there?"
"The money... it was fake..."
"Yeah, like the naggin."
"No, I was on me way to get it when I texted ye. When I got in there, yer man says it's fake, and he takes it off me"
"He took it off you? He had you on, you fuckin' eejit"
"No, he has to call the coppers to report it. The money I mean."
"So there's no naggin"
"No"
"So I'm going home"
"Aw, c'mon. We'll scam another fiver."
"You already stole that from two homelss eejits. There's no chance. And if it was fake, what does that say?"
"Fer fuck's sake."
"My thoughts exactly"
"Wha?"

Over-Scene #1: Five Euros

2007-09-26T22:51:00.000+01:00

The old man lifted his foot - dirty, blackened - from the bucket.
"That's what happens." The younger man just nodded, scratched his beanie-hatted head, his matting beard. Itchy hair. The old man was pointing at the foot. The young man was looking at his finger, making agreeable enough noises.
They spoke across each other all the time, neither listening. The old man talked about his past, while the young described his hopes for the future. Their words drew circles around their selves, never touching another. No loves, no friends, no bosses, no lives.
They were weary, and (as the song goes), they were on the street. They had each other, but not even that. Neither saw much of use in the other, so they made suitable companions. They could talk without appearing totally mad. Although the young man knew, if you had to talk - and some times you did - you could just put your fist up to your face, and no one would notice. The old man, who spent his time pointing at his feet and talking to the scissoring legs of passers-by had long ceased to care whether he was or was not insane, much less of whether people thought so.
Another pair of leather shoes kicked over another cup of coffee. This time the culprit - professionally embarrassed - turned, saw what happened and said "My God, I'm so sorry... please, here." He threw a fiver and walked off, rigidly. The old man and the young man looked at each other. They could share it. The old man could give it to the youth, help him along. The young man could give it to the elder, buy him some comfort. They looked at each other, then looked at the note, then saw the hand of a young lad pick it up and leg it off.
"Fuck!" said the young man, watching the escaping youngster, thinking about when he was younger, he could have caught him - but now, there was no way.
"That's what happens" said the old man, pointing at his foot, thinking of his crippled, comfortless future.

40 Minutes

2007-09-19T21:15:00.000+01:00

The train slows, and it's on. The passengers - each one believing they've stood too long - hustle for a seat. One foot on the platform, one on the train and you get an accidental elbow in the stomach. Doubling over your head is an accident in a large, ugly woman's breasts. She turns as you raise your hands to apologise, and you apologise to her ass. She turns her head, you look away. What do you do?
The commuter train for the city does what the commuter train for the city does: Brings the commuters from the commuter towns to the city for their city jobs. It's not that complicated.
The big one - who's breasts and ass you know - her phone is ringing. TALK TO ME TALK TO ME TALK TO ME goes whoever's on the other end, while the train goes chugga-chugga-chugga rrraawwwr up to speed. The commuter train for the city does what the commuter train for the city does.
"Hello" she says, talking to the phone, and her accent reminds you of souped-up old cars, high rise apartments, heroin, vacuum cleaners and overalls. You deny your mind such prejudice, because it's just not what you do.
"Well?" she asks and you know whoever it is just isn't talking. You guess they're just doing what they do. You can't judge - it's not what you do.
"What did I do?" she asks, then says, sometime later - maybe seconds, maybe minutes - "Are you going to talk to me?" Is that what they'll do? There's a slowing, and a judder, and all of us - us passengers - lightley leaning forward, knock each other a little. Not much, just a touch. That's what happens when the train slows.
More passengers on, because that's what they do. You angle to stay near the girl, who is refusing to "Defend" herself (her word, not yours). She must be doing what she does. But you'd love to know more. A toe in pain as a passenger gets on. 'I'm sorry' he says to nobody. That's what the passengers do on a train with no room.
The commuter train for the city does what the commuter train for the city does: Brings the commuters from the commuter towns to the city for their city jobs. It's not that complicated.
"Talk to me" says the girl. Now she's doing what the person on the other end of the phone does. And it makes you wonder, because that's what it does.
"...I wasn't..." she says, and the conversation is halting because that's what they do when they talk. "No... she said to me..." shaking her head because that's what it takes "I didn't say that. I didn't. Besides, what Mary says... what Mary says... what Mary says... WILL YOU FAWCKIN' LISTEN TO ME!" and the passengers turn their heads, because that's what they do. "I NEVER SAID ANY OF IT! MARY SAID IT TO ME! I DIDN'T EVEN ASK! OF COURSE I TRUST YOU... of course I trust you, but now I don't know because you're acting like this." She's silent for a while, and some more turn to look, but no one gets caught, because no one does that.
Another stop. She's still listening, I'm still listening, and the passengers keep shoving because that's what we do.
The commuter train for the city does what the commuter train for the city does: Brings the commuters from the commuter towns to the city for their city jobs. It's not that complicated.
You should read a paper. That's what you do. Learn about what the celebrities don't eat, who they sleep with, what they do to each other. What they do. But this... this is what people do. It's too much to give up on, even if she is sniffing, holding it back. She does that because that's what she does. "No, John, no. Not any more. You know it." Very precise. Space in between for him to do whatever he does. Striking new dimensions, because all of this is done by John. The possibilities! What could they do!
Another stop, but at the edges of the city. This time, some commuters from the commuter towns get off the train because that's what they do. It's OK for now, because it's still too packed to move away from the woman. You don't want to miss it because now you know - that is not something you do. The beeping of the doors obscures what you hear. They didn't do that before, because normally that's not what they do. But you've lost concentration, so that's what they do.
The commuter train for the city does what the commuter train for the city does: Brings the commuters from the commuter towns to the city for their city jobs. It's not that complicated.
You try to lean a little closer as the chugga-chugga-chugga turns into the rraawwwr. But your phone goes off. TALK TO ME TALK TO ME TALK TO ME goes whoever's on the other end, and the girl turns to look at you, because that's what she does. She raises her voice, because that's what she does. You answer your phone, because that's what you do.
"Hello" you say, because that's what you do
"Murt! Listen!" he shouts because that's what he does, and deep inside you sigh. Why do you do this? You have no idea. But you do what you do because that's what you do. Suddenly, you hang up. That's what you do.
"I won't take anymore of this" she says, because that's what she does, and you know there was a good reason to do what you did. Lean in again as the train slows to a stop. Lucky for you - even numbers on and even numbers off. You continue to lean.
The commuter train for the city does what the commuter train for the city does: Brings the commuters from the commuter towns to the city for their city jobs. It's not that complicated.
"No" she is sniffing, it seems for a reason. Something tells you there's more. More than what we all do. That's what the feeling does.
The train pulls in to its terminal destination, because right now, right here, that's what it does.
"Britney" says another girl, because that's what she does, and Britney, who is your girl, turns. That's what she does. "Don't worry about it" says the second girl. "Could you hear all that?" "Everyone could. Everyone could" "Oh Jesus, I'm scarlet".
The second girl comes over and hugs the first. That's what she does. The first girl smiles because that's what she does. You get off the train, because this is the terminus and something tells you there's something more. The people explode from the platform to the city, that's what they do. There's nothing left of them, save for Britney and her equally unattractive friend. You start walking to work, because that's what you do. But you never quite get there.
The commuter train for the commuter towns does what the commuter train for the commuter towns does: Brings the commuters from the city to the commuter towns for their commuter lives. It's not that complicated.

Consumer/Provider Blues

2007-09-11T11:46:00.000+01:00

A Blues based on the change from being a consumer, to being a provider.

I once was a consumer, oh yeah
I said I once was a consumer
I ran around this town, spending my money like a clown!

Yeah, I never joined a library
No, I just bought ev'ry damn book I pleased
No, I never joined a library
I just bought any damned book I please
And then I went around the corner
And I bought piles of CDs (yesh!)

But then my baby had a baby
Yeah, my baby had a baby
(spoken) My baby that's my wife had a baby that's my daughter
Oooh, I was so happy then
But when my baby had a baby
I changed my ways, like so many men

Now I'm a provider,
And I just provide all day long
Yeah, I'm a provider
And I just provide all day long

I'm running round the town now
Buying nappies and formula
I'm running round the town now
Buying vests and baby grows
And when the evening falls
I can finally read all those books I bought

:-) Life, eh!

A Miserable Irish Story: Do Elephants Intentionally Kill Their Young?

2007-09-10T23:00:00.000+01:00

Note: This story was heavily influenced by this BBC news report, and Raymond Carver's story, 'Elephant'

The mourners shuffled, in their mourning suits, which were less morning suits, and more the kind of thing bought off the peg for just such events - christenings, weddings, funerals. Any life changing moment where the church had a hand in the proceedings. Mainly chatting - it was tragic, but anyone could see it coming - so they compared notes on the way to paying their final respects. Knowing comments followed by knowing 'hmphs.'
Dumbo Doyle came into the church on his own. Late again, not for his own funeral, but for his son's. Bustled in, headed straight for the top. Tries discretion to no avail, because everything about him was huge - from the huge ears that gave to his nickname to the huge hands that held wife beaters and drunks by their throats while a huge mouth cautioned them that the only thing saving their skin was the uniform he wore. So when he was off duty, they better be more mannerly.
Thank God they hadn't started, but he was late enough to have to quick step down the aisle. His ex-wife was there, sitting right beside where she stood on their wedding day. He sat on the opposite pew, waved across to her, his daughter and his son in law. There was no getting away from this.
"James. Howarya?" A supportive voice. He turned his head to see the large, red nose of Mick, the cousin. Their mothers had been cousins. He and Mick had been at school together, but lost contact when Dumbo went away to join the Gards.
The priest came in and started talking. That's all it was now, talk. Some women cried, some young lads placed things on the coffin. None of it made much sense to Dumbo.
After the talking, his daughter came over to ask how he was. His son in law asked how he was getting on. He had forgotten, but he owed in son-in-law money. His ex-wife simply said his name and nodded. Her new male companion escorted her from the church to the graveyard.
Dumbo walked to the graveyard with Mick who said "You musn't blame yourself." Dumbo said "I don't," truthfully, and Mick sighed. That was when Dumbo realised maybe he was meant to blame himself, because certainly everybody else did.
He let it slip a long time ago that the money - the money for the drugs - came from him. Of course, he wasn't giving Jim - young Jim, who was dead now - money for drugs. He was giving him money for food, and rent and such. But, the point was, if he had extra money - the money his da gave him - then that money, or the money he already had - that he earned or got somehow or another - could be spent on drugs. It was a confusing argument, and not one to get into without a few pints on board. At some point, someone would say "Don't be so naive, Dumbo." He didn't feel naive. He felt like he was doing the wrong thing for the right reasons, or maybe the right things for the wrong reasons. It was a confusing defence, usually countered by the condescending rejoinder "And you a Guardian of the Peace!" On the way home, alone, he would defend himself to himself by furthering the point - if he gave money to his son, then his son would not commit a crime to get the money. So he was still guarding the peace, but just from those whom his son might steal from.
The first time he gave young Jim money, the boy was in a fix. He was done with it, he said. It surprised Dumbo to learn his son had ever taken drugs. But now, his son assured him, he wouldn't be taking any more. He just needed some money to pay off some dealers, or they'd go for him. Dumbo handed over the cash, and shook his head. They grow up so fast, this one had lived a whole life - networks, deals, highs, lows, a whole society - and finished with it before his father knew there was anything to be worried about.
Some time after, Dumbo called young Jim and asked him to come home. Jim said he couldn't, on account of his career. "And besides," he said "there's nothing for me there anymore."
They stood around the hole, looking down. The sky loomed over, like a bruised victim. The coffin went down. Dumbo, Margeret (his ex-wife) and Anne (his daughter) each threw a handful of soil on it. That was that. They were all for the hotel for the afters. Mick rubbed his hands and licked his lips, then cast his eyes sideways and said "God, tis awful. I need a stiff one after that."
They all intended to, but no one actually did, offer Dumbo a lift to the hotel. He had no car, as the time had gotten so that even a Garda couldn't drink and drive anymore. He didn't mind. A lift would only mean having to make small talk in the car on the way. He decided to take a moment, and maybe drop into Smyths for one on the way.
"Well, if you ask me, you get what you pay for. It was coming a long time." The statement hung in the air, as Dumbo walked into the pub. It was an old pub near the bus stop. Frequented by maybe a dozen regulars, half sat at the bar, the other half at a far table in the corner. The ones in the corner were hastily picking up cards and money. Dumbo ignored it, sat at the bar.
"Dumbo... err.. Jim. What can I get you? On the house, of course. The day that's in it and all."
"Shay. A pint, please. And thanks"
"What about me?!" Dumbo looked round to see Mick, yet again behind him. Support, he supposed but was supporting who?
"Oh. Right, Mick. What'll you have?"
"Pint. And a whisky. As you said, day that's in it..." Mick looked down at the bar. Shay and Dumbo looked at each other. It was an old move, and just this time, they'd let it go.
"So, James. How are you?"

***

"Where is he?" asked Margaret, tired of having to ask after an ex husband who just seemed to do everything he wanted to, and in whatever way he wanted.
"I don't know, mam." The guests were swirling round the hotel function room, coming up to offer consolations, retreating, returning to nervously say "Excuse me, but where is Dum... errr... James?" The manager approached to ask about starting the food.
"You'll need to give us a few more minutes. My husb... ex-husband hasn't arrived yet. We're a bit worried about him, actually."

***

Having reached the end of the pint, Mick looked to Dumbo, still halfway through his. "Another?" he asked. No answer. Not even a sign Dumbo had heard him. Mick looked to Shay, and said "Another." Shay put them on, all the bar in silence.

***

The second time he asked for money, Dumbo tried to be cute. He said he'd help him out if young Jim would just give him a name. Someone he could arrest and bring in. That could trigger a series of events leading to promotion and a better life. Maybe even a move to Dublin, so young Jim wouldn't be on his own up there.
His son spat back at him that he really couldn't care for him, not if he wanted to use him in this time of vulnerability. When he was begging, he had no dignity, and had turned to the only person he could. And that person demanded favours in return. That, his son observed, was the way it had always been, hadn't it? Because Big Jim had always been ashamed of him, or something.
He asked Margaret about it. That was the beginning of the end of their marriage.
"Drugs?" she asked, astounded. "And you gave him money before?", disgusted. "What kind of a man are you?", demanded. "No, we won't give him any money. If he needs anything it's help. For the love of God, you're a Garda. And you're contributing to his drug addiction. What's wrong with you?"
But he couldn't let his son down. He just couldn't.
When Margaret saw the bank balance, she packed her bags that evening. She said "Well, once again, you're doing things your own way. I just can't support this. After what I said. Ugh."
That night, young Jim rang again to ask why he'd told his mother. Didn't he realise this was the end of it, and now it's all the more complicated because she'll be forever asking about the drugs, and he wasn't even taking them anymore. He just had to pay off one last tab, and he was free of them. But now, his mother would be asking. He'd never be free of them, and it was his father's fault. He said that - "I hope you realise it's your fault!"
In Smyths he thought about this. He supposed it was his fault, but for giving him the money. What Margaret said all along. He let out a sigh, and took in the end of his pint. He got up, but noticed the other pint on the bar. He sat down again.
"We'll go after these"
"Oh, yeah. Can't miss the meal!" Shay looked at Mick, drunk already. Must have been at it before he even came in.

***
"Is he here?"
"I don't know. Don't go asking him for that money now. It's not fair on him."
"It was a lot of... I'm not going to ask for it... I just want to make sure he... Alright!"
"Thanks" Ann clutched her husbands shoulder as she repositioned the shoe on her foot. "Mam is devastated. I might stay with her tonight."
"Of course. But she does have Gerry now, so you may not need to. They might want their space"
"Hmm"

***

"Lookit, he's in a world of his own. A quick game, go on lads" Mick was coaxing the nervous card players into a quick round of something. Shay, looking over asks "What time is the meal, James?"
Dumbo looked at his watch. "Half hour ago" He looked into his pint.
"Should you not..." He couldn't finish, but he wanted them out. No one was talking since they came in, except Mick, who was a bad drunk and trying to get into a card game that would keep him here all day.
"I suppose. I'll just finish this."
"Good man. You know, ye may have broken up, but Margaret still needs your support." That was all he would say. Now he'd just have to wait.
But not for long. "Mick! We're going!" Dumbo had downed the pint, and was headed for the door.
"Hold on, hold on! Dumbo... err James's drinks were on the house, what with the day that's in it, but Mick..."
"What?" Mick, indignant looked around the bar. "I'm here to support my cousin! And you, you fucker, want money! Jesus! What a day!"
"Do you have it?" asked Dumbo
"Well, that's not the point..." Mick stumbled.
Dumbo took the money from his wallet, and went to the bar.
"Dumbo, don't. I only meant for Mick to pay his way. I'll get him the next time."
"You won't. Here. I appreciate the drinks. A problem like Mick never gets fixed." He could have said it of his own son.

***

"Jesus, where were ye? What kind of a state is Mick in?"
"Stopped at Smyths. Just for the one. Mine were on the house. I had to pay for Mick's though."
"You've been gone longer than just one. And you paid for Mick? Jim, he's an alcoholic. Will you never learn?" Her words were harsh, but her look soft. For all that had happened in six years, she was still gentle with him. He was a fool that didn't understand how things were, but she couldn't go on waiting for him to learn. She had her own life. Anne told her the separation, and divorce were the only things she'd done for herself. And she was right. You had to be happy in life, you just had to be happy.
The manager came over and asked them to sit, so they did. Then the food came.

***

The third, and last time young Jim asked Dumbo for money, he just didn't have it. But there were really bad guys after young Jim, and he wouldn't let up. There was nowhere else he could get it. But Dumbo couldn't get it either, mortgaged to the hilt, paying out to Margaret, repaying several loans. The money just wasn't there, and the credit was all used up.
"She got to you, didn't she!?" his son asked, referring to Margaret. "I heard about the divorce! It serves you both right! You're a bastard and she's a bitch, and it serves you both right!"
Dumbo told his son to stop right there. That was enough. He'd had enough, paying out every time young Jim was supposed to have given up drugs altogether. It was plain he hadn't. And it just wasn't right that he ask his father for the money.
Young Jim said he spent his own money on drugs. It was food and rent he wanted money for. He said "You caught me out. I am, yeah, a user. But it's under control, and it's the only thing to keep me sane. So I'm going to keep doing it. Now, whether you want me to do it in a flat with food in me, or on the street hungry, is up to you!" Dumbo didn't know what to make of this. He was silent for a while. Then he said he'd see what he could do, and hung up the phone.

***

When they brought they boy back from Dublin, he looked like he belonged in a curiosity shop. Long strands of greasy hair. Waxen face. Skinny, made all the more gaunt looking by his length in the coffin. Margaret cried, turned to Dumbo and said "This is what you've done! I told you to get him help, and instead you did this!"
She apologised later, after Dumbo had screamed that he had paid for all the drugs that killed his boy. It was too much to keep in. Especially as they all asked "I wonder how he got the money?" Maybe they hoped he was a thug, a criminal. The son of a Garda, an outlaw. It would keep them in conversation in pubs and outside churches for years. Hi bizarre confession would do that now, he was sure. Margaret and Anne calmed him, until at last he seemed untouchable. Deep inside his skin somewhere was Dumbo, dealing with all of this.

***
"It's about the money"
"Did you get it? I knew you would dad. Thank God. They're coming for me. Tonight, you know. I hope you know that. They're coming for me tonight."
"OK. Well, I've transferred it. It should be in your account in two days."
"OK, well I guess I just have to hold them off until then. I hope I can. How did it take you so long to get?"
"Ten thousand Euro doesn't just appear, son. I had to ask Gerry."
"Gerry? And did you tell him why? I don't want every fucker knowing my business, you know. It's not up to you to tell everyone my business"
"No. I told him it was for a holiday or something."
"OK. Well, I have to go. Thanks again"
"Are you all right, son?" he asked a click and a series of steady beeps.

***

At the time he was born, they all said "Oh, he'll be a Gard! Look at the size of him!" That was what they said when Dumbo was born. When young Jim was born, they said "Oh, he'll be a real sportsman! Look at the size of him!"
Dumbo took him out to everything. Gaelic, Hurling, Soccer (secretly), Rugby (secretly) and swimming. Young Jim loved it, being out and about.
At one rugby match, Jim got the ball and ran like hell to the try line. He went through two other boys, and out outmanoeuvred two more. Coaches and officials nodded. Everyone was behind him here, as he ran toward what seemed to be his future. Dumbo thought to himself, this is what it's all about. Young Jim, courageous hero, scorer of the winning try, came running up to him "Did you see me Da? Did you see me?"
"I did!" he said and lifted him up. "You were brilliant!"
The boy thrashed about for a bit, "Let me down da. Not in front of the team".
"Oh right." He let him down, and watched him run to his team mates who gave him high fives and cheers.
This was what Dumbo Doyle thought about as he cut into the roast beef at the meal after his son's funeral.

Emily Sunshine, August 3rd, 2007

2007-08-15T12:47:00.001+01:00

"Your face is like the sun, sinking into the ocean
Your face is like some flowers, opening in fast motion..." (Sparklehorse [Mark Linkaus])

A Slow Start

You know the end, so let's start at the beginning. It was a slow start, with my wife in some discomfort for some days. My last post (Waiting) was to prove somewhat prophetic, as my wife's contractions calmed, returning at irregular intervals with differing pain levels. All of this, the hospital assured us, meant all was well, and it could be 'any moment now'. 'Any moment now' are the three last words you want to hear when waiting. Whether for a coffee, Internet access, a book, traffic lights to change, a bus to leave, the queue at the airport to move. When you hear 'Any moment now', what actually happens is some bizarre biological reaction whereby you know it will not be any moment now. You can be quite sure whatever you're waiting for will happen, not in any moment, but in the moment when you least expect it - as you had convinced yourself sometime before. But the words 'Any moment now' also do something else: instil the hope that indeed, any moment now, something will happen. Every pain, every discomfort, every moment when my wife groaned, and I turned from my work to say "Now?" she would reply "No."
My chirpy end-of-the day jokes - derived entirely on the premise that I was working at home did not quite hit their objectives. From the spare room - the soon-to-be (any moment now) nursery to the kitchen, I would say "Hi honey I'm home", to which my good wife, a host of impatience when uncomfortable, would say "Ha ha". In that deadpan way. The way you know means "That's not funny, so don't say it again". However, for four days (each one longer than the last for my wife), I would try the same joke with a different tone of voice. To no great effect. My wife, between physical discomfort and mental torture groaned more often, as I, in my diligent attempts to be a good husband tried to cheer her.

An Interminable Middle
On the Thursday evening, as she cooked up some chicken kievs with potato, peas and sweetcorn, it happened. I don't know what exactly, but she knew. The pains were more regular, more intense, and were stamping out any feeling of annoyance she was feeling from the comments I was making. I offered to finish making the dinner, but my wife insisted: "If you really want to eat before we go, I suppose I should do it". I told her that was the war spirit and she should be proud of herself. I thought of popping out for a pint or two, but thinking of the long night ahead, and the need to drive, I decided instead to make myself a fruit juice cocktail. It was both refreshing, and quite a calming drink.
My wife said "Any chance of making me one?" as she clattered plates onto the table.
I said "Mind the plates love. No, I'm sorry, we're out of pineapple and cranberry. Here, let me get you an orange juice".
She said "Orange juice makes me sick".
I said, "I'll put some ice in it".
She said "I haven't been able to drink orange juice for two months!"
I said "What a shame. Orange juice is so good for you." I poured myself a glass and drank it. At this point, her look of complete frustration had given way to one of absolute pain. I had known no look like it. I knew then, this is it.
I ordered my wife to gather her things while I sat down and ate my dinner. I knew I'd need my strength if I were to make it through the night.

On The Way
Our slow progress toward the hospital prompted me to demand that my wife allow me to drive. She seemed relieved, and this made it certain in my mind that we were going to have a baby. I drove all the faster, knowing that there was nothing I could do to deal with the situation. I had to get my wife to medical professionals, and hopefully myself to a barrista before all the coffee shops closed.

In the Way
At the hospital, I bumbled around the place with bags, asking nurses where I could place them. They ignored me, preferring to talk to my wife, who at this point was almost incoherent. It was somewhat irksome, but perhaps one must realise when in Rome, one should do as the Romans. And it is well known that women don't overly concern themselves with practical matters, such as where to deposit bags when in a panicked or emergency-type situation.
The nurses told us we had plenty of time, which meant I could leave my wife to suffer a minute while I went down to have a smoke, and spread the news via text. I asked at the desk about ordering a pizza or something, should we be there for a long time. They told me it was impossible. They weren't covered to accept delivery of anything that wasn't addressed to the hospital. Damned insurers have made our lives hell, and the sooner we all realise it, the sooner we might see cheaper premiums. With a smoke smoked, and texts texted, I headed back into the fray.

A Quick Delivery
Once it got moving, it got scary. Of course, this was primarily because a man in this situation can do little more than defer authority to those around him. Those who he has never met before, who seem lovely, most probably a delight were you to meet over cocktails and lite bites. However, meeting someone over your agonised wife is really quite different. It's quite the torture. As the midwife delivered commandments to nurses and others (and presumably me, but given her gruff nature and the fact that she refused to shake my hand when we met, I was ignoring her), I could see nothing but my wife in pain. On that score, I have no more to say, as it is a subject that remains only with me.

A Strange Form of Life
And then, there she was. Emily.
But then she was gone - for a quick run of tests and a clean up.
The midwives and nurses congratulated us on our quick labour. I thanked them graciously, and had to take my wife to task for demanding recognition for the days of pain she had been through. I told my wife - they are the experts. If they said it was an hour and ten minutes (which they had), then that was that. My wife could not be persuaded on the matter, so I decided to raise the subject again when she was more agreeable to a fair and studied debate.
Back came Emily. Emily Sunshine I said as I saw her. They placed her onto my wife's chest, to bond, while I cried and drank the tea another nurse had brought into the room. The woman informed me the tea was for my wife, and I informed her my wife could do with it as she wished, and she wished to let me drink it. Once again, the medical profession has presented a character that just rubbed me up the wrong way.
And so, now there's Emily. Emily Sunshine.
The world is now completely changed, so fundamental is the change within me. And the need to have a small arsenal built up by the time she is fifteen, when boys with spots and chains and ridiculously shortened names turn up at the door. Still, all in its own good time. And she is beautiful, although does have a tendency to cry. Luckily my wife has a few strategies to reduce the volume and frequency of such fussing. I concentrate on the beauty. As I write this, in her apartment (which used to be mine, and still contains a few of my posessions), I watch over her, and prepare to feed her. All I can say is - it's really quite remarkable, but I just don't have the words to express this feeling.

Waiting...

2007-07-30T19:54:00.000+01:00

'Patience is a virtue, seldom seen in women, and never in men'
Spent today waiting for the arrival of my first child. Damn fool obviously missed the flight, or what-have-you between the fore-to-here and the here-to-fore. This left my wife and I in quite a strange place all day. We had been alerted of an arrival, early (a time of day I seldom believe in, and never enjoy). While I had coffee and bread with chocolate spread, my wife was in sublime agony. She gritted her teeth as I said "Isn't this exciting!" She howled as I whispered "Have I time to have a quick read of the paper? Just before we go to the hospital?" My own reticence in the issue was to be punished with my child's reticence.
We have now been waiting all day, in a stupor. As first timers, this doesn't surprise us - we had anticipated some amount of stupor surrounding the birth of the child. Although my preferred stupor would be drink-induced, and I believe my wife's preference was for the stupor of some kind of medication, which would ease the pain of it all. But the pain we are left with now is that resulting from patience. The pain of waiting. Something my generation had confidently dismissed from our lives with fast food, iPods and credit cards. Damn it all, why can humanity not be more materially-directed?
However, however. Off we went for lunch. A McMa (Middle-class, Middle-aged) lady cursed us to all her friends for taking a table we had arrived at before she had appeared at the restaurant. Her belief in God or good manners seemed to dictate that we would vacate the seats for her and her various McFriends. No chance - we had a McReason. A fine McReason to keep my wife as comfortable as she could be, given the circumstances. At table, we waited for the waiter to wait. "This exquisite agony!" I said to my wife as she groaned at pun or progeny; which it was I have no idea.
After prawns and crab claws and coffee and a smoke, we set off for a walk. The motion, gravity, good God, good Grace or good manners were sure to advance the situation. After all, this is my child. And manners are bred, not learned in my blood line.
Up to the head we drove. This is a round jut of land, out in the sea. One imagines, if you were to see it from the sky, it would remind you of the cranial end of a dead man or a drunk. Which is why I used the term 'head'. I believe it's the same reason most people use the term. I suggested this to my wife, who again groaned.
Once again, I wished I had a cane. We passed a lady with two crutches. I thought of stealing one, but a crutch isn't quite the same as a cane. All silvery and utilitarian. I needed something that seemed unneeded. We stood to the side, allowing the lady and her escort to pass around us on the path. Feeling good for doing something we knew was the right thing to do, but we also knew people seldom cared to do so these days.
We reached near the path end, which leads to a playground. It was too much for my wife and I. Knowing we had one of these bizarre in-media-res beings about our person somewhere, if only we could get to it. We turned as hastily as we could, which turned out to be quite languidly as a result of my inability to turn in a circle of any kind, and my wife's inability to sympathise with my condition. But now we were walking back, a chronic symptom of waiting. I've always said: You know you've been waiting too long, when you have to go back over your movements to ensure you've done something to cause the effect you are waiting for. I say this to my wife, who, without groaning simply says
Shut Up
Luckily, those around us could see she was quite uncomfortable. If anything, they blamed her for her lack of patience with me. Letting a little thing like labour interfere with a walk like that. If that's how she was going to be (they were thinking) she should have waited in the car! We walked back, and I waited for her to make the next comment.
She moaned as she clambered into the car. In my generosity, and the spirit of passing the time, I took this as a comment, and continued with my pithy observations of the life around us.
"That lady with the crutches is waiting for us to pass. I suppose she's repaying the compliment. Wouldn't do to keep her waiting too long"
"I think she wants to be sure you won't run her over"
"Of course I won't! I'm not the type. Anyway, what are those teenagers doing in the playground?"
"I can't look at the playground. Not without thinking about this little one that's keeping us waiting"
"Yes. Bloody bad form. When the little one's born, I think I shall form a vigilante group to deal with that kind of thing. Muttering teenagers playing on swings. Singing Morrissey songs, no doubt."
"Jesus, they wouldn't listen to Morrisey"
"Well, they should. Busy down here now, isn't it. Just as well we came down when we did. Or we could be waiting"
"We were waiting"
"Yes, but for longer. God, how do these people park? Why do they all need tanks? Who's invading? Oh, there's Terry. Terry! Hi!"
"Mind the bumps"
"Yes, and the bump... d'you geddit? Geddit"
"Jesus, I get it"
"Why do you keep calling me Jesus? I don't mind it, of course, it's great to be compared to such a great figure... but still"
"Please stop talking and drive. Please."
"Ok, well..."
"Stop. Talking. Now."
"What? Why ever? I'm only trying to pass the time! You should be grateful!"
"You're scaring the life out of me, talking with your hands as you drive this bloody car!"
"Oh, I see. Shame it wasn't the child scared out of you, eh?! Haha!"
"If anything, it'll be scared back in once it meets you."
"Good. Bit of fear instils respect."
"Why did I marry you?"
"Love. It's a bugger, isn't it?"
"Yes"
"I don't know about the child being born through such negative emotions. You should try and cheer up"
"You should try and shut up"
"Did you see the teenagers in the playground? When this little one is born, I'm going to get a vigilante group together..."
"You've already visited this subject today. Don't you remember?"
"Have I? Well, I suppose it's in the nature of waiting. I always say: You know you've been waiting too long, when you have to go back over your movements to ensure you've done something to cause the effect you are waiting for."
We waited in silence the rest of the day, while I Googled setting up a vigilante group.
We wait still.
Will we wait tomorrow? I hope not, for my wife's sake. I'm quite sure she can't stand much more of this. I can tell by the look in her eye, and the growl when I ask, chipper as ever, "Well, how are we feeling now?"

Pete wrote a book. Amazon reviewed it.

2007-07-06T16:09:00.001+01:00

If you need a laugh, and we all do these days (what with war in Iraq, Paris Hilton finding God in a cell in Albequerque or wherever), check out the reviews of Pete Doherty's books on Amazon. I've never read it, and don't plan to (not a fan of Babyshambles myself), but some of the reviews are 'cracking' (I use the term from the 'Anglo' side of my 'Anglo Irish' persona.

Especially from "Lord Decider", in the UK. He said "I have ordered 53 of these books as I understand that they are written in his blood. According to my calculations that should use up about 8 pints of it and hopefully bring an end to the adoloscent dribblings of this smacked-up sub-Dickesian tossclump."

Then, there are his defenders, such as this one from a Ms Chant. She said "Why are sooo many people writing bad reviews without reading this book, that's like saying... "I don't like apples" with out every tasting one, I read quite a lot, stuff like Orwell's 1984 ect ect and I like this book allot , its a good insight into Pete and I think its great to hear the way he thinks and his opinions for a change rather the ill researched tabloid newstorys that people seem to focus on. There's some top poetry and a great inspiration Also as a graphic designer I found the style interesting and I like the unpredictable nature with collages, photos and newspaper cuttings along with the sketchbook style. I say if you like The Libertines, Pete Doherty or Babyshables you should buy it, or go listen to one of the many many many bands that are basically rip off of the libertines but are more "media" friendly. Anyways peace out :p Woody chant"

Mr Defender gets my vote, as I can't trust anyone that claims to like reading, uses overly onomatopoeic spelling ('soooo') then goes on to say "I read quite a lot, stuff like Orwell's 1984 ect, ect (sic)" Also, 'Peace out'. So many people say this and I don't know how to do it. I now refuse to learn.

I've just been directed to 'The Night Owl's' review, which beats the rest, hands down: 'I've been a fan of Dohertys since the early, cross-dressing days of Beverly hills 90210. The japes he got up to with Brandon, Fred Perry and the inflatible Tori Spelling kept me spellbound. In this book however, he lets himself down big-style. Charmed? I don't think so. '

SO, if you need a chuckle, check out the reviews here

Train Passage

2007-07-04T21:53:00.000+01:00

On the platform, a subliminal riot. They look all about them, as if not preparing to dive for the train the moment the doors open. The desired effect is to make others believe they want it more. To get on a train. This provides two means of triumph. First, and most obvious, was actually getting on the train first. Not only can you enjoy a more comfortable position, but you can also rub it into others' faces. Be careful with the latter, otherwise you may suffer from another enjoying the second triumph. The second triumph, is earned by recognising the diminished humanity in another - and having them recognise it in themselves. They dive for the train and get on first, you say ‘Well, what’s the big deal? I was looking out for this little old/pregnant/infirm lady.’ Well, don't say it. Just shoot them a look on your way in, and enjoy for precious few seconds – like a masturbatory orgasm – the feeling of superiority over your own species. Jesus must have felt something similar, on the cross.

- Train Song -

2007-07-03T22:10:00.001+01:00

My wife, who’s with child can't get a seat on this train!

And no one can see that we’re all to blame,

Unseen because we’re sleeping through bloody good reads

Her voice is drowned out by gigs of MP3s!

I was disgusted the first time I saw

An elderly woman, so brutally ignored

I felt like screaming from out of my seat

But left it, not wanting to cause such a scene

No wonder our silence subsides into violence

When we believe our manners give license

To ignore the very thing they're intended to defend

To act as a weapon in an everyday sense!

And so nodding off, with a book, with MP3s

We'll fuck someone over for a chance at a seat.

A Response to "White Rabbit" On Stu's Blog

2007-07-02T11:59:00.000+01:00

A response to Stu's blog entry "Star Trek-White Rabbit"