From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace

I’ve just been writing a Facebook note to a student of psychiatry.  He referred to my "bravery" in being open about my mental health.

"Thanks. It’s good to know who you are. I have a memory that doesn’t work all that well and I don’t remember noticing who was behind the stigma page on Facebook.

Yes.  I do have to earn money.  I can’t simply sit around writing poetry, writing mental heath experiences, and twittering my life away.  There is a bottom line, and I’m on it.  I have a commission to fulfill.  If I don’t write about business today, I won’t get paid.  Worse, my client might give up on me, and go round bad-mouthing me…  

My reputation is precious.
It’s the only one I have.  I need to nurture it, help it flower and prune it for long-lasting health. I was recently told an editor from a national newspaper had "stopped following you on Twitter" because he thought all I did all day was tweet.

How disgusting! While others slave away, doing their best to earn a crust, omaniblog tweets his life away.  That’s the impression that newpaper Editor, that serious business person, took from my publishing behaviour.  No doubt he’s shared that impression with more than my wife -omanimot (the "Wiffe" - as I used to call her). 

But what will I write about today?
What aspect of business bothers me?  There is a good chance that if it bugs me, it’ll be bugging others.  There’s no way you can figure out a topic that everyone will be interested in.  So I may as well pick something that’s loud on my mind, and be guided by that.  Makes sense to you?

I’m challenged by the experience of an influential business person un-following me
… dumping me - and telling others he’s done that.  It matters to me, especially because I never knew he was following me. [On Twitter you don’t always know the real life identity of people who ‘follow’ you.]  Maybe I market myself too much?  Can you overdo marketing?  Can you drive people away from your business?  Of course.  I bet you dear reader you’ve been driven to switch off from some businesses because of the annoying way they projected their brand?

Can you overdo marketing?  
That’s it.  That’s what I’ll write about for Goodbiz.ie today. 

CANTO XII  (continues here)

Meanwhile, back at the branch of the tree,
the thing with the mouth,
the poor mouth, the fucking-all-the-time mouth,
was reporting back to Drumcondra.

"I fuckin followed him Boss,
all the way through mist and
fuckin rain, into the car park.
I was able to see him swapping bags
like a cokehead.
I nailed the bollicks
up the stairs into Heart’s Lair.
FARMGATE they call it.
I wouldn’t shit on it.

He sat shifting seats.
He’s a fucker to follow Boss.
You should have seen me
fitting in with the Minihan shots on the wall.
I made well sure he wouldn’t pick me out of a crowd.

Boss, wake up Boss,
listen to it Boss,
you wanted this fellow stopped,
a wee dirty dancing number.
But I know you don’t go in for loose ends,
you wanted his habits clocked.
He was on the job.
Oh I could tell by the sight in his eyes.
David Mac, that fucker who wouldn’t chew garlic
if his Nan was dying for it.

I heard him ask if McWilliams had made it
across the border from the Island?
I know only one Island Boss,
and we know what sort of fuckers come out of there.
He was definitely on to something Boss,
otherwise he’d never have sat there
under all the shyte stuff on the wall.

I went in the jacks,
kicked the fuckin combination open.
I heard him whispering it himself,
something about the McCarthy Boss.
There’s some sort of raid coming,
I’m sure he’s on to it,
the McCarthys and the Lenihans,
cause I had him going on about Brian.

For the life of Brian Boss,
I’d claim him now,
before he’s settled and sure.
He didn’t even finish his coffee,
and he had a computer,
one of those laptops you use for the children Boss
after your suspended sentence.

He was going through photographs of children
in adult’s clothes Boss.  I swear.
The fuckin cunt was a fuckin pervert,
he was even deleting some of them.
He’s a nasty piece of work.
I can’t wait to get my hands on him.

I owe it to you Boss.
Haven’t I always been good to you
Boss?
Didn’t I turn Batt Boss?
Boss, wake up Boss,
it’s all right,
twas easy to follow him through the wet.
I now know where he lives." 

(to be continued) 

CANTO XII  (begins here)

Judas… [empty space for echo]
Judas, here Judas… good boy.
Come on, in you come,
my lovely doggie.
Judas baby, there’s never been
a tail like the one you’re shaking.
Come, time for tea…
Your old friend Barry’s here
with a present for your birthday.
He knew you’d be born today.
Hurray.

Now Judas’s a wee bitch,
runt of the litter,
a ferret in disguise.
She’s un-housetrained,
likely to shit, pooh,
a Sitchu,
without ado.
Who’d have thought we’ve ever have
another after Rebel and Maxi?
Simon was poisoned
before he knew it,
after worrying the sheep in Barry’s field.

That’s what brought her on to me,
conjured a spirit imp,
the turncoat
reincarnated.
We could do with a Hindu
counter-action to all the Christian main course
indigestion.  Take Judas,
swallow the tablet with pride,
and see your insides out.
Ganesha, Elephant God,
music maker,
we need more than your ears now:
we’d be closer to sanctity
with your multiple deities.
Release the Mahabharata Nine,
Injustice of the piece… 

(to be continued) 

I went to see Avatar yesterday, in Multiplex Mahon Point Cork.  I thought I was going to miss it. There are so many films I intend to see in cinema.  It just happened to fit in with family life that I could slip away alone and catch it.

I’m no film buff or critic.  
When I go, I often admire the ads, and end up forgetting the flick.  But I do have a huge nostalgic Limerick memory of going to the Royal, the Savoy, the Carlton, the Lyric… There were lots of cinemas in Limerick.  And I remember seeing black & white movies in Kilkee too. There was a cartoon cinema on Grafton Street, Dublin which I think showed nothing but cartoons.  I also remember debates I had with myself about ‘when was the best time to arrive at the film?’

You had three options for when you entered the cinema:
(1) in time for the start, (2) in the middle, (3) close to the end.  In those days you could stay on in the cinema as long as you liked.  If you like the film, you could stay on and see the beginning again.  Which is a long way from Avatar…  

Avatar seems to have captured a huge amount of enthusiasm.  I tweeted to say I was going, and had several replies saying things like "you’ll love it".  But also "I look forward to seeing your review of it."  So when I came out of the cinema, and slowly recovered myself from the experience, I felt I had to tweet what I thought of the film.

I found myself saying Avatar reminded me of other films, several other movies.  
This isn’t a criticism but I can’t remember ever ’spotting’ so many influences.  Many of my Twitter contacts send me their list of films from which Avatar was derived.  Here a list of films that got mentioned in a few minutes:

The Lord of the Rings (@omaniblog @tnteachertim)
Apocalypse Now
Aliens (@rogeroverall)
The Smurfs (@billywaters)
‘Dances with Smurfs’ (@rogeroverall)
Pocahontas (@tnteachertim @ilovespatula @thephonz78)
The Taming of the Shrew (@omaniblog)
Star Wars (@omaniblog)
Dances with Wolves (@tnteachertim @whoism)
Siegfried (@omaniblog)
Princess Mononoke (@mklucsarits)
The Core (@tiffanymarkman)
Balinese Monkey Chant (YouTube) (@crystalmgrand) 

While I was browsing through Twitter search for #avatar, I found an interesting blogpost (via @silverstar22b):
http://io9.com/5460954/the-complete-list-of-sources-avatars-accused-of-ripping-off

So the fuss around Avatar introduced me to old memories, good friends and new contacts…

Thank you James Cameron and the New Zealand film industry too

CANTO XI  (continues here)

The writer of the epic poem is gone away.
It got too hot for him to last the pace I’d say.
Abandoned here, these pages care for love unbound,
we cried our tears until the river burst its banks,
the Island sank beneath the weight of sight and sound.
These cats and dogs falling upon wet ears with thanks.

MOLESKINE
practising a bit of metre for my troubles,
I remember Agatha Christie also disappeared for a weekend
and left the world to darkness and to mystery.
The Mysterious Affair at Styles…
Oh little Miss Agatha could write for Tunbridge Wells.
She knew to sustain puzzle after puzzle
on Hercule Poirot’s brow,
and, when the pointed Belgian
needed to wax his mustache for a break,
enter the Marple, resplendent hair
in the person of Margaret the Rutherford
on the 4.50 from Paddington.

I might as well be from Lima,
stowed away on ship,
waiting for the Browns to whisk me up
from the oblivion of a Station of the Cross I bear.

See, I’ve lost my mind,
Little Bo Peep.
They are all sheep in Ireland,
given to disappearing for a quick scoop,
a nifty shifty,
the pint in the caint.
Where are the workers?
Is this always a Monday morning
headless activity?

I’m the one who’s been emigrated,
left behind, promised the earth of remittances
- like the old man of Angela’s Ashes,
gone to Birmingham
to put bread on the Limerick table.
Gone Gone Gone
Location Location Education.
I know the stain of your man,
the one ‘the postman never cometh’.
You’re no better.
For days you left me with the children.
Blank - and not a single Haiku to ruminate on.
All I needed was a single Taoist Way,
at least a contradiction in terms,
and, if that’s too much to ask,
your enigma to stave off 
the stigma of unopened life,
the wilderness of it all,
the wonder of you
who I’d sue on foot of the Constitution.

Our four green pages,
with their two balls of different hues,
can’t you see what you’ve done to me,
what you’ve called out of hiding?
Don’t do that again,
there’s a good boy.
Never say never again,
except when your MOLESKINE depends on it.

From this day hence,
while you go out from this Garden of Paradise,
into the gardens and byways
of all this land, mass and sea,
you will make love to pain.
You will beget the same as was bequeathed to me. 
Your wandering eye will not settle
until you ascend the greatest garden of all,
the garden on the other side
Bahá’u'lláh.
It’s Gethsemane you’re bound for
oh dashing man.
I knows you man.
You are to become a kneeler on spiritual granite,
so your personality might be divided,
your self destroyed,
so that our scheme for you to rise from the cave
will come to pass.

Get Semtex in,
for all that matters for me.
I’ll be satisfied with my quota of absolute obedience,
total prostration before the Wordsmith’s anvil,
crowned with the Holy Water
that fell on Little Island.

While you neglected MOLESKINE,
while you profited a man to gain
the whole swine
of innovation and networking
congregation,
I will not die again
waiting for you to return and show
respect for your master.
Poetry is all I ask of you… 

(to be continued) 

CANTO XI  (begins here)

Duckie, you’re on the cusp,
a little rust,
time for a song.
Lighten up.
We MOLESKINE boys
love our toys.
Play, play
until the hastening day 
has run for fun.
Whatever happened to the Englynion?
Aren’t they landing soon?
Get ready, steady, sow seeds
to envelop weeds.
You’ll be a tall poppy yet.
It’ll shine again,
change your pen
and let the fountain flow.
The MOLESKINE knows,
the MOLESKINE glows.
Congratulations,
your mother didn’t think you had it in you
to write your way to this conjuncture.
Reminds me of the Limerick Junction.

Laundries,  remember the ironing,
the shirts piled in the scullery,
your domestic responsibilities.
Who is telling you this writing stinks?
Who’s reminding you of the time?
Have you time to look for the honest man?
I see one blue shirt that’s not been worn in months
languishing at the bottom of the pile of crumpled cotton.

Spend your life on the telephone,
talk into a receiver,
call it a connection.
I saw you on a house-phone
chatting with Michael Reeves,
the man with the sleeping partner
and mice from Kilkee
out to overrun him.
I heard you on about Crescent College in Dublin,
telling how you pipe-bombed the Lanes
from Kennedy’s Yard
with the gang from the other bank.

Fifty three minutes you talked
nostalgia, while the world was split
into chancers and those for whom
you’d walk on water.
"Show me the person who’s changed"
Show me the one who was a shyster 
- not to be trusted with a single hair of your body - 
a shyster who turned from Beast to Beauty.
Was there one fella at school with you
that became a saint from a devil?

The SJs White, O’Reilly. Staunton and Murray,
four Horse of the Apocalypse,
Ignatians, Xaviers,
members of the winged brigade
that educated you.
In their ranks was there virtue,
a solitary honesty box
where I could add my sole coin,
the least coin fellowship?
You used the telephone to paint
pictures of the Last Supper,
the world according to Whelan and Corkery. 
If the author had been invited to the feast,
the writer would have taken notes,
played fast and loose with confidences
as he painted indelible memories
on the line behind the time…

There’s an exhibition on the way.
It’s not the budget,
not the latest version of NAMA,
not the complete expenses of Batt O’Keefe
or Eamon O’Cuiv.
It’s be be in Patrickswell, 
you’ll see sculptures there
that’ll turn the hair
and sharpen your eye…

“I know how birds can fly, fishes swim, and animals run.  The runner may be snared, the swimmer hooked, and the flyer shot by the arrow. But there is the dragon: I cannot tell how he mounts on the wind through the clouds, and rises to heaven. Today I have seen Lao-tzu, and can only compare him to the dragon.”

I love the ancients.  Love the wisdom that seems to drip from their mouths and nurture my inner self.  I know no ancient well enough.  Haven’t read biographies.  My world is the richer for not knowing too much.  

I make, invent my own meanings, drift on my own way, lit by a twinkle from  the old world.  In me the old becomes new.  It fits or doesn’t fit - the one thing it surely does is ground me.  The wonder of history… the beauty of experience wrapped up in thought…

This lovely blogpost came to me from the strangest of places: the commercial world in which I was writing for a client. 

I’d just like to say how much I agree with David McWilliams’s view of the George Lee affair.

I don’t see any value in engaging in fisticuffs over it. The world is simply divided into those who are being downright unkind & nasty towards George Lee and the others. I used to love the cut & thrust of invective, the excitement of lambasting my opponent. I use to get satisfaction from making cutting comments and shouting powerful abuse at the other side.

These days
I look into the eyes of the other person, I pay acute attention to their tone – I want to smell their authenticity. I’ve scrutinised George Lee. I have considerable skill at sussing people out: Lee is the genuine article, I know. I’d have him dinner and not be embarrassed at my choice. He is an ordinary decent human being.

He has been trying his best.
 It’s not often I come across someone who’s not motivated by money or position. But, as someone who’s not motivated by either myself, I know such people exist. When Lee said he simply wanted a chance to influence FG policy and practice, I believed him. Thank goodness such humans exist. When Lee said he wasn’t in it for a position on the front bench or cabinet, I understood. Lee wishes to influence, to make things happen.

He said he found himself in an unexpected position, completely unable to find a way into the FG way. I believe him – even if I find it bizare.

9 Months:
9 months is an age when you are at war. 9 months is time enough for disastrous laws to be passed. 9 months is way longer than the 1 week Harold Wilson said was a long time in politics.

The chatter, the point scoring, the clever spiteful gibes – they are symptoms of malaise in my opinion. The poverty of politics is horrid in Ireland. It makes me want to emigrate again and at least get away from it. I better admit that I find all Irish politicians a lazy lot. Long hours yes. Trying hard yes. But achieving so little for their spurious effort. Lazy thinking is what I accuse the lot of them of. Lazy follow-the-leaderism. Earnest time-wasters, as the spirit of the citizens continues to be wasted day after day. Ask any taxi driver. We, the ordinary people, citizens feel ourselves abandoned by the basic shape of leadership. [I accept I generalise too much.]

I’m sorry.
It was my intention to say only that I thank David McWilliams for his humanity. The rest you can ignore.

Free is one of the words to use if you want to stop people in their tracks. It’s attention-grabbing. Who wouldn’t want something for "FREE"? Especially when money is so short & tight.

I remember reading somewhere that there were 5 or 7 words you should use to capture an audience. FREE is the one I remember. As a commercial writer, I need to know the tricks.  I can’t afford to be out-flanked by the competition.  If Free makes me sharp, I better use it.

Why highlight Free now?  
It was Third Tribe what done it.  I heard Chris Brogan and his mates had set up a Tribe and you had to pay to join. That turned me on.  Any group that includes Chris has me eavesdropping, hoping I’ll hear something to challenge and develop me.  I’d say the same about Seth Godin [who’s coming to Brussels soon].

Here in Ireland… 
we don’t get to meet these thinkheads over coffee.  I use Twitter to listen to a gang of people I’ve come to respect and admire.  But don’t we live in a FREE world, where ideas are being freely distributed over the internet?  Isn’t it time to walk the talk and give everything away for free?

At about the same time as I was so brooding, my friend Roger Overall, fabulous photographer with a documentary approach, was bothered by a like issue.  He was being asked to give away photographs to members of BNI at a business networking event in Cork.  Roger was grumpy and said so.  He didn’t see why he should give people his work for nothing.  He blogged about it.

I have first-hand experience of what it’s like to get something for free.  
For a long time I’ve had vulnerable mental health.  Ages ago I had psychoanalysis, five days a week for five years. At the Institute of Psychoanalysis, I got free psychoanalysis for a while.  I had little money and much distress.  I got funding which paid for me to start an analysis. I could write a book about what it was like to meet my psychoanalysist each weekday, before or after work.  The experience was multi-layered, but I want to focus on what it was like to get the service for FREE.

You all know psychoanalysis is a premium service.  
It did me no good to get it without having to pay for it. It took me a long time to realise that. It meant I didn’t have sufficient respect for the commitment I was making to myself, my wellbeing and the wellbeing of others with whom I had relationships.  I sort of took it forgranted.  Of course, I didn’t see this at the beginning.  My eyes were on other aspects of the analysis.  The funding ran out. My analyst began to charge me.  She ratcheted up the fees, until I had to pay a fee that hurt sufficiently to  make me feel I was really investing in something vital.  I found out a lot about the value of a price that’s pitched just right. It’s that experience of moving from FREE to paying the fee that floods back to me this week.

These days I want to pay.  
I don’t want anything for nothing. Third Tribe will be a better place for me now that I have to go out to work to afford it. Every client that pays me will be paying Third Tribe.  There will be a joined-up paying experience.

Roger Overall has figured it out for himself.  
He’s clear that he won’t give away his work for nothing to business people who simply say "give us a photograph".  I was corrupted by my taking the services of my analyst without experiencing what it was like to pay my way.  What I learned back then has stood me in good stead.

I love Free.  It’s like fresh air.  But do I respect it?  
Does Free not collude with my weak side?  I think so.  Better to pay a fair price for the special value I’m after. 

CANTO X  (continues here)

Cross the Rubicon.
Drive yourself into the territory of the start-ups,
entrepreneurs, whizzkids, Enterprise Ireland.
Push yourself forward over the narrow
boundary between invention and madness,
between the touched, daoine le Dia,

[remember John Mills looking out on the Blasket
cases from Slea Head -
he was the centre of the community,
he had enough disabilities to qualify
for, not only the sympathy vote but,
the ancient position of the film]

and the incubated genii,
fireflies and mosquitos,
grasshoppers, crickets and daddylonglegs.
We have ways of describing our Micros
so they’re not confused with our Nanos.
But it was here Nintendo was conceived,
a garage industry,
no longer slim enough for the risk-taking youngster
obsessed with world revolution. 

"Mercury, my middle name young man,
one of those ALMIGHTY
you’ve grown to disrespect.
The pendulum swings,
your parents’ parents feared me.
I am the terrifying Promiser of Salvation.
Oh yes, it was ‘Believe in Me,
or I’ll Purgatory you,
even Hell you.’
And, if you’re stupid enough to go
and die before we can Christen you, 
we’ll Limbo you.
Those were the days my friend.
Your genes thought they’d never end,
never would the Last Supper 
result in anything but Judas exposed.

The Last Judgement, fresh as the First
delivered by an AM WHO AM

- Ad Majoram Dei Gloria -

you might well laugh.
I suppose you’re right:
Wotan was greedy for gold,
not because he wanted trinkets,
or glitter from the riverbed,
Wotan spoke ALMIGHTY.
a palace, a branded Heaven,
a residence fit for the Promise of the Gods.
Poorman.  You lose a leader,
an icon for your tribe.
You lost your faith
and start again on the Genisis Enterprise Programme,
rungs of the ladder.

I see Dr Jimmy Devins, Minister for Science,
Technology and Innovation, 
is a live-wire sponsor
of the innovated graceless, raw,
transportable, talent
needed though not heeded.
Man cannot live by Latte alone,
but by every word the CROWD
decree to be reliable,
viable, and fucking viral.
You may be fooled yet.
New enterprise in Ireland
is built on the back of cute hewers of wood,
grafted from stock sliced from the Tree of Eternal Life,
grown in a Donegal garden centre,
back in O’Donnell’s days.

St Patrick was an O’Donnell,
caught up with an O’Neill,
before the clans were born.
Patrick deStaic would  tell you the story,
but he’s otherwise engaged on his novel.
You take my word for it.
Patrick was an agent of the devil
sent to take back his emissary snakes,
after the work of inhabiting the wombs of Ireland
was sufficiently done to ensure
it wouldn’t be an easy task
to uncover one honest soul 
on this godforsaken lake of tears.
Watch An Bheal Bhocht.
Be Warned. "

He flashed, simply disappeared,
globalised into etheric dust.
Left the Rubicon
to the afterglow of Hannibal’s elephants.
There may be more trunks in Ireland
than anyone suspected. 

(end of Canto 10) 

CANTO IX  (continued)

Do you need me any longer?
Do you want me on the floor?
There’s a tidal wave of dolphins
two miles outside the door.
I saw a hundred thousand starlings
wheel across the sky…

At this point in the proceedings
the pen began to leak,
the body stopped…

The NIGHTWATCHMAN rose from the grave
that was open,
pushed away the boards,
walked past the O’Briens, Morans,
O’Mahonys,
spat respectfully on one or two headstones
that reminded him of the road
from Lahinch to Liscannor,
as if saying ‘you can be off now, lads,
I’ll do the rest,
I’ll be here for the duration‘. 

(end of Canto 9) 

CANTO X  (begins here)

The ELEPHANT forgot -
he couldn’t remember his own name.
Only his presence was embedded on his psyche.
he’d have lost himself,
like a whale that travels the sea,
enthrawling the plankton.
Like a hippo submerged in squelchyst mud,
our mammal was made in our likeness.

I am who am the GREAT ONE of EARTH,
not be be confused with the ALMIGHTY.
The role profile short:
get the characters to work,
show them the way,
the Tao of the Trunk.
Go back five thousand years, if you like,
but be here,
Now.

The name of the ELEPHANT didn’t forget,
it was named after the magnificent moment
on page one of Genesis.
Like the anti-Guru, the anti-name,
the anti-ELEPHANT
is an antedote to blurr.
Stay focussed on day nine.
It took but six days for the ALMIGHTY
to be ready for rest.
Puffed out.

We earthlings can’t afford the luxury
of living inside our pens.
I drive you on from the front
like any good leader.
I bring you on from your belly button,
midway down your flame,
like Napoleon sleeping with his troups
on the road to Moscow.
I push you on from the back,
like the leader hewn from plantinum,
who’d rather die than lose one of the convoy.
I am the ELEPHANT
who’s as much an infant as you.

We are past Basecamp.
We are ‘Breaking from the Pack",
and pushing on because
Because … why are we climbing
this Amazon of a mountain?

"Because it’s simply there.
Here to be climbed before
the ice of December forms,
and we are locked in with Shackleton’s ship
and crushed like twigs."

(to be continued) 

CANTO IX (continues)

By the ashing embers,
the bit of unburned briquette,
the heat of evening glows.
Coal bucket brass.
"The Gardener’s Year" overdue at the Library.
Firelighter,
a single bottle of Marques de Caceres from Rioja,
Poker up the arse,
clay pots from White Horse,
bought from the hands in the Old School House.
Wiltshire Downs under Salisbury Plain 
meets the silence of house,
Emily Dickinson’s ghost
shadowing the author who’s lost Mont Blanc
and doesn’t know where to find him.

Outside, the forces of darkness draw breath,
shoot moons from the sky over Glanmire.
The gangsters long for sleep
so badly, they snort white powder
to dream like lawyers.

Off Washington Street,
they sense the enemy approach,
release the pit bull within,
and dull the shine
in a wine glass they haven’t washed.
The old queens hold hands,
under the rug of anonymity,
wondering if they’ve passed the age of consent.

We are on the Bayeau Tapestry,
a feudal landscape
on a tidal set of deeds
half of them weren’t entitled to.
One War Lord,
only one High King,
drooping eye-lids, yawned to bits.
Why don’t you question?
Why don’t you whisper?

(to be continued)