I have been quiet lately. Mainly because I'm trying to write a novel and that's taking up my creative juices. But I have joined a writer's group which requires you to write 500 words on a given topic. I thought I'd share the two most recent pieces I've written. Enjoy.
St Patrick's Day
James hated when St Patrick’s Day fell on a Sunday. He had
very few pleasures left in life and one of those was to call into the Irish
Club in Mount Albert for a pint on his way home from mass. Most weeks, it would
just be him and Mary the barmaid and she was clever enough to let him enjoy his
beer in silence without frivolous conversation about holidays and the weather.
But if Ireland’s patron saint was celebrating his birthday
on a Sunday, then the club would be packed from 8am with backpackers dressed as
leprechauns and twelve year old girls with fake tans and gaudy Irish dancing
dresses.
James would go along none the less. It was better than staring at the walls and
waiting for the evening TV to kick in. Mary smiled and waved hello as he
entered and pointed to a chair in the far corner with a “reserved” sign in
front. She brought him a pint and apologised about the noise.
“It’s just one day a year James. We’ll be back to normal
next week”.
The band were murdering a Van Morrison ballad but James did
his best to ignore the racket. He flicked through the ‘Irish Echo’ that he had
picked up on the way through and skimmed through stories from a country he had
left fifty years earlier and could barely remember.
A sweaty hand reached across the table towards him. “Happy
St Patrick’s Day” its owner said. James stared at the hand and then upwards
along the green rugby jersey dressed arm to the Guinness hat wearing head. It
was young fresh faced kid, clearly just off the boat like thousands James had
seen before.
“Yeah, same to you” he said and then buried his head in the
paper.
“So what part of the old country are you from?” the fresh
faced kid asked.
James hated this. The pointless conversation that would lead
invariably to him talking about Jenny and how her passing had left a hole in
his life and left him dangling like a loose tread at the other side of the
world.
“If you don’t mind, I’m reading the paper. You lot have it
so easy compared to us who came out in the fifties. This is just a big holiday
for you. There was no skype or email in my day son.”
He returned to the paper and pretended to be interested in a
story about Ireland’s latest boy band.
“You really think it is easier now? I think it’s harder”,
the fresh faced kid said as he leaned closer. Do you know what it feels like to
see your family on Skype but not to be able to touch them? To be able to read all your friend’s updates
on Facebook and feel that you are so close but not quite there. To have your
nephew raise his hand to the screen and yet not be able to hold it? But listen,
can I get you a beer?”
James put his paper down. “That would be very nice. And when
you’re at the bar, can you ask Mary to get the band to turn the sound down?”
Letter to my 17 Year old self
Kia Ora,
You won’t know what that means and you’ll wish you had a
hand held devise in your pocket with access to all the knowledge in the world.
But that’s just science fiction, huh?
It’s good to see that you are still working on your poetry,
even though you think it’s maudlin and self-indulgent. I know you are
struggling to find words to rhyme with forlorn and rejected. Don’t worry. Those
words will come, along with many other words similar to rejected, but that’s
another story.
I picture you sitting at your bedroom window looking at the
forest to the north. There is a light beyond those woods, my man and one day
you will go there to see what makes it shine. But there is plenty of time for
that.
I can hear your mother screaming at you to get your hair cut
and I can see your rebel scowl of defiance. I hate to break it to you, son. But
the most crushing disappointment you will face in your life is the day you wake
up and realise that your Mother was nearly always right.
Anyway, you’ll be getting your first passport soon and that
hair will follow you around for the next ten years like a Police mug shot.
Imagine the 27 year old you and your first overseas business trip when your
boss sees that hair in your passport? And don’t get me started on tattoos.
And when you get that photo taken try to find something
sensible to wear. I know you tell your friends that the woollen, sleeveless,
pattered vest you wear with that chaffed, collarless shirt is a fashion
statement. If not for today, then at least for some future date. Well, all I can say is that it’s been 34
years and I’m still waiting for that look to come into fashion.
I like that Che Guevara poster in your bedroom but you
shouldn’t expend all your energy protesting at visiting American presidents.
You may not believe me, but there are many worst American presidents to come
and you will need some of that passion for the future.
I know you are sitting there with no money, having just been
dumped by your first girlfriend and facing a tsunami of exams. But you will
come to remember this as the best year of your life. When most things were
still a possibility and not a disappointment, when mountains were there to be
climbed and not avoided and where your default emotions were curiosity and
wonder.
You liked Leonard Cohen even back then. Why don’t you slip
one of his cassettes into your Walkman? Put on Tower of Song and you’ll hear a
lyric that will no doubt dismiss with youthful bravado. But one day you will
come to understand its meaning. I ache in the places where I used to play.
So play on, young man. Play on.
