winds of destiny

Bouncing around Dublin in the rain.
The royal tour of book shops and cafes.
Betimes brooding darkly on the nature of existence.
Betimes scribbling feverishly in my notebook.
Slowly the great Irish novel is taking shape.
It is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying...
But I don't want to give too much away.
In the book store on Grafton street a blue haired punkish girl flirted outrageously. She was all impish grin and lissom limbs.
I thought the universe somehow favoured her.
Outside Trinity College, Paddy the poet sold me a Big Issue. He told me he'd be reciting tonight at a pub in Rathmines.
"Will you be singing?" I asked him.
He shook his head.
"I don't sing," he said. "I can't be good at everything, you know."
Down to the Henry Street library to check the emails.
Hindu Babe had sent one about her Rudigore situation.
I wrote back advising her to become a nun.
Ah Rudigore(s).
From hell's black heart I stab at thee(s).
Home to the Chateau de Healy.
The nephews were running riot.
During a quiet moment I took the Mammy to one side.
"For crying out loud," sez I. "Tell me I was never as clingy as they are."
The Mammy grinned.
"Son," sez she, "if life was Star Trek you'd have been a Klingon."