Sunday, March 18, 2007

Right one roll the perfect spring for cycling and aurally imbibe on continual play, U2. How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.

A few days before Patrick's day the summer seemed not so far away, but now it looks no longer believable. Spring is upon us. Wednesday was warm, but a cold front sprung in and yesterday, for the first time, I saw slush in Dublin. There are frequent hail storms, a bitter North Easterly and the folk below me are engaged in the thrall of a visceral domestic disagreement, silent sulks, hurled insults, slowly their relationship of continual degeneration bubbles and begins a faint background orbit in one's domestic aural space.

For the past few day the noise quota has increased and they are clearly having a tough time, as most at some point experience. I wish them well and hope reality lives happily ever after with them. Worst case scenario I have a Daily Mail to defend me. I'm sure some of the columnists dishing up the answers on everything from how a stetson affects wider society to where Paddy the plasterer stood in a passage tomb at Newgrange last winter solstice, will drive over from D4 to my rescue. Bundle me in the SUV and whisk off to Raglan Road or Ranelagh. Let me live within the heart of their family on a small stipend perhaps, a manuscript as collateral for larger sums, should the need to leave my daily routine of seeking wisdom through friendship with Trevor the tramp at the canal, where we do a lot of good work for the universal psyche.

Send out the positive thought of two men who have turned their minds to many pictures over many years of working on the bench tackling current events together, finding wisdom through friendship with a tramp of ephemera and conundrum whose diverse interests range from eels to divinity and some say he knows the spirit awaiting Saimhan eve is within us, that pets share not their owners intelliegence, the human mind is an animal man.

Thus spake Carol today in the paper, hack-writer imparting her wisdom for a mortgage, kids and career with a platform
squares have cornered, all rowed up like a block wall of opinion and blather in print. Carol is a true messiah with a solution for everything. Never does she sign off before having mauled in ink whoever got lashed into and strung up, hung out in her column. Be it the wife of very talented soccer player David, Victoria Beckham who Carol was imploring through the office of her page to put on weight, or Brittney Spears - who is probably unaware Carol exists - who she regularly chides, offers the content of the day in her urbanic mind and wasting anybody's time who reads her for any purpose other than indulging in a brief skin of pointlessness, which is a regular occurence in Carol's column, who is continually urging Mrs Beckham to impliment numerous and far reaching changes in her private life, affecting to instigate an unwanted relationship with Posh, who Carol sometimes loses her rag with - only as a concerned potential friend of a celebrity who clearly isn't interested in taking her advice and may only read her column to laugh at she who seeks to give an incredibly wealthy stranger who actively takes no interest in her, free advice, and the increasingly bizzare behaviour of Carol has caused me some concern, which is why I have decided to go public with my true feelings about Carol, as a construct.

Having no contact with Carol, our relationship is purely fictional on my part, but that's OK, I don't mind. I have a public duty to Carol to maintain a level of concern for her as a fellow artist and, someone who takes it upon themself to assume a duty of public concern, like Carol who displays all the traits of a woman obsessed with another women, who happens to be younger and thinner, which has no bearing on Carol's professional relationship with Victoria. Carols just a concerned hack whose got deadlines and has to turn in her masterpieces several times a week. Burnout rate in columnists is very high, as it's essentially a job of bitching, cut throat, lots of negative reiki and miserable old queens.

There can be only one supreme goddess in the hack world and the chance of becoming one as a regular gob spouting in the blah blah la pond of journalism can make for a toadying time of intrique, subterfuge, boredom and an artistic lean spell if the hack has aspirations of finding inner tranquility via the route of language to the eye of it's mystery and heart of understanding, stick the boot sap love comrade

The newspaper has comprehensive sports coverage, but acts primarily as an open letter to various public figures, in which advice is offered via any number of professional journalists featuring in their numerous columns, many of whom are women with a modern world-view, holding down a career in the arts and juggling the demands of public life with family,a very important part of all our lives, and the columns plead with whoever it is, to take their advice about diet, domestic set up, getting divorced and generally moaning a lot, using the celebs as a hanger for ones bitchy cloak, the common literary register responsible for
the much sought after ticket to a magical event in the mind of a man from Co Meath who is a full time fantasist, peace and tranquility advocate and the pre-requisite for a poet hoping to confidently skate and figure the trace of his travels through slamming doors, sudden weighty thuds and other ephemera in the domestic ambience of acoustic topography, where some conduct the campaign at a front line of their literature.

Utopian-paint bore eloquent, bono poetic ear, some say his inner belief equals Sir Paul's and Saint Bob's perfect song, One Love, where a working class hero is the fun thing to be and a compassionate sound from our children who seek guidance from His goodness say, Speke; but one name of the all powerfull Dagda or, humanity.

Canada, New York, Malden
Masschusetts, Calgary
Alberta, Rock Springs Wyoming
Kansas - Eudora, Palm Desert
California, London Lambeth
Ontario - Dryden, Helena
Montana, Reno Nevada
Kentucky - Printer, United
Kingdom, States and China.