tilting at windmills

Lunch time argument with Doctor Barn in the kitchen at the old chateau.
I had postulated that it is never right to treat what doctors call mental illness with pharmaceutical products.
Ah yes.
That old gag.
I am enough of a scholar of the science of reason to know when I'm losing an argument.
The doc cleaned my clock.
I may have been right but he wiped the floor with me.
He was a bit cheeky while doing it.
Allow me a flashback for a moment.
A few years ago I positively savoured the spectacle of Doctor Barn cleaning the clock of one of the Dad's millionaire friends in this same kitchen while discussing government finance for hospitals.
At the time I'd taken my little brother aside and whispered: "The boy has become the man."
I've got to admit, it's far less entertaining when he pulls the same stunt with me.
Today's memory of getting my own clock cleaned does have a positive side.
At least I didn't try to pull big brother rank.
You know.
Shout him down.
I was tempted.
I was tempted to at least try.
But I chose another way.
I chose to lose the argument rather than shout.
Out of respect for my little brother.
As I write this, gentle travellers of the internet, my handsome preraphaelite features are creased with a rueful grin.
I feel the oddest humility in the face of life.
At the same time I have the unmistakeable sensation that God has brought me to exactly where he wants me to be.

doctor heelers answers your religious questions

Dear Doctor Heelers.
Settle a bet. Why do the Franciscans all sport silly beards?
Regards, Professor Jill Allaway.

Jilly it's a macho thing. Some of these monks are very competitive. Mine is bigger than yours etc etc. You're nobody in the monastery unless you've got a long matted grey one.
J

Hey Doc.
Heard your poetry recital for the church kids last week was something out of the ordinary. Any chance you'd perform for my class of school children?
Linda Bologna.

Linda, there's a better than even money chance if you forward a hundred quid to my home address.
J

Good morning Mr Healy.
You seem very down on Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and the national broadcasters here in Ireland. It is hard to imagine what sort of Ireland you aspire to. Do you deny the country is prosperous and the government stable?
Bill Tremayne.

Bill.
Men are most readily made slaves in a time of plenty.
J

Heelers.
You are not so clever as you think you are. In my opinion your writings are merely the worst type of Catholic propaganda dressed up in tawdry reusable pseudo literary allusions.
Libby Fembo.

Libby.
My blushes.
James
PS: Go to mass.

Hey Heelers.
I don't know why you hold such a brief for the Catholic church. Even you have to admit the church has done a lot of damage to people's sexuality in this country. The repressiveness of Catholic doctrines has led many into a lifetime of ill health and sexual unfillment.
Monty Baines

Monty old chum.
If it was that simple we'd all be getting some.
Heelers

eventide

footballers cheer a score
pat carroll shoots rabbits in the gloom
children steal crab apples
and farmer byrne calls the cattle home

perhaps this chaotic place
is not kilcullen in the present time
but a dusty frontier town
at the heart of ancient palestine

the sounds dissolve
into a muted half felt bliss
fluted by fond memory
and a strange provincial holiness

the moment of stillness

Email from the sheikh.
The sheikh is an acquaintance I met at a poetry festival a few years ago.
I have kept in touch as my contribution to world peace.
Seriously though.
I had this notion. A notion that I have to come out of my comfort zone and cultivate contact with Muslim people. I feel it's a sort of duty. To at least be open to such contact.
It hasn't exactly come easy to me, as some of you who have thrilled to my analysis of middle eastern politics will be aware.
But me and the sheikh have stayed in touch.
Not friendship exactly.
No, I'd recognise friendship.
What it is, is what it is.
So here we are.
Yes, yes I know. Sometimes it seems I'm megalomaniacally convinced that the fate of humanity depends on me, my poetry, and my choice of internet penfriends.
Messianic complex indeed.
Truth be told bold readers, you don't know the half of it.
But I digress.
I don't for a second think the sheikh is my friend.
But sometimes when you've talked to someone on level terms it's harder to hate them blindly.
Today's email contained a single sentence.
It read:
"I hope the Irish will behave with honour in the coming time."
When I read it, I sat in the stillness of my office for long moments. Outside swallows were flitting above the garden of my father. I could hear children playing on the avenue. The evening sun dallied on a throne of gold behind the trees.
Is he trying to warn me?
What on earth are they planning?
Is this thing over or is it just warming up?