the shot heard round the world

we do not need the pharmaceutical companies
the mind is never a mistake
the mind is miracle

on the side of the angels

Flumping down on the bed last night at 1am.
"Bring my greetings to Divya," I told the guardian angel as I turned out the light.
Bold readers for some time I have been fascinated by an idea contained in the ancient religion that we all have a guardian angel.
I am particularly fascinated by the notion that the angels will run errands for us.
Of course I felt bad about asking Fonzerelli to travel half way round the world, so I added: "Give me a call when you get back."
I rolled over and went to sleep.
Some time later my eyes snapped open in the darkness.
The red glow from the digital clock showed 2.30am.
"What the hell?" I grumbled. "Why am I after waking up?"
Then I remembered.
I mumbled thanks into the stillness and sought to regain the blissful realm of sleep.
A thought struck me.
Apparently my guardian angel can get to India in 45 minutes.
I wonder has anyone ever timed one before.

john

you were saying about the meadow
how the grass would get tall
but it was only dull wind in the grasses
not you at all

you were laughing about school days
but when you were done
i heard the traffic sighing in the street
and knew you were gone

the world is in winter
and i must be getting old
for birds across the grey sky
remind me of souls

and they called me mad

My every instinct is that we should walk away from Hollywood.
We can't be Hollywood.
It's got to be without makeup, without professional actors, without all the joyless acoutrements that cost money and are worth nothing.
This thing is going to be fuelled on self belief.
We've got to think this is good just because it's us.
It's going to sink or swim on natural joy.
Find the undiscovered Diana Keaton. Wherever she is.
Find actors who don't immediately come across as horrendous snobs.
So find actors unlike anybody on the screen today.
Find nice people.
Find people who still believe in the impossible.
Find a bunch of people who are willing to drop everything and move mountains in order to spend a Summer together making a film for a nutty Irish writer.
It's revolutionary.
It's crazy.
It just might work.

sic transit gloria heelers

Afternoon coffee with Lu Yi in the Stephen's Green Centre.
"James," she says out of the blue, "why are you so happy? What is the secret of your happiness?"
I stare into the middle distance thinking.
Before I can answer she lets a little cry.
"Hold it," she says. "Hold that expression."
"What do you mean?"
"The expression you had just now. It was beautiful. You looked so wise. So peaceful. Do it again. I want to take a picture."
She fumbled for her camera.
"You mean like this?"
"No, no, the one you had a second ago."
"This?"
"That's awful. Just think about whatever you were thinking when I asked you the question."
"How about this?"
"Eyurggghhh!"
And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't regain the look of beatific simplicity she had seen a moment earlier alighting on my handsome preraphaelite features.
Thus passes the glory of the world.

moment

Witnessed a sweet street vignette in Dublin as darkness fell.
An Italian chap and his girl came wandering along out of the shadows.
Shabbily dressed but a good looking couple imbued with all the glamour, gallantry and romanticism of their country.
Not much lower than the angels, I thought when I saw them.
She stopped at a shop window and gave a little exclamation of delight: "Look, look."
It was a shoe shop.
The man stood there wringing his hands in a kind of mock theatrical display of frustration.
"We have not enough money to eat," he cried. "And you are thinking about those... things."
I saw her face as she turned towards him. It was shining with adoration.
I left them there on Henry Street to fulfill their own legend.

day among days

Woke to find a dead spider on my pillow.
All crushed and broken.
At first I thought Paddy Pup had done it. He's well capable of munching a spider and leaving the remains beside me. Just for a larf.
But unless he's learned to shut my bedroom door as he leaves, it can't have been him.
Removed the spider glumly enough. I consider spiders to be honorable creatures and will not willingly harm one.
Wandered into the computer room to check the emails. The spammers have been busy. They seem tremendously concerned about my bank account and the size of my manhood.
Bless.
As long as there are such caring people in the world, we're all going to be alright.
Dublined.
Met up with the Malteser for coffee.
Great fun. I've finally figured her out. As long as I don't stay with her for more than two hours, everything is okay. Anything over that time period and the odds increase steadily that I'll fall afoul of the famous Maltese temperament. Think Italians and multiply by ten.
As we left she suggested we meet next week for lunch and a visit to the Chester Beatty exhibition at Dublin Castle. In a moment of weakness I agreed. I suppose if I keep her moving we might get through lunch and the exhibition in two hours.
Met the poet Paddy Finnegan outside Trinity College. A month ago he was the homeless guy I had ignored and hurried past for ten years. Then under the influence of the Nicola effect I made a donation. Now I've learned his name and that he's a poet with a collection of verse on CD, as well as being a true artist, and guardian of the soul of the city of Dublin.
Bought a good luck card for Lu Yi who started a new job today.
Rendezvoused with Villainy Angela for an Italian lesson. Still the best teacher of Italian I've ever had. Still wouldn't turn my back on her for a second.
At one point she told me she was going to have next week's lesson in her apartment and that she would prepare Italian food for me so that I might get some idea of the cuisine.
It was quite a struggle not to say what I was thinking.
Never in a million years will I ever: (a) be alone in that woman's apartment, or (b) eat food she has prepared.
Phone call from Hoddlebun. Quite innocuous after Angela.
Note to self: Stop meeting women you think are trying to kill you.
Evening coffees in Barnies Cafe on Westmoreland Street.
Doodling in the notebook.
Trying to summon up the spirit of poetry again.
Back to the chateau around midnight. Paddy Pup nearly knocked me over in the hall.
Found the Mammy in the front room watching a programme on fembo commie pinko Channel Four.
It was called 100 Greatest Number One Hit Pop Songs Of All Time.
Catchy title.
I joined her to watch.
In the midst of an argument with the Mammy about the merits of Jason Nevins version of the Run DMC song It's Like That, where I contended Nevins had done a great job and should have been thanked, and the Lildebeest insisted Run DMC had done all the work and were right to say Nevins had done nothing except add a back beat, in the midst of this fairly heated argument with a 78 year old woman about Jason Nevins, Run DMC and the merits of rap over techno, in the midst of this I tells ee, I suddenly realised... the richness in my life.
Walked Paddy Pup beneath the stars.
Thought of Divya.
Thanked God.