NiallOK’s Blog

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Right now, I’m suffering slightly from a bad/painful infection which has my left eye all swollen, red and sore and has me using eye drops and wearing shades. I’m pissed off, irritable and cranky. I like this picture though - and I agree with the words.

A father passing by his son’s bedroom, was astonished to see the bed was nicely made, and that everything was picked up and tidy. Then, he saw an envelope, propped up prominently on the pillow. It was addressed, ‘Dad.’

With the worst premonition, he opened the envelope and read the letter, with trembling hands.

Dear Dad,

It is with great regret and sorrow that I’m writing to you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend, because I wanted to avoid a scene with Mam and yourself.

I’ve been finding real passion with Jacinta, and she is so nice, but I knew you would not approve of her, because of all her piercings’, tattoos, her tight Motorcycle clothes, and because she is so much older than I am. Oh, and she’s from Leitrim.

But it’s not only the passion, Dad. She’s pregnant. Jacinta said that we will be very happy. She has her own caravan in the woods, and a stack of firewood for the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children.

Jacinta has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn’t really hurt anyone. We’ll be growing it for ourselves, and trading it with the the other people living with us in the commune, for all the speed, crack and E tabs we want.

In the meantime, we’ll pray that science will find a cure for AIDS, so Jacinta can get better. She sure deserves it!Don’t worry Dad, I’m 15, and I know how to take care of myself. Someday, I’m sure we’ll be back to visit, so you can get to know your many grandchildren.

Love, your son, Brian.

P.S. Dad, none of the above is true. I’m really over at Deco’s house. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the Leaving Cert results sitting on the kitchen table.

Look, people… stop being afraid to say what you’re thinking, … what you really feel!

When she asks you “does my bum look big in this?”, don’t be afraid to say “yes, but that’s because you’ve got a big arse, love;- it’d look big in anything, you know?” (and possibly tack on “of course, you know I like it that way…”)

When she asks “do you like my new haircut?”, don’t be afraid to say “no, it makes you look like a lesbian. I used to think that lesbians were hot, but you just arsed that one up for me, didn’t you? Nice one, thanks! … Oh, I’m being sarcastic by the way. Had to tell you that, as girls don’t recognise sarcasm. Y’know,… just like Americans”.

And if she ENDLESSLY asks you about turning that engagement into a marriage, when the debts are going to be cleared, when you’re going to “make good on that commitment”, because Christ she’s been waiting forever - starting about a week after you put the fucking ring on her finger, … then run… run now and run very fast.

That’s all the advice my drink-addled mind can currently give. Why I feel the need to give advice right now, I don’t know. And by the way - DO, please note that my advice right now is probably worth precisely fuck-all

I’d kill for a pack of cigarettes. I’d do bad stuff for just one.

Ain’t gonna happen though!

Recently I got back in contact with someone who reminded me of some stuff I used to write (poems, short stories and the like) and I’ve been looking back at some of it with a mixture of both warm and sad feelings.

So… anyway… six years and four days ago (when I was twenty-five), I wrote this poem called “The Clare Way”. It was influenced by a time when me and this young American lady who I was utterly in love with and had a strong spiritual connection with, stumbled upon a quiet secluded little corner of County Clare with a mansion next to a lake which was found via a mossy tunnel of trees, well off the beaten track, and it was written in - oh  about 10 minutes. Make of it what you will:-

The Clare Way The leafy glades some gods had made And put aside as beauty, The mossy treet of make-believe All overgrown and rooty. The ruined house in freedom dowsed And full of lifes loud glory, Where every stick or crumbled brick Could tell an endless story. The slanted flights of golden light Strike down on a moss-made carpet The hiding creatures of the night Their ne’er-discovered target The wind dies down, cold circles round, The woods are dead alive. - An idyllic spot - amidst the rot Where life and love now thrive. And in the verdant vibrant green Two tangled souls now tread, This dusk-walk won, trapped from the sun To dreams and hopes ahead.