meeting of minds

A pretty African lady put her hand on my arm as I strolled through the Whitewater Centre this afternoon.
"Excuse me," she said, "are you..."
My little heart thrilled.
"Doctor Healy's brother?"
I stared at her with the look of a man who is staring and not quite able to stop staring.
It would have been too easy to cry out:
"I am not Doctor Healy's brother. I am the poet James Healy. I am the finest mind of a generation."
Modesty prevented me from doing this.
Instead I nodded and smiled.
"He's a great doctor," said she.
"Try living with him," said I.
We parted having understood each other.

sun twitty studios, newbridge, county kildare, thursday november 16th 2006, a legend is born

(Elvis has left the building. He was running.)

fighting for our lives

Meeting MC Corks in the morning to record the Bond skit.
It's a song featuring imaginary movie villains singing about killing imaginary secret agent James Bond.
Very droll indeed.
I will be releasing it under the artistic pseudonym Heeler The Peeler And The Villains.
Ah yes folks.
At least one get rich quick scheme per month or my name's not James Hieronymous Fortescue Snurdlingham Healy the third. (Heelers means get poor quick scheme. - Ed note.)
Onward to fresh fields and pastures new.

tenderness

marcus and friends

The Mammy and James driving to Newbridge.
"How's Marcus," quoth I patting her on the back of the hand.
The Mammy shoots me a dirty look.
"Stop referring to my wart as Marcus," she intones with mild venom.
She's had a wart on her hand for a week now bold readers. I feel I've gotten to know it quite well and so have given it a name.
In fact the name comes from an old evil henchman who appeared in the Doctor Who television series way back in the dulcet Summer of 1972. Southern England was being invaded by Egyptian Mummies. After one particularly gruesome piece of business, the villain of the piece a reincarnated demon called Sutek, addressed the aforementioned henchman with the classic line: "Remove the carcas Marcus."
Anyhoo.
Lil and James driving.
A thought strikes the greatest mind of a generation. Certain family members believe I can heal illnesses through touch.
"Would you not let me do the healing touch on the wart?" sez I to the Mammy.
Quoth the Lildebeest: "Nevermore."
(And somewhere the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe is smiling.)
I persist with my entreaties but the aged parent is having none of it.
"I'm going to see a faith healer tomorrow," she muses.
"What will he do?" sez me a tad bitterly.
"He'll touch the wart with a straw that he's blessed," she explains. "Then he'll pray over me. Then I've to take the straw and bury it in the garden. As the straw rots away in the ground, the wart will disappear off my hand."
Our car swerves briefly.
For a moment I've lost control of my senses.
"So this is how it ends Lil," groans I. "You'll trust Black Jack Mack Lunatick and his bloody voodoo straw Druid religion superstitious nonsense. But you won't trust me to do the healing touch on you."
"Exactly," sez the Mammy.
And there our story ends.