In the Evening

No-one has anywhere to go this evening. They are lost inside of the wilderness, which is somewhere in the area of living. A dream explodes, it works its way into the consciousness, it tempts and it beguiles, it is lost in itself actually. Affection is on the periphery, waiting to play its part, it just stands there alone always, Angels sing and feelings meet them with some king of gratitude, the clock is on fire and it targets the one that it seeks. And nights have a habit of showing their darkness to the rest of the world. My eyes are open and I feel a sense of ignorance around me somewhere. It tries to work its way into me, but it is of course refused. And I spoke to ignorance and I tried to understand the reason for my expression, and it just seemed to stand there, staring at me, without a mind. And this mind seemed to think that it was related to me somehow, and I of course, turned from it, and I hope that I didn't treat it with any kind of cruelty, I was aiming to be kind, and I am not sure, that it worked.

Tomorrow (for Cormac)

Eyes diverting from the greying love, brightness comes within, it captures the eyes, and memory fades. Across the street, there is haze, in a place where there is uncertainty. Spirit is forever and it shines, always, eventually, in a sacred and secret part of the soul. Everywhere, is the past brought into the present. There is no death in a life, that cannot live anymore, there is change, and it is welcoming. And simple ones with eyes closed creating or trying to create some kind of hurt, die in themselves, in the way, that they are blinded to the fullness of an existence, and life is more than just life in the physical, and its strength is in its mystery. I thought that I heard a young man laugh, in the face of the fatal adversity. I looked into my memory, and I looked into the direction of truth, or where I thought that it lay, and it warmed me with its embrace, and urged me understand that death is not a tragedy, and that every moment of life has its necessary death. And life pulsates, and it takes you by the throat and it stills you, into thinking, that there is more, much more.

Cormac

Yesterday my first born son, Cormac, left this world just hours after telling me that he loved me, and I him, in a beautiful goodbye. You will live inside of me, my boy, until we meet again.

St Patrick's Day 2013

St Patrick's Day 2013 I believe I will remember. I was walking around town and got a grasp of how this is a very open and broad international party, where everyone is welcome. There was a Pipe Band from the New York Fire Department, and other bands and groups from different parts of America even from Louisiana. I spoke with a couple seeking directions, who were from Philadelphia. I saw about five people in traditional Chinese costume, looking more than attractive. I walked along the quays looking for a way that was open for me to go to the district called The Liberties, which is a place I often walk in. And on Meath Street, I was walking past a pub and heard music that is familiar to me, goes right back to my youth, and is very lyrical 'Love is teasing and love is pleasing, love is a pleasure when first is new, but as it grows older, so love grows colder, and it fades away like the morning dew' Strangely, as it turns out I had thought of this song just a day or two ago. And I didn't recognise who was singing and playing this song, and there is a lady standing in the doorway of the pub having a cigarette, and there was a notice on the window advertising Live Music. So I approached the woman and asked her if the music was recorded or Live, and I looked at her and she looked at me and she exclaimed 'John' and I exclaimed 'Karen.' When I had first been married, back in the early eighties I lived with my wife and children in a block of flats in Dun Laoghaire in County Dublin. Karen had been friends with the daughter of my next door neighbour, Janice, and as it turned out, she still is, because after she had finished her smoke we went back into the pub to meet Janice Such a long time I almost didn't want to meet. But we did meet and we exchanged recent histories, and Janice had a younger brother named Paul who very young back then, and whom I babysat a couple of times, and then she told me, he had been murdered when he was 21.

The Reason for the Dream

And when I awoke I changed my mind about who it was that I had been dreaming of. I guess to my mind, she had fitted my dream a bit more. Her hair was the proper colour and her eyes had been giving. I pondered on the idea of the reason for the dream, and I smiled to let myself know that I couldn't know. And somewhere in the wilderness of the mystery of dream there is subjection. It dares to focus on me, in its tantalising way with a certain imprisonment. And the life of the dream dies somehow in the awakening, it may not proceed into the living day. And in the death of the sleep lives the dream, and in the life of my living becomes the death of my dream. And following from the reason for the dream becomes, the reason for the life, and the answer is still the same. I wonder if nature dreams when it is still and at peace with itself, and if the reality of nature is different from its dream. There are no conclusions, and the mind must follow the spirit and the soul. The mind is just a place of delusion ultimately, that leads us on to knowing what we cannot know. I wonder if that is why the mind must dream. Perhaps it must escape from the reality of the futility of itself, to find itself in a credible place.

Love Without Touch

Today, I sensed that real love, where there is no touch involved, where words declaring love for another person are not to be said. A tacit kind of thing, but its suggestion is dwelling within, and only takes the right time in the right moment for one to gain this understanding. So, not the obvious love, but love itself in great purity.

Colours

Fantasy in varying degrees, planning its assault on certain reality. Fantasy in the place of magic, feeding emotions, strengthening the eyes of wonder. The dream lies asleep, it has tired and is old, it will soon become, no more. Memory doesn't tend to recall fantasy so much, it deals much more in the real, and often in the negatives, the disappointments, perhaps memory can look like it is in a morbid place. Its Sunday and the Horse Protestants are remembering the British war dead in their Irish home. Some wear Poppies and pray for the souls of their martyrs. And I think of unity and understanding and that is about as far as I can get. Neon visions appear, they scream out their expressions. They suggest, and they imply, and they fire. And then they are gone, but for in the memory, and this is where it all begins. In the mind the memory of colours translates to words and music and other art. Screaming colours engage again, they seem to choose who they wish to cling to, they will not evaporate, they will live and dwell.

Nighttime

Another beer on a Saturday night, after The Bhoys done well. And the firm foundation of yesterday's decisions has subsided to a quagmire. I avoid the mirror of my conscience, it can only show its displeasure with me. And the night moves on, bland in its darkness in the lack of imagination. But really in the living mind, it is just a day that has grown a little tired and is reclining. And the black of the night is just a variation of the colours of the day, and if you are to be afraid of the night, I wonder if you would have to be afraid of the day too? And tonight the vampires and the zombies are waiting in the wings. They seem to know the way that it is supposed to go, and all I can do is gaze unknowingly at their possibility. So the sky has gone to sleep, and suggests that I should ease down, though perhaps I would care to have an argument with this particular nighttime. Astral travel stares me in the face, wonders if I would care to climb aboard, perhaps it was a suggestion from the zombies. And I see the zombies in all that I have loved and are gone, and the beauty cannot be misplaced, it remains and is in place with love. And I think sometimes that to think about tomorrow is to think about a certain death. So I guess I can be scared into thinking exclusively of today. And nighttime is the mystery of the day. Darkly provocative and sexual, putting the emphasis on the self. It has blanked life out in its way, but of course, it is yet to succeed. So perhaps it has thrown the gauntlet down, it has suggested; 'Go on deal with me, show me if you can see through my darkness?

The Reason for the Existence of Tears?

Standing outside of the place where your lovers stray, gazing to the religious experience called love, you cast a side on glance, let it be known that your love wasn't to be for me, as I let you know that my love wasn't to be for you. Nonetheless there were songs about you, innocent songs of an innocent time. Songs I believe that were just of a basic connection, nothing more. And you touched me with your duplicity, and it took a while for me to understand. But the soul, doesn't believe in liars, and it awakens one to what is true, when the heart is ready to embrace this truth, when it is true indeed. And when the heart and truth are aligned then the spirit awakens to inform that the truth is a warming thing, is a precious thing, is a loving thing. And tears don't wish to cry for ever, and they will seek to find a reason not to, these tears will reach into the world of the self, for the reason that they should not exist. This may well be the reason for the existence of tears.

Life has Changed

Easing through the foam of the outskirts of my sanity. Waiting for the party to begin. A kind word beckons, says more than its kind word says. The party has begun. Words and a voice had filled my head prompting me to decision. I walked out in the cold day, with strength in my thought and eyes on the present time. And in the midst of walking in the cold day, I thought of sweet cold Canada, and life in Northern Ontario. And the party is at play and its mind tries to capture the drifting ideas that play in the head. And from Canada, to the evening sky in a motion, gently perusing a spirit singing in the voice of a song. Moving on and away, the feeling brightens until it warms. Magnetic life has pervaded an early darkness, a thought returns brought by a feeling. And now the inevitable is not the inevitable any longer. Life has changed somehow, giving this flirtatious wink in the middle of a business day. And for the recent past and for life itself and its subjects I try to let anger not get in the way, when once again, there was wrongness in the things that she embraced. I have a dream of life, when it is vibrant and true, when it throttles to get its result, when it insists on concordance, when it tyranises the stillness, of the peace, of the quietude. Life has come to play and looks through an open window, through the rain. And the fog begs for release and life relents when that same fog will attempt to turn to fire. And in the outskirts of my life, the psychical world, within its world, within my world, within the world. Angels break through, and search into eyes for understanding. They look for a way, and the way that there must be through negativity, in this moment, there is no yesterday and there is not today and there is no tomorrow. There is just the power of now.

Home

Cinnamon evening, from a morning of shallow discomfort, when the rain refused to call, to endorse a suspicious belief that was floating around my anxious head. Love can be a cowardly thing, in the way that it doesn't want to deal with reality. Somewhere in the vampire evening, in the reaches of the past, a friend comes to call. The wolf howls at her moon. And the past is never gone when it lives in the memory of today. It just requires just a little more understanding and a little more patience, to accept that it really is here in this evening of mine. I thought I heard an angel cry. And through the song there was strength, and through the song, there was wondering if the past could re-live itself in a dusty moment of now. Truth is fog, and is pursued in dream. and lies somewhere perhaps, between the dream and the reality. And then there was a blinding sun in February and I felt that I should screen my eyes from the illusion that it suggested. And colours fill the heart, seeking to be reconciled to the places where they belong. And in this wild confusion, the moment is prayerful and its peace attacks diversity and indifference. And home has come to call, and is looking for will. It will not accept passivity and it will not accept ease. It comes to provoke one into the search, into being where home is thought to be.