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Do we know what we feel? Behind the scenes playing all the time. In the social, political, and personal.

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Last night I had dreams of my friend Andrew coming to visit. I was supposed to pick him up from a ferry. I never got to the ferry crossing. Aaron was supposed to come with my friend. Andrew had to cross many lands in an old truck to make it to the island. I was living on a island full of rum.

When Andrew showed up he was in a beat-up fruit truck. Aaron was stuck on a ferry somewhere crossing who knows what river.

I jumped in Andrew's beat up truck. The island became a desert. I said this reminds me of America and he said yeah I know.

We drove around. Kicking up dust.

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Yesterday was the funeral for my brother Aaron. It was also Bloomsday. A celebration of Irish culture and literature.

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When does freedom become a prison and vice versa? When does Dionysian frenzy become a hell? Or Apollonian order become a slow death of personal or collective fascism?


Soup is cooking in the crockpot. Crockpot reminds me of crack pot. There is everything in the crock pot. Pounds and pounds of various veggies of various colours mixed with gravy. It will cook for many hours becoming something.


The sun is out in London. Clouds are rumoured to return in the afternoon. My flat is cold. It is almost always cold. For 3 days in the last year it wasn't cold. It is time to put on my hat.



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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…