Tuesday, April 24, 2012
thoughts
the previous two posts were written in a fairly short space of time. it's been weighing on my mind recently that I haven't been doing as much writing as I'd like. I went along to the local poetry evening today and was once again reminded of the vast scope that poetry entails and the endless opportunities for inspiration that are out there. I hope this means I've overcome the block I was experiencing. I'm making no promises though.
I also did not blog about life on the road this year. There was a reason for that. danged if I remember what it was now though. Anyhow, I was once again made very aware of the vastness of the US, and the huge range of life and experience going on all over it. I would like to say that I kept notes, even mental ones, but that would be untrue. All I have is a jumble of disjointed anecdotes involving a huge number of genuine characters, and a feeling that I'm one step closer to some form of understanding.
this view across Austin is beautiful, and the colonial-style architecture reminds us that Texas has a long and colourful history.
Cresting the ridge of a pass in the high Appalachian country, Kentucky
a fiery sunset over the buttes and dunes and sagebrush of the Mojave Desert, California
a houseboat anchored in the Mississippi River, beneath a sign epitomising the upper Midwest and Plains region, in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
The Captain's warning to a sailor who started getting Notions above his station.
Don’t be so dismissive, mate
Of race, gender or creed
Because everybody’s got something
They want or they need
to be happy, to be rich, to drink rum and act wise.
And will all cling to the lifeboat if the ship
Happens to capsize.
Ponder your own faults
The things that affright
You and leave you to shudder and shrink from their sight
And yet you pass judgement
on those who admit to
being less brave when the storm finally hits
because you personally can handle
the howling of gales and tie a neat reef knot
in the foremast topsails
But you know they have courage
and would face you down
and might acquit themselves better in a bare knuckle round
so the captain’s cabin is no place to throw stones
and there’s no place for haters
‘neath the Skull and Crossed Bones
“Heal thyself, physician, or I’ll see you becursed,
and let the crewmen rest easy, without fearing the worst.
For Davy Jones is waiting to swallow us all
whether tis by noose or by knife or by cannon ball that
we finally succumb to the disease they call life
and we don't need your judgements to cause us more strife."
Of race, gender or creed
Because everybody’s got something
They want or they need
to be happy, to be rich, to drink rum and act wise.
And will all cling to the lifeboat if the ship
Happens to capsize.
Ponder your own faults
The things that affright
You and leave you to shudder and shrink from their sight
And yet you pass judgement
on those who admit to
being less brave when the storm finally hits
because you personally can handle
the howling of gales and tie a neat reef knot
in the foremast topsails
But you know they have courage
and would face you down
and might acquit themselves better in a bare knuckle round
so the captain’s cabin is no place to throw stones
and there’s no place for haters
‘neath the Skull and Crossed Bones
“Heal thyself, physician, or I’ll see you becursed,
and let the crewmen rest easy, without fearing the worst.
For Davy Jones is waiting to swallow us all
whether tis by noose or by knife or by cannon ball that
we finally succumb to the disease they call life
and we don't need your judgements to cause us more strife."
Thursday, April 19, 2012
A Big Man
Foxy McFagan
From far Follyertha
Travelled through wars
and deaths and rebirths
He was the man Uncle Sam wished he was meeting
And the man who moved cities
with the food he was eating
Ol' Foxy McFagan
with fulsome frowns
looked at the mountains
and they followed him down
Foxy ran across lakes and dived up through the sky
and after he left them
the deserts were dry
he rode an old mule
with worrying ways
so he hobbled its legs
and stuffed it with hay
he lit the hay on fire and roasted it through
and ate the mule's innards
and he ate the outards too.
he kept the mule's hide
scarred, scorched and sleek
and made a huge tent
where he slept for a week
not a person could wake him, his snores drove them deaf
he woke with a sneeze
and felt much refreshed
Foxy McFagan
from far Follyertha
could leather a volleyball
clean through the earth
his arms were the size of mighty Hoover Dam
and the people he'd meet would say
"That's a Big Man."
From far Follyertha
Travelled through wars
and deaths and rebirths
He was the man Uncle Sam wished he was meeting
And the man who moved cities
with the food he was eating
Ol' Foxy McFagan
with fulsome frowns
looked at the mountains
and they followed him down
Foxy ran across lakes and dived up through the sky
and after he left them
the deserts were dry
he rode an old mule
with worrying ways
so he hobbled its legs
and stuffed it with hay
he lit the hay on fire and roasted it through
and ate the mule's innards
and he ate the outards too.
he kept the mule's hide
scarred, scorched and sleek
and made a huge tent
where he slept for a week
not a person could wake him, his snores drove them deaf
he woke with a sneeze
and felt much refreshed
Foxy McFagan
from far Follyertha
could leather a volleyball
clean through the earth
his arms were the size of mighty Hoover Dam
and the people he'd meet would say
"That's a Big Man."
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Introducing... Bruce Livingstone, Pirate Hunter
Having a TV crew following him around wasn't making Captain Bruce Livingstone's new commission any easier. They were annoying, they were demanding, but worst of all, they had no clue about shipboard life. The sound recordist had already bashed his skull off a bulkhead at least twice, so far as he knew, and they were barely a week out of Perth. 'Do the bugger good, probably,' thought Livingstone. He had been given command of HMAS Maralinga after his previous command, HMAS Toowoomba was decommissioned. It had been a dirty old tub, and patrolling the northeast coast from the Torres Strait down to Cairns had been a hell of a job. Fever and disease were rife up there, and if that wasn't bad enough, the people smugglers had upped their game. Their detection systems and weaponry were twice as technologically advanced as the Naval Command had led him to believe. One of his sailors had been shot from a rusty little barge that he wouldn't even expect to see ferrying passengers between Port Pirie and Whyalla. He had survived, and received a huge lump of compensation. The incident had highlighted the Toowoomba's elderly deficiencies, and it had been put out to pasture. 'Probably running powder out of Brisbane' Bruce mused miserably. He had enjoyed his time on her, despite the rigours of the job.
Not that he was unhappy with the new assignment. His experience dealing with the smugglers had elevated him on the list to take over from veteran captain, James White Sr., as captain of the Maralinga. It was a frigate, the biggest ship Bruce had yet commanded, and he liked that it was named for a town in his home state of South Australia. 'Bogans united, eh, old girl?', he muttered, as he stared out at the vast blue expanse of the Indian Ocean. They were about 200 nautical miles northeast of Mauritius, and had passed within sight of the island of Rodrigues early that morning. The TV crew had collared him on the way from breakfast. "Do you know what island that is? Could there be any pirates there?," the blonde presenter asked him. "Rodrigues is part of Mauritius, and their government are part of the anti-piracy agreement signed by the UN. Anyway, there's too many bloody tourists there anyway. Now excuse me, I've things to see to." With that Bruce stepped into to the bridge. "Do these kids know anything?", Bruce asked his first mate, Steve McMahon, after the door had clanged shut. Steve looked at him wearily, then shrugged. "Gives the crew something to talk about, at least." He directed his attention back to whatever he'd been doing. The TV crew obviously had no idea about what the pirates were actually up to, and Steve obviously didn't care. "They're probably expecting Blackbeard or something," he continued, from the position he was occupying in the corner. "Reckon the crew probably are, too."
Aside from what had been in the brief, Bruce had been researching the pirates himself recently, even before getting the news that he was to lead a team of 'international peace-keepers' patrolling the sea lanes between the Gulf and Madagascar. His interest in the sea had been a passion since childhood, devouring books on the history of the oceans, especially the Indian Ocean, where he now sailed. Bruce knew from the journals of the RAN and the online Naval Archives where the main pirate nests were likely to be, and he had decided to base himself near the island of Socotra, known as a regular refuelling point for the pirate's captured prizes. Bruce wasn't the type to preen, but there was no harm in making himself look good on camera. After all, even the Chief himself might see the show when it aired, and there was no harm in being the assertive, yet affable "Bruce Livingstone, pirate hunter."
Bruce was musing on his possible TV career when a junior officer called to him. "Captain, we have reports of a commotion on the foredeck, looks like somebody's gone overboard." Bruce caught up his binoculars. "Where exactly?" he asked. "Port bow, just forward of the guns, sir," came the reply. The guns were blocking his view. "Come with me, Steve." He dropped the binoculars on the desk and made for the door. "I'm going to see what's going on." This was likely to be the most interesting event for the next few days, and he might at least be there to see it. "Wonder who it is." Steve caught up with him. "Reckon the dip will have sobered him up at least." Bruce smiled grimly at Steve's directness. As they reached the main deck, a sailor ran up and saluted. "Captain, sir, we've noticed a person floating about 400 yards to port, should we launch a boat to pick them up? Only, they could be dead, these are dangerous waters." Bruce thought about it for less than a moment. "We'll launch. Lieutenant Commander McMahon will organise it." He turned to face Steve. "Here's something else for the crew to talk about. Keep me informed." "Aye, sir" came the salute, as he was already halfway up the ladder to the bridge.
Bruce wondered who they would bring aboard. It was unlikely to be one of his own crew, as they would not have let themselves float 400 yards without raising some sort of alarm. The likelihood was that it was a corpse, especially since they had not raised another vessel on the radar all that day, meaning that the body had been floating for at least 3 to 6 hours. Under the blazing November sun, that was almost equivalent to a death sentence. He watched the boat swing out on its davits and converge on the floating object. He wouldn't have noticed it himself, not from here. Just then his radio crackled with static. "Captain, sir, we've picked up a girl. Medic says she's alive, but only just." "Thank you Mr. McMahon, bring her to the ship, and see what can be done for her," Livingstone replied. He raised the field glasses again and noticed the film crew fussing agitatedly at the rail beside where the launch would be raised, while junior officers attempted to herd them to a safer distance. He narrowed his eyes, and turned away. He would attend to his other duties until further news arrived. Steve would field any questions. He had a way with words. Bruce often told him he should have been a politician. "You can say absolutely nothing with a lot of words." It meant that he could be silent and aloof while making decisions. They made a good team. 'Steve ought to get plenty of airtime on this TV show.' Bruce checked himself. He shouldn't be thinking about the TV documentary as anything other than a minor nuisance, and certainly not thinking about himself as a TV star. He forced himself to put it out of his mind as he recorded this incident in his log, and took care of some other business. He was examining a satellite image of the northern Somali coast when Steve returned to the bridge. "Captain, can you come down to sick bay, Doc John's got some interesting news to report." Bruce glanced up and nodded. "Right with you, Steve."
As they ducked through the hatch into sick bay, Medical Officer Richard John leapt up from where he sat writing a report. He saluted the Captain, and cleared his throat. "Sir, the girl hasn't regained consciousness, but she should live. She will have extensive skin damage from the long exposure to the sun. I've estimated she's been afloat for nearly twelve hours, and was probably conscious for most of that time, because she has very little water in her lungs." He paused for a breath, looking for a reaction from the Captain. It was his first time sailing under him, and this was their first professional interaction. The Captain's green eyes glinted. "First Officer McMahon informed me that you had interesting news. This isn't something I needed to come down here to find out." The Captain looked as if he was about to turn and leave. John ploughed on. "Captain, sir, I hadn't gotten to the interesting part. We've decided she's of South Asian heritage, and what is her natural skin tone is deeply discoloured by bruising all over her body. An extreme fall, such as from an aircraft, could have caused it, but we've also discovered chafe marks on her wrists and ankles, from a coarse-fibre rope, most likely, and concluded that she was a prisoner of some sort, and received a beating. No signs of sexual assault though, which is strange." The Captain looked thoughtful as he pondered the report. John waited nervously for his reaction. "Thank you, Doctor," he finally said. "Send your fully detailed report straight to me when it's ready, and make sure nobody else sees it. I also want to be alerted straight away when the girl revives." John was relieved the Captain had taken his conclusions seriously. "Aye Captain" he saluted smartly. As they were leaving, Steve looked back and added "keep that bloody film crew out of here as well." The medic nodded, and returned to his report.
Not that he was unhappy with the new assignment. His experience dealing with the smugglers had elevated him on the list to take over from veteran captain, James White Sr., as captain of the Maralinga. It was a frigate, the biggest ship Bruce had yet commanded, and he liked that it was named for a town in his home state of South Australia. 'Bogans united, eh, old girl?', he muttered, as he stared out at the vast blue expanse of the Indian Ocean. They were about 200 nautical miles northeast of Mauritius, and had passed within sight of the island of Rodrigues early that morning. The TV crew had collared him on the way from breakfast. "Do you know what island that is? Could there be any pirates there?," the blonde presenter asked him. "Rodrigues is part of Mauritius, and their government are part of the anti-piracy agreement signed by the UN. Anyway, there's too many bloody tourists there anyway. Now excuse me, I've things to see to." With that Bruce stepped into to the bridge. "Do these kids know anything?", Bruce asked his first mate, Steve McMahon, after the door had clanged shut. Steve looked at him wearily, then shrugged. "Gives the crew something to talk about, at least." He directed his attention back to whatever he'd been doing. The TV crew obviously had no idea about what the pirates were actually up to, and Steve obviously didn't care. "They're probably expecting Blackbeard or something," he continued, from the position he was occupying in the corner. "Reckon the crew probably are, too."
Aside from what had been in the brief, Bruce had been researching the pirates himself recently, even before getting the news that he was to lead a team of 'international peace-keepers' patrolling the sea lanes between the Gulf and Madagascar. His interest in the sea had been a passion since childhood, devouring books on the history of the oceans, especially the Indian Ocean, where he now sailed. Bruce knew from the journals of the RAN and the online Naval Archives where the main pirate nests were likely to be, and he had decided to base himself near the island of Socotra, known as a regular refuelling point for the pirate's captured prizes. Bruce wasn't the type to preen, but there was no harm in making himself look good on camera. After all, even the Chief himself might see the show when it aired, and there was no harm in being the assertive, yet affable "Bruce Livingstone, pirate hunter."
Bruce was musing on his possible TV career when a junior officer called to him. "Captain, we have reports of a commotion on the foredeck, looks like somebody's gone overboard." Bruce caught up his binoculars. "Where exactly?" he asked. "Port bow, just forward of the guns, sir," came the reply. The guns were blocking his view. "Come with me, Steve." He dropped the binoculars on the desk and made for the door. "I'm going to see what's going on." This was likely to be the most interesting event for the next few days, and he might at least be there to see it. "Wonder who it is." Steve caught up with him. "Reckon the dip will have sobered him up at least." Bruce smiled grimly at Steve's directness. As they reached the main deck, a sailor ran up and saluted. "Captain, sir, we've noticed a person floating about 400 yards to port, should we launch a boat to pick them up? Only, they could be dead, these are dangerous waters." Bruce thought about it for less than a moment. "We'll launch. Lieutenant Commander McMahon will organise it." He turned to face Steve. "Here's something else for the crew to talk about. Keep me informed." "Aye, sir" came the salute, as he was already halfway up the ladder to the bridge.
Bruce wondered who they would bring aboard. It was unlikely to be one of his own crew, as they would not have let themselves float 400 yards without raising some sort of alarm. The likelihood was that it was a corpse, especially since they had not raised another vessel on the radar all that day, meaning that the body had been floating for at least 3 to 6 hours. Under the blazing November sun, that was almost equivalent to a death sentence. He watched the boat swing out on its davits and converge on the floating object. He wouldn't have noticed it himself, not from here. Just then his radio crackled with static. "Captain, sir, we've picked up a girl. Medic says she's alive, but only just." "Thank you Mr. McMahon, bring her to the ship, and see what can be done for her," Livingstone replied. He raised the field glasses again and noticed the film crew fussing agitatedly at the rail beside where the launch would be raised, while junior officers attempted to herd them to a safer distance. He narrowed his eyes, and turned away. He would attend to his other duties until further news arrived. Steve would field any questions. He had a way with words. Bruce often told him he should have been a politician. "You can say absolutely nothing with a lot of words." It meant that he could be silent and aloof while making decisions. They made a good team. 'Steve ought to get plenty of airtime on this TV show.' Bruce checked himself. He shouldn't be thinking about the TV documentary as anything other than a minor nuisance, and certainly not thinking about himself as a TV star. He forced himself to put it out of his mind as he recorded this incident in his log, and took care of some other business. He was examining a satellite image of the northern Somali coast when Steve returned to the bridge. "Captain, can you come down to sick bay, Doc John's got some interesting news to report." Bruce glanced up and nodded. "Right with you, Steve."
As they ducked through the hatch into sick bay, Medical Officer Richard John leapt up from where he sat writing a report. He saluted the Captain, and cleared his throat. "Sir, the girl hasn't regained consciousness, but she should live. She will have extensive skin damage from the long exposure to the sun. I've estimated she's been afloat for nearly twelve hours, and was probably conscious for most of that time, because she has very little water in her lungs." He paused for a breath, looking for a reaction from the Captain. It was his first time sailing under him, and this was their first professional interaction. The Captain's green eyes glinted. "First Officer McMahon informed me that you had interesting news. This isn't something I needed to come down here to find out." The Captain looked as if he was about to turn and leave. John ploughed on. "Captain, sir, I hadn't gotten to the interesting part. We've decided she's of South Asian heritage, and what is her natural skin tone is deeply discoloured by bruising all over her body. An extreme fall, such as from an aircraft, could have caused it, but we've also discovered chafe marks on her wrists and ankles, from a coarse-fibre rope, most likely, and concluded that she was a prisoner of some sort, and received a beating. No signs of sexual assault though, which is strange." The Captain looked thoughtful as he pondered the report. John waited nervously for his reaction. "Thank you, Doctor," he finally said. "Send your fully detailed report straight to me when it's ready, and make sure nobody else sees it. I also want to be alerted straight away when the girl revives." John was relieved the Captain had taken his conclusions seriously. "Aye Captain" he saluted smartly. As they were leaving, Steve looked back and added "keep that bloody film crew out of here as well." The medic nodded, and returned to his report.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Character Sketch - Giovanni Vertese
Giovanni Vertese was a man on the run from Fortune. Fortune had deserted his grandfather in the Bosphorus, long before his birth, and Fortune had left his father bitter and poverty-stricken in a damp apartment in a poor quarter of Venice. La Serenissima held no allegiance for him. Giovanni grew up hearing his father curse the Doge, curse the Sultan, curse the Greeks, and curse his father. Before his grandfather's fatal decision to defend the Greek capital, they had been wealthy merchants trading in fine silks and textiles. Now, the family scraped a living making cheap clothing from cut-offs scavenged on the wharves. Giovanni learned the scavenging trade early. Not just cloth, either. He had sewn pockets inside his tunic capable of holding all sorts of items. Apples and oranges were most common, but he often came home with pockets lined with candle butts, nails and other useful objects.
After a few years, he grew too tall and gangly to be as useful, though he was still nimble on his feet. He was too restless to be a tailor, and refused to live in the same squalor that had embittered his father. Giovanni resolved to flee the city. He saw the sea as the root of his family's woes, and so, unlike most young men of Venice, he took to horse, and faced west.
After a few years, he grew too tall and gangly to be as useful, though he was still nimble on his feet. He was too restless to be a tailor, and refused to live in the same squalor that had embittered his father. Giovanni resolved to flee the city. He saw the sea as the root of his family's woes, and so, unlike most young men of Venice, he took to horse, and faced west.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Hi Winter. Welcome back!
hey folks, sorry I haven't posted anything lately. to be honest, I'm not sure why, I think I just got lazy. Or maybe I started getting out of the house more. I've been doing stuff here and there, moving around. I'm looking for teaching jobs at the moment. Hopefully something will come up in Galway, or else I'll be leaving the country. So I'm going to be moving house soon. I've joined the gym again. Just finished recording with one of the bands. Trying to be an all-round good citizen and to keep the winter at bay. Everything's looking up. Just thought I should probably do some blogging to let you all know that I'm still around, just keeping busy getting on with my life! Might call back soon with a more developed idea for a subject. in the meantime, keep an eye on my facebook page for updates: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Diarmaid-Hurley/157404240989594
Peace and Warmth
Dermo
Peace and Warmth
Dermo
Friday, September 16, 2011
Somali Pirates
so this one is vaguely related to the last one, in that I wanted to write a song containing the line 'Somali Pirates in the night'. the finished song is a metaphorical musing on how sometimes we can be our own worst enemies, and the pirates symbolise that in this song. you can hear a version of the actual song on my Soundcloud page: http://soundcloud.com/diarmaid-hurley/somali-pirates-08-09-2011-15
My smile is turning upside down
Like a clown left out in the rain.
I wandered through the empty town
And never saw your sun again.
I wanted to think about you and me
And the times when we were just all right
But instead the only thing I see
Are Somali pirates in the night.
Sailing in their motorboats
Their grins and guns give me a fright
I hope I never ever see
Somali pirates in the night
You left me with a head of dreams
Melting like some toast on cheese
My river now is just a stream
My trees, some paper leaves.
My thoughts turn to my memories
Like the time you set my fire to light
But the fire will only ever remind me
Of Somali pirates in the night
My smile is turning upside down
Like a clown left out in the rain.
I wandered through the empty town
And never saw your sun again.
I wanted to think about you and me
And the times when we were just all right
But instead the only thing I see
Are Somali pirates in the night.
Sailing in their motorboats
Their grins and guns give me a fright
I hope I never ever see
Somali pirates in the night
You left me with a head of dreams
Melting like some toast on cheese
My river now is just a stream
My trees, some paper leaves.
My thoughts turn to my memories
Like the time you set my fire to light
But the fire will only ever remind me
Of Somali pirates in the night
Friday, August 19, 2011
Atlantic Drifter
Storm clouds gather in the north
The North Atlantic Drift's in force
But the sun still shines down from the west
as i enter the sea to take a rest
The tide is close, but not too high
The shallows stretch for half a mile
This stretch of busy beach is mine
and the passers-by just nod and smile.
For there's naught so good as clean sea air
To blow away impending doom
So here I will abide a while
before returning to my dank bedroom
The cliffs and rocks have a sallow hue
partaking of the late sun's rays
It gives me pleasure, content, and peace
To write down that 'pon which I gaze.
The North Atlantic Drift's in force
But the sun still shines down from the west
as i enter the sea to take a rest
The tide is close, but not too high
The shallows stretch for half a mile
This stretch of busy beach is mine
and the passers-by just nod and smile.
For there's naught so good as clean sea air
To blow away impending doom
So here I will abide a while
before returning to my dank bedroom
The cliffs and rocks have a sallow hue
partaking of the late sun's rays
It gives me pleasure, content, and peace
To write down that 'pon which I gaze.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Colours of Weather (or, An Amazingly Ordinary Extraordinary Journey)
Today was a lovely day, but like waves lapping on the coastline, the tiredness washed over me from time to time, due mainly to the fact I stayed up until 5am yesterday writing the previous post. Anyway, the day which greeted me upon arising from my sleep in Galway was a little drab, to say the least, slightly drizzly, and very windy. As I drove north and veered into the wilds of Mayo, the landscape changed with the weather, or vice versa, I'm not sure. The grey skies continued while I journeyed through the flat boglands around Kilkelly, but upon reaching the main road, at Swinford, the bogs turned to green fields and the sun broke through the clouds. I was able to enjoy the scenery due to the constant slow driving of almost everyone who was in front of me. The road rage was never far away, but it was tempered by the beautiful ripples of the dark-flowing river Moy, which I crossed and recrossed on my journey. This is a view I took when I stopped at Crockettstown, outside of Ballina. 
And this one was taken from the same vantage point, facing north over Killala Bay to the Atlantic, where I saw clear blue skies. It was a good omen.
So as I arrived in the village of Enniscrone (or 'Inniscrone', depending on which road sign you read) I was treated to the sight of an elderly gent in a hi-vis vest directing traffic flow. I knew that there was a community 'festival' on (i.e. 'entertainment' on the side of a truck with a bad sound system and a bunch of market vendors selling trinkets nobody really needs. It's a phenomenon in many Irish country towns, and I have participated in a few myself over the years. Some quite recently. But I digress.) I was not surprised to learn that this fellow was keeping traffic away from a riverside boreen which was packed with people to watch rubber duck racing. I had an hour to kill before setting up for the gig (which was not connected to the 'festival' in the village itself) so I set myself up in the sand dunes, facing out to sea, with the sun on my neck, and fell asleep.
(One final photo, Enniscrone beach, 2pm ish)
So back to the theme, after we played the gig, we loaded the gear into the vans parked out back of the venue, which was on the sea side of the building. The sun was low at this point, and sparkled gold on the waves, bathing the town in front of me in that pretty yellow-orange shade that's so hard to describe and happens so rarely that it's almost impossible to capture on camera. (I tried, but see previous post as to why it was futile.) As the road climbed out of the village, the sunset was in my rearview mirror, but ahead of me, above the golden light was a massive thunderhead, stark grey, and directly over my path. As I drove into the rain, I saw a clear double rainbow very close to my right. The fields were that bright colour of green that you get when the rain has freshly fallen, so bright that you could almost see the life in them. As it happened, the road veered around to the right, and I felt myself passing under the storm clouds, the light changing from yellow to dark grey, and then almost blue in a matter of seconds. And then, in the middle of it all, around a bend in the road, I saw the base of the rainbow, almost like it were directly blocking my path, challenging me to chase it. I drove through it, and felt like I had achieved something intangible, but I couldn't say what that was. A minute later, the road veered east again, passing between the sea and the Ox Mountains, and in my mirror I could see behind me, from the other side of the storm clouds I had just passed, the last rays of the sunset streaking up, making the clouds bleed purple, scarlet and many shades of pink. From there, the light began to seep away, dusk taking over the weather palette. The sea on my left was a black-grey motion, with headlands and dunes in a lighter shade of blue-grey. On my right, the mountains were green, with fog and drizzle misting over the peaks. As I got closer to Ballisodare, the road became almost enclosed by overhanging trees, the type which will always remind me of horror stories heard as a child. In the final stage of my trip, it was actually dark, and the headlights lit up a rolling green landscape, crisscrossed with narrow country lanes until finally I reached my folk's place.
I can't really explain why I felt the need to describe the day, but it occurs to me that the colours of nature and weather, and especially the influence that each has on the other, are all to often taken for granted. I do it myself. But sometimes nature and weather combine, to almost roar 'TAKE NOTICE OF ME', and you can't understand why you ignore this so much of the time.
I don't know how to end this.
Peace and Love
Derm
And this one was taken from the same vantage point, facing north over Killala Bay to the Atlantic, where I saw clear blue skies. It was a good omen.
(One final photo, Enniscrone beach, 2pm ish)
So back to the theme, after we played the gig, we loaded the gear into the vans parked out back of the venue, which was on the sea side of the building. The sun was low at this point, and sparkled gold on the waves, bathing the town in front of me in that pretty yellow-orange shade that's so hard to describe and happens so rarely that it's almost impossible to capture on camera. (I tried, but see previous post as to why it was futile.) As the road climbed out of the village, the sunset was in my rearview mirror, but ahead of me, above the golden light was a massive thunderhead, stark grey, and directly over my path. As I drove into the rain, I saw a clear double rainbow very close to my right. The fields were that bright colour of green that you get when the rain has freshly fallen, so bright that you could almost see the life in them. As it happened, the road veered around to the right, and I felt myself passing under the storm clouds, the light changing from yellow to dark grey, and then almost blue in a matter of seconds. And then, in the middle of it all, around a bend in the road, I saw the base of the rainbow, almost like it were directly blocking my path, challenging me to chase it. I drove through it, and felt like I had achieved something intangible, but I couldn't say what that was. A minute later, the road veered east again, passing between the sea and the Ox Mountains, and in my mirror I could see behind me, from the other side of the storm clouds I had just passed, the last rays of the sunset streaking up, making the clouds bleed purple, scarlet and many shades of pink. From there, the light began to seep away, dusk taking over the weather palette. The sea on my left was a black-grey motion, with headlands and dunes in a lighter shade of blue-grey. On my right, the mountains were green, with fog and drizzle misting over the peaks. As I got closer to Ballisodare, the road became almost enclosed by overhanging trees, the type which will always remind me of horror stories heard as a child. In the final stage of my trip, it was actually dark, and the headlights lit up a rolling green landscape, crisscrossed with narrow country lanes until finally I reached my folk's place.
I can't really explain why I felt the need to describe the day, but it occurs to me that the colours of nature and weather, and especially the influence that each has on the other, are all to often taken for granted. I do it myself. But sometimes nature and weather combine, to almost roar 'TAKE NOTICE OF ME', and you can't understand why you ignore this so much of the time.
I don't know how to end this.
Peace and Love
Derm
Photography (and the lack thereof)
Hello all.
this is a test run, to see if I can post photos and/or links. I've not figured it out yet, but when I do, expect a lot more than just words.
My digital camera unfortunately suffered major brain damage after a drunken fall at a house party in New London back in April. It wasn't my fault, honestly, but luckily I managed to do some stopgap surgery to mitigate the damage done. The result is that my once-proud Canon has now been reduced to the most basic functionality. In fact, not even, as basic functions include a flash, which has ceased to work. Colour and view options are no more, and film mode is unthinkable. At least the screen works.
The reason I mention this is to explain why I have very few photos from the last few months, especially from gigs or road trips. Those that I do have (some of which are up on http://twitpic.com/photos/dermhurl if you're interested) are mostly from my phone camera (a SonyEricsson if you want to know) which is blurry at best, useless in anything but very bright daylight, and on the verge of packing in also. I plan to upgrade it within the next 6 months. As for the Canon, I have no idea whether it's salvageable at all. Will have to look into that.
I brought a disposable camera to the Prince concert. Once I get that developed, I'll post any worthy photos, with a short gig review. It was actually almost too good to be able to describe. It was enhanced by being there with a few friends whom you could easily call 'die-hard' Prince fanatics. Anyhow, that's a story for another day.
so, just to conclude here, I played a gig about two weeks ago in Shrule, a small village on the Galway-Mayo border. In the field directly beside the local hall where we played was the castle in the photo above. I'm almost certain that it should probably be called a 'tower house' but since I'm unsure, a castle it shall remain. I find the area east of Lough Corrib to be particularly intriguing historically, as there is a huge string of these castles dotted all the way from Galway city to Castlebar. I have friends who claim that to see one is to see them all, but I disagree. Each one has a story to tell, and has impacted the historical landscape it's in. This one happens to dominate a riverbank at a crossing point. Strategically placed, but now in ruins and mostly ignored, lying in the middle of a field of cattle, the interior strewn with empty Buckfast bottles, Dutch Gold cans and who knows what else. It really is a pity that we have to fight so hard to preserve historic monuments, and it seems to me that one of the biggest fights we have is against general public apathy.
Until later,
Peace, Love and Photos.
Derm
this is a test run, to see if I can post photos and/or links. I've not figured it out yet, but when I do, expect a lot more than just words.
My digital camera unfortunately suffered major brain damage after a drunken fall at a house party in New London back in April. It wasn't my fault, honestly, but luckily I managed to do some stopgap surgery to mitigate the damage done. The result is that my once-proud Canon has now been reduced to the most basic functionality. In fact, not even, as basic functions include a flash, which has ceased to work. Colour and view options are no more, and film mode is unthinkable. At least the screen works.
The reason I mention this is to explain why I have very few photos from the last few months, especially from gigs or road trips. Those that I do have (some of which are up on http://twitpic.com/photos/dermhurl if you're interested) are mostly from my phone camera (a SonyEricsson if you want to know) which is blurry at best, useless in anything but very bright daylight, and on the verge of packing in also. I plan to upgrade it within the next 6 months. As for the Canon, I have no idea whether it's salvageable at all. Will have to look into that.
I brought a disposable camera to the Prince concert. Once I get that developed, I'll post any worthy photos, with a short gig review. It was actually almost too good to be able to describe. It was enhanced by being there with a few friends whom you could easily call 'die-hard' Prince fanatics. Anyhow, that's a story for another day.
so, just to conclude here, I played a gig about two weeks ago in Shrule, a small village on the Galway-Mayo border. In the field directly beside the local hall where we played was the castle in the photo above. I'm almost certain that it should probably be called a 'tower house' but since I'm unsure, a castle it shall remain. I find the area east of Lough Corrib to be particularly intriguing historically, as there is a huge string of these castles dotted all the way from Galway city to Castlebar. I have friends who claim that to see one is to see them all, but I disagree. Each one has a story to tell, and has impacted the historical landscape it's in. This one happens to dominate a riverbank at a crossing point. Strategically placed, but now in ruins and mostly ignored, lying in the middle of a field of cattle, the interior strewn with empty Buckfast bottles, Dutch Gold cans and who knows what else. It really is a pity that we have to fight so hard to preserve historic monuments, and it seems to me that one of the biggest fights we have is against general public apathy.
Until later,
Peace, Love and Photos.
Derm
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Summer Time - Living IS Easy
I've been meaning to update this for quite a while. I've had ideas for a post come and go, but the impetus to write has been sadly lacking. Summer time brings welcome diversions from the normal way of things. Even despite our fine traditional Irish weather, there have been numerous chances to play, party, perform, and potter about on the streets, with good friends, new friends, and of course the odd homeless drunk. As everybody knows, Galway city has the friendliest drunks of nearly any city. Certainly any city I've ever been to, and it's quite heartwarming to see the way they have their own little community, and the friendly (if sometimes aggressive) way they interact with the general public.
Galway Arts Festival really brought the city to life. I personally didn't even realise it had started when I made the observation to a friend that there was "more of a party vibe" than usual. Having opted to volunteer once I knew what was going on, I managed to catch a performance of Enda Walsh's 'Misterman', featuring Cillian Murphy. The acting was superb, and the set and lighting was magnificent. The play itself, however, almost disturbed me. It was definitely powerful, but was exceedingly dark, telling the story of one man descending the ladder from 'harmless' to madness. It was a sold-out show twice a day for two weeks. I seriously don't know how the cast and crew managed it. Anyway, that was that.
The other major event of the festival I managed to attend was 'AfroCubism', the mind-blowing, genre-melding all-star line up of Malian and Cuban musicians that formed in 2010 to record and tour together. I had planned to write about that show the next day, but I was still too dazed from what I experienced to write anything remotely objective. The two 'stars' of the show were kora player Toumani Diabaté and Eliades Ochoa of 'Buena Vista Social Club' fame. Having said that, those two were merely the best-known of a stellar line up, each musician an outstanding performer of their instrument. The 13-piece group also featured electric guitar, double bass, congas, balafon, brass, ngoni, tama (Malian talking drum) and various other percussion, in addition to vocals from many band members. Eliades himself had a sore throat or a cold, which he explained to the crowd, after his first introduction, when he explained to us that his English was poor, and spoke in Spanish for the remainder of the show. Nobody cared. The music spoke more clearly than any language. I attempted to understand, but with my limited grasp of Spanish, I only caught a phrase aquí y ahí. Toumani also spoke to the crowd, explaining the rich cultural links between Cuba and Mali. In a rather surreal, and embarrassing moment (for me at least) he explained that the countries are similar because while they are both musically rich, they are physically very poor. The crowd, who had become used to cheering for everything he said, began to cheer this, but quickly stopped when they realised what he had said. It was only a short moment of embarrassment, but I still wonder how that may have made the performers feel. All I know is that what I felt, during the roughly hour and a half long show, was pure amazement. I don't often describe something as breathtaking, but I found myself literally short of breath after some of the pieces. Later, having discussed the show with some musician friends, and some non-musicians, I realised that my reaction was generally the one that the musicians in the audience experienced, while the non-musicians were actually quite underwhelmed by it all. I can only imagine that it is because the music is so constant, with very little in the way of crescendos, et cetera, that Western ears have become accustomed to hearing in popular music.
Anyhow, now that the Arts festival is over, the summer is taking a lull, I've escaped from the city for the mess that is Race Week, and this weekend I'll be heading to Malahide Castle in Dublin for my first live experience of Prince. I can't say I know what to expect, because I have NO idea, all I know is that I'm very excited!
So I'm going to try to update a little more frequently from now on, there'll be plenty happening between now and Christmas.
Peace, Love and Big Purple Hugs
Dermo.
Galway Arts Festival really brought the city to life. I personally didn't even realise it had started when I made the observation to a friend that there was "more of a party vibe" than usual. Having opted to volunteer once I knew what was going on, I managed to catch a performance of Enda Walsh's 'Misterman', featuring Cillian Murphy. The acting was superb, and the set and lighting was magnificent. The play itself, however, almost disturbed me. It was definitely powerful, but was exceedingly dark, telling the story of one man descending the ladder from 'harmless' to madness. It was a sold-out show twice a day for two weeks. I seriously don't know how the cast and crew managed it. Anyway, that was that.
The other major event of the festival I managed to attend was 'AfroCubism', the mind-blowing, genre-melding all-star line up of Malian and Cuban musicians that formed in 2010 to record and tour together. I had planned to write about that show the next day, but I was still too dazed from what I experienced to write anything remotely objective. The two 'stars' of the show were kora player Toumani Diabaté and Eliades Ochoa of 'Buena Vista Social Club' fame. Having said that, those two were merely the best-known of a stellar line up, each musician an outstanding performer of their instrument. The 13-piece group also featured electric guitar, double bass, congas, balafon, brass, ngoni, tama (Malian talking drum) and various other percussion, in addition to vocals from many band members. Eliades himself had a sore throat or a cold, which he explained to the crowd, after his first introduction, when he explained to us that his English was poor, and spoke in Spanish for the remainder of the show. Nobody cared. The music spoke more clearly than any language. I attempted to understand, but with my limited grasp of Spanish, I only caught a phrase aquí y ahí. Toumani also spoke to the crowd, explaining the rich cultural links between Cuba and Mali. In a rather surreal, and embarrassing moment (for me at least) he explained that the countries are similar because while they are both musically rich, they are physically very poor. The crowd, who had become used to cheering for everything he said, began to cheer this, but quickly stopped when they realised what he had said. It was only a short moment of embarrassment, but I still wonder how that may have made the performers feel. All I know is that what I felt, during the roughly hour and a half long show, was pure amazement. I don't often describe something as breathtaking, but I found myself literally short of breath after some of the pieces. Later, having discussed the show with some musician friends, and some non-musicians, I realised that my reaction was generally the one that the musicians in the audience experienced, while the non-musicians were actually quite underwhelmed by it all. I can only imagine that it is because the music is so constant, with very little in the way of crescendos, et cetera, that Western ears have become accustomed to hearing in popular music.
Anyhow, now that the Arts festival is over, the summer is taking a lull, I've escaped from the city for the mess that is Race Week, and this weekend I'll be heading to Malahide Castle in Dublin for my first live experience of Prince. I can't say I know what to expect, because I have NO idea, all I know is that I'm very excited!
So I'm going to try to update a little more frequently from now on, there'll be plenty happening between now and Christmas.
Peace, Love and Big Purple Hugs
Dermo.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
for a girl
Her style and gracefulness set her apart -
She knows well that she'll always be deep in my heart.
Her green eyes twinkle merrily at a joke we can't hear
Her hair cascades softly, framing each ear
Which listen intently to all you may tell;
And trust when I say she'll remember it well
Her laugh comes on quickly, when times might seem bleak
and contrasts beautifully with her brown-freckled cheek
Yet sometimes a sadness will stifle her smile
a sense of injustice will those times prevail
The world is so much bigger than she can possibly heal,
But her constant attempts to is what makes the dream real
A woman of contrasts, of beauty and fun
her quirky attractions make her the one.
She knows well that she'll always be deep in my heart.
Her green eyes twinkle merrily at a joke we can't hear
Her hair cascades softly, framing each ear
Which listen intently to all you may tell;
And trust when I say she'll remember it well
Her laugh comes on quickly, when times might seem bleak
and contrasts beautifully with her brown-freckled cheek
Yet sometimes a sadness will stifle her smile
a sense of injustice will those times prevail
The world is so much bigger than she can possibly heal,
But her constant attempts to is what makes the dream real
A woman of contrasts, of beauty and fun
her quirky attractions make her the one.
Hazy Moon
There's a hazy moon
I'm waiting for you
I cant say it aloud
But I adore you
The light is dim,
I cant see clearly
it hurts my heart
to want you near me
I miss your touch
That I never truly felt
And I miss your scent,
that I often smelt
I miss the love,
you've never shown
Like that hazy moon
I'll shine alone
That hazy moon
Looks down benignly
It mocks the pain
that I feel inside me
The night grows longer
Than I've ever known it
I've felt so strongly
But never shown it
The hazy moon,
It shines upon me
I'll wait in hope,
drink another whiskey
The days are long
The nights are lonely
but the hazy moon
it gives hope to me
I'm waiting for you
I cant say it aloud
But I adore you
The light is dim,
I cant see clearly
it hurts my heart
to want you near me
I miss your touch
That I never truly felt
And I miss your scent,
that I often smelt
I miss the love,
you've never shown
Like that hazy moon
I'll shine alone
That hazy moon
Looks down benignly
It mocks the pain
that I feel inside me
The night grows longer
Than I've ever known it
I've felt so strongly
But never shown it
The hazy moon,
It shines upon me
I'll wait in hope,
drink another whiskey
The days are long
The nights are lonely
but the hazy moon
it gives hope to me
Monday, June 6, 2011
I do love to read... despite what you've heard
I hate it when I've started reading a book, put it down for a day because it was intense, or because I was too hungover to read, or one of the many other reasons I give myself not to read, and in that time, I either start reading something else, or I forget that I was reading it, or I leave it in the bathroom and only read it when I'm on the throne. But the WORST thing that can happen, is when I try to return to it, and realise that I just don't want to finish it. Sometimes I submit to that feeling, but rarely. In an earlier post, I mentioned a book I was reading called 'The Lost City of Z' which I did not want to finish. I did finish it, however, and I'm glad I did, as it turned out better than I expected. Which is why I feel bad if I actually give up, as the book could turn around and become something gripping. I was inspired to write this post today, as I have just been looking at my bookshelf, and realised that I'm falling behind, as I keep accumulating books, at a much faster rate than I have been reading recently. I think a major reason is that I've been driving myself everywhere recently, whereas before, I used to just hop on a bus or train and read until I got to my destination.
Anyhow, I've compiled a list of the books I have half-read and forgotten about, and then one of the unread books, and attempted to put them in the order in which I intend to read them. I do enjoy making lists, I hope you enjoy perusing them!
until next time,
Peace and paperbacks
Dermo
Half-Read
1.Sword of Shame - Medieval Murderers (current reading)
2. The Yellow Cross - Rene Weis
3.Eachtraí Krishnamurphy - Gabriel Rosenstock (ongoing)
4. Krishnamurphy Ambaist'! - Gabriel Rosenstock
5. Ag Greadadh Bas Sa Reilig/Clapping In The Cemetery - Louis de Paor
6. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway
7. Ólann Mo Mhiúil As An nGainséis - Gabriel Rosenstock
8.The King's Gold - Arturo Pérez-Reverte
And once I'm done with those:
1.Lords Of The Bow - Conn Iggulden
2.The Voyage of The Catalpa - Peter F. Stevens
3. Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee - Dee Brown
4. Boy With an Injured Eye - Ronan Sheehan
5.Attila - William Napier
6. Bullaí Mhártain - Síle & Donncha Ó Céileachair
7. The Doctor of Thessaly - Anne Zouroudi
8. Freacnairc Mhearcair - Michael Davitt
9.Resistance - Owen Sheers
10. The Devil is an Irishman - Eddie Lenihan
Anyhow, I've compiled a list of the books I have half-read and forgotten about, and then one of the unread books, and attempted to put them in the order in which I intend to read them. I do enjoy making lists, I hope you enjoy perusing them!
until next time,
Peace and paperbacks
Dermo
Half-Read
1.
2. The Yellow Cross - Rene Weis
3.
4. Krishnamurphy Ambaist'! - Gabriel Rosenstock
5. Ag Greadadh Bas Sa Reilig/Clapping In The Cemetery - Louis de Paor
6. For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway
7. Ólann Mo Mhiúil As An nGainséis - Gabriel Rosenstock
8.
And once I'm done with those:
1.
2.
3. Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee - Dee Brown
4. Boy With an Injured Eye - Ronan Sheehan
5.
6. Bullaí Mhártain - Síle & Donncha Ó Céileachair
7. The Doctor of Thessaly - Anne Zouroudi
8. Freacnairc Mhearcair - Michael Davitt
9.
10. The Devil is an Irishman - Eddie Lenihan
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Hi Blog
sorry I've been avoiding you. Life gets in the way. lots of Suba Suba gigs. Life Festival, house hunting and job hunting have taken up all my time for the last two weeks. expect a proper update later this week.
Peace and love.
Peace and love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)