My being home alone at Christmas has proved more bothersome to friends and colleagues than to myself

The concept of anyone being alone at Christmas time, especially so, on Christmas day would appear to prove bothersome to those friends and colleagues who have expressed their opinion to me in recent weeks rather than myself; at whom their concerned opinions were aimed. When I point out that I profess no particular interest in religiosity or its time honoured rituals or my objection to the crass commercialism associated with such seasonal festivities; I am greeted with a singular stare of incredulity.

Furthermore; when I stress the often mute point on my part that after-all is said and done Christmas is more generally considered a time for family celebration, consolidation and rebirth and my having no near or extended family to accommodate any of my supposed familial requirements is a non-starter. I am then offered empathy, social advice, even directions to the nearest soup-kitchen but not one invitation to enjoin in their enclosed Christian celebration of the supposed birth of a deity named Jesus Christ; the one born, a long time ago in a stable in Bethlehem because of an acute shortage of accommodation and societal attitude toward the unmarried woman, Mary and her attendant cuckold, Joseph is ever forthcoming.

Independent living regardless of its instigation or origination is looked upon as an unwarranted self-imposed psychological aberration of the norm in societal conformity and serves only to undermine ones own dependence on the lives of many another. Throughout history this human anomaly of ownership of self and ones lifestyle of minority is perceived by the majority, as threat to the whole of society and is therefore made destructive by communal consent.

The term spinster applied to independent older women leads often to ridicule and further isolation by society; a female considered without marriageable qualities only to be ostracised, as an old maid in neighbourly contention. Conversely the independent older male is often seen as a man of independent means and a good catch, especially so if replete with a healthy bank-account, original good-looks and convertible sports car but more generally only those considered of celebrity background. The unwashed working-class old man in traditional raincoat equally is ostracised as the female particularly when observed collecting ones weekly pension or other socialised benefit from oifig an phoist; and is thus made surplus to anyones requirement having outlived their usefulness in the scheme of things long-since, passed.

A year ago at age sixty-one my world turned upside down when diagnosed with cancer. A lump in my neck persisted for some weeks before Christmas thought by all who observed to be a swollen-gland, a mere remnant of a seasonal bout of flue contracted from my youngest daughter; co-coincidently this annual ritual of schoolroom contagion in effect saved my life. I would most likely have carried on regardless, as one often does when faced with the logicality of a quick trip to ones general practitioner for examination or leaving the problematic to fate now considered to be the modern male prerogative.

However having responsibility of family and two teenage daughters I availed myself of medical advice at the first available opportunity after the holidays and was given a scan ironically on January 13th 2011. The confirmed diagnosis was to come much later on in March following a month long stay in hospital during which the cancer was indeed confirmed as the virulent type of Nasopharyngeal carcinoma. The most common cancer in males originating in the nasopharynx, the uppermost region of the pharynx, behind the nose where the nasal passages and auditory tubes join the remainder of the upper respiratory tract.

What was to follow is unimaginable to those who have not been affected by cancer and literally suffered the extremes of an almost medieval torturous regime of medical intervention though the auspices of applied radiation contamination and highly toxic chemical based therapies, combined over a three month hospitalised period. The side-effects are injurious not only to the physical structures of the corporeal but also play a significant role to the detriment of mental health and overall stability of mind. The social effect of this insidious disease is dramatic people shy away naturally enough through simple fears aroused in themselves and an albeit wrongly perceived inability of themselves to cope if they were ever unfortunate enough to contract the condition; these are people of the type one never sets eyes upon, ever again.

The required infrastructure to deal with the myriad side-effects is supposedly in place put there by the appropriate health authority but unfortunately in real terms is ineffectual at best and totally non-existent within the home communities. The medical staff concern themselves only with the task of keeping the patient alive. The patient is so often treated with a disdainful parental mannerism by the overworked and underpaid medical team but this attitude affords them little in the way of cooperation, forgiveness and/or given respect of the majority of patients thus affected. Ergo the detrimental effects of cancer on the social-life, psychological endurance of family and friends assigned to the patient are so often neglected and thus suffer perhaps even more importantly than the actual loss of the patient themselves by their loved ones; devolved as a comprehensible relief by unaffected majority consensus.

It is understandable therefore, though wholly unexpected, that breakdown in relationships will follow especially as the patient is totally ill-equipped to handle both survival of the disease and maintain a healthy quid pro quo through the enormity of residual side-effect that can continue on over some period of time, often months, even years. There comes a time inevitably, as in my own particular experience, when push comes to shove and the world turns upside down purely through circumstance.

Circumstance that has in the penultimate month of 2012 brought the prospect of either enduring loneliness to my door or one of actual rebirth. I choose emancipated life over death either corporeal and/or social oblivion brought about by communal exclusion above all other things. As I did when the original impact of diagnosis of Nasopharyngeal carcinoma interrupted and eventually brought about the end of what had become a seventeen year long relationship of two people of like mind, once considered deeply in love and only the world at large to contend against in soulful union, celebration, consolidation and continual rebirth in familial celebration especially so at Christmas time.

We live in a society based on falsehood there are many others less fortunate than ourselves living out the whole of their lives based on little more than a natural born instinct to survive against all odds in the upcoming days of wintered solstice and its seasonal celebration. Abroad on the streets the other day accompanied by a surviving friend. I use the term surviving friend only in medical terminology as he himself was struck down with a similar form of throat-cancer; at the same time, as I myself which is how we first became acquainted. A true friendship then ensued that will endure beyond even the ravages of time without a shadow of a doubt. We were stood in the main street deciding upon our next move, my friend having travelled over earlier in the day to help celebrate my sixty-second birthday thus his sojourn was limited by time and weathered constraints having left a snow-covered landscape that morning.

A young man called out my name in greeting my friend was startled by this sudden approach rather than the appearance of this dishevelled young man and his knowing my name. I had happened upon this particular young man during the recent presidential campaign with two others slightly older than he but equally dishevelled in appearance; begging and asking passers-by for a spare cigarette. They occupied one of the many abandoned properties in the locale but to their chagrin one deemed uninhabitable and totally unfit for human occupation. I in turn spoke of hope for change following the upcoming election and of an eventual return to a united Ireland and the freedom thus envisaged only the inauguration of a second peoples Republic of Ireland could apply. I then proffered further housing advice to their instant ridicule and knowledgeable amusement, money for cigarettes, bid them farewell, good luck and went about the business of the day.

The young man who greeted me quickly learned of my birthday on that day and wished for me all the best in the future. Then asked for a cigarette which we both gave money to purchase for himself and told us of his destination. The weather at around 3pm remained freezing and extremely windy he still in a homeless state was on his way to the Town Hall housing department. Whereon his punctual attendance would be furnished with a letter of authorisation for a one night sojourn at a community based emergency hostel located somewhere in the town. The young man who was named Mark at birth displayed some guilt or rather compassion when I enquired as to the fate of his former companions I had met but I learned they had not been afforded the same luck, as Mark that day and remained behind in the abandoned property.

My friend was further taken aback when Mark hugged both of us and thanked us profusely for the few shillings given and wished us a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Unfortunately for Mark his required attendance at 4pm that day would not end his plight but rather further his distress wandering the streets until the official opening time of the hostel at 9pm and ending his brief respite from the storm abruptly at 9am the following morning and back out onto the streets of continuing despair.

Christmas day I will treat like any other day in the advent calender but unlike the Mark's of the world I will be warm and cosy under my insulated roof, writing and then preparing my usual repast, pumping in my supplements, connected to the internet, listening to cool music flowing through my head-phones. All this and more after a good nights sleep on my memory foam mattress supported by a more than supportive chunky pine bed. Perhaps thinking of those who have stood by me throughout my life thus far and remaining in support and understanding of what it is to survive the vagaries of life that now results in my lone existence without any regret; only thanks for a life recovered from severe illness and an opportunity that my rebirth will afford in a future, I once supposed was lost to me just twelve short months ago.

©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011

a reflection from the past

The Traveller the Shaman and the King

Chapter 1 The Traveller the Shaman and the King © Séafra O’ Ceallaigh

The road ahead no less than the journey long since begun I ventured to this time and place in order that I might witness at first hand the reasoning of your quest seated now sheltered at the headland in anticipation of the storm. Beyond the mountains to the north that border and thus protect all that is rightful and sacred to the clan a Shaman in darkened robe strode by paused momentarily he looked askance in my direction head bowed in prayer mouthing platitudes and blessed by the sanctity of sin, moved on. I considered his plight to be of consequence to me and that I should further his enquiry regarding the dawn and other matters of concern to the brethren of the abyss.

Beyond the gates of the citadel on the road that led to Damascus a crowd had gathered excited in their charge, a young man, high born of merchant quality and political favour. The agitation of the throng well placed in consideration of this genteel vagrant now succumbed to the passions of sin, servitude, and insoluble pleasures of the flesh begged forgiveness of his act and bade the crowd to welcome his transgressor into his place.  As one the crowd took hold of this new transgressor and did aid the headlong flight of the poor young soul and delivered him summarily unto the Abyss, far below. As darkness settled the city lights grew bright, the taverns filled, the music drifted slowly out upon a wintered air made fresh with fatted calf and grape of vine. I climbed the rock below the headland the tides had turned west and lapped harshly now on foreign shore. In this the rising of the light of the moon I could see his face as though asleep I knew then of course this was not to be; there would be no awakening at the dawn rise. I settled for a moment and raised him up into my arms once more as in his life as now in his untimely death. I told him many tales of sorrow and just concern at his demise but I unlike the Shaman I did not believe in the resurrection that must surely follow the journey far beyond even that of the abyss. I could not aid him then in his quest for salvation and I cannot aid him now. I wiped only the mud from his lips now grown cold without that favoured kiss blue tinged and broken split asunder by his passion in a vain attempt at self-resurrection.

The sea salt tinged his raven hair as sea crab shrimp and mollusc's found sustenance within his brain. Those tears of birth and agonies of death you now encounter in their place that led me to my own salvation to consider once again the mystery of the life I once so proudly gave him. In respect of the diligence of the builder who having constructed the chimneys of old and in provision of their purpose, so ordered his body to be brought to the surface and carried by the acolytes on shoulder high far into the city walls and well beyond the fires in aid of his eternal rest. The tides having turned once more from foreign shores and in addition, and in so doing made good of all that was unworthy to the shattered rocks below; bleached bone, carcass, sinew and rotted flesh now sailed gently away with the tides in ebb. The ferryman took proffered coin spat bit and pocketed his gold. He did not smile for he has no face with which to smile. His import far greater than the souls left in his charge. With hand raised, he bade me farewell and soon 'ere long as the Sun set eternally in western skies he, one by one discharged his cargo of lost souls to be raised anew amongst the tribes and thus reborn into our sacred Isle.

The Shaman returned next morning he sat down beside me eyes closed in silence speaking not one word of his discomfort or the turmoil from within. I spoke at length on the parody of justice. A discourse in right over wrong, heaven and hell, sinners, saints and scholars and the plethora of imaginings that lead only to ones ruin. I asked of him this question. ‘Can you define to me the term and the singular word of, truth? He appeared at first not to understand my questioning it was obvious but then with gathered thoughts he answered: ' My robes signify that I diligently pursue my duties as a Shaman of the tribe. I am ever vigilant against the sins of human kind. I punish those that transgress with sobriety and caring in order to save their soul for immortality. I punish only wrongdoers the innocent have nothing to fear from the brethren of the abyss. I dispatch their souls quickly with understanding passion and in truth.' I considered his words for some time before offering my reply.

However, I digress; forgive me you were on the point of telling me of your sin. I do not understand the purpose that lay beyond the crucifixion but I do accept the reasoning of this time honoured ritual. You supposed and of this, much is the truth of those around when they assured you at the time of your demise and alienation from the truth. That I would, give you time and solace to heal then forgive their deceit. Do you still suppose there was need of your destruction to better facilitate and further accommodate thereby educate those that would stray far from the chosen path of their own enlightenment. I look now to the Sun and express all that is hatred, all that is anger, all that is truth. We sat both you and I, at the feet of Plato do you recall? We spoke then as now; we discussed long into the night the ways of servitude and democracy the twin evils of State, the schematic on the fall of Rome. The barbarian paused then forced on to his salvation. His eye fell upon your body as though this final act of contrition would resolve his plight. You smiled in eager anticipation of this favour that would rest upon arid ground. The artisan then with diligence took control and bade welcome to his charge. Hands bound the proud barbarian took his rightful place at the scaffold base. He held loosely outstretched arms and considered his pious fate. Later that day on our journey home, you bade the carriage to halt awhile to consider the barbarian once more. His face though tortured by asphyxiation and laboured breath, shed tears of joy at your return. As darkness fell, you turned from him, as my arms enfolded in response to your caress. No more, would I stand in judgement of the cuckold nor his dreams. I led you from that place of retribution in the sure and certain knowledge of our own salvation. Later on, that night would prove the advent of your sin. As dawn broke amid a gladdened heart, I rose from your side and faced north once more to walk tall amongst the tribes.

I write in tongues to better illustrate my reasoning. Take for example why you feel my words are not worth their notation on parchment. I know you cannot, therefore I will enlighten you in the ways of the word. In the beginning was the word and the word was Truth. In truth, with the syllables so ordered, the consonants arranged and the vowels inserted correctly in their predefined spaces. An image will appear in your subconscious. It will either control a synapse that induces calm or on the other hand induces discomfort. If I say, you are corrupt in your thinking and the production of your thought. You will feel discomfort, protest your innocence, and become the victim of misunderstanding by others. If on the other hand, I appease your virtue and acquiesce to your given demands. I will place upon your shoulders the burden of your own serenity and you will succumb to the abyss. There is no hope of the resurrection without first placing your trust in the abyss. You will attempt to withdraw as always in fear of the imagery that now resides inside your brain. You having once heard my words will be forever damned. You will not raise the same but differ without knowledge of that fact from all other mortals that traverse the planet at the start of day. How is it you are so certain of the power of your words, you now demand of me? These are not my words you will hear me say in reply. They are simply words. Your ear and brain interrogates the external power of the word before allowing conquest. If in the case of my written word, you may wish to understand their meaning, if any. Then I suggest you begin the process of articulating your own emotion to overcome all prior conditioning and bring forth your own imaginings, on this world still sleeping. However, wait just one moment before you interject. If what I say is spoke in truth then surely it must follow that the subject of my words is truth. I myself am not convinced at the wisdom of your way of reasoning at least not at these early stages of our continuing discourse. Regardless, we must venture on in our newfound alliance. In search of answers that lay only in truth; truth then as I suppose it to be, worth more in the finding, than when found.  Alternatively, is truth no more in consequence of the journey we aspire to undertake?  I await your response.

The Shaman replied. ‘As the Sun must surely rise in the East it may be assumed that it; the Sun, should settle more easily below Western skies at day’s end. Is the Citadel within the city parameters not testament to this one truth? Each break of day the light falls upon the righteous in pious prostration before the holy one above and all those administering angels of the lord attest to this one truth. I and all my brethren are earthly testament in that we exist only to exercise the will of God upon the errant flock. There is but one truth and it follows from my devotions that I expose the antitheses of my considered soul. I follow the path of exactness laid down and etched in rock and I take comfort in the journey as did the master before me on the descent from the summit, so long ago. This I ascribe in truth and lay most firmly but with compassion at the foot of sin. I must subjugate self in order to fulfil with consequence the matters that have confounded human kind since the dawn of time. There is the substance of evolution to consider in all this that we regard as being of human life. The child must benefit in collaboration of the birch twig in chastisement of a soul in one so young that doth embrace then profess to err in the ways of human behaviour. It follows through example of the sin of the father that it should rightly be placed on the shoulders of those yet unborn to understand then reap the eternal reward of the consequence of sin. We are born of sin if we attest in life only to that premise then life is therefore lived in celebration of sin and we succumb in the last moments to eternity safe and secure in the knowledge of sin. The forces of darkness will then fail heavily the power of the Citadels throughout my world and the barbarian shall once again triumph at the gates of hell. You who are a traveller in time should know of this. How many of your worlds once surveyed have drawn you to this conclusion? You have the privilege of transition if one planet wears heavily on your cloth, you withdraw. You fall into my realm and decide with god given alacrity to condemn all that is correct and favoured in my world. I must therefore eradicate not only the faction of sin but also the acolytes of time and their propensity toward the forgiveness of sin. Such a notion indeed is far from my understanding! I must attend now to my devotions and bid you good day. May god, look kindly upon your face and guide you to the true path of righteousness at the gates of the Citadel. Fare thee well, traveller'.

The Shaman was correct, I have seen many worlds and many truths, real and those supposed. I search not for many truths. My journeys concern but one identification of truth. Truth in essence cannot be happened upon by chance. Truth is the journey in itself and the meaning of which becomes clearer as each footprint marks the passage of the soul, forever lost in time and space amongst the rocks and crimson sands of this once great universal nation. I favoured his world more so than most others I had travelled. The Sunsets like no other; even that of earth, I had witnessed before or since, a subtle indigo settling to give rise to the twin moons of Phobos and Deimos. They no more than captured asteroids but rightly named by the brethren, Phobos meaning fear and Deimos, terrified in flight. This cold desert world of ice, water, sand and rock scarred by ancient flood and volcanic activity would settle more easily the notion of the brethren in the minds of their charges, now awaiting the word in eager anticipation of The Shaman and his return.

The storm clouds long since gathered in the far distant, northern skies. The trees moved slowly at first gaining momentum safe in the knowledge of the resurrection yet to come. It mattered not from whence I journeyed only those with insight into the matter duly noted the circumstance of the return. As I came upon the inland sea I paused for a moment and took a drink from the icy waters underfoot and saw in the reflection a face now so unfamiliar. I had come to regard this apparition as no more than the consequence of time. I looked out across the Lough, toward the village that lay beyond the next brow and struggled to comprehend the ravages etched deep in this human facade. I assumed little would be known of my imminent return. It had been many years since the war’s end. I had sent no word of my survival and found no reason other than to return having found no other place to go. The homecoming would prove less joyous than the departure. We were young and foolish then and enjoyed the prospect of our destruction far sweeter than the laughter of the young girls escorting the battalion along the village way. It was then that I first saw those brown eyes that would stay with me throughout the intervening years and guide me albeit unknowingly to this present place and time once more. Laughter followed as she ran. Wild flowers braided throughout her dark flowing hair. She wore a long cotton dress made transparent by the light and heat of the day. I was never to know her name. The comrades at the front could not recall ever seeing her like and would suspect me of dreaming or the telling of tall stories as I insisted on her presence on the day of our departure. The rain fell as I approached the village square little of nothing and yet everything had changed. In the centre a memorial to the fallen had been erected in place of the antiquarian water pump. I read the words so inscribed and felt comfort to read of my inclusion with those long dead comrades.

‘In memory to the fallen Today a world turned crimson. No longer would the storm clouds gather from the north. In respect to those that would follow, I turned my face toward the sun. The journey had no end only the beginning. I was witness to the first as he fell headlong into the mud. Now settled and carved into stone, As though the campaign should in some way be remembered? This was not the way of it, said a comrade. This was not the revolution. This was not the promise. This was not eternity. This was not heaven nor was this hell. I journeyed long that day. I passed silently by the settlement and saw you lay by the stream. I wondered then of your loneliness. 'Ere long I stood to meet the Sunrise.’

The epitaph described the lie with which the living find comfort in the loss of lives wasted by a generation of truth seekers. Youth abandoned in its finest moment thinking of home and the life yet to come. Holding firm to a mother’s breast suckled only by dread and the advent of death. I turned my head and saw a figure watching at the windowpane of the inn. I walked toward the open door and entered the darkened room. I crossed the floor and the young boy behind the counter passed a glass of ale toward me without comment and retired to the living quarters behind. The figure remained at the window tracing a finger on the moisture causing rivulets to fall then turned abruptly and left the inn. I threw some coins onto the counter the drink remained untouched and left the confines of the tavern. Outside the rain still fell I joined the village way now sodden turned to mud as I pursued my journeys end. About a mile distant was the cottage where I had been born. It appeared to be in a habitable condition as I approached but proved a sad disappointment, as I came closer. The thatched roof had almost ruined but the walls were strong and little of the rain had penetrated the remaining thatch so I settled on lighting a fire to bring some warmth to the occasion of my homecoming.

The village could hardly be described any longer, as a village. In my years of absence it had matured into a vibrant and industrial township, the grave yard proved this to be fact by its enlargement and the containment of many an errant soul known personally to me in those early years. The new town boundary extended far beyond the burial ground, chapel, schoolhouse, tavern and the handful of cottages of my youth. Many institutions now catered for the influx of children following the end of hostilities. Few parents had survived the warring factions and their forcible inclusion in the day to day practices of waging war on themselves and each other. International commerce and free trade now flourished, where once the guardians of truth controlled then blackguarded the source and the means of production. The land procured from the people and collectively farmed then ruined without rotation until the famine times and ultimately the wars return.

I observed from my cottage window a small boy half bent peering through the railings toward the burial ground. A man the obvious digger of graves stood leaning on a spade. His eyes toward and his thoughts were upon the evening celebrations in the village below not at the task at hand. He would know of everyone in the village, everyone would know of him. The street-lighting then switched itself on. The houses illuminated one by one, as their owners having abandoned factory and office alike returned once more to the sanctuary of their homes. The gravedigger looked up and observed the storm clouds gathering in the north. He would feel comfort at their presence. A chill wind would then dance amongst the gravestones. His eyes would then fall slightly into the abyss. The gravedigger would then check his craftsmanship beckon toward the young boy he could no longer see in the half light and make his way toward the gate and to the cottage beyond. I remembered this man and this boy from long ago.

'It seems to me the Shaman fails in his argument simply because of his attempt to put order onto chaos. There is natural ebb and flow to all things in existence be they humanly constructed or that which emanates from the so-called heavens above or again made natural by design through chemical interaction no more, no less. There are those that say we construct our own realities in the vain attempt to resolve the inner conflict between that which is and that which is, not. I couldn’t care less. Whatever strategy we subscribe to, in an attempt at personal resolve, it is little more than arrogance. We give ourselves excuses all the time for our mistakes. We assume connectivity with that which is past and that which is yet to come. As though somehow this will in itself not justify our excuse as a species that simply does not care either of itself or of any other put forward in the slaughter house of human existence. The Shaman was described a teacher in the sermon. But what did he have that was worth the learning. Where did his ideas emanate from, the heavens above or do they transcend from Hades, below. Was the fable etched in stone then laid to rest at the gates of the citadel? Was he, struck blind in order to see the road that leads to Damascus. Was he as I suppose him to be begrudged by those he laboured to inform? What is the substance of his argument that no one listened to his retrospective philosophy. Was he himself abandoned in the schoolyard or should we suppose as did his tutelage serve only to betray his own adornment as he, journeyed inexorably once more into the abyss. I am trying to understand were the educators happen upon their god like instruction that informs then denies basic truths then fails at absolution. Life being an algorithm a mathematical statement of what surely must follow unto death and then the process begins all over again. We are born we exist we die our chemical composition implodes our energy dissipates and settles harmoniously with the Sun.

If life is as The Shaman subscribes it to be then I must deny the philosophy of the resurrection. The chimneys may lay abandoned now only the diligence of the builder points the journey that lies between the gates of heaven and of hell. We deny the philosophy of our own destruction with palms outstretched. We plead not as was supposed at the feet of Socrates but accept with joyous anticipation the demise of those yet unborn. There was time in human history when the spoken word was death. The educators gave us words to read and symbols to ascribe they knew nothing of their import then but then why did we not cry out in anguish, as those millions passed us by? You may feel my words are best left unsaid my thoughts retained within; my brain is filled with energy, as I stand outside that shelter of that chaos from within. Your scaffold built on hallowed ground denies my truth and loss but the hordes surround the deserts now and your time is almost lost. I believed the words my teacher spoke, as he lay upon the ground and asked me to caress his soul and touch him with my hand. That fateful day so long ago reminds me now of you, as you, narrate philosophies of destruction and of truth.’

I turned away from the graveyard and headed towards the eastern glow of the settled Sun, a blue haze of almost indescribable beauty drifted aimlessly along the wharf of the inland sea. Far to the North lay the golden spires of the Citadel shrouded in the prayer of the faithful and the illusion of Damascus and the road there to. Forgive me. We were speaking of truth and its consequence. I succumbed to the abyss for a moment and dreamt of far off spaces. There have been so many worlds. I grow weary of their insight and their indifference. Their voices reach far beyond the stars and tear holes in the fabric of the universe it is my task to repair these holes; I am the last of the traveller clan.

‘Shaman, what of this traveller did the traveller speak of truth, did the traveller speak in anger did the traveller speak of revenge, did the traveller speak of me your King?’

‘The traveller spoke of truth he spoke not with anger and seeks no revenge. The traveller spoke of other matters not concerning to the state only fundamental matters of the brethren clan that cause for my concern.’

‘How can this traveller be of concern not to state but yet to church brethren or no? Am I not seated at the head of both tables, Shaman?’

‘Indeed you’re Holiness.  It was not my intention to alarm you but to bring order over chaos in all matters pertaining to church, state and your Majesty.’

‘If I were to say to you Shaman, your very life had depended on the quality of the answer you so eloquently described. Would the answer have been so erudite then, I wonder? Would you unlike the traveller speak of revenge, tongue lash with anger and speak not of the truth. Of course, you would not! You would deny the truth just as the traveller in your discourse with him today. Things were spoken of that neither you nor I yet comprehend. We arise you and I at the four corners observing quietly; the edges of the known world. I point then to the mountains far beyond the failing light. You observe the winter snows lay frozen then heaped large upon this hallowed ground, do you not? A shroud to mark the passage of your time and putrefied still body compressed by gravity and liquidised with lime. Much concern was shown, at the leaving but little in the way of platitudes now allows his lone return. The written word he speaks particularly those of anguish, resurrection, death and sin are troublesome to me. I believe him not. I weary of this conversation. I am in need of contemplation; attend to your devotions Shaman, we will verbalize no more.’ The Shaman withdrew and the King sat heavily upon his throne, thus mused.

‘In what name should I be a feared of this so called traveller of time if as the notion is well subscribed this particular traveller is indeed the last of those that have gone before him into the abyss. Then it follows that on his entering that abyss I should have nothing that I should continue then to fear. If on the other hand the awakening of his soul beyond the abyss puts in jeopardy all that I hold true and dear to me . Then I fight a cause just though it may be but one already suffering in defeat. I should therefore retain my privilege of death over life and do nothing to upset the delicate balance that exists only at the threshold of eternity. This is my judgement and consideration for all that stoops before me in the hope and the certainty of the resurrection, yet to pass. But wait! I fail to see the reasoning of the traveller’s quest. Why this planet, why my world, why this Kingdom. What did the traveller clan seek beyond as they professed themselves collectively to be simply held in ignorance to engineer all the fabric of the Universe and with machinations derive harmony in truth and in life protect only the sanctity of death and its eternal experience? I must seek collaboration then upon his downfall. And what better partisan to his crimes than the traveller himself.’

‘I grew weary only of the journey and thought to rest before continuance on the road ahead. I stopped and gained succour from the inland sea. I thought only of the spires of this great township and the Citadels, therein. What better place to end my journey and the travels of a people long since engulfed by the twinned evils of famine and disease. Our worlds may collide and contest all that is held in truth. But I seek out not that is to be considered in truth merely the seekers of that truth to better understand the argument for the cessation of hostilities and an enduring peace. I did not choose your world. You as in other worlds happened upon me. I took your hand on this road because it is my road. I stand outside your realm and obverse the candle lit within. I do not feast at the table with fatted calf and grape of vine. And in so doing wrongly led my people from the famine time and inherent disease delivered them unto the abyss. The rent in the cloth grows large. Its containment is beyond my skill and will invert our worlds lest they collide and signal each other to afford a differing path to continued survival. I speak not in warning but in consequence of our chosen path. The Universe is at the point of its return from whence it came there is nothing you or me can do to assuage this circumstance of life. We shall put aside our indifference's and unite in the solemn process of denial in all in existence and the abyss from which all life exudes. The hour grows near the Sun already in expansion will digest the moons and all the stars in the firmament will surrender to their fate. The abyss re-awakened with cries of joyous retribution shall reach out and embrace all that seek the truth of this matter in time. The question of church and state will be no more. Idle Kings and those that are not, alike, shall fall headlong into the abyss with arms outstretched in pious recognition of the sin of truth.’

The Sun set blue haze upon the evening waters of the inland sea. Silence held a moment before the rise of the twin moons of Phobos and Deimos. The sailboats at their moorings lay at rest between the sandbank and the outcrop to the east of the waterfront. A lone Shaman coiled hemp and steel to his trawling net. A woman gutted fish and threw the inner workings to the swooping gulls, this amused the Shaman and the woman both. As I turned away I caught sound of youthful laughter and breathe found mute abrupt below deck. Trade now flourished in this abandoned world. The street vendors plied their wares with accustomed ease exotic spice and truthful drug. Laces and ribbon cloth. Precious stone embossed in silver. Hair braided and tied off with gold. Grape and narcotic purveyed with rich intent to enliven the mind and refresh the soul. Vendors of the flesh and givers of sin fail the shadows of the citadel wall and succumb to its destruction. No heed of trumpet blast and trampled feet. The walls remain upstanding at the demise of the word. I was saddened to think all this enterprise should come to nought within the age that now surely has come to pass. I continued on beyond the purveyors of fish and bone. I absorbed the scent of sandalwood funeral pyres adrift upon the chill evening air. A fragrance divorced in humour from the arid dust storms of daylight. Thus renewed, my resolve and vigour would take me from this place beyond the confines of the city and to my home in the mountains of the north.

Rain fell lightly on the thatch as I approached the clearing. My leather boots had sodden much earlier in the day giving rise to soreness afoot. I limped the last three quarter mile and thankfully sat down at last before a raging hearth. ‘I thank thee little mother for your assistance in these my domestic matters. You may return no more to this place of abode. You are free to go wherever your will might take you on the morrow.’ The little mother replied, ‘I have nowhere that I would wish to be other than where I am now stood. Am I true, Traveller, in my supposition that you have come to destroy all that we hold dear upon us?’ The Traveller continued, ’in truth I am incapable of destruction I am a Traveller resolved of time and consequence and issue forth only supposition in testament of the abyss. I come to warn of its betrayal and give such guidance as is requested to alleviate the fall into the abyss of your own choosing.’ Alarmed she replied, ‘You do the mysteries of the Shaman, how can this be so, if you were to be discovered. I dwell not upon this matter of consequence and bid you goodnight and retire to my quarter.’

The Traveller reassured the woman, ‘Be not thou in haste little mother. I bring salvation and the prospect of damnation to your eternal soul. And at the moment of your surrender to me you flee as though the Devil himself rises from Hades and is set about your person, as fickle, as any of your errant lovers.’ She replied, ‘This much is said in truth that I know not the meanings of this diatribe in romance. But I feel that your words are bound to cause some comfort on this chill; yet still autumn, night. Traveller you easily distract. Come away from the window and lay yourself down beside me. The morning shall arrive and you will be made cuckold by the dawn. I am tired I sleep uneasy since the wars began. I remembered you from my youth. It was summer; the village way bedecked with flowers, the war so fresh and filled with promise and is when I saw you for the first time. I was but a young girl then, full of hope and desire, passion and feelings. But you were gone off to battle, you knew not even of my existence. I would tell my girlfriends of your beauty that day and but they would suspect me of dreaming or the telling of tall stories; as I insisted on your presence on that day of departure to the front.’

The Traveller implied, ‘There is falsehood in your words that memory is borne of my memory. It can only be in truth from the words uttered by a Traveller in time and space and I myself uphold the burden of the remaining Traveller; that is I, good woman.’  She replied,’ you are not alone, a Traveller will isolate and become fragmented from the abyss when as happened to you at the settlement; a cannon shell exploded and caused you injury that you now constantly deny in testament to the journey. Many of us succumbed in famine times but equally so have a few survived. In order that we may enjoin our powers and halt the decline in avoidance of that which is almost upon us? Indeed the reversal is here the expansion is at the gates of the Citadel the fabric stretched beyond all endurance and set to burst inward. But only we know the power of the abyss and its secret must be kept. Otherwise all will be lost unto dust and blow acrid through time and space abandoned by all and the resurrection of none. It is not for us to counsel only to mend that which remains unbroken; this I attest in truth to be the word of the Traveller.’

The traveller, perceived the truth in her speech, ‘I cannot argue your word little mother on the morrow we should seek out the Shaman I spoke with today. But for now I am tired and in contention I know now I shall never know of truth. I sleep no more than four hours thinking or dreaming ever watchful in sleep. I can though on occasion discontinue the nightmare reverie at will. I can choose such dreams, as I may and deny those that I wish. At first light I trip the switch on awakening. The machine responds and dreams are then made tangible by their excess. I turn my head from your window, as now and wonder of the past. I fear only the future I have knowledge of what mendacity is ahead upon this ancient trail. The past rests lightly on my Soul. It is the past that keeps me safe upon the road. The leaving will be harder this one time knowing now that I will never know of you. Nor ever know the warmth of your caress. Know your breath in shallow depth. Nor see with eyes that greet your fast. Far west of here far beyond these borders of my world is a dwelling house rumoured of enchantment. A witch resides within a sorceress of great power long in contention with that of the Brethren. We will journey soon as winter falls to make this alliance safe atop on mountain high.’

Muirgheal has meaning of brightness of the seas. She stands a woman of high birth and heritage proud Warrior Clan imbued with Powers of enchantment, music and of mysticism and also forever remains in contention with the Brethren Clan or so it is written. A portrait hung long ago inside An Halla Mhór. Legend has writ An Cáislean Mhór besieged then consumed with fire all that were living and dead within its once proud walls. Lay in ruin was the portrait the cause of our contention a magical talisman that aided flight and magic deed to the incumbent, within. Now, restored due only to the diligence of the artist and so ordered by the Brethren then hung in gold containment placed at station upon the Citadel wall. An Cáislean Mhór held prisoner by discontent and defended to the last by the warrior clan within. Each soldier defended their Queen; as no other. A world turned crimson flecked with orange and of flesh turned golden brown would herald naught but sacrifice and the dawning of the day. Near battle end such survivors that remained were summarily dispatched by Brethren and Priest, as was their writ, on such occasion, as war. I fell upon the injured with sword and harness. The youngest of the tribe now eased by famine held not strength enough to fear the abyss and silent, as the lamb, succumbed more easily to their fate.

The carts moved in unison toward cliffs edge. The bodies then flung headlong into the abyss without murmur or obvious discontent. The tides returned. The boatman safely harboured below hand outstretched in salutation of a nights work complete. At sunrise I walked amongst the rocks and crimson seas then lapping gently on foreign shore. At the headland a body remained unblessed and in isolation of the word. I knelt beside the body faced down naked upon this holy ground. I spoke the word and placed hand upon the still yet unborn child of destiny. My hands still warmed by blood and steel. Turned the body to my sight in anguish recognized the cold blue lips that spoke of hell and retribution. I took the harness and placed it gently around her sweet white neck.

‘My name is Muirgheal Queen of An Cáislean Mhór. Be not in haste of your hidden task. I fear not the abyss. I welcome it. My warriors still have need of me. I hurry away a willing pilgrim of my own desire. Take me and have done with it. Then dispatch my body bright as the sea of which I was ordained and damn you all to hell.’ I answered her concluding question of her life. ‘The portrait is safe the brethren have it firmly in containment, as we delay in this our final discourse.’ I took hold of the harness and gazed once more upon her golden skin. The flaming hair now brushed aside saw reddened lips and conjured thoughts of Damascus life, love and liberty of the chosen few. My duties thus performed I should return the passage to the borders of my own world safe in the promise of the resurrection yet to pass. I then placed my cloak well wrapped upon her. Held aloft the lightened frame and walked once more upon the trail that points the road beyond Damascus. ‘Your warriors have little need of you now daughter of the sea’, I murmured. She breathed abruptly then more gently in shallow depth, as the Sun set firmly over our direction home.

The Sun rose and the Citadel genuflected filled with eternal light that warmed then beheld the mysticism of the dawn. Faint blue shadows embossed the whitened robes of the assembled Shaman. Their mantra rose in cadence to the subtle roar of the collective acolytes. One Shaman stood alone and to the side of the central altar. ‘In the beginning was the word and the word was the schematic. All shall praise in virtue of the Soul world, the insanity, the cruelty and the pain. In this place of chronicle you will find fragments of wisdom and the old speak that have survived the journey beyond the space time continuum. These the fragment of old, the time Traveller carried with Alistriona, clan protector; as the people journeyed forth beyond the fall of the nations to the forces of the darkness. The clan battles of the legend of time since past; long before even the notion of the destruction that lay ahead in the future time, speak of the Soul world bereft of consequence. The nation set against the nation, the people set against the people, the slavery, the death, the pestilence and the destruction of all the species of the Soul world in alliance with the humanoid. The bunker chronicle is all that remain of the fragment of the light and the suggestion. The pure, the innocence, the source of all the eternal, the convention of the naming, information so gathered. The dissemination and the facilitation, electronically reassembled, the enhancement and now the prophesied. Only in resolve the teaching that now told is processed in the real time. This the considered view of the humanoid life form before the clan war of the Soul world. Detail from the Fundamental schematic: long shall rule the World rekindled taken from the bunker chronicles, the chapter of the dark one verse 6, Amen’

‘I congratulate you on your erudite translation, first Shaman. The old speak is never simple to decipher. I have known even Kings to fail in the interpretation you do well brother in the ways of the word. My name is Alistriona. There was a time when my namesake walked the valley below and defended the chronicle in time of conflict. She alone would protect the good book held on high by the traveller clan in midst of battle.’

‘I am familiar with the role but unfortunately see not the person you so describe before me, little mother. An amusing tale none the less for it is surely no more than a childhood fancy that you now, ascribe to?’

‘In truth Shaman I attest no more to fantasy, as you would proscribe indoctrination into the Brethren clan. My Mother taught me so and it has been the way of it, since.’

© Séafra O’ Ceallaigh extract early working draft 2009

Clan Ceallach ~ a prayer to the fallen

Tainted by the seven sorrows of indulgence, yet fortified by the word
You spoke of the farewell that inexorably went unheard.
No regrets now, as I hold you, lifeless in the warmth of my caress.
You turned, as I passed by distracted, intent only upon the task that lay ahead.
Your lips were filled with passion, as you spoke not of regret.
But of love and pain and sacrifice of that journey now begun.
I did not listen to your words nor did I, take notice of your pain.
As I walked so proudly by, my head held high with shame.
Amongst the flowers now you reach out, toward the gentle fall of early morning rain.
To the East, lay the whisperings of the death, that surely now must come.
But you, chose life and journeyed on, far beyond those western isle's.
Forever watchful now, as you wait so patiently to greet the rising Sun.
You walk amongst the chosen few in honour of those days.
Your words subscribed and chronicled, held high in our esteem.
The battle spent but not yet won, in memory of your deeds.
The clan bereft of solitude together we must sing.
Those joyfull hymns of yesterday in praise of mortal sin.
As we observe your sacrifice safe above from, mountain high.
You protect these borders of our world and save the sorrow and the blindness in our eyes.

© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2007

Cúige Chonnacht 5,000 years ~ an observation

As the Tom Waits song goes, God is indeed away on business and who I have to ask myself, as does Mr Waits, who were the ones that we kept in charge, killers, thieves and lawyers?

The problematic in modern Ireland is simply that of 1920’s Chicago unfortunately we as a nation have not, as yet, produced the likes of an Eliot Ness or his reputable, gang, of Untouchables. Ness, as with most historical figures and our perception of them is more generally undertaken through the auspices of Hollywood moving picture shows or state propagandized films; rather than any actual facts attributable to that person, most often, still alive, as those already in receipt of personalized demise.

History is written or rather re-written to suit the occasion unless I as professional cynic in those last fifty years or so of my mortal life, I have remained, as the character of Oisín from the fable Niamh and Oisín, asleep for those intervening years of his life’s progress, and I like he, awoke just yesterday to find myself, a stereo-typical, helpless, ineffectual and aged, old man? As every Irish child should know, Oisín falls in love with the beautiful Niamh and leaves with her on her snow white horse to Tir Na nOg - the land of the ever-young. Missing his family and friends he asks to pay them a visit. Niamh lends him her horse warning him never to dismount and he travels back to Ireland. But three hundred years have passed; his family and fellow warriors are all dead. Some men are trying to move a boulder. Oisín reaches down to help them. The girth of the horse's saddle snaps and he falls to the ground; before the watching eyes of the men Oisín becomes a very, very old man.

Approaching, sixty two years of age, I do not consider myself and I am sure neither does Tom Waits, coincidently born, as I was, on the 7^th of December 1949, consider ourselves to be neither old nor very, very old, as did those new found contemporary’s, witness to Oisín’s failure to enjoy the benefits of retirement back home in Tir Na nOg having failed to learn, as I have done, to remove boulder’s from life’s road, at the gallop.

The thing I love best about Ireland is that the real Ireland, still remains a secret, its geographical location thankfully is as elusive, as the legendary Tir Na nOg, itself or indeed such evidence of incorrupt governance, throughout the entire island of Ireland, that may eventually be proven by historical fact long after I and my fellow warriors have long since paid the ferryman his rightful due.

During the summer months, I usually take my family back home, to the home-place as is said, in the county Mayo. As well as fishing, attending my families graves; as one does on holiday in Ireland, I took some beautiful photos of the surrounding countryside, all the while thinking that life and my own Clan Ceallach has been around for so long in the west of Ireland and the contribution it has made over generations and was made more evident in the County Mayo in that area that borders that of Galway to the south known as Connemara, as I drove along the highway.

I had invited my daughters for an early evening drive; the day before we left for home in the county Louth, over to Westport Music Festival then drove on to Leenane and back home via the scenic route through Connemara, landing at the home-place well past midnight, in the heart of Ireland.

The scenery there is best described, as fantastical, my real and spiritual home, it was as usual pouring with rain and the misty covered mountains, described so often in song, replete with cascading waterfalls and raging rivers, as always, proved magical and inspiring, in the ensuing half-light.

In the secret Ireland that I love and cherish, one can really understand why such modern minions of state induced power fail miserably in their campaigns against the people of Ireland; as did those historical figures such as Oliver Cromwell and his New Model Army found, to their abject cost, in their attempt to usurp, the spiritual power of the Clans.

Oliver’s Army did indeed intend to stay, much like those successive Irish governments, who themselves on average, have lasted less than twelve months in political domination and overt pillage of the wealth of contemporary society; much the same as, young Cromwell did, on his way to Hell, so very long ago, in deference to and knowledge of the spirituality of our sacred province known to this very day as, Cúige Chonnacht.

© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011

The Mark of Henry Cox

The Mark of Henry Cox is now made silent witness to the collapse of modern European Ireland beset by endemic abuses that utilize an ethos of cover-up, silence and denial of truths. The story of Henry Cox is a metaphorical tale of survival of the inner-child into adulthood despite those consequences of sexual, physical and societal abuse. A narrative made more palpable though often proscribed in returning Diasporas of their societal impact; and the long-term effect of the reality of a continuing lives of citizens of a Republic, thus exposed.

Silence from the crowd now permeates the streets of this our once vibrant conurbation where the sound of children, at their play, echoed long into the settled Sun at end of day. The innocence of youth, now lay barren at the roadside bereft of hope, compassion and the understanding of the elders of the tribe; long since banished far beyond, the borders of your known World. We become more afraid because we are made less afraid through circumstance. The journey into life is fraught with danger and fragility of mind. The corporeal invites us from the abyss to taste the fruition of our own unique existence. The baby cries and the child is born. The heart beats slowly locked in unison far beyond those Suns of yesteryear when you and I trod the same dust piled road into righteous and long sort oblivion. The father stood coerced by silence into disbelieving the sin of those that would follow-on in tribute of the fallen; the woman lay abed in hope of truth and resurrection not yet assigned by such piety and soulful regret. The babe now borne-of-arms lay in wonderment of the winter’s fallen snow, droplets of blood would mark the singular passage between lime-pit and open seas; well beyond and out of reach of that cantankerous border of a schoolmaster’s ill-begotten mind. Images then stacked like discarded magazine, newspaper and empty tin-can; fill rightly to the top with kerosene, clothing rag, nail and dextrous hand. It began, as stories often do, with a stroll beyond Atlantic shore half way between the mists of our time and of yours.

I observed the melodrama now unfolding beyond the rutted sandstone searching as I often did beyond the clouds to the North but left unheard the murmur of your discontent and sank slowly, once again, beneath the ground. The parapet long since abandoned to thoughts of love made anxious under Cuban skies returned once more to the shores of Italy, Jesus and his resurrections. The room lay bare as we spoke of our indifference and the machinations of those once approved by fate now demanded our attention and the renewal of that fidelity once supposed. It was not to be made so inside our walls once carved of rock and etched overly; as I recall by your collective, indifference. The Sun would rise and the Moon would settle in tune to those earthly groans still visible despite the passage of time beyond our lonely and primordial dawn. We spoke of many things you and me but little of our regret for there can be no regret for things that have passed beyond the dreams of avarice, decadence and such other of corporeal desire. You were beautiful, you are beautiful and you shall remain beautiful, as beautiful, as those dreams now absorbed by realities of mind over sin.

Do you recall the passion of those youthful days or were they at best only in service to the gods in search of further delusion? A question out of servitude, maybe, a product of condition, if you prefer; either way, we are doomed to failure in any quest. It becomes self-evident when unplugged from the machine when the insidious abyss flows freely into our veins; as once did our human life-blood. The doctor then apologised the understanding of which evaded my trouble-free mind. Though dressed in hurried sneakers and whiter than white laboratory coat his oration vigilant of platitude nevertheless dealt with his mystification of your demise. I strove to enlighten him but had no effect on this awkward disciple of Hypocrites. My sisters were gone having abandoned the corpse into oblivion aeons before the actuality of this final ritual.

The mortuary attendant stood sentinel. The priest spoke of sinful obligation. The gravedigger marked his task. The flower lay torn upon the ground. The rains then fell to unite our fears.

Later, that morning; I stood ahead of the long queue as the door unlocked, was unbolted and the officious doorman made wholly redundant. The line stepped forward without hesitation then broke-off; as each participant head bowed summarily read the details on either pink or blue coloured forms before scurrying away. This crass bureaucratic attempt at softening the impact of kindred loss served only to remind me of your time now passed and allied naught in benefits of intended state comfort and thereby absolution of their crimes against your inhumanity.

The footsteps echoed along Napoleonic construct, keys turned, door upon door and wall with dextrous hands hued red and black would resound in search of renewed transgressions. Each cell contained a bible, a wooden chair, squared table and oblong bed replete with wooden pillow. Personal convenience consisted of a circular pot in which to urinate and/or defecate, a circular washing bowl and oblate water-jug; made of an unremembered metal type that required the application of beeswax, copious amounts of saliva then mixed with crushed pumice-stone in order to maintain its pristine reflections.

This monastic life made rule the sounds of silence long before the advent of any phonograph construe in soulful lamentation of his regret. I would often hear children at their play as the ice-cream seller astride his iced-boxed tricycle jingled and jangled his hand-driven bell to make aware the respondent child to his proffered goods. It was the height of an English summer the air long since wintered remained, fetid, shallow and as such ineffectual. The Sun however blazed in singular stream toward the stone flagged floor and formed a blackened, shadowy Cross on those now proven by King and country unrighteous in his name.

Addendum: The illustration is taken from a facsimile of the 1911 Census; now published on-line. Henry Cox my maternal Great-Grandfather then aged 44 could neither read nor write. The Mark of the title alludes to the ascribed signature of those made illiterate by state, church and social circumstance. The Mark depicted was made by my great-grandfather’s own hand in the county Mayo, Ireland in 1911; exactly 100 years ago. The Mark of Henry Cox has now become our story.

© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011

 

BULLYBOYS: This facebook Note is intended, as an adjunct to the posted video of Jonah Mowry

This facebook Note is intended, as an adjunct to the video posted below of 'stand-up with the real Jonah Mowry ~ help get this video out there to a World turned upside-down in its neglect of all our Children, so endured by sadness and self-harming, as Jonah will now attest.' When one examines in-depth the societal attitude toward bullying in general it is of small wonder then that children in Jonah's unenviable position will succumb to the notion of 'suicide and self-harm' being their only avenue of escape from such abuse.

More, particularly when one is also made aware that apart from peer bullying, it was also proven in the (attached) © Minister for Health and Children © 2009 report that 'teachers bully and stereotype students and thus it is very hard to make complaints against them'. Young people also felt that neither teachers nor school policies did enough to prevent bullying.

This phenomenon of abuse more generally ignored by the majority of citizens within the disadvantaged confines of conurbation of communal organisation will reflect this endemic culture of physical, mental and sexual abuse. Our children on the whole are expected to 'tough it out', 'keep silent' 'pull up their socks', be able to 'stand up for themselves' because after-all it 'never hurt anyone' to get a 'good slap' by those adult and often parental advisories having themselves survived similar regimes of overt violence aimed toward the person regardless of its origination over generations.

Community leaders and other persons deemed of significant stature would therefore be expected by the host community to exercise their social obligation with due diligence of care and the utmost of probity when exercising their prerogative commissioned by the state on behalf of the people and for the people. A concept rightfully applicable to daily life in the democratic Republic of Ireland without reasoning or doubt; as to an individuals lawful obligations.

The hidden agenda of 'self-enhancement' has been nurtured into a fine-art in contemporary society and was made wholly transparent by the political, commercial and fiscal corruption that brought about the downfall of the previous government. The present débâcle of fiscal, organisational and social ineptitude belies any hope of any meaningful address to effect change and eradicate such anomaly of individual power to aid covert schematics; as the heavily subsidised governmental community broadcasting initiative and its on-going management, outlined below, would suggest.

A community initiative intended in the first instance as an adjunct given freely to the community at large in order that they may address such communal concerns as 'homophobic bullying' to end further discriminations and disadvantage overall in society. A privilidge state endorsement to educate, agitate and educate a majority consensus of tolerance to diversity and not give voice to individual aspiration of religiosity when combined with overt homophobic propaganda by Murphy et ali.

Fastrack: Is Your Baby Gay? What If You Could Know? What If You Could Do Something About It? Friday, March 2, 2007

http://www.albertmohler.com/2007/03/02/is-your-baby-gay-what-if-you-could-know-what-if-you-could-do-something-about-it-2/

Attached at the end of this Note is an extract taken from a report 'On the outcome of consultations with teenagers on mental health' and link to the report © Minister for Health and Children, 2009 on the dire consequences attributable to the effects of Bullying and other insidious forms of abuse now enacted in the school-yard throughout contemporary Ireland.

Now follows an extract from my MySpace Blog ~ originally published as ~ HOMOPHOBIA at Dundalk FM 100 (2007) re-edited as BAI signs 10year contract with community radio station. 30th June 2010

'Let me thank all who were involved in making this hard won license a reality. A special word of thanks is due to our Manager Alan Byrne and our Treasurer Hugh McKitterick who worked tirelessly in the days coming up to the deadline for our final submissions. Thank also to the members of the Board who made themselves available at short notice to meet with the BAI. And last but not least thank you- our members who have given support to myself and the Board to make the at times difficult decisions that were necessary for this hard won development to become welcome reality!' Stephen Murphy Chairman Dundalk Media Centre/Dundalk FM/Dundalk Baptist church 30th June 2010

I had at that time more recently written to the then Education Minister Mr Batt O'Keefe TD about Murphy's obvious homophobic stance in support of 'genetically engineered sheep and human babies' et ali but to no avail and/or response about Murphy publishing and linking to the local radio station by way of subliminal endorsement of his homophobic material.

My submission to the Minister O'Keeffe followed the publication of a report by the education department on hundreds of students taking part in the compilation of the report. And following a public request by the Minister for people to further identify those origins of suffering. Suffering that often culminated in summary homophobic attacks from both academic staff and pupils alike in contemporary educational establishments throughout Ireland. Gay bullying was then and remains still, a serious problem in society driving many teenagers to consider taking their own lives.

Pastor Murphy's blog therefore must surely stand out as one such area deserved of further investigation by the 'appropriate authority' here in Dundalk; if not the then newly created BAI, itself or indeed by the then present Minister of Broadcast, Mr Éamon Ryan oversee of the former BCI way back in 2007?

Forgive me, mo cháirde, I forgot, just for one moment who I was dealing with here, after all it was Éamon Ryan Communications Minister that wrote to me at the time of first complaint circa 2007 with the following sentiment.

'Dear Jeffrey...I, as Minister, have no role in the day to day operation of a Radio Station.'

Which must ultimately beg the question still remained in 2011 ~ if not a Minister of Broadcast then who does ultimately take responsibility for those politically, endorsed decisions such as, an in-house homophobic stance; especially when taken by its Chairperson and programming committee in the Republic of Ireland?

But I digress;

Food for his Sheep by Stephen Murphy, The Undershepherd.

'I am pastor of a small - but growing! - Baptist church in Dundalk, Ireland. My name is Stephen Murphy and I am the Pastor of the church. Dundalk Baptist Church is a group of Christians who meet in Ardee Terrace. As a Church we are here to help you find Jesus as your Lord and Saviour. This site is designed to answer as many of your questions as possible. Here you can find in detail what we believe. On our testimony page you can meet people who have found Jesus personally and discover the difference he makes in the lives of people just like you!' Pastor Stephen Murphy, Dundalk Baptist Church 12 March 2007

Not the 'Gay Gene' but...This is a very interesting and timely blog posted originally by Dr Al Mohler. Read it, be challenged, think and pray! http://www.albertmohler.com/blog.php

Extract: 'Is Your Baby Gay? What If You Could Know? What if you could do something about it? What if you could know that your unborn baby boy is likely to be sexually attracted to other boys? Beyond that, what if hormonal treatments could change the baby's orientation to heterosexual? Would you do it? Some scientists believe that such developments are just around the corner.

Chairmen of the Board Stephen Murphy seated left

Addendum: Teenage Mental Health: What helps and what hurts? A Report on the outcome of consultations with teenagers on mental health.

http://www.dohc.ie/publications/pdf/teen_mentalhealth.pdf?direct=1

Extract: 'In addition to peer bullying, it was also felt that 'teachers bully and stereotype students and it is very hard to make complaints against them'. Young people felt that neither teachers nor school policies did enough to prevent bullying, which often led to 'after-school organised fights', and that 'schools can sometimes make things worse'. Not surprisingly, 'suicide and self-harm' were considered the most significant 'hurt' under this theme, while 'depression' was also regularly mentioned. It was noted that bullying hurts more 'if people don't stand up for you', but that inevitably bullying simply makes you 'feel bad about' and 'question' yourself.'

Best of luck to all the Jonah Mowry's, so affected, around the unknown World.

© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011

A Year in the Life of Séafra Ó Ceallaigh an extract from The Cancer Ward Diaries

What a difference a year makes in the life and soul of one individual set amongst the lives and souls of several billion others emanate of human-kind. A year ago this month I began a journey that would guide me from the edge of the abyss through the doors of perception, heaven and hell and return me once again, better equipped, as was writ in stone by the stranger in an age now long since passed; in search of and to discover a new age dawning beyond the blue-tinged wintered light of the penultimate month of this New Year's communal celebration of life, itself.

The Sun will rise and the Sun will set on all that is found corporeal. One is allotted a finite existence only then in essence may one be enabled to cross-over the great divide to corroborate or belie the human tradition of life after death so continued. The generalised fear of an early intervention by the gods during our lifespan can be greatly bolstered on assured diagnosis of nasopharyngeal carcinoma; as happened to me on January 13^th 2011.

The journey thus begun in sure and certain hope of the resurrection yet to pass in both medical and personal endeavour conjoined, I might, add in sentiment by many of my new found companions on that perceived road to oblivion with similar if not exact medical diagnosis is now settled. I in fortune am in a period of recovery whilst many of my compatriots lay cold in the ground; no longer concerned in the problematic of their envisaged demise and all hope of ascension abandoned in their rotted caskets.

The fresh flowers lay now upon the grave but the tears of our regret and the sentiment of loss will soon be abandoned, as the generational shift toward the Sun, will endure and the myriad memories of their existence will be forever lost in my time and the ending of yours.

I walk a lonely advent path with the stranger now at my door to comfort the consequence of the familiarity of my endured loss over this past year, now enacted. The stranger understood the process of alienation that ensued subsequent to adverse diagnostics and their impact on my fragility of soul, body and mind so affected by insidious disease. Only a mere handful of true-friendships remained unburdened by ones tribulation and would proffer their unconditional love and support without so much as a hint of socialized regret.

The life I now live is differentiated in one respect and one respect only it has become a life in ownership of self rather than one of acquiescence, instinctual survival and one burdened by decadal regret of inaction. The diagnostic machines proved worthy of their commission and lack of emotion in deliberation of my human condition. A lesson hard learned applicable in life brought about by the residual effects of a scientific programme of the advised treatment of chemical and radioactive intervention in culmination and preparation of the road now lay ahead before me and made distant that life once experienced living solely on the edge of existence.

©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011