Art, Life, Short Story, Uncategorized, Writing

Good Vibrations

“Did you ever just not feel it?”

“What?”

“Like, you know sometimes when you’re properly chilled out listening to a record, you feel the music. You get the story of the record like an album, and you can feel your blood pressure rising with the rifts and sink with each acoustic bit?”

“What are you even on about?”

“Music”

“I know that”

“Now do you get me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”

“Music”

“Jesus Christ! I’m on about music, the good kind. None of that shit they throw on in the club. But, proper music. Real Music. Music where you feel it”

“Ah I see what you mean”

“Thank you! So, what I was saying was that… well, it’s eh… did you ever hear of The Clash?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s fucking punk! Guys up there beating there chest and rallying the troops for the little man…. really makes you feel man! Goin out there and wanting to change things. Johnny Rotten too in the Pistols going on about that bitch over on her high thrown and the state of the Union and how holidays are like prison; that’s punk! People out there singing about stuff”

“Too bad there all dead”

“Yeah”

“What I’m trying to say is this, and please by all means try and knock me out if you think I’m making this up; but I think we got happy. People got money, fancy cars, went off all over the gaff to places I can’t even pronounce and then got fucked on wine and whiskey. Even people on the dole got good dole. None of the piss poor stuff, you could actually live like. People got to go to school. Nobody went on strike. What was the point in complaining?”

“I’m not being rude. We did mess things up”

“Yeah… let me finish will you? That was when we fucked up. That’s when we completely got screwed over again and saw the high stool was wobbling, and before we could finish our wine we were out on the bar floor too drunk to stand up. By then, people were out on the streets protesting; giving out that the world was unequal and we were all going to go to hell. The world went to sleep and people got so fucked on TV and their smart phones nobody had time to make music anymore”

“Your man Guetta makes tunes. I don’t know what you’re taking about”

“All on a computer! Real music died. People like making stuff that’s easy and as easy to listen to and the idea of playing guitar and singing about the world became boring. For fuck sake people got all emotional and sad so we put people on stage to depress us even more. If you weren’t scraping by for a slice of toast or broken up with you were listening to your misery”

“So what are you trying to say?”

“I forgot myself now”

“Something about punk?”

“Oh yeah. Punk’s dead. End of story”

“Sad”

“Yeah”

“Pint?”

“Alright”

“Can you play music like? Cause your always on about it?”

“Fuck you”

“Can you?”

“I play guitar like. My buddied and I do a few gigs here and there”

“I write”

“Ah cool”

“Want to do a record?”

“On what?”

“I don’t know… The world?”

“Like the whole world?”

“Yeah”

“That’s fairly big. Could we?”

“Could try?”

“Sounds good”

“Let’s try and up to something sure”

“The shootings and the racist people?”

“This thing writes itself bud!”

“Where to else?”

“Starving children… and and and human rights and all the wars over in the Middle East and the whole thing of England and all the immigrants from places they were in”

“Maybe the worlds not as cool as we though”

“Yeah”

“Think we can help it like?”

“We can try?”

“Alright”

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Art, Life, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing

The One Hundred Year Prayer

Do you remember the days,
Back when Yeats wrote his great poems and plays,
When big Jim Larkin gave himself a sore throat,
While the poor Shinners only wanted a vote.

Cast yourself back to that Easter Morn,
When the most terrible of beauties was born,
It is here that the lily stood most bright,
As O Connell Street burned, a new fire would take light.

Green white orange gold,
From our bogs and bushes we began to take hold,
Out of this fire and brimstone our country was born,
And in our wee little cottages or country was born.

Buried deep within our own personal reason,
We created our own forms of treason,
With the crown still upon our heads,
We set out to take down the last remaining threads.

From here on in our world grew static,
All the promises and pledges stuck in the attic,
While up in Dublin the flat caps reigned,
With each passing day the lily grew more stained.

Now, the lily was put away to bed,
For we only had our prayers left to be said,
And off we went each day to work,
In our low lie farmland, down amongst the murk.

Cast yourself back to that summer of sixty nine,
When we rioted and revolted in weather so fine,
Yet, on the streets with every coming clash,
Our newfound freedom was gone in a flash,

Where you in amongst the herd,
When we where thrown in cells for reasons so absurd,
Or when the soldiers let their rifles run,
And ruin thirteen innocents of their poor fun

Soon the country was rattled down to its core,
Finally people where forced to deal with what was on their front door,
But for every march and flag we held so high,
Away in the blocks another would soon die.

Where were you when the children wept,
While in some bog land the Gardaí swept,
What was it but another empty bed,
Another name amongst the dead.

Out of the blood and bombs and internal rage,
Would come the suits which would be our eternal cage,
Yet, bombs and bombs kept on falling,
As Downing Street burned and London was calling.

One hundred years have come and past,
This great fire we knew would not last,
Now, stuck down in some long forgotten drain,
The lonely little lily left out in the rain.

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Life, Writing

Random Thoughts…

I genuinely have no idea how to open this blog post. Usually (or at least I try to!) I try and have some shape or form of an introduction which somehow makes it seem that I actually know what I’m taking about and not throwing random words out onto a page and hoping for the best (people tell me it’s good, so I’m not complaining!). For the past couple of weeks though, things have started to speed up. Where once I could have stopped and sampled the little anecdotes of everyday life and the inner goings on across Cork City in various alleyways and suburbs, now everything is almost constantly on the go, days are going by like tablets in water.

Amongst it all though; the changing of the calendars and all the nitty gritty crossing of my t’s and dotting of my I’s, I have to say it is fun. Every day there’s new people and ideas to explore. Everyone has a story to tell or their own different opinions and tastes on the world. Even in my own head; I’m finally starting to creep open the door and get stuck into things (I’M AN ACTUAL WRITER! AND HAVE GOTTEN A CARTOON PUBLSHED! My Nan is very impressed!). Regardless though, one thing is on my mind; in the pace of everything, can you lose who you are?

Okay, stop laughing.

Alright… it’s a little funny.

I’m a nineteen year old college student with a job and in a few weeks I’m going to be watching my boyhood club play in the national stadium; I have no reason to have any questions or queries about anything. Yet, somehow, this one though prevails over it all. Have I lose myself? Am I now trying to be myself too much just because I have to? Don’t worry I’m not going mad or anything. It’s like, these days with everything going on; LECTURERS, TUTORIALS, ASSIGNMENTS, WORK, everything that was once myself has been put to the side. Every morning it’s almost like, “I’ll read the comics later!” knowing full well the stack has been there since June and I somehow have yet to commit myself. Even with sports. At the 2014 FAI Cup semi-final, when I travelled up to Bray with my best friends, I found myself only at 90%, my eyes on the match yet my head 20,000 miles away thinking of what else has to be done, for when and will I be good enough to do it. Even past hobbies are starting to face the blunt of it. Once, I’d have lived and died on a stage, these days I couldn’t recite two lines of Shakespeare even if you asked me, nevermind get up onstage. I’m trying to stay involved in St. Johns, but due to work my hours are suffering.

I think this is what growing up is like, where I start turning into the person that people talk about at dinner parties and when driving home from their child’s match. Still though, against everything and with my Batman comic in my bag on Wednesday and City jersey on, I might as well grin and bear it. Growing up isn’t fun, seeing our own innocence chipped and ebbed away by the sheer pace of life isn’t nice, but there isn’t anything we can do. But deep down beneath the masks we throw upon ourselves every day; the busy bees who dart from one destination to the next, we’ll always be the five year old watching cartoons on a Saturday afternoon. No matter who we are; whenever Doctors, Nurses, Politicians, Accountants, we’ll always laugh every so often and take time to watch some out of this world random cartoon show which anchors us to our innocence. We’ll never shake off who we are, just build upon it; sometimes for the better.

Even myself; at the moment I seem to be getting political, cynical and my jokes even worse. Underneath it all though, I’m itching and dying for a Simpsons reference or the new Batman movie!!

Thanks for reading as always,

Dylan!tumblr_lqqgtlws731qlq731o1_500

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Art, Poetry, Writing

One Thousand Housing Estates to the West

He woke up this morning,

To the cold and blistering sun,

Knowing full well he was on his last warning,

This is going to be any fun.

No food, no job, no gun, no hope

Just another day in this mess,

All he wants is to score some dope

But first he has to get dressed.

Did you hear the news today?

Did you hear the news today?

Another one laid to rest,

Another one of our best.

He takes whatever he can get,

Wallets, watches, phones, rings,

Making sure he can pay the debt,

Which he would not like to soon forget.

Just another day in this prison,

From the top of the flats to the bottom of the rats,

Everywhere you seem to look,

With neither rhyme nor reason,

It’s its own form of treason.

Did you hear the news today?

Did you hear the news today?

Another one laid to rest,

Another one of our best.

Just another day in the estate,

Another young one gone off to some cell,

Just another day in the estate,

Ah well.

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Uncategorized

The End?

I’m going to tell you a secret. Don’t worry; it’s not going to be some large Earth shocking secret which will shatter the Earth to the core and cause a Crisis on Infinity Earths or lead to a hundred people queued up outside my front door gunning for my head.

I don’t like endings very much. They’re rude and nasty things which plague us in the dead of night and ruin a good cup of tea. Since I was younger; I’ve hated endings. Whenever it was leaving primary school or the ending of my favorite cartoon (Batman: The Animated Series) I always longed for one more, something to go back and capture the taste and feel one last time.. no.. not one last time.. that was too little!! If something was going so well; why end it? If it’s not broken don’t fix it!!

All jokes aside; something about endings always seemed to scare me; as if: NOTHING WILL EVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. You spend years building and building; the spot on the carpet where you spilled tea when Alonso scored the equalizer in 2005 or where you curled up with your Batman toys trying to ignore the growing pains around you. Then suddenly, one day, they burn the rug in front of you.

I know you’re saying; that’s life, but at the moment there seems to be a lot of endings…

Today; the 13th of May 2015 was my last day as a Repeat in the Cork College of Commerce. When the clock hit four and me and Mairead wondered out of business, something about me to go back into the room, sit down, and go numb. No Leaving Cert, no worries  insecurities or Cork City’s waning title chances, but to take it in, from every fine detail around me. At the start of the year I hated the place. By the time I finished up I didn’t want to go. I’d dug in and settled roots into Morrison Island,  having a routine which I rather enjoyed. Whenever it was Subway with Mallow Girl and talking for hours, bantering with my own Agent of Shield and Jones, or even talking through Translations with Road Girl, I had a system and enjoyed it. Things all seemed to fit into nice little boxes where I knew where everything was.

Even ignoring the College, on Monday fortnight will be probably my strangest goodbye. After 9 years of drama with the Wolfes, I’ll be having my final drama class. At risk of sounding overly sentimental;  I grew up there. When you spend countless hours laboring over Laramie or burning serous on the Bard; letting it go will be hard…

Not only is it the reason I can annoy you daily stutter free; but it also gave me a sense of identity and place to call my own in the social wastelands of Cork City.

I’m also saying goodbye to Cork City FC’s title chances. Yes. This is probably the hardest to swallow.

But, looking back and looking forward (just encase I walk into a poll or something, you know me) I’m still getting up in the morning. There is still breakfast on the table and opportunities will always present themselves. I’ve enjoyed my time in places, but I’m not going to have a big moral to all this; because really? Endings aren’t real. They’re boring. Quoting 7 year old Dylan:

“To Be Continued…”

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Football

League of Ireland, Real Football, Real Fans?

It’s Friday evening. I’ve finished school for the weekend, finished all my homework and now all but one thing remains. It’s the middle of March, the skies are grey and the bright sunshine of springtime seems a different world away altogether and the only air around is dank and depressing. Yet, in my head my I’m nervous, excited, ecstatic, buzzing and relieved as I make my way up to my Nan’s house.

Every Friday evening begins here. Always has and always will be for me. I’d arrive up, weak and weary of my week of Leaving Certing and my Nan always greets me the same. Whether I’m four years old or eighteen she’ll hug me and say, “Are you excited?” We’d laugh. Have tea. Then dinner would come, the same dinner since I was four years old coming up from junior infants; chicken burgers and chips over Neighbors followed by the Simpsons. Afterwards my Granddad would wrap up warm, hug my Nan for what she was worth and together we’d make our way down to Turner’s Cross for a new season awaits. Could this be our year? Could Cork City win the League of Ireland this year?

We both go our separate ways, my Granddad to his friends and me to mine, awaiting the return of “Ireland’s Airtricity League” a league supposed to be for “Real Football, Real Fans” – but really; is it?

The “Real Fans” is a rather funny question. In Cork people support more clubs than I reckon there are people in Munster from Manchester United, Liverpool (who I do support myself on the side), Chelsea, Arsenal, Spurs, Aston Villa, Newcastle, Celtic, Bayern Munich, Barcelona, Real Madrid, Atletico Madrid… the list goes on… which raises the question, does our league have “Real Fans?”

If you have to ask me, honestly; I’m all for someone supporting Liverpool (which I do myself) or Manchester United, as long as someone says, “but I also support my local” that’s the sign of a true football fan. Not someone who watches Liverpool when they’ve won two or three games in a row or a United fan who thought, “well I stopped watching halfway through last season” to which they always reply, “I supported Ferguson not Moyes”.  Usually on the side you also have the fans who spend about £500 pound every six months to go to the Premiership game and then say, “League of Ireland is too pricey”. But when you consider the whole idea that League of Ireland is “Real Fans?” it’s only a half truth. I’m not going to lie there when you have 5,322 crowded into Turners Cross versus St. Patrick’s Athletic versus 579 loosely packed in versus Waterford United in the League Cup only weeks later.

When you look at the statement too of “Real Football?” it’s like comparing theater to television. In television it is fast moving, easy on the eye, attention grabbing and addictive. While theater is slow moving, it will build you up, you get to know the characters before something happens, you can see the struggle, the triumphs the tribulations first hand, how you want to see them, whenever wincing at a penalty at the 90th minute or Romeo deciding he has had enough. Football is meant to be enjoyed, both as a sport and as a social aspect. Unlike certain sports football brings people together. The quality of football in League of Ireland mightn’t be worthy of La Liga style, but the most important thing is that it is ours, like Colin Healy’s goal versus St Patrick’s Athletics or Chris Forrester’s goal for St Patrick’s Athletic versus Drogheda United. We know the players, we see them in Tesco, in the pub, on a night out, they’re real people to us. Not characters in a television show we see once a week and our only personal connection really is on Twitter or on Sky Sports.

In summing up, saying “Real Football, Real Fans” is only a half truth, you would be hard pressed and at the ends of the world to meet a truly 100% League of Ireland fan but the football is our football.

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