The AFTERLIFE (1)

THE AFTERLIFE (1) (inspired by SUM: Forty tales from the afterlives by David Eagleman) WHEN you arrive at a black wrought iron gate after you have died and see the electronic notice: WELCOME TO THE AFTERLIFE, pretty soon you will be asked to select your afterlife option. Without thinking about it too much, you might choose ‘REPEAT’, which is in fact an opportunity to do everything all over again. The good, you think, outweighed the bad, so it seems like a pretty good option. What you soon discover, however, is that everything is in clumps. It is not linear, as you lived it. First up is birthdays. I have all of my 81 birthdays over 81 days. My fingers get sore from opening too many presents. The one that brings the biggest smile is the bike, when I was 13. A red and blue Malvern Star. Subsequent birthdays were an anti-climax present-wise. But when I get to 36 again, I get to revisit the Café Royal, in London on Regent Street. DH Lawrence’s birthday experience at the same venue was at a similar age around the mid 1920’s. He ended up vomiting everywhere, in the Domino Room. A more mundane experience is sixty accumulative weeks of continual teeth cleaning. Sometimes your mouth drips with blood. You watch your teeth slowly changing shape and becoming irregular, and stained. Hair brushing is also mundane. This only goes for 45 years and then stops. Not even a comb is needed after that. Football match after football match, eight months of it, more triumph than despair, the blue and white stripes the common denominator. After a while the sirens hurt your ears. A cumulative thirty years of sleep, sometimes restlessly. There are some classic dreams- especially numerous are the car crashes built around anxiety you often had. These are also bunched together- a bunching in amongst the bunching. Thank God when they finish and are replaced by 2000 or more erotic ones. Staring blankly at walls takes up close to a year. Your feelings of emotional anguish- that terrible adolescent break-up that caused stomach pain. Boredom, ennui, broken bones or mere sprains and head knocks. These are the moments that you suffer the most in reliving. Cutting finger and toe nails takes up 3 days. You never did do that kind of thing much. Pulling out ear wax and picking your nose takes up triple the time of this. As for shaving, 300 days, and doing dishes (shamefully) 130, all painfully boring but better than gardening- 270- and cleaning the toilet- 190. Month upon month is spent driving various cars, the majority of it in the same one or two suburbs. Several of these months waiting restlessly before a red light. Only a week on a plane, but what a jam- packed week of excitement and anticipation. Ironing, games shows, shoe laces, sunburn recovery and swimming, telephone conversations. It is weird waiting to see what clump comes next. The biggest dread is the big clumps of embarrassment, and failures at work, and terrible restaurant experiences and sore stomachs, toothaches and vomiting. These are all counter balanced, naturally, by periods of beautiful reading and watching experiences, delectable food and stimulating walks. At the end of the day, it is reliving the best moments of your substantive self: as son, bachelor, father and husband. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

JUST ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

ON ANOTHER BIRTHDAY DECEMBER 21, 2024 I MUST grow up and own that I have turned a certain number today. It is, after all, only a number. It is a state of mind. Turning ... is nothing at all. Feel overwhelmed if you like. Sure, it is quite remote from, unfamiliar to, a distant stranger of 21. 21 was a long time ago. Do you remember the party you had at home. The people you knew then that you do not know now? The mistakes you made? But it was still the same you. You quoted King Lear, if you recall. King Lear was pretty fresh then. But quoting King Lear when you were 21 shows that it is still you. Turning... is a piece of cake, and easy to own up to. No embarrassment or shame. It is a simple two syllable number that has a fine ring to it- the way that the final syllable- the ‘ty’ at the end, bounces confidently of the roof of the mouth like the sound of an old-fashioned cash register. As I write I suddenly feel that I can get used to this number and laugh off the way that I have been dreading it these past couple of days. How ridiculous. I can even start to embrace it. I am embracing it. It is a fine number and makes me feel full of wisdom. I have an advantage over so many people. Wise, experienced, knowledgeable, sharp, but not deteriorating. People older than me are deteriorating. Their minds are becoming soft like marshmallow. And those younger often haven’t got a clue. They are still figuring things out. Aha, what a great feeling! Now that I have turned … on December the 21st (this birth date has been with me for quite a while now- it is a loving, comforting number- it clings to me in a protective way- a date I have always been proud of- a source of comfort and strength, coming along once every year, and always anticipated, especially when I was 21…) Yes, now that I have suddenly turned…, (and fully embracing it like I have those other years that ended with the ching of ‘ty’) I am thinking about all the things I am grateful for the way that turning … has allowed me to be. Look how rich is the knowledge of my favourite writers. The way that I can still read perceptively- past my peak, sure- (remember the absolute youthful pleasure of reading Women in Love and To The Lighthouse when I was in my twenties?)- but still savouring good reads, absorbing new fiction and writers’ letters, my brain a little softened and weary, but still in reasonably sharp nick. I have a body of overseas knowledge behind me. Famous people’s houses, famous galleries and libraries and museums. A great painting is still a great painting. I haven’t had the actual picture in front of me for a long time, but I am certain that Sunflowers still speaks to me, as does the person who created it. I wasn’t much older than 21 when I stumbled across Bathers at Asnieres- its powerful massive sprawl on the wall- and Guernica at a different museum in a different country, but at the same remote age. I will probably see them again. I still have years left. They will impact me again, of that I am sure. Now I find myself at the age of … (proudly I might add again), I still love hot food like curries and spices and chillies and sauces. I can still taste these things like I am 21 again. Whiskey still has a nice kick. My smell is not bad. I could never really smell that well back then either. I can walk and I can run. I realise that a few more birthdays that end in ‘ty’ might put paid to that (I know people close to me that this has happened to), but right now even having 21 as a remote memory, doesn’t mean I cannot whack on those black Puma runners of mine and run around the oval several times- ten or twelve, in fact. That’s pretty good. Ok let’s not get on to seeing and hearing. Much, much deteriorated. Looks the same. Wow, certainly not 21 anymore. The lines, the skin, the hair, the hands, the neck. All sad imitations of my previous self. And the hearing… oh, don’t start. The seeing even more depressing. To be going blind… It is a terrible, terrible thing. You feel powerless, uncertain, fumbling, alienated and insecure and disadvantaged… But I am embracing this new age of mine as I wake up early on this day, right? December the 21st is a great day. The age I suddenly have forced upon me is fine. Wow, all the things I can still do. The physical stuff, and all the processing. I am going to go back to bed and sleep a bit more so I can enjoy this special day when I wake up again that little bit more, by being alert, awake, not worrying any more…

STATES OF MIND

SITTING on the bed with an ok red wne and 'the boy' dog, still in the first week of hols and feeling relaxed, and I confess to a kind of guarded happiness, life doesn't seem immediately filled with strong and subtle pressures. Of course I am lazy and unfulfilled and static in my emotions and behaviours, but at least not as restless, aggressive, unhappy, anxious at this very moment in time. Well, I am rarely of ever aggressive. But anxious too often, yes.

MEETING COLM TOIBIN ON HIS HOME TURF

I CAN’T exactly remember what year it was. I think sometime in 2001. It was cold, then. You told me sometime before- ‘Look me up when you get to Dublin- I’m the only Toibin in the phone book’- So we did- we looked you up from a phone box. You sounded a trifle uncertain on the phone- Did you remember me and our roughly planned visit? Was it terrible timing? Had you started The Master? At any rate we set off to Upper Pembroke Street We had with us a drink of some sort And maybe some cake or biscuits, to be hospitable. I can’t remember what it was like opening the gate And knocking on the door. I think I found it momentous Which it probably was- and ballsy- what did we have to offer? We sat inside at an old wooden table A mountain of books on top- I remember one of them was about Rouault. We spoke of many things and you Gave us some advice about travelling in Ireland Seemingly dismissive of your own places Enniscorthy, Tuskar Rock, Cush Gap Keating’s Hotel, Curracloe, Friary Street, Nora Webster, Eamon, Blackwater And wanting us to explore the ancient- The Aran Islands Inishmore, Inishmaan, Inisheer An authentic escape from the modern world. But we never did get there- we travelled A conservative path instead We had a lovely time at Colm Toibin’s But I look at the occasion now With a few small regrets. We have no photos commemorating our trip. I was too shy to ask if I could see his study And his fabulous books and maybe even a manuscript or two I wish we talked about his childhood stuttering And each of his books that I have devoured over the years And how it felt to write a book like ‘The Heather Blazing’. Instead the afternoon wore on too quickly And Colm took on my suggestion that we had better get along now And stood up and answered a mobile call in the shadows of another room. Now, if I ever visit Joni Mitchell Or Van Morrison or Paul McCartney Hopefully I will be much better prepared.

ISN'T IT A PITY: A LOOK AT PART 1 OF A NEW BEATLES DOCUMENTARY

ISN’T IT A PITY ‘Isn't it a pity Now, isn't it a shame How we break each other's hearts And cause each other pain How we take each other's love Without thinking anymore Forgetting to give back Isn't it a pity Some things take so long But how do I explain When not too many people Can see we're all the same And because of all their tears Their eyes can't hope to see The beauty that surrounds them Isn't it a pity Isn't it a pity Isn't is a shame How we break each other's hearts And cause each other pain How we take each other's love Without thinking anymore Forgetting to give back Isn't it a pity.’ JUST finished watching Part 1 of the new Beatles documentary, ‘Get Back’, by Peter Jackson- the hugely extended version of the 1969 film ‘Let It Be’, preparing for that album in Twickenham Studios in London. Except it’s much more than that. It has been edited with archival footage from old concerts and film excerpts and news articles that provided inspiration for new songs. A really telling piece occurs when the band is jamming- they do a lot of jamming- Chuck Berry’s ‘Rock & Roll Music’. They are currently playing it in the film with some gusto, however, you can see fractures in the band. It doesn’t quite seem right, there are small tensions everywhere and you can just feel it throughout- at any rate, for this section, Jackson has spliced in old footage of the band playing it live on stage in their heyday- flashing back and forwards between the two performances synchronized at the same time. It creates a magical yet sad effect- gone is the tightness and happiness of the first performance on stage- a lot of smiles and the sheer pleasure of performing- and the current one, Twickenham Studios, 1969, where there is more of a ragged and tired look, and Ringo in particular on drums looks bored, George Harrison going through the motions. An even more powerful moment takes place at the end of Part 1. Paul and John are rehearsing an old song from very early on in their repertoire- ‘Two Of Us’, that would appear on the album. An old song, and very basic, from the early 60’s period, and not much of a song really, more of a filler. I think the problem was that John Lennon hadn’t written very many new songs and there was the pressure to complete this new album. The camera flashes between John and Paul in the jamming of their intimate song about friendship, and it’s just like old days- a potentially heart-warming moment, trying to capture the glory days, having a lot of fun- except occasionally you get close-ups of George, looking completely left out, not a part of the ‘Two of Us’- it looks like there are tears in his eyes. Perhaps he feels unwanted, or superfluous. It seems they didn’t really value his song writing contributions, until ‘Something’, at least. Anyway, George looks fed up and discarded and irrelevant, and suddenly he announces he is leaving the band- ‘see you ‘round the clubs.’ This occurs moments before the ending of Part 1. Apparently, they meet up days later to try and talk him around (which they evidently do). But the three play on merrily for the next couple of days- John even says casually that he might bring in Eric Clapton if George doesn’t come back. He makes George sound so disposable. Ironically Eric was George’s best friend. Then we have the credits, and the poignant lyrics of ‘Isn’t It A Pity’ playing over it. It wasn’t the first time George tried to introduce the song into the band’s repertoire- it occurred way back in ’66 for Revolver. Evidently, he tried it again for ‘Let It Be’. And why not? It is a beautiful song that captures the feeling of being shunted, made to feel an outsider, dispensable, an adjunct. ‘Forgetting to give back. Isn’t It A Pity.’

The Bookshop of my Dreams

WHAT’S the opposite to a nightmare? I had one the other night. I dreamt I was filthy rich and I owned an incredible bookshop in some unknown location. My bookshop had three floors. There was a grand entrance, wonderfully lit at night in neon blue. There were posters of my favourite authors in the window. The ground level was vast, like the upper two levels, with rows of merchandise either side which consisted entirely of paper-back books and book-related mugs and calendars. Friends worked for me on this floor. Seasoned ones I have known forever who share my love for reading. This floor was all fiction, rows and rows of it, on polished floorboards with a long narrow pathway down the centre leading to a grand marble staircase for access to the next two floors. There was also a highly esteemed coffee lounge in the back corner for casual reading and shelves of current newspapers, sans Murdoch, from around the world. This was a happy, chatty floor, enticing the typical book purchaser, many of which would not be bothered climbing the next two floors. The second level was manned strictly by family. Here were hardback books of many genres, generally newish editions of many breeds, such as Thames & Hudson art books, Taschen books of various interests, travel books, new hardback fiction, new hardback poetry such as Faber & Faber, and many, many books of exclusive modern publishers with fabulous designs. The walls were mirrored and standing behind a lavish, large glass table and a cash register were my two brothers and my sister, eagerly serving the hungry hordes of contemporary hardback books of many colours. At the very back of level 2 was a roped off area for customers wishing to attend book talks and meetings with established book authors. Authors from the art world and the travel world as well as modern international writers such as Colm Toibin, Kazuo Ishiguro and Hilary Mantel. Nearby there was a posted sign in ornate black lettering: ‘Notice: the third floor by appointment only.’ Thank goodness I didn’t suddenly shift in my bed and awaken suddenly, before I found myself in my astral projection going to the top floor of my wondrous bookstore. Here I found simply me- dressed in a black formal waistcoat, a top hat and white gloves and sporting a trim beard. Here I was, standing behind a wide marble table eagerly administering to a customer who was in the midst of purchasing a five-figure book. On closer inspection, it was in fact none other than the first edition deluxe first binding autographed copy of Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’. Fortunately, my dreamy vision enabled me a panoramic view of the whole of the third floor and I could see that I was the sole proprietor on this level, dwarfed by an enormous mahogany bookcase filled with hardback antiquarian literature. The rest of the level was spartan, as though me and the purchasing desk, and the enormous bookcase, were its sole features. Looking into the bookcase, I could see there were rows of old books in mint condition organized into sections such as authors and poets- Shakespeare, Browning, Hopkins, Yeats, Plath for example for poets, and D H Lawrence, Hardy, Woolf, Joyce, Nabakov and Fitzgerald for example, for authors. Thus, the brilliant blue of ‘The Great Gatsby’ cover shone brightly, as did the deep, serious green of ‘Ulysses’, and the intense, romantic cover of ‘The Rainbow’. There was even a row for publishers’ works huddled together, such as the Nonesuch Press and the Black Sun Press. It was a joy to behold. The whole thing reminded me of the British Library. I could see now that, strictly by appointment, customers would come one at a time and by accessing a little electronic catalogue, request a particular volume for scrutiny. The whole thing brought such comfort to me in my dream that I woke myself up smiling, my wife enquiring about which particular carnal pleasure I had been transported to.

The New Boy

I GO walking a lot these days. It’s one of these fringe benefits of lockdown, I guess. Pounding the streets, up and down, up and down. I always take the boy with me for company. His name is Pablo. He’s one of those Cavoodle pups. A toy one. He is what they call ‘brindle.’ His colour, I mean. A lot of black, some white, and this lovely coffee colour around the edges. He loves lockdown. He gets to have us with him a lot of the day, especially with remote learning. And we love having him around. So it’s an all ‘round benefit for me, my wife, the girls, and as I said this new wonderful boy we have had for a few months. The other day we left early one morning, just the two of us. It was one of those wonderful crisp mornings where the sun is coming out, weakly spreading its rays across everything. I say weakly, and that’s true, but pretty and somehow comforting all the same. The boy and I left early as I said and there were a few birds out, but otherwise just the two of us and these lovely chirping sounds and the distant hum of cars along Bell Street. We were walking in the vicinity of Robinson Reserve and I started talking to my woolly friend. marvelling about how woolly he was getting. It had been a while since he had been trimmed because of lockdown, and now he had this impressive grey beard, a bit like a little Schnauzer. Anyway, as I said I had starting talking to him as I did out of habit, marvelling at his little grey beard, when the most amazing thing happened. He suddenly started talking back to me. ‘Well thanks, dad. Dogs don’t get a lot of compliments, you know.’ He spoke back, just like that. ‘Well’, I thought, ‘this is new. This is really something else. Of all the things to happen in lockdown, which is supposed to be depressing and sad, my little boy talks back to me!’ Naturally I was majorly taken aback. But it’s funny, when things completely out of the ordinary happen sometimes, it can be surprising how quickly we can suddenly get used to it. Pablo, my new little talking dog. ‘Well, this is a surprise. How long have you been able to talk like this?’, I asked him. ‘Let’s just say I have been watching, observing.’ And then he let out a little chuckle. A sort of doggy little chuckle. And then I found myself wanting to ask him a million questions, all at once. We were on the other side of Robinson’s Reserve now, and normally he wanted to get off the lead and chase the Jack Russell, or the Spoodle or the Labrador. But suddenly this seemed all probably beneath him. I mean, my little boy could talk. He was superior to all of these. ‘So, these other dogs you see, can they talk too?’ He looked a bit annoyed at this question. He glanced up at me with a surly expression. He was still on the lead. Somehow it seemed suddenly wrong to have him on the lead. ‘Come on, dad, of course they can talk. I don’t know about everyone speaking English, some of the smarter ones I guess. But we have a language too, you know. We don’t just say ‘bow wow wow’ in meaningless drivel. We are communicating, you know. Sometimes quite sophisticated stuff.’ ‘Really?’, I said to him. ‘Really and truly? Sophisticated? Give me an example.’ ‘Well, ok’, he said. He was just starting to warm up, I could tell. This was his big moment. Time for little Pablo to impress dad. One day, when I have some more time, I will tell you exactly what he said.