Dermott Hayes's Blog: Postcard from a Pigeon, page 57
August 8, 2016
More photos from the west of Ireland
I haven’t included commentary as I think they speak for themselves.
August 7, 2016
How To Choose Ebook Promotion Sites Worth Your Money.
Useful information, related without waffle
[image error]
So you’ve published your ebook and now you want to give it a boost and reach a wider audience – you start looking at paid promotional sites such as Bookbub. Unfortunately not all promotional sites are equal. Don’t fear, I’m here to help you fight your way through the quagmire and get the most sales for your money.
What To Look For In Ebook Promotion Sites.
How easy is it to sign up for the mailing list as a reader?
When you first go to the website in question, how easy is it for you as a reader to sign up the mailing list? Is there a nice big clear button right there for you to click? Or do you have to dig around and find it?
If you have to click around and find it, then the chances are far lower that people will put in the time and…
View original post 657 more words
Into the West, a weekend
Now with the springtime
the days will grow longer
and after St Bride’s day
My sail I’ll let go
I put my mind to it
And I never will linger
Till I find myself back
in the County Mayo
Frank O’Connor, a great Irish prose writer, translated this poem of Gaelic poet, Antoine O’Raifteiri, from the native Gaelic tongue, and however great the translation, it does neither O’Raifteiri nor Mayo, any justice or favours.
Here are the students of Gaelic from the University of California, Berkeley, giving their rendition of that first verse in Raftery’s great poem, itself a sort of travelogue, composed by the poet, himself a wandering bard, as he makes his way to Mayo.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3syN2hf8tMU
Mayo, on the west coast of Ireland, but my usual destination and point of departure from there during my sojourn, is the town of Westport or, as its known in Gaelic, Cathair na Mart, the Town of the Markets. My first stop there is always Matt Molloy’s pub, where the finest traditional Irish music in Ireland can be heard, seven days a week.
Surrounding Westport and dominating all the west coast of Ireland are the most beautiful mountains and breathtaking valleys.
There isn’t an inch of this countryside without a complex historical tale and there’s none more than The Lost Valley and the tragedy of Doolough.
On Friday 30 March 1849 two officials of the Westport Poor Law Union arrived in Louisburgh to inspect those people in receipt of outdoor relief in order to verify that they should continue to receive it. For some reason the inspection did not take place and the officials went on to Delphi Lodge – a hunting lodge – twelve miles south of Louisburgh. The people who had gathered for the inspection were thus instructed to appear at Delphi Lodge at 7am the following morning if they wished to continue receiving relief. For much of the night and day that followed therefore seemingly hundreds of destitute and starving people had to undertake what for them, given their existing state of debilitation, was an extremely fatiguing journey, in very bad weather. A letter-writer to “The Mayo Constitution” reported shortly afterwards that the bodies of seven people, including women and children, were subsequently discovered on the roadside between Delphi and Louisburgh overlooking the shores of Doolough lake and that nine more never reached their homes. Local folklore maintains the total numbers that perished because of the ordeals they had to endure was far higher.
There’s an inscription from Mahatma Ghandhi at the memorial cross in the Los Valley that reads, How can men feel themselves honoured by the humiliation of their fellow beings?
Our day was not all sad memories though as we soon reach the tiny town of Lehane where much of Jim Sheridan’s film adaptation of JB Keane’s play, The Field was shot. Of course, we had to stop there in Gaynor’s pub for refreshment. And this is the view from there of the Killary Fjord, the only fjord in Ireland.
Just before we reached Lenane, myself and my travel companion, local social worker Maria McGoldrick, stopped in Eriff forest, the last remaining ancient oak forest in Ireland. Here are are a few shots from the Eriff forest.
We stopped again, on our way to Clifden, further south, attracted by a road side stalling selling fresh oyster and mussels from Killary Harbour, produced, as it happened, by Maria’s own cousin, Kate and her husband, Simon.
After that, it was just one breathtaking view after another. Like Kylemore Abbey, a massive dwelling owned by Benedictine nuns since 1920, that once belonged to an English lord who had to sell for gambling debts.
Now this view of Kylemore Abbey is spectacular but it was the view on the other side of the road that really got me.
By the time we got to Clifden, we were hungry and thirsty, Kate’s delicious roadside oysters notwithstanding, so we had a scout around this busy town that, in summer, according to the locals, the Irish are outnumbered by the French.
We settled on Marconi’s in Foyle’s Hotel and marvelled at a painting in the dining room that entertained us, throughout. See if you can name any of the bizarre mixture of people, here depicted.
August 4, 2016
Steaming Passion
Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge Theme-“Passion” #WQWWC
His alarm woke him at 5.30am, bang on sun rise. He knew that as he’d checked the morning sunrise time the night before, via the online weather channel. In the past he would’ve called the meteorological office in Glasnevin and requested a specific time for dawn. This was it, the big day and he was not going to be late.
He got out of bed and turned on his en suite shower, before passing water and then flushing. Then the shower began. He washed carefully, attending to every detail, behind his ears, crotch, behind his knees, his bottom, between his toes and his fingernails. He even washed his hair, what was left of it. Thoughts of the day ahead flashed through his mind. This is it, twenty years waiting for this moment and now it has arrived.
Would they know? He was 35 years old, a successful man of the world, a leader in his field but would they know this was his first time? He couldn’t, wouldn’t dwell on it. He resolved there and then to banish negative thoughts from his mind and his actions.
Dried off, he applied a stick deodorant, underarm, then dispensed some exotic body lotion and applied it to his arms, legs and torso. He shaved, first with an electric razor, the Philishave with the three rotary blades, then he wet his face , applied shaving foam from an aerosol can and wet shaved. He ran the back of his hand over his face, admiring the smoothness he’d achieved. He completed the entire ritual by sloshing a handful of aftershave into the palm of his right hand, rubbed his two palms together, before slapping his cheeks with his palms, issuing a sharp intake of breath, before rubbing the tincture all over the freshly shaved area.
Next, he dressed. His wardrobe , for the day’s adventure, was chosen with some care and not a little deliberation the night before and was all laid out carefully on the bedroom armchair at the foot of his bed. First, his underwear, Paisley patterned boxer shorts and black, lambs wool socks, all his socks were black because there was less confusion if one went missing as they inevitably did.
His next item was a shirt, bought new the day before in the menswear shop on the High St. It was blue, like all his shirts, but this was not his usual shade of blue, being lighter and he felt it would highlight the summer colour, the farmer’s tan he’d acquired from working in his garden in the past fortnight.
Next, he put on his new slacks, a pair of cream coloured chinos, the label said were ‘linen enhanced’. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant but the man in the shop had assured him they were all the rage and that he cut a dash in them. He wasn’t quite sure, either, what that meant and would’ve questioned the man’s motivation in telling him, but he was quietly chuffed by the compliment.
His shoes were new, too. He’d treated himself to a smart but casual pair of laced nubuck shoes in a understated shade of chocolate brown. They were comfortable and complimented his new chinos perfectly, he thought.
Finally, there was the jacket, the piece de resistance of the entire ensemble, he told himself, a dark blue Blazer. It had two bright brass buttons, single breasted and notch lapels with a double vent. The fabric was classic serge, navy blue and the pockets were flap style, more classic and traditional, in the English style, that man in the shop told him. He thought he cut quite a figure once the entire outfit was assembled.
He stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and admired himself, sucking in his abdomen so the jacket’s tailored cut could build out his chest and give him a distinguished, he thought, military profile. He decided not to wear a hat. He had bought one, a light grey, wool trilby, the man assured him was very smart and would complete the debonair look of his outfit but it didn’t feel right and it wasn’t the Panama style he wanted and he knew, the man had foisted the grey hat on him because he just didn’t have a Panama. No, this was the perfect set-up, this was power and confidence. The hat would overdo it, gild the lily, so to speak, diminish his power by making him look like he was trying too hard.
He looked good he told himself, good enough to take on the task at hand and impress all those who beheld him. Not for him the dodgy raincoat or the hooded parka, sensible shoes and a grubby notebook. No, he was a man of method, power and style, yes, but he was also a man of passion.
He decided to forego breakfast, he was too excited. He wouldn’t hold anything down, his stomach was already a flutter with a cobwebbed ecosphere of its own that would defy description, butterflies were the least of his problems. No, he told himself, he’d get something there, something light and manageable, like a ham sandwich.
Having locked his front door, he pressed the buzzer on his electronic vehicle lock and his top of the range, Range Rover lit up like a puppy primed for a stroll in the park. First order of business was a systems check, a/c was go, every dashboard indicator told him he was ready for takeoff with a full tank of gas and oil, optimum water levels, air pressure and yes, he remembered , he must set his route on his onboard satellite navigation system. His vehicle carried its own broadband server so he had no fear of losing his route or getting lost.
Satisfied, although he knew the route by heart, having travelled it many times before, he started his engine, reversed carefully from his driveway – mindful of his neighbours’ children whose number appeared to have multiplied in recent years – he paused before engaging power and drive and taking off from their enclosed estate.
It occurred to him then he might think of moving and the thought depressed him. After all he bought the first house on the gated estate, straight off the plans, as a favour to the developer, to give him a leg up but getting a good deal for himself into the bargain. In his ordered fashion, he saw it as a solid foundation stone for his future and, some day, his family.
Not that his ventures in that field had yielded fruit, as yet. Finding the right woman was a priority, just not a pressing one, as yet. If he were honest with himself and this was one aspect of motoring that sometimes bothered him, the daydreaming, his efforts at pursuing a romantic agenda had been dismal. He had a successful business, the vehicle he wanted, the house he needed to suit his status and lifestyle and to pursue his hobbies. There was no room, he concluded, for anyone else, particularly children.
The last woman he dated turned out to have a complexity of domestic problems he found himself ill equipped and unprepared to deal with; she was engaged in a bitter battle with her ex-partner over possession of a cat, having disengaged and sold their mutual possessions, including a city apartment and small Spanish villa. She was an attractive woman but required, to his mind, constant reassurance. When he dropped her home, following their first and only date she tried to kiss him when he offered to shake her hand.
‘You are an automaton,’ she wrote to him in response to his email requesting another date, ‘you have all the passion of a bag of gutless herrings,’ she wrote, unnecessarily, he believed.
He has passions, he told himself, reassuringly, just as he arrived at his destination. ‘This is it,’ he thought, carefully parking his vehicle before checking his appearance, yet again, in the Range Rover’s rearview mirror, ‘my first time, I’ll show them passion.’
He checked his watch. He’s bang on time. It was 10.43am. In two minutes he’d be in heaven on rails, a GS&WR Class 101, The Portrush Flyer, and he was taking the extra excursion, all the way to Coleraine. This was the culmination of a lifelong ambition. He could hardly contain his excitement.
August 2, 2016
Blogger’s Dreamtime
Two stories about nightmares,medicine and dreams in succession and I haven’t got out of bed yet? Thinks, is that the Twilight Zone music playing in the background? Ok, joke’s over. It’s not funny, anymore. Hello, hello…hello? Is there anyone there, I’m not amused. I’m serious. Hello? It’s not funny.
Penelope Parker, the prickly girl from Peckham, meets the Precocious Pangaloo from Puddelonia.
Persevering , pernicious , pulchritudinous, poetry, reminiscent, of the rhymes and rhythms of Dr Seuss and Shel Silverstein but with a unique slant of her own, Cheryl Diane Parkinson
Puddelonia: a place that none do speak,
Where persons were not permitted to peek,
For people were thought of as pernicious punks,
Polluting, profaning, poisonous skunks!
Peculiar Puddelonianswere pint-sized; petite,
So small they could slip in the pleats of the streets,
Puddles of Peckham lay wet on the floor,
battered by rain as it splattered and poured.
Swelling the dwelling; the puddles of Peckham,
You’d think the out-pouring of raindrops would wet ‘em!
Puddelonians loved the rain to come through,
Cos spectacular Puddelonia, grew and then grew.
The more it poured and pelted of rain,
The brighter and sunnier Puddelonia became.
And, in private spectralpresence, there lived,
A Pangaloo of Puddelonia! And his name was Viv.
He shimmered and shone; the Puddelonians pride,
And he peppered and sprayed so well that they cried!
He showered with pinks and…
View original post 1,307 more words
Signs of the Time #14
In more than fifty years of awareness of US presidential elections, has there ever been one as divisive or vicious as this one? Last night, Trump threw a baby out of one of his rallies. When I head that, I asked, what? He threw himself out of his own rally? As for Hillary Clinton, it appears her Wall St chums and the email indiscretions pale by comparison with her role in the support of Isis in Syria, during her time as secretary of State. It appears US voters are stuck between a Turd and a Hard Bitch. That’s why this qualifies for Signs of the Time. In Dublin, guests of a Dublin city centre budget hostel can piss on Donald Trump and business, by all accounts, is booming. An Australian street artist who painted a picture of Hillary Clinton in a swimsuit, stuffed with dollars, replied to censure from the local council by cladding her in a naqib. Now The Simpsons have got in on the act with a skit about Marge and Homer’s 3am pre-election indecision. Finally, I’ve added a post from Facebook by psychic, Zak Martin , who argues in favour of Trump’s election, if only to thwart Clinton and the corporate status quo she represents. Be careful what you wish for because, according to President Obama, Trump is simply not fit for office.
***************************
Following the DNC and GOP conventions, the gloves – and everything else, apparently – are off in the race for the White House. The budget Adelphi Hostel on Dublin’s Lower Gardiner St has given its customers an opportunity to urinate on GOP candidate, Donald Trump. What next? A Trump Dump, perhaps, for those who want to go the whole hog?
Credit: lovin.ie/ Photo of the day by @otrosnosotros
Melbourne street artist, Lushsux, responded to a local city council’s request he removed his mural of Hillary Clinton in a swimsuit by covering her with a niqab. A clear cover up…
Not to be outdone, The Simpsons, got into the act with another scathing cartoon depicting Marge and Homer’s 3am dilemma on the eve of election, or should that be Destruction?
Finally, here’s an analysis by psychic Zak Martin, posted on his Facebook site,
I really want Trump to become US president. If Hillary wins – as “arranged” – it will be business as usual. More invasions. More bombing campaigns. More support for terrorist-apartheid Israel. More support for IS. And the cheerful and imminent prospect of a direct military confrontation with Russia.
Let’s see, what else does Hillary support? Oh yes, fracking. TTIP. Bombing Iran. Escalating the “war on terror” and introducing more restrictions on freedom of speech, freedom of travel and freedom of expression. Increased surveillance. Tighter government control of the internet. The construction of a border fence to keep illegal immigrants out (you thought that was just Trump? Noo. Hillary *voted* for that already).
I want to see both Democrats and Republicans running around like headless chickens. I want Americans to realize just how fucked up their system is, and how effectively they’ve been brainwashed by their media. If having Trump as their president doesn’t wake them up, and sober them up, nothing will.
Electing Trump would bring the whole farce that is American politics to a head, and it needs to be brought to a head. America is long overdue a shake-up. I see the election of Donald Trump as the catalyst that could change the face of American politics and restore a semblance of commonsense and democracy to the process of government.
Obama is behind Hillary. The multinationals are behind Hillary. Israel is behind Hillary. The media are behind Hillary. The banks are behind Hillary. The entertainment industry – including all those so-called “subversive” comedians and talk-show hosts – is behind Hillary. Today The Simpsons “endorsed Hillary” (which shouldn’t come as a surprise, as the Simpson creators have previously endorsed Israel). In short, the entire Establishment is rooting for Hillary.
The only fly in the Hillary brigade’s ointment – the element they didn’t foresee and haven’t been able to control – is the popularity of Donald Trump. And that’s why I want him to win. And yes, I know exactly what he is, so you don’t need to remind me. But for all his many, many faults and shortcomings, he is the only viable challenger to the US status quo, and to a selection process that has nothing at all to do with democracy. The issue is bigger than Trump. The issue is corporate government with the media in its pocket. And how long could Trump possibly last as president anyway? About ten minutes, would be my guess.
********************************
In more than fifty years of awareness of US presidential elections, has there ever been one as divisive or vicious as this one? That’s why this qualifies for Signs of the Time.
Matt Damon Makes James Corden Play His ‘Jason Bourne’ Stunt Double on ‘Late Late Show’ — genoscala
“If you know there’s a crash pad there, then I know there’s a crash pad there, and that means the audience knows that you know that I know that you know there’s a crash pad there, and it’s all just kind of ruined.” read more from Movies http://ift.tt/2aZSlgr via IFTTT
via Matt Damon Makes James Corden Play His ‘Jason Bourne’ Stunt Double on ‘Late Late Show’ — genoscala
What’s Going On?
In the immortal words of Marvin Gaye,
Mother, mother
There’s too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There’s far too many of you dying
You know we’ve got to find a way
To bring some lovin’ here today, eheh.
In the past two days I have read blogs by young women who talk about ‘betrayal’ and being ‘stabbed in the back’ and while, okay, such sentiments might so easily be dismissed as the paranoid rantings of hormonal teenagers, each expressed the need to express themselves in a non-judgemental environment.
To one, moved by her appeal, I sent this reply,
This is quite true. You are unknown and the Internet provides everyone with the democratic luxury of a cyber disguise, binary makeup, if you like?
Strangely, this the second time in as many days I’ve read a blog by someone decrying betrayal and with that, er, cutting phrase, ‘stab in the back.’ It is disturbing.
First, that people cannot conduct themselves with civility but second, that you should present your anonymity as a weapon in your defence, while you try to open lines of communication, via the Internet.
In my estimation, most of these WP relationships endure because of some level of trust between both parties, however superficial. Just saying. Oh, thanks for the follow, too. You can see who I am in ‘about’.
Then, when I checked later, since I posted the original reply with my iPhone, I thought my original comment hadn’t got through so I posted this,
I left a comment earlier but it appears to have disappeared. Ok, so you need someone to talk to, that won’t judge you, who doesn’t know you. To do this you will use this binary makeup, this cyber disguise, we call the Internet. Fair enough. Disturbingly, you are the second young woman (if you are a young woman) in two days, who has posted about betrayal by so called friends and with the phrase, a stab in the back.
It is a sad reflection on how we, in general, conduct ourselves that we are in constant conflict and competition. It’s a destructive trait, in my opinion. But that we should also feel the Internet is our only defensive recourse, is worse. Anonymity, by Internet, may shield you but, in my estimation, most blogger friendships are based on a degree of trust, however superficial. Just saying and thanks for the follow. I’ll be looking out for your posts.
But is this symptomatic of a greater malaise, the erosion of our ability to communicate, person to person and resort, instead, to ‘social networks’ like Twitter and Facebook?
As a writer, I get a lot of value out of the internet. It is an avenue of communication with a whole world of people, far from my daily experience, far from my home, far from my cultural understanding. It’s educational for these reasons, if you keep your mind open but at the same time, keep your critical skills and discernment on full throttle.
Most of my fellow bloggers know I entertain no religious beliefs but fully respect and honour everyone’s right to have them. I’m no fan of meaningless platitudes, feel good affirmations or, indeed, pictures of furry animals. But, equally, I respect and honour everyone’s right and need for these very things.
I’m a writer, so I write. That’s what I do. I read, too and everyday I trawl through WordPress seeking something stimulating, eye catching, informative, challenging that will prompt me to write, post a picture, like or comment.
Anyone who has received a comment from me knows, when they read it, that I’ve read and thought about their blog post. I don’t check my stats every night to see how many likes or comments or followers I’ve notched up but I’d be happy if I thought those followers I have get some enjoyment out of reading my posts.
And I’ve met a bunch of people who are not just virtual people or cyber contacts, but, in my estimation, real people, who think carefully about what they’re doing and do it as best they can. You know who you are, real people.
I’ve spent a lot of time contributing to WordPress in the past three months, in particular, and I have now, a sense of community, a community of people who’s primary purpose is not self aggrandizement but communication. Long may it be so, even as darker clouds gather around us.
At this point, I’d like to plug tomorrow’s Signs of the Time #14. Thank you and goodnight.
Postcard from a Pigeon
- Dermott Hayes's profile
- 4 followers
