didnât play that well and though he didnât actually lay hands on me, he did say,
âDonât let me catch you here again.â
How did this even happen? I was a successful American doctoral candidate with a prestigious scholarship and I was skulking around like a love-torn puppy.
Not cool, dude.
Then the oddest thing. I had been out all day, paying utilities, soaking up the Galway vibe, even spoke to Jimmy Norman, the coolest DJ on Galway radio. The guy had, get this, a cordon bleu, a masterâs degree in business, a daily show on early morning radio . . . and . . . a pilotâs license. The whole new man . . . seriously? And when I had coffee with him, he amazed me with his knowledge of local politics. I felt I was becoming, if not one of the players, at least the guy who knew them. Then, on to the Galway Advertiser to meet with Declan Varley, the editor, and Kernan Andrews, the arts/entertainment, go-to guy. All these dudes were young, smart, clued in, and a testament to the whole new generation of Irish who bowed down to freaking nobody. I was pumped, wired on possibilities. To be American in Galway was still to be blessed with remnants of Kennedy afterglow. On the fiftieth anniversary of JFKâs death, it was still currency to be a Kennedy. Man, I played that gene card.
Got back to my apartment, buzzing, the endless possibilities, and then . . .
Something off.
Stood in the middle of my living room, sensed the air had been disturbed. A new presence had, oh, so slightly, altered the air. I checked thoroughly. My iPad, TV, all there. The sense of an intruder was almost palpable. I didnât know what to make of it. I also didnât know that by this stage Aine had been dead for two days.
Because nothing was taken, it never occurred to me that
Something . . .
might have been added.
Miscellaneous notes, quotes,
chapter headings, descriptions Boru had
intended to flesh out
his Taylor book
Manic Street Preacher Richard Edwards was crucified by many Hounds of Heavenâ
clinical and manic depression
anorexia
alcoholism
self-mutilation
He walked out of his hotel room in 1995 and was never seen again.
And yet you want to believe that in the place youâve come to, where God has allowed you to prosper and for a few generations at least be safe, you honor your religion by doing this. By making something stunningly beautiful:
The Story of the Jews with Simon Schama.
Jackâs physical appearance was a testament to the myriad of
beatings
muggings
hammerings
heâd received by
hurly
hammer
baseball bat(s)
shotgun (sawed-off)
He had a distinctive limp and a hearing aid, and two fingers of his right hand had been removed by rusty pliers.
His eyes had the nine-yard stare of long-term convicts doing hard time. Hard time was the mantra of his bedraggled, violent existence.
The years of Jameson, Guinness, and coffin-nail cigarettes had lent to his voice a hoarse, creaky rasp.
The difference between a person who says
âBring it onâ
as opposed to
âBring itâ
is the difference between a person who comes at you verbally
as opposed to
with a hatchet.
Itâs very simple.
Itâs intent.
James A. Emanuelâs more than a poet,
more than an ex-pat: a man.
(Stanley Trybulski on the passing of a great poet, as written on Stanleyâs blog, Mean Streets )
Slick lizard rhythms
cigar smoke
straight gin
sky laced with double moons.
Pinned on Jackâs wall was a print of Fabritiusâs Goldfinch . Itâs a tiny thing.
Tiny bird
Tiny picture
Bare wall.
Most telling is that the tiny bird is chained. That this bird has for centuries represented
Christ on the Cross,
Alone,
Suspended.
The city of Galway was Jackâs very own cross.
Jack had been watching Denis Learyâs series Rescue Me in what they were now terming a viewing splurge. Meaning, you have one mega cluster-fuck of the boxed set back-to-back.
Get this,
Series One
âDonât let me catch you here again.â
How did this even happen? I was a successful American doctoral candidate with a prestigious scholarship and I was skulking around like a love-torn puppy.
Not cool, dude.
Then the oddest thing. I had been out all day, paying utilities, soaking up the Galway vibe, even spoke to Jimmy Norman, the coolest DJ on Galway radio. The guy had, get this, a cordon bleu, a masterâs degree in business, a daily show on early morning radio . . . and . . . a pilotâs license. The whole new man . . . seriously? And when I had coffee with him, he amazed me with his knowledge of local politics. I felt I was becoming, if not one of the players, at least the guy who knew them. Then, on to the Galway Advertiser to meet with Declan Varley, the editor, and Kernan Andrews, the arts/entertainment, go-to guy. All these dudes were young, smart, clued in, and a testament to the whole new generation of Irish who bowed down to freaking nobody. I was pumped, wired on possibilities. To be American in Galway was still to be blessed with remnants of Kennedy afterglow. On the fiftieth anniversary of JFKâs death, it was still currency to be a Kennedy. Man, I played that gene card.
Got back to my apartment, buzzing, the endless possibilities, and then . . .
Something off.
Stood in the middle of my living room, sensed the air had been disturbed. A new presence had, oh, so slightly, altered the air. I checked thoroughly. My iPad, TV, all there. The sense of an intruder was almost palpable. I didnât know what to make of it. I also didnât know that by this stage Aine had been dead for two days.
Because nothing was taken, it never occurred to me that
Something . . .
might have been added.
Miscellaneous notes, quotes,
chapter headings, descriptions Boru had
intended to flesh out
his Taylor book
Manic Street Preacher Richard Edwards was crucified by many Hounds of Heavenâ
clinical and manic depression
anorexia
alcoholism
self-mutilation
He walked out of his hotel room in 1995 and was never seen again.
And yet you want to believe that in the place youâve come to, where God has allowed you to prosper and for a few generations at least be safe, you honor your religion by doing this. By making something stunningly beautiful:
The Story of the Jews with Simon Schama.
Jackâs physical appearance was a testament to the myriad of
beatings
muggings
hammerings
heâd received by
hurly
hammer
baseball bat(s)
shotgun (sawed-off)
He had a distinctive limp and a hearing aid, and two fingers of his right hand had been removed by rusty pliers.
His eyes had the nine-yard stare of long-term convicts doing hard time. Hard time was the mantra of his bedraggled, violent existence.
The years of Jameson, Guinness, and coffin-nail cigarettes had lent to his voice a hoarse, creaky rasp.
The difference between a person who says
âBring it onâ
as opposed to
âBring itâ
is the difference between a person who comes at you verbally
as opposed to
with a hatchet.
Itâs very simple.
Itâs intent.
James A. Emanuelâs more than a poet,
more than an ex-pat: a man.
(Stanley Trybulski on the passing of a great poet, as written on Stanleyâs blog, Mean Streets )
Slick lizard rhythms
cigar smoke
straight gin
sky laced with double moons.
Pinned on Jackâs wall was a print of Fabritiusâs Goldfinch . Itâs a tiny thing.
Tiny bird
Tiny picture
Bare wall.
Most telling is that the tiny bird is chained. That this bird has for centuries represented
Christ on the Cross,
Alone,
Suspended.
The city of Galway was Jackâs very own cross.
Jack had been watching Denis Learyâs series Rescue Me in what they were now terming a viewing splurge. Meaning, you have one mega cluster-fuck of the boxed set back-to-back.
Get this,
Series One
Similar Books
