One man and his beat…
2 in the afternoon. The lad at the bus stop was dancing. Taken over by a beat, a beat unheard by the rest of us. And shaking his head like there was no tomorrow. Musta been some good shit coming through those headphones.
People looked at him like he was half cracked. He could see them look at him like that but he didn’t care. Because he was lost in the music. And I bet he didn’t give a fuck how long the bus was taking to arrive. But everyone else was staring up the road counting the seconds, worrying, fretting about this about that. I bet he doesn’t worry about much.
So keeping dancing lad. They’re the ones missing out.
The bus arrived, he bopped on and air-drummed his way into town.
And why not? He’s dead fucking right. I just wish I could’ve heard his beat.
As days go…
Today began with an umbrella and ended with the very same umbrella, except a damn sight more windswept. Its fragile spine broken. Feels like an analogy.
No this was not a vintage day by any stretch of the imagination. No no.
I often say “what’s the worst that could happen?”. For once I don’t want to know the answer.
There were lost keys, a ropey ladder and forgotten purposes.
There was frustration, much frustration.
There was a plan to share some love that quickly became an opportunity lost. Lost but in no way gone forever. I’ll make up for it I promise.
There were people being nice. Many of. And me being grateful only in hindsight. I’ll make up for it I promise.
There was a bus that left early. And in so doing leaving me behind.
There was, and is, a sense of trepidation. That ever-ominous “what if…?”.
There was rain. Real rain.
There was a frisky young couple at the bus stop. Heavy petting in a shelter that smelt of piss.
There was the choice of standing in the rain or feeling part of an unwanted threesome. I stood under the shelter. I felt, and still feel, the need to have a shower.
No as days go this was not a vintage one by any stretch of the imagination. No no. And not even the best efforts of Florence and the Machine could make it any better.
But there are promises to keep.
And there will be brighter, finer days.
Soon, real soon. Of that I am certain.
A bit more for luck…
I quite enjoy cooking but often have neither the time nor the ingredients to do it as much as I’d like. But when I do I’m a fucker for throwing in a bit extra here and there. Recipes go out the window and I improvise a great deal. Mostly it works out fine, sometimes with great results. But on the odd occasion the aul meatballs become gloopy or tacos reach near lethal levels of spice explosiveness.
Recently it’s been pointed out to me that that’s how I lead my life in general and I guess it is. Another dash of this, a splash of that. I guess I feel the need to introduce a little of my own personality to the boring rules a recipe imposes. I enjoy trying to make things individual. I’m not one for sticking to the script too much; I find improvisation often gives better results. And even if the results aren’t better… there’s more fun to be had with a different approach.
Life is definitely more interesting when you throw in a little bit more for luck. And sure isn’t it all about the journey and not the destination as Aerosmith once sang?!?
ps. I fucking hate Aerosmith.
We’re the heirs to the glimmering world…
I’ve just cycled home from work but in a completely different direction to that which I usually do. Tonight Dublin felt different. Quiet and mine. For just a moment.
A fox ran across my path and looked as shocked as I did. A heron stood proud. Calm as calm can be. Not a bother on him.
I smiled thinking of the re-emergence of Joe Higgins. Great slogan, “the best fighter money can’t buy”. Good luck to him.
I chortled thinking of the demise of Declan Ganley. Good riddance to him and his croneys.
I thought of people I know in Setanta who are facing troubling times, people like Radge. I wish them all the luck in the world.
I thought of my own situation. There’s every chance I won’t have a job by year end.
I thought of what else I might do. I’m convincing myself the world will still turn and things will turn around eventually. They will. We’ll get away with it. We always do.
I thought of my brother who tells me it could well be the best thing that ever happens to me. I admire his optimism. I live in hope.
I cycled home. And it felt good.
A life-size replica…
Twice, I tripped as I walked up the gloriously appointed steps of the Lighthouse. My mind and body confused, seperate. Everything akimbo.
Then I caught my reflection in a glass building as I cycled past. I swear blind my reflected self was cycling faster than my real self. Bizarre.
As I cycled on I saw a couple jog past. Literally seconds later the same couple jogged past in the exact same direction as before. How? I do not know.
The world seemed disjointed.
I guess that’s just what happens when you go and see Synecdoche, New York.
An open door…
There’s something quite subliminal about doors, especially those which we don’t know what lies behind. A certain mystery, a sense of wonder. Not like in the Bosco sense. More in the real life what the fuck is behind that open door and why the fuck is it open sense.
Last night I got home from work just after midnight. I live in an old style, suburban apartment block. And sadly I don’t know any of my neighbours. A few faces to say hello to but no-one’s name. Such is modern living I guess.
At the moment the lift is broken and the lights in the hall are on in the daytime and off at night. A sensor problem I’m told. Anyway the place is quite eery at night.
When I got to my floor last night I noticed the door of the apartment across from mine was open. There were no lights on behind the door. Slightly ajar I suppose but enough to pique my curiousity.
I don’t know who lives in that apartment but I wondered why the fuck is the door open at this time of night? People usually know better and in this day and age you just never know.
I walked to the door, heart beating a little faster, darkness abound, and just listened.
Silence. No sign of anything going on behind the open door.
I thought what to do, what to do? I’d no reason to intrude, no real reason to call the Gardaí.
So I left it, opened my own door and went home. But it didn’t leave me. I lay in bed wondering why that door was open. A gangland killing? A burglary? Was there a Buffalo Bill type behind that door? Would I have to go all Rorschach on it? I choose my friends, I make my enemies, but have no say in who lives across the hall. I couldn’t sleep.
So I got back up out of bed, opened my door and walked out into the hall.
And lo and behold… the door was still open. I walked over and slowly put my hand on the handle.
“Hello….”.
Time and tide…
This morning I cycled along the coast road to the bridge at Bull Island. A tad breezy for my liking but still a nice Spring morning all the same. I locked the rothar and walked the rest of the way towards the half tide wall.
When I got to the end of the path I saw an elderly man walking back along the rocks from the lighthouse. Something golden glimmered in his hands.
The rocks were a bit of a struggle. It’s not the easiest walk at the best of times and this man was no mountain goat but he was persistent. I took my place on an empty bench, watched him slowly scale the rocks and listened to Fake Empire by The National.
After about ten minutes he finally made it onto steadier ground under the Réalt na Mara monument. He sat down on the bench beside me to catch his breath and placed a golden urn at his side. He looked back from where he’d walked, in the direction of the lighthouse. The sea breeze made his combover dance. He looked at peace. Content.
When he caught his breath he stood up and picked up the urn. He gave me that nod that only aul fellas can give and walked on his way back towards the road. I nodded back.
As I watched him walk away I wondered who he was and where he was going. Moreso, I wondered who was in the urn. Was it a lifelong love? An old friend? A pet? Who knows? Not I.
I should’ve paused The National and said hello. I think he would’ve been only too happy to tell me his story. But now I’ll never know. And that’s a shame.
As the breeze blew across Dublin Bay I wondered if he’d ever seen The Big Lebowski? I wish I’d asked him.
If, but but but, if….
I fucked up. I knew it. Worse still, he knew it. I had concocted a conspiracy theory and had a stubbornnesss any mule would be proud of. I tried to begin with a “but….” and was promptly cut off. I then went for the big “if…”. I didn’t get far. For he had the line…
“Yeah but if your Auntie had balls she’d be your Uncle”.
A slight grin followed. And right then and there I know it’d be okay. It had to be, for there is no come back to that immortal line.
Work. Life. Spring.
A breeze. A scent. A sense of life.
Spring. The sun. A golden light.
A car. Red car. Go slow. White door.
A sound. A band. Of marquee moon.
A man. Old man. No plan. Grey beard.
A haze. A hum. Mechanical strum.
A girl. Short skirt. He looks. She likes.
A child. No cares. No hair. All smiles.
A day. A life. A walk to work.
