The walls whisper

No one to understand
But we do,
we, the cold rock surrounding you
The ones who cradle your beating head
After killing
Love,
Stone dead.
No going back
follow the sign on the track
The one that points the way ahead,
Don’t count the cost of what's been lost
We know, and that’s enough.

Yeah, me and my big ego, both.

Happy birthday, Whiskey.

According to my researches, Whiskey was first produced by American clergyman the Rev Elijah Craig. It is named Bourbon because Rev Craig lived in Bourbon County, Kentucky.
                                                                                                                                                                                        My parents, waaaay back in another life, once had a pony called Whiskey, another called Brandy, and as far as I know they parented a foal who was named Babycham, after those small bottles of Perry that were once so popular in the '60's. Then there was Champion the Wonder-pony who was possibly one in the same as Babycham, who I claimed as 'my pony', even though I didn't do much riding that I can remember. There were also two beautiful horses called Johnathon, and Captain. These extant subspecies of Equus ferus materialised because my parents needed to try and turn the farm around into a growing concern. Before they had been kindly gifted it from an aged uncle, it had not been financially viable, and in fact was going into debt at a leisurely but steady pace. So my mother, being in possession of a small dowry of four hundred pounds, had invested in what was to become known as the riding stables. Along with these stables she had organised a caravan park/camp-site by the lake, and the farm manager's house which they turned into a three-in-one cafe, restaurant, and pub. Seven dogs, some feral cats, a couple of pigs in the orchard and a chuckle of hens in the old hen house, just about made up the remains of the domestic animal life.

This estate, as it happened, was located on the bog land of a remote part of the island, which was only accessible to the adventurous type of holiday maker who were good at navigating thin winding roads lined with thorny hedgerows, thousand year-old oak, beech, and hazel trees, and hampered by puddles in pot-holes. They would then bump and grind up the long avenue, and those who weren't too tall would arrive on the graveled frontage of the main house, without too many bumps on the head, and leaving old Willie Grey, in his weathered tweed cap and jacket, to have to rake it all, Zen-style, back into an even spread. They would then crunch their way to the front door, and listen as the door-knocker echoed around the wooden floored hallway. They would then be told of the facilities and pointed towards the lake which would mean retracing the bumpy road back for a mile and a half to the allocated camping spot. Willie would then turn up again to re-rake the gravel, as it appeared that he didn't really have very much else to do. There is a strong possibility that at the end of the working day he may have indulged in a shot or two of the very whiskey, the birthday of which happens to fall on this very day.

Happy birthday Whiskey.

Dancing in the Air Part 2

She reached up and touched the unvarnished wood just above her head. A jab of pain entered the tip of her fore-finger along with a splinter. Vague images of crawling under the table to sleep, nothing before that except the crush of people’s voices competing in unison. Through invisible faces, she had stood for an eternity listening to the tones which ranged from sudden high-pitched laughter to deep-base mumbling.  She had wanted to dance to it but there was no space even to stretch her limbs. As she lay there on a coat which she had taken from the back of a chair she started counting the pieces of gum which reminded her of the time she had put her hand under the desk at school and had recoiled in horror at what she supposed was the saliva of the children who had taunted her in the playground.
   All around her was silence apart from the banging of a distant door and footsteps. Through the light material of the table-cloth which reached to the ground, a shadow passed by. A clearing of a throat and a sigh followed. “Arabella, are you in here?”

Papa.
But she found she couldn’t move and as the footsteps began to retreat, she felt a sinking such as never before. In her panic she tried to call out but no sound came, so her mind diverted its attention to the throbbing finger.
 ...............................................................................................................................................

Miss Beechtree was inconsolable and poured herself another shot of gin.
Her mother sat by the window, watching the branches of the willow swaying in the breeze. She hazily recalled the time when Arabella had gone missing at Jeremy Tripwell's wedding. As they were getting into the taxi to return to Blacksteps Hotel, she'd had the uneasy feeling that something wasn't quite right. They had sent out a search party, and fifty half-drunk men had gone all around the estate with torches calling her name. Eventually Araballa was spotted in the rock garden asleep on the wishing-stone, looking like something the angels had left behind in their haste to return to the other-realm.

"I can't just sit here doing nothing." She shrugged, went over to the piano, hit the C, and then the A, a little too hard.
"We were told to stay here in case she turns up. Please don't do that."
"I'll stop if you do. It is that damn stuff that caused all this in the first place."
"Don't start that again. If you were a responsible mother, you would have brought her home after the show."
"How could I? You whisked her off before I could even...."
The phone went, saving another inevitable row.

A connection with the birthplace of the Irish author Elizabeth Bowen.

I started this on June 7th - six days ago, so it is a belated post.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    I woke up this morning and found my spirit sinking like the water from the torrential down-pour
into the drain outside.

                                                 

After discovering I had nothing to eat, I braved the elements and bought myself some bagels, some hummus and soy milk. That made me feel a little better. Then I decided to look and see what might have happened on this day any time in the past. It usually brings up something interesting, and I like to try and make some kind of personal connection with whichever new birth, death or event catches my eye.

                                                                     My eye...

I got lucky today, as now I can make a connection with an address I used to live in. It was the first apartment, where I was totally independent. That is paying my own rent through working as a waitress, and my own personal living space. I was nineteen and almost fresh out of school. The rent was fifteen pounds a week, and I was earning about thirty five plus tips, so I wasn't exactly starving. I had dropped out of college, and was to my young mind 'living the good life'.

As it turns out, today is the birthday of the Irish author Elizabeth Bowen. 1899-1973. She was born on the 7th June 1899 in the very house I was renting my apartment. It is a Georgian terrace along the banks of the canal between Merrion Street and Mount Street.

                                                    and looks something like this one.

While I was there, the canal below was a meeting place for 'women of the night'. They referred to my girl friends and I as 'virgins' whenever our paths crossed, which wasn't too often, and was a little embarassing. One time someone organised a birthday party for a friend and I was taking photos with a flash camera, my old Kodak. A woman knocked on the door and demanded the film. Apparently they thought I was taking photos of them in action with their high profile clients. Who knew? I certainly didn't sit around spying on them. In fact I never even thought to look out the window at night. After convincing her that nobody was interested in blackmailing anyone, I still had to hand over the film for the sake of goodwill, there was probably a little bit of fear involved there as well.

 All this took place in the very house Elizabeth Bowen was born.

Here she is with students in 1956.

A few years later I was given a book of hers called Bowen's Court, a non-fiction account of what it was to be Anglo Irish in the late eighteenth century. I was also given her 'Irish Stories' for my birthday in '96. They are a good read if you are interested in the topic.