HOMESICK

What is it about Irish people? There has just been an election at home and as usual the corrupt party got elected and the right wing got decimated,(Hmmm is it possible to get decimated?).

The political landscape has been a strange one to grow up in. It is only now that I am no longer there, that I can define in a new way what it means to be Irish for me. It has little to do with Church or State even though I have been profoundly effected by both. I grew up in a poor, mostly homogenous, country, where usually the foreigners were tourists.

The Nigerians who came to eat with us, who worked in the same hospital as my mother, and the Arab guys who lived a few doors down, were exceptions. That I had contact with them at all was a priveledge and it is only now as I write I realise I was the only one in a neighbour hood of many children, who spoke and ate with these kind and gentle engineers from another country.

There are now more jobs than workers in Ireland, and it is a thriving multinational island on the west of Europe, and yet at it's heart too. Racism is still rife.

So what am I homesick for? My parents are selling the house they have lived in for over 50 years of marriage. My home will be sold. My home. Me?
My friends have either sold up and moved away, or lost contact with me and I with them. It rains a lot. I have never felt I belong there, neither to the religous conservatives, nor the sporting leftwing or the rich and nazi like right. I could string a few words of gaelic together, I knew where to get 'good' music, a decent pint, what places to avoid, and in a second, I could tell if there was going to be trouble. I could size a guy up by his walk and the look in his eyes, I could meet him on his own level because I have an uncanny ability to imitate, and a great visual memory for movement and body shape.

Maybe it is this. This knowing and understanding that I miss. I am like a man scuba diving without a tank. I speak and it is all bubbles, I hear and it is all muffled. I speak English, every phrase has to repeated. I speak French, every phrase has to be corrected. I don't know the faces, the kids look like adults. The adults act like children. I am completely thrown for six in fact. I am a man who is now swimming more often than in the whole of my life to this point, and yet I am a fish out of water.

I live in paradise. I am no longer in Tir na Og, (land of the young),Ireland.
How strange! I am reminded of the instutionalised who cannot function once set free in society. I am more than capable at home, here I struggle. This is the longing for home, the longing to walk into a bar, look accross the room see a complete stranger, smile, and know that in 20 minutes you will be engrossed in a damn good conversation over a decent pint and there is always fish and chips to eat on the way home. But can you ever really go back once you leave? A friend told me one time, the intelligent leave and grow, and do well, the stupid stay. How frustrating for the intelligent when they see they have arrived in Stupid land. Ignorance is not at all bliss, it is a terrible affliction, and yet I am homesick for my cold and damp ignorant island that is Ireland, that is Home.

The Right Has It

The Result of the Presidential Election is that Sarko goes past the post with 53% of the vote. Now we will see if there is a New France or more of the same from the ruling party that is the right. Sego is already giving her speech. Voting closed at 8pm and the outpolls, always accurate give us the result. It's quick clean and simple.
But what now?
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What does it mean when the President elect mentions the opposition and all his supporters boo and holler? What does it mean when the President elect says 'No, we must respect Madame Royale because half of France has voted for her, and it is the job of the President of France to respect all of the people of France?" Does it mean that only because he is president he will give lip service to you? Or does it mean that political views are now as zero, and he will actually respect everyone regardless of race, colour, creed?. Mon Oeil. I could write so much more about what I have seen tonight but why? A country gets the leader they deserve. If 20% of the population couldn't have been bothered to vote or to make a choice they will indeed reap what they sow.
Sarkozy has called on people to support the US. France is a friend of the US. I wonder what this means for both Bush and his war on terror? Or is it Sarkozy's anti Magrebian, anti Arab, anti Berbour, anti anyone from the middle east or a former French colony policy that will change forever the face of modern Europe? It is definitely a strange time to be here. Yes the Right have it, but it doesn't mean they are correct.

Where is Home?

The Election is on today. France will have a new President soon. Those who are voting blank are voting for Sarkozy. They will moan and bitch afterward without realising their refusal to vote against him is a vote for him. He may be the tonic France needs. He worries me. He looks too eager. Strange that his father came from Hungary. I wonder what this country holds for my boys future?

My son is here with us. I am extremely tired. I think I may have had a flu and although now I have come through it I am completely knackered.
My Parents are selling the family home in Ireland. It is causing me some problems. I knew I was attached to my place, my space. Since I have left Ireland I have had to redefine my identity. I had never before had to explain what an Irishman is until I came here. I knew then it was only my explanation, not any other Irishman's or Irishwoman's.
I have watched people make assumptions and crack jokes and completely misinterpret what goes for normal back home. The notion the French have of Irish people is a little like that of those who think French men ride bicycles with strings off onions around their necks, while their wives smoke long cigarettes and wear suspenders under knee length pencil skirts.
Now there is another straw being pulled away. Another thread opened and unraveled. When I go home next, where will home be?
It is certainly not here, not yet. I haven't been able to seep my spirit into the soil and find a connection.
I wonder if there is a reason for that?

The Final the Election and Europe

I missed the televised debate. I have no idea what happened. Why ? Well sick as I am I decided to go and watch Manchester United be humbled and thrashed by AC Milian. No, it was not the plan. But I did meet a cool guy, well I had met him a few times, tonight was the first time we talked. An Italian Guy, a father, divorced, devoted to his son. This could be a good step.

I say this however, if you are thinking of not voting, please vote no matter where you are. At the least it may give you the right to bitch for the next 4 years.

Alexander Newski

I am just back from the Grimaldi Forum. The Monaco Philharmonic played Prokofiev along to the film by Eisenstein. It was quite fun in fact to see such a presentation. The film was made as a message to Nazi Germany not to Invade the borders of Russia. The message fell on deaf ears but the outcome historically was the same.

I wondered how Russians and Germans in the audience or even Orchestra might have perceived the film today. It was a lesson in propaganda no doubt. But as a story on it's own it was quite a fun experience.

I asked what was spirituality. One reader noted I am on a journey. It is one I have been on for a while now. Lately however I am noticing energy in my body in strange ways. Physically for a while I have a rash over my heart chakra. I have sebhoric dermatitis which is extremely irritating. However now my chakra seems to have opened up and energy seems to be pouring out of me splashing on whoever is near. The rash has for the moment disappeared.

I am lacking a guide, a spiritual advisor in some way, a shaman. It's a huge part of my life I have neglected till now and at present, it is screaming and roaring for attention. I don't know where it will lead. I am nervous about it.

So at the beach this morning I was conscious of more looks than usual from women on the beach. I felt like I was standing out for some reason. Was there fire coming from head and feet perhaps?
Those of you that know me will think the warrior has gone nuts. The rest of you probably know what I am talking about. I couldn't help but catch the eyes of people. As I returned from my swim I saw a few of the women around 40-50 years old trying to come into the sea, they all tried to engage me in conversation about the water. This doesn't happen here. To make even friendly contact is quite unusual, so with my energies flying around the place I as usual noticed it and filed it away for further examination.

It has been a busy weekend Lots of people around us. Lots of positive feedback from those around us. I notice the network of English speakers fluctuating as always. Groups that used to number in the 20s and 30s for a night out, now number less that 10.

It is normal here. There is such a transient community. People come for the weather, the adventure, to escape something, perhaps. They get bogged down in red tape, they don't bring the right information with them, they can't understand the unspoken rules and don't know why the waiters can be so rude. They understand less the strikes, the lack of French friends, the need to speak French. They think they are dynamic and positive people but with 15 to 20 percent unemployed in the region and they not speaking the language, is it no wonder the last a few weeks, or months or a best maybe a year or two before they give up.

You see it's all been tried before, the market is flooded and people who are will protect the territory they have.

I guess it's a little like the story of the film, there seems to be a desire to repeal the invader here. The invader here are those that don't 'get it'. But I don't have an answer as to why people come. There seems to be a lot of women run away to here. The guys come to work the girls come to hide. I wonder how much truth is in that.

What is Spiritual?

You know as I sit here and write I have a plethora of things going through my mind as to what I should be writing about. I have met someone whom I think is a signpost. Recently they have pointed me near a Zen Monastery.
For me this was a real wow moment. I had not imagined there was one so accessible, so close. I am very excited about it.
In the turmoil of leaving home and friends, of being thrown in at the deep end, of breaking up with my ex, of fighting with myself to stay, of choosing to enter another relationship so soon, of just plain living, something somewhere has gotten misplaced.

I seem to have a spiritual hunger.

I seem to cathect a lot lately. To misplace energy into spaces that are not built for feeding the spirit.

I wonder how in this modern age, the spirit can be fed. How do we let go the trauma of birth, of learning to walk, to talk, to learn, to grow, to belong, to let go? Surely we must all to some extent or another suffer from Battle fatigue or post traumatic stress without actually realising it?
Surely the negative energy many people give off, sticks to us like sound to magnetic tape, and we need some space and time to brush this off?
To rebirth ourselves in consciousness and awareness, to feel deeper and more profoundly those ceremonies of life and their true meaning. What does it truly mean to marry? To get a job? To be unemployed? To be divorced? What are these labels we bandy around the place that make us rejoice or cry? Why? What does it really mean when we say, "We are at War" ?
I wonder if either of the potential presidents of France have an inner spiritual life that they are aware of. How do they apply it to their search for power? What is this power they seek? Are they so void of depth as to seek meaning in position and in fact therefore remain completely powerless?
How do you define yourself and your inner self? What are the secrets you carry that no one sees, that define you?
How does one give birth to ones true self?

The Follow Up

As I haven't been here for such a long time I doubt anyone is reading. However yesterday I spoke about him and now I will speak about her.
She is Sego. Not Sarko but Sego. Sego has just finished her spot on TV. I found what I was looking for to some degree near the end. The guy asking the questions, in fact there were two of them, asked her about her strengths and how she would prepare to face Sarko on Wednesday. Her response was completely natural, completely right and she smiled amused at such a silly question. Her responses were basically to do with asking the interviewer what he thought she had been doing for the campaign? What he thought she had done here tonight in front of him and his co-host and in front of Millions. Why in Gods Name would she be practicing in front of someone who was pretending to be Sarko? I mean Really.

Ségolène wants change and lots of it. She wants the women who work at the check out to get a pay rise every year and that the equivalent of Wall Mart doesn't get richer while paying the same wages for years.
She wants investment in youth that will in time cut the cost of unemployment.
She wants responsible Unions and Responsible Owners. Dialog before striking rather than striking to get dialog.
She wants people it seems to grow up and stop taking hand outs for nothing. She wants business to be not given huge amounts of grants when they are already rich.
She wants banks to stop charging ridiculous sums of money for the slightest infractions. ( that would get my vote if I had one. )

When pressed about Taxes she said she wouldn't raise them but Sarko said he was raising VAT. The interviewer quickly interrupted and stated that it was to be an experimental tax. Quick as a flash she turned on him without taking a breath, 'when have you ever paid an experimental tax ? It's either a tax or it's not'. I thought she was going to put him over her knee and spank him.

Maybe I am looking at her too much. she is an attractive person when she is relaxed. The few glimpses of her natural self that we have been permitted to see, shows she is a far more interesting person that the Stepford wife I described yesterday.
Stepford was not around today. Her clothing (and this is where women win hands down over men in politics, if they get it right) was amazing. She wore a white dress and black jacket and heels. I doubt French culture would let her away with trousers. But the bodice of the dress was reminiscent of a corset. It had sort of ribbing or outlining and while the dress was not at all tight it was definitely borrowing from the corset style. I was wondering if it was an intentional message to many men of France that your powerful to be leader can also be sexy. It was very subtle and perhaps not intended but certainly did no harm. I wonder how many French men and women dream of being dominated by a sexy powerful woman. It always seemed to be some sort of fetish the English Conservatives had but I didn't figure on the French having it too. [NO she who on my blog will remain nameless was not even close to feminine, never mind anything else].

I think Ségolène painted a new way. I think she communicated responsible socialism. She is bringing a new set of rules to change 'Rip OFF' France. I am intrigued as to how many votes she has gained tonight as I don't think she lost any, that's for sure. How she is going to impose her rules I cannot imagine.

Last night Sarko refused to answer what he thought her strong and weak points were. Tonight she answered the same questions about him. His strong point? He Knows Everything. And his weak point? He knows everything. He always has an answer for everything'

I don't comment on his style as he wore a suit and tie and as usual looks like a guy at a bar looking for a game of poker. How he managed to learn to ride a white horse for this election is beyond me.

I don't know who will win this election. I feel it's the most important in France for decades. I know I am more attracted to Ségolène's way working. I doubt it would be given a chance. I think a lot of what she said is already in vogue in other EU countries. This is France. They don't like change. They don't mind short men with power complexes. If she does win, it will be by a percent or two. If Sarkozy wins I think he will do it outright. I will keep you posted.

A Sort of Explanation.

Okay so you don't know so here goes. France is a founding member of the European Community.
I come from Ireland one of the countries that has benefited most from the EU.
France has an awkward history which it still refuses to deal with in relation to two key areas. The first being the WW2 and the second it's colonial past. Let me just say now, of course I have to generalise how else do you explain the reaction of a nation of over 50 million people. Both of these histories have left indelible marks on the French psyche. In particular in relation to the type of politics practised and of course identity.

The election last week was the first round of a two part race. Two people are elected to the second round and then 2 weeks later it is a straight run off.

There were 4 principal candidates in the first round. Jean-Marie Le Pen who is the Leader of the National Front ( so far Politically right it's unbalanced in my view). Francois Bayrou and politically ex right wing and now centrist leader. Segolene Royale from the Socialists and Nicolas Sarkozy from the center right UMP.

Sarkozy and Royale won the first round. It was expected Bayrou, who came third with 18% or 7 million people, would tell his followers to vote one way or another because of the result. Bayerou has instead challenged the finalists to a debate and refused to say how he will vote in the next round as they are both bad for France.

Royale immediately said ' Yes next Friday in front of the press' and Sarko has just said on TV basically 'What is the point?'
His view is, he in the final, and the third placed team can go home.( this is a mix of his word and my phrasing). What is the point of debating with someone who has lost?

The problems the French are facing are enormous.
Unemployment is extremely high. Immigration from former colonies is very high and many people are here illegally. The paradox is they come to work. The truth is they get it as they will do jobs the white French don't dare.

Youth unemployment in France is among the worst in western Europe, at around 20 per cent but hovering around 40 per cent on some housing projects. These are the people Sarkozy referred to as scum as they burned their neighbourhoods and their neighbours property in protest early last year. Not I might add, Rabble, no indeed the word used was Scum.

Social welfare is among the highest in Europe. Since I have been here paying taxes I have had my teeth done, and have had various visits to the doctor and got new spectacles. I am estimating I paid about 30% of the overall cost.

There are a huge number of civil servants and as to what they do I don't know. I have often been asked by those dealing with me if Ireland was a member of the EU. I even had one sympathise with me as I was a refugee from the war...............? (that's another story).


I have seen people here go sick from work for strange maladies. They are depressed, go to the doctor get free happy pills and can't work anymore. They stay on full salary until such time as the company decide to fire them. This can take years. If they get fired they get full salary for nearly a year and sometimes the cost of firing them can be prohibitive.
There are more pharmacies in Nice than Bars in Dublin but their produce unlike the bars of Dublin is heavily subsidised. It is in my opinion a hypochrondriac society.

I have seen many people in the work place who do the bare minimum, and then gripe about the boss. Ingenuity and spontaneity are not welcomed rather they are frowned on as they correct piece of paper has not been circulated. Some people spend the first half hour of they day logging what they had done the previous day. that's a half a day a week, writing up what you did for the week rather than actually doing it.

The French are ingenious no doubt, but get them together and they get bogged down in the rules and regulations and these become far more important than anything else.

When Sarkozy talks I see a man who is extremely polite yet opinionated. Intelligent and power hungry. It's not a good mix for me. He has come out with some bushisms if you will but of a very serious nature. Google him and read more than one view if you want. Basically he believes in genetic determinism and that is a thought that in my mind should be left back in WW2.


Royale wants to increase the minimum wage. It costs an American company about 3 times as much to employ a French person as it is does an American if I remember my figures from an article about Wall Mart in Newsweek or some such magazine. The problem is the French employee earns about half of what the U.S employee earns.

Are you following me yet. Sarkozy is a Blairite/Thatcherite who will impose an FFI minister. French Identity and Immigration. To teach the immigrants who and what the French are and how France works? Is this fascist or just sensible?

This is the man many will say can get the job done, can pull the number 5 World Power out of it's decades of malaise and basically give it the kick up the backside it needs.

Both of these candidates have talked about National Identity. One talks about working for France leading France and how great France is. The other talks about putting France to work, the people,the unemployed.

I see the logic of giving up all the social stuff, France cannot pay the pensions of the people in it's care. In 20 years time there may well be a geriatric revolution with zimmer frames. But in Truth this Son of an Immigrant Sarkozy scares me while the rest of France frustrates me.

I am afraid my politics is more left than right. More social than capitalist but I damn well understand commerce, and the fact that the world we live in eats, breaths, pisses, and shits profit and loss. That is the reality.

As I have already mentioned Madame Royale may be formidable politically, face to face with someone, but in front of a crowd or camera or a microphone she dissappears into a stilting stone face stepford wife. Sarkozy is like Rumplestillskin in the corner rubbing his hands. He knows only two well she cannot spin all that straw into gold. While he will most likely sell the straw, kill the farm animals, knock down the house and build a supermarket, if you allow the analogy to go so far.
What will the future bring?

The French Elections

I am back. I cannot help it. Firstly apologies to those who posted comments and they were never displayed. I missed the whole thing about the new blogger being away for so long. Yes the elections happened today. If anyone is reading and anyone cares, I gaurantee that the next president of the Republic of France will be Mr Sarkozy. This is the man who said that sex abusers are what they are because of a genetic inheritance. This is the man who wants to establish and committee to define what it means to be French. So if you are Magrebian or non French you can forget ever getting to make a great life here. The new France will in no uncertain terms let you know your faults and be sure that you remember that you are not from here, while you are still paying your taxes.
Royale the left wing opposition, is an elegant woman who cannot speak in public. She cannot smile that she has been elected to the second round. The manner in which she halting delivered her speech of joy tonight was frightening. It was ineptitude on a major scale.
We still do not know what she wants to do as President. It took her about 3 pauses in one phrase to tell us how delighted she was, that France had changed it's political habits with the greatest voter turn out in decades. She should have been jumping for joy but she was calm, staid, silent even for the first 20 seconds. In air time 20 seconds is a long time. The lights went out and she wasn't perturbed neither could she think of something witty to say. What is it with these people who advise her. The speech was slow and stilting and did more to convince people she is incapable on a world stage that anything else. I am sure somewhere she has some good notions, but she doesn't portray it. In the end the French goverment policy of the future will come down to who gets their message across first and who does it best. Madame Royale, you were second tonight and will be for the forseeable future. For which now, I fear greatly.

What's Happening?

On a personal level I continue to be an Irish guy plagued by English people who should know better. At 'The Lord of the Dance', Show on Saturday night, a woman with an English accent kept commenting through the performance. When the female soprano was on Stage singing, the woman somewhere behind me starting making jokes about the words in the song. I had (as usual) had enough. I turned when the song was over. Without thinking I spoke to her in her own accent, 'Are you going to talk all night? ' , 'I beg yer pardin?'She replied. 'Would you please Shut up?' I replied.
I turned away sufficiently pissed off till I heard a male voice over my other shoulder. 'Merci'. I was truly glad. Sometimes I wonder why I let it get to me. Sometimes I wonder why I always have to be the one to say what everyone else is thinking.
The show was great fun, but lacked an easy to follow thread in the first half. Either tell a story or don't. Don't half do it.
At 10 euro for a program and 30 euro for a CD, I was embarrassed to be Irish, and Mr. Flattley? No wonder you are ill charging those prices, shame on you.
On a more serious matter, some of you know I comment on International affairs from time to time. Here is the following for an Irish News site.....Lebanese Minister assassinated. I don't suppose the implied warning would be from the Syrians, to the U.S. who have 'asked' them not to get involved in Lebanon's affairs? Mr. H and Mr. Z, I hope your families are safe and well.

Gaza town stunned by shelling

what justification is there for this.

I told you so

See? It must have been the full moon. I knew something was going on. Donald Rumsfeld, a man whom I thought the Devil Incarnate is gone. Now that is something to be really excited about.
To all those Americans who told all of us Europeans to go and jump, and stop interfering, and to mind our own business, well, see I told you so. Thank you all for kicking them out and hopefully some sanity can come back into the world now. Actually I doubt the Democrats are much better to be honest but I guess it's the best of a bad lot. When are you guys going to get a real democracy?

Turning

Well October and September were at best strange months. My brother in law passed away. It is a story with much beauty in it, that for my dear sister has obviously resulted in much pain, and perhaps it is not right to say the story has finished. Perhaps it is.
It has been a time where much of my doubts and fears had been cast aside. Doubts that had been ingrained due to the end of my relationship with my son's mother. Friends who mean the world to me, took the risk, the time, the effort, and gave the love, and came and visited. When I arrived here three years ago, there were a few people who had come to see me. Now the wheels have turned the very same few people are visiting again, and this time it is even better. You my friend who inspired Galina in my play, ( I promise only the person who understands this will know what I am talking about, anyone else will know I am weird) it was so great to see you and your friend. To hear you laugh, to watch you, to remember what it is like to be in your company, to see you enjoy yourself. How great that you came for a weekend and shared with us. How great that you feel good to come back again when you like. I sincerely hope you do. I still don't know what your parents look like.
My filmmaker friends were here too, Tom and Ann. I mention them because they are already famous on this blog and will be famous soon when you all click on the rascal film link or the James Connolly one in the side bar. (I can't remember which one, and I don't have it open just yet.) it was too short, they will be back. A sister in law, ( what do you call a sister in law who is your brothers ex? She is not sister ex in law is she?) who badly needed a holiday came to visit. I think it did her the world of good. It is difficult to get out of the mind set that it is not going to rain tomorrow. It is strange for us Irish here at the beginning. We read the sky and think, it will be a good day tomorrow. Tomorrow stretches into days, stretches into weeks, stretches into months and there is no rain. Then one day, there is a smell, something familiar, one looks at the sky and predicts rain within the hour. Fifty Five minutes later the heavens open and the locals look at you weirdly. It is what happens when you grow up in Ireland, but it only happens in the South of France.
I was on my back for almost a week after doing some more damage to my muscles by lifting an empty plastic bowl. Yes I can hear the howls of laughter but it is true.
I am more relaxed in myself but somehow my body is telling me things are wrong. My skin is falling off. I look like I have been beaten up sometimes or at best slapped hard. I have a bad skin, simply put. I am taking the steps necessary to sort myself out.
It has got colder. I haven't been swimming and I miss it. Tomorrow I will be at the beach near the Stadium in Monaco, I will be in the water, I will swim.
I met Hadia a few days ago, I had hardly been in touch with her since she left. There was friction between her and us at the start and she is so very proud. Then she rang and asked me to go gaurantor for a flat. I couldn't. How the shoe is on the other foot now. I had so many difficulties during my time alone here, finding a garantor was impossible. See for the moment the bills mount but who knows what lies around the corner? At this present time I am not in the position for her to miss a months rent. I can just about meet my own needs. I too continue to cut the corners for a little while longer. But there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Then Ken, who know the guy, who first went to Nice, then Croatia, then Denmark and then Back to the U.S. rang out of the blue. So howdy buddy. Get your ass back here. I didn't speak long, we were in the airport in Nice, I have just realised he was in the airport too, but in Virginia. See the point is I have a feeling of the wheel turning now. It's a feeling I haven't had for a while, movement in the right direction. Closure to many things but not all. There it is again, that line from the Elvis Presley song.......'and the world turns'. Cycles and full moons, and it is a full moon as I write. The value of Friendship cannot be estimated, but it has nothing to do with money.

In memory

I have to be careful in what I write. I don't want to hurt anyone. So this, what I write is for me.
I remember you full of vitality. I remember you saving my ass in a manner of speaking when I was unjustly accused. I remember that sly secret smile you used to have around our family. The one that was truly diplomatic, where you thought one thing and knew better than to say it out loud and yet that thought made you smile, and I understood it. I felt your inner conflict. It frustrated me that the invisible wall of history was thrown up between us and we admired each other from opposite sides. Not condemning at all the other but neither capable to make the bridge over the political gap. I remember you as shorter and rounder than me. I remember you as sometimes very very deep, too deep, as someone aware, knowing perhaps more than people around you thought you knew.... I remember your voice, it would have been jazzy were you a singer, perhaps dare I say it, they type of voice white folk call black, raspy, like Louis Armstrong's voice. I remember you capable of taking a joke, of recounting a joke, of letting a guy know he was okay. I remember you being afraid. I remember the hassle when I went home to see you and everyone got upset that I was making a fuss. They told me you might only have six months, then you might not survive the operation, so for myself, for my purely selfish reasons, I left my dying marriage and found you frightened. I have no idea if anything I said made any difference. When I was home later, after your operation, to bury an old aunt, and you limped into the church yard looking depressed, it made me say to you 'hey how are you? Last time I saw you, you thought this would be you.'But you had perhaps rightly forgotten your previous fear as you struggled with your new incapacitating reality.
3 years later after the first discovery I saw you again. You looked the same as last time. Still afraid, still struggling and frustrated, understandable.
Now 4 months later, you need never worry again. My sister will be good. There are those who will take care of her. I am not her favourite and that is all I understand. I am glad you have let go, but I am deeply sad I wasn't there. I can't be there, I won't be there. I will visit where you lie whenever I get home, perhaps next year, who knows?
This is my small curse of never being home anymore, I cannot be there. I cannot mourn in real. I have to let go in absence. It is not too easy. It is difficult. It is the way of the emmigrant. I have to continue as if nothing has happened. I told my son, he is six, I don't think he even remembers you but he was sensitive to something being wrong. 'Papa why did Maman say OH no'? I am not good at keeping things from children, it doesn't help them grow to keep them too innocent. So I told him you had died. He was quiet. I asked him was he okay, and he said yes. I told him to tell his Mam he knew. She will flip out. Maybe that's just part of why she is my ex. You would hear me say that and smile.
I see that smile again now, like you understand but know something I don't. I know it is nothing compared to that which you have gone through. Your arm on my shoulder, that brotherly pat on the back. For we were brothers at one stage before we were in-laws.
I don't know why you went through it, nor why she went through it, nor anyone for that matter. My sanity and philosophy tell me it is just so.
So I excuse myself, I cannot be there. I cannot sing by your side as you lie at home, I cannot toast your memory, I cannot wake you, I cannot shed tears at your graveside. Thank you for not holding on too long, sorry I can't be there now.

Rip Off France

Ripped Off AGAIN
Okay, I have been away longer than I thought. See I had an accident a while back. My scooter was written off. It's only a 50cc and I was only doing 15km an hour but I still managed to hit the guy who pulled out in front of me.
Now I could have been killed. I could have been crippled, incapacitated, truly fucked up and unable to work but I was lucky. I was in shock for a weekend. The front wheel was slightly bent and the forks unaligned. It was enough. No more independence. No more getting to the beach easily. Still have the insurance to pay even though I know the bike is useless.
Finally things get sorted out and I am told by my insurance guy to bring the scooter to the workshop. He will go down and assess with their experts.
I ring a tow truck company, they want 120 euros to call to my house, put the bike on a trailer and bring it a mile down the road. HOLY F@*K.
A friend offers to drive 20 miles/30km with a trailer attached to a small car, wait for the day, drive me home, pick up the bike and bring it to the workshop. It is done. The scooter is deposited outside, and the next morning I have to hurry down to ensure it is okay, drop off the keys and now it will be taken care of, right? WRONG.
I get a call two days later telling me it won't be repaired. The assurance company will buy it off me the workshop tell me. They order me to come and get it. Two days later they ring me again. They ask me when I am coming to get it. I have organised my friend again to make his 60km round trip to help me. We go to pick up the scooter and the main headlight is conspicuously absent. .... I ask the lady behind the counter, and she goes to look for it. She comes back telling me she can't find it. She will ring me when it is found. I know this sounds ridiculous but it's what happened. Remember the conversation is happening in French. Remember I am not too confident in French. Remember the guy with me is 6ft 6 inches tall, or nearly 2 meters, oh and is French. :-).
We load the bike and he is willing to drive off. I am perturbed. I go back into the shop and ask how it is possible to loose a headlight (which is set into plastic about 3ft, 1 meter wide and about 1.5 ft, or half a meter high) which was attached. She walks off and comes back with an explanation that the mechanic took it off and now he is not here. I go outside and explain to my friend. He comes in looks disdainfully at the girl. He questions her about what is going on. She explains the assurance company will buy the scooter off me for a sum of money, he explains it should therefore be in one piece non? She agrees and disappears again. A young man in his twenties comes out and immediately I know I am being ripped off. He refuses to look me in the eye. I flounder for the words that would come so readily back home. I am drowning as I am being violated barefaced and dishonestly. I can see it happening. They are stealing from me and they don't care.
He agrees to deliver the piece when it is found. He takes my number on a scrap of paper. I am getting more and more angry. I leave knowing there is nothing I can do at that point in time. I ring the next day I can't get through. I spend the weekend making myself ill at the thought of how I can burn the place down, break all the scooters parked outside, injure lightly the people working there, get the place closed down, force them to pay me for the piece........... I don't like being abused, I spent my life living in a country abused by it's neighbour, since I have been in France people have taken advantage of my inability to communicate and ripped me off and now well, to quote the newsman in the movie, I am mad as hell I won't take it anymore.
I rang 4 times yesterday no answer. Finally today I get through. I am in luck. The guy who answers the phone is the one who took my number, he tells me the mechanic has not come back yet. I tell him in French it's nearly a week what's the story? He says it's not a week it was last Thursday, today is Tuesday. Yes I tell him, NEARLY/ PRESQUE une semaine.... I inform him if the piece is not found I will have to begin a procedure of justice to get it back. He agrees. I will let you know what happens, but I have a question. If anyone reads this here is the question, Do I let it go, Do I get the piece back or thirdly do I wait till the assurance buy the scooter back and then let them deal with it. What would you do ?

Happy Birthday To Me

Well today is my birthday. There you go I am not old yet. Am I wiser than I was this time last year? Dunno!
I am a year older so what? I am a hell of a lot fitter. I have been training by swimming every day and doing some other sports from time to time. I am apparently 180cm and 81kg, which is okay by me. If you can't figure that out do a search online for weight conversions.
What's changed really for me in the last year?
Lot's of people have left the area with whom I was friendly. Some people back home are having a rough time. In fact it is a year ago to the day that I was made permanent in my job. That was a huge relief. I live in a different place. I have a good fun healthy relationship that is improving all the time.
I can finally see a way I might start writing again. I am more secure in myself around my son.
Physically this part of the world is beautiful.
Regardless of the type of year it has been, I always get a) nostalgic for old friends, b) concerned about the future and c) excited about the prospect of a celebration of the day I was born.
I celebrate because I don't believe in Bad experiences and perhaps not even good ones, only experiences. I learn, I grow, I live, I am alive, I have so much that is positive, and I celebrate it.
I celebrate because I am able to love people easily and those I have chosen to have as friends I do so because I can love them. (Yes even those of you not here) .
I celebrate for them and with them and because of them.
Today I bought flowers for everyone in the job. It cost not too much and it was nice to see the smiles on people’s faces in the street as I walked passed with 40 red roses. ;-) . It was nice to see the people I work with moved a little and now there are flowers in all the offices.
I know I am a softie. But today is this fighter’s birthday so I can do it if I want. :))

The Wind That Shakes the Barely.

I went to see this film about a forthnight ago. When it finished and the four of us, An Italian, A french couple and myself, were seated on the red velvet seats of the old fashioned cinema. Nobody moved. 'Oh well' I said, thinking that if I didn't move no one would. My companions were slow to rise up. Outside, I proposed going for a beer to talk about the film, the French lady said , 'What else is there to say?' They seemed deeply effected ( or is that affected?) by what they had seen. Even though it was a very familiar story, an no where near as violent as many films today, I was in a turmoil. It stayed with me and is still present. I am Irish because of my wonderful culture, my outlook, my history and the place I was born. But it does raise the question of identity that I have perhaps touched on in many of my posts. I am not like most Irish people I know. The story portrayed is an international one, not just an Irish one. My own civil war continues in my soul as I struggle with my nations history, dreams, and reality, and therefore too, my own.
I cannot do any justice to this film save showing you here an email I wrote to the company of the director of the film........

Hi Alistair,
I hope this email finds you keeping well. I wanted to write to Mr. Loach to tell him how I feel about his recent film. Le vent se leve, or The Wind That Shakes the Barley. I am a man from Ireland who now lives somewhat unwillingly, but not always, in the South of France.
I was born in 1967 and I remember well in the 1970's passing across the ' border ' to visit relatives in Dungannon or Coalisland, and the 7 of us(my mother and six children of whom I was the youngest) being made stand by the side of the road in the rain, as soldiers pulled our small Fiat 850 apart in search of bombs.
I was hoping to write a reveiw of the film on my blog but I haven't managed to as yet.
You see I have carried for a long time what many would call a chip on my shoulder. I hate the notion of a 700 year old chip, mine is or was the same age as myself and created by the society in which I grew up, and was incultured in. I am not even sure if it is right to call it a 'chip' as there was a good reason for it to be there.
I have spent my years trying to first of all explain to Irish people why they should be angry, and then to the many wonderful English people I have met, why I myself was so angry, perturbed, annoyed and angry again.
Many times my heart was broken by paramilitaries as I struggled with the wonderful notions of Connolly for an Ireland united and free, and witnessed, the struggle, the war, the fight, the hate, the loss and the general humanity and senselessness of it all.
Many times I have been involved in discussion groups, political groups, liturgical groups, psychological groups, all geared towards finding a solution no matter how futile it seemed. I never lost and always had tons of hope and vision. This alone prevented me from ever becomming bitter. Thank the Gods I never got bitter.
What I am trying to communicate is this. The film has now allowed me to let go in many ways that were just plain unthinkable before. I don't have to defend or explain or carry the chip anymore. I can just tell people who ask, go and see that film by Ken Loach, The Wind That Shakes the Barely.

I cannot with all the years of film studies I have done, all the attempts at scripts, after the 1000's of films I have watched in my life actually reveiw the film. As a friend said when we finally walked outside, 'what else is there to say?'. The film says it all. Anything else is a verbal superflousity that would be inaccurate and wasted and not do justice to the work.

I would like to thank Ken for his time and his effort. I heard him say the other day he would like people to share the burden of the criticism or some such sentiment. I would say to him take it all and bathe in it. It is a true sign of having touched a truth that for many years even in modern times is all too well hidden.
Thank you for not dramatising hollywood style the violence. If I ever get to write my own film I hope it's half as good as this one. Not only should you have got the palme d'or but the Golden Lion and that small bauble the Hollywood set measure the value of their life work too.

I am not the one to heap plaudits on Mr Loach for his film or on his team, and having been both an actor and runner, and even a Loader in the past I do understand what it takes.
I just wanted to say thanks. I wanted to shake his hand give him a hug and maybe have the opportunity to chat sometime if our paths cross over a nice bottle of Muscat, or Rose or beer or Chianti or whatever his favourite tipple is.

Please please forward this to Mr Loach.

Respectfully yours,
Warrior
PS even this email cannot touch the profound effect this film has had on me.

At Swim Two Birds..........................NOT

God what a day. I have a maximum 2 hour lunch at work and I normally swim in the sea.
Everyday since the beginning of May I have made my way down to the beach at lunchtime. I swam 20 meters the first day, and almost drowned. These days I can get 300 to 400 meters if I am patient with myself. Actually I promised myself I would do an Iron Man one day and that's where it started.
Today it was raining. Hmmm there is a pool next to the office. Hmm need a swimming hat and a swimming suit that sticks. This might be embarassing. hmm
Right then, I had forgotten to reserve my lunch via email. So, I ran into the pool for information. The lady tells me 2 euros 30 cent to swim, last person in an hour before pool closes, need a 'bonnet'and a mollet maillot....swimsuit that sticks. (Corrrect my french please).
Hmm well I don't have any of that and hats are selling at the pool for 9euros. Pool closes at 2:30pm and it's 12.55pm now. That gives me 35 minutes to get my ass back here. I am starving.
I run off to buy my lunch. I have to queue.
I get what I want, run to the sports shop, can't find what I want, see a cheap swimsuit, my size, I pick it up. I can't find the bloody hats. Ah 4 euros a hat, great, no green? any colour but green? What you got something against the Irish have you?? (joking).
Anyway I queue up to pay, and hand over my fidelity card. It doesn't work. The ensuing process takes more than a few minutes as the Oh so friendly girl at the counter tries to render service to the idiot who didn't activate his card correctly and who seems a little perturbed that his card hasn't been registered.....(Yes almost dear, I am on lunch, in time frame, I understand how Oh so nice you are.....)...pardon? what? Oh right, another pause as I get confused with the difference in pronounciation of i and e in French and of course J and G, and ah yes, finally. Thank you. Off I run with a plethora of bags, feeling like a John Cleese sketch at this stage. I arrive again at the swiming complex. Hand over my money and run where? Oh down the stairs, thank you. Crusty but Benign Old guy at the bottom of the stairs greets me, 'Vous avez un peice d'un Euro?'why is he asking me for money. He explains, go back up stairs and get a 1 euro piece. You will need it for the locker. Right so. As I go back up the stairs, I hear more words uttered about money. I come down again take off my shoes, put them in a plastic bag and hand them over the counter. He ties the knot in the bag for me as it is my first day. I am given a plastic piece with the number 81 on it. I realise when he asks me if I have the bonnet, that the comment as I was going back up the stairs was about the bonnet and not the monnet.(bad joke I know, but there is more).
Go through the Orange door to the 'Vestiare'. I find the door and go through. There are many cubicles, some the doors don't close, and others have no locks. hmmm? I realise finally there is an ingenious method used. The seat folds back and you close the door, fold the seat forward again and the door is now locked. Great. I strip and pull on the swimming costume, it gets stuck just below my ass around my thighs.....OH SHIT. Not MY size, a size too small at least. I open the tie thread and pull, stuffing myself inside it. I now look like bread dough rising out of a tight plastic covering. I slip the silicon hat onto my head and instantly remind myself of a condom. I am sure I now know what my dick feels like personally when he is dressed in a condom.
Anyway out to the locker, in with the bag for my lunch, the bag with my purchases and of course the bag with my beach gear and clothes in it. It doesn't all fit. I put one bag into another and push hard and it fits....but the lock doesn't work. I change lockers and realise I still have the plastic 81 in my hand. I put it in the locker and take out the key. I strap it around my wrist eventually and ask the stunned guy next to me the way to the pool. He glances in a direction and mumbles something so I follow his gaze. I find the showers. Amazingly a guy I know is there, I tell him I swim in the sea and he says its too cold. I laugh and Lie that I will be in the sea all through winter. I get to the pool and realise I have no goggles. SHIT. Back through the showers, open the strap, open the locker, pull the bag I forgot to close, and everything flies everywhere, including my lunch. I am now so nervous I am shaking. That's a nice image isn't it, Wobbling bread dough in a condom?
I tidy up and finally get back to the pool where I promptly slip on my ass. I pick myself up as no one else bothers to do so. I ask the gaurd how deep the water is, as if it would make a difference. Finally I get in. The experience is unpleasant after the sea that I am used to, and after 100 meters I stop, I look outside the window and I think, things are so much easier in Nature.

Tribute To Croc Hunter

A man called Steve Irwin died recently while shooting an underwater wildlife documentary. A certain well known news site has asked if it's public would watch the video of his death.
I responded as follows.
"How little we have progressed. I will make my argument on a purely human level I hope. Leaving aside the religious argument even the sacred or privacy arguments. I am shocked that neither person who wrote, deemed it worthwhile to mention a simple moral obligation. What have we become if all we want to do now is get turned on the pornography of death? Why would anybody find it appealing? Why would anyone risk bringing down the barriers of this taboo to a society that is perhaps not ready to deal with it in a healthy way. It is not enough to say ' Don't watch it if you don't want to'. Many of us have morbid curiosities and have no idea of the effects of witnessing something until we witness it. What happens soldiers who come back from battle after seeing people die? Dont get me wrong. My first job at the age of 18 was watching old men die, cleaning down their bodies and sending them off to the morgue. I have seen death. But I find it uneducated that we would even tease ourselves with this question. There are millions of peole dying in Iraq/Afganistan/Africa/Aisa, if you really want to watch someone die, give up the day job, go visit and try help them do it peacefully perhaps. But the reason for watching a guy die because he was famous, is no reason whatsoever. Do we want to see Elvis, Marlyn Monroe, Michael Hutchins (apologies if I have the name wrong) die? What ever happened to real news? Showing dead bodies blown apart or a guy dying slowly, doesn't change anything neither does it inform. It takes a moments reflection of what it means to die, to understand. Perhaps it is better if you ask what does it mean to live. Instead of showing his death, show his life's work. There are plenty of lessons there for us. I find this discussion somewhat depressing and adolescent.
sincerely.
[to the editor- I often reply to posts I see here, just this once I would like if possible that this one is published. Thank you.]"
So to the family of Steve Irwin. The Croc Hunter taught me a lot, I hope you are all bearing up under this current strain. ...................

I promise I will write the review of the Ken Loach film 'The Wind That Shakes the Barely Soon.' Cheers

The Boy and I

So the boy was here all weekend. It was hilarious. Sometimes we struggle with each other because of the time span. Sometimes we knock the crack out of each other so much we are sick laughing. The weekend was moreso the second.
Much of our laughter comes from things where you have to be there to understand the funniness (is that a word?) of the situation.
All three of us spent the weekend traveling 300km round trip to get even more bits and pieces for the appartment. Yes, I know, nine months and we still haven't got it together. So shoot me. I have bills to pay, so does Aqua and we will get there when we get there. Anyway Sunday morning was spent assembling various bits and pieces, refixing the fan to the ceiling, that still hadn't fallen on our legs, despite my not fixing it to the ceiling right the first time.
I had an image of us both 'getting jiggy with it' and a spining fan falling out of the ceiling and slicing bacon of my ass before it hit the floor with a thud. But Aqua's encouragement and boys eagerness to anything Bricoler centred (DIY), drove me on to get back up the ladder and battle the vertigo. To be honest vertigo would be more preferable to bacon slicing. In the morning I gave him his ceral in the kitchen and he decided to look behind himself, at me, as he left the room. A sharp shout of 'DOOR' managed to prevent him smacking against the open door and a quick grab managed to save the bowl of ceral (and floor) as he turned quickly, stopped dead, his nose one centimeter from the edge of the door, and started to convulse in laughter.
Then at the beach later when all was assembled and we had met up with friends, had lunch, I had swam my one kilometer, which was probably only 300 meters but it felt like a good mile, and boy was insisting I throw him in the air and let go,.... he surfaced from a large wave coughing and spluttering, 'J'ai avalé un poison' ( I swallowed a fish), he said wiping his mouth and grinning, at which we both fell under the next wave in fits of laughter. Later I was treated like a climbing frame as his lithe musclar frame, kicked, pushed,punished and punched me into having a bagarre with him. (fight). It is difficult to resist but I tell myself it's good for my overall figure :) .
Finally home, and I did one of those things that intelligent stupid people do all the time. You will know what I mean when I explain. We were telling our friends about the line of palm trees on top of the mountain. I explained it was the water treatment plant for the area. Because of it, we had great water pressure, so strong in fact that sometimes the tap fixing explodes if I turn on the tap full blast. They doubted, but 10 seconds and 5 soaked people later, plus a broken tap fixing, convinced them I was telling the truth. Boy nearly choked himself laughing.
Then it was back to his mam for an early night. The first day in big school is arriving. Now there will be home work and soon there will be classes in English where he will wipe the floor with the other kids. ( he is competitive already). I miss many of these firsts and sometimes I don't laugh about it.
I wonder how he will turn out as a Man, my Boy. Will he look to his father for advice? Will we still be able to knock the crack out of each other when he is 30 and I am 64? Yes, the song asks the questions that are true not just for lovers, but for parents too. Will he stop at the age of 16 decide his father is an idiot, like a lot of men, and then not get past that, like a lot of men? Or will he know how hard it was for me to stay? Will he know how glad I am that I did?