'Molly Chamberpots' and The Wren Boys

My earliest memories of St Steven's day would certainly include the 'wren' or  'wran' boys coming around to the doors of the houses early in the morning. You would first hear them at the neighbouring houses, getting louder and louder until the racket would arrive at our door. I call it a racket because they would beat out the time of the song on the front door with a large bunch of ivy. The song they sang in my part of Cork was quite often unrecognisable but quite often went like this:

 The wran the wran the king of all birds,
Up in the holly and ivy tree,
Whether its big or whether its small,
Give us a copper and we'll leave ye alone.

Knock at the knocker,
Ring at the bell,
Give us a copper,
For singing so well.

In our lane one house was always avoided, as the woman of the house was well known for emptying the contents of a chamber pot out of the upstairs window over the unwelcome callers. She became known locally as 'Molly Chamberpots'.

Ireland a Living Entity

I see Ireland like a living entity; a mother who provides for her children with all that they need. However, like all petulant children we don't always choose that which is good for us, but instead follow our own whims. We make foolish choices based upon the predatory suggestions of bigger children abroad, then blame each other when everything goes pear shaped. Like the children of any family,  there will be amongst the children of Ireland disagreements and sibling rivalry, there will be fallings-out and even estrangements.

In these turbulent times, we must put an end to the blame and accusations, and putting aside the old discordances of the past, we need to unite in the rebuilding of this nation - this family of Ireland.

I watch in sadness as our leaders spend more time on recrimination than on showing the example of positivity. I watch in frustration the greed of financial speculators, as they try and squeeze the last drop from the tit of our Mother Ireland.  And then I watch in pride the entrepreneurial spirit of  those who, struggling  against great odds in these troubled times, start up businesses and enterprises in the cities, towns, villages and parishes throughout this land.  These men and women are the true heroes of our time.  These men and women are our true leaders.

Ireland is indeed a living entity and I am proud to be one of Her children.

~

A Woman in My Eyes

If you were to ask me what my ideal woman would be, it would not take me long to reflect; for my answer would be the same as it would had you asked me about a man. A woman, like a man, is a fellow human being - a person. Therefore, my ideal person is one of honour and courage; a person who is trustworthy and idealistic. While I may have preferences as to physical characteristics, these are secondary and temporary.

When I think of an ideal woman, I think of people like Rosa Parks, who in December of 1955 refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus, to make room for a white passenger. I think of a young woman, Anne Frank, who spent two years hiding in an attic, during WWII, before her capture and death in March 1945. Anne´s diary, translated into 67 different languages, has been an inspiration to so many. I think of contralto Marian Anderson, who despite segregation, worked scrubbing steps before finally singing her way out of poverty in South Philadelphia.

I think of the many millions of women around the world, working in factories, shops and offices; in hospitals, hotels and restaurants. I think of those women struggling to bring up families in these difficult times. I think of my own mother, who strove against all the odds to provide me with an education and who instilled in me a love for others.

I find it an insult to our humanity when the advertising, fashion and cosmetic industries, who in the interest of profits, objectify women treat and them like uneducated brainless human accessories. Happily, there are many women who will not allow themselves to be objectified for neither fame nor fortune, but maintan the status of their gender with dignity and pride.

All That it Takes For It To Be A Good Day

For me, all that it takes to win is that I awaken in the morning.

If I wake up, it is a good day. 

If I wake up feeling wonderful, then it’s a good day in which I feel wonderful.
If I wake up not feeling great, it is a good day in which I’m not feeling great.

Well, I awoke today, and it feels good to be a winner.

~

The Ultimate Freedom

There is nothing I fear enough to be coerced and nothing I want enough to be induced! I have the ultimate freedom, that to choose how I feel.
I may experience the sensation of fear and I may experience the sensation of desire but that point, I am free to choose how I feel about those sensations. That is the ultimate freedom.


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Could Not Afford to Buy One of his Own Paintings

While talking with some people about the late Limerick artist, Finian Horan. I assumed that they would be able to read about him on Google. I was deeply saddened, when I tried to Google him myself, to find that as far as the Internet was concerned, he had faded into obscurity. It was this sadness that prompted me to write about him from my original notes of an interview I did with him, in December of 1991.

The late Finian Horan



The first dream of any artist is to have an exhibition of his or her own, and such was the case with Finian Horan. Though he had shown and sold some of his paintings previously, his dream was about to be realised, only to be shattered because he could not afford the frames.

I spoke with the owner of, what used to be the Willow Gallery, on George’s Quay in Limerick, who said, "I loved his work as soon as I saw it, if only he could find some sponsorship for his frames, I would be delighted to exhibit it".

With the help of a photojournalist, who liked his work, Finian got his sponsorship and his exhibition which sold out. I still have one of his paintings, in pride of place, over my mantelpiece.

Back in December of 1991, I met Finian Horan, then a thirty six year old Limerick artist. He told me how he would sometimes go for days without sleep in order to finish a painting. I was introduced to Finian by in one of the local art galleries, where I was at once impressed by an enthusiasm seen only in young children. He carried under his arm a bundle of paintings, which represented a small sample of his work from over the previous two years. Finian told me how he had always been interested in art as a young child, and when the opportunity to study it came up, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.

He was born in Limerick and educated at St. Mary’s CBS. Not being the most scholarly of students, he would amuse his friends by drawing cartoons.

He started work by serving his time as an electrician but later worked for himself, repairing shoes. However, when the solvents made him ill, he started painting on a regular basis. He later went to the Limerick’s art college, where he began by studying sculpture and then painting.

Finian liked to work in pastels, though he did sometime use oils. He explained, "With pastels, I just hold them and they seem to take on a life of their own". Having seen some of his work, I could believe him, for it certainly did seem to have a life of it’s own about it. "Some people may laugh at this," he went on, "But when I start painting, it seems as it were, that I have left my body and that I am watching myself work."

"I could be kneeling or bending for hours in the most uncomfortable position, but I wont feel or notice it until the painting is finished." He then describes how, "I have often been in agony for hours afterwards, unable to move my knees and with my finger tips burnt and raw from rubbing in the pastels." While painting, Finian would listen to Bob Dylan or Beethoven, explaining that he found a lot of inspiration from music.

When I spoke with him he was teaching art classes, under a state FAS art scheme, to feed himself and his daughter. Sometimes he would do street paintings to help finance his materials, though that could at times use up more than he could afford.

Back then, Finian lived with his daughter, Sarah, who was eleven at the time and also shared his passion for painting and music. "My daughter, my painting and music are now my life", he told me as we walked along Limerick’s George’s Quay. "I am driven by a burning desire to be recognised, not for fame but to be able to provide a decent life for my daughter and so she can be proud of me".

Knackered or Just Tired

I had about an hour's sleep last night, so I woke up this morning feeling knackered. I should feel grumpy, but I don't; anyway, that job is already well filled by others. Life is far too short to be waisted on self-pity. One day this journey of my life will end and the next step of my journey will begin. The only thing that I will be able to take with me is that which I have become. Maybe I might get a little break in between and get some sleep then.

Every year, hundreds of people come to see me and each one of them believe that the crises they are in are the most unique. With a little help, they recover, having forgotten how they felt when they came to see me. I recall one man whose wife had left him. "My life is over!" he exclaimed. I replied, reminding him his marriage was over, whereas his life was still intact.

Perhaps like him, I am not really knackered. I just feel tired.

Our Own Humanity Dies

No matter who they may be or what they may have have done, the day we celebrate the death of a human, a little bit of our own humanity dies.

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Who's looking after Table Three?

While nearly everybody has eaten in a restaurant, not everyone has experienced the restaurant kitchen. Contrary to the belief, held by some people, that kitchens are dirty and that the enthusiastic chef is one who puts everything he's got into a stew; most commercial kitchens are clean and well run. Sometimes however, near chaos does ensue during a busy sitting. While you are enjoying a leisurely bottle of Chateau Blotto, the smiling face of the waiter/waitress is going through a transformation as he or she passes through to the inner sanctum.

'Table four says the Steak Tartar is underdone and if that sheep's boyfriend at table one snaps his fingers at me, once more, he will be wearing his Chicken Pascal in his ear-hole", exclaims the beleaguered waitress. But who's listening? In the kitchen they have their own problems. The Chef de Partie is just after phoning in sick. The Pastry Chef is hopping around the kitchen clutching her hand, having burned it by trying to lift a hot and heavy baking tray, with a cloth that was folded too thin. The dish washer has broken down again and one of the party at table seven wants to change his order of Trout to a Fillet Steak, now that it's nearly cooked

Meanwhile, the waiter/waitress' face is once again going, through a transformation, as he or she returns to the restaurant with a pair of Beef Wellingtons, for table three.

The next time you are enjoying a meal out, be it alone or in company, spare a thought for the faceless ones behind the scenes, who daily brave nervous breakdowns to attend to our entertainment.

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Location:Limerick, Ireland

New to Blogging

Blogging is a new pursuit for me. I must admit, I have been reticent about it up to now. However if I don't do it at this point, then when? I am sure I will make many mistakes but, at this stage of my life, I seldom make the same mistake twice. I am trying out the BlogPress application, which so far seems simple enough (and for me it would need to be). If you have any advice or suggestions (other than don't do it) I would be more than happy to here from you. I have asked myself, what do I have to offer, by the way of blogging and right now I have only my feelings about this and that.


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Location:Limerick, Ireland

Thinking is Inefficient

Thinking is by far the most inefficient way of processing information. It is outdated, outmoded and archaic.

Happiiness, Destiny and Power

The function of each individual is to fulfil their own destiny, and it is my firm belief that it is each of our destinies to find happiness and contentment. Sometimes we may have to fight to achieve this, but no matter what modus operandi we use to search we must never loose sight that our goal is happiness. The presence of such happiness creates a dynamic energy, which causes a positive influence in whichever direction that we direct our attention and in the world around us, in general. Everybody has the same energy, but people at large have a lot of their energy tied up in maintaining their archaic descriptions. The misuse of their energy in this manner causes them to feel weak and insecure. This deficit is then supplemented by stealing from others through manipulating or forcing others to give us their attention, thus energy. That is the difference between empowering and dis-empowering those with whom we come in contact with. The key to happiness and power, thus fulfilling our destiny, lies in empowering everybody who enters into our lives.

Courage Is Not The Absence Of Fear

For me courage is not the absence of fear, but the determination to act in spite of it.

We display courage at that moment when our sense of justice, our sense of responsibility, our sense of goodness, becomes greater than the fear that we feel. At that moment this sense of justice, responsibility and goodness prevails unto action.  

The Quickening - A personal thought.



Look to This Day



PiperHawk's Way: Without a Code

PiperHawk's Way: Without a Code: "A man who lives his life without a code, is easily bought by flattery."

Without a Code

A man who lives his life without a code, is easily bought by flattery.

Memories of a Nine Year Old

It never seemed to rain in those days.  The back river smelled of the sent of Blackthorn and valerian, which grew along the river wall.  The air was filled with the sound of blue birds and bees, and also the sound of pigeons cooing in the background, under the  twenty five foot high corrugated canopies, over the timber which was piled in a criss cross fashion.  This was so that the air could pass through, helping to keep it dry.

Come half past five the workmen would finished and all that was left were the sounds of nature around me.  The only concession to civilization was the black cloth belt, which was off an old paisley wrap-around, tied to one of the bushes. There was something about this, which always nauseated me with the thought  that one day I would be left alone.  I guess it was the memory of the photograph of my grandmother, who died before I was born, where she was wearing such a wrap-around.  Maybe some where in my young subconscious mind I  had reasoned that if my mother's mother was no more that one day it would be so with my own mother.

However, the surrounding peacefulness soon soothed such feelings and I was one with nature, and at peace with myself.  This was my world and I was king.  Once the depot was closed for the day, there was no one to intrude in my thoughts or my explorations.  I have no memories of predending to be anybody else as a boy.  I did'nt need to be, for I was me and I had this world, where I was king, all to myself.

My Schooldays at the Quay

Sullivan's Quay CBS, Cork City

The handball was made from the paper wrappings from  the pupils sandwiches and tied together with pieces of string.  The play area was the enclosed section of the school yard, between the two sets of double doors which led to the classrooms overhead.  Unlike regular handball, the game played here was almost like tennis with goal posts; and the opponents goal were his set of double doors.   Shot for shot was taken across the yard, oblivious of the fact that there were other kids running around and chasing each other, between the goals.  Looking down from there you could see a large school yard; skirted on the right by the toilets and on the left by the bicycle shed.  Beyond the toilets was a large rusted looking tank, containing the fuel for the central heating.  It was here that the school bullies held court.  Directly in front, you could see the secondary school, with it's outdoor iron staircases, which were the only access to the upper floor of that building.  The ground floor housed the first, second and third years; while the upper floor housed fifth and sixth years.  This floor also contained the science lab; the home of my favourite subject. 
The science teacher was the typical academic, with the mandatory glasses and brief-case, which swung with each step he took.  He also had an extremely noticeable wart on the very tip of his nose and when he spoke to you, it was as if he was speaking for the wart; for that was where your eyes were drawn to.  For all his idiosyncrasies, he was a most interesting teacher, who made physics sound like music.  I can't fully remember but I think we also had  him for voice production; which consisted mainly of breathing exercises.  My first year in secondary school required some shuttling; for the first year classes were moved to a prefabricated unit in Deer Park on Friar's Walk for most subjects.
One lay-teacher, in his mid twenties at the time, was, I believe, an absolute sadist.  He seemed to take a perverse pleasure out of inflicting pain and fear into the young hearts that he was given charge to teach.  Up to this time one of my favourite subjects was the Irish Language.  By the end of that teaching year, I had developed a hatred of it, that lasted for many years.   
He also taught geography and history which was also done through Irish.  My desk was at the top of the class near the window and the heater, which was some help on the cold winter mornings warming my hands before the leather strap was poised high in the air.  "The other hand,"  he would shout from behind his long hawk-like nose.  "The other hand I said, and I'll teach you to make a fool out of me"  as he brought the strap crashing down on the soft fleshy mound at the base of the thumb.  We would try to take our punishment with dignity, but by the time the strap had fallen ten or twelve times the tears would flow.  We were his first and penultimate class. 
All in all, notwithstanding my experiences with Mr. Torquamada, my days at 'The Quay' brings back fond memories.  For those were the days of the introduction of television to Ireland, of long summer days, fresh autumn evenings and the realization that girls were really quite nice when you got to know them.

Assumed Status

Let us deliberate for a while on the topic of stolen values.  The butcher, at an early age will labour with one who correspondingly has at a similarly early age has worked for an attenuated  period with a Master Butcher in order to learn his trade.  In much the same way the carpenter or stonemason has learnt theirs.

However, there are those who would like to, and do assume rights earned by the labours of others.  "I should know. "My husband was a physicist and you are only a mere doctor". "How can you tell me anything?"  or;  "Who do you think you are?"  You can tell me nothing about the Neuro-whats'it?  You who have been a surgeon only eight years, when my father was a surgeon for forty-two years.  I should know more than you."

Is it any wonder the economy of this biosphere is in the circumstance it is in today?  When the progeny of the great, who cannot distinguish the difference between philanthropy and philandery, expropriate the mantels of their primogenitors, having no other qualifications than the accident of birth or marriage.

History is full of such accidents.  The world is teeming with penniless "Do you know who I am's". They swagger around bars and public places; as if by heavenly privilege they ought to be granted recognition for an other's achievements. "Honour me, for my grand-father  amassed a great wealth for me to squander on bolstering my asinine vanities".

"The name is Dr. and Mrs. Joy," his spouse corrects indignantly, as the Dr. gives his  name as 'Joy' at the club.  The title was more consequential to her, who previous to been married had boasted of her uncle the financier rather than her father the bus driver.  "I did not know that your father was a bus driver" her friend exclaimed.  "He was not a bus driver". "He was Chief Public Conveyance Technician, (C.P.C.T. for short)."  There a new title was born.

It is my belief that I will return to my creator with what I have become  in my heart and not with what I have.  As one father admonished his son, "All that I have I can give you; All that I am you will have to earn for yourself"

Dreams of My Forefathers



My dreams took me to a point of realization that this life does not begin nor end with my potential three score and ten years, but before the foundations of this world were laid. That the experiences of my ego were just a link in the greater scheme of things. In order to understand this more, I had to move out from myself and reach into the very history of how I came to be here. Who I am did not, for me at least, begin with my conception and birth but in the lives and experiences of my primogenitors. My dreams showed me that my true potential could be realized more fully in the knowledge and understanding of those who went before me. This started me on a life long quest for the genealogies of my forefathers.



A Dream of a Mystical and Ancient Land



I dreamed a dream of a mystical and ancient land.  A land where the runes were once cast and a magical web was woven.  This was a land where saint and scholar and bard were one,  and many wise ones from around the ancient world came to study there.  The High Priest of all the other lands said, "Pay homage to me, for I am the High Priest,"  And, the saints and scholars and bards said, "No!  For we receive our wisdom direct from the Holy Land, and from the fish of the lakes and the fowl of the air; the wind from the mountains and the whispering of the trees."   So, the High Priest sent the King to this land and forced the saints and the scholars and the bards to pay homage to the High Priest.   Though later the King and High Priest became enemies,  the King held this land in cruel subjection for eight  hundred years; causing many of her children to starve and many others to leave.  Those who had died called out from the ground in despair, yet, the runes had been cast and the web had been woven and the King was forced to leave.  Slowly the crops began to grow and prosperity began to return to the land; prosperity paid for by the blood of those who died and the tears of those who left.  This became an ancient and mystical land again, this land of my dream.  This land of saint and scholar  and bard; of Yeats and O’Carolan, Moore and O’Casey.  This land of gorse covered hills, lakes and rivers bordered by rushes, with its green fields and lush peat bogs.  This land of Tir na nOg.  This land of Ireland.