More

I do believe that there is more. The loud noises appear from the negative, the blind. Beauty tends to hide behind its door. Is it embarrassed by itself, I wonder? So, does goodness fear unpopularity? And there are trends that most of us would appear to be a part of. Love and kindness, are seen as being weakly things in the eyes of the foolish strong. And the strong and mighty may well be weak in their supposed strength. When the truth is not given, all we can do is dream, with thoughts and ideas that search towards understanding. Life is crazy, there is no satisfaction of gaining the result. It just isn't there, and then there is the apparent comfort of religion, and religion is mainly created, not by God, but by men. And then we get sidetracked, arguing one religion against another, I think when we do this, we are just putting one idea against another and vainly hoping that there may be some kind of understanding at the end of the tunnel. And with spirit, it is suggested to me, that that there is more. And Spirit is quite a word in itself. And I know that I oftentimes tamper with spirit, and I know that I am weak, and in life, am a fool. I know that I have no understanding, I know that there is no possibility of being able to do this. So each day, I wake up to a new one, and it always ends up like the one before. Does life think I am a fool? And is life a friend, and should I love it? And should I place my trust in it>?

Forkan Construction

Saw a van on the Stillorgan duel carriageway declaring 'Forkan Construction.' I thought that it sounded like the exclamation of a guy who had just had it with building sites.

God Save the Queen

So there I was recently, checking my bank account balance, and don't you know, there is €2,600 that I believe, shouldn't be there, and I am troubling greatly, thinking, how the hell has this happened, and then about a week later I get a letter from the Uk Pensions people telling me that this was a backpayment to me and that they are going to give me quite a bit of money each month, and this on top of my Irish pension. So at this stage all I can say is: God Save the Queen. I have taken the soup.

Eyes

Interest bursting out of the eyes. Death to the past. Sobering in this moment of a new day. Time itself relaxes upon the now. Strength has imposed itself upon all and certainty has entered the room. Easiness has lost its way and become only tiredness. And from the sleep of its tiredness becomes vitality. There is selfishness as there has to be, but without inconsideration. Fear and the longing for escape have become consumed and dwell only on the outskirts of the mind, until they are swallowed by an old one. And the silence of the room is at one with the stillness inside. And the light will fashion the candle, as the day will fashion the weather, and the feeling is of home, and there is peace in the interest that was bursting out of the eyes.

Reciprocation

Plantation of Ulster. The Ulster Scots. Scotland inadvertently brings the sectarian problem to Ireland. The Potato Famine. Influx of people into Scotland chiefly from Donegal. Ireland, inadvertently brings a sectarian problem to Scotland. Reciprocation?

Celtic, Champions of Europe.

It is the 25th of May, a Thursday, just like today and kick off is at 5.30 in the early evening. Even these simple stats seem rather rum and odd, in the face of the present time. It is, fifty years hence, and its the European Cup Final, and unfashionable Celtic from Glasgow beat the might of Internazionale Milan, to become the first team from these islands to win the greatest prize in European soccer. Not only did the players all come from a thirty mile radius of Glasgow, but were the first club to win the coveted trophy with a group of players hailing from the same nation. Hail, hail, the Celts were there.

This Art

This art is vague, has no need to define itself. It looks all around itself, and away from itself, to wherever there is that it can look to. And as it looks away from itself, and refuses boundaries, it returns to itself in comfort. This being so, then it is a particular truth, if only a simple truth, unimposing, free to give, and dominating no-one. So then, I believe, that it is open to love, and most certainly interpretation, and it is open to opinion. It doesn't rely on embrace. It is something of an oddity in the way of life. This art stands on its own, and is lonely, and doesn't care. This art, is unreality within reality, and reality within unreality, It is weak, yet it is strong, and knows that it doesn't have to answer to anyone. And then it is strong, but will not take its strength anywhere out of itself. And the word 'art' doesn't even have to be, because so many people will subscribe to it, even unknowingly. So if art is not art, perhaps it could be God.

The Book is Closed

Oh the Judas kiss and the one of the cloth, and unclothed breasts and putting them beside me, and telling all of the story, when the recipient stands alone and just alone. So you meditate on the dream, an impossible dream that wants to stay just where it is. It has no intention of going anywhere. And on Sunday mornings, you may check the time for the service, but the service is not alive to you anymore. You are past that place. And you wonder about the weight increase and feelings within the memory of the heart, of another, and you remember that you have forgotten to ask the crucial questions, and she enters the mind periodically, and sometimes there is acceptance and sometimes you just wonder why. And this particular past has escaped to find its rest in an interpersonal history, and the story is over, and the book is closed.