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Sunday 16 December 2012

Do not give in to the Dark Side.



 

Remember when Luke Skywalker stood before Darth and the Emperor?

He stopped fighting back and his father, moved by long dormant compassion, turned on the Emperor and Evil was defeated and furry creatures frolicked in the forests even as old Darth died.

Aslan, among others, did the same thing. Only Aslan was big on fighting and killing enemies but, as a lion, I assumed he was representing the Anima of our gods rather than the Id. Notwithstanding, the basic premise remains that when you are confronted by Evil, you should submit lest your righteous rage and anger turn you over to the dark side; that you cannot fight Evil without becoming Evil.

Think about it. After 9/11, America in a righteous rage, struck out against its enemies and thousands of innocents died. Evil won because a new cycle of Hate began and Hatred and Fear became National agendas leading us away from Peace and Reconciliation. We become the breeding grounds for another one of those epidemics of total insanity that litter our paths through history.

And no matter how often we try to justify it with rallies of ‘God’s on Side,’ or ‘Gott mit uns,’ it is always a total rejection of the basic principle of the Faiths we have professed since the Old Ways. But even then we shared a common longing that could only be sated by something greater than us to guide our way. A Force, or Deity, that demanded total fidelity and a rigid adherence to Principles.

And since the emergence of the monotheistic gods, we are expected to place our Trust in them and not give in to devils – internal and external. And to have faith in their mercy and wisdom.

And while there is some disagreement in the details, most of our Sacred Principles suggest that when we give in to Fear, our devils win.

Some suggest that when we honour our gods we are rewarded and when we displease them . . .  ya better watch out! Whether your god is stern or not, Hell beckons the untrue. Not surprisingly, many of us profess to be god fearing. Fear is a primeval motivator and is one of our assets as well as one of our greatest weaknesses. Fear is anti-faith. Fear delivers us to Evil. Grand stuff for Sundays, maybe, but what else makes sense anymore?

Too many of us, reasonable and well-meaning people for the most part, have become conditioned to fear and not without reason. Yet the stories of Luke, Christ, and Aslan, and others, all agree that the truly great did not use their power and were willing to succumb to Death rather than fight because to defeat Evil we must resist it and all its temptations; wealth, power, and all that makes us feared – or respected in the world.

There are those among us who spread fear for a multitude of reasons, some good some bad, and we have to learn to reject them and all gospels of hate. And we must do it soon because we are at the great crossroads the Mayans warned us of and because we cannot allow fear to spread and steal the last of our innocence.

Yes, some of us might still die at the hands of Evil but if we believe in a grander purpose – our sacrifice will be noble and righteous just like Principle suggests.

And this is not just a matter for Christians. Muslims and Jews, among others, have very strict commands from their gods: Thou Shalt not Kill, and all that.

In these shared Principles we were also warned against revenge – that it was the property of the gods, alone.

So what better time to reject Fear and Hate than now with the Holiday Season upon us – and the end of the Ancient Calendar?

Peace, Love and Joy are far better things than the madness of Strife, Hate and Fear and we have the free-will to make that choice.

It would be a wonderful holiday gift to the whole world and a beautiful legacy of those who have recently departed.

Saturday 15 December 2012

Trust in your god and believe in a better future.



I have no hesitation in standing behind gun control because I grew up in a time when a part of the country I lived in tore itself apart – ‘Christians’ blowing the arses off ‘Christians.’ Along with grief and misery, there was another legacy. Guns, once the tool needed to free us from Imperialism, gained a form of acceptance and are now a regular part of the underworld of my beloved hometown.

Some would say that it is of no matter; that it’s just drug dealers killing drug dealers but I cannot accept that. Children of the Republic the gun helped us to achieve are now murdering each other with little regard. The legacy of the gun is a shadow we cannot be free of. Once guns come into play, they are very hard to get rid of.

This is also true of America where it is widely believed that the infallible Founding Fathers meant for Americans to bear arms. But are we expected to believe that these men would want the reality that is gun violence? The ‘Right’ to ‘Bear Arms’ probably had more to do with a citizen’s right to defend themselves against the oppression of their rulers. That this ‘Right’ could be the rationale for the types of slaughter we experience, over and over, is a total distortion. And for those who use fear as an argument for guns, I would point to spiritual principles.

Many of our gods and idols preached non-violence. Christ, in particular, went as far as allowing himself to be killed rather than resist. Yes! Jesus Christ made a point of this and made it very clear that fear was an insult to Faith. In this we had martyrs who gladly allowed themselves to be killed as a token of their Love and Faith. From that we can only assume that true followers would reject violence – and fear.

Fear is a great motivation. In fear we can find reason to fight each other and to hate, and dehumanise, and to kill. To spread fear is to reject everything Christ, and others,  stood for – without exception!

The American belief in the security of guns might be the seed planted by those who make and sell guns. That’s right. Fear is a marketing tool and we are asked to believe that ‘guns don’t kill people – that people kill people.’ If there is any logic in that then it is obvious that people should not have easy access to guns. And while hunters, etc., argue for their right, I would concede a little but refuse to believe that semi-automatics are ever required. I once hunted and never encountered any form of animal life that could fire back. Except for my fellow human beings.

Others point to the need for security but a quick look at statistics shows that lax control goes hand in glove with higher gun fatalities.  Likewise, those States that rely on guns for security spend more time in War than Peace. We are flawed enough to find ways of killing each other and that is the tragedy of our condition. Knowing this it only seems reasonable to limit our access to weapons.

Do not give into fear. Trust in your god and believe in a better future. It’s the least we deserve.

Thursday 8 November 2012

The Story behind Lagan Love


 
 
There are a great many enduring images of Ireland; breath-taking scenery freshly misted by gentle rains, lichen-stained Celtic Crosses in the ruins of medieval monasteries, fading Georgian splendor from the days when Dublin was a jewel of the Empire and a green and lush country of pious and happy folks just waiting to be friendly. But it was very different growing up there.

I often reflected on this, sitting in Grogan’s of South William Street where the seeds of Lagan Love were sown. Grogan’s, aka ‘The Castle Lounge,’ had inherited a literary tradition from McDaid’s – the preferred local for many of the great Irish writers of the 1950’s.

The flight of the faithful:

It was in 1972 that Grogans became a favored meeting place for cutting-edge Irish writers of the time. Renowned barman Paddy O’Brian, formerly of McDaids pub, began working in Grogans bringing with him regular customers of McDaids including the likes of poet Patrick Kavanagh, Flann O’Brien, J.P. Donleavy, Liam O’Flaherty. Thus cementing Grogans popularity amongst the citys’ artistic avant-garde . . . http://www.groganspub.ie/?page_id=7

I wandered in a year or two later to meet with my great friends, Joe McPeak, Jimmy Neil and Shuggie Murray, all refugees from Glasgow, and Emmanuel Greenan who had fled the troubles in Belfast for the relative peace of Dublin.

We liked to sit in the little nook near the door and in time were dubbed ‘Scot’s Corner’ by Paddy O’Brian, himself.

Our conversation was always varied, influenced by the great literariness of the place and interspersed with Jimmy’s acerbic tirades against Fascism and Capitalism; Shuggie’s unquenchable humour, Joe’s ancient mysticism and the occasional nod from Emmanuel who was taciturn.

We talked about all that troubled the world but we had reassurance – it had all been done before. History was our great source of comfort as the world seemed to spin out of control. But the history in Grogan’s was very different from that which the Irish Tourist Board would have you believe. There were no leaping leprechauns around – they were barred from the premises - and those who clung to pious subservience kept their impositions to themselves.

No! The smoke filled air of Grogan’s was pristine.

There my young and confused self could glimpse another reality – the one that artists speak of – the truth behind the veil! We were the descendants of the Celts – those proud and noble tribes that defied even the Romans who had to build a wall to limit their expansion and to keep us out. At least that’s what they did when they encountered the Scots – they didn’t even dare set foot in Ireland!

But we had suffered too. Years of harassment by the Vikings and then the Normans had left us beaten but unbowed. It was as clear as the little red glow at the bottom of a good pint. But we had turned all of that suffering into Art – music that would make a stone cry and gentle poetry of defiance against the numbing consumerism the world was scurrying towards.

I would capture all of that and put it in a book! I would leave a record of the lives and times of the great ordinary people who knew far more than the wise. I would – right after I had another few pints!

Lagan Love did not see the light of day for another forty years but like good wine, it had to settle and mature.

Friday 19 October 2012

Great John Maclean's comin hame tae the Clyde



Hey, mac, did ye see him as he cam doun by Gorgie
Awa owre the Lammerlaw an north o the Tay?
Yon man is comin an the hail toun is turnin out
We're aa shair he'll win back tae Glesca the day
The jiners an hauders-on are merchin fae Clydebank
Come on nou an hear him he'll be owre thrang tae bide
Turn out Jock an Jimmie, leave yer cranes an yer muckle gantries
Great John Maclean's comin hame tae the Clyde

Argyll St and London Road's the route that we're merchin
The lauds frae the Broomielaw are here, tae a man!
Hey Neil, whaur's yer hauderums, ye big Heilan teuchtar
Get yer pipes, mate, an merch at the heid o the clan
Hullo, Pat Malone, shair A knew ye'd be here, so,
The red an the green, laud, we'll wear side by side
Gorbals is his the day an Glesca belangs tae him
Nou great John Maclean's comin hame tae the Clyde

Forward tae Glesca Green we'll merch in guid order
Will grips his banner weill, that boy isnae blate!
Aye, weill, man, thair's Johnnie nou, that's him thair the bonnie fechter
Lenin's his feir, laud, and Liebknecht's his mate
Tak tent whan he's speakin for thae'll mind whit he said here
In Glesca, our city, an the hail warl besides
Och man the scarlet's bonnie, here's tae ye Heilan Shonie
Great John Maclean's comin hame tae the Clyde

Aye weill, whan it's feenisht A'll awa back tae Springburn
Come hame tae yer tea, John, we'll sune hae ye fed
It's hard wark the speakin, och, A'm shair he'll be tired the nicht
A'll sleep on the flair, mac, an gie John the bed
The hail city's quiet nou, it kens that he's restin
At hame wi's Glesca freens, thair fame an thair pride
The red will be worn, ma lauds, an Scotlan will merch again
Nou great John Maclean has come hame tae the Clyde

Revolution

 
 
I come like a comet new born
Like the sun that arises at morning
I come like the furious tempest
That follows a thundercloud's warning
I come like the fiery lava
From cloud-covered mountains volcanic
I come like a storm from the north
That the oceans awake to in panic
I come because tyranny planted
My seed in the hot desert sand
I come because masters have kindled
My fury with every command
I come because man cannot murder
The life-giving seed in his veins
I come because liberty cannot
Forever be fettered by chains
I come because tyrants imagine
That mankind is only their throne
I come because peace has been nourished
By bullets and cannon alone
I come because one world is two
And we face one another with rage
I come because guards have been posted
To keep out the hope of the age
From earliest times the oppressed
Have awaked me and called me to lead them
I guided them out of enslavement
And brought them to high roads of freedom
I marched at the head of their legions
And hailed a new world at its birth
And now I shall march with the peoples
Until they unfetter the earth
And you, all you sanctified moneybags
Bandits anointed and crowned
Your counterfeit towers of justice
And ethics will crash to the ground
I'll send my good sword through your hearts
That have drained the world's blood in their lust
Smash all your crowns and your sceptres
And trample them into the dust
I'll rip off your rich purple garments
And tear them to rags and to shreds
Never again will their glitter
Be able to turn people's heads
At last your cold world will be robbed of
It's proud hypocritical glow
For we shall dissolve it as surely
As sunlight dissolves the deep snow
I'll tear down your cobweb morality
Shatter the old chain of lies
Catch all your blackhooded preachers
And choke them as though they were flies
I'll put a quick end to your heavens
Your gods that are deaf to all prayer
Scatter your futile old spirits
And clean up the earth and the air
And though you may choke me and shoot me
And hang me your toil is in vain
No dungeon, no gallows can scare me
Nor will I be frightened by pain
Each time I'll arise from the earth
And break through all your weapons of doom
Until you are finished forever
Until you are dust in the tomb

Song Notes
The text is a poem by Joseph Bovshover and is from 'American Labour Songs of the 19th Century'. Dick Gaugan wrote the music for it in (East) Berlin during the 1982 Festival of Political Song.

Thursday 20 September 2012

Don’t talk to me about elections.


X 
 
I am interested in politics, particularly those of other countries, but I don’t want any part of the verbal wars that sprout up whenever somebody says anything.

For me, the changing of the guard in China is far more likely to have a bigger impact on how we live than the American Election.

From this side of the border, it doesn’t make much sense to see everybody getting all riled up now.

Nobody seemed very concerned when first jobs, and then buckets of consumer cash, were shipped off to what was once a Communist enemy.

I remember wondering how that was going to end even though all the experts were crowing about investment possibilities, the benefits of cost reduction, and how we, like boats, would rise on the tide.

We were told we wouldn’t need our manufacturing jobs as we would have plenty to do in the Service Industries. I did wonder who we might be serving when the inevitable happened and all our houses were turned upside down.

You see, I don’t trust politicians – of any stripe. Some may be well intentioned but the whole business is prone to corruption and misuse. And it had been since it was invented.

Sometimes, one of them might doing something worthy of the history books but if we didn’t vote for them – we’ll never credit it.

Likewise. If our choice screws up – we overlook it.

You gotta be that way or you will end up cynical and we can’t have that. It has been called the greatest threat to Democracy but I don’t think so.

Cynicism is a natural defence and should be encouraged. Elections only serve to deflect people from what is really needed. You disagree? Then tell me why it has all come down to advertising paid for by invested groups?

Can you really see a moneyed interest paying to get real reform elected? I didn’t think so.

I’m not advocating revolution – unless it is going to be one of the bloodless type – like the one they had in Portugal back in the 1970’s. But they're few and far between and we can’t risk anymore killing – we’ve had enough of that – just leads to revenge and that in turns leads back to where we began. Seen that far too often!

Maybe we need to start qualifying our candidates and our electors. Only candidates with impeccable standards of honesty and morality should be allowed run. And only people who can tell the difference between horse’s asses should be allowed to elect them.

That rules me out but I’m not concerned. I’m no longer interested.

Tuesday 14 August 2012

Love is a dangerous business!





I knew this when I sat down to write Lagan Love but I had to.

‘Love’ is the most complicated and misunderstood aspect of life. It is, according to Christian principles; the greatest virtue! But how many of us approach it that way? The Beatles sang that it was ‘all you need’ but does neediness have limits? Love has also been the rationale for crimes of passion and an excuse for irrational behaviours that might otherwise be unacceptable. Love is, in many ways, similar to, and often enflamed by, drunkenness!

In too many cases our love-affairs are the breeding grounds for the worst of our neurosis; our insecurities, selfishness and dependencies. We look to love for reaffirmation or fulfillment and when we don’t find it, we blame the object of our love, or love itself. Talk with anyone after a breakup. How many of us will admit that we entered the now defunct relationship with less than virtuous aspirations?

Most of us allow the headiness of attraction to cause us to abandon all sense and literally throw ourselves at someone without really knowing. The culture of love encourages this. ‘Trust in love,’ we are told over and over.

The ‘Romance Industry’ does not help, serving up the sweet delusion of fantasy that makes the reality of failed love all the more bitter.

And we do not limit ourselves to loving persons. We love our countries even when more rational thought would decry all the stupid things done in our country’s name. We love our sports teams through long droughts when their primary interest seems to be the amount of money they can wrangle from us. We love our Pop Stars and when we are confronted by their human frailties – we simply ignore them, choosing to see conspiracy or bad press.

We even love our children as they feast on us emotionally and financially until we wither up into old age – forgotten and useless! However, we can also love and indulge our grandchildren because it is a chance to get even with our children!

But you are not supposed to say all of this aloud. That would be bitterness or cynicism – the tell-tale scars of failed love.

The scars of love, mine and others, were one of the reasons why I had to write Lagan Love. I had to take the sacred cow that is love and have a long hard look at it through the lens of my characters. They loved each other in all the ways we see around us and yet find disturbing on the page. We do not like to see love sullied by reality – preferring instead that they all live happily ever-after!

Love endures in fantasy and reality and I think it is a good time to examine it all. In Lagan Love I try to present love in its many forms and allow the reader to associate or reject them as they see fit. I believe in love but I also believe that there is a Yin and Yang to it all. Love has a dark side that is cruel and unforgiving and I think that if we keep that in mind – we have a far better chance of finding our way through the forest of emotions that we confuse with love.

Monday 23 July 2012

The story behind.





There are a great many enduring images of Ireland; breath-taking scenery freshly misted by gentle rains, lichen-stained Celtic Crosses in the ruins of medieval monasteries, fading Georgian splendor from the days when Dublin was a jewel of the Empire and a green and lush country of pious and happy folks just waiting to be friendly. But it was very different growing up there.

I often reflected on this, sitting in Grogan’s of South William Street where the seeds of Lagan Love were sown. Grogan’s, aka ‘The Castle Lounge,’ had inherited a literary tradition from McDaid’s – the preferred local for many of the great Irish writers of the 1950’s.

The flight of the faithful

It was in 1972 that Grogans became a favored meeting place for cutting-edge Irish writers of the time. Renowned barman Paddy O’Brian, formerly of McDaids pub, began working in Grogans bringing with him regular customers of McDaids including the likes of poet Patrick Kavanagh, Flann O’Brien, J.P. Donleavy, Liam O’Flaherty. Thus cementing Grogans popularity amongst the citys’ artistic avant-garde . . . http://www.groganspub.ie/?page_id=7

I wandered in a year or two later to meet with my great friends, Joe McPeak, Jimmy Neil and Shuggie Murray, all refugees from Glasgow, and Emmanuel Greenan who had fled the troubles in Belfast for the relative peace of Dublin.

We liked to sit in the little nook near the door and in time were dubbed ‘Scot’s Corner’ by Paddy O’Brian, himself.

Our conversation was always varied, influenced by the great literariness of the place and interspersed with Jimmy’s acerbic tirades against Fascism and Capitalism; Shuggie’s unquenchable humour, Joe’s ancient mysticism and the occasional nod from Emmanuel who was taciturn.

We talked about all that troubled the world but we had reassurance – it had all been done before. History was our great source of comfort as the world seemed to spin out of control. But the history in Grogan’s was very different from that which the Irish Tourist Board would have you believe. There were no leaping leprechauns around – they were barred from the premises - and those who clung to pious subservience kept their impositions to themselves.

No! The smoke filled air of Grogan’s was pristine.

There my young and confused self could glimpse another reality – the one that artists speak of – the truth behind the veil! We were the descendants of the Celts – those proud and noble tribes that defied even the Romans who had to build a wall to limit their expansion and to keep us out. At least that’s what they did when they encountered the Scots – they didn’t even dare set foot in Ireland!

But we had suffered too. Years of harassment by the Vikings and then the Normans had left us beaten but unbowed. It was as clear as the little red glow at the bottom of a good pint. But we had turned all of that suffering into Art – music that would make a stone cry and gentle poetry of defiance against the numbing consumerism the world was scurrying towards.

I would capture all of that and put it in a book! I would leave a record of the lives and times of the great ordinary people who knew far more than the wise. I would – right after I had another few pints!

Lagan Love did not see the light of day for another forty years but like good wine, it had to settle and mature.

Friday 25 May 2012

Austerity-Schmerity!




Enough is enough. This austerity mania has one obvious outcome – downward spirals!

There is a logic in the argument that Governments must get their fiscal houses in order but it cannot be denied that the slashing of public payrolls, at a time when private enterprises have been outsourcing job for decades, does little more than reduce the size of Economic activity. Monies spent on public employees rarely ends up in Swiss Banks accounts and is more likely to be a portion of Consumer Spending – the real driving force in most economies.

I have followed the arguments from all sides and yes, I see a certain logic in each.

But I also remember the arguments around economic expansion being a good thing – Jobs and Prosperity for all!

Much of recent Government debt, particularly in my home country of Ireland, was the result of the failures of Private Enterprises and Governments efforts to insulate against those. The ‘Wall Street bail-out’ also springs to mind. Elsewhere, Governments released funds to stimulate or maintain economic activity in a time of great uncertainty.

For the totally un-elected forces of the ‘Market’ to now denounce this is questionable given their silence during the decades of Private Enterprise madness that led us into this mess.

Likewise, the long term decline in actual incomes, and the efforts to compensate with cheap and easy credit, maybe be brought into question – after the fact!

We, the people, are in a mess. Through our Governments, we bailed out Capitalistic failure and now have to face the chiding of the those who were quick to avail of Public Funds. It’s enough to make you think that it is all a game, just like derivatives and sub-prime skullduggery!

One of the tenets of Capitalism in that Wealth can be expanded and is not a limited thing.

If that is true then a very obvious solutions presents itself – print more money and hit the reset button!

Money is such a relative thing anyway and it’s true value in a very nebulous thing. Print enough to set the world to right and let’s get on with it.

Unless, of course, there is a different game afoot. Some would claim that regressive forces are availing of the uncertainty to forward their political ideologies and rollback all social advances – returning us to the levels of poverty and insecurity that were prevalent for the majority as recently as the 1930’s.

Broken down and grasping for any chance, we will be less likely to interfere with the new elites running of the world – much like the old elites who were so difficult to get rid of.

But let’s not forget, the 1930’s were followed by the War of Ideologies – aka WW2.

Sunday 13 May 2012

Do people who avoid the great Existential questions cease to exist?


Symbolically speaking, of course!





I was ‘thinking’ through a scene where a young idealistic priest tries to negotiate the case of the hapless Danny Boyle with two jaded Drug Squad officers.

I was thinking of Symbols and, as I enjoyed a nice little cigar, the Principals behind them. Yes, I do that!

I like to admire all the different ways we can interpret them, and how, when we have, we like to flock amongst like-minded. The Priest and the Detectives were not.

Clear symbols can be hugely important in life, like when trying to decide which washroom to go into at one of those very fancy restaurants, or foreign airports.

But the natural balances in the universe might dictate that we should not be rushing around airports – or anywhere really.

My point is there is huge value in actually learning something that is so obvious that it is usually overlooked.

I like logos but I doubt that everything can be represented by a single form. That would contradict everything we know about ourselves. The Good and the Bad. The Beautiful and the Ugly . . . you know?

That’s what I am trying to capture in a few lines.

And they have to be good enough to capture a moment’s attention in a very hectic world. And I would like the people who will read it, years from now, to stop and wonder about what a crazy time we live in.

Stop, slow down and take it easy for a moment and consider this:

Do people who avoid the great Existential questions cease to exist?

Monday 16 April 2012

Having a little break.



I’ve been thinking about the past, mine and the world’s, for a while now. I’m working on something that starts there and ends up . . . somewhere.

The details are not important just yet. The main purpose right now is to understand what the damn book is trying to tell me. It’s the second part of a trilogy that I decided to write after spending the better part of a year trying to write it as one book. Silly me!

It begins in the past, like all the best books. A ‘once upon a time’ thing, only set in Dublin in the 1960’s so the chance of them all living ‘happily-ever-after’ is slim. But you never know.

I’ve grown very attached to a few of the characters and doubt I can send them off to the bad ends I had once planned for them. It’s not in me.

Yes, I still like to peek beneath the veneers and see what life is really like when we take off the Wellbutrin  tinted glasses.

Not that I want to beat myself down with the weight of all the sins we have committed in the past, to ourselves, others and Life.

What I want to draw attention to is best summed up by one of my favourite sayings, ‘the more things change . . .’ That’s why I’m digging around in the past – to find the literary equivalent of artifacts. Or at least that what I think I’m doing. But I might be wrong.

All that I dig up, intending to use a central motif, might just end up being pared down to the essence and become the backdrop. Who knows? Most of the time writers are just the typists, especially when they get out of their own way.

And that’s the thing that I share with history and the rest of humanity – getting in my own way. That and burdening myself with a headful of details so that they can be distilled in the smoky, disorganised corner in which I write. Sometimes, I feel like one of those old monks that scratched away in the gloom. You know, like Bruno and the rest of them that got burned for their troubles! Yet the ashes of their words are still settling.



Wouldn’t that be a grand thing but I live in a different age. I would be wealthy if I was given money every time I head the phrase: ‘out-of-the-box-thinking.’ Governments, Businesses, Churches all claim they are looking for it but they really only want the type of thinking that jumps right back into the box.

But that’s nothing new. We’ve been around this part of the course many times before.

A few years ago I got to take my kids to Rome and when we visited the green mound that once was the Circus Maximus, I had them run around it.

They were both young and active and loved it but what I hoped they would get from it was a glimpse of time and place and history. It could come in handy when they try to make sense of the world we have made for them.

Wednesday 28 March 2012

Sweet Thames Flow Softly




This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author. 
Copyright © 1993 by Peter Damien Murphy



I had not been in London since 74. It had not changed so much except for the superficial, the comings and goings of people, and the changes they bring. When cities are this old a decade passes like a season. Here in the heart of it all one can still hear the pulse that drove the Empire. Trophies are everywhere among the lions and stone demons. It was never my city but for a while it was my world. I stood by the river, across from the Tower, near the great spice warehouses, and looked back at the City.

She was to meet me in Greenwich and I had time to walk. I found the path that wends along the south bank, through the little used docks and forgotten storage and never far from the river. On the other side, St Catherine's Dock had become a monument to urban renewal with its upscale flats and trendy little markets, a far cry from transports low with the cargo of fettered miscreants bound for Tasmania. So much of London is like that, splendour rising over the bones of repression.

In Greenwich I could always find the fine line that ran between my revulsion and admiration. Here, the grass was splendid and the river was wide. Here, the entire greatness that was Britain paid homage to simple nature. It was here that we first met.

John Murphy & Sons had the contract for laying paving stone along the pathway and I needed work. We paved until we got to the next of many pubs that line the river. We idled until the foremen grew tired of the barmaids and had us strike out for the next. That's were I lost the tip of my finger. I was too drunk to let go as the heavy slab slid into place. With a renewed sense of mortality I began to take my lunch under the oaks among the grasses. I read in those days and was a comical sight. Large dusty boots, long dusty hair, huge brown bags of bread and meat and Heinrich Boll.

We began with the ritual of look and look away, look again and look away. We could have gone on forever, as I could not find the courage to talk to her. She would sit beneath her tree and I 'neath mine. She would paint and I would read. It was the perfect relationship, unspoiled by names and the complexities that follow. As the summer passed we worked our way slowly eastward and she would always be there. Then I knew, it was me! Sometimes I feared that she might prefer the company of trees. At night, after scrubbing the day from my pores, I would fondle myself with her image burned upon my mind's eye.

By the time we got to Woolwich we would smile at each other but always from underneath our trees. Autumn was in the mornings and the job was nearly over. She waited for me one evening after work. 

            " Hello, " I said, wishing that my voice would not quiver.

" Oh! Hello, " she answered.

I could not take the disinterest in her voice. As long as we had not spoken she could be mine but now her reality would shatter my dreams. I fumbled by as quickly as I could but she followed.

" Oh! I am sorry, you are the Bohl lover. I did not recognise you without your brown paper bags. "

I hurried on before she might see me cry.

" Wait! Let me walk with you. "

" Let me alone, will ya? "

" Oh! You are Irish. My name is Janice. I didn't mean to make fun of you, its just you are so predictable. Everyday, the same big boots and the same brown bag and the book, always a book. I didn't know navvies could read. "

My anger welled as great tears behind my eyes and I searched for something to say. Something that would slash her heart as she had slashed mine.

" If I had known, I mean, well I got other shoes too! "

When she laughed I was crushed. I could not run but I would walk all the way to Deptford.

" Wait, " she called running after me, " I have something to show you. "

I was afraid to trust my voice but I turned. She was holding a painting. In a clown costume, with great dusty boots, I stood looking back at myself.

" Like it? "

" Did you do that? "

" Yes, do you like it? "

" I don't know anything about painting. "

" Do you like it? "

" I think so. "

" Everyone's a critic. What's wrong with it? "

" Nothing, I mean it's very good, I think. "

" Where are you going? "

" Home. "

I wrote to her all winter. It helped to pass the idle days and the long nights. She was back at University, in Leeds, and I was back on the dole in Dublin. I spent my days in the Art Gallery or the Library except for the times when I, and all the unwanted youths of Ireland would exchange our names for a few pound with the mustached ladies at the unemployment office. In the spring there would be work in London and I was content. We grew to know each other in our letters and while her face became unclear her handwriting was vivid.

When my mother died I wrote to her twice a day. Dublin was empty to me now and my next emigration would be my last.  I would visit Leeds on my way.

She met me at the station and I was embarrassed by her affection. She kissed my lips and pressed her body into mine. Her friends were watching and I did not know where to put my hands.

The bar was teeming with the university crowds who were oblivious to the struggling band in the corner. We filed in around the bar and I was soon lost in the introductions.

" This is where all my friends hang out, you'll like it. "

Her friends frightened me. Everyone spoke of politics and while they lacked passion they compensated with beery conviction.

" We all support the Troops Out, " they assured me.

" We believe that England has no place in Ireland. "

" It's the fucking Tories. "

" Bastards. "

Rather than offer offence I smiled at them. My feelings on the North were second hand. My father, with drink, was the backbone of the Republican Movement. I was confused and saddened. I thought that people could live together.

With no answers and distrust for my father, I held no opinion.

Janice lived in an old house with an undetermined number of people. With the ever changing sleeping arrangements everyone had lost count. She shared a room with a girl from Glasgow who was not expected home that night.

When we were finally alone she dimmed the lights and kissed me. Through the raging nights of puberty I had yearned for this moment but now that it was here I was afraid. When she grew tired of fumbling she held me close to her face.

" You have never done it before, have you? "

I wanted to lie but could not trust my voice. She disrobed me with an expertise that I did not like and straddled me. When I slid inside all that was new became at once familiar. The streetlights fell upon her naked breasts, the urgency in her breathing and in moments I had a sensation that was pleasure and panic. When she rolled off me I held her to my chest so that she could not see my tears. All night I held her as I stared at the ceiling. I had reached manhood. I dressed before she woke and watched her sleep. I wanted to wake her and ask if we had done it right. 

I stayed with her in that room. I found work here and there and we were happy. I spent my evenings with her friends. I supplied the beer and listened to them talk. It was all they ever did. Talk and drink, drink and talk and on occasion pass around the pot.

By the time we moved to London I had grown to occupy the life I led. She painted and I worked. In time we would buy a place in Devon with her paintings and I could spend my days making love to her body.

" You can never have my mind, it is where I translate this greyness into colour. "

I was hurt by the exclusion but in bed she became one with me. A oneness that made me grateful. Life was a gentle river. I worked and we dreamed. When we made love she was kind and never spoke of that night in Leeds.

It had been on the News all day. The IRA had claimed responsibility for the bomb at Piccadilly. At these times the Irish became invisible, as retribution was swift and indiscriminate.  When we gathered we heard stories of police interrogations forced confessions and unmerciful beatings. We lived in fear at those times.

The Deptford Rose was the worst pub in London. McGuire drank there because no one would look for him. He owed money. We worked together and I had to stand him a few. Ordering two more I moved towards the toilets and when he turned his back bolted for the door. Outside, the street was darkening and glistened with the recent rain. I raised my collar and put my head down. When the car drew along side me I continued to walk for no one knew me here.

As I ran I knew at once what would happen. The bastards were on a fishing trip. The car swung across the pavement before me and the doors burst open. Men with guns were shouting and pointing.

As if in a dream I realised that they were shouting and pointing at me.  Before I could think I was thrown to the ground.

" Now Paddy, take it easy and you wont get hurt. "

" Will you come quietly? "

Without waiting for my answer they bundled me inside.

At the station I got time to think.

" They got me, oh Jesus, they'll kick the shit outa me. "

I had heard the story so many times. I promised myself that I would not let them see me suffer. I would take their shit and in the morning they would have to let me go. I sat on the bench with my head down. I knew better than to look at the bastards. No faces, no identification, no complaints, it was a simple game.

" Cigarette Paddy? "

As I shook my head he kicked me. His boot connected with my nose and I wondered at the sound of cartilage cracking.

" Look at me when I speak. "

I clutched my head in my hands and stared at the ground. One of them kicked me in the ribs and when my hands dropped their fists were all around my head. There were four of them and they were in good form. When I lay on my back they stomped on my chest and when I turned they pounded my back. My blood was in my eyes and still they beat me. When they tired I crawled beneath the bench and vomited.

" The fuckin' bastard pukin' on our floor. "

" Well he's going to have to clean it up. "

When they dragged me out I was passed feeling. In time they stopped and I lay on the floor. As they left the room I heard screams from the hallway. Had I screamed? I hoped I hadn't.

" Paddy? "

" Paddy, wake up. "



" It's okay Paddy, we made a mistake. Wake up. "

" Get someone in here to clean him up. "

The cold water felt good on my face but I could not open my eyes. My lips were swollen and I could not feel the cigarette he had placed there.

" It's okay now Paddy, We made a mistake. You are going to be all right. "

" We are going to let you out. We are going to let you go home."

" Would you like that Paddy? "

I nodded. Christ it all seemed so reasonable. They had made a mistake and they were going to let me out. Christ what a relief.

" Paddy, I got a couple of forms here that you got to sign and then we'll drive you home. Do you want to go home Paddy? "

Home? Home and Janice. Away from here?

I nodded.

" Paddy, there's two forms, just formalities, will you sign them and then we can drive you home? "

He held the pen in my hand and guided me to the paper.

" Good man, Paddy. Just one more. "

The judge held my signed confessions away from his face.

" You know they stink, you lying bastard, " I thought to myself.

" The evidence is conclusive . . . Verdict of the Court . . . Twenty years . . .  "

" Twenty fucking Years! Ya lying Bastards. I didn't do it! "

I heard no more as the blood in my ears was pounding. From a distance I saw myself led below and out to the yard. As I fell down the stairs they all took turns. The last one to kick me was a woman and for some reason that seemed shocking. In the back of the van I crouched in the corner. There were four of us. Four of us who committed the ultimate crime. We were Irish at a time when British indignation demanded blood.

" Don't take it personal lads, they'll let you out when the fuss has died down. "

We all turned and stared at the guard by the door.

" My mother was Irish, he said passing around the cigarettes, I know what's going on. "

In a dark corner of England we began our time. For a while she came on visiting day but I could not go down to see her. What would I say? She wrote to me and re-assured me of her belief in my innocence and I hated her for that. My innocence was above re-affirmation, I was guilty by race and we must be punished. We are all the same in the eyes of the law, the unseeing eyes peeping from the blindfold, and someone had to pay.

I paid with nightly beatings, I paid with my dignity when, in plain view of the guards I was sodomized, I paid with my mind. For my reluctance to embrace their verdict I was confined to solitary.

Here, at least, I was spared the rapes and the beatings. I stared at the West wall for a week before turning to east. Next week I would enjoy the North. The window was high but in time I could see the outside by the noises that filtered in. That great wide space with no walls and no guards, wind and sun and trees, and Janice waiting. My only enemy here was time. No matter what I would do it would pass. It was my time, my life, and it was taken away from me. There was nothing I could do but sit and watch the suns rise. Someday the door would open. Someday they could take nothing else from me. I read George Jackson and thanked Christ that I was not a black man in the American prison system. Those poor bastards never got out alive. The British are so civilised. Even in revenge they were bound by that code of fairness that allowed them take my time, my dignity and my life but they would never end my life. Even Irish lives had some value.

            We had refused to wear convict uniforms. We had refused to take part in the life they offered us. We did not take our exercise periods or empty our stinking buckets. At first the guards would take them but in time they took to serving our meals smeared with our own excrement. Like the men in the Maze we had to spread it on our walls. Every morning one of the faceless bastards would walk the length of my cell staring at the wall.

" Hey Paddy, I know nothing about art but I know shit when I see it."

Late, when even the night watch was sleeping, we could call out to each other. We would talk of the efforts to re-open our case. We knew the world was watching and that thousands walked the streets decrying this great miscarriage. But as the years mounted we knew that we were forgotten. We had been sacrificed.

Outside the heat was breaking. It seemed forever since we had fresh air. Thunder rolled across the moor and when the lightening crashed the filth of this jail was lain bare. The old grey walls trembled and the door rattled. A fresh wind blew in.

The journalists were on us by the time we reached the courtyard. The others had something to say but I kept walking. Perhaps they would not notice me. I longed for the shelter of my walls.

The path by the river was narrow. At times I could reach out and touch both walls. I took her letter from my pocket and re-read it. The American stamp was bold and vivid.

" Three thirty by King Henry's tree. "

She had picked up the lingo but was still a romantic at heart. I hurried because I ached to hold her. I hoped that she would wear white. She never did but every time I imagined this moment she would.  

During all that time two things had kept me alive, this and the appointment I would keep with a certain Mr Wainwright, now retired from the Bench. Each night I would savour first one then the other as passion flooded through my icy veins. I had years of love and hate to spend.

I was walking by the warehouses. Many stood empty, their original purpose redundant, and watched me pass. They waited for someone to decide their future.

I would hold her in my arms until they ached. I would hold him by the throat. I would begin kissing her mouth and down her neck, across her bare shoulder and down the gentle curve on the outside of her breast. I would smash my forehead down across his bulbous nose and again over each eye. I would spend my love, I would spend my hate.

She would moan as I nuzzled her breasts and ran my tongue across her flat stomach. He would groan as I ground my heels into his broken hands.

Among the older building decay was beyond repair. Roofs had collapsed and windows had fallen in. Here and there entire sections of ancient brick work had come crashing down.

It had begun to rain and the city turned grey. Gentle but pervasive, it reached inside the mind and dimmed hope.

She stood by the tree with the rain in her hair running across her face and into the salt tears by her eyes. When she ran towards me the years were peeled away. Yes, she had aged but to my eyes she was perfect. Her hair was more controlled, perhaps it was the rain, and her body was fuller. But it was her eyes that I noticed most of all. They were deeper, years of waiting, years of questions, years of years. She cried for me and I for her and then we cried for all the years stolen from our time together. Her hand was like a chain around my wrist and her arms held me like a cell.

" Don't ever ask about it ", I said as the cab inched towards the hotel. " Don't ever mention it again. "

In the morning I stood naked by the open window. She slept but her scent filled the room. I could smell her on my arms and down my belly. My mind smelled of her.

London slept later than Dartmouth and I was glad of the time alone. I dressed without showering. I wanted to keep her smell forever. In time it would overcome the stench that I carried deep inside me. My own shit on my fingers, another man's sperm in my rectum, the blood on my lips and the fear. Fear has a smell but outside the wind takes it. Inside it has nowhere to go.

I stood by the end of the bed watching her sleep. Some where else Wainwright was sleeping. I approached and kissed her on the mouth. Without looking back I left and walked the grey streets before life began again.