MAUREEN WALSH - DAPHNIA

PIGEON TOES

2012-01-24T14:27:00.000-08:00

PIGEON TOES

So there you are again
My grey-feathered friend,
Gliding, fluttering, hovering....
An all-round performer of music hall ilk.
Singer.... dancer.... acrobat,
Could you not take me with you....
If only for ten minutes,
To soar above chimney-potted roofs;
To swing on TV aerials and skinny branches;
To watch through blinking eyes of wisdom
To muse upon the boxes below
That house our fragile humanity.
An unexpected gust of Sidhe's impatience
Threatens to unnerve; unbalance
But never uncurls the solid claw.

I might not sing as well as you,
But I might make you smile....
Smile, that is, at my willingness.
I might not dance as well as you,
But I might make you laugh....
Laugh, that is, at my pigeon toes.
I might not soar as well as you
But I might make you cry....
Cry, that is, at my helplessness.

Out of my box....
To glide.... to flutter.... to hover,
Just ten minutes.
Would it hurt to try?

Maureen Walsh - Jan 2012

I was introduced recently to the song, WILLOW performed by Beverly Sills. It is simple, soaring, and quite, quite beautiful! Whilst not Irish, the song makes me homesick for Ireland. Please click onto the link below to experience a musical gem.

http://youtu.be/hNg8VGrIqls

Ciao for now

INDIA CALLING

2012-01-01T12:58:00.000-08:00

My youngest daughter, Katy is flying out of London Heathrow tonight to travel around India for six weeks. She has been planning and saving like crazy for this trip for the last ten or twelve months. Sinead, a friend and herself will be working with street children in Calcutta; taking in some meditation and yoga with the monks at Varanasi; and taking a two week trek to the base camp of Everest in Nepal. She will return home for two weeks and then she's off to Vancouver in Canada on a two year visa to live and work in the music business.

We dropped Katy to Dublin airport this afternoon, and as I watched her checking in her back pack, which contained only 5 items of clothing, I saw only a little girl... well, perhaps a teenage schoolgirl. Long blond hair ...plaited; no make up, boots, scruffy khaki combats and loose, blue shirt! ('I'm going to India mum!!!' she would remind me.) Standing there floating in expectant excitement and oblivious to my watchful eye; she looked more ALIVE than I had ever seen her. A moment I shall never forget.

Dance ...Katy....dance!

Some Indian music

http://youtu.be/jAgRxpMzeCk

THE EXECUTION

2011-12-31T14:45:00.000-08:00

THE EXECUTION

I'll raise a glass

To your execution,

As you wind your way down

Through the last stubborn ten.

Your death will be swift;

One strike and it's done;
Befitting the hero;
The battles you've won.

Defeats, you have ushered
Through frustrated finger tips,
Fault of kisses blown hellwards
Out of bruised mortals' lips.

In the shadows, your son stands
Aloft, from your breast.
And collects severed head;
In your armour he's dressed.

He'll fight with your valour
He'll roar in your truth
So sleep well gentle Father
Son's mighty in your shoes.

Maureen Walsh - December 31st 2011

See you in the New Year

Ciao for Now!

BUFFY THE TURKEY SLAYER REVOLTS

2011-12-28T02:11:00.000-08:00

Trying to prepare a scrumptious stuffing and roast the perfect turkey is something I have tried to achieve for many, many years. Some years, the stuffing might be pretty tasty, but the turkey collapses, and then sometimes the stuffing isn't too hot, but the turkey still looks like a turkey; maybe a little dry, but reasonably edible. I have even watched Fanny Craddock; the original, 'not so sure' female version of Jamie Oliver,(if the voice box is anything to go by) of the 50/60's black and white TV era, and followed her(?) instructions to the letter.

I went into my local butcher, Martin in Bansha and ordered my ham and a 'boned and rolled' turkey. After much deliberation over my desire to see a turkey that looked like a real turkey, I decided that in my idealism was outdated and it was time to cop on. I was to make my own stuffing and then the expert butcher's hands would do the necessary 'strapping in'. When I called to collect the turkey, that, quite honestly, could have been pork, lamb or any other kind of whitish meat, Martin said he loved my stuffing and even asked for the recipe. 'Nice one...good start' I thought. 'This might just be THE YEAR!'

Thought I'd go with the turkey bag this year and sliced up an orange and a lemon (not quite sure where I picked up that tip) and popped them in alongside the 'slab' of turkey. OK the turkey did not look like a turkey, but when I opened the bag, the meat was moist ...delicious, and the stuffing wasn't bad either. I was rather pleased with myself and the gang seemed to thoroughly enjoy. I was looking forward to my favourite part, which was to slicing it cold and eating it with pickles and chutney on St. Stephens Day. Now this is where Buffy makes her entrance.

Buffy, our dog, who strayed into my car several years ago was put on a strict diet recently, because her digestive system is no longer able to deal with MEAT, not even OUR OWN freshly-cooked meat as opposed to the normally quite highly-rated Pedigree Chum. The vet suggested PURINA, which looks like horse nuts for all the world. She tolerates them, but makes mealtimes quite difficult for us with her sad demeanour and pleading eyes, as we tuck into steak or chicken. Buffy was not a happy camper at all!

I

Buffy spends her night time sleeping in either, her own cosy bed or on her own special throw that is flung onto one of the couches before going to bed. Christmas night was no exception. However, when we got up on St. Stephen's morning, we were met with disaster in the kitchen. The turkey lay on the floor, gnawed at; and my favourite oval plate was in smithereens. Buffy had GUILTY stamped all over her, and flashing like red neon lights in her eyes! Now we (and of course that should read 'I') should have moved the turkey onto the kitchen worktop or onto the middle of the dining table, and of course, it wasn't Buffy's fault. After all, she is a dog and up until recently...a carnivore!

Something tells me, that Buffy had her eye on that turkey from the moment it came into the kitchen. She had decided she had had enough of our meat deprivation order and was going to REVOLT. What better way than to make sure that none of us would enjoy the pleasure of turkey, if she couldn't! She succeeded! She spent most of St Stephens Day in Coventry, but wiled her way back into our hearts after a few disappointed hours with no cold turkey and home-made chutney lunches.

.

Anyway, the turkey was good. Buffy can testify to that! Ah well, it's only food!

Ciao for now!

HAPPY CHRISTMAS

2011-12-24T14:35:00.000-08:00

Wishing all my friends, fellow bloggers, followers and occasional visitors a very Happy Christmas and a very peaceful but exhilarating New Year.

Just settling down to watch MUPPETS CHRISTMAS CAROL with my family in front of a roaring fire. My heart goes out to all those who have recently lost a loved one and to anyone who feels lonely, sick or hungry.

A little Christmas poem:

CHRISTMAS HOMECOMING

Wipe your feet and just walk in
Everything's where it's always been.
Flames in the hearth, candles lit,
Pull over the chair where you always sit.

Take off your shoes, warm your toes,
There's love in your heart, the sparkle shows.
Making a wish as you close your eyes,
May it come true by early sunrise!

Maureen Walsh December 24th 2010 ©

Because Christmas just isn't Christmas for me without Christmas carols; I would like to share my all-time favourite, O Holy Night performed by Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti.

http://youtu.be/V7uiqRCW6I8

Ciao for now!

PASSION FRUIT AND PAPAYA - A LOVE STORY

2011-12-22T17:11:00.000-08:00

PASSION FRUIT AND PAPAYA - A LOVE STORY

'Is there anyone sitting there?'
Said the red anorak with a smile.
'Not that I know of!'
Said a blue woollen jacket
Neat on a flowing floral skirt,
Spiced with indifference.
'I missed my bus....!'
And flushed cheeks make to sit down
On an already-taken Stephen's Green bench.
Panic!
The blue, pink and mauve pansies
Fumble left to the edge....
To maintain the distance:
'Damn that bus!'
The red hood comes down
As the piercing rain gives up,
But her walls of self-preservation,
Withhold....
Strong....
Stalwart....
Cemented with fear.
Not content to look straight ahead;
He turns towards her.
'Fear of us!
It'll make Christmas shopping a lot easier
Anyways....
Anyways, as I was saying....
................................job.....
........broke...............flat.......
.....missed........interview........
........girlfriend...........ring.........!'
'Why is he telling me all this....
A perfect stranger!
Christ another orphan stone
Reaching out for.... for....!'
She swallows.
'I'm really a gardener....
My friends thought I was a cissy,
Because I liked growing things with my oul fella....
Yer know yourself....
Flowers and vegetables....
Oh.... and fruit!
Even papayas and passion fruit....imagine!
He had an old rickety lean-to glass-house
And a plot that ran down to the Canal.....
And the SWANS!
Jaysus, they were the best-fed swans in Drimnagh!
All the neighbours' stale bread....
My legs would be run off me!
And you....?
SILENCE
The silence was awkward,
Even for her.
'I'm a singer....
Well....in training.'
'Really?'
She turned slightly towards him;
Knotted stomach untangling,
In the blue of his interested eyes.
'I haven't a note in my head,' he laughs.
'But I can whistle!'
The anorak and woollen coat both laughed;
Shoulder to shoulder,
And watched a squirrel rummaging....
Pin-striped suits striding....
Headscarves with shopping bags struggling....
Dogs on leads dragging,
Winter sun setting....
Lovers....doing.

Elsie fell in madly love, that rainy evening in St. Stephen's Green, with a gardener, called Joe. Six months later, when he proposed to her, he whispered her name at least a dozen times, before admitting that even though he could not give her a ring at that time, he still had something special to give her. On bended knee, he produced two passion fruits and a papaya from his pocket: 'Elsie will you marry me? Please let these gifts of nature and fruits of my labour signify our passion for each other; that we shall never be afraid to LIVE; that we shall never satisfy the hunger for each other or Life's opportunities.' Everything excited Joe. It was both infectious and addictive.

There were never floral bouquets from Joe on opening night. No not at all. Sitting in front of the dressing table in the nursing home, Elsie recalls the reflection in the bulb-studded dressing room mirror, of not only herself, transformed into Tosca, Butterfly, and Violetta, but also that of a golden box, in which, nestled two passion fruit and one papaya ...and a card....which read: 'Still hungry Elsie!'

Maureen Walsh - December 2011

PASTELS

2011-12-07T02:28:00.000-08:00

PASTELS

Pastels....
An apology,
For being,
For having been....
Almost....
Paling.

Paling....
Nightdress, Knickers,
Washed out, drained;
Pegged; hanging on....
Almost....
Biting.

Biting....
Birth pains; naked.
Lungs explode;
In pastels wrapped....
Almost....
Slipping.

Slipping....
Out of....into
Life's sweet paint
On babe-blue mist....
Almost....
Bowing.

Bowing....
Life's orange noon;
It's sunset red;
It's brights, imbetween....
Almost....
Fading.

Fading....
Trapped by Winter,
The flags of life,
Hanging on; pegged....
Almost....
PASTELS.

Maureen Walsh - December 20l1

Ciao for now!

THE PINK WALL OF MONARD

2011-11-28T09:14:00.000-08:00

THE PINK WALL OF MONARD

I drove past you twice today
And wondered where the guardians of your soul;
The keepers of your pinkness
Have escaped to....
And how....?
And why....?

I missed your pink twice today
And wondered where the artists of your birth;
The authors of your story
Are cindered then....?
And if....?
And when....?

I sighed for you twice today
And wondered where the painters of your time;
The watchers of your heartbeat
Now buried in....?
And so....?
And but....?

I questioned you twice today
And wondered where the carers of your spirit;
The lovers of your pinkness
What home boxed in....?
And where....?
And.... OH....!

Maureen Walsh - November 2011

There is a pink wall in Monard, that I have driven past many, many times on my way to Limerick over the last 36 years. Earlier today, I dropped my daughter over to Shannon Airport to catch an early morning flight back to London and found myself wondering why this wall belonging to a pink house, that had once been so lovingly 'pinked' for as long as I have lived in Ireland, was now 'greened' with damp and flaking from neglect. Many's the time, I spotted the man of the house, complete with broad-brimmed hat and braces, with a brush in his hand and a tin of of pink paint at his feet. The shades and hues might have varied from summer to summer, but the wall was always PINK, which brought a sense of joy, fun, and yet at the same time; a sense of continuity.

Today, as I despaired at the wall's neglect, (avoidable or otherwise) I found myself wondering what had happened to the man with the braces and broad-brimmed hat and his good lady wife.

When I go home to my native town, Crewe, I sometimes find myself, perhaps stupidly, pining for the old shops and streets of my childhood, that have been anihilated and replaced with shopping malls, offices or factories.

There is however, a certain amount of comfort in travelling to say a small town like Fethard in Co. Tipperary, where several old shopfronts have been maintained in all their glory.

Nothing lasts for ever, but for some reason that thought saddens me. If Sigmund Freud were still alive, he might suggest, that my sadness signifies a sub-conscious fear of being forgotten when dead and buried. Hope that doesn't mean I'm guilty of narcissism!!! Ah well....sometimes the truth hurts I guess!

Ciao for now!

LAMB DAY

2011-11-18T21:09:00.000-08:00

'A cigarette?' he said looking into her eyes. She couldn't bear another second of his concern and sank down onto the cold, wet cement steps in front of the theatre. She wanted to avoid his blue kindness, but missed it instantly, and then hoped ... hoped that she wouldn't have to watch him walk away through grey drizzling rain, because she had disappointed again. She dare not look up, and leaning over to fiddle with the zip of her boot, she was met by the chiding glare of a ginger cat, that lived on the wall, opposite. 'What ...have I disappointed you too?' she thought. 'If only I could behave like a woman ... a grown up woman! At what point does the girl or boy become Adam and Eve?' His soft breathing floated gently into her awareness, and she thinks back to the lamb day. The lamb had become detached from the sea of ewes and young, in a nearby field. The agony of separation and isolation barbed into its distressed cries, highlighted her own pathetic inadequacies. The poor creature was eventually calmed and soothed, as one sheep, wailing and keening in its response, emerged from the grazing hundreds, to rescue and suckle once more, the wanderer. 'The familiar!' she thinks. Two knees become four, as he crouches beside her and familiar lips brush against familiar neck whispering, 'A cigarette?'

Maureen Walsh - November 2011

And speaking of lambs.... this is one of my all-time favourite songs Someone to Watch Over Me from Ella Fizgerald. I had the great honour of performing this song with the RTE Concert Orchestra some years back.

http://youtu.be/JANcQf3fjuA

Ciao for now!

RHYTHM OF LIFE

2011-11-07T17:11:00.000-08:00

RHYTHM OF LIFE

Cells....
Moving.... standing still,
Multiplying and dividing.
Worms, buried, making love...
To themselves, in the dead.

Leaves....
Paint.... pap'ring pavements,
And the cracks between toes
And those cells, making love....
To the others, in a bed.

Litter ....
Curling....fighting death,
To be seen, to be read.
And its words, making love....
To the thoughts, in your head.

Railings....
Rusting....keeping out,
The dangers of the darkness.
And his fears, making love....
To the rhythm, that we thread.

Maureen Walsh - November 2011

Ciao for now!

A LITTLE BITTY BROWN ENVELOPE LET HIM DOWN

2011-10-28T20:52:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely delighted that Michael D. Higgins is about to become the 9th President of Ireland. His victory is sweet and, in my opinion, well-deserved. He is a statesman, an academic, a humanist and an orator of the highest order. He has served the people of this nation as a politician, in an open and often rebellious manner, for decades. He ran an impeccably clean campaign throughout. His unselfish actions secured David Norris' addition to the ballot paper, so that the democratic voice of the electorate and not that of the media would be heard.

I sat in the hairdressers today and met an old friend of mine that I worked with years ago, not long after I moved to this country, but before I had my children. We laughed about some of the fiery discussions we had had back then in the canteen over tea breaks and lunch. This morning was no exception. She put forward the argument that Ireland was too small to have a President; that it was a costly non-essential; and wasn't at all enamoured about the Queen of England's visit to these shores in May of this year. I suppose what surprised the most about our discussion, was her point that Michael D was TOO old for the job, given that this seriously interesting lady is approaching or even already in her 80's. I hastened to respond that there are people running marathons at the age of 100, which makes 70 seem young by comparison. She was having none of it, but I have rarely enjoyed a trip to the hairdresser's as much. There were seven of us ... seven women debating the whys and wherefores of the presidential election; Mike Murphy's interview with Bertie Aherne; Vincent Browne, the master choreographer etc etc. Not a word about fashion, or make-up, or the X Factor! The atmosphere in the hairdressers was charged; filled with good-humoured debate, and it was great great fun! I only went in for a trim, but I came out feeling I'd done the whole spa thing.

Granted, polls had indicated that Sean Gallagher was galloping towards to the Park up until Wednesday, and that it just might have been the little bitty prodding given to Mr Gallagher's memory about a certain little bitty brown envelope by Martin McGuinness, that finally ensured Michael D's victory, but Mr. Gallagher was made aware of the unscrupulous dealings of the envelope's donor over recent weeks, and given the fact, that this was the final presidential debate, he was ill-prepared to answer some of the key questions that were raised. Perhaps naively, Mr Gallagher overlooked the fact that the people of this island are ALLERGIC to little bitty brown envelopes!

Michael D is NOT TOO OLD for this job, as long as Michael D believes he is NOT TOO OLD for this job!

While I was writing this blog, a song, that I used to listen to as a child by Burl Ives came to mind called A Little Bitty Tear Let Me Down. A slight adaptation might read: A Little Bitty Brown Envelope Let Me Down. (I am NOT gloating. The right man got the job ... that's all!)

http://youtu.be/gt1U2pAvYIg

Ciao for now!

YOUR SONG

2011-10-19T17:37:00.000-07:00

YOUR SONG

Silver sand-wormed rocks,
Trapped in the stench of stagnant;
Appreciate the strains of wings and wind.
But bereft of distant whitening waves,
They smile still, in their abundance of neglect.
The hope of lunar intervention abides
That yet might change the orchestration.
So that a rising tide from Venus' baton
May swell these porous, almost forgotten
With breathy, bubbling, boiling pride
To hum, to sing, to laugh, to whistle ...
To love with you as you live YOUR SONG.

Maureen Walsh - October 2011

And talking about songs and arias. This is sheer magic! Angela Gheorgiu singing Depuis le Jour from the opera Louise by Charpentier. Even if you're not an opera buff, you will appreciate the gorgeous melody and divine singing from one of the world's greatest living sopranos. Please give it a whirl and click on the link below.

http://youtu.be/H-80CjCxcvQ

Ciao for now!

CRAZY?

2011-10-08T18:46:00.000-07:00

CRAZY?

Your hand reaches out to someone beyond me.
A date you'd arranged years ago?
Perhaps an old love;
Their madness forgiven.

As your ribcage rises for that final sigh,

And your days of crazy are ended.
The voyage you have lived for,
In death now, begins.

I miss your crazy, when I'm in my own.
I should have asked more questions.
You birthed me, then you nagged:
'It's late love, just go home!'

I wanted to walk; see you safely onboard;
To tell them that you hate to drive too fast.
I dearly hope they KNOW you.
I wish that I KNEW more.

Maureen Walsh - October 2011

I heard this song by Kate Melua on the radio the other day, while I was arranging flowers for James and Melanie's wedding, yesterday. I had forgotten how much I like it!

The older I get, the more I think we are all more than a little crazy! The older I get, the more I realize that rationale is a fool!

http://youtu.be/27RVIgW7L8c

Ciao for now

LETTING GO

2011-09-24T17:58:00.000-07:00

LETTING GO

They are screaming 'let go'!
He does hear it ...
His brain computes it,
And God, how he is trying ...
To follow the path ...
Born of youth, years ago.
His resolve is steeloid ... mostly.
Head down ... senses reasoned.
But when the wind subdues a ticking head
And the ocean kickstarts stodgy heart,
Resolve teeters on the brink of dissolution.
And the unexpected is all it takes
To feed the killer rocks below.
He smells their hunger;
He hears their laughter.
But, today, just today,
He's not courting lies;
Not sharing their jokes.
From the cliff edge he erupts:
'Today, I hold on ...
I'm not letting go!'

Maureen Walsh - September 2011

Lovely wind again tonight! Love, love, love it! Almost as good as 'letting go' of anger, resentment and the disappointment of wasted opportunities!

.

Ciao for now

WHEN YOU SAY NOTHING AT ALL

2011-09-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

I have at least five blogs half-written. For the life of me, I can't seem to get down to finishing them.That might just be, because my feet nor my mind have been in the same place for more than a couple of days over most of the summer. As much as I love being busy, doing the whole hostess and caring thing, I find myself yearning for sometime just not to have be anywhere, or have to talk to anyone. And just as I head back into school and the forthcoming production of Oliver in November, being stranded on a desert island just for a few days sounds like a pretty good idea. Then of course, as soon as I've said that, I know how ungrateful that might sound. But hey then I remind myself that this is MY blog, and therefore surely a little self-indulgence is not totally unexpected or unacceptable. After all I'm only human and therefore destined to be imperfect and as changeable as the weather. Which brings me gloriously to the incandescent brilliance of Autumn. Can't believe its that time of year already.

Autumn was so obvious as I walked through Russell Square in London last week, because there is more of an appetite for deciduous trees in the UK than in Ireland. Watching grey squirrels nibbling on acorns, foraging through fallen sycamore, horse-chestnut, beech leaves, and gnawing at, or filing their teeth on, what looked like human bones, only a foot or two away from me, in London's Bunhill Fields burial ground, where John Bunyan, the author of Pilgrim's Progress (the number of translations second only to the Bible) is buried, was captivating, but creepy. There is something spellbinding in the 'crunching' created by shoe or boot meeting dry fallen leaves; the Autumn winds that rustle through the trees like petticoats along the halls and corridors of years gone by; and the lonely rattling sound produced by those same winds of Autumn as they blow across narrowing metal flagpoles, which trick you into believing you are onboard a sea-faring vessel.

I spent most of last Sunday outside in my garden, tidying and pruning back shrubs and all kinds of everything. The wind was warm and the air, after London, was so fresh. It was one of those days, that I felt in tune with everything around me. Sometimes, I am almost afraid to register those moments, in case I lose them. On the other hand, if I don't share my sense of joy and wonder, am I not guilty of not appreciating the gifts that being a part of this Universe brings. Even the greatest poets and artists can struggle to find their words and their hues of colour. Perhaps, I should acknowledge those moments of blissful being 'out loud' within myself and smile outwardly! For the lesser of us, by the time we have struggled to say, or not to say, the right words that are 'hot' enough, the moment has passed. Sharing a smile with ourselves and/or with another might just be a more spontaneous and therefore less contrived response to something that sets us on fire.

Maybe, I shouldn't have written anything. Just let these photos smile for me!

Alison Krauss sings 'When You Say Nothing At All'

http://youtu.be/QjsjZWlRVvo

Ciao for now!

WISHFUL THINKING

2011-09-08T03:36:00.000-07:00

WISHFUL THINKING

Haven't seen you for nine years
Haven't heard your voice either.
But you passed over me today
Wearing a cloud.
I thought you said, 'Hi!'

Maureen Walsh - September 2011

Ciao for now!

BALLY NA NGALL - COMPLETE SURRENDER

2011-08-22T18:01:00.000-07:00

Just back today from a week's holiday on the Dingle Peninsula. Stayed in the hamlet of Bally na nGall 10kms from Dingle. What a stunning week and took some great pics too. Will blog later in more detail. For now, a few lines that swam around for a day or too!

COMPLETE SURRENDER

Bend me then,
As you fold in two
The sparse but stubborn switch
At the cliff edge of Foreigners.

Play me then,
As you rearrange
David's drift and seashell
in one swelling tidal chess move.

Fire me then,
As you roast the Ogham stones
And the blue, stained red, once
With the blood of Brendan's feet.

Wash me then,
As you paint white sheets and sails
In the yellow of a Spanish sunrise
Or the purple of a Viking sunset.

Maureen Walsh - August 2011

Ciao for now!

BEST LOVE: 'You are the love of my life!' 'He makes me laugh every day!'

2011-08-14T17:55:00.000-07:00

Quite some time since I ranted politically. Its not that I have become cynical ...exactly; perhaps just less naive. The media circus which surrounded the last Irish general election and its aftermath, reminded me more of a World Cup Soccer or Rugby Campaign. The fact that Ireland was probably facing its greatest, most dramatic challenge since the civil war was given the lightest entertainment treatment possible. I found myself looking at and listening to Vincent Browne, and in particular, during his much-publicised TV skirmish with Conor Lenihan, asking myself just how sincere any of this really was. Once the election was done and dusted, Queen Elizabeth popped over the English channel for a visit. I didn't get to see any of the TV coverage of her stay here, but the picture below, which shows her sharing a joke with a chap on the fish stall in the English market in Cork is an absolute joy. I thought it rather poignant, that the death of Garret Fitzgerald, unquestionably, one of Ireland's most honourable political leaders, should coincide with this momentous piece of history-making, when as Taoiseach, he co-signed the Anglo-Irish Agreement with British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher in November 1985

The Summer has not brought much in the way of sunshine and has served up more than its fair share of bad news stories. Surprise, surprise NAMA is in billions of trouble; Barrack Obama appears to be in an almost inevitable downward spiral of support, given the unrealistic messiah-like expectations, that were pinned upon him in the first place; Libyans and Syrians are being slaughtered because they have a different opinion about how they want their country to be governed; thousands of African children are starving in the worst drought for 20 years; a 32 year old, Norwegian right-wing extremist, who hates muslims, Breivik, massacred approx 80 innocent young people, who came together to share an adventure; several towns and cities in Britain have been under seige from rampaging hooligans, whose reasons, for their abominable behaviour, range from not having jobs, money, a severe lack of hope in a better future, and racial hatred. The latter of these justifications was seen in all its stark reality as three muslims were mowed down by a single car and killed in Birmingham during the week. Would be easy for some to blame this kind of trouble solely upon those, who don't know any better, because they are badly educated or as some would like to believe, a product of one-parent or unemployed and quite often 'ghettoized' families etc etc. However, it would appear not to be quite as simplistic as that, when it is reported, that law students, accountants, would-be social workers, and an Olympic ambassador are standing in the dock alongside an eleven year old child. Difficult enough as it is, to remain cheerful and optimistic during these cloudy, challenging times, I have had a busy, but delightful Summer so far, even if the thermometer has rarely tipped 70 degrees Fahrenheit.

Rose and Richie's Wedding (My daughter Katy right of bride)

I spent two weeks in the UK minding my brother's house, his dog, Harry, his 21 hanging baskets and looking after my father's garden and gorging myself, once more, on scones, clotted cream and jam; and of course, fish and chips. As soon as I got back home, I was into Drama Workshopping, which was work, but nevertheless magical, because I had buckets of fun with new little friends. Then my 'adopted daughter', Rose got married to the hugely charismatic Corkman, Richie. Rose was in the same class at school as my eldest daughter, Emma, and became an extended part of our family from the tender age of five. We have dragged her up the Galtee Mountains in all kinds of weather, across fields and beaches, and she comes over to our house every Christmas for a piece of carrot cake (recipe cajoled from Spillane's Bar, Maharees, Co. Kerry) that I bake especially for her and Katy.

The Walsh Family and our bestest friend and 'adopted son', Chris Kelly all got a job to do for Rose and Richie's wedding. Katy was a bridesmaid, Emma sang in the church at Kilfeacle, and I arranged her wedding flowers, with the help of my two goafers, Tony and Chris. Without exaggeration, it was quite possibly the most beautiful wedding, I had ever had the pleasure to be invited to. Of course, Rose calls me her 'second mammy' and we are of course, very close, but it was more than that. In the present climate, just as the priesthood and religious institutions are getting a bit of a bashing, and quite rightly so, in many cases, came along a priest, called Father Moloney from Cashel, who caused the Summer sun to shine so so brilliantly in Kilfeacle Church, as he officiated at Rose and Richie's wedding. Every word that fell from his lips was filled with the most genuine love and humility, which was projected passionately but calmly on a beautifully warm, resonant speaking voice. He captivated everyone in the congregation that day. He was everything and more I had ever imagined a genuine pastor to be.

Rose's Wedding Bouquet

(Someone took this picture of Rose's wedding bouquet, and I'm throwing it in, because I am rather proud of it.)

I am told that I am an idealist and a romantic, but I believe that when a couple walk down the aisle, they are convinced that their love will last until death and beyond. In Rose and Richie's case, from the first moment we saw them together, there was no doubting that here was a couple, who were destined to be together. The speeches at the wedding feast were both heartfelt and funny. Richie said that Rose was the love of his life and Rose said that Richie made her laugh every day. May they love and laugh every day of their lives together!

Rose and Richie. Great Fancy Dress people!

Well the wedding is over, so is the Summer almost! We were graced with Phil the pheasant for some weeks, but he has gone on walkabout; probably checking out the barley and wheat in surrounding fields. Sincerely hope he's not ended up on a neighbour's dinner table. Back to things political for just a moment.

I'm glad that Gaybo has decided to pull out of the race for the office of President, because I think he might have upset the apple cart for Michael D. Higgins. There can be no doubt, that Gaybo with all his sensitivities, was and is one of Ireland's very best broadcasters, but Michael D. Higgins gave up an academic career, to serve the people of this nation as a politician, and has done so for decades; standing up for what he believes in, against all odds. I stood in the council chambers in Clonmel, where the Labour Party was formed in 1912, during the last General Election campaign, and listened to Michael D. speak. I had always admired and respected him, as I had done Garret Fitzgerald, but to listen to him in the flesh was quite something else. I sincerely hope that Michael D., as he is affectionately known, makes it all the way to the Park. He deserves it and will be a worthy recipient of the baton that has lain in the very capable hands of Mary McAleese, and Mary Robinson before her.

The moon is shining cheekily tonight, as if she has a secret to tell, and my garden is silent and still after a day of sweet birdsong and soft summer rain.

Heard the track below on the radio recently and was surprised to discover that Paul McCartney was singing a song penned by comedian, Steve Martin. Steve Martin is also playing the banjo in the piece. Not just a funny, funny man! It's called quite simply Best Love. Hope you enjoy!

http://youtu.be/vtSsAWVfHDU

AMY WINEHOUSE R.I.P. AND THE DISEASE.

2011-07-25T16:24:00.000-07:00

The untimely death of singer/songwriter and musician, Amy Winehouse last Saturday, has shocked the music business and her global network of fans. Sadly, she has become an honorary member of the 27 CLUB; a group of supremely talented individuals, who lost the war, prematurely, against their demons at the age of 27. The list of outstanding curtailed talents includes names like Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and River Phoenix.

The song, REHAB was my first introduction to Amy Winehouse, and I was immediately captivated by the deep velvety tones and quality of a voice, that was reminiscent of Billie Holiday and Dinah Washington; an old-school sound with lyrics, pertaining to the 21st Century. She hit the music scene just at the right moment. The public were tiring of electronically-enhanced versions of the art of singing; of performing. There had been a glut of sugary girl/boy bands, that lacked any real substance and precious little soul, which, with perhaps the odd exception, will almost, certainly not, withstand the passage of time. There hadn't been a female artist that could REALLY sing since Alison Moyet, and now, of course, singer/songwriter Adele, who is mesmerizing listening audiences with her phenomenal singing of soulful songs that she has penned herself; about herself.
Amy was an enormously gifted young person, who was probably born with a pre-disposition for addiction. It was well-reported in the media, that her inability to cope with the pressures of a rock and roll lifestyle and the runaway success of her second album, in particular, led her to fall under the bewitching spell of drugs and alcohol. These habits, disguised, at first in friendship, which promoted relaxation and recreation, slipped off its cloak of amiability, sneakily and craftily, they finally destroyed her.

Her appearance in Belgrade, Serbia, which was part of her comeback tour, was absolutely pathetic to witness. She was totally incoherent and hadn't a clue what country she was in. For the life of me, I cannot understand, how her minders could allow her to go out on stage in such an abysmal state. She was only a waif, and was in no way able to put up a fight, and could have been dragged out of that theatre, and strapped into a hotel or hospital bed. The plug was pulled on the tour, but no-one could argue that this disasterous appearance, that should NEVER NEVER have happened, did not contribute in some way to her accidentally overdosing or making a conscious decision to end her life, last weekend.

Some of the reactions to the self-distructive exhibition in Belgrade were severely unkind and unsympathetic, but nevertheless understandable. Somehow, it is easier for people to empathise with those suffering with heart disease or cancer, even though alcoholism to take one addiction, is recognized as a DISEASE by the World Health Organisation. I came across a poem five and a half years ago, whilst in rehabilitation myself, for alcoholism, which captures the torture and the isolation of addiction. I apologize for not knowing who wrote this poem, in advance, and should someone recognize the following piece, as their work ... their outpourings of grief and despair, I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart for its inspiration.

I AM YOUR DISEASE

I am your disease,
You know who I am - you've called me your friend.
Wishes of misery and heartache I send,
I want only to see that you're brought to your knees,
I'm the devil inside you,
I am your disease.

I'll invade all your thoughts,
I'll take hostage your soul.
I'll become your master, in total control.
I'll maim your emotions,
I'll run the whole game,
'Til your entire existence is crippled with shame.

When you call me I come, sometimes in disguise,
Quite often I'll take you by total surprise.
But take you I will and just as you feared,
I want only to hurt you with no mercy spared.

If you have your own family, I'll see it's destroyed,
I'll steal every pleasure in life you've enjoyed.
I'll not only hurt you, I'll kill if I please;
I'm your worst living nightmare;
I am your disease.

I'll bring self-destruction, but still you can't tell;
I'll sweep you through heaven, then drop you in hell.
I'll chase you forever wherever you go
And then when I catch you, you won't even know.

I'll sometimes lay silent, just waiting to strike,
What's yours becomes mine, cos I take what I like.
I'll take all you own and won't care who sees;
I'm your constant companion;
I am your disease.

If you have any honour, I'll see it's destroyed,
You will lose all your hope and forget how to pray.
I'll leave you in darkness and while blinding you stare;
I'll reduce you to nothing and won't even care.

So don't take for granted, my powers sublime
I'll bend and I'll break you time after time.
I'll crumble your world with the greatest of ease;
I'm that madman inside you;

I AM YOUR DISEASE

I am one of the lucky ones! Thankfully, I dug myself out of alcoholism and the extra crushing shame and guilt, that comes with being a WOMAN and a MOTHER, by finally forgiving myself! Without that, I would still be in hell or dead, or perhaps, even worse still ... alive, but without the love of my beautiful family and friends. I am so so grateful, that I never think about, or indeed crave for, a drop of something out of a glass or bottle, to sigh with or to glow with! I hope my admitting to being an alcoholic, albeit in recovery, does not offend. I thought long and hard about it, but somehow, my paying tribute to Amy Winehouse, without mentioning my own addiction, seemed dishonest. It might be argued, that each and every one of us suffers from one form of addiction or another, that might not necessarily manifest themselves in the same way as alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, food, or sex do. Examples of those might be: perfectionism; workaholism; a need to control. By the same token, the diagnosis and prognosis of addiction, like any other disease or illness, should be discussed openly and frankly in the public arena.

I only wish that Amy Winehouse and thousands like her could have been saved. I just hope that wherever she is singing now, she is at peace!

BACK TO BLACK - AMY WINEHOUSE

http://youtu.be/TJAfLE39ZZ8

DEAD-HEADING

2011-07-20T15:53:00.000-07:00

DEAD-HEADING

Did I say I was ready?

I mean ...
Who the fuck do you think you are?
Squeezing between your fingers,
In that familiar 'pleasuring yourself' grip;
Prepared as judge and jury to yank
From its life support;
the faded ... not quite so flawless.
A small sacrifice for the supreme specimen!
YOU know what is best with an obscene certainty;
Your unflinching fingers,
That sabotage time, tell me that.
How can you be so sure that you choke wisely?
Those hands that feed your greed ...
Your need to stroke and invade another's temple.
Fingers that once enticed heaven,
To soar from handmade strings.
How can you know better than She,
What is beautiful ...
What is real ...
What is worthy.
Isn't Autumn as joyous as Spring?
Should Winter be betrayed for Summer?
Seasons, pitted against each other;
The Mother screams, as manipulated pen or sword
Slice her wrists; dig out her heart.
Are there no deliberations ... second thoughts,
As your child eats and a black son dies...

DEAD- HEADING

Maureen Walsh - July 2011

Ciao for Now!

SWALLOWS AND SNAILS

2011-07-04T16:31:00.000-07:00

Colloseum/Flavian Amphitheatre - Rome. Venue of Sporting Spectacle, Death and Entertainment!

My eldest daughter flew back to London today, as my youngest daughter learned that her application for a visa to live and work in Canada for two years, had been accepted.I drove back from the airport with the sadness that saying 'goodbye' brings, yet by the same token, infected by the excitement of their expectancy. In an effort to swallow the sadness, I endeavoured to make my head think about the 8ft by 4ft mosaic tiling project I have been planning for the last 12 months. It is to take centre stage in the floor of the 'Colloseum' (a nickname for the summerhouse, that turned out to be much larger than originally thought. Given there have been many wonderful evenings of food, laughter and music with friends and family, perhaps being christened, 'The Colloseum' wasn't so far off the mark, after all!)

When I hit home, I went out to check the 8 x 4 space left in the middle of the green timber floor, and the tiles and mirrors that I had salvaged last summer from a dump behind Tudor Tiles in Dundrum. I played around with different designs, whilst referring to a picture of an original Turkish tile. As I smashed various coloured tiles into smithereens to place inbetween small blue tiles, I realized this project was not going to be finished for that week-end, or the next batch of Dublin visitors. It will probably take me most of the Summer... if I'm lucky. Somewhat disappointed, but nevertheless resigned, the 8 x 4 piece of medite was nailed back down to avoid accidents, and I had a cup of coffee, smoked a cigarette, swallowed my pride, and sky-watched instead.

Swallowing, inhaling and eyes following the horses, heads down, eating, from behind opened shutters, I became aware that I wasn't on my own. There was a heated debate or fight going on in this 'Colloseum' and I was the only human to be seen. My first thoughts were of the rodent variety and that disturbed me. (Mice, I can live with, but rats freak me out!) Anyway, I had no need for concern, as a pair of house martins, argued their way out of hiding; swooping and swirling over head; reminding me of an everyday Greek-style communication. What excitement I felt as they flew in and out of the joists and eaves. They were back ... summer was here! Just then, I thought about the thousands of swallows gathering on overhead electricity and telephone wires in the evening streets of Kalives in Crete and Tropea in Italy to discuss the day's happenings, and quite possibly an order of business for the following day. Such a joy to me! And now, slowing the speed down quite considerably from the frenetic flourish of swallows/house martins' wings ... to SNAILS!

A snail, even if it is a creation of God; (and using a favourite word of deceased and disgraced Irish premier Charles Haughey) is 'CATEGORICALLY' not a joy to me, I'm rather ashamed to say! Recently, whilst maintaining the garden of a house that we are trying not to give up hope of ever selling, I witnessed a mass invasion or a mass exodus of the beasts. Whichever, they were all on the move to somewhere; some place. Their freakish style of globetrotting reminded me of Gary Oldman's depiction of Dracula's mode of cinematic movement. I decided to pick one up gently by its shell after watching it spit and slither over a rock. It looked just like the one in the photo above, and turning it around to look at its face, searching for eyes and mouth, I could see neither. Some time later, a friend told me, their eyes were perhaps part of the antennae. I should google it to find out where their ears, nose, eyes and mouth are, but quite frankly after another friend, Stef, emailed me with the link below, I realize that the whereabouts and specifics of a snail's body parts WILL FOREVER remain a mystery to me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5xNxQfVNVR8&feature=youtu.be

It is quite positively one of the most horrific things I have ever seen, and couldn't possibly BEAR to look at it more than once! Who needs films like Alien? To think 'L'ESCARGOT' are devoured with relish throughout France ! That thought ... makes a person, who can swallow a dessert spoonful of cod liver oil (albeit, washed down with a swig of milk), SHIVER!!!

Ciao for now!

I'M NOT A PHEASANT PLUCKER ....

2011-06-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

Phil

..... I'M ONLY A PHEASANT PLUCKER'S SON,

AND I WON'T BE PLUCKING PHEASANTS,

TIL THE PHEASANT PLUCKING TIME COMES ....

(Tongue-twister of Dublin origin .... I think!!!)

My brother-in-law teases me with the recent addition to his family; the acquisition of four chickens. He knows that I have craved chickens since I got married. He even cleaned out a pigsty for me during one of his lengthy stays at our first home; a farmhouse in Betchton, Sandbach in Cheshire, more than thirty years ago. Well I have gone one better than you in this foul, fowl race, Jimmy my boy! We, now have our own pet pheasant, that we have called Phil. Phil arrived at our house a couple of months ago, and has become increasingly relaxed around us; so much so that he now comes up to the kitchen patio door twice a day to be fed. As he eats the wild bird seed that we scatter, he utters the most glorious sound of contentment, rather like a pidgeon cooing; a cat purring; a lamb's tail wagging as it suckles its mother; the wiggling of a baby's toes as it gorges on bottle or breast.

Contentment

I didn't win the award for Best Director on Saturday night ... sadly! I say sadly, because by the time Saturday evening had arrived, I really was hoping that my name would be on the inside of that envelope. I hadn't thought about nominations or awards as far as my directing was concerned, until they were announced and then, human nature being what it is, the word, 'possibility' and the desire to win sneaked in. However, a marvellous evening was had by all, and my daughter, Emma had flown in from London to support along with 35 members of St. Mary's Choral Society. I extend my heartiest congratulations to Ruth Butler, who won her award for Best Programme, and Diarmuid Vaughan, who won his extremely well-deserved award for Best Male Actor in the role of Judas.

Emma and Edwin

After a rather late night, we travelled the long way home, the following day, via the Gap of Dunloe. It is quite stunning, and will definitely return with my hiking boots sometime soon. I found myself wondering why I had never been to this place before, given the amount of times I have visited Co. Kerry. I thought about Kerry being referred to as the 'Kingdom', and right there in the midst of the Mcgillycuddy Reeks, I felt a real sense of being in the presence of kings; a monarchy of legends and heroes.

River Horse God

Just three pics from the Gap of Dunloe. I particularly love the last one. I am fascinated by the reflections created by light on water. Below a couple of pics from the big night itself!

And The Winner is .......!

Mr. Oliver Hurley(centre) for his production of Amateur Premier Michael Collins

(Forget the faces .... just look at what the hands are saying!!!)

I didn't win the overall award, and I am by no means a Pheasant Plucker, but I sure did have a great weekend, and I suppose I could have been called a pleasant f--k-r ... if you were drunk enough!

Contentment

Ciao for Now!

DIRECTOR'S CUT

2011-06-16T18:09:00.000-07:00

If you dip in and out of my blog, you will know that I directed the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar with St. Mary's Choral Society quite recently, and for my efforts, I received an AIMS nomination for best director, which reflects upon everyone that was involved in this production both on and off stage. We received four nominations in total: mine; best programme; best ensemble piece and best male actor. The annual AIMS awards ceremony, which is being held in the INEC Killarney next weekend 18th June, is not only a time to dust off the gowns and tuxes, it is also a time to catch up with fellow musical theatre practitioners. It is a great honour to receive a nomination in itself, but I would be lying, if I said winning it outright wouldn't be so so sweet!!!

INEC - Gleneagle Hotel, Killarney. Pre-AIMS Awards Banquet 2010

I have been thinking of the role of Director lately, and wondering, whether as flexible and accessible as we try to be, the quest to motivate and inspire worthy performances, might quite possibly reflect a need to control to a lesser or greater degree. If that is the case, then what is to stop us taking those qualities good, bad or indifferent into the various other areas of our lives.

The weekend before last, I went to the UK, to visit my father and his wife, who have always loved their garden and have been no strangers to best-kept garden awards, themselves, over the years . Apart from checking out the guys, my quest over the long weekend, was to drive them to the local nursery to select summer bedding plants and then to plant them, water them and protect same from slugs, snails, green and black flies etc. In the last hint of daylight, on the eve of my return to Ireland, and surveying my three day's labour of love over a mug of coffee and a stolen cigarette, I thought long and hard about how difficult the execution of the smallest things in life was becoming for them both; those things that the more agile of us take so much for granted. The struggle!

The negotiation of the back step into their house has become a real problem for Amy, who depends upon her walking aid and her wheelchair to get around. Of course, a ramp would be the ideal solution, but they are loath to change the layout of their surroundings, which they have known and worked with for so long. I totally understand where they are coming from. It is almost like an admission that 'yes, we are old and no longer able to do what we used'. Who wants to admit to that? I certainly don't! Sometimes I see, in my fathers' eyes, when he thinks I'm not looking, a sadness; a betrayal of sorts, that his vegetable garden has now become an extension to the back lawn. No more home-grown runner beans!

As I sat on the stone bench musing over the last few straggling stalks of rhubarb, that my dad had fought so hard to hold on to, I thought about how tired Amy looked earlier that morning, when I offered to call Social Services to enquire about replacing the back step with a ramp. In my enthusiasm and concern, it hadn't occured to me, that it was only 9 o'clock and that she needed time to get her mind and body into some kind operational mode, and that in real terms, I was pushing her and perhaps even emphasizing her own feelings of inadequacy! This is a woman of 90, with a mind as bright as a button, but whose every movement, however, causes excruciating pain. I backed off somewhat guiltily, when I saw her pale, grimacing face, in the realization that she would make the call when she was ready, because making a telephone call, was one of the things, that she could still do for herself. I apologized for my over-zealousness and invited her to tell me to mind my own business, if she so felt.

Sitting there softly, in the midst of silent, night gardens backing onto one another, a hedgehog passes by, in front of me. I've always had a thing about hedgehogs, but rarely seen them alive; more often squashed at the side of the road! My mum drifts into my mind, and I sigh with regret, once again, when I think about the time I thought I was spoiling her, by taking her to Thailand for a week. What had I been thinking of? A 17hr flight BOTH WAYS into searing heat, for one week! I had wanted to take her on an adventure; for the two of us to share something special together. Mum struggled to keep up with me on the very poor, boiling pavements of Phuket, and repeatedly asked me to slow down, and I really did try to do that, just as I did, when she asked me to step off the gas, if the needle on the speedometer sneaked beyond 40 miles an hour. My conscience pricks, as the hedgehog would, if I tried to pick it up to hold and admire it. I see, once again, my mum's hot face behind me; her sadness, that she had to ask me to wait for her; her distress at getting into a canoe, that I thought would be FUN for both of us; an elephant ride that she could not be a part of, because she was afraid of heights. Why hadn't I simply taken her to Spain for a week; a two hour flight; no swollen feet; a sunbed beside a pool; a siesta in the afternoon; a jug of sangria ... etc.etc. It wasn't long after that trip, that we discovered she had cancer. My mum died almost nine years ago on July 8th 2002, and she LOVED elephants.

Last Wednesday, I was teaching in Lisvernane National School as usual. During a session with Junior and Senior Infants, we worked on a piece about cowboys and indians, and my rather weak attempt at a rap song, called 'Don't Ever Judge A Book By Its Cover'. It was all going really well, until I got carried away and fell backwards over one of my darling little boys, who unknowns to me, was having a little rest and suck of his thumb, behind me. As I was falling, I felt the little bundle, that was him, behind my legs, and tried to lift myself up over him, as if I were going for an Olympic Gold in the high jump, so's not to crush him. I landed on my coccyx bone. The pain was horrendous, and all I could do was lie there uttering, 'Oh God!' with twenty two small tots looking down on me in disbelief! They were wonderful nurses and Shane was OK, thank God! I had two more classes after that, and somehow I managed to get through them, but driving back through the glorious Glen of Aherlow, feeling sick and sorry for myself, tears of delayed shock streamed down my face.

For my own good and for the good of others around me, perhaps I should attempt to curb my over-zealous nature, which might possibly be a symptom of an unconscious desire to control.

And to something quite different, but perhaps not, I have been doing some research into Greek mythology recently, and thinking about, what makes someone a hero! Yes, we have our heroes of legends and idylls, such as Achilles, Odysseus, King Arthur etc. and our heroes of the last century, such as Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Ghandi, etc. but surely there are heroes all around us in our everyday lives. Our doctors and nurses; our fire-brigade officers; our teachers; our bus drivers; our police force; our parents; our children; our neighbours and friends. I love the music from heroic epics such as Gladiator; Braveheart; The Last Samurai. Recently, my friend Stef, introduced me to a piece of music, because she knows I love cranes and that I also love the music of rock band, Elbow. The track is called, The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver. The track combines two entirely different genres of music: classical and rock - The epic with the everyday. Why shouldn't the Crane Driver get the epic musical treatment that an everyday hero deserves!

Check it out. It's terrific!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fX0B9ZpdZEA

Elbow and the BBC Concert Orchestra performing The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver

Ciao for now!

REHABILITATION

2011-06-09T17:11:00.000-07:00

REHABILITATION

Someone put him in a box
And threw away the key.
In his solid state,
He lays an egg,
That no one sees but He.

A violin begs a rising chord,
And soothes the foetal truth within.
Waking and breaking,
From shell of spiky sleep,
He accepts, for the first time, the chance to win.

Walking the corridors, his ankles chained,
Horizons expanding with intake of breath.
Cold turkey, clear vision,
A life to live;
No longer excited by freedom of death.

Maureen Walsh - June 2011

Ciao for now

HERE, THERE AND EVERYWHERE

2011-05-31T04:08:00.000-07:00

Here, There And Everywhere

Passing her out;
Not her red hair.
Not her eyes or lips.
Not winning after all.
Only the treachery of a blurring instant...
HERE.

Heading for coffee;
Not hungry.
Not stretched.
Not failing after all.
Only the treachery of a blurring moment...
THERE.

Taking the bus;
Not crowded.
Not raining.
Not dying after all.
Only the treachery of a blurring thought....
EVERYWHERE.

Maureen Walsh - May 2011

http://youtu.be/8THouU576WY

Ciao for now!

THE LIVING YEARS - A Boy, his Dog and His Father

2011-05-07T06:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, wires get crossed. Dads think they have to be tough with their little 'men', because they figure ....that's how it's done! Little 'men' who would really prefer to be little 'boys' can be sensitve, fearful and affectionate in the company and in the caring of their own dog. It is directly comparable to the unqualified love of a mother for her children.

BOY AND HIS DOG

You know how I think.

You think I'm clever
Inspite of my '10 out of 20'.
You are at my heel
Even though you'd eat the winning post.
You see me as your leader
For direction and inspiration.
You are my only visitor
When forced into frosty cell of silence.
You are my audience
When no one else listens.
You're willing to be lost
Even though you've walked the walk.
You applaud with a bark
When I sing loudly, off key.
You swim in my joy,
My 'boldness' by the 'Others'.
My guardian angel
When I'm scared in the dark
Your 'Good Morning' lick ...
I didn't DIE in my sleep!
You wait while I do school stuff
'It has to be done!' roar the 'Others'
You wander into their world
But you LIVE in mine with me!
Not taken in by coffee-talking trivia
Neither I, by 3 + 4 or 3 x 3.
While you're in THAT world
And I'm in THIS;
You're setting the mainsail,
As I charter the course.
You're hearing the bell
As I close up the books.
You hear the gate clicking
And your captain is returned.
Its just 1 + 1 now,
Shoulders squared against wind.
Legends for the making,
Epic battles to be fought.
Its just 1 + 1 now.

I know how you think.

Maureen Walsh - 2011

EVERY LITTLE BOY SHOULD HAVE A DOG!

There's a child in all of us, even our dads who feel they have to be 'tough' for us all!

Check out this song by Mike and the Mechanics. Mike Rutherford of Genesis fame! THE LIVING YEARS

http://youtu.be/TW42YChqAxI

Ciao for now!

SOMEONE LIKE YOU

2011-04-22T15:55:00.000-07:00

SOMEONE LIKE YOU

As I back out the car over yellow stones, left shoulder turning to watch for the gate, I wonder when you stopped being what I remember. No music, no crosswords, no political debate; only eyes staring at something through a frosted gaze. Eyes that grew angry once, when you caught me smoking; eyes that admired the beauty once of a station platform; eyes that once smiled with tales of army days; once ... eyes that painted a woman’s breasts. How I love someone like you!

Check out the link below. Adele 22 years old. What a voice! What a performer!

http://youtu.be/OZtUjFJvYkA

Ciao for now!

SPAM ... ALOT

2011-04-19T18:57:00.000-07:00

Just back from a long weekend with my darling Dad in the UK. There aren't too many things that the Brits do better than the Irish, not even the cricket these days, but I just can't resist their cod, chips and mushy peas, home-made dairy ice-cream and delicious gut-lining steak and ale pie, which brings me nicely to SPAM. A tin of Spam lucheon meat was something of a luxury when we were growing up, but a veritable must for the blackened frying pan, alongside a battered pot of boiling new potatoes on the gas, during our annual camping holiday. That brings me to the other kind of inedible, intangible brand of SPAM!

Last Wednesday, the Gmail hierarchy advised me to change my password, as there had been some unusual activity on my account; someone from China apparently!?!? So, as a woman who frequently does as she's told ... I complied. However, when I tried to get into my blog some two hours later, I was horrified to discover that my blog had DISAPPEARED. I was absolutely HORRIFIED! All my blogs were gone! My poetry, my short stories, my political rants had vanished from the face of the earth. I felt utterly devastated, but yet foolish and somewhat shallow at the same time, that I should feel such a sense of loss. After all it was only a blog and no-one had died, but it was as if part of me had never really existed; that I had only dreamt those thoughts; those words. I spent five hours until the early hours of Thursday trying to sort it and for someone who is allergic to smallprint, I was nearly cracking up. I got onto a helpline website called NiteCruzer that seemed to be giving all sorts of invaluable help and advice to hundreds, if not thousands of fellow bloggers. There was 'A LOT ABOUT SPAM' and other mind-blowing jargon. I really don't understand the whole SPAM concept, only that some emails (quite often of a viagara-related orientation!) go into a file called SPAM.

Bevy of Beautiful Maidens - Spamalot the Musical

Suddenly they're talking about pornographic and unsuitable content, and I'm racking my brains as to what I might have written that could have rocked the establishment, apart from calling the Priests in Jesus Christ Superstar ...Bastards ... but did I? This felt like seeing the guards in the distance ahead, and running through the checklist of 'Is my insurance and tax up to date; shit my NCT is out of date; my back tyre is a wee bit threadbare!' I hardly slept that night and I was going to the UK the following evening, knowing full well that I hadn't any more time to spend on this. When I finished teaching in the Gaelscoil in Clonmel the following lunch-time, I dashed into an internet cafe to check-in online, because I was out of ink at home. Opening my emails, I spotted something from a follower of NiteCruzer, who said all was not lost, that my blog was there!

Not sure what to think and suspecting some kind of well-meant mistake, I typed in the URL address of my blog as I had done the previous night, and then, holding my breath, clicked onto the domain. Lo and behold, there it was! I was overjoyed and left for the UK later that evening, somehow settled and restored. I'm not at all certain how the situation rectified itself; whether my pleas on various sites, including NiteCruzer had been instrumental or whether it was down to the simple act of reverting back to my old password. I thought about my car again. I thought about how I just get into it every day and hope that it gets me from A to B; knowing absolutely nothing about its mechanics. I felt somewhat irresponsible ... a bit of a joke really!

And finally from SPAM to SPAMALOT the Monty Python musical spoof about King Arthur and the Holy Grail. Haven't seen it yet, but hope to later this year. Only recently saw their movie 'The Life of Brian' and found myself aching with laughter. Grew into the whole 'Cleese humour' relatively late in life. SPAMALOT would appear to be a piss-take off my very, very favourite musical, Camelot, which I sincerely hope to direct and produce one day in the not too distant future!

Guinevere (Vanessa Redgrave) and Lancelot (Franco Nero)

One of Limerick's most famous sons starred as King Arthur in the movie version and no-one sings 'How to Handle A Woman' quite like Richard Harris. Please check it out on the link below. What a performer! In fact, if you haven't watched the movie yet, or you are a fan of Tennyson's Idylls of King Arthur, then please DO watch it, it's quite stunning with powerhouse performances from Harris, Vanessa Redgrave and Franco Nero!

King Arthur (Richard Harris)

http://youtu.be/z7ZUibOUX28

Keeping my fingers crossed! Not unlike Richard Harris, I've made a pact with myself to learn how to handle my computer and my car a little better!

Ciao for now!

JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR - MAN'S IMPERFECTION

2011-04-07T04:10:00.000-07:00

My first blog in over three weeks! My production of Andrew Lloyd Weber's Jesus Christ Superstar with St. Mary's Choral Society in Clonmel has only three of a nine nights left to run. Jesus Christ Superstar is a rock opera and therefore the story is told entirely through music and song. From a technical point of view, this can prove quite difficult for those who are not extremely familiar with the music of the piece, and therefore demands that I, as the director, am holed up every evening in the lighting box with both lighting and sound operators to give cues for changes that occur sometimes on a single note or chord of music. Whilst rehearsing for this production, I suggested that the cast should read the words of the songs and choruses out loud as if they were rehearsing the text from a play, because there is often a tendency to concentrate on 'singing' rather than 'performing'.

The White Memorial theatre is a small, cosy venue which seats approximately 220 people. The stage is relatively small, which raises immediate difficulties for a set designer and director, particularly when dealing with a cast of almost 70. I have always maintained and will continue to do so as long as I draw breath, that the chorus of ANY Musical production, 'make or break' a show. I have attended productions, where it is patently obvious, that the director has concentrated purely on the front line performers and stuck the chorus on here and there almost as an afterthought. In such cases, the director has probably just asked the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus to enter Downstage Stage Left or Right without explaining what their role is within the plot.... 'Just stand there now lads and give us a rousing Give Me Some Men, Who Are Stouthearted Men' for example! If one thinks back to Greek Theatre, where it all began, the CHORUS were the barometer and conscience of social behaviour. In other words, they played a hugely IMPORTANT, if not the most INTEGRAL part of the whole piece.

Whether you believe in God or even Jesus, Jesus Christ Superstar is an adaptation of one of the greatest stories ever told. What is truly fascinating about the whole story is MAN'S ability to CHANGE his/her affiliations so rapidly and so violently; moving from a festive flock of followers into a menacing, murdering mob! If a chorus is not made aware of how important it is to get a handle on this, an audience is left with a concert performance, not a riveting spectacle of human frailty. Of course, a hanging or crucifixion is going to be unpleasant, but it is the reaction of the chorus ... MAN: the sheer adoration of Jesus in ACT I; their squeezing of Pontius Pilate into the excruciating predicament of dreadul decision-making, that culminates in Jesus's crucifixion at the end of ACT II, that makes the piece so harrowing!

I can empathize with all the characters (even Herod, who is insane!), apart from the Priests, who are only interested in keeping the populus down and their coffers full. One might be forgiven for thinking that little has changed in 2000 years. The AIMS critic attended the show last Tuesday night, and her post show comments were most encouraging. Her plaudits re. the reactions; the 'turning' of the Chorus excited me most. To see the their faces following her remarks after all their months of hard work and trust, was an absolute joy!

The Musical Director, Laura Cotter and myself were extremely fortunate to be able to cast this show from within the rank and file of St. Mary's Choral Society, with no requirement, for example, to seek a Jesus or a Judas, which are both extremely demanding roles, both vocally and dramatically, from 'outside'. We have a front line and chorus that any musical society in the country would give their hind teeth for. The set designed and built by Judas (Diarmuid Vaughan) is a spectacular tour de force, allowing for glorious pictures, which are lit beautifully by Gerry Taylor's lighting design. Three more nights to go. The show is booked out .... ne'er a ticket to be had. That's success ... isn't it!?! The audience are the REAL critics surely.

At a time, where there is so much unrest and unease across the world, Jesus Christ Superstar reminds us that even Jesus wasn't perfect! Man by his very nature is imperfect! Complicated aren't we!

Have eaten, drank and slept JC Superstar for the last three months. Actually returned to research for my first novel during the week. Very excited!!!

Ciao for now!

SOMETIMES YOU CAN'T MAKE IT ON YOUR OWN

2011-03-12T17:48:00.000-08:00

Sometimes just when you feel you can't make it on your own ... your sense of purpose and direction hidden under a dump of trivia; a life-line from the Universe is handed to you like a letter, lost forty years ago in transit, by a cob-webbed, sword-brandishing knight on a white steed ... limping!

WHITE SWAN'S WINGS

No cry,
Just soft tears unchecked.
Fingers caught
By a door, to protect.
Cradled.
Rocked for an eternity.
Caught up,
In a moment, we....
Special needs....
Special children....
Special love.

Cosset,
Him in white swan's wings.
Whisper
His name and lovely things.
Swallow
Him, deeply, until painfree.
Joined, us,
For a moment, we....
Special needs....
Special children....
Special love.

Maureen Walsh

Ciao for now!

DON'T RAIN ON MY PARADE!

2011-03-06T02:16:00.000-08:00

DON'T RAIN ON MY PARADE!

Yes I know...
Know what?
What you mean!
Didn't think you were listening.
Don't I always?
Well I suppose....
Well that depends on how you look at it.
Look at what?
Your frame of mind ....
Crikey ... not another philosophical breakfast!
Why this morning, didn't you sleep well?
Are you saying that I'm normally a superficial tool?
Jesus, think you should hop back inbetween the sheets!
Couldn't you just get off my case ... just for ONCE!
But you don't normally start until you've sunk your second coffee.
What ... you checking every move I make now?
You know it's not like that!
It sure as hell feels I can't make a fucking move without you!
Well there's not an awful lot I can do about that, now is there?
I'm chained to you;
Not my idea;
Sort of happened over a few decades or so.
Yes, well I thought you'd have some sort of understanding after all these years.
You don't even understand yourself!
I AM TRYING!
Maybe, but you're driving me crazy in the process.
First thing, at least, let there be a stillness!
Hey, I do try,
It's not easy!
Well maybe you should be prepared to settle;
It just gets too bloody busy in here!
Anyway, you're going to be late!
Yes I know,
Getting my ass into gear!
Dreams .... have a lot to answer for!
Jesus!

Took a spin over to Annestown of County Waterford yesterday, to sea-watch . A very quiet ghostly-grey Saturday. Perhaps a post-election Saturday! Was re-introduced to Bohemian composer/conductor Gustav Mahler's music recently, and whilst listening to the fourth movement (Adagietto) of his fifth symphony and looking out across Anne's frilly petticoats, the above flotsam and jetsam drifted in to the shores of my thinking.

Check out this clip under the baton of the prolific conductor, Austrian Herbert Von Karajan. Quite stunning!

YOU DON'T BRING ME FLOWERS ANYMORE

2011-02-19T03:56:00.000-08:00

My shop, that was, HOUSE OF MERLIN, used to look not unlike the picture above, although without the bricked wall and cobbled street. It wasn't just a flower shop, in fact, the flowers were an 'add-on' really. I sold everything from dining tables, chairs, pictures, mirrors, to candles, photo-frames, pot-pourri and silver jewellry. Music could always be heard coming from the shop together with the glorious chime of announcement attached to the front door. Valentine's Day, Mother's Day and Christmas were wonderful flower-frenzied fiestas in the shop, which brought their own music; echoes of 'What would you like me to write on your card?' addressed to embarrassed, young and not-so young men, bringing tokens of their love for girlfriends, wives and partners; intimate details exchanged about Mothers; their likes and their dislikes; whispered memories of loved ones, passed into another life. There were 'discussion over coffee' days; planning wedding flowers with swatches of bridesmaid's material, while assessing the bride's personality.

Above, a photograph of two recent wedding flower arrangements. I'm not good at taking photographs of my work, simply because I'm normally rushing like a runaway train towards a deadline, and no matter how many times I plan to be ahead of myself, to enable portfolio pics, it rarely pans out that way. Now that the shop is gone, brought about by recessionary times, I work from home. I have a wonderful shuttered space in the garden, opening out onto our field, our horses and the glory of the Galtees. Mel, one of our horses, stretches his head curiously in towards me, not really to say 'hello', but more to grab a lily or a rose, taking off down the field, with prize fixed firmly between punishing teeth.

I had a wedding last weekend, and worked through the night, except for an hour and a half nap on the sofa. (I recommend 'sofa-nap', by the way, much better than 'bed-nap', which somehow transports into a deeper sleep, thereby creating a larger tiredness, grogginess and irritability upon waking!) Having some flowers left over, and thinking about people I hadn't said 'hello' to for a while, I made up a bouquet and called over to my dear friend Nellie, who lives just down the road from me. At 83, and an ardent horse woman, the racing was on her TV when I called yesterday. I didn't pretend that they weren't left over from a wedding, but she still threw her arms around me, calling me a great girl and that I had made her day. We laughed as I told her she had made my day by calling me a 'girl' at this stage of my middle-age. As I left, we both agreed that we were both 'girls' at heart! As I write this blog on this stunningly beautiful morning, I stopped to make a coffee and there was a gentle knock on the front door. 'Can't be canvassers,' I thought, 'The touch is too gentle!' I opened the door to see a retreating-through-the-gate Nellie, who points to the wreath on my front door. Still in my dressing gown, because ....because...., she thinks she has got up me up out of bed. 'No' I reply, as I confess to the part of me, that she can't see, 'I'm just messing around in the morningness!' She had hung a carrier bag on top of the wreath, housing a brown scone cake that she made at 7am. This isn't just any bread, this is NELLIE'S BREAD! We laugh once more about being 'girls'. Wrapped in her little red car, she drives back down the road to watch athletics on her TV. What a glorious start to a glorious day!

During that pre-wedding night of very little sleep, my music kept me company. My very dear friend Stef had mailed me a gift of the Ultimate Collection by Barbra Streisand. It is a terrific album featuring many of Ms Streisand's greatest hits. I want to share this particular live track, You Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore, a duet between Barbra and Neil Diamond.

Flowers and even bread, like children in prams and buggies, have a way of inspiring and initiating a dialogue!

Ciao for Now!

WHITE MOUNTAINS OF ZEUS - CRETE

2011-02-15T16:54:00.000-08:00

OLD MASTERS OF ZEUS

Petticoated in cloud ... Old masters of Zeus;

Spying for millions, upon non-uniformed minions.

Whisper'd secrets cross valleys, rain-riched and humming;

Gilded gifts for Africa on the blazon of Boreas.

Shelter for the Exiled, driven from their stoves;

Once trampled by treason of Nazi-boot stomp.

A cemetry in quarters for flesh-robbed ideals;

An outsider's unholy war; no guilt, the olive groves!

Cut-outs pressed against wall of blue

Flattened by distance and setting sun.

Blinded by the night to another dimension,

Are once again purpled by dawn's rosy hue.

Maureen Walsh - February 2011

Ciao for Now!

LIPSTICK

2011-02-13T18:02:00.000-08:00

LIPSTICK

Lipstick in her pocket
And a train connection;
Foraging time, for flashes of ....
Something felt in dreams, once.
Left behind, distanced, Fool's golden palace,
A veneer of wasted moments ... wasted words;
Pressed between the pages now,
And sealed with lipsticked kiss

Maureen Walsh Feb 2011

Ciao for Now!

A BICYCLE MADE FOR TWO - FINE GAEL AND LABOUR COALITION

2011-01-29T21:33:00.000-08:00

Eamon catching his Enda!

Well what a week in Irish politics, which has seen the well-overdue resignation of Brian Cowen as Fianna Fail leader; the coronation of an apologetic Micheal Martin; the announcement of a general election to be held on Friday 25 February, and the dissolution of the 30th Dail. The country is now gripped by pre-election frenzy of vote projections and the viability of 3-way or 5-way TV debates between the leaders of the 5 main political parties. Enda Kenny has declined so far to commit to a 3-way debate with the leaders of the FF and Lab party leaders, because he believes the debates should include Gerry Adams, leader of Sinn Fein and John Gormley, leader of the Green Party. As expected, dissenters of FG and their leader are declaring that Mr Kenny is afraid of the 3-way plan, because of his own shortcomings as a debater. There may be some truth in that, but listening to the old stalwart of politics, Michael Noonan, opposition spokesman for Finance, I find myself agreeing with him, in that this is only the starting point of the sparring, posturing process that preceeds the real contest. I found it somewhat ironic, however, to hear Mr. Martin, (a few hours into his leadership, even with an apology) who sat at the FF Cabinet table for the last 13 years, with the responsibility of several important portfolios throughout that period, throwing down the gauntlet to the leaders of FG and LAB for 3-way RTE Television Debate, as if he were King Arthur of the Round Table of knights who believed in 'might for right'. I found the whole thing distasteful, yet not unexpected. Fianna Fail still think that the populus of this island are stupid; that the quick exit stage left and replacement of Brian Cowen is somehow going to ensure that FF achieve the magic number of 20 seats, which will thereby ensure a multi-million euro state-funded party political party contribution.

One very valuable thing that has arisen from the last 2/3 year period of an embarrasingly disasterous Irish political performance within Europe, is that the younger generation would appear to have shifted from a rather apathetic approach to Government and the democratic process, towards a position of not wishing to squander the right to vote, that their forefathers fought so hard to obtain. Many of my younger friends, perhaps 1st. time voters are asking for my advice. Naturally, I express my own views, but I emphasize the need to inform themselves by reading as much political literature and listening to as many political debates as possible. I firmly believe that no-one should make their choices, because of how their parents or extended circle of family and friends vote. They should have faith in their own judgement.

I cannot stress enough, the urgent need for politicians of all parties to get off their high horses and start speaking in a language that everyone can understand, and remember that they are servants of the people. Whilst, I am quite sure that most politicians begin their career, genuinely wanting to 'make a difference', they have to take stock of this new passionate and enthusiastic movement of young well-educated people, who also want to 'make a difference' by casting a well-informed vote of conviction.

Yes, Ireland is in so much trouble that is has had to be bailed out by the EU and IMF, which, some say, equals loss of sovereignty, but as a Finnish gentleman said, during a recent RTE radio broadcast, in relation to the financial difficulties within his own country in the late 90's; we should look at recent developments here in Ireland as an opportunity to throw out the old tired worn-out policies and start afresh. I found his words both uplifting and hopeful.

It is looking like the Fine Gael and Labour Party will emerge as the two main political parties after the next General Election, and will probably have the task of forming the next Coalition Government. I have seen quite a few coalition governments come and go over the last 34 yrs here in Ireland, and some have been only marginally successful. This time around, I think there will be two marked differences between this Coalition Government and their predecessors, or should I say at least, I'm hoping there are! Firstly, the devastation of all that the people of this island used to hold dear i.e. its Church, its Republican Leadership; its Banking and Financial Institutions, has forced the ordinary man to take back his own power: to take responsibilility for who he/she votes for; to question the beliefs that they inherited. Ireland is no longer a Republican toddler struggling to shake off a British influence; it is a strong, independent, Republican adolescent member of the EU. Secondly, it is quite possible that this General Election will see Fine Gael and Labour returning similar numbers of TD's, which should bring about a more evenly-spread division of cabinet seats, portfolios and power.

They are two individual parties, of quite differing radical thinking, who MUST come together, WORK together for the good of the people of this island, and beyond. This is not a time for egotism or jobs for the boys! It is a time for reasoning, seasoned with a passion for honesty, truth and inclusiveness.

After all, a Coalition Government should be like a good marriage. I am reminded of the words from an old music hall song, DAISY.

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,

I'm 'alf crazy all for the love of you,

It won't be a stylish marriage

We can't afford a carriage

But you'll look sweet upon a seat

ON A BICYCLE MADE FOR TWO

(We could always swap 'Daisy' by 'Enda' or 'Eamon'!)

Well the cars ARE going, except for An Taoiseach and the Minister for Foreign Affairs, aren't they?

Ciao for Now!

IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE ... AND ALL THAT JAZZ

2011-01-26T15:27:00.000-08:00

Chicago - The Musical

If you take the odd peek at my blog now and then, you will surely have ascertained, that music is one of the great loves of my life. When I'm asked what my favourite genre of music is, I might say classical, rock, soul music, opera; depending on the mood I'm in. ( I've always had a problem getting the whole classification within the arts thing: classical, romantic, baroque, postmodern, postcolonial, expressionistic, surreal, impressionistic, and then more lately with contemporary music: futuristic, garage, R & B, hip-hop, punk, rap, folk/rock, traditional, etc; the list is endless! I suppose the chronological classifications are easy enough to follow, but try as I may the definitive line between the genres or types remains somewhat confusing!) I would certainly never have said Jazz music was up there as one of my favourites. But that all changed recently at a dinner party. Whilst enjoying the wonderful conversation of much-loved friends, eating delicious food, watching the sun go down over the city of Cork from the heights of Sunday's Well, that night I was introduced to, and shook the hand of Jazz! Yes I'd heard some of the traditional exponents of Jazz before, like Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald to name just two, but this was a whole different ball game.

Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong

This was Dave Brubeck playing 'In Their Own Sweet Way' with his sons, Chris, Dan, Darius and Matthew. Wow! Yurodny playing 'Evenset', John Zorn featuring Erik Friedlander Film Music X1X - 'The Rain Horse', 'Book of Angels' Vol. 10. The music was atmospheric, terrific, thought-provoking, and at the same time inspired and supported a steady flowing conversation. Whilst sitting there, the jazz progressions enabled me, to float away from the candle-lit table for a few moments, to gather a silent movie reel of touching hands, half-filled mouths chewing and talking, heads tossed back in laughter, eyes filled with the sparkle of new love, people reaching out in friendship. I have heard people talk about out of body experiences, but this was quite extraordinary!

It was one of the most pleasant evenings I had spent in some time. The fact that my car broke down on the way back from Cork, did not interfere with the lingering chords of music and laughter that were still playing in my head and warming my heart, as I waited for the AA Man in the cold of early morning.

In my work with children, I often use music as a starting point for exploration, as it seems to block out the nagging voices of negative uncertainty. I've introduced them to many different types of music, and lately, even JAZZ. We are jazz-suckling infants together!

This has been a week of major decision-making; a week that I have tried to make sense of, but just as Jazz music never used to make sense to me either, I realize that at this moment everything is perfect. Everything is just as it should!

Not jazz music, but music for love and dancing! And if you enjoy that, there is a link to 'I Love You Just The Way You Are'. The late, great Barry White!

Ciao for now!

CARNATIONS AND CIGARETTE ENDS

2011-01-15T18:27:00.000-08:00

Carnations, squashed, dead, alongside unravelling cigarette ends; a reminder that everything comes to an end, no matter how beautiful; no matter how satisfying. He had made up his mind a long time ago that he would never make any woman honest. He wouldn’t make anyone anything. After all, he was a traveller; a dantesque shade, taking what he needed, not unlike the black dog, rummaging through the black sack across the emptying street. Stepping across a gutter, sodden with Night's remains, the grey suit floated towards the scavenger, acknowledging that neither he nor the dog would ever be taken by surprise if they kept one foot in the shadows. For one second, red eyes looked into blue, and were gone back to Hades. Black shoes, wet, walked again; turning into an open late. Sitting at the bar in saxaphoned smoke, he swallows his sixth Jack Daniels. A red dress moved in alongside him, and putting hand on his shoulder, asked for a cigarette. He’d given them up, he said, without meeting her need to feel honest. Her flat was just around the corner if he was feeling lonely. He liked it that way, and got up to leave. Black shoes, drier, were walking again. Gold stilettos ran to catch up; echoed in the hollowness of Limbo, like tinkling piano keys. Grey suit and red dress turned the corner. They took what they needed.

Maureen Walsh - Jan. 2011

Ciao for now!

DEXTER, DEMERARA SUGAR AND DOG-HAIRED DUNES

2011-01-11T17:21:00.000-08:00

Over Christmas, a friend of mine handed me a box set of Dexter to watch, and made me promise to stay with the first three episodes at least, fully convinced that I wouldn't be able to resist the remaining episodes. Holy smoke, she was so right. Talk about family bonding sessions! This was the first Christmas in years, that there was just the four of us. No boyfriends or extended family. My friend left two seasons of 12 episodes each. So blown away were we by plot, characters and script, that we purchased seasons 3 & 4. We were hooked! I particularly love the opening and its music. Take a listen.

Dexter is a Blood Spatter Analyst with Miami Metro Police Department, who moonlights as a serial killer, but only goes for the bad guys; the ones that have somehow beat the legal system and got away with their heinous crime of murder. I am not going to give the game away by saying too much, but suffice to say that it is addictive viewing, and that is coming from someone, who is not really a TV person. However, I watched more TV this Christmas, than probably the last twenty put together. The characters in this drama series are so well-defined, and yet continue to evolve and adapt convincingly... always fresh and dynamic. This might well be due to the fact, that there are a team of writers and directors working on each series.The performances of Dexter and his sister Debra (married to each other off-screen) are simply breathtaking! It is a long time since I have seen such a rich array of quality performances from a group of actors. One of the most remarkable things about this series, is that Dexter feels like the 'Good Guy' (well at least in our household) even though he is a serious serial killer. Perceptions of right and wrong; good and evil etc are turned upside down and inside out, and give rise to the suggestion that there might be a killer instinct in all of us, given the right circumstances. Apparently series 5 can be 'streamed' online and filming of series 6 starts in September. After watching 48 episodes in less than 2 weeks, I'm just about 'Dextered out!|' Inspite of our intense 'Dextering', we managed to spend New Year's Day in Lahinch and my oldest daughter's fancy dress birthday party. Some pics and a wee poem.

Next Time!

Yes!

Demerara Sugar

How wonderful to have our eyes and an ever-changing LIGHT that works to please, by re-inventing things!

Sand becomes demerara sugar!

Dog-Haired Dunes

DOG-HAIRED DUNES

Take me there, lay me there,

Kiss my lips with sand.

Wipe away the streams of salt,

With soft, but sturdy hand.

Be quiet there, be some place there.

Maureen Walsh - Jan 2011©

Love This

Hey Mind My Hat!

After sufing, walking etc, we had lunch in Kenny's bar. Kitchen fully upgraded etc. and food as delicious as ever. Lahinch is not a walk on the wild side as far as shops, restaurants or entertainment are concerned. It is a place where the beauty of the ocean and surrounding landscape still take centre-stage.

Out Of The Mouths of Babes .....

Hey What Time Does Dexter Start?

Almost dark and about to head home. One more look at the Main Street. Still quite a few humans about, but the birds of the area sense their time to BE is about to begin!

My Favourite Garage

Anyone would think I loved Lahinch and the ocean!

Charlie Chaplin & Co

Ciao for Now!

TOM WAITS, JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR REVISITED

2011-01-07T20:46:00.000-08:00

Was clearing away some dead plant body parts from my garden last Monday. Enjoyable, but robotic sort of task, which afforded me to indulge in accompanying 'What Do I Want To Do With This New Year .... New Start' thoughts. For some unknown reason, a stretch of road, about four miles long, that I travel along most days came to mind. It keeps company with a stream, that winds through fields, meadows, wavers towards a railway track , irrigates a Christmas tree plantation, and offers a natural landscaping addition to cottage gardens. I had wanted to follow it on foot for at least 30 years. This was the day to do it .... to start the trek. Afternoon and knew I wasn't going to do the whole four miles, but hey .... I had to start somewhere.

Why certain ideas just drop into an unsuspecting head is a strange one. Grabbing my wellies, I emptied my scarf collection into a basket to bring them along for the ride. The plan (I think) was to plant them here and there as I walked; taking pics, something like, 'I wish you were here!' postcards I guess. Why scarves? Their colour? Was it the fact that each scarf had a tale to tell: an event; a happening; a conversation, that I wanted to revisit perhaps? On the drive over, I put Tom Waits into the CD player, and re-visited one of my all-time favourite songs, Martha. A beautiful melodic song, performed by one of the rustiest, rasping voices in showbusiness. What a combination. Rough with the smooth!

When I found a suitable starting place, I quickly realized that negotiating gates, thorny ditches and swampy ground, carrying a large basket of scarves and a camera in fast fading light was practically a non-starter. I needed to be up at the crack of dawn, if I was going to crack this one and wearing my sensible hat, I would have to be more choosy about my scarf selection.

Some time later into the 'trek' my mobile rang. Shit, I had forgotten my friend and her husband were calling to the house. I was on a field trip I explained and that I wouldn't be that long. Put on the kettle etc.etc. (Getting darker anyway) Besides they were driving from Marlfield, Clonmel, which is at least 30 mins drive away.

Another 30 mins to 'play', because that's what I was doing in real terms. Playing isn't just for children, I kept repeating to myself; the adult me trying to justify the trudging across muddy fields, following a stream, with a basket of scarves!

As I placed brightly coloured scarves into an almost colourless landscape, my mind began to multi-task again. This time towards Andrew Lloyd Weber's rock opera, Jesus Christ Superstar!

I am directing Jesus Christ Superstar, with St Mary's Choral Society, Clonmel in April and rehearsals start next week. I directed and produced this show with Tipperary Musical Society back in 1996. It was my first big production, and it practically took over my life for about six months. I lost a stone in weight, had difficulty sleeping, and, more often than not, when I did eventually fall into a restless sleep, an idea would shake me to wake, get up, consider and write it down lest I should forget!

Fifteen years on, I am much better at switching off, thank God! That said, JC Superstar is still a tricky show to produce! The story, which everyone knows, is told through song and musical intervals only. All technical effects, such as lighting, sound, sound effect, and scene change cues, rest upon perhaps one note or one chord of music.

Since my first production of JC back in 1996, my ideas about theatre-making have changed quite considerably. I hadn't realized until I went to UCC, that the mind I possessed, was not as open as I thought, and was in fact, entrenched in a realist tradition. The most exciting part of the journey to obtaining my degree, was the discovery, that there are no limits or boundaries to learning, imagination or creativity. To grasp the knowledge, that there are no specific starting gates; finishing lines, or that creativity is a product of spontaneity, is extremely exciting and liberating. It gives a permission for experimentation and an acceptance that even in apparent failure, there is a learning!

Child psychologists, psychaitrists, therapists report that children learn so much more about their environment, and how to behave and respond to same, through PLAY, which by its very nature is a spontaneous act.

As I walked, thoughts concerning Judas's death and the crucifixion surfaced. I have seen many productions over the years, some employing all kinds of hydraulic and pyrotechnic wizardry to enable a cross to appear magically from nowhere or the floor of the stage. Even with a more open mind, I still prefer to see the cross erected in full view of the audience. I think it maintains a rawness and a truth. The staging of these two particular scenes in a convincing manner is seriously testing, and can be further complicated by a sense within the community, that a greater sensitivity is required around Judas' suicide than the murder of Jesus by nailing him to a cross! Perhaps something to return to in another blog.

Ideas and images of costumes, set design, stage direction etc. began to form; floating alongside me; perhaps offered up to me by Lethe, goddess of the River Styx of the Underworld. (What a hopeless romantic!)

As an aside, the swans above had been gliding downstream. They stopped with me for at least 15 mins. A friendly exchange of quietly intimate inquisitiveness between both parties!

My field thoughts proceeded to bend towards holiday and travel plans for the coming year. I had thought that this might be the year that I would finally get to see India: its' colours and its contrasts. Most people hit by recession are finding it necessary to rethink their plans and stay at home. There are still so many places in Ireland, that I haven't seen, side roads that I haven't had the time to cycle along, places that I want to re-visit and view in a different light, with a different mindset.

We travel to far away places in search of the exotic, the other; a different culture, history, architecture, climate and cuisine; to taste, for ourselves, the places that we have read about in our story books. As previously blogged, I am fortunate to live quite closely to the Galtee Mountains and the Glen of Aherlow. I never cease to be amazed by the amount of Tipperary townsfolk who have never travelled a couple of miles outside the town to the Hail Christ Statue, that commands more than an absolutely stunning 180% view of the Glen of Aherlow; taken a stroll in the Galtees or trekked up to Lake Muskery.

It had grown dark, and a padlocked gate was re-visited and had to be re-negotiated. Scarves and me into the car once more. A cake or two for tea from the garage and home. My friends smiled at the thought of my toting a basket of scarves across fields, following a stream. Was I not concerned what people thought. Quite honestly ... it never entered my head!

So my decision to take off for the evening on a trek that I knew I couldn't possibly finish; re-visiting 'scarf' moments; the child in me 'playing'; rescued my imagination and creative thought process from the excesses of the Christmas holiday period.

Love to share this. The wonderful Gethsemane from Jesus Christ Superstar.

Thank God for ideas, like visitors that pop in unannounced! More spontaneous and much more fun!

Ciao for now!

NEW YEAR 2011 - ABOVE ALL HOPE

2010-12-31T12:05:00.000-08:00

HOPE'S OPENING NIGHT

Filigreed shreds of last year's frock,

Flutter feebly on the fringe of floating applause.

An old lady now, flooded in footlights' flame;

Still the fragile smile.

Still the feathery wave.

Even in the final flourishing cadence of death,

As Final Bow smelts into Opening Night,

And fading finger of memories beckons Prima Donna;

HOPE takes her place in the spotlight.

Maureen Walsh - December 2010 ©

Wishing friends, followers and daytrippers a very Peaceful 20ll, but above all, may you all be restored to HOPE. See you next year! X

Ciao for now.

CHRISTMAS - IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE!

2010-12-26T15:37:00.000-08:00

Blessed

Christmas Day! What a day for a walk before breakfast! Naturally I brought my camera along. Everywhere glistened and the sound of frost falling from bushes and trees reminded me of a rainstick, when turned upside down. Apart from that, and the odd word to each other, we were bombarded by the Christmas Silence!

In Step

Reconnaisance

Iced Grass Anyone?

Lagging Behind

The frost that didn't thaw for days, built up, layer by layer, on the trees and shrubs, reminded me of coral. A wonder of nature ... quite spectacular!

Coral Parsley

Hey There!

Not Bloomin' Lichen!

Shouldn't I be Under Water?

From Golden With Love

Snow Special

Tree Chorus

My Granny Flat

Well it's St. Stephen's Day today, and it's windy and raining! Not a sign of coralized tree, shrub or cow parsley anywhere. Galtee Mountains are grey again!

There are two movies that have to be watched every Christmas at our house: Jim Henson's Muppets Christmas Carol and Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life, starring James Stewart and Donna Read. Both have been dutifully watched and guess what?

IT IS A WONDERFUL LIFE!

Ciao for Now!

CHRISTMAS HOMECOMINGS AND KORNGOLD

2010-12-24T10:41:00.000-08:00

My daughter, Emma arrived home for Christmas from London last week (wasn't she incredbly fortunate, given the plight of so many others still trying to get home) with a CD recording of operatic arias performed by world-renowned soprano Renee Fleming, that she had received as a birthday present. She sat me down at the kitchen table, saying I just had to listen. There was only one aria on the CD that I had heard before, namely Vissi D'Arte from Giacomo Puccini's ultra-dramatic opera Tosca. It was an emotional and tearful sharing, because that's just the way the two of us are about beautiful music. Then we got to track 5 - Ich Ging Zu Ihm from Korngold's opera, DasWunder der Heliane. Wow!

This piece sounds so different from the rest. I had never heard tell of the name of Erich Korngold (1897 - 1957), an Austro-Hungarian Film and Romantic composer, before. Apparently, composer Gustav Mahler thought he was a genius. Korngold won an academy award for his score for the 1938 film, The Adventures of Robin Hood, which many consider to be the best film score ever written. Korngold believed his opera Das Wunder Der Heliane to be his masterpiece, but at its first performance at the Hamburg State Opera in 1927, it was considered, by critics, to be a flop.

I am a great fan of American lyric soprano Renee Fleming, who has successfully crossed the divide into the rock music genre, with her album Dark Hope recorded in June 2010, performing cover versions of such artists as Leonard Cohen, Band of Horses and Jefferson Airplane. Many classically-trained singers, who have attempted to do this, fail quite miserably, unfortunately.

The curtain fell on my last Christmas show on Wednesday night 22nd December; weather conditions having pushed everything forward. The echoes of the last few days of rehearsal, leaving Golden, passing through the village of Bansha, the Glen of Aherlow to arrive in Lisvernane, pulling over the car, stepping out, tripping over briars in ditches, falling flat on my face on one occasion, watching my camera spin away from me across the road, in an effort to capture the moment, whilst Renee's singing of Korngold and other arias reached out to the valley beyond, through an open door or window, will remain forever in my heart, as very special, 'Korngolden' moments!

CHRISTMAS HOMECOMING

Wipe your feet and just walk in

Everything's where it's always been.

Flames in the hearth, candles lit,

Pull over the chair where you always sit.

Take off your shoes, warm your toes,

There's love in your heart, the sparkle shows.

Making a wish as you close your eyes,

May it come true by early sunrise!

Maureen Walsh December 24th 2010 ©

I would like to wish all those and their families, who pop in and out, now and then, to have a peak at how my mind is working, a very Happy, Safe Christmas and a very Peaceful New Year!

Ciao for Now!

CHRISTMAS CRACKERS, CHILDREN AND CAROLS

2010-12-19T18:32:00.000-08:00

I might be shot for saying this, but I just love this weather. Ok I know it creates dangerous driving conditions, slippery pavements and some difficulty for feeding livestock, but isn't that really more about our inaction in dealing with such uncustomary wintry conditions. I love the extremes of hot sunshine on the one hand and below freezing temperatures on the other.

As a drama teacher, this time of the year is spent putting together concerts, Nativity and Christmas playlets. I am hugely fortunate to work in the National School at Lisvernane in the Glen of Aherlow, nestling at the foot of the Galtee Mountains. There is something so special about this school, its teachers and its pupils. From one window, the Galtees are staring straight at you, and from another, the Church across the road exudes a welcoming benevolence. I enjoy the most magnificent drive to and from that village, through the Glen of Aherlow, every week, and the last two weeks have been especially magical. I have pulled over the car on several occasions to marvel at some 'cracking' pictures, fishing for my camera, that now goes absolutely everywhere with me, in an attempt to catch the wintry light and shadows. Want to share some of those 'Christmas Crackers' with you.

Maestro

Highlighted

Snow Snakes

Spotted

Behold

Thirsting

Not Far

Iced

Broken But Perfect

Poplar Freeze

Picture This

Oceanic Sky

Ups and Downs

Speaking of 'Christmas crackers' ... they were invented by Thomas J. Smith of London in 1847. He created his crackers as a development of his bon-bon sweets, which he sold in a twist of paper. As sales of bon-bons slumped, Smith began to come up with new promotional ideas. His first tactic was to insert mottos into the wrappers of the sweets. He was then inspired to add the 'crackle' element, when he heard the crackle of a log he had just put on the fire. The size of the paper wrapper had to be increased to incorporate the banger mechanism and the sweet itself was eventually dropped, to be replaced by a small gift. The elements of the modern day cracker, such as gifts, paper hats etc were introduced by Tom's son, Walter Smith. Now a few shots of some that are most likely to enjoy pulling Christmas crackers!

In shock.

We are family!

He's Behind You!

Gosh ... the bus is late!

Save Me!

Hmmm!

Some playful 'strawberry moments' with my nieces and nephew, Grace, Summer and Kian during a recent visit to Crewe. I consider myself so so lucky to spend such a large amount of time with children. During the last week, two junior infant pupils became distraught; one little boy because he had bumped into a little girl, who threatened to tell the teacher on him, and another little girl, who had lost her cardigan. Both were almost inconsolable! I thought my heart would break! When I see the very real tears and the gasping for breath, the excitement surrounding the tooth fairy and the wonder in their eyes at the mention of Baby Jesus and Santa, I am reminded of how significant the 'small things' are to them! They teach me more than I could ever share with them!

I become quite tetchy, when I hear people say Christmas is a time for children. It is a time for EVERYONE!!! I love decorating the house, baking, the smell of spices and herbs, and Christmas Eve isn't the same, if I don't get to sing Christmas carols at mass. I would like to share my favourite Christmas carol 'O Holy Night' or 'Cantique de Noel', composed by Adolphe Adam in 1847 to the French poem 'Minuit Chretiens (Midnight Christians), by Placide Cappeau (1808-1877)., a wine merchant and poet, who was asked by a parish priest to write a Christmas poem. This glorious piece is performed here by Leontyne Price.

Mary Violet Leontyne Price was born in 1927, and raised in the segregated Deep South of America. She was the first African-American to become the Prima Donna at the Metropolitan Opera. Quite extraordinary!

Now it is Christmas!!!

Ciao for now!

DIS-EASE OF MAN - THE NEW SILENCE

2010-12-15T19:52:00.000-08:00

Is it really any wonder that people feel uneasy at the moment; that somehow things have spiralled out of control; out of trust. Not only are we trapped in the mire of financial uncertainty that seems to be affecting not only Ireland, but much of Europe, if not most of the globe, we are being forced to witness, through more easily accessible worldwide communication, one despicable human rights violation after another, and there seems to be damn all the ordinary man on the street can do about it. As stated in previous blogs, it would seem that as the hierarchies of Government, Church, Banking and Financial Institutions failed miserably, and in such quick succession, there is now a real sense of DIS-EASE within society, which has somehow gone past the point of words. They are tired and worn out! A new kind of SILENCE is being born! Most of the chaos around us, and the feelings that provokes, might stem from an almost subconsious layering, fusing and engraving of historical circumstance over centuries, which perhaps, on the face of it, would seem to have very little to do with a 21st psyche.

IS MAN, AS ONE ESSENTIAL INDIVIDUAL, A PART OF THE COMPLETE ESSENCE OF SOCIETY, AND A PRODUCT OF IT'S COLLECTIVE MEMORY?

These recent thoughts inspired this poem.

DIS-EASE

Clouds on glass, over others slide,
Lighter, moving faster, in quick succession.
A pox upon tango-knitted proxy,
Set on fire by the sun god's inspection.

A violin moans, but he cannot see,
The artist or the bow.
Wind cannot whistle through steel-frozen ribs,
Dis-eased, Historied ... Smelt him now!

Beware of the beast lurking deep in the shadows,
Won't bore you, or gore, but eyeballs to shame.
In disguise; mixing Medusa with Minotaur ...
Divinity sabotages Lucifer's grains.

A puppet of any age, Man flails at brink
Of new silence; doesn't realize his fate,
Rests, not upon the factory job,
But the Battle beyond the Gate.

Maureen Walsh - December 2010 ©

I JUST HOPE THAT THIS DIS-EASE DOESN'T CEMENT ITSELF IN APATHY AND HOPELESSNESS!

'Hear Me Out' is about missed opportunities and misunderstandings. It is written, composed, arranged, played and sung by Canadian singer, Sarah Slean.

Find more artists like Sarah Slean at Myspace Music

I am a firm believer, that most things are 'PUTTABLE-RIGHTABLE'! Of course there has to be a volition for change and mediation. APATHY and HOPELESSNESS thwart that process

Thank God Christmas is coming and the hopefully the goose is getting fat!

Ciao for now!

YENTL - PAPA CAN YOU HEAR ME

2010-12-13T18:27:00.000-08:00

Barbra Streisand as Yentl the Yeshiva Boy

Yentl is a 1983 romantic musical dramatic movie from United Artists, and directed, co-written, co-produced, and starring Barbra Sreisand based on the play of the same name by Leah Napolin and Isaac
Bashevis Singer, which is based on Singer's short story called 'Yentl - The Yeshiva Boy'. The dramatic story incorporates humor and music to relate the odyssey of a Jewish girl in Poland who decides to dress and live like a man so that she can receive an education in Talmudic Law after her father dies. The film's musical score and songs were composed by Michel Legrand.

Just arrived back from the UK today. Had to leave my father, Maurice, who is getting smaller and more fragile, but who still sings with a fine tenor voice and has one of the biggest laughs I have ever heard! So this song from Yentl, Papa Can You Here Me is for you DAD and for fathers everywhere. Over-sentimental maybe, but we only have ONE of them!

Maurice

I am singing in a concert on Friday night and thinking of performing this song for the first time. Won't be anywhere near as good as Barbra's, but hell I'm going to give it plenty of 'welly'!

Check out Miss Streisand's version by clicking below..

Barbra Streisand as Herself

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdFlHuyWr0o

Ciao for now!

KINNITY CASTLE HALLOWEEN WEEKEND

2010-12-06T19:15:00.000-08:00

Kinnity Castle

We spent our Halloween Weekend at Kinnity Castle in Co. Offaly this year. We had talked about spending Halloween in a spooky setting for some years and decided that we would take the bull by the horns this year. It is said that Kinnity Castle is haunted, and I have no reason to doubt that it isn't. Over the two days, we were taken to two other nearby, reputedly, haunted castles; Leap and Charleville.

Leap Castle

Charleville Castle

The earliest evidence of human habitation in Ireland is 6500 BC at Lough Boora, County Offaly just 15 minutes drive from Kinnitty Castle. These early nomadic men would have hunted and gathered on the edge of the then lakes which have now turned to peat bogs and would also have lived for times in the Slieve Bloom Mountain range which commands expansive views of the country.

Renowned for being the birthplace and early home of legendary Finn MaCool along with being the spawning ground of the Salmon of Knowledge which brought him the wisdom of the world, the Slieve Blooms rolling hills inspire.

Salmon of Knowledge

The Castle has a long and colourful history which dates back to ancient times. Located on an ancient druidic ceremonial ground, where leylines cross and mystical forces are prevalent, the area around Kinnitty can be considered to be the solar plexis chakra of Ireland.

Born in Munster in the 6th century, Saint Finnian was a disciple of Saint Brendan, at whose wish he founded and governed a monastery at Kinnitty (Cean-e-thich) in Offaly of which he is the patron (Benedictines, Farmer, Husenbeth). This monastery was part of an extensive monastic network across Offaly including Clonmacnoise, Durrow & Rahan, which were among the main 'learning centres' of Europe in their day. Subsequent raids by the Vikings led to their decline. The High Cross associated with St. Finnian's monastery which is now located directly beside the castle, depicts 'the presentation in the temple', 'the crucifixion', 'Adam and Eve' and intertwining birds.

                          St. Finian

The Normans later built a castle and Augustinian Abbey on the site, the walls of which were incorporated into the Castle and can still be seen to this day.

The Clans of the O'Carrolls of Ely occupied the territory around Kinnitty and are reputed to have had over 40 castles around the 11th century, one of which was located on the motte which is found just behind the current castle. The Castle is one of the strongholds of the O'Carroll family of which one Charles Óg O'Carroll was one of the original signatories of the American Declaration of Independance. The descended family still maintain vast estates in Maryland.

                                Ely Crest

In 1630 William O'Carroll built a new Castle in close proximity to the Abbey. This was confiscated in 1641 by the English forces as part of the plantation of Offaly or "Kings County" as the county was then known. In 1664 the crown granted an estate, which included Kinnitty Castle, to Colonel Thomas Winter as reward for military service.

Other castles associated with the O'Carrolls of Ely include Leap Castle, owned by Sean Ryan & Emmell Castle in Cloughjordan, owned by Hollywood actor Patrick Bergin, both of whom can be sometimes found in the Dungeon Bar playing with Con of Kinnitty.

                   Patrick Bergin

The estate was sold by Colonel Winter's descendants to the Bernard family in 1764. It then became known as Castle Bernard. In 1811 Lady Catherine Hutchinson, wife of Thomas Bernard, commissioned the famous Pain Brothers, architects of Dromoland Castle and Adare Manor, to extend the castle to what Kinnitty Castle is today, a gem of neo gothic architecture.

In 1922, as with many stately homes in Ireland, the Castle was burned down by the Republican forces. The Castle was rebuilt in 1928 and the Bernard family lived there until 1946 when it was sold to Lord Decies who in turn sold the Castle to The State in 1951. The State retained ownership until it was purchased by the Ryan family in 1994 and has since been transformed into a luxurious 37 bedroom hotel.

Sean - Owner of Leap Castle

Sean, a tin whistle player, extraordinaire, was a wonderful host for our tour around his castle, which is reputed to be one of the most haunted castles in Europe. We witnessed a seance in Charleville Castle, during which, a chap, who later became a friend, saw a spirit standing next to Emma! WE didn't see any ghosts or spirits over that weekend, but we had a terrific weekend looking for them! There was also a wonderfully well organized Halloween ball on the Saturday night, which was hilarious fun! Here are some pics!!!

Apart from its reputation for being haunted, Kinnity is set in wonderful woodlands, which makes for gloriously peaceful walking.

The decor and ambience in Kinnity are sumptuous, yet casual; a perfect combination, where one feels relaxed, yet pampered. One sneaky look at the boudoir.

Mmmm ..... so, so cosy!

It was pointed out to us by our guide on the way to Leap Castle, that the bush shown in the picture below possesses healing qualities. There are thousands of scraps and rags of prayers tied onto it. Reminded me of the ritual lighting of candles in church for people, or the little iconic tokens (name escapes me at present) left behind in their thousands at the churches in Greece. I tore a piece from the scarf I was wearing that day.

We were advised by our guide to stay at Kinnity as long as we could, because she believes it has enormous powers of healing and cleansing. I totally accept that some people are sceptical of such things, but in a strange way, I have already begun a 'decluttering' process of things that don't MATTER and people who MIND. Kinnity is a perfect getaway place, and I shall definitely revisit. Apart from tasting a piece of Irish history at Kinnity, whilst enjoying a superb ambience; the final and most important plaudit has to go to the manageress and her staff, who are young, 'go-getting'; extremely polite and sincerely welcoming!

Finally, can't resist bragging about the fact that hubbie and myself won first prize for the best fancy dress costumes!

One last picture!

Ok so ... leaving the last word to the menfolk! (Sexist me? ... NEVER!!!)

Addendum: Doll pics inspired by artist/photographer Rebekka Guoleifsdottir's wonderful work

Ciao for now!

SNOW SCENES FROM TRAINS AND AUTOMOBILES

2010-12-04T14:26:00.000-08:00

I took these pictures over the last few days.

Galtee Mountains

Man Meets Nature

Glen of Aherlow

Left Behind

THE TUNNEL

One going East, One going West,

Meeting briefly, chest to breast,

Flags are lowered for a moment in that Tunnel,

Then the whistle is blown, its full steam ahead.

The Future

Kildare Station

Laid Bare

Tunnel Twist

Tree Ship

On Reflection

Achtung Baby!

Zulus' Call

Newbridge Station

Kildare Church

The bluish photographs were taken through the window of the train to Dublin yesterday. (The windows of the train are coated with something that stops you seeing into the carriages from the outside.) The speed of the train distorts the images, but I like the results. We were stopped at Kildare for an hour because a poor man collapsed on the train and had to be seen by paramedics. He was finally uplifted from the train at Newbridge. I do hope he makes a full recovery. I used the time to take a few pics. I particularly like the ones of tunnels at Kildare.

Ciao for now!

MEN IN SCARVES ... SO ... SO SEXY!!!

2010-12-02T17:44:00.000-08:00

I am such a sucker for a man in a scarf! Ok the guy in the picture above, looks like he might be wearing half a table cloth around his neck,(yet I admire his self-confidence!) but scarves, on the whole, are just so... so sexy on men!!! And hey they make great Christmas Pressies! There's something special about knitting a scarf for the man in your life. (I took it one step further some years ago, by knitting a bottle green fisherman's ribbed sweater for mine, which he wore for many years, inspite of the fact, that one sleeve was noticeably longer than the other. Now that's what I call REAL love ... the fact that he wore it at all!!!) Taking a scarf and wrapping it around the neck of the man you love, like shaving him or putting on his tie or cravat is an incredibly sensual ritual. A thrill, that quite possibly, emanates from a mutual eye contact; being close enough to touch ... yet NOT!

For some baffling reason, I associate scarves with brains, creativity and a lower tolerance for trivia. A corduroy or tweed jacket teamed up with a carelessly slung scarf is definitely the ultimate in bohemian chic! A finely-knit, white scarf worn with evening wear for an opening night, emits an air of informality, whilst maintaining a sense of occasion. Scarves can soften the neck and shoulder line of even the most robustly-built rugby player.

I wear scarves all year round, sometimes two at a time, if I can't decide between one or another. Why not? There are no rules! I have always been fascinated by fabrics, colours, clothes-layering, and matching up 'feminine' with 'masculine' eg. lace and silk, with Doc Marten boots! Visiting India to watch the cotton and silk dying process is on my 'to do before I die list'. I love how they break so-called colour co-ordinative rules, in their expression of such exuberance!

Orgasmic !!!

Back to scarves. I remember my mother telling me that when we were babies, she couldn't afford to buy clothes, but would push the pram into Crewe town to visit the Friday Market and, finances permitting, she might buy a new scarf to brighten up an old outfit. My mother was fairly nifty with the sewing machine and created her own suits (costumes, as they were called back in the 1940's and 50's) and often made trousers for my father. Crewe Market is presently being revamped, so too is the Queen's Park. Both places, an integral part of my youth, hold a very special magic. During my visits home over the years, I would always make a beeline for a stall on the market that sold remants of lace, ribbons, binding, buttons etc. for a pittance. Once home, and spilt from their bag, my eyes marvelled at this treasure trove of textures and colours, and savoured them individually, as if precious gems.

As is my wont, my love of scarves led me to thinking about the neck, and its 'precious' significances.

Being a supremely erogenous area, the neck has an endless supply of romantic conotations. The fastening of a necklace, perhaps a gift, by one's lover; the wrapping of arms around lovers' necks; the kissing of a lover's neck are but three examples.

The neck area is also associated with punishment and death: legitimate (and I would question whether any capital punishment is legitimate!) and otherwise; such as death by hanging, guillotine, slitting of the throat, strangling etc. Because the neck houses mechanisms that allow us to eat, breathe and utter WHO WE ARE, these punishments are the ultimate humiliation!

There are countless tribal rituals associated with the neck, such as those in Burma and Africa. The Karens are a large ethnic group spread throughout Southeast Asia. They trace their origins to the Gobi Desert, Mongolia, or Tibet. Karens settled in southern and eastern Myanmar as far back as the seventh century. (Myanmar was known as Burma until 1990, when the military government changed the country name.) A Karen subgroup, the Kayan, are known for the neck rings made of brass worn by girls and women. Over time, more and more coils are added to the rings, pushing the collarbone down, giving the appearance of an elongated neck (hence their Burmese name, Padaung, meaning "longneck"). The Kayan subgroup of Karen is traditionally a matriarchy. The rings around necks, arms, and knees are sometimes explained as a traditional protection against tiger bites. Many Kayans have become refugees in recent years, and women with neck rings have been exploited as "freak show" tourist attractions in Thailand and Myanmar.

Beads played a huge part in marking the stages of a woman's life in Africa. When a young girl reached puberty, this was a time for celebration; a time to marry and bear children. She would make a skirt from beads which was meant to adorn and attract possible suitors. Even after the girl was married, she would wear a string of beads around her waist, which she would 'rattle' for her husband's attentions. In Zambia, if a woman wore the string of waist beads around her neck, she was perceived as having loose morals.

Couldn't talk about the neck, without referring to the book Dracula created by Bram Stoker in 1897, where we are introduced to the idea that a wreath of garlic worn around the neck, would ward off any attempt by Dracula, a vampire, to sink his fangs into the necks of poor unsuspecting, normally, white female necks. (My very very favourite dracula movie, being the 1992 Dracula starring Gary Oldman, Winona Ryder, Anthony Hopkins and directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Beautiful cinematography and stunning costumes. First time I felt sympathetic towards Dracula, played by the magnificent Gary Oldman!)

So all in all, the neck is a rather fascinating, precious part of our body! Back to scarves!

SCARVES make windows look great!!!

And yes, almost forgot ... scarves will also keep us WARM during this period of arctic weather!

Wrapping a scarf gently around the necks our lovers or partners, our parents, our children, our friends, is a wonderful non-cliched way of saying, 'I LOVE YOU'!

But back to basic, animalistic laws of attraction !!!

MEN IN SCARVES ... SO ... SO ... SEXY !!!

Ciao for now!

TRUE COLOURS ... BY THE GREEN PARTY ... NOT CYNDI LAUPER'S VERSION !!!

2010-11-22T16:18:00.000-08:00

John Gormley - Leader of Green Party

So the Green Party have finally decided to show their YELLOW bellies and abandon ship! John Gormley, their leader came out today to say that his party would pull out of a coalition Government with their brothers of the Fianna Fail party, once the Budget was passed through the Dail on December 7th. He stressed that the reason for not pulling out before the Budget, was because they were putting the country before party politics. Oh yeah right! Does he really think that the people of this country are that stupid? Come on, they got wind of the fact that Fianna Fail backbenchers are at the point of mutiny!!! If the Green Party were really that bothered about the people of this island, they would have removed themselves from Government last October 2009, when the sheer volume of the disastrous mismanagement of this country's finances became unavoidably conclusive.

There were all sorts of discussions going on today about putting the country first by pushing ahead with the Budget in December; that we can't keep the IMF waiting while we hold a general election; that we shall be the laughing stock of Europe etc. etc. Fianna Failers seem to be under the misapprehension that by replacing Brian Cowen as leader, with Michael Martin, Mary Hanafin or Brian Lenehan, the very REAL disquiet felt throughout this country will be miraculously healed. Sorry lads! Absolutely too late for that boys and girls!

I heard a member of Fianna Fail being interviewed from Brussels on RTE Radio today, who said people should stop playing the blame game and that the Government should be allowed to get on with sorting out our financial mess; that this was gone way beyond party politics, and that Fine Gael and the Labour Party were being opportunistic. I found myself agreeing with him to a certain degree. I do not really believe that the present financial disaster will be any easier to rectify, should a coalition of Fine Gael and the Labour Party win the next general election. But that is not the POINT anymore!

When we are ill, we seek the help of the medical profession, who have sworn the hippocratic oath to practice medicine ethically, which, one would think, should include a sympathetic bedside manner, and an overt willingness to explain the diagnosis and prognosis to each and every individual patient, irrespective of age, gender, race, creed or economic circumstance. Referring back to a blog from April re. Tiger Woods and his apology to the world for his infidelity (which I thought was completely unnecessary) and my absolute horror at hearing our Taoiseach, Brian Cowen making a statement in the Dail, on the very same evening, saying that he didn't have to answer to ANYONE, should have been enough to set alarm bells going off in every home in this country!

This man, our Taoiseach and his merry band of men are about to administer bitter pills with the most serious side effects for all of us to swallow in the forthcoming Budget, without anything that remotely resembles an adequate bedside manner or even a willingness to listen to the wishes of the people that they represent.

Brian Cowen and the Fianna Fail party have to go! Over the last 12 years in Government, they have completely lost touch with the voters, and what's more, they don't even try to pretend anymore! Someone referred to the parliamentary party as being 'infected' by the likes of Haughey and Aherne earlier today. Perhaps, more than a hint of truth in that statement methinks! I do believe this Government could have turned this whole thing around if they had taken their fair share of the medicine themselves, by curbing all unnecessary and frivolous expense at a time when people were losing their homes and their livelihoods, and had told the truth from the start about the financial chaos, which was largely brought about by relatively under-supervised and unethical Banking.

There should be a general election NOW. What is the sense of a Budget and a Four Year Plan being passed through the Dail by a Government that are not going to remain in power beyond January 2011 anyway. That would definitely make us the laughing stock of Europe!

This Government have behaved like frightened rabbits and head-burying ostriches, rather than roaring felines of the supposed 'Golden Celtic Tiger Age'. There will be no phoenix rising from the ashes of this Government! Like lambs to the slaughter, the Fianna Fail Party will be blown out of the water at the next general election by voters who are baying for blood. Those who are lucky enough to hang onto a personal vote by the skin of their teeth, will be glad of a seat on the opposition benches, where they can regroup and hopefully mature into a political party of a 21st Century Europe, away from the politically irrelevant umbrella of civil war mentality.

Colours of white and blue; red, green or YELLOW are no longer relevant in 21st Century global politics unless they include the TRUE COLOURS of political and sociological humanitarianism.

Cyndi Lauper's version of TRUE COLOURS:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OK2RwFEegms

Ciao for now!

Aung San Suu Kyi's Release - Heart of the Matter II

2010-11-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

                                       Aung San Suu Kyi

I believe the tiniest seeds were sown, or at least the soil is being prepared for democracy in Burma over the weekend following the release of Aung San Suu Kyi from house arrest on Novemeber 13th 2010. Leader of the National League for Democracy Party, she spent 15 years from the 1989-2010 period of her life incarcerated at her home. (An immensely gifted, highly intelligent, patriotic woman cooped up within the walls of her home for 15 years! What a monstrous waste!)

Her father Aung San founded the modern Burmese Army and negotiated Burma's independence from the British Empire in 1947 and was assasssinated by rivals later the same year. Her mother Khin Kyi took a prominent part in the new Burmese government, becoming ambassador to India. Following her mother to India, Aung San Suu Kyi achieved a degree in politics, then moving to London to continue her education, she obtained a BA degree in Philosophy, going on to earn a PhD at the School for Oriental and African Studies University London in 1985. She married Dr. Michael Aris in 1972 and had two sons, Alexander and Kim. In 1988, she returned to Burma to take care of her ailing mother.

                                   8888 Uprising

By coincidence, in the same year, the long-time military leader of Burma and head of the ruling party, General Ne Win, stepped down. This led to mass demonstrations for democracy on 8 August 1988 (8-8-88, a day seen as auspicious), which were violently suppressed in what came to be known as the 8888 Uprising. On 26 August 1988, she addressed half a million people at a mass rally in front of the Shwedagon Pagoda in the capital, calling for a democratic government. However in September, a new military junta took power. Later the same month, 24 September 1988, the National League for Democracy (NLD) was formed, with Suu Kyi as general secretary.

Influenced by both Mahatma Gandhi's philosophy of non-violence and by more specifically Buddhist concepts, Aung San Suu Kyi entered politics to work for democratization, helped found the National League for Democracy on 24 September 1988, and was put under house arrest on 20 July 1989. She was offered freedom if she left the country, but she refused. The general election of 1990 saw her party winning 59% of the vote and 81% of government seats, but the results were nullified creating an international outcry. During her house arrest, Aung San Suu Kyi was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize; the 1.3 million dollars was used to set up a health and education trust for the Burmese people.

                                     Mahatma Gandhi

The last time that she saw her husband Dr, Michael Aris was Christmas 1995. They had only seen each other 5 times during the period of 1989 - 1995. In 1997, Aris was diagnosed with prostrate cancer, but the Military Junta would not grant him a visa to travel to Burma, even after the intervention of UN Secretary General Kofi Annan and Pope John Paul II. The Junta agreed to grant Aung San Suu Kyi a temporary release to visit her husband, but she refused to go, because she didn't believe the Military Junta would allow her to return to Burma. Her husband died in 1997 and she was separated from her sons, who are both residing in the UK.

One of her most famous speeches is the "Freedom From Fear" speech, which begins: "It is not power that corrupts but fear. Fear of losing power corrupts those who wield it and fear of the scourge of power corrupts those who are subject to it."

She also believes fear spurs many world leaders to lose sight of their purpose. "Government leaders are amazing", she once said. "So often it seems they are the last to know what the people want."

I watched an interivew between herself and John Simpson on BBC last night, and was absolutely captivated by this woman, the nature of her forgiveness, and all that she stands for! When I read a little of her story, I was reminded of Veronica Guerin, the Irish crime journalist, who was assassinated by drugdealing criminals in 1996; the sacrifices she made for what she believed in, and the criticism that both women have received as a result.

Surely REAL CHANGE comes about by huge individual SACRIFICE and FORGIVENESS!

Was initially going to use the word 'unforgiveable' in relation to Aung San Suu Kyi's house arrest, but decided against it. There can be no progress in any area of our lives without sacrifice or forgiveness.

As in my last blog which referred to the physical health of the heart; so, too, must we look after the emotional well-being of our heart, which has to begin with forgiveness and the ability to say 'sorry'.

I have been encouraged by the release of Aung San Suu Kyi into thinking that just maybe the craziness that seems to have stitched up this whole darn world might be starting to unravel !!!

I shall be watching Aung San Suu Kyi's return to the political life of Burma with huge interest and in the hope that one day she will become President.

In conclusion, a dear friend sent me this link in relation to my last blog, 'The Heart of the Matter'. It is a song of the same title by India Arie. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_CU-9FNoDE

Ciao for now!

THE HEART OF THE MATTER

2010-11-10T06:14:00.000-08:00

Arrived in London, in many ways, the financial and cultural HEART BEAT of Europe, this morning, to watch and listen to my daughter, Emma sing this afternoon. The house that she shares with three other young female aspiring musicians is quietly still this morning. There are no lilting melodies bowed from violins and cello or vocal arpeggios today, just a gurgling dishwasher, expressing its own rhythmical opinion. Now and then, the sound of busy sirens, passing cars and planes overhead, join in unexpectedly with the diswasher's serenade, which continues to suck and guzzle, unfazed.

Standing on their verandah, in the glory of post frost sunshine, there are the worlds of back gardens to my left, right and straight ahead. I look at them as far as my eye will take me, but feel I shouldn't let my gaze rest there too long, for fear of intrusion. Canoes to my right; stones instead of grass to my left; passion fruit threading through a mulberry tree ahead. My head starts! How come there are passion fruit growing in this part of London? The passion flower in my garden, in rural Tipperary, has produced flowers, but never a single fruit. I need to check that out. Soil, wrong position, climate etc. etc. Get to the heart of the matter.

Every living thing, which includes the four female musicians who houseshare here in London and the passion flower back in Tipperary, deserve to be nurtured; to be given the best possible conditions in which to flourish. (I planted an olive tree in my garden some years ago, thereby bringing a piece of Greece into my Tipperary world. Sadly it was killed by the frost and my vanity, two winters ago).The heart of the olive tree belongs to the Mediterranean, Greece and further East. That is where they belong! I learnt my lesson. Speaking about hearts and centres brings me to my next point.

I was shocked to discover recently, that more women than men are now affected by heart disease, which is a bigger killer in women than all cancer deaths put together. I am a huge fan of the formidably iconic singer/actress/director/film producer/songwriter, Barbra Streisand, who has affiliated herself to many charitable and political causes over the years. I would like to share her words with those who might dip in and out of my blog.

Dear Friend,

As we go about our everyday lives, it’s easy to take for granted the strong, steady beating of our hearts. But, sadly, the odds are that many of us will someday face serious cardiac problems. The fact is heart disease continues to be the leading cause of death for both men and women in the United States.

Women tend to worry more about breast cancer because it’s always in the news. But heart disease takes the lives of 500,000 mothers, daughters, sisters and friends every year—more than all cancers combined.

In fact, while the mortality rate for men with coronary artery disease has been declining for the past 30 years, the number of women who die from it is rising. This is due, in part, to the fact that diagnostic and treatment methods have been geared towards men.

Women have paid a huge price for the medical and scientific community not knowing about the important gender differences in heart disease. What gives me hope is knowing that the Cedars-Sinai Women’s Heart Center is here for us.

Through gender-specific heart research, the development of new diagnostic tools, breakthrough clinical trials using stem cells to enable the heart to heal itself, and specialized care for women, the Women’s Heart Center is improving the detection and treatment of women’s heart disease. When you consider that 40 percent of women don’t survive their first heart attack, you can see why I’m excited about this work!

I’m writing to you today because I deeply believe that women’s heart disease is an epidemic worthy of our philanthropic support. If you share this belief, I hope you will join me in supporting Cedars-Sinai Women’s Heart Center by sending a donation today. Even a small gift will help save women’s hearts and lives.

Thank you, in advance, for your kind generosity. Working together, we can make a real difference.

Warm regards,

Barbra Streisand

P.S. I have played many roles over the years, but one that makes me particularly proud is the role I play as a supporter of the Cedars-Sinai Women’s Heart Center. It is an honor to have the opportunity to ask for your support of this wonderful program.

http://www.barbrastreisand.com/

I think its particularly worthy that celebrities think outside their world of plenty in an attempt to help others. Perhaps I shouldn't find that so surprising!

We must ALL do what we can to ensure that BOTH genders of ALL ages, races and economic circumstance receive the health care they deserve, as LIVING THINGS!

Now to an afternnoon of music. Nurturing myself with food for the soul .... the HEART !!!

Ciao for now!

ELASTICATED EASTER EGGS

2010-11-02T08:14:00.000-07:00

She stepped out of the navy winceyette elasticated knickers, that her father's girlfriend had bought her. She hated them. The long ones that came half way down the thigh. She had wanted to embarrass her of course. She was the only one in her class that had knickers like that, but then, she was the only one in the class whose father had a girlfriend. She lowered her head in the light of her bedside lamp to check for pubic hairs. Still no sign. Still like a dolphin, sitting on the top of chubby, shapeless legs. No wonder the boys called her Fatso, that is, except for Andrew, whom she married today, in the school playground. She fingered the green lucky bag ring on her left hand, that Sybil, her friend, had produced, excitedly, from a tartan satchel, that morning. Andrew and herself hadn't spoken another word to each other following the ceremony in the yard. He went back to his game of football and his mates, and she rejoined the girls under the oak tree, to look for acorns.

Pulling on pyjama bottoms that were inches too short, the corner of her eye collected a longer black version of herself, pulling up longer bottoms that were still too short! Crabbed hands projected black ducks, dogs and dinosaurs onto a wall, drained of its greenness by the yellow light of bedtime, before drawing back maroon, shining eiderdown, and sliding between striped sheets. As she reached for What Katy Did Next, four chocolate eggs foiled in Purple and Red, tempted from a brown shelf, opposite. She reminded herself of the pact, she had made with herself, not to disturb their perfection until the following Easter. There was an opportunity to command a self-control in this corner box-room, like no other part of the house. She wanted to make the egg moment last; wanted something to last longer than the stretch of the elastic in her knickers!

Her father's feet travelled from the top of the stairs and into his room, without stealing in to pin, 'Good night' on to her forehead. She called out, 'Dad!', but her door remained closed ... loudly. But he had made her a white cupboard with green handles for her books, hadn't he? She slipped out from underneath the bedclothes and opening the door of her father's handiwork, she picked up an Anglo-Saxon history book; stroked its cover and smelt its smell. It had been on special offer in W.H. Smiths, where most of her pocket money was spilt. They were an obsession .... the books and the rose-scented writing paper!

Sneaking back into the warmth of bed, she felt comforted by words, rose oil; the lullaby of a whispering wind, and the licking light of a street lamp belonging to the outside world. The books, the rainbow writing paper, harboured in a white handmade closet, would live on, in her mint imagination, long after the last Easter egg or the elastic in her navy knickers!

Maureen Walsh October 2010

Ciao for Now!

Orhan Pamuk /John McGahern ... Inspirational Gems to Share

2010-10-25T20:32:00.000-07:00

Orhan Pamuk

Just as in music, one chord, one note, a syncopation, or a simple modulation can hit you so hard in the heart, that you are hooked forever to the piece, and perhaps, initially because you wish you had composed it; or that because of your enormous appreciation of its beauty, (even though it is available to a whole galaxy of listeners) there is a rather ridiculous belief that somehow it belongs to YOU. With that 'possession' follows an excitement and an overwhelming desire to share. I have found myself wanting to 'share' lots of music of late. Next blog!

So to writing, which creates quite the same kind of scenario. I bought a book recently called Arab Society and Culture: An Essential Reader edited by Samir and Roseanne Saad Khalaf. I have only just started to read it, but within the introduction, I met up with Orhan Pamuk for the first time.

Pamuk, a Turkish writer and lecturer was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2006. (The first Nobel Prize to be won by a Turk) The Nobel Lecture, that he delivered in Stockholm, called My Father's Suitcase, inspired the editors of the above book, for inclusion.

For those that love to read; to write; or for those who might even aspire to being called a 'writer', I found myself wanting to share two snippets of Pamuk's mindset... two gems, that hit me smack bang wallop in the chest whilst only reading the introduction!

'It is discontent, Pamuk suggests, along with the need to escape that remains the starting point of true literature'.

'Pamuk soon realized that to "read, to write, was like leaving one world to find consolation in the otherness of another, in the strange and the wondrous." But as an authentic writer, he must have the artistry to tell his own stories as if they were other people's stories, and to tell other people's stories as if they were his own.'

Wow! That's just the introduction. Can't wait to read the rest!

John McGahern

From Pamuk, I fly to John McGahern, one of the most important Irish writers of the latter half of the 20th Century, who died in March 2006. Recently, I was studying a small extract from his book Memoir 2005, which describes the countryside of his native home in Co. Leitrim. Want to share one sentence, one gem from this piece, which caused me to sigh deeply, with a heaving of the shoulders, wishing I could write like this.

'The hedges are the glory of these small fields, especially when the hawthorn foams into streams of blossom each May and June.'

The use of the word 'foams' is simply delicious! The round compact stroke of a round shaving brush, lathering white eventually, the whole chin and the cheek ... born out of one singular circular movement of the wrist. It creates a wonderful metaphor of the micro versus the macro; one single round white floret, loops up with another such fragile beauty, then another; eventually presenting the perfect face of hawthorn, frozen for a moment, in a burgeoning, but benign mob of white heads.

And of course, by the time you have instigated the excited process of sharing, in the hope that the recipient experiences, to some extent, the joyous pain of the instant, piercing recognition, that you felt; you will have already resigned yourself to the fact, that your 'love for or fascination with' that something, may, in actual fact, remain indefatigably unrequited!

Not to worry darlings ....! It merely adds to the glorious excitement of it all!

Ciao for now!

References.
Khalaf, Samir and Roseanne Saad, Arab Society and Culture: An Essential Reader. (Lebanon. Saqi, 2009.
McGahern, John. Memoir (All Will Be Well) 2005

THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHED BUSINESS

2010-10-19T18:45:00.000-07:00

Where was I !!!

The love that men have for their sheds fascinates me. Whilst many women love cooking and their kitchens, I think the 'shed syndrome' is something entirely different and quite unique to men. Perhaps it goes back to the man being the hunter, provider and 'fixer'!?! Perhaps it is a symbol of his connection to his father, the place where he was first taught how to hammer in a nail or how to saw his first piece of timber. In the apparent chaos of most sheds I've ever peeped into, men always seem to be able to miraculously put their hands upon exactly what they are looking for. Some women nag their partners about the state of their sheds, but come on girls give them a break. Like my girls' bedrooms, I gave up nagging them a long time ago. It is THEIR SPACE, when all is said and done!

Didn't I tell you already..... I'm inventing something !!!

As a little girl, I used to love going into my father's shed. It was like Aladdin's cave! There were heaving shelves of Quality Street tins filled with every conceivable size of screw, washer, nail etc; old rusting tins of National Dried Baby Milk (No SMA or Cow and Gate then). A chunky oak bench fixed with a vice that nearly talked to me as I opened and closed its gaping mouth. There were fierce-looking, but compelling implements stuck to cobwebbed walls. Dented tins of maroonish-coloured paint, that covered nearly everything that could be painted at number 19 Hargrave Avenue. The smell of white spirits or 'thinners' as my dad used to call it, mixed in with paint, oil, metal, polishes etc. will remain in my nostrils for ever. Next to the smell of music shops and bookshops, I love most, the intricately brewed aroma of hardware shops, particularly those mad, completely chaotic ones of little towns and villages.

I love the fact that my dad loved his shed.

The Shed - A Romantic Version!

This poem is a tribute to men and their sheds everywhere.

THE SHED

I love you so much,

I'd build you a shed.

A place to read comics,

And bury your head.

I'd learn how to fix,

Driving nails into wood;

With hands carved in love,

As a carpenter would.

I'd leave cracks in the roof,

You could spy on the stars,

Let your weary mind fly

Off to Pluto and Mars.

I'd set the stove blazing,

For your soul, for your hunger.

A space you can dream in,

Your hopes brighter ... longer.

I'd put in some tools there;

A plane and a lathe.

Your boat made ... set sail in,

Moored in moonlight, you'd bathe.

And then when YOU'RE ready,

I'll come to your bed.

And we'll look at the stars,

Through the eyes of that shed.

Its A Man's World! (In some ways!)

THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHED BUSINESS !

Ciao for Now!

ONE DAY LIKE THIS - ONE PERSON LIKE THIS

2010-10-15T05:57:00.000-07:00

I watched the movie 'Robin Hood' starring Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett, directed by Ridley Scott during the week. This latest cinematic collaboration from Scott and Crowe does not come within spitting distance of 'Gladiator', with its hauntingly glorious soundtrack, composed by Hans Zimmer( responsible also for the stunning soundtrack of 'The Last Samurai.') Casting aside Ridley Scott's unexpectedly poor interpretation, and Crowe's dodgy English accent, I have always been captivated by the legend of Robin Hood and his band of Merrie Men, who lived in and survived on the natural resources of Sherwood Forest, as they robbed from the rich to give to the poor! The vision of Maid Marian, her flowing hair adorned with garland; carrying a bridal posy; both made from wheat, wild flowers and berries, swearing her undying devotion and love to Robin Hood, a gallant knight of the under-privileged, in a forest glade; blessed by Friar Tuck; stayed with me all through my youth, and remains with me to this day ... forever resplendently romantic!

On one day like this, of a magnificent Indian Summer, that the gods have deemed fit to bestow upon us, it is so easy to forget that this small but great island of ours, is facing, quite possibly the worst financial, political and sociological period of instability since its foundation. What gives me the right to say that? I have lived HERE for the last thirty-four years! I think I can safely say, as I have already stated in earlier blogs, that 2009 was quite the most depressing year of my life. Suddenly there was nothing to believe in or trust anymore! Our government and its leader Brian Cowen are the laughing stock of Europe, if not the world, and our banking institutions have outdone themselves in their greedy quest for profit, at OUR LOSS! Whilst Dermot Ahern is bothering his inane head and patronizing ours with his anti-blasphemy law (our using the NAME of Jesus in vain), our religious institutions have incubated a breed of pastors that no longer understand the meaning of taking care of their flock, and are an absolute disgrace to the NAME of Jesus and all that he stood for!!!

It would appear that unlike other periods of financial and political disruption throughout this country's history, such as the occupation by the British for centuries, the Famine, the Easter Rising, the Civil War, people always felt that, they still had their Church; their Faith. Yes, there is no doubt, that the numbers of regular mass-goers had been in decline for the last couple of decades, but the shocking 'lack of reaction' or display of REAL CONTRITION by the Catholic Institution since the publication of both the Murphy and Ryan Reports of 2009 has succeeded in driving even the most stouthearted, devout Catholics away from the Church, the celebration of Mass and the Eucharist. In another age, we would have been called Heretics, because we have made the 'choice' to stay away from deceivers and pretenders. The word 'heretic' is derived from the Greek word αἵρεσις (pronounced hairesis), which means 'choices'! Anyway, this was not intended to be another rant about the Catholic Church or even the BOYO'S CLUB OF THE VATICAN!

I am not normally given to despair or pessimism, but we are in the grip of a financial nightmare of such gargantuan proportions, from which it would appear, we cannot be awoken without the implementation of draconian tax increases and the introduction of a property tax on primary homes. If Fianna Fail are ousted at the next election, the financial fiasco of their making, still has to be sorted, and by whom? Would a coalition government of Fine Gael and the Labour Party fare any better? The situation that has been foisted upon the hard-working taxpayers of this country has gone beyond party politics! We are in the middle of a National Emergency, and we might be forgiven for believing, that this country needs an ALL-PARTY GOVERNMENT or a REVOLUTION!

            Velvet Revolution - Prague, Czechoslavakia, 1989

But then that is where my sense of despair filters in. Who would lead this all-party government or revolution? Human nature being what it is .... wouldn't history just repeat itself again? People acquiring a taste for power and the good life; wanting to be paid the highest salary for the least amount of work, and forgetting what it was they were fighting for in the first place! Eamon Gilmore of the Labout Party, is the only party leader that I would trust anywhere near the office of Taoiseach at this present moment. Perhaps I'm crazy, but I'm not actually that bothered whether Eamon Gilmore is a FINANCIAL WIZARD or not, because I've had my fill of those so-called experts. I mean, just look at the mess we're in! I could not believe my ears recently, when I heard this Government saying that the Banks had misled them. Poor little lambs!!! I thought back to when my children were young, and how they opted for the 5th amendment, when they were asked how a crayoned picture of a smiling sun ended up on my newly-wallpapered wall! Must have been Mr. Nobody mum!!! Must have been Mr. Nobody, Brian!!! Eamon Gilmore appears to be genuinely passionate about the welfare of this State and its people, and that on its own merit is enough for me presently. He has been likened recently by some journalists, unfavourably in my opinion, to Fianna Fail ex-Taoiseach, Bertie Aherne, and we all know how he operated. His mentor, Charlie Haughey taught him well. Like any leader, that truly believes in democracy and his own limitations, Eamon Gilmore should surround himself with a group of well-intentioned, well-educated advisors.

Eamon Gilmore keeping company with James Connolly 1868 - 1916

Globally, the hopes of millions were tethered to the neck of Barrack Obama, not too long ago, when he was elected as President of the U.S.A. An almost desperate euphoria resonated across the World, as if he were the 2nd Messiah! I felt genuinely anxious for him! The pressure of expectation on just one man must be huge, and cynics might well say, he knew what he was taking on, but I doubt that he did somehow! I'm sure the strain of the whole decision-making process, which depends ultimately on information, extricated from his cohort of advisors, who may well have vested interests of their own, must be ENORMOUS.

                                         Athassel Abbey Ruins - Golden Co. Tipperary

In the mean time, I am going to enjoy each day of this beautiful Indian Summer, and the joys that lie all around me, because it genuinely feels, that the future of our NATION, and indeed the future of the WORLD, is lying in the lap of the gods. Now, who or what those GODS are, is indeed, another subject for another blog!

                                                              Golden, Co. Tipperary

I took these photographs of Golden earlier today, whilst driving around, and tried to look at the area that I have been living in for the lasty thirty years or so, through the eyes of a first time visitor. The village and surrounding areas of Golden are steeped in natural beauty, architectural ruins and freedom-fighting history. I will return to Golden and its golden history in another blog, simply because I've disabled something ... somehow ... on my computer. My pics are refusing point-blank to be moved either clockwise or otherwise. So slightly miffed!

The Suir river from Golden Bridge

Whilst waiting for another Messiah, Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Eamon Gilmore (perhaps another Robin Hood), to affect change and leadership upon this ailing nation/planet of ours, I am going to plant winter pansies, cyclamen and primroses in baskets and window boxes TODAY. Their vibrant flags of colour, will smile in the greyness of winter, rebelling against the plague of cynicism!

Cyclamen

I shall also listen to the song, 'One Day Like This' recorded by the band, Elbow. It is beautiful and optimistic!!! If you have time, check it out below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCJ7keVBj6Y

ONE DAY LIKE THIS

Drinking in the morning sun

Blinking in the morning sun

Shaking off the heavy one

Heavy like a loaded gun

What made me behave that way?

Using words I never say

I can only think it must be love

Oh, anyway, it¡¯s looking like a beautiful day

Someone tell me how I feel

It¡¯s silly wrong but vivid right

Oh, kiss me like the final meal

Yeah, kiss me like we die tonight

Cause holy cow, I love your eyes

And only now I see the light

Yeah, lying with me half-awake

Oh, anyway, it¡¯s looking like a beautiful day

When my face is chamois-creased

If you think I¡¯ll wink, I did

Laugh politely at repeats

Yeah, kiss me when my lips are thin

Cause holy cow, I love your eyes

And only now I see you like

Yeah, lying with me half-awake

Stumbling over what to say

Well, anyway, it¡¯s looking like a beautiful day

So throw those curtains wide!

One day like this a year¡¯d see me right!

Yeah, one day like this a year, would see me right!

Ciao for now!