Them Americans with their have a nice day what a load of shite,
Sure now patsy isn’t it grand for them
What’s fucking grand about it
Well you know they’re all smiles and happy
They are in their bollox
Ah now patsy
Listen you can’t be happy all the time it’s not natural. You have to stand back of a day and be miserable auld fucker some days and will I tell you why
I’m sure I couldn’t stop you and you knowing so much about been miserable
There’s no need to be casting dispersions now. I’ll tell you why because if your happy all the jaysus time then you get immune to it. It’s like marriage and sex.
Ah here we go
Well now hold on . You are married to the same woman for 50 years and by jaysus it’s like eating paper in the bedroom and brown paper at that. It’s the same with been happy. That’s why Irish people are content.
Why is that now
Because we like been miserable. We like the rain so we can be wet and miserable and we love funerals . There’s nothing like a good funeral remember francie reillys funeral that was a great night
Ah you never see the likes of francie again the mean bastard that he was.
He forgot where his pockets were for holding anything only handkerchiefs and thought they were for scratching himself on the sly
He was for ever at himself in the pockets
Anyway the big thing about been miserable is that it makes the good things seem even better
What you on about
A sunny day is brighter when it has followed a dark one. Same with happiness. It’s like seeing an Italian woman after a lifetime of only seeing bacon and cabbage women
Those Italians are the girls
There eating and drinking in them sure enough
The lord looked on from the burning bush and he said “Paddy I will cast you from this land and drive a flood through the plains killing all the people and animals and birds”
“Ah you cant be doing that now, all water usage is metered around here if you leave your tap on it will cost you a fortune ” Replied paddy
“I am the lord I can do as I please. You shall build an arc and take 2 of all of my creatures aboard a male and a female”
“Ah you cant do that what about the gay lads they wont be happy with that carry on”
“I am your lord I can do as I please, I will cast down death and fire upon all the sinners”
“Sure the water from the flood will destroy the fires and you would want to mind yourself sure your own bush could be put out”
“”You will the foundation of the new world. you will plant your seed and populate the world”
“With the wife”
“Ah here hold on now, have you seen her?”
“Of course I have she is one of my children”
“I was wondering who she took after? No I cant be having that. I will need a new model”
“you cant leave your wife that is fornication”
“now your talking”
“I think I may go to Israel and find Noah”
“Off you go your at nothing threatening us with floods”
“Sure Ireland is fecking flooded half of the year”
The candle light stood on the floor
And the girls they danced within
A son of Ireland stood on to see
The last time he would dance here
He took the boat upon a Sunday
When the priest words were fading
And the sea was sailing across
The broad Atlantic Coast
He took a job in Brooklyn to live
Rested in comfort among his kin
The prize money he drank of a
Tuesday when the blood was in
His eye. He sang a song of Ireland
And beat a merry drum
Awaiting in Galway among the shoals
Of Aran tweed a girl lies crying
Praying that his feet will dance again
(C) frank McGivney 28 October 2014
Come by foot on the rocky lines
Where the bird meets the song
Where your thinking runs free
And their cold touch is lost to the sun
The bar rooms floor stand proud
Where you elbow leans on the ground
And the bracken is burnt on the hills
While the land kisses the sea til it fills
Of come by the land where we dream
Of freedom once more by the streams
When the fish hit the air with wings
(C) frank McGivney oct2014
Those words just came into my mind “from here to there” and back again. But should there be a back again and if there is should the place you go back to be altered you have have just been. Perhaps by means of your self development and growth. That’s the problem isn’t it. We focus so much on the end point that we miss all the points between. The places where a turn of your head could lead you to a smile or a story . Perhaps to a path that leads you to the three bears cottage or where you help hansel and Gretha.
Even in the poem the options of two paths where one is less worn isn’t satisfactory when you could experience both path. Is human growth confined to the growth of our bones once the age of schooling is over or do we seek out all that can change and develop ourselves mentally and physically. Steroids for the mind instead of Valium to deaden the pain of free though.
Last nigh I had just killed some mean auld bollix of a husband who had the misfortune of been married to woman i was having an affair with and i’d buried him in a shallow grave up the mountains and on the way back i picked up some queer one from the quays and sure after I had my way with her and didnt i dump her in the river. Then I was relaxzing after washing out the blood at home and sitting down with a glass of whiskey and that mad whore from number nine decides to blow feck out of the whole estate by committing suicide by lighting a match while the gas from the oven had filled his kitchen. Just then I realised its time for the bed because I couldnt see the keyboard with the tiredness when all of a sudden a book catches my eye, a book I cant remember buying. It started whispering to me “Franky stop typing I want to tell you a story”. So I look at it and I wonder how come I’m still hearing voices in my head when the doctor said he had me all cured up. So I took a holde of the book and I put on the glasses and I take a big slug of water and I listen to Patrick McCabe start to tell me about a young lad from Ireland who becomes a teacher. The sky get dark and the stars climb higher and I can hear myself saying “Paddy that’s a fine story boy , i think i’ll be reading the rest of it and any other auld stories you may have to offer, I still remember the Butcher boy and the Dead school looks to be a monster of a read too Bucko” I dont know if they will find our man up the mountain or your one in the river and his wife has given up on me but sure a few keystrokes and all that can change
Why we are who we are and proud to be it
That’s all he had to do to keep them away from him. Just rub a bit of cow manure on himself and the smell kept them at bay. It was a shame to do it to the Sunday best and often the mother would give out shocking to him. But at least it kept them at a distance and even if they ventured close enough to use fists on him well then the smell would stop it quickly.
He would cry years later in a field in West Virginia when that pungent smell hit his nose from where he had stepped in a big pile of manure from an American Cow. It brought back the sense of those hardy lads, the bullies who made themselves out to be big men when all they were really was cowards and bollixes of the highest order.
‘Come here paddy” their words used to freeze his mind and body as they called him from the broken wall where they sat, laughing and gouling about everuone that had the misfortune to pass them by. A good kisk up the arse is what them corner boys need is what my mother used to say. I had a gun and bullets in my mind.
Extract from a novel I may write some day . Wrote on phone so excuse spelling etc. is mise le meas mo chairde
I dream of writing both awake and asleep, it’s something that reaches into my soul at all times. Both sides of the same coin it doesn’t matter which side that pops up head or tails . The two side being reading and writing. I don’t feel I have achieved any real quality in my writing but I do sometimes see where I want to get to as a tiny pinpoint far distant in my horizon. I stretch and reach for it and someday I hope I get to it. If it turns out good then I will look to the next horizon but I know it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. That’s the aim of course to be different so that those who like it love it and those who dont well they can only hate it because of its distance from the norm of warm comforting sunsets.
I was listening to stories and thinking to myself sure wouldn’t it be great to be able to write them lovely tales of times gone by or of lovers in fields of gold or of a fisherman sailing across the broad Atlantic foam.
Then I realised the reason why I cant tell you about the green leaves melting into the crimson beauty of autumns rain. Why I can’t tell you how the sunset looked of a winters day as the purple of the evening sky faded into the star filled world of dreams. I also realised I didn’t want to tell you those things because I have read stories by people much more talented than me who have in beautiful prose and with elegant sentences alreadydescribed the sentiments and the beauty.
I want to look at the other side I want to see how the moon looks on the dark side away from the earth. I want to tell you how the drug dealer feels as he put a bullet into your knee cap. Its my job to tell you how the mind of the crazy person works as he stumbles along lonely roads stretching his hand out to spread his madness.
My stories want to lie in that rat infested corner where damp seeps into the lost child’s clothes and tell you how he escapes from the crap the world throws at him but maybe he doesn’t escape.
When the hunter is standing over the dead prey I want to tell you the feeling in the jaws of the lion as he attacks and tears his skin from his bones.
But then I want to tell you how the lonely man feels inside how his hearts yearns for the plain girl with the cross eyes and the pimples. If you want to read about the blonde blue eyed girl and the handsome lover then mills and boon is awaiting for your money
Most of all, I say most of all I want to write what the people inside my head tell me to write which from the echoes i am hearing is different to what I expected and sure isn’t that something to aim for. To meet the definition of normal is a boring objective but to look at things from the inside out while hanging upside down well then that makes me want to tie a rope to my feet and jump of that bridge.