wise counsels

Sitting morosely enough in a Dublin cafe.
The self pity had lasted a day.
Time to phone Alan Massie.
He is American, a former hippy, now an expatriate living in Greece.
He writes and plays music.
He also moonlights as a counsellor for Irish poets who are feeling sorry for themselves.
I only call him when my normal state of perturbation has reached crisis levels.
He spoke to me on his mobile from the shadow of the Parthenon.
I told him all about the encounter with the Whitewater Centre pond life.
"It was ringing so many bells Alan," I said. "I was back in childhood. I wanted to fight them. All of them. I was ashamed that I wasn't fighting them. And then I was ashamed of myself for wanting to fight them."
Alan laughed.
"Jamie me lad," he proclaimed cheerily. "The Celts and the American Indians are famous for fighting when the odds are against them. But you gotta let it go. Discretion is the better part of valour."
I let his words sink in.
He hadn't finished though.
"I remember when I was in High School getting quite a beating in a street fight," he murmured. "In Washington DC at the time, High Schools and Universities had fraternity houses. Later they were made illegal. We'd all have jackets that marked us out. Nearly like gang colours."
"Mr Massie," I cried warmly. "You were a teenage hoodlum?"
"Listen to the story," quoth he. "So one day six guys from another fraternity beat up on me and one of my friends. We just had to lie in the road until they finished kicking us."
I let these words sink in too.
I began to see a bright side.
Whatever had happened in the Whitewater Centre, at least I hadn't gotten worked over.
Having spread his share of wisdom, Mr Massie rang off.
Presently the Perfect Fit arrived.
Nur.
The only friend I really like.
Well you know.
She's not a believer.
But, my God, her soul.
Over coffee I told her the same story I'd told Parthenon Pete.
She listened.
Then she looked alarmed.
"I hope you didn't fight them," she said.
"No but I was tempted," said I.
Nur shook her head.
"You don't know what sort of people they are," she said. "The right thing to do is always to walk away. I had a situation in Madrid once. This girl came up to me in the street and she was pushing me. She was showing off to her friends. I told her: I don't know you. And walked away."
I tried to let Nur's words sink in.
"It's good in theory," I intoned glumly. "But it's not easy."
She put a hand on my arm.
"James," she said softly, "indifference is a powerful weapon."