And another one

Advice

My mother, ever brave and cautious
always warned "kisses aren't contracts".
But I, young, and not yet malicious
discarded this salacious fact.

Now I have kissed, and maybe more;
realised the value of her truth.
Some kiss to add to personal scores
Others kiss to keep barriers smooth.

some poems of late

In pub, Musing on the end of a Love
These drinks we drink, together
the songs I hear you hum,
the stories you tell so animated-
where go they, when I'm gone?

Our steps are now erased by the rain,
the glasses we drank from now washed,
The room where we slept sound now emptied-
and the memory of your kiss, now lost.

whas' the story?

I managed a trip up to the big smoke yesterday, or as displaced dubs call it "town". It was refreshing to be in Dublin after a long spell away, not owing to my general resentment felt when eyes fall upon the rather grand Trinity College. On the Bus Eireann bus up (read 'hell') I noticed things had changed since my last trip on the N3. Somehow, in the last few years, people have discovered the silent control on the phone. I remember bus journeys of yest er years-crazy frog dominated my attempts at reading. People hollowed down their mobile devices "Yeah man..almost in town now. Traffic bleedin' awful" or "Mam I'm on the bus, can ya meet me in Kells?"It was enough to make you remove yourself from the highly uncomfortable chewing gum laced seat and holler "yes, you are on public transport". It was like being in the middle of a nightclub, only without the ringing ears after; scratchy polyphonic ring tones broke out every couple of minutes-updating me on what is 'hip'. Youngsters giggled as they crowded around each others mobiles and extracted the text messages sent by the opposite sex-often in pleasantly graphic detail. It was like being in Sex and the City, without all the fabulous clothes and hip New York eateries. It also had that distinctly Irish take on sexual activity-what can't be passed around is not worth doing. read that statement many ways.

Now the bus is as quiet as a monastery, with the country and western on the radio being the drivers form of gospel. of course you get the odd renegade left winger driver who insists on blasting a phone in on oral sex with angry inner city dubs mouthing off about 'young people today'. these are sadly bus drivers in the minority though. you would barely hear a cough, and, if so it would be from the local drunk on his way home from the out of town boozer. which of course begs the question "why must he drink out of town?"some things really are best kept private, unless you want to go home bleeding into your mouth and smelling of freshly distributed urine. it is as if mobile phones have degenerated into the rubbish often found stuffed into the sides of the seats. which of course, is a good thing. when one feels queasy travelling and highly sleep deprived, one does not want to know what ciara got up to with Johnny behind the parish church. even if Johnny happens to be your rogue cousin who is due a good telling off by the mammy.

the epiphany..continued

its a dull mild Sunday evening and outside the birds are indulging in whimsical conversation. it never fails me how they manage to sound so upbeat all the time, so optimistic. i came on here to detail the epiphany produced by good Friday mass, and it wasn't from the priest talk. As i looked around me at all the women in their wonderfully bright clothing, I began to feel chirpy about being back at home. not so, when I looked at their faces. everybody had that nervous cautious gaze glued on, peppered with a nasty air of cool arrogance. the people were literally twisting around to gulp in the room and work out who's who and what is what. And my, had it taken its toll. i saw girls i went to school with who were so beautiful and fine featured then, who had now become fearful and bitter. so much for the Celtic tiger. things haven't really changed in Ireland. we are still living in small towns, desperately clinging onto our reputations, fearing the institutions of power. where I live, the institution of power is not so much a building or place as such, but rather the fear that lurks inside each towns person-a fear of losing other peoples respect for the clan by any wrong move. they live, just as I did at school, like fish flung out of water-gasping for life yet resigning themselves to the terror of the wrath of others. its written in elaborate fountain pen on their faces-the tight facial expressions and loose tongues when socialising after mass. everybody has their place in this town and you are dammed if you dare reject it. its a sad existance.

Aside from a subjective glance on Ireland I believe I may have found myself a new love shape. its early days yet-do not wish to post until I know more about him and I, and us. But my fear of death has slowly subsided as I now look forward to maybe building something with somebody new. he does not come from the same cultural background, so the exploration should make for interesting blogging. i'll keep you up to date :)

catholic church...

Easter weekend has just passed us and with it left the weather that cheered up many and caused many to lose much of their clothes. I came to the sticks on the Friday with the intention of indulging in some solitude and hitting the law books with a rare passion that is not seen in Belfast with all its distractions. like botanic gardens for example. of course, the moment I got home the sister began to ask 'favours', this time it was "come to mass with me, please". I agreed, tentatively realising that we were already twenty minutes late-this kind of thing is not down with the local peoples of where we live. these people, whilst claiming to be god fearing catholics, spend most of the mass with eyes like spiders checking out 'the turn out'. in fact I'm convinced there is some sort of mating game going on. the clans come out impeccably dressed and the mammy checks out suitable companions for her lovely children by scanning the isles pew by pew and asking "and what does that one do there?her mammy's a doctor isn't she?she'd make a right good wife for you".

as we were late we sheepishly stood at the back of the church in the porch area, shuffling our feet and straining our ears to hear the godly words of the priest. like all catholic masses, the words are not short of epic..something along the lines of "people are too selfish these days. yousua are going to hell". Yes, Father. And your fellow clergymen can meet us down there for a party seeing as they've booked a one way ticket down there with all their philandering. I positioned myself behind the door which had stained glass windows. I figured this was the best foot forward..I could see the pantomime, but the pantomime couldn't see me. therefore I could create endless yards of gossip without even actually having do anything.

As the priest droned on I had to find ways of entertaining myself, so as always I looked around me to see what metaphors I could pick up on. there was one just in front of me. The stained glass. A rather pretty stained glass window I might add. its colours were red, blue and purple. the usual stained glass window, pretty without intimidating its admirers with ostentatious skill. maybe I've become desensitised to the skills of staining glass though. I looked through the glass at the rows of people, bowing their heads in prayer as if the world was going to end tomorrow and entry into heaven was based on what you done the day before.

No matter which pane of glass I looked through, the world inside the church looked grey and pallid. which in turn, bar the brightness of womens clothing made the people look unhappy and lifeless. it was an epiphany for me, of sorts. i will continue this post later :)

why don't they teach you these things in school?

Life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think.La Bruyere

We make our fortunes, and we call them fate.Earl of Beaconsfield

Life's a voyage that's homeward bound.Herman Melville

It requires less character to discover the faults of others than is does to tolerate them.J. Petit Senn

the past

i just finished a good book last night. well when I say good I mean it had a level of enjoyment and it was quite simple to read. It was called 'Protestant Boy' and is a memoir about life in North Belfast in the 1960s. I am trying to find out as much as I can about Belfast, this city is so fascinating, and memoirs from the people who know it best seem a good place to start. on the first page the book opens with a poem by Seamus heaney about the unique nature of northern Ireland. i will post some of this poem at a later date.

the book ambled along at a nice steady pace and I liked this very much after all the taxing law work that needs to be done. there seems to be, like many books set in or inspired by northern Ireland, a theme of identity weaving its way through every word, every sentence. the book, towards the final page holds one of the most poignant sentences i have ever read. it goes as follows 'at night sometimes I caught a glance at myself in the mirror and I realised I didn't need to travel to see the past'.

this particularly resonates with me. I watch my parents-now from a distance, and see how they are slowly morphing into their own parents. in the most subtle ways of course. My dad, just like his mother insists on cleaning the kitchen constantly at the weekends. early morning the sound of RTE 1 seeps through the walls of every room in the house merrily accompanied by the crash of dirty dishes as they are plunged in hot water and forcibly cleaned. just like my grandmother in England who shines her plates and irons socks, bellowing through the house in a sharp cork accent.

this tiny idiosyncrasies make up a history of people who then made me. somehow coming together through love they reproduced and blended together creating new life. when you consider what has come before you it is much easier to forget the fear of being forgotten- as i detailed in an earlier post. the past seems to be strongly present in my life at present-many conversations with friends and family center around genealogy. I undertook a little bit of research into the meaning of names and found out my mother's family have been in donegal since the 4th century A.D. Her christian name roughly translates as the 'harvester'-very apt to her personality. she reaped and sowed love in her role as a mother. When I told her her translation she informed me that she had married my father on the harvest festival. now the autumn will always have a different meaning for me.

belfast love (lust)

the sun is bellowing through the windows and blinds of the library today here in Belfast. this is the type of day that in its optimism, makes you feel thankful to be alive. today is one of those days(what a grand statement considering Belfast's usual broadcast) that you could imagine sitting by the riverbank of the lagan, dipping your toes in whilst the nearby willow branches tickle your back when the wind blows. you can complete this idyllic picture with the smooth presence of a Mr. Darcy type, gently leaning back against the trunk of an ancient, the sole of his expensive shoe placed flat upon the bottom of the steady trunk, near where the roots weave their way into the soil.

the roots could be a metaphor for your love, they twist together elegantly, exposing themselves to passers by but mostly their work and purpose is buried into the cool moist earth. they may dance and slither, erotically curved in their paths in daylight above ground; but the real substance lies unseen, hidden.

i could not fall asleep for a long time, i discovered a fact yesterday that bothers me very much. it snaked its way into my meditations before sleep and insisted on passing into whatever i dreamt about. i know this, as when i woke this morning, i had managed to smash the glass on my bedside table. the water had dribbled all over the sheets.

i undertook a little bit of research online yesterday evening (all in the name of love might I add) and I came upon the fact that somebody I fell for not so long ago has very shady connections here in northern Ireland. I despise using the word shady as it implies that everybody sees him as a dodgy character. to the contrary-he is a hero in many parts of Belfast and possibly elsewhere in the world.

when i first met him i was struck by his arrogance. I intensely disliked it, but went with it as dislike can often turn into extreme passion for women and men. I was astounded by it, but also secretly delighted. i argued with a male friend about arrogance lately, with this particular person in mind. my trail of thought or rather line of argument centred around the premise, it is the the arrogance that women love-rather the associations with it. by this i meant career success, money, confidence, sexual prowess, and masculinity. i do not mean that these were the things i liked in him, rather, i liked what possibly hinted underneath- a vulnerability and a need to impress.

he was an extremely passionate kisser, but was well aware of this particular charisma. i knew this yet enjoyed how those kisses leapt out for me. i had not been kissed like that in a long time. we did not go to bed together, and I did not see him again.

we talked many things together, among them, family. I imagined them-so proud knowing they have played a substantial role in this province. they will be written about in years to come and children will read the narratives of history and wonder who these people were. they may wonder who loved them, or who they loved. i would love a man like him, but in the end, it would be a fruitless love. we know only different things, and i do not know what it is to love a country so fiercely.