Dropping Bombs in the Garden

Posted: 2 December, 2011 in Daily Droppings
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Shuffle says: “Hands in the Sky” Straylight Run, Prepare to be Wrong

Something from an old journal


It’s nearing midnight and I haven’t a word written. I’ve been back for days now and I still haven’t got shit done.  Days float in and out made of nothing, comprised of nothing, worth nothing.  I go outside to the balcony to smoke and drink and think.

Before I go, I refill my glass.  I pause before filling it up… and up some more. A double. Or that is a double for me, probably three or maybe even four shots.  If I’m going to try to be honest with myself, I’ll probably finish just the one.  Why bother making myself go inside for a second?

I light up and look down around.  Just being in this city, looking out into the night. It’s enough to miss it already. I look at the houses and pubs and churches up Sunday’s Well; at all the lights glowing off them.  From here I can’t hear them, but I imagine the music from the Abbey tavern  where I used to seisiún.  All the lights wash out some of the starlight, but I look above and count how many more I can see here than back in Dallas.

I sit down. The brick is cold against my ass and I shift in the leather jacket that I won’t need when I get back to Texas.  Below me I hear first years storming out into city centre, the arts kids to Freak Scene, the LGBT crowd to Ruby’s, the foreigners to Cuban’s; or whatever might be waiting for them tonight.  Years they have. So much to look forward to. Now they have the world by the balls. Freedom, learning, no longer the neophytic tools they were just a few months ago.  How wonderful it must be to be them right now.

To my left I stare down the walk to art gallery. To my right the Beamish Brewery, the old counting house.  Soon it will close. Soon all the life and sweat and hard work and stout and smell that came from that factory will be no more that a memory.  Future students will not have the experience of walking a cold morning to class with the smell of hops filling and expanding inside their nose.  No doubt people will be nostalgic; talking of the good old days when the brewery meant something and all that bullshit.  I watch the smoke rise as I exhale, watch the destruction of my perfectly fashioned smoke rings by the wind and the rain. There is still ‘smoke’ coming out of my mouth after the smoke is gone from my mouth.  Hah! I think, it is now May and still cold enough to see my breath.  In Texas they are wearing flip-flops.  When is it that you can see your breath condense in front you. There’s one thing you never learn school.  Water freezes at 0 or 32; boils at 100 or 212, but what temperature does breath become visible?

Closing, last days.  Something all too appropriate. It makes me think of all that is coming to an end. My time in Cork.  The school year.  The granary’s UCC season.  My supply of Cuban cigars, my bottle of black bush.  My chance to complete the barrack street challenge.  My time with MJ – what a wonderful failure. Perhaps I should be grateful; makes it all that easier to leave –  How much longer I have to endure spliffs. My residency in deanshall.  Sessions in Ireland.  Pints of Beamish.  The smoke pours out of the brewery over the river.  My time to play like I’m still a child. The summer hasn’t even started and I already have a load of work poured on me for the fall. I’m already working on my final papers for my senior year. I have to start acting like an adult. Ready to deal with the real world when the next school year ends.

I’ve fucked up a lot of things. Made a lot of mistakes. I won’t pretend to be one of those imaginary people who leave completely without regret.  There’s so much I would do differently about this year. People I should, or shouldn’t have kissed when i had the chance. People I should have talked to, befriended earlier. Papers I should have written sooner.   One decision before the other working my way back all the way back to grade school where I wish I had stood up for others or for myself. All that noted though. This has been the best year of my life. I will drink to that.

I watch a star fall from the sky. And I gently blink away a tear that will never come to pass.  I like this cigar. It’s a Partagas, tightly wrapped.  It will last a long while, which gives me more time to think.

I alternate between the whiskey and tobacco. Indulging my vices. Now all I need is dark chocolate and a beautiful woman.  Take care of them all at once.

To the future, I think. I take a big swallow. Kick my feet up against the banister

Inside, I can hear the creaking of boards. Tomsy and Emma are making love.  ‘Good for them,’ I say to no one in particular.  Good for them.

I surprise myself sometimes.  I should be jealous. ‘I wish I was getting some goddamnit’. ‘Why does he have someone and I don’t.’  But nothing tonight. Not the least bit of resentment.  I even feel happy, just slightly elated that he’s/she’s getting his/hers tonight. All is right with the world, just for this instant.

God I’m freezing.  Will I ever be able to live here. I miss it already, but it’s so damn cold so near summer.  I hope so.

I look down at what I call the unfortunate garden. This garden is locked twenty-four hours, which is sad because it is a lovely place.  Perfect for sitting and chatting, maybe having lunch or just relax after a hard day in the quietude of benches and greenery.   But it is, at all times, off-limits to the residents.  Something that has always struck me as odd.  Why would you maintain such a place and guard it from people.

To keep it safe? I suppose. A garden locked is perfectly safe from dunks and vandals, but that is not what a garden is for.


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