A Most Unsymphonic Pigeon is a place where my procrastinations can gather, workshop things, swap knitting patterns, join unions, and basically amplify their strength against creative projects of supposedly greater significance.

Irish Heartbeat

If you ever had a beer-battered love, she was it. As far as compliments go I don’t think this thought has ever been surpassed. I’m driving in the dark night rain. Pitch black. Memories awash. The wipers are largely ineffective against the downpour. I should probably pull over, wait for more favourable conditions. The wet-dog-smell of my past, my upbringing, is riding in the back, like a rabid old mutt, kennelled and slavering lasciviously, occasionally grinding its teeth on an old bone. Which is another way of saying my father would never have pulled over in this situation – plough on, son, make good time! I wind down the window and the stink of these images swirl out, evaporate swiftly. My hand surfs the cool breeze, getting stung by needles of light rain. The backdrop is some sort of irreligious delicacy, seeming to speak of something putrid and demonic. A wild paddock of horse-furious stars, chimeric bells and whistles, chaotic rhythm. In terms of things universally beneficial it’s a sumptuous counterpoint. On the dashboard of my ‘99 Toyota Tarago sits a plush pink toy octopus with its face smashed up against the windscreen, welcoming the oncoming storm with puppet-eye glee. Olympus is his name. He’s my road-trip mascot. A gift from my second wife, Olympus was originally a companion for my trip to Greece a few years back. To my recollection, though, he did nothing but drink the villa’s homemade wine and laze about all day. Or was that me? Difficult to discern. Anyhow, Olympus’s eight arms are drunkenly splayed out in all directions, seeming to suggest that all roads lead… somewhere. I don’t know about that. All memories lead somewhere, of that I’m sure. I immediately remember something of last Christmas. God tried to contact me, for the second time. The interesting thing about deities getting in touch is that you expect something profound to be said when in fact the opposite is quite often true. Yes. The Almighty has more menial to-do list things than you might think. The blessed part of the current re-enactment going on was exemplified by a wind that blew in at the time I was about to sign the papers… those crucial documents… blew them right off the table, from underneath the stroke of the pen. That should have been enough to give me pause. But instead I hung up on the Creator. So bluntly unfamiliar and obtuse was her tone accompanying the documents that it sledgehammered any chance of reconciliation. By design, no doubt. I instinctively shut down my vulnerability and reacted purely to the embarrassment of the situation… papers flying all about the room… The pantheistic forces may well have had other plans for us but somehow that tone of hers cut through any celestial imprimatur, cut through it like Gaelic music to the heart. Just then, I was pulled over. A fluoro-suited man came up to my window. A double-fatality up ahead. Road closed. A massive detour was necessary. The only route home.

Evolución

Can't Swallow Up This Single Spark