she who knows not fate

Rendezvous with Hoddlebun in the cafe above Easons bookshop on O'Connell Street.
Yes, she's back.
She's come back I tell you.
Back to Farancreesht.
Sorry.
Lost it there for a minute.
Outside our window the city of Dublin is resplendent in October sunshine.
"So," sez Hodders, "are you still collecting unemployment assistance?"
"Nah," sez I.
"Why not?"
"Well Hodders old bean it's certainly not because I'm working."
"What happened?"
"Some young one behind the counter at the Social Welfare office in Newbridge looked at me as if I was scum and I suddenly became a lot less interested in having any dealings with them."
"How long ago did that happen?"
"April."
Big Hair looked mildly distrait.
"So how are you surviving?"
I flashed her my famous fleeting grin.
"One day at a time, Hodders my old apple crumble, one day at a time."

the octobrists

dead relatives in a photograph
watch me from the wall
shell shocked at my decision
i sit and write alone
i might have loved you once
but i will never love you now

night is at my window
the years are at my door
and what was wrought in darkness
shines brightly all the more
and what will never be
has its own brief allure

a spirit restless brooding
in a body growing old
sifts the drifting embers
through the ashes of my soul
they say love lights the universe
but the universe is cold

it is better to give than to take

Morning at the Chateau de Healy.
Ireland's greatest living poet comes breezing up the hall full of the joys of living.
I find my brother Padre Peter sitting in the kitchen surrounded by admiring family members.
He is on a flying visit home from his parish.
"Hey Pete," sez I. "Don't go anywhere. There's a book I want you to see."
I nip back to my room and fetch him my pristine hardback copy of the new Mother Angelica biography by Raymond Arroyo.
The book is my most precious possession at the moment.
It was first recommended to me by Robyn, a visitor to this website from Texas.
It's the true story of a nun who set up a television station.
A week ago, not very optimistically, I shelled out twenty quid for it thinking that it would be a worthy but dull read about vocational living.
Well folks.
I've said it before and I'll say it again.
Nuns have been very much misunderstood.
Mainly by me.
I'm telling you this thing reads like a thriller.
I've been coming home every evening looking forward to diving back into it.
Anyhoo.
I handed the book to Pete, said my farewells, and departed Dublinwards for a rendezvous with Awd Spanishy.
Awd Spanishy was in fine Spanish fettle.
Her and her castanets, and her flashing eyes, and her take-me-to-the-casbah.
She'd argue with her shadow too.
She'd argue with her shadow about... about light refraction I suppose.
Arf, arf.
She would though.
Ah, but she's a handsome gerrul.
(Heelers means she's tolerably good looking in a fiery Spanish loon sort of way. - Ed note)
I arrived back at the chateau late this evening, tired but happy, and looking forward to unwinding at the fireside with my Mother Angelica book.
A brief rummage did not find it.
I hurried into the kitchen.
"Where's my book?" I enquired of the aged parents.
The Mammy raised her eyebrows while the Dad pretended to be mixing up porridge for the squirrel.
There was an awkward silence.
"You gave it to Peter," said the Mammy finally.
"I gave it to him to look through," quoth I moderately aghast.
"He thought you were giving it to him for keeps," said the Mammy.
And somewhere, not too far away, the music from The Good The Bad And The Ugly went Aieeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

into the great wide open

they live

There's a moment in the John Carpenter film They Live.
Rowdy Roddy Piper is fighting aliens who have taken on human form to infiltrate and conquer the planet earth.
He's been getting knocked around badly.
Now for the first time he's shot one of the aliens.
The alien is lying dead at his feet.
Rowdy Roddy Piper is surprised.
Up to now he hasn't actually been sure if bullets can affect these aliens.
He says:
"So you bast--ds bleed just like us."
I had a They Live moment yesterday.
A comment had been left on this blog.
It looked like something my former employers would write.
I could see no reason why they would bother leaving a comment here.
I wondered what was going on.
It seemed to me that something in my genial comic stylings must have stung them.
Being stung seems a rather human reaction.
Up to now I have never encountered the slightest vestige of humanity in these people.
And as I thought about the comment I murmured aloud:
"So you bast--ds bleed just like us."

A BIT IRISH (by Medbh Gillard)

Heelers after his farewell party at the Leinster Leader.