Modern Life 2: Where has Everybody Gone?
I’m at the age now when I like it when people call me young. I’ve done a few different jobs, lived in a few countries, and despite never being exactly overly friendly I have known a lot of people. But I never see most of them any more, in fact I have no idea where they’ve all gone.
Source: Two War Books Redux | Books Go Social
A couple of Saturdays ago I went to Dillisk in Aughrusbeg, Connemara, Co Galway. Dillisk is a seaside food project.
The familiar knot in the spine, knitted by the shoulder blades, pulled taught everyday by our missed calls and rampant thoughts. Nothing notifications and the relentless liking of everything wearying us and whinnying away at our purpose and soul. The constant conversation telling ourselves that our thoughts are not real, merely little chemical synapses yawning and stretching.
First Teaser Trailer Americans Bombing Paris I hope you enjoy it. Please like and share if you do enjoy it. Thank you. Americans Bombing Paris is a classic romantic thriller skewered with humour and geopolitics. An intoxicating mix of food, lust, Paris and mis-guided...
By this stage we know that it was all for nothing. There is a tremendous amount of throwing our hands up in the air in despair in July. There is a feeling throughout of wanting to leave the country, and regret you haven’t. The beginning of the downward slope. Still July is pretty magical though and just failed to sneak into the top three at the end due to some common or garden bias.
In fairness, let’s face it, one of the top 3 worst months. It is forty days long and no one has any money except “those” who save money. The best thing to consider doing is; quitting drink. This has its ups: better sleep, less January, more endorphins, downs: not seeing anyone, never going anywhere, living in a cave and hermit hair.
A girl from Kerry once asked me,
“How can you stand it?”
I hadn’t a notion what she was talking about, as I thought we had only just met.
She looked at me as one does a fool and said,
“Not being from somewhere, one place like. I couldn’t do it.”
It’s just over a month since I first self published Americans Bombing Paris. I thought I would share some things I have learnt and that I have had to unlearn.
The Godfather by Mario Puzo
The Godfather is most often invoked by smart asses when talking to other smart asses.
Smartass #1, “The book is always better than the movie.”
Smartass #2, “Not the Godfather.”
So obviously the week starts on Monday then it’s Thursday, which is of course practically Sunday, and I’m back sitting there doing nothing Sunday evening wondering why I never get anything done, all the while promising myself that starting tomorrow, Monday, I am going to be a different person, with lists and ticks, goals and graphs. But that doesn’t happen does it? How could it? I can not not be me, can I? Can you?
Like the television show that allows brain inactivity, the child’s blanket drenched in sleep, the old body battered sofa, I have books I like to lie back into once a year like a good thin
A Writing Mind, a Racing Mind
Vroom vroom. Pit pit, neuerommmm, neurommm. Gasp gasp.
The first small drip drip of consciousness every morning means I’m up. I have a racing mind. I can’t stop it. It gets faster throughout the day. A siesta after lunch helps some, slowing and tightening the flailing tethers, but not for long.
My Reading life Part 3: War Books, Russians and Non-Fiction Tear Jerkers.
I escaped the destructive force of living in a nice house with food in the fridge for a vagabond life eating foods which later transpired to give people Mad Cow disease. I no longer had the steady stream of books being flung my way. I began to buy my own second hand books. The best thing about second hand books in those days was it was a fantastic pick and mix of titles and you pretty much took what you could get. I forced myself to read Underworld by DeLillo a book that has been lauded fore and aft that I have since returned to and found to be a touch staid.
Americans Bombing Paris is a classic romantic thriller skewered with humour and geopolitics. An intoxicating mix of food, lust, Paris and misguided youth. Click Here to go to Your Local Amazon For Johnny and Naya trouble was unavoidable and in truth they never tried...
My Reading Life Part 2
Entering into my teenage years, swerving to avoid the hormones, I upped my reading and started in properly on a subject which would take me through the next few years: Northern Ireland. Glory Boys, a thriller by Gerald Seymour, a writer I don’t think about that often anymore but who in the late eighties was my everything.
As a neurotic maniacal child I always had a strong desire to use bad language. I was the eldest child, so as any other eldest (best) child can vouch for I grew up with rules the equivalent of a gulag’s. In this gulag of the mind (ahem) bad language was seen as the worst of all sins. I was only young so there really were not that many sins available yet. Swearing was the obvious one, stealing and of course lying. But swearing was my forbidden fruit.
My Reading Life Part 1
Getting Sick and Getting Stuck In
I grew up in a house with hundreds of books so first off, and full disclosure, there were always books around. But that alone was not enough, my brother never read a single page until he met Jack Reacher years later. My sister only took it up long after leaving home despite her being offered money per book as a child. Nowadays she reads like she is being paid per book but alas it is too late.
When I was seven or eight I got measles alo
I have ghosted two books thus far. One published and one to be published. This is what I have learnt.
You are the ghost.
The author is the author.
I was born before I died maybe thirty years ago
I had real friends at that time who surprised me now and then, this was seldom and it just gave succour to my feeling, that everybody stared ahead afraid. We used to walk to lakes away from anything, and hide there from nothing.
There is not much to be said for the way things have gone lately, other than to enjoy that sweet air borne dust on the lips; pollens and poisons?
The most hopeful days of the year, the last thirty of the upward curve. When we go for the walk, striding to out run the falling sun, we are positive we will live long enough to see in the evening.
Wolf clouds raced the light as the night hummed on. People with juxtaposed directions and crossed paths flitted through each others lives. Dublin evening was all around him, ghosts and shadows lurking on every wall. The world’s finest talkers sprinting through polished stories. Each pint another finger pointed and cocked at themselves. It was a Wednesday sometime in October probably.