Obama is coming to Ireland. What an honour and yet we have the stodgy old writers and artists who persist in their complaining about how ''he took out Osama'' and it is all very frustrating to hear and if I were Obama I would cancel the visit and tell them all to go drown themselves in Guinness and sit in the dark shady pubs that abound in these parts and complain about the world where nothing ever changes for them and where cobwebs grow in their hair. That's one thing I hate about this country. The righteous nature of those who think they are important while all the time they are nothing at all...they have written a few poems, wriggled their way into fame and not fortune and sit on their roost like chickens with no eggs to produce. This country shoots itself in the foot.
But my energy is on bigger and better things. I dig the soil. I make dinner, in this case a wonderful dahl with lentils and potatoes, H barbecues chickens breasts on the grill. Very simple. Pumpkin bread is used as a mopping up tool for the juice of the dahl. Fresh chilis sauteed in olive oil a plus. We are simple too. We do not provoke. We sit and watch the angst of people and then go to pull the weeds in the garden. We shake our heads at those who are limited in their capacity to see beyond the given story.
All could be forsaken. But it is not. We will not allow it to be so.
But there is the dark shadow of exams looming in this house, attempt to weigh it down like the icicles that once hung from the porch in the small house I lived in in Flagstaff, Az. In those days I was light as a feather and saw the icicles as a novelty. I worked in a small café then, drank tequila at sunset, lay naked on the baked rocks of Sedona, sought shade 'neath the Cottonwood trees, ate Pico de Gallo like cereal, bowed to the gentle mountains and listened for the howl of coyotes.
Nowadays, H wants me to teach him how to make American Coffee Cake. Any Fruit. We stand side by side in the kitchen coasting our bodies side by side-I instruct. Blueberries, peaches, cornstarch, sugar, flour, baking soda, powder, vanilla, egg, buttermilk, butter. He follows me. I follow him. We are still building. Sons who do exams. We are building them and chickens in the garden and new growth and coffee cake in the oven, bubbling over, the juice running out like purple blood and how dare anyone criticise Obama, for christ's sake, are we not living in this beautiful world for only one purpose. How dare the literati condemn this man. I am glad I am not a part of the ''writing world of Ireland''. If I were I would be ashamed on this night. To hell with these writers. They are only victims of a scenario that proposes writers to be. I am a true writer. Big statement to make but I feel it to be true. These people, the ones who are recognized are angry and used to being listened to, they need a kick up the pants. Now where have my chickens gone to and where are my words, tumbling like sifted sugar on the counter top, stray and without direction.