In mourning
I daresay I won’t be able to complete this post without shedding a few tears; I’m already welling up, in fact. I’ve been away from my desk, and Dublin, since the wee hours Monday, March 1st, when I was awoken by the doorbell. My dear grandmother, confidante and friend, Laura Mc Mahon (neé Gargan), had passed away. She was 88 years old – may the Lord have mercy on her soul.
My father had driven up from Meath, because I had turned my phone off, as I usually do, though I am unlikely to do so in the future. It was a long journey. The short walk I cover every day seemed to take an eternity. And of course I always knew this day would come, I was still horribly unprepared. I still am, four days and much mourning later. She is a terrible loss to me, I miss her so much, and I cannot believe that I will never see her at the fireside again. She had a rare warmth of character that meant that each of her grandchildren felt they had an especially close bond with her, and I don’t think anyone who ever met her, forgot her. I hope I can somehow pass on the example she taught me, that somehow I can do her memory justice, because at the moment I still feel incredibly raw, and lonesome.
Of all the things I regret, and cannot change, the worst is both actually and ironically poetic. A few years ago I wrote a poem largely inspired by my relationship with her, and the chats we used to have. I had forgotten about it, until, at the wake, I was reminded of it by my cousins, who had read it on the internet. Slightly embarrassed, to be honest (I know, it’s strange to put something on the internet and expect no-one to read it, but that’s the way these things go) because I scarcely expected it to see the light of day, as it hadn’t up til now: certainly not in her presence. And so it came to pass, that I read it at her graveside.
In memory of Lolo:-
A little fireside tonight, some conversation
Just the way we have always had it, as friends.
The company of two, it somehow starts, never ends:
Time parts all over, slyly hinting at foreover more.
My memory and heaven are through the same door.
O smile with me a while my stage-managing director!
Underline my style with soul-defying nectar!
And as the fire dies, undry my eyes and let’s not part tonight,
With such a prize, no soul cries, this moment’s becoming bright.
There is an art to conversation. We are characters, you and I
Crafted naturally, grown out of a hearth with a lover’s eye
For sentiment, respect and tradition. Some might say
That we get into it, circumspect and rendition, in this way.
And perhaps it’s too simple, what I’ve spoken and read
But I’m sure you’ve still heard, every word that I’ve said.
Crash landing
SpaceFairy and I broke up last night. A supersonic stratocaster of a relationship that lasted all of 3 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours and 47 minutes – but who’s counting? If you read the last post then I don’t think you will be surprised to hear that I am, for want of a more appropriate verb, gutted.
I mean, it was all terribly romantic, terribly romantic – meeting on a plane, becoming totally besotted with each other, moving extremely fast and all that jazz – and the fact that we were both so different to what the other was used to (you know, not each others’ type) did make things somewhat too good to be true, right from the start. But I wanted it to be true, and I know she did too …
I knew this would happen at some stage, you know – the reality of the situation would eventually impinge – but man alive, it fucking sucks. It’s only been a couple of hours and I miss her awfully. It really bugs me, at 9.31am on a Saturday morning – an hour which is totally unknown to me – that, having tried my damndest to drink enough to forget, I woke up early and without a smidgen of a hangover. All I felt at 7.57 was bitter, and rushing to Facebook to change my relationship status. Which is pretty pathetic, I know, but I needed to do something, because I certainly couldn’t sleep. Thanks be to jaysus the Kestrel is back, “… when a man truly needs his friends, they will surely appear …” (that’s not a quote from anything, but it should be).
Maybe she just needs time, to have a think about things. When she spoke last night, about how she was feeling, I realised that it was somewhat cruel of me to want to keep her tied down, so to speak. I mean, she is a complete hippy. Free-spirited, joyous, good-natured, turns every second into a party … and she’s starting college in a few weeks so I suppose, all-in-all, we were going to hit the rocks sooner or later. But, even though from the beginning I didn’t think it’d last, I hoped it would, and I was beginning to think it might. Really can’t believe that we didn’t survive the first hurdle, and feel awful that it was largely my fault … me, my ego and my stupid temper.
I don’t bear her any ill will, I just can’t believe it’s over. We had so much fun together, like Croke Park, sushi, jazz and cocktails in the one day – I challenge anyone to describe a better date than that! We were really good together, laughing, chatting, flirting … everything. She’s an amazing girl: thoughtful, good-natured, considerate, caring, smart as a fox, genuinely very funny, superb conversationalist, sharp dresser, foxy as fuck, smoking hot and sexy as hell. Oh dearie me, she’ll be hard to get over!
And now, here I am, swatting flies and drinking cold tea, and wondering what to do with the extra toothbrush and the condensed milk. And the irony of the situation is starting to grate on me too. See, I made a point, right from the start, of trying to keep things special, trying to maintain the, ho-hum, cinematic atmosphere, by giving her a flower of some kind, usually a rose from the bush outside my front door: but now I don’t think there are any left. I suppose I could get them elsewhere – she was always giving out to me for stealing them – but you get the picture, some kind of fatedness. Plus I had a strange feeling when I sent that letter to Ryanair.
Maybe it’s just turbulence, oh maybe …
Pas la première fois
Correspondence
There’s no point in me beating about the bush on this one: I am absolutely terrible at replying to emails. Days, weeks, months – years even – can slip by before I get around responding. I don’t know how other people do it. Facebook too, I’m bloody awful.
I do try, honestly I do, but as time goes by, and I come in contact with more people, my problem increases exponentially. (This isn’t an apology, by the way, nor an excuse, just an explanation). And there’s no selectivity to it – it’s everyone, from old friends, to new acquaintances, colleagues – the lot.
It might have something to do with being a teacher, and erstwhile writer – I do like to have my text ‘just so’, and correspondence falls precisely in that category. I can’t hurry it, or it’ll end up wrong.
How do I blog then? Narcissism, and safety in the belief that no-one reads it!
It’s Wednesday, apparently, and I am still doing very little with my time, now that I’m on my summer holidays.
Yesterday was a complete write-off, due to the dinner at Leinster House, and the resultant après drinking in Buswell’s, and, though I’m loathe to admit it, Copper-Faced Jack’s. You’d think I’d know better by now.
But today I’ve no excuse, and though it’s late in the afternoon, I’ve done nothing of substance whatsoever. So I’ve a couple of hours to make some purchase on the day, or otherwise I may start to feel guilty about squandering taxpayers’ money …
Will update later on, with a very long list of things which I will by then have achieved. It’ll be really impressive.