tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92151776167178274772024-03-16T12:30:13.929-07:00Thinking about thingsThe ramblings of Peter Murphy, author of Lagan Love, Born & Bred, Wandering In Exile, All Roads, The Last Weekend of the Summer . . .Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-59809362071110394172019-08-25T02:29:00.000-07:002019-08-25T02:29:45.028-07:00Seeking a career for the end of the world?<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8Dd0AtBjk0/XWJT4d7K4jI/AAAAAAAAAn4/VE1abyiHMioEVfsNdMLTk1Y4V_68pS-lwCLcBGAs/s1600/1913632_10154109355863729_2020668246847725423_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h8Dd0AtBjk0/XWJT4d7K4jI/AAAAAAAAAn4/VE1abyiHMioEVfsNdMLTk1Y4V_68pS-lwCLcBGAs/s400/1913632_10154109355863729_2020668246847725423_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">I do realise that in a forum such as this,
where people are busy promoting themselves and their marketable value in the
grand scheme of things, that some of the fundamental issues in life are overlooked,
or totally ignored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">That’s all fine and dandy, but I can’t help
but wonder what places like this will look like after we arrive at the
dystopian future we seem bound and determined to make a reality. You know—when
your ability to find potable water will be the thing that you get endorsed for,
or your skill in sautéing insects. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">Now we are not there yet, and there are
those who might say we can yet avoid it. There are others who would say that
it’s never going to happen but I suspect many of those have their heads stuck
up their . . . places the sun doesn’t shine. My point is that there is ample
evidence that the good ship Civilization in steaming straight towards the
iceberg—or perhaps given the issues around melting polar caps that should read
the rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">Many of us once believed that while we went
about our daily lives, working and creating wealth and opportunities, that
somewhere in a dark corner of a government building there were people who were
working on this type of thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">Even if that was the case, and ignoring all
that we have learned about government and its particular ways of doing things,
there is very good reason to suspect that the flight to refuge may have very limited
capacity. You could try to secure passage by amassing a fortune but, given the
expected collapse of law and order, you’d probably get mugged on the way to the
secret take-off point.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">No, let’s deal with it, most of us are
going to have to face the music and that brings me back to my point: what
should we be doing about it? If we are going to spend the greater part of our
day in some effort to procure individual well-being and sustainability, can we afford
to be blind to the global factors? Perhaps we might be tempted to hope, like
the generations before us, that this will all blow over—or will not happen in
our lifetime—but the growing tomes of scientific data would seem to make that
less and less likely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">There are many of us who might be tempted
the excuse ourselves from the discussion because we are too busy putting bread
on the table and I invite those to think it through. What’s in the bread and
should you not be using the table to barricade the windows?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">Yes. It is a gloomy, doomy kind of future
and, to my mind, allows for two possible approaches—discounting, of course, the
stick-your-head-in-the-sand option. We can quit our jobs, abandon all
responsibilities, take up drug and alcohol abuse (if we haven’t already) and
party like there is no tomorrow. Fill our days with frolicking and fornication,
larceny and looting and . . . yes, I know that sounds a lot like working in
Financial Services and that is the point. Can we not find something to do that
might help to mitigate what we have sown? Can we not find purpose that, at the
very least, would allow us to depart with a bit of dignity?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">Or, for those of us who are still
influenced by the balance sheet view of life, there is the matter of karma.
Those of us with religious convictions should be factoring that in and those
who don’t—well, who wants to be remembered for their grasping, selfish,
cut-throat ways?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">You see, I have spent time recently with
people who have already begun to transition to the social economy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">What is that? you might well ask. </span>Well it’s really a lot like the regular
model except profit at all costs is not the one and only objective. And if that sounds a bit too touchy-feely
consider this: what right-minded business person (other than hire-for-a-quarter
CEOs) would run their enterprise into the ground for short term gain while
destroying all possibilities of a future. For that matter, what type of person
would work for such an outfit?</div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">We have watched the Credit business flood
the market to the point that entire nations are now so indebted that they
cannot hope to ever pay their way out—no matter how much austerity they apply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">We have watched the Energy industries rape
and pillage the environment to such an extent that the tipping point may well
be in the rear view mirror. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">We have watched the Pharmaceuticals become
so invasive that if everyone got well, there would be a total economic
collapse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">The list goes on and on, and to avoid doing
the same I will simply state: we make the world by our daily efforts and it is
not too late to try to make it a bit better—even if only to make the end less
bleak and brutal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA">And if you are seeking a career for the end
of the world, should you not be looking for something that has a bit of real
value to it—you know, something with a bit of sustainability? Maybe we should
be seeking something that offers real return because when all other resources
are gone, money won’t taste so good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-76676983306979288652019-01-02T06:57:00.001-08:002019-01-02T06:57:33.434-08:00A wonderful story about the complicated dynamics of family relationships<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b0ElDk4JHLg/XCzQrlBDZII/AAAAAAAAAmU/26CIeOt37w8xwKoZ8cs2m0VPGXACxMkzACLcBGAs/s1600/Kajun%2BReading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-b0ElDk4JHLg/XCzQrlBDZII/AAAAAAAAAmU/26CIeOt37w8xwKoZ8cs2m0VPGXACxMkzACLcBGAs/s320/Kajun%2BReading.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Every once in a while an author comes along who writes novels that are so powerfully compelling, poignant, and thought-provoking, that the reader will be able to relate to it on some level. In The Last Weekend Of The Summer, author Peter Murphy weaves a wonderful story about the complicated dynamics of family relationships that will simply pull at your emotional heartstrings.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">The Last Weekend Of The Summer is a richly descriptive literary tale that explores the dysfunctional family relationship of matriarch Gloria and her clan. Gloria requests that her whole family come together for the last weekend of the summer at the family lakeside cabin to resolve old issues, come to terms with the past, seek closure, make amends, gain redemption and reconciliation, and reestablish the familial bonds in order to keep the family together.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">The family weekend is filled with drama, humor, sibling rivalry, animosity, unresolved dysfunctional family issues, secrets, regrets, resentments, and an emotional chance to renew the bonds of family. The author does a wonderful job of intertwining the family's dysfunctional past with the difficulties that they face in their present lives. You can't help but get swept away, relate, and experience the full gamut of emotions as Gloria and her family face a crossroad in their lives as they hash out their unresolved dysfunctional family dynamic while considering the intense and difficult choices of how to deal with their current life issues.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">The Last Weekend Of The Summer is a powerful and compelling story written from the heart. It is a must read that will make you ponder your own family dynamic, stir your soul, and resonate with you for a very long time.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://jerseygirlbookreviews.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-last-weekend-of-summer-by-peter.html" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white; color: rgb(100, 12, 149) !important; cursor: pointer; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; outline: none; text-decoration-line: none; unicode-bidi: embed;" target="_top">https://jerseygirlbookreviews.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-last-weekend-of-summer-by-peter.html</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"> </span><span class="rating" style="background-color: white; color: grey; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; unicode-bidi: embed;">( <img src="https://pics.cdn.librarything.com/pics/ss10.gif" style="border-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: middle;" /> )</span>Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-72492578268355878932018-09-28T03:58:00.002-07:002018-09-28T03:58:54.884-07:00Yes, Virginia, there really is a rape culture<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During the ongoing frenzy
surrounding some American judicial appointment which struck me as Political
Porn—and it was Political Porn in the true, etymological sense given that
“Pornography” was once used to describe the writing about prostitution which has
also been defined as “</span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the unworthy or corrupt use of one's talents for personal or
financial gain.</span><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">”—I
thought on ways to get out of the quagmire that social/political debate has
become.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And in that I had to
consider those who line up on either side of the political/social/gender
divides. Those whose heartfelt conviction end up being little more than
gasoline on a fire that I believe has been lit to distract us from the more
nefarious activities of those who really shape our world. And that is not to detract
from the validity of those statements and arguments. But they are just that:
deeply held convictions about what should be right and what should be
normalized.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What concerns me more
about all of this is the widening of the divides between people who have far
more in common than their “Masters” would want them to realize.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Central to this current
“discussion” is whether or not a man can impose himself on a woman with
impunity, and if that woman takes so long in coming forward with her
allegations, can they be trusted. Never mind all the chatter about the Clintons
and the far-left; they are just there to inflame and distract.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My observations on life,
be it what I have seen, heard, or read, would say that not only can someone do
that but, if they have the necessary influence, they can get away with it and
leave their accuser with insult on top of injury.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, to claim this is
a “Man versus Woman” issue is a contortion and one that is contradicted by the
number of women who, because of political alignment, publicly support the
particular man in this situation. It also discounts the less highlighted issues
of the rape of men which happens whether we want to believe it or not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Rape,” which was once
defined as </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"to snatch, to grab, to carry off" and was usually
accompanied by “Pillage,” is a much wider issue than the matter of sexual
violence.</span><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> It
points to the underlying attitudes that are shared by Patrimonies,
Aristocracies, Religions, and all those other gatherings of the powerful.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Without minimizing the
brutal and dehumanizing impact of rape in the sexual term, considering it as a
tool of power should make it easier for more people to galvanize against it.
The current view that only men rape—and that other men condone it—serves only
to divide and make conquerable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However, the suggestion
that there is a rape culture is impossible to ignore. Not only that, but it is
endorsed and enshrined in many of the Bronze Age texts that many claim are the
word of their god. Even the Greek Pantheon celebrated the sexual violence of
their gods.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From the beginning, rape
and pillage, have been central to the way we treat each other, the other life
forms we share the planet with, and even the planet itself—Capitalism being the
current glorification of snatching, grabbing, and carrying off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is central to how we
see ourselves and it is, to my mind, the crux of the problem that we must
address if we are to avoid the disastrous future we are all hurtling towards.
Rape and pillage have been the cornerstones on which our empires have been
built—even unto this day. The subjection of others for the sake of our sacred
creeds and manifestos is rape and pillage. The extreme behavior of drunken
“boys being boys” is rape and pillage, as is regime change, exploitation,
genocide and all the things we endorse our governments to do on our behalf.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The use of force can be
expeditious and more profitable, but we have often been warned that what goes
around, comes around. We cannot go on endorsing, by consent or disinterest,
the widespread use of violence against women, children, men, and then vent our
outrage when it is turned on us. We cannot go on celebrating those who use any
form of power and force as a weapon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We cannot go on arguing
along political/social/gender lines. We cannot go on venting our outrage and
adding to the bonfires lit to distract us. We cannot go dividing ourselves as
“Left” or “Right,” “Male” or “Female.” That only leads to division and a weakening
of whatever influence we might have. And switching the “brand” of our political
representation may not be enough.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We must condemn all “Rape
and Pillage.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-6464288412050952862018-09-26T06:35:00.000-07:002018-09-26T06:35:49.974-07:00Writing about family #3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ctEh1xLJTDY/W6uKZD5damI/AAAAAAAAAl0/dje2tOkPDgQEMLCuztefQpQW3xFJKJBxgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Profile_Pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="648" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ctEh1xLJTDY/W6uKZD5damI/AAAAAAAAAl0/dje2tOkPDgQEMLCuztefQpQW3xFJKJBxgCEwYBhgL/s320/Profile_Pic.jpg" width="243" /></a></div>
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A few helpful tips on raising writers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In this ongoing series of posts, I, without expertise,
prejudice, or agenda, will share my insights and/or observations on writing
about family. The previous posts were on a more general level so in this one,
lets dive into the heart of the matter that is children writing about their parents
and what parents can do to avoid the worst-case scenarios.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Writing about terrible childhoods has been done to death but
as long as people are foolish enough to reproduce, there will be those
offspring who will grow to be writers with scores to settle. And there will be
readers who will devour the resulting stuff.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now having been someone’s child, and then someone’s parent,
I have an evolving view on both roles. Growing up in Ireland, I often heard the
grown-ups use the term: “who is she when she’s at home?” It always struck me as
a very peculiar saying until I realized that many of us are not who we think we
are and nowhere is that more evident than in the home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OdZ_zh7ZnGY/W6uKQ1TG-pI/AAAAAAAAAl8/TTR03PjO-9gb-5MwoMldBqO4NfGRIiekACEwYBhgL/s1600/Meandmyfather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="356" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OdZ_zh7ZnGY/W6uKQ1TG-pI/AAAAAAAAAl8/TTR03PjO-9gb-5MwoMldBqO4NfGRIiekACEwYBhgL/s320/Meandmyfather.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It rings true for all members of a family and primarily for
parents who are little more than former children now rearing children with no
manual or guide book and only their own parents as role models. It’s little
wonder the whole world is going mad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, once upon a time, family was a much more
straightforward thing. We had biblical references that glorified the role of
the patriarch. We had television shows that laid it out for us, Leave it to
Beaver, Father knows best, etc... Parents were wise and sober, understanding
and forgiving, and everyone was happy in their appointed roles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or so we wished to believe. But then along cam<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">e <span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">exposés and
gave us a new culture where all f</span></span>athers were portrayed as drunken
tyrants who took out the frustration of their empty, meaningless lives on their
families. Consumer driven mothers were unsatisfied and unfulfilled and managed
only by popping pills while children grew up to drop out and tune in. For a
number of years, it almost seemed like the most preferred pedigree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now here’s a question for you to ponder: were parents so bad
back then or were children just whiney?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lQY8doZEYoM/W6uKOVtjzsI/AAAAAAAAAl4/cvNZL0etkMsPLwuschDQ1FL4OvbktYEtQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Young%2BMe%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="273" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lQY8doZEYoM/W6uKOVtjzsI/AAAAAAAAAl4/cvNZL0etkMsPLwuschDQ1FL4OvbktYEtQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Young%2BMe%2B.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Of course, outside of the cultural stereotypes most parents
get on with their lives as best they can, keeping roofs over heads, food on the
tables, and trying to propel the next generation forward. These types of families
are better to grow up in, but are not the stuff of riveting sensationalism.
Especially in an age where dysfunctionality has become the new normal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now there are certain expectations that come with starting a
family and being kind to children rates fairly high in most cultures—with a few
obvious exceptions. I think this is wise as a general rule if for no other
reason than the chance that your child could turn out to be a writer. Sadly,
there is no way a parent can know such things when handed their little bundles
of responsibility so it might be better to err on the side of caution.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Giving children paper and crayons and locking them in a room
with a deadline would probably be frowned on in this age. And it would very
likely be misrepresented in the resulting tell-all, resplendent with bug-like
drawings of people with frowny faces and all the inherited traumas of life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sending your children off to boarding school could be an
option for some, but even that does not come with guarantees; more likely a recipe
for a tale of abandonment and disinterest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indulging your writerly child is also fraught with pitfalls.
And, if you have more than one child, there is the matter of balance and
equality. You run the risk of being accused of favoritism and while the conflicting
views of the resulting tell-alls might drive book sales, you will come out
looking badly in all accounts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having been a child, and then a parent, I have thought long
and hard about this and many of the aspects of family life in general. The old
adage that it takes a village to raise a child sounds wonderful but now that we
all live in our psychologically gated communities, that becomes less relevant.
No, I think the matter requires a new way of thinking for a new age.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N0NieRklhQg/W6uKVDjSJsI/AAAAAAAAAmA/3jINiZfO92UOaK8rsMagzYrwA3bD5gHJACEwYBhgL/s1600/Dumpster%2Band%2Bthe%2BPrincess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N0NieRklhQg/W6uKVDjSJsI/AAAAAAAAAmA/3jINiZfO92UOaK8rsMagzYrwA3bD5gHJACEwYBhgL/s320/Dumpster%2Band%2Bthe%2BPrincess.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Simply put, no one should be allowed to write about their
parents until they have had children of their own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-77821075478650331532018-09-05T06:55:00.000-07:002018-09-06T11:34:00.244-07:00Just wondering who you are<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sddbhX4d-Xk/W4_gJ4xrnBI/AAAAAAAAAlc/tA9iQzLuwmY0ckq98r37U3_6m4BWdIWngCLcBGAs/s1600/40075812_318560112235800_83486291559186432_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sddbhX4d-Xk/W4_gJ4xrnBI/AAAAAAAAAlc/tA9iQzLuwmY0ckq98r37U3_6m4BWdIWngCLcBGAs/s320/40075812_318560112235800_83486291559186432_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Here is a list of visits to this blog by country<br />
<br />
United States<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 8790<br />
Canada<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 3900<br />
Russia<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 2896<br />
United Kingdom<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>1385<br />
Ireland<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 1273<br />
Portugal<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 1152<br />
Germany<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 1052<br />
France<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 776<br />
Poland<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 573<br />
Ukraine<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> 398<br />
<br />
Now I was wondering who you all are.<br />
<br />
Drop by and say "Hi" <a href="https://www.facebook.com/PeterDMurphyAuthor/" target="_blank">Peter Murphy </a><br />
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-66111627568897539702018-09-03T13:31:00.000-07:002018-09-03T13:31:29.594-07:00A nice review of The Last Weekend of the Summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eA8cpJjR9jI/W42ZGFdO-9I/AAAAAAAAAlQ/6HJvREdb65EJ-nJmVhzq8CiJEN1IzkzFACLcBGAs/s1600/Last_Weekend_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="489" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eA8cpJjR9jI/W42ZGFdO-9I/AAAAAAAAAlQ/6HJvREdb65EJ-nJmVhzq8CiJEN1IzkzFACLcBGAs/s320/Last_Weekend_cover.jpg" width="206" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
THE LAST WEEKEND OF THE SUMMER by Peter Murphy is a revealing tale of one family brought together in the hopes of healing old wounds before it is too late to ever do so. A loving and slightly quirky matriarch has a secret to share, and wishes her family to come together for one last summer weekend at her lakeside home. Is Gloria dying? Is she finally unable to live on her own?<br />
<br />
Emotional and relatable, readers will find at least one character they recognize from their own families! Witness the dynamics, the shortfalls, the personality clashes, and the role each member plays, regardless of the generation they belong to. Then be part of the secret that is revealed, feel the torment, the turmoil, the anger and the love as one family finds growth, change and renewal through healing and reaching out to one another.<br />
<br />
Thought provoking, sometimes humorous, sometimes agitating, this is a true slice of life being part of a family of flawed humans.<br />
<br />
First published at <a href="https://tometender.blogspot.com/2018/09/the-last-weekend-of-summer-by-peter.html" target="_blank">Tome Tender</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-42416152260422229092018-08-27T11:37:00.000-07:002018-08-27T11:37:12.938-07:00Publication Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K9O7X5RVy6g/W4REJ5Kv-qI/AAAAAAAAAlE/v6tOjcLBs0oDqLLWY5yV_VsQTnIqR3vTQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Kajun%2BReading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="265" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K9O7X5RVy6g/W4REJ5Kv-qI/AAAAAAAAAlE/v6tOjcLBs0oDqLLWY5yV_VsQTnIqR3vTQCEwYBhgL/s400/Kajun%2BReading.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
August 28<sup>th</sup>, 2018 is the day my fifth novel, <a href="https://www.thestoryplant.com/the-last-weekend-of-the-summer">THE LAST
WEEKEND OF THE SUMMER</a>, goes out into the world. I wish it well and that it
meets kind readers along its path. It is a good book—if I may say so myself—and
early reviews suggest that I am not alone in thinking that. I take book writing
very seriously and am happier when the result is taken seriously. <o:p></o:p></div>
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However, I have learned not to take myself too seriously and
with growing insight I am able to separate the value of a book from its reception
in the market place. I had to. Back when I started out, I had but an academic
view of the business of writing. In frivolous moments I even indulged myself in
the fantasy many people share that authors were respected and revered, adored
and well-rewarded. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I wait for that to happen to me, I have found
something much more suited to the person I really am. The small, but growing,
band of people who have enjoyed my books and have taken the time to express
their thoughts and reactions. Now that is the real prize and it is far more
useful. Hearing about what resonates with readers, and what does not, helps the
receptive author with future books. Like most people, I could be tempted into
believing my own hype, despite leading a very contrary life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had wanted to write since I was young, but did not get
around to it until I was in my fifties. Life, addiction, recovery, reformation,
love, marriage, and children, all had to be experienced before I was
“qualified” to write the types of books that I would write. I am not unhappy
about that as I like to think of all of those years as my time spent in
research—and time very well spent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By virtue of all that I had learned along the roads I have
traveled, I was less bothered when my books elicited less than favorable
responses from some. Readers, who are people, come to books with their own
experiences and in an age of trolling and sniping, civility can sometimes be overlooked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Likewise, consumerism and marketing strive to lead us to
believe that everything we buy and consume should enrich us the way we want to
be enriched. That is not always the case and especially so with books. Some
books should shake us out of our complacencies. Some books should confront us
and entice us to look at things differently—especially when they expose us to
viewpoints that we might not already share.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now while I do understand the vital roles certain genres of
books play in offering comfort and enjoyment, I am a great believer in mixed
diets. In my own reading, I do pick up books that might seem to have less
appeal and often encounter pleasant surprises. I also think it is a recipe for
being a better human being. Living in psychological ghettoes and only going to
the churches of the like-minded disconnects us and makes us very prone to being
misled by vain populists, and the like. But that is just my opinion—based on
observations and experience from a very varied life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Writing books has become essential to my health and
wellbeing. Without that I could be roaming the streets, snapping and snarling
at all who do not live their lives the way I think they should. Instead, I
wander around and study them. I try not to judge and prefer to try to imagine
what made them what they are. I believe in trying to be kind—which can be very
trying—but when it comes to the characters I write, I believe it is essential.
Even villains must be crafted with some love and understanding, otherwise they
could turn out to be very one-dimensional caricatures. That might work in some
forms of storytelling like pantomime, or history, but it just won’t cut it when
writing fiction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So after I mark the “birth” of my new book, I will get back
to working on my next, next one. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the meantime, for giveaways and other things, check out
the happenings below.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="http://peterdmurphy.com/">http://peterdmurphy.com/</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Peter.Damien.Murphy">https://www.facebook.com/Peter.Damien.Murphy</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="https://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.com/">https://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.com/</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-60424953004555554232018-08-16T04:16:00.000-07:002018-08-16T04:16:06.958-07:00A simple solution for Brexiteers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CSvQbMTz1Bs/W3VcHBSmUTI/AAAAAAAAAk4/Ztx7RGBAPFQybCcOYffqUjn1UE1tNffIwCLcBGAs/s1600/brexit-war-cabinet-downing-street-saj.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="1024" height="157" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CSvQbMTz1Bs/W3VcHBSmUTI/AAAAAAAAAk4/Ztx7RGBAPFQybCcOYffqUjn1UE1tNffIwCLcBGAs/s320/brexit-war-cabinet-downing-street-saj.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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I hate seeing people suffer angst so it pains me to see the
British people trying to come to terms with the reality delivered by the
referendum of a few years ago. In voting for the “Leave” option, they are now
confronted by a prospect few really understood, and even less know how to
implement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Steering clear of the rhetoric and other noises, I have a
very simple solution. Given that most of the “Leave” voters were older it is possible
for everyone to go around saying Britain has left Europe until they have all
died off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It can be easily done. By determining where they get their “information,”
a steady stream of post Brexit “facts and figures” can be fed to them while
having little of no adverse effect on the younger population who had voted to “Remain.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Of course they would have to go along with it all and mind
their “P’s & Q’s” at family gatherings, and the like.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And Facebook might have to come up with the necessary algorithm
to ensure that the appropriate “facts” are fed to the correct demographics. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I
am sure Cambridge Analytics could help, too. Even the Russians might want to
get involved. As for Trump—well it might just be better to not mention it on Twitter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But people will be able to see through it,” you claim.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Remember the red bus?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-71369619425977855892018-06-23T07:38:00.000-07:002018-06-23T07:38:27.088-07:00A few helpful tips on writing about family.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-803muP2klgI/Wy5ZJJBE7xI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/pehiES5O5MACnwSvZny_idvA12mYvBlzACLcBGAs/s1600/3762_10152192253575436_2048685434_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="960" height="205" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-803muP2klgI/Wy5ZJJBE7xI/AAAAAAAAAkQ/pehiES5O5MACnwSvZny_idvA12mYvBlzACLcBGAs/s320/3762_10152192253575436_2048685434_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Writing about family can be a very dangerous business
because not all families teem with the ideals of unconditional love and the consistent
and constant support so often attributed to the institution.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many, it would seem, are populated with jealous and cranky contrarians
who have the ability to see slights in everything, said or unsaid, action or
inactivity, presence or absence; the types that will see themselves in books
that are not about them and cannot when they are. <o:p></o:p></div>
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These are the sort of people that will never be happy with
how you have written them. If presented in less than flattering light, they
will threaten legal action, disowning, or shunning. While if you choose to be
more positive, they will go around telling everybody that they were your
inspiration and that your book would not have been any good without them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you decide to leave them out and write about other family
members you risk being accused of favoritism, or worse. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
So, if you do come from one of those families, it might be
better not to write about them at all. Even if you know it would get you on an
Oprah-like show. In addition to the points raised above, this world is already
full of those kinds of books and given the times we live in, dysfunctionality
has become the new norm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I jest, of course. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_KgZKYRrRws/Wy5ZcsGsUgI/AAAAAAAAAkc/GRzEaD6O_Kwcp24KP6AxlHDEMss2-EaegCLcBGAs/s1600/13174107_10156924276630436_1444752091950366271_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="960" height="179" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_KgZKYRrRws/Wy5ZcsGsUgI/AAAAAAAAAkc/GRzEaD6O_Kwcp24KP6AxlHDEMss2-EaegCLcBGAs/s320/13174107_10156924276630436_1444752091950366271_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Writing about family is for many writers, like hitting the
mother lode, particularly those with axes to grind and old scores to settle. Those
with scarred and twisted emotions that are often the legacy of growing up in, what
from the outside appeared to be, a normal family.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This should also be a major consideration before starting a
family and entering into parenthood. And, if you must, then teach your children
to read and leave it at that. Whatever you do, don’t teach them how to write.
No good will come of it and besides, they can get by in today’s world with
emojis, and the likes. Or they can take selfies to express their emotions if
they are especially needy and attention driven. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Teaching a child to write is not much different than
inviting an investigative journalist into a cult. Even if there is no story to
tell, they can make one up and sell it as creative fiction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it you have already, then you could consider a
preemptive strike. You could pen your version of MY LIFE WITH THOSE HORRIBLE
KIDS THAT SUCKED THE MARROW FROM MY BONES AND THEN COMPLAIN THAT THEIR
INHERITANCE WILL BE TOO SMALL. Or something with a catchier title.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Whatever you do, even if your offspring had taken to following
you around with a notebook—or modern equivalent, don’t think about deserting them.
As tempting as it might sound it really would just be dowsing the smoldering embers
of angst with gasoline. The deserted child who becomes a writer will make you
out to be a drunken philanderer who ran away from all responsibility, even if
you had been abducted by a landing party of malevolent alien intruders. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or course, if that happened, you might just have a best
seller on your hands, as well as some really sweet vindication.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And children, if you find yourselves the offspring of a
writer, just put yourself up for adoption. Despite the obvious downside, it could be far better than
growing up with all the neglect, moodiness, self-doubt, and obsessiveness that
writers are known for.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-drbPqL_vyJs/Wy5aYfjtx2I/AAAAAAAAAks/wT_2GU5-K3wFC5Ge0RexJ6LhGSygCqPCACLcBGAs/s1600/10646797_10154678045950436_2900251197919605725_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-drbPqL_vyJs/Wy5aYfjtx2I/AAAAAAAAAks/wT_2GU5-K3wFC5Ge0RexJ6LhGSygCqPCACLcBGAs/s320/10646797_10154678045950436_2900251197919605725_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if that is not the life for you, try sucking up to them.
Bring them coffee. Keep the dog and the cat out of the study. Learn to cook and
wash, and iron. Tell them their work is brilliant. Tell them whatever it takes
to get them to finish the book. Who knows? They might get famous after they die
and leave the royalties to you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you are the sibling of a writer . . . well as a
writer with siblings I just happen to have a few opinions on that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, buy their books even if you have to take out a
loan to do it. It will be cheaper than having to listen to them moan and
complain about how the world is incapable of recognizing their genius when they
come over to crash on your couch for a few months.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Secondly, loan them money even if you have to sell blood for
it. It’s the only way to get rid of a writer and you can get your couch back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thirdly, never publicly criticize anything they write about
you. Always be supportive and encouraging until they have made it. Then write
your own tell all and cash in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I jest . . .<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My family-centric novel </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Weekend of the Summer</i> comes out in August: <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1611882575">http://www.amazon.com/dp/1611882575</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in the meantime, I will be writing a few blog posts on family—for better or worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can read them at: <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="http://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.com/">http://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.com/</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or my website: <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="http://peterdmurphy.com/">http://peterdmurphy.com/</a></span><br />
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ws9i8Bkk4C8/Wy5ZVrzycMI/AAAAAAAAAkU/rOGq4-w3JG0uS2hFNe89w1jHbU377AozQCLcBGAs/s1600/546056_10152081575210436_1872303484_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="631" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ws9i8Bkk4C8/Wy5ZVrzycMI/AAAAAAAAAkU/rOGq4-w3JG0uS2hFNe89w1jHbU377AozQCLcBGAs/s320/546056_10152081575210436_1872303484_n.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-82894679895013293332018-06-12T03:12:00.000-07:002018-06-12T03:12:00.520-07:00Writing about Family<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yfvj6Ou-6S4/Wx-bj1pvb_I/AAAAAAAAAkA/TCnmFEgUVYAAOI6yoMLs5G7Y4xe39pWfwCLcBGAs/s1600/1463194_10152058409401212_1358612813_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yfvj6Ou-6S4/Wx-bj1pvb_I/AAAAAAAAAkA/TCnmFEgUVYAAOI6yoMLs5G7Y4xe39pWfwCLcBGAs/s400/1463194_10152058409401212_1358612813_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as the next (last) book is about to go out and meet the
world, I got a nice message from my publisher informing me that the number of requests
to review were encouraging. It was tempting, but I am too hoary to be getting
excited about chickens and eggs. Not cynical, just experienced enough to take
it all—success and success deferred—for what it really is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like most writers, I had hoped that my first book would
change the world and set all to rights. It did for a few, but most people
remain blissfully unaware of it and I learned to be okay with that. I just went
on and wrote some more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That is why I use the term “next (last).” Because right
after I send a manuscript off to the publisher, I start on the next one. And so
it is now. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Last Weekend of the Summer</span></i> comes out in August and I am
half way through the next, next one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do it because it is only from this safe distance that I
can look back at what I have done. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Last Weekend of the Summer</i> was a bit of a departure for me in that Ireland,
and things Irish, gets no mention throughout. I am still Irish, I suppose, but
I am . . . in recovery.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Weekend</i>
came about after a conversation with my editor and publisher, the great human
being that is Lou Aronica at The Story Plant. Having finished the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life & Times</i> trilogy, I asked for
his advice as to what I should do about growing my audience—a question, he told
me, he is often asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Write to your strengths,” he told me. “You write
convincingly about interpersonal conflicts.” (Or words to that effect.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I did, and while I have had varied experiences with
interpersonal conflicts, both my own and others, in all the areas of life that
I have wandered through, the most obvious one, to my mind, was the ultimate
testing ground of human interaction; family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Family is the whole world in a microcosm. It is where we
begin to understand that we are not alone in the universe and that we are not
the center of it all, either. Although, through personal experience and
observations of all that was going on around me, it seems to me that some of
those understandings can elude certain people—or be contorted into something
else, entirely. You know the ones I mean . . . we all have a few of them
hanging from the family tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I had delved into family in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life & Times</i> story, but it was just one of the motifs in a long,
arcing chronicle of the world that I had lived in—and no, I am not the
protagonist even though he and I shared many experiences. With <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The
Last Weekend of the Summer</span></i>, I wanted to show a family in a much
smaller environment. I wanted them to be the front and center of the story. And
because I have lived so much of my life in Canada, I set it in the most
Canadian setting I could think of; the cottage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Going to the cottage with family, and extended family,
should, in my opinion, be a rite of passage for any who would dare put pen to
paper and write about humanity. From the multi-hour drive in bumper-to-bumper
traffic in a car overloaded with all the comforts of home from home, in the
swelter, with the kids getting antsy, to that moment when you arrive and unpack
everything that you could not possibly need even if you were holing up for the
winter, you are nothing more than a prisoner of ritual.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, when it is all unpacked and put away you do get
to start relaxing by the lake, but then the others arrive and before long
bedlam reigns again with more unpacking, loaded commentaries about who brought
what and why, fighting over fridge space, and all the other things that are
like matches around touch paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, usually the peace and tranquility of the great
outdoors can calm the nerves and allow a fragile truce that can last through
the first night of fires and marshmallows and everyone slowly drifting off to
sleep, but the next morning . . . that’s when it starts to get interesting. There are never enough tire swings, or paddle boats, and
some of the kids can only go out in the canoe if an older kid goes with them. The
older kids—the teenagers—are far too busy being bored and hostile and, when
separated from their electronic gadgetry, are only too happy to set off any and
all rivalries that still exist between their parents and their aunts and
uncles—and better yet; their parents’ parents.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then it is like the approach of a thunder storm that could
bang and clatter for hours; with the ominous risk of a lightening strike that
could start a roaring inferno in dry undergrowth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the second night, alliances have been established and the
tribe is divided. Everyone hopes that the uneasy peace can dampen the
smoldering coals of old umbrage so easily fanned to flame by any slight new or
old, real or imagined. All around the fire, strategies are contrived to include,
or exclude, by the well-meaning peace-keepers and the score-settlers alike. Ah,
a weekend at the cottage; a rich and fertile setting for any story to be set.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for the sake of the story that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Last Weekend of the Summer</span></i>,
there had to be more. Family skeletons had to rise from their shallow graves
and haunt them all; ghosts of past misdeeds pleading for forgiveness and
understanding from those who had been shaped or warped by all that had gone on
before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now in fairytales they would have all been moved to serene
resolutions and lived happily ever after, but this isn’t one of those stories.
Confronted by family secrets that some had been oblivious to, and some in
denial of, each had to find their own way through it all—with the help, or
hindrance, of the bindings that are family ties. How did they all fare? Well, as
the author, I am more than happy to have the reader decide that for themselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Last Weekend of
the Summer</i> comes out in August: <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1611882575">http://www.amazon.com/dp/1611882575</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in the meantime, I will be writing a few blog posts on
family—for better or worse. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can read them at: <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="http://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.com/">http://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.com/</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or my website: <span class="MsoHyperlink"><a href="http://peterdmurphy.com/">http://peterdmurphy.com/</a></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-23925441673079963202018-03-07T02:37:00.000-08:002018-03-07T02:44:08.702-08:00Me, my younger self, and I<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I2qZWdRj4pA/Wp-_Qc6kh9I/AAAAAAAAAjg/CICy4FDvDAo_bM61_2tKLYWbGQRDp29PgCLcBGAs/s1600/Me%2Bat%2BSchool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I2qZWdRj4pA/Wp-_Qc6kh9I/AAAAAAAAAjg/CICy4FDvDAo_bM61_2tKLYWbGQRDp29PgCLcBGAs/s320/Me%2Bat%2BSchool.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are moments when I have reason to stop daydreaming and
pause to consider the greater questions in life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is not a very fashionable practice anymore, but I suppose
I have become a bit—what you might call—old school.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time when such an admission would have been too
distasteful—you know, when I was young and was going to tear down all that was
old and staid. We—my generation—were going to make this world a better place.
The road to hell . . . <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the grand scale, I doubt I have had much impact in any of
that, but on a more local level . . . sure only time will tell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am, now, what my younger self would have called ‘old’ and
one piece of evidence that my journey has not been without progress is that I
can now forgive my younger self his arrogance and vanity. After all, what is the
point of youth without these things—inverted or otherwise?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having been indoctrinated from infancy by well-meaning
zealots, I struggled with the meaning and purpose of life for far too long. Who
wouldn’t after being told that there is a great power above that oversees
all—and that it was a power for good?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It made such little sense when all around me was Bedlamic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That, I was told, was self-will run riot. It was our true
test, they told me: overcoming the self to be part of the one spirit of the
universe. To be one with our God-like nature! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That made a lot of sense when I was high but shriveled up
when I had to go out among the other inmates of the planet we all call home.
They told me, in words and deeds, that it was really about taking as much as
you can, giving only what you had to, and to always look out for number one.
After all, they told me, God helps those that help themselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Contradiction? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, but I learned how to deal with things like that. My
younger self worked on the buildings sites of London, along with the swearing
Paddies, drinking our evenings away in the pubs and parks of Kilburn, with a crumpled,
dog-eared copy of The Prophet in the back pocket of my jeans. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The others would make fun of me, but with a certain kindness
that wasn’t their normal social currency. They, in a sad kind of way,
encouraged me—if only not to become what they had become; trapped in
caricature. Not that being a philosophical labourer didn’t come with its own
baggage. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Add to that I was, back then, what was once called a
wandering minstrel. I played guitar and sang the songs that would change
everything, if only people listened to the words. They didn’t and the world
went on about its way to whatever end we are designing for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With all that we now know about ourselves and the planet we
all call home, it could become a source of dread, if you let it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be positive, they told me, and always look on the bright
side.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jaysus wept, said I to my younger self, are they all mad?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, my older self, knows that we are. We are all mad and we
live in a Bedlam of our own creation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only we don’t admit it—that would be madness. Instead, we
all stick to our agendas, personal or public. We find rationality in our tenets
and our causes and we get to look down our noses at any and all who think
differently. We demand that we, and those who think like us, be treated fairly
while we hurl intolerance and abuse at those who don’t. We are right and
everyone else is wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My older self has come to the sad realization that it has
always been like this. All of our great movements; Royalism, Nationalism,
Sectarianism. Secularism, Communism, Socialism, Capitalism, Genderism, all
things that were to have united us in cause or purpose but, in the end, became little
more than reasons to divide ourselves and render us to those who would conquer
us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here’s the part that my older self believes is the
point: none of that matters. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dn5_44hT7oI/Wp-_rphWXHI/AAAAAAAAAjk/ROKliZ9rUvcBzRUfpiLS3zXsaea9AoDsACLcBGAs/s1600/80px-Yin_and_Yang_svg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="80" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dn5_44hT7oI/Wp-_rphWXHI/AAAAAAAAAjk/ROKliZ9rUvcBzRUfpiLS3zXsaea9AoDsACLcBGAs/s1600/80px-Yin_and_Yang_svg.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is all that we say it is. It is the bitter, sweet
journey from the cradle to the grave. Full of wonder and woe and all the things
in between. A test? An experience? A chance to atone for past crimes against
out better natures? Why not? It makes as much sense as anything else.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite the challenges of the future, and the numbing
nearness of our long-prophesied and catastrophic doom, my older self is accepting
of our fate and strives to be no more than happy in just finding the right
word, or gesture, that might help another along their way. Because, looking
back, I have come to realize that my better moments came about because of the
kindness of others. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OAhAczH5das/Wp-_0gTyD0I/AAAAAAAAAjs/-QXg9vGnvIsiLS8-5f-lLkmY_lQzOyICgCLcBGAs/s1600/Movember.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="558" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OAhAczH5das/Wp-_0gTyD0I/AAAAAAAAAjs/-QXg9vGnvIsiLS8-5f-lLkmY_lQzOyICgCLcBGAs/s320/Movember.JPG" width="263" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that is enough to be getting on with for today. Good
luck to you all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-81399715601695300782016-10-09T15:32:00.002-07:002016-10-09T15:32:55.359-07:00I am rubber; you are glue . . . and other thoughts about the Presidential election.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ScZYcwI8JA8/V_rEEAzHEyI/AAAAAAAAAiY/4uTiZlYUsyIKD9ZZ1NU9mktoOfFyjyxxACLcB/s1600/I%2527mRubber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ScZYcwI8JA8/V_rEEAzHEyI/AAAAAAAAAiY/4uTiZlYUsyIKD9ZZ1NU9mktoOfFyjyxxACLcB/s320/I%2527mRubber.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While reading a recent online discussion about the American
election, there it was: two old-enough-to-know-better adults were going at it
about the demerits of each other’s candidate and having abandoned all pretext
at civility or decorum, were down to name calling and the online version of
sticking their tongues out, culminating in the childhood taunt of: <i><span style="background: white;">I'm rubber you are glue, your words bounce off me and
stick to you</span></i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And while this could be seen as very entertaining, it did cause a
shiver of dread when I remembered that these people will get to vote in an
election that has enormous impact on the entire population of the planet –
existing and future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have no dog in this fight and have long ago lost any hope for
the electoral process. For me, it is no more than divisive and mean-spirited reality
TV at its worst. And my issue with that is that, for most part, it divides
rather than unifies people. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Add in the fact that it is also a massive
advertising campaign where money dominates and you might begin to see things
the way I do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we all know from our daily lives, money doesn’t come
cheap. Those who “invest” in candidates have agendas that rarely surface during
what passes for debates and are never scrutinized by analysts and experts who
form many of the opinions of those who go off to vote.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been a long downward spiral to this particular
election. In recent years we have seen processions of ‘Gee-Shucks’ cardboard
cut-outs trying to out-Jesus each other; new and improved versions of smooth,
slick, salesy types saying nothing and denying all that they previously might,
or might not, have said, and visionaries who will lead us to Promised Lands
where we can live free of all those who are not like us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Election industry has created a toxic environment where
efforts at the reasonable debate of complex matters have long been abandoned in
favour of cleverly tailored sound bites that are repeated like jingles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not surprisingly, elections for the most part have become
less and less about intellectual civic exercises and more and more about emotional
venting and the rejection of the ideals of people we hate, fear, or
envy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A compelling and recent example of all of this was the
British referendum and I follow the resulting gyrations with a mixture of
amazement and trepidation. There, a majority of voters followed leaders who, on
winning, resigned and in doing so forced the country to actually begin to discuss
what it was they had done.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Similarly, in the first American Presidential debate, the
matter of Syria did not merit a mention.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Regardless of your views on the
horrible war in that country – and finding a clear picture in the haze of
misinformation is a particular challenge – surely a future president’s views
should be examined and understood? Or are we to wander into a new world war
without even the pretext of political rationale?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps it is the only logical way after the farce of the
great WMD issue when the Coalition of the Willing, made up of the
democratically elected governments of the free peoples of the world, attacked and
destroyed countries that now seem to have had little or nothing to do with 9/11
– and all in the name of defending our freedom and democracy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that any of that matters if we are all transfixed by the
circus this election presents. Never mind that the world is being brought to
rack and ruin by the privately plotted actions of State and Corporate
interests, let’s get enraged about what the other candidate may have done or
said, or looks like. Then, in place of real debate, let’s all turn on each
other and call each other names, and worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As stated, I have no dog in this fight and, while one
candidate is probably unfit to be allowed out in public and the other has the
lingering odour of shady deals, I would be far more concerned with who is
paying for all of this and what their real agenda might be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is one of the great flaws of democracies that so much of
what is done in the name of the people is done behind closed doors. You can
cite security, confidentiality, or whatever, but how can it be called the will
of the people when they have no idea what is really going on? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, many of us are happy to be sloughed off with media information
from the sources that we trust implicitly, but that, at the end of the day, is
little more than going through the motions so that we can pay lip service to
the principle that democracy is supposed to enshrine: that “the informed voter
is the sword of democracy.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I began to question that long ago and now find myself more
aligned with the great wit, Oscar Wilde, who has been quoted as saying: “<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Democracy means simply the bludgeoning of the people by the people for
the people.</span>”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it had been a long and torturous slide to where we are
now and, far from being the shining light of freedom and democracy, this
election may well be the beginning of the final act in the tragically comedic
story of the decline and fall of human civilization.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yes, I do have ideas on a better way. I might even get
around to sharing them one of these days so if you are interested, check back
in a while. I’ll be here, thinking about things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-35953784016796155222016-06-22T01:47:00.000-07:002016-06-22T01:47:14.551-07:00Watching the Euros<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gdv0fNLuFPk/V2pQWE9MkkI/AAAAAAAAAiE/eKipr6Fkaj0IGuc89flmfP51d_oI4dCNACLcB/s1600/1172394.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gdv0fNLuFPk/V2pQWE9MkkI/AAAAAAAAAiE/eKipr6Fkaj0IGuc89flmfP51d_oI4dCNACLcB/s400/1172394.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I admit it; I am a football fan and this year I have the
added incentive of watching games on Portuguese television – to improve my
knowledge of the language. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not sure how well that is working but, as we all sit on
the eve of the Brexit (English for Trumpism?) it does a tired heart good to see
the fans in green.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Irish teams, and there are two, N.I. (Northern Ireland)
and R.O.I. (Republic of Ireland) are both here and while the former has acquitted
itself rather well, the latter is a poor team of less than stellar talent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it is the Irish fans that are the talk of Europe. There
is nothing these boys and girls in green can’t do; serenade pretty blond French
women, serenade nuns, sing lullabies to babies and the French police, hold
impromptu dance-offs with Vikings, change flat tires, and clean up after
themselves. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their mammies must be fierce proud of them all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ireland was one of the countries singled out for austerity
and took it on the chin. And while there are those (mostly Irish politicians) who
crow about being the “Poster Boys of Recovery” – when once they crowed about
being the “Poster Boys of European Success” – they reality of the cuts has been
severe, and at times brutal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hard to believe when you see the travelling Irish fans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neighbours here in Lisbon, who know I am Irish, stop me on
the street to talk about them. The
Irish, they say, are always so jolly!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now having spent time in some dark and dreary times and
places in Ireland, I have to stop and look it from the outside. And, having
lived two thirds of my life as an emigrant, I am getting better at that.
Europe, and the rest of the world, needs to get jolly more often.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In no way am I discounting the plight of refuges, or the
mass shootings in Orlando, nor am I going to pretend that the story of humanity
isn’t littered with the most brutal and horrifying acts, but come here ‘til I
tell you: there is more to humanity than the sum of our cruelties and petty divisions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are, in the eyes of whatever created us, all the same and
any one telling you otherwise is up to no good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have the ability to get together and do what has to be
done in a civilized and cooperative manner. We do it every day, everywhere,
even if our media chooses not to focus on it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Besides, if we are on the road to Armageddon, then why not
go with a bit of class and enjoy the ride.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enough of the psychopaths that would have us tear at each
other. Here in Europe we have done far too much of that. Let’s be more like the
boys and girls in green and be jolly in the face of all our problems. Others
will come and behave like their leaders – and never forget that example comes
from those at the top – but we will enjoy the good that’s in the day, and when
it’s all over, let’s keep it going.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our civilization is very flawed but it is far better than
the anarchy of war. Let’s keep together in this, and extend it. Yes, the rich
will always be a gouging lot, but there are more of us than them and, as our
mammies often told us: we can set a good example.<o:p></o:p></div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-39542641387182012762015-08-26T15:46:00.000-07:002015-08-26T15:46:10.656-07:00"The whole world is lying and cheating,and everybody else goes along with it--except when I do it."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Peter Murphy,
author of "Lagan Love", his first novel, has now given us "All Roads”,
the third novel, after "Born and Bred” and "Wandering in Exile”, in
the Life and Times trilogy. These four books have placed Murphy in the league
with other popular and loved Irish writers such as Roddy Doyle, Frank McCourt,
Brendan Behan, Brendan O’Carroll, Sean O’Casey, Patrick Taylor and others. If
you love to read about Irish life, culture, history ,family and other
influences such as politics and religion; you will find this new voice and
storyteller a must read writer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This
latest novel finds the central character, Danny Boyle, now in Canada with his
family in 1997.The first line in the novel, "Hi, I'm Danny B. and I'm AN
ALCOHOLIC”, kicks off the next 16 years in the life of Danny, his wife, family,
friends, as well as his troubled life, to both himself and those who surround
him and are affected by him. The novel takes place mainly in Toronto, but there
are many times over the years, that the reader is transported to Dublin and
Rome I won't go into details about the storyline of this novel, or the two
proceeding novels of the trilogy, other than that each of the novels can stand
alone in reading, but I strongly suggest you read "Born and Bred", "Wandering
in Exile" and "All Roads" in that order. As I have mentioned in
my other Reviews, this novel covers 16 years and a lot of characters; so I
suggest you keep a list of the characters and their relationships as they keep
re-appearing over the years. Murphy helps the reader in keeping track of time
by dating the time period of each chapter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You
might also wish to read my Reviews, as well as others, that have been posted
here on Amazon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While
the stories, characters, family, friends, associates, and experiences make for
an engrossing read; there are a plethora of lessons, good and otherwise, that
you'll obtain from this trilogy; that will remain with you for a long time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you
forget all about the lives and experiences of the people in this trilogy, just
remember; Danny's words;<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"When I was drinking I used to try and
tell myself that I wasn't harming anybody else, but that wasn't true. Everything
we do spills over into other people's lives--the good and the bad."</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Segoe Print"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe Print";"><br /></span></div>
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Jerry Guild</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/review/R22HM3KOACB0WB/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1611882125&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=283155&store=books" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/review/R22HM3KOACB0WB/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1611882125&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=283155&store=books</a></div>
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<span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Segoe Print;"><br /></span></span></div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-70633898492713361112015-08-17T07:31:00.000-07:002015-08-17T07:31:58.202-07:00Whirly gigs and a small princess<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
<h2>
Getting back into the whirly gig<o:p></o:p></h2>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
For most of the last four years I spent my days in one chair
or another, writing <b>Life & Times, </b>the
story of one man and the abutting parts of the world that tormented and shaped
him, deformities and all. It spans almost 60 years and required a lot of
remembering and looking back at the way things were, and as old memories came
back and mingled with my disconsolation with the present, and my distrust of
the future, I needed to shut myself off. I had to carry the entire story around
inside of me and shun all outside distractions and interruptions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Moving to Lisbon was the reward, a necessity and a formal
farewell to a great many things that had been churning around inside of me for
years. Here I would get out more, get some sun, meet new people, and see new
things. I knew it would be a transition as I had grown very used to my solitude
shared mostly with imaginary characters. I knew it would be busy and, at times,
hectic, but what I hadn’t considered was that it could be far more absurd than
any fiction I might cobble together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br /><h2>
Back into the beast’s lair<o:p></o:p></h2>
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Before books are released into the wild, publishers send
copies to be distributed to friends & lovers, reviewers and other shady
people an author might owe gambling debts, etc. It is a simple enough practice.
The books are declared to have no value – fitting, eh? And they get delivered
without too much fuss and bother.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not here, though. It began with a very formal letter from
the post office which I replied to in my best Googled Portuguese to the effect
that I was not intending to resell the books and avoid paying tax on my lucre. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps Google wasn’t the best go-between because they sent
me a template to declare what I had already declared. Fair enough, says I to
the dog, and re-Googled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div>
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It still wasn’t enough and after a few weeks, there was
nothing for it but to make my way over to the <i>alfandega.</i> Now it wasn’t quite Gates of Mordor stuff but it wasn’t
the most pleasant part of Lisbon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I took my number and waited to see the person who
could verify that I had legitimate business with them and was sent back to take
a number for the person who could actually deal with my problem. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h2>
Waiting<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I waited, a young girl walked in with a flower in her
hand and asked almost everyone there for a glass of water to put her flower in.
Finally someone looked after her but I wasn’t so lucky. The woman behind the
counter could not help me and could not explain what the problem was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was nothing for it but to resort to English and she
agreed to send for the man who spoke English—only he was having coffee and I
had to wait for a while.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he did emerge, he was polite, dignified, and helpful.
The declared dollar value on my box of books was, he was sad to inform me,
“impossible in Portugal.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fair enough, says I and we both scratched out heads, eyed
each other like we were playing poker, and eventually came up with a value that
was possible. 150 Euros seemed fair—after all it is literary fiction and here
in Portugal that still has some value. They still respect writers here and have
<i>ruas</i> and <i>largos</i> named after poets and the like.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h2>
The value of literary fiction<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>150 Euros</i>, says I
to myself, <i>I’m going to get dinged for
tax here</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Portugal, like a few other countries has been singled out to
pay the penalty of the recklessness of International banking and all their
Credit Default nonsense that broke the way money works.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fair enough, says I to the man who spoke English and he
wished me a good morning and assured me that, now that the form had an
acceptable value written on it, his colleague would now be able to look after
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except she was busy arguing with a couple who were trying to
smuggle something past customs so I waited. And I waited. And while I waited
some more, the young girl with the flower stepped in front of me, held up a
ticket, bowed and smiled. Being well-breed, myself, I took the ticket and bowed
back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The little girl seemed content with her efforts and began to
drink from the glass with the flower. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In time, the lady behind the counter was able to look at my
form—with the true value of literary fiction in the appropriate box—and stamp
the damn thing. She then explained that I should take the now acceptable form
to another wicket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked up at the screen that informs which ticket is next
and I looked down at the ticket the little girl had given me. I was next and
with little more ado, I got my box of books, didn’t have to pay tax, and was on
my way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-1180870604384624002015-08-11T12:29:00.001-07:002015-08-11T12:29:50.467-07:00I used to have a real job once.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cMF1PHA3mSg/VcpM_EVxPKI/AAAAAAAAAe4/5qqS-fchAWA/s1600/10399292_53233815435_9090_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cMF1PHA3mSg/VcpM_EVxPKI/AAAAAAAAAe4/5qqS-fchAWA/s400/10399292_53233815435_9090_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For marketing purposes, I’m supposed to be working on my
blog – Following the Muse (<a href="http://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.pt/">http://peterdamienmurphy.blogspot.pt/</a>)
– but the damn thing has gotten so far ahead of me that I am wandering around
in a bit of a daze. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having recently moved to Lisbon, I have become a bit
absorbed in the new life all around me. I’m in “input mood,” I keep reminding
myself as each gloriously sunny day fades into another cool, pearly evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I did manage to get back to working on the next novel
and it is a struggle. Novels are like lovers in that you are rarely in the mood
at the same time and when you are ready, your novel crosses its legs and sulks.
At least mine do!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m less concerned about that these days and while it might
be the effect of the aforementioned glorious sun, or the cool, pearly evenings,
or the fact that life in Lisbon has not yet been totally trampled underfoot by
what often gets confused with progress, I prefer to think of my work as fruit.
It will ripen when the time is right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of my readers will agree and think of lemons—and to
them I say: life is grand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thinking like this is an adjustment because I once held jobs
in the regular sense of the word and I was even good at some of them. I was
very focused on things like timelines and deliverables. I understood that in
the great clock-likeness of the modern enterprise, each little cog had to play its
part; on time and on budget. It became a bit of an obsession with me and I
suffered interruption with the grace of a disturbed hippo—particularly when the
time wasting came from above.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I masked my disdain with a kind of strained stoicism as some
director waffled on about synergies and scalabilities and all the other words
they had recently stumbled upon while reading an in-flight magazine. You know
the type. They wear their company IDs to the washroom and I can only assume
that it is a precaution. If the better parts of their brains fall out, they can
still remember their primary purpose which is to assert their importance by interrupting
the progress of those they bore for hours with pep-talks about improving
productivity and importance of individual accountability in the grand scheme.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over time my strained stoicism wore thin and I began to
garner a reputation for “being a bit abrasive.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Given what was really going through my mind, I think I
should have been awarded medals for tact and diplomacy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I once worked with a guy who regularly fell asleep at his
desk and could be relied upon for nothing—except his uncanny skill at ass
kissing. He could do it in his sleep. Naturally he was promoted beyond all usefulness
while the rest of us struggled on in relative anonymity. For the most part I
kept my comments to a bare minimum—acerbic as they were—and instead just hung
signs on his desk! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thinking about this the last few afternoons which have
been a bit on the hot side -- 35+ which is beyond my operating range. As I sat
staring at the end of chapter 3, wondering which of the next story lines to go
with, my head would start to nod. No amount of coffee could forestall the
inevitable and I gave in and took naps.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time when I would have scolded myself for that and
imposed new and stricter deadlines to compensate. Now, not so much. You see all
those jobs; carrying bricks up rickety scaffolds, digging holes like redemption
was underground, dusting ballot boxes in a government basement, writing yards
of computer code, taught me a great many things that have become so much
clearer in the rear-view mirror. I now know myself and I know that I know how
to get things done.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I should also admit that as I get older, I have become a
little more indulgent with myself. I have come to the realisation that “I’m not
the worst of them” and that some of the stuff I write—albeit overlooked by the
shallow masses—has merit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writing books I have become to realise is less about one
critical path and more about meandering through myriad possibilities. It is a
bit like how we used to learn things before we got packed off to school; we
played until we knew.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fortunately, I work for myself these days as such thinking
would be heresy to the bottom-line crowd and their synergies and scalabilities
and all the other words they use to mask the sad fact that so very few of us
really have any idea what we are doing. I certainly don’t, but that might yet
turn out to be my greatest asset.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, enough chit-chat, time to get back to staring at the
computer screen.<o:p></o:p></div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-8445204109777178882015-07-07T03:27:00.000-07:002015-07-07T03:27:41.103-07:00Following the Muse - part 4
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2 style="margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">When in doubt, follow your dog.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></h2>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Adapting to life in Lisbon can be hectic in ways that I
hadn’t considered. Sometimes I feel like my dog whose nose hasn’t stopped
twitching since we arrived. We are both in the same boat; trying to make sense
of it all and to find our bearings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dogs are more suited to this and simply sniff everything,
taste whatever smells particularly interesting, piddle on everything else, and
become intimately informed of others of their species. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We, on the other hand, have to conform to social norms that change
from place to place, but I suppose it’s true for dogs, too. Back in Canada, the
dogs sniffed each other’s faces first. Poor Baxter; she’s had to sit tight and
snarl to dissuade some of these Lisbon hounds.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then, just when she was beginning to assert herself into
the dog pack at the local park, we moved. However, right after unpacking we
took our first walk around the new hood and met the most dignified and elegant collie.
She wanted no part of us and I can only assume that Baxter must have picked up
some inappropriate habits while strutting through the streets of Mouraria. I
would worry about that but she usually displays better sense than I and will
adapt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">There is something happening here.</span></span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;">
</div>
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<h2 style="margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;">
</h2>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lisbon, I am finding, has its own logic that seems to make
little sense at first but becomes more rational with understanding. I suppose
that is true about most places but it does escape the tourists who seem to
expect life to rearrange itself to their expectations —the “Holiday Inn”
mentality that a familiar sameness is required with enough local flavour to
identify which holiday photo is which. And while I have only been here for
three months, I am beginning to develop a sense for the depth and beauty of
life here.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Reading about Lisbon, I came across two things that have
given me much to ponder on. (I do that—I ponder a lot.) Lisbon, probably in
honor of its Phoenician past, and the golden age of the Navigators, is often
referred to as the “City of the Sea.” It was from Lisbon that ships set out to
“discover” the new world. </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was also a city that suffered devastation from the sea
when, in 1775, a tsunami followed an earthquake that destroyed the city and
turned Portugal from an externally focused, expanding empire into the more
insular nation it has become. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It also allowed for the redevelopment of much of the
downtown region so that the current city combines many of the evolving lessons
of urban planning. Broad avenidas link parks and squares and are lined with elegant
houses that are part Romanesque, part Arabesque, a little pompous but, for the
most part, practical with a few wedding cakes thrown in.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the rebuilding, older lessons were also remembered and
while there is always a hill in Lisbon—no matter where you are trying to get
to—there is always a breeze and some of them are fresh from the sea. Good thing
too because there have been a few days when my body, finally thawed from the
Canadian winter, became a little seared around the edges.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then comes the night, cool and bright with memories on the
air . . . but then there are these mosquitos that are very impartial to mostly
thawed, slightly seared, Irish blood. We had them back in Canada but for the
most part, they left me alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These Lisbon
mosquitos are mean little buggers. I blame the Portuguese people—they are far
too nice and accommodating, except for some of the bureaucrats we have had to
deal with.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">You are nothing without a NIF<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Without the Número de Indentificação Fiscal, all that is
magnificent about this place would shudder and collapse again. It is a
government issued number that allows the good people in whatever taxation
department to keep in touch with every single resident in their day-to-day
lives, but you can win a car.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Fair enough” we said to each other. “Let’s be getting one
of them.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is never that easy. The first time, we took a number and
waited. Others took their numbers and wandered off down the street for coffee;
even the man in wicket 5, the one that was dealing with NIFs that day. Finally
our number came up, but the kind gentleman, who had just returned from lunch,
regretfully informed us that the system was down. He was kind enough to hear our
problem and replied in a combination of Portuguese and English. My wife, who
was from the Azores which as I was to find out later “Is not a part of
Portugal”, did her best but her Portuguese clearly wasn’t adequate. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He talked and he listened along with the woman at the next
wicket and offered condolences with a shrug. The system was down and he was so
powerless that he seemed to deflate in front of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My wife went alone on the second day and the system was back
up but the deflated gentleman was not dealing with NIFs. The hard faced woman
in wicket 3 was; the one that wore D&G glasses. My wife explained her
situation with nodding approval from the woman in wicket 4 who had heard it all
before. Ms. D&G insisted that my wife was in the wrong place and suggested
she go to Immigration. (Later, we concluded that it must have been the language
issue.)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, undeterred, my wife produced her national identity
card—the one she had painstakingly secured before leaving Toronto—splendid
proof of identity despite the awful mugshot. Except for one tiny detail; there
was nothing in the little box labelled Número de Indentificação Fiscal. They
could not issue that in Canada but everything else looked good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Looking a little piqued, I have been assured, Ms. D&G
held the card in her long bony fingers like it was a specimen of something catching.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You have to give it to her now,” the woman in wicket 4
joined in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Very well,” Ms. D&G reluctantly agreed and began to tap
her way into the system. “What parish were you born in?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That was when my poor wife learnt that all she had been
raised to believe in, all the proud Portuguese stuff about exploring and
discovering, and being the first and best at everything, and that the cream of
all things Portuguese are from the islands, was a lie. According to whatever
corner of the system Ms. D&G had tapped into, Angra do Heroismo, on the
island of Terceira, the third largest island in the <span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Região Autónoma dos
Açores,<i> </i>was not a part of Portugal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even the woman in wicket 4 took up the Azorean cause but to no avail.
My wife was to be considered some type of alien until she could produce sufficient
documentation – which my wife was not carrying. (Something I put down to the
Azorean sense of autonomy.) Home she came, without a NIF and made to feel like
an immigrant instead of a home comer.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Naturally, I went the next day as the muscle if such was required and
because I never miss an opportunity to study absurdity in all its glory. We
took our number and waited. Ms D&G was attending to other matters and so
was wicket 5. Wicket 4 was our only hope and when she returned from coffee
break, she smiled, clicked a few times at the system and gave us a NIF.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That weekend the local square was filled with folk dancers and celebrations
of the good things in life. They might have been there for other reasons but it
made my wife smile again.</span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span> </div>
<h2 style="margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Eu não falo Portugues<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></h2>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is the
only phrase I have mastered so far and I have said it so often that I am trying
variations in tone and timbre, timing and delivery. Someone laughed at me the
other day and said: “You just said that in Portuguese.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will
learn the language but, as I have reminded my critics, most of the Portuguese
took 18 to 24 months to say their first words and I am way ahead as I, after
only 3 months, can pop up with a few of the basics of civility. Please, thank
you, good day, good afternoon, and goodnight. I can almost order coffee but I
am still buying cigars in sign language. Food is easy because it all tastes
great and most of our neighbours are gracious enough to speak to me in impeccable
English laced with just a touch of accent. Lisboetas can be a very cultured and
dignified lot. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
Still, I
will learn the language because it is the least I can do for the generosity this
city offers, once you have a NIF. <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
Now getting the dog one; that’s going to be fun. Though she
already has her European doggie passport, good for entry to the whole
continent—even Greece, for now.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-13augQ8NtFw/VZunbzOgucI/AAAAAAAAAeE/11TC-TbcX0Q/s1600/IMG-20150428-00547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-13augQ8NtFw/VZunbzOgucI/AAAAAAAAAeE/11TC-TbcX0Q/s400/IMG-20150428-00547.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></div>
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</div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-59913144476938331902015-06-30T00:38:00.000-07:002015-06-30T00:38:09.433-07:00All Roads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZvkakCgkOxY/VZJG6pOegLI/AAAAAAAAAdY/0vNAM4wHTsg/s1600/All%2BRoads%2BCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZvkakCgkOxY/VZJG6pOegLI/AAAAAAAAAdY/0vNAM4wHTsg/s400/All%2BRoads%2BCover.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
All Roads, the final book in the Life & Times trilogy,
goes out into the word today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish it
all the best as I am rather fond of that book. In fact I liked writing the
whole trilogy, but I might be a bit biased. It’s not unlike having children,
you know, and I have some of those too. You want to be protective and all that,
but you just got to sit back and let it find its own way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
I remember when it was nothing more than a few notes and
scraps of character. In fact the trilogy came about because I started three
different versions of what I thought was the same story. 100 pages into each,
it dawned on me and Born & Bred, Wandering in Exile, and All Roads were the
result.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
It is not—and I repeat not—autobiographical even though much
that happens in the books did happen, but not to me. I just happened to be
nearby when it did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
The responses so far have been mixed, to say the least, and
that is not a bad thing. The story of Danny and the rest of them; Deirdre, the
kids, Jacinta & Jerry, Miriam, Patrick and the rest are the stories of
people I have watched cope with the ever changing times I have lived
through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
The past plays a role as it does in real life and today,
just like every other day, the past is the backdrop and we struggle to be free
of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
Since writing the story, I have moved and am slowly settling
into a very different reality but I look back at the 4 years I spent in my
writing chair with a mix of pride and nostalgia. There are new and different
books waiting to be written but today I’ll take a moment to sit back and
acknowledge Danny Boyle for all that he taught me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span> </span>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-64665873794818537852015-05-12T03:25:00.000-07:002015-05-12T08:21:31.609-07:00Following the Muse: Part 3<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Carnations <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OTq-Gc-MaLY/VVHRa-hExSI/AAAAAAAAAcY/fGCl6Qwe-cM/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OTq-Gc-MaLY/VVHRa-hExSI/AAAAAAAAAcY/fGCl6Qwe-cM/s400/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">On April 25<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> 1974, a military coup ended the
rule of the “Estada Nova,” the Portuguese dictatorship that had lasted for the
better part of 50 years. The revolution was remarkable in that there were very
few casualties. Four people were killed by the security police. The soldiers
who led the revolt were embraced by the people who rushed out to join them in
the streets and placed flowers in their rifles giving us “The Carnation
Revolution.” And on April 25<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> of this year I watched the
anniversary celebrations in the middle of Lisbon.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Supporters of the ousted regime—and there are a few,
including our local butcher who was but a child when the revolution
happened—probably took grim solace in that, as we stood listening to aging
idealists making speeches and singing songs of celebration, the skies were grey
and foreboding and soon let loose their rains.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-99NMs2AZgYE/VVHTtY2DAVI/AAAAAAAAAc4/vEcAlMNWxP4/s1600/1B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-99NMs2AZgYE/VVHTtY2DAVI/AAAAAAAAAc4/vEcAlMNWxP4/s400/1B.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those who came to celebrate the past and the future were
uncertain. Austerity bites deep here and the Portuguese that I have come to
know are much more invested in politics than most. Salazar, the dictator, is
still a divisive figure here but pales when compared to “The Troika,” – the
European Central Bank (ECB), the European Commission (EC), and the
International Monetary Fund (IMF). Still, if we are in dark times, let us
remember that it is always darkest before the dawn.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Despite my optimism, I left as the rain grew heavier and
spent the evening reading about the first kings of Portugal—an interesting bunch
of characters that I will return to in a later post.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Toward the very edge of the world <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Despite their tendency towards lugubriousness, I am finding
the Portuguese to be a warm friendly people. Friends that I only knew through
social media, Vanda & Miguel and their delightful son, Afonso, took us on a
wonderful tour of the Sintra area where the nobility liked to spend their
summers since Moorish times—and probably before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s the type of place that appeals to the senses, warm and
fertile, and the gentle rains and mists would make any Celt feel at home. It is
not unlike the west coast of Ireland only with fewer seasons per day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The hillsides are dotted with spectacular mansions that date
back centuries, growing more spectacular as they rise up the sides of the
mountain to where an old castle dominates.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Beyond that, we also visited Cabo da Roca which is the most westerly point on the European mainland. <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">The 16th-century Portuguese poet Luís de Camões described Cabo da Roca as “</span><i><span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">Onde a terra se acaba e o mar começa” --</span></i><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">"where the land ends and the sea begins." </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7ptPg5usQgk/VVHRWSPzRNI/AAAAAAAAAcI/77oaG_scc7A/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7ptPg5usQgk/VVHRWSPzRNI/AAAAAAAAAcI/77oaG_scc7A/s400/2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">It is a remarkable place that reminds you of your tiny place in
it all, but does take it's toll on the foolhardy who step to close to the edge
while taking selfies. I kid you not!<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lqFkhulWjYg/VVHRUJphBtI/AAAAAAAAAcA/PQ0ZT0kRf04/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lqFkhulWjYg/VVHRUJphBtI/AAAAAAAAAcA/PQ0ZT0kRf04/s400/3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
</div>
<h2 style="margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span style="color: #4f81bd; font-size: medium;">Ancient forests</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"> <span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></span></h2>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4IxGuVmVyEk/VVHRVgAbuTI/AAAAAAAAAcE/IGSeULrLOXo/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4IxGuVmVyEk/VVHRVgAbuTI/AAAAAAAAAcE/IGSeULrLOXo/s400/4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it was the
next stop on our tour that really piqued my interest. Miguel, who holds degrees
in Biology, brought us into the primeval forest. Spared the last ice age, it
contains trees that are different to the senses. It is hard to describe except
that you know that you are somewhere new yet very, very familiar.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fNrIUIl3XwA/VVHRcsOoumI/AAAAAAAAAco/dVivVpWIdDw/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fNrIUIl3XwA/VVHRcsOoumI/AAAAAAAAAco/dVivVpWIdDw/s400/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Among the trees
are rock formations that seem surreal. Great big blobs of things, stacked
precariously on top of each other and somehow refusing to roll off down into
the sea. They were probably left there by glaciers but it doesn’t take a lot of
fancy to imagine giants might have had a hand in it. Really. Some, in
particular, seemed very inviting to the old Celt that lurks inside of me—not
to mention the recluse.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<h2 style="margin: 10pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Audience participation<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></h2>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o3J_GHQikZs/VVHRaWi2NOI/AAAAAAAAAcU/hxkJB_8-fro/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o3J_GHQikZs/VVHRaWi2NOI/AAAAAAAAAcU/hxkJB_8-fro/s400/6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Coming around the corner of a busy downtown street, I stood bemused
as a long line of people queued to step into a hole in the ground. Really!
Traffic was blocked but no one seemed to mind, passing it off with a shrug.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like most things that happen here, there was a very simple explanation
but rather than tell you, I will invite suggestions. The first correct
suggestion (email to </span><a href="mailto:peter_d_murphy@hotmail.com"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">peter_d_murphy@hotmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
with “hole in the street” as the subject matter) will win a signed copy of one
of my titles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-joEBAKm9E7E/VVHRcKCg2jI/AAAAAAAAAck/gYqi6FF9Hlk/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-joEBAKm9E7E/VVHRcKCg2jI/AAAAAAAAAck/gYqi6FF9Hlk/s400/7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I might even consider offering one for the most humorous,
too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Until the next time, <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Peter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-37903881320384023042015-04-29T13:24:00.000-07:002015-04-29T13:24:51.078-07:00Following the Muse: Part 2<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #365f91;"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;">Saying goodbye to all that and learning to walk in clown shoes.<o:p></o:p></span><h1 style="margin: 24pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></h1>
<h1 class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3FZhu7OBVs/VUE76hbw-FI/AAAAAAAAAbU/_YjZBehwUAg/s1600/IMG-20150406-00294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v3FZhu7OBVs/VUE76hbw-FI/AAAAAAAAAbU/_YjZBehwUAg/s1600/IMG-20150406-00294.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></o:p></h1>
<h1 style="margin: 24pt 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></h1>
<h1 class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
“Do you have jobs lined up?” they asked as they tried to
understand what could drive reasonable, normal people to abandon the New World
for the Old. “Do you have a house there? Do you have family there? Do you speak
the language? What will you do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
It was well meant and considerate, but at times I felt as
I imagine the Portuguese navigators felt when setting out on their famous
voyages from Belem which is just down the coast from where I write. After all,
we now know the world is reasonably round and the chances of falling off the
edge are slim.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I was saying goodbye to Toronto, Canada—a place I had lived
in for almost forty years—the place where I met my wife and raised my children.
It was where I worked and played for two thirds of my life. It was the place
where I finally shed some of my demons and a place that I will remember fondly,
though not as fondly as Dublin because that place is, and always will be, in my
blood. <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
But Canadians (not unlike others) tend to believe that
they live in the best country in the world—something that is reinforced by
every politician seeking public office—so the idea that we would voluntarily
quit Utopia was a bit beyond the pale.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I can accept that as I grew up just outside the pale and
have spent most of my existence there, one way or another. You see, I had grown
tired of the climate in Canada. And I had grown tired of watching more and more
of the things I liked being replaced by things I have little time for. I
suppose, in part, that I am getting older and want to spend more time enjoying
the things that I value in life.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
And that led me back to Portugal, that odd little place
on the edge of Europe. Renowned for its faded glory, its hours of sunshine, its
beautiful food, Fado and the lumpy lugubriousness of its people, it is a place
not unlike Ireland in some ways but with far better weather. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I had been here a few years ago and had decided then that
this was the place for me. Since then, the grinding years of austerity had
taken a heavy toll but that too will end. Downtown, where tourists sit sipping
coffees in the sun there is a steady procession of the victims of economic
turmoil seeking help. Some are local but many are the more professional Roma
from the Balkans who have also branched out into selling knock-off sunglasses
and drugs—which are decriminalized here. Sometimes they combine all three
activities and can be very persistent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
did give in and bought a pair of clip-on shades but I was advised that the
blocks of hash are most likely bouillon cubes coated with thin veneer of hash.
Maybe some night when I am cooking something special . . .</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
The language is currently beyond me. My wife, who was
born in the Azores, assures me it is phonetic but I can’t see that. I have
tried adding ‘o’ and ‘a’ to the end of English words but that hasn’t
worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here the ‘ush’ sound dominates
and ‘c’ sound like ‘s’ and ‘x’ like ‘c’. I am not concerned. I have learned to
say that I do not speak Portuguese and smile like a total idiot. It works for
now while I try to learn new things to say.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
I am being a touch facetious as I have already mastered
ordering coffee, gassy water and, of course, small cigars. I can say “good
day,” “good afternoon,” “good night,” and “thank you” and with the right smile,
that’s enough to get me through most situations. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
Oh, and I have learned to explain that my dog is a bitch,
which is the question on every dog-walkers lips. Sometimes I explain it with
such ease that I invite further conversation and that’s when my limitations get
exposed. Oh well, maybe by next week I can learn to say that the dog has some
highly contagious Canadian disease and everyone would be better staying away
from us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
But that’s not what I signed up for. I will learn to
speak and I will learn to write. After all I am walking the same streets as
Pessoa, and glimpsing much of what had disquieted him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span></span></span></span></h1>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mostly the hills;
Lisbon is also built on seven hills and walking in any direction requires a
level of fitness and stamina not dissimilar to that found in Olympians –
particularly the cross country skiers. After the first few days my feet were so
sore that I could only wear my over- sized shoes—the ones I had bought to walk
the dog through the snow and ice back in Toronto. They are not so much
fashionable as practical but they do tend to flop around a bit—not unlike clown
shoes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most of the time, I can keep them under control except on the walk back
to our apartment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the length of a football field we climb the equivalent
of five to six stories while twisting and turning like a dog’s hind leg. And
that just gets us to the bottom of our street. Then we have to climb another
two stories of steps to reach our front door. From there it is a simple matter
of climbing the stairs to our apartment on the fifth floor! And all the time in
clown shoes!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Naturally we are looking for a more permanent abode at a
more suitable elevation and that is turning into an exciting venture of its own.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will tell you about that the next
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-90700719482947162052015-01-13T06:21:00.001-08:002015-01-13T06:26:54.424-08:00Publication Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FS0YTQ_Nwi0/VLUpgGvlgVI/AAAAAAAAAa0/X8W55eCyTNc/s1600/Full%2BWandering%2Bin%2BExile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FS0YTQ_Nwi0/VLUpgGvlgVI/AAAAAAAAAa0/X8W55eCyTNc/s1600/Full%2BWandering%2Bin%2BExile.jpg" height="285" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wandering In Exile</i>, the second book in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life & Times</i> trilogy, goes out to meet the world, I wanted to
mark the event with a few comments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is my third published work and
while it never gets old, nothing can match the feel of the very first time—in
this and many other things. Lagan Love will always be my wayward child of a
book. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was very different in that it was
my humble homage to the side of Dublin I was most fond of—the literariness of
the place. Back then, the pubs that I hung around in—callow youth that I
was—were places where the giants of Irish writing had been and were still remembered
and revered as the cultural pop stars that they were. Greats who were so very,
very mortal too, even while shrouded in mythology.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born & Bred</i>, I wanted to look at something very different but in
many ways no less shrouded in mythology. Family with it ties and restraints.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Family has been described as the
warm nest of love and nurturing by some, and a stinking cesspool of shared
neurosis by others. My own experience—and my observations of others—suggest
that while the experience of family can be one or the other, more often family
is a mixture of both to greater or lesser degrees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now I’m not so cynical but I do
strive for honest understanding as much as I can. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Family can be very caring and forgiving
but can also be the breeding ground for delusion and denial. This was Danny
Boyle’s experience when, as a young lad, he was raised to believe in something
that he could never reconcile with the world he grew up in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps that was because at the end
of the day it is what we do that counts more than what we say and nowhere is
this more obvious than in the core business of family—the raising of children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Case in point being that Danny was
raised in a pious household by a grandmother whose celebrated and admired husband
had taken part in the armed conflict that liberated the land. Small wonder then
that Danny should end up holding a gun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Ireland that he and I grew up
in, like many other places, celebrated the righteousness that is the witch’s
brew we concoct when we mix matters of Church and State while also endorsing
those who would go out and kill for the cause. And for that sin, some of Danny’s
friends, and many others who were far more real, paid with lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While much of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Born & Bred</i> deals with the ramifications of family and legacy, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wandering In Exile</i> is about the actualities
of getting on with life. Danny survives his brush with fate and begins a new
life in Canada and when Deirdre joins him they do what so many of us have
done—start a family of their own. (Oh, if only we knew then what we know now.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now I won’t spoil the read on you
but suffice to say that raising a family far from kith and kin presents its own
myriad of problems. And like many of us, Danny and Deirdre set out to raise the
children better than their parents had which I hope might draw a smile from
those readers that are grandparents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Life, as we live it today, can be
very confusing and tiresome. Struggling to balance the demands of our working
lives against the incessantness of young children leaves most of us so drained
that bedtime cannot come soon enough. But we get through it all somehow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the case of Danny and Deirdre, it
is at a cost but you, the reader, can decide if it was worth it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have my own opinions which are
expounded upon in the last book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All
Roads</i>, which deals with consequences, personal and universal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And if you do have a read for
yourself, drop me a line and let me know what you think.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For a review please see: <span lang=""></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><a href="http://brendanlanders.ie/index.php/book-review-wandering-in-exile-by-peter-murphy/"><u><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><span lang="">http://brendanlanders.ie/index.php/book-review-wandering-in-exile-by-peter-murphy/</span></span></span></u></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Peter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-34986292934684273232014-12-15T07:16:00.000-08:002014-12-15T07:16:18.882-08:00Following the muse to wherever <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fxo95aOCTtc/VI76i-UxbVI/AAAAAAAAAak/xp2W4EXo1wM/s1600/Following%2Bthe%2Bmuse%2B03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fxo95aOCTtc/VI76i-UxbVI/AAAAAAAAAak/xp2W4EXo1wM/s1600/Following%2Bthe%2Bmuse%2B03.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the last few years, as I
labored on the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life & Times</i></b> trilogy, I listened to the music of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Madredeus"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Madredeus</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. I like to write to
music, particularly passionate music, because it sets the mood for inking in
the nuance of character, etc. And, while much of the story deals with Danny
Boyle, an Irishman, his growing up in Ireland, his move to Canada, and his trials
and tribulations, I found Madredeus’s arrangements of Portuguese folk music set
the perfect mood for what I intended to be a universal story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, as is often the case in life,
this led to that and I found myself fascinated by a single word: </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Saudade</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. Over at Wikipedia they
suggest that: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saudade is a Portuguese or Galician word
that has no direct translation in English. It describes a deep emotional state
of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone
that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the
object of longing may never return. A stronger form of saudade may be felt
towards people and things whose whereabouts are unknown, such as a lost lover,
or a family member who has gone missing, moved away, separated, or died.</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But something else caught my ear in
the aforementioned music, and in the hours of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fado"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Fado</span></i></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
that I have enjoyed. There was something ethereal that awoke a thread of the
common memory I believe we all share, even if only subconsciously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Saudade is the recollection of feelings,
experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure,
well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again. It can be
described as an emptiness, like someone (e.g., one's children, parents,
sibling, grandparents, friends, pets) or something (e.g., places, things one
used to do in childhood, or other activities performed in the past) that should
be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this
absence. It brings sad and happy feelings all together, sadness for missing and
happiness for having experienced the feeling.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So? You may ask. What has all of
this got to do with an Irish writer living in exile?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well I’ll tell you. I still have a
bit of the wild Celt in me. I am, despite my best efforts to conform to the
world around me, a nomad at heart and am about to head off into the great and
wonderful world to go and look at the places that hold significant interest for
me. I probably won’t get to see them all but I don’t worry about such things
anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, as a Celt, I have always been
drawn towards the edges of the world. Before the Romans, and Gothic kings, the
edges of Iberia were populated by Celts. When the Romans encroached, as they
were wont to do, many of them (the Milesians in particular) packed up their
belongings and headed to Ireland. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whether or not I am descended from
them, I am drawn back and the pragmatic side of me agrees. After thirty-six
Canadian winters, life in a warmer climate beckons. So, in the spring of next
year, I am selling up all that I have and moving to Lisbon with my wife and my
dog and very little else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now I am not a wealthy man despite
the presumption that all published authors sleep on mattresses stuffed with
hundred dollar bills. I am simply divesting myself and going back to what I was
when I was young and foolish: a wander who followed his heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of the things writing books has
taught me is to learn to determine what is essential and what is padding. I am
still learning this but when I looked up from my pages, I couldn’t help but
look at my life that way—something that is compounded as I filter through all
the stuff in the basement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now I do not discard my life in
North America so lightly. I came here as a very troubled and disquieted young
man, tormented by demons and looking for a fresh start. Unlike poor Danny
Boyle, I found one and managed to put much that troubled me in the bottle and
firmly cork it. I became a husband and a father here and, depending on who you
talk to, not the worst of them!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will always cherish the times I
spent with my two boys when they were young and full of wonder. (They still are
but they must follow their own guidance now—which is the way things are
supposed to be.) They are both in the early twenties now and more than capable
of finding what they want from life on their own. They are always welcome to
come and visit but the parental phase of my life is over and I am moving on to
the next adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Writing <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life & Times</i></b> reminded
me that life, no matter how it is lived, is always about phases and stages and that
I was never the type to settle for meandering into dotage. There is still so
much to see and do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For my loving wife, too. She will
have to manage the transition from mother back to woman, and that should be
exciting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now the reason for sharing all of
this with you is I am planning to write about all of this as it unfolds. Once I
am settled in Lisbon, secure in a nice little place in </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfama"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Alfama</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, I intend to wander
through what was once </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al-Andalus"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Al-Andalusia</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
in search of all the was lost in the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reconquista"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Reconquista</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now before you start imagining me
riding a stallion at the head of a horde of Berbers, I want you to know that I
am going to see the places where science and medicine once blossomed at time
when the rest of Europe was using leeches and slashing each other with swords. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You see, for me, as I look around
the world today and see the new versions of the old hates, I long for a deeper understanding
and a sense of peace. It is the view of Fr. Patrick Reilly, of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Life
& Times</i></b>, that in many ways the world is no better, nor worse—that it
still spins on its same old axis, sometimes wildly and sometimes gently. And,
having written it, I have decided to go and see what was true and what was nothing
more than a rationale for war and conquest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not that I am going to bore you all
with a revision of the retellings of all the distortions of history. I am going
to write about the lingering echoes of the really important things in life—the
story of ordinary, everyday people still living in places that can still fill
us with wonder. Places like Cordoba, <span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Seville, Granada, the great wonder that is </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alhambra"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Alhambra</span></span></a><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, and of
course the narrow, hilly little streets of Alfama.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The good folks at The Story Plant have kindly agreed to publish the
accounts of this adventure as it unfolds so, if you are interested, check back
for more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
(Originally posted at <span lang=""></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"></span><a href="http://thestoryplantblog.com/2014/12/15/peter-murphy-following-the-muse-to-wherever/"><u><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: small;"><span lang="">http://thestoryplantblog.com/2014/12/15/peter-murphy-following-the-muse-to-wherever/</span></span></span></u></a>Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-62528854761613902512014-12-06T12:21:00.002-08:002014-12-06T12:21:58.369-08:00Signin' on at Werburgh Street.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xS-3Q2K1BoQ/VINlIiOxiqI/AAAAAAAAAaU/P-rWHDR0oB8/s1600/Signing%2Bon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xS-3Q2K1BoQ/VINlIiOxiqI/AAAAAAAAAaU/P-rWHDR0oB8/s1600/Signing%2Bon.jpg" height="191" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Gerry hated going
to Werburgh Street and shuffling along for doleful pittances. He never got used
to it. He was a working man at heart even if he'd no work for years. One of
these days, he'd lead the muttering grumbling masses to Leinster House, to
demand the striped-shirted Seamuses, give up at least, a tithe from their thievery
– they'd all that European money flowing in, and in Dublin, all monies passed
through the same greasy hands. But the masses knew no other way. Their
remittance begrudged through barred wickets; all revolution bred out of them;
they lingered at the mercy of remote corporations and Public representatives
for aggrandisement. No one cared about them: never had and never would. He
signed his cards and queued again for his few Pounds at the other end of the
hall.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Have you been looking for work, Mr.
Morrison?” the woman asked with disdain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">“I have indeed, but no one wants to
hire old fellas like me. It's a young man's . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Have you considered getting
retrained?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">“I have, but I'm a bit old for
that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">“You'll never get anywhere with an
attitude like that.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">They were giving everybody a hard
time. It was how they got them to fuck-off to England; there was always work in
England. “And where is it that I should be getting to?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-92114722504595187682014-11-28T12:47:00.000-08:002014-11-28T12:47:04.677-08:00<br />
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<br />
Meet old Joan, one of my favourite characters<br />
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“Would you mind if I sat here?”<br />Janice blinked into the wrinkled face of an old woman in a large floral hat dripping raindrops. She flopped into the chair and began to tap on the table with the strange bird-like handle of her umbrella. “I must get a cup of tea into me. Who do you have to talk with to get a cup of tea around here?” the old woman repeated into the space behind her shoulder and, turning to Janice, added, “I'm parched and it's raining so much outside.”<br />She found this amusing and cackled. She continued to wave until someone brought her a teapot, a cup and saucer, milk and a bowl of sugar. She splashed tea across the table and into her cup. She fumbled with bony hands deep within her massive handbag until she found her pills. She rolled two of them onto her spoon, tipped it onto her tongue and swallowed a mouthful of hot tea. She burped silently and implored Janice’s pardon. She smiled between the cup and the spoon, still raised to her face that was impish despite the lines of age and lines of doubt and fear.<br /> Janice was becoming interested, but for the longest time, the old woman sat there, tilting forward every now and then to take another sip of tea. Time passed and the old woman sat in the euphoria of her tea, turning at times to comment on the weather. At first, Janice thought she was trying to converse, but no matter what she said, the old woman didn't reply. Janice returned to her diary, but the old woman showed no sign of noticing. She continued to sip her tea and mutter about the weather. Janice smiled up at her every now and then, just to be polite, and as she was about to leave, the old woman raised her eyes and stared at her.<br />“What has you so frightened?”<br />Janice might have lied, but there was no point. “Too many strange things have happened since I came here.”<br /> “Oh! That sounds exciting.”<br />Janice had to smile. Reluctantly at first, she began to speak, but as the words unfolded, she found comfort in her odd companion’s attention and, with a growing sense of release, told the whole story of her outing to Howth.<br /> As the old woman listened, she started to nod her head and Janice felt more encouraged. She tried to make it sound whimsical, like she was more curious than alarmed. When she finished, she waited for the old woman to comment, but she was hunched forward, as if she was still listening.<br />“So?” She regretted saying so much. Now that it was out there, it sounded like madness.<br />“I see,” the old woman finally answered and returned to pottering among her thoughts.<br />“What do you see?” Janice blurted as impatience got the better of her. “Isn’t that the strangest thing you have ever heard?”<br /> “Oh, no, not at all, the very same thing happened to me.”<br /> “What do you mean?” <br /> “The very same thing happened to me a long time ago, when I was a young woman. I was walking with my young man, just along from the very same pier. We used to like to walk along the cliffs, too, because, back then, we didn’t go to the cinema that often, and of course, there was no television, either. Not that I am a big fan of television, mind you. I prefer reading a nice bit of poetry every now and then. Do you like poetry, my dear?”<br />Janice nodded; she didn't want to break the silky threads that held the old woman’s gossamer thoughts together.<br />“Isn’t it wonderful when someone can write a poem that takes you somewhere, even if it's only for a moment or two? And I prefer the old style of poetry because it makes more sense. I can't understand why modern poets don’t learn to rhyme better, don’t you agree? But then again, you're young and you might like modern poetry, especially if it's written by a handsome young man who wants to take you for walks along Howth Head and wants to try to steal a kiss when nobody is looking.”<br />Janice nodded and wondered how much this crazy old woman could read from her face.<br />“You mustn’t let them do that, you know!”<br /> “Do what?”<br /> “You mustn’t let the young men kiss you. They're only after the one thing, even the good ones. But they're the ones who'll wait until you're married and appreciate you all the more for making them wait.”<br />The old woman lowered her head to her raised teacup and looked inside. “That's what I don’t like about television. People meet and start kissing each other all over the face and then start to take their clothes off, right there in front of everybody. I never watch after that because I don't want to see people committing sins. You're not like those people, are you? Are you?”<br /> “Oh, no, of course not,” Janice answered, trying not to think of the night on all fours in her room, “I do like to kiss and cuddle a bit, but you're right, they appreciate it more when you make them wait. But tell me more about what happened to you at Howth.”<br /> “Oh, yes, my dear, I was just about to tell you about that. It was very strange. It was like one of those things you read about in the poems by those English poets – you know the ones that took all that opium – like the fellow who wrote about Kubla Khan.”<br /> “Coleridge.”<br /> “Who, my dear?”<br /> “Coleridge”, Janice repeated.<br />“Oh! No! I think that it was Coleridge who wrote that poem. But I'm often wrong. Sometimes I wonder if reading all about them and their adventures didn’t addle my brain a little. Have you ever tried opium?”<br /> “No!”<br /> “Good for you and neither have I. But I've heard of girls who have and then can't get enough and go running off to places like Constantinople and become white slaves to the Sultan. They take off all of their clothes, too, and let the Sultan use them carnally, if you can believe it – and all for opium. It's a shame. Someone should try to do something about it, don’t you think?”<br /> “Yes, yes it's a terrible thing, but you were telling me about Howth. You used to walk there with your young man. Did he marry you?”<br /> “Oh, no, he died years ago.” <br />She returned to her teacup as the settling sun hopscotched through holes in the clouds and through the fogged-up window. In the place between them, above the tea-stained table, dust and smoke particles gathered in the beams and were gone when the café moved beneath the clouds, but her silence remained.<br />“How did he die,” Janice asked as delicately as her curiosity would allow.<br />“Who died, my dear?”<br /> “The young man you were telling me about.”<br /> “Oh, yes, I must be getting addled. Well, let me tell you, he was walking along the cliffs one night and jumped into the sea and was never seen again.” She nodded in agreement with her own lingering statement and raised her cup again but didn't drink. “It was terrible, but I suppose in some ways it wasn’t so bad. He used to have seals come up to him, too, so I'm sure that they are good company for him now – but that might have been because he used to cut up fish.”<br /> “Cut up fish?”<br /> “Yes, dear, he worked in the fishmongers. He always brought a nice bit of plaice for my father when he called around. He used to bring mackerel, too. I'm very fond of mackerel.”<br /> “You were saying that he jumped in?”<br /> “Yes, he went mad for something or other and jumped in. He was mad surely because he was out walking alone on a bitter night in January. Perhaps he was taking opium.” And for a moment, the old woman nodded at the plausibility. “Of course, I had stopped seeing him before this on account of his going mad and all, but I heard stories from the other young women of the time. They told me that he went mad and jumped – right into the sea. I'm surprised he wasn’t broken open on the rocks on the way down, somebody was looking out for him that night.”<br /> “But he did die?”<br /> “Oh, yes, of course he died, he jumped off the cliff! But he died in one piece, and he was a fine handsome man. It would have been a shame if he had died all broken into pieces. There are some that say that he can still be seen out at Howth in January, but what kind of person would go out there then; they would have to be touched in the head, if you know what I mean. They never found his body, either. I think the seals took him down into their place under the water.”<br /> “And why do you think they did that?”<br /> “Because he smelled of fish, were you not listening to me at all?”<br />Janice sat back in her chair and looked this old woman over. Her hat was decorated with freshly plucked stems of fledgling flowers and her eye shadow was kingfisher-blue and her cheeks a smudged red. It would have made her look whorish if she wasn’t so old. She wore a slender silver chain around her neck, dangling a white gold cross on which hung the dying Jesus. She had her handbag on her lap and had folded her arms on top of it. She was about to ask for more tea when a middle-aged couple whispered together for a moment before walking straight to their table. He took the old woman by the hand and gently helped her to stand up. “Come on now, Aunt Joan, it’s time to get you back to the home.”<br /> “Who are you and what do you want with me? Are you one of the Sultan’s eunuchs?”<br /> “C’mon now, Joan,” he took her elbow firmly, but gently. “Let’s get you back to the home before the night.”<br />As they struggled to move her away the younger woman turned to Janice, “I hope she wasn’t bothering you, she's my husband’s aunt, and she gets a bit scattered sometimes. She forgets herself and gets a bit confused. I hope she wasn’t bothering you.”<br /> “Oh, no,” Janice re-assured her, “No, actually she was lovely company.” And for reasons she didn't understand, Janice added, “She was just telling me about Howth.”<br />The other woman’s face changed and she exchanged a glance with her husband before she stepped closer to Janice and spoke softly. “Did she tell you what happened that poor young man? That’s when her mind snapped, watching him fall right before her eyes. Anyway, thanks, and I hope she wasn’t a bother.”<br />They ushered the old woman out the door to the waiting car and drove off as the rain started again, hesitantly at first, until it gained the courage to pelt the streets and windowpanes. The wind tore at overcoats and twisted passing umbrellas inside out. <br /> Janice sat and stared at the street as the car rounded a corner. <br /> What was that all about? Am I crazy – is she crazy – or is all of Dublin crazy?<br /> She closed her journal and left as the evening rush began. The buses were crowded and crawled along, squealing and shuddering. She decided to walk and raised her umbrella against the teasing winds that rushed out from the passing side streets. She headed toward the Green. It was where the gentry strolled when they came to town for the season. She would find peace and collect herself among the whisperings of spring before the gates were locked.<br /> Since the English departed, the Irish had raised statues among the trees and shrubs. But they weren't the trumpeting statues of heroes who had risen in resistance. These statues celebrated the poets and playwrights who had kept the spirit alive, writers who blended myth and martyrdom, fact and fancy, and even after a half-century of church-dominated self-rule, their words still hovered. <br /> She stopped by the Yeats’ monument. Henry Moore had really got it right. She would have to paint it, the half-man, half-cross before a senate of mythology. When she squinted a little, it looked like one of the faces from Easter Island. From another side, it looked like a Spanish dancer, but from the front it was plain, the cross on a restless grave. <br /> She tugged at her journal and settled down on the cold damp stone. She flicked through the first few pages. She had a done sketch, somewhere at the beginning, one of her early ones. Ah, she found it. She had captured it and added a few notes. But there was something else, something she hadn't remembered writing;<br /> Until she came into the Land of Fairie,<br /> Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,<br /> Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, <br /> Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.<br /> And she is still there, busied with a dance <br /> Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood,<br /> Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9215177616717827477.post-4400972934211350022014-11-17T15:30:00.001-08:002014-11-17T15:30:08.001-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
Hey, he's giving books away over at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AuthorPeterDamienMurphy">https://www.facebook.com/AuthorPeterDamienMurphy</a></h2>
Peter Damien Murphyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05715936842214070845noreply@blogger.com0