I forgot to write on Thursday. Spent the day talking & daydreaming. There must have been food – and thought.
Daydreaming is misunderstood by those who don’t do it. They imagine daydreaming is simply lingering loafishly while others slave away.
I wonder if I’ll forget to write today.
It’s not good enough to say to myself
“I have soft stubble … No one cares … It’s my hair …”
I can do better.
Every time I excuse myself I nurture a self-fulfilling prophecy. Don’t I?
“It doesn’t matter” means it doesn’t matter to me what others see, what they suspect, or even what they imagine.
Whom do I remind you of?
Whom do I look like?
Whom do you take me for?
The trouble with being curious is that your curiosity is limited only by your imagination.
“What do I look like under stubble?”
If I asked an average abstract painter that question, what average abstract answer would I get?
How would it differ from the answer you’d have given if I’d asked you this morning over coffee on a Zoom Meeting?
If a balloon loses air in a toy room before the party starts, does it make much of a difference to the adults?
It’s not good enough to say to myself
“It doesn’t matter any more.”
The year I was born was good,
it rained, the sun shone,
and there was snow on the peaks of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks.
The following year was bad
though earthworms flourished, corn crakes called,
and more books were sold than ever in the history of humanity.
In nineteen hundred and fifty two,
I escaped the threat of extreme unction.
The Quiet Man was found Waiting For Godot
Another journey towards maturity and posterity.
II
Remember Christmas
Miracle of life and death
A butterfly flapped.
III
Mary Oliver wrote “You don’t have to be good”
My parents showed “It’s best to live the way you should”
Conscience was a fashionable word,
Contrition was the world,
Confession insisted upon.
Surrounded by Holy Water fonts,
it was a miracle I grew up in Limerick
among books.
In those days, someone had to match Christmas cards with envelopes.
IV
I remember meeting Picasso’s woman.
– perhaps that was Dublin –
I’m sure she had three heads.
Five heads flowed along the banks of the Shannon
Frank the Wisdom, Patricia the Joy, David the Magnificence, Deirdre the Talent
Peter the Intelligence.
Siblings under one roof
Chislers
V
Resurection is
much more attractive than birth.
Rising from the dead.
Recovery is
a form of absolution
– a revolting cry
Recognition is
a quintessence that collides
while opening eyes
I stand on the shoulders of great mothers and grand fathers
The example
The permission
The encouragements
“This is for you to consider.“
“It’s your eternity”.
Chapters of dialogue alongside the AGA in the kitchen
– like a primary school for the rest of my days.
VI
There were Nurses marching outside the maternity ward of Bart’s Hospital, as he was born.
An amniocentesis in Homerton Hospital.
A whirlpool for my head
The nurse from Manilla crushed under the weight of a fainting father to be.
Moleskines
Filaments for the chronicle
So many fragments to stitch together.
VII
Let’s celebrate the glory days of life
No matter where the gold and silver lie
and put aside those thurd’rous hours of strife
until they shed fresh light upon our cries.
It’s time to paint with colourful design
To decorate our home and dress the bed
In case this tide flows out and we decline
Beyond the spit of smiles and slump misread.
It’s Fall, when leaves turn brown and drift away
A season to renew the bridge we built
Back in the days we loved the wind that swayed
The leaves of barley on the field of quilt.
There’s no magic will disguise the mystery
Of how to grow without complicity.
So there, dear friends, are lines composed to mark the twist in the road
into maturity, without undue humility.
Today.
After walking by the lake & tall hills by Gougane Barra this afternoon, I came home to a cake.
A cake deserves a photograph, or a painting – especially when it’s as magnificent as this one.
Especially when it’s handmade by someone who’s dearer to me than the confection is sweet.
She spent a goodly proportion of the day in the supermarket & kitchen – and cleaned up after herself – which I have often not done.
I had half an eye on England v Belgium when she visited my sofa, and asked if I would really like a candle for every year of what I call my maturity.
I almost took pity on her.
“Of course I’d love that.”
And so it was that when my two sons, two daughters-in-law, three grandchildren & two dogs joined us in the kitchen (via Zoom), there were candles lit.
Imagine trying to light that number of short candles on top of this cake. Imagine three of us with flaming matches, and melting wax trickling on to the icing.
Etched into memory, never to be forgotten until my memory muscle has grown too limp to last.
Joy, fun & glee. How fortunate I am to have such company to love.
Ghana and Mali.
When I was a child in Limerick my imagination didn’t stretch to Africa.
It never crossed my mind that I would go to Accra in Ghana or Bamako in Mali.
But I knew the name Timbuktu, the city that’s Tombouctou in French.
It never crossed my mind that Timbuktu in Mali might be twinned with Hay-on-Wye in the Black Mountains. That’s Wales.
My father collected National Geographic Magazines. I got the impression there were photographs of African people, animals, rivers, mountains, trees, and skies in every issue. The pull-out maps were big.
I had coffee in West Africa yesterday. I brought with me the best wishes of the people of Glanmire.
Two countries “bridging the gap” they said. You could see it happening in front you as you were drawn into the conversations.
Space travel on Earth.
(written on Saturday)
613,200 or thereabouts. As a Greek tongue uttered,
“Being exact is superficial – and misses the point.”
For example, there is always something singular about a droplet of acid – especially when it’s deoxyribonucleic.
And when I said there were 31 days in my ‘birthday’ this year, I trusted you wouldn’t take the news literally.
As suspected, I’m a bit of a codjer – a seanamadán.
“To play with words is to tickle your imagination” – as Socrates’s mother said, the day he made the Brazilian team.
The poetry of numbers is infinite and tangential to the main stream. That’s why particles of verse – those that pass the litmus test – prove to be a promising investment during pandemonia.
What a demon of a number that has been – at times.
It’s the conundrum that’s a treat to understand, I imagine.
Alliteration isn’t always appropriate.
Whatever was worrying your world will wither when whoever you wished would stop wallowing wittingly would withhold their words wistfully.
On the seventh day of his birthday, Paul kept going in a direction he couldn’t fathom.
The virus followed him, keen to sneak through his protective efforts.
He couldn’t shake her off his trail.
Even while he was eating meringue, vanilla ice cream, and black berry compote, on Princes Street, outside Nash 19, she was still pursuing his cells.
Paul wore a black mask. He was beginning to find some masked women attractive – as if his imagination had life left in it.
The elastic was stretched. The Americano so slow to appear he decided to leave without it. He went to buy an AeroPress.
Meanwhile, a pleasant man was replacing the screen on Paul’s iPhone 7.
‘How do I know the virus isn’t in my cell phone?’
Paul was used to talking to himself.
These days people have cars, televisions, Sky, mortgages, pets, smartphones, broadband, jewellery, credit cards, education, holidays, bills, debt.
More to lose
than ever.
Attachments.
There’s always been affection
Always attraction
Always people to love.
Looking at leaves of beech
through shattered glass
Seeing your face in splinters
on my phone
You are in bits and pieces
Poetry is music to me.
Meaning that every poem is a melody. It has its major chords, and minor key.
Tonality
Syncopation
Rhythm
When I approach a poem, I get ready to read it aloud. If there are people nearby, I move away.
I want to taste the words, phrases, and punctuation as they’re uttered I want to feel the flow.
The syllables are like notes from a piano. Words are chords. Lines like bars.
Adagio,
Andante
Apassionato
The great poems have many movements.
They cure me of bad habits.
There was still something to admire
Leaves yellowing
Moistened grass
An apple
holding fast to a Worcester tree.
The cat sleeping
Footballers from Mayfield
Hockey players in Garryduff
Jack Russells yapping on a sideline.
Red wine running out
Cabbage in curry
A sliver of Cheddar
Coconut milk from a tin.
Rice
Reheated & plonked on a plate.
On the third day,
There was morning and evening.
I will own-up here. Give you the full facts (assuming there is such a thing as as fact).
After looking at WhatsApp, reading one message, and sending an audio reply …
After looking at emails that came in overnight, deleting all but one, and replying ‘ok’ …
I read the headline. The first paragraph. The headline, the news.
It sank in quickly.
I don’t admire the person I met in the kitchen this morning. I’m not proud of myself, my feelings, nor my thoughts.
I confess I had an evil mind. May my mother (RIP) forgive me. I must take responsibility for the flood of emotions I welcomed.
There was nothing noble about my hopes. Nothing honourable about my wishes. Nothing generous for breakfast.
Once upon a time, I wished my mother would break a leg, and be confined to bed for six weeks. I wished her no pain. All I wanted was for her to be incapacitated – so I and my friends could be free to enjoy ourselves without her rules hanging over us.
I may not like the person I am today, but it’s the second day of my birthday month.
A day to celebrate.
He was overdue. A home birth. A first-born. His poor mother, she never complained nor forgot.
The centre of their universe, it took him months to realise there was more than one universe, because, in common with all infants, he began life on the outside feeling nothing but his instinctive desires. It never crossed his mind that there was an other.
He was only wanting.
From North Circular Road in Limerick to 13 Waterloo Road in Dublin to 54 FitzJohn’s Avenue & 10 Gayhurst Road in London to Bradford-upon-Avon in Wiltshire to Bath – and today in Cork.
“You haven’t changed much” resonated – as he contemplated in the kitchen he shared with dog, cat, wife & daughter.
“You’ve saught attention all your life. You’ll go to your grave (or cremation) still seeking even more attention.”
He swallowed tea from a mug decorated with a rooster. It was tepid by now.
The blueberries on top of his moist muesli – fat, firm and fruity.
It was 1st of October 2020, a day to celebrate his ongoing maturity. “Others haven’t survived. Thank goodness some of us have.”
Already he’d treated himself to a slow getting-out-of-bed. A bit of Twitter, Facebook, WhatsApp, RTE News, BBC News, and Social Audio.
A shower, shave, and fresh underpants – it was a day for distinctive action. He had a personality worth appreciating, and ruminating on.
However, he was shocked when he entered the kitchen. So wrapped up in himself that it never crossed his mind that anyone would take him seriously.
“I was half-joking when I said this October was my birthday month.”
The person who’d sent the tall plant – that sat on the cream tiles – had blown him away, lifted him up, and left him blinking.
“Is it plastic or growing? For me or my wife?” – as he fingered the giant variegated leaves, and stalks.
He ripped open the blue envelop.
“Happy Birthday You Silver Fox” the card announced. ‘
An empty mind, an empty space, nothing pushing to hatch. This is when I should write. One letter after the other, as if each was one step after the last one. It only takes one letter to keep going.
Thinking there’s nothing to say is a good way of stopping myself saying anything. Writing is the problem – words flow easily enough from my mouth.
Maybe I should speak into this laptop?
Maybe I should go get a notebook – a Moleskine. For years notebooks have been my companions. Often I’ve felt half dressed without one.
Which is worse? A notebook without a pen – or a pen without a notebook, napkin, back of an envelop, fag packet, a tablecloth. (I remember proposing marriage in a restaurant where I wrote the verse on a paper place mat.)
When will the apple fall from the tree?
When’s the time to put the green parasol away in the green shed?
Where have the small birds gone?
There are always questions, when there is nothing to say.
Everyone I know is a loser – including my first wife.
My mother, father, sons, daughter, best friend, plus you & everyone you’ve ever met has been a loser
Donald Trump, Joe Biden, Socrates, Abraham, plus every single living thing that ever existed in the history of planet Earth.
If you think I’m over-egging it, you have the right to that opinion. You have the authority to stick to your viewpoint. You have the power to disagree.
I wager I’ll persuade you – (with inductive logic)
Manchester City lost last night. My friend Gearoid Murphy is gutted. Not only did his team lose but he lost his good humour. Last season he was a loser too.
Yesterday, my dog Louis tried to be friendly with an Alsatian. The Alsatian rejected him, Louis was a loser.
Thomas Edison was a loser. Eventually he became a winner. But after that he went back to being a loser.
Since birth, I’ve been a loser. When I was 16, I fancied Brigitte Bardot. I didn’t even make it to the races. I lose almost every time I try.
In case you think you’ve met a winner.
______________________
Note: The impulse to write this came after I heard the story of how Donald John Trump has been a loser for years, and, as a consequence, has paid no taxes for years.
Most connections fail. The contact ends. Broken intentions, disconnections abound.
“She put the phone down on me.”
“He didn’t reply to my letter.”
“My smoke signal went unanswered.”
“I lost your number.”
“I got lost.”
“The carrier pigeon met a hawk.”
“There was an hurricane, an earthquake, a volcano – and I forgot.”
“The tsunami sundered our prospects.”
Today I became unconnected. I lost it. One moment I was in full flight, rapport growing by the nano-second, smiles igniting all round the room.
And then she dropped me. Cut me dead. Zoomed off with her friends. Not so much as a funeral.
I tried to get back in touch with her. But nothing worked.
I thought we had a good thing going.
That’ll teach me to take her for granted.
The pen is an engine for driving words.
Words come wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Words are units of time.
Sentences are sentences
I have been sentenced to write.
which is a dangerous occupation, I notice too much. Especially too much time lost. For example, this morning Roger Overall and I were scheduled to record the Business Jazz podcast from 09:30. As usual, every Friday morning, I was running a few minutes late.
Intent on catching up, making up for lost time, I hurried onto Zoom. Laptop booting up while I joined the meeting via iphone7. A man with two joining devices.
A man with no sound. The smart phone was quick, as usual. The MacBookPro slow, as usual.
Here’s how the time of my life, both of our lives, was squandered.
Silence. I couldn’t hear Roger. He couldn’t hear me. We were reduced to text messages. You can’t record a podcast via text. (Poor effort at humour)
Eventually, we recorded the podcast via Skype.
How much time was stolen from us by that unwelcome gift of silence? (Perhaps I am a better person for the unpleasant experience?). But it was a horrid time – so horrid I dare not remember, or calculate, how much of my life was squandered.
This is a theme of my return to blogging: remembrance of lost time. A la recherche du temps perdu – remembering Proust – and the time I was able to speak French well enough to converse (never well enough to be subtle with it).
The time I pause here – the time in between sentences, phrases, and even words – is purposeful. Gathering energy, clarity, and alacrity – that’s time well invested.
The time of my life.
I never thought it would come to this,
it doesn’t seem fair.
I do not think I will wear a mask,
no matter who cares.
I will never think to conform nor confide
Private Citizen me.
The stupidity of Reason.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 