Sleepy, between an important writer (like Zadie) on my right and a young man on my left. She asked something. How does it feel to be the way I was in my story? I only ever see her hands. We’re at desks in school perhaps. I think carefully in my dream and then I say it’s not being one way, it’s constantly trying to think which way, trying to work out which way to be. I feel this has restored my dignity. I’m pleased but so sleepy, I lean my head on her hand, this way and that. I apologise but she doesn’t mind. She says she would like to come with me to the prizegiving in the hall. The little guy on the other side asks for a loan of a couple of bob to get some boot polish. He likes boots, he says. And he wants to shine his boots because he wants to come and sit beside me at the prizegiving as well. I am pleased and falling asleep in her hands.
Image: Saint Bearchán, Saint Brigid and St Fachtna from one of Harry Clarke’s masterpieces in stained glass for St. Barrahane’s church, Castletownshend, Cork.
I mostly follow behind the kids as their father leads us over grass and bumpy paths in the countryside. We’re on an outing to somewhere. The small boy, knee-high to me, grows tired and stops. “Do you want me to give you a piggyback?” As he’s getting on, I hope I can remember how to do this. He’s actually taller than I thought, something like eleven year-old, can’t really get settled on. Then he’s gone altogether. I’m saying the boy is nowhere to be seen but they have disappeared around the edge of a hill. When I turn left by the hill, it’s our destination- a small sunny cove. The open water is far off to the right and featureless. Here the water is only ankle-deep, clear and floored with colourful stones. The family are on the small beach across the water, along with other groups already there. There is no other way, so I call over to my friend, “Am I supposed to walk across with bare feet?” He answers, “Yes, both of them.” I’m amused and think to myself, this is an excellent example of subtle humour.
Photo: A view across Kilkeran Lake with the surface reflecting mirror-like the blue sky, white clouds and rushes. On the far side there are farm fields with hedgerows and a homestead in the distance. (West Cork, 2001?)
Night of Good Friday/Saturday morning. An object, rectangular and about the size of a large ashtray, black, with structure. I hold it in my hand but I can’t quite make it out. A louder and louder wind blows through the sections of the object, as they sort of begin to blow away. The noise is deafening. I am not afraid of it, determined to observe it, with a bit of a smile. I tell …. in the next room, that I know what this is, it’s evil, and I’m going to tell it, against the ever more deafening noise, “You can go right back to Hell.” My voice comes through with difficulty.
Last week I was at home with a recuperating old dog. I’m decluttering the place. We’re living in a terraced house beside a wide, busy city street. I put the section of concert seating that was used in a famous recording (John Lennon and Jagger/Dirty Mac?) into the front garden, thinking maybe I ought to get rid of it. I changed my mind and went back out, but a clownish Beatles memorabilia merchant and assistant had already loaded it into their van. I explain that I’m not discarding it, look inside for a minute and ensure the dog won’t get out, but when I return they’ve already gone. And a little way along the road, they have left a long panel they didn’t want. It’s sticking out in the street, a hazard to cyclists etc. I walk there and move the panel straight alongside the kerb. The dog has managed to get out but he’s pottering about in the front garden and goes back in with me, safe and sound.
There are big bales of herbal marijuana here. I’m not too worried. Dad is game to try some and begins working on rolling up a spliff, something he has never done before, at the table. But then someone’s boyfriend is coming in. I hope he’s not a policeman, looks a bit like he might be, a big guy. I ask him and he says he is. He stands looking out our window. I assume he won’t bother about us having or smoking dope but no, he says he cannot overlook it.
In the workplace, there is no desk in the empty office, nothing. In the other two offices, there are meetings of men in progress round the desks. So can’t work there either. I have forgotten to bring even a basic notebook and pen or pencil, so I won’t be able to work here today. Back into the street, beside a very wide road, more than eight lanes, possibly twelve or more. Not much traffic though. I meet the king at a bus stop, a famous actor, recognise the face. I’m not sure if it’s Jack Palance, or could it be John Cassavetes? But he’s in a bad way, tall but stooped, dirty. The back of his parka is filthy across his shoulders. I will help him to cross the road. He leans on me and we set off to cross when there’s no traffic. It’s a very long way. We haven’t reached the other side, haven’t even seen it, when he decides he wants to go back. It’s a bright day. The concrete looks more like the expanse of a car park than a road, it’s so wide. As we’re about halfway back, a small, odd vehicle is approaching from the wrong side (our right). We will have to be careful. But its course is wavery, uncertain.
In jail in NL (?) for not paying hospital bill. Finding my cell. Read a vague label. Can make out my name & name of hospital. (I thought I said jail.) So this really is it. It’s rather cosy, cluttered. But I check further along the corridor to get my bearings. Passing a narrow way where prisoners are socialising. A bit worried they’ll pick on me, but no – okay. One guy’s jacket or jumper almost blocks the way. I get by but they ignore me. A civilised kind of jail. (And I will only have three months to do. It’s on my door label.) I want to take pictures for Facebook but guess it’s not done to show other inmates. I will only show my own cell. Not as bad as I feared. Still, to be locked in is not good – scary.
The sound of a car sweeping by, into the next empty room. I go in to investigate and there are a man and a woman looking around and a small child somewhere. I ask what they want. The man is very tall and stocky, whereas I seem to be far below, near the floor. He says something but I can’t make out the words. I tell him I can’t understand what he’s saying. The woman takes a step forward. She is even bigger than him. The child whizzes by below, out of sight, with the noise of a car. She speaks to me but, again, I can’t make out the words. Except the last one might be “religion”. The man starts to speak again. I am getting a little agitated, because I don’t know who they are or what they want here in my house. I say, “I can’t understand a word you’re saying!” Then, “I want you out of here now.” I repeat it but they show no sign of going. So I call upstairs to my wife to phone the police. But my voice won’t work right. I try again.
I went on a big demo with Dad. He’s one of the leaders. On the way back there was a bit of argy-bargy and an obstreperous kid got hauled away. Back to our home in B-. It’s crowded, with so many of the activists here. I think they’ve taken the interloper outside, and I’m worried they may have killed him. It’s night already. I go out front to see what’s happening and they are just in the process of launching a nuclear missile from the field outside our house into the city. The flames of its rocket engines fire in the dark.
Inside again, beside the wall in the crowded living room. I go out the back with my acquaintances, with my overcoat on. It’s a sort of cul-de-sac with the back gardens around it, and it is crowded here too. Police are arriving to look for the missing kid, a youth really. I say I’m worried I will be mistaken for my father and blamed by the crowd. “I’ll be lynched.” In the distance the city is a conflagration, with fires everywhere, but the police arriving have not seen it, as they’re coming from that direction and facing this way. People try to tell them about the nuclear attack, but they are officious and insist they must follow-up their search for the kid, one thing at a time.
But they soon realise they must investigate the source of the nuclear missile, as people are telling them it came from in front of my house. We go inside, and I feel I must tell them about the murdered kid, as I think it’s only right, and anyway, it would be worse for my Dad to be blamed for the nuclear missile. Nobody knows where the kid is. They’ve got Dad in handcuffs now. I don’t feel I have done anything wrong, but I’m not feeling righteous, it’s just something I had to tell them. He’s brought it on himself.
But now the floor of the room is flooded about a foot deep. Everyone else has gone. Somehow they drain it. I don’t know what’s happening. The floorboards are lifted. It’s not the kid. There are what looks like two sacks there, possibly the size of a big person and a smaller one but they’re shapeless, so it’s not certain, it might be something else. I am seized with anxiety and guilt.
Getting to the place is alright, it’s finding the way back afterwards that’s difficult. I see a station down that way and set out. But I’ve gone down the wrong side somehow and now I’ve lost sight of it. And I’ve forgotten my phone, so I can’t check maps. The further I walk, the bigger the streets. This is a big city, I know. Office blocks, etc, vast expanses everywhere I look, but no sign of a station. I am totally lost.
It’s later. Running, we leap into a sort of silo, as big as a huge barn, half filled with whatever. We go out onto a little outside balcony on the opposite wall above the huge pit. It’s barred above with giant beer pump handles. Dad doesn’t have a care, chatting away. I can jump and pull one of the giant handles down a bit but that’s not going to get us out of here. Dad is in a good mood, talking and, in that way of his, making himself laugh, while I realise we’re never going to get out of here.
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