Bren's Shorts

Some sketches

2009-11-16T00:33:00.000Z

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

Thoughts on The Lisbon Treaty Referendum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm only here for the beers"

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

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

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

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

Stand up for what you bleedin believe in!

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

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

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

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

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

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

A darkness

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

This is totally unplanned. It just unfolds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Walk

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

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

The Dances: 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Difficulties with Writer's Block

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

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

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

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

But
Read on! Read on!

Poem

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

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

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

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

To transend or transgress everything
It is. This sky.

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

Happy, But Hated. Why Not?

2009-03-22T23:10:00.001Z

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

Dark Was The Night

2009-02-18T22:41:00.002Z

Via Stu

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

still, ho hum. Whistle along!

Emliy in the Snow!

2009-02-07T09:58:00.001Z

Snow!

2009-02-03T21:09:00.010Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

View Larger Map

Joby Cain Gets Fired

2008-11-30T21:37:00.001Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go on, smile!

2008-11-23T21:14:00.003Z

Emily Sunshine, all this time later.

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

IRL

2008-11-01T12:59:00.022Z

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

*****

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

Driving #1

2008-10-27T20:39:00.005Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blog Action Day: Poverty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmph. Perhaps I am a socialist after all.

'Breath' by Samuel Beckett, dir: Damien Hirst

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

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

From The Fundament

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

The rain came down

So the worms came up

Wriggling their way

From the fundament.

Through the clay, soil and shit

Through dazzling grass

To a moon bathed garden growing

From the fundament.

The rain came down

And then it came up

And surrounded them with what they'd escaped

From the fundament.

Diamonds on the way down

Death when it comes back up

From the fundament.

In The Central Margin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8.11
Petrol station!

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

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

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

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

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

8.47
Brake!
Stop. Start. 40.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good old moan

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

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

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

Tom Waits at the Ratcellar

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

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

How "Psycho" Got His Name

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

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

The Rat Story

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

Written some time ago...

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

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

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

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

"Oi! C'mere! Whataboutyerpoint?"

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

"Up to much today?"

"Ah no, day off"

"Hence the early drinkin', eh?"

I smile. "Busy?"

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

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