Moving on...

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

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)

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...

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

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

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

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

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:

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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)
6. 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'.  
7. 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

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

"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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    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.