Bed early one night this week, exhausted from busy day. Body collapsed into deep sleep. Woke at 6am and read more Raymond Carver short stories. Read two in a row, both about alcoholism. ‘Careful’, then, ‘Where I’m Calling From’. Used to have a copy of a thick anthology of that name – ‘Where I’m Calling … Continue reading So What?
On my computer is a file named 'Interesting Writing Articles' in which I have saved snippets, essays, and interviews that I have read and liked. I knew there was one in there with Joan Didion, an interview with The Paris Review, which, following her death in December, I went back to read. The article is … Continue reading The Nightmare of Dreams
-esque: in the style of, resembling (suffix, forming adjectives). There is no mistaking it, I am in Dublin. To borrow from a poem of Philip Larkin,, Dublin is so 'Dublinesque'. I disembark at Connolly, emerge into bright spring sunshine, and Dublin and I immediately remember each other. Here it comes, this vibrant feeling as I … Continue reading Dublinesque
I’m still in Portrush. Gales and more gales blow through, one trailing the other, bowling balls careening down a polished rink, on they roll, another, another, another. The wind abates for a day or two, then I’ll be lying in my upstairs bedroom at night and hear it gather speed, listen to it rise, rip, … Continue reading Letting Go
I love Christmas Eve, the daytime, full of visits and last minutes chores, the evening narrowing towards quiet solitude. I feel content being alone on Christmas Eve, lighting candles, being quiet. I might switch on the radio, let the silence swaddles me like soft cotton blankets settling a baby for sleep. Silence brings thoughts, ideas, … Continue reading All Gone into the World of Light
I’ve been travelling on trains these last few weeks. First, an early morning train from Antrim to Portrush, the sun not long up, mist lying in patches on the fields. It looks like the land is draped in a soft, white muslin cloth, which makes everything appear dreamy: half-real, half-apparition. A slick of dew coats … Continue reading I Love Trains
It is a letting go time of year. The light and leaves are dropping, the colours are fading, the fruits all gone, the seed pods blown. When I’m out walking or driving east along the coast, I see huge flocks of geese fly in formation, resolute in their destination. They fly so high that the … Continue reading Under the October Twilight
My great-uncle Gerry grew it from seed. He liked to eat apples, must have eaten a particularly nice one on the day he decided to plant the pip and grow his own, which, they say, is a hard thing to do. But he had no knowledge that to propagate an apple tree from seed is … Continue reading Silver Apples of the Moon, Golden Apples of the Sun
Five people holding hands and dancing in a circle. Dance (La Danse) is a 1910 painting by Matisse. The bodies are painted red, they dance on a mound of green, the backdrop behind them (sky?) is blue, and they are naked. The colours are vibrant – two primary colours, one secondary – and the simple, primitive style … Continue reading Gotta Dance
I visited Heaney’s grave with my friend last week. First, we went to The Homeplace, the arts centre in Bellaghy that celebrates his poetry. I’d been before and I love it. Loved seeing how a poem moves through multiple iterations of scoring and scribbles and shifting around before he gets to something he’s happy with. … Continue reading Seamus Heaney’s Grave
My Edinburgh Press 