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.

Imperfection

Communication is imperfect, as you and I are in this imperfect world/life. Truth dwells within itself, we are not given to it. It would seem not to have the requisite love for us, to reveal itself. Words, as intended expressions of feelings, futile ultimately and futile immediately. So in all of this, we seek comfort and attempt to find it in one another, and perhaps within our own selves. And to look within is to look at the whole of experience, relationship and the lack of it, and of course the relationship with the self, and there then can be the tyrannizing mirror, with memory in place. So then the search begins, Some look for God, some focus on the earth and its nature, some even marry the rest of humanity in their search for God, believing that God is within them, within humanity, and not alien to the existence. Spirit and Soul will invite you to another dimension, away from human life. Human life is born to die, to be rid of, to be discarded, along with its imperfections. Life is more than breathing, and death is more than not. Perhaps death, may open the doorway to perfection.

We are Free

Socialism is crap. Toryism is crap. We are all our own personal characters, and cannot be emcompassed by narrow ideas. We are people, and as long as we are people with ideas, we will thrive. Self expression has to be seized from within our existance. Let us be free.

Dublin Seagulls

Ok a few short weeks ago, on Mary Street, a great big Seagull, robbed a sandwich from out my hand. I think I can take that. But this morning, after buying a cheeseburger on Grafton Street, it gets robbed too.

Its Funny Sometimes

Its funny sometimes, when you aren't feeling good about yourself, not projecting yourself, being alone and inward, someone or two will seek you out, in a kind of protection. Cool.

The Death of Leonard Cohen

When an artist dies, I find myself in the position of asking myself, how much did they really mean to me. Then I try to recall the number of their albums that I had ever had in my collection. Well, I recall that I had four Leonard Cohen albums in my collection, so he must have meant quite a bit to me.

Bob Dylan and the Nobel Prize for Literature

Bob Dylan, and the Nobel Prize for Literature: A great music Icon, wrote his 'protest' songs in the mid sixties, when it was cool to do so. He was something of an actor, embracing, something that wasn't really in his heart, and in recent times, has just about said the same. Phil Ochs wrote better social comment, and actually believed in what he was writing and singing. As for 'Literature,' the people who are responsible are guilty of misrepresenting Literature, by awarding this accolade to a much acclaimed songwriter, thereby dismissing the efforts of those truly involved in writing for the page. I hope the Masons, of which Bob is one, had nothing to do with this. I rest my case.

7th Day of July

So that day finally came upon life, And up until then I had been a stranger to it. Light in the sky and darkness in the night of this day, like any other. And then, the day has travelled on once again, I guess it was to be expected. It moves into the memory of days, So then there is another day to focus upon. Isn't it funny how the past seems to remain when it is gone? And the people who once were, in this past can remain the same, and remain, are recreated within the love for them that you find inside? I guess that love knows no time. Will not change according to the calendar of days. And the spectrum of love can never change, and who it springs between, and who it remains in the heart with. And in this visitation to life, all you have to do is decease from the thinking of now, until you look around at what has been given to you in your life, and see what there is and has been and remains and is and always will be. There is no past in love, it lets go of its moment only to be renewed as it is remembered, embraced and indeed, loved. So there is no escape, there is no release. You are apparently trapped within the love that you found in this life for yourself, and to be in touch with this, you have to be stilled, and get into the slowness and the peace of it all. It will follow you in your life, it is you. and you needn't fear, unless you fear life itself. And if you fear this life that you are living, and fear your feeling and the ones that you shared feeling with, then you aren't really alive anymore.